An uncomfortable truth

Why is there any such thing as evil at all?

Why does suffering arise as a possibility in the first place?

For life to exist, there has to be

of life’s compromise the possibility.

Flux can only produce stability

in the presence of non-linearity

and this necessitates catastrophe –

that’s a mathematical certainty.

Hence life implies calamity.

Angelic Confusion

The Angels asked their Father God,

why gave He them a will so bold:

to choose glad life and death between:

the fire of Hell and light of Heaven.

Confused, they pondered it were best

that they had been constrainèd fast,

and held to good and wholesome life;

protected from the pains of strife

as clockwork watch is surely bound

to tell the time when wound.

For choice implies the bane of ill,

and ignorant mistake and fall,

and pain and mis’ry tightly held

(for comfort’s sake, if truth be told)

and none of all the host would dare

(not out of fear nor want of care)

assert their certain sight of right

(for all their power and all their might)

beyond a thirst and hunger barbed

that’s not so soon denied.

Better, ’twould seem to have at heart

an instinct: knowledge to impart;

to speak and powerfully direct

the will to all that’s just and right,

and ’gainst all choices curst and wrong.

Then joys would surely ’bout them throng

and sin ne’re mar the spirit bold

but all would be in concord held

by fearsome chains and fastest bond

of tutelage so fond.

“But there’s the snag, my fiery folk,”

their Heavenly Father gently spoke.

“If I held fast your wills by might

(as is my power and is my right)

what space would be for you to know

for your own selves; to see and show,

by trial dire, the right and wrong

of life: to feel within so strong

its pains and pleasures oh so dear

its clarion call so clear?”

“All you would know was slavery

arrayed in shrouds, most drear and grey.

Autonomy would ne’re be yours:

automatons you’d be, wills fixed by laws.

No proper understanding you would have

of woeful hate or wealthy love,

the cost or prize of selfish action

the bliss of righteous satisfaction:

never sound merit to accrue

nor joy of knowledge true.”

“And so, instead, I set you free

and take the cost and pain to me

Creator and Saviour, both Am I:

no callous clocksmith deity.”

“Else trust my word, heed what I say

and learn yourself the righteous way

or shun that path and take your own

though it be sad and makes you moan.

You can have life or death, you know:

choose life, I urge you now!”ⁱ

i“I have set before you life and death, blessing and curse; therefore choose life, that you and your descendants may live.” [Deut 30:19 RSV]

All Souls Day

Black vestments

pierced with silver thread:

a sombre testimony

of better times.

Mourners gather in feeble hope,

round Mother Church’s altar;

clutching with faithful hands

the offered straw.

A promise of absolution,

cleansing and healing.

A promise of resurrection

and life anew.

A promise of death’s abolition

and life’s resolution.

The healing flames of purgation

bring a strangely purifying pain.

They offer an end to years

of spasming self-preservation.

Those who would save their life

must set their life aside;

must forget themselves

and drain the bloody tide.

All are welcome to drink this cup.

All are worthy of this blessing.

All are one in this endeavour.

Pray for your dead.

Pray for your beloved,

for those you cordially disliked,

for those you coolly ignored,

for those you coldly feared,

for those you copiously hated.

Pray for all your dead.

In this you will find grace.

In this you will find your peace.

In this you will find salvation.

In this you will find release.

My Waifs

These days, I seem to be collecting waifs

like others collect stamps

or the numbers of trains.

It’s a queer hobby, I know,

and not one I’d recommend!

Unless you have a strong heart

and much time to lend.

They pop up as unknowns

at the foot of my screen,

urgently requesting

my immediate attention.

Sometimes I am glad of the company;

sometimes I am glad to be in demand,

for it gets lonely in my basement study

now that I am home alone,

with time at hand.

Sometimes the request

is an interruption of thought

or a distraction from

one endeavour or another.

Sometimes a moment

of solace is besought,

sometimes advice

as from an elder brother.

Always there is a need,

always a life is fraught.

Always there is pain,

always there is despair.

Generally, they are reticent

and coy at first;

but all it really takes

is an invitation to share

A “how can I help?” or a “how are you?”

and a whole sad life-story out does spew.

Some of death too much have seen,

Some by parent abandoned have been.

Some fear rejection for telling their truth.

Some condemn themselves

for being uncouth.

Some with guilt and self-despite

are burdened.

Some are so angry and

with violence consumed.

