"Love is itself unmoving, only the cause of movement" T.S. Eliot Four Quartets "Burnt-Norton"
The bed was cold again
I knew it would happen
Love was taken away
In an instant of thunder
The moon shed not a tear
And the sun’s rays
Didn’t come anywhere near
The nights were left
To dreams and prayers
And mornings were filled
With the psalms and promises
Of Saints and Prophets
The leafless forest
Bears its nakedness
With indifference
Waiting in patience
The Spring’s return of leaves
But Love goes lost without
Return into Summer and beyond
Nature gives no guarantee of return
When Love has gone
This is the path of the
Common material world
But in the world of spirit
There is another way to understand
God is always there
For a new relationship
Reassured through sacrifice
As he reaches out his hand
Thomas Stearns Eliot
a poet time has not forgot
Concepts in his 'Four Quartets'
in stone his reputation did set
come to me your footsteps in the night
let time for us take flight grow wings
but not before it’s singed its twilight
when quartets commence to strum their strings
come drink with me and douse your lips
let’s stir the stars and midnight breeze
come closer rest your hands upon my hips
and fill the air with whispers as you please
together conjure flights of dreams
dance and sway beneath sweet starlit skies
set out to capture vagrant moonbeams
take in the feast set out before our eyes
Published in my 24-page photo/anthology book ~CITYLIGHTS~ 2021
AP: 2nd place 2022
Submitted on January 12, 2022 for contest A STRAND (1050) sponsored by BRIAN STRAND - RANKED 1ST
the surrounded
the overwhelmed
in an
unbelieving world
seeing
vision based distinctives
vivid
&compelling perceptions
horns craftsmen artisans
clothes
cleansed of iniquity
a measuring line pipes flyingscroll
quartets
of chariots
an enthroned priest
in
a crown of victory
of lampstands&olive trees
emptying
golden oil
nourishing life
enlightening
the living
with understanding
with anticipatory
meditations
(BN)
to what purpose
this heart of light
still moving
before time
and
after
empty of meaning
in a turning world
bereft
of sunlight
(EC)
a time for building
where
poetry does not matter
a distant
panorama
an echoed
ecstasy
a different
kind of
failure
inarticulate
in
empty
desolation
(TDS)
almost forgotten
many voices
the emotionless
unchanging
where agony
abides
still
unopened:
this sphere
of being
unattended
out of time
(LG)
a transitory
blossom
in place & time
hope&despair
half recalled
of little
importance
died
forgotten
every phrase
a pattern
in
a
knot
of
fire
We sing a song of Easter praise
in Hallelujahs raised,
of thankfulness for grace-filled days
with lifted hands,always.
We witness today,His good news
on a tree,slain for us,
rememberance of His stripes and pain
in that death,we live again.
A Comforter,for one and all
empowers,if we call,
close by,at hand,within us now
as,in worship,we bow.
Far and wide,these truths we forthtell
in our joyful hallel,
these songs of Easter praise now heard,
we tell the Gospel word.
Freudiana
Famous poet Barclay Cruse
curent toast of New York salons
wears tinted glasses and Italian shoes
and composes doggerel for subway johns.
Acclaimed a purist by his colleagues
hard-edge painter Geoffrey Pyle
earned during Summers spent at Antibes
covert commissions from Armstrong Tile.
Junk sculptor Cranston Bold
collects mufflers and I'm told
often edits his creations
to fix his Chevy station wagon.
Cordell composes way-out music
quartets for flute and flushing toilets.
His father was a music critic
and caned him with his clarinet.
Live it in its fullness
Taste it in its breath
See it in a circle
But defy paralysis.
Known it in its glory
Feel it in its rush
Hold it in your palm
Every slightly much.
Gel with all its zen
Flow with currents strong
Hear the million voices
Dancing to its song.
Burn beneath its fire
Ride above its rage
Sprint strong to the finish
Never fade away.
