The Haunting Of A Hare

THE HAUNTING OF A HARE
BY
BARRY VAN-ASTEN

It was a cold Sabbath day in December and the beasts of Piccadilly had already retired to their hovels to take stock of the day’s trading and activities. The muggers, junkies and rapists were all very happy with themselves and every shop doorway housed an unconscious drunk lying in his own piss, or depending on fortune, someone else’s, for this is a picture of London in the year two-thousand-and-nine and the spirit of Christmas is upon her. And somewhere in this filth infested capital, a man was purchasing a hare! The man, we shall call him ‘son of God’, took the hare back to his abode, somewhere off the jungle of St Andrew’s Road. Here, son of God’s sick wife, we shall call her ‘Queen of the world’, waited for son of God, or ‘Sonnies’ return. She had been reading a letter from her friend Prince Muckandust from Gujarat, to say he would be in England for Christmas and that he looked forward to meeting Queen of the world again. Queen of the world, or ‘Queenie’, wanted to return the hospitality shown to her by the Prince and his parents when she visited India… Just then, son of God returned and declared that the tabernacles were a heaving mass of vocal animals celebrating ‘Christ’s canned religion!’ Son of God felt sick to his stomach. ‘Burn them all!’ he cried.

ELEPHANT OVER ENGLAND

On the following day a phone call was received from Prince Muckandust to say he was in England and that he would call upon the Royal couple at their palace in West London. And the news was met with silent torment. And it came to pass that Prince Muckandust and his acquaintance, Lord Huffanpuff, who was introduced as the Prince’s official ‘sacred cow’, which was to say he was the Royal bed warmer but he was later referred to as the ‘gimp of heaven’, paid homage to son of God and Queen of the world.
The palace was a humble affair decorated in the modern style of white walls with hangings and wooden floors. Dominant in the main room was a book case inhabited by various books on many subjects. In one corner was a small altar dedicated to some dark god in which Sonnie regularly sacrificed the small rodents which freely roamed the palace. On one of the walls hung an Indian painting depicting a night scene in a garden where a Prince is attended by maidens and sacred animals. In front of the window sat a statue of Buddha, surrounded by reflective crystals, his hands locked together, in deep meditation.
The Winter solstice had come and gone and the illusion of time hung heavy in the palace. The Prince was the very essence of ignorance. ‘He may have an air of aristocracy’, said Queenie, ‘but he has the manners of a pig!’, and knowing of the Prince’s aversion to the eating of flesh (not to mention soap and water), son of God fell into an unsavoury discourse on the natural beauty and versatility of pork!
The Prince would not partake of the grape, for his mind was a vision of pure clarity and his religion forbade any stimulant stronger than oxygen, which in certain extreme cases was removed from the daily diet of many of the religion’s followers and as a result death would follow, but it was a small thing to forgive in the attempt to follow a chosen way of life. As the evening quickly rolled into night, L……, the Royal servant, burst into the room with a deafening ‘Dinner!’ (Which was the only word he could speak) and a tender pheasant was produced to the roars of approval from Sonnie, who was known to digest the odd wild animal or two. ‘I am lost in the reason of your understanding’, the Prince was heard to say, as he tucked into something small and tasteless, green and harmless and full of nutrition, no doubt. Secretly the Prince was missing his mother’s milk!
It was truly a Royal Boxing Day feast and the Indian Prince was less than impressed. In fact, he oozed himself from room to room on his lady-like legs, puffing himself up to the size of a small chicken as he tried to live up to his imagined importance.
Outside, the natives along the Manchester Road were restless, knowing that the Holy One was amongst them and being entertained within their midst. And jubilation thronged all night long from Kensington. to Wembley, as the smell of burning flesh came thick from the Sinner and Saint public house. In fact, it all turned quite ugly and several bystanders found themselves being digested alive. Such was the atmosphere in West London that night.

THE SONG OF THE SODOMITE

The next day reports were heard how a child had been orphaned by the boiling mob of bag-snatchers and pornographers, and at least two old ladies had succumbed to the lure of the pot. But enough of pleasantries… Son of God and Queen of the world were sitting in their palace listening to the strains of a small boy outside being fed into a mangle for crucifying a cat in the name of Jesus Christ, when the Prince and Lord Huffanpuff dropped in. It was a wonder to behold their attempts to overthrow the Royal household with their pee-brained, effeminate behaviour. They didn’t so much walk into the Royal chamber as pour themselves in. Sonnie and Queenie quickly marched them from the palace and down to the Grand Ugly Canal where mobile phones, televisions and American tourists now outnumbered the fish! Stepping carefully among the turds, the Royal couple led the donkeys to [insert detested superstore of choice], that great slaughterhouse of consumable products! There, the donkeys soon tired and departed to whatever scene of sodomistic bliss they called home.

