Snufkin's Departure

“Farewell to the old
and hello to the new”
Snufkin said to himself,
as he turned his wan face
from familiar valley
and friendship and comfort
from all that was safe and secure;
from the family who’d held him
close in their heart
from the hearth-fires of home
and the table well-laid
and the one heart which loved,
and even now ached,
with the loss of his friend.


The pass South now beckoned
its call was so strong
insistent and ardent
unyielding as stone.
The desire to explore:
to find what was real
(not safe and secure) urged him on:
intent on disclosing
the truth in his heart,
forgetful of bond,
of duty and need
and the one heart which loved,
and even now ached,
with the loss of his friend.

Each Spring was the same,
yet this time felt different
as if he might find
what he yearned for at last
and never return:
to the faces he knew
choosing freedom and danger and distance
the austere pilgrim’s path
so clearly set out
away turning from faith
and affection and home
and the one heart which loved,
and even now ached,
with the loss of his friend.


As he trudged on, alone,
the whole world before him
fear and elation
welled up in his soul:
The glorious challenge
of self-righteous living
awakened the rush of expecting,
fell things and foul
to be overcome;
but none so hard to escape
as the memory
of the one heart which loved,
and even now ached,
with the loss of his friend.

Still, he shrugged and pressed on,
through snow snuggled forests,
past hard granite rocks
from cliffs long-time fallen
now resting half-buried
in leaf mould and earth.
His mind was sure, now resolved:
he’d make his own way
and gladly accept
what the Fates had in store
– be it ever so dire –
though his own heart still loved,
and even now ached,
with the loss of his friend.

Shadowlands

Before my eyes there leap and leer
appearences of sences five
they fill my mind, seduce my soul
and claim to be the truth.
Yet in my heart I hear the call
of spirit voices, far away,
that tell of objects far more real
and solid sound and permanent
than any things of which I think I know
or love or cherish or desire.

And so I turn, from dark cave’s wall
where on projected shaddows grey cavort;
I turn my back on life and seek out death:
not in despair and not as bane,
but as the portal to a life beyond
of so much being and subtlety
that it shall trump this petty world
of sense and sensibility
of joys and pleasures gay
of daliance and sweet delight
of pain and loss and suffering.

For in that place of gladsome light,
where Beauty’s seen direct,
(not in the images of fleeting things,
but in its ideal form sublime)
there is such joy and peace
that every soul enlightened
then can taste the Bread of Life
the provinder of Wisdom’s board.
They sit down full supplied
their friend is Immortality
thence they are well content.

The final invitation

No one invites me to parties any more.

I am no longer hip or cool.

I have no part in hit parade.

I’m long in tooth and short of hair

except on chin and arms and ears.

No one invites me to parties any more.

The trend has past me by.

I have no part in cabaret.

My face don’t fit, my ideas ain’t right;

except for grins and cool disdain.

No one invites me to parties any more.

The ocean’s swell is calm.

I have no part in any crew,

nor role on any stage or board;

except the last: to quit this coil.

No one invites me to parties any more;

but one awaits: my call

away to part this shadow life,

and face the charge and fiery fateⁱ

excepting none: to wake anew.

i“Every man’s work shall be made manifest: for the day shall declare it, because it shall be revealed by fire; and the fire shall try every man's work of what sort it is. If any man's work abide which he hath built thereupon, he shall receive a reward. If any man’s work shall be burned, he shall suffer loss : but he himself shall be saved; yet so as by fire.”
[1Cor 3:13-15 KJV]

Henry's demons

Part the first:

I sit in my car,

secure before my interview,

listening to the whispering voices

of my radio.

I hear a father telling falteringly

of his son:

a boy called Henry.

My whole attention’s won.

I am stunned

as the gentle man says how

Henry once took hash

and mislaid his sense.

From that time on

he was troubled of mind;

pursued by demons

none else could see.

He was put away.

Institutions became

his unhomely home:

no place of nurture.

Escape was his constant

cunning endeavour;

but success in this business,

presaged failure elsewhere.

Once out in the world

he had no sense of self;

no idea of what was real,

of what was good or ill.

He was overwhelmed,

fragile, incompetent;

not knowing whom to trust,

or what to do for best.

Drugs gave a peace

beyond all understanding;

but loss of understanding

was too high a price.

The destruction of self,

is no rational sacrifice.

All drugs do is pacify,

not make one whole.

Eventually, love won

and Henry was drawn back

into the light of reason,

and found true peace.

He was re-united

with his worried Father and

close family and friends:

a sort of resurrection.

Part the second:

I feel I have a choice:

one won through pain and love;

a choice unwelcome,

though offered of benign intent.

I ken a solid semblance

of what I heard the man relate

could become real for me

– but at a woesome price.

