Handel: Te Deum

Friends,

           It is good to write again to you, despite what life brings. I urge your prayers for a person dear to my heart who is suffering greatly now. Let us hope in the Lord God, in Whose hand there is victory and life, in all affairs and all things.

God bless,

Archipoeta

Life, and Other Miracles XV

Requiem for Civilization

Let me indulge your dark vision, you false prophets, who

see soon coming the dissolution of the world, of the firm

fundament upon which God placed the Earth, and take you

to the time when there will no more be writ a single book.

A bleak, desolate country is the one where we arrive, the fruit

of some terrible demise, war and plague that razed it with fire

and death: to find a footprint one stoops low to kiss this dear

miracle and relic of a race chosen and blessed, now past and dead.

And what do these men leave behind, our grandfather and our

grandmothers, the heritage of our kind? What ruin shall we

examine and say, “Forsooth, they were great, a sprawling

empire from sea to sea spread, and going into space above!”

Amen I tell you, stones doth speak, but what stone inscribed

shall be left for men to read? All our houses are from wood

made good for storm, or fire, or worm to eat and leave behind

weak shadow soon lost from miscare of nature for the memory.

What of the grand libraries, the books that fill them, the laws

of men and nature writ in them? With time as with death

uncared this knowledge wilts away, silent for so long it succumbs

to dew and mold, and all these monuments of wisdom to dust return.

And the grand stone pillar, akin to mighty Rome? Will this not

stand to inspire some germ to generation raised, of man somewhere

surviving and roaming? Perchance it will give credence to the child

of the stories he has heard, but will his fantasies give justice unto us?

Will they include the vast ocean of knowledge and of vice in which

we bathe and spend our time? The internets and computers that

are fundament of civilization? The great books, long lost but to

cloud sent and digitized, a library that holds more work than has any?

But all that, our epitaph, is but strawberry’s worth and mass, the

electrons that doth write our future and our past. And when all

is lost, this electronic script will be the first to fall from history,

this our finest work, and all else no human eye can read unaided.

The child will then go to rest, will dream of city that mirrors

the one lost to tragic past. But dare I say he will not be more

impressed when he turns and walks away, in that fine season

when the world is leafed with gold and red, to build anew

                                                        to follow better model?

Letters, and Other Poems XV

The Song-Listeners

The globe turns, and with it the sun behind

The mountains follows, so petty, yet enough

To block the orb of heaven, and let dark flow

Upon the earth, now to sleep and slumber going.

As night falls the lights multiply to stay the gloom

And eye delight in rays of white. But where do

Ears turn to seek relief from the silent doom,

Silent death of dark, uncut by chirp or whisper?

Who will be there to listen with me the songs

Of old, that were worthy to add a note to heaven’s

Song of glory? Who will be there to love the

Orphaned granddaughter of our God – Art?

Who will muster with me the world to beauty,

Teach it to love again what does not sell but

Richness is itself? Will no one care to pay but a

moment of attention to true masters, not machines?

No one turns their ear, busied by waste of time

On humor that is cheap, but unlimited. No more

Does their genius value hold, but the mindless

Who score points and live for nothing greater.

No one cares to listen to the poets, but to things

Which cannot even stitch their own words, but

Must resort to parrot-talk, and one so badly mashed

It offends the light of reason, the dignity of death.

Yet the poets will be the last to speak before the race

Of monsters takes the people’s place and set

The world ablaze with unholy fire that will

Heaven’s fury at last bring down on the Final Day.

Apothesion of the Ocean XV

The Captain’s Speech

A poetic interpretation of Kapitan Rick’s advice. I beg the Reader allowance for artistic license.

A fine statesmith is the Ocean, my crew,

my friends to whom I show all my art and

knowledge, still yet increasing after decades

on the waters. We cross on our track wide

and strange kingdoms that gyres cut and shape.

These are moved in million year march, like

the masses of land, by deep water that last

saw day a thousand years ago. Our craft

will tread through stellar splendor, like the

ships that dip their wings high above the airs

of heaven, but only if we work as one selflessly.

Beware of the Sword of Neptune, not the mere

lead by coward’s hand fired into you - the

sea still coats my eye in tear, in dread awe

and dread fear. But you shall yield it well

and avoid its heavy blow – I will let you not

be dispatched without a fight that sets highest

price for breath of man on Earth. Here but

two factions, two borders divide the affairs

of men, life and death, and you shall be the

third division to exalt one and fight the other,

till you reach refined perfection in sight of God

and fellow mate. Here is the home of water

and fire, here empires were won and lost in

single day. Yet the sea remains as kingdom boundless,

resisting the borders of men.

                                              Remember,

I am second after God. the Master of the Sea,

but I am on constant vigil, just as Jesus is.

I am here to live and dine with you, to taste

the best spices in the world: true hunger

and generosity. Remember, I have chosen

you, not you me, and I trust you with my life.

