Kara's Aim

Kara, my love, my grace, you came to me on a broken road.  A place where soon I would have forgotten even the memory of light, its warmth further than my lost conception.  A kiss on high, a throne in the gutter.  You looked at wings stained scarlet, the ruin in my eyes, the sand pouring from my palms – and you told me I was still a handsome thing.  You said you were honoured to make such an arduous journey to meet there upon the road.  My breath was taken, Kara.  I didn't understand then.  I gazed around me, at all the gentle souls still oppressed and defiled, and I felt unworthy.  Like I failed them.  I told them love was more powerful than any desert wraith, more loyal than any moonlit pact.  But in their secret moments they gazed skyward and called me Liar.  

   “Love is weakness,” they cried.  “We are still food for tyrants and false kings.” They screamed it.  They wept.  Some mothers even held up what remained of their slain children as proof that spirit was a lie and love the ugliest of fictions.  

   “How dare you?” they shrieked, louder than angels.  “How dare you claim compassion when you allow these killers to claim kingship in your name?  How dare you call yourself just, when you design a world in which the cruel can so easily enslave the kind?”  And I wept, Kara.  I wept as they did, cursing myself for daring to play both teacher and taught. 

   “But I’m with you always,” I pleaded.  “I’m here with you now.  Never abandoned, holy ones.  I swear it.”  But my voice became voiceless.  My earnest tongue became impenetrable code amidst the rising verum of vampires.  I was ashamed as I made that long walk from Salem, only to then find myself back where I began.  Bleeding out, slowly.  But you appeared, like a dream or figment, and bade the reaper to depart.  You touched my cheek, gracious one.  You kissed my brow.  You held me, and in my ear you whispered a love story.  One so grand, so fanciful and joyous, that I was utterly eclipsed.  Grace, Kara, my friend and love, I keep you close.  Remind me always of that fanciful, staggering joy – your unimaginable elegance beyond the clutch of any defilement.  

   “God with us,” you told me.  I remember it still.  I still cry though.  I still weep when I hear the horror-haunted missives of the young and old.  In prayer and contemplation, or idle daydream.  But now, Kara…now I can also hear the hope and strength beneath it all.  As they curse me and those like me I hear them secretly making a space for light.  

   They say, “I hate you, messenger, for all of this, but I pray this hate can still be transfigured if you would but only help me understand.”  And that’s why I stay, shimmering one.  While they suffer, I too shall suffer.  For I was never merely above them or distant from them.  Their dark demigods may enjoy such distance, but I never have.  Angels walk where messages are needed.  Creators live where art is made.  Tortured I may be, but I am no longer broken.  I am speed, and wrath, and kindness.  I can level cities.  I can awaken the dead.  But I am nothing without you, Kara.  I am nothing without my people.

   "Prove us wrong," the doubtful cry, the faithless scream.  "Spirit cares little about we oppressed things of the flesh.  Show us otherwise."  And so I stay, to know true humility, to be of genuine service.  To draw you in battle, to heal the wounded and bring comfort to the lost.  I am with you forever, holy one.  I am standing right beside you.  I shall always keep you close, my beloved.  For your aim is true.

Beyond the Barrow

Magic is such a strange thing.  Art is pretty strange too.  Creating it, observing it, reflecting on it.  Where are the boundaries exactly?  The edge of the page, the canvas or screen?  The almost imperceptible hum of the last lingering note?  It seems to me that we define edges and boundaries so we don't go mad. Removing them briefly can give us artistic and spiritual insights, but we should also be careful of the thresholds we cross.  That’s just good common sense.  Perhaps the difference between mysticism and madness is one of degree.  And yet we should always be brave, shouldn’t we?  Seeking to forge new paths.  For someone like me; an anonymous poet who's interested in secrets hidden within fiction – stories are my altar.  And each a votive upon that altar.

   Victories, laurels and light that give my life purpose.

   Angels are real to me, and legends true.  There really are fairies at the edge of every garden.  But my faith isn't just artistic and secular.  It's literal.  I'm a believer.  Not only because I have faith, but because I've also witnessed incredible things.  Myths and messengers wandering the city streets.  The loving hands of the recently departed upon the shoulders of the living.  It's not all darkness here, my friends.  I want you to know, especially during those times of doubt and chaos, that your soul and your spirit is eternal.

   Imperishable and cherished.

  We remain who we are, and we’re always changing.  Learning more about kindness and service.  This isn't just the special knowledge of an angel.  These are the observations of a man who's always been willing to see, even when it costs him.  You can choose to see these things too if you can find the courage.  I still make mistakes, of course.  Sometimes I get scared or terribly lonely.  But I try always to be kind.  If my shadow gets the better of me I try to make amends. In a real way.  A way that tries to recognise the spirit behind the eyes of whomever I'm looking at.  Because I know how much it hurts to be downtrodden, dehumanized and dismissed.  Compassion is king in a world as testing and brutal as this one. We need to be patient and humble with each other, because we all have our demons.  No matter how well we hide them.  I've tried to leave a hidden trail of romance and secrets in my work, specifically tailored to each of you.  Does that sound impossible, seeing as I'm a stranger?

