Inner Slavery

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Contrarian world before you lay eventuality at quarreling feet.

Before you lay, Lady Justice blind before a flame of disarray…

Be there dismayed progression

or

stigmatized convention…

turn your withered page…

watch the rich cobbler feel his rage.

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Crops gone awry.

Desert downtown’s begin their end.

Elders loosing wages…

‘Befriend me, respect me’, Lady Liberty gasps.

Let her stake her stand

with corporate robe and open hand.

 

Fastidious freedom,

liberty graveyards,

eminent domain destinies…

Do tell, the woman from the Ellis isle…

When will your hate walk the last mile.

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Emancipate yourselves from mental slavery. None but ourselves can free our minds.” ― Bob Marley

Death, to the dead for Evermore

DEATH, to the dead for evermore
A King, a God, the last, the best of friends –
Whene’er this mortal journey ends
Death, like a host, comes smiling to the door;
Smiling, he greets us, on that tranquil shore
Where neither piping bird nor peeping dawn
Disturbs the eternal sleep,
But in the stillness far withdrawn
Our dreamless rest for evermore we keep.

For as from open windows forth we peep
Upon the night-time star beset
And with dews for ever wet;
So from this garish life the spirit peers;
And lo! as a sleeping city death outspread,
Where breathe the sleepers evenly; and lo!
After the loud wars, triumphs, trumpets, tears
And clamour of man’s passion, Death appears,
And we must rise and go.

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Soon are eyes tired with sunshine; soon the ears
Weary of utterance, seeing all is said;
Soon, racked by hopes and fears,
The all-pondering, all-contriving head,
Weary with all things, wearies of the years;
And our sad spirits turn toward the dead;
And the tired child, the body, longs for bed.

#Robert Louis Stevenson

 

The Muse of Medusa

Sarton:

…Although, I have loved men, I haven’t written poems to them.  It’s very mysterious.  It’s not something you can control.  It does come from the subconscious, from the gods, if you will.  It occurs to me that the poem to at this moment, because of the finding of one’s own secret and terrible self through encounter is ‘ The Muse as Medusa.’

 

The Muse as Medusa

I saw you once, Medusa; we were alone.

I looked you straight in the cold eye, cold.

I was not punished, was not turned to stone-

‘How to believe the legends I am told?’

 

♥I came as naked as any little fish.

Prepared to be hooked, gutted, caught;

But I saw you, Medusa, made my wish.

And when I left you I was clothed in thought…

Being allowed, perhaps, to swim my way.

Through the great deep on the rising tide.

Flashing wild streams, as free and rich as they,

Though you had power marshaled on your side.

The fish escaped to many a magic reef;

The fish explored many a dangerous sea-

The fish, Medusa, did not come to grief,

But swims still in a fluid mystery.

 

Forget the image: your silence in my ocean,

And even now it teems with life.

You choose to abdicate by total lack of motion,

But did it work, for nothing really froze?

Is it all fluid still, that world of feeling

Where thoughts, those fishes, silent, feed and rave:

And, fluid, it is also full of healing,

For love is healing, even rootless love.

I turn your face around!

It is my face.

That frozen rage is what I must explore-

Oh secret, self-enclosed, and ravaged place!

This is the gift I think Medusa for.

the Poets Still Sing

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Whatever of true life there is in thee leaps in our age’s veins.

Wield still thy bent and wrinkled empery.

And shaken thine idle chains –

To thee thy dross is clinging.

For us

thy martyrs die

thy prophets see,

Thy poets still singing!

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