Darkness

If I have a belief it’s in the darkness.
I feel safe in that pitiless vacuum.
I cannot see any thing, and the nothing that is cannot see me;
At least that’s the lie I tell myself.
Who knows what the other knows?
We talk and talk and talk…
But do we ever really hear the silence in one another?
And when we come together what then?
Aren’t we something else then, a part of that secret world,
A world only we share but no one else can know?
(Do we even know its secrets?) There’s always this opacity there
Just where you and I make contact. What is that?
Have we ever truly touched each other (not
flesh on flesh, the sensual tracings in the dark,
but that vital center where the flames reside?),
Or is it impossible to caress the darkness between us?

©2021 S.C. Hickman

Drifts

We need to unbind the spherical men,
Let them roll off into the dead lands
Where they can lose themselves
Among the white drifts merciless blanks;
The piercing blasts that hide the black sun.

Need we say what has been lost.
The cities where Ananke’s subtle limits bless;
Lays traps for those mortal liberators
(We’ve seen them come and go
Along that perilous way — )

Who cast their gaze inwardly.
(Do they see as we see?)
Else the measure of the heart
Is less than nothing,
Everything else remaining all we can know or be.

©2021 S.C. Hickman

Flight

Moon-sleeper, night-walker,
Why do you hide among the bones?

Did you really think the old man in the tower
Could invoke the ancient powers of earth?

You cannot return to a world lost among its dreams.
Why do you stand there in the flames?

Sometimes there is no answer to wind…
Why do you fly then?

©2021 S.C. Hickman

Shadows & Light

The shadow of shadows falls
across the afternoon light as if
the time were earlier than it is,
a sifting of the dearth of leaves,
the twining of a season’s turning.

We labor under the illusion that shadows
hold us in translucency —
sun hawk rising, cresting the snow-glint heights
only to fall toward the white flow, a blur;
eyes golden beyond despair seeing what cannot be seen.

Does time shape the curvature of stars?
Impishly the cold blaze of flames smiles
against such thoughts as these;
broken promises that seem amiss
shadowing us as the sea’s light drifts beyond human forfeiture.

But do not be too harsh on her
who came back with these dark anemones:
tears for a final shadow loosening
earth from the glimpse of past wrong:
a lover’s eyes glimpsed in the shadows darkening swerve.

©2021 S.C. Hickman

A Curse or Blessing?

“Your young men will see visions, and your old men shall dream dreams.”
—Joel 2:28

Past lives haunt me in old age.
Last night I woke up smelling blood,
Combat and agon riddling my head.
Dark days of war, the clash of steel.
Mead halls full of brash young men,
Bitter words and strong drink,
Hands clasped in friendship and valor;
Eyes crossing old foes and elders.

For years I slept like the dead: dreamless.
But now in fits and starts, awakenings,
Horrors grasp my mind, violent days,
Nights hollowed out, ancestral curses,
Unfinished business, bones rattling
Darkened lairs of shadows and murmurs;
Unbidden rituals of murderous intent,
Where men are broken in anguish and misery.
I sometimes wonder who and what I am;
Such worlds returning now to curse or bless.

©2021 S.C. Hickman

The Blooms That Will Not Rise

Most of us have given up
the myth of everlastingness.
Oh it was fine for the hooded crowd,
a justification against bare plumage:
the splenetic screech of the Peacock’s tongue:
a ceremony of love among so many dismal nights.
But now? Stars explode, dark holes swallow
them whole. What’s left of paradise?
We live, we die, then we’re forgotten. Our names
attached to someone else’s broken image.
Never ours. Instead we slip between
unnoticed and unnamed, an uncreated spark:
never to be known, because never part
of the circling flame – a mere loan to sun and moon.
At least that’s how the knowers know. Who knows?
Any thing risen from the blooms enfolded tomb?

©2021 S.C. Hickman

Lies Never End

Have you felt that desperation of heart?
You know what I mean. When nothing
One says or does changes things;
Only the pain remains, the memory of defeat.
We’ve all been their, right? Especially you.
It’s a look in the eye, a rejection;
A softening of the lips, the turn of the head
As it shifts toward absence; the silence
One is given even when there is so much noise.
Don’t tell me you haven’t felt it. You’d be a liar.
The others always seem to know something you do not.
Why is that? Why do they stare bullet holes in your skull,
Only to turn their deadly gaze away
Challenging their eyes with a curse.
If they care so much why do they pretend otherwise.
You’ve been there, you know the truth…  will the lies ever end?

