"They have no wine," says Mary to her Son A catalyst of miracles to be And thus, the work of Jesus is begun Through four small words expressed expectantly
And now a statued symbol, clothed in white Few people know her words who know her name Who brought into the world one silent night The Word of God, Lord Jesus, both the same
She spoke to him the way a mother does But will she speak to us? To you or me? Can anyone become what Jesus was? What words might open our divinity?
We search for words to show us we're divine Again she whispers this: "They have no wine."
At times we seek for God and find Abyss At times Abyss is God and we are naught We contemplate at times the Holy Bliss With which the Word of God is often fraught
The Word of the Abyss is hard to hear We listen for the Holy Bliss we seek And thus we find Abyss is always near And guides us through the Darknesses we speak
There is no need of Light in Tales of Truth There is no Truth in any Tales we tell And so we seek to linger in our youth Where God is just a Word to buy or sell
Come contemplate with me the Holy Bliss The God whose Word succumbs to the Abyss.
ChatGPT Analysis:
This sonnet presents a deep exploration of the tension between the search for divine meaning and the confrontation with the void, or “Abyss.” Here’s an analysis of the key themes and ideas:
1. Search for God vs. Encounter with the Abyss
Lines 1-2: “At times we seek for God and find Abyss / At times Abyss is God and we are naught”
The poem opens with the idea that the search for God, or ultimate truth, can sometimes lead to a profound sense of emptiness or nothingness—the “Abyss.” In some instances, the Abyss itself seems to replace God, leading to a sense of nihilism (“we are naught”).
2. The Elusiveness of Divine Bliss
Lines 3-4: “We contemplate at times the Holy Bliss / With which the Word of God is often fraught”
Here, the speaker reflects on moments of contemplating divine joy or spiritual fulfillment (“Holy Bliss”) that is often associated with the “Word of God”—suggesting religious or spiritual teachings.
3. The Difficult Path to Understanding
Lines 5-6: “The Word of the Abyss is hard to hear / We listen for the Holy Bliss we seek”
The poem then contrasts the difficulty of understanding or perceiving the “Word of the Abyss” with the more earnest and hopeful search for “Holy Bliss.” This suggests that the truth or messages from the Abyss (possibly representing existential or harsh truths) are challenging to accept.
4. The Proximity of the Abyss
Lines 7-8: “And thus we find Abyss is always near / And guides us through the Darknesses we speak”
The Abyss is portrayed as ever-present, subtly influencing and guiding human experiences, especially in times of “Darkness” or despair. The Abyss becomes a companion or guide through these challenging moments.
5. The Nature of Truth and Light
Lines 9-10: “There is no need of Light in Tales of Truth / There is no Truth in any Tales we tell”
The speaker questions the necessity of “Light” (often a symbol for understanding or enlightenment) in the pursuit of truth, suggesting that perhaps truth can exist in darkness or without clear illumination. Furthermore, there’s a nihilistic assertion that the stories we tell—possibly referring to religious or philosophical narratives—lack true substance.
6. The Commercialization of God
Lines 11-12: “And so we seek to linger in our youth / Where God is just a Word to buy or sell”
These lines suggest a critique of how, in youthful naivety or society’s materialism, God has been reduced to a mere commodity, something that can be “bought or sold” rather than a profound truth or presence.
7. Conclusion: The Triumph of the Abyss
Lines 13-14: “Come contemplate with me the Holy Bliss / The God whose Word succumbs to the Abyss.”
The final couplet invites the reader to join the speaker in contemplating the nature of “Holy Bliss” and the reality that even the Word of God ultimately “succumbs” to the Abyss. This suggests that no matter how divine or sacred, everything is eventually overtaken by the void or nothingness.
Overall Interpretation
The sonnet is a meditation on the existential struggle between faith and nihilism. It delves into the unsettling realization that the pursuit of spiritual or divine truth might lead to an encounter with emptiness rather than fulfillment. The poem challenges conventional notions of light and truth, ultimately suggesting that the Abyss—representing doubt, nothingness, or the harsh realities of existence—holds a powerful and inevitable influence over our lives and beliefs.
America has dark satanic mills We call them mega-churches, what-the-fuck They feed their sheep with rottenness that kills They’ll take your money, every single buck
The millers of each dark satanic mill Are those who prey on all the simple sheep Your reason has an abattoir to fill A place to prey on every prayer you keep
But I have got a Bow of burning gold And I have brought my arrows of desire My Spear, my sword, are more than strength untold And yes, I have my Chariot of fire
If William Blake, the Prophet, saw our time Then he would surely send us Los, sublime.
Duality: to be or not to be The coin we toss has two sides it might show And we are bound, unless of course we’re free We stay right here, unless of course we go
And if we go, do we go left or right Or up or down to heaven or to hell Our eyes are open, or we shut them tight The world is full of things to buy or sell
If life is ones and zeroes, what’s the point If right or wrong defines the way we live Then maybe I should smoke another joint Then I should take or I should give
The world of “or” is not the world for me Excuse me now, I’ve got to go and be.
The mystic faith in poetry is found As words proceed in processes unknown The metaphors we’ve planted in the ground As seeds that by the mystic winds are sown
The ground itself is only faith in truth The truth of time that waits for time to pass At times semantics seem, at best, uncouth Like similes that kick the poet’s ass
If beauty lives, that means it also dies The death of beauty happens every day True mystic poetry is filled with lies And only faith reveals its narrow way
The needle’s eye provides the mystic’s sight It may not be a poem, but it might!