HYMN TO THE SACRED HARE

It was New Year’s Day when Sonnie and Queenie saw the Prince again. He turned up looking for a bed for the night and it was obvious that Lord Huffanpuff had grown tired of wet nursing the Prince and pandering to his disgusting whims. And so an old rag and urine soaked pillow (kept for special occasions when ‘people we hate’ and ‘dirty bastards’ should call in to stay) was found for the Prince. His gratitude knew no bounds and he was privileged to witness the Royal Hare being bathed in the Royal sink and prepared for the Great Feast. Out came the heart and lungs, followed swiftly by the liver and kidneys. Son of God felt as if a crime was being committed and the hare seemed like the corpse of a small child: ‘In the name of the fornicating Christ’, said Sonnie, making the sign of the cross over the hare: ‘I anoint thee’. And he burst into song:

‘We pluck the beast and wash the beast and this is what we do;
We drain the blood because we should and this will make fine stew!
The corpse is cleansed; the corpse is blessed unto our chosen God,
And Eaten as a sacrament by Queenie and her Sod!’

THE GREAT FEAST

It was a dark, dark night and Queenie was still recovering from the flu when the inhabitants of the Sheep’s Gut Road came out in their drunken masses to shout ‘Happy New Year!’
‘Bollocks to the New Year!’ echoed Sonnie, as the rapists took Featherton Road while the muggers took Maiden Shamed Road, leaving the paedophiles and priests to take Armpit Avenue. In the proceedings a young nun was buggered and later burnt to death in Nunnery Road. In fact, it was an ordinary New Year in West London. And at their palace, in a haze of sweet smelling incense sat the Son of God and the Queen of the world, with a distant look of satisfaction on their faces for that night a delicious feast was eaten at the Royal household. The Prince had realised his dream of reaching the top of his tree by attaining nirvana, it seemed the air of West London was just too rich for him and so his delicate frame was cooked alongside the hare and digested to the babblings of the natives outside. Strange, but every time the Prince’s name was mentioned L……. would roll his eye and rub his tum with a deafening ‘Dinner!’

IN MEMORIAM - ABEL LAYTON 1891-1915

IN MEMORIAM
ABEL LAYTON 1891-1915

Layton, Abel – 14428, 2nd Battalion, East Yorkshire Regiment, formerly 22372, Corps of Hussars of the Line. Born 13th October 1891 in Sparkbrook, Birmingham; the youngest son of Abel Layton (1853-1917) of Mathon, Worcestershire, and Mary Layton [nee Hinson] (1857-1917) of Stechford, Warwickshire, having resided at 35 White Road, Aston, Birmingham (c. 1891), 37 White Road, Aston, Birmingham (c. 1901) and 73 White Road, Sparkbrook, Birmingham (c. 1911). Husband of Edith Layton [nee Scragg] (b. 1894); married 2nd March 1915 at St Nicholas Parish Church, Nottingham, of 1 Kingslake Street, Nottingham (1915), 309 Castle Boulevard (1916), 6a Hermit Street, Nottingham (1921-31), 126 London Road, Nottingham (1933-38), 138 London Road, Nottingham, [both in The Meadows] (1939-73). Private Abel Layton enlisted in Nottingham on 7th September 1914, having previously served with the 5th Royal Warwickshire Regiment for four years (discharged in 1912). He was posted into the Corps of Hussars of the Line on 10th September 1914 and transferred to the East Yorkshire Regiment 8th Battalion on 14th October 1914. He was posted to the 3rd Battalion of the East Yorkshires on 8th March 1915 and having completed his training at Victoria Barracks, Beverley Parks, the depot for the East Yorkshire Regiment,  he was sent to France on 22nd April 1915. He was posted to the 2nd Battalion of the East Yorkshires on the same day (22nd April) and he was reported missing and killed in action on 5th May 1915 at the 2nd Battle of the Ypres Salient in Belgium, where the Germans first released poison gas into the allied lines, North of Ypres. This was possibly during or following the Battle of St Julien (24th April-4th May, 1915). He died without issue, aged 23. Medals: Campaign Medal 1914-15 Star; British War Medal; Victory Medal. His widow married Leonard Johnson at St Nicholas Parish Church, Nottingham, in 1916. Abel Layton is listed amongst the War dead on Panel 21 and 31 of the Ypres (Menin Gate) Memorial in Belgium and on the Lenton War Memorial, Church Street, Nottingham.

REQUIESCAT IN PACE

Sarehole Mill - A Brief History

 

SAREHOLE MILL

A BRIEF HISTORY

BY

BARRY VAN-ASTEN

Sarehole Mill. Pencil & Ink. 2010. By Barry Van-Asten.

During the Pre-Reformation, before the Dissolution, Sarehole Mill in Birmingham was the property of Maxstoke Priory, which was founded in 1333.

In 1542 the mill was rebuilt. Daniel Benford of Yardley gave John Bedell of Beoley, permission to build a corn mill. During Tudor times the mill was known as ‘Biddle’s Mill’ (or ‘Bedell’s Mill’). Nothing remains of this early mill.

In 1545 the mill was advertised for letting. In this period of the mill’s history there are no barns, engine house or chimney.

1721 – Sarehole, known as ‘High Wheel Mill’ is bought by Robert Eaves of Sarehole. The mill is let to various tenants.

