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Pagan Thaumaturgic Thanatopsis

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VareseNocturn

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Dec 14, 2011
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I meditate over the illusion, solid rust-like atomic tangerine rocks inveterate on my souls surface reflect perfect contrasts off a twilight lavender ridge of rain. Night fades, Auroras elastic dawn looms overhead. Archaic stauro-phobia dominates my pagan dreams, apocalyptic images are buried thick with maggots and feed on my dead sparrowed-heart. Ribboned fingers that once held my futures bosom are now tightly wrapped around my souls wrists, messianic prophets bow stringed vernal strophes in polyphonic fugue, madrigals chant medieval odes to my desiccated aspirations, their dissonant noise lick my air dry. I sleep now, with one eye open as witness to impious tutelaries of death reborn. Marble Seraphs wearing wrecking bar scars lie abandoned at my door
 
Although this kind of work seems to be popular lately, I find it mechanical and lacking in soul.

This piece and the others recently posted in the genre, read like a cleverly honed random sentence generator.
 
I've read The Hunting of the Snark

Yes, I've read The Hunting of The Snark
The words were meaningless, God wot,
Yet there was rhythm to lift my heart
And rang with sense that recked not

For Carroll's poem could be sung;
Shouted rapturously to the sky.
Who cares for meaning to be wrung?
Just enjoy, nor ask the reason why.



PS. Have you read Thomas Love Peacock? Headlong Hall is a good one to start with.
Or Ernest Bramah's Kai Lung stories? Both were fond of long words but with humour.
 
Last edited:
VareseNocturn said:
Ever read Hunting The Snark ?
Click to expand...

Poets fall into two general groups, with allowances for a large overlap, those who write for themselves and those who write for an audience.

Most of the second group wants the reader to understand, to feel, to see and hear what the poet sensed. The words and lines are clean, like the double thump of the high board as the diver launches and turns in mid air to knife into the water without a splash.

There is a small subset of the second group who appear on the board in a snorkel mask and swim fins, with a toy piano under their arm. They take a running start and leap into a backwards somersault while playing the opening bars to Lady Madonna, until they hit the water.

It is impressive, once.
 
Albeit he is not a poet but I'm curious to know what you guys think of Jozef Maria Hoene-Wronski ?
 
...And I was first introduced the name Ernest Bramah again back in my university years
through reading Ezra Pounds letters to Elliot ...Back the then I chased down any thing Pound and discovered a treasure namely, Ernest Bramah
 
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