 Poetry: March 17, 2010 Issue [#3618] |
  Poetry
This week: Aleister Crowley Edited by: Stormy Lady  
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This is poetry from the minds and the hearts of poets on Writing.Com. The poems I am going to be exposing throughout this newsletter are ones that I have found to be, very visual, mood setting and uniquely done. Stormy Lady |
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At Sea
by Aleister Crowley
As night hath stars, more rare than ships
In ocean, faint from pole to pole,
So all the wonder of her lips
Hints her innavigable soul.
Such lights she gives as guide my bark;
But I am swallowed in the swell
Of her heart's ocean, sagely dark,
That holds my heaven and holds my hell.
In her I live, a mote minute
Dancing a moment in the sun:
In her I die, a sterile shoot
Of nightshade in oblivion.
In her my elf dissolves, a grain
Of salt cast careless in the sea;
My passion purifies my pain
To peace past personality.
Love of my life, God grant the years
Confirm the chrism - rose to rood!
Anointing loves, asperging tears
In sanctifying solitude!
Man is so infinitely small
In all these stars, determinate.
Maker and moulder of them all,
Man is so infinitely great!
The Titanic
by Aleister Crowley
Forth flashed the serpent streak of steel,
Consummate crown of man's device;
Down crashed upon an immobile
And brainless barrier of ice.
Courage!
The grey gods shoot a laughing lip: -
Let not faith founder with the ship!
We reel before the blows of fate;
Our stout souls stagger at the shock.
Oh! there is Something ultimate
Fixed faster than the living rock.
Courage!
Catastrophe beyond belief
Harden our hearts to fear and grief!
The gods upon the Titans shower
Their high intolerable scorn;
But no god knoweth in what hour
A new Prometheus may be born.
Courage!
Man to his doom goes driving down;
A crown of thorns is still a crown!
No power of nature shall withstand
At last the spirit of mankind:
It is not built upon the sand;
It is not wastrel to the wind.
Courage!
Disaster and destruction tend
To taller triumph in the end.
On October 12, 1875 Aleister Crowley was born. His family was wealthy and well off in society. Crowley's father died when he was just eleven years old and Crowley found himself rebelling against everything his parents stood for. Crowley pushed himself to the limits throughout his childhood. Never listening to adults and putting himself in harmful situations. By the age of seventeen he had already contracted gonorrhea. Crowley went to
Cambridge University, where his wild side continued. It wasn't until he was twenty-three years-old that Crowley finally found his path. He joined The Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn.
Crowley completed the studies necessary in order to obtain the rank of Adeptus Minor, in 1900. This act outraged a lot of the other members, because of Crowley's wild streak and his sexual escapades. In turn several of them quit. Finally they had had enough and Crowley was expelled from the Order. His expulsion was mainly from the efforts of William Butler Yeats, who was said to not approve of Crowley's methods.
Crowley began to travel the world and study magic. He travelled to Mexico, India, France. While on his travels he married Rose Kelly, and the couple travelled to Egypt together. In 1904 Crowley published The Book of the Law In 1905, he was part of an expedition to climb a Himalayan mountain peak. Several members of the climbing party died. He then spent several years travelling through China, Canada and the United States. He wrote several other piece while on his travels Magick (Book 4), The Vision and the Voice and 777 and other Qabalistic writings. It was upon his return from the United States that Crowley found out about his daughters death. Lola Zaza died from typhus. In 1909, Crowley published Clouds without Water. It was later that same year, Kelly and Crowley divorced.
Being divorced allowed Crowley to continue in his wild ways. He publishedThe Book of Lies in 1912. By now magic and the Order had taken over his life. He believed himself to be reincarnation of the occultist Eliphas Levi. Crowley dabbling in "black magic" made it to the newspapers in London and the tabloids took off with one scandal after another. Crowley published Moonchild in 1917, followed by Diary of a Drug Fiend in 1922. The Stratagem and other Stories was published 1929. Crowley was expelled from Italy and gained the reputation as "The Wickedest Man in the World." This led him to have a hard time finding anyone that would publish his work. It is said that he spent the remainder of his years as a wander addicted to drugs.
