Mark Scrivener Poetry Blog no 64 Seahorses

SEAHORSES

This short poem was written many years ago after watching seahorses at the aquarium at Taronga Park Zoo, Sydney. I don't know if seahorses are still there but Sydney harbour is famous for having seahorses in it. The poem is not intended as an argument about theories of the origins of living things. I feel that rather than always arguing about theories (most of which are probably wrong to some degree) it is good to stand occasionally in silent wonder and look at the life around us.

                                       SEAHORSES

Behind the glass seahorses swim.

Long-nosed, horse-headed, with a spiralling tail,

so ineffectual and frail,

they move with whirring, tiny fins

on backs and head- so upright there,

like delicate and live chess knights,

like light-hearted, small, surrealistic jokes.

How strange life’s creativity

should dream these tiny, horse-like fish,

soft-grazing on the pastures of the sea.

Mark Scrivener Poetry Blog No 63 After the Rain

AFTER THE RAIN

The intention of this poem is mainly lyrical and light although it does illustrate how we tend to wish for dynamic balance- we have tendency to react against excess in anything, even weather. The lines are of four feet, mostly trochees (with a single strong syllable at the end). A few are in iambics instead. Trochee- strong, weak: Dawn is light on puddles on. Iambic: I gaze on clearer, higher sky.

AFTER THE RAIN

Dawn is light on puddles on

new-made site made mud by rain

falling through my dreams and now

grass blades bend and boast white drops.

Soft breeze sways near leafy tops

to a subtle whispering;

over all the sodden world

birds sing in the hope of light.

Through a sky of nascent blue

high wind sends a few faint clouds,

brightly drifting south, gold-brushed

by a sun as yet unseen.

Low, south-eastern banks of grey

offer threat of rain's return.

Tired of all the tears of heaven,

I gaze on clearer, higher sky.

Though I know rain is a needful

gift from changes of the sky,

yet all life must swing towards balance-

after rain we yearn for sun.

From a heart that longs for light

I pray day's star sends heat from high

to sweeten wet, unseasoned spring

and bake this damp world crisp and dry.

Mark Scrivener Poetry Blog No 62 Faust meets the Earth Spirit (Scene one continued)

FAUST MEETS THE EARTH SPIRIT (Scene One Continued)

Faust, turning from academic knowledge, now turns to mysticism and "magic". He contemplates the sign of the macrocosm and feels exulted towards the "divine" but then feels drawn to the sign of the earth spirit (a being that Goethe sees as akin to the one life streaming through all of earth and living, that brings the spirit into manifestation). He calls forth the earth spirit but it rejects him and leaves him feeling crushed. 

 

Faust and the Earth Spirit (sketch by Goethe)

(Faust and the Earth Spirit- Scene one continued)

HE OPENS THE BOOK AND GLIMPSES THE SIGN OF THE MACROCOSM

Oh, at this sight what rapture streams in me
Through all my senses instantly!
I feel how youthful, sacred bliss of life new-glows;
Through all my nerves and veins it flows.
Was it a god who drew this figure's form
That stills the strife of inner storm
And fills with joy my poor, worn heart;
And with mysterious power imparts
A revelation of the sources
Of Nature's wide-embracing forces?
Am I a god? All grows so light.
Within these pure lines the whole
Of Nature's working lies before my soul.
Now first I know wise ones are right-
"The spirit world's not locked away;
Your sense is shut, your heart is dead.
Disciple, up! Without dismay,
Bathe earthly breast in dawn's fine red!"

HE EXAMINES THE DIAGRAM

How all within the wholeness weave
And with the others work and live.
How heaven's powers pass up and down
And hand the golden buckets on,
With blessing-scented winging,
They press from heaven through earth's realm,
All through the All harmoniously ringing!

What pageantry! Yet only that! Oh, true
And endless Nature, where shall I grasp you?
Where are your breasts? Oh, wellsprings of all life,
On these the earth and heaven hang,
The parched heart seeks you in its strife,
|You gush, you nourish- do I pine in vain?

HE TURNS THE PAGES OF THE BOOK RELUCTANTLY AND NOTICES THE SYMBOL OF THE EARTH SPIRIT

How differently it works on me- this sign!
You, spirit of earth, you're drawing nearer;
I feel now how my powers are higher.
I glow already as from new wine,
Feel courage; venture out to find world's worth,
And bear the woe of earth, the joy of earth;
Brave-fight with all-surrounding storm,
Not fear the grating shipwreck's crashing doom.
Clouds gather over me-
The moon conceals its light-
The lamp is out!
And mists arise- and red rays spark
Around my head- a shivering breath
Comes floating down from vaults above
And seizes me!
Oh, spirit that I begged to see,
I feel you floating through:
Reveal yourself!
Oh, how it tears my heart in two!
My senses reel,
So stirred by strange, new things I feel.
My heart is wholly giving into you.
You must, you must! Though it could cost my life!