1727 – The tenant of the mill is William Richards.

1746 – The mill is owned by Robert’s brother, Richard Eaves who was made bankrupt in 1754. (Richard bought the Yardley estate in 1727). The tenant during this time is James Green.

1750-52 – The tenant at this time was Judd Harding (or Harden), a sword cutler.
John Eaves (Richard’s son) joined Edward Ruston, a relation to buy land in Hockley Brook to build a pool and watermill – Ruston’s Pool was made and in 1762 Matthew Boulton (junior) leased the estate for the building of his Soho works in Handsworth. John Eaves died in 1763 and his brother Richard Eaves became the owner of Sarehole Mill. Richard was made bankrupt in 1775 after rebuilding Greet Mill.
Other tenants during the 1750’s were William Tallis and Joseph Bellamy.

1756-61 – The tenant at this time was Matthew Boulton .and the mill is used for metal work. Matthew Boulton senior rented Sarehole in 1759 and he died there some months later. His widow retained the tenancy for the following year of 1760.

1768 – Richard Eaves has permission from John Taylor, the Lord of the manor of Yardley (who bought his Lordship in 1766) to construct a new channel or head race, half a mile long from the River Cole at ‘Whyrl Hole’ (small basin) now known as ‘the Dingles’; with a sluice, four yards wide, upstream on Sarehole Common.
The water for the mill originally came from Coldbath Brook, known at the time as Bully Brook, which is now part of Moseley Golf Course (laid out in 1904). The Brook fed three pools before entering Sarehole Mill Pool, but it was not reliable. Richard Eaves paid three guineas annual rent for the use of the new channel.

1764-68 – Eaves erected a mill building with three floors and a single storey forge at the side. A bake-house and attendant barns with a stable are also constructed.

1768-75 – The tenant at this time is John Jones, corn grinder. The mill is also used for grinding blades for cutlery and edge tools. Along with the mill there was 68 acres of land, owned by the Lord of the manor of Yardley, who in 1767 was John Taylor. Sarehole Mill was known at this time as ‘Little Mill’.

In 1773 the mill became a corn mill and was rebuilt by Richard Eaves.

1775 – Eaves is made bankrupt and the mill is put up for sale.

About 1777-1780 – The tenant is John Allen.

1783 – Nearby Titterford Mill is built.

1790’s – Part of the mill machinery is used for wire drawing.

In the late 18th & early 19th Century the mill’s tenants was the Siviter family.

1807 – A second waterwheel is added (the South waterwheel) installed to drive blade grinding. This second wheel (the overshot wheel) is 10 feet 8 inches in diameter. The original (North) wheel (the high breast shot wheel) has an iron frame and measures 12 feet in diameter and 5 feet wide. Also a steam engine is installed in the Granary.

About 1840 – The forge at the South end beyond the overshot wheel is converted into a cottage with a barn added.

1841-47 – The tenant is Thomas Anderton, who went bankrupt in 1847. The next tenant was Joseph Briscoe and it was during this time that a barn was built.

1851 – Samuel Batsford is the next tenant. In 1851 Robert Summers a millwright carried out extensive repairs to Sarehole Mill. He added another steam engine, installed new wheels and corn grinding machinery which was taken from Titterford Mill.

1851-58 – The tenant is John Manders. John was paying interest to the Taylor family estate on the cost of installing the second steam engine to supplement the mill’s water power. John married Jemima Tackley in 1847 in Kings Norton, Birmingham and they lived at the mill with their two daughters and three servants.

1855 – The chimney is added to the mill.

1856 – William Deakin, the gun maker and sword cutler uses the mill (from around 1800-1850’s ‘Deakin & Son’ use the mill’s grinding facilities for the East India Company).

1858 – John Andrew becomes the next tenant (the mill stays in the tenancy of the Andrew family for the rest of its working life).
During the late 1800’s the mill was used to grind bones for fertilizer but it remained essentially a corn mill until 1919.

In the summer of 1896-1900, Number 264 Wake Green Road is rented by Mabel Tolkien, mother of JRR Tolkien and his brother Hilary. It was then known as 5 Gracewell Cottages.

1914 – The Taylor family sold the estate and the mill is bought by Arthur Henry Foster (1843-1928), a solicitor of Green Road. In the 1861 census Arthur is aged 17 and living at 9 Wellington Road, Edgbaston. He is a solicitor’s clerk living with his father Robert Hale Foster aged 45 and an attorney (he died in 1877 aged 67); his mother Helen aged 48 and Sisters Ann Francis 22 and Emily Helen 20, are also at the address (Emily married in 1873).

In the 1881 census Arthur is living at Sarehole and he is the head of the household aged 38 and a solicitor. His mother is 68 and a widow and his sister Ann is 42. With them are Thomas Perry, a 21 year old servant (groom) from Cheltenham and Emma Cole, 18 from Malvern who is a general servant.
In the following census of 1891 they are still at Sarehole with Arthur’s 16 year old nephew George and two servants: Kate Withington, 19, housemaid from Red Hill, Shropshire and Mary Walsh, 30, cook and domestic servant from County Limerick in Ireland.
Arthur’s mother Helen died in 1896 aged 83.