Lingering, we watch the quays
Rambling by the old seaside,
On brisk yet fluid August days
While gazes caught waves on a ride;
To mirror our bewitched displays
Like sighs, whispered low the tide.
Held by the light of moon’s flare
Compelled to cite, expose a trance;
You pinned a rose along my hair
O destined sign for lush romance;
And right then, you wished to declare
One love’s debut, one fateful chance!
7/14/2015
Isaiah Zerbt's Contest Quartets
Longevity inherited?
Brevity touches many
Strong constitution cherished
This world without pollution envy
Quality of life is a favor ferreted
Those who desire quanity and quality plenty
Desired to live to a hundred
Wired to be one- hundred- twenty
Life cut short for mankind, have wondered
Someday answers find, scripted plenty
When the whole world has been plundered
Will longevity belong to any
Finis'
Contest:Quartets
Sponsor: Isaiah Zerbst
Tuneful preludes play on whoosh of spring wind
as flowers spread their kaleidoscopic wings
Two quartets daze in awe while celebrating
a reunion with picnic and ballroom dancing.
The golden showers radiate and incandesce…
Tulips and jasmine nearby bloom so fresh.
Like utopia where ensembles are veritable
Birds of paradise hung their notes to warble.
Music plays…. in graceful moves…smiles scintillate
a luncheon together - each one will never forget.
Memories are all in photos with red roses
Big sunflowers are captured…jutting our faces.
I hold tenaciously an album in a bright clip
of families in garden party for close friendship.
July 7, 2014 11.10pm
Third Place
Contest: Garden Party: Verb-alized Noun-sense with floral accents
Judged: 7/15/2014
Sponsor: Poet Cyndi MacMillan
abstracted bass, cacophonic drums echoing.
fretting guitars, humming in jubilation.
knackish lyrics, melancholy narrated opus.
phrased quartets, rare sonorous texture.
upbeat virtuoso, windy xaphoons yodel Zep.
i won’t stay with the men
who are waiting but what for
and are hearing the thunder ringing
of their hollow bones
and with the women i won’t be
the woman are always somewhere out
and searching searching but what for
the nude to find
the land here is low
dusty
stony
land almost of nails
and of sermons
what kind of love is this one
that should be touched
(male, female)
be broken to pieces
be seen
the end
i won’t stay with the men
and women for knowing
when
“the rose and fire are one”*
T.S. Elliot, Little Gidding
(No. 4 of 'Four Quartets’)
The sun will rise,the sun will set,
no more love will life beget;
The day will break,the moon to rise,
no more love,as this life dies;
The Summer heat,or Winter cold,
no more love will this life hold;
The Autumn fall,and Springtime green,
no more again,will love be seen;
The wheat will shoot,the grass will grow,
no more again sweet love to know;
The grape will ripen on the vine
no more,no more will love be mine.
inspired after reading an essay by Nicholas Ferrar(1592-1637) the English ascetic of the Little
Gidding community(was also TS Eliot's inspiration foth the last of his Four Quartets).
As the essenes of
Eden play lovely
quartets, a brief
interlude o' mine.
Oh. . . boisterous meadows
of entrancing enthralls
so fine.
As angels hearken
the harmonies of
our precious St. Uriel,
defiant.
The whimsy's of
bitter attempts
for lovely laughing
girls, made bitter
pantomime.
Oh, the Louche,
the heavenly Louche.
Its embrace
of vigorous
nostalgias
with little excuse.
So sorry,
so sorry,
here we are
oh mighty Zeus.
Falling from grace,
as pale a ghost
as the infinite
truth.
Oh! The Louche,
the heavenly Louche.
Keeper of secrets,
ours and yours,
together we're found. . .
frequenting ,
the inviting,
narcotics lounge.
A testimony of
love, why the essence
of St. Gabrielle,
you are,
you are.
As St. Uriel played
a ballad so fine,
I found myself
begging for more
amphetamine!
The Louche,
the heavenly Louche.
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