Amid This Lonesome Bliss | Lyrical Love

Replete am I, amid this lonesome bliss,
Encoiled within my broken, fleshly shell.
I am sealed within, by a writer’s kiss.

Unfurled Orchidaceae Kafkaesque.
Sepals veined with secret, all to dispel.
Replete am I, amid this lonesome bliss.

Screaming from within, fearing the abyss.
Spinning colours like fine-webbed carousel.
I am sealed within, by a writer’s kiss.

Sunlight glanced my path, to not go amiss,
Alighting dark holes in which others fell.
Replete am I, amid this lonesome bliss.

I endure another swing of solstice,
Darkness bleeds to Light’s vigoroso swell…
I am sealed within, by a writer’s kiss.

I have been granted nothing, but for this:
Release of mind so the tide does not quell.
Replete am I, amid this lonesome bliss…
For,
I am sealed within, by a writer’s kiss.

via Amid This Lonesome Bliss | Lyrical Love.

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Eyes of Fire; Feet of Brass:

My most dear Mrs. Emeron–so very sweet is she–oft-times refers to me as “a full gospel atheist,” and sometimes as “a full gospel agnostic.”   My very best friend, who is, in fact a full gospel, “full-on,” Mathematician for the Lord–as fully Christian as are so very many mathematicians–insists that I, Beloved of God, am possessed of the gifts of the Spirit–particularly that of Prophesy.  This is away and aside from my natural (Yote might say, God given) abilities regarding pattern recognition, which some might call my speciality.

How did I arrive at this strange place?  How did I come to be in this unusual condition?  I’m not sure I understand it myself.  Still, I might go so far as to say it is all in my background.

Today’s sonnet, or should I say, today’s return to arms, is religious in nature, and more specifically Christian, and more specifically still, Charismatic and onto being full gospel.  So I am fortunate then, in whatever unintended spiritual proclivities with which I may be endowed.

This offering is the result of a series of discussions.  It did require a bit of research, I am embarrassed to say; as, although the spirit is quite willing, the flesh–in particular, the memory–is weak.  And, not wishing to misquote the Almighty nor any of his Prophets or Apostles, I felt some specificity was warranted.

In structure it is a Reverse Petrarchan/Italian in the form: 1221, 2112, AABCBC; however it contains 5 embedded tercets which are of two tetrameters followed by one pentameter in the form AA1 BB1 CC1 DD1 EE1, which perfectly encompasses 13 lines.  Its Volta begins with the first syllable of the last line, which caps the 5 tercets off nicely.   So this one can be read in this way, if one desires, or one might read it in such a way to emphasize its sonnet structure.

And here is where I click the random links below without investigating their veracity or lack thereof.

There Comes A Time | My Own Worst Enemies

Today, I find myself feeling very sad.  Although I should say straight away that it has nothing to do with the sadness I see here.  Completely unrelated, is it.  But how you feel, or at least what you write about how you feel, is how I feel.  Just at this time.  Not always.  I have no good reason for it.  But I felt it earlier, and felt comforted to see you.

While you have been away, I have been rather ill (nothing serious, just a protracted stubborn cold which has “taken out” for weeks, much younger and stronger men than I)  It put me quite behind in my sonnet writing.  And now I have this strange feeling.  This.  Having descended over me.  I have no good reason for it.  But one or two difficult correspondences led me there, I think.

I do not presume anything regarding the way you, nor anyone else, might feel.  I do know that sometimes…   perhaps it is because I am not of the true “cyber” generation…  that I feel remote… distant…  helpless…  and perhaps also unable to comfort those who feel as I do.

I merely began writing a sonnet tonight, or rather, this morning, inspired by those correspondences.   Something regarding humility.  These were not of great consequence–these emails back and forth:  A precocious young man and a vexing but adamantly pursued area of interest; A young lady concerned with matters of faith–and my odd relationship with such matters;  A writers’ group whose kind invitation I nonetheless feel I must decline.  A few other such things…  So that now I feel myself quite melancholy.  Quite at “sixes and sevens,” as it were.

Yesterday, I found myself, finally well enough to get back to writing and so I spent a very enjoyable evening answering comments.  By no means have I gotten to the end of them, but I did make a considerable dent in them.  Still, as the night wore on, I felt I was perhaps delaying my actual work by engaging in this much more enjoyable and carefree activity.

And today, I found, quite by accident, a number of emails waiting for me–they were in the wrong place and so I might have missed them altogether, as they were sent to the address I have which is set up to collect automatic responses and such other annoyances that blogging generates–and stubbornly refuse to be turned off.  I believe I have gone a good deal further in see that people find and use the correct public email when they wish to send me some correspondence which, for what ever reason, they prefer not to appear on the blogoshpere; but I have found that no matter how technically adept one might be, it can sometimes be most difficult to ferret out such things.  Particularly on wordpress.com where one has no control over the code nor any database access.

In any case, In answering comments yesterday, I came upon a number of yours which of course were “404” if I tried to respond to them.  Still that led me to your gravatar link and I noticed there was a new image there… haunting and somehow befitting of your new site.  And then this morning, not long ago, I found your nickname among the handful of new “follows” that had come along in the last hours.

I felt happy to see someone familiar, although clearly I was well on my way to feeling most unhappy.  But following the link to your new site, I found your latest work to somehow fit my melancholy.

There are doubtless many grammatical errors and omissions in the above, however, in all sincerity, I truly do feel a bit too melancholy to go back through it all.  I will however quote this in my “reflections” sub-blog, and perhaps I will correct it later if and when the mood comes upon me.

There comes a time,

when all strength is lost.

When efforts collapse,

and people pay a cost…

Read the rest here:

Sonnet: Brief Candles

These two sweet lights so lovely, do I bear
To watch them fade? Each to each as fair,
Such rapt attention weighed. So adored,
But see the other dim, must each prepare?

Must I accept their fate without despair
As once I disobeyed? Lit so rare,
Have black and auburn greyed?  What reward,
If these and all Thy countless lights repair?

I’m not my mind nor body? Tell this lie
When you are old; and you will not believe.
Behold, within the mirror: Is it I?
Or this, within my portrait? Should I grieve
That I, decay within the mirror, see;
When bright, within my portrait light, is me?

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Intro: Do not gently go

To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death.  Out, out, brief candle!
Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.

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