Those pages in the river are there
for a reason, my love. I place them to
calm the wake and soothe the tides. Pages
and songs. I think you still do it too,
on occasion. When the heart yearns. When the forests hush and the grey light is
just so. Tattooed leaves, passing
secrets. Still whispered to this day. Hidden and half-hidden. Leaves from a broken book of shadows; a tome
of once-wed promise. Those losses and
lake-beds. Exorcising the agonies of
Akasha's Fall. Mika's war, and the storm. I miss you but it's enough for me to watch
you grow, free of all this. Free of the
veils of darker fay. Sisters and
silences. Let me be the one to hold
Markana’s gaze. You know I have the will
and the strength. Even in this mortal
flesh. Trailing songs of Mithriin, Talis
and Caedmon. From the old world to the
new. I've long since prayed that heaven
would grant you peace, my cherished, and recall your prince to clarion. I was answered despite the complications of
this war. And so, I give thanks every
morning to the watchful sky. Now we
patiently tithe, don’t we? With our wonders
and our work. We wait amidst wilding stars. A thousand held by the chalice of shores. As our Father's key, our Mother's revelation. This sacred oath. Hearing those melodies beneath the water. Harrowing the black beneath the sun.
Amid Night Suns
Neither shall they say, Lo here! or, lo there! for, behold, the kingdom of God is within you.
Saturday, 3 April 2021
Somerset
Monday, 29 March 2021
A Beautiful River
These are the years without summer,
aren’t they? The Floralia without
spring. Spatium, tempus. Serpentine.
Places of night's amnion, cradling every broken ladder of Jacob. Dark, secret work. Full of changelings and grief, as the keepers
of Absentia want it forever. But we were
never the same, Kiskuh. I was only a
boy. An innocent, and you mocked me
terribly. Kasi will never be a bard of
war despite those scars. Your favoured
glories of the shattered trench are all your own.
I want none of it. Bombed grammar
and sinister psychologies. Divine fires,
stolen. Always the appetites of the
elect. Prometheus, Polidori,
Vampyr. Such frightening decadence on
these banks of the belle rive, my sister.
But it takes no skill at all to detune the instruments of sky or storytelling. And yet, I'm still taken with the shining
form you so brazenly stole from my fair one.
My cherished. Blue of those
eyes. Curve of that mouth and breast. Turn of those hips. I suppose it’s enough to give you a brief measure
of my attention. Ever the pragmatist is
this wilding wolf. I'm sure you
understand, my red-robed wraith. But I
do recall your true face. Winter,
dark-haired. Beautiful and vicious. Like a king’s mistress. Oh, Kiskuh.
I want to share something with you.
Something you really should have grasped by now. Something you still haven't the heart nor
wherewithal to understand on your own. The
speaker will live unencumbered, eventually. She will heal from these ravages in a quieter,
gentler place. A place of spring, and
summer. I watch you and your acolytes
flee from that place like cowards, because you are all dead. On the inside. And you’re running out of time. Do you even grasp this foretelling, daughter
of rain? The struggles of my kith are
private despite the horrors of your looking-glass. Abomination technologies. The petty, silvered skins of the half-light
cults. My family shall not be robbed of
their dignity, and my beloved is so much more than a living sacrifice. She is a shining spirit of the eternal
hallow. Her tears are not a matter of state or celebration. We angels watch over all the kind ones,
everywhere. I was never among your
bitter poets of Los. Not even when we
were lovers. Hear me, witch. Lillibeta has a garden grown. Bells and shells and pretty maids. A mother's magic, you might say. Fidelia, Speranza, Charissa. Guardians
of the living Praesentiam. And what of Esme?
Oh, she survived the fire and the
humiliation. I told you, didn't I? I told you who I was even in the
beginning. But you didn't really listen. You were prideful. Seduced.
Blind and deaf. Mea Culpa, dark
one. And I am laughing at you still. A thousand cuts were found upon my flesh, yet
not a mark upon her beautiful spirit. Do
you understand me now, elect of Vorteth?
What I’m capable of? Incanto
Dolorosa, my fallen Florentine. Like a
black star. I want you to know that I
shall meet you at the end of all things. Your executioner, upon cathedral stone. I shall be standing in the ashes of every divine
fire. And you will know me at last. There shall be no mercy, or remorse. You're not the only pale raven of the hidden
folk. Not by half. I too am a shapeshifter. There are still flowers on the shore of these
thousand stars. There is still dancing
in the distant fields, Kiskuh. Life
belongs to love, and laughter. You know
nothing of your Father, do you? Or your
son.
