Friday, August 14, 2015
In a corner of the world there was a land called Sumer
Whose waters reached the Euphrates Valley and the Syrian Desert, its high plateau?
As a result, the mud of two northern streams created a delta, with a pitiless sun…
But rich was the soil, as anywhere on earth!
And man here made his home:
This was the beginning.
Diversified by marshes and reed-beds, rivers flush with their banks...!
After the Great Flood, retreating waters and a new cultivation took place; the Antediluvian devoured by the apocalyptic event.
Hence, into Sumer the giants of old went, degreed a civilization among the dark-haired race, to include the Hulks of Jericho, and those Goliaths at: ‘Stone Heap of the Wildcat’ and Gaza …
Sporadically circumstances would promote social unity.
And there was Susa, Musyan, Elam, and the Persian Gulf—Mesopotamia, And Queen shub-ad, who created style.
And pottery formed, and temples were born.
And kings came and left.
Like King Gilgamesh, whose ancestry stretched back to A-lu-lim., the first of the Sumerian kings (NUN RI)
And thus came: gold vases, and royal graves at UR, and the Sumerian hymn and they hummed to the gods of old! And the villagers wore
Garments of sheepskins, and molded clay figurines, roughly chipped.
From crystal, they wore necklaces: of all kinds, and some with beads.
This was the lost millennium.
They thought back then, somehow or another, virtue was a necessity for the gods, therefore, came sacrifices and the daily ritual:
Spells that fix and bound man; hoping to remain engaged, to keep the favor of the gods.
As a result, feast-days came and went; animals killed for rituals, like flies!
Barbarism, perhaps, but that was life, at its edge.
It drew the gods, and man’s moral judgment.
Prompt, the gods exercised their power, and man then started to build statues to their likeness, and now human sacrifice even found its way:
With magic from the dismembered angelic beings: those renegades tossed out from Heaven!
Those who cohabited with earthly women, and gave birth to giant children, and created ungodly occurrences, even cannibalism.
Hence, Astrology was now born on earth, as Sumerians now ruled the skies.
Astronomical knowledge came from the gods too, and the gods (those angelic supernatural beings who battled in Heaven against the supreme!)
Those ecclesiastical creatures, that fell out of the sky, one earthly day!
Whom would be eventually cast into the Prison House for Angelic beings, far off in some cosmic nebula?
Mesopotamia came under Sumerian rule, and Ur, Lagash and Nippur honored the Moon-god. And then came more public works; Baal was created out of words whom dwelt in the sands of the Ancient Near East, right up to the Mediterranean Sea! …
And it became the Sacred Way, and the walls of the Ziggurat [Temples]
Sanctuaries, with an inner court, and doors decorated that lead to narrow chambers: to the Holy of Holies. Shrines, sacred vessels.
It was an unusual time, and phenomenon ... were great platforms were built in Lebanon, and great brickwork, and grand sculptures
Gods and goddesses, enchanting oil-jars; and forever lost dynasties.
A lost millennium, that would in time stretch to Greater Cities like:
Babylon, Nineveh, Damascus, Jerusalem, Troy, Knossos, Athens, Rome, Pompeii, and Mecca.
And within, men would lead men like lambs led astray, for what man knew was next to nothing, taking life jovially and carelessly.
#1522 10/19/2006/ Published in the Arab Magazine “Al-Mashriq” (GAZA) / Reedited 1-2015 & revised 8-2015
[Astronomy and Theology]
In the universe, the one that surrounds the Earth (perhaps the mind as well)—someone once threw a ball into dark matter, dark energy. After that, that same, someone created gravity—I do believe—and threw that same ball now mixed somewhere out into nothingness, threw it out and over his head, and it exploded, threw it one after another yet at the same time, as if all the compounds were in each throw that was really one—; from man’s way of thinking, it caused a Big Bang, somewhat in that unseen form of matter that pulls the universe—supposedly this way and that way, thus creating the great expansion, that has gone on since who knows when; again man’s speculation would say, fourteen billion plus years, give or take: After ten-billion years, after that mighty toss everything slowed down a bit, light diminished by fifty-percent, —yet: some kind of momentum like a heartbeat, or the swaying of a pendulum of a Grandfather clock kept the universe in check, —that ball thrown in motion (although its push threw everything in all directions) which is still keeping it airborne: carried by the shove that was set in motion; hence, when it loses its momentum, when the ball falls, or the pendulum stops or the heartbeat has its last beat—complete, it will crash, I do reason, and all that will be left—again I do reason—will be the ball (and its substance: what is hanging onto it, in it): that is all that will be left—I repeat, everything else just: waves, just waves in nothingness: waves that were made by that One Person who forced out, as a result, nothingness and all that it created will come to some kind of a standstill (I replicate): —it has to: for what will carry it—when all the engines that run the universe weaken: When the protons and neutrons no longer come together in the nucleus of an atom, and no longer do the great galaxies spin fast enough, and thus fly apart, and the gravitational, nuclear and electromagnetic forces collapse? Save that, that someone we—most of us that is—call God, does not create something else out of some kind of a new nothingness.
