It's raining...
Little pure rain drops on my head,
Today the sky is a bit disappointing.
As if resting from a warm drop,
The clouds are covered in blue.
The trees have tears in their eyes,
A pearl hung on each branch.
The whisper of the rain caught the imagination,
Inseparable is this joy or sorrow?
The raindrops are rustling,
His sweet voice is pleasing to the heart.
But it does not enter my heart,
Flows like inspiration into ocean poetry.
Little pure rain drops on my head,
Today the sky brings tears again.
The feelings that screamed from my heart
Begins to drip on the surface of the paper.
Shomurotova Zulfiya was born on December 15, 2006 in Khiva, Khorezm region, Uzbekistan. She is currently a 10th-grade student at the Khiva Presidential School. She is a member of “The Global Friends Club” organization in Georgia, a participant in the Kangaroo Olympics in 2020 and 2021, a participant in the Hippo Olympiad in 2021, a participant in the “Chatbot” project, and she won 3 certificates in the “Uzbek million coders” project, attended WHO: “Vaccine Safety Basics” course and holds certificates from 12 similar international universities, volunteer of “Golden wing”, participant of the forum held by the International Internship University, ambassador of IQRA Foundation, Protection for Legal& Human Rights Foundation’s Coordinator of Uzbekistan.
Research Paper Title “Reincarnation of nature lover imaginaries and the revolutionary environmentalist stewardship movement”
By: Z I Mahmud B.A. (Hons) English ID-3058 Email: zimahmud_anan@yahoo.com Phone: 9038532047, Residence: Property 980 ii Floor, Rani Bagh, Shakurbasti, Delhi-110034 Satyawati College Morning Shift University of Delhi
How can we cultivate the motifs and interests of today’s citizenship environmental movement and sub-urban environmental stewardship in emerging competitive anthropocene through intriguing worldviews. Indeed this is inevitable that we have become a major force of nature in this new Anthropocene epoch…Anthropogenic climate change have begun ever since the Industrial Revolution and Romanticism thwarts the ignominious evils of earth being overthrown to the greenhouse gases emissions and the stimulating cascades of global warming phenomenon.
Have you ever imagined the consequences of catastrophic unnaturalness of nature! Time has announced the heraldry of reincarnate Rachel Carson from the immuration of entombment amidst nuclear radioactive disintegration, her feminine golden brown traces of tresses in agricultural pastoral suburban landscapes leachate, fallen down microcosmic microscopic slides in polluted and contaminated streamlined canals, marshy swamps, lakes and rivulets and her archives records cassettes scattering shattered upon the desks of policy-makers… Pledges of billions of currencies green bonds investments by different institutional bodies of agencies and organizations.
Will money suffice or attitudes and values be fundamentally or universally truths of fortuitous and intuitive investment in efforts of climate change mitigation? Dear Audience, I invite you to the in depth analysis and manifesting contemplation of terrains and avenues of post environmental politics and environmental posthumanities and afterwards exploratory voyage of prospects for the future generations’ enthronement of green utopianism.
Moral Climatology And Climate Justice In Serendipity of Sequestration Or Encroachment
Filming in the frozen world “Curious Leopard Seals” The Frozen Planet II team travelled over the roughest seas in the world to film a special behaviour-leopard seals hunting penguins, Kathryn Jeffs, the director, reports, “Despite the beauty of South Georgia the bite of the extreme cold can’t be forgotten about. Eventually the crew became too interesting to resist and the leopard seals came for a look. With only their mouths to investigate the new arrivals, this can lead to some disastrous consequences for the crew…And that’s just the beginning of their problems…But soon their luck starts to change. With their luck changing, it’s time to head back into the water. The crew find the courage to brave not only the seals but also the bitter cold once again. The leopard seals thoroughly investigate the crew.
They are gentle and curious with the team, allowing them to enjoy an incredible interaction with this fascinating top predator.” Ladies and gentleman, after these icebreakers I am sure you would wonder and marvel of the apprehensive misapprehension invoked by the wrath of glaciers melting of the Antarctica and NASA Earth Observatory is indeed noteworthy and credible for an insightful significance.
