Moderator: EUO Moderators
From the dark corners of the hall I have seen thy apparition. We hope to see your material form in the near future, I'm sure our new members are anxious to meet thee.
A word like a guillotine quietly spoken
A young man is waiting to know all there is
His conscience will fail him, he's falling from bliss
Desires like fires, a body like doom
A clue from his spirit who stands in the room
The Oracle's words are the stand alone truths
His secrets, his past, like the pull of the noose
A message he calls to the dead ones and broken
"You can never die, for your fate has been spoken"
(This guild is the coolest ever. I wait patiently, and hope to be intitiated.)
i like to scream
And yet, I found a void in me while traveling this land.
I'd left to seek beyond myself, beyond the things I know,
Something I've forgotten in the ignorance below.
In searching for a sensless but kind elusive notion
I lost my place among your kind, and drifted on the ocean.
A fortune for an Oracle, this seemed to be my quest.
Instead found love and purpose, regarding these as best.
And then when I had found these things I set back out to sea.
For love must wait from time to time, painful it may be.
And the purpose that I found to leave it's a far cry.
To live straight through, with my head up, and simply never die.
So now with immortality I sail back into port
To a land and time I knew, my legend cut so short.
And here I find your brotherhood, one dignified and true,
A people I had spoken with and come to be close to.
The Brotherhood of Night, it is a bond as strong as steel.
Companions held in trust, through a unity so real.
I praise you now sincerley, for I truly do adrmire
The chivalry with which you all shine brighter than a fire.
But on return a wonderment burns softly in my mind.
I know what you had been before, but what do I now find?
Remember as I said before, "Truth is what I am",
And it is that which causes me to wonder what's at hand.
Who are the ones among you now, holding fast to glory?
Will I upon return find nothing left of your great your story?
So, stand before me brotherhood, I remember you so true.
Show me that you stand strong, and there is life with you.
And should there be a proud display, and once again I see
That you still stand as strong now and shine as splendidly
Then I should stand in honor to be looked upon by thee
And in my heart I keep up hope that you consider me.
For joining in your very ranks is my one strong desire.
And I would gladly prove myself with testing through great fire.
But all I ask on your behalf is if my worth I prove
I wish to see yours also, or else I shall not move.
And so I leave you with my story and my plea in kind.
I leave with hopes that brotherhood my wandering sould finds.
For though my life is one of purpose, truth my guiding star -
This void I seek to fill takes on precedence by far.
i like to scream
THE days remember and the nights remember
The kingly hours that once you made so great,
Deep in my heart they lie, hidden in their splendor,
Buried like sovereigns in their robes of state.
Let them not wake again, better to lie there,
Wrapped in memories, jewelled and arrayed—
Many a ghostly king has waked from death-sleep
And found his crown stolen and his throne decayed
by John Berry
First published in New World Writing #16 (1960)
Once there was a puny little Czech concert violinist named Rudolf,
who lived in Sweden. Some of his friends thought he was not the
best of musicians because he was restless; others thought he was
restless because he was not the best of musicians. At any rate, he
hit upon a way of making a living, with no competitors. Whether by
choice or necessity, he used to sail about Scandinavia in his
small boat, all alone, giving concerts in little seaport towns. If
he found accompanists, well and good; if not, he played works for
unaccompanied violin; and it happened once or twice that he wanted
a piano so badly that he imagined one, and then he played whole
sonatas for violin and piano, with no piano in sight.
One year Rudolf sailed all the way out to Iceland and began
working his way around that rocky coast from one town to another.
It was a hard, stubborn land; but people in those difficult places
do not forget the law of hospitality to the stranger--for their
God may decree that they too shall become strangers on the face of
the earth. The audiences were small, and even if Rudolf had been
really first-rate, they would not have been very demonstrative.
From ancient times their energy had gone, first of all, into
earnest toil. Sometimes they were collected by the local
schoolteacher, who reminded them of their duty to the names of
Beethoven and Bach and Mozart and one or two others whose music
perhaps was not much heard in those parts. Too often people sat
stolidly watching the noisy little fiddler, and went home feeling
gravely edified. But they paid.