Live and write furiously, for should even all gale

press upon the sails, the gates of hell will not prevail

against this blessed piece of heaven, worthy as she is.

My ship is yours, the boundless ocean your abode.

Be not afraid, and take the helm: guide her home.

Special Note: Golden Liberty, Elections, and Thunderstruck

Friends,

          As you might have heard by now, presidential elections in the United States are happening today. Many have been frustrated by the most expensive election in all history (surpassing even some famous Roman elections, in which whole swaths of land and treasure were exchanged in a spectacular show of bribery). But I urge you to enjoy this grand folly. It reminds me of the Golden Liberty of the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth, when once every two decades or so the whole nobility would gather at Wola outside of Warsaw to be courted by dignitaries from all of Europe, in hopes of winning the Polish crown.

 Jan Matejko: Poland at the Zenith of Her Power, Golden Liberty          

            It was likewise a spectacular event, with plenty of treasure changing hands.

            But, as Matejko's title implies (he ranks, by the way, as one of the finest artists of all time, along with Michelangelo and Bernini, in my estimation), this was when Poland was at the apex of her glory. Perhaps this election will be remembered as having happened at the apex of America's glory, after which all events inevitably led to the marginalization of this great nation.

            Nevertheless, I believe we can still reform. It is not too late. Go, and vote. Some excellent music to get you motivated to exercise your power: "Thunderstruck" by AC/DC and "Fortunate Son" by Clearwater Creedence Revival.

Pax in terra hominibus bonae volumptatis,

Archipoeta

Letters and Other Prayers XIV

The Word of God

Lord, again I say: You speak the Words of eternal Life!

You Word is changeless, ever fresh, like the dew of Heaven

finding source in boundless ocean of Thine Mercy! Amen,

amen, I say, the joy of so long ago alights again on hearts.

My mouth will ever bless You Lord, Creator and Savior,

my tongue shall ever sing Thine praise. As David did so

many generations ago, I take harp of voice again, blessed

according to Your Word, to the thousandth generation!

The question You, my Christ, spoke in Getsemane long

before my soul hath breath of life, shakes it as if I were

witness to Thine tragedy: sight, sound, speech granted

to the believers even now opens my eye, ear, and mouth.

And all the fiery teaching of the prophets still challenges

my conscience, stays the stray from unstoppable travesty,

reminds the wicked of high Heaven’s vengeance: what

other Word so relevant remains, spoken three millennia ago?  

It is the Word of truth, the word that speaks with knowledge

of He Who hath molded the hearts of men, Who knows

their every dream, hope, and desire, knows their ways,

so far below ever His own folly, from which springs life.

Yea, forsooth, life is writ in what is mistake in our eye,

but higher perfection in the Mind of God: the scroll

of being writ in every living drop thus responds to

the glow and touch of the Lord, becoming all that teems.

In everything, the glory of the Lord is written, His Glory

endures forever! All that is, however ancient, is as naught

to the eternity of the Word, spoke before the world was spoke.

May Christ Jesus be glorified, now and forever! Amen.

Apothesion of the Ocean XIV

Colossus quondamque futurus[1]

A reflection on the greatest nation in the world, tied with Poland. An appropriate piece for future Independence Day celebrations.

The cynics show the tarnish settled upon

the lady’s bronze arms, gilded green with

money’s color. They show the perversions

admitted by doctors, bankers, teachers, to

spread disease, theft, and ignorance, that

bind Liberty in heavy web and grinding chains,

from private anguish to hellish spectacle by

glass eye converted, all-present and controlling.

And though the golden door seems more

battered by rams made at home, by storms

that needed not wreck the house, divide it so,

though the hinges seem to creak with painful

groan, that speaks of long neglect and selfishness:

yet still the multitude of world crams the door

and noble threshold of this land.

                                                  Yes! Still the

citizenship of this republic has the weight of gold,

and gleams as gem holy and unknown: key to

privilege enjoyed by none other, to belong to

and be defended by the greatest sword, longest

trident of the world. Though tarnished in our

eyes by constant stream of grime and filth, the

millions seek and see the Dream of father’s lore,

that is between the silver stars and blue of seas,

in the earth that raises wheat oceans and promise

of beginning.

                     Hope long abandoned as child’s

play, as story to shroud the sad state of things,

is gathered as treasure, as Christ’s pearl and

close to heart caressed, to serve as balm, sweet

reminder when those here already fling abuses.

Thus my father twenty one years mixed his toil

with this land, made it his own by work of hands

and constancy of heart. Here he founded with

mother our family, and within short time matched

those at home in happiness and prosperity. Such

power did God give to this nation, to use mere

widow’s penny as foundation of empire! O Lord,

I still feel the heat, if see not the fire, of this star

amidst the nations - if misguided, then slowly

righted, and with it the rest of nation-family.

