The Lost Soul in Dante's Dark Woods

 

Foundation.

A dash of Gothic Poetry.

Title.

The Lost Soul in Dante's Dark Woods

(A lone voice whispers)

Lost in these unlit, creepy, dark woods

Past the moonlit Shimmering Lake

Standing here as I speak, this despair I always feel, which makes me weak

Tells me love is a thing that is so real

It's all I now know as I stand awake

In this new state

For the brokenhearted, don't sleep or weep

And when the mysterious singers in this darkness call out to me with sweet, mesmerising voices.

Each filled with such inescapable power

My pain slowly rises in my soul, hour by hour

As I'm watched by the eyes of strange creatures dressed in blue

Standing in crooked but neat lines

On the crumbling translucent walls of The Great Watchtower.

Who just loves to send me Red Raven notes that simply say:

Come over to us to renew

The Diamond Door is always open.

Be one of the Nixs

Follow our ways

To find the new you

Come climb the Great Watchtower walls

To drink deep from our wish-fed fountain and see past all the Black Mountains

No longer filled with urges to fight for love and light

But to become a lone Watchman of the Endless Night

I used to think I was strong

But these endless dark nights are so long

Is today the day I will wonder

If I'm wrong to fight the Nixes' many invitations

And go along to the Diamond Door

Beneath The Great Watchtower 

And knock 

Asking to join their mix

For nobody in The Great In-Between knows, I still miss you.

This swirling grey air and smoky fog make you look over your past life

In time

Causing parts of your mind to speak only in rhymes, and once it starts

The forgetting begins

It's why they think I need to be set free

By sending Red Ravens every hour to me

To be like one of them

The Nixs

Guardians of The Great In-Between

Bounded by a sacred oath to stand as Watchmen on the Great Watchtower

Unseen

(C)

Copyright John Duffy

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Autonomy

 

Autonomy

(A lone voice whispers)

Is your soul littered with hot and cold fragments of your own ideas of heaven and hell?

But are you too metaphorically blindfolded to ever really understand? 

Just another human being living within and under its light and dark, magical spell

Slowly unconsciously waiting for the spiritual comprehension 

As it returns from the ashes of your intimate universe's dust

To really then see

All that your life will see

While praying to your Lord of choice 

The one you trust 

A Great Almighty who will try to set you free

To then be

All you can be 

Reflected in the endless unregulated themes found gasping for air

 In that six-letter word you cherish—called poetry 

(C) Copyright John Duffy 

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Love

 

(A lady whispers at Saint James.) 

Our love has always connected us, two sacred souls defying the dust of immortality. 

We met slowly in school, missed the ride, but fate brought us together again. 

We then loved fiercely, refusing to be lonely. 

We crossed the point of no return and got married.

Stood in the final circle of poetic vows and declared boldly, "I do." 

Then I kissed you. 

You passed away what seemed like yesterday as the setting sun set. 

And as I sit here, with our three children, on Sunday.

I refuse to forget, while I still breathe. 

For you are the only one, I’ll ever need.  

(C)

Copyright John Duffy

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Song of Calliope

 

Song of Calliope

Shall we begin?

Amongst the murky misty encroaching images

A surreal scene: the creators of Casablanca, would have been proud to call their very own

My new muse, Calliope 

Wandered and appeared, walking like a real siren

Stepping straight into view

Wearing a stunning Fashionista's white dress 

She appeared right out of the blue 

Bent and with tasty red sweet lips

French kissed my soul back into life 

Watched by cautious eyes

Who had sent her to help me get through

By dwellers 

Who stood hidden in the crescent glow 

Of the Full Strawberry Moon

Which hung high in my mind's purple-hued sky 

Like an unearthly tribute to mortal pain 

Where all those suffering 

Made her a seat and bade her welcome 

Into their bedroom 

In the falling night rain

I now seem to reach out earnestly to crave her soft touch 

As those old emotions of being alone 

Systematically kneel, submitting to be slain, like a reborn Cain

My Calliope came gliding in majestically last June 

Riding on the backs of handwritten messages

Exchanged through spiritual friends one glorious day 

As they discussed my story and all its many open and well-known wounds

Notes that said I was available now I've found freedom from old sacred vows of fidelity

Once spoken 

In hushed verses, that someone else had recently foolishly broken

We now stand firmly upright whenever we meet

In straight lines in new lands of holding hands whilst we're walking

Enjoying talking and telling each other funny stories 

Like meeting each other was foretold to be our calling

At this very moment, as I sit here 

By the attic window by this old Riverside Cafe 

In the Parisian winter cold

Looking out in quiet confinement and contemplating how my once sad life

Suddenly turned to gold

I still in these quiet moments of soul-searching reflection

Embrace my newly found harmonious serendipity and all these treasured moments and intimate reunions

