Imagination is two steps ahead. It is an intelligence in its own right; it lurks or moves swiftly, depending on its mood and on how motivated we make it feel itself.

  Cynicism vs Nature

                                                                        Anger & Wrath my bosom rends:
                                                                        I thought them errors of my friends.
                                                                        But all my limbs with warmth glow:
                                                                        I find them errors of the foe.
                                                                                             —From Blake's Epigrams

We had expected pouring rain, but it never came. The sky was dark as wickedness. You could not help thoughts of omen, although not an omen itself. It is a primary feeling what we call an impression. Our mind sees some of its own in the forthcoming tempest.

Torment likes to doze above our heads, heavy on our foreheads. We know it will wake up any time and call for attention, like a baby in need of his mother. Nimbuses collide; their shapes group into one revolting mass of infernal grays, a colossal draft of trouble, inevitable doom.

When the rainstorm hits our coasts, ideas of meanness come to us, revenge or punishment; perhaps, a reminder of God’s wrath. We may say, I got it; you’re huge, you’re the greatest, but please, stop it already! But God is love? I’m not saying He is not. But why not saying The Rain is love? Whatever is wrong with us, I’m not answering a rhetorical statement.

Torment

A Poem

                                          When air turns to threat,
                                          when life seems to have reached
                                          the threshold
                                          of hidden fears of old,
                                          the gigantic hand of happening
                                          draws on the firmament
                                          with its chalks of coal.
                                          It is clouds of dust
                                          agitated by ashen steeds,
                                          the aftermath of nature’s feast,
                                          a dance of mad seas
                                          around a bonfire
                                          fueled by logs from the Tree.
                                          It is not rage; it is not siege.
                                          Not a reason to seek hide,
                                          but a true time for the true sage.
                                          The final sentence of peace
                                          is also the first for our ease.

Thanks for Reading.

The Gods of the earth and sea
sought thro’ Nature to find this Tree;
but their search was all in vain:
There grows one in the Human Brain.

—From Blake’s “The Human Abstract”

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Posted from my blog with SteemPress : https://marlyncabrera.timeets.com/2018/09/07/torment-a-short-poem-and-essay/

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