Epigraphy

Yule Horror

There is snow on the ground,
And the valleys are cold,
And a midnight profound
Blackly squats o'er the wold;
But a light on the hilltops half-seen hints of feastings un-hallowed and old.

There is death in the clouds,
There is fear in the night,
For the dead in their shrouds
Hail the sin's turning flight.
And chant wild in the woods as they dance round a Yule- altar fungous and white.

To no gale of Earth's kind
Sways the forest of oak,
Where the sick boughs entwined
By mad mistletoes choke,
For these pow'rs are the pow'rs of the dark, from the graves of the lost Druid-folk.

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Young Jenny

The cockchafer hums down the rut-rifted lane
Where the wild roses hang and the woodbines entwine,
And the shrill squeaking bat makes his circles again
Round the side of the tavern close by the sign.
The sun is gone down like a wearisome queen,
In curtains the richest that ever were seen.

The dew falls on flowers in a mist of small rain,
And, beating the hedges, low fly the barn owls;
The moon with her horns is just peeping again,
And deep in the forest the dog-badger howls;
In best bib and tucker then wanders my Jane
By the side of the woodbines which grow in the lane.

On a sweet eventide I walk by her side;
In green hoods the daisies have shut up their eyes.
Young Jenny is handsome without any pride;
Her eyes (O how bright!) have the hue of the skies.
O 'tis pleasant to walk by the side of my Jane
At the close of the day, down the mossy green lane.

We stand by the brook, by the gate, and the stile,
While the even star hangs out his lamp in the sky;
And on her calm face dwells a sweet sunny smile,
While her soul fondly speaks through the light of her eye.
Sweet are the moments while waiting for Jane;
'T is her footsteps I hear coming down the green lane.

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The Mask Of Anarchy by Percy Bysshe Shelley

1.

As I lay asleep in Italy

There came a voice from over the Sea,

And with great power it forth led me

To walk in the visions of Poesy.

2.

I met Murder on the way -

He had a mask like Castlereagh -

Very smooth he looked, yet grim;

Seven blood-hounds followed him:

3.

All were fat; and well they might

Be in admirable plight,

For one by one, and two by two,

He tossed them human hearts to chew

Which from his wide cloak he drew.

4.

Next came Fraud, and he had on,

Like Eldon, an ermined gown;

His big tears, for he wept well,

Turned to mill-stones as they fell.

5.

And the little children, who

Round his feet played to and fro,

Thinking every tear a gem,

Had their brains knocked out by them.

6.

Clothed with the Bible, as with light,

And the shadows of the night,

Like Sidmouth, next, Hypocrisy

On a crocodile rode by.

7.

And many more Destructions played

In this ghastly masquerade,

All disguised, even to the eyes,

Like Bishops, lawyers, peers, or spies.

8.

Last came Anarchy: he rode

On a white horse, splashed with blood;

He was pale even to the lips,

Like Death in the Apocalypse.

9.

And he wore a kingly crown;

And in his grasp a sceptre shone;

On his brow this mark I saw -

'I AM GOD, AND KING, AND LAW!'

10.

With a pace stately and fast,

Over English land he passed,

Trampling to a mire of blood

The adoring multitude.

11.

And a mighty troop around,

With their trampling shook the ground,

Waving each a bloody sword,

For the service of their Lord.

12.

And with glorious triumph, they

Rode through England proud and gay,

Drunk as with intoxication

Of the wine of desolation.

13.

O'er fields and towns, from sea to sea,

Passed the Pageant swift and free,

Tearing up, and trampling down;

Till they came to London town.

14.

And each dweller, panic-stricken,

Felt his heart with terror sicken

Hearing the tempestuous cry

Of the triumph of Anarchy.

15.

For with pomp to meet him came,

Clothed in arms like blood and flame,

The hired murderers, who did sing

'Thou art God, and Law, and King.

16.

'We have waited, weak and lone

For thy coming, Mighty One!

Our purses are empty, our swords are cold,

Give us glory, and blood, and gold.'

17.

Lawyers and priests, a motley crowd,

To the earth their pale brows bowed;

Like a bad prayer not over loud,

Whispering - 'Thou art Law and God.' -

18.

Then all cried with one accord,

'Thou art King, and God, and Lord;

Anarchy, to thee we bow,

Be thy name made...

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Sonnet LXXXVII

Farewell! thou art too dear for my possessing,
And like enough thou know'st thy estimate,
The charter of thy worth gives thee releasing;
My bonds in thee are all determinate.
For how do I hold thee but by thy granting?
And for that riches where is my deserving?
The cause of this fair gift in me is wanting,
And so my patent back again is swerving.
Thy self thou gavest, thy own worth then not knowing,
Or me to whom thou gav'st it else mistaking;
So thy great gift, upon misprision growing,
Comes home again, on better judgement making.
Thus have I had thee, as a dream doth flatter,
In sleep a king, but waking no such matter.

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F*cking gnarly animal that speak pretty f*cking words by Matthew James French

Website: www.matthewjamesfrench.com

Instagram: @matthewjamesfrench / https://www.instagram.com/matthewjamesfrench/

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/matthewjamesfrenchofficial/

BandCamp (Music): https://matthewjamesfrench.bandcamp.com/

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Protest by Ella Wheeler Wilcox - 1850-1919

To sin by silence, when we should protest,
Makes cowards out of men. The human race
Has climbed on protest. Had no voice been raised
Against injustice, ignorance, and lust,
The inquisition yet would serve the law,
And guillotines decide our least disputes.
The few who dare, must speak and speak again
To right the wrongs of many. Speech, thank God,
No vested power in this great day and land
Can gag or throttle. Press and voice may cry
Loud disapproval of existing ills;
May criticise oppression and condemn
The lawlessness of wealth-protecting laws
That let the children and childbearers toil
To purchase ease for idle millionaires.