HE SEIZES THE BOOK AND MYSTERIOUSLY PRONOUNCES THE SIGN OF THE SPIRIT. A RED FLAME FLASHES UP, THE SPIRIT WITHIN IT.

SPIRIT

Who calls me!

FAUST (TURNING AWAY)
Terrifying sight!

SPIRIT

Now powerfully you've drawn me here,
You've long been nourished in my sphere,
And now-

FAUST
O grief! I cannot bear your might.

SPIRIT

You begged so breathlessly to see me here.
To know my voice, to view my face;
Your powerful plea has won my grace,
And here am I! - What pitiful fear
Engulfs the superman! Where is you soul-sent call?
Where is the breast that wove a world, that bore it all,
That nurtured it, then with joy-born, trembling bliss
Puffed up to spirit realm to equal us?
And are you Faust, whose voice rang out to me,
Who forced towards me with every faculty,
He, who enveloped in my breath, I'm seeing
So shaken in all depths of being,
A scared, retreating, writhing worm?

FAUST

Shall I give way to you, you form of flame?
I am, am Faust, like you, the same.

SPIRIT

In floods of life, in all deeds' vast storm,
Up and down my waves
Weave to and fro-
Birth and grave,
An endless ocean
In eternal motion,
A changing weaving,
A glowing living,
I create at the loud-rushing loom of all time,
And weave living vestment that clothes the Divine.

FAUST

You who roam the world from end to end,
You ever-active spirit, how near I feel to you!

SPIRIT

You're like the spirit you comprehend,
Not me!
FAUST (OVERWHELMED)

Not you?
Then whom?
I, image of the Godhead,
Not the same as you!

A KNOCK

Oh death! I know it- it is my famulus-
My fairest fortune thus is brought
To nothingness. Oh, that this vision's fullness ought
To be disturbed by that dry prowler's dust.

WAGNER IN NIGHTGOWN AND NIGHTCAP ENTERS, A LAMP IN HIS HAND. FAUST TURNS UNWILLINGLY

Mark Scrivener Poetry Blog No 61 Three Stones- Obsidian, Amethyst, Blue Lace Agate

THREE STONES

These three short poems are based on three different gemstones. Starting with the stones by metaphor and comparison each one is extended to other areas of meaning. In some ways, I suppose, everything is connected to everything else in terms of meaning.

OBSIDIAN

in a dark glass

spots like grey moss

beautiful like art

but what the forge?

fire mountain

Pliny the elder

power and science

stopped by awful earth

pumice raining on Pompeii

onrush of the pyroclastic flow

enfolding flesh and leaving stone

forming casts for monuments

that no hand mocked

strange to think what lies beneath

all our lives we walk on fire

AMETHYST

Crystal, quartz-like, violet-tinged,

Draws the gaze into its clear-shaped,

Sharp-edged, peaking triangles-

Amethyst, a jewel in rock.

Distillation of dark colour,

Caught in crystal clarity,

Motionless as pure matter,

Sharp as light's geometry;

In that clear-cut crystal gleam

There lives something of the light;

In that cloudy, purple hue

There lives something of the night.

And in us there lives the light:

Bright awareness and clear seeing.

And in us there lives the night:

Dream and star and deep, deep being.

BLUE LACE AGATE

Jupiter has vastness.

So has Saturn with its rings.

Yet this small, polished stone,

this blue lace agate,

with white and blue

and bit of brown,

reminds me of another thing-

a photograph,

a blue-white jewel

in darkness

arising from the skyline on the moon.

Only here,

in all the sun-spun spheres,

fish swim in seas,

wind rustles leaves in trees,

and all the universe

is mirrored in

a child’s

dark-adapted eyes.

Only here

can dawn grow clear

to multitudes of minds,

to ears that hear

winged, singing voices.

Only here

we see this treasure

of life in all its complex measure,

upon this jewel amongst the stars,

upon this living, sun-drinking sphere

we we are born to learn of love

only here-

only here.

Mark Scrivener Poetry Blog No 60 The Cloud

THE CLOUD

I have always admired and even, once or twice, performed Shelley's poem The Cloud. In the poem the Cloud is personified in that it speaks of its own nature. I did, however, feel that the imagery was a little complex for younger readers and some of the theories behind the images a little obscure and out of date. So I tried (modest as I am (: ) to write a version of the idea myself with my own words and images. My poem unlike the original is dactylic metre (STRONG, weak, weak), the "waltz" rhythm that has a flowing quality. The last foot, however, is different dur to the needs of rhyme (I am a cloud and I fly on far sky). 

