[Terry: Now, Mr. Black clearly knows his iambs from his pentams. This is like reading Tennyson. I bow to his incredible endurance. I couldn’t write one of these damn poems and Ian seems to have an endless supply.]
Ian Stewart Black
Bipolar, asexual, vegetarian, poststructuralist, pantheist nihilist. Professional poet and french toast connoisseur.
General penhandler, Sonneteer, Philosopher, Haijin, Writer and byronic hero… with a penchant for waistcoats.
I have readers from the UK, Washington, Ontario, Ireland, Australia, Wisconsin, Maryland, Singapore, New York, Ohio, Kentucky, Minesota, Korea, Illinois, British Columbia, Maine, Michigan, California, France, Georgia, North Carolina, Arizona, Bulgaria, Kuwait, Saudi Arabia, India, Singapore, Japan, Lebanon, New Zealand, Thailand, Macedonia, Austria, Pakistan, Brazil, Norway, Serbia, Turkey, Spain, South Africa, The United Arab Emirates, Nevada & beyond.
A legion’s worth held mastery of death:
Immortal warriors and prophet kings
Arose from tragedy with sword in hand,
Divinely sheltered from the cold embrace;
In vanity, their legacies were sealed,
In monuments to glorify their names:
Each mortal soul became a deity,
Eternity was theirs alone to claim.
As decades burned away to cinders, ash
Descending from beneath immortal crowns,
The arrogance of those who cheated death
Belied the sunken eyes of mortal age:
Defiant in the hands of destiny,
Appointed gods and sons of Narcissus
May conquer all that rules the land or sea,
But never Death: for none shall master me.
For none shall master me thus many serve,
And countless beg before the tide of fate:
As they implore the ocean to recall
Its pitiless advance – they perish, all.
The silver-tongued and taciturn contend
Voracious waves that billow overhead,
Descending to the reaper’s murky depths:
The darkness from wherein no light returns.
As lovers, friends and worshippers beseech
An act of mercy from the stoic sea:
So too the bonds of man petition Death,
And neither care nor mercy find in me.
With such an act of love our tale begins,
And how it ends is yet a mystery;
By way of counsel, I have only this:
Your guide is Death himself – abandon hope!
With this renunciation of the love
The sundered pair had cherished all their lives,
The murky ghost of Beatrice dissolved
Once more amid the endless mist of Death;
The smoke in spirals wrapped its way around
The loathsome raider of our ancient realm:
Constricting him and seeping through his flesh
To work its rightful poison from within;
His frame began to wither, and his skin
Became as pale as drifting clouds that veil
A waning moon: a century befell
His body in an instant of decay;
As if to vindicate his wickedness
And justify his evils, he announced
“A life without a love is living death”,
And dissipated through Oblivion.
No gloried soul that walks upon the earth,
Nor gods and monsters live eternally:
For any fool may rule the land or sea,
But never Death – for none shall master me!
We wayward heirs
Are each an ember,
From the ashes of
A better world.
Cast over oceans,
At the mercy
Of the winds of fate;
And if we fall,
We fall together.