It is how it was, how it had to be, how else could it have been: all this nothingness coming together, surrounding our world we call Earth, with all its “t’s” crossed, and “i’s” dotted; with its universal gravitational balance, from moon to earth to the sun throughout our solar system and beyond. We normally don’t think this way, lest we want our minds to become mad.
I heard a voice in this dream I had within my head, it said: “I am immortal, I sit behind the suns, and write epitaphs, for all the living things, then I open up their lips, an endless task it seems at times: the zenith of life comes from nothingness—and I, I alone hear their dying wish: to remain, to be: to some extent, to be like me forevermore, in my eternity. Eyeless faces, pale and un-molded, that is what you all were once, but by my graces so you became something more than nothing.
“Orion’s illumed by my side, showers me like a rainbow with its gasses, breathless orchard: it is the magnificent mocker of the universe: perhaps you would call it such. Hence, should I touch, only touch it (lest I destroy My own makings): only touch its burning drums, put my finger into its aflame winds, —what I created it all out of—nothingness, the horse’s head would roar, as if into a merciless, pitiless volcanic eruption, yet the moat around my untouched garments, it would never reach—and with the beckon of my finger it would go silent.
“The Universe is like a squeezing viper at times, a sacrificial rip in all its proportions, the magnitude that I’ve carved out of the thrust, as you call it—or have called it, from the push: from end to end, or as you have now proclaimed, its endless, end, meaning there was no beginning, save you have not the knowledge to identify me, so you create lively and provocative theories, breezy in style, probabilistic mind-benders, portraits of randomness.
“You see, and you don’t see, that I created all this out of oblivion at different stages with different utterances, —yet its creation became instant, and when you study this more, you will understand it more, you will understand me more, why your existence is at all—: is this not a question you keep asking: ‘Why am I?’ It is not that I need you that I molded you out of clay, pasted you together from that thrust, twist, wave, and roar— created elements and matter, and mystery for you, which to me was all from emptiness; but it was a gift of life, from me to you, called love. That is what it is all about!”
#1366 6/5/2006; written while at the El Parquetito Café in Miraflores, Lima, Peru, one afternoon (reedited, 7-2012) Reedited 11-2012/Revised 12-22-2014
El Huerto de Orión
En el universo, el que rodea el mundo (quizás la mente también)—una vez alguien lanzó una pelota—creo—en algún lugar, y esta explotó—, algo: que retrasó todo un poco, y su empujón (su empuje, en todas direcciones) todavía lo mantiene en el aire: llevado por el empuje que fue puesto en movimiento (mucho tiempo atrás); de ahí, cuando éste pierde su velocidad, éste se estrellará, realmente supongo, y todo es decir, será la pelota (su sustancia: la que está colgada sobre ello, en ello): esto será todo lo que quedará, todo lo demás sola serán: olas, solamente olas en la nada, del que esa persona una vez hizo el empuje; por consiguiente, la nada y todo lo que este creó vendrán a una especie de una parada (repito)—tiene que ser: ¿para que lo llevará? A menos, que alguien no crea algo más de una especie de algo nuevo. Esto es como fue, como tuvo que ser, cómo más podría haber sido: ocurrió para rodear el mundo, con todos sus “tes” cruzadas y sus “ies” punteadas. Normalmente no pensamos de esta forma, no sea que queramos que la mente se vuelva loca.
Oí una voz en este sueño de mi mente, esta dijo, “Yo soy inmortal, me siento detrás del sol, y escribo epitafios de todo, todos los seres vivientes, después abro sus labios, una tarea infinita parece de vez en cuando: el cenit de la vida viene de la nada—y yo, oigo su deseo moribundo: de permanecer, ser algo; caras sin ojos, es lo que ustedes fueron una vez, pero por Mis gracias tú te volviste, y ellos se volvieron—más.
La iluminación de Orión por mi lado, me riega como un arco iris con sus gases, el huerto sin aliento: esta es una simulación magnífica del universo: quizás lo llamarías semejante, tal vez: a la fantasía de Baudelaire; o el crepúsculo de Poe; o los peligrosos huertos profundos de Clark A. Smith; las imágenes musicales de George Sterling, luces fantasmales; el murmullo de Dennis Siluk, silencio perplejo; el epigramático vuelo de la imaginación de Ellis. Toco, sólo toco (no sea que destruya mis propias creaciones): sólo toco más allá de sus ardientes tambores, en los vientos de nada—del cual he creado todo esto. La cabeza de caballo: ruge como un volcán, un foso alrededor mío; el Universo se parece a una estrujante víbora, un rasgón expiatorio en todas las dimensiones que he tallado del empuje, como tú lo llamas, del empuje: Lo he arreglado (fijé) para ti: el observador de la tierra.”
