TO GEORGE SAND ON HIS DESIRE by E. Browning

Thou large-brained woman and large-hearted man,Self-called George Sand ! whose soul, amid the lions
Of thy tumultuous senses, moans defiance
And answers roar for roar, as spirits can:
I would some mild miraculous thunder ran
Above the applauded circus, in appliance
Of thine own nobler nature's strength and science,
Drawing two pinions, white as wings of swan,
From thy strong shoulders, to amaze the place
With holier light ! that thou to woman's claim
And man's, mightst join beside the angel's grace
Of a pure genius sanctified from blame
Till child and maiden pressed to thine embrace
To kiss upon thy lips a stainless fame.

TO GEORGE SHAND, A RECOGNITION by Elizabeth Barrett Browning

True genius, but true woman! dost deny The woman's nature with a manly scorn
And break away the gauds and armlets worn
By weaker women in captivity?
Ah, vain denial! that revolted cry
Is sobbed in by a woman's voice forlorn, _
Thy woman's hair, my sister, all unshorn
Floats back dishevelled strength in agony
Disproving thy man's name: and while before
The world thou burnest in a poet-fire,
We see thy woman-heart beat evermore
Through the large flame. Beat purer, heart, and higher,
Till God unsex thee on the heavenly shore
Where unincarnate spirits purely aspire!

SHALL I COMPARE THEE..... by W. SHAKESPEARE

Shall I compare the to a Summer's Day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer's lease hath all too short a date:
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimm'd;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance or nature's changing course untrimm'd;
But thy eternal summer shall not fade
Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest;
Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou growest:
So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
So long lives this and this gives life to thee.

ON HIS BLINDNESS by JOHN MILTON

When I consider how my light is spent

Ere half my days in this dark world and wide,

And that one talent which is death to hide,

Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent

To serve therewith my Maker, and present

My true account, lest He returning chide,

'Doth God exact day labor, light denied?'

I fondly ask. But Patience to prevent

That murmur soon replies, 'God doth not need

Either man's work or his own gifts. Who best

Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best. His state

Is kingly: thousands at his bidding speed,

And post o'er land and ocean without rest;

They also serve who only stand and wait.'

INVINCIBLE AND SHORT CHANGE: NO MORE (Anonymous)

The title s the easy part. if you get my drift, Drift
Short of change don't go looking in Curly's jacket
Pocket, now will you then.
Your sister from Bethlehem in the O F of S is on her way
Taking the Tribunal down from Hannekom train station.

Zelda's mother's been poorly, I believe.
Moved her from left wing into right corner
She's there at The Rugby Memorial Nursing Homes
For geriatrics and Allzies. My mom's booked in for next year.

Arthur, that's Zelda from Bethlehem, is here for 2 weeks
He's come to see Brashalley whose had a spot on his lung
The doctors say it's nothing but a smudge on the lense
Oh perhaps he said the plate - all the same it appears
That he doesn t have the C word or anything.

Did you HEAR - Johnny s been having it off with Delilah
that's one of the baker's assistants in the baking section
Takes real risks, he does. His old lady does the banking
and the books four days a week. Likely to come across
the two of them one of these days!

Her name's Delisha and he's an I Tie by name of Guiseppe.

Well Buds, that's all thats hot off the press for the mo.
Send my regards to Mathilda, Bethany and Seth.

Take care, your friend

Bartholomew.

TRASH MAIL, SPAM. (Entitled).

Freedom comes on a rainy day,
Like Ice and chilled guacomale - that s . . . that's
Mushed avocado and mayonnaise.
No Rules, No excuses, No good. . . . No good good.

Freedom and the Verse, canticles, sermons
Avocado Man stands, hugging the third pew.

Freedom and the ability to say . . How's it Bro, How's it, MY bro
That's okay, I'm cool, pass the bag of ice back to the...
The one who wants Ice not hot pot from offa
The stove.

Stove. Stove, hotch potch stove, whose goona make my sandwiches
When I'm sick and the folks are out there, queues
Pa's still on the dole. Mamma a part time nurse.
Hotch potch cross over - you got yourself a bun!

Hop scotch . . fairies fly when brothers grow moustaches
Twins, both beards by the time they're 10.

I'm leaving the planet . . Ice, sun. . The scent of the the roses - this here a song? No, nor neither a rhyme. A liturgy for who? A first, a last, the clock tower at the Waterfront . . . . Bought a vase, bought a bin. Got no plant, no paper to put in. Yet. A nursery is a shop that sell mainly plants - Got a lot of those, tomorrow gonna buy me a fairy. Ireland is where they come from. . . . Chelsea Britannia and Brittany Bay, Botany Harbour. . . . . boats, ships, trips!

JOKERS AND JACK APPLES . . . (Illuminous).

Hey Johnathan, got a fig? Want one, four if you can spare, alright.
Alright . . yeah mate, that's okay by me but first gotta check it out
with my old lady, that's Eve.
I'm doing Mountcasino later. Are you game? And. . . don't forget the
figs, bro - check it out with your vrou (a grin with black eye teeth).
Yeah, that's cool .... Hey man, call me scone!

Stars start to shine. . . .but not all bright like. Its 7 by Green . . . Hey
mate, you can't take your own snacks, in! But slip me those figs. You
hear? You hear me, or what... The dogs got your knock knocks in a
harbour net? Hey?

Next time youse ouens, better wear a suit, okay a tie and lets check
how you look like that. At the one arms . . .Bad news for mate - R500
Slukked in the first 20 mins and like major descent! Poker on a pool
table. Fuck that's novel. I'm cool man, cool. . . . . . but are you, Mr
Croupier and can I shake your claw? Jokes Utah, Jokes.

. . . . . ... Mum would say - The Heathens, The Wicked, The Ignoramus,
The closeted in The Dark . . . . Steal, gamble, prostitute
And other devilish pursuits. . . .. . . Steal, murder, adulterate . . .
The Deadly sins? More like 70 than.....7!
Look at Phyllis, Constance's daughter. She ran off with Johnathan O! ..
Oh! o'Bailey! Bairns involved wasn't they. Lust, pastor Green said -
Lust and carnage, murder . . . Sleet, stone, torment, filth and the
Hung and quartered spoussis? Knock down shame! Isn't it.

I, I Mavis was tempted - by Rathfelder, that's Jones's boy,
He took a shiver up my spine, apples he bought and sweet,
Sweet gluwein. No cheap figs, bah! The Lord does say - Beloved,
When temptation chills your conscience? Flail yourself through
And through! Better to sit on the lip of heaven than to drag
your feet through the lichen clad floor of Satan's village.

Phyllis had her story too. Sorrows and more sorrows. WAS it
worth it, Phyl? No. Just no? Just no, said Phyl, so traumatised
By the event. Jonathan' s mum, also a Mavis, said that yesterday
Felicity, Johnathan's wife, took herself, the 6 bairns and threw
Herself and the lot of them off Crabtree Cliff, Saunders Gorge
Is where theyse all went splat! Phyl said nothing. But her sister,
Hettie said that Phyllis will never ever leave the house again -
Penance.

The politics of Dancing, the Roux, eggs,
Sugar, milk.
Stiches for knife wounds and how do you do?
The semantics of psychotherapy? Yoo Hoo!

BREAKDOWN, CALLING GLORIA!

Calling Gloria! Easter Specials!
Meats, sweets, paperback novels!
Calling Gloria - Megaphone City,
News Cafe, Cancel post box deliveries and...
Call, Call, loudspeakers call it out
Calling Gloria!

Telepathic, homo sapiens, coreographers,
Always on the run. Somehow.
Catch the phrase, post a letter, a text goes display.
Calling Gloria! Glow worm Gloria!
I think you've got my number . .
Mother's day on the rugby field

Calling Gloria, glory be to Gloria,
If everybody wants ye, why ain't nobody
Calling ye! Rhetoric, there's no answer,
Gloria? Lets give her an alias,
Glory to Gloria, the Moon, the Stats, The Heavens where you, I

RESIDENCY, THE STARS, THE MOON . . .

I love the night and the cloth of the dark,
I, I love the night!
The abacus, the mathematician, hallo,
Galileo . . . . The stars, the NigMel

A BREAK A SNACK- Organic oven roasted cashews!

The woman STRIDES into the bill room - very self assured, confident, not sunny, snappy. C whispers softly to me, I didn't mean for us to spend the WEEKEND. Go on I say also indirectly and in a whisper. n pad muse: C would look after me, viz the bulbs and Lee. Expln- I AM responsible for all Lighting and not working. BUT... For firsts< anything to keep me able. Not dependant on C! Dream mentions how I gave Lee 2 fuzzy yellow light bulbs - his exact description of the bulbs I offered him. Note pre Lee visit, I'd made a thorough list of bulbs change and sorted into match the absol pleth of bulbs C had left! Lee went thru this. What didn't need said he should take. The gap where the fuzzies.

PAGE 5 OF 12.....

. . . I'm very nice to her. . . whisper a few words to her. She's okay and I'm so happy for C. In this dream, have a lot of empathos re C.

I'm in Brooklyn. Taking photos. I cross the island, busy Koeberg Road. Go into the Post Office. Note I've had a collect slip for Ton ages by bed. Mine expired - prob UNISA. Promised T, faithfully. Note Exclusives stopped me snap snap! Thereon asked first thanked after. Golden Rule!

In the Brook P O... Man up front and hippie ish woman behind - long wait! Woman gets fed up...flounce off! There are 3 tellers. . . . . . MUST to P O for T! Parking! Weak Point < in dm.

C's Girlfriend - A woman I was friends with in my 20s. Helen. A J. W. Dirt poor but didn't work. Bit of a nervous condition, difficult childhood. Sunny, loud. Husband Wurfy. Born into The Truth. Helen had been very los she said pre Truth. Their flat showed the poverty. Never forget how oneday she said - The man at Kentucky Fried Chicken says his chicken is finger fucking good. GOD! I was SO incredibly embaressed . . . Can u bel never ever told anyone till now. Desperate... Leave it out but . . .let what is true be true, not sullied . . . . Girlfriend has hair dark like Helen's only Helen's was usually dead straight, ocassionally home perm and curl, Girlfriend's very curly. Wears a dark brown pants suit. Remind of Liz, Ernie appoint. Togged to the nines - chocolate brown suit. She carries a med size hand bag - chocolate brown this with a drawstring tie. also over her shoulder wears a large choc brown again, bag like Pete's college, computer shape, size. I got one two, green but smaller. Pete's is gray.

