Extracts from Issue VIII



Harlequinade    Mortal Adventures
Religion

Harlequinade

Though dream should dwell within Love’s spurred intent,
Where passion swells its dark, deserted stage,
Sad Harlequin can never quite assauge
Insistent mood of mounting merriment.
A phantom chorus whispers from the wings
As motley to the moment magic brings.

Now courtiers, with all their spectral train,
Must fret their course till regal phase is done.
A ghostly minstrel strums his charmed refrain;
The masque moves on, a haunting spell is spun.
No audience may feast upon this mime,
Confounded and fantastical, in Time.

Fragmented walls slant dawn’s cold, piercing glow,
And balconies yawn back in crumbled tiers.
Enacted scenes go dancing down the years
Till curtain falls upon this passing show.
No crowning of bold Harlequin’s design;
Finale gleans but glimpse of Columbine.

Bernard M. Jackson


Mortal Adventures

I saw a wicked sunset
On a winter’s afternoon
A silhouetted hand wove
A dark and lonely croon
And palaces were glinting
In emerald and red
Beyond the lonely living
In a maiden’s mortal bed
And a ship did dance a pirouette
Upon an angry wave
And fluttered floating leaf-like
And prayed to be saved

The third archangel fell
And was cast out to hell
One third of angels followed
On this mortal land they dwell
Was this for their false oath
In emerald and red
Or a promise to the soul
A sign of wine and bread?
Angry winds would follow
Blowing racing clouds
The voice of the Almighty
Was screaming out aloud

And the booming voice commanded
I will not save your soul
I looked up in the darkness
For the light that he had stole
And there I saw the star
Intensity too bright
Starlight only visible
In the darkness of the night
And I dived into its brightness
I swung my arms aside
Called upon the righteous
To follow in my stride

In my light eternal
I missed the angry night
And lost the gentle sunrise
And lost the power of sight
I quested for the equinox
Of nature’s dual existence
And the mortal maiden’s bed
To tempt carnal insistence
And palaces can come and go
Like sailors in the distance
But leave me with the blood-red wine
And life within the instance.

Brendan Moohan


Religion

My prayer the will to be myself,
My sanctity creative strife,
My creed an ever open heart,
My ritual the dance of life.

Let benediction be my breath,
My faith lies in each human soul,
My goodness floods a twisted world,
My altar is a simple bowl.

My soul is borne upon the wind,
My spirit free from sin and sect,
My holiness is Poetry
And not society’s respect.

My hope lies in the holy self
That we discover when unwise,
My holy book the rustling leaves,
My monastery the open skies.

My inspiration lies beyond
All their narrow thoughts disclose:
My sacristy the fertile pen,
My rosary the open rose.

Peter Geoffrey Paul Thompson