THROUGH ME YOU ENTER THE CITY OF DESOLATION
THROUGH ME THE ROAD AMONG THE LOST LIES
THROUGH ME YOU ENTER AGONY WITHOUT END
JUSTICE MOVED THE HAND OF MY MAKER ON HIGH:
BY DIVINE POWER AND SUPREME WISDOM I WAS FORGED;
I EXIST BY THE PRIMAL LOVE THAT MOVES THE SKIES.
WITHOUT ME, NOTHING WAS CREATED BEFORE,
SAVE ETERNAL. AND I ETERNAL REMAIN.
ALL HOPE ABANDON, YOU WHO ENTER.
Thursday, March 29
Here Follows Some Thoughts Upon Seeing an Icon of St. Luke
On Friday, some friends and I took a trip to the J. Paul Getty art museum, in order to see the temporary icon exhibit they have. It was, of course as expected, amazing. (We use the word "amazing" too much. I mean it literally--it was so wonderful [full of wonder] that my head, mind, heart, all my senses, were overcome as though I was wandering in a maze.)
One icon in particular, though, affected me particularly strongly. I looked at every icon in the exhibit, but I kept coming back to this one. I spent at least an hour in front of it.
It was an icon, not painted or engraved on wood or stone, but on paper. It was an icon within a book of the Gospels from Constantinople.
Now, my favorite book in all the Bible is the Gospel of Luke. This Gospel book was open to the first page of the Gospel of Luke and, facing it, an icon of St. Luke.
In the icon, St. Luke is giving Jesus a copy of his Gospel. Jesus accepts the Gospel, blessing Luke.
As a writer, this affected me profoundly.
My observations, upon standing there staring:
Christ was clothed in red, with a blue robe. St. Luke was clothed in blue, with a red robe. This, to me, signifies several things: 1) that Jesus is separate, on a whole other order than Luke; 2) though not being Christ, Luke imitates Christ; 3) Jesus, in His blue robe, is clothed in the heavens, while 4) Luke is covered by the blood.
St. Luke is positioned as kneeling; Jesus is standing erect. Luke is kneeling by bending his right leg, his symbol of strength, showing the totality of his humility.
Luke casts a shadow, Christ does not.
Luke's hair and beard, compared to Jesus', seem less full, and unkempt.
All of the above stresses the divinity of Jesus over the humanity of Luke.
But, what affected me so much:
St. Luke offers his Gospel up to Christ. In a sense, Luke is giving Christ what is already His---the text being divinely inspired, it was God who first gave the text to Luke. Yet the object in Luke's hands is a *book*, a leather-bound collection of pages written in ink. Without St. Luke, this book could not have been written, and Luke offers unto Jesus the work of his hands, the fruit of his labor, the result of his craft---for in my opinion, no book in the Bible is so much a "book" as we think of them as The Gospel of Luke, a historical account, is; in other words, Luke was consciously writing a "book" and not a letter or poem.
This aspect is borne out as Jesus takes the Gospel with His left hand, blessing Luke with His right. The right hand being regarded as "the stronger" hand, Jesus giving Luke His right hand amplifies the blessing, elevating the Gospel writer.
Between the two, held by both their hands as it is being passed, the book of the Gospel itself---it is small, humble; yet the artist has put it in gold-leaf. No paint, but actual gold, forms the Gospel on the page.
Like many icons, the air around the figures is gold---gold signifying the space of Heaven---but the Gospel is on the ground, where color is usually found. The use of gold-leaf in the Gospel mirrors the gold in the sky in appearance and function; to wit, the book itself---the work itself, the text itself---is heavenly. It is divinely inspired. Luke's book, the work of his hands, his mind, his pen, is a little piece of Heaven itself, and he is giving it to Jesus.
And oh! the blessing Jesus gives as He gladly receives the book written by His servant! His hand is outstretched, blessing Luke (it is moreover His right hand, as already noted), but being outstretched, since Jesus stands on the left and Luike on the right, draws the eye to the right.
Jesus is pointing to the text!
Jesus' hand, reaching out in blessing, points to the words on the next page, written in gold:
Epeideper polloi epcheiresan anataxasthai diegesin peri ton peplerophoremonon en hemin pragmaton kathos paredosan hemin hoi ap arches autoptai kai hyperetai genomenoi...
(and, what leaped out at me in that moment,)
...tou logou edoxe kamoi parekoloutehkoti anothen pasin akribos kathexes soi anothen kratiste theophile...
"The Word (logos) it seemed good TO ME, to WRITE..."
Jesus' hand points to the text, in one sense, simply because it is the Gospel. In effect, it simply says, "Read your Bible!" But in another sense, Jesus blesses the text itself, marking its divine authority. But on still another level, since in the icon itself Jesus is blessing St. Luke... by blessing such a highly personal text, approving the text as divinely inspired blesses Luke the writer of the words, more than anything else could.
And now, me?
Obviously, I cannot claim to write under divine inspiration. My words will never become Scripture. And yet...
...it is my dream, my goal, my soul's desire to drop to my knees before my Lord, my work in hand, and give it to Him, and have Him accept it.
It is my dream, my soul's desire, that He would take it and bless me.
And, dare I hope, that someday those who read it might catch a glimpse of Heaven---however distant, however fleeting---within its pages?
One icon in particular, though, affected me particularly strongly. I looked at every icon in the exhibit, but I kept coming back to this one. I spent at least an hour in front of it.
It was an icon, not painted or engraved on wood or stone, but on paper. It was an icon within a book of the Gospels from Constantinople.
Now, my favorite book in all the Bible is the Gospel of Luke. This Gospel book was open to the first page of the Gospel of Luke and, facing it, an icon of St. Luke.