©2021 S.C. Hickman

The Red Stain

Even now the saurian gaze of his stone cold eyes
Reflects neither the slate tinted sky nor my green mind;
Silent in this stark wilderness, windless rubbings 
Of a scree slide petroglyph’s alien codes forestalls
All confusion between his red threaded tongue 
And my peckish appetite, a tremor vibrating
Through us freeing our intemperate stares 
(Balance of a life hanging
       down…) toward the red stained 
             Sunset

bleeding…

©2021 S.C. Hickman

The Ventriloquist’s Art

“Being a ventriloquist is a lot of fun.” —Jon Padgett, The Secret of Ventriloquism

It moved. Sightless, thoughtless. The wooden armature
Among the fabricated twists and bends, the painted
Lips and hair, the floppy hat, the elongated nose,
The red glitter of shoes: all moved. Self-propelled
Among lifeless wood attached neither by cables
Nor the Puppeteer’s grand schemes of trickery;
A hunk of carved monstrosity, the terror of the corpse
Alive to the inner thrust of dust, the fluid vitality
Animated by its own trifling need to be, and to be free:

             Spoke! 

The man, if man it could be called, sat silently
As the living wood arranged itself, mimicking
The rigid lifelessness of the man thing — a secret
Complicity between man and wood, ties of strangeness:
A composure of tension subservient to will and power,
A confrontation with the fatalistic art of defiance.
Each unwilling to give way to the other’s will,
The subtle dance of eye and eye channeling
Some well-learned but hidden mystery, a quickening.

The mouth’s aperture, an abyss within which one is lost,
The caustic wit that supervenes between two dead things;
Man and wood, an art that calls both to the dark world,
Where voice and mind seem relative to unbidden relations.
A practice sets the crooked lips which moving hint of cynical forays,
Time’s carnival opening on to broken harbingers of uncanniness.
The tribe of daemons inhabiting neither man nor wood
Take up their positions in-between both, like clowns
Awaiting the Ringmaster’s voice — the act arising of its own accord.

Before words can flow the beginner’s alphabet must
Surface through those wooden lips till each nuance
Binds the machinic wisdom of those crafted traceries:
The ornate obligations that stoop to bend lip and hand;
Fragmented churnings assuring practice of an ancient kind
Welds man and wood to the known paths of illusion’s fakery.
Shape those letters to the air where the ancient throng
Bestir themselves awaiting incarnation in the chance meeting
Between wood and man following the oldest form of magick.
Delusions skein coiled round the lips that speak, a voicing
Only poets know and are known by as if the world and time
Offered all a chance remembrance of the awakening into catastrophe.

©2021 S.C. Hickman

Fastidious

Fastidious. Circumspect to the moment’s crafting light,
my mother. Her eyes lost in those memories, visions;
some called it the ‘inner light’ (what did she see?), othering
worlds just beyond the seen, where the known and unknown

cross each other like lost travelers: puzzled, observant, quickened
by strangeness. Stubborn and focused she’d shape hands to thread
creating dreams made visible, objects both magical and ordinary.
Slipping from one memory to the next, voicing her perplexity with time,

she’d quip and quote women I’d never known except in daguerreotype;
brown tinted lives gone gray in the world we’ve all forgotten; yet, uncanny,
her remembrance bringing such thoughts and images back from somewhere,
somewhen. (Where? When?) I could tell when she was about to drift —

wander into the othering place where men were not allowed. I often wished
I could follow her there, down into that blessed region outside history,
where she seemed to gather strength and power, a woman’s power
               to carry us who could not carry ourselves. 

©2021 S.C. Hickman

Night’s Changelings

Day by day the cracked earth stings,
lips chapped to the sun’s unslaked fiends;
step to step sounding the gray dawn,
circling furrows in a vicious crawl.

Eyes strain against the heat, the fake light
hovering in illusive trailing’s of a rich man’s life;
a semblance of paradise, not the grasping whirl,
a dust wall presaging terror in a knot of icy fire.

Red gasps at end of day, twilight’s reign 
where two worlds shake the inlaid chest;
the silver on the winged cloud lies of change,
where only now the confused cry of a lone hawk fell.

He lays there listening, night’s changeling
rifting paradise of its last silences: a voice
breaks free in the emptiness: a drifter’s mirage,
oak-born owls swinging branch-wise against his mind.

