Help Me Out
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Untitled
"Kiss me asleep on a bed of nails
Feel my pain in your dying hands
Try to hold back but tears resist
In the room that love exists.."
-by Mephisto Walz
Untitled
"...my misfortune
pains me doubly, in as
much as it leads to my
being misjudged. For
me there can be no
relaxation in human
society; no refined
conversations, no
mutual confidences. I
must live quite alone
and may creep into
society only as often
as sheer necessity
demands; I must live
like an outcast. If I
appear in company I
am overcome by a
burning anxiety, a fear
that I am running the
risk of letting people
notice my
condition...such
experiences almost
made me despair, and
I was on the point of
putting an end to my
life - the only thing
that held me back was
my art. For indeed it
seemed to me
impossible to leave
this world before I had
produced all the works
that I felt the urge to
compose, and thus I
have dragged on this
miserable existence..."
-Ludwig van Beethoven
Untitled
"..The night is still and sombre
and in the murky gloom
arisen from her slumber
the vampyress leaves her tomb
Her eyes are pools of fire
her skin is icy white
and blood her one desire
this woebegotten night.."
-Jack Prelutsky
Untitled
"Whence have we come, and where do we go?
What do we seek, and what do we know?
Is time a line, with beginning and end?
Or is it a round, yet subtle of bend?
Is Cosmos a tomb, no meaning thereof?
Or a Dream of a Song of The Goddess of Love?
Humanity stands by celestial shore,
Is this the first time? Have we failed before?
Maybe it seems that The Darkness is deep,
That sorrow is real and longing for sleep,
Yet music plays hushed, in this night cold and long,
Let us dance in the tomb, to the tune of Her Song... "
-anonymous
Where Dead Angels Lie
In the dawn an angel was dancing
surrounded by an aura of light
But in the shadows something was watching
and with patience awaiting the night
Angel whispers: "Mournful night, attractive night,
your dark beauty obsesses me"
An angel bewitched by the shadows
Seduced by the whispering lies
A spell was cast and the sky turned red
The angel's heart froze to ice
The blackness that falls are coming to stay
Under the snow lies angels so cold
Dusk has passed and a cold morning breeze,
is sweeping all over the plain,
On the ground lies an angel with skin so pale,
On her face an image of pain,
Snow is now falling to the frozen ground,
The angel is covered by white,
Frost is spreading across the plain,
to welcome the eternal night
The dress is white with crystals of ice
and frozen roses so red
Roses of blood from an innocent soul
On the plain lies an angel dead
A spell was cast and the sky turned red
The angel's heart froze to ice
In the gloomy sky black clouds were gathering
The silence was broken by cries
A spell was cast and the sky turned red
The angel's heart froze to ice
In the gloomy sky - The silence where dead angels lie
Touch the snow.. Caress the lifeless sculptures
Die!!!
The blackness that falls is coming to stay,
under the snow lies an angel so cold,
Yet with each crystal of frost that is falling,
another story is told,
A spell was cast and the sky turned red,
The angel's heart froze to ice,
In the gloomy sky - The silence where dead angels lie..
-JANETTA PHILIPPS
Not Waving but Drowning
Nobody heard him, the dead man,
But still he lay moaning:
I was much further out than you thought
And not waving but drowning.
Poor chap, he always loved larking
And now he's dead
It must have been too cold for him his heart gave way,
They said.
Oh no no no, it was too cold always
(Still the dead lay moaning)
I was much too far out all my life
And not waving but Drowning
-Stevie Smith
Night's Blood
"Night haunts and evil lurks in every corner
Like plague it's spreading - I behold
Loneliness, yet with you autumn night as guest
But can you hear my cries?
Permeate me, oh night, as with the forest you did
for heart is cold, cold as ice
I drown in the colour of your eye
for a black heart will only find beauty in darkness
I breathe it's eternity to absorb the sky
where the shadows of death may lie.."
-JANETTA PHILIPPS
THE TEARS OF COILA.
And wear thou this, (she solemn said,)
And bound the Holly round my head:
The clustering leaves and berries red
Did rustling play;
Then, like a passing thought, she fled
In light away.
Vision by Burns.