Also from the 1891 census we find George Andrew at Sarehole Mill. He is 44 and a corn miller from Harbury, Warwickshire. Living with him is his wife Hannah, 47 from Rowington, Warwickshire, and their son, George aged 18 a miller born in Yardley, Worcestershire. They are also found on the 1881 census at the mill.

1919 – The mill fell into disrepair and the Andrews are unable to make repairs and so the mill is disused and becomes derelict.

1928 – Arthur Henry Foster died and bequeathed the mill to Birmingham City Council on the death of its present tenant Mr George Andrew, the son of the last miller also named George.

1946 – Sarehole Mill bequeathed to the City of Birmingham.

1959 – The death of Mr George Andrew (bachelor) the last tenant of the mill. At the time of his death the miller’s house had two floors but the top storey was removed during restoration work in the 1960’s. Mr Andrew had also erected a greenhouse overlooking the mill pool.

July 1960 – vandals destroy much of the interior of the mill and an appeal is made to restore the mill. Tolkien himself becomes a contributor to this appeal to save the mill from demolition.

1968 – Restoration begins.

Sunday 13th July 1969 – The mill is opened to the public as a branch museum under the care of the Birmingham Museum and Art Gallery.

1974 – Restoration is completed and the mill is designated a grade 2 listed building.

The John Morris Jones Walkway is a path on the River Cole in Hall Green, (in an area once called Sarehole). It is part of the Shire Country Park.
John Morris Jones was a headmaster of George Dixon Junior School in west Birmingham from 1960 – 1980. He wrote extensively about the local history of the South Birmingham area, particularly Yardley, Hall Green and Sarehole.


The Tolkien Society was formed in 1969 and Sarehole’s significant connection to his writing has played a large part in the mill’s recent popularity. The mill and the recreation ground beside it with the lovely River Cole have hosted the ‘Tolkien Weekend’ since 2000 or as they are now known ‘The Middle Earth Weekend’ in May. The first Tolkien weekend took place on Saturday 13th & Sunday 14th May 2000 from 2-5 PM, and featured guided walks around Moseley Bog and historic crafts etc. Other weekends increased in popularity:

2001 – Saturday 19th & Sunday 20th May.
2002 – Saturday 18th & Sunday 19th May.
2003 – Saturday 17th & Sunday 18th May.
2004 – Saturday 15th & Sunday 16th May.
2005 – Saturday 14th & Sunday 15th May.
2006 – Saturday 13th & Sunday 14th May.
2007 – Saturday 19th & Sunday 20th May.
2008 – Saturday 17th & Sunday 18th May, 11-5 PM.
2009 – Saturday 16th & Sunday 17th May, 11-5 PM. Tenth Anniversary.
2010 - Saturday 15th & Sunday 16th May, 11-5 PM.
2011 - Saturday 21st & Sunday 22nd May, 11-5 PM.
2012 - Saturday 19th & Sunday 20th May, 11-5 PM.

For more information about the Middle Earth weekends visit www.tolkiensociety.org

THE VEIL OF EDEN - Part seven

THE VEIL OF EDEN

BY

BARRY VAN-ASTEN

Part VII - The Holy Place

Sprite:

And thus the tragedy is revealed:
Vir puris cunni - Adam's shield
That shineth golden, from afar
To light the darkness as a star.

Chorus:

Cometh, yea! above all this
Lies thy destiny. Thou hast seen
The sacred sword that lies between
Thine Angel and thine Abyss.
Goeth unto the realm of light
And kiss the apex of the night!

Sprite:

And by thrice moons was Eden rent
Of manhood's self-slain element!

Adam:

Eve, fair Eve, be thou not afraid
Of God's cruel wonder - night and day
Where sin and shame in the same shade play.
Oft' I hath seen its beauty laid
Upon a tear-stained marble mount
Within the sanctuary of unrest;
Where forest beasts lie breast to breast
And taste of knowledge from the fount
Of life and death. But tremble not
At the sword of light I wield,
For hath I not this golden shield
To reflect the agony of Eden's rot?
And changed, thus far, I must retreat
Unto the dark forest, and there find
A love that be not of thy kind
That gives mine flesh to comforts, great.

Eve, fair Eve, knowest I loved thee,
Yet now, cannot I, my sweet, conceive
How born of Adam's rib, my Eve
Should'st be so blind she cannot see
That God, in all His grace, that blessed
And gaveth man breath, created pure,
Should'st fasten woman to some fleshy core
And wake the elements from their rest.
O dark this love, and of God's flock
Hath come by different waters, gay;
Hath wished the gentleness away
And sought the pains thou did'st unlock.

Eve:

O Adam, weep not for thy sighing,
O Adam, curse not the unknown night,
For I see the day upon thee dying
And darkness where there once was light...

