ORION SPEAKS

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ORION SPEAKS

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It would take too much time to tell the tall man all the mighty moments he had stored

Aboard the centrifugal, the stargate frugal, the narrowest way known to heaven

And he surrounded with adorned pleasure, only this the measure of a stargaze warp

And Delaware, a mystic rose whose gown floats above any battle-scarred morning

She of sweeter disposition, she strong, mighty in battle, like a Boadicea on her chariot

Golden as the palace of Versailles where all is wooden like chess pieces in a drama

We are always just voyeurs, stepping in and then stepping out, uncertain, yet nervous

Like two small children faced with the problem of adulthood bearing down upon us

No wonder Gerollitas’ generation had that real problem with acceptance and worth

I have missed your warm smile and your attention, I digress to the point of annihilation

Only smooth talkers, aristocrats and charlatans eventually find a way with words

The rest of us struggle like warm wasps on the scent of Mexican hunny or fresh apples

The accolade interrupted by moon-worshippers heading west to greet a ‘brand new day’

Where sonnets roll around the yard like blue grass tumbleweed, hogs snort contented

And all this while, sound Orion’s gassy surface pumps light into our chosen hemisphere

A madrigal plays on softly, borrowed from another time and the latin quarter

Herecles still spinning wool, has surrendered his club to serve Lardanus’s daughter

Even great legends like Hercules or JFK can bow submissive to passions disorder

And there’s always a silly wren hopping around inconstant and shallow as a limpet

Clouds can be so disarming, vivacious, yet threaten, they are prone to characterisation

Dispassionate, an undervalued word in a psychiatric world where ambiguity is desired

The choices we make, so often strapped to Orion’s belt, drifting ever so slightly

Orion, caught in the dark sky awaiting the makers time to throw off his hunters caution

Climb the seven steps, jettison the seven stars, the sisters who are tied to Orion’s girth

Ainitak, Ainilam and Mintaka beautiful names three, but were these the names chosen?

Or the names spoken of in the great counsel where sit the elders golden, twenty four?

Who cast their crowns down by virtue of their knowledge of Job’s understandable folly

O bright counsel informs the stars brighter than the planets, the knowledge of the free

O marvellous reason that unfolds the seasons to offer words of hope to the bold Orion

Caught in Samson’s madness, overcome by the sadness only the pure must endure

Arise, shake off the morning, pledge the moon, salute the burning sun and stars,

Write words in sand, travel long, acknowledge now that time like Orion is not free

Run to greet the crashing waves of futures dawning, surely Orion’s summer has come

The sisters sound the warning, cascading and drawing, lines of perspective in the sky

We learn much from tales of splendour, prophets candour, the rigmarole of anger

An unfurled banner, as Apollo’s lie and bad manners direct Artemis’s arrows as they fly

The arena of consequence is now settled like an evening sky, the band play Perfidia

Even Orion cursed by this polygamy of treachery and betrayal awaits his redemption

The old man of the night bound by satans light, cross-referenced to his heathen plight

The dichotomy of reason hides so well the magical and submissive virtue that was Isaac

History’s vaults released some 10, some 20, yet the unknown is also known by its father

The truth set free for all to see attended by the spill of wine, sounds of joyous laughter

Collect the pages now, assemble them in order, bind them down with cord and gum

Clear the back room, Gallileo’s horn points t’ward the sky, Caxton’s press of ink runs dry

Guttenberg, a godlike hero like Alexander Graham Bell, Newton, Maximillian Schell?

Absurdity, nestles in with honesty and valour, frailty and discord find no place in Valhalla

Asgaard’s mountains resound with echoes of heroes fallen, not tales of treachery

Within such silver vaults, Orion and the brothers walk and talk of mankind’s destiny

There is not time to tell of all embroidered yarns, plaitted curls on Adam’s tattoed earth

Or book a seat alongside mother Eve, watch commentary of her iconic, anguished birth

The globe turns slowly for the lost and lonely who look hard for the noble and holy

Orion speaks into a chaos, a catastrophe, centred around metropolis’s pained contusion

We all sit, full of learning in the counsel of King Arthur, knights who wait for their end

Summon Jupiter, Methuselah, Odin’s son, the counsel of the wise, armed with weapons of iron

Hammer the breastplate, gild the helmet, mount the white horse, rouse the sentry

Here we, masters of our inheritance, regal champions who slew Behemoth in turn

Circle like crows beneath the dome of Andromeda, afeared the hunters beak and claw

There steps forth then, as bold to speak, from out the carbon skies

One who has listened deep and cold to many stories, myths, and to their many lies