C gave my money on Friday last week. That's rich! Normally Saturday-less and less, Sunday or even Monday. Insert: Liesl says Hilton s taking my bills to the meeting. C said he'd pay! There's been a subtle change ?

Dream mentions Pete filling my tank to spot on a quarter -definitely didn't use near 200, although had said....there's change. Pete STILL hasn't taught me to to download. Huge hassle for him - but fuck me if I'll get taught at home. Does Pete know I'm a tad o the t?

C comes to the house, up a circular bend ..? Mine's straight. He comes in the way all family members come in the door from the garage - whether you park outside garage or not. He comes up some steps. Then his fab girlfriend enters a bit later. C's gone upstairs to check the room for him and his gal. We're all in the billiard room whn he enters. I am so genuinely, deeply happy for him, whisper this. Crystal and such a wonderful feel! Eek! He's uncomfortable waiting here withus, billiard room - first in of i leading door to house.

DREAM 18TH MARCH: Charlie and the Chocolate Factory (Roald Dahl) meets with
Hamilton the Philatelist. Welcome!

. . . Websters. This man has promised to marry me. I say LOLLY, look it up in Websters. Then he decides not to. I leave the church .... Cancel the Chateau arrangement. Repeat, Cancel the Chateau arrangement - real life, I had planned to go on a short holiday. . . . The dream says clearly, cancel, you have the rest of your life. Rl I was so dissapointed but KNEW correct decision. Later in the dream, the exact opposit appears. Crystal - DONT cancel!

I take the LOLLY, go to a surgeon. see the chocolate man. Bos hair just like my friend Sue.

Verbatim: Bigger best chew church fax look for container - Seona. Missed her,haven't seen her for ages. She retired, Biggie Best. rl yesterday had to go to Woolies - promised myself no other stops! Stopped at Clicks, B Best and Musica. Naughty me!

In B Best, I decided I d like to buy a chair - so comfy. And curtains to match. All for my bedroom. Marta helped and then I had to get to Woolworths. Asked if she could trace Seona . . . Phoned today. Head office info. . . Packet of blades o fash style from Clicks, hold this piece of information.

Next and blurred . . We're in a bet ....books for person who wins. bet with me, M, another fave person. blur and am so glad and I'm off the hook.

.... . . .. Tony Sandell's guys are building down at my pool. An open plan ? THICKET which leads onto the pool (Relev? That area is precisely where T would put out her plastic party tables).

Silly! This coloured guy wants to know if he must put up partitions in front of or behind the .....ill....
DONT KNOW . . . In front becomes an open . . . . DONT KNOW.

I keep saying, Phone Tony. He's reluctant, tries to work it out. I don't want any involvement, its C's project. I have my computer on, want to stay connected. ? My password check to change. (Rl am concerned that my password is too obvious and that my children willy nilly access. Cf bank attendant helping one at the ATM, turn away when you punch in yr password). Stale Mate!

My son NEVERgoes out socially. THINK it bothers him. Asking re girls at college. Says, laissez faire style, there's one or two that are quite hot. (Better than being cool?) Invite one on a date, I say. He's not that keen.

Tony Sandell project is left open-ended. Clean blinds.

Write to Zen first thing! (Think refs to a letter rep my on and on ?s. Also Hilton spoke to Zenob re ZERO bills getting paid, and the new bit? C Greece lawyer.) A Further Note an insert if you like. My last ... Gush of Bon Homie Zenobia Meet - I mentioned that I paid for my cell from C's card and before I could point out the . . . surely obvious ...she said - I am SO glad to see you using your husband's card for things for yourself - ALL smiles. I expl and she said. . . hee hee ... Liesl . . .maak notte vir mevrou se hund! Hy moet die bille betaal, hoor.


- - INTERMISSION - -

DREAM: TONY SANDELL AND SKY LIGHTS.

My tables are blowing like mad. (Not sure re ref to dream but my whit plastic tables which sit out when T has a party blow over in even moderate winds). I'm apprehended by a man or me myself.
he says your'e not allowed re the blowing around tables. Sorry.

Cathy filthy mouthing Marina again. MARINA's to blame! Not yesterday and not too much. (In fact the dream indicates that I'm dreaming - in my dream that this foul mouthing is going on. i want it to!)

TONY SANDELL - Is the man who with his company built our sky lights, 8. They make a HUGE difference to my quality of living inside. I proposed and insisted on all of them. Met Tony a couple of times. Late 50's very tall, quite big all round. Fair. A crop of dark blonde hair. Alas the other half owner of the house insisted that they were un-openable. The four kitchen lights havsee each a blind on them. of late I've been racking my brains on how to remove and clean the,, blinds. The Window Shine man, Pat, also tall, big but very little hair, dark blonde and fair, same age p m can't help and obviously can't do those inners of these windows. When I phoned the architect for info re Tony, he said he'd died! heart something.

I phoned around on my own but could not find anyone who could help. Got a couple of get-back-to-yous who didn't. My skylights? dirty babies if you like. The by far biggest problem is that a plethora of all kinds of insects gather BEHIND the white thin blinds. Looks like the dog's breakfast!

No solution in sight. Lets see, perhaps my lazy son can help. The lady at T Sandell says theyr'e actually easy to remove, and the maid could wash them and Window Shine whose coming soon, could clean the inners of the windows!

THE TEA PARTY YONDER SIDE CLOVER HILL (Unamed Poetess).

Come for tea, Oh come for tea!
Said Strelitzia to Reginae.
Buttercup will be there with
Aunt Daffy. Come oh come, Reginae.
May I bring Nicolae and Viburnum?
Rubrum's bringing Watsonia, Gladiolus and Pink.

Anchusa s putting on a show. Bluebell, Coriander,
Ammy, Lachkee and Spirigyri are in it.
Cocks Comb's Whodunit is what we'll see.
Oh a treat! Such a treat, like crumpets and tea!

Ceropegia, just LOOK at Sandy's hat!
Going to tea? Looks rather as if it's fit for
A Mortuary.

Parsley, the Vicar will say Matins at 11.
Carnation will be collecting collections
With lambsfoot, a pretty wreath in
Her hair and what silky, shiny hair it is.
Avocado, her mother, Basil her brother, he
A special guest for the day will also come.
Card tricks He'll show,
Maybe give us a tune on the oboe.

Carol's coming on her new bike,
A Hot Rod, I believe.
Peppadew and Sweet Chili along for the ride,
Peppadew in the side car, Chili pilion seat.

So come all you ladies, Come!
Tea for all, Saturday on the other side of
Clover Hill.

X X X X X X X X X

Is my food and a gas bottle, small. Some junk food items, one's a coke lite. Above sink is a large kitchen. Al foods are processed. Eg a tin of baked beans, soup in a packet, a thickening agent. (Rl my sister had given me asked for advice on how to thicken an ostrich mince dish. You need a thickening agent for eg, Maizena or Bisto). The dim kitchen has this huge table, in fact is all table and on top, these processed foods plus 1950 type kitchen paraphenalia, eg a mincer, a cake mixer, a coffee maker.

She says, I want to sell all my money. How do I tell her there's prac nothing left.

I have two medium pots with a slightly smaller one in between, plastic of which I have 100s of.The outer two, mediums are old. The middle one is new.. As per rl sometimes, the pots are impossible to pull apart. I want to ditch them but because of the new pot, I don't. (Rl I don't throw away new pots but because I have so many pots, sometimes I'll throw away stuck pots).

Yest I was looking for the smallest of all pots - all in the garage save one. I want to behead an aloe tricolor- Robyn - a gift. It will not grow. Have one clone also slow but not THAT slow. A second clone NEEDED a smallest pot. lazy re the trip!

UNPUBLISHED BUSH TELEGRAPH (The Morning Stat).

Salt on your lips,
Morning comes.
The oboe, the lute
The leprechaun invades sacred space.

Grains of sand scatter away
Stand on the cusp, gather, scatter
The remnants of another day
Gone by. . . Go too.

A witch's cauldron
Stir alongside
Oh Holy Wizard . . .
Thine the cauldron
Thine the spew.

Coreography doth not a
Dancer
Make. A lock of your hair
My love, a lock of your hair.

What crawls, goes bump in the night
Take me away from
Take me far, far away from
Cruelties,
These, these go bump in the night.

Make Sleuth with shields!
God create!
Thine sacred hands
Never tarry, never be still.

Take me Away, Take me .... Away
Warm honey and when the honeycomb
Cold as ice? What warms honey
In the face of bitter vice?

Vengeance, the sole righteous ownership
Man has clutched, made it
A shoddy thing.
Blunt, bitter aloes, bristle on your face.

Take me away, take me away. . .
Forever you and me. . .
At the Last Post, the Evening Sun
Be my forever, come with!

TEST YOUR GREY MATTER or USE THE NET . . ..

Odd Men: Which is the odd ball here >>

* Yoga Callanetics Pilates Skipping rope Ballet dancing Tai chi. Now say why.

What in Common:

Floribunda and Forensics. Name the what.

Three words:

Name 3 words which start with Z and end in S. Note Zebra doesn't fully fit the criteria.

4 Words:

Name 4 words beginning with T. All must belong to the Animal kindom. Note a tarantula qualifies. Do NOT use Tarantula as one of your 4.

* * * * * * * * *

DREAM CONTINUED:

. . Johnny's wearing a dark grey suit. VERY close fit. Resembles a still life figure a bit. He looks a bit like a doctor I once knew, not Colured though.

He's snobbish, wanders around the place. I'm a bother to all and angry. I walk away.......dream says 'TO Johnny'. I think this is probably an error.