THE midnight hour was come--that solemn hour
When they, the forms divine, whose mystic lay
Breathes not to mortal ear, on earth have power
Till bright Astarte's lingering fires decay:
Fairies and Genii, hovering o'er the earth,
Now downward bend their flight, and in the glen,
Or ruined tower, pursue their frolic mirth,
Joining in airy dance unseen of men:
Whilst others, far above the rest in place,
Kind guardian spirits of the human race,
Intent on good to man, forsake the sky,
And their bright forms disclose to many a gifted eye.
But each, and all of this a๋rial train,
Fulfil some end, obey some high behest,
All, save one beauteous Maid, whose plaintive strain
Told the deep anguish of her throbbing breast:
'Twas Coila,--who, beneath the witching beam
Of night's pale Planet, mourned her Poet dead:
Sad she reclined by Ayr's romantic stream,
Downcast her eye, and all its lustre fled:
The Moon's faint ray stole thro' the breaking cloud,
And the hoarse angry winds were heard aloud,
Whilst Ayr's sad murmurs due accordance kept,
As by his troubled stream she pensive sat, and wept.
No mantle now, enrich'd with various hues,
Bespoke with graceful pomp the Scottish Muse ;
But, dark as her sad thoughts, the mournful Maid
In robes of solemn black her form arrayed.
Thrown o'er a broken harp her arm appears,
(That harp still wet with Coila's bitter tears,)
And, fallen from her fair hand, a circlet green
Half hid beneath her sable veil was seen.
The night-breeze slowly waved her golden hair,
As thus she mourned in deep despair
The early fate, the fortunes hard,
Of Burns, "her own inspired Bard.''
"Oh harp, (she cried,) whose potent tone
"Shall ne'er again awakened be;
"Ne'er speak of joy, nor with thy master moan,
"Responsive to his soul's despondency:
"Oh never more, on Scotia's gales,
"Thy melody shall steal along,
"Oh never more her flowery vales
"Re-echo to her Poet's song
"Filled with true poetic fire,
"Oft did his lofty lay to heaven aspire;
"And when with daring hand thy chords he swept,
"Notes entrancing, sweet and strong,
"Answered to his various song;
"The witching strain
"Subdued each pain,
"And grief no longer wept
"E'en when the swelling sound was past,
"That bore the soul to heaven;
"When mournful, tremulous, and low,
"Strains of sadness stole along,
"To thee, sweet Bard, alike 'twas given
"To charm, when flowed the mirthful song,
"When native Wit thy cares beguiled,
"And frolic Humour gaily smiled,
"Or when subdued, and sad, the broken accents flow:
"For sweet, tho' mournful, was the sound,
"That, breathing soft around,
"Told the deep pang of recollected woe.
"Ah why must Anguish ever wait
"Upon the gifts the Muse bestows ?
"Why ever thus relentless Fate
"To feeling hearts bring keenest woes ?
"Is it to check the swelling pride,
"Which soaring Genius, heaven-allied,
"Might haply feel, if mortal pain
"Sunk not the daring soul to earth and care again ?
"Oh Bard beloved, no power had I
"To check the bitter-rising sigh;
"I could not chase the fiend Despair,
"Nor break the spells of worldly care,
"That wrapped thy soul in gloom:
"I could not give thee wealth, or power,
"Nor e'en protract the fated hour,
"That closed thy early tomb:
"With sparkling wit I decked thy line,
"Thy gift, to move the heart, was mine;
"Yet more thy genius to reward,
"And fondly prove my true regard,
"* This Holly wreath I gave:
"Mysterious boon, thou ne'er shalt fade,
"Ne'er wither in oblivion's shade,
"But high in 'Fame's bright fane' by Nature placed,
"Near that which once the Bard of Avon graced,
"Still shalt thou bloom, and, 'mid the wintry storm,
"That vainly seeks thy blossoms to deform,
"Crowned with eternal verdure, proudly wave."
-JANETTA PHILIPPS
TO MELANCHOLY.
When life's first dawn breaks on the raptured view,
And smiles each various scene so bright and new,
The Passions, thronging round the youthful heart,
Their glowing visions to the soul impart:
Nor dream we once that guests so sweet and fair,
Like smiling foes, such deadly poisons bear:
Their fatal gifts the bosom's peace destroy,
Though soft they breathe of harmony and joy.