Not a fourth comforter whose disgrace and pain of shame never were well hidden

A bright star listed in the book written by the heart of god if not by his injured hand

Collected words from a sorry band of misfits, harlequin and humbled rogues

Who in their weakness and their folly, sowed frailty and brokenness, to cut a slice of holy 

Orion speaks for those with fears, for those who stand a little nervous in Jibrails hall

For those who stepped outside the tent, whose eyes arched away from heaven

Who true of heart, enjoy the strangest loyalty to Pleiades band of seven

Listen now ye coldest moon who lights the bleakest beacon and ye dumb Trojan horse

Whose wooden, blanket eyes hide the stench of good men stolen, listen as Orion speaks

He understands your treason, shows pity, understanding, God’s mercy, bronze-swollen

edenbraytoday

Ref. 02092020

#AUTHOR’S NOTE

In common with a lot of my recent work and in part motivated by a habit I picked up during my recent CV-19 Isolation, I have taken to writing a kind of PREQUEL – FOREWARD – an ‘AFTERWARD’ if you will but at any rate an Author’s ‘comment’.

I do this, not by way of translation but rather as a suggestion or possibly a more attainable connection. Poetry is actually how I prefer to communicate with others but its a hard language with which to develop relationships.

‘ORION SPEAKS’ as a written piece has been brewing a long time inside and I’m still not sure its finished. ‘Distilling’ may actually be a better choice of word than brewing.

It forms a ‘pair’ with the TRIALS OF MILES BLACKMAN which I also may open up and work some more on. A POEM is a sculpture that is never finished, a story that really has no conclusion. There may even be a 3rd Part to follow.

ORION is a mannequin upon which to hang my clothes and it might also be termed ‘autobiographical’, I’m not certain I can claim that.

Can you step away from EARTH for a brief ten minutes to view the stars and ‘listen’?

Can you search your soul for one brief hour and consider in truth our beginning?

ORION has been important throughout the story of mankind. ORION SPEAKS and has spoken to many generations.

edenbraytoday – 3rd. August 2020

REFERENCE GLOSSARY:

PSALM 147:4  

He determines the number of the stars; he gives to all of them their names.

JOB 38:31 

“Can you bind the chains of the Pleiades or loose the cords of Orion?”

JOB 38:1-41

Then the Lord answered Job out of the whirlwind and said: “Who is this that darkens counsel by words without knowledge? Dress for action like a man; I will question you, and you make it known to me. “Where were you when I laid the foundation of the earth? Tell me, if you have understanding. Who determined its measurements—surely you know! Or who stretched the line upon it? …

AMOS 5:8

He who made the Pleiades and Orion, and turns deep darkness into the morning and darkens the day into night, who calls for the waters of the sea and pours them out on the surface of the earth, the Lord is his name; AMOS

The Orion Arm is a minor spiral arm of the Milky Way Galaxy that is 3,500 light-years (1,100 parsecs) across and approximately 10,000 light-years (3,100 parsecs) in length, containing the Solar System, including Earth.

Orion’s Belt or the Belt of Orion, also known as the Three Kings or Three Sisters, is an asterism in the constellation Orion. It consists of the three bright stars AlnitakAlnilamand Mintaka. Looking for Orion’s Belt in the night sky is the easiest way to locate Orion in the sky.

Which star shines the brightest?Sirius ASirius A and B. The brightest star in the sky is Sirius, also known as the “Dog Star” or, more officially, Alpha Canis Majoris, for its position in the constellation Canis MajorSirius is a binary star dominated by a luminous main sequence starSirius A, with an apparent magnitude of -1.46.

 “Over 25,000 individual measures of the Pleiades stars are now available, and their study led to the important discovery that the whole cluster is moving in a southeasterly direction. The Pleiades stars may thus be compared to a swarm of birds, flying together to a distant goal. This leaves no doubt that the Pleiades are not a temporary or accidental agglomeration of stars, but a system in which the stars are bound together by a close kinship.” From our perspective on Earth, the Pleiades will not change in appearance; these stars are marching together in formation toward the same destination, bound in unison, just as God described them.

Two of the greatest of its stars, Betelgeuse and Rigel, possess, as far as has been ascertained, no perceptible motion across the line of sight, but there is a little movement perceptible in the ‘Belt.’ At the present time this consists of an almost perfect straight line, a row of second-magnitude stars about equally spaced and of the most striking beauty. In the course of time, however, the two right-hand stars, Mintaka and Alnilam (how fine are these Arabic star names!) will approach each other and form a naked-eye double, but the third, Alnita, will drift away eastward, so that the ‘Belt’ will no longer exist.” Unlike the Pleaides clusters, the stars in the band of Orion do not share a common trajectory. In the course of time, Orion’s belt will be loosened just as God told Job.