A dilemma, richly dark,

is for me now proposed:

either to accept the present pain,

as for the best;

or else allow a higher cost,

and so to have returned

what I have loved and lost

and still do sadly grieve.

The choice seems clear:

but I am well forewarned

that no glad good

will come of such desired renewal;

but only further, deeper pain

and greater suffering.

It is not possible that I should help:

but only hurt.

Symposium

Socrates stands silent, without the house.

He sways to and fro;

though there is no breeze.

His daemon speaks,

in words of tantalising uncertainty;

warning of danger, urging on with cue.

Within, the revellers laugh,

intent to entertain

themselves with wine and song and jest.

They miss his presence,

await his profile at the door.

Hopeful of his words, yet fearful too.

The seer breaks his pose;

returning to this world of doubt.

Regaining his will and purpose,

he looks about.

He shrugs and enters into its flimsy reality.

It is most unsatisfactory,

but will have to do.

His eyes peer into shadows

which lie all about him.

They reveal their remote origins

to his mind

as they obscure their immediate

intentions from his eyes.

He knows at last his will,

with doubt he’s through.

He wishes to advance;

move forward in this place;

join his friends within;

enjoy their fellowship.

He wishes much more.

To pass beyond this place

to enter into a richness

which few subdue.

Socrates bows his head

and enters the festive hall.

His presence fills the room,

the party song falls silent.

Let us speak of love,

dear friends, he says.

Let us praise the source

of all life new.

Account is made of Eros, ancient of days;

wisest and most beneficent,

yet maddener of men;

neither spirit nor matter

– but interlocutor between –

carrying precious gifts

reconciliation to pursue.

Socrates is silent. Then he frowns

and shakes his head.

What truth was spoke

was not spoke true enough;

weighed down by quest for earthly ease.

Such phantasms, he knows,

he must eschew.

He recalls an aged seeress,

Diotima she was named.

She once instructed him in love;

when he was young

and brash and wilful

and fully self-assured.

She cut him down a peg:

her words he will review.

Love is desire for beauty

with good outcome;

life leading to life and on to eternity.

Beauty is next to Good,

and supplies the defect

of sight to restore

what wisdom once knew.

The end of love is fellowship of being;

union with the source of life and hope,

attainment of clear sight

and understanding

sure knowledge of beauty

and justice true.

All love and beauty

in this world is perilous;

an intimation of

what lies beyond the veil,

an incentive to kindness

and spur to courage

but also a nagging distraction

from these two.

Then in storms Alcibiades,

apple of the sage’s eye;

yet rotten to the core.

Traitor both to tutor and to State.

Sure of himself, overflowing with hubris,

ravishing in countenance and thew.

He berates his erstwhile lover,

speaking of deceit,

how he promised much, but gave nothing;

not tenderness, nor comfort of embrace,

but by cultured neglect all passion slew.

He accuses the silent Socrates

of inhumanity,

of spiritual conceit and direst pride

being impossible to live with or without:

his friendship he does most sorely rue!

A tear wells in the seer’s face;

but he turns away

from what he has loved,

and always will love,

in this world: knowing that the warning,

once heard, he can never misconstrue.

This spoiled man, he knows,

exemplifies full well

(but without spark of intent

or glimmer of awareness)

the power of love to pervert and corrupt,

when divorced from its object due.

Priest and Altar

The old priest clings
     fast
and with fearful fingers
     to the altar slab
     that
     long has stood
in this faithful place
     this place of filial hope.
His heart is now
    quite cold
    dead as the stone
    his hands tight hold:
    cold as its silent speech.
His soul is withered
    as autumnal leaves
    which fall from stricken trees
to dampen, darken
and decay
– or else to burn
on bonfire bright
to briefly lighten up the night
and end their feeble, futile span
no sooner than by them began.

His eyes flare out with tears:
     precious gems of salty woe.
He mourns mortality
    and loss of love
    and failing hope
and desiccated faith
    which flaunts its false solace
though he, like Faustus his forebear,
    is far beyond
    all scope of grace.

His mouth frames silent syllables
    which if were spoke
    might shrive his soul;
but no words, fair or foul,
    escape his narrow lips
nor e’en inchoate grunt slips
    out: no sacrament of hope.

The old priest slumps
    devoid
    of breath and and word
on the altar slab
    that
    long has stood
in this fateful place
    this place of filial hope.
His heart is now
    quite cold
    dead as the stone
    his hands un-hold:
    cold as its silent speech.
His soul is withered
    as autumnal leaves
    which fall from stricken trees
to dampen, darken
and decay
– or else to burn
on bonfire bright
to briefly lighten up the night
and end their feeble, futile span
no sooner than by them began.