Where two newly introduced souls with such effortless proclivity  

Merged together as if guided by a strange sense of supernatural compatibility

Was I carefully scrutinized by those Hidden Watchers? I sometimes wonder 

Angels

Who stand on blue milk crates in those black unknown voids

Fluctuating between time and space

Trying to find ingenious strategies and heavenly constructs to illuminate 

I hope my much-cherished and treasured face

Who knows, but now I've found a compatible world

A fascinating realm replenished endlessly with laughter

Celebrated and baptized at midnight by soft wanton lips through ink 

Which collide together so passionately

Forever I hope in close proximity, whenever I think 

I may never know all the answers, but in poetic scripture 

Song of Calliope says

Use me as a guide 

To reveal your heart's pain

As a sacred meeting place where love and pain can be resolved again and again 

Until it's nullified, for with you walking at my side

Our love can help you renew to feel more self-satisfied 

©John Duffy 

I'm only going for one

 

I'm only going for one.

Foundation.

From late nights saying they're only having one, which could lead to infidelity, gambling, narcotics, and other subtle forms of sin.

Do the partners of today need a medal for continuing to love their partner and never giving in?

Have you ever heard the line above or below?

Title.

I'm only going for one.

(A partner looks at their partner's picture and quietly thinks after receiving a late Friday afternoon text message)

 You.

My now unspoken pact, which was nearly broken.

So many times. On the sacrificial altar of sin.

Oh, why do we constantly love those sinners, like you? 

Who always nearly let's Temptation, unfortunately win.

(C) Copyright John Duffy 

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Was Bram Stokers Dracula simply based upon addiction?

 

Was Bram Stokers Dracula simply based upon addiction?

Is that magnificent novel, Dracula, partly based upon Bram Stokers keen eye as he regarded people as he strode daily through London and helped him conjure up a magnificent and frightful character that has transcended time and space for generations?

Is Bram Stokers Dracula simply a well-known London socialite—a well-heeled drug pusher of the time?

A well-dressed, wealthy, and striking-looking character with a dominating personality?

A man—unknown to the many but to the few—who created legions of addicts prowling the streets.

Seeking money by any means to get more of the magic powder he gave them via an injection.

Did Bram Stoker infuse the symptoms and behaviour patterns of the heroin or opium addicts and their suppliers to create a mythology that survives to this day and beyond?

Was he not a typical drug dealer, but was he instead a socialite?

Did he know or mix with those who engaged in such activities, supplied by a well-heeled dealer, who he based his iconic mesmerising character on?

Dracula's character is a hypnotic figure that creates a faithful legion that eventually falls under his control; did Bram Stoker witness the demise of actors within the Lyceum Theatre and fall under the control of a Svengali-type character supplying them?

In today’s climate of regulations, it is hard to believe, but in early- and mid-Victorian Britain it was possible to walk into a chemist’s shop and buy, without prescription, laudanum, cocaine, and even arsenic. 

The recreational use of opiates was popular with pre-Victorian and Victorian artists and writers.

The Signs of a Heroin User for modern addicts, but can you imagine the signs in 1890!

Change in Behavior

Risk-taking 

Isolation 

Disorientation  

Anxiousness 

Changes in appearance

Heroin addicts who use needles will have needle marks on their bodies

Does the trademark puncture wound simply represent the needle marks of an easily bought set from the local chemist or the expensive tools of a wealthy dealer supplying a certain circle of writers or actors?

Does Dracula's thirst for more victims represent a certain character within Bram Stoker's horizons?

A person who strove to create an endless line of victims to line his pockets?

Are all the victims pale, always exhausted, and looking ill due to the addiction taking effect?

Did the Svengali character only appear at night searching for new victims?

Writers all base stories around people or landscapes they are privy to —have we, for all these years, simply watched a clever storyline interwoven with tales of Want created through drug addiction by a Svengali of the late 1890s?

The Want been reflected by the Svengali forever chasing down more victims, and the victims wanting to experience a newer magical essence that is permeating the social scene.

Seeking to become newer members of a secret club?

Like today in Hollywood?

Copyright John Duffy 

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Are you a type A, B, or C personality when it comes to writing poetry?

Foundation.

Can people be characterized by how they approach creating poetry?

Well, let's see if points A, B, or C leave an impression?

Title.

Are you a type A, B, or C personality when it comes to writing poetry?

(A lone voice called, Alya, whispers)

Well, hello, are you ready to listen to my voice, and hear what I think I know?