ORION and

ARTEMIS

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NOLI TIMERE ~ DO NOT BE AFRAID

NOLI TIMERE – DO NOT BE AFRAID

…   ⚐⚐⚐  …

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I came very late to the party

By the time I arrived it had started

Coleridge was dancing with Langston

Emily had a whole group of admirers

In the corner I noticed was Seamus

and the spotless Paul Muldoon

Shamelessly chatting of McClaverty

with Longley and Andrew Motion

Keates and Byron they were there

And Shelley at one point stood on a chair

Hemmingway kind of got in the door

Eminem sat in the corner on the floor

The music was loud they were playing Dylan

Some fool was heard reciting Ibsen

I heard some voices raised,

might just be Ginsberg, Kerouac

along with other bad seeds and Nick Cave

out the back, on the table, in the kitchen

In the yard, some actor fellows

had started a fire with guffaws

and a pair of ancient bellows

Wordsworth was seated at a bureau

he wrote an ode 

While ‘the bard’ was there

directing the show

In the far distance I heard an owl

and later a pussycats soft meow

..

edenbraytoday

ref.13082020


							
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OUTTAKES ~ 04 – Guilt never wears a happy face!

OUTTAKES – 04

I’ve been in the attic, I’ve been in the cellar, I raided my notebooks –I’M HAVING A YARD SALE – It’s a Car Boot – THEY’RE UNFINISHED LINES, unfinished poems, POEMS THAT MISSED OUT ON PREVIOUS RETROSPECTIVES, good ideas, BAD IDEES, inspiration, OR JUST GOOD TITLES, abortive attempts – IM CLEARING THE BACKLOG – opening up the storehouse – IT’S A COLONIC IRRIGATION – an enema – I’M MILKING THE PAPS – so mother writer’s milk might flow through fresh again!

… … …

GUILT NEVER WEARS A HAPPY FACE

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Setting aside our current concerns over Covid-19, people of today get paranoid about a number of relatively illogical things, depending on your point of view or your particular peccadillo. From the dangers of passive smoking, through asbestos poisoning and wells disease to the many and varied phobias including the usual and familiar, like claustrophobia, aracnaphobia and onto those even more extreme than the likes of brontophobia (fear of thunderstorms) or mysophobia (fear of germs)!

However damaging the subject of these rattlesnake fears may be to their victims, none of them can ever be as controlling or debilitating than the inner curse that is the nub of that mischievous little 5-letter symptomia known as – guilt (cue – flashing thunder and scary music please) … Psychologists, psychoanalysts, fundamentalist Christians theologians, Catholic priests and basically most world religions teachers, philosophers, political leaders and social analysts would all give you differing, possibly predictable but non the less worthy responses to the age old question,  what is guilt?

pre-CGI-alien-431x300

Edenbray is not here today to catalogue, reiterate, confirm or criticise these many well documented beliefs or respected, proven and accepted diagnosis. No, today I just want to simply take a cool, long and hard look in the eye of the little blighter. This annoying, secretive parasite of the human psyche that can burrow its way into the human mind and soul and grow to such an unhealthy scale that apparently, it can help create mass murderers, serial killers and psychoanalytic nightmares of the weirdest and strangest order, yet for the most of us ( hastily he separates himself from the earlier list ) guilt has at the least, been the cause of not a few arguments, both inner and vocalised, has wrought untold emotional pain and angst and contributed to not a few very stupid actions and reactions. Or am I the only one? 

Deny guilt has a say in your life to your peril my friend, for this devious little ‘shit’ will gnaw out your very soul right in the fleshy centre of that denial and at the very least ruin many a pleasant afternoon stroll or even a healthy game of scrabble. No, joking aside, we are not all psychopathic monsters riddled with parent-induced, strict religious guilt but we all do on some scale or other, fall prey from time to time, to the little monster known as ‘guilt’.

#Note :~ the word guilt rhymes with ‘quilt’ which seems kind of poetic as squares of guilt when sewn together will eventually grow into huge proportions in much the same way as a patchwork quilt??

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It has to be said that bed linen may not actually disguise guilt but it could be seen to cover those many acts of unfaithfulness and deceit that can easily lead to one very common cause of guilt. In my search to determine what guilt actually looks like, I have decided to organise an ‘identikit’ operation that hopefully will lead to a kind of IDENTITY PARADE and to eventually single out the little shit. We may then stitch these patchwork cameo’s of ‘guilt’ together and ultimately learn to recognise the traits of this insidious little demon known as ‘guilt’.

