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Rescriptions of Love, Sadness, Joy, and Hope, from David
1. This Only This
In the garden, heard through the large open window, the birds
having sensed the onset of Spring sing as they sing at this most
glorious time of year. And I, I overwhelmed again by the sadness
emanating even here from my knowing of the suffering-causing
personal deeds of my past. So many, so many I had not thought to
count so many - until now. So many how could I while buoyed by
hubris have hurt that many? So much deception, so many lies,
while they - the friends, family, wives, lovers - trusted with
that goodness born of heavenly-human hope.
No prayers, no supplication, to wash away, remove, the manifold
stains. If only, if only I (as once, those several times)
believed, so that penance, absolution - embraced - might bring
the chance to dream, to-be, to see, to love again. But no
apologies possible nor by they desired, for they are gone -
deceased, or lost those many years ago; no words sufficient, of
meaning, to redeem a memory of such a scarring pain.
No mechanism, manufactured, to return before the time of such
hurtful hurting with such knowing as so bends me now, down, down
and kneeling sans any means of prayer. Only emotion falling,
fallen, keeping such memories as some music makes numinously
plaintive the joy the pain, century folding folded to century
while they the multitudinous I's made the good the trusting
suffer. No past of expiations. No Spring of goodness to burgeon
forth to herald they through pathei-mathos changed.
Which is why, perhaps, so many still need desire - to trust in -
God. For there is this only this: to write to rest to sleep to
dream to cease to feel. And the world will still be there when I
2. This Flow of Feelings
The truth is that I am not able to contain, restrain, the sorrow,
the sadness felt through this knowing of my multitudinous mistakes.
Unable: and so I am become, am now, only a flowing of moments
remembered with such a ferocity of engagement that I am there,
There... to smell, to feel, the sultry freshness of warm
Spring morning when off I cycled to work some twelve miles distant
and she, first wife, was left to cry in loneliness, alone: no
ending to that argument the dark night before as I in selfish
concentration enjoyed the greening grass of vergeful country
lanes, the birdful treeful songs, passing as they passed while the
clouds above that brought the heavy warming rain depart. So glad
then to be alone again among and cycling such peaceful Shropshire
Only now - only now - knowing feeling how I should have returned to
clasp her in my arms and be the love she then so needed. To late
this seeing far beyond such selfish self as kept me then so blind.
The truth of there, again:
There... where the warmth of English Summer took to us
seat ourselves in picnic beside the river Avon flowing as it
flowed through rural counties. You - new wife, for our family
living; while I - for ideations that I carried in the silly
headpiece of my head, so that I with misplaced stupid passion
could only talk of strife, somewhere. You, breathing hope as the
very breeze breathed such warmth as kept us slim of clothes...
And only now - only now - knowing feeling how I should have embraced
you there to return in sameness the gentle love so freely given for
years until my selfish self so self-absorbed rightly broke your
patience down. Far too late now my seeing far beyond such selfish
self as kept me then so subsumed with ideations.
The truth I am reborn there, again:
There... where Fran stood beside her whiteful door as
morning broke that late Spring day when I with firm resolve turned
to take myself away: no doubt, no love, to still such hurt as
walked me then. No empathy from sadful eyes to turn me back to try
to try to try in love again. Instead - only such selfish hope as
moved me far to meadow fields of farm where warm Sun kept me
still, and smiling, while she remained bereft abandoned to lay
herself down until her breath of life left her: no hand, no love,
of mine to save her there where she died silent, slow, in
Only now - only now - knowing feeling so intensely how I should have
stayed: love before all excuses.
Thus, such a flow of such demeaning memories as make my present no
presentiment of so many pasts: so much unforgivable, unliveable now
- that I become my tears of failing to hope to sleep to dream to
still this flow of feelings.
But there is no present - only moments with which to mesmerise
myself, as when the Blackbird beyond this window sings and I am
there, there again on meadow-fields of farm where work and living
kept me safe, secluded, for five full years and more. Such peace,
such hope, until death of Fran came to claim me for the failure that
made me who and what I was and am.