In the icon, St. Luke is giving Jesus a copy of his Gospel. Jesus accepts the Gospel, blessing Luke.
As a writer, this affected me profoundly.
My observations, upon standing there staring:
Christ was clothed in red, with a blue robe. St. Luke was clothed in blue, with a red robe. This, to me, signifies several things: 1) that Jesus is separate, on a whole other order than Luke; 2) though not being Christ, Luke imitates Christ; 3) Jesus, in His blue robe, is clothed in the heavens, while 4) Luke is covered by the blood.
St. Luke is positioned as kneeling; Jesus is standing erect. Luke is kneeling by bending his right leg, his symbol of strength, showing the totality of his humility.
Luke casts a shadow, Christ does not.
Luke's hair and beard, compared to Jesus', seem less full, and unkempt.
All of the above stresses the divinity of Jesus over the humanity of Luke.
But, what affected me so much:
St. Luke offers his Gospel up to Christ. In a sense, Luke is giving Christ what is already His---the text being divinely inspired, it was God who first gave the text to Luke. Yet the object in Luke's hands is a *book*, a leather-bound collection of pages written in ink. Without St. Luke, this book could not have been written, and Luke offers unto Jesus the work of his hands, the fruit of his labor, the result of his craft---for in my opinion, no book in the Bible is so much a "book" as we think of them as The Gospel of Luke, a historical account, is; in other words, Luke was consciously writing a "book" and not a letter or poem.
This aspect is borne out as Jesus takes the Gospel with His left hand, blessing Luke with His right. The right hand being regarded as "the stronger" hand, Jesus giving Luke His right hand amplifies the blessing, elevating the Gospel writer.
Between the two, held by both their hands as it is being passed, the book of the Gospel itself---it is small, humble; yet the artist has put it in gold-leaf. No paint, but actual gold, forms the Gospel on the page.
Like many icons, the air around the figures is gold---gold signifying the space of Heaven---but the Gospel is on the ground, where color is usually found. The use of gold-leaf in the Gospel mirrors the gold in the sky in appearance and function; to wit, the book itself---the work itself, the text itself---is heavenly. It is divinely inspired. Luke's book, the work of his hands, his mind, his pen, is a little piece of Heaven itself, and he is giving it to Jesus.
And oh! the blessing Jesus gives as He gladly receives the book written by His servant! His hand is outstretched, blessing Luke (it is moreover His right hand, as already noted), but being outstretched, since Jesus stands on the left and Luike on the right, draws the eye to the right.
Jesus is pointing to the text!
Jesus' hand, reaching out in blessing, points to the words on the next page, written in gold:
Epeideper polloi epcheiresan anataxasthai diegesin peri ton peplerophoremonon en hemin pragmaton kathos paredosan hemin hoi ap arches autoptai kai hyperetai genomenoi...
(and, what leaped out at me in that moment,)
...tou logou edoxe kamoi parekoloutehkoti anothen pasin akribos kathexes soi anothen kratiste theophile...
"The Word (logos) it seemed good TO ME, to WRITE..."
Jesus' hand points to the text, in one sense, simply because it is the Gospel. In effect, it simply says, "Read your Bible!" But in another sense, Jesus blesses the text itself, marking its divine authority. But on still another level, since in the icon itself Jesus is blessing St. Luke... by blessing such a highly personal text, approving the text as divinely inspired blesses Luke the writer of the words, more than anything else could.
And now, me?
Obviously, I cannot claim to write under divine inspiration. My words will never become Scripture. And yet...
...it is my dream, my goal, my soul's desire to drop to my knees before my Lord, my work in hand, and give it to Him, and have Him accept it.
It is my dream, my soul's desire, that He would take it and bless me.
And, dare I hope, that someday those who read it might catch a glimpse of Heaven---however distant, however fleeting---within its pages?
In Love In Lethe
As long as I must,
I will wait for the same thing
Dante so hoped to see.
Though it shall slay me
(my own virtue have I none)
I long for Eden.
So baptized, I shall
stand unashamed before those
Eyes that pierce my sin.
I will wait for the same thing
Dante so hoped to see.
Though it shall slay me
(my own virtue have I none)
I long for Eden.
So baptized, I shall
stand unashamed before those
Eyes that pierce my sin.
Wednesday, March 28
In Homer's Shadow (conclusion)
I did not know where to look. Dare I look at the crown in his hand? Wouldn’t looking at his eyes be worse? And, oh! Calliope still standing there!
So I focus my attention on Minerva’s arrow pointed at my chest. “I do not need you to give me a crown,” I said to him.
“This is not just any laurel crown,” he said. My breath caught—instinctively, I knew what he was about to say. “This is his laurel crown.”
“H—Ho—His crown?”
Apollo and Calliope nodded together. My eyes started to drift to the crown in his hand. I tried to avert my gaze, accidentally turning to Calliope’s form. Shuddering, I dropped my gaze to her feet. Her shadow merged into the shadow that hung over me.
In that moment, I realized that I was mistaken. The goddess pointing the arrow at my heart was not Diana. I was in older myths, closer to the truth—and the masks the spirits wore on their faces were much thinner.
The lightning flashed overhead. It seemed brighter, knowing it was Zeus and not Jove who held it. Hera seemed more cruel and dangerous. Eros did not seem so innocent as Cupid did. Though it was not any closer, I felt as though Artemis’ arrow had already pierced me. I turned back to the god before me.
He laughed. “Yes, now you see. You stand in the shadow of Homer, poet. These are no Roman imposters before you. You stand before the descendants not of Saturn, but of Kronos. See Zeus and Hera, standing there. Neptune and Pluto are nothing; you face Poseidon and Hades.” He outstretched his arms.