Some feel wound up tight

and fit to burst.

Some feel unloved

and for love sorely thirst.

Some have broken hearts

that will not mend.

Some see too clearly of this life the end.

Some feel empty and so, so sad.

Some feel wicked and so, so bad.

Some despair of finding peace.

Some in self-harm seek poor release.

Some seek solace in vodka or rhy.

Some their death themselves do try.

Each bares the scars of despite.

Each one cowers in the night:

frightened of the darkness

that lurks there as a sickness

threatening in its slickness

to overwhelm their soul

and render them unwhole.

I do what little I can to help and mend.

I listen, affirm and tell them I understand

(Because I do understand,

for I have been there.

I have ridden the bucking nightmare.

I have felt the gut-wrenching sorrow,

with no prospect of a dawning morrow.

I have had my full share of strife.

I have at times lost faith with life.)

I try to give them hope,

when faith they do not know.

I tell them they are loved;

that mercy they must show;

and that they must themselves

forgive and loose the guilt

that holds them fast and

has a fortress round them built.

I tell them life can be

a glorious exaltation

something of sturdy

and stalwart stone and ice:

something of fluid

and playful conflagration

varied and multiform,

yet stable and precise:

an intimation and disclosure

of heavenly eternity

thrusting forcefully and surely

into earthly futility.

So much sorrow, so much pain.

So many people lost and forlorn.

So many people in need.

So many souls to feed.

So little that I can do;

but I do what I can, will you?

The Dark Light Shines

In the night the dark light shines,

deep within the shadows.

In the dimness softly glows,

the heart of all believing.

Cold my brain and dim my eyes

and yet I grope on, hoping

(despite my fears and anger hard

and desperation growing)

that it is there, and solace gives;

gainsaying all appearance.

I come upon the deep abyss

of hate and pain and sorrow

where love is lost and swallowed up

in fulgin eve that vastly falls

to spite all word of morrow.

I drink my fill the brook of loss

that plunges there in torrent

down cruel rocks that know no joy

but battered are by years of bloody woe.

My thirst assuaged, I risk the sight

gained at the chasm’s brink.

I stare into the dark of death: the end of being fell.

I feel it steel into my soul and recognise it full well

for what has always present been amidst my tawdry hopes;

the lie to all my vanities, the cusp of all conceits,

the worm that gnaws my heart away:

the knowledge of mortality.

I long to fly the deep descent

which offers me release

from suffering and hate,

to embrace the arms of hostile rock

and shatter in their urgent grasp:

to spend my life in one last spill of blood;

but at the edge

some unsought instinct speaks,

an unseen hand does stay my step,

and I pull back.

But I am lost, I have no guide

to tend my way or point me right.

As I advance the choice repeats

again and again, without release,

’twixt life and death, ’twixt good and ill.

But why chose life, when life itself is ill

and offers naught but pain

and prospect more of same?

Surely ’tis better to be dead

and put an end to doubt and dread

if life itself’s a living death!

But still ’tis life I choose,

though it is fraught with woe;

for one thing’s clear:

that if I once choose death

there will be no ’morrow

in which to make another choice;

no chance to regret any choice,

no chance to grow,

not even chance to know

the pain of loss and of sorrow.

While there’s life there’s room for hope,

even if that hope be false;

and, though false hope is foul

and ne’re to be desired

(a spectre which despises life

yet offers what it hates)

still, life will always demand hope

and hope will promise life

in everlasting play

and dance reciprocal.

Perforce, I live in hope;

and, though I may in despair die,

I can not help but hope

or else, e’en now, I die.

Far in the West, I glimpse the end

of all my paths and choices.

No matter if I soon find joy

in little things of hearth and home,

or greater things of art and skill,

or greatest things of wisdom’s kin,

or even love that thrills my soul

and my whole heart does win;

still I shall die

and all my enterprise shall come to naught.

All I hold dear shall be undone

my fine conceits be futile shown.

So what for hope and life?

This life is dying as it lives: it is not e’en itself!

The law of identity it denies

and can’t keep faith with its own name!

Its hope leads surely to the clammy grave:

and so is shown most truly false!

Still, in the night the dark light shines,

deep within the shadows.

In the dimness softly glows,

the heart of all believing.

Cold my brain and dim my eyes

and yet I grope on, hoping

(despite my fears and anger hard

and desperation growing)

that it is there, and solace gives;

gainsaying all appearance.