Poem 232 – Prince of the Air

When Jesus son of Mary second Eve,
Saw Satan fall like lightning down from heaven,
Prince of the air

Milton, Paradise Lost, Book X, 183-5

Prince o the air, how you tumble,
Lord over skies, how you dive,
And soaring above a timely gust
Still you plummet through your realm.
Majestic scion of Heaven itself,
And now King of all Hell,
You reach the bottom of your second princedom,
But do not return so well.

***

Dear readers,

It is unlike me to mock Satan as a character, but here it is quite amusing, in my mind at least, to imagine the great antihero-demon bouncing up and down like he were on a trampoline.

Kind regards,

The Hapless Neo-Romantic

Poem 168 – They Decreed Their Own Revolt

They themselves decreed
Their own revolt

Milton, Paradise Lost, Book III, 116-117

I formed them free, and free they must remain
Till they enthral themselves

Milton, Paradise Lost, Book III, 124-125

So what if I cast them out?
Why level accusations against me
That it is by my doing that they can defy me,
And my own acts that made them wish to do so?
They themselves decreed their own revolt,
Choosing freely to retaliate with scorn,
To ignore the love of I who raised them,
And to spit gratitude back at me.
Yes, I knew they would do so,
But they chose to do what I knew.
I did all that was required of me by my justice –
I formed them free, and free they must remain.

***

Dear readers,

It is most unusual for me to try and speak with the words of God, and yet Milton’s opening of Book III does just that, with his usual impeccable style. God reveals that Man will fall from grace, but that God carries no blame for it, since Man chooses to do so, even though God knows his choice in advance. This is something that has led to countless theological debates, which I won’t discuss here (look up ‘the paradox of free will’ if you’re interested). However, God’s argument that he is not liable is interesting – as with the rest of the work, I’d recommend it.

Kind regards,

The Hapless Neo-Romantic

Poem 81 – View from the Final Balcony

Do you think I don’t feel that the wind is a-changing,
Do you think I don’t see the stars rolling and ranging?
Do you think I don’t hear the birds I love are flying
Away! For the world that I loved is dying.

Do you think I can’t hear all the people there screaming,
Do you think I can’t tell what the mob there is feeling?
How could I have been who I am if when
Things change, I didn’t know my world’s at an end?

You who did this be happy now,
Watch me burn
But know that without me you’ll be on your own –
Betrayal will find you, I long for your turn.

When you feel worlds collapsing that you built with your hands,
And your cities as dust ‘neath your feet,
All on your own you look out on the street and weep –
For the change of the wind.

***

Dear readers,

For some reason when I was writing this I came up with a very clear image of the classic story of a ruler, betrayed by those around them, watching their people outside knowing that it is the end. This is the result – the change of the wind. Although I’ve roughly set it to music in my head, I’m not sharing that at the moment, unless you really want me to. Do you ever set your poetry to music?

Kind regards,

The Hapless Neo-Romantic

Poem 11 – The Changing Hillside

The hill is green, its verdant slopes rolling to the stream
While the grasses are blowing in the wind, their sweet scent upon the breeze
Showing that in springtime, the hillside’s young and new
While the tall tree at the summit holds, its boughs forever true.

The hill is bright, the summer flowers shining above the brook
And gazing at the grasses growing, the world demands another look,
For here in the summer, the hillside is so bright
And at the summit stands a tree, a bold silhouette before the light.

The hillside’s green is darker, its slopes tumbling towards the torrent
As the flattened grasses before the storm bend in the weather abhorrent.
In autumn it appears that the promise of life given before
Was only for a moment, though the tree stands as in days of yore.

The hillside is now barren, grey slopes above the stream
Few grasses betray the glory of their younger and verdant green.
But though it is deep winter, some promise still holds – see!
Above the desolation stands the single, living, tree.