“And I—I am Apollo! Apollo to the Greeks, Apollo to the Romans; Apollo who is the same yesterday, today, and forever!”
My blood ran cold.
“Accept my touch,” Calliope whispered. “You know the one you call Master does not deserve the title—not when compared with Homer. Homer loved me. Now cling to me, poet, as a man cleaves to his wife—love me as a god deserves to be loved.”
“You are no god,” I said, hoping I sounded braver than I felt. “I would sooner call you demoness—or worse. I could believe you an accuser, a serpent.”
“You call Calliope a serpent?” Apollo mocked. “Then serpent she is—and Homer the one who mastered her. And you are nothing more than a sown man, grown from the seed of the serpent’s teeth that Homer planted.”
“Are you content with that?” Calliope continued. “Step out of his shadow and cast your own. Accept the laurel crown that was worn by him and him alone.”
“I gave him this crown,” Apollo said. “No one has been worthy of it since him. You know this.” He waved the crown in the air.
“No man could write such a work alone,” I said. “It is as though he were inspired.”
“Inspired!” Apollo cried. “Exactly! ‘God-breathed!’ Kiss Calliope, kiss her hungrily and take her breath into you. Honor her in all things.”
“Were I to honor Calliope,” I said, “it would be lip-service only. She would never have my heart.”
“Your lips are enough. With your lips you frame your speech, with your mouth you make your words—and it is your words we desire.”
“Kneel to us.”
My legs felt weak. I bowed my head and closed my eyes, remembering the words of my Master—ignoring the whispered memories of Rage and Men, I remembered the stars. I could not see them beyond Zeus’ lightning, beyond Homer’s shadow, but I knew they were there.
And all the while, Dionysius danced around our circle.
They waited long for my answer. At last, the gods seemed to grow bored. One by one, they left. Even the Muses departed one by one until only Calliope and Apollo remained. She spat at my feet. Apollo shrugged. “The offer is always open.” He threw the laurel crown on the ground and walked away, arm around her.
I looked at the laurel crown on the ground and considered.
Then I sat in the dark of the shadow and amused myself by writing verses. The verses were empty and uninspired—as I intended. I looked up to the stars and prayed that empty verses might be filled.
Then, sitting in the midst of the shadow, I prepared to go to sleep and decided to start a fire.
Cupid in Chains
He took hold on me,
Wrapped me in chains,
Fed her my heart,
Conquered me with his art,
Binding me to her,
Chaining my eyes to hers,
Pulling on my leash
And throwing me down.
Then I arose,
Whipped his wings into submission--
I showed him true beauty,
Beauty bound in drops of blood--
I forced him to look at the dolorous feet.
I chained Cupid's eyes to the cross;
And so chained, baptized his bow.
Set Cupid free through chains.
Wrapped me in chains,
Fed her my heart,
Conquered me with his art,
Binding me to her,
Chaining my eyes to hers,
Pulling on my leash
And throwing me down.
Then I arose,
Whipped his wings into submission--
I showed him true beauty,
Beauty bound in drops of blood--
I forced him to look at the dolorous feet.
I chained Cupid's eyes to the cross;
And so chained, baptized his bow.
Set Cupid free through chains.
Tuesday, March 27
In Homer's Shadow (part 1)
There are things you know you should not want, but that doesn’t stop you from wanting them anyway. Case in point: I knew when she saw me walking that I should come no closer. I should have run, right then. A shadow seemed to fall over the area; I could have sworn it was brighter just a moment before. Even in the darkness, she seemed to glow more beautiful than anything I could imagine. She saw me, and stopped me, and asked me if I knew her name.
“I know,” I replied. “Perhaps I have always known it.”
She offered me her hand, but I refused to take it. She became angry, staring me down. “Perhaps you would prefer my sister,” she said, “for all the good she would do you.” I could hear the hatred and venom in her voice. Even that was not unattractive.
“She was Virgil’s Muse, after all,” I replied, “and Ovid’s as well.”
“Virgil! And who is Virgil?”
“Virgil was—”
“I know who he was, and what he tried to do. But in the end, what good was it?”
“Virgil—”
“If Virgil had done what he tried to do,” she said, “you and I would not be having this conversation.”
I looked up into the sky, at the stars, and focused on one—a little, flickering red star, high above me. “To answer your question,” I said, trying to take control, “I would not have Erato, either—or any of your sisters, for that matter. I would have nothing to do with any of you, were it up to me. You are nine in number, and the Greeks believed that to be a number of ill omen.”
“But the one you call ‘Master’ used it as a symbol of love, did he not? Why then do you not love us—why do you pretend you do not love me?” She reached out her hand again, and I pulled away. Her face twisted in rage (though it did not diminish in beauty) and she yelled at me in an angry, wounded voice: “Your sin against me is a greater insult than Madoc’s ever was.”
I tried to answer, but my mouth was dry. She held my gaze, eyes burning with rage. And she was so breathtakingly, agonizingly beautiful.
She must have seen the look on my face, confused at being compared to Madoc. “Are you surprised? You entered this world of ours when you first took up a pen.”
Suddenly I was surrounded—Minerva appeared out of the shadows, her arrow at my chest, ready to strike my heart. Jove was clearly seen over head, his lightning barely restrained above me, hiding the stars. Neptune and Pluto both came forward, standing far off. Juno looked at me with disdain. They were all around, the Muses ringing me—and Calliope still there, still utterly, painfully beautiful.
At the edge of the shadow, Dionysius danced around the circle, singing his song at the top of his lungs.
But I could hear Calliope all the same, offering me the world. Still I refused.