Adam:

Hush! for the ache of flesh is pain:
I desire mine maker's hands again!

Eve:

O Adam, I hath long here dwelt
And known thy pains and always felt
That what thou seekest is wrong by God:
Thou treadest not the path He trod!
I fear for thee and almost wish
Thou had'st thy way with eager flesh,
For I cannot giveth, all ye seek:
I cannot offer shame my cheek
And lie with sin. O what thou art
Hast wounded me within mine heart.

Adam:

O Eve, fair Eve, I am strong, yet weak,
Thou hast all within thee that I seek,
Yet I asketh thee not, for truth it be,
Mine body will not yield to thee.
And I am cursed to walk alone;
To shame myself before God's throne.
As mortal to immortal, met
To find His liquid gaze is set
Upon the flesh that breadeth shame:
Upon the body without name.
This in mine heart, shalt not be moved
Till unalterable love is found and loved!
I must away to solitude
And retreateth from this painful mood
And give mine lusts a stronger bough
To shelter fancy's fear of now.
For I hath buried the lone star of desire
Deep in the whiteness of the snow;
I hath felt its burning light expire
In sorcery, and sleepless, I go
Unto the sword of Liberty's light. I give
All that I hath that I may live!

.................................................................

And Adam was wrought with lust
And rage and sickness,
For the sweet perfume and
The darkling caress.
And great citadels of shame were his
Shadows erect in the Abyss.
Yet what untold horrors lie in wait
For Adam on the path of fate?

Serpent:

O fate, draw back thy bow
And sing, sing long thy virtuous note
That purity's thought cannot know
For thou art ever concealed and remote.
In thy bleak simplicity - tremble
And let thine arrows pierce
Unto man's universe and dissemble
With actions subtle, swift and fierce.
Break the harmony that is sorrow,
Go, go with thy lustre, look
On man's dawn and man's tomorrow
Where thine arrows hath with beauty struck
The chambers of his dim lit reign.
Here be sadness, for the bud
Of spring rejoiceth long in pain -
Thy rose hath drowned in brotherhood!

Adam:

O mother earth, what pains I see
To carry this dread misery
That in me burns both day and night -
Lust, in all its colours, bright!
And in seasons pass, I alone:
Would'st to God mine heart were stone!
I lie in fate and lie with truth
For stars of Heaven be my roof
As onward unto welcome breast
Is my perfection and my rest;
Where strong arms gently fold around
The limitless wonders they hath found;
To feel the ache of thighs caressed,
Kissed by lips that hath never kissed.

Serpent:

O see the sun upon thee frame
The flowered passion of thy name.
This, thy music serves thee well
Before the throne of Raphael.
This, thy guiding light of Hell
Before the throne of Michael.
This, thy sufferings that doth swell
Before the throne of Gabriel.
This, thy heartache that doth tell
Before the throne of Uriel.

Adam:

'Tis myself grown dim, for I am dust,
Cursed by the ache of brotherhood's breast:
Wine be mine poison, bread be mine shame
And burn the flesh of sin with flame!

Serpent:

What devil this of thy construction?
Let nature's course, divine, compete -
To lie with death is thy destruction:
Thou must tasteth the bitter and the sweet!
Thy downfall? Never! thou art uplifted
Unto the rose of God, divine.
The scent of greatness, here hath drifted:
Speaketh not of bread nor wine.

....................................................................

And his skin that longs for love anew
Shalt weary where desire breaks through,
And Adam in his loneliness
Shalt reflect on his lost gentleness.
But he is young and unafraid
Of what the Gods upon him laid -
The fear of man, the weight of God
That strikes night with His blasting rod.
Break Adam, break, all concentred hate
For thy flesh and for thy fate.

Adam:

In fields of Eden will I dream
The hands that built me, slew me.
Through this foul sleep, I resteth not
Mine dark seed - O how art
Thou sighing for brotherhood...sighing!

Serpent:

Pity not ye man of sighing
For the old moon that is dying.
This thy Kingdom thou hast won:
Be strong! thus thine will be done!

Eve:

Mine womb be as the desert sands
Scorched by an everlasting sun;
Mine garden foldeth in mine hands:
No rose on the horizon!
Yet mine womb doth sing, though barren be,
For 'tis half the fruit of humanity.
Yea! life upon the earth - awake!
To beauty, to mine child - the snake!

...............................................................

Epilogue:

On Eden's veil did'st man caress
The splendour of his nakedness.
The wine of life was his true goal;
The crushing arrows of his soul,
And that which stained God's pure creation
Was Hell's thrice-formed abomination.
For love had'st soughtest he the most:
His desire for the Holy Ghost.
His sword thrust to the heart of reason -
Thus was man's fall Eden's treason.
And faith in liberty and in light
Crowned by the dyad of the night.
Yet freedom cameth from afar,
Beyond the radiating star
That giveth truth unto the soul;
That giveth will to what we are!
And so in many splendid ways
Did'st man desireth of its rays
To light the Kingly regions, dim
O'ershadowed by the seraphim,
Who keepeth the secret of the fire,
Saddled with its strange desire -
But man is born to seek new things
In his earthly wanderings.
And now that man hath been ordained
Unto the highest sanctuary,
Let splendour in his heart be framed
By Love and Light and Liberty!
For he hath crossed that great divide
That separateth God from man;
He hath distilled pure from the void -
The universal organ!
Speech shalt flameth that within
And destroyeth that which lies without;
His noble brow shalt look on sin
With no shame, no fear and no doubt!

