"Angel of the Revelation" by William Blake‘Intimations of a Dream’ and Other Poetry by Brett Forester The Society October 21, 2016 Beauty, Culture, Poetry 1 Comment Intimations of a Dream When the wind rustles through the open pine, And the leaves murmur and shudder off dew; When the sun, like an undeciphered sign, Through the imperial vault of swimming blue, Creeps through the mist to light the vague outline Of lovers in the park unknown to you A hunger and a thirst well up from the core, Not for food nor for drink but something more. It is a desire – nay – craving for moon In the sinewed and silent shroud of night, Ruptured only by the song of the loon Rippling the waters in the scarlet light; In this rapture you feel as if to swoon At the wonder raised by the simplest sight, And unless these signs by the heart are read The appetite grows until it is fed. And so day after day from dreams you rise To observe again and forevermore, With open and ever unwearied eyes, The beauty which moved you the day before; And, in one such moment, you realize What it precisely is you hunger for. You hunger for no such material thing, The urge gnaws at you to rise up and sing. Mammon’s Rot (Mammon: wealth or material possessions to which one is excessively devoted) Not Zeus, nor Yahweh, nor creative Venus, Among the evergreen wood blushing rose, Nor any wanton Hour and Lare of place That ever has ruled mankind’s little race Has caused such horrible sorrow between us As Mammon, whose bleak realm shrinks as it grows. The sins of other gods have been a spark On sun-dried brush – quick to ignite and quick To consume, yet quick as well to burn out; Their terror lasts but one night in the dark, With their disease for a day are we sick, And passes swiftly their pigeon-winged doubt; Satan, the primal republican devil, Only a moment lapsed deep into evil When he in violence and with war rebelled, And was, with equal cruelty, quickly quelled. There is no mercy in the god of wealth, No end to his desire for death and pain; His presence is a slow and constant drain On mankind’s collective spiritual health. True poetry of genius, art and love, Are what the god of wealth is enemy of, Defeating truth in age on age again. And woe on them that do rank Mammon’s will In claiming to desire his favor not, Yet slyly waiting on his nearest leisure; Brooding with secret rage that prospers ill, Envying wicked men their wicked pleasure, Into their hearts creeps slowly Mammon’s rot. Yet, cease; for there are, unassumed and rare, Often unloved by custom, certain few Servants of good in every age who bear The heavier burden of being true To what is good, sublime, profound and fair – Gods whose bounty is more worth praying to, And, though they suffer, these alone succeed, Through substanceless love, in the war on Greed. Brett Forester is a poet from Ottawa, Canada, who composes entirely in the classical style of English verse. Much of the Ottawa river valley countryside determines the cultural and natural backdrop of his work. NOTE: The Society considers this page, where your poetry resides, to be your residence as well, where you may invite family, friends, and others to visit. Feel free to treat this page as your home and remove anyone here who disrespects you. Simply send an email to email@example.com. Put “Remove Comment” in the subject line and list which comments you would like removed. The Society does not endorse any views expressed in individual poems or comments and reserves the right to remove any comments to maintain the decorum of this website and the integrity of the Society. Please see our Comments Policy here. Share this:Click to share on Twitter (Opens in new window)Click to share on Facebook (Opens in new window)Click to print (Opens in new window)Click to share on LinkedIn (Opens in new window)Click to share on WhatsApp (Opens in new window)Click to email this to a friend (Opens in new window)Click to share on Pinterest (Opens in new window) One Response Michael Dashiell October 22, 2016 In Intimations of a Dream, I’m delighted to see your use of the stanza type “ottava rima” that Byron famously used in Don Juan. Though Byron’s approach with it was humorous and rambunctious, it’s nice to see how used it gracefully and quietly, certainly more contemplative than Byron’s silliness. Reply Leave a Reply Cancel ReplyYour email address will not be published.CommentName* Email* Website Notify me of follow-up comments by email. Notify me of new posts by email. This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.