When salient founts bade Eden's blossoms blow,
Did lovelier flowrets on their borders grow
Than bloomed in that gay wreath Affection wove,
To bind the heart in links of social love ?
But ah! how oft the mournful circlet waves
Its withering honours o'er untimely graves!
No star that trembles in the evening sky
Beams half so soft as Pity's melting eye,
When meek that eye in dewy lustre shone
For other's griefs, but ne'er had wept its own.
Enraptured Joy the imaged future gave,
Bright as the sunbeam on the western wave;
His shadowy world a new Elysium grew,
And smiling Hope affirmed the vision true.
False flattering vision !--promise given in vain,
The looked-for pleasure changes into pain:
Not faster fade the rosy tints of day
That streak the folds of twilight's mantle grey.
Ah ! then no more to Joy my strains belong,
A milder influence claims my votive song:
Thee, gentlest Melancholy! thee, I hail,
And woo to wrap me in that sable veil
Which shuts life's sunny pictures from the view,
Deceitful pictures !--fair, but never true.
Yet wilt thou listen to so mean a lay,
When witching numbers once invoked thy sway ?
And he, whose loftier themes were high and holy,
Has sung the " pensive nun," sweet Melancholy?
Not mine such power as his, whose strain divine
In chastened lustre gave thy charms to shine;
What time thou ledd'st him to the twilight grove,
Where Philomel poured soft her song of love,
With warblings sweet she hailed the western star;
But oh! her Poet's notes were sweeter far
To him, though this low world was hid in night,
Clear shone the beam of intellectual light ;
O'er the rapt Bard, as slow he struck the lyre,
High Inspiration flashed Promethean fire;
The beamy splendours wreathed the laurel bough,
And shed a dazzling glory round his brow.
I woo thee, Nymph, to wake the plaintive measure
That tells of feelings sad the mournful pleasure;
To sing of Knights, who for their Lady's grace
In Fame's proud record won distinguished place:
Ah! vainly won--when soon in mingled breath
Sound glory's hymns and the low dirge of death.
Or bear me with thee, when pale Cynthia shrouds
Her crescent dim in veil of silvery clouds,
To cypress shades, through whose long vista seen
The tombstones whiten o'er some village green;
There she, who saw her early love expire,
Still cherishes Affection's vestal fire,
Bids the pale splendor her sad path illume,
And hails the ray, though bursting from the tomb.
There bends the wretched mother o'er the grave
Of her whom long she fondly sought to save:
Hers is no frenzied shriek of anguish wild;
With lilies fair she strews her fairer child;
And calm though sad breathes in high Mercy's ear
The soul's lament, which only Heaven should bear.
When from some distant rock the beacon's light
Gleams a faint star to crown the brow of night,
Oft let me meet thee on the lonely shore,
Where gathering tempests threat with sullen roar;
And flitting sea-birds shriek with feeble cry,
Seared by the lurid red that streaks the western sky.
Or when the blast of Autumn, sweeping low,
In fitful moanings seems to speak of woe,
Deep musing let me list the cadence sweet
Of dashing waters, murmuring at my feet;
Or sound of that sweet harp, whose magic tone
Seems the soft music of a world unknown.
Oh ! I could dream, that Bards of other days
Joined its wild melody with solemn lays;
That on the breeze their thrilling vespers flow,
Or angel voices mourn for mortal woe,
And let the muse of Tragedy be nigh,
With tresses loose. and spirit-beaming eye;
Her veil dark waving o'er her snowy breast,
Her tearful glance to pitying Heaven addrest.
Hers be the soul-fraught strain, with fear that awes,
Or wakes a gentler throb in Pity's cause;
When Basil, who could war and death defy,
Falls by the witching glance from Beauty's eye.
Nor mourn we more the gallant hero lost
Than Montford--by Hate's fiercest tempest tost;
Scarce soothed by her, in whom each grace combined
That purest image of a heavenly mind,
The high-souled sister, whom Affection led
To watch beside the dying murderer's bed,
With seraph sweetness bid his frenzy cease,
And to his parting spirit whisper peace.