Antarctic sea ice peaks in September (the end of Southern Hemisphere winter) and usually retreats to a minimum in February. These image pairs show the average concentration of Antarctic sea ice for the month of September (left) and the following February (right) from September 1990 to February. Opaque white areas indicate the greatest concentration, and dark blue areas are open water. All icy areas pictured here have an ice concentration of at least 15 percent (the minimum at which space-based measurements give a reliable measure), and cover a total area that scientists refer to as the “ice extent.”
The yellow outline shows the median sea ice extent in September and February from 1981 to 2010. Extent is the total area in which the ice concentration is at least 15 percent. The median is the middle value; that is, half of the extents were larger than the line, and half were smaller.
From the start of satellite observations in 1979 to 2014, total Antarctic sea ice increased by about 1 percent per decade. Whether the increase was a sign of meaningful change is uncertain because ice extents vary considerably from year to year around Antarctica. For three consecutive Septembers from 2012 to 2014, satellites observed new record highs for winter sea ice extent. These highs occurred while the Arctic was seeing record lows. The climb came to an end in 2015, and significant decreases in sea ice around Antarctica started to occur in 2016. There have been small rebounds in recent years, but nowhere near the record high of 2014.
Pernicious Doomsday: Climate Change Crisis Diabolical Aftermath of Demonic Gigantism
Extreme climactic conditions affecting the globe with instances of North Polar Artic or South Antarctic Icebergs melting, snow-cliffs and Himalayan avalanches, desertification and droughts, floods, hurricanes, blizzards and glaciers melting, storm surges and torrential blizzards, unseasonal rainfall patterns, coastal tidal flooding with sea level rising, apocalyptic changes in global temperatures, destruction of habitats along with extinction of critically endangered species or infestation of invasive species, vulnerability of changes in the genetic materials of living organisms including pathogenic microbial agents contaminants’, vectors’ triggering mutations and making their likelihood of susceptibility to epical chances of survival even throughout adverse environmental circumstances, pollution and toxicity and so on.
Future Prospects of Ecological Citizenship By Future Generations
Consumerism and commodification of mother earth nature and deep ecology on a large scale is the flip of the coin’s another side and togetherness of small scale individual naturalists perspectives, environmentally friendly green lifestyles and attitudes including the renovation and refurbishment of aestheticising antiquarian quintessence of naturalness in touchstones of college cafeterias stewardship or voluntarism of veggies seedbank and germination and harvest of foods, veggies and fruits alike projects, will be delineated.
On the commentary of Tagore’s open mindedness and cosmic divination liberal philosophical views have catered in curatorship, advocacy or stewardship of Romantic Poetry in action encompassing and encapsulating the sublimity and tranquility found in nature’s abode-the seedlings of deep ecology rooted within human desires, motivations, feelings and emotions, attitudes and values. Rabindranath Tagore’s modernization and industrialism in upbringing of agricultural transformation of pastoral Shantiniketan was not merely acquaint us of carbon or ecological footprints incurred by his heir-apparent foreign educated agriculture, livestock and animal husbandry graduate Rathindranath Tagore upon his arduous journey through travelling with oceanic cruise.
Disembarking homeland, both father and son merited in accomplishing spectacle of modern Gibson Graham’s inventory of ideas for an imaginary of belonging in the Anthropocene colonial and post modern clime. Alternative economics booming “adventures in living” at the regional level such as employee-owned cooperatives, peer-to-peer information commons and community sponsored agricultural hubs. In Tagorean Visva-Bharati and Shantiniketan, disappearance of entanglements between environmental and humans, ecological crisis and governance, matter and meaning, flesh or word is a marvel.
Conclusion . .
Of symposia and colloquia we should be enlivening in experiencing the magnanimity of Science Barge of Hudson Valley, New York and, therein, we shall abandon the troubadour of nature and culture divide through fostering symbiotic unison with futuristic escape from climate change crisis. Well, let me acquaint you with the fact that floating urban farms and environmental education centers are deemed to be coalesced with human beings’ imaginative magical spell habitation, a practical reality.