THE END*******

DREAM

DREAM TITLE: DREAM MISTRESS.

..... verbatim- This is it, slept whole night with moss, renewed himself, done it all.

An orange brown diagram of a circle and a second circle but this one is indented on one side. this is very like Tutenkhamen. Squarish head. Mouse and two elastic bands, two passports, broken. (This refers to the fact that Mouse and I where in an embassy when she pulled out from her bag, a RUBBER band and tied my two passports together). (A second reference- Collie gave Patch a perspex container, rectangular and quite deep of rubber bands to give to me. I refused it and suggested to Patch that he might offer it to Trich. She accepted it).

Collie should be...illegible..the Chelsea show. I'm worried.

Next scene is at my parents place of work. A large pic of my mother's head and shoulders, large, white, imposing. In the dream, an image of my mother is thrown up - she is dressed in a lovely, billowy white dress, a long string of white pearls with matching earrings. This is a real life image of my mother with my son, a toddler. He is dressed in dungarees-I can't recall the colour - and a black and white pin stripe shirt. A lovely picture which I have framed.

The place of work, workers are sitting in a car. One of them, the sales rep, goes by name of Jolly, looking quite young, is in charge. They're waiter types. (Note-staff: Trich's son works as a griller in Sea point as does Molly's son Musey, also S P).

Mother has left but there's 'someone' who looks like her in her place. A rectangle, deep, on its side. (Image of a black video or dvd plastic unit I found in my storeroom two days ago. I didn't open it. It was ridged. big, cumbersome.)

Yes! It IS her. Now clearly visible by the number writ on her face - 802. Frantic! Everything must be perfect. I try help. No! Someone else's in charge.

3 new coloured men appear. Parent's work place. The man who in real life is the head of the workers goes by the name of Cordneeda. My one sister, accused Cordneeda of stealing a very large bottle of tickeys from my parent's safe. Unclear resolution.

A CARNIVAL OF FEASTS, GO BINGE!

Party Time! Whats for Gorge and
Down downs?
Bring in the platters, roll through...
The big pig, apple half way down
Its throat.

Crumpets, muesli, fruit salad,
Like your yoghurt?
Bacon, sausage, fritters,
Eggs! thats sunnyside, poached, scrambled
A choice for kings, more, more!

Done the toast, jam, cafe frappe,
Coffees, teas, any flavour any way.
Thats brunch, breakfast, morning tea-
Take all or just what you like.

Lunch. Gorge de luxe!
Down downs on the finest wines,
A beverage-all choices catered for.
The visual effect of tables creaking, Aah.

Feed, don't stop till a swollen belly
Says... take five, recharge, fire!
Pork belly, chops, no neck.
Lamb, poultry, the best turkey yet.

Fish. Eat fish? Crustacaea? Mollusca?
Thats my man. Cartilage, bones?
Thats verboten, all cleared out.
Fillets, soft parts, grilled, fried, steamed.....

Salads, vegetables any all kind.
Herbs, spices and all condiments
A bestseller, Beetroot with sliced lime.
Not on the table? fingers click, Yeah, Done.

Dessert. You gotta go there cos
You will never believe. Custards so thick,
Syrups so sweet. Creams rich in dollops.
Profiteroles, cherries with mascapone,
It just never stops. Feast gorge till your'e throw up sick
.Go there, do the whole thing.. Brunch, breakfast, lunch.

Nothing like a feast...among friends
Enemies? Nothing spoils Gorge Day.
Don't stay away! An always come back.

$$$ $$$ $$$ $$$

CYCLES AND BLUE CHIP (Anonymous)

Life, rivers and the sands of time
A rich man owns an oasis
Who finds what? - blue chips
In river sand.

Fountains of glory, seas, storms
Whats more
A chip of wood - thats brown
Nor stock, neither change
A changing moon?

A forensic psychologist flies. . .
His bike - a river bed
A sand track.
Chips, shells, who plays roulette?
Slammer at the table,
Black Jack and the Bingo machine!

A psychiatrist on the dole
A physician on the street
Wall Street analysts . .
Count quick!
Rumour spells nose dive.

Rivers, seas, coins, pounds,
A shadowy night looms.
Refuge? An oasis . .
Moves. Still, stands the test of time

**** **** **** **** **** *****

My Tears gone dry, pearls on a plate. (Anonymous)

Tears for nothing, pennies rolling in the street.
O. D. Factor, factor it in, do sums, set aside.
Tears a river? Who's crying wolf?
Pearl and permaculture, hair tongs or blow dry
Go for it cowboy, you get to decide.

Steadfast knife from the galaxy of blues
A knife when a pencil and pad's no use.
Universal pictures said it all -
Have a ball! Go out with a bang! Or Hang man.

Shepherds and shepherd's pie
Like cheese? Do it on toast!
Cream puffs, custard, jelly-jiggle-o
A feast, death row, pick a treat.

"We have one life." That's taxman and rebate stuff.
A send off's never a send off without a fat crowd.
Bugles, cherubs, seraphs, JC himself
That does it for me, my kind of stuff!

Suicide? Call it what you will-
Over your head debt, been cast aside
Tell you what mate-done a preview
And.. nothing to beat Snuff It Time in super syle

WHO PAINTED THE MOON BLACK . . . (Anon)

Who painted the moon black?
Who painted the moon black?
Won t you come . . come back soon
The moon s crying inside.

Who painted the moon black?
Who painted the moon black?
It must have been. . . . Who painted
The night black, who blacked out the stars?
That night.

Who painted the moon black?
Who painted the moon black?
Stars, night, planets, none could be seen
That night.

Who painted the moon black?
Who painted the moon black?
Sun came, sun left, and still
No moonlight left.

Who painted the moon black?
Who painted the moon black?
Won't you come back, won't you
Remove the paint . .
Cos the moon's crying inside.

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I WAS MARRIED IN ENGLAND (Anonymous)

I was married in England. On the day of the famous Chelsea Show. In a church in Northampshire, by a priest born in Nova Scotia . . . . . and what a very fine wedding it was too. Paul's me hubby, Ruthy's my name. We were married in England, Paul and I. Felderhaus is my surname, Paul's from East Germany. We took a train from King s cross out of town to a little hamlet called Egg-on-the-Nog.
Three whole days we honey-mooned there, hubby and me. Me mum lives down in Bridlington, dad's in a Frail Care Home there so on day four we took a train down to visit them there. Dad's got Alzheimer's and he's not all there. Mum's bright as a penny. Me spinster sister, Betty, lives in a room outside.

To be contd.

**********************

FORESTS? FORENSIC SCIENTISTS, COME!

Mellow is not marshallow, coated in chocolate with a ...
Soft centre. Easter. You do that?
Hallo Jesus, Welcome forensic scientist
Who the hot air balloon? Who the cow with spoon?
Stratosphere, drummer's drum. Got your gun?
Metaphor, caricature or pun?
You chose.

Mustard seed? the smallest seed on earth?
So sayeth the good book . . . but
The testube, the mike, the slide say
Oh No, no no. More seeds have come since
The bible cookery book days
Defunct!

Solemn. A forest's dull. Pine, conifer
Oh give me a ...jolly good break.
Woods? Black, iron, fern, holly?
Shadow, metallurgist, mists and superstar.
Forest? That's real big wood.

A Forest, lame dull all needles in a common pine
The forensic scientist, good for what?
His blow torch chasing little tadpoles
Looking for eggs, round and round?
Not so. Looks for lump in a bit of gel instead.

Forests immemorial, woods here to stay?
Ha! Iron Joseph, ye olde fool, not cool
Forensic? Sci-fi real? Go back to school!

: : : : : : : :

POSEIDON . . . . . SPARKLING ANGELS (Anonymous)

You pierced my heart
Spatacus lay alongside me on my bed
Spread, asleep, dreaming of
Angels and fettered things
What more war what more blood lust

Poseidon, his beard his forked
trident spear . . . Lay down
His anchor, disembarked
Come sit, come talk with me
I have seen angels and terribly beautiful things

To Spartacus, while he slept
A poisoned arrow I did fashion
From steel a shaft made I,
and a square of iron, I whittled
as if it where hard wood.
I whittled the iron into a point.


Poseidon at my door -
Poseidon I gave nought to eat, save. . . .
Water, water from my well so deep.
In an amphora, this my offering alone
Water, water from my own deep well.
He drank with a thirst,
two amphoras full, I was obliged to fill.

In the morning when I looked for Spartacus
He had gone and alongside
My arrow head, its shaft, steel, iron.
"Handmaidens, handmaidens" I called out
"Where is Spartacus, the man who lay in my bed, last night?"
"He set sail at first light and left behind his boots," they said
My arrow gone? He a ship? No boots on?
I mused but did not say. . .

Poseidon having drunk his fill
Bid me goodbye and walked into the forest
From whence he came.
He had given Spartacus his ship.

My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red, than her lips red:
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damasked, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks;
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound:
I grant I never saw a goddess go,
My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground:
And yet by heaven, I think my love as rare,
As any she belied with false compare.

William Shakespeare Sonnet CXXX

untitled (anonymous)

Oceans far not wide
who hides?
seaweeds, dolphins.

Crystals of quartz
diamonds, malachite

What cuts like a sword?
A mortar? A pestal?
Oh no!

Sharp, like a tool
goes
by what name?


Money and dollars,
good for a while

When the sun
comes up
what leaves?

If a flute, a piano plays
add drums
the flute?
What drowns?

Somnolence,
narcolepsy
whats more sound?

Dance, play
who works?
what neighs!


what name?
comes to mind?
Horse?
or hound?

A letter, that's post
a penny?
that's round.

********* ******** ********** *********

ST JOSEPH S LILY AND THE LAUREL, BRIGHT (Anonymous)

Seasons come, seasons go,
The lily, St Josephs lily
lives in the memory of
Heath, laurel and liverwort and the berries
Berries, berries fresh sold by the bushel.
Oh laurel, who be more shamed, sad, withered
Wild, froth, surge, a horse, a lily
Berries on a black vine!
Wreath of laurel, bright white . . . .
St Joseph's lily, mulberry wine.
Blackberries, rasperbies, laurels and heaths
It is the cherry, the cherry and its fullsome flavour
Who reigns!

