Category Archives: poetry

There is no god, the wicked sayeth.

poetry, reality, ,

“There is no God,” the wicked saith,
“And truly it’s a blessing,
For what He might have done with us
It’s better only guessing.”

“There is no God,” a youngster thinks,
“or really, if there may be,
He surely did not mean a man
Always to be a baby.”

“There is no God, or if there is,”
The tradesman thinks, “’twere funny
If He should take it ill in me
To make a little money.”

“Whether there be,” the rich man says,
“It matters very little,
For I and mine, thank somebody,
Are not in want of victual.”

Some others, also, to themselves,
Who scarce so much as doubt it,
Think there is none, when they are well,
And do not think about it.

But country folks who live beneath
The shadow of the steeple;
The parson and the parson’s wife,
And mostly married people;

Youths green and happy in first love,
So thankful for illusion;
And men caught out in what the world
Calls guilt, in first confusion;

And almost everyone when age,
Disease, or sorrows strike him,
Inclines to think there is a God,
Or something very like Him.

-Arthur Hugh Clough (1819 – 1861)

-Dmitri Petrovs

Writing light and sage.

poetry, writing

John Gower was a friend of Chaucer. He sounds like someone who, if he had lived seven centuries later, would have enjoyed writing a blog.

Confessio Amantis (Prologue: Motivation and Intent)

Of those who wrote before our lives
Their precious legacy survives;
From what was written then, we learn,
And so it’s well that we in turn,
In our allotted time on earth
Do write anew some things of worth,
Like those we from these sages cite,
So that such in like manner might,
When we have left this mortal sphere,
Remain for all the world to hear
In ages following our own.
But it is so that men are prone
To say that when one only reads
Of wisdom all day long, one breeds
A paucity of wit, and so
If you agree I’ll choose to go
Along a kind of middle ground
Sometimes I’ll write of things profound,
And sometimes for amusement’s sake
A lighter path of pleasure take
So all can something pleasing find.

-John Gower (1330 – 1408) England
Modern English version by Richard Brodie

John Gower

 

In the Desolate Time

poetry, , , ,

IN THE DESOLATE TIME

Friend, in the desolate time, when your soul is enshrouded in darkness
When, in a deep abyss, memory and feeling die out,
Intellect timidly gropes among shadowy forms and illusions
Heart can no longer sigh, eye is unable to weep;
When, from your night-clouded soul the wings of fire have fallen
And you, to nothing, afraid, feel yourself sinking once more,
Say, who rescues you then?—Who is the comforting angel
Brings to your innermost soul order and beauty again,
Building once more your fragmented world, restoring the fallen
Altar, and when it is raised, lighting the sacred flame?-—
None but the powerful being who first from the limitless darkness
Kissed to life seraphs and woke numberless suns to their dance.
None but the holy Word who called the worlds into existence
And in whose power the worlds move on their paths to this day.
Therefore, rejoice, oh friend, and sing in the darkness of sorrow:
Night is the mother of day, Chaos the neighbor of God.

Erik Johan Stagnelius (1793 – 1823) Sweden