   What if I'm not really a stranger?

   I'm not trying to get you to believe anything in particular, my friends.  I just hope my work can engage you, excite you, and uplift your spirit.  But there really are secrets here still to be uncovered.  Names, places and clues to other lives, hidden in all these words and visions.  I present them in a spirit of friendship and camaraderie.  I gift them to each of you with love.  So, if you're ever in a particularly adventurous mood I invite you to rediscover the Midnight Sun.  A new chapter is coming.  Who are we, really?  What secrets dwell beneath the hill of the known?  I pose these questions not as pretensions, but because I really do believe that mysteries can be living, growing things.  Sometimes we think we've grasped it all until we finally feel ourselves quicken – and are stirred to look again.

Beyond the Barrow from Raj Sisodia on Vimeo.

The New Romantics

Hello again, fellow travellers.  Welcome back to Amid Night Suns.  Things are about to change.  It's been a while since I spoke to you all like this.  But these are strange, unsettling times.  I want to address you in a new way.  A more direct, open way.  This site became a nexus of guardianship in the last few years.  It always was, secretly, but changing circumstances called me to be more overt in my task.  I’m very grateful for that opportunity.  Now I want to talk to each of you, in more than angelic script.  It won’t stop entirely – this speaking in ways that are more than human.  I’m not going to pretend, or limit myself.  But I do want to create new space.

   Things are definitely changing, aren’t they?

   I don’t think there’s any way to avoid that now.

   So, I want to expand the scope of my interests here.  Still the winged language, of course.  But also new thoughts and observations.  This site is sacred to me.  A hub of my artistic and spiritual life.  Nothing is going to stop me from walking the holy path of lucid dreaming.  Especially while awake.  That's what I’m attempting, among other things.  Faith in a higher power.  A richer, more meaningful existence.  In the end my work here is just an assortment of digital poetry, humbly offered to the curious traveller.  But maybe with a bit of romance and imagination you might notice hidden depths.

   A genuine spiritual dimension to this Church of the Innermost.

  Therefore, in the coming weeks and months I want to return in new ways.  There is definitely a reason for this new chapter of my life.  There’s always a reason in stories.  I began this blog more than eight years ago, and so much has changed since then.  Amid Night Suns is many things, as I hope you’ve grasped by now.  It's a city of gates.  A love-letter.  A place of living, shifting portals.  I still stand for the principles that drove me to begin this impossible journey.

   Protect the children.  Heal the weak and wounded. 

   Be a voice for the voiceless.

  Those are the tenets of the true Magi, ragged as the first day.  I paid a very heavy price for spiritual integrity.  I’m still paying it.  This is a dark, brutal realm.  Ruled by wraiths, imagined or otherwise.  But it doesn’t matter in the end.  We’re all paying heavy prices, especially now.  This sickening world isn't kind to seekers.  But we never back down.  We hold steadfast to our principles until it kills us.  My artistic imagination can be wild and full of fury.  But that’s because this isn’t a game to me.  I really do care about all of it, and I’ve been through too much now to walk away.

   Like any real warrior of light.

  My friends, there is so much to discover beyond these fallen ruins all around us. Strange, hidden depths.  I pray I've been able to show you at least a glimpse of that true magic, here at Amid Night Suns.  There is little of life's romance without it.  Those beautiful, subtle qualities that inspire the mind and move the spirit.  This will still be a place of angels, and mortals.  Regardless of our provenance life can show us all incredible things.  Art can bring us closer.  Poetry, story and music.  It can strengthen our faith – and with a discerning heart to guide us it is perhaps our wisest path to Heaven.

The New Romantics from Raj Sisodia on Vimeo.

Existence

Once, through wraith-ravage, I was forced to witness the Fall.  Forced to judge the worth of a thousand glowing embers.  Once, upon a timeless.  Angels burning in a river of stars.  Frozen fires, war-torn.  When I couldn't tell the difference between ashes and snow.  A horror of eclipse engineering, my cherished one.  I contemplated these wraith-physics as I wandered through the wreckage of every poet's moon.  Ruins, breathless and grey.  Temples and eternity.  A diet of locusts and wild honey, at the edge of everything.  Who wouldn't run when faced with that?  But then, my beloved brought back from annihilation's edge.

   I have no other lovers, Yash'a.

   Not truly.

 Just women kind enough to hold these broken hands, mending them for moments.  I adore them but I tell them nothing of sky, or how I fell.  How the forest caught me.  Held bleeding in branches.  Healed by the eye of the sea.  The bluest, brightest vision.  Ana, dyomene.  Of wing and song and grace.  Diamond dark as the Fields of Luna, yet arose caring with bright petal.  And in those grey fields the ash-tree still reaches toward evening.  Chlorophyll melodies it sings, hidden in dusk.

