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.

+ + + + + + O + + + + + +

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.)

> > > > > > > > > > > > > > >

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!

&&& &&&& &&& &&&& &&&

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

POEMS by T. S. ELIOT (1920).


SWEENEY ERECT
(And the trees about me, let them be dry and leafless; let the rocks groan
with continual surges; and behind me make all a desolation.
Look, look, wenches!)

Paint me a cavernous waste shore
Cast in the unstilled Cyclades,
Paint me bold unfractuous rocks,
Faced by the snarled and yelping seas.

Display me Aeolus above
Reviewing the insurgent gales
Which tangle Adriane's hair
And swell with haste the perjured sails.

Morning stirs the feet and hands
(Nausicaa and Polypheme).
Gesture of orang-outang
Rises from the sheets in steam.

This withered root of knots of hair
Slitted below and gashed with eyes,
This oval O cropped out with teeth:
The sickle motion from the thighs

Jackknifes upward at the knees
Then straightens out from heel to hip
Pushing the framework of the bed
And clawing at the pillow sleep.

Sweeney addressed full length to shave
Broadbottomed, pink from nape to base,
Knows the female temperament
And wipes the suds around his face.

(The lengthened shadow of a man
Is history, said Emerson
Who had not seen the silhouette
Of Sweeney straddled in the sun.)

Tests the razor on his leg
Waiting until the shriek subsides.
The epileptic on the bed
Curves backward, clutching at her sides.

The ladies of the corridor
Find themselves involved, disgraced,
Call witness to their principles
And deprecate the lack of taste

Observing that hysteria
Might easily be misunderstood;
Mrs. Turner intimates
It does the house no sort of good.

But Doris, towelled from the bath,
Enters paddling on broad feet,
Bringing sol volatile
And a glass of brandy neat.

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

Flesh and blood is weak and frail
Susceptible to nervous shock;
While the True Church can never fail
For it is based upon a rock.

The hippo s feeble steps may err
In compassing material ends,
While the True Church never never stir
To gather in its dividends.

The 'potamus can never reach
The mango on the mango-tree;
But fruits of pomegranate and peach
Refresh the Church from over sea.

At mating time the hippo's voice
Betrays inflexions hoarse and odd,
But every week we hear rejoice
The Curch, at being one with God.

The hippopotamus's day
Is passed in sleep; at night he hunts;
God works in a mysterious way-
The Church can sleep and feed at once.

I saw the 'potamus take wing
Ascending from the damp savannas,
And quiring angels round him sing
The praise of God in loud hosannas.

Blood of the Lamb shall wash him clean
And him shall heavenly arms enfold,
Among the saints he shall be seen
Performing on a harp of gold.

He shall be washed as white as snow'
By all the martyr'd virgins kist,
While the trueChurch remains below
Wrapt in the old miasmal mist.

# # # # # # # # # #

c

POEMS by T.S. Eliot (1920).

THE HIPPOPOTAMUS.
(And when this epistle is read among you, cause that it be read and also
in the church of the Laodiceans).

The broad-backed hippopotamus
Rests on his belly in the mud;
Although he seems so firm to us
He is merely flesh and blood.

Testing .... testing ... Last Poem was wiped out. Hitting PUBLISH POST Now!

JUNG DREAMS - Captions of Pictures.

The deliverance of man from the power of the dragon.- Codex Palatinus Latinus 412 (15th cent).

Heaven fertilizing Earth and begetting mankind.-Thenaud, 'Traite de la cabale'.

Trimurti picture. The triangle symbolizes the tendency of the universe to converge towards the point of Unity. The tortoise represents Vishnu; the lotus growing out of the skull between two flames, Shiva. The shining sun of Brahma forms the background. The whole picture corresponds to the alchemical opus, the tortoise symbolizing the massa confusa, the skull the vas of transformation, and the flower the 'self' of wholeness.- After an Indian painting.

The tortoise; an alchemical instrument.- Porta, De distillationibus (1609).

Telesphorus, one of the Cabiri, the familiaris of Aesculapius: (a) Bronze figure from Roman Gaul; (b) Marble statuette from Austria.

Maria Prophetissa, in the background, the union (coniuncto) of upper and lower.- Maier, Symbola aureae mensae.

King Sol with his six planet-sons.- Bonus, Pretiosa margarita novella (1546).