A vase, an amphora, a vessel, no cradles
Hold the St Joseph's lilies upright
And yet, yes, and yet, blooms on tall stalks,
They bend, bow, heads so large . . . .
Droop, hang down.
This beauty? Who wears a more glorious crown?
Yet so bowed, who can see?

The laurel. The laurel heath. . . .
Prestigious, recognition of excellence.
A wreath, and emblem o'er man's head
You have judged, marked Prestige, Excellence
Let Applaud and Magnificence be your
Deserved name

The laurel, the wreath, St Joseph's . . . .
Lily. . . . Bowed down, hides its heart
Does not display its crown
Come end of time . . .
The laurel, the lily of Joseph
Let neither be said inferior, neither the lesser of two.

And yet. . . And yet, what blooms then fades, disappears
In a vase? in a day? two? three? four? not more
The lily, the St Joseph's lily.

The wreath,the berry, berries-ripening quickly
On bushes, trees, vines, above ground
What rapid? not lasting long?
A week? two? not more than three
The berry, the berries, on bushes, trees, vines
Aha! the laurel - he king and queen
Gracing the heads of the prestigious,
Those prone to excellence,
Since years so far back, more back, back more
The laurel, the laurel tree . .
Its branches, twigs fashioned into most noble
Laurel wreath. The laurel in symbol and
Places divine . . .The laurel outlives
St Joseph, St Joseph's lily. . . till the end of time.

ODE TO PSYCHE by John Keats

O Goddess! hear these tuneless numbers, wrung
By sweet enforcement and remembrance dear,
And pardon that thy secrets should be sung
Even into thine own soft-conched ear:
Surely I dreamt to-day, or did I see
The winged Psyche with awaken'd eyes?
I wander'd in a forest thoughtlessly,
And, on the sudden, fainting with surprise,
Saw two fair creatures, couched side by side
In deepest grass, beneath the whisp'ring roof
Of leaves and trembled blossoms, where there ran
A brooklet, scarce espied:

Mid hush'd, cool-rooted flowers, fragrant-eyed,
Blue, silver-white, and budded Tyrian,
They lay calm-breathing, on the bedded grass;
Their arms embraced, and their pinions too;
Their lips touch'd not, but had not bade adieu,
As if disjoined by soft-handed slumber,
And ready still past kisses to outnumber
At tender eye-dawn of aurorean love:
The winged boy I knew;
But who wast thou, O happy, happy dove?
His Psyche true!

O latest born and loveliest vision far
Of all Olympus' faded hierarchy!
Fairer than Phoebe's sapphire-region'd star,
Or Vesper, amorous glow-worm of the sky;
Fairer than these, though temple thou hast none,
Nor altar heap'd with flowers;
Nor virgin-choir to make delicious moan
Upon the midnight hours;
No voice, no lute, no pipe, no incense sweet
From chain-swung censer teeming;
No shrine, no grove, no oracle, no heat
Of pale-mouth'd prophet dreaming.

O brightest! though too late for antique vows,
Too, too late for the fond believing lyre,
When holy were the haunted forest boughs,
Holy the air, the water, and the fire;
Yet even in these days so far retir'd
From happy pieties, thy lucent fans,
Fluttering among the faint Olympians,
I see, and sing, by my own eyes inspir'd.
So let me be thy choir, and make a moan
Upon the midnight hours;
Thy voice, thy lute, thy pipe, thy incense sweet
From swinged censer teeming;
Thy shrine, thy grove, thy oracle, thy heat
Of pale-mouth'd prophet dreaming.

Yes, I will be thy priest, and build a fane
In some untrodden region of my mind,
Where branched thoughts, new grown with pleasant pain,
Instead of pines shall murmur in the wind:
Far, far around shall those dark-cluster'd trees
Fledge the wild-ridged mountains steep by steep;
And there by zephyrs, streams, and birds, and bees,
The moss-lain Dryads shall be lull'd to sleep;
And in the midst of this wide quietness
A rosy sanctuary will I dress
With the wreath'd trellis of a working brain,
With buds, and bells, and stars without a name,
With all the gardener Fancy e'er could feign,
Who breeding flowers, will never breed the same:
And there shall be for thee all soft delight
That shadowy thought can win,
A bright torch, and a casement ope at night,
To let the warm Love in!

HORSES ON THE CAMARGUE by Roy Campbell

In the grey wastes of dread
The haunt of shattered gulls where nothing moves
But in a shroud of silence like the dead,
I heard a sudden harmony of hooves,
And, turning, saw afar
A hundred snowy horses unconfined,
The silver runaways of Neptune's car
Racing, spray-curled, like waves before the wind.
Sons of the Mistral, fleet
As him with whose strong gusts they love to flee,
Who shod the flying thunders on their feet
And plumed them with the snortings of the sea;
Theirs is no earthly breed
Who only haunt the verges of the earth
And only on the sea's salt herbage feed --
Surely the great white breakers gave them birth.
For when for years a slave,
A horse of the Camargue, in alien lands.
Should catch some far-off fragrance of the wave
Carried far inland from his native sands,
Many have told the tale
Of how in fury, foaming at the rein,
He hurls his rider; and with lifted tail,
With coral-red eyes and cataracting mane,
Heading his course for home,
Though sixty foreign leagues before him sweep,
Will never rest until he breathes the foam
And hears the native thunder of the deep.
But when the great gusts rise
And lash their anger on these arid coasts,
When the scared gulls career with their mournful cries
And whirl across the waste like driven ghosts:
When hail and fire converge,
The only souls to which they strike no pain
Are the white-crested fillies of the surge
And the white horses of the windy plain.
Then in their strength and pride
The stallions in the wilderness rejoice;
They feel their master's trident in their side,
And high and shrill they answer to his voice.
With white tails smoking free,
Long streaming manes, and arching necks, they show
Their kinship to their sisters of the sea --
And foreward hurl their thunderbolts of snow.
Still out of hardship bred,
Spirits of power and beauty and delight
Have ever on such frugal pastures fed
And loved to course with tempests through the night.

A snake came to my water-trough
On a hot, hot day, and I in pyjamas for the heat,
To drink there.

In the deep, strange-scented shade of the great dark carob-tree
I came down the steps with my pitcher
And must wait, must stand and wait, for there he was at the trough before
me.

He reached down from a fissure in the earth-wall in the gloom
And trailed his yellow-brown slackness soft-bellied down, over the edge of
the stone trough
And rested his throat upon the stone bottom,
i o And where the water had dripped from the tap, in a small clearness,
He sipped with his straight mouth,
Softly drank through his straight gums, into his slack long body,
Silently.

Someone was before me at my water-trough,
And I, like a second comer, waiting.

He lifted his head from his drinking, as cattle do,
And looked at me vaguely, as drinking cattle do,
And flickered his two-forked tongue from his lips, and mused a moment,
And stooped and drank a little more,
Being earth-brown, earth-golden from the burning bowels of the earth
On the day of Sicilian July, with Etna smoking.
The voice of my education said to me
He must be killed,
For in Sicily the black, black snakes are innocent, the gold are venomous.

And voices in me said, If you were a man
You would take a stick and break him now, and finish him off.

But must I confess how I liked him,
How glad I was he had come like a guest in quiet, to drink at my water-trough
And depart peaceful, pacified, and thankless,
Into the burning bowels of this earth?

Was it cowardice, that I dared not kill him? Was it perversity, that I longed to talk to him? Was it humility, to feel so honoured?
I felt so honoured.

And yet those voices:
If you were not afraid, you would kill him!

And truly I was afraid, I was most afraid, But even so, honoured still more
That he should seek my hospitality
From out the dark door of the secret earth.

He drank enough
And lifted his head, dreamily, as one who has drunken,
And flickered his tongue like a forked night on the air, so black,
Seeming to lick his lips,
And looked around like a god, unseeing, into the air,
And slowly turned his head,
And slowly, very slowly, as if thrice adream,
Proceeded to draw his slow length curving round
And climb again the broken bank of my wall-face.

And as he put his head into that dreadful hole,
And as he slowly drew up, snake-easing his shoulders, and entered farther,
A sort of horror, a sort of protest against his withdrawing into that horrid black hole,
Deliberately going into the blackness, and slowly drawing himself after,
Overcame me now his back was turned.

I looked round, I put down my pitcher,
I picked up a clumsy log
And threw it at the water-trough with a clatter.

I think it did not hit him,
But suddenly that part of him that was left behind convulsed in undignified haste.
Writhed like lightning, and was gone
Into the black hole, the earth-lipped fissure in the wall-front,
At which, in the intense still noon, I stared with fascination.

And immediately I regretted it.
I thought how paltry, how vulgar, what a mean act!
I despised myself and the voices of my accursed human education.

And I thought of the albatross
And I wished he would come back, my snake.

For he seemed to me again like a king,
Like a king in exile, uncrowned in the underworld,
Now due to be crowned again.

And so, I missed my chance with one of the lords
Of life.
And I have something to expiate:
A pettiness.

SNAKE by D. H. Lawrence

When the lamp is shattered, The light in the dust lies dead; When the cloud is scattered, The rainbow's glory is shed; When the lute is broken, Sweet tones are remembered not; When the lips have spoken, Loved accents are soon forgot. As music and splendor Survive not the lamp and the lute, The heart's echoes render No song when the spirit is mute:-- No song but sad dirges, Like the wind through a ruined cell, Or the mournful surges That ring the dead seaman's knell. When hearts have once mingled, Love first leaves the well-built nest; The weak one is singled To endure what it once possessed. O Love! who bewailest The frailty of all things here, Why choose you the frailest For your cradle, your home, and your bier? Its passions will rock thee, As the storms rock the ravens on high; Bright reason will mock thee, Like the sun from a wintry sky. From thy nest every rafter Will rot, and thine eagle home Leave thee naked to laughter, When leaves fall and cold winds come. Percy Bysshe Shelley WHEN THE LAMP IS SHATTERED

She stood breast high amid the corn,
Clasped by the golden light of morn,
Like the sweetheart of the sun,
Who many a glowing kiss had won.