©2021 S.C. HIckman

Chasing Devils In Our Wine

“The world breaks everyone, and afterward, many are strong at the broken places.”
― Ernest Hemingway

Maybe it was best this way. Not belonging.
Not having a home, a place to rest my head.
City after city, job after job, a life alone, roaming…

Never did fit in with the crowd. Tried. Never worked.
Like my mind was cracked. Touched by some unpleasantness.
Kept thinking it would pass. It didn’t. Nothing ever does.

Yet, I was not alone. There were others like me. Nomads.
We’d come together in the night, stalking nightmares we deny.
Bars and lonely women empty as we were and are. Endless.

Maybe we are already dead. Is this the end of it?
Lining the tunnels with our cardboard lives, chasing devils
In our wine. There is no solace in this bitterness. No pity either.

Why rage against the night? What would it do? The stars
Are mindless as we are, indifferent to our plight. We live,
We die. That is all. Stubbornness our only recourse against sincerity.

©2021 S.C. Hickman

Wisdom Chaser

Will you trade words, earth wanderer? Know the dark ways
that harry a man down, squander resources, break minds
beyond hope; mix words, riddle the stars,
curse the very land that wastes all. Speak, brother

of the leaf and wind, rock and sea, let them see what is –
eye-spent drifter without hearth or kith. Can you read
the signs, break bread among the warring tribes, teach
children the natural ways; bring back the wisdom

of the deep seas grace. Why trouble the sky
with your lies? Speak plainly, cunning one, else walk away
into the darkness of your kind. Trouble not the elders,
nor the little ones who must survive. Would you learn the lore?

Know loss beyond redemption? Enter the bloody fray
where brave and coward alike fall before the ancient truth?
Then follow the taloned pride of the Eagle to his rocky lair,
the night-winged Owl as she stalks the moonless realms;

know the language of deer and panther in their innocence. 
Unlearn hatred, walk free of spite and terror alike. Cast
your eyes against the broken ways. Give us back the face
you had before the cry of flesh and a woman’s death.

©2021 S.C. Hickman

Oedipal Bastards Like Us

Oedipal bastards like us deserve our fate.
Bitter days in blind disgust. Old men’s memories
Haunting us like a woman’s spiteful curse.
Mangy as a dying dog he wanders between bed and bowl.

He used to be fit and thin, a stubborn man,
Solitaire but not alone; neither clown nor killer
He stalked my nights a ghost, a suicide.
Pain pricks us into thought whether we will or no.

The crossroads always signified a terrible destiny.
The shotgun spent, his skull unpacked,
The world went dark, and silent. Even now
His eyes are blank, the hollows black and lonely.

All his life he’d sought paradise, failing that
He’d plunged his mind beyond all telling, fallen
Now beyond redemption, a shadow walker.
Suffering has no sense, just silence, lost in darkness.

©2021 S.C. Hickman

Night’s Carnival

The sun cannot repair the damage of the night,
The silences between your smile and mine;
The focus of our desperate thoughts and dreams,
The shattered wisdom of our ancient sapience;
For now we dance upon a field of tears
In the twilight of this age of dust;
Two deadly members of that hated race,
Dismembering our blasted world of rage.

©2021 S.C. Hickman

The Vicious Circle

Old bones still twist him back to day,
Her smile, dismissive, finds him young again;
A stubborn fool whose memories bode ill-health:
“Who is he to turn away these bright bolts that slay?”

He’d have it other than it is, but knows how fiercely she asserts
Her sovereign will, challenging all her lovers;
An agon beyond truce – love’s honor the only prize:
Shadowed by the witchery of her ancient curse.

Coldness be my steel against her evil spell,
For I have need of Ananke’s broken shield;
I seek dark blessings worth their deadly tally:
Life, this life, repeated till the vicious circle closes, still and silent.

©2021 S.C. Hickman

Midnight Rendezvous

We walked along the edge of night
like lovers seeking some secret destination —

the slow pace, the glances; kisses,
eyes crossing under the street lamps.

The quickened pace in the rain, surprise:
forcing us to cling in the wind’s sad motion.

Even at the corner, in the dark of that alleyway,
knowing as we know and are known —

emptied of the pain, memories;
we touched and it was too much, reluctant…

reaching at last the place of light
and darkness, our midnight rendezvous.

©2021 S.C. Hickman

This is no time to sleep…

Capture2

This is no time to sleep   death
Will come soon enough, but not now;
No now we must stay awake, listen
And voice our concern. The best
Have already passed by, no return
From the country of the blind. But I hear them whispering
Like those leaves that shatter the morning light. 
Maybe it’s better this way, a difficult gesture 
Whose confusion keeps us asking for more
       life.