Mercurius turning the eight-spoked wheel which symbolizes the process. In one hand he holds the telum passionis.- "Speculum veritatis".

Sol et eius umbra. The earth is midway between light and darkness.- Maier, Scruttinium chymicum.

The Anthropos with the four elements.-Russian MS. (18th cent).

Dante being led before God in the heavenly rose .- Illumination for the Paradiso, Canto XXXI. Codex Urbanus Latinus 365 (15th cent).

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

A poem by Lord Byron . . . ... . .

(ii) STANZAS TO AUGUSTA

('Though the day of my destiny') 1816.


Though the day of my destiny s over,
And the star of my fate hath declined,
Thy soft heart refused to discover
The faults which so many could find;
Though thy soul with my grief was acquainted
It shrunk not to share it with me,
And the love which my spirit hath painted
It never hath found but in thee

Then when Nature around me is smiling
The last smile which answers to mine,
I do not believe it beguiling,
Because it reminds me of thine;
And when winds are at war with the ocean,
As the breasts I believed in with me,
If their billows excite an emotion,
It is that they bear me from thee.

Though the rock of my last hope is shivered,
And its fragments are sank in the wave,
Though I feel that my soul is delivered
To pain-it shall not be its slave!
There is many a pang to pursue me
(They may crush, but they shall not condemn),
They may torture, but shall not subdue me -
'Tis of thee that I think - not of them!

Though human, though didst not deceive me,
Though woman, thou didst not forsake,
Though loved, thou forborest to grieve me,
Though slandered, thou never couldst shake;
Though trusted, thou didst not disclaim me,
Though parted, it was not to fly,
Though watchful 'twas not to defame me,
Nor mute, that the world might belie!

Yet I blame not the world, nor despise it,
Nor the war of the many with one;
If my soul was not fitted to prize it,
'Twas folly not sooner to shun -
And if dearly that error hath cost me,
And more than once I could foresee
I have found that, whatever it lost me,
It could not deprive me of thee!

From the wreck of the past, which hath perished,
Thus much I at least may recall,
It hath taught me that which I most cherished
Deserved to be dearest of all:
In the desert a fountain is springing,
In the wide waste there still is a tree,
And a bird in the solitude singing,
Which speaks to my spirit of thee!

A Poem by Lord Byron. . . . .....

(III) and Augusta Leigh

(i) STANZAS TO AUGUSTA ("When all around") 1816.

When all around grew drear and dark,
And reason half withheld her ray,
And hope but shed a dying spark
Which more misled my lonely way -

In that deep midnight of the mind,
And that internal strife of heart,
When, dreading to be deemed too kind,
The weak despair - the cold depart!

When Fortune changed, and Love fled far,
And Hatred s shafts flew thick and fast,
Thou wert thy solitary star
Which rose and set not to the last.

Oh, blest be thine unbroken light!
That watched me as a seraph s eye,
And stood between me and the night,
Forever shining sweetly nigh.

And when the cloud upon us came,
Which strove to blacken o'er thy ray -
Then purer spread its gentle flame,
And dashed the darkness all away!

Still may thy spirit dwell on mine,
And teach it what to brave or brook:
There s more in one soft word of thine
Than in the world s defied rebuke.

Thou stoodst as stands a lovely tree,
That still unbroke, though gently bent,
Still waves with fond fidelity
Its boughs above a monument.

The winds might rend, the skies might pour,
But there thou wert - and still wouldst be
Devoted in the stormiest hour
To shed thy weeping leaves o'er me.

But thy and thine shall know no blight,
Whatever fate on me may fall;
For Heaven in sunshine will requite
The kind - and thee the most of all!

Then let the ties of baffled love
Be broken - thine will never break!
Thy heart can feel, but will not move;
Thy soul thou soft, will never shake.

And these, when all was lost beside,
Where found and still are fixed, in thee-
And bearing still a breast so tried,
Earth is no desert - e'en to me! .... . .. Poem dedicated to The Navigator of My Dark Night.

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

JUNG - DREAMS .. .. .. Pictures and their captions.

Thoth as cynocephalus.- From tomb of Amen-her-khopshef, near Der-el Medina, Luxor (XXth dynasty, 12the cent, B. C.

Dante and Virgil on their journey to the underworld.-Illumination for the Inferno, Canto XVII, Codex Urbanus Latinus.

Pagan rites of Transformation in the Middle Ages, with serpents.-Gnostic design.