Guilt never has a happy face

We may process what we know about guilt more by what we know it doesn’t look like than what it does. For example true guilt never has a happy face, nor is it particularly attractive. It may smile but that smile mostly turns out to be little more than a sneer. G.u.i.l.t can never really be beachball jolly, I’m sorry but that’s the way it is!

When we have eventually singled ‘guilt’ out, isolated it, named it and shamed it we may begin to ask – How did we ever fall prey to its wiles and devious schemes? How did we let this little phsyco bully us, invade us, worry us, negatively influence us and ultimately dominate us.

Paragons of un-virtue will interlude at this point that they have no truck with this ‘pious’, self-righteous and shameless little roadster. ‘I feel no guilt’ is the monogram on many a playboys shorts, embezzlers wallet or dodgy tradesmen’s van. Any shyster, con-artist or on a bawdy tarts bra and knickers, if she wears any. To these and all those who manage to control their inner voices like Al Capone wielding a baseball bat, they will maintain they remain ‘guiltless’, yet guilt still remains an Alien in our midst, under our skin and inside our heads and personally should I ever meet such a one, face to face, he’ll get short shrift from my particular maple bat as I’m certainly not one of those to entertain the notion of change, open-mindedness or to willingly allow any one, sick, psycho to influence my life or actions.

So this essay on guilt is clearly aimed at those who believe in visitors from out of space or  that have already met the slimy little monster with a head full of teeth whose name begins with a ‘gee’ and ends with a ‘tee’.

Yes, guilt my friend affects us all I would propose at some time or other, even the supposed ‘guiltless’ and while guilt is not beautiful, alluring, pretty, handsome or desirable it is not necessarily ugly either, in the same way as say a malignant cancer’s physical appearance to the naked eye can be mute and non-alarming.

The problem with guilt is that it nags like a puss-filled boil, an insect bite, a domineering wife, husband or partner. It chaffs and worries us like a hungry baby, a pain in the groin or an unpaid bill. Until we meet its demands, it hangs over us like a blackmailer with the darkest of our secrets. It sends messages with devious cunning that we uncover in the unlikeliest moments. It can make us act strange and if we bury it deep, it leaves molehills on the surface of our landscaped lives to remind us it has escaped and is still roaming ‘out there’, dangerous, naked and free.

Guilt is no respecter of a persons age, background or social standing and people caught in its spidery web resort to the strangest, wildest, most diabolic recourse to remove its incessant taunts. You might say its vengeance is extreme.

Guilt does not let you be your ‘real’ self

Guilt hides away in the crevices of the human heart and the folds of the human brain and teaches us to do likewise. It is a skeleton in the closet, a ghost in the dark night, a rat in the attic – appearing at moments when you think it may has gone for good. Guilt is ‘your’ secret, even though you hide it so well, or you think you did. You’re better off without it but how do you ‘out’ it and how do you get the alien ‘out of the closet’? How do you set that particular demon free? It’s a dilemma and no mistake and one that keeps a whole lotta’ people in work.

Multiple analysts, counsellors, doctors, priests – all earn a good living dealing with other peoples guilt …. So how do we cut loose from this fettered monster? Choose your poison. Maybe we should all learn to become a bit more honest about the things that make us feel guilty. Drag them screaming out into the light of day and expose them for what they are. Make coffee-time with your friends your personal confessional. Come on, get it off your chest, you know you want to and you might be surprised where it will all lead, just a little of that good old heartfelt honesty. Maybe people will find you a lot more interesting. It might turn out a real turn-on for them or maybe they will recognise you are human after all and a lot more like themselves than they had realised. Open the cage and step out into the light my friends.

Right then whose first?

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OUTTAKES – 05 ~ MAUD & MARIANNE

OUTTAKES – 05

I’ve been in the attic, I’ve been in the cellar, I raided my notebooks – I’M HAVING A YARD SALE – It’s a Car Boot – THEY’RE UNFINISHED LINES, unfinished poems, POEMS THAT MISSED OUT ON PREVIOUS RETROSPECTIVES, good ideas, BAD IDEES, inspiration, OR JUST GOOD TITLES, abortive attempts – IM CLEARING THE BACKLOG – opening up the storehouse – IT’S A COLONIC IRRIGATION – an enema – I’M MILKING THE PAPS – so mother writer’s milk might flow through fresh again!

.

