Member Poem

(I)

Water Within Parched Landscapes.

(i)

What streams dare flow within this parched land?
What souls find refreshment here
In these stone valleys, that give way
To a vast emptiness?
There is no sound of solace, nor comforting relief,
Only the chirp of old bones crackling against this barren ground.

Prometheus, did you really light your fire here?
I smell no smouldering fire,
Nor see a fleeting flame,
But through this heap of dense mounds I see a
Darkness, one that shadowed your embers,
And covered your name in dust.

(ii)

In Prague

Inside the old, gothic cathedral,
There I saw wood
Reinforced with cold steel spires
Supported by decaying walls.
There they stood alone.
I was its only visitor
And smelt the sweet fragrance of prayers
That once burned like incense from centuries ago.
The people that prayed them long turned to dust.
In the copper basin,
There I washed my impurities
And saw light,
Once stolen,
Permeate through the creases of the stained glass,
But as the wood in these empty halls begin to rot,
Time strips this place of all its meaning,
And turns all prayers to a
Whisper of:
‘All that is left
Of your sacrifices
Are embers’.
Come inside with me O Prometheus.
You will see neither knowledge or treasured light;
You will see
How light your sacrifices are.

(iii)

There are times when a stream’s course flows gently through
The warm dirt, the sun in its radiance bringing some
Joyous gleaming smile, its embers ricocheting over the light blue surfaces,
Permeating through the stagnant air.
Here we connect with nature.

I took my mother’s slippers and began to promenade around with them. Then, I began to play with my brother. ‘ I am the Mammoth Sadfacer’ , alongside what other nonsense we spouted. Then my chest-cough stricken laughter would boisterously fill the air, unaware of what will befall us.

There were other times too when we would walk for hours in the Killarney National Park and gaze at the wildlife,play and converse about menial things. The air would always be scented with a tinge of green grass and the freshness of flowers’ fragrances.
But as the joy of our laughter filled the air, the pain of fruitless sacrifice permeated the ground:
A barren cathedral lay in the middle of the park.

Was it for this that those monks fasted,
For that heap of abandoned stone?
Of what use was all their sacrifices?

We paid it a visit, but it was run down to a state of ill-repair.
As we came back to this place, year on year, we realized the sparsity of the place.
However, we dismissed this thought.
‘Less people, more space for us’ we reasoned.
And in the somber moments,
When we had finished our play,
We would reflect, and I’d say:

‘This landscape is a reflection of us;’

‘The joy we feel at this time, in these endless summer days’,
And we would both smile.
The magnificence of this place was unrivalled.
Its beautiful sunset sparked incandescently to our eyes, its raw orange hued embers cascaded canscaded upon the fresh streams that meandered towards us. There we found our refreshment from its endless supply before the sun set. There will be a day when we thirst, but today we basked in the dimmed glowing lights and drank to our heart’s content. Each sunset fades. Soon it will be night,
And These streams will run dry one day
In the shadow of a well. One that can not quell thirst.
But the sun will rise again, and bring its sparkling embers with it.

(iv)

Hololiv, 1932

We stopped by the water well, trembling,
At the center of our village.
Our feet were washed with cold bog waters,
And our nostrils were defiled with an
Accustomed scent of decay that
Permeated through the harsh air; the dust of men fallen
Whisper from the frost that cloaks our skin.
A wind that reminded us of our emptiness.
My son lagged behind.
Behind him lay the bodies of a generation,
Before him lay no future.

My husband, Myron, had been working
Before sunrise, to cultivate the land.
A glimmer of light reflects off that barren waste land, in
A sea of crackled mud impenetrable to the light;
Empty, except for one small measure of subsistence; salvific grain.
Though it too will be snatched away.

The water in the well swelled briefly,
The sun gleaming its brimming waters.
Relief, as the water swayed serenely inside the mythic well.
This was a source of healing to our souls,
An enchanted aqueduct, bringing us solace.
It went upwards, between the creaks of the well,
And our spirits.
‘It seemed too good’ I thought.
It would be my last drink.

Beside the well I saw some sun dried bran.
Though crumbs,
It was the essence of light to me
Scattered on the frozen ground.
But soon, I would have no need for nourishment.
This would be my last meal.