For the truth is of failure;
my failure of so many years and decades past. To fail to simply love
to dream to hope as they my loves so loved in dreamful hope as kept
them made them far better beings than I in insolent pride ever was
or even now could ever hope or dream to be. No faith, no deity, no
sacrament of absolution now to charm away, explain, redeem such a
feckless selfish failure. Only more remorseful days - and darkful
nights - alone that bear some winsome hope of words as this in
weaksome recompense for wreakful storm I was upon those lives when
I, dark tempest, tore their fragile human hopes asunder.
To die, here now, is easy: one example from far too many, with
nothing here for needful Pride to gorge myself upon, again. Only
such a flow of such demeaning memories as make my present no excuse
for the stupid arrogance of such a prideful past. Only a hope for
this example to void for one - some others - such ideation as kept
and made me slave; one unreligious allegory for perchance not so
If you came this way,
Taking any route, starting from anywhere,
At any time or at any season,
It would always be the same
I am no exception. So, perhaps, five thousand years remain before
our species - whimpering after such bouleversements as still befits
us now - fails, to fall, to perish, to be replaced: unless we
change. But how?
The truth is, I have no answers. I only live other than I have
lived, in empyrean hope of abatement of suffering, somewhere,
somehow: and knowing a shared, loyal, love for the beautiful, the
numinous, truth it is.
3. A Time To Reflect
A time to reflect as I – tired from long days of manual work –
sit in the garden watching the clouds clear to bring some warm Sun
on this windy day of a coldish wind. On the horizon to the South:
Cumulus clouds billowing up to herald more showers, and I, for a
moment as a child again, watch a few cloud-faces change to
disperse; as if the clouds are for that moment, just that one
moment, a memory of a person who lived, once, on this Earth:
reaching out to be remembered as they the cloud move as they are
moved in their so-brief and new existence.
The hedgerows are greening; the branches of trees coming into
leaf, and life is renewed while I wait for the Swallows to return,
here, to this Farm. This is Life: in its purest truth devoid of
the empathy-destroying, suffering-causing, abstractions that we
humans have manufactured to blight this planet and so grievously
injure our fecund still beautiful but now suffering Mother Earth
who gives us, and who gave us, life.
The brief warm Sun renews as it almost always does for me, and so
– for this moment, this one moment – I am happy, again; feeling
the measure of Meaning, of happiness, of joy itself; which is in a
simple just-being, sans
thought, and beyond the dependency of, the addiction to, anger…..
Here – the child, again; free to watch the bee bumble from flower
to flower; free to feel a certain playful awe. Here, the concern
with only what is seen, touched, known, smelt, in the immediacy of
There should be nothing more; nothing to wreck such simple being;
nothing to bring the-suffering. But I, we, are stupid, weak, vain,
addicted – and so in our failing repeat and repeat and repeat the
same mistakes, and so cause and maintain the pain of our, of
their, of other, suffering. Mea Culpa; Mea Culpa; Mea Maxima
4. Bright Berries, One Winter
Winter, three days before that celebration that marks a certain
Et hoc vobis signum:
Inveniétis infántem pannis involútum,
et pósitum in præsépio.
Outside, snow, and a cold wind below a clouded sky - and, there,
that partly snow-covered bush of bright berries which hungry
Thrushes eat to perhaps keep themselves alive. So many Thrushes, in
one place: nine, eleven, gathering on the bare if snowy branches of
a nearby taller tree, to descend down to feed, three, five, four, at
Et súbito facta est cum Angelo multitúdo
laudántium Deum, et dicéntium:
Glória in altíssimis Deo, et in terra pax
homíinibus bonæ voluntátis.
Inside, musick - reproduced by some modern means. Musick over five
centuries old, bringing such a strange melding of feeling, dreams,
memory, and thought. Musick, by Dunstable - Preco preheminencie,
perhaps one of the most beautiful pieces ever written, bringing thus
deep personal feelings.
