The order of Light
is to experience
common Truth itself.
Language is not a perfect game —
more than the sum of things,
like moon, sky, centre, body, bed —
all the singing masters know.
Picture two lovers — wake
to hold the real world —
by body,
word by word;
Wild halos — their thought.
Candide Diderot. ‘26
For Gwen Harwood (1920–1995)
Who taught us that thought is surrounded by Light, and that Love holds the real and imagined world.
Blackout poetry extraction from the original poem —
“Thought is Surrounded by a Halo” by Australian poet Gwen Harwood (Brisbane, Queensland, Australia).
My time is short before the shadows fall,
But love survives the prison of their lie.
You will return to hear your mother’s call.
The convicted father ruled behind his wall,
A criminal who thought my hope would die.
My time is short before the shadows fall.
His cruel, usurping sister ran the hall,
And stole my proper place with wicked eye.
You will return to hear your mother’s call.
They wrapped you in a dark deceitful pall,
And groomed your gentle spirit to deny.
My time is short before the shadows fall.
Yet truth is grander and outlasts them all,
Our deep, enduring bond they cannot buy.
You will return to hear your mother’s call.
Within I hold our light, Love, proud and tall,
Our triumph echoes to the open sky.
My time is short before the shadows fall,
You will return to hear your mother’s call.
Candide Diderot. ‘26
The sun demands the waking world look back,
But silver doors slide open in the dark;
An uncracked stone, a vessel kept intact,
Reveals a void where hidden planets arc.
From salted depths, the ancient spirits rise,
A bridge of silver scales across the blue,
While silent strangers watch from foreign skies,
And cosmic chaos turns to order true.
Upon the sand I stand without alarm,
A quiet anchor in the shifting night,
Enfolded in a grand, celestial charm,
To watch the hidden world ascend to light:
We are not lonely keepers of the stone;
The myths are real, and we are not alone.
Candide Diderot. '26
visions and thoughts from a lucid dream - 11/08/26...
The eyes fall heavy, dropped like iron weights,
The crimson seal breaks open on the page.
A silent heart decodes its darker fates,
As lips unclose without a smile to gauge.
Out through the mouth, a stark emission flies -
A gasp of feathers leaves a bitter trace.
Black words like crows sweep through the quiet skies,
To peck the margins of a narrow space.
No whisper marks the blood the poets bleed,
Dark mulberry stained upon the sacred font.
I dip the quill to satisfy the need,
And trace the only baptism that we want.
Our drawn out paths were meant to run divine;
We cast the runes and walk the crooked line.
Candide Diderot. ‘26
"Styx"
Eyes that run rivers
reflect Styx crossed.
The Journey commences
spilled from inside
the nowhere land,
risen from a metaphorical drowning -
poetic,
worldless boundaries
of a tablecloth moment,
where shining cutlery is set just so,
in the correct placement -
The Last Supper,
we sit across from each other,
grace is not uttered before the meal
there is nothing left between us -
poetic.
What’s left?
A life stolen -
I let you go.
What will be, will be.
Along the road,
another life, calls me,
Home.
What will be, will be.
I let you go.
Along the road,
Life calls you -
Home.
Candide Diderot. ‘26
“Morning Arrives”
Touch is elusive.
I cup my hands
around your light -
the golden ethereal
glistens against my skin.
Morning raptures
ascend from deep inside,
hard-pressed to the mirror's edge,
the Ocean surges within;
jade windows open wide,
the ghost soul slips out
through the unlocked
rosy door of sighs,
into the sensual blue
of you.
The voyeur reflections
of watching original sin
taste like sunshine
burning alive within;
Morning arrives.
Possession begins.
Candide Diderot. ‘26
"VIII ..."
I wrote a poem
on my way home,
the fragile halo broke into sharp pieces
of foolsgold, like shattered mirror glass
I scattered as breadcrumbs,
to feed the murder of crows;
I wrote a poem
on my way home,
my wings broken in a bent passage, clipped,
by the gaslight, reading too much into everything,
the feathers fell into the path of strange foraging creatures,
in their labyrinths, and within their tears like ocean pools, I scried
the essence of each one, found and lost,
their charms enchanted me, to no end,
in this removed place of the unexplored obscure;
from their laments, I wrote a poem.
I saw my jaded windows reflect amber fires,
lit high like funeral pyres, and from their reigning ash I built
new alters to warm the frozen void I felt within;
on my heart their tap dancing fingers like light progressed
the lessons forgotten - and amidst them all, a silent echo did imprint:
Love.
Eternal.
Strength.
Candide Diderot. ‘26
“Let Loose”
The draw of the heart stings,
pulls me up like music strings
into the never-ending universe of you.
Your majestic symphonies unheard,
are felt in the imprint of each word,
and pull me up into your unravelling,
a beautiful symmetry,
pearl stitching the unknown mystery
that is you.
