Epic! What a masterpiece you have written. My eyes filled while listening. Thank you.

i enjoyed the recitation, the music, and the poem itself.

As always staggeringly beautiful my friend. Wonderful.

“I wept a poem to the daytime moon. A crystal wind reminded me of loss. The sodden ground returned to me your name…” ♥️

This is your opus magnum. With this poem you are at eye level with Byron and his “Prisoner of Chillon” with Tennyson and “In Memoriam”!

Thanks

@floriandiazpesantes573

3 ай бұрын

It is your 100th original poem, isn’t it? And what a piece of work !

Thank you! ❤️🌹🙏

Could you please write the lyrics when you read thr poem , thank very much ,from iraq

@exildoc

2 ай бұрын

The snow has failed to fall, and so I seek In vain. The shorter minutes turn to hours; I would those hours were days, those days a week, Those weeks a year; but I must lay these flowers And then be gone, his opposite, his friend, He died in Winchester, and worms were fed In Micheldever. I’ll go home, pretend To lead a normal life, but I am dead. The story of this strange rebellious boy Takes my heart and mind, and I exist With him; this aching world’s become a toy In the unimportant void where I subsist; The daffodils are dancing, and the blue Reviving sky is fluffy with delight, While I am sorely blank; a devil’s hue Films over my sad eyes like murderous night. I don’t know why I came here, what’s the point, What’s my reasoning? Even now, I ask For answers from a world that’s out of joint, To open up the casket, to understand my task. The seasons move in ways I’ve never known, Upside down is time, and all my dreams are strown Before me, where the unborn child is grown, And unknown adversaries strike me down. The spring and summer, childing autumn, and the bleak Winter night, collide and live in my staggering breath, I wall myself in thoughts, strengthening I break, Breathing suffocate, and living, feel death. Nigh two hundred years, since the shameful day You rived and panicked, looped inside that noose; Nigh two hundred years, birds have flown away Blackberries grown ripe, children squeezed their juice. The robin tweets his little morning song, The vixen fox is milked, the downpour comes, The lightning’s flash, the frog sticks out a tongue The fly’s eaten, the sound of summer hums. These passages of life remain the same, While our selfsame deeds go in disguise. Man hanged a hungry boy to keep men tame; Our evil on this earth is no surprise. The blackbird sings across the dead of night, The gale of evening takes the hawk its way, Within the forest penetrating light Lifts the yellow primrose, the world is bright, then gray, Then icicles grow on the cottage eaves, The frozen pond has captured many a roach, The wildcats fight, a desperate mother grieves, The fading star tells of the day's approach. A thousand insects slap against the cow; The pony walks across the famished moor, But I find nothing meaningful, mere woe, I am exposed, alone, and broken to the core; The sacred pheasant flashes through the field, The lizards lick their eyes, the bells are tolled, The soldier in the distant country dies, I am revealed, The tale is new, the story, my friend, is old. In England once, we skipped a merry dance On village greens, we toiled, we fought to vote, We met the unforgiving march of man’s advance We died without a doit. A clever man once wrote There is a strong, strange, invisible hand That makes a heap, where nothing ever stood, And with that blithe excuse a lord collected land Giving graciously board, a job, and food. But dreams are unaware of golden fangs, While hope remains an angel all the day; And while you nurtured fields and tended lambs The lord decided to reduce your pay; And terrible, at last, they made you build A vast device to work the field you’d fed; Before starvation took you, you rebelled And massacred machines, and broke your bread. The lord would not forgive you, though the Lord Of all the land is wiser than we know; He smiled to see you live, to take the hoard That thief of state so elegantly stole. God, he must be powerless to intervene, Or we’d have never left the bounteous garden, Or never could our kindness turn obscene, Or sinews of the soul crust up and harden. You were punished then, we are punished now, and yes They'll be punishment again. Revolution’s fine In bible talk, in learned books, or fancy dress, In medieval fools, or after feasts of wine; “True return can never be”. So they say. And not for thee, thou snarkie, upstart, young brat. What happened on that wet November day? Henry Cook knocked off the J. P’s Hat.