Thursday, 25 March 2021
States of Grace
It can be daunting sometimes, having
faith. Choosing to believe in things you
can't see. Things for which there is
apparently no evidence. Like dreams, or
poetry. But then, there are so many
things in the human experience that we’re willing to take on faith. Love, and the promise of love. And what is strange coincidence to one is often
evidence of something more to another. Things
we feel but can't explain. We decide our
axioms in the end, don't we? Or in the
beginning. The premise upon which we
structure and organise our perceptions. We all ask ourselves these questions;
interrogating phenomena that seem to exist on the edge of what is possible. The unseen realm. Legitimate and real, or mere fable? Nobody wants to be made a fool, I suppose, or
seen as frivolous and gullible. Kasi
does understand. As a general rule
mortals tend to treasure their sobriety of thought. But there are many kinds of treasure. Especially to an angel. A shining one. Such entities aren’t supposed to exist,
especially here in this disenchanted modernity. But exist we do, everywhere. In many forms. These false chronologies have darkened our
light and lineage, turning radiant into wraith. Yet fragments of the old ways still remain. Those most gentle ways of tenderness, beauty
and valour. Before the crowning of the
altered sun; the brutal, violent cosmology that has enslaved us all. But even that prideful star shall only reign
for a time. The true radiant will
reclaim the throne eventually. Mark
these words, betrayers. We magi have
long been incanting the true spirits of the fire, the forests and the rivers. The living, fluttering songs of the air. Pieces of heaven. Not your dark imposters claiming
kingship. These are matters beyond your
understanding. Knowledge of higher
thought and synergy. Articles of faith,
where love reigns eternal. Our homeland
of the heart.
Sunday, 14 March 2021
Nocturne
Fallen, what if at last I shared with
you a rather private truth? Would you deem it a beautiful or frightening
revelation? I've spoken of secret things
before, but not like this. Would you
even hear me, or understand what you're hearing? I am more than my Father's most terrible
angel. I think you grasp this by now. I am mortal, like those you despise. But
I'm also the twilit hush of dawning dusk. The indrawn breath. The fleeting glimpse. I too was a father, once. And a mother. The eternal tides of
Amnion. Naught but the trick of my
patron's patrons in the end. The cradle
and the life. The lake and the
lake-bed. Surely I’m not Endymion, locked in dreaming raptures of Selene's
ghost-flower? But perhaps I’m near
enough those rhythms of the poet's moon. Palest silver of the Night Star. The hidden ecology of all Fay. More than Man or machine. Beyond war and tales of war. I'll say it plainly; this beautiful,
frightening revelation. You never should
have raised your fucking hand to the one who carried me. The one who loved me even whilst heaven itself
was burning. You understand little of
the lines you've crossed and the price I will force you to pay. By the arch of my mother's bow, I swear. I've had enough of watching you replace priests with wraith-familiars, transforming hideous warlords into kings and
queens. Erecting these blood-dimmed
chronologies. Only cowards thrill at
tormenting the weak and wounded, using cruelty to conquer. But hatred is no match for love, or empathy. I'm going to teach you these things, Fallen, annihilating
your intimate sickness in the process. Even
whilst it kills me. If you're wise you
will run to my brother for forgiveness, while you still can. But you will find no mercy here. Not when Ka'shayel knows you in these darkest
of ways. Hear me. The evening and
the morning both still belong to me. Honour
your mothers as you would your fathers. It's too late now for half-measures. The falling or rising Akasha. Knowledge of the nocturnal pledge. What is about to happen has been a long time
coming. A thousand years in the making,
in fact. I don’t think you really understand
the nature of hunting, or vengeance. But
you will. By the light of Diana's star, you will.
Wednesday, 10 March 2021
The Lake Bed
I placed pages in the river, Ga’hala. Tattooed leaves just left to rot. A broken book of once-wed promise. Things almost forgot. We kings were never not. Eyes of glass like doorways, and sisters still
betrothed. Unadorned, acknowledged,
unclothed. At last I'm brave enough to
understand, hanging colours in your nights. Ama'eth. Vena'mal. Astolat. I just meet you in the sky now, Halla. At the edges of the earth. Hidden in
the hallways of the temple of your birth. That boy left on the lake-bed; I couldn't let
him drown. Leave rusting in my armour, or
trade conquer for this crown. Tell me,
what kind of choice is love or the lack of love? Just days until the temple, my brother. Ever our princess slept. Nearest her prince. Is it still blindness to reimagine times
passed, or just the heavy of this heart? Failing to leave convincingly, I
think. Still pretending on both
accounts. That I don't miss you terribly
anymore.
Sunday, 7 March 2021
Stealing Time
I've
been thinking a lot about resurrection these last few years. Rebirth. What it means to perish and come again. It's always the ones who love us that bring us
back, isn't it? The dead need a reason
to return, and the wounded a reason to heal. We need emotional warmth, connection and
contact. Even at a distance our souls are
crying out for meaning. For mystery, magic and song. The living poetry of life at
its fullest. I'm still staggered and
humbled by the things we do for our loved ones.