Then one of the gods stepped forward, and my heart sank. The Judge was there, the fullness of his light before me. He was standing just beside Calliope, the angry glare on his face matching hers. He held out his hand, and my heart jumped when I saw what he held. “Do you know what this is?” he demanded.
“It is a laurel crown.”
“Kneel before Calliope, kiss her, and I will give the crown to you.”
“I know,” I replied. “Perhaps I have always known it.”
She offered me her hand, but I refused to take it. She became angry, staring me down. “Perhaps you would prefer my sister,” she said, “for all the good she would do you.” I could hear the hatred and venom in her voice. Even that was not unattractive.
“She was Virgil’s Muse, after all,” I replied, “and Ovid’s as well.”
“Virgil! And who is Virgil?”
“Virgil was—”
“I know who he was, and what he tried to do. But in the end, what good was it?”
“Virgil—”
“If Virgil had done what he tried to do,” she said, “you and I would not be having this conversation.”
I looked up into the sky, at the stars, and focused on one—a little, flickering red star, high above me. “To answer your question,” I said, trying to take control, “I would not have Erato, either—or any of your sisters, for that matter. I would have nothing to do with any of you, were it up to me. You are nine in number, and the Greeks believed that to be a number of ill omen.”
“But the one you call ‘Master’ used it as a symbol of love, did he not? Why then do you not love us—why do you pretend you do not love me?” She reached out her hand again, and I pulled away. Her face twisted in rage (though it did not diminish in beauty) and she yelled at me in an angry, wounded voice: “Your sin against me is a greater insult than Madoc’s ever was.”
I tried to answer, but my mouth was dry. She held my gaze, eyes burning with rage. And she was so breathtakingly, agonizingly beautiful.
She must have seen the look on my face, confused at being compared to Madoc. “Are you surprised? You entered this world of ours when you first took up a pen.”
Suddenly I was surrounded—Minerva appeared out of the shadows, her arrow at my chest, ready to strike my heart. Jove was clearly seen over head, his lightning barely restrained above me, hiding the stars. Neptune and Pluto both came forward, standing far off. Juno looked at me with disdain. They were all around, the Muses ringing me—and Calliope still there, still utterly, painfully beautiful.
At the edge of the shadow, Dionysius danced around the circle, singing his song at the top of his lungs.
But I could hear Calliope all the same, offering me the world. Still I refused.
Then one of the gods stepped forward, and my heart sank. The Judge was there, the fullness of his light before me. He was standing just beside Calliope, the angry glare on his face matching hers. He held out his hand, and my heart jumped when I saw what he held. “Do you know what this is?” he demanded.
“It is a laurel crown.”
“Kneel before Calliope, kiss her, and I will give the crown to you.”
Monday, March 26
Mardi Gras in Downtown Dis, with Neon Blacklights in the Streets
Welcome to the Grand Bazaar,
Welcome to the Black Parade,
Welcome to the Axis of Evil,
We hope you enjoy your stay.
Welcome to Carnality Fair
Here we make our beds of bone.
'Ere long we shall escape thine eyes,
And say, "to each his own."
And if you'll rend a veil of flesh
And join this hellish carnival,
All words abandon at the door
And no more stories tell.
Welcome to the Black Parade,
Welcome to the Axis of Evil,
We hope you enjoy your stay.
Welcome to Carnality Fair
Here we make our beds of bone.
'Ere long we shall escape thine eyes,
And say, "to each his own."
And if you'll rend a veil of flesh
And join this hellish carnival,
All words abandon at the door
And no more stories tell.
The Cross of Ephialtes
May you find your rest,
Ephialtes; may you live,
and live forever!
The true King of kings
has understood your passion,
carried your burden.
Therefore, throw down your
spear, your shield at His Throne, so
He may lift you up.
Ephialtes; may you live,
and live forever!
The true King of kings
has understood your passion,
carried your burden.
Therefore, throw down your
spear, your shield at His Throne, so
He may lift you up.
Wednesday, March 7
A Mourning Poem for James
The clock is broken.
See? The maker is weeping.
Time walks; unfeeling.
Can one escape sin?
Time itself is a sinner.
The dying earth groans.
Can there be "good days"?
Each day longs for redemption---
Minutes on their knees.
See? The maker is weeping.
Time walks; unfeeling.
Can one escape sin?
Time itself is a sinner.
The dying earth groans.
Can there be "good days"?
Each day longs for redemption---
Minutes on their knees.
Tuesday, February 13
The Sin of Pantera I.1-50
I have come to amuse you,
with the stories and songs I tell.
Behold, I shall tell you a tragedy.
Who are you, Pantera?
What manner of man were you, (5)
hero of Roma, exalted father?
For all the world has heard of your son.
His name endures forever,
but your name is less known.
So. I shall tell your story, for it is ours. (10)
When Pantera walked
along the golden streets
of highest exalted
he walked in full array,
sword and armor at the ready. (15)
His feet were shod
with straps of leather,
burnished bronze was upon
his back and breast.
His buckler rested on his arm. (20)
His sword was sharp enough
to cleave a god in two.
The blade was black, forged
in the fires of Caesar’s pyre.
By blood it was unstained. (25)
The hilt of the sword displayed
the face of a panther,
carved in ivory,
its white face in contrast to the blade.
It bared its teeth, in perpetual roar. (30)
Behind the roaring head,
the panther’s sleek white body
spread out, carved in mid-pounce.
The wild cat held out its claws
unsheathed. (35)
When he raised his sword,
matching the panther’s roar with his own,
courage would fill the hearts of the Romans.
When he held his hands to the sky,
The black blade would shine in the sun. (40)
There were few heroes in those days,
for the time of the old heroes,
of the Achaeans and Trojans, was past.
Men had grown weak since those days.