 

                  THE CLOUD

I am a cloud and I fly on far sky,

White in the light of the sun's blazing eye.

Freely I float on the ocean of air,

Unfurling, uncurling- like wild wisps of hair.

There the great eagles can spread out their wings,

Scanning the landscape and all lower things.

There the high swifts can circle and soar,

On rising, warm winds by my wide, ghostly shore.

There I can drift on air currents that roam

Through the vast blue of my light-filled sky-home.

Over the mountains and valleys I flow,

Casting my shadow on far earth below.

I am a cloud and I sail by on high,

Blown by wild breezes that rush through the sky.

Whirling, I swirl on, with mountains of mist,

Covering earth when the hot sun has kissed

Grasses and flowers till all they desire

Is my cool shade to lessen its fire.

Then, when the shimmering day's shine is done,

And sinking away is the gold glow of sun,

I catch final fire and flame with its light,

Bringing last beauty before dark of night.

Then, when the dawn first awakes from night's dreams,

I herald the sunrise with rosy-pink gleams.

I am a cloud; I am born from the sky,

Formed by sun's heat lifting vapours that fly

On wings of warm currents that rise to cold heights

To mass as the misty, free forms of my flights.

Drawn from wide rivers, from wave-rolling seas,

Drawn from the lakes and the leaves on the trees,

This is my substance, earth's moisture made pure,

Saved from beneath so that life may endure-

So that my showers can water bright flowers,

So that the rivers are fed by my powers,

So that the forests on mountain and plain

And all that is living are nourished by rain.

I am a cloud and I live in the sky,

Even when dark night is ruling on high.

Like a ghost I go riding through moonless sky-heights-

A passing of darkness that blacks out star lights.

Then, when the white moon is shining through night,

I glide by so brightly in fine, silver light.

Weaving my shapes, tiny droplets all swirling,

Rise up or sink with the winds that are whirling

Through the far spaces to build up my towers,

My spirals and mountains, my high misty powers,

My columns on columns that spin my wild forms,

Until I release my furious storms.

Lifted by currents and fed by warm winds

I rise and I rise till the air itself thins;

Greater and greyer I grow all the time,

But flattened on top by the end of my climb.

For I am the bearer of lightning and thunder,

Developing charge as I rise from down under,

Till power bursts forth in my flash of white light,

Electric-fierce lightning that dazzles the sight,

Expanding the air with deep-thundering sound,

While rain heavy-pelts down so hard on the ground.

Then, when the fury of storm has swept by,

Showers show rainbow's bright shimmer on sky.

I am a child of the sky and the sun,

Winds and earth's waters which I weave as one-

I rise and I vanish, but I never die.

Though it may seem that the blue, wind-swept sky

Hides not a drop, not a wisp of far whiteness,

Still I am building, unseen in the brightness,

Gathering forces, about to be born,

As surely as dark night is followed by dawn,

Turning in time to returning to life,

Bringing again my blessing and strife,

Riding the winds over mountain and plain,

Bringing again the life-giving rain.

Mark Scrivener Poetry Blog No 59 Faust Night Monologue

FAUST NIGHT FIRST SCENE - MONOLOGUE

translated and rendered into English verse by Mark Scrivener
 

The play opens with Faust in his study. He despairs about external knowledge and scholastic endeavours and their inability to illumine the inner nature of reality. In this he is more an archetypal figure for the revolution of ideas and aspirations in the literary period of the "romantics" than a medieval type. He decides to turn to mystical and magical lore in his desire for deeper knowledge and experience. The book he opens would not be by Nostrodamus but more likely by someone like Agrippa who himself is sometimes considered part of the model for the Faust legend.

Faust feels dissatisfied with all forms of knowledge and so accepts to deal with the devil. Drawing by Eugène Delacroix (1798-1863)

NIGHT
A HIGH-VAULTED, NARROW GOTHIC CHAMBER. A RESTLESS FAUST IS SEATED IN HIS ARMCHAIR AT HIS DESK.