⚙︎ ⚙︎ ⚙︎

… … …

MAUD & MARIANNE

… … …

birds and bees

§ § §

It was a thunderclap that woke them

Woven as they were golden

They had slept that way for hours

Carried home honey from the bees

§

They first met in ’54 when what they did

Was way below the law

Marianne always the clever one

And Maud who wore the shawl

§

They both drank bourbon from

A tall tin cup; an amphora

A crystal chalice or a beaker

But when they held hands it was cleaner

§

Not many people had said

They were made for each other

Then Marianne bought pansies

Maud wept & then became her lover

§

Souls twine like rope, useful and strong

The head of a horse stands up

As proud as the day is long

These two wore vivid silk sarongs

§

And hiding in the fisher hut

Her Polish father’s sweet garret

They spoke for hours of love and pain

Till Maud guessed the amber stain

§

Their ’78 became a by-word flame

The cultured opulence of their modern day

Glitter, gave way to the raw colours of earth

So they made a kind of docu-film

§

This day, to-day – people stop & listen

When their love was at its strongest

Opinion divided by hatreds engine driven

Love’s purple flower was too well hidden

§

People’s views change, glow & glisten

In the dockyard, schoolyard or the mission

Mauds temper finally broke the bowl & strew

Diamonds, soft lilies & golden fishes

§

So lovely, the hands of Marianne

Who could’ve sat in forest wolds, in a felt hat

Strumming words, loving birds, telling Maud

No other matter matters, but Love.

§

… … …

a ballad

writtenbyedenbraycompleted24.09.2017

⚙︎ ⚙︎ ⚙︎

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… thanks for listening …

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OUTTAKES ~ 02 – COMMON PEOPLE –

… … …

COMMON PEOPLE

image

…   …   …

 

The common man is hidden

He hides

Society once dressed him in grey

And navy

But now out of the magician’s hat

Badly free

Punctured skin and stored notes

NHS notes

Honey bee hives, sweet and gammy

Political votes

Enter the torn horse kicking gaily

A New Daily

Opinion shattered, warming sugar-sweet

A viral horn

TV people collecting crushed data, ice

Overpriced

Nature as usual, nothing much said, led

Red river-bed

Back down in the verdant silver valley

Money talks

…   …   …

writtenbyedenbray16/17/1/15.

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… thanks for listening …

 

⚙︎   ⚙︎   ⚙︎

 

I’ve been in the attic, I’ve been in the cellar, I raided my notebooks – I’M HAVING A YARD SALE – It’s a Car Boot – THEY’RE UNFINISHED LINES, unfinished poems, POEMS THAT MISSED OUT ON PREVIOUS RETROSPECTIVES, good ideas, maybe BAD IDEES, inspiration, OR JUST GOOD TITLES, MISFIRES, abortive attempts – IM CLEARING THE BACKLOG – opening up the storehouse, come on in!  – I’M MILKING THE PAPS – so mother-writer’s milk might flow on through!

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⚙︎   ⚙︎   ⚙︎

 

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BUCKETS OF RAIN

BUCKETS OF RAIN

by Bob Dylan

GUEST POEM

(Lyrics)

Buckets of rain
Buckets of tears
Got all them buckets comin’ out of my ears
Buckets of moonbeams in my hand
You got all the love
Honey baby, I can stand
.

I been meek
And hard like an oak
I’ve seen pretty people disappear like smoke
Friends will arrive, friends will disappear
If you want me
Honey baby, I’ll be here

I like your smile
And your fingertips
I like the way that you move your hips
I like the cool way you look at me
Everything about you is bringing me misery

Little red wagon
Little red bike
I ain’t no monkey, but I know what I like
I like the way you love me strong and slow
I’m taking you with me
Honey baby, when I go

Life is sad
Life is a bust
All you can do is do what you must
You do what you must do, and you do it well
I do it for you
Honey baby, can’t you tell?

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OUTTAKES – 03 ~ THE TRASH MAN

OUTTAKES – 03

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…  …  …

THE TRASH MAN

…   …   …

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nunun

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I am a bin man taking the trash

Loading up on peoples throw-outs

I seen my share of care

Fourteen cents and a dollar bill

In the back pocket of a pair of strides

And a full box of cigarillos on Tues-a-day

Tuesday afternoon with a stack o’Newsweek

That had been, hardly read

One ole’ woman wanted us to take her cat

It was dead, thats what she said

She cried when I said ‘No,

But that cat should be buried

My pay-check pays for my bills

Mose’ times but I ain’t no Leadbelly

I cane’ do nothin’ more than carry this trash

But I read the magazines when I get home.