Sprite:

Looketh! see how man hurries in
To see his evil seedlings sprout!

The End.

THE VEIL OF EDEN - Part six

THE VEIL OF EDEN

BY

BARRY VAN-ASTEN

Part VI - How The Whore Was Saved And Won

Lilith, on Her mighty air
Hath led the way through darkness, where
She lay Her flesh and cast Her spell
And showed man mortal, lusts of Hell.
In dream, spoke She unto the son
To show the Whore both saved and won.
And She sang of the mysteries that unite
The eternal darkness and the light.
For the Lord of Night sits oft' astride
The infernal sadness of His bride
And blasphemes nature with His lust
To abide with devils and with dust.
His bride, the Whore, sick to Her breast
Found no ease in sleep nor rest,
Till one night, in the leafy shade
Came footsteps nearer, unafraid,
For 'twas the Lord of Day, that came
To witness Night with Whore in shame.
And in Day's hand a mighty sword
Was drawn and raised without a word;
'Twas thrust into the heart of Night,
Thrust with all His regal might
That split the Lord of Night in twain -
From head to toe, the Night was slain!
And as the thunder clouds rolled by
The Lord of Day looked to the sky,
While Whore sang sweet beneath the beast
Of Night, to gaze on Her saviour priest.
And She rose and danced and kissed His feet
With gentle kisses that were sweet.

Whore:

My Lord, my Lord, this very night,
Day hath turned my darkness light!
I who loved each maid and man
With all the skill of an artisan;
I who conjured man from boy
And dashed his dreaming with a sigh,
For 'twas the love that carried me
Into the doomed realms of devilry.

Lord Of Day:

Thou art the harlet of the world, it's Whore;
The fount of all splendour to adore!
Tho were shameless before all men,
Returned to shame and shame again.
Through the spring and summer air
Did'st thou in thy purple, perfumed lair
Stain with blasphemies, thy cup
And bid the goat god drink it up!
Autumn, winter, came and went
And still thou stolest thy sacrement.

Whore:

O how mine womb sings in the night
Sweet songs of love and songs of fright!
For I am but an instrument of man's desire,
And man is but a stringed bow to my fire.

Lord Of Day:

O, my thrice-blessed daughter of Hell
That hath sighed through aeons...I cannot tell
Why my path hath led me here
In priestly mock that's thread with fear.
For I gaze upon thy limbs that wrought
Joy to life and death, unsought.
And I ache with passions, born anew,
For thou see'st, I am but mortal too!
And here, beside the Night in twain,
He of dark appetites and of pain,
I hunger thine unamed caress
That foldeth fear within thy kiss.
O harpy of infinitesimal lust,
Thy body is as dust and dung;
A chariot of disgust that must
Wield by magic, thy foul tongue.
Crescent form and lissome limbed:
Thou hast seen the bloom of midnight dimmed!

Whore:

Nay my Lord, for see, I blush.

Lord Of Day:

How I long to hold thee near, and crush
Thy soft bruised flesh, and kiss it sweet,
And feel thine heart upon mine beat.
For 'tis madness that within me lies
And yearns to thine cup that destroys.

Whore:

I see thine passions runneth deep:
Thine sting of holiness doth sleep!
Mine change was swift - see how it turns
Unto Whoredom's grip that burns!
My breasts are ripe with motherhood
Where beauty's flame hath flickered in;
Veiled with roses and with blood:
I hath long been the Queen of Sin!
Mine limbs doth ache, mine heart be tired;
Mine flesh is soft, yet weak and sore.
Flames of passion hath I fired
In this sacred vessel known as Whore!
Beggar, Prince, wench and King -
To all hath I sworn my lusts to sing!
By streams hath I lain with beast and brute;
To poets, strummed soft on lyre and lute.
In chambers hath I soiled with bliss
Mankind's threefold consciousness
That unlocked the gates that case the womb
To reveal the glories of the tomb.
A flower, cursed and midnight, dead,
By morn shall resteth on his head.
With flames I coil and weep and sing
To the ecstasy of lust's everlasting spring.
But I see thou art cold to nocturnal pain;
Those tongues of fear hath dulled thy brain,
Yet wine is sweet! My Lord, cometh near,
Be ye not afraid of regions drear,
And when next thou see'st the sun goeth down
Thou shalt bear the sceptre and the crown!

Sprite:

Child of thy bowel, the war is near won:
See'st how the moon lookest to the sun!

.....................................................................

And the Lord of Day remained all night
In the arms of Whoredom, painted white
As the pure snow driven, soft and deep
Upon abominations that will not sleep.