Further Reading and References
Four Problems, Four Directions For Environmental Humanities Toward Critical Posthumanities For The Anthropocene, Author: Astrida Neimanis, Cecilia Asberg and Johan Hedren, Source: Ethics and the Environment, Volume 20, No, 1, Spring 2015, pages. 67-97 and published by the Indiana University Press.
Welcome, readers, to 2023’s first issue of Synchronized Chaos Magazine.
This month we start off with some sad news: our longtime contributor Joan Beebe has passed away. Here is her obituary, we encourage people to leave tributes, make donations or plant trees in her memory through this link.
Also, our friend and collaborator Rui Carvalho reminds us about our Nature Writing Contest for 2022.
This month’s work probes the translucence of time: what we can see of past memories and future hopes and fears, and how that shapes our individual and collective identities.
Lorena Caputo describes the Honduran town of Trujillo years after banana plantations and Contras have left their mark.
Christopher Bernard laments our world’s harsh winter landscape of blizzards, ecological destruction, and war.
Sayani Mukherjee rejoices in the regular rejuvenation of landscapes with green vegetation, which resonates with me in California as it finally rains here in winter.
Wayne Mason sings of a subterranean post-industrial purgatory.
Daniel De Culla’s piece suggests that time can cleanse, or at least cover over, dark memories and lost souls.
Dudu Tome speaks in various ways of binding ourselves to each other and to our homelands.
RP Verlaine musters equanimity when faced with reminders of a troubled past, and of how life has not always been kind to those he knows. J.T. Whitehead compares the financial and emotional toll of divorce to the sufferings of the Biblical character of Job.
Z.I. Mahmud waxes poetic about Sir Walter Scott and William Blake and old-style chivalry.
Christopher Bernard questions the validity of the traditional social construction of gender, while Jaylan Salah explores differing concepts of masculinity embodied in films about men with physical deformities.
Fernando Sorrentino juxtaposes the two long and storied traditions of pop culture and academia with uneasy humor, while S.J. Fowler places a pleasantly amusing female gorilla amidst art museums, coffee, and the daily newspaper.
Susie Gharib breathes out wishes for the liberation of all living beings from various forms of despair or entrapment.
Hongri Yuan and Yuanbing Zhang speak of illusion, reality, and transcendence, drawing on motifs from Chinese poetry and history. Nilufar Rukhillayeva urges all people to hold onto our dreams for our lives and our world.
J.J. Campbell writes of the dull ache of disillusionment, living in an uncomfortable reality while still remembering better days. Mahbub Alam explores the uncomfortable gap between his aspirations and his reality.
Peter Cherches spurs us on to declare our existences in a complex, absurdist world. Ike Boat celebrates a school graduation in Ghana with pride.
Nahid Gul celebrates the capabilities and the journey towards psychological healing and social acceptance for a girl who uses a wheelchair for locomotion.
Bruce Roberts grapples with the dangerous natural and human elements of our world in a collection of persona poems that symbolically brings them down to our level.
Mark Young echoes Ezra Pound while conjuring up a semblance of reality.
Channie Greenberg’s photos explore various ways of looking at the felines who share our planet.
J.D. Nelson renders everyday human and animal life in a set of haikus, showing how it can be intriguing and special.
Mubarak Said reflects on a mythical dream journey to the land of the dead.
Tajudeen Muadh Akanbi laments the violence and chaos of his homeland and hopes for a better future through nurturance and healing of broken dreams. Patricia Doyne satirizes Donald Trump and related political movements within the United States.
Green
By Sayani Mukherjee
Awake to the surrounding-
The lime that freshly given,
A sumptuous gift.
Divine feminine and Universal harmony
Grazing luscious green tumbling
Forever anew.
Fresh drops and confined circles
Turning grief rivers in white aromas
Of Smell sniffing
Nature's basic instincts
Coupling harmony meadows deep inside
The Earth river flows through
Tiny bushes like thoughts sip of
Rejuvenation
Soaking in the green wilderness
The link for unison.