FAUST

Ah, how I've studied philosophy
And law and medicine as well,
And saddest yet theology,
Full-through with hot, hard-sweated zeal.
Now here I stand, a poor fool, I'm sure,
No smarter than I was before!
Called master, even doctor; oh, how
For ten long years already now,
Up, down, across and all around it goes-
This pulling my pupils by the nose;
To see we can know nothing true!
That really burns my heart right through.
Sure, I am brighter than those nitwit screechers:
The doctors and masters, clerks and preachers.
I'm plagued by neither doubt nor scruple,
Nor do I tremble at hell or devil-
So too all joy is torn from me. Just so.
I don't pretend I know what's right to know;
I don't pretend that I could teach what could
Make mankind better, turn it to good.
As well I've neither goods nor gold,
Nor honour and the splendour of the world.
No dog would endure this life any more!
So I've given myself to magic's lore,
To see, through spirit strength and speech,
If many secrets come in reach.
With bitter sweat then I'll not go.
Impelled to say what I don't know.
Then I'll know what, at this world's heart,
Is binding in its inmost part
And see the seminal, the creative core,
And rummage around in words no more.

Oh, that you looked, full-shining moon,
For the last time on my pain and gloom.
For I, so many midnights here,
Have held watch at this desk and chair.
Then over a book and paper sea,
Forlorn, old friend, you shone on me,
Could I but go, in your loved light,
To wander on a mountain height,
To glide with spirits round mountain caves,
Drift over fields in your twilight hue,
Be freed from fumes of knowledge, bathe
Myself to health here in your dew!

Oh no! Am I still stuck within this prison?
This dark wall-hole where even the vision
Of heaven's light is dimmed and stained
In breaking through the painted panes!
Boxed in by book piles here, all spread
With dust, where gnawing worms have been.
Books reach the vaults up overhead,
With smoke-stained papers stuck between;
Case, glass and box surround me too,
With instruments, forced-in, unfurled-
Ancestral junk that blocks the view.
This is my world! Call this a world!

Do you still ask why should your heart
Be bound by fear within your breast?
Why unexplained, a pain so sharp
Blocks every impulse of life's zest?
Instead of living Nature's space
Where God made man to have a home,
Here only mould and fumes embrace
Beast skeletons and dead men's bones.

Up! Flee forth to the far, wide land!
This book of mystery, by my side,
In Nostrodamus' own hand,
Will it not be sufficient guide?
You'll grasp the paths of stars and when
You're taught by Nature too, the force
Of your own soul wells from its source;
How spirit speaks to spirit then.
In vain does dry perception try
To make the sacred symbols clear:
You silent spirits, hovering by;
Now answer me, if you can hear.

Mark Scrivener Poetry Blog No 58 City Rain

CITY RAIN

This poem was originally written many years ago when I was working in the inner city of Sydney. I believe that the more people live in the artifice of great cities the less they realise how our physical life absolutely depends on nature's processes. Hence it is not easy for them to realise that, for example, changes in climate are far more important than economic issues. In this poem I got to use the adjective " peripatetic" for the first and so far last time. As I'm musing in the poem, I may, perhaps, be called a "strolling philosopher". 


 

                    CITY RAIN

A Chinese sage once spoke of this air's water as
tears wept by heaven for suffering man.
I, too, have seen the sky-pearls strung beneath a branch.

But these,
the luckless, urban raindrops shatter
upon impervious, black bitumen ;
drain through
the still waves of the gutter.
And here,
estranged from cyclic truth,
a peripatetic
and single citizen of
the city's dull umbrella state,
they seem mere inconvenience.

Flu-bound,
a black umbrella raised against the rain,
in the greyness it's hard to remember earth's gain.

Mark Scrivener Poetry Blog No 57 Winter Road

WINTER ROAD

Standing in a winter wind waiting for a late bus seemed a good time to write a poem one day- a good time to experiment with turning the moment into a metaphor.

WINTER ROAD

The wind-swept sun’s too weak to find

much from its rays as I, beside

              car-streams on grey road, stand around

to catch a late bus to another town.

At traffic lights some way away the cars

are smaller. Catching sun they turn

sun's western glow on metal, glass or chrome

to blazing flashes, dazzling stars.

The never-ending traffic river

as one voice growls- at moments over

I catch the cold, swift southern wind

creating whispers from the leaves

of small gum trees behind me here

before the gray fence hiding houses.

Across the road the bulldozed earth,

once fields for wallabies and horses,

is witness to the ceaseless building

of shopping centres and of dwellings-

a world of concrete and wrong trees.

Then sweeping further I can see

the skyline hills, still partly forest slope,

in bluish distance, giving me

a sensing of the wide world’s scope.

I have no views about this view-

the south-wind with its touch of ice,

the broad horizon’s haze of hills,

the endless traffic and torn earth,

the waiting by this winter road…

except it feels as sense of edges,

of being part and yet apart.

Perhaps my life is winter road.

As years creep on the young man’s gone

and ice is strewn upon my head.

And yet a road is still a road.

And I’m inclined to keep the thought

that there are ever ways to find,

in every place and every season,

a certain poetry of moments.