Sleep Beyond Sleep:

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Sleep has abandoned me tonight

Left in such haste, my mind to chide

In hidden throes that restless plight

Harangue poor souls, their thoughts deride

Haggled sore amidst thrashing sound

Beyond sweet realms of fitful peace

Where solace and hope faintly drown

Those princely plains of timed release

 

Oh!  For a draught of quietude

To bring my fevered joints to lay

On feathered fields and calmly soothe

These hindered bones from ceaseless play

Upon bare earth’s much hardened ground

It’s scars and twists traversed each mile

As fortune’s guide my footsteps pound

With welcome face and broadened smile

 

Fate cedes a path toward escape

Way past life’s tumultuous reign

Inside failed dreams whose darkened shape

Silently convulse addled brain

Let’s soar high above lighted star

Appease love’s tryst on moonlight breeze

Through heaven’s gate left wide ajar

For Adam’s seed to gain reprieve.

 

On The Battlefield:

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The gates of hell suddenly opened, allowing legions of unholy terror to escape; sick creatures, with moral compass severely broken, devour innocents with murder and rape.  Hunger was the preparatory demon, our blighted stomachs now retch with nothing to give.  We lost our senses, any form of reason, starvation cruelly weakened our will to live; gurgled slime seeps pursed mouth-corners, children secretly nibble on gravel and dirt.  They suffer all manner of unhealthy disorders, many of them are wounded and hurt.  Film crews ignore all the tell-tale traces, while our tortured souls burn; wretched fear etched on our grizzled faces, expose grim complaints of silent concern.

We had a few memorable days of silence, not one of us dared hope it was finally over.  We’d long surrendered with detached deference, the slightest atmospheric sound made us scuttle for cover.  Miraculously, the latest ceasefire seemed to be holding, we continued to succour, hope and pray for the best; incredulously thought the pendulum might eventually swing in our favour, because bombing had been relentless.  The buildings were now nothing but rubble and dust, we sheltered in caverns hewn out from cellars; with families huddling between protective detritus, still pretending things were going to get better.  Caught amidst bomb and ground warfare, who were we actually kidding?  In truth, it seemed the world didn’t care, we were left to contend with unbearable suffering.

A steadily humming drone alerts attentive ears; activity stops and people run, quickly, to their spaces.  The relative peace and tranquillity disappears.  Once again, fear creeps over bereft, despondent faces.  Sounds, like thunder overhead, precede customary ground-shaking quakes; seems only a matter of time, before we’re dead and all resistance inevitably breaks.  Once landed, bombs seem to explode a million times; blasts detonate double-handed, even though cluster bombs consolidate undeniable war crimes.  There’s no care, or thought, for innocent life; these destructive devils are totally hell-bent on war and strife.  Life, and the living, is of secondary importance, their prime objective is to wreak havoc, completely destroying anything of substance.

In search Of Poesy:

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Minstrels and Bards skilfully conform

Syntax and rhyme with consummate ease

Silky sleeved breaths curtly adorn

Prosperity’s page, until release

Posterity unleashed so many

But, there must only be the one

Tell me, where does such crafted beauty

Wield enlightened inspiration from

 

Flighted words waft favoured chimes

Soothes strained ears, brilliant stories tell

High above sounds verse carelessly climbs

Freedom’s voice to calmly propel

Write joyful and discerning thoughts

Laid amongst scented flower beds

Thrill true love’s overflowing heart

Then sweetly cajole your weary head

 

Witness how Keats’ gilded tome

Incites, to please those quietly read

Famed throughout learned halls of Rome

Now approaching year two-hundred

His candid affection’s floated breeze

Gaze every ounce of fevered youth

Broached jilted Time’s attempted freeze

Of ag-ed feeling’s bonded truth

Save The Children:

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Regardless to death’s stranglehold on the middle east, I know there are – languishing out there in the cold – conscientious human beings, praying for peace.  At night, faceless young babies scream in my mind, their; plight is critically marooned in the superpowers’ bind.  Goodness me, how much more gratuitous  destruction do we have to see?  Every day, bruised and battered children are exhibited on TV.  The power-brokers are mothers and fathers too, how would they feel if weapons of mass destruction suddenly came into view?  This present state of affairs cannot possibly be right, how, can: Putin, Assad and Obama sleep at night?  If nothing else, they should remember the children, in; need of merciful help, someone has got to stand up for them.  Lord have mercy!  This is the twenty-first century, will you please, somebody, listen to my plea?  One poor bewildered little girl was actually buried alive; through God’s grace, this beautiful little pearl was reprieved and managed to survive.  Those merciless demons remorselessly rain bombs,  on poor defenseless civilians battered senseless and rendered dumb.  I pray my words wont go unheeded, maybe some God-fearing person will listen; peace and love – without doubt – is sorely needed, heads of government have to sit around the table and reason.  They have to act and bring cessation, to all these unnecessary deaths and wanton destruction.

