The Sophist
2014-08-06 12:00 am
See World will fall when we all, See a rope in a reptile, Idealize walls in a jail cell, Bear witness to false accusation of fraud, See prophets as wrong, See essences in every object apart, Bear witness to art manifesting itself, Square of a ball, See ourselves as a witness, Never abroad, Forever in transit through cosmos with thoughts that material objects transcend even God. "But what if I'm God?" God transcends all, You're an ignorant clod, Appendage at best, Syllogistically flawed, Essentially fraught, Logistically faulty. God can be everyone without everyone God, Frogs are all animals (not all animals frogs).
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The Sophist
2014-05-28 12:00 am
From dying lips was told, A tale of winters melting wax, Turning summers cold. Stranger tales we will betell, I'm sure, Stranger sights we will behold. Forever we will speak the truth, Except regarding days of yore.
Kodyboi
2014-05-07 12:00 am
You have to swear Swear to love loving me, This trailer will last forever, We must have a story-book ending. With a happy end game. I swear to never go away. I swear to never put aside, The things I'm gonna say. To the stagehand, I will never confide. Use your eyes only to look at me. Use your piss-soaked, whore mouth, Only to kiss my whore lips. We are branches of the 21st century. You can laugh only if you laugh at me. You can cry only if you cry for me. Forget what you're condemned to be. Can't you see? You filthy cur, You always were, You always will be. You used to Willoughby so nice I should see a doctor, Who could keep trains from hitting me. But A jealous woman would suffice, She makes it easy to see coffers. She knows I'll defrost to keep pace. Opinion will change, but at steep cost. It also may take a while, So smile for the time being. I'm feeling poor in the stomach, My head is spinning and I feel like a fool. I think it's about time I change the rules.
The Sophist
2014-04-16 12:00 am
Ohm, I wish to be Austere, For if I knew I was her end, I truly wouldn't care. Ohm, I wish to be the air, To float where she has fun, For truly there is none, If in life she isn't there, Ohm, I wish to be the Pleiades, Forever sailing ones, Sailing to my maiden's needs. Ohm, I with to be Pellucid, An interest in her sight, To cloud her camera obscura. Ohm, I wish to be Polaris, In dark her warmest light, Beaming through her apertures.
Kodyboi
2014-04-15 12:00 am
I'm the one you call the extremist. God's forsaken lunatic, fear upon nations, I detect and re-inflict pains past. My legacy is forever lasting. I am no one, to be reviled, I am the one to sit and admire. Jumping rope at the end of the street. With no stone cast, no stone falls to me.
Dusti Rodes
2014-03-05 12:00 am
' Act of Faith ' The Weaving of the Web The Poet's Perception Caladbolg One Sword. Taking two hands to wield. Rainbow ruler of all others. Smiter of mountains and of hills. Made with molten faerie gold. Fashioned on the forge Of Fir Bolg giant, Balor of the Evil Eye, Defeated at Moytura, By the wiles of Tuatha de Dannan Magical warriors. In reprisal for the death of Lu of the Longhand, Son of their King. ' By this Sign, so shall you know me! ' "Remember this, Sire, And use the information well; For they plan to kill my Liege" So spoke the Lady of the Lake. " 'Twas the Vessel with the Pestle, That bore the potion that was Poison. And it was the Flagon emblazoned with his Dragon, They did fill with the brew that is True. But the serving-wench did slip, The platter fell to the floor And did crash on the flagstones there. The Vessel with the Pestle was smashed. Shattered into a thousand shards. Now the Flagon with the Dragon, Contains the potion that is Poison; And the Crystal Chalice, That was procured from the Palace Holds the brew that be True." Act of Faith I feel very vulnerable. I haven't put this much trust In Anyone or Anything, For longer than I can remember. Only time will tell If this act of faith is justified. The Artist's Explanation I have always been a fan of Arthurian legend, and in the end decided the ultimate act of faith, was the search for the grail. I have mixed up lots of ideas within my painting though, here is the official explanation. The hill on which she has reached the pinnacle, is Glastonbury Tor, but a thousand years ago the glow of what is now Glastonbury shines below her. In the sky there is the constellation Orion, this symbolises the king of the fairies, Gwyn ap Nudd, who legend has it lived on the Tor before being insulted by St Collumb, and in doing so left the Tor to forever hunt his hounds across the winter sky. Instead of the ruined church that is on the Tor now, I thought a small standing stone might suffice, and embedded within the stone in a similar way to the sword Excalibur was embedded in a rock, I have placed a wooden chalice, the moss on the rock and the shamrocks, also give the chalice a bed on which to lay. Shamrocks being symbolic not only of Ireland, but also the holy trinity. It is also a trefoil, which is the symbolic of Awen, which is the druid symbol for inspiration. On her wrist is a bracelet, which has fallen from the chalice and magically clings to her, the bracelet is silver like the moon with a fleur de lis (another symbol of the grail, and Mary mother of Jesus, coupled with the holy trinity). The lady is wearing nothing more than a simple white jacket and is naked below. She is also blindfolded, and therefore has to accept trust and her faith to protect her from this vulnerable position. She has come to the end of her quest and has found her grail, purely by way of faith, and is now tired and weary but still proud and undefeated , she is genuflecting to its wonder. The