But Pantera walked as a man of old. (45)
In battle he was unmatched,
none could stand against him
when the panther roared in his hand.
Men of Rome would take note
when he passed them on Rome's gold streets. (50)
Monday, February 5
The Sin of Pantera (Introduction)
Apparently, there are cryptic references in the Talmud and other first century writings referring to "Jesus of Nazareth, the sorcerer who founded the Christian cult and was the bastard son of a Hebrew peasant girl and the Roman solider Pantera."
If true, this would completely invalidate Christianity, wouldn't it?
...or would it?
This soldier Pantera is referred to enough that it made me start wondering: "Who's Pantera, anyways?"
Besides the above, along with some Virgil and Tacitus, little historical research went into the writing of this story. I'm just trying to answer the question, "Who's Pantera?" to my own satisfaction.
The name "Pantera" is Latin for "panther." In Miltonian fashion, I am also (technically incorrectly) implying the use of the words "Pan-" (Greek; "all") and "terra" (Latin, "Earth") so that "Sin of Pantera" also means "Sin of All the Earth."
If true, this would completely invalidate Christianity, wouldn't it?
...or would it?
This soldier Pantera is referred to enough that it made me start wondering: "Who's Pantera, anyways?"
Besides the above, along with some Virgil and Tacitus, little historical research went into the writing of this story. I'm just trying to answer the question, "Who's Pantera?" to my own satisfaction.
The name "Pantera" is Latin for "panther." In Miltonian fashion, I am also (technically incorrectly) implying the use of the words "Pan-" (Greek; "all") and "terra" (Latin, "Earth") so that "Sin of Pantera" also means "Sin of All the Earth."
Wednesday, January 17
Jesus' Puberty
His little-boy voice
grows deep and strong. A Man's voice,
and more than a man.
His soft hands are filled
with strength enough to carry
out His Father's work.
His heart--a boy's heart--
blooms with a God's desire.
He seeks out His Bride.
grows deep and strong. A Man's voice,
and more than a man.
His soft hands are filled
with strength enough to carry
out His Father's work.
His heart--a boy's heart--
blooms with a God's desire.
He seeks out His Bride.
Wednesday, January 10
A Faerie Cavalry
Eyes burning scarlet,
the night-mare runs tirelessly,
its black coat a void.
From afar, behold
the horn gleaming in the light---
the unicorn's strength.
The undried kelpie
returns to its ocean bed,
breathing out murder.
the night-mare runs tirelessly,
its black coat a void.
From afar, behold
the horn gleaming in the light---
the unicorn's strength.
The undried kelpie
returns to its ocean bed,
breathing out murder.
The Triple Atlas
Led forward by love,
the red Florentine breaks free,
out into star light.
Pious father king,
waging war for future’s sake:
His children, his shield.
So. Robed in valor,
The bold son of Ecgtheow
embraces the wyrd.
the red Florentine breaks free,
out into star light.
Pious father king,
waging war for future’s sake:
His children, his shield.
So. Robed in valor,
The bold son of Ecgtheow
embraces the wyrd.
Vulgar
Not for the first time
Do I try to set in verse
Words describing her.
I weep in despair;
The best of my words fall short.
They’d diminish her.
The ink dries at last.
All words fail. In frustration,
I throw down the pen.
Do I try to set in verse
Words describing her.
I weep in despair;
The best of my words fall short.
They’d diminish her.
The ink dries at last.
All words fail. In frustration,
I throw down the pen.
Paulo Maiora Canamus
To start, I shall sing
Of the goodness of wisdom
That ordains justice.
And second I’ll sing
The beauty of love itself,
And the day love died.
Then in conclusion
I’ll sing loudly of truth, and
The power Truth holds.
Of the goodness of wisdom
That ordains justice.
And second I’ll sing
The beauty of love itself,
And the day love died.
Then in conclusion
I’ll sing loudly of truth, and
The power Truth holds.
Wednesday, November 1
THE APOLLIAD Book I.36-90
Would you rather I start with Zeus himself?
Zeus, Zeus, first- and last-born son of Kronos,
He delights in the thunder,
He holds back the lightnings in his palm,
Zeus who guards the rights of strangers. (40)
If you, O Muses, could sing in me,
And would start this song where you will,
Whose name would you sing first?
No doubt you would begin with Apollo,
That great and shining god, (45)
Whose oracle at Delphi sees all futures,
The mighty Lover of Cassandra.
He knows well the rules of justice,
And he is kind to those who call on him,
For he both ravaged the hosts of Agamemnon (50)
With his arrows for nine days,
Then turned and purged the shame
Of his son, holy Orestes.
For he is Apollo, son of Zeus.
He sits in the dark places (55)
Of the Navelstone of the Earth,
Yet his name is Phoebus,
The healing lord of light.
Alone among the deathless gods
He speaks no lies. (60)
If you listed all the names
Of every man who trusted in him
Or called upon his name
Or felt his hand upon their lives;
Or, if you could, were to name all those (65)
Whom he has loved:
(For he is, after all, the most beautiful of those gods,)
Daphne, and Coronis, Marpessa, Hyacinthus
And many others besides,
The world could not contain all the books written. (70)
You might start with the first time
He strung his silver bow,
Or the words of his first prophecy,
Or how he became the god of the wolves.
You, O Muses, might begin (75)
By telling us a story we already know,
Casting it in a new light--
Such as when he stood against the Daughters of the Night,
The Kindly Ones (so called)--
You might start at any of those places, (80)
If you could--
But no, Muse, be silent now.
For this tale is told by all of creation;
I do not believe
I shall start with any of those things. (85)
Instead in this tale, all things become new,
And so it must begin at the beginning:
In the beginning was the Logos.
