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Literature Text
The midwinter wind caresses your face
And it buffets the dead leaves;
Adam, and Iblis, his brother (thirty coins rattling);
And the other eleven fisherman-kings,
Shuffle together on this cold apostolic shore,
And their whisper-prayers unwind, painstakingly,
The ochre threads of our tangled skein:
"After nine days on the World Tree,
You climbed down, smiled,
Wrapped an albatross around your neck,
And walked into the setting sun.
Father, you had to be killed,
Or else the spring rain
Would have never come."
The forest claims it is better to rule than to serve,
No matter what godforsaken river you drink from.
If you ask these trees, they might also tell you
Some forgotten tale of a broken king,
The secret of what lies behind the rain
Et dans les yeux des papillons,
Or they'd remind you that a shrouded monolith
Is waiting for us beneath the first equinox:
A bloodstained altar for a supernal offering,
Surrounded by a thousand vultures,
In an impatient spiralling vigil;
As we yearn for the whisper from the mouth
Of the spirit of emptiness, our great Mother,
Pronouncing our final rites.
Our love was lost, then found,
And then sacrificed to the North Wind.
And yet, as our last act,
Pursued by Cernunnos and the lupine Hunt,
We huddled and whispered of horrors
Beside black and dying coals.
The winter chilled to the bone,
And the dancing aurora offered no relief.
But then, after walking in silence through an eternal night
You awoke to touch the heart of light:
To see through cleansed windows of perception:
In an empty, stone-less grotto,
You awoke to a reincarnate dawn.
You awoke, and I was free.
And it buffets the dead leaves;
Adam, and Iblis, his brother (thirty coins rattling);
And the other eleven fisherman-kings,
Shuffle together on this cold apostolic shore,
And their whisper-prayers unwind, painstakingly,
The ochre threads of our tangled skein:
"After nine days on the World Tree,
You climbed down, smiled,
Wrapped an albatross around your neck,
And walked into the setting sun.
Father, you had to be killed,
Or else the spring rain
Would have never come."
The forest claims it is better to rule than to serve,
No matter what godforsaken river you drink from.
If you ask these trees, they might also tell you
Some forgotten tale of a broken king,
The secret of what lies behind the rain
Et dans les yeux des papillons,
Or they'd remind you that a shrouded monolith
Is waiting for us beneath the first equinox:
A bloodstained altar for a supernal offering,
Surrounded by a thousand vultures,
In an impatient spiralling vigil;
As we yearn for the whisper from the mouth
Of the spirit of emptiness, our great Mother,
Pronouncing our final rites.
Our love was lost, then found,
And then sacrificed to the North Wind.
And yet, as our last act,
Pursued by Cernunnos and the lupine Hunt,
We huddled and whispered of horrors
Beside black and dying coals.
The winter chilled to the bone,
And the dancing aurora offered no relief.
But then, after walking in silence through an eternal night
You awoke to touch the heart of light:
To see through cleansed windows of perception:
In an empty, stone-less grotto,
You awoke to a reincarnate dawn.
You awoke, and I was free.
Literature
A BRIEF HISTORY OF DENTON HOLME
WRITTEN BY STEPHEN JAMES HYMERS.
DENTON HOLME TAKES ITS NAME FROM THE DENTON FAMILY,FORMERLY FROM CARDEW,WHO BOUGHT THE HOLME AROUND THE YEAR 1383.
THERE HAS BEEN A LOT OF INDUSTRIAL DEVELOPMENT AROUND THE DENTON HOLME AREA DURING THE 18TH AND 19TH CENTURY. LOSH & CO'S COTTON MANUFACTORY AND PRINTFIELD WAS FOUNDED IN DENTON HOLME IN 1779.
THE FAMOUS DIXONS MILL WAS BUILT IN 1835 AND THE CANAL BRANCH OF THE NEWCASTLE&CARLISLE RAILWAY WAS BUILT IN 1837,FERGUSON'S,COTTON DYERS AND FINISHERS MOVED INTO HOLME HEAD MILL IN AROUND 1828,BUT THE BUILDINGS THEY MOVED INTO DATED FROM 1800.
HOWEVER THE OPENING OF THE NELSON BRIDGE IN 1853 IS WHAT PRO
Literature
2013 Nostalgia
To establish a setting, the year is 2013. The first of June. A Saturday, around 8 pm. The humid air folds itself around me like one would fold an origami bird (except not as crisp or as delicately.)
I think of the way everything disappears into the blue light at twilight, no longer painted gold. I think of the majestic poplars, towering so high yet shuddering in the breeze and casting peculiar shadows across the foreign ground. I think how, in my writing, I would like to capture the dewy smell of moist leaves and the sound of woodpeckers drilling pitch black beaks into rotted trees.
I romanticize it all.
In truth, a mosquito struggles thro
Literature
the ghost
I don't know what I'm waiting for,
because I am a ghost and yet
I sit on my hands and wonder
where you've been -
I walk the forest in circles,
the methodical crunch
of leaves beneath my feet
and I remember
that you made me feel small,
and alone. here I am, facing
this brilliant hue that is me and myself
and I am the ghost but somehow
you are haunting me.
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Notes
I finally got this poem finished last night, after it has been mucking around in my head for almost a week. I listened to [link] (Love Song for 15 Ontario) almost the entire time I was writing, so maybe it'll help you read. (I should note, I've done some editing along the way)
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The thing is, a lot of this was written in a roundabout way, with me thinking up several lines at a time and then arranging them. Thus, ideas that I feel flow through the whole thing may not actually. For example, did it feel wintery all the time? Was the theme of sacrifice consistent? Were there any bits that didn't fit in? Also, is there any problems with rhythm? Did you like the music?
I finally got this poem finished last night, after it has been mucking around in my head for almost a week. I listened to [link] (Love Song for 15 Ontario) almost the entire time I was writing, so maybe it'll help you read. (I should note, I've done some editing along the way)
Groups
The thing is, a lot of this was written in a roundabout way, with me thinking up several lines at a time and then arranging them. Thus, ideas that I feel flow through the whole thing may not actually. For example, did it feel wintery all the time? Was the theme of sacrifice consistent? Were there any bits that didn't fit in? Also, is there any problems with rhythm? Did you like the music?
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Comments31
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A fine work - congratulations on finishing.