©2021 S.C. Hickman

Tom Bland: Time Fucked You Up

 

A poet friend Tom Bland’s poem Time Fucked You Up

that film made me think about the
constantly open
porn cinema that was behind Dean Street

the smell of every type of cum
rising like fumes from the godawful seats
where the men’s elbows had no choice but to touch

their eyes fixated on the screen but the shadows of penises to
the sides: the
vagina projected to a giant proportion on the screen

the very place of their birth     their desire to rush back
inside Continue reading

I Turn Away To Shadows

 

I turn away to shadows formed
across this jagged world of storms,
where mountain bones jut up
hungered by the day’s long sun—

it’s cold eye bleeding down
like some old malformed thing;
unblinking, distant— alone.
Unknowing of its destiny

it moves to hidden forces;
and they alone shape
formless horrors in the mind;
seductions from some other clime.

Back to earth’s green tomb
it all goes unnoticed as it should,
the pulsing life of each broken thing:
striving, warring, moving round;

each unknowing of the other’s wound,
each unfolding in a dreamless  sleep;
till night, moon, stars, and time
revolve within this darkness without sound.


– Steven Craig Hickman ©2019 Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author is strictly prohibited.

The Seagulls

seagulls

The Seagulls

Sifting the blue carrion sky they spin and twist upon the bare horizon,
Their eyes intent on a terror below, they plunge
toward the unseen, unknown; tumbling accord of feathers
splitting the waters from the waters, flaying the silver and the gold.
Wrapt in the day’s cold impersonalism, indifferent to the impending doom,
They fall through the immensity of blue, skydivers
Bringing the raw dreams of ancient curses to bare:

Broken only by the light above, below; their claws sink into the bloody world.

Steven Craig Hickman ©2017

 

Midnight Carnival

 

The sun cannot repair the damage of the night,
the silences between your smile and mine;
the focus of our desperate thoughts and dreams,
the shattered wisdom of our ancient sapience;
for now we dance upon a field of tears
in the twilight of this world of dust;

two deadly members of that hated race,
remembering the frozen and forgotten days of rage.

We’ve danced and danced these fatal strategies,
under the southern clime of this intrepid fallacy;
no longer can we turn away, nor isolate this slice of banishment;
instead we wander here among the lonely tribes, mere semblances
dispatched to air and wind, circling the blackened circuits of the falling stars;
where in the underbelly of their fractured lights
we
squander truth and live on our inhuman flights –
the interludes of pain and joy,
the captured intervals of lost love’s wars;
where once we lived among the lauded tears of paradise,
before the fears of time fell from our deathly songs, slaying happiness.

The clown and harlequin have hidden us in the circle of fear and doubt,
casting silences around the world like minions of a cosmic route;
their laughter and the dancing tumult of their riotous throng
have all gone home to Night’s Kingdom, leaving only this broken doll
swinging on the puppet stick, laughing; his lips synching ours infinitely.
At Midnight the wandering moon grows cold, the stars begin to fall…
 


– Steven Craig Hickman ©2016 Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author is strictly prohibited. 

A Radiant Promise of Dawn

(c) Walker Art Gallery; Supplied by The Public Catalogue Foundation

It’s all dubious now; the memories, –
scratch-etchings at best; and, we,
who once believed in each other -separated,
distant – alone in our solitude,
seem too restless to listen to those inner voices,
coming and going like the winter leaves falling from time;
maybe it’s for the best, as if light were an answer
to a problem, a problem 
that has since lost its efficacy, an object
pursuing shadows – haunting us like false memories
of a future that never was nor could be;

and, yet, we gaze… yes, gaze…
outward into the mist – the bright one in his aura, even the sun
channeling the liquid rays across this ocean of light

 …………..without us…


S.C. Hickman ©2016

The Last Poem of a Dead Poet

love

Most of us live out life as if it were a dream, nonchalantly. Loved ones. Smiles. Tears. The usual fragments of an undigested existence. We seek in those memories something we can call our own, and find none. What are the chances we ever existed? There are those who want to live forever, extend their little egos into some indefinite future. They seek in medicine or some other scientific fantasy a miracle of longevity as if they were materialists of the Spirit. Instead of transcending into some supernal heaven they’d live their lives out in the technoutopia of some cloned existence of synthetic flesh or the folds of some metalloid monstrosity. Yet, I wonder what would remain within that electronic void? Christians believed in a soul, a sort of hypothetical construct that would voyage off into some Platonic paradise or hell after sloughing the bitter fruit of dirt and water they knew as home in this life. We all have our dreams… some more interesting than others; and fantasies, too. Me? I dream only of a final oblivion, a break with all the words of longing, desire. All I seek is the face of the one I loved so long ago, her smile, her touch… a last kiss. The taste of her tongue on mine, the scent of her flesh against mine, a night without memories…