And the Logos took on mortal flesh,
That by His Death He might test the gods of Olympus. (90)
Zeus, Zeus, first- and last-born son of Kronos,
He delights in the thunder,
He holds back the lightnings in his palm,
Zeus who guards the rights of strangers. (40)
If you, O Muses, could sing in me,
And would start this song where you will,
Whose name would you sing first?
No doubt you would begin with Apollo,
That great and shining god, (45)
Whose oracle at Delphi sees all futures,
The mighty Lover of Cassandra.
He knows well the rules of justice,
And he is kind to those who call on him,
For he both ravaged the hosts of Agamemnon (50)
With his arrows for nine days,
Then turned and purged the shame
Of his son, holy Orestes.
For he is Apollo, son of Zeus.
He sits in the dark places (55)
Of the Navelstone of the Earth,
Yet his name is Phoebus,
The healing lord of light.
Alone among the deathless gods
He speaks no lies. (60)
If you listed all the names
Of every man who trusted in him
Or called upon his name
Or felt his hand upon their lives;
Or, if you could, were to name all those (65)
Whom he has loved:
(For he is, after all, the most beautiful of those gods,)
Daphne, and Coronis, Marpessa, Hyacinthus
And many others besides,
The world could not contain all the books written. (70)
You might start with the first time
He strung his silver bow,
Or the words of his first prophecy,
Or how he became the god of the wolves.
You, O Muses, might begin (75)
By telling us a story we already know,
Casting it in a new light--
Such as when he stood against the Daughters of the Night,
The Kindly Ones (so called)--
You might start at any of those places, (80)
If you could--
But no, Muse, be silent now.
For this tale is told by all of creation;
I do not believe
I shall start with any of those things. (85)
Instead in this tale, all things become new,
And so it must begin at the beginning:
In the beginning was the Logos.
And the Logos took on mortal flesh,
That by His Death He might test the gods of Olympus. (90)
THE APOLLIAD Book I.1-35
Now, let all creation resound with the news
Of the greatest of contests,
And the victory of the Son of God.
Yea, sing of him, and his power,
Bear witness to his shining glory-- (5)
Yes, I tell of Smintheus Apollo,
Apollo, beloved son of Zeus.
As for you who sing of heroes--
You, Muses, who hold the halls of Olympus,
I ask now that you remain silent, (10)
And hold your peace.
I sing to the One seated on the Throne of Heaven.
So then, Muses, where shall I begin?
Would you have me start with Athena,
Born of Zeus alone, all from the male, (15)
Whose wisdom is beyond compare?
I must not neglect the spirit of love,
That blessed Aphrodite, who leads men's hearts astray.
Or perhaps I should start with the Queen of Brides,
Ox-eyed Hera of the white arms, (20)
Daughter of Kronos, wife of Zeus
The Father of Gods and Men;
He is both Kronos's son and jailer.
I could also begin with an older Being,
Prometheus who dared the gods, (25)
And against the will of Zeus of the aegis
Delved into the hidden things of great Hephaestus,
Teaching men the secrets of knowledge
Which previously belonged to gods alone--
What of Him that bears the world on his shoulders, (30)
Atlas, that mighty Titan?
Might I begin with him?
Atlas!--that wicked Titan
Who now dwells in the halls of
Poseidon, son of Kronos. (35)
Of the greatest of contests,
And the victory of the Son of God.
Yea, sing of him, and his power,
Bear witness to his shining glory-- (5)
Yes, I tell of Smintheus Apollo,
Apollo, beloved son of Zeus.
As for you who sing of heroes--
You, Muses, who hold the halls of Olympus,
I ask now that you remain silent, (10)
And hold your peace.
I sing to the One seated on the Throne of Heaven.
So then, Muses, where shall I begin?
Would you have me start with Athena,
Born of Zeus alone, all from the male, (15)
Whose wisdom is beyond compare?
I must not neglect the spirit of love,
That blessed Aphrodite, who leads men's hearts astray.
Or perhaps I should start with the Queen of Brides,
Ox-eyed Hera of the white arms, (20)
Daughter of Kronos, wife of Zeus
The Father of Gods and Men;
He is both Kronos's son and jailer.
I could also begin with an older Being,
Prometheus who dared the gods, (25)
And against the will of Zeus of the aegis
Delved into the hidden things of great Hephaestus,
Teaching men the secrets of knowledge
Which previously belonged to gods alone--
What of Him that bears the world on his shoulders, (30)
Atlas, that mighty Titan?
Might I begin with him?
Atlas!--that wicked Titan
Who now dwells in the halls of
Poseidon, son of Kronos. (35)
Tuesday, October 31
IMAGE: A Tale of Ancient Faerie. Chapter 1, Part 1
"Open your eyes."
The voice was silken, soft and sweet. Still half-asleep, the man smiled at the words. "You're smiling. See? I know you heard me." He opened his eyes. The woman lay beside him, a smile playing at her lips and a seductive innocence alight in her eyes. A long moment passed between them, and the man realized he was holding his breath. He let it out slowly. He wanted to tell her something--anything--about how she had made him feel the night before, how she was making him feel right now, but there were no words suitable. So instead he kissed her; first her lips, then her neck, and finally her forehead. She giggled, wrapping her arms around him. Together, they sighed in contentment.
He sensed her distraction when she lifted her head from his chest. She was looking at something behind im. Her mouth hung open, eyes dancing with a mixture of joy and fear. The look on her face made his heart thunder in anticipation; he knew that she was seeing the one thing she loved more than him, and the one Person he loved more than her. He gently moved out from underneath her, then excitedly righted himself and ran to greet the SHEKINAH.
