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Before God`s Grace

After a mournful funeral
My soul was summoned before God`s throne
Bewildered, abject and all alone
Verily the scene was achy and sore
Couldn't expect that of more

God disclosed all of my guiltless crimes
In a harsh and grim rhymes
'So Mr. John
You claimed that sin is nothing but ignorance*
Like a Faustus* followed the Renaissance*

What I revealed unto Mortal minds
Are desperate thoughts of Hearts` confined?
Those sacred letters to you were hoaxed
Just the gentles to coax'

'You were blamed from a Satan`s clan
Of rude upon my Holy man
You have had an evil spirit John

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poem by Gulsher john
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I am not immortal. Faustus and I are the also-ran.

quote by Anne Sexton
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The mind is its own place and in itself can make a heaven of Hell and a hell of Heaven.

John Milton in Dr. Faustus
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Don't Forgive Him

Men of clan kill those they love for money,
Blood of brothers can't be cleanse
from their memory
Hades, get thee behind me!
Who knows when Christ is coming?
.
Faustus sold his soul for love of magic
And had them all to his means,
From scholarly, he went to trickery,
Who knows what else could it be?
.
Mephastophilis, dont you forgive him,
Your time at his service is finished
You kill him, you burn him
you slaughter him,
His soul you take with you to Hades
Till he realises there is no escape
from nemesis.
.
Oh ye who think Nigerians are fraudsters,

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poem by Efe Benjamin
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On Looking Through an old Punishment Book [At Eurunderee School]

I took the book of punishment,
And ran its columns down;
I started with an open brow
And ended with a frown;
I noted long-forgotten names –
They took me unaware;
I noted old familiar names.
But my names wasn’t there!

I thought of what I might have been,
And Oh! My heart was pained
To find, of all the scholars there,
That I was never caned!
I thought of wasted childhood hours,
And a tear rolled down my cheek –
I must have been a model boy,
Which means a little sneak!

“Oh, give me back my youth again!”
Doc Faustus used to say –

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poem by Henry Lawson
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The Abnormal Is Not Courage

The Poles rode out from Warsaw against the German
Tanks on horses. Rode knowing, in sunlight, with sabers,
A magnitude of beauty that allows me no peace.
And yet this poem would lessen that day. Question
The bravery. Say it's not courage. Call it a passion.
Would say courage isn't that. Not at its best.
It was impossib1e, and with form. They rode in sunlight,
Were mangled. But I say courage is not the abnormal.
Not the marvelous act. Not Macbeth with fine speeches.
The worthless can manage in public, or for the moment.
It is too near the whore's heart: the bounty of impulse,
And the failure to sustain even small kindness.
Not the marvelous act, but the evident conclusion of being.
Not strangeness, but a leap forward of the same quality.
Accomplishment. The even loyalty. But fresh.
Not the Prodigal Son, nor Faustus. But Penelope.
The thing steady and clear. Then the crescendo.
The real form. The culmination. And the exceeding.
Not the surprise. The amazed understanding. The marriage,
Not the month's rapture. Not the exception. The beauty

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poem by Jack Gilbert
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I Could Bring You A Shattered Windowpane

I could bring you a shattered windowpane,
I could bring you a musical whip that's been trained
to read the stops of your flute
and how your fingers move like windproof spiders.
I could bring you the red brick of dried blood
that was left of my heart when I threw it through the window,
and it broke into a thousand chips of rose petals
that shed like flakes of dried paint off the eyelids
of a revolution that hasn't woken up yet
to finish what it started in a recurring dream
of mystic junkies flagging their fits
until Faustus sees Christ's blood
streaming across the firmament like mother's milk.

Should I ever come to know you well enough
to let you drink from my hidden starwell in my field of view,
I could raise your spirits up like a candelabra
to be whatever constellation you wanted
among all these myriad stars dying to be given a focus.
And if at first you didn't know where you were, I'd be your locus

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poem by Patrick White
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Drury-lane Prologue Spoken by Mr. Garrick

1 When Learning's triumph o'er her barb'rous foes
2 First rear'd the stage, immortal Shakespear rose;
3 Each change of many-colour'd life he drew,
4 Exhausted worlds, and then imagin'd new:
5 Existence saw him spurn her bounded reign,
6 And panting Time toil'd after him in vain:
7 His pow'rful strokes presiding Truth impress'd,
8 And unresisted Passion storm'd the breast.

9 Then Jonson came, instructed from the school,
10 To please in method, and invent by rule;
11 His studious patience, and laborious art,
12 By regular approach essay'd the heart;
13 Cold Approbation gave the ling'ring bays,
14 For those who durst not censure, scarce could praise.
15 A mortal born he met the general doom,
16 But left, like Egypt's kings, a lasting tomb.

17 The Wits of Charles found easier ways to fame,
18 Nor wish'd for Jonson's art, or Shakespear's flame,

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poem by Samuel Johnson
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Nux Postcoenatica

I was sitting with my microscope, upon my parlor rug,
With a very heavy quarto and a very lively bug;
The true bug had been organized with only two antennae,
But the humbug in the copperplate would have them twice as many.

And I thought, like Dr. Faustus, of the emptiness of art,
How we take a fragment for the whole, and call the whole a part,
When I heard a heavy footstep that was loud enough for two,
And a man of forty entered, exclaiming, “How d’ ye do?”

He was not a ghost, my visitor, but solid flesh and bone;
He wore a Palo Alto hat, his weight was twenty stone;
(It’s odd how hats expand their brims as riper years invade,
As if when life had reached its noon it wanted them for shade!)

I lost my focus,—­dropped my book,—­the bug, who was a flea,
At once exploded, and commenced experiments on me.
They have a certain heartiness that frequently appalls,—­
Those mediaeval gentlemen in semilunar smalls!

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poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes
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Screaming Through December

What a crew we made up there was faustus
Burnt out from playing too many bars, on a jersey shore
And sammy, almost bald from ironing her hair too much
Back in 64
And me and phazon out of phase, of least my temporary
Name for the day
Oh, blown away and screaming
All blown away and screaming
All blown away and screaming thru december
We crossed state lines we were burning
Although the cold could freeze your hand, to the steel
Of the wheel
Miami, just a cold hearted word
From a warm smiling man on a sign in a field
We laughed just o take up some time my (hmmm) job
Was staring to dry, and we went screaming thru december
Quasar, quasar, where the first words I heard from faustas
All day
And giggling he apologized and then returned to flicking
His blade

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song performed by Hall & Oates
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