 

The sonnet: ‘Addressed To Haydon,’ extols the stature and virtue of the accomplished poet, a; man of impeccable intelligence whose qualities are exemplary, and honest to the point of recognizing genius in others.  the characteristic personality Keats describes, is unencumbered by ideals of self-importance, untainted by selfish airs and graces, whilst he may be located in the most humble and obscure places.  The Poet pursues a single-mindedness of intent, in search of the truth, which drives him/ her beyond plains of materialist distraction, in a quest to obtain and define heights of unswerving genius – it is a duty.  The road The Poet espies, is one of hard work which garners, rewards of praise and honorable acknowledgement, from a host of appreciative lesser souls.  This poem seems to lay the foundations, for the unrivaled genius Keats esteems, for himself to become.  He made no secret, in his work, that he sought fame and renown but, the poem assures the reader, he; was prepared to work extremely hard, to achieve the rewards on offer.  It was written to the artist, Benjamin Haydon, who was one of Keats’ inner circle of very close friends.

 

‘Addressed To Haydon’:

HIGH-MINDEDNESS, a jealousy for good,

A loving-kindness for the great man’s fame,

Dwells here and there with people of no name,

In noisome alley, and in pathless wood:

And where we think the truth least understood,

Oft may be found a “singleness of aim,”

That ought to frighten into hooded shame

A money-mongering, pitiable brood.

How glorious this affection for the cause

Of steadfast genius, toiling gallantly!

What when a stout unbending champion awes

Envy, and Malice to their native sty?

Unnumbered souls breathe out a still applause

Proud to behold him in his country’s eye.

Aleppo’s Children:

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This saddened world bawls Aleppo’s

Desperate plea for life so dear

Pummelled and thrashed, in stifled fear

Left without hope for tomorrow

Redemption is, but; a stone’s throw

If symptoms of remorse appear

When reduced to levels of mere

Conscience, which bloodied children know

Howls vengeance; for Hell’s dark regimes

Intend to raze rubble, or death

Regardless of pitiful screams

Appeals to stop – answered, “not yet!”

Feel Rouanne’s nightmare, frittered dreams

Buried alive, she wont forget.

 

We realize now, the call to cease fire was a ruse; enabling the regime and its dominant ally,  to recharge waning batteries in preparation for a concerted push.  There was no hiding place, when this sleight on Armageddon restarted, the; bombing resumed, but with revitalised ferocity.  We knew then, they were prepared to destroy the city, and its inhabitant, on the off-chance that a small enclave of the terrorists might be taken out.  Their conviction being, the enemy had resorted to using innocent civilians as a possible blockade, an impromptu human shield, for them to cower behind.  The regime had no thought, or care for any innocents – whether children or aged – they would bomb to kingdom come, destroying any and everything in their way ………

 

The sonnet: ‘Addressed To The Same,’ by John Keats ….

In his writings, Keats invariably concedes to the existence of God, this is coupled with a deep suspicion of religion; probably a conscious repulsion of puritanical influences.  In this sonnet, ‘Addressed To The Same,’ most probably intended for the artist Haydon, as Keats had written a previous sonnet addressed to Haydon, we witness the poet sublimely referring to ‘God of nature,’ The Almighty presence, resident in earth, at the hub of all things spiritual, attended by angels.  The twice capitalized ‘He’ is intrinsic to the monotheistic surmise proffered in the text, as contextual reference to God; who sees, knows, audits and controls everything, even future things to come.  The poet combines the spiritual and material realms, locating them here on earth, in the very first line of the poem.  He elevates God’s closeness to his archangels – one of whom he later names – as an insight into God’s prepossessive control, of all things that is brought into being.  Keats goes as far, as to divine God’s pre-organization of the future, whilst confirming mankind’s unquestionable subservience to this pre-eminent Deity, Almighty God.

 

Great spirits now on earth are sojourning;

He of the cloud, the cataract, the lake,

Who on Helvellyn’s summit, wide awake,

Catches His freshness from archangel’ wing:

He of the rose, the violet, the spring,

The social smile, the chain for Freedom’ sake;

And lo! – whose steadfastness would never take

A meaner sound than Raphael’s whispering.