The SHEKINAH smiled at both of them. He held out His arms and hugged the man. "Good morning, Adam." He leaned back and smiled at the woman. "Have you named her yet?"
"Not yet," the man said, shaking his head. "Not until I understand everything about her." The SHEKINAH laughed, but the man was not sure why.
The SHEKINAH clapped His hands and turned. Five lean and sleek animals came forward, their golden coats glistening in the SHEKINAH's light. The man was aware of the woman standing next to him. He smiled at her, and she took his hand. "What do you think, Adam?" the SHEKINAH asked.
The woman squeezed his hand. With the other hand he reached out and touched the shoulder of one of the female beasts, marveling at the hard muscle beneath the coat. He heard the woman gasp. He turned and saw her running her fingers through the thick mane of the older male, laughing. Incongruously, the powerful creature purred and swished its tail. The man put his hand on the beast's mane and stroked, his fingers within the mand finding the woman's. She gasped at this touch and smiled. The man knew then. He knew. He turned back to the SHEKINAH.
"Have you decided?" the SHEKINAH asked. "What is their name?"
The man nodded firmly. The woman looked at him with some awe, but his eyes were fixed on the SHEKINAH, and he did not notice. He opened his mouth, and it seemed as if the whole world was silent, waiting for the man's words.
"They are lions."
The stillness lasted for a few more moments. At last, the SHEKINAH smiled and lifted His head to the sky. "So be it!" He proclaimed. The lions bared their teeth and roared in affirmation.
The man smiled in satisfaction, then noticed the woman staring at him. He flet his face glow red, and he shifted his weight. "What?"
She started. "Oh. Sorry. You just said that with such... such authority!" She laughed and threw her arms around him, hugging him tightly. He could not breathe, but he did not mind. He looked up and saw the SHEKINAH smiling at them, waiting patiently. He kissed the woman on the cheek and excused himself. The woman watched as the man and the SHEKINAH walked away together. When they were gone, she looked back to the lions. She remembered the way her man had named them, and she had to admit it suited them perfectly. But as she sat watching them, she began to notice how each of the lions was different from the others. She frowned and began to think. "Hmmm...."
****
The man had been walking with the SHEKINAH for some time, but several times he found himself staring at the woman behind them. "Adam?" The man jumped.
"Yes, Lord?"
"Have you listened to anything I've said?"
"Of course I have. You said..." The man stopped and blushed.
The SHEKINAH smiled understandingly. "You like her, then?"
The man could not suppress a laugh. "Oh, yes."
"She is meet, then? She is suitable?"
"Suitable! Oh, my Beloved Lord, she is more than suitable. She is perfect, she is innocent, delightful, resplendent, gorgeous, awe-inspiring..." For another hour and a half, the man exhausted his supply of adjectives describing the woman, without repeating a single word.
Finally, when he finished, the SHEKINAH simply said, "I am glad."
They walked on. "I love everything you make, Lord." The SHEKINAH nodded silently. The man turned away, biting his lip.
"Is something bothering you, My son?"
"I..." The man stopped. With a sigh, he began again. "I..." He clenched his fists and ran forward, then turned and stared directly at the SHEKINAH. "I want to be more like you."
"Like Me?"
"Yes, Lord. Because You, too, are delightful and resplendent and... and all the rest. But You're even more than she is--holy, and true, and just..."
"...And you want to be delightful and true as well?" The man hung his head. "Oh, Adam." The SHEKINAH reached out His hand and lifted the man's head. "You are created in My Image. You delightful delightful and holy. You are absolutely beautiful, Adam."
The man's heart leapt at the words. "Am I?"
"You are because I say you are."
The man nodded. "But... there are so many things you do that I cannot."
"There always will be. You are My Image, but you are not Me. That is how it should be." The SHEKINAH smiled. "That is why I have asked you to assist Me in Creation. Of all the beasts on the earth, you made none; I created them all. However, you, Adam, are the one that named them--and without names, a thing is not complete. Were it not for you, Adam, Creation would not be complete. Thank you."
His Creator had thanked him!
"I am pleased, Adam, my son. It is you who named the things that delight Me--the lion, the lamb, the hippopatamus, the butterfly, the... what were they, Adam? The sky king, the silver hunter, the weaving dancer?"
The man's smile grew. "The eagle, the wolf, and the spider!"
"Yes, yes. The eagle, the wolf, the spider..."
The man grew thoughtful. He knew, of course, that the Creator hadn't forgotten the names, but that the Creator delighted to hear the names in Adam's voice.
"You are becoming more like Me each day." The Creator's voice trailed off. "One day, Adam. One day..."
The man stared. Was that a tear in the SHEKINAH's Eye? "Have I... have I displeased you, Lord?"
A pause. "I love you, Adam. I love you. I will never regret creating you. Never."
The voice was silken, soft and sweet. Still half-asleep, the man smiled at the words. "You're smiling. See? I know you heard me." He opened his eyes. The woman lay beside him, a smile playing at her lips and a seductive innocence alight in her eyes. A long moment passed between them, and the man realized he was holding his breath. He let it out slowly. He wanted to tell her something--anything--about how she had made him feel the night before, how she was making him feel right now, but there were no words suitable. So instead he kissed her; first her lips, then her neck, and finally her forehead. She giggled, wrapping her arms around him. Together, they sighed in contentment.
He sensed her distraction when she lifted her head from his chest. She was looking at something behind im. Her mouth hung open, eyes dancing with a mixture of joy and fear. The look on her face made his heart thunder in anticipation; he knew that she was seeing the one thing she loved more than him, and the one Person he loved more than her. He gently moved out from underneath her, then excitedly righted himself and ran to greet the SHEKINAH.
