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.


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.