Understanding comes at the heart
Awakening swollen mid October
The lily mossed burnt cross
Melts
The river soakes it all
Salem haunts and fiery furnace
It smooths the rocks
Universal harmony
The pasture the innocent invitation
Lamb grazed Christ consciousness
Of all embracing synchronized green
The feminine vastness
Bountiful art like
Meadows deep down inside
It rains.
8,000,000,000 Genders; Or, Why “Gender” Should Be Abandoned And Why All Social Constructions Should Never Be Taken Too Seriously
By Christopher Bernard
A Personal Note
One day, coming into my bedroom with an unusually serious expression on her elegantly beautiful face, my mother sat me down and gave me a brief talk that turned out to be one of the most influential in my life. I was nine years old.
What she said, in her characteristically direct, even blunt way, was that I was a boy because I had a penis and testicles; my sister, on the other hand, was a girl because she had a vagina. (We were easygoing about nudity in our household, without making a fetish of it, so I knew precisely what she meant; I was only puzzled why she was making a point about something she knew I was fully aware of.)
At this point you might think, and dismiss, my mother as a biological determinist. But not so fast, because then she came to her main point. Men and women were not (according to her definitions) absolute categories; they were not walled off from each other in impenetrable silos: all men had some so-called feminine traits, and all women had some so-called masculine traits. This was essential, she said, to their “emotional balance” and psychological wellbeing.
She went on: Some men were excessively “masculine” (I was reminded of the Charles Atlas ads I had seen in comic books; the posturing muscleman had always struck me as ludicrous) and some women were excessively “feminine” (and I thought of Marilyn Monroe, who struck me, then and now, as almost a caricature of femaleness; both Atlas and Monroe were performing, theatrical, false; healthy men and women did not let themselves to be bound and throttled by appearances). In both cases, this was unhealthy for both males and females, to say nothing of their relationships. Gender excesses (she said) had a number of bad effects: they created a wall between the sexes, and locked both women and men away from parts of their own psyches, creating sometimes irresolvable emotional conflicts within them.
As she said this, I was thinking of both her and my father. My father, from a family that came to America from England in the early seventeenth century, with old Norman blood and later native American heritage (according to family legend), was a television director and producer and involved in the arts and literature (he was a gifted draftsman, musician, and writer; his own father had had literary ambitions in his youth, and his mother was a gifted poet). Dad was also the main, and an adventurous, cook at home and the main wit at our family dinners, often reducing the rest of us to tears of laughter. He had no interest in sports, automobile mechanics, or the sorts of things my friends’ fathers cared about, aside from shooting pheasant in the farm country where we lived during the hunting season each fall.
My mother had traits some might call masculine: the elder daughter of a Czechoslovakian father and a Welsh mother, she had a blusteriness and directness, and an impatience with insinuation and communicative hints, to say nothing of an irascible fearlessness that had no time for squeamishness and timidity (such as my own), that I didn’t see in my friends’ mothers or other females. She swore like a sailor and made no pretense of extreme sensitiveness, though she was a talented photographer and sculptor and had a gift for pithy phrases that was legendary in the family. I have often said that Polly had more testosterone than most of the men I knew.
So I felt I had examples right before my eyes of what my mother was saying. And since I loved and trusted both of my parents implicitly, and was convinced I had by far the best family that walked upon the green earth, her lesson met no resistance from me.
My mother gave me a serious look and asked if I understood. I nodded, though I was still puzzled why she had told me this at that particular moment. Then I recalled I was being referred to more and more as “a sensitive boy” and already showing signs of artistic interests and a complete indifference to sports and other traditionally boyish pursuits, so I guessed there might be some connection; my mother was doing this to reassure me, and I felt a warmth of deep gratitude such as I have rarely felt. It is only in the last few years I have come to realize what a profoundly wise and kind thing she had done for me. She died too long ago for me to have had the chance to thank her, and I can only wish I had had this realization sooner.