As Rudolf was sailing from one town to the next along a sparsely
settled shore, the northeast turned black and menacing. A storm
was bearing down upon Iceland. Rudolf was rounding a bleak,
dangerous cape, and his map told him that the nearest harbor was
half a day's journey away. He was starting to worry when he saw
less than a mile off shore, a lighthouse on a tiny rock island. At
the base of the lighthouse was a deep narrow cove, protected by
cliffs. With some difficulty, in the rising seas, he put in there
and moored to an iron ring that hung from the cliff. A flight of
stairs, hewn out of the rock, led up to the lighthouse. On top of
the cliff, outlined against the scudding clouds, stood a man.
"You are welcome!" the voice boomed over the sound of the waves
that were already beginning to break over the island.
Darkness fell quickly. The lighthouse keeper led his guest up the
spiral stairs to the living room on the third floor, then busied
himself in preparation for the storm. Above all, he had to attend
to the great lamp in the tower, that dominated the whole region.
It was a continuous light, intensified by reflectors, and eclipsed
by shutters at regular intervals. The duration of light was equal
to that of darkness.
The lighthouse keeper was a huge old man with a grizzled beard
that came down over his chest. Slow, deliberate, bearlike, he
moved without wasted motion about the limited world of which he
was the master. He spoke little, as if words had not much
importance compared to the other forces that comprised his life.
Yet he was equable, as those elements were not.
After the supper of black bread and boiled potatoes, herring,
cheese and hot tea, which they took in the kitchen above the
living room, the two men sat and contemplated each other's
presence. Above them was the maintenance room, and above that the
great lamp spoke majestic, silent messages of light to the ships
at sea. The storm hammered like a battering ram on the walls of
the lighthouse. Rudolf offered tobacco, feeling suddenly immature
as he did so. The old man smiled a little as he declined it by a
slight movement of the head; it was as if he knew well the uses of
tobacco and the need for offering it, and affirmed it all, yet -
here he, too, was halfway apologetic - was self-contained and
without need of anything that was not already within his power or
to which he did not relinquish his power. And he sat there, gentle
and reflective, his great workman hands resting on outspread
It seemed to Rudolf that the lighthouse keeper was entirely aware
of all the sounds of the storm and of its violent impact upon the
lighthouse, but he knew them so well that he did not have to think
about them; they were like the involuntary movements of his own
heart and blood. In the same way, beneath the simple courtesy that
made him speak and listen to his guest in specific ways, he was
already calmly and mysteriously a part of him, as surely as the
mainland was connected with the little island, and all the islands
with one another, so commodiously, under the ocean.
Gradually Rudolf drew forth the sparse data of the old man's life:
He had been born in this very lighthouse eighty-three years
before, when his father was the lighthouse keeper. His mother -
the only woman he had ever known - had taught him to read the
Bible, and he read it daily. He had no other books.
As a musician, Rudolf had not had time to read much either - but
then, he had lived in cities. He reached down and took his beloved
violin out of its case.
"What do you make with that, sir?" the old man asked.
For a second Rudolf thought his host might be joking; but the
serenity of the other's expression reassured him. There was not
even curiosity about the instrument, but rather a whole interest
in him, the person, that included his "work." In most
circumstances Rudolf would have found it hard to believe that
there could exist someone who did not know what a violin was; yet
now he had no inclination to laugh. He felt small and inadequate.
"I make - music with it," he stammered in a low voice.
"Music," the old man said ponderously. "I have heard of it. But I
have never seen music."
"One does not see music. One hears it."
"Ah, yes," the lighthouse keeper consented, as it were with
humility. This too was in the nature of things wherein all works
were wonders, and all things were known eternally and were
poignant in their transiency. His wide gray eyes rested upon the
little fiddler and conferred upon him all the importance of which
any individual is capable.
