Elysium

O, how I long for gentle rest

Tucked safely away in Mother’s arms,

My euphoria, wondrous palace, far from this weary world;

To frolic through Elysian Fields,

Safe, secure, down the rightmost path;

Exploring pristine pastures bathed in radiant light.

Meadows passing beyond the horizon, beneath an infinite sky;

Flowers brightly blooming on the road to paradise;

Sweet fragrances known to none, save those with silvery eyes;

And softly chanted melodies sweeter than Sirens’ cries.

Blessed are the dead, for life to them is given;

Yet still the fates of mortal men, for death is life’s beginning.

This is a poem that I wrote about two years ago sometime during early summer or late spring. Actually, upon further reflection I recall that it was closer to the end of summer, a little later than even that possibly. The style is very different from what I normally use, primarily because it was written before I had actually learned how to write poetry. The style is free verse and there is almost no rhyming, though there is something of a rhythm present in certain parts primarily towards the end. The summer that I wrote this, I was busy reading through Homer's epics, the Iliad and the Odyssey, as well as through Edith Hamilton's Mythology and a few of Euripides's classic plays in preparation for the school year. It shows, obviously. References to Greek mythology are abundant (i.e. "Elysian Fields," "the right-most path" leading to the fields from Hades, and "Siren's cries)" and provide the perfect medium for communicating this almost ancient feeling that the poem is supposed to evoke. 

The poem itself is almost suspended in time. There is no real and immediate action presented within the narrative structure. It is almost as if the scene being presented is entirely static, as still yet as vibrant and energetic as a painting on canvas. This is precisely what I wanted to depict: eternity; unchanging, tranquil, constant eternity. Everything is expansive with a passivity of time that seems slow and endless and on all accounts, peaceful. There are no cares, no worries, no wars or hatred; and the colossal weight of the universe and the scathing winds of time are replaced with open and endless horizons, lush meadows of green, beautiful flowers, sweet songs, and even sweeter smells all encapsulated within the blink of an eye. This is paradise as it should be, this is heaven. 

I don't know what heaven really is though, I've never experienced it. I don't know what hell is either. I don't even know if they exist at all. Logically, they don't of course, but there is a possibility for all things in and beyond this universe, no matter how remote that possibility might be. At the time that I wrote this, heaven was a promise. At the time that I wrote this, heaven was "H"eaven, a real and tangible place. Death was a release from the sufferings of this world and a rebirth into the next, into Heaven where the spirit lives eternally. Death is not a curse, it is a blessing of sorts, for it promises the beginning of a new chapter, whatever it may be. At the time of this writing, that was life eternally.

A Moment Lost In Prayer

We pray but that our souls might find release,

Some ease

From all the turmoils of this earth;

To run from chaos, search for peace,

And from such solace find rebirth.

 
 

Why, Heaven high, your gaze avert from here

And tear

The veil not from thy sacred face?

Are we not worthy, timeless eyes to bear,

Or, longing, gaze on perfect grace?

 
 

Return not thence to shadows like the day

But stay

And teach us all the mysteries

Of how to love and how to pray

Before we perish on the breeze,

                Or sink beyond the western seas

                Into the shadows far away. 

 

    I composed these verses quite a few months ago while going through no small amount of stress, mostly self-induced. My goal at the time wasn't so much to write anything acceptable, but just to vent my recurring negative thoughts and emotions onto paper. Well, more precisely, onto my iPhone, where most of this poem was composed (fun fact: the first draft was written in about 15 minutes on a scissor lift suspended about 40 feet in the air). It isn't an intricate poem. Honestly, it isn't even one of my favourites, but it expresses my entire year (2010) almost perfectly. Hopefully in the passing of this new year, I shall grow wise enough to at least partially answer some of the questions I have. Maybe I'll write something more about this in the future…

On the Contemplation of Man

Why fare these men on so unseemly forth?

What drives them day by day to carry on

Amidst the tumult and the chaos of

Insanity so manifest in form:

In hatred crawling deep beneath the skin,

In carnal parasitic lust encroached,

In loss and love and tragedies adorned

With screams and cries and desperate ruined souls?

The earth has borne for oft' and ever it

Has swept its way around the scorching sun

These multiplicities of mournful fates,

These heavy yokes that shackled bind men's souls

Enfeebled by the choking mortal strain,

But they enslaved do wage this war against

The fortunes dolled to them from birth to death

And rising up, the very gods they dare

Ingloriously strike against with arms

Rebellious raised up to the heights above.

Omnipotent, scarce imposed be these gods

(Despite the valour beating in men's hearts)

By beings barred and bound from touching the

Celestial sea that spans the midnight realms

Above and floods into oblivion.

Relentless, bold, yet doomed and dying stand

They thus, these mortal men in mortal lands,

Far-thrown to distant suns and cursed to die,

In aeons darkness damned eternal lie.

 

What hope have you? What hope is there to hold?

In vain you strive on fighting to the end,

In death you pass, to never wake again:

A flame forever dimmed by bitter cold,

A fire that once raged on, ever bold.

But now the narrow path of fate does bend;

No virtue can such loathed lanes amend.

To death you slink and down into the grave,

Yet still you shout, "I'm saved! I'm saved! I'm saved!"

 

This is a poem I completed only just a few days ago but began working on toward the middle of December 2010. It all began on an extremely long bus ride back home to Louisville, KY that lasted about 15-16 hours. I was listening to music at the time (Silversun Pickups, if I recall correctly) and gazing out of the window and across the Georgian horizon on into the sky. I started thinking about the world and, more specifically, mankind and its relation to the divine. The final version of the poem (which bears not even a single line of the original) was completed a few nights ago in the darkness of my unlit room around midnight. Like the circumstances that prompted its conceptualization, the poem is one of brooding contemplation. However, it is not my contemplation that is necessarily presented, but the contemplation of an unknown individual who is analyzing the human condition and the circumstances surrounding mortal existence. But this begs the question, "Who is this narrator?" I leave the answering to you, dear reader.