Her talk had the great benefit of allowing me never to doubt my “masculinity”; whatever I did or whoever I was, I was “male” by definition. I would have other problems to deal with – how, for example, to be a decent human being in an often indifferent and brutal world and what it meant to be a successful grownup – or merely how to talk to “girls” without offending them (a talent I have never quite mastered). But “gender issues” had no meaning for me. Who was a “real man”? I was. Next question.
Social Illusions and a Modest Proposal
What a difference a handful of decades can make.
What is “gender”? What used to be a convenient two genders has, in recent decades, morphed, according to some, into as many as 78 – a meaningless number. And the dazzling invention of pronouns confuses the matter further. In my more puckish moments, I claim that my own pronouns are “I/me/mine.” Or if I want to be really annoying: “we/us/ours,” though whether I am being royal or merely editorial depends on whose skin I am trying to get under.
I have come to suspect that “gender” may have no useful meaning at all.
The social construction “gender” has come to represent, for some, what no social construction, by definition, can be: an essence, an ultimate reality about a person, an “identity” (that other dubious and fashionable idea), when it is, at best, a rough intellectual model that, like any model, only approximates what it represents, and therefore must not be taken with complete seriousness and never, under any circumstances, literally.
One of the many pitfalls of the human condition is a perennial temptation to take our intellectual inventions and “social constructions” as well as the surrounding web of insights and projections, guesses and delusions that make up human culture, as ultimate realities; even among secularists, as somehow sacred. And any deviation in the real world from those imagined realities may find itself attacked as “false,” “inappropriate,” or “politically incorrect.” I recall the futile controversies during Obama’s first presidential campaign over whether he was “black” enough; one of the more ludicrous moments of that time. But it takes only a glance at recent history to see how such illusions, and the futile attempt to impose them on real human beings, can lead to psychological, social, and political pathologies of the most horrendous kind; to personal despair and mass violence.
Any concept, any idea we have about the world, is, of course, a more or less crude, more or less effective, tool for living in it. A useful concept grows and changes over time, adapting to circumstances and molding with the times; a useless concept is one that has frozen at a given moment and is now used as a weapon with which to hammer people who refuse to be paralyzed by fear of change. By the same token, every worthwhile concept is living, never to be completed because never a perfectly accurate picture of reality.
My favorite example is “house”: certainly we mean something very different when we say “house” from what was meant during Shakespeare’s time – our “house” is likely to contain dozens of devices and items of “infrastructure” that Shakespeare could only have dreamed about in his most exalted inspirations, and yet it retains the same function in the “real world”: a structure to keep out the wind and the rain; a shelter, a place to make a home.
But imagine if we had saddled the concept “house” with details irrelevant to its function: if we had said a “house” must be half-timber, or built of bricks, or have at least one chimney and hearth, or not be higher than twenty feet – and if we had taken these details with complete seriousness so that not only was any building that deviated from these “norms” not a “house,” but was some sort of threat to the community, to social order, even to human life – and one can imagine the (to speak charitably) violent lunacy into which we would have descended.
When taken literally, “gender” is a form of just such misapplied Platonism: it presents the idea as more real (a “real man,” an “ideal woman”) than the scrubby, scruffy reality of actual boys and girls, of men and women trying to live in the world. As soon as one says this, it is obviously true. But when it comes to gender, we seem to immediately forget it and become hypnotized by phantoms.
“Gender” is especially, even tragically, problematic because of the explosive emotions regarding sexuality and physical desire (different from gender though easily confused with it). This is true above all during adolescence, when young people have yet to learn that the “concepts” and “norms” of their society have no objective reality outside practical necessity and the dictates of power, and therefore they try, hopelessly, to conform to them, often down to the most exacting, and delusive, details. Indeed, their peers are often the worst offenders, as they seek to impose these illusions not only on themselves but also, through peer pressure, on their fellows. The violent dance of delusions and paranoia that makes up so much of human life often takes its first cruel steps in the corridors of high school.
The mistake we have made is splitting off the concept of gender from the biological reality of sex. This mistake has had disastrous consequences.