On her cheek an autumn flush,
Deeply ripened; such a blush
In the midst of brown was born,
Like red poppies grown with corn.

Round her eyes her tresses fell,
Which were blackest none could tell,
But long lashes veiled a light,
That had else been all too bright.

And her hat, with shady brim,
Made her tressy forehead dim;
Thus she stood amid the stooks,
Praising God with sweetest looks:


Sure, I said, heaven did not mean,
Where I reap thou shouldst but glean,
Lay thy sheaf adown and come,
Share my harvest and my home.

RUTH by Thomas Hood

I. When love with unconfined wings Hovers within my gates; And my divine ALTHEA brings To whisper at the grates; When I lye tangled in her haire, And fetterd to her eye, The birds, that wanton in the aire, Know no such liberty. II. When flowing cups run swiftly round With no allaying THAMES, Our carelesse heads with roses bound, Our hearts with loyal flames; When thirsty griefe in wine we steepe, When healths and draughts go free, Fishes, that tipple in the deepe, Know no such libertie. III. When (like committed linnets) I With shriller throat shall sing The sweetnes, mercy, majesty, And glories of my King. When I shall voyce aloud, how good He is, how great should be, Inlarged winds, that curle the flood, Know no such liberty. IV. Stone walls doe not a prison make, Nor iron bars a cage; Mindes innocent and quiet take That for an hermitage; If I have freedome in my love, And in my soule am free, Angels alone that sore above Enjoy such liberty. Richard Lovelace TO ALTHEA FROM PRISON

DARK Angel, with thine aching lust

To rid the world of penitence:

Malicious Angel, who still dost

My soul such subtile violence!

Because of thee, no thought, no thing,

Abides for me undesecrate:

Dark Angel, ever on the wing,

Who never reachest me too late!

When music sounds, then changest thou

Its silvery to a sultry fire:

Nor will thine envious heart allow

Delight untortured by desire.

Through thee, the gracious Muses turn,

To Furies, O mine Enemy!

And all the things of beauty burn

With flames of evil ecstasy.

Because of thee, the land of dreams

Becomes a gathering place of fears:

Until tormented slumber seems

One vehemence of useless tears.

When sunlight glows upon the flowers,

Or ripples down the dancing sea:

Thou, with thy troop of passionate powers,

Beleaguerest, bewilderest, me.

Within the breath of autumn woods,

Within the winter silences:

Thy venomous spirit stirs and broods,

O Master of impieties!

The ardour of red flame is thine,

And thine the steely soul of ice:

Thou poisonest the fair design

Of nature, with unfair device.

Apples of ashes, golden bright;

Waters of bitterness, how sweet!

O banquet of a foul delight,

Prepared by thee, dark Paraclete!

Thou art the whisper in the gloom,

The hinting tone, the haunting laugh:

Thou art the adorner of my tomb,

The minstrel of mine epitaph.

I fight thee, in the Holy Name!

Yet, what thou dost, is what God saith:

Tempter! should I escape thy flame,

Thou wilt have helped my soul from Death:

The second Death, that never dies,

That cannot die, when time is dead:

Live Death, wherein the lost soul cries,

Eternally uncomforted.

Dark Angel, with thine aching lust!

Of two defeats, of two despairs:

Less dread, a change to drifting dust,

Than thine eternity of cares.

Do what thou wilt, thou shalt not so,

Dark Angel! triumph over me:

Lonely, unto the Lone I go;

Divine, to the Divinity.

Lionel Johnson DARK ANGEL

Ulysses
Alfred Lord Tennyson

It little profits that an idle king,
By this still hearth, among these barren crags,
Matched with an aged wife, I mete and dole
Unequal laws unto a savage race,
That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me.

I cannot rest from travel: I will drink
Life to the lees: all times I have enjoyed
Greatly, have suffered greatly, both with those
That loved me, and alone; on shore, and when
Through scudding drifts the rainy Hyades
Vest the dim sea: I am become a name;
For always roaming with a hungry heart
Much have I seen and known; cities of men
And manners, climates, councils, governments,
Myself not least, but honoured of them all;
And drunk delight of battle with my peers;
Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy.
I am part of all that I have met;
Yet all experience is an arch wherethrough
Gleams that untravelled world, whose margin fades
For ever and for ever when I move.
How dull it is to pause, to make an end,
To rust unburnished, not to shine in use!
As though to breath were life. Life piled on life
Were all to little, and of one to me
Little remains: but every hour is saved
From that eternal silence, something more,
A bringer of new things; and vile it were
For some three suns to store and hoard myself,
And this gray spirit yearning in desire
To follow knowledge like a sinking star,
Beyond the utmost bound of human thought.

This is my son, mine own Telemachus,
To whom I leave the scepter and the isle
Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfill
This labour, by slow prudence to make mild
A rugged people, and through soft degrees
Subdue them to the useful and the good.
Most blameless is he, centered in the sphere
Of common duties, decent not to fail
In offices of tenderness, and pay
Meet adoration to my household gods,
When I am gone. He works his work, I mine.

There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail:
There gloom the dark broad seas. My mariners,
Souls that have toiled, and wrought, and thought with me
That ever with a frolic welcome took
The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed
Free hearts, free foreheads you and I are old;
Old age had yet his honour and his toil;
Death closes all: but something ere the end,
Some work of noble note, may yet be done,
Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods.
The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks:
The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep
Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends,
'Tis not too late to seek a newer world.
Push off, and sitting well in order smite
The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
Of all the western stars, until I die.
It may be that the gulfs will wash us down:
It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,
And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.
Though much is taken, much abides; and though
We are not now that strength which in the old days
Moved earth and heaven; that which we are, we are,
One equal-temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

Ulysses
Alfred Lord Tennyson

PARADISE LOST by John Milton From line 190


What reinforcement we may gain from hope;
If not, what resolution from despair.
-Thus, Satan talking to his nearest mate
With head uplift above the waves, and eyes
That sparkling blazed; his other parts besides
Prone on the flood, extended large and huge
Lay floating many a rood, as bulk and huge
Titanian or earth-born, that warred on Jove,
Briareos or Typhon, whom the den
By ancient Tarsus held, or that sea beast
Leviathan, which God of all his works
Created hugest that swim the ocean stream:
Him haply slumbering on the Norway foam,
The pilot of some night-foundered skiff,
Deeming some island, oft, as seamen tell,
With fixed anchor in his scaly rind
Moors by his side under the lee, while night
Invests the sea, and wished morn delays:
So stretched out huge in length the arch-fiend lay
Chained on the burning lake; nor ever thence
Had risen or heaved his head, but that the will
And high permission of all-ruling heaven
Left him at large to his own dark designs,
That with reiterated crimes he might
Heap on himself damnation, while he sought
Evil to others, and enraged might see
How all his malice served but to bring forth
Infinite goodness, grace and mercy shown
On man by him seduced, but on himself
Treble confusion, wrath and vengeance poured.

To Line 220 to be contd.

^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^

CARL GUSTAV JUNG, DREAMS (Captions from pictures).


Time-symbol of the lapis: the cross and the evangelical emblems mark its analogy with Christ.-Thomas Aquinas ( pseud.) "De alchimia.

Horoscope, showing the houses, zodiac and planets.- Woodcut by Erhard Schoen for the Nativity calendar of Leonard Reymann.

Christ in the mandorla, surrounded by the symbols of the four evangelists.- Mural painting, church o Saint-Jacquea-des-Guerets, Loir-et-Cher, France.

Osiris, with the four sons of Horus on the lotus.-Budge, The Book of The Dead.

Sponsus et sponsa.- Detail from Polittico con l' Incoronazione, by Stefano da Sant' Agnese.

God as Father and Logos creating the zodiac.- Peter Lombard, "De Sacramentis".





"Elixir of the moon".-Codex Reginensis Latinus 1458.

Virgin carrying the Saviour.-"Speculum humanae saluacionis".

Maya, eternal weaver of the illusory world of the senses, encircled by the Uroboros.-Damaged vignette from a collection of Brahiminic sayings.

*** *** *** *** ***

A STAFF .. .. ... NO BREAD (Anonymous)


Corned beef on rye no slaw on the side
Pickles, mustard, that's an extra 5p mate
Crumbs at the table drop off -
Hey pigeon, starling get offa my turf!

Tuppence for a lolly, but who'll pay the rent?
Who'll look to the bairns when the missus, I both dead?
In Africa they call it pap or samp or Jungle oats
Thats staff of life there.No bread.

A salt lick-you got one mate?
They give it to a horse
In the horse's trough.
Lick horse, lick they say
No bleeding salt in a handful of hey.

Corned beef on rye? Bully for you mate
I got me some over ripe, well rotting apples
But nothing for to make no tart, no pie.
The staff. The staff and the shepherd's hook
Slaughtering lambs in a hilly nook.

Rose petals, shiny sunflower seeds,
Yeah mate, I'd make myself a meal from these.
In Africa they shrivel meat, boil up
Reheat
Makes a mush, a dandy treat I believe.

Eat snow? not bleeding likely Jo
Mind, if there where fish beneath?
Get my harpoon and in I'd go!
Bread, the staff. Why eat bread when there's fish!
Bread, beef, apples and fish. Staffs. and pap.

DARK NIGHTS OF THE SOUL by Thomas Moore.


WHY IS LOVE SO FRUSTRATING:

A woman named Amy told me recently of a man she has loved for many years at a considerable distance. He is the meaning of her life, and yet, she says, he can't express his emotions and can't satisfy her need for a real lover. She goes on with her active life, but all the love in her stays focused on him. Friends tell her that he will never be available to her, but she hangs on.