Aleister Crowley died on December 1, 1947. He was seventy-two years old he was alone when he passed.
On - On - Poet
by Aleister Crowley
I to the open road,
You to the hunchbacked street -
Which of us two
Shall the earlier rue
That day we chanced to meet?
I with a heart that's sound,
You with sick fancies of pain -
Which of us two
Would the earlier rue
If we chanced to meet again?
I jingle homely lore,
While you rhyme is with kiss -
Which of us two
Will the earlier rue
The love of the Hoylake Miss?
Not I the first to go,
Nor I the first to deceive -
Which of us two
Shall the the earliest rue
Our garden of make-believe?
You were a Chinese god,
I an offering fair,
As we entered the
Garden of Allah,
To sing our holy prayer.
Entered with hearts bowed low,
Yet I heard a voice that cried:
For he is the god of the
Sacrifice,
You are the crucified.
It was all make-believe,
A foolish game of play,
Our garden of Allah
A drawing-room,
Our Chinese god of clay.
Strings of bruises for pearls,
Tears for forget-me-nots,
And a deadly pain
Of the sickening shame
Watching the fading spots.
As quickly they faded,
The heart of me faded as well,
Until nothing is left
Of my garden,
But a soul sunk to hell.
Hail!
Poet prend ton lute -Je disparaire,
No more together we'll enter the
Enchanted garden of make-believe,
Nor my sad soul listen while thine deceive.
No more you'll be the God of Sacrifice,
Nor I the crucified.
Ah, Garden of Allah -how bitter sweet
Thy fruit. Why breakest thou the heart?
Why spoilest thou the soul with notes
From thy golden lute?
Lo! our garden a common room
Our Chinese god burnt clay, and
The singing of verses a funeral hymn
That awakes with awakening day.
'Twas all such a meaningless play,
Poet prend ton lute -Je disparaitre.
Hail!
Poet, take my hand -we'll walk
Still a little way.
I'll not desert thee at the close of day,
I, too, must pray.
A beggar asking alms of passers-by,
Does not refuse a drink to one who's dry
That once by him did lie.
Poet, come close -before I leave for aye
Take thou my hand, we'll walk still
A little way.
One garment covered both to keep us warm,
What harmed the one, was't not the other's harm?
Close clasped, one single form.
Was it not meant of aye?
Poet, take thou my hand -we'll still
Walk a little way.
Thank you all!
Stormy Lady
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The winners of "Stormy's poetry newsletter & contest" [ASR] are:
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#1646673 by Not Available. |
How my wishful heart clings...to lingering Autumn
For I know, the cold chill of winter...soon must come
And this brisk morn, I snuggle, in the warm comfort
of my Autumn bed...knowing soon I must hotfoot
across the naked stretch - from bed...to my duchesse
For born of need and custom, time will come to dress
And I find myself wishing...to linger longer...
like reluctant Autumn, beneath my warm blanket
Before I leap - from my reverie, and spring to...
my bare feet - swiftly dashing, for my crimson gown
And my heart blithe, I cast a glance outside, and see
...a blanket of frost - announcing winter's season
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#1651544 by Not Available. |
Weather and Wishing
At this time of year the weather is changing.
Most are subtly shivering and craving,
A change to warmth that's blithe and gay,
A crimson sky will make the day.
A warm sun will help change the season.
All are prepared to for Winter to slacken,
Her hold on the chilly temperatures of the season.
After all Nature needs little reason,
To exchange her blanket of snow,
For a warming trend instead of frost all aglow.
All will find comfort from a seasonal change.
Mother Nature we know will arrange,
A well deserved Spring in the coming days,
It is what we wish for and praise.
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