If we believe that “maleness” (to choose a glaring example) is reflected in a particular concept of “gender,” and then try to impose that concept, we are certain that, at some point, we will get wrong what actual boys and men do and what they really are. No concept of “maleness” can cover all the details of how actual men and boys behave and exist in the world; and many of those details are often conflicting and ambiguous and change over time. Many details regarding “gender” are illusory, though an illusion shared by powerful and influential figures, from parents to teachers, from peers to priests to presidents. The particulars of males will fall outside any concept of maleness and confuse people who cling to the concept no matter how much reality contradicts it. Most importantly, they will confuse the boy or man himself over who and what he “is.”
Whenever we take a concept as more true than the physical reality the concept represents, we become at best wrong-headed and at worst actively evil – both delusional and cruel, even murderous. The history of the past century provides more examples than many may be willing to fully absorb: the lessons, that is, of human delusions followed to the point of murder and mass murder.
All social constructions are illusions, socially shared will-o’-wisps, socially agreed plausible absurdities that are useful but have no ultimate reality; that have only the most tangential relationship to the reality we must deal with if we hope to live for moment to moment in the world. To take them seriously is to court madness and death, for an individual or a society. They should be handled, like any belief, lightly and ironically, and willingly discarded as soon as they cease to serve their purpose, which is to help us survive – no, thrive and know happiness in this world. As soon as they prevent that, they have become our enemy and must be mastered and conquered.
Speaking for myself (and I present this only as a catalyst for further discussion), I would define “masculine” as whatever physical human beings born with penises and testicles and the hormonal system that goes with them be and do.
And I would define the “feminine” analogously; that is according to sex, not gender.
In other words, I would abandon “gender” as a normative or even a useful term. It has done more damage than almost any other word or idea in the language in recent history. It is time to add it to such anachronisms as “phlogiston,” “phrenology,” and “bloodletting” – the obsolete social constructions with absurd or horrendous consequences in the real world that we abandoned long ago.
When asked my “gender,” I reply (puckishly!): myself.
Christopher Bernard is a novelist, poet and critic as well as essayist. His books include the novels A Spy in the Ruins, Voyage to a Phantom City, and Meditations on Love and Catastrophe at The Liars’ Café, and the poetry collections Chien Lunatique, The Rose Shipwreck, and the award-winning The Socialist’s Garden of Verses, as well as collections of short fiction In the American Night and Dangerous Stories for Boys. His new poetry collection, The Beauty of Matter, will be published in 2023.
Christendom of Sir Walter Scott-the connoisseur and realm of Ivanhoe
Peevish abbotsford enchanted a woodcraft with holding a candle to the devil
The fair Jewishness of the Maiden incumbent Rebecca’s life endangered in chastisement
O holy daughter of Rachael cried and lamented the Isaac of York in agony, grief and fear
Chivalrous Ivanhoe, forgotten and oblivious of of the atonement of the sylphlike Damsel?
Unflinching moral realism struck the heart of Sir Walter Scott adhering to the devastating plight
And indulgence in carnage of conflagration among the vainglorious; and fierce and haughty Templar’s temperamental outburst; and vehemence
The necromancy of witchcraft and wizardry, avaricious sorcery and gluttonous elixirs were the allegations the daughter of Isaac of York: beautiful Jewish Maiden being convicted,
Despite the precarious predicament she wasn’t dissolute, seduced or profaned!
Had had the fierce Brian De Bois-Guilbert in proclamation of misdemeanor; amidst irksome, wearisome and starvation and imprisonment, blows and strikes, journeys and indigestion; I profess this avowed and promised solemn ambition of entreating a relationship: succour and relish through consummation of nuptial and procurement
The valiant and renowned Ivanhoe’s fair and royal Christian Mistress Lady Rowena’s aphoristic relation
Didn’t give Ivanhoe a dirty look from Rebecca’s shimmering and, starkly starry eyes in the glimmering twilight
Exorcisms performed with the errand of obsequies towards apparition dwelling grotesquely in English blood and countryside and farmyards:
Deeming rectitude of Norman and English aboriginality
Wherefore minstrels, swineherds fools, chaplains and bishops
Singing the song in chorus of phantom delight in reverie;
The Black Knight restored to the monarchy whilst yonder venison bestowed in grace abounding :
Endowed amidst the Sherwood foresters anchorites Robin Hood, Friar Tuck and the merry men
Spellbinding merry men thus rejoicing and obliged in aura of disencumber and entwined enticement and delusion
Recurrence beams of the sundown dissolved in ecclesiastical importunities;
Apostle’s epistle enrolled and entitled to the sepulcher of Rebecca:
Sherwood forests blaze and romanticize a chakra and mantra in the nirvana as an incantations to bid adieu and farewell to thee: Rebecca The Blessed Virgin!
