Bill’s feeling of hopelessness deepened and a terrifying darkness yawned in the abyss. As the last trace of self-will was crushed, Bill said to himself, with neither faith nor hope, “I’ll do anything, anything at all! If there be a God, let Him show Himself!”

1 1 1 1 1 fairytalesfromsp00matt_0030

Supreme Abyss

In the voice of Su Nu, courtesan of

The Yellow Emperor of China

At night, snowfall uncovers
ghosts in the canyons.
I hear the blood-breath of foxes,
wake to the winding path
of ants too weary to climb
my bedside urn.
I count each thread of my pillow,
my mind distracted from
the shallow reef that is my bed.

 

Yet the colour of his eyes
I see in a brocade noon-flower.
My hand reaches upward
to trace his face onto
the swimming beetles of stars.
Once the night bird begins its song –
it will never end.
How notes skim melody over
the mountain pool that was once my heart.

http://redroomcompany.org/poem/michelle-leber/supreme-abyss/

“A fine beer may be judged with only one sip, but it’s better to be thoroughly sure.” — Bohemian proverb

 

 

The Cuckoo in the Middle of the Wood

Cuckoos lead bohemian lives,
They fail as husbands and as wives,
Therefore, they cynically dispariage
Everybody else's marriage.

1 1 1 1 1 Gazettedubonton00C_03032

 

The Muswellbrook Chronicle (NSW : 1898 – 1955), Saturday 15 February 1919,

1 1 1 1 1 The Muswellbrook Chronicle (NSW - 1898 - 1955), Saturday 15 February 1919,

The bairnies cuddle doon at nicht Wi’ mirth that’s dear tae me. Alexander Anderson

 

http://www.rampantscotland.com/poetry/blpoems_cuddle.htm1 1 1 1 1 GazettedubontonTome_0055

Weary

by C. J. Dennis (1876-1938)

Australian writer

Aw, I’m sick o’ the whole darn human race,
An’ I’m sick o’ this mundane ball;
I’m sick o’ the sight o’ me brother’s face,
An’ his works an’ talk an’ all;
I’m sick o’ he silly sounds I hear,
I’m sick o’ the sights I see;
Ole Omar K. he knew good cheer,
An’ it’s much the same with me.

Gimme a bit o’ a bough to sit
Beneath, an’ a book of rhyme,
An’ a cuddlemsome girl that sings a bit,
But don’t sing all the time:
That’s all I ask, an’ it’s only just;
For it’s all that I hold dear –
A bough an’ a book an’ a girl an’ a crust;
That, an’ a jug o’ beer.

Then I’ll cuddle me girl an’ I’ll quaff me ale
As we sit on the leafy floor;
An’ when the book an’ the beer jug fail,
I’ll cuddle me girl some more.
For jugs give out an’ books get slow.
But you can take my tip for square
Tho’ the bough an’ the book an’ the beer jug go,
The girl, she’s always there.

For I’m sick o’ the sight o’ me brother’s face,
An’ the world’s a sight too slow;
An’ I’m sick o’ tryin’ to go the pace,
When there ain’t no pace to go;
I’m sick o’ the “gilded halls of vice,”
An’ I’m sick o’ the “sainted shrine,”
I’m sick o’ me own an’ me friends’ advice,
An’ the gold that won’t be mine.

I’m sick o’ the sound o’ me fellow’s voice,
I’m sick o’ his schemes an’ shams;
O’ trying to choose when there ain’t no choice,
An’ of damin’ several dams;
So, gimme a girl that ain’t too slow,
You can keep your book of rhyme,
An’ you bough an’ bread an’ your beer. Wot O!
An’ I’ll cuddle her all the time.

http://alldownunder.com/australian-authors/cj-dennis/weary.htm

 

“The difference between my darkness and your darkness is that I can look at my own badness in the face and accept its existence while you are busy covering your mirror with a white linen sheet. C. JoyBell C.

1 1 1 1 1 GazettedubontonTome_0063

Les Murray

“Full religion is the large poem in loving repetition;
like any poem it must be inexhaustible and complete
with turns where we ask Now why did the poet do that?

You can’t pray a lie, said Huckleberry Finn;
you can’t poe one either. It is the same mirror:
mobile, glancing, we call it poetry,

Fixed centrally, we call it a religion,
and God is the poetry caught in any religion,
caught, not imprisoned. Caught as in a mirror.”

 

 

 

“An idealist is one who, on noticing that a rose smells better than a cabbage, concludes that it makes a better soup.” ― H.L. Mencken, A Book of Burlesques

1 1 1 1 1 Gazettedubonton00C_03452

 

BAUDELAIRE
Many a flower regretfully
Exhales perfume soft as secrets
In a profound solitude.

 

The Sydney Morning Herald (NSW : 1842 – 1954), Saturday 4 September 1937,

1 1 1 1 1 The Sydney Morning Herald (NSW - 1842 - 1954), Saturday 4 September 1937,

Whatever this is Whatever I’m going through I’ll be something new A metamorphosis Hilary Duff

1 1 1  1 1Gazettedubonton00C_0325

 

Metamorphosis. 1898 Poem.

Australian Town and Country Journal NSW1st Oct 1898
. Metamorphosis.
When first I met the dainty maid

She filled me with delight;

As graceful as the lily she,

And as the lily white.
And when I spoke my love for her

Now what do you suppose?

Why, she that was as lily white.

Turned suddenly to Rose!
But when I showed my purse to her,

An empty leathern sack,

The rose and lily maiden looked

A most decided black

http://leathemhistory.blogspot.com.au/2014/02/metamorphosis-1898-poem.html

God changes appearances every second. Blessed is the man who can recognize him in all his disguises.

 

One moment he is a glass of fresh water, the next, your son bouncing on your knees or an enchanting woman, or perhaps merely a morning walk.  Nikos Kazantzakis1 1 1 1 1 bookoffairypoetr00owen_0010

A Blessing from Syria

May God, the unsearchable abyss of peace, the ineffable sea of love,
the fountain of blessings, and the bestower of affection,
who sends peace to those that receive it,
open to you this day the sea of His love,
and water you with plenteous streams from the riches of His grace.
May God make you a child of quietness, and heir of peace.
May God enkindle in you the fire of His love.
May God strengthen your weakness with His power.
May God bind you and me and everyone else closely to Him and to each other in one firm and indissoluble bond of unity.

-Adapted from a prayer from the Syrian Clementine Liturgy