Ian Stewart Black

Modern master of classical poetry

Month: August, 2012

To My Love

The Night: the symphony of silence
Beckoning to eternity;
A shroud to all things commonplace.
Shadow of the brazen Day, her
Luminous vibrancy distilled
‘Til all that’s left is wonder.

The Night: asylum from the storm,
Succour to the ever yearning soul
And home to all that ought be seen.
Precious and endless, both.

The Night: demure and pallid light
That renders all things beautiful.

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Umbilical Noose

Tell me, why must life be met with my head bowed?
Why thank the wretched world to which I’m bound?
A world of noise too vulgar and too loud;
A world of sights repulsive thought profound,
(Of which the blind and deaf alone are proud)
In which all things true and beautiful are drowned.
I have no obligation to anyone.

Should I be grateful to the government –
Who, by definition, suppress my will?
Or pander to society that’s meant –
To stay my mind, and all that’s drab distil,
And who yet persists that a spirit spent –
Is nobler than the parchment and the quill?
I have no obligation to anyone.

For the curséd bond of mortality
And for a lifetime’s worth of servitude;
For a world that worships banality,
I’ll never bear an ounce of gratitude:
Except to death, to its finality,
For nothing here may come to any good.

All I Have

Some words are better left unsaid:
Too vile and too potent, too real.
Some words I cannot help but shed:
My heart beseeches to reveal.

Forgive me what I tell you now,
I know what wicked words I speak;
This addled mind remembers how –
I lived before to live was bleak.
This dwindled heart still flourishes,
This soul still wakens to a name.
The only ghost that nourishes –
My everything is in your flame.
The ebb of time forgives my sole –
Desire; If just one thing is true,
I give my mind, my heart, my soul,
All I have because…

…Some words are better left unsaid.

A Life in Print

Weeping wells of ink
Designing idols
Full of emptiness.
Lest they be lost,
Miseries interred
In lavish tombs.

Beholding all the
Opulence of
Eden, as a God
And nothing more;
Never to be lost,
Never to wander.

Too long, for a life
In print is little
Life for anyone.
And long I do.