And other spirits there are standing apart

Upon the forehead of the age to come;

These, these will give the world another heart,

And other pulses.  Hear ye not the hum

Of mighty workings? –

Listen a while, ye nations, and be dumb.

 

 

 

 

A Poisoned legacy:

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Drawn towards danger, like moth to flame, is a symptom of human nature, forever playing stupid games.  Humankind is never happy when things are going well, there’s always a surreptitious malcontent, who claim they’re clever, invoking occultism and spells.  But what of blairite blairism and the happy ever after theory.  Slowly evolved into commercial soup kitchens supervised by conservative hierarchy.  And that infallible mega-state, Tony so honourably predicted; morphed into a psychotic bunch of irate, self-promoting fools who are obviously twisted.  Of course, our presiding status quo are happy, well contented, in; the ensuing melee, they raised some serious money, biding their lethargic time while obscenely fat bank balances fermented.  That illiterate, affluent and insidiously greedy middle class have deduced: degenerate, negligent ghosts of our most recent past, odiously led the way and they’re more than well prepared, to blindly follow.

 

The Blueprint:

They obviously knew, capitalism naturally turns in, on itself; had to open the flood gates to inaugurate provisional groundswell.  Unfortunately, things obviously got out of hand, the recognised safeguards were negligently swept away, allowing hungry inhuman hordes to trace a now familiar track, to; a land of criminal indemnity and a free-for-all medical health service, expected to cover everyone’s back.  Now personal space is obnoxiously cramped, with a statutory obligation to share.  So as the state’s self-preservatory instinct, to contract, effectively kicks in, there’s; a disgusting under-current fermenting, deep inside the minds of crucially disaffected youth.

Plea For Innocents:

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We’re in our twenty-first century

Geographical parameters

Augur change, like continental plates

Europe is besieged by refugees

World peace absolutely teeters

Hovers on brink of devils’ estates

Society degenerated

Into one big lottery ticket

TV., somehow infatuated

Screens debilitating politics

Death is every day’s factual life

Someone, surely, must find solutions

Please explain this to World and his wife

Toothless tigers run United Nations

Assad courts his crass, bullying friend

Mr Vladimir, king of Russia

Imagine, untold hours they spend

Mercilessly bombing Syria

Innocent lives recklessly butchered

Cause even Hell’s hardest hearts to weep

Those wicked killers should be neutered

I know God’s watching, He never sleeps

 

The wickedness That is Humanity:

 

It’s hard to imagine young children playing on the battlefield but, that is exactly what is happening, in; Syria and large parts of Iraq.  My heart shrivelled, when I heard the testimony of a Yazidi woman, who had been held captive by that insidious organisation called Daesh but had, mercifully, managed to escape.  She gave a despicable report, of how these supposed defenders of religion, raped and abused hopelessly defenceless women – some of the still children – with impunity and without fear of justified retribution.  My heart went out to this woman because she revealed horrid insight which, although true, no one in their right mind would want to, honestly, share with others.  The injustices being perpetrated, in the name of God and, in some cases, regimes of reputed sovereign democratic states, brings humanity to a level of living inexcusable shame.  The United Nations is a virtually failed organisation, that seems to idly sit and watch the suffering, of: women, children, aged and defenceless have to endure.  Russia and America are well at ease, waging destructive war on other people’s territories; spreading death and destruction in places, where the youngest of children have no recourse, to safety.  Even more insidious, are the terrorists, who: bomb, kill imprison and abuse ordinary citizens, of the world, in the name of a god, who has nothing to do with Almighty God (JAH).  They rape, abuse, kill and despoil the poor defenceless of this world.  How can that sort of behaviour have anything to do with, or bear any form of relation to The True And Living God?

 

A Woo This Girl:

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Oh yes! My pretty posh baby

Groomed freshly sweet tonight

Love’s glow enchants beauty

A most fanciful serene flight

What ways hip-swayed booty

Juggle curved mounds-full

How they aggravate lust’s remedy

Pulled taught and raging like bull

As an eagle preps’, proudly soar

Silently glides ‘pon helpless prey

Kindly open heaven’s door

So those ethereal wings

May waft invisible perfumed spray

To captivate stricken victims

‘Fore delicious voice come play

Oh me!  Tentatively cocksure

This wondrous miasmic bubble

Secured hope’s timidest roar

Whilst heartbeat thumps pure trouble

Thrills beyond mere excitement

Wreak havoc on surface emotion

Under her wicked spell, no argument

Awash with growing devotion

 