Let Liberty remember her mother, Charity,

and honor her father, Justice, with shake of

shackles, that loosen old and dreadful bonds.

For if she but liberate herself, she will ope wide

the solemn portal she guards of shining future

for the poor and forgotten of the world.

---

[1] In Latin, “The Once and Future Colossus”

Vivaldi: Compilation

Friends,

            A most excellent compilation of Vivaldi's work. Enjoy.

Archipoeta

Life and Other Miracles XIV

An especially long poem, in the spirit of Halloween. Beware!

Archipoeta

The Kingston Cavaliers

Gather round, ye children, this eve is of all Hallowed men

and Hallowed souls of Heaven. Before the feast of Heaven

it is said that devils roam the world to wreck havoc, before

the truce of God that stays even the wicked in their lair.

Come close, for night abounds with visions that would

make the weaker man cringe in fright. All unseen for one

night becomes visible, as much as men can bear. Tonight

then, I shall tell ye of the legend of the Kingston Cavaliers.

You know this wood is known as Indian Wells, but scarce

know why and how it got its name. Long ago the first nations

of this land found their home here: a village and tribe many

and peaceful, untouched by the disease of the Englishmen.

Those farmers that came into the mountains made peace,

and were friendly to their neighbors. And this valley,

blessed by God gave plenty to them both: prosperity and

happiness filled the people, until the war of independence.

Then the farmers were called to arms, and brother against

brother set, one for Crown and other for Congress fought,

calling the first nations to their side. The nation of the valley

chose no side, but gave aid and comfort to the loyal of the King.

When the regimen called Kingston Cavaliers was coming up

to fight at Saratoga’s hills, they switched to fight for George

of Washington, and vowed vengeance upon the allied of the

Brits. Through the valley, friendly to the King, they pillaged.

At last they came to the village here, known by the English

as Indian Wells, for the river-land and hills were filled with

wells of sweet and flowing water. Land so rich lay here that

it swelled with fruit and gave onto the people rich harvest.

So with lust of greed in eye, they ransacked the village, these

men known as the Kingston Cavaliers: raping and slaughtering,

babe from mother was pried, thrown into well and river alike

to die with the nation: massacre done by brutal sword and fire.

One family escaped with child just like you: last son and last

daughter of the people of the valley. Looking at earth and home

razed by marauders they cried: O God, these monsters lay low,

let your justice be done, and this land curse with rock and sceptre!

The Just Lord gave them safe conduct through the night, to

their allies in the West, but then turned to the Kingston Cavaliers,

sleeping sound after feast of corn, pig, goat, and squash taken

from the ruins, lying as if mocking high heaven with treachery.

God said: “This sentence I pronounce against the Kingston

Cavaliers: not one of them showed mercy, not one shall taste

My Mercy. All shall die from brother saber in their slumber,

and roam the Earth as exiles until they burn in eternal fire.”

Thereupon a Yankee company spotted the Kingston Cavaliers,

and taking their chance within the night, killed each redcoat with

cut of saber to the heart. By the mourning the massacre was

doubled, the land a hellscape, a place filled with despair and sorrow.

The Cavaliers laid unburied, and by some divine Punishment,

their remains turned into stone, and sunk beneath the rich earth.

It rocky tract of land became, an unsuitable farm, until some

American bought these hills, and pulled again from them grain.

But all that lived here had no peace, all who farmed saw strange

and harrowing sight as the plowed the ground: mother with child

on her back walking listless in the night, a mouthless cry of child,

even the spontaneous fire that brightened distant phantom house.

Men have died of strange poison in the ancient wells found,

blood instead of water was spurting from the ground. And all

these horrors multiply on eve of Hallows-day, as you roam

the roads in search of sweet treats, in festive and merry garb.

Yea, beware! Beware the sceptres of the accursed Kingston

Cavaliers! I dare ye step outside the threshold of house in

the darkest hour of the night, or even be away from bed

and ready light then: lest you hear their whisper that heart stops.  

A Special Note: Matthew Gordon

There is an excellent blog written by my friend, Matthew Gordon, detailing his journeys through the world of literature. Well worth your consideration: http://matthewgordonbooks.blogspot.ca/

Archipoeta

Widor: Fifth Symphony Finale

Friends,

          As New York returns to normalcy, the people are coming back, the schools open, and the music flows again. For your pleasure on this feast of All Souls, the piece that lies in my heart as the recessional used in our graduation ceremony. It is my hope that the joy of this peace will give happy conclusion to a stressful week.

Archipoeta

Life, and Other Prayers XIII

The Throng of the Blessed

Let us rejoice with Heaven above! Sing praises to God,

o New Jerusalem! Take rest from your noble toils,

which raise high the golden spires of our Mother City,

give thanks and prostrate yourself as blessed throng!