Then something in the storm and the lighthouse and the old man
exalted Rudolf, filled him with compassion, and love and a
spaciousness infinitely beyond himself. He wanted to strike a work
of fire and stars into being for the old man. And, with the storm
as his accompanist, he stood and began to play--the Kreutzer
Sonata of Beethoven.
The moments passed, moments that were days in the creation of that
world of fire and stars; abysses and heights of passionate
struggle, the idea of order, and the resolution of these in the
greatness of the human spire. Never before had Rudolf played with
such mastery--or with such an accompanist. Waves and wind beat the
tower with giant hands. Steadily above them the beacon blazed in
its sure cycles of darkness and light. The last note ceased and
Rudolf dropped his head on his chest, breathing hard. The ocean
seethed over the island with a roar as of many voices.
The old man had sat unmoving through the work, his broad gnarled
hands resting on his thighs, his head bowed, listening massively.
For some time he continued to sit in silence. Then he looked up,
lifted those hands calmly, judiciously, and nodded his head.
"Yes," he said. "That is true."
The Wizard Way by Aleister Crowley
Velvet soft the night-star glowed
Over the untrodden road,
Through the giant glades of yew
Where its ray fell light as dew
Lighting up the shimmering veil
Maiden pure and aery frail
That the spiders wove to hide
Blushes of the sylvan bride
Earth, that trembled with delight
At the male caress of Night.
Velvet soft the wizard trod
To the Sabbath of his God.
With his naked feet he made
Starry blossoms in the glade,
Softly, softly, as he went
To the sombre sacrament,
Stealthy stepping to the tryst
In his gown of amethyst.
Earlier yet his soul had come
To the Hill of Martyrdom,
Where the charred and crooked stake
Like a black envenomed snake
By the hangman's hands is thrust
Through the wet and writhing dust,
Never black and never dried
Heart's blood of a suicide.
He had plucked the hazel rod
From the rude and goatish god,
Even as the curved moon's waning ray
Stolen from the King of Day.
He had learnt the elvish sign;
Given the Token of the Nine:
Once to rave, and once to revel,
Once to bow before the devil,
Once to swing the thurible,
Once to kiss the goat of hell,
Once to dance the aspen spring,
Once to croak, and once to sing,
Once to oil the savoury thighs
Of the witch with sea-green eyes
With the unguents magical.
Oh the honey and the gall
Of that black enchanter's lips
As he croons to the eclipse
Mingling that most puissant spell
Of the giant gods of hell
With the four ingredients
Of the evil elements;
Ambergris from golden spar,
Musk of ox from Mongol jar,
Civet from a box of jade,
Mixed with fat of many a maid
Slain by the inchauntments cold
Of the witches wild and old.
He had crucified a toad
In the basilisk abode,
Muttering the Runes averse
Mad with many a mocking curse.
He had traced the serpent sigil
In his ghastly virgin vigil.
Sursum cor! the elfin hill,
Where the wind blows deadly chill
From the world that wails beneath
Death's black throat and lipless teeth.
There he had stood - his bosom bare -
Tracing Life upon the Air
With the crook and with the flail
Lashing forward on the gale,
Till its blade that wavereth
Like the flickering of Death
Sank before his subtle fence
To the starless sea of sense.
Now at last the man is come
Haply to his halidom.
Surely as he waves his rod
In a circle on the sod
Springs the emerald chaste and clean
From the duller paler green.
Surely in the circle millions
Of immaculate pavilions
Flash upon the trembling turf
Like the sea-stars in the surf -
Millions of bejewelled tents
For the warrior sacraments.
Vaster, vaster, vaster, vaster,
Grows the stature of the master;
All the ringed encampment vies
With the infinite galaxies.
In the midst a cubic stone
With the Devil set thereon;
Hath a lamb's virginal throat;
Hath the body of a stoat;
Hath the buttocks of a goat;
Hath the sanguine face and rod
Of a goddess and a god!
Spell by spell and pace by pace!
Mystic flashes swing and trace
Velvet soft the sigils stepped
By the silver-starred adept.
