Category Archives: Anagnorisis

“Happenstance”

Catherine Manchester

“Happenstance”

Happenstance and glory of a measured breath, the sun and moon
And distant scintillating light deranged and rearranged
To suite the insignificance of magnificence of a single scene and page.
Another sentence, a paragraph in which I find myself within a backlit room
To mark the hours the Doppler shadows all misfortune casts.
I have revelled in these signs, these periodic tedious monotonies,
Their very rising at once the thrall before the fall, monopolies
Of time and times again that only now appear to mask
Because when all that is has come to pass I happen to be standing here
A witness to creation’s synergies newly birthed. In the cold stare
Of noonish sunlight I sense with fragile accuracy the beneficial glare
Of all my peculiars, entities and particles that occupy the ear,
Delight the eye, and not so subtly remind me that I am,
And need not doubt the ground on which I stand.

…painting by Catherine Manchester…

“With Abruptness”

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“With Abruptness”

With abruptness comes the uplifted fist, a draught of curt cessation
Of hostilities. Enter parados, the tenuous hymn, a nervous truce enforced
By dreams that hearts cannot discern nor in the discourse
Is it possible for speech to register a plea. Listing on a sea of abnegation—
Content, superfluous ballast—the stuff of odes leach sadness
In the breach for fear  that smothers
Second thoughts, shuns advice and admonition and all evidence on the floor
withdrawn from all others.
Comes a welling of selflessness for simple gladness
Sealed in radiant acquiescence, futures steeped in martyrs’ crimson inks
at first stirrings of anagnorisis. Here dwells dull
But conscious resignation to what appears to be defeat of all mottoes
Writ in luminous capitals: “The Thing’s Not Working!” And in the grotto,
Then, the chorus spells the penultimate invocation; the last bull;
The space between the lines, in turn the very eye of so vainglorious a day:
“This cannot come to good! Fools react where wisdom merely prays.

“He’s Competent Enough”

superstition-mountains-saija-lehtonen

“He’s Competent Enough”

He’s competent enough,
His purposes, deception; to lure, to entice;
His blessings’ victims savour His advice;
His beauteous summons–roughly
Marked behind a phrase; everywhere
A preposition–redundant, simple superstition,
Hired, inspired, peerless in its erudition.
His words herald neither faith nor certitude, declare
His recusal from all beginnings which
Have no memory to ends that
Bear no fruit. His tapestries, exquisite,
Hung like Grendel’s arm upon the great oak door, each brilliant stitch
Hangs limpid there, its stench a hint of the silent letter of blasphemy
And all that raises Heorot here where mortals live and death is immortality.

…photograph by Saija Lehtonen…

“And Who Is He?”

mirror9screen

“And Who Is He?”

And who is he if not an image in the hall
Alone with nothing but the furniture—
A stick or two—perhaps a glass of pure
Remorse for what’s past, and then the call
To what may just begin to reappear,
A possibility for some few hours in the sun?
The measure of a man is not his run
Of fortune nor a portion of a clear
And fruitful day among the multitudes,
But what he must achieve when face to face
With his own image and position placed
Before the judge of judges in the crude
Efficiency of gazing in the mirror all alone:
A man in crowds is not the man he is at home.

“Their Comfort”

Willaim Shakespeare  [1564-1616]

“Their Comfort”

Their comfort comes from stations on the bank
Of all great rivers—their trubutaries, benchmarks, watersheds
And monuments to past and present zeitgeists; their glories led
By strange humility in masters whose histories are blank
About whom generations cavil and invoke
In lesser moments of a meaner age that lean toward
More prosaïc goals, gilded frames made equal to the framed to ward
Off periodic national stagnation in swarms as guilds of artisans. They must evoke
A wonder in the people that makes them wondrous and close upon an awe
Amongst the gods.  In the end such suns disperse such light
As cannot be masked nor can the transitory might
Of kings suppress such eagles, neither nets nor censors, nor the law.
And here lies Shakespeare, Father of the modern text in torrents at the summit
Of tongues that roar so loud and thunder in the index. A moment, then, when
Pausing in the atrium, the job is done, and there’s no real choice
But rest and calibrate the immediate that cannot last; tasks, last of many, voiced
Throughout years of waste and work will one day send
A massive missive of relief, the wages of a single flaw with thanks
To weighty sentiments and fond farewells with perhaps a single sequel; cheer
And weathered pride allied to see me on beyond, and further than fear
To take a few steps–arrogantly, yes, perhaps–fresh tracks on paths that rank
Above all present trumps and peculiars of this earth:
I have the fewer moments through to the end,. Yes, I know
And will it so or else the hours devour the weekly flow
Of days and nights to prove life’s lavas’ heat and light  have spent their worth.
Yes, again, and what of miseries in days beyond this present strife,
Born within the darkness of the first, the energies of the present,  laced with beauties far beyond the simple dénouement and all heroïc gestures seen here
but dimly in the mirror of the diamond prism of that third and better life?