Tag: Writing

Three Shamanic Thieves Journey into the Underworld

A trio, shamans all, they walk in step
A somnambulant drawl, they speak with sleep
One single tell showing their trespassed depth
Wan faced, gaunt, ragged, torn, the trio creep

Through the Realm of the Dead… Disguises keep
They make it past the borders of a town
Looking for the house of Judge of the Reaped
The passers-by stare at the three and frown

One shaman starts to panic, turns around
His companions steady him with a smile
They quicken their pace, their feet centre bound
Where Judge of the Underworld hears trial

The land transforms, suddenly much less vile
They walk on past homes with trellised gardens
Posh suburban homes, green lawns by the mile
Not what they expected, these big mansions

Destination reached at long last, ‘Sanctum’
Much smaller than neighbours. Two storeys tall
They open door with stolen key, and ‘Umff!’
A cat greets them, peeking from behind wall

The two older shamans play feline ball
Only the young one remains focused on mission
The two relieve themselves in the toilet
While the young one searches for object of vision

Time’s short, young Walker thinks, though he’d like to relax–
Journey was hard, but Judge will soon be back
The lure won’t hold him for much longer, can’t be lax–
Young One finds object of search at long last

A tap that was right there, near the front door, he laughs
Young One summons a magical object
An empty Coca Cola bottle, he chant-crafts
And fills it with the clear waters of Death

The Judge has so much, he won’t miss this little bit
The Young One tells himself to assuage guilt
He rallies his companions and they make their escape
Returning again to the other side of the dreamscape

(The Judge watches the thieves enter and leave from atop an adjoining balcony
He decides to let them return to the living)

Image:
https://goo.gl/images/UepQQh

Creation of Art

Does the artist create his art, I now wonder
Must he insist, animate canvas with his one answer?
Perhaps there is something moving his brush
Can it be? A depiction of more than just his mush?

Does he feed on some invisible fruit?
Depicting the songs of Parnassus’ choral muse?
Constructing the groves of spirit, and streams of truth?
Does his art belong to himself, or to the entire world?

Interpretations vary, the artist is baffled
But he must make up an answer, appear unruffled
(For his hand –or umm, mouth– holds the brush)

Image: https://goo.gl/images/16dGhn

Ouranos’ Madness

You try to grab my left arm, I stretch forth my right
Ego clouds my judgement, misunderstanding can’t subside
I reveal my worst nightmare, the one that woke me screaming
Varuna’s new form, Ouranos by dim sunlight

Fringe astrophysics, magnetic shields of great might:
Decreasing; while Cosmic rays increasing, a new season
Man (civilization) makes his own bed to lie on, but I can’t stay quiet
That wouldn’t be right, to go down without a just fight

I am powerless, and perhaps delusional
Paying credence to mere nightmares, those fanciful mind scares
Still… ‘what if?’ Should I hoard my dreams and frightful sleeping things?
Safer to give warning, I’ve nothing to lose, I’ve grown used to these red ears

To Grandmaster Will

(Hail) Eternal Bard. Your works never cease to amaze
Harrys galore, and a methodical madman
Mars peddling soothsayers, PUCK! Rhythm ablaze
Venetian merchants, passionate Moors, CALIBAN!
Storm King, do-be-dos ’bout nothing, A hunchback drake

I could never hope to match, my beat’s in a can
My vocabulary a pittance, my characters cardboard
But I can read and hoard, and sail your fjord(if those troupes ever come here again) making your world my own.

Yama’s Journey

I cannot help writing about the Twin, it’s obsession
Yama, Dimuzi, Tammuz, Thomas in modern parlance
Even his lovers, Death/Life, are a dual abstraction
The first earthly lord: Adon, Ba’al, Bali, don’t look askance
These ancient characters have more than a thousand titles

He journeys between three worlds, the Underworld, Earth and Sky
While below, he renders judgement on those who have just died
On Earth, he brings rain and new life, the sowing and reaping
In Sky, he’s the heroic warrior, there gatekeeping
Standing firm against chaos, those bad monsters he fends off (rejoice!)
The bull is his standard, noose and spear his weapon of choice

Osiris, the Asur, Aesir, meaning lord, that he was
The first Earth born king of the world, before his long journey
Wed to Inanna, Asherah, Danu, Isis, Venus
Symbolising Life. Taken away by the Underworld Queen
He came to represent that most basic of dualities, that rent his being in three.

Hail Yama, Judge of the Underworld, Lord of Seasons, Sky Hero, First King of Earth.

The Jester’s Court

“Somewhere on Beta Colony there is an institution. In one room of the institution, there is a man who spends his days and nights screaming at things that only he can see. Things we planted in his mind. They have to keep him in a straitjacket twenty-four hours a day or he’ll claw his own eyes out just to make it stop.”

— Lyta Alexander, Babylon 5
They call it the mind rape, in pop culture
Many have suffered from this trauma
This insanity brings insight, but how to share it?
This insanity makes you lose identity:
Creed, nation and economic fixation.
It can break a person, through mere retelling
Lulling their souls into extreme nihilism
Unless dumbed down, turned into a cosmic joke.
Parables don’t do the trick anymore, so I live through it all
And tell the story. Some play out in dreams, some in this world,
But perhaps there is no difference between the two.
The ragdoll brother and big saintly sister
Based on true characters, but false at the same time
I met ragdoll brother here, though not big sister
He died a few months ago. I fused his story with others in that one poem.
The big sister I made up, though her story is real for many
Both fake and real, the true wonder of fiction!
Ouranos and Tartarus: I being wooed by him in the depths
Queen of Snakes, ugly and beautiful, her actions were not quite consensual
The Torturer, burning out the eyes of his patients on hospital beds
Stories that will convey the message without the full horror
True stories, but false at the same time
Because they are a fusion of different realities
Doing it like this won’t burden you with that big yoke
So I’ll put on the jester’s hat, while I attempt to erase your number and suit
And try to turn us all into trumps, the best that I can
And transform the seven souled protagonist into a hero
If I fail, then I am meant to fail. If I succeed, that’d be nice.

I try to alienate you, to find a few to whom I can truly unburden

But I still don’t have the heart to cook this full meal, course and serving

So I’ll dilute the taste with the wrong wine

Garnish the dishes with heavy herbs and spices

And juggle souffles to distract your mind

Because if I’m writing for just me, and writing it all

I fear my wicked giants may become too tall

For both me and you!

Instead of healing, I may invoke a cancer!

 

Anonymous Tim and I have become one

Too late now to take our separate runs

 

I will become the Fool then

And perhaps while we laugh, we will learn

Or perhaps not, because

I don’t think the answers truly matter