Back and front, and to and fro,
Soul and body sway and flow
In vertiginous caresses
To imponderable recesses,
Till at last the spell is woven,
And the faery veil is cloven
That was Sequence, Space, and Stress
Of the soul-sick consciousness.
"Give thy body to the beasts!
Give thy spirit to the priests!
Break in twain the hazel rod
On the virgin lips of God!
Tear the Rosy Cross asunder!
Shatter the black bolt of thunder!
Suck the swart ensanguine kiss
Of the resolute abyss!"
Wonder-weft the wizard heard
This intolerable word.
Smote the blasting hazel rod
On the scarlet lips of God;
Trampled Cross and rosy core;
Brake the thunder-tool of Thor;
Meek and holy acolyte
Of the priestly hells of spite,
Sleek and shameless catamite
Of the beasts that prowl the night!
Like a star that streams from heaven
Through the virgin airs light-riven,
From the lift there shot and fell
An admirable miracle.
Carved minute and clean, a key
Of purest lapis-lazuli
More blue than the blind sky that aches
(Wreathed with the stars, her torturing snakes),
For the dead god's kiss that never wakes;
Shot with golden specks of fire
Like a virgin with desire.
Look, the levers! fern-frail fronds
Of fantastic diamonds,
Glimmering with ethereal azure
In each exquisite embrasure.
On the shaft the letters laced,
As if dryads lunar-chaste
With the satyrs were embraced,
Spelled the secret of the key:
Sic pervenias. And he
Went his wizard way, inweaving
Dreams of things beyond believing.
When he will, the weary world
Of the senses closely curled
Like a serpent round his heart
Shakes herself and stands apart.
So the heart's blood flames, expanding,
Strenuous, urgent, and commanding;
And the key unlocks the door
Where his love lives evermore.
She is of the faery blood;
All smaragdine flows its flood.
Glowing in the amber sky
To ensorcelled porphyry
She hath eyes of glittering flake
Like a cold grey water-snake.
She hath naked breasts of amber
Jetting wine in her bed-chamber,
Whereof whoso stoops and drinks
Rees the riddle of the Sphinx.
She hath naked limbs of amber
Whereupon her children clamber.
She hath five navels rosy-red
From the five wounds of God that bled;
Each wound that mothered her still bleeding,
And on that blood her babes are feeding.
Oh! like a rose-winged pelican
She hath bred blessed babes to Pan!
Oh! like a lion-hued nightingale
She hath torn her breast on thorns to avail
The barren rose-tree to renew
Her life with that disastrous dew,
Building the rose o' the world alight
With music out of the pale moonlight!
O She is like the river of blood
That broke from the lips of the bastard god,
When he saw the sacred mother smile
On the ibis that flew up the foam of Nile
Bearing the limbs unblessed, unborn,
That the lurking beast of Nile had torn!
So (for the world is weary) I
These dreadful souls of sense lay by.
I sacrifice these impure shoon
To the cold ray of the waning moon.
I take the forked hazel staff,
And the rose of no terrene graff,
And the lamp of no olive oil
With heart's blood that alone may boil.
With naked breast and feet unshod
I follow the wizard way to God.
Wherever he leads my foot shall follow;
Over the height, into the hollow,
Up to the caves of pure cold breath,
Down to the deeps of foul hot death,
Across the seas, through the fires,
Past the palace of desires;
Where he will, whether he will or no,
If I go, I care not whither I go.
For in me is the taint of the faery blood.
Fast, fast its emerald flood
Leaps within me, violent rude
Like a bestial faun's beatitude.
In me the faery blood runs hard:
My sires were a druid, a devil, a bard,
A beast, a wizard, a snake and a satyr;
For - as my mother said - what does it matter?
She was a fay, pure of the faery;
Queen Morgan's daughter by an aery
Demon that came to Orkney once
To pay the Beetle his orisons.
So, it is I that writhe with the twitch
Of the faery blood, and the wizard itch
To attain a matter one may not utter
Rather than sink in the greasy splutter
Of Britons munching their bread and butter;
Ailing boys and coarse-grained girls
Grown to sloppy women and brutal churls.
