Something Imaginative

She was there, I know, but I ignored it.
She walked by, but I didn’t look at her.
She glanced at me; and I at her,
She walked on by.

She was there, I know, but I looked the other way,
She walked by, like yesterday,
She smiled at me, and I at her,
I watched her walk on by.

She wasn’t there, I know, I looked for her.
I missed her walking on buy, like she had last month,
She was missing from my life, was I from hers,
I waited in case she walked by.

~Black Xanthus

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King Henry VIII is well known for his many wives, and for being the principal orchestrator of the Reformation in England*, some may not know that he was also a poet.

The eagle’s force subdues eache byrd that flyes—
What metal can resyst the, flaminge fyre?
Doth not the sunne dazle the cleareste eyes,
And melte the ice, and make the froste retyre?
The hardest stones are peircede thro’ wyth tools;
The wysest are, with princes, made but fools.

This poem was written by, apparently, by King Henry VIII upon falling in love with Anne Boylnne. I thought it was quite pretty.

~BX

Source( C. S. Lewis)

*The Reformation and King Henry VIII are a tricky subject. I will perhaps write more later.

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So, today we had a Taize service. This is mostly lots of quiet meditative music, with bits being repeated, softly, gently and in harmony. Things being repeated for as long as was felt necessary, but all hte context of silence and meditative prayer. I had already been asked to serve at the ceremony, which was nothing short of… uplifting.

Being as part of the experiemnt was to sit and let myself be open to God, that’s what I did. I took a quick look through the booklet for the service, made a note of anything that I didn’t know, and then closed it. Relying on my memory and for the repeated chants to be able to work out where I was in the service, and what I should be saying or singing. This meant that for the majority of the service I could have my eyes half-closed in that meditative style (so that your body can differentiate “mediative” from “asleep”). It also meant that I could spend a lot of time simply emptying my mind, and opening my heart.

It was… amazing. I felt an… energy flow through me. Not something new to me, not something that I had not known before, but this was the first time that I had let myself go along with it, to let it fully take me where ever it wanted to go. Normally I would just let it fill me, like a glowing light, and remain there, and I would hold this feeling until it vanished like the smoke from the incense. Today, however, I let it flow. Not to anywhere, but let it be a… river. Again, not something that’s specially new to me, but not something I had experienced in a worship service in such a sustained way.

I found myself at the end of the service wanting to keep intoning. Not singing exactly, but listening to the last words of the prayed Taize chant, to keep ahold of the feeling. The songs may be “new” but they did not have that “modern” flavour, they were all in the old Middle-ages style. Heavily choir led, with lots of silence, with lots of listening to the silence and to the music.

I was told to try to write in a “feminine” way when trying to put these feelings onto paper, and I’m not sure that I can. I’m not sure that’s what I felt. It wasn’t a soft, gently love…. It was a… strong powerful brilliant light.

Light of the Lord

As the light of the Lord,
Falls on me like a shower,
as it’s rivers flow through me,
filling my life, my heart with a powerful love,
As the streams flow through me,
Let them flow to my prayer.

Let the Rivers of the Lord,
as they flow through those that hear,
let them be a light to the feet,
and a hope in the darkness.
Let those that see the light
shine it from their hands,
Let them act God’s Prayer.

Let the light of the Lord,
As it chases away the darkness,
as it warms the heart,
and cleanses the soul,
fill the world with His radiance.
Let the Word of God
shine from those who love.

Let the Word of the Lord,
Fall on me like a shower,
Let it’s river flow through me,
filling my life, my heart with a powerful grace,
As the streams flow through me,
Let them flow to my prayer.

~Black Xanthus

It occurs to me that my words are simply not adequate to describe this feeling. It’s something that the poets of ages gone spend nights grappling with, trying to find just the right word to capture just the right feeling.

Healing Waters

Lord, immerse us in the ocean of your love.
Bathe us in your cleansing rivers.
Soak us in your healing waters.
Drench us in your powerful downfalls.
Cool us in your bracing baths.
Refresh us in your sparkling streams.
Master us in your mighty seas.
Calm us by your quiet pools.
~ Community of Aidan and Hilda, From:Pocket Cletic Prayers, compiled by Martin Wallace.

The feeling fills the heart in a way that’s indescribable, but anyone who’s had any kind of experience will know what I mean. A feeling of connectedness, and of grace, and love and power. It is, for me, a quiet peace. Not the frantic charisma that the modern movement of the Charismatics want you to feel. It is the Deep Peace of the Lord that passes all understanding. That stays with you until the world intervenes.