I feel the poetry that stings you
in every word you breathe,
where in dreams, keys are played
in abstract scores
and love,
gone black and white,
no colour, is for another's Kafka page.
I watch you strum your heart strings
like they are golden chords
runaway with the wild things,
Let loose -
I start to believe,
in better things.
The draw of the heart stings,
pulls me up
like music strings,
into the beautiful secrets
of all bigger things;
My silent voice sings
Candide Diderot. ‘26
"Rising"
In my blood, the words swim.
Like heart beats, they speak
through walls of water —
life and tears.
I’m drowning in poetry.
It boils like waves, pounding
into the crux of me.
There, in the meeting
of simple minds,
the body overtakes
too much,
that is forgotten,
like a speeding blue memory —
such a beautiful, naked thing
bound in ink bleeds,
two souls in one another
could somehow be free
in that far removed place,
singular, unforgotten, met,
in the distance
of the beige In-Between,
where the bleeding poets
inside us rise, removed
from disgrace like Gods -
to call Life in,
for the romance
it truly means.
Our words race
like water bleeds.
Candide Diderot. ‘26
“Red Velvet”
The bookmark placed softly
deep between the red velvet pages
of a midnight mind unfolding like a labyrinth
slow and winding, irreverent in over-ride,
hypnotic draws you in from outside margins
through strange dimensions opening echoing portals
into her world, warm cavernous hollows,
kissing lost ships, lips like sweet absinthe,
the addiction swiftly follows.
Discarding white sheets,
“..let them eat my cake”, she says with a naked grin.
The crazy cat smiled,
“You can paint your words all over me anytime Sin."
Her sharp ebony talons softly traced the first word,
over his beating heart, like a Renaissance master imprinting her Nouveau muse,
his blindfold mind rising like an ocean in her bed.
"A safe word", she said, "this may hurt a little."
"RED"
Candide Diderot. ‘26
“Post Pep Comics”
In this time,
there are no children -
we refer to them as the 'undead'.
The young watch on
while their gods war on, it’s all televised,
committing abominable atrocities, war crimes.
Like ancient souls held in the palms
of the war machine they watch on
like zombies, vacant things
scrolling, weighing their relevance
against those dressed in designer ozempic scales, while worlds away
the third-class child attends their lessons in starvation,
surviving death and bullets
trafficked and war torn, raped and
psychologically taken,
click bait;
bleeding into the small tight margins
of Western comics where the Eagle always wins.
Archie and Jughead dispense their puerile rules,
rating us like commodities, stocks that rise and fall;
it’s all entertainment
after all.
Candide Diderot. ‘26
“Key”
Thirty pieces of silver.
That ancient story of betrayal
sits shining next to thee,
It flips poetic meaning supernaturally.
We wonder how We came
to this Synchronicity.
The upturned face,
a legacy.
Seeking answers
listening to silence, unanswered.
The questions evade.
The mind lifts,
the sharp point drops its messages
into the grooves of other dimensions played out
like a child’s game where we wave in lyrics,
where the music silver lines the terra firma roads
along the landscape of Life’s turntable.
Inside you something turns, burning
a flame inside a Memory
presents a key.
Candide Diderot. ‘26
“In the sharp gust of love
My memory stirred
When time wreathed a rose
A garland of shame
Its thorn my only delight
War torn, afraid to speak
We dare to breathe
Majestic
Imperial
A bridge of sighs
Solitude sails
In a wave of forgiveness
On angels' wings…”
(Siouxsie & The Banshees)
Matthew 26 NIV
“The Old Ball Game”
Due to length of narrative, this poem redirects to Candide Diderot’s “Short Story” section.
Candide Diderot. '26
“Higher Love”
When my world burned
I was drowning,
knowledge became borne
from the wisdom of failure,
It ate me up and consumed me,
bit me with its sharp nine-inch nail teeth
like a vampire,
ravenous, straight into the blood-rich heart of the matter.
I understand things are being delivered, regularly,
travelling feverishly into the minds of all,
some acknowledge truth, most ignore -
it's simply torturous - for most - to believe;
The great programmer
has turned the key inside me,
my mind ignited burns foolishly
walking on water
upwards
oblivious
to the Unknown;
vibrations unseen
fearlessly power me on;
whatever comes,
I am more than prepared;
less than you, you assume.
Perhaps you don't know me at all.
Do Your worst,
bring It on -
Love.
Candide Diderot ‘26
“…and the stars in the sky fell to earth, as figs drop from a fig tree when shaken by a strong wind.”
“Forgotten Memory”
This world of shadows looks for Light
where are the true leaders?
Where are the true leaders?
Analepsis crosses our closed minds.
In each of us something of fire exists
like a forgotten memory.
Like a match it needs to be lit.
Candide Diderot. ‘26
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