Wednesday 24 June 2009

The Ancient One.


I am the scion of an ancient race
custodians of a barren place
Slopes of jagged black obsidian,
like centuries we slowly pace.
Through clouds of sulphurous gasses
we feed on emerald coloured grasses
Our heads wrinkled and ophidian,
Project, beneath a heavy carapace.

Lumbering round the lip
Of a lazy steam spewing giant,
It is upon the breath
Of this dying god,
Our survival is reliant.
From my vantage I have seen
Along with my disappearing kind
Men carried in wooden leviathans,
The origin of species here to find.

Should I decide
to leave my world,
venture to another land
I'd plod down to the sand
And float out upon the tide.
Rather I choose, here to remain
Innured, to stifling heat and stinging rain,
Two centuries have I endured
In such a hostile, weird terrain.

We remaining wizened beasts
Are an order of monastic priests
For whom each new season brings,
Fresh rituals and feasts.
Though litanies we cannot sing
For we are mute.
RM Clarkson

Tuesday 23 June 2009

Greetings Fellow Voyager


I have decided to create a blog for some of my work as sites like Fb and twitter do not really cater to the needs of a verbose artist like myself. My first post is a recent composition entitled

The Gnosis

I am greedy for the gnosis,
which is my manna.
The bread of Sophia,
The Eucharist which sustains
My assent of jacob's Ladder.
Each rung is of a different hue,
Which affords the traveller
A clearer view,
Of the world below.
At the top there stands a firey Seraph,
Are you an angel of the light?
You're a Divine messenger?
Does this mean we have to wrestle all night?
No? Then what should I take away from this encounter?
He replied: "The distance from Malchut to Keter!"
RM Clarkson.