Creation of Adam from the clay of the prima materia.- Schedel, Das Buch der Chroniken (1493).

The union of "Irreconcilables": marriage of water and fire. The two figures each have two hands to symbolize their many different capabilities.- After an Indian painting.

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

PARADISE LOST by John Milton . . . .. ... From line 110

That glory never shall his wrath or might
Extort from me. To bow and sue for grace
With suppliant knee, and defy his power-
Whom from the terror of this arm so late
Doubted his empire-that were low indeed,
That were an ignominy and shame beneath
This downfall; since by fate the strength of gods
And this empyreal substance cannot fail,
Since through experience of this great event,
In arms not worse, in foresight much advanced,
We may with more successful hope resolve
To wage by force or guile eternal war
Irreconcilable to our grand foe,
Who now triumphs and in the excess of joy
Sole reigning holds the tyranny of heaven.
So spake the apostate angel though in pain,
Vaunting aloud, but racked with deep despair;
And him thus answered soon his bold compeer:
"O Prince, O Chief of many throned powers,
That led the embattled seraphim to war
Under thy conduct, and in dreadful deeds
And put to proof his high supremacy,
Whether upheld by strength, or chance, or fate;
Too well I see and rue the dire event,
That with sad overthrow and foul defeat
Hath lost us heaven, and all this mighty host
In horrible destruction laid thus low,
As far as gods and heavenly essences
Can perish: for the mind and spirit remains
Invincible, and vigour soon returns,
Though all our glory extinct, and happy state
Here swalowed up in endless misery,
But what if he, our conqueror (whom I now
Of force believe almighty, since no less
Than such could have o'erpowered such force as ours)
Have left us this our spirit and strength entire
Strongly to suffer and support our pains,
That we may so suffice his vengeful ire,
Or do him mightier service as his thralls
By right of war, whate'er his business be, .. ... .... .... to line 150.

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

When we two parted
In silence and tears,
Half broken-hearted
To sever for years,
Pale grew thy cheek and cold,
Colder thy kiss-
Truly that hour foretold
Sorrow to this!

The dew of the morning
Sunk chill on my brow,
It felt like the warning
Of what I feel now,
Thy vows are all broken,
And light is thy fame:
I hear thy name spoken,
And share in its shame.

They name thee before me,
A knell in mine ear,
A shudder comes o'er me -
Why wert thou so dear?
They know not I knew thee,
Who knew thee too well:
Long, long shall I rue thee,
Too deeply to tell.

In secret we met -
In silence I grieve
That thy heart I could forget
Thy spirit deceive!
If I should meet thee
After long years,
How should I greet thee?
With silence and tears.

PARADISE LOST by John Milton From line 69.

Such place eternal justice had prepared,
For those rebellious, here their prison ordained
In utter darkness and their portion set,
As far removed from God and light of heaven
As from the centre thrice to the utmost pole.
Oh how unlike the place from whence they fell!
There the companions of his fall, o'erwhelmed
With floods and whirlwinds of tempestuous fire,
He soon discerns and weltering by his side
One next himself in power, and next in crime,
Long after known in Palestine, and named
Beelzebub. To whom the arch enemy,
And thence in heaven called Satan, with bold words
Braking the horrid silence, thus begun:
"If thou beest he . . . . but O how fallen, how changed
From him, who in the happy realms of light
Clothed with transcendent brightness didst outshine
Myriads though bright - if he whom mutual league,
United thoughts and counsel, equal hope
And hazard in the glorious enterprise,
Joined with me once, now misery hath joined
In equal ruin: into what pit thou seest
From what highth fallen, so much the stronger proved
He with his thunder, and till then who knew
The force of those dire arms? Yet not for those,
Nor what the potent vicar in his rage
Can else inflict, do I repent or change,
Though changed in outward lustre that fixed mind
And high disdain, from sensed of injured merit
That with the mightiest raised me to contend,
And to the fierce contention brought along
Innumerable force of spirits armed
That durst dislike his reign, and me prefering,
His utmost power with adverse power opposed,
In dubious battle on the plains of heaven,
And shook his throne. What though the field be lost?
All is not lost; the unconquerable will,
And study of revenge, immortal hate,
And courage never to submit or yield:
And what is else not to overcome?

. . . . . . To line 109. To be contd.

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

ASH WEDNESDAY by T. S. Eliot. Part II

Lady,three whit leopards sat under a juniper tree
In the cool of the day, having fed to saiety
On my legs, my heart and liver and that which has been contained
In the hollow round of my skull. And God said
Shall these bones, shall these
Bo9nes live,
and that which had been contained
In the bones (which were already dry) said chirping:
Because of the goodness of this Lady
And because of her loveliness, and because
She honours the Virgin in meditation,
We shine with brightness. And I who am here dissembled
Proffer my deeds to oblivion, and my love
To the posterity of the desert and the indigestable portions
Which the leopards reject. The Lady is withdrawn
In a white gown, to contemplation, in a white gown.
Let the whiteness of bones atone to forgetfulness,
There is no life in them. As I am forgotten
And would be forgotten , so I would forget
Thus devoted, concentrated in purpose. And God said
Prophesy to the wind and only for only
The wind will listen. And the bones sang chirping
With the burden of the grasshopper, saying

Lady of silences
Calm and distressed
Torn and most whole
Rose of memory
Rose of forgetfulness
Exhausted and life-giving
Worried reposeful
The single Rose
Is now the Garden
Where all Loves end
Terminate torment
Of love unsatisfied
End of the endless
Journey to no end
Conclusion of all that
Is inconclusible
Speech without word and
Word of no speech
Grace to the mother
For the Garden
Where all love ends

Under a juniper-tree the bones sang, scattered and shining
We are glad to be scattered, we did little good to each other,
Under a tree in the cool of the day, with the blessing of sand,
Forgetting themselves and each other, united
In the quiet of the desert. This is the land which ye
Shall divide by lot. And neither division nor unity
Matters. This is the land. We have our inheritance.

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

JUNG DREAMS - Symbolic Pictures, Captions therof.


Fountain of Youth- Codex de Sphaera (Modena, 15th Cent.)

Squaring of the sexes to make the two sexes one whole. Maier, Scrutinium chymicuk

The pearl as symbol of Ch'ien, surrounded by the four cosmic effluences (dragons).-Chinese bronze mirror of the T'angPeriod (17th to 19th cent.)

Rectangular mandala with cross, the Lamb in the centre, surrounded by the four evangelists and the four rivers of Paradise. In the medallions, the four cardinal virtues.- Zwiefaltein Abbey breviary.

Hermes.-Greek vase painting (Hamilton collection).



Christ as Athropos, standing on the globe, flanked by the four elements.-Glanville, Le Proprietaire des choses.

Tetramorph (Anthropos symbol) standing on two wheels, symbols of the Old and New Testaments.-Mosaic, Vatopedi Monastery, Mt Athos.

Ammon-Ra, the Egyptian spirit of the four elements.- Temple of Esneh, Ptolomaic, from Champollion, Pantheon egyptien

Demon in the shape of a monkey.- Speculum humanae salvationis. (Cod. Lat. 511, Paris, 14th Cent.)

ASH WEDNESDAY, 1930 By T. S. Eliot. Part I


Because I do not hope to turn again
Because I do not hope
Because I do not hope to turn
Desiring this man's gift and that man'scope
I no longer strive to strive to strive towards such things
(Why should the aged eagle stretch his wings)
Why should I mourn
The vanished power of the usual reign?

Because I do not hope to know again
The infirm glory of the positive hour
Because I do not think
Because I know I shall not know
The one veritable transitory power Because I cannot drink
There where trees, flower, and springs flow, for there is nothing
again.

Because I know that time is always time
And place is always and only place
And what is actual is for actual only for one time
And only for one place
I rejoice that things are as they are and
I renounce the blessed face
And renounce the voice
Because I cannot hope to turn again
Consequently I rejoice, having to construct something
Upon which to rejoice
And pray to God to have mercy upon us
And I pray that I may forget
These matters that with myself I too much discuss
Too much to explain

Because I do not hope to turn again
Let these words answer
For what is done, not to be done again
May the judgement not be too heavy upon us

Because these things are no longer wings to fly
But merely vans to beat the air
The air which is now thoroughly small and dry
Smaller and dryer than the will
Teach us to care and not to care
Teach us to sit still

Pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death
Pray for us now and at the hour of our death.

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

THE BURIAL OF THE DEAD by T. S. Eliot A continuation. . ... ..