The lengths we'll go to savour a precious moment or protect a sacred
experience. Stealing back our joy and purpose from the dark. We know these are the things that truly
matter in the end. Things of real value.
Painfully temporary and yet somehow
transcendent. The world is so full of
tragedy, isn't it? Sometimes I question if faith
is really enough for those sweet souls who crave respite from such tragedies. Like so many of us I know exactly
how it feels to be spiritually lost. I also
know what it means to be violated, dehumanized. I've felt that kind of despair before. And yet I've lived a charmed life. I was never a child torn by war
or genocide. I have family and friends
who truly love me. But there are times
when faith can feel like a fiction. Something
to stave off the insanity that comes with recognising our own insignificance. Our fleeting place in a cold, mechanical
universe. But I don't believe in that empty
nihilism. An ugly lie passing itself off
as empirical truth. I've never believed any
of that, even at my lowest. The way good
people suffer is horrifying to be sure. But
that doesn't negate the existence of Light, or meaning, or a higher order of
things. I treasure our ability to steal
back our stories no matter the odds. It’s
like being granted wings. Man is closest
to an angel when he loves. When he is moved
by mysteries and human connections. God
is Love, in my experience. In fact, it's
the only real truth that has stood the test of time. Those moments when I'm exhausted and alone,
desperate for a miracle. And then someone
with the courage to be kind reaches out to me, teaching me about faith again. Restoring my heart. I think that's what it really means to be
reborn. It means to be cared for, and to
care. I hope I can continue paying that kindness
forward to all those who need it. Those
who are searching as I have often searched. But right now I just want to express my
gratitude. From the bottom of my heart. Not as an angel, or even as a poet. Just a man. Thank you, my friends. For every affection and thoughtful gesture. You help me remain brave even when I feel like
I have no courage left. Who I am, and
who I strive to be. Without you I would
never have been able to face my demons, heal my wounds, or stand these tests of
time.
Stealing Time from Raj Sisodia on Vimeo.
Friday, 26 February 2021
Triskelion
Kasi shall speak plainly on this occasion. And openly, if he must. Time is short and insight is of the utmost now. My friends, a city is like a lover. It has many names. Many moods, veils and hidden places. Secrets within secrets. This particular city was once called Navah'tri by the Magi. A term of honour and affection. Navah was a place of great learning before the cataclysms. Before the fall. Souls from other lands travelled here just to admire our gates and our schools, and to wander our college grounds. The Dru'ai, the Ari and Afric. And many more. Londinium, we call this place now. Hear me, lost Roma. There is still so much you don't understand. The gates and lights were one. Each city the outer semblance of its denizens. All powers and energies free; open-sourced. The sky itself was the engine of all cities, and its people the soul. Akasha was willing then, and able. It seems a fairytale to you now. An unimaginable glamour. But it is the truth.
There are many stories of how those wraiths began to cross the threshold of imagining, forcing their way into the real. Only cautions once upon. Simple tools for learning and art. Until the mirrors began to breathe and bleed. Then came the shades through those fractured, slipping gates, and Tri'navah began to plummet into the centre of its own storytelling. What many medieval scholars spoke of as the ascension of the automaton star. A spider, unseen, weaving damnation and distort. Abomination technologies. Blood-dimmed chronologies. But those threads once belonged to the Triskele, honoured by all spirit and sky. Indeed, Navah was known throughout the realm for its beauteous form and egalitarian function. Just like a thousand other shining cities. Books of the fertile earth. Covenant of doors. River of the shining gates. Just one star among many in the blue, but a treasured star to its people. Oh, beloved ones. Man has experienced such genocide now, in varying forms. Temesh, bled for augurs. Wren, and resurrection. We winged ones have seen key-makers and fellow guardians buried alive in mud and ash. Drowned in fire or river-flesh, Eth'ama on their lips at the very end. Storms of flame and sea. Even amidst all that horror and the knowledge of their own demise, those angels prayed. For Earth without end and sky without limit, as it once was. But the entire system was sealed and stolen.
Fallen, I don't think you really know yourselves. Or the things you claim to worship. All fury and darkness. Mere overtures to the coming glory of light. I should know. I wrote it that way. With my Father’s blessing. So, you can place that black seal over my dreaming heart in efforts to bind me there, to make me stone. But I told you before, I am that star. Waiting in the depths of the barrow. Upon the holy hill. Xashi, Ananke, Osarai. Before men gave shattered names to time and space. Albion; isle of the angels. Place of the giants. Oma’turi, Ki'atur. Don’t you realise that a cathedral still sits upon the arc of the thousand stars, despite your facades? I can still feel the tremor of her kiss. Healing me. Guiding me. Let me speak plainly if I must. The angel is rousing now, and he is not dead.