 

Are you: A.

A rhymer?

A gatekeeper to old or new emotional sensations?

Demanding the freedom to live in a new format?

For real eyes to read from the human nation? 

Or are you: B.

A young or old timer, like a goldminer from 1827.

At Coker Creek?

In the high country of Monroe County, Tennessee?

Searching for the right lines, like pure gold?

To express and extinguish a cold, uncontrollable fire?

To turn your soul into one of Poetry's many soldiers, who love all-nighters filled with unquestionable desire?

Going to war every day against tones and metaphors.

Juxtapositions or cold terror?

Or are you: C.

Just another lonely driver?

Stuck on the highways of dreams with a blown tire?

Searching for someone new to become real fighters together?

Who also loves Poetry's all-nighters?

With a mirror image to hold tighter and to help make the load so much more lighter?

Or are are you just a mixture of the three? 

A: represents the need to just write poetry for pleasure.

B: represents the need to just write poetry for catharsis. 

C: represents the need to just write poetry while seeking solace, in someone special.

Who shares the same bliss of experiencing, Poetry's deep kiss?

(C)

Copyright John Duffy 

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Neglēctiō

 

Foundation.

A path walked by many.

Loss, in its many forms, can change oneself in many subtle ways.

From failed relationships to the passing of loved ones to opportunities.

One subtle way is simply forgetting to care for oneself, physically or mentally.

Reaching out always helps.

Sending blessings if you're walking the path or have walked its nettle-filled roads.

Salute.

Title.

Neglēctiō (L)

(A lone voice whispers)

I never really knew what the slow death of the soul genuinely meant and all its many difficult sensations.

Until the apparition appeared, creeping and bent.

Introducing himself as the dark master, known as Mister Neglēctiō.

The master of the soul's descent.

Armed with his armada of spiritually, self-depreciating, equations.

To breach my trust with his fraudulent intent

(C)

Copyright John Duffy  

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The Secret Book of Dzyan,R

A dash of creative writing.

Magic and love entwined.

Why?

Don't you feel, with reflection, falling in love is like being under a strange binding spell?

A spell that compels you night and day to behave in a strange way?

Did love cast a spell over you like the mage below?

Title.

The Secret Book of Dzyan,

As the Mage watched from afar, through remote viewing. 

He channelled a secret prayer to the brightest star in the four winds.

As he assumed the meditation pose.

He began reciting his evocation to the spirit guides, watching from the 5th level of the Astral Realms.

For them to take it back to her, from Beyond the Purple Rainbows.

As they swirled all around him. 

________________________

(A lone voice whispers)

Your dark eyes are like priceless blue oceans 

  

I whisper to the watching Elementals

I dream to dive in deep and drown within

For they are deeper than any of the known lakes

To bathe in their once-tasted waters

Is where I want me to always fall

And reveal my soul as it experiences its first taste of sin

For your inquisitive eyes, soft, tender lips, and smooth skin

Is a treasure I seek where I'd nightly kneel to pray 

For a new Atlantis

To be reborn

Within

Your eyes are like magnetic dark portals

For my souls

Astral nightly projections 

As I conquer its many strange citizens with my own supernatural powers

To reach you

Defeating 

On one of its many long ethereal roads

Architects of so many devious deceptions 

Just to see your twin eyes, for they are like the best friends

Love could ever possibly buy, and that’s why

I just love popping by

To rejoice in The Coming of our own Divine Invasions

The once lost words

Recitals and such memories of succulent prose

Once written for your eyes only 

Are just my own divine stanzas

Like written in The Secret Books of Dzyan

A silver shimmering sea

Where we will soon forever fly

Like dark eaglesPaired, Forever wild and untamed

For as our lonely souls once met

So long ago 

In the Great In-Between

We were anointed to be simply 

Free and Unchained

And it's why I always pray to return

To finally conjure you into life

And your love to earn

But until then, I'll just breathe you 

Into my dreams

Whenever I visit 

The Great In-Between 

So be it

(C)

Copyright John Duffy

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Josefina

(A lone voice whispers)

A rare beauty I did once but see.

By mountain tops, by the raging blue sea. 

Where white clouds bowed themselves too in fealty, when my bell:

She did ring. 

Oh, how I still love to hear her sing. Playing that golden guitar.

In deep dreams, poetry and sweet rhymes. 

Remembering incredible times.

Walking by mountain tops, near that raging blue sea. 

When white clouds smiled nearby, in a show of fealty.

As they too saw that  rare beauty, who once seduced me.

By the raging blue sea

(C) Copyright John Duffy 

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