Amy remains stuck because she believes that her man is capable of opening up and he never does. As so often happens, there is a magnetic pull toward impasse. It's as though the soul wants to be stuck. It doesn't want success, and it doesn't want life to flow and move in. Friends and family don't understand this situation, because they are concerned about life, not soul. They want their children and their friends to be happy and to show signs of success in everything-family, work, and love. If they could look into the of their friend and child, they might understand that it's not time Yet for happy conclusions. The soul has its own timetable and its own needs. If those needs are not met, the stalemate may stretch out for a long while.

Amy talks about her frustrations in love as though they were completely external. She firmly believes that if the man she adores shows his love to her, everything will be fine. But I doubt that's the case. When love is stuck or frustrated, you have to look at yourself and your own part in it. Yes, it is very likely that your loved one is also stuck, and has a problem with love. But your impasse indicates that your imagination may have to broaden. You may have to look closely at the way you are living , because it is this life of yours that you are bringing to the unhappy relationship. You have to look at yourself, not just at the other, and you have to consider the whole of your life. Your love is not disconnected from all other dimensions of your daily experience.

Although it may seem obvious that love is all about getting people together to share a life, it is also, if not primarily, an introduction to further depths of the soul. You may never have meditated or contemplated before, but now you are forced to brood and think. You may never have felt so affected by your emotions, and now your emotions crowd out most other considerations. You may never have given yourself much to fantasy and daydream, but now that is your preoccupation. All of these developments show an increase in the activity of the deep soul.

Now, as the relationship develops, it can become, as Jung says, a container for the soul. As you change and as the relationship goes through many stages, you are introduced even further into the soul. If the relationship doesn't get far or has an unexpected ending, even then you may feel compelled to feel your emotions and rehearse your story again and again in a process that may sculpt out the space you need just to have a soul.

At this point, some couples reconnect, but often it takes a new relationship to build a mature form of love.

As the religious traditions say, love is the creative force, making out of your life and experience an articulated world, a life of meaning and sophistication. People who are experienced in love are at a different stage in development compared to those who have yet to go through this particular kind of initiation. Love fuels every dimension of life, and what looks like romance or relationship may be development of a more widespread passion for life. That is why our love initiations are crucial. If we can work them out, all of life can have erotic quality.

*** **** *** ****

AFRICA, SHE TOO CAN CRY (Anonymous)

Vestibules, vestry, sack cloth
Not all is Africa. Sahara,
Mountain, mountain bike okay and lots of
Dry ice.
Shake it to me baby!
Come smoke my pipe.
Africa. Oh Africa she too can moan, groan
And in her finale?
Let rip.
Dusty sandals, Noah s sweat, Gabriel's sigh
Africa, you. Oh Africa, she too can cry.

Gnomes, Gideon, folklore
Rent a camel, a sway in his back.
Pyramids, Tutenkhamenn, Egypt screams:
Africa, beloved country
She too can cry.
Cymbals in the desert, dried air, a tent
Calling, calling, let the shepherds and their goats in.
A scroll, a message in a bottle, a paper clip
Sing, bard, sing anthems, praises, stern choirs
Oh Africa! Our Africa! Africa she too can cry!

Foam
swims with dolphins, sack cloth
to make you dry.
Shabeens, braais, paper deliveries,
Africa's people.
The desert rose, a crystal and
a shimmer in the misty heat.
Baobabs, tubular men throw up their arms,
Panic? Statues, desperate frozen relief.
The Namib, the child of, the bosom to . . . .
Africa.
Africa weeps for her people in shanty town
Weep Africa, weep.
Africa, Africa she too can cry!

! ! ! ! ! * ! ! ! ! !

UNTITLED POEM (Anonymous)

A filly, a colt,
Five men in a boat.
A fern, a feather, a tortoise sleeps,
Bluebells in Autumn, shrivel, weep.
Oranges, limes. chili, and feverfew.
A pinch of sage?
No thank you!

A horse and its carriage, trot on, trot slow
Whipped up whip, collar, cap, ribboned bow.
Fur on a coat, lace around the full face
Working up a sweat, Horse, increase your pace!
In the deep forest and the earthen bowl
A man gathers roots, food, rice.
Gather, gather too, mountain dew.

A horse at the fence, bridle, bit
Who holds back, time after time?
A sonnet, a sabre, sharp at the lip.
In time, in time, another day, another time.

Bravery escalate,
What s your bent,
Folklore and army dress.
Say not. Swear not,
In time. . . .In time
A horse, his mare
Gallop and fancy free!

IN THE SHADOW OF PEARLS (Anonymous)

In the Shadow of Pearls
The glow of a pearly light waits . . .
Among gritty coral, silky sodden, sodden sand.
Granite is a rock-like substance
Little rocks, big rocks
Boulders commit sin.
In gold mines, who will silver find?
Copper in a conch shell . . .
Golden lava, a silver smith bears, bears down
Flow .. .. Glow .. .. Shine!

Rivers, alluvial, saline and fresh water
Ripples of tumbling little stones, pebbles
and pearls.
Come sit, see, Liquid gold. Value
Silver, copper, all metals and . . .
Iron
In the shadow of Pearls.

Throw flames receive stones, rocks
boulders abound
Solomon creeps in the crevices
of rocky crags, pillars of tall salt.
Bombarding particles, pebbles
flint, corrugated sheets of
Tin!

Money in bronze,
Paper in a water mark
Pearls!
A profusion, an accumulation of . . . .
Swine!
Shadows! Shadows!
Show down!
Shadow.
Shadows, shadows of Man, God
Grow, rise, descend, disperse
A pearl glows . . .A pearl glows at night.
Shadows fall,fall shadow
Casting night shadows
Shadows . . . .
In the shadow of . . .Pearls.

DARK NIGHTS OF THE SOUL by Thomas Moore


Some people appear to give up on love, and you see the life-lessness in their faces. The soul craves,
and if you give up on love because it is so difficult, the life will seep out of you like air out of a punctured tire. You will go flat. You may wonder why life has no meaning. You may not realize
that meaning is love, and it is love that gives life its shape and purpose.

Clearly, love is not about making you happy. It is a form of initiation that may radically, making you more of who you are walking on coals and running the gauntlet and surviving the wilderness in quest of a vision-all within the confines of a simple human relationship-you could be undone by it. Love gives you a sense of meaning, but it asks a price. It will make you ino the person you are called to be, but only if you endure its pains and allow it to empty you as much as it fills you.

*** ** ***

OCTAVIO PAZ ON MEXICO CITY, MEXICO.


truth of lived and suffered.
An almost empty taste remains;
shared fury
time
shared oblivion-:
in the end transfigured
in memory and its incarnations.
What remains is
time as portioned body: language.
In the window, travesties of battle:
the commercial sky of advertisments
flares up, goes out.
Behind, barely visible,
the true constellations.
Among the waters, antennas, rooftops,
a liquid column,
more mental than corporeal,
a waterfall of silence:
the moon.
Neither phantom nor idea:
once a goddess,
today an errant clarity.
My wife sleeps.
She too is a moon,
A clarity that travels
not between the reefs of the clouds,
but between the rocks and wracks of dreams:
she too is a soul.
She flows below her closed,
a silent torrent
rushing down
from her forehead to her feet,
she tumbles within.
bursts out from within,
her heartbeats sculpt her,
travelling through herself,
she invents herself,
inventing herself
she copies it,
she is an arm of the sea
between the islands of her breasts,
her belly a lagoon
where darkness and its foliage
grow pale,
she flows through her shape,
rises, falls,
scatters in herself, ties
herself to her flowing,
disperses in her form:
she too is a body.
Truth
is the swell of a breath
and the visions closed eyes see:
The palpable mystery of the person.

The night is at the point of running over.
It growslight.
The horizon has become aquatic
To rush down
from the heights of this hour:
will dying
be a falling or a rising,
a sensation or a cessation?
Iclose my eyes,
I hear in my skull
the footsteps of my blood,
time pass through my temples.
I am still alive.
The room is covered with woman.
Woman;
fountain in the night.
I am bound to her quiet flowing.

**** ********** *****

PERILS IN PARADISE, WANT ONE?

Soliloquys on a Saturday night?
Have you ever . . . . eaten
marshmallows on Mars?

Daniel reading books, suntanning on
boulders shiny, rocks bright.
Moses visiting Job. . . Oh My God!
Baskets and weathering, cajole and lamenting.

Buttercups, cream and strawberry jam?
Going upriver, will meet you at the bank.
Croissants in Ireland. play horses at the Met.
Folklore, pastors, heathens, sing songs on a
Friday - that s club night Solly!
Bingo, mi lady.

Drive a kite, rise above a hot air balloon-
Energy!
Four by four, what's blue and hanging by its knees?
Throw a thread, retrieve a ball, Have a
lascivious evening!

Crocs on the trot, misery! Jello and Baker's custard
for all who are good.
Cleanse a jar, lick clean a bowl,
An amphora's a statue, filled with freebies.

On a plane - that's going a long way away.
Dry tears, suck mints, drink coffee bitter, cold
Whoever goes may never come back!
Oil a propellor, bounce on the wings.
The weather forecast says wet, wet, stone grey.

Where there's a globe there's a by pass
coming back on another day.
Parasites? No way! cosmos, life, spawn
Time echoes and days trip by.

Peril? beryl? Green, a stone.
Paradise's just a footstep away.
Fool's, coots, wolves, transparencies
Peril? A Fool's gotta stay.
Amphora, banks, strawberry jam!

&&&& &&&& - - - &&&& &&&&

g







d

PINK SLIPPERS AND A WELLINGTON COAT. (Anonymous).

Wear pink slippers and a Wellington coat
if your planning on coming to the Easter Parade.
Gerald will be there, with his three squirrels, this year.
Did you get your invite?
Have you got pink slippers?
And from whom did you borrow your Wellington Coats?
Marcia will be selling tickets at Paddington Station.
Come early. Marcia says the train leaves at four.
Marshmallows in hot chocolate will be sold on the train.
Bring 5p if you like.
Only one per customer. Mind your greed!
Dont tell friends!
Every year the tents are full to bursting.
Cora and Stuart will be doing their usual act,
riding their white ponies, bareback and backwards.
Apples for the horses will be much appreciated!
Nugget and Arnold will be going round with sacks.
Melvin promises lots of bunny tricks
and Freddy's going to be doing the usual,
His Famous Ventriloquist show.
Harold the Hatter won't be with us. His mum's ill
and there isn't anyone to take his place.
John with his firesticks amd Mercia with her midgets
Will be ther as always, quite the highlight.
Candyfloss, peppermint squares, homemade lemonade
are just some of the treats in store for all.
So get out your slippers and be borrowing a wellie coat
Don't be late!
Friday 22nd, thats a Saturday, 4pm, Paddington Square.