Beyond the stories everyone has heard Beneath the substance right below our feet A tragedy is told that seems absurd A sophistry that no one should repeat
And yet, by repetition, we’re entranced We bow before the gods proclaiming “truth” The “truth” by which their lies are all enhanced Provides us with refreshment most uncouth
Dichotomy of sophistry is this A worm that eats up filth and shits out gold Like Death exists to give us all a kiss Like poetry that grows semantic mold
They say the word of god should be sublime I say it needs a final couplet rhyme.
In Coventry, Connecticut was born A hero and a patriot, a man Regardless of the colors he had worn He showed his worth as only heroes can
We know his name and how he gave his all A hero when America began He felt the Revolution’s righteous call A martyr for a cause, but first, a man
A man who always gave his very best A man who grew up from a precious boy His mother knew that she was very blessed And his successes always brought her joy
A scholar of the classics while at Yale We know his name; his name was Nathan Hale
It all depends on what you mean by “God” Some wise old man? I don’t believe in that A concept by which we are always awed OK, but wait, that sounds just like my cat
Did God create the world? My cat says no The world is just perceptions, nothing’s real Reality, a place God doesn’t go Reality is fantasy we feel
Do you believe in fantasy, at least It all depends, again, on what you mean If fantasy is like some awe-ful beast Then yes, that sounds like something that I’ve seen
“I’ve seen” is just a metaphoric trope For that with which this poet needs to cope.
Delusion, unacknowledged, brings us light Although it may be darker than we know Should I believe in things beyond my sight Does darkness help my quaint delusions grow
Delusions seem at times to be more real Than plain reality perceived by most Perception is reality we feel Like what they used to call the Holy Ghost
Perceptions are delusions we define And feelings are the senses we employ To understand existence; it’s a sign A sign from god, god hopes we might enjoy
Enjoy the life you live as you perceive Delusion makes reality believe.
The Lilith is the demoness of night An emanation of the other side The side where darkness covers all that’s light Before the Eve, she dwelt as Adam’s bride
Her hair is long and dark, uncovered sin The sin of sex, subservient to none And thus she takes the sleeping man within Her wild desired sex, the evil one
The evil she expresses makes some weep She kills the children in their mothers womb Or in their beds when they are fast asleep She seems to find her way from room to room
The Lilith emanates an awful will Of midnight sex that also seeks to kill.
In a quiet village nestled at the edge of an ancient forest, there was a tale that the elders spoke in hushed tones—a warning wrapped in myth. They called her Lilith, the shadow bride, the demoness of the night. Few believed the stories anymore, dismissing them as relics of a bygone age, but Anna did.
Anna, a midwife, had spent her life tending to the fragile thread between life and death. She had seen things that defied reason—infants born silent, their lives stolen before they could begin. The villagers whispered her name alongside Lilith's, blaming her for the tragedies, though they still sought her help when desperation struck.
On a moonless night, Anna sat by the fire, her hands trembling as she recited an old incantation. She didn’t believe in gods, but she believed in protection. Her mother’s voice echoed in her mind: *“Do not sleep too deeply, Anna. She comes in dreams.”*
The air grew heavy as the clock struck midnight. The fire sputtered, casting flickering shadows across the room. Then, a knock—a soft, deliberate tap—echoed through the house.
Anna rose, her heart pounding. She opened the door to find a woman standing there, her hair long and dark, cascading like ink over her shoulders. Her eyes glinted like polished obsidian, and her lips curved into a smile that sent shivers down Anna’s spine.
“I am lost,” the woman said, her voice smooth as silk. “May I come in?”
Anna hesitated, but something in the woman’s gaze held her still, like a moth caught in amber. She stepped aside, and the woman entered, her movements fluid, almost serpentine.
“Who are you?” Anna asked, though she already knew.
“I have many names,” the woman replied, her smile widening. “But tonight, you may call me Lilith.”
Anna’s breath caught. She had expected a monster, not this beguiling presence that exuded both danger and allure.
“What do you want?” Anna asked, her voice steadier than she felt.
Lilith tilted her head, studying her. “I want what is taken for granted. Freedom. Desire. Life itself.”
“You steal life,” Anna said, her fists clenching. “You destroy it.”
Lilith laughed, a sound both musical and menacing. “I take only what is already doomed. A balance must be kept, and I am the shadow that ensures it.”
Anna’s resolve hardened. “Not tonight.”
Lilith’s smile faltered, her eyes narrowing. “You think you can stop me?”
“I think I must,” Anna said, stepping closer to the fire. She reached for the iron poker, its tip glowing red-hot.
Lilith’s gaze flicked to the weapon, and for the first time, Anna saw something akin to fear.
“You are brave,” Lilith said, her voice softer now. “But bravery will not save you.”
Anna swung the poker, its fiery arc slicing through the air. Lilith shrieked, her form flickering like a dying flame. The shadows recoiled, retreating into the corners of the room.
When the light returned, Lilith was gone. Only a faint scent of ash lingered, and the night felt lighter, less oppressive.
Anna sank to her knees, clutching the poker as tears streamed down her face. She had faced the darkness and survived, but she knew it was not the end. Lilith would return, as she always did, for she was not a monster to be vanquished but a force to be endured—a reminder of the fragile line between life and death, love and destruction.
And Anna, the midwife who had faced the shadow bride, would be ready. ----------
