Saturday, February 12, 2011


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.

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