Now, I cannot seem to help the tears that seep slowly forth (again)
from closing eyes, as - far beyond such bounds as causal Time keeps
us moving - I am replete, overflowed by memories from such lifeful
strange lives as have lived me, here:
... there, as she my Sue lay so softly breathing in her
bed, my hand to her hand, to watch her sleep to seep
hour-long-slowly there past the ending of her life...
There, as another love from
another life that lived me ran, freshly seeping forth from train,
along that crowded platform to leap to welcoming arms while people
stared, some smiling, and the warmth of bodies touching announced
the ending of our exile, of that month of her travelling...
There, one monk - with such
profusion of faith as so infused me then - who knelt, kneels,
after Compline in that lovely Chapel before carved centuries-old
statue of the Blessed Virgin Mary, feeling such peace as led me
back in such respectful reposeful silence to that my cell to sleep
Before other lives came to
so sadly betake that boyish man away, back to his addiction to
such suffering-causing abstractions as would, decades, later,
almost break him as she - my Frances of eighteen months together -
so then suffused with such tragic fullsome sadness-regret-despair
that her slim delicate fingers, no longer to tenderly warmly touch
her lover's face, became transformed: a means to betake her, alone
lonely, past the ending of her life after I had so selfishly left
her that one MayMorn...
So many tears, each some memory seeping sadly joyfully poignantly
forth even as so many wait, waiting, ready to heave forth; dormant,
seeds needing to bring hence new life as each new Spring becomes
some youthful ageing deedful wordful presencing of this one life
which is my life until such Time as this emanation also passes
beyond that fated Ending who lies in wait to take us all.
Thus am I
humbled, once more, by such knowing feeling of the burden made from
my so heavy past; so many errors, mistakes. So many to humble me
here, now, by such profusion as becomes prehension of centuries past
and passing, bringing as such a passing does such gifts of they now
long beyond life's ending who crafted from faith, feeling,
experience, living, love, those so rich presents replete with
meaning; presenting thus to us if only for a moment - fleeting as
Thrush there feeding - that knowing of ourselves as beings who by
empathy, life, gifts, and love, can cease to be some cause of
For no longer is there such a need - never was there such a need -
to cause such suffering as we, especially I, have caused. For are
not we thinking thoughtful beings - possessed of the numinous will
But my words, my words - so unlike such musick - fail: such finite
insubstantial things; such a weak conduit for that flowing of
wordless feeling that, as such musick, betakes us far out beyond our
causal selves to where we are, can be, should be, must be, the
non-interfering beauty of a moment; a sublime life seeking only to
so gently express that so gentle love that so much faith has
sometimes so vainly so tried to capture, express, and manifest; as
when that boyish man as monk past Compline knelt in gentleness to
feel to become such peace, such a human happiness, as so many others
have felt centuries past and present, one moment flowing so
numinously to another.
No need, no Time - before this one weakful emanation ends, in ending
- to berate, condemn, such love, need and faith as may betake so
many in just three days to celebrate such birth as touched, touches,
them, and others still. So much good, gentleness, there, and from;
and so much suffering, caused, while the centuries past, leeching,
meshed one suffering to another.
Does the numinous, presencing, there, now outweigh such suffering,
caused - as I, my past, might must outweigh what wordful presents
Fate begifts me, now?
I do not know: only see the emanations, nexing, melding: a bush of
berries to keep life alive through Winter. Our choice, our need -
here, now; as the Thrushes there have no choice, now, as mid-Winter
came to bleaken with snowy cold that world that is their world.
For it is for us, surely, to treasure such gifts, given - to feel
then be the gift, given.
22 December 2010
A Rejection of Extremism
cc David Myatt 2007-2012
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NASA – Earth and Moon as seen from the departing
Voyager interplanetary spacecraft
Botticelli - Madonna del Magnificat