***

CORONATION & FLEABAGS (Anonymous)

Echolocate?
Frisbees in a chocolate place,
Who wants a friend?
Ariel, Jacob, Nebby (Nebucchadnezzar)
Yay! They've come to stay,
6 days, 8 nights.
Ariel's got a puppy
We put him in the paddock with
Zot the horse and Gillian the filly.

Nebby's got a cold again!
Camphor? Eucalyptus?
That's no good. Ariel gave him some
zinggers and jelly babies.
Sad Neb, sack cloth ashes
No frisbee! Nebby's like a bat, he .....
Echolocates.
Jacob has a snake, he lives in .. ..
Popeye's tree.

Ariel, Jacob, Nebby,
Two blacks, one white,
Sophia - that's Moly's maid
has made caramel pie.
"Oh Molly, Nebby's lactose intolerant
and Jacob's ADDH!
Its only me who'll eat your pie.
Sugar makes Jacob jitter and Nebby?"
Sophia says "Oh Nebby for Goodness sake
Don't be a coot. Soya milk? Is that right?
Nothing but soya in Sophia's caramel pie"
"Sophie, Jacob said its caramel TART not pie!"

Echolocate. A childless mother
A blindfolded blind date.
Cherries on a bower, roses on a cake.
Ariel's baby angel doll has a broken wing.
Jacob's crying for cake, he can't eat tart or pie.
Nebby, Nebucchadnezzar's standing on the curb
selling watermelon seeds from Arthur's
Fruit garden down by Gespatch creek.

Echolocate.
Three children, Sophie, Molly,
At Arthur's place.
Coronation? thats Hearts and Dark Cards.
Fleabags? Carrion and vultures farts!

SAN ILDEFENSO NOCTURNE by Octavia Paz on Mexico City, Mexico


Circular plot:
we have all been,
in the Grand Theater of Filfth,
judge, executioner, victim, witness,
we have all
given false testimony
against the others
and against ourselves,
And the most vile: we
were the public that applauded or yawned in its seats.
The guilt that knows no guilt,
innocence
was the greatest guilt.
Each year was a mountain of bones.
Conversions, retractions, excommunications,
reconciliations, apostasies, recantations,
the zigzag of the demonaltries and androlatries
bewitchments and aberrations
mt history
Are they the histories of an error?
history is the error.
Beyond dates,
before names,
truth is that
which history scorns:
the everyday
-everyone's anonymous heartbeat,
the unique
beat of every one-
the unrepeatable
everyday, identical to all days.
Truth
is the base of a time without history.
The weight
of the weightless moment:
a few stones in the sun

seen long ago,
today return,
stones of time that are also stone
beneath this sun of time,
sun that comes from a dateless day,
sun
that lights up these words,
sun of words
that burns out when they are named.
Suns, words. stones ,
burn and burn out:
the moment burns them
without burning,
hidden, unmoving, untouchable,
the present-not its presences-is always.
Between seeing and making,
contemplation or action,
I chose the act of words:
to make them, inhabit them,
to give eyes to the language.
Poetry is not truth:
it is the ressurection of presences,
history
transfigured in the truth of undated time.
Poetry,
like history, is made;
poetry,
suspension bridge between history and truth,
is not a path toward this or that:
it is to see

the stillness in motion,
change
in stillness
History is the path:
it goes nowhere,
we all walk it,
truth is to walk it.
We neither go nor come:
we are in the hands of time.
Truth:
to know ourselves,
from the beginning,
hung.
Brotherhood over the void.
Ideas scatter,
the ghosts remain to be continued. . . . . .

CRADLES @ ANGELS WWW.COM (Anonymous).

A cherub on a stand is not
A cherub
. . . . . . . . in eholacation
Remember that and forgive a Rabbit
His sin.
Utopia was where I was seen on
GuyFawkes night . . .
Where were you on Halloween?
Cast iron, bleached blue
My boyfriend and me.

Cradles rock while old man weep
Too dry to breast feed.
Mama's on the swing
That s mamma and me
She sings to the moon
I just sit and watch stars
Candles, rubies and bigger stones,
Mamma and me .. . ... . . . .

Black forest my birthday cake
Candles cradles, Rock a Star!
Black forest cake, your
favourite . . . .
too?
The cream that spurts out my mouth
side to side,
The maraschino cherries
Sweet olives no olive pips
The whole damn thing steeped
in maraschino cherry juice liquer
Pappa's in the garage, he's working
on grandma's bike.

Caught a shadow, sucked a pip
Waiting on the kerb.
My boyfriend's coming in his
Volvo . . . . .
Our fourth date.
Signal Hill, he said, a drive
Park off.
John Lennon on the tape.
Sheepskin seat covers-
That's cool!

Mamma says that'll be okay but not
School Day Night's.
Eagles crawl in the candlelight
Frogs? Crack a whip
That's disperse!
Jemma has a toy pet crocodile
Its wind-up it swims and
Chews bits of corn pop
that Jemma breaks off.
Crocodiles, angels, cradles. Candles.
My boyfriend and me.

*

SAN ILDEFENSO NOCTURNE by Octavio Paz on Mexico City, Mexico

In my window night
invents another night
another space
carnival convulsed
In a square yard of blackness.
Momentary
confederations of fire,
nomadic geometries,
errant numbers.
From yellow to green to red,
the spiral unwinds.
Window:
magnetic plate of calls and answers,
high-voltage calligraphy,
false heaven/hell of industry
on the changing skin of the moment.

Sign-seeds: the night shoots them off,
they rise,
bursting above,
fall
still burning
in a cone of shadow,
reappear.
rambling sparks
syllable clusters,
spinning flames
that scatter;
smithereens once more.
The city invents and erases them.
I am at a the entrance to a tunnel.
Perhaps I am that which waits at the end of the
tunnel.

I speak with eyes closed.
Someone
has planted
a forest of magnetic needles
in my eyelids,
someone
guides the thread of these words.
The page has become an ant's nest.
The void
has settled in the pit of my stomach.
I fall
endlessly through that void.
I fall without falling.
My hands are cold,
my feet cold-
but the alphabets are burning, burning.
Space
makes and unmakes itself.

The night insists,
the night touches my forehead,
touches my thoughts.
What does it want?

2.

Empty streets, squinting lights.
On a corner,
the ghost of a dog
searches the garbage
for a spectral bone.
Uproar in a nearby patio:
cacophonous cockpit.
Mexico, circa 1931.
Loitering sparrows
a flock of children
builds a nest
of unsold newspapers.
In the desolation
the streetlights invent
unreal pools of yellowish light.
Appparitions:
time splits open:
a lugubrious, lascivious clatter of heels,
beneath a sky of soot
the flash of a skirt.
C'est la morte - ou la morte. . . .
The indifferent wind
rips posters fro the walls.
At this hour,
the red walls of Sand Ildefenso
are black and they breathe:
sun turned to time,
time turned to stone,
stone turned to body.

These streets were once canals.
In the sun,
the houses were silver:
city of mortar and stone,
moon fallen in the lake.
Over the filled canals
and the buried idols
the criollos erected
another city
- not white, but red and gold -
idea turned to space, tangible number.
They placed it
at the crossroads of eight directions,
its doors
open to the invisible:
heaven and hell.
Sleeping district.
We walk through galleries of echoes
past brokenimages:
Our history.
Hushed nations of stones.
Churches
dome-growths,
their facades
petrified gardens of symbols.
Shipwrecked
in the spiteful proliferation of dwarf houses:
Humiliated spaces,
fountains without water,
affronted frontispieces.
Cumuli,
over the ponderous bulks,
conquered
not by the weight of the years
but by the infamy of the present.

Zocalo Plaza
vast as the heavens:
diaphanous space,
court of echoes.
There,with Alyosha K and Julien S,
we devised bolts of lightning
against the century and its cliques
The wind of thought
carried us away,
the verbal wind,
the wind that plays with mirrors,
master of reflections,
builder of cities of air,
geometries
hung from the thread of reason.
Shut down for the night,
the yellow trolleys,
giant worms,
S's and Z's
a crazed auto, insect with malicious eyes.
Ideas,
fruit's within an arm's reach,
like stars,
burning.
The girandola is burning,
the adolescent dialogue,
the scorched hasty frame.
The bronze fist
of the tower beats
12 times.
Night
burst into pieces,
gathers them by itself,
and becomes one, intact.
We disperse,
Not there in the plaza with its dead trains,
but here,
on this page petrified letters.

3.

The boy who walks through this poem,
between San Ildefenso and the Zoacalo,
Is the man who writes it:
this page too
in a ramble through the night.
Here the friendly ghosts
become flesh, ideas dissolve.
Good, we wanted good:
to set the world right.
We didn't lack integrity:
we lacked humility.
What we wanted was not innocently wanted.
Precepts and concepts,
the arrogance of theologians,
to beat with a cross,
to institute with blood,
to build the house with bricks of crime,
to declare obligatory communion.
Some
become secretaries to the secretary
to the General Secretary of the Inferno.
Rage
became philosophy,
its drivel has covered the planet,
Reason came down to earth,
took the form of gallows
- and is worshipped by millions.
Circular plot:
to be continued .. . . . . . . .

DARK NIGHTS OF THE SOUL by Thomas Moore .

Chapter 6: Lovesickness.

Sub-paragraph- WALKING ON COALS


One curious aspect of lovesickness is its tendency to last long beyond its period of ripeness. People know that they are in a situation that is not good for them, and yet they let it go on and on, often for years. Even if they dont do anything actively, they expect the relationship to improve. Many cling to the security they have rather than risk it for a more vital but unpredictable relationship with someone else. But often people are just reluctant to end a relationship until it sheds its last drop of promise.

