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Research Harnessed (Mind Control)

In our
struggles
we
seize
opportunity
upon
exposed
throat.

Work
with determined
purpose
for betterment
fulfilment
favouring species
man.

Exhaustive
investigating
coupled

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poem by Terence George Craddock
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Report from the Besieged City

Too old to carry arms and fight like the others -

they graciously gave me the inferior role of chronicler
I record - I don't know for whom - the history of the siege

I am supposed to be exact but I don't know when the invasion began
two hundred years ago in December in September perhaps yesterday at dawn
everyone here suffers from a loss of the sense of time

all we have left is the place the attachment to the place
we still rule over the ruins of temples spectres of gardens and houses
if we lose the ruins nothing will be left

I write as I can in the rhythm of interminable weeks
monday: empty storehouses a rat became the unit of currency
tuesday: the mayor murdered by unknown assailants
wednesday: negotiations for a cease-fire the enemy has imprisoned our messengers
we don't know where they are held that is the place of torture
thursday: after a stormy meeting a majority of voices rejected
the motion of the spice merchants for unconditional surrender

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poem by Zbigniew Herbert
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Adelaide Ironside

Knowest thou now, O Love! Oh pure from the death of thy summer of sweetness!
Seest thou now, O new-born Delight of the Ransomed and Free!
We have gathered the flower for the fruit; we have hastened the hour of thy meetness;
For thou wert sealed unto us, and thine Angel hath waited for thee.

Not in disdain, O Love! O Sweet! of desires that are earthly and mortal,
Not in the scorn of thine Art, whose beginning and end is Divine,
So soon have we borne thee asleep through the glow of the uttermost portal,
But in the ruth of high souls that have travelled with longings like thine.

Nothing is lost, O Love! O mine! and thy seemingly broken endeavour
Here re-appeareth, transfigured as thou; yet the Art of thy youth;
And the light of the Spirit of Beauty is on it for ever and ever;
For Art is the garment of Praise, and the broidered apparel of Truth.

Seest thou now, O Love! how Art, in a way to mortality nameless,
Liveth again, soul-informed, love-sustained, self-completing, for aye?
How thy heart's purpose was good, and the dream of thy maidenhood blameless,—
How thy fair dawn is fulfilled in the light of ineffable day?

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poem by James Brunton Stephens
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Mooni

AH, to be by Mooni now!
Where the great dark hills of wonder,
Scarred with storm and cleft asunder
By the strong sword of the thunder,
Make a night on morning’s brow!
Just to stand where Nature’s face is
Flushed with power in forest places—
Where of God authentic trace is—
Ah, to be by Mooni now!

Just to be by Mooni’s springs!
There to stand, the shining sharer
Of that larger life, and rarer
Beauty caught from beauty fairer
Than the human face of things!
Soul of mine from sin abhorrent
Fain would hide by flashing current
Like a sister of the torrent,
Far away by Mooni’s springs.

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poem by Henry Kendall
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Awoken Call

I remember the time
before I was born.

I remember impending departure time
immediately before. Soul sent.
I was suddenly shockingly born
so clearly. Hail Mary. Mother of God.

Gathered assemblage collectively
communicates silent vibrations.
Before launching soul’s journey.
Before my spirit readied, assimilated,
released, enters laboured. Earthbound.
Contraction’s baby birthing channel.
Time fading back folding inward
internalized eternity rapidly receding.

Strange no martyr sympathetic tears
shed formulated held back. Though transfiguration
soul destined. Upon crucifixion transfixed torment.

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poem by Terence George Craddock
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House Full Of Spirits

House full of spirits, suffering ones, dead flies
punctuate the way
your lives have settled
on the windowsills of an indifferent eternity;
as foretold, the wind
has raked up your footprints like leaves,
and your smile no longer denudes the rose,
not even a rag of flesh
to sop up your exquisite tears.

And still, no one understands your pain,
no one sits around your heart,
the raging blue fire of your fragrant grief
trying to water your eyes like gardens.

And the brides move like waves
without a sea, the shadows of young horses,
and love that promised so much
down on its knees at the end of a wharf
that never led anywhere,

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poem by Patrick White
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