As the poet strives to find his voice in the flow . . . of metre and rime, his early swagger
is chipped away slowly by the triumphs and tragedies inherent in the nature of his work. This chipping away continues until he realises, to his astonishment, that he is not the source of his poetry’s psychic content. He, along with his experiences (every first kiss and heartbreak), is a portal through which this content pours from a source seemingly Eternal that paradoxically resides on and off the corporeal plane.

Admittedly, this is a romantic notion open to derision and accusations of egotism and mythic inflation. However, the history of verse prompts us to suspend such attacks. Possessing the power to put maidens into a swoon and bestow upon the common man the knightly pluck to fight or fuck, verse has been credited with the creation of pantheons, monsters, and civilisations, not to mention the act of creation itself.

You need only call to memory a poem, song, or lyrical drama that so affected you that you were convinced it was composed solely to soothe your particular pangs and mend your ailing soul to know there are creative works which do not originate in the human heart. Upon reading Rumi, Dickinson, and Hesse, one cannot help but see evidence of an otherworldly presence expressing what is universally sublime and sublimely universal.

The poet’s realisation and, more importantly, unwavering acceptance of this romantic notion is the defining moment of his writing life. So much so that regardless of what else he chooses to do with his existence, once he is fully aware of the link between himself, the corporeal plane, and the Eternal, he will live his life poetically whether he wields a quill, a spreadsheet, or a plumber’s wrench.

© LogosVox 2014

The Helen Suite


Amongst The Ruins

Once the unbridled envy of
Realms near and far,

The ramparts of Sparta
Are now
Mere bronze age walls

Walls bleak with soot
And crumbling

Walls surrounded
By lemon groves unattended
And overgrown

{One-Beat Pause}

En the aire of this storied place

Dregs of memory beckon us
To an ancient altar   .   .   .    of
War weary stones

They beckon
And ask for our song,
To shepherd cosmic pow’rs,

Court Mnemosyne
And be strong

To this plea,
We reply

En earnest



Amongst The Angels

What are we to do?

Where are we to find asylum
When the Ground of Being radiates
Thru Ev’rything  and Ev’ryone?

God en all
All en God

What songs are we to sing
When this madness fills our cup?

And fills the Hall?

O! Where are we to dance?

Where are we to raise the huppah
When we are compelled
By a thousand-petaled Rose

To wield a double axe, fall a Tree
And annihilate the Self?

[Aside – The Crows Caw.]





Helen’s Dictum

My Lord
My King

We must kiss
En the Garten
(Standing on our toes)

We must kiss
With our hair tousled
And our eyes closed

My Lord
My King

We must Love Allthings
And Ev’rything

Love Sun
And Moon alike

Love Earth and Skye
And ev’ry black speck
En ev’ry mortal eye

My Lord
My King

We must chop down mountains
We must chop down ant hills

We must suffer their little bites
We must suffer their little stings

My Lord
My King

We must Love

© LogosVox 2013