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Archive for the ‘poetry’ Category

The New World

Below the stars

Before I went to live below the stars,
I was be-taught the task-of-life that did await
Completion at my hand.  Then loomed the gate
That led to lands so full of strife and wars.
And, as I passed where none may dare refuse,
A cloud of deep unknowing shrouded me.
I lay as in the arms of that which hews
The finest features from the clay and dews.
Of dust now was I fashioned ; lacking sense ;
No pains beset me yet, as I was warned.
Of warmth and shadow was I made in dense
Awareness.  Sounds, a part of me intense.
Was this the tenor of life enjoyed below?
Alas no more than this was I allowed to know.

© Jamie MacNab 2013

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Forgetfulness

Forgetfulness

What do we know, we creatures bound to soil,
Of heaven’s glory?  Have we looked within,
Below the tangled log of daily broil,
To depths profound, where memories begin?
Recall genetic thirst, my anxious heart !
Regret your waywardness at Lethe’s shore ;
Where lost was all that you did know to start
Your worldly life anew.  So speaks the lore.
My mind, recall the sorrowing mother, Eve,
Who likewise feasted, disadvised, on fruit
That wiped her mem’ry, leaving her to grieve
On that which might have been, had she stayed mute.
What do we know, we creatures, bent by toil?
We from amnesia’s folly must recoil.

© Jamie MacNab 2013

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Disagreement

In contemplation of unmissing fate
My mind and heart so often disagree.
A thought begins, refusing to abate;
A pulse arises, longing to be free.
But what of freedom if it leads to chains?
And what of love if not of trials and truth?
Your patient soul discerned the fateful lie
That falsely tells of joy (and smiles agley)
While leading would-be blameless lives awry.
In tides and races, conjured far to stray
From that which first had drawn them, souls are lost.
So what, braveheart, do promises of bliss
Amount to in the scheme of love’s true cost?
To anguished souls – to this and only this.

Jamie MacNab

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Turns of the Stars

Returns

Imagination plays the central part
In making sense of absent Sun and Moon ;
Whom Earth herself conceals, in playful art,
As if to test our faith.

And when the rose, the fragrant heart of hearts,
Slips waning from her own autumnal heights,
Do not our minds find peace ; as when she parts,
There’s  promise of next year?

Our  homely orb has turned full over-night ;
New day is come, even as New Year.
With hopeful eyes, we seek the light,
The rosy-fingered Dawn.

Will she come?  Will she come?
Our rosy-fingered Dawn?

Jamie Macnab 2013

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Transformations

May love lend wings

May love lend wings to prayers we send
In memory of those who fell ;
That they may fly, all hurts to mend
In hearts where evermore shall dwell
Remembrance.

And shall that love be felt, by those
Who know the pain of sadness’ darts ;
To draw condolence and repose
From understandings in the heart’s
Acceptance.

Let formless thoughts, that drift as mist
In troubled minds, so be distilled here
To form the stream of words that list
Coherent prayers designed for sheer
Relievance.

For there’s a purpose, suffering
In grief’s unholy mad disguise ;
That, discovered, shall surely bring
Fresh comprehension, wherein lies
Transformance

Jamie MacNab 2012

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Streaming

I watched the stream ; its easy glide before my eyes
Did mesmerise my soul and grant it peace.
And then, imagination grasped the water’s rise
And sent it wand’ring, lazy, without cease.
And still my pupils followed where it went,
Absorbed by magic, held in lucid flow,
So eager to anticipate what’s meant
By whirls and eddies that glitter so.
But is there good to take, in orb or mind,
By lifting Nature from her proper ways?
Those waters, past, may ne’er be set behind
In proper place, their mission re-assigned.
Leave brooks to windle on their earthy beds,
For Fancy sleeps in well-appointed heads!

Jamie MacNab 2012

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Realization

Realization

Atop the lonely mountainside
There sits a lonely child ;
The chill that penetrates his bones
Makes hard his soul and wild.

He thought him freedom he would find
When once he broke him free
From labours of the rocky climb.
But it was not to be.

Thirteen long years of study toiled
To learn the ways, the thought
Required ; that adults said they knew.
He sees that all was nought.

The liberation promised him,
By those whom learning thralled,
Scant record left ; now he could see
That ignorance him walled.

Forlorn he sat, that lonely youth,
Beside a wind-stripped tree,
His intellect was numb with cold
His mind and soul agree.

The wide warm world before him spread
Beneath his rocky perch ;
So many things unknown to him
Appeared in mists to search.

‘Twas there the knowledge that he sought ;
A-far from barren prose ;
‘Twas there the brooks of living flowed,
Where dwells the summer rose.

There, too, the creatures of the wood
Are born to roam and fly
According to their natures’ will,
So free from pedants dry.

How, far below, each lifesome thing
Did raise its smiling head !
Their gazes turned to meet his eye
And sullen hues were shed !

High-hearted now, he raised his soul.
Or did his soul raise him?
He cared not which nor gave it thought,
Such joy did fire his whim.

And with his soul, he raised his eyes
(Or did his soul raise them?)
And saw, above the kindly mist,
A sight worth more than gem.

A mountain tow’rd afar from where
His climb had left him sad ;
All clad in green and topped in white,
All for the new-woke lad.

Resolved he was, from that point on,
Exploring for to go ;
To seek belov’d enlightenment
And cast away his woe.

‘Begone!’ he cried as down he swept,
By rock and thistle foul,
Forever down to that old ground
Where doubts went cheek by jowl.

‘Let come that light!’ he cried again,
As through the town he sped,
“Which melts the gloom of pallid thought
Where doubt and dust are bred.’

Behind him left he bricks and slate
And streets of tarmac black ;
Such speed he had that all was blur,
No thought of going back.

Now on he raced, by path and lea,
Towards the vista seen
To offer promises of joy,
Of treasures bright and keen.

‘Cross moor and hill, through copse and fen,
By dells’ and dingles’ charm,
The young man scythed his merry way.
And learned he nought of harm.

His tomes were but a mem’ry now,
His pains a source of strength.
Long dreary hours of classroom talk
Were shrunken in their length.

So here at last, in Nature’s arms,
The spring of all that’s wise,
He felt he had come home at last,
Had won a mighty prize.

‘Mid scents and sounds, and colours soft
He felt the taste, the zest
Of perfect peace, once only dreamed.
So laid him down to rest.

Jamie MacNab 2012

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