Therefore I do protest against the boast
Of independence in this mighty land.
Call no chain strong, which holds one rusted link.
Call no land free, that holds one fettered slave.
Until the manacled slim wrists of babes
Are loosed to toss in childish sport and glee,
Until the mother bears no burden, save
The precious one beneath her heart, until
God’s soil is rescued from the clutch of greed
And given back to labor, let no man
Call this the land of freedom.

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Akeem Chandler-Prescod also known as StonedwithCupid is a spoken word artist, songwriter, audio engineer, rapper, theatre practitioner and creative director from the island of Barbados. He has amassed several awards such as 3 Silver Medals at the National Independence Festival for Creative Arts, performed at numerous notable Barbadian events, won numerous competitions and has even performed in South Africa at the Vrystaat Festival. In addition he has been nominated for Poet of The Year at the GineOn People’s Choice Awards as well as Music Video of the Year with a spoken word video, making it the first poetry video to be nominated for that award.

His work is a combination of spoken poetry, rapping, chanting and unorthodox use of environmental sounds to create musical beds which he then lays his witty, thought provoking lyricism to create a niche poetic product. The pieces echo his inspirations which include Outkast, Sade, Erykah Badu, J Cole and Damien Marley.

Background

At the youthful age of 25 his artistic experience spans over 7 years with the first spark of his creativity being ignited at The Combermere School when he was 16 years old. This introduction into the creative sector came through the discipline of theatre arts where he learnt the basics of acting, stage craft and performance which would eventually form the skeleton of his performance art in the years to come. Throughout his time at The Combermere School he appeared in many school productions as an actor as well as working backstage as a stage hand. This theatre journey found its next phase within the Youth Achieving Results Program which was organised by the National Cultural Foundation and was an attempt at that organisation to develop artistic development in Barbadian youth. This program provided vocal and performance training which allowed Akeem to find his voice in music.

At the age of 17 he embarked on the frequently travelled path of being a rapper and writing Hip-Hop songs. He began recording these songs on his computer with the built in equipment and a free DAW which introduced him to the basics of mixing and mastering vocals. Many of these tracks were performed at school pageants, competitions and talent showcases for a few years as he continued to enhance his craft before exploring poetry.

He wrote his first poem at the age of 22 and since then have written, recorded and produced over 30 poetic pieces. His poetry arose from a need to be able to express all his disciplines under one umbrella in a cost effective manner where he can not only do everything he is good at it but also create something new that can give him a competitive advantage and bring value to the artistic market. The first few poems were reinventions of rap songs which then matured into fusions of poetry with hip-hop influences. Having self-taught himself to write, rap, produce, mix and master as well as direct his creative performances, his creations are not reminiscent or reflections of any existing genre or artist and can only be defined as his own genre.

The Art

At current his poetry is packaged in a digital format in the form of audio/visual recordings and distributed online. These recordings often consist of stripped instrumentals utilizing very few instruments with many being replaced with a vocal bed or vocal loop. Ambient environmental sounds are used such as heartbeats, gasps, claps, winds and waves to create a soundscape which the vocals exist within. The lyrical delivery meanders between a slower poetic execution and a fast paced rapping style which occasionally is accompanied with melodic backing vocals. The style of mixing, which consist of heavy reverberation often found in neo soul productions and pitched vocals more often seen in hip-hop give the production a distinct sound and feel. The usage of his Barbadian accent with sprinkles of a standardized accent plant the seeds of a...

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Funeral Blues

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message 'He is Dead'.
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun,
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

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The Garden

There's an ancient, ancient garden that I see sometimes in dreams,
Where the very Maytime sunlight plays and glows with spectral gleams;
Where the gaudy-tinted blossoms seem to wither into grey,
And the crumbling walls and pillars waken thoughts of yesterday.
There are vines in nooks and crannies, and there's moss about the pool,
And the tangled weedy thicket chokes the arbour dark and cool:
In the silent sunken pathways springs a herbage sparse and spare,
Where the musty scent of dead things dulls the fragrance of the air.
There is not a living creature in the lonely space arouna,
And the hedge~encompass'd d quiet never echoes to a sound.
As I walk, and wait, and listen, I will often seek to find
When it was I knew that garden in an age long left behind;
I will oft conjure a vision of a day that is no more,
As I gaze upon the grey, grey scenes I feel I knew before.
Then a sadness settles o'er me, and a tremor seems to start -
For I know the flow'rs are shrivell'd hopes - the garden is my heart.

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I Carry Your Heart With Me

BY E. E. CUMMINGS

I carry your heart with me (i carry it in my heart)

I am never without it(anywhere

I go you go, my dear; and whatever is done

by only me is your doing, my darling

I fear no fate (for you are my fate, my sweet) I want

No world (for beautiful you are my world, my true)

and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant

and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows

(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud

and the sky of a tree called life; which grows

higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)

and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

I carry your heart (I carry it in my heart)

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