sword has two symbolisms, the first being that it was once broken and has been repaired. (This relates to the story of Galahad, repairing the magical broken sword, from the Fisher King stories, near the end of the grail quest) and the design of the sword I am using is unique in such that it is a copy of the original sword used by the genuine most famous knight in English History, Sir William Marshall. The long grass has various dandelion clocks settled within it, one has burst its seeds, sending them cascading across the painting, the dandelion means many things, including flirtatiousness ... However it is also in gypsy lore the symbol of transition and ascendancy from physical to spiritual. One last thing is that I have signed the painting twice, once in my usual way in the bottom right hand corner, and the other being the symbol of Rowan cut in Ogham on the standing stone. (My name of Ro being short actually for Rowanswood which is my bardic name.) - John Ogden (August 2010) The Druid's Interpretation The story of Bride or Brigid is close to so many people and there is a longing, especially from women today, to return to the balance there once was between men and women. The main story in these parts, and sort of on Beara too, is that all life somehow came from a womb and this once upon a time brought about the reverence of the goddess. The first two trees of the Ogham alphabet seem to guide this with Beith the Birch being the first life on earth and eventually the protector of women, and Luis the Rowan being the dragon's fire in all men who would burn rowan to bring the spirit of the goddess into them. For guidance, confidence, passion,bravery and focus especially when in council for trade, treaties, and sometimes preparation for war. Bride's symbol was the sword, in the story of the creation of the four Celle's of instruction, the first symbol, the symbol of imbolc,the first fire festival of the year, first quadrant of the Chaldean astrology chart. A tree of life, as above, so below. The sword created from fire, extraction of metals from ore, fires that were fuelled by the labours of men. The sword created by virgins, virgins by not yet having child, and not through no having sex, that would once one day be given to their mate. A founding of the tradition of the dowry today. If the male mate was slain and together they had no sons as heirs, the woman would take back the sword to be head of the household until another mate was found. In comes Patrick, a name so close to Patriarch, the incoming of the domination of the male hierarchy. The call to revere the male deity. When the man of the family was slain and there were no heirs; the woman, and any daughters, were the property of the chieftain. To serve as slaves or be appointed new mates, often in treaty.The sword was thrown into the lake or river to be passed on no more. The tradition of Bride, or Brigid, was eventually slain, and the tradition of Patrick took over. It is said that the legendary race of Formori never had women. They were men of the sea who knew how to extract gold and make rings.They would lure the Dannan or other land caring women with rings but for the sole purpose of breeding, not relationships, and any sons born would join the Formori. The legend is that Bride married Bres to try to return to the balance, that may be an example to the Formori, but it was not to be. In your picture this comes across as a woman either by the Formori or the Patriach demands of the ruling male deities ... but nobody could take that sword of balance away from her. It was not going to the lake !!! The standing stone to me is symbolic of the 2nd Cille of Instruction, who Bride is said to have taught Cian, son of Anu. The origin of Salmaine, that became Beltaine. Beltaine, one of the two times of the year the salmon swim up river, the second quadrant of the astrological cycle, the partnership and mating. The finding of the new true mate to pass the sword to. .... and the choice of blessed water to bring back life and fertility to make that possible. Oh, the blindfold? Another legend is that before Beltaine, women would approach the pool of Lasir blindfolded. And then after a blessing with water from the pool, were allowed to take off their blindfolds to have a vision of the man that would be their mate on Beltaine day. Lasir's legends are like Bride, except where Bride and Brigid led a herd of cows; Lasir led a flock of sheep. So when sheep are sheared at Beltaine time, there is a honoury toast to Lasir to ensue another blessed year ahead. Interestingly today, by the pool / well of Lasir ,there is no longer a standing stone, but a tall stump of an Ash tree that was felled there. Also in Lake Meelagh nearby, Bronze and Iron-Age swords have been found, by folks who were looking for the legendary Dagda's cauldron which is said to be in there somewhere. Not legends that are well known away from Co. Silgo, yet have travelled to be made into other stories. Of course , people of Co.Silgo made their own stories from what travellers told them too. Another insight? Dusti Rodes (2010)
Dusti Rodes
2014-03-04 12:00 am