Some people put off the inevitable until they can stand it no longer. Then their resolve is clear and forceful. I had a client once who one morning was sitting at the breakfast table waiting for his wife to join him. Eventually she came down from the bedroom with her bags packed. That was the last he saw of her. Apparently the decisive moment had arrived for her, but he was devastated. Talking to him I was surprised to see a huge blind spot in him. He had no idea what his wife was going through. He assumed life was as simple and pleasing for her as it was for him.

It takes time for the soul, so deep and complex, to sort itself out and arrange itself for a decision. Myown way is to wait and wait until the apple of decision is about to fall on its own. No doubt, I am extreme in my patience and temporising. When I counsel others, I feel no rush. I feel it's important to gather oneself together before making a move. Many people make decisions just on the principle that you should do something. I'm afraid it may take a while for the soul to catch up with them.


Sub-paragraph - LURED INTO DARKNESS


After years of practicing psychotherapy with men and women of all ages, I am convinced that love is the most common source of our dark nights. It may be romantic love, it may be the love for a child. The lure is strong, but the darkness is intense. It is as though love always has two parts, or two sides, like the moon, a light one and a dark one. In all our loves we have little idea of what is going on and what is demanded of us. Love has little to do with the ego and is beyond understanding and control. It has its own reasons and its own indirect ways of getting what it wants.

Robert Burton, who lived in the time of Shakespeare, diagnoses love as a sickness and at one point suggests that it might be better to destroy it if you can. But to choose not to love is to decide to die. Everyone needs to love and be loved. You surrender, and then the spell descends and you get swept away by days and nights of fantasy, memory and longing, and a strange sensation of loss, perhaps the end of freedom and of a comfortable life. Even if you have had experiences of painful and unsuccessful love, you don't give up on it. The soul so hungers for love that you go after it, even if there is only the slightest chance of succeeding.
To be continued. . . . . . . . . .

# # # OOOO # # #

DARK NIGHTS OF THE SOUL - A Guide to finding your way through life's ordeals
by THOMAS MOORE (Bestselling author of CARE OF THE SOUL).

Excerpt from Chapter six ... .. . . . . LOVESICKNESS.


Anyone who has been through a divorce, lived with a jealous lover, or suffered domestic abuse knows that one of the primary sources of a dark night is love. Love may begin in darkness, as in the image of Cupid blindfolded, when he shoots his flaming arrow. You are suddenly taken by another person and possessed by passion.Then come periods of confusion, longing, and perhaps, thoughts of ending. What begins full of hope and promise turns into serious questioning and emotional ambivalence. While a lover may interpret these ups and downs as a personal in making a commitment, it might be more accurate to understand that love itself i inconsistent and has a kind of inherent hysteria.

People in love may be threatened or possesed by jealousy, find themselves the the victim of another's need to control, get stuck in a cold and maybe abusive relationship, or maybe fall into an impasse in which their love gets nowhere. They may feel they are with the wrong person, at the wrong time, in the wrong place, and for the wrong reasons. Frequently love doesn't work out or it gets stale. People dream of passionate love, thrilling sex, and a tranquil life, but their often turns into a nightmare.

The ancient Greek poet Sappho, one of the great poets of all time, was the first to call love bittersweet, though she reversed the words to sweetbitter. The philosopher and poet Anne Carson says this is because love is usually sweet at first then turns bitter. My impression is that love alternates between bitter and sweet or is perpetually bittersweet. People often talk about love's sweetness and keeps its bitterness private.

Love is also a kind of madness. It seals you in a bubble of fantasy where emotions are intense. You feel unbalanced. You do silly things. Your sense of responsobility disappears. You are deaf to the reasonable advice of friends and family. In your delerium you may get married or pregnant. Then you spend years in the aftermath trying to make a reasonable life. At any point you may fall into a dark night of the soul created by the profound unsettling that love leaves in its wake.

% % % % %

PARADISE LOST by John Milton . .. .. ... ... . .From Line 51.


Here in the heart of hell to work in fire,
Or do his errands in the gloomy deep?
What can it then avail though yet we feel
Strength undiminished, or eternal being
To undergo eternal punishment?
Whereto with speedy words the arch fiend replied:
"Fallen cherub, to be weak is miserable,
Doing or suffering: but of this be sure,
To do aught good will never be our task,
But ever to do ill our sole delight,
Asbeing the contrary to his high will
Whom we resist, then if his providence
Out of our evil seek to bring good,
Our labour must be to pervert that end,
And out of good still to find means to evil;
Which offtimes may succeed, so as perhaps
Shall grieve him, If I fail not, and disturb
His inmost counsels from their destined aim.
But see the angry victor hath recalled
His ministers of vengeance and pursuit
Back to the gates of heaven; the sulphurous hail
Shot after us in storm, o'er blown hath laid
The fiery surge, that from the precipice
Of heaven received us falling, and the thunder,
Winged with red lightning and impetuous rage,
Perhaps hath spent his shafts, and ceases now
to bellow through the vast and boundless deep.
Let us not slip the occasion, whether scorn
Or satiate fury yield it from our foe.
Seest thou yon dreary plain, forlorn and wild,
The seat of desolation, void of light,
Save what glimmering of these vivid flames
Casts pale and dreadful? thither let us tend
From of the tossing of these fiery waves,
There rest, if any rest can harbour there,
And reassembling our affected powers,
Consult how we may henceforth most offend
Our enemy, our own loss how repair,
How overcome this dire calamity. . . . ... ... ... . . . . ... . .To Line 189.

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JUNG DREAMS - Captions of the Pictures.


*The Mountain of the Adepts. The temple of the wise ("House of the Gathering" or of "Self Collection"), lit by the sun and moon, stands on the seven stages, surmounted by the phoenix. The temple is hidden in the mountain - a hint that the philosopher's stone lies buried in the earth and must be extracted and cleansed. The zodiac in the background Symbolizes the duration of the OPUS, while the four elements indicate wholeness. In foreground, blindfolded man and the investigator who follows his natural instinct.- Michelspacher, CABALA (1654).

** Etna: "gelat et ardet".-Boschius, Symbolographia (1702).

***Ludus puerorum.- Trismosin, "Splendor soils" (MS 1582)

****Pygmies (helpful child-gods).- Fragments of an Egyptian mechanical toy.

*****The "Grand Peregrination" by ship. Two eagles fly round the earth in opposite directions, indicating that it is an odyssey in search of wholeness.- Maier, Viatorium (1651).

******The philosophical egg, whence the double egg is hatched, wearing the spiritual and temporal crowns.- Codex Palatinus Latinus 412 (15th cent.)

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JUNG DREAMS - Captions of the Pictures.

* The fountain in the walled garden, symbolizing constantia in adversis- a situation particulary chararacteristic of alchemy.- Boschius, Symbolographia.

*The eight-petalled flower as the eigth of the first of seven.-"Recueil de figures astrologiques.

*The alchemical apparatus for distillation, the unum vas, with the serpents of the (double) Mercurious.- Kelley, Tractatus de lapide philosophorum (1676)

*The Virgin as the vas of the divine child.- From a Venetian Rosario dela gloriosa vergine Maria (1524).

*Vision of the Holy Grail.- Roman de Lancelot de lac.

*The pelican nourishing its young with its own blood, an allegory of Christ.-Boschius Symbolographia.

*The bear representing the dangerous aspect of the prima materia.-Thomas Aquinas (pseud). De alchimia.

*Anima mundi.- Thurneisser zum Thurn, Quinta essentia.

* The alchemical process in the zodiac.- "Ripley Scrowle". . . ... . . . .

Dedicated to those of us in our task of Individuation!

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THE HOLLOW MEN - A penny for the Old Guy - T. S. Eliot.


I

We are the hollow men
We are the stuffed men
Leaning together
Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!
Our dried voices, when
We whisper together
Are quiet and meaningless
As wind in dry grass
Or rats' feet over broken glass
In our dry cellar

Shape without form, shade without colour,
Paralysed force, gesture without motion;

Those who have crossed
With direct eyes, to death's other Kingdom
Remember us- if at all- not as lost
Violent souls, but only
As the hollow men
The stuffed men.

II

Eyes I dare not meet in dreams
In death,s dream kingdom
These do not appear:
There, the eyes are
Sunlight on a broken column
There, is a tree swinging
And voices are
In the wind's singing
More distant and more solemn
Than a fading star.

Let me be no nearer
In death's dream kingdom
Let me also wear
Such deliberate disguises
Rat's coat. crowskin, crossed staves
In a field
Behaving as the wind behaves
No nearer -

Not that final meeting
In the twilight kingdom


III


This is the dead land
This is cactus land
Here the stone images
Are raised, here they receive
The supplication of a dead man's hand
Under the twinkle of a fading star.

Is it like this
In death s other kingdom
Waking alone
At the hour when we are
Trembling with tenderness
Lips that would kiss
Form prayers to broken stone.

IV

The eyes are not here
There are no eyes here
In this valley of dying stars
In this hollow valley
This broken jaw of our lost kingdoms
In this last of meeting places
We grope together
And avoid speech
Gathered on this beach of the tumid river

Sightless, unless
The eyes reappear
As the perpetual star
Multifoliate rose
Of death's twilight kingdom
The hope only
Of empty men.

V

Here we go round the prickly pear
Prickly pear prickly pear
Here we go round the prickly pear
At five o' clock in the morning.

Between the idea
And the reality
Between the motion
And the act
Falls the shadow For thine is the Kingdom

Between the conception
And the creation
Between the emotion
And the response
Falls the Shadow Life is very long

Between the desire
And the spasm
Between the potency
And the existence
Between the essence
And the descent
Falls the Shadow For Thine is the Kingdom

For Thine is
Life is
For thine is the

This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but a whimper.

I dedicate Eliot's Poem, THE HOLLOW MEN to all working on transformation.

O H H H H H H H H H H H O