The earth bears no food,
And in this waste land, the wells spring no water,
‘And I have no further desires
On this earth’,
‘Only to be beside that well,
And receive its refreshment:
My husband and son
Awaiting my arrival’.
Though the earth
Gives up no vegetation,
Nor wells their refreshing springs,
Soon I will find my timely reprieve.

(v)

Now I am at the heart
Of Aztec civilization,
Where Tenochtitlan’s colonnades
Provide shelter from the sweltering sun,
But I do not mind its heat,
And step into the supposed gaze of Nanauatzin,
Yet see no one ascend to please him.

(II)

The Eyes Of The Blind See What?

(vi)

There was a one whose faithful eyes
Beamed with a thirst for spiritual knowledge.

I am he, a blind beggar, begging for some water.
I stepped into the mosque in Istanbul,
The Hagia Sophia.
There I always find refreshment.
I stumbled around for a bit,
And there I washed myself in
The polluted Wuđūˀ fountain.
Inside, I call for my Imam:
‘أستاذ، أستاذ، من فضلك، ماء، من فضلك’
'أين أمير؟'
'أين أمير؟'
Where is my leader? How will I be guided?  Which light should I follow?
Soon ,
This mosque will be a museum.
‘I will walk towards the light of the Sun’
(vii)
They first met at Antioch.
‘There you are, I did not expect you to come to my mosque. Let’s go back to your place, ok.’
‘Is your husband here, Margaret?’
‘Don’t worry, he is away for at least a week.
Work really consumes him these days.
What about your religious work?’
‘Don’t worry, that can wait.’
She enticed him upon a bed of myrrh, cinnamon and aloes.

(viii)
That woman longs for a vacation with her pet
Raven, Spirit.
A dream to escape,
To head south, to Atacama,
And sleep the long nights by her wicked candle fire,
And wished the world was all that place.

(viv)

What streams flow through these barren grounds?
These sacred grounds, of the god of desolation,
But dry rivers of emptiness
Where once streamed a diverted river.
Now, only desolation paves the sand,
Now, you can not quench your thirst here,
Here, in this heap of dust,
This pile of lost names,
This desert of forgotten sacrifice
Buried in the sand.

She, the woman of us,
Will be there,
There, where she belongs, in exile,
In an ephah container, and she will dwell there,
For seventy days, and afterwards
She will again see the rising Sun’s embers.

(III)
The Sea at Dover Beach Speaks
(vv)

The Great City:

The sterile streets stream endlessly,
The air is mushed as thick smoke foam
That clings to the walls of your lungs
As you linger by the city’s square and
Long to see, but see nothing
But the flickers of neon lights
Gleaming against the noise of
Bustling crowds at intersections
That cannot disquiet for a thought
Amidst the sea of pavements grey.

This is what the mythic lakes have to say to you,
O great city, the waters, whose meanders
Stream endlessly:

“Here I am swallowing you whole,
O great city,
For though I am a sea, I will become
An ocean to you.
Say to the concrete:
I will erode you,
To make you into stone again;
Say to the glass:
I will disintegrate you,
To revert you back to sand again;
Say to the well,
I will purify you,
And make you truly clean again.
But you say:
‘I do not want your stones, your sand,
Or your well.’”

“You have polluted my sacred streams,
And eroded my ancient banks,
Therefore, I will erode the letters of your name,
O great city.
By which streams will you drink now ?
By whose waters will your thirst be quenched?

‘Yet, O promiscuous woman, there is still hope for you.’
‘Cleanse yourself while there is still time!’:

‘Drown By Water,

And feel the bliss of Nature’s hold,
See in water your reflection;
See your body sway serene,
And see light’s penetration
Mirrored in distilled sea water.’

(vvi)

Come with me, to the beach.
The beach is the best place on earth.
The quiet rushes of the tides besetting
The stress of long days.
All things are serene here.
Take off your shoes and feel
The softness of sand as it crunches
Beneath your feet,
Feel the warm glow of sunlight
Cascade upon your skin.
In the Sea of Faith,
There you should bathe yourself,
In the Bright Girdle, unfurled.