The Lady in Red Inspired by John Ogden's painting ' Be she a Falcon or a Dove ' ( 2009) Puddles of pigment Of red and white, Bloom like flowers in the artist's palette Likened to a small, wild garden. She poses provocatively, Dignified but still self-conscious, Against the wide blue screen That forms the night. Robed in ravishing red, She stands bathed In Lady Luna's soothing light. While the evening star Plays shimmering consort. She did not fail to see The symbolism held Within the artist's eye. The meanings of her life, Captured there before The paint could ever dry. The Venetian mask Behind which she hides, Masquerades the pain of her past, Blood-red. And the golden promise of things to come. Are reflected by the candle's gentle glow. Lighting the way to her future. Marley said we all create Our chains of pain. Forged one link at a time, By our misery. Hers was a string of Pearl. Individual incidences, Joined by circumstance; Seeking to keep her, Forever fettered to the past. But the key lies in the roses. Poetic echoes reverberating . Be she a Falcon or a Dove ? A raven-haired temptress, Or an angel of love? A scarlet woman or a painted Lady? Hence from now onwards, She will be known only, As the Rose. Dusti Rodes (2009)
Dusti Rodes
2014-03-04 12:00 am
Ode to Martha My muse, a Harridan hag? I don't think so! Some have familiars, in the shape of cats. Others have Spirit Guides, Which are Red Indian warriors. I don't do all that PC stuff, And say they are Native North Americans! Me? My muse is a wizened old woman. I was killing time, standing outside the Hospice shop, Waiting for my watch repair to be ready. One split second she wasn't there, I swear, The next she was! She appeared from nowhere, I'm telling you! The encounter with the woman in the grey shawl. It took just ten minutes that was all. But it will last a lifetime. Mine. Was it real, or was it a dream? Was she a witch or a wraith? Merely a ghost or a gregarious goblin, In disguise? The situation certainly had all the makings of a mystery, And all the trappings of a thriller. The people I tell just stare at me strangely. Who wouldn't? I ask myself. I'd probably do just the same, If it wasn't for the fact, That it had happened to me. She came from the North, or so she said. Irmerston is a name I recall her using. More than once. Or was it that she had relatives there? Was I really 'touched by an angel'? There was definitely ' a laying on of hands', As in the biblical sense. Could this have been an encounter of the Fourth kind? Hebrews thirteen has a lot to answer for. She said she was eighty five. And had been a Mormon since she was forty. But in some lights I would have sworn she wasn't yet sixty. In others, she had a face that had seen more than a thousand summers. I've heard of shape-shifters, I never thought to meet one. Many say I talk at tangents, And maybe they are right. I do waffle on a bit. Never keeping to the same subject for long. Fleeting thoughts, Forever fluttering, Like a butterfly in its short life span. Over the last couple of years, The diagnosis of my chronic atrial fibrillation, Has caused me to consider my life expectancy. And to realise it may be seriously shortened At any time in the near future. But she spoke confidently and authoritatively, About longevity. Quoting several incidences of people living to a good age. Katherine Hepburn living to a hundred. Her long relationship with Spencer Tracy. And made it sound so matter of fact, That Katherine had given him a cup of tea, Shortly before he finally died. It was as if she had been there at the time. Her opening gambit had been to draw my attention, To a boxed set of Frank Sinatra records. Displayed in the shop window. As I intimated earlier, I'm sure I was alone outside that shop. And the sound of her speaking to me had startled me, Into realising she was standing beside me. She started by saying Frank had a daughter, Nancy. And a son, Frank Jr. She talked about his Mafia connections. When I retorted that rumours were rife, During all of Sinatra's life. But that he had never publicly admitted to the allegations. She intimated that the reason being was, That Frank had not actually done anything 'bad' so to speak. At that moment, she gave me the distinct impression, That she might have known him and his family intimately. But how could that be? I was becoming afraid of the enormity, Of the developing situation. So I made my excuses to leave, And she let me go wishing me well. We parted. Me going my way, she hers. I picked up the watch from the menders. It must have taken all of two minutes. When I suddenly realised the terrible mistake I had made, In cutting our conversation short. I began searching the town. Shop by shop. Each individual lane up and down. But to no avail. Seeming she had disappeared the same way she arrived. Suddenly. It wasn't till I was on the bus travelling home. Feeling thoroughly desolate. That I heard her voice again. But this time it was different. She was inside my head, talking to me. She said artists, of all kinds, Needed inspiration from time to time. And she would be mine, if I let her. I know now I made a mistake, I thought I was her 'mark' in the town, And she was just getting ready to put the sales spiel on me, To buy her that expensive bottle of sherry. That she said was the only one that she drank. She'd talked about many things, And how everybody had vices. Drugs, booze, cigarettes etc. She said how hers weren't too bad. Just a tipple now and again of the sherry, That could be bought in Tesco's. (Which had been across the way, From where we had been standing) At nine pounds a bottle. Here we go, I'd thought, Here comes the pitch; “Hard times 'n' all, for an old lady. You seem a nice person, Could you see your way clear to buying me a bottle, maybe?" This is why I had up and ran. But instead, here was she offering me the gift! Some writers have residencies. I am hers. Where we will go from here, is any body's guess. Just watch this space! But I do suggest you don't waste your time, Standing outside the Hospice shop, In the vague hope she might just amble along. Because she's mine, And I'm keeping her! Dusti Rodes (2006)
The Sophist
2014-03-03 12:00 am
Back before the dawn Beyond doors closed forever Lay the Ashen Lawn
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