.

ununu

writtenbyedenbray

⚙︎   ⚙︎   ⚙︎

 

 

 

 

… thanks for listening …

 

⚙︎   ⚙︎   ⚙︎

 

I’ve been in the attic, I’ve been in the cellar, I raided my notebooks – I’M HAVING A YARD SALE – It’s a Car Boot – THEY’RE UNFINISHED LINES, unfinished poems, POEMS THAT MISSED OUT ON PREVIOUS RETROSPECTIVES, good ideas, maybe BAD IDEES, inspiration, OR JUST GOOD TITLES, MISFIRES, abortive attempts – IM CLEARING THE BACKLOG – opening up the the storehouse  – I’M MILKING THE PAPS – so mother writer’s milk might flow on through!

.

⚙︎   ⚙︎   ⚙︎

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A FOREWARD & AN ESSAY ~ ‘The Trials Of Miles Blackman’

An Essay and a Foreward

to the autobiographical poem

THE TRIALS OF MILES BLACKMAN

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During the early lockdown period of the Covid-19 pandemic I ran a series of Posts on my edenbray8 blog site with helpful notes from my own point of view. I did this for a number of reasons and not simply for the purpose of translating my verse. Essentially, if a poetic piece needs to be translated, it becomes like a joke where no one laughed or a cartoon that flew over but the truth is, I enjoyed that first-person writing experience and adding a little context. Poetry, to me, isn’t just about telling a story either but hey, now I’m trying to tell you what to think and what you probably already know.

As a poet, I always hope to trigger the readers imaginative response, educate the ‘third eye’ of intuition and feeling, develop understanding and wisdom, that greatest of human, mental and spiritual traits and fully engage the emotional person. Life, I believe is never one dimensional or shouldn’t be, even though trauma, pain and sadness can dull those left-field centres of our creative brains, we are always more than machines. If we can follow life’s stream even a little under the surface, maybe a half note off-key, stray, however briefly, beyond our own ‘safety’ limits or rebound our opinions and dogma off another wall it helps us to stay the course and complete the individual journey we are all on.

Sometimes our paths will cross and occasionally you will meet someone with a part of their story that is similar to your own but never quite the same and then we move on. We try to keep our journeys together but it cannot always be. It’s not necessarily unfaithfulness that causes people to drift apart. Our emotional life is always evolving. Swans and pigeons mate for life but I don’t believe they encounter that particular problem.

I don’t want to try and translate ‘The Trials of Miles Blackman‘ but then again perhaps I do. I really want my readers to get it for themselves. There may be one line, one stanza, one verse or maybe one whole section that connects with another’s life and experience or explains itself at all. If just one punch-point gets through to my readers on any level of appreciation, personally I would be happy with that. All I know is, I put a lot of work into this piece, a lot of myself and I seriously made a lot of effort to get it right. If your response to that is ‘hey, then you wasted your time’ then yes, I think I would even take that.

edenbraytoday

Ref. 05082020

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THE TRIALS OF MILES BLACKMAN – a modern-day saint

three masted schooner

THE TRIALS OF MILES BLACKMAN

A MODERN DAY SAINT

..
This day the sun had shone it’s fair share, it was a lemon in the sky
Purple stained clouds hanging like stranded, used confetti drifting by
The wedding happened earlier, we decided, too late now to cry

The bell on the old church rang 2am, in my mind I started up an ancient hymn
A song of a better time when I drank wine over whisky and words they still rhymed
when I could at least post vivid memories in a box marked lost and found

Jonah had told me of snakes in Ghana and Gary he taught me ladders
The one you avoid, the other you climb, whether its pantiles or its adders
The people you meet in life build you up or they can leave your life in tatters

Miles he wasn’t black nor brown, didn’t fancy men, didn’t wear a gown
Started out a happy child, later turned out wild, out where poppy seeds are sown
The thirties are your best years, mens minds tell them they are grown

Diomedes, Heracles, Dionysus, which is true and which is legend?
Who is secret agent, who the hero of the working class, who the bastard felon?
Miles on miles, had met them all since the grand old age of seven

Tribulations, trouble, tantrums tres, they ride the palest horse
While Andreas untroubled comes walking, across the well-mown course
The church clock strikes eleven, cousin Ruben is accused of using too much force

Miles started out drawing line upon lie, miles of line, like a regular sea fisherman
Alone for days with his solitary ways, became an enigma in his own prison
Tennyson twisted, teflon-gifted, troubled and torn, no one there to listen

Women, much like girls are on the other side, like road signs in another country
Miles never had a sister, truth is true but like Nautilus he still missed her
Understanding and patience are often born into another’s hands, we help each other

The neon lights, sights, noise and smell of a London town, a Rome, make another spell
In this fond intoxication I find I lose my alienation, by this most charming attenuation
It was about this time in Green Park that Jagger stepped out wearing a dress

The clergyman’s daughter is now doing precisely what Pygmalion ain’t oughta
Sitting on a park bench in Trafalgar Square, sleeping and reading classics on trains
Caddying for artists, observing disorder, next stop, becoming a hospital porter

Milos wandered through the warm butterfly-strong fields of gold-seed and flax
Maybe it was there he birthed so many thoughts and flowered complications
Miles always loved birds of all persuasions, he chuckled, that he never met another dove

And when push comes to shove, he should, instead he met a girl of purest wood
A gleaner gathering wheat up in her dress the factory girl of whom Jagger had sang
Her zip broke, her clothes were in a mess, still, isn’t it good, Norwegian wood?