May the blessing of your God go with you this night, gentle reader, and may He keep you in his hands tonight, and raise you up in the morning.

Amen (so be it).

~BX

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I don’t of then think of you,
Not any more.
Since the day our paths divereged forever,
on that gray step outside your door,

I hardly ever wonder,
About how things might have been,
Whether or not I really do miss your voice,
If love will be the same with another.

I walk along the rainy shore,
And seagulls call your name.
I find my wandering feet
have walked me back to your door.

I stand outside your house,
rain filling my clothes,
I close my eyes and whisper your name.
As quietly as a mouse.

My ritual done I turn around,
and set my feet for home,
I promise myself I wont come back again,
at least, not until the seagulls sound.

~Black Xanthus

(stupid not being able to find a decent rhyme for house)

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Romance. The undead form of human pretence. We flander in the hope that our preening will get us a mate. Man, Woman, it matters not. The reasons are all the same. We fear. We fear the lonlieness. We fear that we may never be good enough for someone. We fear that we may never find anyone good enough. We make ourself attractive, we learn conversation, we find ways of entertaining those around us, amusing anecdotes about the dull daily routine. All this just for a simple chance at what everyone else calls happiness. We are so busy looking at what everyone else has that we never, ever stop to consider if it’s what we really want. We never stop to think “hey, do I really Want this?”. Some of us, some find their way down the right street. Some of us find that our life-partner is nothing like what we expected. Some of us find that we like Men more than Society said we should. Some of us find that we like Woman more than society said we should. Some of us like rubber more than society says we should. So we hide. We make it some sort of hidden, dirty secret. Scared that the superfical smiles that we get from those that we call friends are just that. Superficial smiles.

We forget that our happiness depends on just one person. It depends on us. It depends that we accept the myrad of religion and science that we use to make our lives. It depends on what we call happiness. Don’t let others dictate to you when your happy. Just know that you are happy.

All the advice in the world doesn’t amount to a hill of beans if it doesn’t feel right. Rememeber, whoever you are, that you are special. The world knows that you have a place, you just havn’t found it yet.

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So blows the wind,
The cobwebs from my mind,
Awake, afresh at the turning of the tides,
It whistles through memory-forgotten streets,
To revive haunting laughter echos,
The old bones creak and rattle,
And rise with the breezes call,
It calls to the primal heartbeat,
The rythem of a long-forgotten dance,
The wind swirls the sound of the sea,
Icy tendrals against forced blood pumped,
A mock retalling of a story of life and death.

A soft click gentle sigh,

And it’s over.

Black Xanthus

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You will always find him,
A huddled ‘gainst the cold,
a-wrapped in shawl,
by the roaring fireplace,
till the evnin’ bell does toll.

And so we’ll pay the blind man,
to tell all the tales,
of things he’s never seen,
of places he’s never been,
to take us along with him,
while he shows us his world.

And the stories he does tell us,
of brave knights and things of old,
of places far away
and days of long ago,

And yet we always wonder,
while his stories unfold,
how they seem so real to him,
yet to ask would be too bold.

And so we’ll pay the blind man,
to tell all the tales,
of things he’s never seen,
of places he’s never been,
to take us along with him,
while he shows us his world.

And one night we come in,
and his by the fire’s bare,
The replaced and brand new,
as though he’d never been there,

We find ourselfs a-wondering,
where our bard did go,
he took with him our wonder,
and his tales of long ago.

And yet we’d still pay the blind man,
to tell all the tales,
of things he’s never seen,
of places he’s never been,
to take us along with him,
while he shows us his world.

Black Xanthus, 6 Dec, 2007

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Just To Let You Know – To Megan

Just to let you know,
In some short words,
The way my heart beats,
The love I long to show,

I am not a great Artist,
No great Sonetwrighter I,
Just a humble penwright,
of the love I feel inside.

I would shower you with gifts,
if it was within my means,
I would give you the moon and stars,
And all the glowing sun beams.

Yet sadly these are beyond me,
Though daily I shall strive,
Just to let you know,
The Love I feel inside.

Black Xanthus, 4 Dec, 2008.

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The rain saddly pitter-pats out your name,
As the world cries it’s tears for us.
Theunder gently rolls it’s sympathy,
As though it too missess your touch.

Slowly the world is washed clean,
It’s broken heart healed by the rising sun,
Then sit, close my eyes,

And wait for the rain.

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