Whore:

O my Lord, how art thou weak;
How art thou senseless in thy reign.
Thou hast planted wisdom on mine cheek,
I hath invoked horror in thy brain,
And defiled the holy seed of man
To bronze his passion in the womb
And sin unto the Holy Lamb.
Yea! I hath sheathed his purple plume
In depths unutterable, till it blooms
Where rose and lily fold as one.
And limbs are still in crimson tombs
Now the dark God's work's near done!
But hush, dost thou not hear mine womb burst
Into song, now quenched of thirst?

Sprite:

Harketh! dost thou hearest the moan of Hell
Rise in triumphant madrigal?

Chorus:

It be the solar rays of light:
It be the lunar washed of white!

Whore:

I am the horror of thy bowel;
I am the obscene whorings, come
By fragrances both fair and foul,
For I am corruption and the sum
Of man's extension into shame,
That shall by fear and bliss, enflame
Thy brain, by copulation's bud
And disintegrate thy nakedness
And giveth thee to brotherhood
In the excreta of excess!

THE VEIL OF EDEN - Part five

THE VEIL OF EDEN

BY

BARRY VAN-ASTEN

Part V - The Angel And The Abyss

Shall the lie of God be told;
Shall His mysteries unfold
And swell thy bosom to victory
That thou hast sipped of His glory?
And this be rapture in thy brain;
This be thy star, risen and slain
And risen, once more into light
That once was darkness of the night.
That once was far beyond thee, cast
Into the formless void, so vast,
For 'twas the wrappings of the tomb;
Thine pasture of nocturnal gloom
That leads thee here. What visions tell
Why thy lusts are darkness, drawn from Hell;
Thy lie of madness and desire -
Thy penetrating star of fire?
Thou hast slipped thy fetters, see them fall
And unto thine own Angel, call.
Thy bondage broken by a kiss;
Thy liberty strong in rapture's bliss.
Ah, but what hath made thee so?
What pause in thy eternal ring
Hath brought misfortune's silver sling
And dealt thy heart a mighty blow?

Chorus:

Draw back thy flesh;
Hold back thy veil:
Hail! unto thine Angel, hail!

Sprite:

Speaketh monster!

Angel:

I magnify man's little sorrows
Into steps of doom;
I bringeth the Abyss, that swallows
Thy radiant bloom.

In this thy park of discontent,
Ever at thy side
Was thine Angel - thy sacrament
Of fire, long denied.

Thou art risen on the wings of fate
That leadeth ye aright.
O sire! be not ye desolate
And forsaken in mine sight,

For thou walketh as a god, new-born
In thy robe, aflame;
Thou art glorious in the distant dawn
In thy crown of shame!

I sing of thine own sweet embraces
That in thine heart doth grow;
For 'twas in those wild abandoned places -
There I loved ye so!

Sprite:

Thou hast seen thine opposite attract
Itself to thee in every act.
Thou hast glimpsed thy birthright, from afar:
Thy flame-flecked wisdom of the star!

Chorus:

Hail! unto thine Angel, hail!

Sprite:

Thou cometh swift from restless sleep
Into casms, dark and deep.
But lo! thine Angel, more must speak,
Soft and low - 'tis very weak!

Chorus:

Hail! unto thine Angel, hail!

Angel:

If in sleep thou dreamest, I come to thee
In love's unfolding of the unseen,
Be ye ever a sun that burns, serene,
To die in the arms of eternity...

Sprite:

Hear ye Adam! these words are gold
Rushing through thy veins! Unhold
Thy feared forebodings, be as one:
Dimensionless unto the sun!
Here, the inhabitant of the Abyss
Summons ye to its nothingness!

The Dweller Of The Abyss:

Adam, Adam, come, not linger,
Come with Royal lips aflame;
Fear not the song, thou art the singer
Robed and crowned in Adam's name.

Adam, Adam, there be sweet joy
In all thou givest unto love:
Joy be the heart of man and boy
That sings thy praises from above.

Adam, Adam, fruit of God's labour,
Thou art not condemned by God;
Loveth thyself and damn thy neighbour;
Maketh madness thy method!

Adam, Adam, breathe salvation,
Redeem the urges of the beasts
That elevate their jubilation
In sacred rites and forest feasts.

Adam, Adam, raise thyself up
And seekest thou swift brotherhood,
In damnation and the cup
That thou hast drained dry of its blood!

Adam, Adam, fear not thy shame,
Fear not the wind that carries thee
Into strange places, thou art the flame
Of fortune and of sorcery.

Adam, Adam, thy flesh is bold;
Thine heart hast run its course of lust.
A mirror of thyself, behold,
Is what thou seekest in the dust!

Adam, Adam, hide not thy tears
For this sweetness, come to pass;
Thine is the Kingdom that ye steers
'Twixt thine Angel and Abyss!

Sprite:

Ah! 'tis like a broken bone
That love disgraced, before it fell
To find its roots are firm in Hell,
Where two mortal souls are thrown.
For the great adulteress hath begun
The unison of the moon and sun,
And its fulfilment shalt be done:
Hark! how the whore was saved and won!

