Auguries

Strange Synchronicities… Three of our pictures tonight were tied to “Auguries of Innocence” on Google … including Robert Venosa’s work. The Blake Painting I could understand of course… 8o)

More rain today. Woke up at 2:30 this morning, fell back to sleep at 5:30 until 8:45. Mary has been painting Rowans’ room. I have been working on the Magazine and other projects. Nephew Andrew came by, stayed a few hours. He seems well. We talked about Magick, and where free will and predestination might coincide/collide.

Listening to the new David Gilmour album, courtesy of Gordon. Wonderful Stuff! Good for rainy evenings.

On the Menu:

The Links…

Quote of the Day: Bill Hicks

Sophia’s Light

The Poetry: Auguries of Innocence – William Blake

I hope you enjoy…

Gwyllm

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The Links:

London’s heart of stone

Visualizing Sound

Animusic 2 – 03 – Resonant Chamber

Colombia’s ‘lost war’ against cocaine

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Quote of the Day:

Such a weird belief. Lot of Christians wear crosses around their necks. You think when Jesus comes back he’s gonna want to see a f’ing cross, man? “Owwwwww”. May be why he hasn’t shown up yet. “Man, they’re still wearing crosses. F**k it, I’m not goin, dad. No, they totally missed the point. When they start wearing fishes I might show up again, but… Let me bury fossil heads with you Dad”…you know, kinda like going up to Jackie Onassis with a rifle pendant on, you know. “Thinkin’ of John, Jackie. We love him. Just tryin to keep that memory alive, baby.”

Bill Hicks

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Sophia’s Light (A nighttime prayer) (AGCA)

In darkest night, when lights are dim,

and all in sight seems sad and grim,

I find you there, your arms surround me,

your spirit fills me and it grounds me.

I look to you, Lady of Truth,

most ancient One, yet eternal youth,

to keep me safe, protect my heart,

and with the wisdom you impart

fill up my empty mind and soul

so that, my Lover, you can make whole,

all that was broken in this day –

and that is what I ask and pray.

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Auguries of Innocence – William Blake

To see a world in a grain of sand

And a heaven in a wild flower,

Hold infinity in the palm of your hand

And eternity in an hour.

A robin redbreast in a cage

Puts all heaven in a rage.

A dove-house filled with doves and pigeons

Shudders hell through all its regions.

A dog starved at his master’s gate

Predicts the ruin of the state.

A horse misused upon the road

Calls to heaven for human blood.

Each outcry of the hunted hare

A fibre from the brain does tear.

A skylark wounded in the wing,

A cherubim does cease to sing.

The game-cock clipped and armed for fight

Does the rising sun affright.

Every wolf’s and lion’s howl

Raises from hell a human soul.

The wild deer wandering here and there

Keeps the human soul from care.

The lamb misused breeds public strife,

And yet forgives the butcher’s knife.

The bat that flits at close of eve

Has left the brain that won’t believe.

The owl that calls upon the night

Speaks the unbeliever’s fright.

He who shall hurt the little wren

Shall never be beloved by men.

He who the ox to wrath has moved

Shall never be by woman loved.

The wanton boy that kills the fly

Shall feel the spider’s enmity.

He who torments the chafer’s sprite

Weaves a bower in endless night.

The caterpillar on the leaf

Repeats to thee thy mother’s grief.

Kill not the moth nor butterfly,

For the Last Judgment draweth nigh.

He who shall train the horse to war

Shall never pass the polar bar.

The beggar’s dog and widow’s cat,

Feed them, and thou wilt grow fat.

The gnat that sings his summer’s song

Poison gets from Slander’s tongue.

The poison of the snake and newt

Is the sweat of Envy’s foot.

The poison of the honey-bee

Is the artist’s jealousy.

The prince’s robes and beggar’s rags

Are toadstools on the miser’s bags.

A truth that’s told with bad intent

Beats all the lies you can invent.

It is right it should be so:

Man was made for joy and woe;

And when this we rightly know

Through the world we safely go.

Joy and woe are woven fine,

A clothing for the soul divine.

Under every grief and pine

Runs a joy with silken twine.

The babe is more than swaddling bands,

Throughout all these human lands;

Tools were made and born were hands,

Every farmer understands.

Every tear from every eye

Becomes a babe in eternity;

This is caught by females bright

And returned to its own delight.

The bleat, the bark, bellow, and roar

Are waves that beat on heaven’s shore.

The babe that weeps the rod beneath

Writes Revenge! in realms of death.

The beggar’s rags fluttering in air

Does to rags the heavens tear.

The soldier armed with sword and gun

Palsied strikes the summer’s sun.

The poor man’s farthing is worth more

Than all the gold on Afric’s shore.

One mite wrung from the labourer’s hands

Shall buy and sell the miser’s lands,

Or if protected from on high

Does that whole nation sell and buy.

He who mocks the infant’s faith

Shall be mocked in age and death.

He who shall teach the child to doubt

The rotting grave shall ne’er get out.

He who respects the infant’s faith

Triumphs over hell and death.

The child’s toys and the old man’s reasons

Are the fruits of the two seasons.

The questioner who sits so sly

Shall never know how to reply.

He who replies to words of doubt

Doth put the light of knowledge out.

The strongest poison ever known

Came from Caesar’s laurel crown.

Nought can deform the human race

Like to the armour’s iron brace.

When gold and gems adorn the plough

To peaceful arts shall Envy bow.

A riddle or the cricket’s cry

Is to doubt a fit reply.

The emmet’s inch and eagle’s mile

Make lame philosophy to smile.

He who doubts from what he sees

Will ne’er believe, do what you please.

If the sun and moon should doubt,

They’d immediately go out.

To be in a passion you good may do,

But no good if a passion is in you.

The whore and gambler, by the state

Licensed, build that nation’s fate.

The harlot’s cry from street to street

Shall weave old England’s winding sheet.

The winner’s shout, the loser’s curse,

Dance before dead England’s hearse.

Every night and every morn

Some to misery are born.

Every morn and every night

Some are born to sweet delight.

Some are born to sweet delight,

Some are born to endless night.

We are led to believe a lie

When we see not through the eye

Which was born in a night to perish in a night,

When the soul slept in beams of light.

God appears, and God is light

To those poor souls who dwell in night,

But does a human form display

To those who dwell in realms of day.

(Roberto Venosa)

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