Hymn To Her Unknown

November 20, 2017

In despair at not being able to rival the creations of God
I though on her
Whom I saw on the twenty-fourth of August nineteen thirty-four
Having a tea on the fifth story of Sawn and Edgar’s
In Piccadilly Circus

She sat facing me with an older woman and a younger
And a little boy aged about five;
I could see that she was his mother,
Also she wore a wedding ring and one set with diamonds.

She was about twenty-five years old,
Slim, graceful, disciplined;
She had none of the mannerism of the suburbs,
No affectations, a low clear speech, good manners,
Hair thick and undyed.

She knew that she was beautiful and exceedingly attractive,
Every live of her dress showed it;
She was cool and determined and laughed heartily,
A wide mouth with magnificent teeth.

And having said this I come to beginning of my despair,
Despair that I in no way can describe her
Or bring before the eyes of the present or the future
This image I saw.

Hundreds and hundreds of women do I see
But rarely a woman on whom my eyes linger
As the eyes of Venus lingered on Adonis.

What is the use of being a poet?
Is it not a farce to call an artist a creator,
Who can create nothing, not even re-present what his eyes have seen?

She never showed a sign that she saw me
But I knew and she knew I knew –
Our eyes fleeting past, never meeting directly
Like that vernal twinkling of butterflies
To which Coleridge compared Shakespeare’s Venus and Adonis.

And, like Venus, I lavished my love upon her
I dallied with her hair, her delicate skin and smooth limbs,
On her arms were heavy thick bangles
Like the ropes of my heart’s blood.

Could I express the ecstasy of my adoration?
Mating with her were itself a separation!
Only our bodies fusing in a flame of crystal
Burning in an infinite empyrean
Until all the blue limitless heaven were drunken
In one globe of united perfection
Like a bubble that is all the oceans of the world ascending
To the fire that is the fire of fires, transcending
The love of God, the love of God, the love of God –

Ah, my pitiful efforts now ending

I remember a bough of coral
Flower of the transparent sea
Delicate pink as though a ray of sun descending
Pathless into the ocean
Printed to foot of Venus
Where bloomed this asphodel.

Walter J Turner

plugged into my core

November 20, 2017

Lust was a positive high-tension cable, plugged into my core, activating a near-epileptic seizure of conviction that this was the one thing I had to do in life.

Will Self
How the Dead Live

enduring appeal

November 20, 2017

The enduring appeal of The New Poetry, the content that critics and anthologists keep returning to is not the poetry – the meat and drink of the book – but Alvarez’s introduction. Everything that follows on from The New Poetry and reflects on it or uses it as a starting point concentrates on his essay. It’s odd to think an analysis of the volume should be mediated through the prose content rather than the poems themselves.

Brian Lewis
The New, New, New Poetry: A Consumer’s Guide

Witchcraft and Intent

November 20, 2017

Witchcraft IS intent.

I know I’ve said it before, but I can’t over emphasise this simple, basic FACT.

Your spells can be a single word spoken out loud. Or held silently in your heart. It doesn’t matter. If you must use sigils, keep ‘em simple. Basic shapes. Extravagant spells and rituals are unnecessary. Simply thinking something, focusing on it, is all that’s required to create action. You are powerful no matter how you practice witchcraft. You just need faith in yourself and plenty of practice focusing your mind.