A turpid tale with turgid momentum, turns, takes in corners and kerb stones
Sharp suited becomes the woodcutters son, no hope rolls over, we learn how to drum
So many angles, so many strokes, Miles had his moments as just one of the blokes

The grazing deer showed a face of surprise, a gentleness lost in her cold, black eyes
Princely birds circled above azure washéd skies, every mothers son eventually dies
Becomes a father, or a leader, or a tramp, Miles often took up mothers Nightingale lamp

Imagined himself with Julie, like Terence Stamp, we give so much of ourselves to cinema
To irrational fears, alcohol and tea, Long John wrestles Israel Hands on the Hispaniola
Young Miles sipped the froth off his cola, played housey housey at the Camp Tombola

The war hadn’t been kind to very many, nursing the scars of hearth and home
The loss of feeling, of limbs, noses, bones, the smell of fear after the drone
Adding the distance the doodle-bugs had flown or the sweated space under the stair

Martha had sat at the feet of Jesu only after her duties, Miles sat like Mary had lonely
With mother he listened, her true one and only, to tales that didn’t need the lengthening
Or chapter or verse, or detail to make them worse, he loved mother like a tortured monk

As soon as he could Miles learned to get drunk, his moral compass on life it had sunk
without trace, like the Nazi lie or the Bismarck, Miles gregarious soul wore an Iron Cross
On his barrel chest, under his breast, determination sings sweetest in the evening mizzle

When life gives you tough cuts, leave only gristle, Miles searched hard for Lesley’s nipple
It’s not true she was emotionally crippled, Miles tried to love everyone in his life
Baguettes, cobs, rolls and of course his sweet wife, In his forties he even learned to stipple

Somehow, we are almost always waiting for the end (Tristan)
Miles had catalogued this earlier in oils, on one long, lascivious, traumatic spread
While reading Tolkien, Voltaire and Leary, for once in his life his eyelids grew weary

Now thank God for the internet, Caravan and whisky, summer sun, memories gone misty
Those cellophane fires of Altamont, Jagger pleaded for cool, they almost have expired
The wake of Meredith Hunter, young, gifted, black, maybe sadder than George Floyd

The legends of Morrison, Morrissey and Dolores O’Riordan each telling a different tale
Miles upon miles in the morning still hoping, still yearning this ship may eventually sail
Across the blue-grey yonder, peat filled fields of wonder, Leviathon split asunder

Standing still calm on the frosted horizon a three-masted schooner named Sorrow
An opportunity borrowed from the maiden’s master to light a welcoming fire
Fire of desire, a towering spire out on the water, for the saint whose heart God sees

edenbraytoday

ref. 03082020

MeredithGrave

Remembering

MEREDITH CURLY HUNTER

24.10.1951 – 06.12.1969

~ ~ ~

Authors Note: –

During the early lockdown period of the Covid-19  pandemic I ran a series of Posts here on my edenbray8 blog site with notes I wrote from my own point of view. I did this for a number of reasons and not simply for the purpose of translation. Essentially, if the whole of a poetic piece needs to be translated, it becomes like a joke where no one laughed or a cartoon that flew over but the truth is, I enjoyed the first-person writing experience and adding a little context. Poetry, to me, isn’t about telling a story either but hey, now I’m telling you what to think and what you probably already knew.

As a poet, I always hope to trigger the readers imaginative response, educate the ‘third eye’ of intuition and feeling, develop ‘understanding’ and wisdom, that greatest of human, mental and spiritual characteristics and fully engage the emotional person. Life, I believe is never one dimensional or shouldn’t be, even though trauma, pain and sadness can dull those left-field centres of our creative brains, we are always more than machines. If we can follow life’s stream just slightly under the surface, maybe a half note off-key, stray briefly beyond our own ‘safety’ limits and rebound our opinions and dogma off another wall, it helps us to stay the course and complete the journey we are all on.