Madame Sosostris, famous clairvoyante,
Had a bad cold nevertheless
Is known to be the wisest woman in Europe,
With a wicked pack of cards. Here, said she,
Is your card, the Drowned Phoenician Sailor,
(Those are pearls that where his eyes. Look)
Here is Belladonna, the Lady of The Rocks,
The Lady of Situations.
Here is the man with three staves, and here the Wheel,
And here is the one-eyed merchant, and his card,
Which is blank, is something he carries on his back,
Which I am forbidden to see. I do not find
The Hanged Man. Fear death by water,
I see crowds of people, walking round in a ring.
Thank you. If you see dear Mrs Equitone,
Tell her I bring the horoscope myself:
One must be so careful these days.

Unreal City, Under the brown fog of a Winter dawn,
A crowd flowed over London Bridge, so many,
I had not thought death had undone so many.
Sighs, short and infrequent, were exhaled,
And each man fixed his eyes before his feet,
Flowed up the hill and down King William Street,
To where Saint Mary Woolnoth kept the hours
With a dead stroke on the final count of nine.
There I saw one I knew, and stopped him, crying;
"Stetson!"
"You where with me in the ships of Mylae!
"That corpse you planted last year, in your garden,
"Has it begun to sprout? Will it bloom this year?
"Or has the sudden frost disturbed its bed?
"O keep the dog far hence, that s friend to men,
"Or with his nails, he ll dig it up again!
"You! hypocrite lecteur! - mon semblable, - mon frere!"


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

A VISION by John Clare


I lost the love of heaven above,
I spurned the lust of earth below.
I felt the sweets of fancied love,
And Hell itself my only foe.

I lost earth s joys, but felt the glow
Of heaven s flames abound in me,
Till loveliness and I did grow
The bard of immortality.

I loved but woman fell away,
I hid me from her faded flame,
I snatched the sun s eternal ray
And wrote till earth was but a name.
In every language upon earth
on every shore o'er every sea,
I gave my name immortal birth
And kept my spirit with the free.

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

IRON JOHN by Robert Bly continued


The king s daughter, however, went up to him and puled it off, and his golden hair fell down over his shoulders; his beauty was so great that everyone was astounded.

The king said "Are you the knight who appeared each day of the festival with a different horse, and each day caught the golden apple?"

"I am," he said, "and the apples are here." Taking the apples from his pocket, he handed them to the king. "If you need more evidence, you can look at the wound your men gave me when they were chasing me. What s more, I m also the knight who helped defeat the enemy."

"If you can perform feats of such magnitude you are obviously not a gardener. Who is your father, may I ask?"

"My father is a notable king and I have as much gold as I will ever need."

"It s clear," the king said that I am in debt to you. Whatever I have in my power that would please you, I will give."

"Well", the young man said, "I d suggest that you should give me your daughter as my wife."

Then the king s daughter laughed and said "I like the way he doesn t beat around the bush; I already knew he was no gardener s boy from his golden year." And so she walked over and kissed him.

The young man s father and mother were among those invited to the wedding, and they came, they were in great joy for they had given up hope that they would ever see their dear son again.

While all the guests were sitting at the table for the marriage feast, the music broke off all at once, the great doors swung open, and a baronial king entered, accompanied in procession by many attendants.

He walked up to the young groom and embraced him. The guest said: "I am Iron John who through an enchantment became turned into a Wild Man. You have freed me from the enchantment. All the treasure that I own, will from now on belong to you.

The End.

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

I AM A poem by John Clare (1865)


I am: yet what I am none cares or knows;
My friends forsake me like a memory lost
I am the self consumer of my woes-
They rise and vanish in oblivion s host,
Like shadows in love, frenzied, stifled throes:-
And yet I am, and live-like vapors tost

Into the nothingness of scorn and noise,
Into the living sea of waking dreams,
Where there is neither sense of life or joys,
But the vast shipwreck of my life's esteems;
Even the dearest that I love the best
Are strange, nay stranger than the rest.

I long for scenes where man hath never trod,
A place where women never smiled or wept
There to abide with my Creator God,
And sleep as I in childhood slept,
Untroubling and untroubled where I lie,
The grass below, above, the vaulted sky.

The son of a farmer, JOHN CLARE, was an authentic peasant poet. Described as remarkably free of self consciusness, a freedom that gives his best poems a superb purity and directness of address. They have an immediacy that is very rare in poetry of any period. Most of his life was spent in an asylum since he was caught up perpetually in an acute manic depressive cycle.

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

IRON JOHN . . . . TO BE CONTINUED. . . . .