Oh Melancholy ! whilst such power is thine.
To sooth the mind, to soften, to refine,
Ne'er let me quit thy soul-ennobling themes
For Mirth's light laugh, or Pleasure's gayest dreams:
To other hearts let frolic Joy be dear,
I love thy pensive smile, soft mingling with a tear.
-JANETTA PHILIPPS
WAR.
When fell Oppression o'er the earth
Her iron sceptre waved with fearful sway,
To thee, dread power of War, the fiend gave birth,
To thee, who marked with gore her desolated way;
Revenge thy sire, whose furious hand,
As Discord tossed aloft her flaming brand,
Struck at the breast that gave thee life;
His glittering dagger drank her blood,
Whilst thou, amid th' unhallowed strife,
With eager lip imbibed the sanguine flood.
Infuriate War! what hand shall dare
To trace the horrors of thy way ?
No radiant beam from heaven is there,
To mark the track with lucid ray,
But storms and tempests round thee wait;
Thy dire artillery, big with fate,
Spread with thick, sulphureous breath
"Darkness that may be felt"--a fearful night,
Though streaked awhile with sudden light,
The fatal harbinger of death.
O'er thee no anxious mother fondly hung,
For thee no soothing lullabies were sung;
But wildly did the hoarse winds sweep
In mournful cadence round the steep,
Where Furies rocked thee in their horrid arms.
Nourished with blood, thy desperate rage
Would from the lion rend his prey,
Or deadly battle furious wage
When the gaunt tyger crossed thy way;
And the deep roarings, that at evening's close
Render the savage wilderness so drear,
Chilling the fear-struck traveller as he goes,
Were sounds most grateful to thy infant ear:
For then thou hadst not learned with blasting breath,
From the shrill trumpet's brazen throat,
To wake the loud, the maddening note,
That calls devoted man to fields of death.
Ere thou, the world's dread scourge, wert born,
When smiling Peace still held her gentle reign,
Then flowers and fruits profuse from Plenty's horn
Shed their rich honours on the verdant plain.
Then man a tranquil shelter found,
(The idle toils of greatness scorning,)
Where fragrant roses strewed the ground,
Wet with the dew of early morning.
There the mother, sweetly smiling,
Hushed her infant to repose;
And Hope, the pains of Age beguiling,
Bade life's sabbath calmly close.
Then was the Golden Age below;
Then Echo learned her sweetest strain,
Responsive to the lover's pain,
Who breathed in softest sounds his fancied woe.
But ah ! too soon thy giant form
Was dimly seen amid the storm;
Thy red arm o'er the prostrate world
The ensign dire of death unfurled;
The deep-toned drums thy swift approach declare;
Loud, loud the echoing rocks among,
Groans, and the clang of arms around,
Answered to the trumpet's sound,
Whilst birds, ill-omened, hover in the air,
And shriek the fated victim's funeral song.
Yet not for ever round thy way
Demons, foes to man, attend;
Since ruthless Fate full many a day
Hath bid him hail thee as a friend.
By thee the hardy Warrior of the north
Snatched from the Tyrant's head his bloody crown,
When Sweden bade her patriot sons go forth,
To win with him the meed of high renown.
Thee, 'mid Helvetia's rocks, her gallant band
Did once with solemn firmness sternly hail,
When Liberty aloft with dauntless hand
Waved her white banner to the mountain gale.
Thee too, in later times, did man invoke,
Though not with like success, when grasping Pride,
And fell Ambition, with remorseless stroke,
Bade a whole kingdom fall--a realm divide.
* Hero of Poland, whose illustrious name
In future times shall honoured be,
And raise, perchance, to emulate thy fame,
With happier fortunes blest, a chief like thee:
Like thine, the warrior's dauntless soul
May brave Oppression's fierce control,
And bid thy bleeding country yet be free.
But not in vain thy toil and pain,
Thy sun of glory beams afar;
While sad, though low, the shriek of woe
Pursues the conqueror's gaudy car.
No nation's grateful tears shall e'er bedew
The blood-stained wreath, that decks the victor's brow;
Unlike the deathless meed, which, gained by you,
Shames all the laurels Conquest can bestow.
-JANETTA PHILIPPS
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