Wedding Poetry

I have returned, friends, from a rather protracted absence that has seen my wedding and honeymoon. I'm happy to announce that my new wife and I are settling in nicely. I wrote this poem on the occasion of my wife's birthday, but it fits the theme of an epithalamium. Epithalamiums are not traditionally written by the groom, so I adopted the voice of a kindly well-wisher to the bride. Admirable efforts at the form can also be found below. As always I am indebted to the sapphires of their imagery that I have shamelessly burgled from their unguarded estates.

Epithalamium

            Beneath the wedding bough

            Spring the saplings of this union.

            Their branches twine together, hand in hand,

            Their veins become the midnight kissers.

            The mad hour of cake,

            Handshakes, and pictures

            Is the baroque pageant for something else.

            For a oneness cutting rivers through a field.

            This ceremony: a cup to taste that river

            Whose polishing fluve will

            Surely rust away the wedding rings

            That are mere baubles of this eon’s pageant.

            Your love gathers it’s lakes into oceans

            Where you will drink everlasting

            To feed the wide, eternal oak

            That only yesterday was two saplings.

Epithalamium by Sappho

Epithalamion by ee cummings 

Marriage by William Carlos Williams

Epithalamium by Matthew Rohrer  

Epithalamium by George Barker

 

Poem: Origin

 Right now, I'm reading Jim Marrs' very interesting new book, Our Occulted History: Do the Global Elite Conceal Ancient Aliens? Marrs posits that there is a wealth of evidence that advanced beings once lived on Earth in the distant past. He covers unanswered questions raised by the mysteries of Stonehenge, the pyramids in Egypt and the Americas, man's mysterious origins, and evidence of ancient cultures using advanced technologies. He also discusses how an elite class of international bankers may be covering up the mystery of man's origins to promote their agenda of controlling mankind and the earth's resources. I don't know if I believe everything that this book proposes, but his evidence is fascinating, and knowledge and belief need not always agree. We have been conditioned by our culture (and, yes, by the elites) that belief comes before knowledge, but this is completely anti-intellectual. Carefully considering evidence with a healthy dose of curiosity is how the human intellect matures. Belief or disbelief may come later or not at all. The true intellectual is not without moral convictions, but he accepts that belief is a choice, and he need not believe everything he studies.

Personally, I don't doubt that we have very little knowledge of mankind's origins, and I believe that the elite are promoting their version of man's origins (IE evolutionary Darwinism) as a means of gaining social control. The logical extension of evolutionary theory is the bunkum of social Darwinism that very neatly places man in a hierarchical dialectic. The elite want us to believe that the robber barons of high finance are more successful simply because they're more evolved and we little people are detritus of leftover prehistoric DNA that must be disposed of if mankind is to progress. These beliefs not only have no scientific backing, they are profoundly anti-human and dangerous, and they must be attacked, ridiculed, and ultimately ignored. 

But what is the secret of man's origins? Frankly, I doubt that the global elite have it all figured out, and they use "science" to create an untouchable priesthood class of people who promote the status quo and never consider evidence outside of that. Were we artificially created by a race of superior beings? Your guess is as good as mine. Frankly, it all feels like a grand cosmic joke played on us by our forebears. Which is what this poem is about.  

Origin

            Consider the skull

            wearing it’s garland of roses.

            And remember that grandfather

            hid his mask in the antediluvian shelf.

            The flesh blushes like the rose,

            but the bone remains;

            A scroll that holds the word of God.

            And who is God?

           

            Our sons and daughters

            are the dusty wake of stars.

            And our jesting founders

            play the fiddle with our bones.

               

"The Name of the Father"

Here's a little anti-NWO poem for you. For another great example of this form, check out Randall Mann's poem "Order" in the April issue of Poetry.
 

The Name of the Father

            The night: dark, unspeakable,

            You came crawling from

            The antediluvian mud.

            The serpents whispering oaths.

            You come to the granite manse

            Where the owls watch

            And watch. Speaking,

            “Weaving spiders come not here.”

            Inside, The marble halls

            Are cool and orderly,

            The busts, Apollonian.

            But the serpents whisper still.

            The banquet hall is full tonight

            The teacups brim with blood

            For all the carnivores of Athens.

            For Hegel and Demosthenes.

            In the final room where the mainframes hum

            The technicians calibrate and recalibrate

            A heart pulses a flood of electrons

            In its center, the glowing red eye.

            In its center, the glowing red eye

            (A heart pulses. A flood of electrons).

            The technicians calibrate and recalibrate.

            In the final room where the mainframes hum

            For Hegel and Demosthenes.

            For all the carnivores of Athens

            The teacups brim with blood.

            The banquet hall is full tonight,

            But the serpents whisper still.

            The busts, Apollonian,

            Are cool and orderly

            Inside the marble halls.

            Weaving spiders come not here

            And watch, speaking,

            Where the owls watch

            You come to the granite manse.

            The serpents whispering oaths,

            “The antediluvian mud

            You came crawling from.”

            The night, dark. Unspeakable.

           

           

           

           

           

           

A Little Poem for Springtime

Local Boy

            With a cropped top of hair

            and gangle legs I am still the kid

            that lanked across’t the soccer yard

            guffawing. Spitting seeds of silver spit.

            I whistle down the alley and grin you over

            for one of my little Mabinogions

            with lotsa “fucks” and “shits”

            and we huddle in all conspiratorial

            about which girls’ll give it out.

            And the winter steam becomes our breaths.

            It’s all bullshit, what I do now.

            I make up the nice-guy stuff as I go

            from phones to rooms and fucking fax machines.

            Yacking straight-john to the stiffs I know.

            Sure as shit, they’ll getchya.

            That’s a ballpoint pen, not a jackknife.

            And that little courtyard at the office park?

            That ain’t no soccer yard neether.