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


THE LADY S "YES" By Elizabeth Barrett Browning. (A Love Poem).


"Yes", I answered you last night;
"No", this morning, sir, I say.
Colors seen by candle-light
Will not look the same by day.

When the viols played their best,
Lamps above and laughs below
LOVE ME sounded like a jest,
Fit for YES or fit for NO.

Call me false or call me free,
Vow, what ever light may shine,
No man on your face shall see
Any grief for change on mine.

Yet the sin is on us both;
Time to dance is not to woo:
Wooing light makes fickle troth
Scorn of ME recoils on YOU.

Learn to win a lady s faith
Nobly, as the thing is high,
Bravely as for life and death,
With a loyal gravity.

Lead her from the festive boards,
Point her to the starry skies,
Gaurd her, by your truthful words,
Pure from courtship s flatteries.

By your truth she shall be true,
Ever true as wives of yore;
And her YES, once said to you,
SHALL be Yes forever more.


* * * * * * * *

PARADISE LOST by John Milton. Continuation.....

Line 28:

Say first, for heaven hides nothing from thy view,
Nor the deep tract of hell, say first what cause
Moved our grandparents in that happy state,
Favoured of heavens so highly, to fall off
From their creator, and transgress his will
For one restraint, lords of the world besides?
Who first seduced them to that foul revolt?
The infernal serpent; he it was whose guile,
Stirred up with envy and revenge, deceived
The mother of mankind, what time his pride
Had cast him out from heaven, with all his host
Of rebel angels, by whose aid aspiring
To set himself in glory, above his peers,
He trusted to have equalled the Most High,
If he opposed and with ambitious aim
Against the throne and monarchy of God
Raised impious war in heaven and battle proud
With vain attempt. Him the Almighty Power
Hurled headlong flaming from the ethereal sky
With hideous ruin and combustion down
To bottomless perdition there to dwell
In adamantine chains and penal fire,
Who durst defy the omnipotent to arms.
Nine times the space that measures day and night
To mortal men, he with his horrid crew
Lay vanquished, rolling in the fiery gulf
Confounded though immortal. But his doom
Reserved him to more wrath; for now he thought
Bothof lost happiness and lasting pain
Torments him; round he throws his baleful eyes,
That witnessed huge affliction and dismay
Mixed with obdurate pride and steadfast hate.
At once as far as angels' ken he views
The dismal situation waste and wild:
A dungeon horrible on all sides round
As one great furnaced flamed, yet from those flames
No light, but rather darkness visible
Served onlyto discover sights of woe
Regions of sorrow, doleful shades, where peace
And rest can never dwell, hope never comes
That comes to all; but torture without end
Still urges, and a fiery deluge, fed
With ever burning sulphur, unconsumed:
rk half.
Line 69 . . . . . . To be continued



JUNG DREAMS. Pictures and their captions.

Diagram showing the four functions of consciusness. Thinking, the superior function in this case, occupies the centre of the light half of the circle, whreas feeling, the inferior function, occupies the dark half. The two auxilliary functions are partly in the light, part in the dark.

Baneful spirits attacking the impregnable castle. Fludd, Summum bonum

The Lapis Sanctuary, also a labyrinth, surrounded by the planetary orbits. Van Vreeswyck, De Groene Leeuw

Hapokrates on the lotus.- Gnostic gem

The tetramorph, the steed of the church.-Crucifixion in Herrad of Landsberg s Hortus deliciarum (12th cent.) detail

Hermaphrodite with three serpents and one serpent. Below, the three headed Mercurial dragon.- Rosarium philosophorum in Artis auriferae

Faust before the magic mirror.- Rembrandt etching

Fountain of youth.- Codex de Sphaera

Imperial bath with the miraculous spring of water beneath the influence of sun and moon.- Alcidini, "De balneis Puteolanis"

Christ as the force of fire, with the flaming "stigmata".- 14th cent. stained glass window, church at Konigsfelden, Aargau, Switzerland.

"All things do live in the three. . . . . ".- Jamsthaler, Viatorium spagyricum.



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



THE STORY OF IRON JOHN by Robert Bly
em
Chapter 7


The King said to his daughter: I ll arrange a great festival that will last three days, and you will be the one that throws out the golden apple. Perhaps the mysterious knight will appear."

After the announcement of the festival had been made, the young man rode to the edge of the forest and called for Iron John.