@exildoc

2 ай бұрын

To the courthouse, Henry, you could not read Nor write, and so they told you of your fate; All tongues were mute to rail or intercede, Only Harry Bunce, only he, your brazen mate; Only he spoke for you, thereafter sent With all the other rebels, to the shores Of the antipodes, on board, backs bent, Reviled forever for their noblest cause. They took you to the gaolhouse, you hanged. I needn’t spell it out, I only guess The look you gave the world when your drums banged. You were a boy who would not bow or or acquiesce. Did you smile in death, or did you writhe, Or chuckle in your ignominy, eyes open wide Did you remember childhood, or the scythe, And did you see our future when you died? Along the lane I move, my heart a tomb My head a burdened weight, my legs a world; I see the forest where the bluebells bloom; I see the empty sky; here once you hurled An apple core and leapt with sprightly youth Before your mother summoned you, and fieldmates sped; The honest inspiration of childhood’s truth, A force too light for gods, now dense like lead. If only I could see the ghost of you, I cannot learn such knowledge from a book; I look inside to understand anew, To know you, fellow soul, to know you, Henry Cook. For our lives are yoked, as all lives are, The higher I ascend, the lower you must fall; And while the rich fly closer to the star, The poor upon the rotten boards must crawl. And as I balance in between extremes, Understanding and ignorant at once, Lost and found, awake and trapped in dreams; Envisioning your world: your Harry Bunce, Your Master Baring, the former a bronzed man, The latter but a horrid man of stone, I find a way into the universal plan Where all things must exist, and then be gone. Unpacked details are fine, but I pursue A loftier comprehension of these times, History can marry me, but I would find the view Of soul itself, the ghost between the rhymes, Ever present, fleeting, benign and full of rage, I eat your body with my mind, regurgitate And pile you up in patterns on my page Without a blot, then I absorb your hanging weight. The breath I breathe, you breathed, the soil I tred You trod. The love you loved, I loved; I die the death again that left you dead; I am removed as you were once removed. Upon the stage I play my little part, Nothing much so far, perhaps to bring about A line for you is why I have an open heart A brain oft-plagued with horror, fear, and doubt. If I were brave, I would erect a stone So that your sad disciples could pretend To mourn you and discover where you’ve gone Into the ground and mystery, into the fated end; For here I wander, as a man perplexed; Pulling up weeds, and weeping, without sense Pathetic and prosaic, vigilant and vexed, With thoughts I daren’t pronounce, too dangerous and intense. I leant upon a coppice gate, and sighed No thrush sang to me there, no mystic tune, I rang my father, told him I was well, I lied. I wept a poem to the daytime moon. A crystal wind reminded me of loss, The sodden ground returned to me your name, I’d been too long abroad, concerned with dross, Concerned with joy, a distant friend of shame. I looked upon my world, my habits vile, The lack of care I have from day to day; I walked with tears and sweat a heavy mile, And God himself wept with me all the way; I spied a rabbit darting through the wood, Freer than love, and happier than a tree, Holier than air! I trembled where I stood And felt the love and panic overtaking me. Who am I? Not one individual spark. Not a person, no; an idea of life, Inhabiting this flesh, still fearful of the dark, Investigating breath, hoping for a wife, Hoping for a child, hoping like the bee, The tulip, the blackbird, and the leaf; Only I am squandered by this misery, For man has made for man a world of grief. Two children died today, without excuse; A woman at her stove was torn to shreds, A nineteen year old lad put in the noose Two hundred years ago. But flowerbeds Are pretty, Newbury racecourse runs, The morning cup of coffee, bitter or too sweet, We still enjoy the view of setting suns, The snow in Micheldever’s only sleet. My heroes walk no longer on this plain, I only read of them, attempt to write A line or two to honour them, complain To God when nothing ever turns out right. I dedicate a thought to Ackerley Vigorous and free beneath his muse, It was his poem that awoke your tale in me, Exposing for my sight, your ever flailing noose. He wrote his lines one hundred years ago, I write today, and see the way it goes; What would he think if he knew what we do, Would he retain his mind to see how evil grows? Or would he go insane, and would he boil, Or would he turn to apathy from care? Or would he dig a rectangle in the soil, And bury hope six feet beneath the air? If peace could be, why is it never so, Why do the tyrants occupy this space, How did they change my friend into my foe And carve these newfound wrinkles on my face; How did they lie their way into the seat Where mercy is a high and valiant deed; Why are we tricked with victory and defeat, And hostile to the sharers of our need?

@exildoc

2 ай бұрын

How did that silent England fail to rise And join the march of freedom for all men, How is it we are deaf to newborn cries To unify the hopes of man again; How is our earth humongous with mankind Eager eyed and bloody, fixated on the view Of profit without end, when misery larger than the wind Multiples? The story is old, the tale is new. ‘Tis strange, ‘tis pitiful, but yet it is, And therefore look into the village heart; I do, and I find Henry Cook. And his Short life tells me more than all the works of art; He teaches me that life is not for toil But that rebellions beat is in the bones Of man eternal, and underneath the soil Of blood is honest truth and action, never thrones. Not wealth and majesty, but human soul, And mother nature’s vast resplendent throng, That every being on earth is one part of one whole, A fleeting note in one majestic song, Which never ends. No up, down, weakness, power, No left, right, time, nor space. Yet we are here, And the minute I would wish became an hour Is omnipresence. And all the world, this tear. It drops upon my chin, it trickles to my neck, It disappears somewhere before my chest, It is absorbed, I sense my windpipe suck It up at once, it enters like a guest, Into my brain, it gathers up my gall And moves into my forehead, then my eye And oceans up the hammocks there, and then lets fall Again upon my chin, and so eternally. The sun has set, and stars oblivious of us Deck the sky, I gaze, then pronounce my curse Then drift away, together, treasonous, With you, and stab out one more stanza for my verse. The mazy world may think they took your deeds And buried them, but your pure essence rains Upon this world, it speaks, it lives, it breeds, And sprinkles through the fury of our brains. It is in every ocean, it is in every sigh, It is in every motion of the mart; It is in every morning, when the high Esteeming thoughts of life burn in my heart; It is in every word I’ll ever write, It is in every shirt that shall be spun, It is in every moon that hangs in night, It is in every star, and every sun. Then, Henry, live with me, and keep my head Uplifted, never bowing to the lords; Keep me impatient and fearless to be bled; Keep me legendary like to the gods; Spread your ghostly presence through this land, Fill me with inspired energy of youth, And grip my trembling arm with your strong hand, And fill my lungs with your forgotten truth. And as the curtain closes, show me how I think you died, a wink upon your face; With the promise of a lifetime, gone, for I would bow Like you, and end my part in such disgrace. And so, farewell and welcome, a life begins, Your ghost appeased, and angry in my blood; For holy deeds are still despised as sins, And I still feel the hopeless tears of God.

@exildoc

2 ай бұрын

There you have it, too long to get it in one comment though

@aidandarwish4952

2 ай бұрын

Thank you very much 🌷​@@exildoc