Forsooth the Beloved Prophet who seen the days

to come, beheld the saintly fortitude of men and women

like you and I, who gave their sin up to the Lord, washed

clean their soul in unsoiled Blood, which brighten us.

Behold, all ye wicked of the world! Repent and be who

we always were: the blessed of God destined for Heaven,

who by His Creation granted onto us privilege of free

will, capable of loving, capable of affirming His Will.

Yea, though sinking into sin, the Lord in awesome

humility hath descended, taken the life-giving Cross,

reaffirmed and defended our right to affirm, accept

the light of eternal life, even at the tribunal of death.

For who but Dismas crossed with Christ into Paradise

that day, followed by the whole of Israel made perfect

by the Perfect Sacrifice? Amen, I say, the clemency

of God is unlike that of men, as rare as free gold.

Was the gold that men so worship ever alive? Did it

bear the breath of life in its cold lump? It is rather

the earth and its salt from which life touched by God

hath sprung, plentiful in the bosom of the Lord.

The Senate of God is not a handful, who hold a

morsel of power over men, but instead it is the

princely plebs that holds sway over self, and shares

in authority over universe, firm from the Author’s hand.

The coin of God is not the dead metal, but living

charity, received and scarce repaid, a debt unsatisfied

yet forgiven with joy. Amen, no bondage exists there,

where men like play unlimit themselves in generosity.

The house of God is filled with every chamber,

a dwelling prepared from the foundation of the world,

and the joy of Heaven is incomplete without full

complement of God’s children, waiting for us.

Hear the mighty cheer of Godly host in your

slumber, but shake of sloth and forge ahead with

sure and guided step, this holy consent you grant

with love to arrive home, at last, before our Parent.

Letters, and Other Prayers XIII

Requiem for Justice

See the majesty of law abused, and used

To beat and kill the innocent; see the word

That was to truth convey lie instead,

And obstruct the justice it was meant to bring.

So is justice raped when children are

Put in jail, when families are ripped apart,

When penalty know no penance, nor

Mercy its child – then is freedom stolen!

These men and women seek its whole destruction,

And build in awful construction a new tower,

And the columns that were raised to justice house,

Are now razed, her ashes scatted, for the thrones of criminals.

It is they who hijacked her august crown

And scepter, the rod that kept the races quiet

And protected the poorest of the nation – these now

They use to press, and harness the masses in slavery.

Thus the coin that could not buy the air of heaven

Nor water of ocean, nor shower of rain, nor

Piece of land buys the thing by God’s Will

And Blood denied to Satan’s hand: free human will.

You, the evil servants doth the Savior’s glory

Mire in your filth and pure corruption!

But wait, you proud villains, you fools by the power

That is not your own made numb and stupid.

For I am the voice crying out in the desert,

The voice that proclaims the holy jubilee,

And manumission to the men bound by fear,

The women bound by tears, and children by manacles of money.

Behold in my hand the standard of Christ,

And in my word the authority of Truth,

For I was called to bring the nations to the Lord,

And make them worthy of His steps among us again!

Therefore I say: arise, you holy penitents!

Arise, and let your life engender life lost

But in this world, and not the world above, where

We, the heirs of God, will build His throne on Justice.

Apothesion of the Ocean XIII

California, California

Another hymn to add to the river of poesy and prose about the fabled land. Dedicated to Morgan.

O California, golden California! Your myth

glistens with sun’s splendor in my mind, of land

crowning America, yet slipping her grip, republic

found and established ever in its right and independence.

What glow of promise you exude that guides men

through ages to the Pacific shore? What metal gilds

the gate that limits and encloses vast, worldly port,

that speaks of a new nobility soon to be unlimited?

It would seem ancient Arcadia far outshines you

as land of Socrates and Plato, and Hesperia ranks

far above you as father of Cicero and Caesar: men

who ruled the world or watched it fall apart in chaos.

Yet some destiny is written for you in yellow ink

with diamond grain upon Cilo’s still unrolled book,

a prophesy of prosperity to rival all of China’s might

an oracle of power magnificent to shrink the whole Pacific.

Does Civilization’s progress end at this end of world

that greets the sinking sun? It seems it is here she took

sand and taught men to craft it into machine to unite

the world in unseen link, perfecting science and art.

Will she take up in Sacramento’s valley long abode,

or soon move upon the waters to the islands? Make

great circle or return again by way she came, enticed

by the universities men build for her luxurious palace?

Perhaps she will prefer California as her throne

and rich domain, grant easy loaf to the scores that

toil beneath the burning noon, and not rise until

her work is done, or cut short in war by men’s mania.

Perhaps the east of this empire will fall, and this best

or only part shall remain as last promise and mystery,

rise as second Hyperborea to match and excel the

legends of the past. God alone can speak the verdict.