Comentario por el Autor: “Aquí está una clase de poema cósmico, que espero lo disfrutes; realmente confío en que esto breve y vistosamente va a exponer el elemento de importancia de la belleza del universo enorme de Dios. "
# 1366 5/Junio/2006; escrito mientras estaba en el Restaurante Parquetito en Miraflores, Lima, Perú, una tarde. Dedicado a Brynna Siluk [mi nieta]
The silence inside the stars, from earth’s vision: men decry to God’s
wisdom, and see visions!—
This is when God had blinked his eyes, and the evening stars trembled, no
longer in a solitude or rest, and balance.
This was when all creation had to face cosmic tides of chaos, in the
“How deep is this abyss of night?” will be asked: when chaos will not
Ah, then man will ask and seek, as the seas ebb and sway, — the oblivious
“Whomever they are in this deep, these Armies of eternal night, cold
and bold: as they may be, combatants from the ramparts of some
remote garrison, inside some far-off nebula…why do they approach?
Do they not seek to storm beyond the immortal lights of Orion?”
They gaze upon the gulfs in the curvatures of time: they wish to burn, and
they walk with stellar doom.
These armies, immense, should they not be hidden from earth, wrath would
Until now, God has made them unforeseen!
And man has only dreamed in dreams, and in visions, of their schemes.
Should imaginings become reality—they would create a battle path of
menace that would sway to irrevocable war—
Wars for a generation—
Armageddon’s stellar doom: a deep blood splash, from the heavens,
wherein lies the unbegotten.
How narrow the channel between them and us— they even now set eyes
upon our orbit; and to them we are but the untrodden dens of the
cosmic strange… to conquer and enslave!
Lo! The brief yet cunning evil kept in suitable shape for this gloom filled
day, prophetic doom, approaches—
Marked by annexed darkness, unstable black matter and energy, with
thrones of fire, from some lost destiny, no longer silenced by God’s
timepiece, thus, the ghostly hours have come, Orion’s horsehead of light
its firmamental gloom, belted with suns and showered with chaos
Has seen the earth’s helm, its sublime array, now comes this heavenly fray
this, march of menace… an untillable immense!
The whole universe now in high unrest—; in a darker darkness, where man
has never been, nor seen, where matter is thick, and as liken to hot magma mass, where dead stars are swallowed up deep into spiral pits of
cosmic darkness, where once the angelic prison for the unvirtuous seraphim were imprisoned, no longer caught in this fiery quarry, its
endless maze, swaying in appallingly walls, trying to escape those fatal days — these cosmic foes, ere, they know their doom filled, as the axles of
earth knows it, breakability, if only for a moment, to create a hush so deep… no thing or being, would be able to withstand the swift
immeasurable night’s doom— Lo! From the lapse of form!
Lest Elohim’s hand take up man’s fate!
Behold, not even the stellar strongholds deep in Orion, with their cosmic
besieging armies, and their legionaries, nor the supreme armies of the deep spiral abyss—whom are but barbaric eyes to God—should he
interfere, in these not so far-off days, man would vanish into the haze,
the invading flames, of chaos, into the bombardment of a thunderous
trillion-trillion, cosmic neutrinos!—
And knocking out all the biological ancestral material that God used to
mix and produce life.
And should not God shorten those days, all that will be left will be a
cosmic tomb, and the grit of firmamental gloom!
And I had seen in a vision, of those not so far-off days: that the sun was
powerless to illume the moon, dwarfed—; the time of sorrows.
And I had in those not so far-off days: denial of this end, that this perfect
and final war of wars: mutate was man’s mind to this comet’s like
blaze, of destruction; as if to become frozen primordial soup; perhaps to reform at another time, under the right conditions.
And to them that would not kneel, were thrown into a fiery mote; into a
encoded doom by the dark messengers, of gloom.
Now the vision has passed, all that was to be hidden into the unfathomed
stalls of mystery, will appear tier by tier, until the very end, which is without question, jut when!
No: 4430 (July 2, 2014)/ revised and reedited August 26, 2014, reedited/revised: 8-20’15/ For: Naason Mulatre, Cecilia Matias Aliaga and Marge McPartlin
He told me he saw a miracle!
He said he wore a holy cross!
He even said, he saw a vision of Christ.
And held his own, a Rosary and Bible:
Read and prayed them every night!
Then cried with pride: all who’d learn from him
Who sought the truth, — God would open
The gates of: promise and hope!
But what he didn’t say
Was what he didn’t know—?
He couldn’t tell he had a closed heart, and
A ruptured mind and soul, equally fouled!
And thus, this wouldn’t allow his faith to settle—:
To be drawn from the Father to Savior:
And because of this, the Holy Spirit did not
Allow the relationship that could have given
Love and life, between him: the Father and
Jesus Christ: eternal life; therefore,
As all sin must oblige and bear:
He was judged and condemned, right there!
Inspired by writings of Pope Francis (EWTN News/CAN Aug 9, 2015)
Note: I see the approach to God in the following manner: it is kind of like: the Father calls your name, the Holy Spirit, check you out, and the Lord Jesus cleanses you, and the Father then welcomes you.