The SHEKINAH smiled at both of them. He held out His arms and hugged the man. "Good morning, Adam." He leaned back and smiled at the woman. "Have you named her yet?"
"Not yet," the man said, shaking his head. "Not until I understand everything about her." The SHEKINAH laughed, but the man was not sure why.
The SHEKINAH clapped His hands and turned. Five lean and sleek animals came forward, their golden coats glistening in the SHEKINAH's light. The man was aware of the woman standing next to him. He smiled at her, and she took his hand. "What do you think, Adam?" the SHEKINAH asked.
The woman squeezed his hand. With the other hand he reached out and touched the shoulder of one of the female beasts, marveling at the hard muscle beneath the coat. He heard the woman gasp. He turned and saw her running her fingers through the thick mane of the older male, laughing. Incongruously, the powerful creature purred and swished its tail. The man put his hand on the beast's mane and stroked, his fingers within the mand finding the woman's. She gasped at this touch and smiled. The man knew then. He knew. He turned back to the SHEKINAH.
"Have you decided?" the SHEKINAH asked. "What is their name?"
The man nodded firmly. The woman looked at him with some awe, but his eyes were fixed on the SHEKINAH, and he did not notice. He opened his mouth, and it seemed as if the whole world was silent, waiting for the man's words.
"They are lions."
The stillness lasted for a few more moments. At last, the SHEKINAH smiled and lifted His head to the sky. "So be it!" He proclaimed. The lions bared their teeth and roared in affirmation.
The man smiled in satisfaction, then noticed the woman staring at him. He flet his face glow red, and he shifted his weight. "What?"
She started. "Oh. Sorry. You just said that with such... such authority!" She laughed and threw her arms around him, hugging him tightly. He could not breathe, but he did not mind. He looked up and saw the SHEKINAH smiling at them, waiting patiently. He kissed the woman on the cheek and excused himself. The woman watched as the man and the SHEKINAH walked away together. When they were gone, she looked back to the lions. She remembered the way her man had named them, and she had to admit it suited them perfectly. But as she sat watching them, she began to notice how each of the lions was different from the others. She frowned and began to think. "Hmmm...."
****
The man had been walking with the SHEKINAH for some time, but several times he found himself staring at the woman behind them. "Adam?" The man jumped.
"Yes, Lord?"
"Have you listened to anything I've said?"
"Of course I have. You said..." The man stopped and blushed.
The SHEKINAH smiled understandingly. "You like her, then?"
The man could not suppress a laugh. "Oh, yes."
"She is meet, then? She is suitable?"
"Suitable! Oh, my Beloved Lord, she is more than suitable. She is perfect, she is innocent, delightful, resplendent, gorgeous, awe-inspiring..." For another hour and a half, the man exhausted his supply of adjectives describing the woman, without repeating a single word.
Finally, when he finished, the SHEKINAH simply said, "I am glad."
They walked on. "I love everything you make, Lord." The SHEKINAH nodded silently. The man turned away, biting his lip.
"Is something bothering you, My son?"
"I..." The man stopped. With a sigh, he began again. "I..." He clenched his fists and ran forward, then turned and stared directly at the SHEKINAH. "I want to be more like you."
"Like Me?"
"Yes, Lord. Because You, too, are delightful and resplendent and... and all the rest. But You're even more than she is--holy, and true, and just..."
"...And you want to be delightful and true as well?" The man hung his head. "Oh, Adam." The SHEKINAH reached out His hand and lifted the man's head. "You are created in My Image. You delightful delightful and holy. You are absolutely beautiful, Adam."
The man's heart leapt at the words. "Am I?"
"You are because I say you are."
The man nodded. "But... there are so many things you do that I cannot."
"There always will be. You are My Image, but you are not Me. That is how it should be." The SHEKINAH smiled. "That is why I have asked you to assist Me in Creation. Of all the beasts on the earth, you made none; I created them all. However, you, Adam, are the one that named them--and without names, a thing is not complete. Were it not for you, Adam, Creation would not be complete. Thank you."
His Creator had thanked him!
"I am pleased, Adam, my son. It is you who named the things that delight Me--the lion, the lamb, the hippopatamus, the butterfly, the... what were they, Adam? The sky king, the silver hunter, the weaving dancer?"
The man's smile grew. "The eagle, the wolf, and the spider!"
"Yes, yes. The eagle, the wolf, the spider..."
The man grew thoughtful. He knew, of course, that the Creator hadn't forgotten the names, but that the Creator delighted to hear the names in Adam's voice.
"You are becoming more like Me each day." The Creator's voice trailed off. "One day, Adam. One day..."
The man stared. Was that a tear in the SHEKINAH's Eye? "Have I... have I displeased you, Lord?"
A pause. "I love you, Adam. I love you. I will never regret creating you. Never."
An Author's Introduction
Well, here I am. I'll be posting my fiction here, then, and may all feel free to comment as they wish.
Unfortunately due to several factors (including, but not limited to, the author's limited attention span), while I would really like to post stories completely, I will probably alternate posting chapters of different stories, completing each of them little by little.
The Bible says that heaven is going to be greater than anyone can imagine. I hope to push the very boundaries of imagination, my own first and then my readers. If heaven is really greater than I can imagine, and I believe it is, than by so doing, I help elevate heaven even further.
---F. Rojas
Unfortunately due to several factors (including, but not limited to, the author's limited attention span), while I would really like to post stories completely, I will probably alternate posting chapters of different stories, completing each of them little by little.
The Bible says that heaven is going to be greater than anyone can imagine. I hope to push the very boundaries of imagination, my own first and then my readers. If heaven is really greater than I can imagine, and I believe it is, than by so doing, I help elevate heaven even further.
---F. Rojas
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