Keats excelled when his literary outpourings focussed on love, leaving no doubt he knew the way to charm a woman’s heart.  The sonnet: ‘To ****,’ seems to target a particular maiden – maybe even Fanny, his heart’s desire – with declarations of sincerest love.  The poem intimates keats is suffering from debilitating illness, because his introduction cites an able bodied man: ‘ … fair form …. ‘ in comparison to his (probably) stricken condition.  Unable to physically proffer attentions of love, he resorts to the only other means at his disposal, the; sincerest flatteries with deep emotional content.  His heart is inflamed with raw passion, ‘ … so well would passion arm me …’ yet he has no heroic, or material securities to enhance his claim, for love.  His undivided attention, in evidence from the morning’s due, until the secretive eve of moonlight, ‘ … pallid face discloses … ‘ is encased in breath taking verse, which is tempered with literary spells and incantations, such as this particular poem.  There is no concrete evidence, without dates and actual placement location but, to all intents, this poem intimates the poet is in the process of wooing, probably Fanny the confirmed love of his very short life.  If Keats’ declarations of unshakeable friendship – for Leigh Hunt – are anything to reflect on, the poet thought nothing of committing intimate emotions to paper, in artistic letter form, to frame episodes of his emotional life for historical prosperity.  He makes comparisons, of himself, with able bodied heroic warmongering – thus feared – knights, and with rugged, fearless, materially sufficient shepherds, who tame the violent and unknowable night.  Keats is confident he is of fitting stature, to broach levels of social status with his undoubted literary genius.  He proclaims undying devotion, with a supposed morning ’til night vigil and when the moon rises, his literary work takes the form of spells and incantations.  It would seem, the target of his affections is Fanny but, at a time before they were actually an item, the; poet proposes himself as a fitting match, and prepares to utilize his poetic ability, in order to prove it.

 

Sonnet: ‘ TO ****,’ by John Keats.

 

Had I a man’s fair form, then might my sighs

Be echoed swiftly through that ivory shell

Thine ear, and find the gentle heart; so well

Would passion arm me for the enterprise:

But ah!  I am no knight whose foeman dies;

No cuirass glistens on my bosom’s swell;

I am no happy shepherd of the dell

Whose lips have trembled with maidens eyes

Yet must I dote upon thee – call thee sweet

Sweeter by far than Hybla’s honeyed roses

When steeped in dew rich to intoxication

Ah!  I will taste that dew, for me ’tis meet

And when the moon her pallid face discloses

I’ll gather some by spells, and incantations.

 

 

 

Getting It On:

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Sweet cherub alighted her cab

Moves stylishly crisp – one to chase

Expensively dressed angel face

Typical beauty beau should grab

Glides across seaside boulevard

Wide eyes stalk slick elegant poise

Completely at ease amongst noise

Imagine, if she parties hard

 

Started with drinks in Booty’s wine bar

Slight canoodle, nothing heavy

Sly smoking is meat, to gravy

No doubting things would stray too far

Pleated skirt keeps riding higher

Sloppy kisses, well intrusive

Mean secret probes prove conducive

To ignite flagrant desire

 

Whispers, decidedly frantic

Procrastinate from deep within

Perspiration oozed moist skin

Laboured breath soon turns erratic

Given opportunity knocks

Satisfied smiles divulge a sign

Measured strokes delivered on time

Thrust hard inside her velvet box

 

Keats unleashed a tirade of judgment against the state, in defence of Leigh Hunt.  The sonnet: ‘Written On The Day Leigh Hunt Left Prison,’ is a belated lament by the poet; extolling Hunt’s praises in celebration of his release.  The vitriol aimed at the state is pursued, right to the end of the poem, with a subjective monologue targeting the ‘minion of grandeur.’  He intimates, that: far from being disadvantaged, Hunt had used his incarceration to sharpen his intellect and increase intelligence.  He had now transformed into a poet of reputable renown.  Hunt, in his diligent studies, of great poets, had become one himself – a conviction Keats proceeded to maintain.  Hunt’s victory is declared absolute, he had embarrassed the state with his honesty and, non-the- less, had been regarded with imprisonment.  The sacrifice had, in turn, ensured Hunt returned victorious because, his literary work had attained a level of sublime genius.

