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David Myatt - Two Prose Poems

David Myatt - Two Prose Poems

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Published by David Myatt
Two Prose Poems. * Age Has Slowed Me Now. * This Only This.
Two Prose Poems. * Age Has Slowed Me Now. * This Only This.

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Published by: David Myatt on Mar 18, 2012
Copyright:Attribution Non-commercial No-derivs


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David Myatt - Two Prose Poems

Age Has Slowed Me Now

Age has slowed me now to make me sense a certain rhythm hidden within our life. This is the knowing, the feeling, of the pulse pulse pulsing of hope that is one genesis of our humble so human dreams as when, sky by cloud occluded, we yearn for Sun as in childhood we only felt felt those warm playful days of Summer so quickly passing that nevertheless kept, retained, their promise to be in later years recalled when such warming warmth remembered momentarily makes us keeps us still and happy whenever some bleak coldness or perhaps some inhumanity by others intrudes. So how could I have desired, in extremis, to so violently change, destroy, all this? And why? Why? For this is only just only what it is - one city, planted, where hope, burgeoning, lives. I was such a fool, such a fool, so mangled inside by hubris. But age, slowing, slowly brought a pathei-mathos, to plant, produce, the necessary interior human change. Long gone thus the ideologies, the hate, that grew so many hallucinations of life. Long gone those illusive ideas that so badly vivified, putrefied: death to love within. Now: now such perception of the pulse pulse pulsing of the blood of human hope to bring me joy: even here, especially here where such rush rush rushing beclaims and those traffic-sounds are but a distant sea always but only slightly surging. No need to hate them here, there, where. How, just how, could I have been so stupid? For this is growth just growing: love, hope, seeping, seeding, planting, keeping our humanity the way our Sun seeds our world with Life. As that young woman, there, who, patiently waiting, waits where passengers embarking disembarked betake themselves away and this platform is all only all that it is: beginning here to end by ending there. But no train now, just yet. So she glances, glancing: nervous, watching, waiting, hopeful, hasteless, seeing time slowly as measured by a clock unticking high above our platform, there.

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David Myatt - Two Prose Poems

Such joy on faces as he her hope arrives. Two bodies melding melded it does not matter I cannot understand the language of their words shared. I am stilled, silenced, suspended, borrowed, left, reclaimed. No more me, you, they, here, there, where. No separation, no divide. Only now, this-now: one place in one city since humanity - love, flowing - flows on to gift one Earth with Life. How, just how could I have been so stupid, so inhuman, so insolent, so hurtful, so lacking in the health of love?
"ὕβρις φυτεύει τύραννον." Sophocles: Oedipus Tyrannus


"What is hurtful to you, do not do to someone else. That is the entire Torah; the rest is only explanation." Hillel the Elder, Babylonian Talmud, Tractate Shabbat 31a "Let us then try what love can do." William Penn: Some Fruits of Solitude

David Myatt March 2012


Insolence [hubris] plants the tyrant.


This Only This

In the garden, heard through the large open window, the birds having sensed the onset of Spring sing as they sing at this most glorious time of year. And I, I overwhelmed again by the sadness emanating even here from my knowing of the suffering-causing personal deeds of my past. So many, so many I had not thought to count so many - until now. So many how could I while buoyed by hubris have hurt that many? So much deception, so many lies, while they - the friends, family, wives, lovers trusted with that goodness born of heavenly-human hope. No prayers, no supplication, to wash away, remove, the manifold stains. If only, if only I (as once, those several times) believed, so that penance, absolution - embraced might bring the chance to dream, to-be, to see, to love again. But no apologies possible nor by they desired, for they are gone - deceased, or lost those many years ago; no words sufficient, of meaning, to redeem a memory of such a scarring pain. No mechanism, manufactured, to return before the time of such hurtful hurting with such knowing as so bends me now, down, down and kneeling sans any means of

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David Myatt - Two Prose Poems

prayer. Only emotion falling, fallen, keeping such memories as some music makes numinously plaintive the joy the pain, century folding folded to century while they the multitudinous I's made the good the trusting suffer. No past of expiations. No Spring of goodness to burgeon forth to herald they through pathei-mathos changed. Which is why, perhaps, so many still need desire - to trust in - God. For there is this only this: to write to rest to sleep to dream to cease to feel. And the world will still be there when I am gone.

David Myatt March 2012 ce

This item is covered by the Creative Commons (Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0) License and can be freely copied and distributed, under the terms of that license. Image credit: NASA/JPL/CalTech – Messier 104

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