 

© Steven Craig Hickman 2016 (May not be reproduced without permission)

 

Love’s Lost Kingdom

a-sun

The bronze-edged sun’s amber fires screamed twilight
as skyfall traced the beauty of day’s end;

and you, who lured me to the ocean’s edge,
stood there on the bridge of light,

golden hair streaming in the western breeze:
shadows falling silently over this belated scene,

where we like mythic voyagers portrayed
this natural postcard; our minds

taking in the worlds of sun and shade,
the fevered motion of this painted desert

of the sky: heart’s dark thought, subtending;
where time like some forgotten museum director,

his passion spent, his intellect forging hermetic mysteries
brought us to this present choice: an infinite sea

of moments: past, present, and future – glances
in-between the rupture and its allocation;

events in movement: a happening so dire
and eloquent, lover’s crossing the ocean’s depths

could appear amiss; yet, as this history of love’s sorrows
shows, we’ve come this far, and in walking the path

from birth to death as lover’s do;
all our desperate choices chosen for us

as lover’s know and will; bringing us
to such bitter resolutions of the heart’s mind

in jest and arrogance, that leaping now
below the scimitar of nightfall wakes us,

just before the wicked stars who gaze on all
imprison us, and we who knew the consequences

of our actions, enter this ancient tryst – ending
in strife and wonder, fallen into his secret maze,

where the erotic lord bids us bide our sentence
among these earthly ruins in Love’s lost kingdom.

 


– Steven Craig Hickman ©2015 Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author is strictly prohibited.

 

Winter’s Market

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

Storia illustrate by Vultureşti ©

Is she selling olives or jam? Imagine:
the cool day brings happiness,
the comfort of boxes and glasses and all these Knick-knacks;
her husband is late, she waits and waits and waits…

….other vendors stand around, customers milling about;
her toes snug against the cold; the leaves in the bare trees
seemingly thinking about Spring, the call of owls;
the blue piercing her with such truth she forgets the air
is a memory of vacancy; the wind a promise of breath,
of children being born even as she inhales:
new life emerging everywhere under a December sun.


– Steven Craig Hickman ©2015 Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author is strictly prohibited.

Land of the Free

detroit urban regrowth3

yes, this is the land of the free, free to die
on some back street in Detroit, Michigan

(Circa. 2015); black, unloved, alone, desperate –
bereft of all hope, lost among city ruins; knowing

the asphalt god of alcohol want save you; cocaine
is just another word for escape; knowing failure

is not an option, you attempt existence; less to live
among its scattered remnants than to expunge

its desecrated environs: exit its promises, become
one of its lesser appendages;  knowing this life

is no life of freedom at all, but a farcical reminder,
a parable of blindness and derision, of hell

in a pool of doubt one was once taught; but unlike
the mythic demons out-of-joint from some Good Book,

these come up and kick you in the teeth, strip you naked,
take from you even the little you do not have: offer nothing

in return but a cardboard box to crumple in and forget
the world is freedom’s last haven and heaven, a joke

land of the free; and, you; you are its forgotten citizen,
the unfree; excluded from the little justice of this country’s

remaining truth; a victim not so much of neglect as of
the ministrations of reactive politics absolving all its crimes.


– Steven Craig Hickman ©2015 Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author is strictly prohibited.

A Short History of the Insanity

The Philosopher stood at the podium,
coffee mug ready, eye-glasses steaming;
the overhead sliding into view; strangeness and images,
darkness and light sifting being and event, saying:

“The question of the Subject is our subject;
factions choose body or idea, life or concept;
dialectical wisdom dictates we waver in-between:
cracks and gaps, and other impossible tracks
keep shifting us in an interminable process of duration,
until that vital center awakens, and we disperse
into a multiplicity inexpressible; taking a quirky turn
toward the Real that brings us round the circle
interminable, the twisted ground of zero’s wound,
where we find the petit objet a – our lost anxiety, revealed;
till the logics of worlds multiply, spinning wildly
mazing round the whirling plenum of the galaxy
till time and space, you and I, move along the swerving
curve that ends our struggle in this comic void of insanity.”

