These are the facts, nothing here but the facts. I was on the road to Damascus via a street in the West Village in New York City, when, in an instant, barometric pressure had dropped 100 MB. Darkness enveloped an eleven-o’clock-morning sun. It may have been a trick of the mind, or some kind of serious panic disorder. Although I could no longer see, I pictured myself a child on a visit to my great grandmother's house in La Salle, Illinois. In my head I felt as though a tornado was approaching...
TweetAs of this date my YOUTUBE Channel registers 253,000 + Single Page Visits, Video Views! A Google Search of the termsStanley Pacion YouTubeyields a result count of thousands. Please SUBSCRIBE BUTTON TO SEE HER AGAIN, April 2015* And never, never more to see her form, Not even a glimpse of her, Not in the nights filled with trembling stars, Or at noon when the Creator's bright Feeds and graces every living thing, How do I believe that I may never see her again? Never, never, again, to witness her walking, Her walking with me on the hard, fast dirt of the bridle path, Along the river, underneath the shadow of trees, Her leaping up over the embankment Then hastening away upon The white-washed stones of the causeway, How now might I accept that I may never see her again? I wonder if she remembers the bridge, the one Topping the low-rise concrete dam there at New Hope? I told her as we looked to the river below That nothing had sufficient strength, That no material exists to control the overflow, Is there nothing to contain my flood of feelings for her? How else might I relate my mood? Ask the pertinent question? Never, never, again, to eye her fleshly presence, Entangled, standing in the tresses of the forest, Or stooped, gathering strawberries, picking them One by one from the plants, her, the image of her, Her out between the raised earth rows And inbetween the shallow in the farm garden fields, That now and forever such vision is no more, How am I ever to conclude so terrible a destiny? And here at home I walk the big-city sidewalks, Remain alone while the night, the late hours envelop me. My cries echo, repeat my anguish. Through the empty parking lots and off the brick walls, Against building after building, My voice carries, yet seemingly I am not heard, Though occasionally some one person may look, Shake a head from side to side at my sorry spectacle, Most people hurry past, eyes down, as if I do not exist, But what about the reality of my situation? Over and over, I hear myself implore her to return to me. Should I not, and is it not better to forget her? Oh, no! To see her again, It does not matter when Not important, makes no difference, where. Were I to tilt my head upwards and behold, If today should I have glimpse her in the daylight heavens, Her smile, her eyes upon me, And then to watch her again as she flashes The moment of her wonderous gait, see her again before She disappears lost in a sky configured within magic wisps Which move her, wheel her along Against a deep, blue patch of sky, Until she vanishes against the vastness of the heaven's vault. Mercy grant my wish! Or perhaps tomorrow I chance a vision. Imagine a ship going down, and all its glory sinks, Down, down into the Sailors’ Locker, Would it be possible that she still surfaces, That I have sight of her, no matter what all else disappears? Yes! She rises above a whirlpool force, I see her again over a watery vortex, yes, She above a swirling ocean power, unsinkable, Albeit now the sun has set, And moon's light is the scene's sole illuminate? Oh, no! To see her again, and to view her in the moment When the volcano opens And I am on the edge before the lurid, red hell-mouth, And witness its demons’ roaring spew of steam and ash, Yet even though such terror-instant befalls me, I do not flinch. I am steadfast. I have no fear of misadventure. I look into the conflagration. I do not plug my ears, I listen, And from within earth’s deep, far-away core, Amidst the Hurley burly of all the explosions, Within the lightning claps and clamor, The mad noise of boulders being thrown, I hear it! I hear her name, Etta, Etta! I see her face and lovely shape, She, she dances above the fires! Yes, I admit her deviltry besets me. And to be with her in all the spring times, And in all the winters, Entwined in paroxysm of mighty-muscle clench, While I suck up the blood from her neck, And spot her flesh all over, Make it black and blue with the power of my caresses, Should I ever hold her in my arms, Might Hope let me see her again.
*After Gabriela Mistral's Love Poem -- The Chilean and Noble Prize for Literature, poet, Gabriela Mistral had entitled her poem, Volverlo a Ver, or To See Him Again. I do not hope to translate her great verse. Rather its spirit was the inspiration for my own.
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LOVE
WISH*
I
see the light coming out from your eyes. What
sacred wonder illuminates your face? Wish
I had the time and nothing else to do, But
while away the hours adoring you.
*A
original love poem which I modelled after a verse by Jalāl ad-Dīn
Muhammad Balkhī, also known as Jalāl ad-Dīn Muhammad Rūmī, and
more popularly in the English-speaking world simply as Rumi. He was
a 13th-century Persian poet.
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MOST EXCELLENT OF WOMEN She was a Lady who never choose to quit me. I can not count one bad word, Not so much as a moment of ill humor between us. At the stroke of the hour marking the time Precisely two years after we had been married, She gave me the birth to a son, Whose good name was the same as my own. The baby survived his mother, And he became my sole devotion. I nursed him insistantly, never leaving his side. In the whole-wide-world no ayah could ever be found: No one matched the ministry of me, this boy's father. Praise God, Your Will not ours be done. Within the month of my child's arrival a bad fever killed him.
Mericifull Almighty! Thank you for the joy and the glory of your bounty, For everything You have brought me each day. She was a lady who never choose to quit me. I can not count one bad word, Not so much as a moment of ill humor between us.