"What do you need?" he asked.

"I want to catch the golden apple the king s daughter is going to throw."

"There s no problem: you virtually have it in your hands right now," Iron John replied. "I ll provide you more: red armour for the occasion, and a powerful chestnut horse."

The young man galloped to the field at the right time, rode in amongst the other knights, and nobody recognized him. The king s daughter stepped forward and threw the golden apple in amongst the men; and he was the man who caught it. However having caught it, he galloped off and was gone.

When the second arrived, Iron John had him fitted out with armour, and provided for him a white horse. This time also the apple fell into his hands; once more he did not pause for even an instant but galloped off.

That made the king angry, and the king said, "This behaviour is not allowed; he is supposed to ride over to me and report his name."If he catches the apple the third time and gallops off again," he told his men, "chase him. what s more, if he refuses to return, give him a blow, use your sword."

For the third day of the festival, Iron John gave the man black armour and a black horse. That afternoon the young man caught the apple also. But this time, when he rode away with it, the King s man galloped after him, and one got close enough to give him a leg wound with the end of his sword. The young man escaped, but his horse made such a powerful leap to do so that the young man s helmet fell off and everyone could see his golden hair. The king s men rode home and told the king everything that had happened. The king s daughter the next day inquired to the gardener about his boy. "He s back at work in the garden. The strange coot wen to the festival yesterday, and only got back last night. He showed my children, by the way, three golden apples that he had won."

The king called the young man in, and he appeared back with his tarboosh back on his head. . . . . . . . to be continued.

THE BURIAL OF THE DEAD by T. S. Eliot


April is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with Spring rain.
Winter kept us warm, covering
Earth in forgetful snow, feeding
a little life with dried tubers.
Summer surprised us, coming over the Starnbergersee
With a shower of rain, we stopped the colonnade,
And went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten,
And drank coffee, and talked for an hour.
Bin gar keine Russin, stamm' aus Litauen, echt deutsch.
And when we where children, staying at the arch duke's,
My cousin's, he took me out on a sled,
And I was frightened. He said, Marie,
Marie, hold on tight. And down we went.
In the mountains, there you feel free.
I read, much of the night and go south in the winter.

*** ***

What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow
Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,
You cannot say, or guess, for you know only
A heap of broken images, where the sun beats.
And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,
And the dry stone no sound of water. Only
There is shadow under this red rock,
(Come in under the shadow of this red rock),
And I will show you something different from either
Your shadow at morning striding behind you
Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;
I will show you a fear in a handful of dust.
Frisch weht der Wind
Der Heimat zu
Mein Irisch kind
Wo weiest du?
"You gave me hyacinths first a year ago;
They called me the hyacinth girl."
Yet, when we came back, late, from the hyacinth garden,
Your arms full, and your hair wet, I could not
Speak, and my eyes failed, I was neither
Living nor dead, and I knew nothing,
Looking into the heart of light, the silence
Oed' und leer das Meer. . . . . . . . . To be continued.



JUNG DREAMS. Pictures and Symbols, their Captions.


Tibetan World Wheel (sidpe-korlo)

The Aztec "Great Calender Stone"

Mandala containing the infant Christ carrying the Cross- Mural painting by Albertus Pictor in the church of Harkeberga, Sweden.

Lamaic Vajramandala. - cf. Jung, Concerning Mandala Symbolism

Mexican calendar. - Herriberger, Heilige Ceremonien

Hermes as psychopomp.- Gem in a Roman ring,


Crowned dragon as tail-eater; two dragons forming a circle and, in the four corners, signs of the four elements.- Eleazar, Uraltes chymisches Werk

The putre factio without which the "goal" of the opus cannot be reached (hence the target shooting).- Stolcius de Stolcenberg, Viridarium chymicum


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SOME USESELESS INFORMATION. wORD mEANINGS.
sTARTING WITH THE LAST LETTER OF THE ALPHABET
- The ZEE.

Zoroastrianism: Religious system of ancient Persia and of the Parsees, based on the recognition of the dual principle of good and evil or light and darkness.

Zymurgy: Branch of applied Chemistry dealing with the science of wine-making, brewing and distilling

Zeugma: Figure of Grammar in which a verb or an adjective is applied to two nouns

, to only one of which it is strictly applicable either grammatically or logically.

Signing of till SOON! Your friend in Cyberspace, Blossom Bangle.


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