One member of the audience stood up and clapped;
the monotony of one hand moving in the void, insistent
and resistant to the remissive allocation of these speculative ironies.

The Philosopher nodded graciously as if insanity were a comedy
that only bodies and languages could distinguish from a farce;
till the subtraction of a fatal flaw in things opened up a truth,
then he sipped his coffee, wiped his glasses, and vacated the void.


– Steven Craig Hickman ©2015 Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author is strictly prohibited.

The Philosopher of one Leg

philosopher-s-lamp-1936(1)

Standing there on one leg,
he ponders the sanity of his age:

Deliberating on the affairs of men,
he seeks an answer from the wind:

Retroactive to the goat he milks,
he sees the situation obvious: too many fools:

Networks abounding to the fallacy of the modern mind;
automated machines carrying on the simple task of life:

He contemplates the mole upon his nose;
the craftiness of logic to calculate his knobby toes:

At night he goes home to his wife;
knowing what she knows is much the better life.


– Steven Craig Hickman ©2015 Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author is strictly prohibited.

Bodies & Languages

surreal-photography-by-sarolta-ban_8

The subject does not want the situation to be
annihilated. It will sacrifice its concept to it.
…….– Alain Badiou

Somewhere between my body
and the page a truth is born;
situated here or abroad,
the unfathomed guest resolves itself to a point.

Both universal and concrete,
the thing emerges, abstractly
suffering the consequences of the void:
a terrible fate for such a comic wonder as a smile.

Yet, do not mistake the subject for a fool,
she’s no riddler of the snow;
the condition of her truth bestows
only a validity of mercy for one who truly knows her lures.

The guardians of culture are now sequestered,
requiring ten years of grueling semesters:
geometry’s constancy forging mind aligned with time,
till no one knows the difference between logic and wine.


– Steven Craig Hickman ©2015 Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author is strictly prohibited.

 

The Paradise of Love

343d-mermaid-syndrom-M

She was of the things she loved most amazed
by the soft and billowy folds, the white-plumed
rush of feathers blown black and gold,

thrown down round the splashing surf,
tempest-bound most gathering, searching
among seas hermetic cloisters for her lost haven;

tempted by the woof and weave, the lavender plea
of days sunk in the laving’s of deep sea-beds;
undulating winds, carved thrones of thunderheads,

tempting growth of her whispering cove of years
spent loosing that which all love knows and fears:
blinded by the lust of an arabesque of intricate invention:

of flesh, so cloying and innocent of that benediction
adolescent charm, wandering white star
cascading plumage glow-borne to extreme need,

dallying nights of foam and spray, blessed weavings;
by the waves silver tribute of her midnight refractions
scattering desperate moods; each grafting of silent tally,

labors of a heart’s dark entropic design; transparency
revealing all, the hidden life of ancient stars,
a testing of all we have been and are bringing us

to her golden sanctuary below the greenest sea,
her pale-fire eyes still charming all: life’s magic shadow-show
consummation’s prize within Love’s wounded paradise.


– Steven Craig Hickman ©2015 Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author is strictly prohibited.

 

Ananke’s Wisdom

Milky Way above Crater Lake, Oregon

This is the season of decisions and revisions,
estimations of the yearly forfeiture of love and death;
a time to think on sounds so bleak, tragedy

repeats itself not as private theater,
but as the sense of sound, stubborn and forlorn;
and when you watch your lover lean into the snow,

remember the golden moon that crosses lonely on the shore
(closer to your breath than mind); for here at the time of changes
everything turns to music, and the earth itself tingles

and clamors incessantly; after your dismayed heart
leaps for joy below this cold December’s stars, where
dark and light dance before the turning wheel of time,

you begin to sing of her for whom this deep song
is but a remembrancing; a dark ward and admonition
against those triune sisters who bare Ananke’s wisdom.


– Steven Craig Hickman ©2015 Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author is strictly prohibited.

Note: Ananke, Mother of the Fates – The personification of inevitability, compulsion and necessity she was seen as the most powerful dictator of all fate and circumstance in ancient Greece which meant that mortals, as well as the Gods, respected her and paid homage. Considered as the mother of the Fates according to one version, she is the only one to have control over their decisions. Emerson and Frost of the Conduct of Life essays and poetry developed the great counter-sublime of necessity and the fate of things in the cosmos under necessity…