Never Mind

Here's the poem, done in blank verse, that I read for poetry night last night (it was fun, fun, fun):

Too Much Mind

It is within the heart, where Spirit dwells,
That the seat of heaven, both pure and fair,
Abides unoccupied by most of us.

We clutch and grab and struggle to survive
In this world. We feel offense and give it.
Ceaseless ambiguities flood our lives,
And emotional fortitude fades fast.
And so, we take up residence in mind-
Because “it is our mind that brings us peace.”

This is false. Our mind, like spinning daggers,
Cuts everything asunder- rips through flesh
Like a rapacious wolf dying to kill!
Mind divides, mind isolates, mind severs …
… and it must! Mind must dissect, and must know,
Must analyze the details … mind must judge.

And judge we do. We judge each other from
The cold and callous depths of abstraction-
Seeing obscure silhouettes, not people.
We judge as if we were beyond reproach,
Sinless monks sipping green tea, wearing white.
But we deceive ourselves. We are like Borg:
Hardly human at all- reproachable!
Machines removed from Life’s inner myst’ry.

It is from that abject state of being that
We shun and accuse one another, we lie
And steal and rape and kill for sport, we war
With the intensity of roguish brutes,
Set aflame entire countries, and will starve
Anyone to death just to prove a point-
Indeed, when we vanquish a people … joy!

Mind brings no peace- just deep desolation.
It is within the heart, where Spirit dwells,
That the seat of heaven, both fair and pure,
Calls us to compassion and empathy.
Empathy and compassion will bring peace …

Not mind. Mind fears vulnerability
And shrinks in self-complacent lack of trust,
It cannot endure the thought of Spirit,
And will not cater to heart or heaven.
Abandon that residence! Shun that lie!
Rebuke that belligerent hoax! Rebel!
Mind brings no peace- only desolation.
Shut it out and let God reign again-
Stroll the sacred cobbled floors of the heart;
Be brave, and enter that inner sanctum
And seek out in that temple heaven’s throne …

And follow heart.

-jwm

Happy 402nd Birthday, John Milton

Today is the 402nd anniversary of my favorite poet’s date of birth, John Milton. What I adore about this poet, apart from the magnitude of his genius, is how incredibly jammed-packed his works are with amazing imagery and details that revolve around the mythologies of several different civilizations. His knowledge of the classics is beyond reproach- not to mention that fact that he was completely blind when he composed his greatest work, Paradise Lost.

If you haven’t read Milton, I promise you you are missing out! Here … here’s a poem that he wrote called Light. The poem’s structure is based on blank verse (i.e. iambic pentameter that follows no rhyme scheme).

Enjoy- and happy birthday, Milton …


Light

HAIL holy light, ofspring of Heav'n first-born,
Or of th' Eternal Coeternal beam
May I express thee unblam'd? since God is light,
And never but in unapproached light
Dwelt from Eternitie, dwelt then in thee,
Bright effluence of bright essence increate.
Or hear'st thou rather pure Ethereal stream,
Whose Fountain who shall tell? before the Sun,
Before the Heavens thou wert, and at the voice
Of God, as with a Mantle didst invest
The rising world of waters dark and deep,
Won from the void and formless infinite.
Thee I re-visit now with bolder wing,
Escap't the Stygian Pool, though long detain'd
In that obscure sojourn, while in my flight
Through utter and through middle darkness borne
With other notes then to th' Orphean Lyre
I sung of Chaos and Eternal Night,
Taught by the heav'nly Muse to venture down
The dark descent, and up to reascend,
Though hard and rare: thee I revisit safe,
And feel thy sovran vital Lamp; but thou
Revisit'st not these eyes, that rowle in vain
To find thy piercing ray, and find no dawn;
So thick a drop serene hath quencht thir Orbs,
Or dim suffusion veild. Yet not the more
Cease I to wander where the Muses haunt
Cleer Spring, or shadie Grove, or Sunnie Hill,
Smit with the love of sacred song; but chief
Thee Sion and the flowrie Brooks beneath
That wash thy hallowd feet, and warbling flow,
Nightly I visit: nor somtimes forget
Those other two equal'd with me in Fate,
So were I equal'd with them in renown.
Blind Thamyris and blind Maeonides,
And Tiresias and Phineus Prophets old.
Then feed on thoughts, that voluntarie move
Harmonious numbers; as the wakeful Bird
Sings darkling, and in shadiest Covert hid
Tunes her nocturnal Note. Thus with the Year
Seasons return, but not to me returns
Day, or the sweet approach of Ev'n or Morn,
Or sight of vernal bloom, or Summers Rose,
Or flocks, or herds, or human face divine;
But cloud in stead, and ever-during dark
Surrounds me, from the chearful waies of men
Cut off, and for the Book of knowledg fair
Presented with a Universal blanc
Of Natures works to mee expung'd and ras'd,
And wisdome at one entrance quite shut out.
So much the rather thou Celestial light
Shine inward, and the mind through all her powers
Irradiate, there plant eyes, all mist from thence
Purge and disperse, that I may see and tell
Of things invisible to mortal sight.