At last.

A multitude of causes unknown to former times are now acting with a combined force to blunt the discriminating powers of the mind, and unfitting it for all voluntary exertion to reduce it to a state of almost savage torpor.

William Wordsworth


Preceding December, The feelings that rise.

Hath wroth reins roiled me,
And blown me here tonight,
When darkened days do dim,
The lids that loom invite,
And sacred understanding flaws, at merest whim,
For my endeavor is the battle, the sputter and the prattle,
And while bracing for defeat
I am never truly living; for suspended animation is expeditiously discreet,
Only on the horizon, of victory do I employ,
Joy, joy, and evermore joyous become.


On writing this poem I felt for a lack of beauties in my life, beauties which are unseen by most, but once were experienced by all; those brief moments when everything around you is just visually, emotionally and spiritually perfect. Those precious feelings we begin to lose when conditioned to the hurtful, the repulsive and the subocularly deadening powers of everyday life on this gods’ forsaken planet.

The First.

For true poetry, complete poetry, consists in the harmony of contraries. Hence, it is time to say aloud—and it is here above all that exceptions prove the rule—that everything that exists in nature exists in art. – Victor Hugo

Dear, Old, Friend.

From maw to maw;

They cluster to you,

Fallen scavengers,

Ravenous;

But civilly so,

For instead of taking,

they pass the hat,

and ask you for your soul,

To drink the pools

that lit thine eyes,

‘Till you are no more,

No more than they want you to be.

Scurrying keeps them busy;

Tinkers of trash, of time,

Abominations of this generation,

They go by sunless clime

Whither their appetites take them.

They seek you,

For you are precious.

Your gaze they draw away,

While your heart they enslay,

Its beatings bear the ropes of life,

Your hopes like silken sails,

But on the windless nights,

When inspiration ceases to forward you with its gales,

They come clad in shadow and wrought in strife,

They come to burn, without flame or knife.

Trust not in flesh, fickle as it is,

But trust your inner workings;

The organs of your spirit:

Emotions.

The poem begins with “Dear, Old Friend”, because I am writing to someone I once had goodly affection for. Recently, after having moving halfway around the world, I started a Facebook account and found her. I won’t say directly what I found but this poem pretty much sums it up.

On the fourth line of the third stanza I use the word “enslay”, which when I was writing began as enslave but I felt it needed to be a stronger word and I then realized I could emphasize its intensity by making it rhyme with away. It itself is a combination of the word enslave and slay but means neither fully.

What is this?

The Poets Forge is a compilation of a few of my poetical works and verse, and how they came to be, Where I drew inspiration from, and what I’m talking about: first the work and then the description and usually I’ll add a quote that will go along with the theme of my poem.