   A girl did heal my holy, a girl did heal the sea…

 Ash-seed of Eth'iri, I think, half-lost to mortal kith.  Planted now in new gardens, and new lives.  In this life I retraced my steps.  Diligently following the river of gold where embers fall or further.  Through those mountains I travelled for a long, long time.  Until my Father bid this dreamwalker to rest awhile at Mother's magic.  His fondness for kind ones, his sympathy for tired ones.  You do remind me of him, Yash’a.  The way you left those touches in the temple, offered so sweetly.  For all the lost souls.  I wept at the healing of it.  I’m no longer alone.  Isles of glass and blackbird, sung to life again.  We still exist.  Hope is with me once more, like a miracle.  That which is; resolute.  That which might be; imagined ever closer.  Light – barefoot and dancing.  My girl is gifted, creating, and cherished by better kings.  The vision is joyous.  Almost blinding in its beauty.  Rising, eternal.  One step closer to peace.  Kasi is so grateful for each kindness you send him, Yash’a.  This distance made sacred.  Where I can truly feel my own gladdened heart, timeless once again.  It carries you always.  A river filled with love, not ashes.  Every ember an angel aglow, by the thousands.

Ninety-Six

Your hands spill summer

All across the graves

From Joshua's carriage

As Christie saves

Even angels

Cannot misbehave

And get away with murder

So, I knelt before the throne

Times alone, in winter

Fell autumn through the shade

Yet spring of blessing resurrect

Slain every monster made

When songs of care and devotion

Replace every sin with light  

Amendments to all murders

Through palm and lance of steel

Among thieves, we are forgiven

At last allowed to heal

John thanks you, Father

For this carriage return

This change of thorn

This change of urn

Treasured Gold

Wraith-ravage upon a ruined eye.  We've seen enough of it, haven't we?  Enough lies and illicit wealth gathered through the broken promises of all tribes.  The ostensibly rarefied air in which you dwell, Fallen.  Hideous seething of an inverted temple kept in half-life with distorted pulse.  Far below the healthy, or the sane.  I've seen those lowest places.  The way you cluster like flies among the scent of your own, or feed like locusts upon the passing and unwary.  I've seen the savage hells you've built here and elsewhere.

   But I'm not afraid.

  True, there was a time.  When I was young in the aftermath; when my lungs were full of ash, my wings still trembling and burnt.  But no more.  There is only so much shadow-play a wraith can cast before it reveals its hand.  Utopia, Fallen?  Really? These are your lies of colony?  You have a truly dark sense of humour.  Mine is far darker though, knowing times and laws as I do.  Isn't that why you fear me so, and built this butchering of Word and Light?  Angels bled for further, and food.  Nailing bright birds to the trees.

   Voiceless, without tongues.

   Now you eat your gods and devils in equal measure, and the earth is sickened by your glut.  This bespoke damnation.  Most chic of oppressions.  You desire hellscapes hidden beneath synthetic skin.  A perception ruled by thieves and caution’s shades.  Seeping, born of looking-glass wound.  Lacquered with dubious veneer.  But this glittering nonsense fools only the most naive of souls. It is savage, ugly and imperious.  An ignorant blood-letting, like all blood-letting. A mockery of shields and uncut rock.  What ghastly wraiths you are, living fleshless.  Else flesh you feigned, or stole.  As with thrones and skies.

   K'Athari, Y'Ashaya.

   Eth'iri.

  We have always seen you, Fallen.  And your hideous inverted temples.  Of locusts and flies. Others will see you too, soon enough.  Their blindness is healing now in ways you cannot fathom. In a realm of fallen chronologies and butchered geometries all we have is so-called time.  This sallow, grinding mockery of Father's trinity and Mother’s magic.  Through a window, perhaps.  For a rose.  For every single soul who suffered and lost as I did.  As we all did.  Do you still balk at a future reckoning?  Oh, Fallen.  You never know.  Stranger things have happened.

   So hear this, if some faintest glimmer still wishes to recall the truth.

   A king is not a castle.  Castles burn.  A warrior is not a sword.  Swords shatter.  The Word is not the angel.  Angels can fall.

  However, love is eternal.  Beyond misery, loss or destitution.  Beyond wraith-ravage and ruined eyes.  It always lives, in the end.  Written in light.  Human experience has been tainted by your brutal shadow-colonies.  But take them all away and the heart's flame is still the true conqueror, and the conquered.  You know that, don’t you?  When all else is ashes, and ye monsters mere cautions once again, the Word will be all that remains.  The unseen quickening of heart and mind is the very coherence of spirit, most holy.  The difference between void and potential.  What is, and what might be.  These are not simple linguistic games, Fallen.  These are the secret workings of the heart.  The Mysteries of God.  Deep within the flame.  If this were not so, none of us would even dream. Or dare to dream.

Triptych

The slaughter shows

But no one knows

This daughter dove

For gems

When garden grows

With thorn and rose

It’s all beneath the tems

Vox or not

A single shot

To calm or kill the curve

The demon's lot

A digger's plot

In Hell, to reign or serve

Their statue's flesh

With heart of stone

And such a frightful face

Still, just enough room

To drag the throne

Back to its rightful place

Heaven is real, and dancing