So, I am off with staff in hand
To the endless light of the nameless land.
Darkness spreads its sombre streams,
Blotting out the elfin dreams.
I might haply be afraid,
Were it not the Feather-maid
Leads me softly by the hand,
Whispers me to understand.
Now (when through the world of weeping
Light at last starrily creeping
Steals upon my babe-new sight,
Light - O light that is not light!)
On my mouth the lips of her
Like a stone on my sepulchre
Seal my speech with ecstasy,
Till a babe is born of me
That is silent more than I;
For its inarticulate cry
Hushes as its mouth is pressed
To the pearl, her honey breast;
While its breath divinely ripples
The rose-petals of her nipples,
And the jetted milk he laps
From the soft delicious paps,
Sweeter than the bee-sweet showers
In the chalice of the flowers,
More intoxicating than
All the purple grapes of Pan.
Ah! my proper lips are stilled.
Only, all the world is filled
With the Echo, that drips over
Like the honey from the clover.
Passion, penitence, and pain
Seek their mother's womb again,
And are born the triple treasure,
Peace and purity and pleasure.
- Hush, my child, and come aloft
Where the stars are velvet soft!
The winds blow chill
Upon the hills
The leaves they are a turnin'!
Autumn's here so let's drink beer
The Harvest will be filled with cheer
We'll break our backs a workin'!
The fields we've sown
With plough and hoe
Now's the time for reaping!
Barley and wheat, the grains are sweet
Bread and brew can't be beat
Our bounty will be heaping!
Ceres be praised!
Fine crops She's raised
We'll not hunger this cold season
The bare trees' pall and deep snow fall
Won't bother us inside our Hall
We're all friends for a reason!
The winds blow chill
Upon the hills
The leaves they are a turnin'
Autumn's here so let us cheer
Winter's touch we will not fear
The fire we'll keep burning!
The ghosts of all things past parade,
Emerging from the mist and shade
That hid them from our gaze,
And, full of song and ringing mirth,
In one glad moment of rebirth,
And again they walk the ways of earth
As in the ancient days.
The beacon light shines on the hill,
The will-o'-wisps the forests fill
With flashes filched from noon;
And witches on their broomsticks spry
Speed here and yonder in the sky,
And lift their strident voices high
Unto the Hunter's Moon.
The air resounds with tuneful notes
From myriads of straining throats,
All hailing Folly Queen;
So join the swelling choral throng,
Forget your sorrow and your wrong,
In one glad hour of joyous song
To honor Hallowe'en!
- Post in swahili or SHUT THE FUCK UP!
- Posts: 218
- Joined: Thu May 13, 2004 12:25 pm
- Location: Coleman, Texas
A Visit from St. Nick by Clement Clarke Moore
'Twas the night before Christmas,when all through the house
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse;
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there;
The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads;
And Mama in her 'kerchief, and I in my cap,
Had just settled our brains for a long winter's nap;
When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.
The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow,
Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below,
When, what to my wondering sight should appear,
But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny rein-deer,
With a little old driver, so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick.
More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name;
"Now, Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer and Vixen!
On, Comet! on, Cupid! on, Donder and Blitzen!
To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall!
Now dash away! dash away! dash away all!"
As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky;
So up to the house-top the coursers they flew,
With the sleigh full of Toys, and St. Nicholas too.
And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof,
The prancing and pawing of each little hoof—
As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound.
He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot;
A bundle of Toys he had flung on his back,
And he look'd like a pedlar just opening his pack.
His eyes—how they twinkled! his dimples how merry!
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
And the beard of his chin was as white as the snow;
The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath;
He had a broad face and a little round belly,
That shook when he laughed, like a bowlfull of jelly.
He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf,
And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself;
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread;
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And fill'd all the stockings; then turned with a jerk,
And laying his finger aside of his nose,
And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose;
He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.
But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight,
"Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night."
I wish you all the best. If I'm lucky I'll be able to see some of you you in-game tomorrow.