Sometimes our paths will cross and occasionally you will meet someone with part of their story that is similar to your own but never quite the same and then we move on. We try to keep our journeys together but it cannot always be. It’s not necessarily unfaithfulness that causes people to drift apart. Our emotional life is evolving. Swans and pigeons mate for life but I don’t believe they encounter that particular problem.

I don’t want to translate ‘The Trials of Miles Blackman‘ I want my readers to get it for themselves. There may only be one line, one stanza, one verse or maybe only one whole section that connects with another’s life and experience or explains itself at all. If just one punch-point gets through to the reader on any level of appreciation, personally I would be happy with any or all of that. All I know is, I put a lot of work into this piece, a lot of myself and I seriously made a lot of effort. If your response to that is ‘hey, then you wasted your time’ then yes, I would even take that.

edenbraytoday ~ 04.08.2020

Posted in edenbray MEMOIRS, edenbray POMES, PROG-PROSE, THAT'S ME IN THE MIDDLE | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

TALES OF THE SWAN-DYKE ~ 11 – SCHEMATICS & DIALECTICS

MY 2ND PUBLICATION OF VERSE!

Tales of The Swan-Dyke

March – July, 2020 – CV-19

COVER - TALES OF SWANDYKE

TALES of the SWAN-DYKE ~ 11

 To celebrate the launch of my 2nd self-published booklet of 11 diverse poems and essays entitled : TALES of the SWAN-DYKE along with Illustrations and Authors Notes – I am happy to offer a signed, printed hard-copy for just £5 inc. post/packing for orders within the United Kingdom and £6.50 inc. shipping for orders outside the UK ! I wrote these poems and 1 essay during my COVID-19 isolation and over nearly 4 months

#NOTE ~ please email ME AT:-

stepheneede689@btinternet.com

Alternatively you can post a comment in the comments box at the foot of this page and I will forward details of how to make payment ~ PLEASE include your name and the address where you would like the printed copy to be sent + PLUS indicate if it is to be a gift.

Many thanks                                                                                        ~ edenbray

TO Celebrate this occasion I am re-posting all eleven parts – today I am re-posting part 11 : SCHEMATICS & DIALECTICS …

Foreward to the Publication

In March 2020 at the recommendation of the British Governments Scientific Health Advisers I entered a period of isolation as a ‘shielding’ measure due to my previous and ongoing health issues and to avoid the threat of Covid-19, a dangerous strain of Coronavirus which attacks the respiratory system, especially of older and susceptible, clinically vulnerable persons. The full total of Covid-related deaths will not become clear for some while but it is already huge on a world-wide scale. This pamphlet of verse and writings came out of that period of isolation.

Most of the writings were composed from notes made during daily, long, walks I made in the fields at the rear of our home in Lincolnshire with either Ruth, my wife or on my own. These writings reflect wider concerns over the pandemic itself, national issues that developed during this period such as BLM but also very real and more personal matters concerning growing old, loneliness, our future – plus mental and physical health worries.

This selection from the poignant ‘This World So Sad’ to the more comedic ‘Predestination’ or ‘the dog’ may at times seem controversial, they contain ‘adult’ words but each of these works is important to me in conveying the true ‘feeling’ of the time and together they hopefully capture the full rainbow of human experience. I hope the reader will catch the humour intended as well as the more serious points of reference.

Thanks for listening                                                                                        edenbray 06.07.2020

Schematics & Dialectics

Endgame

.   .   .

Hey ho! the brown hare jumping out of my dreams

Hey ho! brown hare jumping, leaping – so full of schemes

lost in a reverie down in the farmers field

no need now for brown hare anymore to shield

Hey ho! the brown hare leaping and scheming

Grey hare, brown hare, he’s the bard of the meadow

an aristocrat of the shire, an intelligent fellow

he’s Puck, he’s a Hamlet. he’s a fine Othelo,

March hare mad, he’s Nicollò Machievelli

He’s the Artful Dodger, a free-range lodger,

a ‘rabbit’ you might even invite to tea

Hey ho! brown hare down in the farmers field

hopping and dreaming, plotting and scheming

Hey ho! the white owl stuck fast to his tree

and a yellow-beard bobbing like a lost canary

ploughman yellowhammer heard but rarely seen

brown hare working on his hopes and schemes

Hey ho! the brown hare so wise in the morning

wise as a brown owl at new day’s dawning

the buzzard, the owl, the deer and two horses

down by the swan-dyke by the brown water courses

Hey ho! brown hare jumping with the bees 

leaping and scheming, dialectic and free

edenbraytoday

ref. 16072020

Posted in edenbray COMMENT, edenbray POMES, PROG-PROSE, TALES of the SWAN-DYKE | Tagged , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment