Imajicka's Weblog

Introducing The Leafy Glade!

Jim, a friend of mine from Chicago, suggested we add a poetry section that folk can inscribe into... and I found this a bewitching idea!   So, after much ado with time, I have eventually founded The Leafy Glade.

I sincerely hope you are encouraged to submit and would love to see The Leafy Glade adorned with a plethora of various phainesthai!

All you need do is submit a poem through the 'comment on this post' section.   I will publish your submissions under your own post section... under your own intellectual copyright.

Smiles to all...

Love and Light Always

By the Degree of Difference

They have cut through.

You are detached, behind the core of pain

With no mind to absorb the stimulus

Of suffering.

You drift into the expanse

The space of emptiness

You breathe into the timeless

As the arousal of an unknown dream

(the one you've befriended a thousand times before)

Strokes' suggestions of divinity inside out.

Still

You assert these peculiarities behind

The mind’s eye.

After all... you aren’t sheltered like this.

You are so careful to linger within

The locked Safe.....

Isn’t the shadowy world too

Centered in uncertainty?

Perhaps....

But the swills are shaking your hands

As you seem to agitate your purposes

Into many dead ends.

Your directional winds pull

You elsewhere... anywhere! Rather than here

Where the North-East gusts would find you.

But as you hasten yourself away

Your frantic calls blare intrusively into the nothing

You have created.

Who will listen now?

Time is hanging in a tree.

It sways...

But stays all ways rooted in Mother’s nature.

You feel its strangulation strained against

The vocal cords.

How all seems stood stilled whilst you want more!

More of others' lives

But they are lived on the remote shores

Of ordinariness.

You cry for their normality, cribbed nicely

Within a system,

For you cannot stamp any title upon your forehead!

But O!

How you’ve striv'd to be let in!

So why can’t you pretend?

Surely

If your quest is to seek some acceptance

Why not conform your head to fool the heart?

Why is your afflicted empathy enfeebled into

Your every Being

And!

Your eyes are deadened.

Deadened

For having no belief in what

You have, of late, been understanding.

It further creates the model foreigner

You trust yourself to be.

Strange though, wouldn’t you agree, how the stranger

Carries such baggage on the very Heart

Of home?

That in this jaded journey to find oneself

You so freely belittle

Your distinctive birthmarks

When they are the stamps of unique value.

We are hardly the counterparts of our progenitors

Yet the fraternity of familiarity

Would have us ordained so.

But we do meet others

Whose dissimilarities rest upon our consciousness

With the easefulness of opulence...

So what does it matter if the majority

Fail to touch the significance of quality?

They are surrendered into the modus operandi!

To the quantitative schemes of self-worth!

Are the judge-mentals really inscribed in such brain-washed purity that

They can name the accused

Without having even felt them born?

Are they favored towards your happiness and lovefulness

Or does fortunate achievement blind

Their senses?

If you listen to them

You'll employ a judge to decide

What Character stands alongside you.

He'll wear your name

And mind you with psychology...

(And what need gave birth to such head-hunters?)

So Arise! Conjoin!

You must people love's labyrinthine

Within the deepening passages of Self

Where the trusting certainty can be felt as profit

For heart’s authenticity!

We have most

Dismissed originality at the cost of our hearts.

We fear our affections,

Dread the rebuttals from all we know

For we are learned to shake

In the buttressing docks of judgment.

We are all sided, it seems...

As we rise to the Justice of the self.

But to whom will you listen?

And who will listen now?

Imaicka 1997

Sonnet of Boscawen-un

Stone Mother

White Mother Stone rebounds a yesteryear

That darkly hearkens round some incubus

Oppressed by word.  It sounds androgynous,

Alien, pulsed upon a pressured ear,

To remind the re-opening.  Native

Of memory hides... whilst the big divide

Rapes, decries and lies for the wars worldwide.

But something lurks around this allusive

Stone. My pen is stilled for no word inscribes

This knowing, signed in an entirety

Of giving life - beating by ten thousand vibes.

It will kill Man’s pride and futility.

Heartily, I strangely listen in time

To her Sirens and a fearless sublime.

 

Written at Boscawen-un Stone Circle

Where Maijick Is

Still

Dilemma

I walked through a forest of orderly trees
Patiently waiting their turn to be felled
(Not the sound  of a bird could be heard on the breeze)
Coppiced and gated, for timber all fated,
They spoke to each other as I passed them by
‘Patience – your life will begin when you die.’

Then, through a gap in the trees I espied
A forest as lively as this one was grim
As this one was dim, it was airy and light
With leaves green and glowing, all moving and growing
And so, hardly slowing, I entered right in
And sweet music played in that warm forest glade
Where there in a bowl of rock crystal made
A fountain was dancing, with waters so clear
And sparkling, that heedless, I ran to be near
And bent my head down to its crystalline rim
Touched my lips to its edges in bubbles all clad
Quenched a thirst that I’d not even known that I’d had.

But, as I swallowed that first vital draught
My eyes widened in shock, for below me I saw
Under that surface, all shining and bright
Were rocks sharp and vicious, with edges like knives
Jagged and leering, they called from beneath
Yes – play with our waters – be torn by our teeth.

I wrenched myself back from that fountain of light
Retraced with slow steps those I’d joyfully run
Turned back down the path along which I had come
And each step that carried me further away
From the waters I still could hear dancing at play
Was breaking my heart, but it had to be done.
And then, on that path (I thought, all alone)
I stumbled and fell, perhaps over some stone
Reached out in the darkness, to find that a hand
Was there to grasp mine and to help me to stand
And my heart felt much lighter now that I knew
I was walking that path, not alone, but with you.

Hand in hand in the darkness, and where should we go?
Back into the forest where solemn trees grow?
While still my heart longs for those waters so bright
I don’t want to go back into the night
I wish we could still snatch our joy from the teeth
That menace and threaten so bleakly beneath
Am I deceiving myself, and you, too?
Or to forest and fountain both, can we be true?

Cathy

Copyright © 2006 Cathy Smith

The French

Entrancing, the cataclysmic mind of an angel
Spangling within the soul of a tree!
Flapping like a carrier bag caught on a railing.
Scrawled on a receipt was written the following:
Before it goes there, before it goes,
Back to the beginning, where no money owes,
Where nothing costs nothing
That’s something at that.
Where everything is everything.
Where the poetry is flat.
In these four ruined walls
In this partitioned mind,
Adored and divided -
The hanging, demanding,
Glittery soul
Doesn’t know how to transcendentalise the fuss.
Screwed up into a fidget lump ball
In the pocket of the coat of someone
Throw it away nicely
For another strange aimless person to find
Or aeons of time to immortalise my experience
Of decomposing.
Are you another mind too...

Copyright © 2006 Missemeeg