THE VEIL OF EDEN - Part four

THE VEIL OF EDEN

BY

BARRY VAN-ASTEN

Part IV - The Blossom And The Sigh

From this holy place I go
Unto a wilderness unknown;
Unto a place where love, outgrown,
Lies barren, for it cannot grow.
Here, the spirit of silent birth
Hath thundered long unto the sea,
And virtue thrown to devilry
Is all that purity is worth.
For upon this world mankind doth tread
'Twixt an everlasting faint dimension
And things beyond man's comprehension;
Beyond the living and the dead.
Yet what bright moon on the horizon
Will sail the oracles of space
And revealeth love's eternal face?
In measure met - all things are one,
The Lord of Life hath wished it so;
For He gaveth man his opposite,
His dual expression - black and white.
And time and spasmodic change shall flow
As the body yields to spring passions
And there, breathe life - it breatheth yet,
Strong by nature's calling, set
Into a robe of dreams - man's visions
Are life's rememberance of the dead.
The stars are sown, the torn veil rent
And the Host of the Heavenly sacrament
Fell tearful at man's side and said:
Enough of unholiness and of death,
For all that liveth in vain, shalt sing
Of life's beauty over everything!
Thus, the great lie of man, beneath
The starry sadness of Heaven, drawn
Unto soft whisperings that revealed
Nothing in joy is twice concealed
By woman, at her darkling dawn.
And time wilt cease for moonlight priests
At the extinguishing of the light,
For darkness be their God of might;
A continual conjuring of strange beasts
That come, by Royal sacrifice
To trample hooves in tribal dust;
To work their foul alluring lust
And in the madness found - rejoice.
On the Holy mount shalt man seek
The glory of his radiant star
That hath retreated, and gone far
From the ceremonies of the meek.
Here shalt corpses come to lie -
The glory of our loved dead:
Every one a good man's head
Unstirred by the blossom and the sigh!
And God hath cast thy fortunes great
Into scented halls of hate;
This be thy mannequin of woe
For the elements hath found ye so
Rich in joy on wings of sadness:
Thou art sent scrying into madness!
And with thine new-found love, retrace
Thine footsteps to the Holy place
And supplicate thine self in prayer!

Sprite:

But soft! here I invoketh to thee - Air!

Air:

I am loud and silent: I am Air;
I am the words of war and prayer,
On streams to carry love and hate
Drawn from hearts both small and great!
And I am flattery which is joy;
I am thy breath, I am thy sigh.
And I make tempests of thy bones
When mine rough winds upon thee moans.
Within, without, I am the storm
Of change, thy progress without form!

Chorus:

O carry, carry, wings of Air
Man in his boat adrift, despair;
Seeketh still man, of the higher...

Sprite:

Here, I invoketh to thee - Fire!

Fire:

I am thine inmost: I am Fire;
I am thy flower of desire.
I am thy flickerings, set in pain:
Thine serpent of unsaintly reign!
And I bring joy and ease and love
From under the cloak of lust, I move,
Ever burning, though, thee be still -
I goeth onwards in thine thrill
Of ecstasy, that in thee be
Flames of uncontainable devilry!

Chorus:

O burn, burn, thy flames of Fire
Unto man's heart that doth aspire;
Thy love, thy melancholy rapture...

Sprite:

Here, I invoketh to thee - Water!

Water:

I am thine thought: I am Water;
Thy mother, thy bride, thy Holy daughter.
I am thy wanderings that resteth not;
Thine river that ever disturbs thy lot!
And I am the flow of fate, foresee
Thine own miracle of thy destiny.
And I be calm and showeth the moon
Or whipped by tempest and typhoon
That turn thee swift upon thine will
Unto mine waters - magical!

Chorus:

O roll, roll, thy Waters sweet
Over man's brow in defeat
And strike thy pleasing chords of mirth!

Sprite:

Here, I invoketh to thee - Earth!

Earth:

I am thine form: I am Earth;
I am thy firmament of birth!
I am thine glories and thine fear,
Slow of change, I doth appear
Dull and heavy, I confess
I am the vacuum of thy stubbornness.
I am thy surface, point and plane -
I am the laughter in thy pain.
I am thy dream of lips unmet:
Yea! I, the spectre of regret!

Chorus:

O fold, fold, Earth manifold,
Thy temple stones, thy bed of old
Upon man's boundless breast, and sit...

Sprite:

Here, I invoketh to thee - Spirit!

Spirit:

I am thine core: I am Spirit;
I seize thee by thy brain and will it
To mine works that centre thee;
To thine masked wonder: Liberty!
And I be stirred and moved by song
For I am the fortunes of the strong
Soul that sleeps and wakes once more:
I am thine entity to adore!
Mine kisses giveth endless joy
For they be sweetness to thy sigh.

Chorus:

O kiss, kiss, Spirit bliss,
The lips of man that doth caress
Passion's ardour and repents...

Sprite:

Here endeth the song of the elements!