To the Drunken Spirit of William Blake- A poetry written as fiction in free and blank verse
William Blake
Oh Blake with your drunken spirit you’ve adorned,
The everlasting grace and beauty of the Gospel.
You’ve illuminated mankind with your Poetical Sketches,
I love the Lamb and sympathize the ecstasy of a little kid.
With the proclamation of lifelong belief you have painted;
Through imagining The Marriage of Heaven and Hell.
Humanity burst into warring fragmented lamentations;
Ah! Milton and Jerusalem appeared in reconciled visions.
Your engravings sculptured, color drawings printed:
And the water color illustrations giving a feeble and tottering The Real Man The Imagination which liveth forever.
I read William Wordsworth’s commentary in the pleasantries exchange with the saying goes:
“There is no doubt that this poor man was mad, but there is something in the madness of this man which interests me more than the sanity of Lord Byron and Walter Scott.”
I narrate the gladdening and overwhelming tidings of:
Henry in a letter to the Damsel Dorothy-
He lives…enjoying constant intercourse with the world of spirits. He receives visits from Shakespeare, Milton, Dante, Voltaire etc..etc..etc and has given me repeatedly their words in conversations.
Have you been pondering in enchanted walks too Blake?
Might have nymphs and fairies in bewilderment.
Wherefore divine incarnations of Blake stare at distress
In stunning blasphemy thus Antichrist dwells in dismay.
Jesus voice thundering sounds in compelling spirits
As stones bleed John; Satan put sin in the cross and tomb.
You are a mental traveler Blake: preacher romantic
And here I present my farewell to your soul spiritual heal.
My Quill at Parchment Upon Reading Banquet Lecture of Lord of The Flies Laureate Novelist and Playwright William Golding
Golding’s holiday privilege -heyday castle of ‘Seashore’
Beached cavern where King David and King Solomon
Resigned at proverbs and psalms
A mermaid entombed of Julia of Norwich
Buried upon the banks of the Western seashore amidst rocky cliffs
Whereupon and hithertofore silvery greyed Golding’s ivory epitaph parchments
Gracing engraved magical spells-‘We need more humanity, more care and more love’
The Earth Mother Gaia washes away the flotsam jetsam along with her tresses of waving bluish splashing caresses
Quintessentially I have reached there and been starkly marvel
Wondering the blazing thought of mysteries sea creatures and marine life
We as children of the dear stars
What shine sparkling stellar wreaths of laurels
No sooner had I reached tumult and strife creeping pavements bleakish thoroughfares, than it became clear to me that the place I should be was the isle of seashore’s I had just forlorn
Aaaargh! Pity me my dearest soul!
Had I but a glimpse of noon-time with my Julia Juliet upon the weeds and reeds
Serenading my beauty’s bosom, me and the seashore’s flowering oasis purplish greenery
Being a universal pessimist forevermore; I shall detest fairy tales
Allegorizing ghoulie ghostie or weea beastie.
Since these very spirits dehumanizing and denaturalizing
That drives my heyday temperance of sanity to formidable cauldron of vanity
Foggy and frosty mournful snowman Golding’s threshold fireplace
Suppertime roaring howler alderman, corporations and liveries harangue
Disgracer supper a bad lobster thrown away into the gutters
In disenchantment sea butter feather fluttering in abysmal dismay
Abhorring in abominable spirits of phantom spectre chunk of undigested beef
Legions of goblins
Despising in admonishing guffaw of a fragment of potatoes undone