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REPENTANCE Darling! Oh my Darling, What an awful thing I have done. I have overslept; made you wait. Pray. What now my punishment?
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ONSLAUGHT Too much history, Decade after decade, year after year, With me subject to the merciless attack of the clock. Last night and into the dawn, wide-awake, Sleepless, watching the walls record the extending bright, Feeling that I have begun to crack all over, like an antique jar. Then at noon at last a nap, I arise again as the magnified voice of a late-day Call to prayer increasingly pours over the open window sill And fills the room. “We all owe death a life.”
WHAT HOPE OF MIRACLE! Darling, can it really be true? Had we been so wanton in our disorder? All I remember – it was a Tuesday, And very warm for the end of January. In our house we smashed all the crystal goblets And then proceeded to break each and every bottle, The vintage spilled out on the floor; It stained and then sunk into the old wooden boards. And at this point what does it matter? Remember the story when Jesus at the wedding feast in Cana Honored His mother’s request and turned water into wine. The party had run out of the number one liquid staple. At first His order seemed inappropriate: Six great jars filled to the brim (more than a hundred gallons), Many in the party wondered aloud How preparations for a ritual bath Might pertain to there being no wine for the wedding feast.
Then Jesus told the servants, ‘Now draw some out...” He had them take the draft to the chief steward for tasting. And lo and behold now the new question Instead of first, why had the best been served last? Would such miracle do us any good? Look around. Shards of glass surround us, Just shattered cups, and bottles whose necks are broken. All bounty meaningless, When nothing left, no vessel remains to contain it, Yet Mercy attends and announces His ministry.
And
never, never more to see her form, Not
even a glimpse of her, Not
in the nights filled with trembling stars, Or
at noon when the bright light Feeds
and graces every living thing, How
do I believe that I may never see her again?
Never,
never, again, to witness her walking, Her
walking with me on the hard, fast dirt of the bridle path, Along
the river, underneath the shadow of trees, Her
leaping up over the embankment Then
hastening away upon The
white-washed stones of the causeway, How
now might I accept that I may never see her again?
I
wonder if she remembers the bridge, the one Topping
the low-rise concrete dam there at New Hope? I
told her as we looked to the river below That
nothing had sufficient strength, That
no material exists to control the overflow, Is
there nothing to contain my flood of feelings for her?
How
else might I relate my mood? Ask
the pertinent question?
Never,
never, again, to eye her fleshly presence, Entangled,
standing in the tresses of the forest, Or
stooped, gathering strawberries, picking them One
by one from the plants, her, the image of her, Her
out between the raised earth rows And
the troughs in the field of the farm garden, That
now and forever such visions are no more, How
am I ever to conclude so terrible a destiny?
And
here at home I walk the big-city sidewalks, Remain
alone while the night, the late hours envelop me. My
cries echo, repeat my anguish.
Through
the empty parking lots and off the brick walls, Against
building after building, My
voice carries, yet seemingly I am not heard, Though
occasionally some one person may look, Shake
a head from side to side at my sorry spectacle, Most
people hurry past, eyes down, as if I do not exist, But
what about the reality of my situation?
Over
and over, I hear myself implore her to return to me.
Should
I not, and is it not better to forget her?
Oh,
no! To see her again, It
does not matter when Not
important, makes no difference, where, If
today should I glimpse her in the heavens, Were
I to tilt my head upwards and behold Her
smile, her eyes upon me, watch again her wonderful walk, Up
there before me configured within a magic wisp of cloud, Moving,
wheeling along against a deep, blue patch of sky,
Mercy
grant my wish!
Or
perhaps tomorrow I chance a vision. Imagine
a ship going down, and all its glory sinks, Down,
down into the Sailors’ Locker, Would
it be possible that she still surfaces, That
I have sight of her, no matter what all else disappears, She
rises above a whirlpool force, I
see her again over a watery vortex, yes, She
above a swirling ocean power, unsinkable, Albeit
sun has set, And
moon's light is the scene's sole illuminate?
Oh,
no! To see her again, and to view her in the moment When
the volcano opens And
I am on the edge before the lurid, red hell-mouth, And
witness its demons’ roaring spew of steam and ash, Yet
even though such terror-instant befalls me, I
do not flinch. I am steadfast. I
have no fear of misadventure. I
look into the conflagration. I
do not plug my ears, I listen, And
from within earth’s deep, far-away core, Amidst
the Hurley burly of all the explosions, Within
the lightning claps and clamor, The
mad noise of boulders being thrown, I
hear it! I hear her name, Etta, Etta! I
see her face and lovely shape, She,
she dances above the fires!
Yes,
I admit her deviltry besets me.
And
to be with her in all the spring times, And
in all the winters, Entwined
in paroxysm of mighty-muscle clench, While
I suck up the blood from her neck, And
spot her flesh all over, Make
it black and blue with the power of my caresses, Should
I ever hold her in my arms,
Might
Hope let me see her again. *After
Gabriela Mistral's Love Poem -- The Chilean and Noble Prize for
Literature, poet, Gabriela Mistral had entitled her poem, "Volverlo a
Ver," or, "To See Him Again." I do not hope to translate her great verse.
Rather its spirit was the inspiration for my own.