In the sonnet: Keats intimates Hunt could have avoided prison – a mistaken intimation of guilt, in some sense, but the poet is proffering moral and psychological support, to his very much loved friend.  Giving a much valued insight, into elusive academic disciplines poets are supposed to homogenise, in order to become literarily successful; Keats eulogises about the level of poetic talent, his great friend had aspired to.  Hunt consistently kept company with the great Romantic poets, he was probably well esteemed, as a publisher, but at no time is he reputed to have attained, a significant level of fame and mutual respect – as a poet – amongst his celebrated contemporaries, nevertheless; Keats continued to continually sing his praises.  The poem helps to re-engage Keats’ animosity towards state authorities, and institutions.  This is a recognised trait in leading Romantic poets: Wordsworth went to war in France, whilst Byron launched an ill-conceived, ill-fated campaign to Greece; probably to exemplify the British state’s ineptitude, in failing to moralize international affairs of conscience.  Keats – true to form – vents his anger on the civil authorities; focussing on state institutions.  And, he left no conceivable doubt as to, how dear Mr Leigh Hunt was to him.

 

‘Written On The Day Leigh Hunt Left Prison.’

 

What though, for showing truth to flattered state,

Kind Hunt was shut in prison, yet has he

In his immortal spirit, been as free

As the sky-searching lark, and as elate.

Minion of grandeur!  Think you he did wait?

Think you naught but prison walls he did see,

Till, so unwilling, thou untutnedst the key?

Ah, no!  Far happier, nobler was his fate!

In Spenser’s halls he strayed, and bowers fair,

Culling enchanted flowers; and he flew

With daring Milton through the fields of air:

To regions of his own genius true

Took happy flights.  Who shall his fame impair

When thou art dead, and all thy wretched crew?

 

 

 

The soul mate:

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Friendship’s heart beats another’s chest

Reverberates your very own

Emotion’s field – true love – has sown

Declarations of fortune’s best

Through quieted souls, perturbed arrest

Deterred faith’s shame in avid haste

In lieu of most sincere embrace

Ensured upright, perchance his test

For such a one should be first choice

Whose merciful thoughts console, also

In tuneful delight you will rejoice

To unearth a beautiful fellow

 

Keats thought the world of his friend, Leigh Hunt, there can be no doubt; they were very close.  On regular evenings: poets, artists, scientists and intellectuals would congregate, for discussion and debate at Hunt’s home.  It is proven, on record, that: Wordsworth, Byron and Shelley, amongst a host of celebrity socialites, would be in attendance.  The first sonnet: ‘To Leigh Hunt, Esq.’ testifies an outpouring of emotional feeling, which the poet proffers towards, and for, his great friend’s privilege/  In the sonnet, he elevates Hunt above the status of being just a good and trusted friend.  Keats waxes lyrical on future yearnings for companionship, which is not in the least unusual, as Byron and Shelley enjoyed an even tighter relationship, whilst Wordsworth’s companionships seems to alternated between, De Quincey and Coleridge.  To emphasise an exact closeness, that could not be challenged, Keats poeticizes a whole heap of accolades, quaintly using negative descriptive evidence, to emphasise the positivity evidenced in their friendship.

‘Glory and loveliness

have passed away ….

No wreathed incense …

… Roses and pinks to adorn

… But there are left delights as high as these …

… I could please with these poor offerings

a man like thee …..

These gems of heartfelt poetry. evidence how deep the poet’s feelings were – at the time – and how far he would go toward professing declarations of lifelong friendship, for his friend.  And to how close they really were.  In the poem: the poet laments the passing of natural beauty and wonderment – most probably a retort toward city/ urban dwelling.  He berates the lack of nature’s wondrous simplicity, which previously soothed and consoled dishevelled minds.  Scented flowers and vivid imaginations of freedom, no longer adorn everyday life.  Keats defines one particular consolation though, paying homage to his friends innocent beauty and the freedom that he, Keats, enjoys; giving thanks for the friendship and solace he derives from it.  The poet leaves his reader without doubt, about how much his friend means to him and, how valued the friendship is.

 

Sonnet: To Leigh Hunt, Esq.  By, John Keats.

 

Glory and loveliness have passed away

For if we wander out in early morn

No wreathed incense do we see upborne

Into the east, to meet the smiling day

No crowds of nymphs soft voiced and young, and gay

In wooden baskets bringing ears of corn

Roses, and pinks, and violets, to adorn

The shrine of Flora in her early May

But there are left delights as high as these

And I shall ever bless my destiny,

That in time, when under pleasant trees

Pan is no longer sought, I feel free,

A leafy luxury, seeing I could please

With these poor offerings, a man like thee.

 

 

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