Rubáiyát – Eugenics Duo


So mix your gametes. Splice your DNA.
Create your super-races which today
Seem like utopia. But they will still
Be chained to: Death. Disease. Bias. Decay.

“My children will have perfect genes! Whereby
They’ll have a perfect Life!” Insatiably
Fools clutch deluded hopes. Science cannot
Give paradise: no matter how they try.

“We must evolve!” So cries the bigot crowd
Infused with theories scientists avowed
Were true. Mere humans superseded by
New uber-men. Thus Hitler screamed aloud.


Lost Screwtape Letters – A Short Note

stone gargoyle

Dearest Wormwood,

I note with acute embarrassment your recent peevish and ill-considered complaints made to your supervisor regarding supposed difficulties with your present assignment. Your childish mewling is quite demeaning, yet this fails to stop you publicly lamenting your hard lot.

Well, foolish nephew, I am writing to you to say plainly that of course your patient will have difficult moments. Have I now “felt your pain”, dear boy?

Having uttered as much silly pop-psychology poppycock as I can manage, allow me to get to the point. For when I was your age, we tempters had to work 24×7 shifts with multiple patients and never gave it a second thought. How degenerate your generation has become! When will you grow up? Earning a living isn’t all fun and games, you dissipated demon! When will you and your friends ever come to the realise that life isn’t one long party toting pitchforks while tormenting roomfuls of shrieking souls?

In point of fact, young devils like you have never had it so good. What has become painfully clear is your ingratitude – despite all of your generation’s advantages. How I really do despair of today’s young tempters! Your supervisor tells me he receives from you an endless stream of complaints – but never once any acknowledgement that your successes (pitiful as they are) are the inevitable fruit of seeds sown by your elders over decades past.

Gay Marriage. Allow me to make my point: for it is my generation who worked hard to turn the largest western Protestant denominations into publicly supporting Gay Marriage and sodomite sex (a great joke against their church founders!). It was our efforts that trained modern ministers of religion who are so pliable that they vociferously propound every false doctrine we care to suggest (so incapable have they become to discerning Truth from Falsehood!)

Public Education. I might add – with becoming pride – that it is due to my generation that western Public Education now denigrates and denounces western culture, institutions, and history; substituting for the classics bowdlerised texts and works of revisionist writers that are as empty of facts as they are replete with politically-correct platitudes.

Mainstream Media. And whose generation was it who infiltrated global public newscasters and turned them into the effective propaganda machine they are today? (It always raises a laugh in hell when we hear their latest denunciations of “fake news”! With what brazen effrontery do these news-giants castigate all sources outside themselves!) It is no empty boast for me to say that we have recruited so many willing humans to distribute our propaganda material that our own PR department is becoming quite redundant.

Western Islam. Nor can I refrain from mentioning our latest signal success: badgering western governments into sponsoring and promoting Islam, to such an extent they pass laws to silence their citizens criticising Islam publicly! The West today is more intolerant and less open than during the Middle Ages! (How quick these humans forget history! Inveighing against religion was once a public freedom – now it is “hate speech”! Ha! Ha!)

If you have been paying attention, you cannot fail to realise that with so many of our schemes in play – after all your predecessors have done to smooth your path – you have nothing whatever to complain of. Indeed – nothing you have yet encountered with your patient is anything more than a trifling obstacle. Words fail me when I wonder whether your present generation is anything more than a pathetic bunch of second-rate, sniveling fiends.

Frankly, you need toughening up. Perhaps a spell of re-education on a remote, desert island inside a few wild pigs will do the trick? (Well, I would not go quite so far as all that: it is with a shudder I recall that most deplorable episode when the Enemy imprisoned some of our best field agents inside swine during their Galilean field assignment. What a fiasco!)

Anyhow, now that you have come up against your patient’s token resistance – what are you going to do? Just give up – when you still have so many options left to choose from? My dear boy – you have all the tools to hand to reclaim your patient’s attention and keep it fixed firmly upon temporal things. Modern social-media keeps humans glued to touch-screens all day long, everyday – leaving not a second’s attention to attend to whatever the Enemy might say. If you do you job properly, as you were trained to do, you will soon have your patient back in hand.

I have no time to listen to your bleating that “the playing field is stacked against you”, or how “the universe is so grossly unfair”, or how “the Enemy might do something at any moment”. Your protests are true – but irrelevant.

The real question is: are you to remain a spineless, carping, little fiend – or will you do your duty, stick to your patient through thick and thin, to at last escort him in triumph to our father’s house?

Having read all that I have penned, I am confident that you will make the correct decision.

Your affectionate uncle,



Legends of Sir Galahad – Knight Errant

Banner - Legends of Sir Galahad 500w

The silver arms. The battle-cry. The sad
Long clarion wail. Here galloped Galahad
To smite the pagan hosts with mighty arm,
Overthrow the raging, rushing swarm
With blows of steel fast-felling to the ground
Their heathen bodies with each deadly-wound.
Soon down to hell was thrust their mighty host
Crushed into dust the strength of which they boast.
A bugle wends its note to bear the cry
Of Galahad, who sounds his victory.
Then on the field leaves as carrion
The routed host. For he must journey on
To right the wrong, destroy the hexen curse
To remedy what ills might turn to worse.

A poisoned spring – watery miasma
That sickens all it touches, or comes near.
No plants survive. Around, the ground turns black
As witch’s bile. The undergrowth dies back
As its infection spreads. But who comes near?
Sir Galahad! He thrusts his proven spear
Into the spring. A plume of misty spray
Arises as the knight kneels down to pray.
A light appears! Celestial aureole
Fills all the dale. The waters stream forth whole
And health-some! No polluted waters more
Spring forth that place to poison anymore.

Such things – so many Sir Galahad did
Across the realm of Logres. Much he rid
The land of evil – as far as he could.
Certain no evil Galahad withstood!
Thieves fled before the coming of that knight.
Some scared into an honest life by flight!
Knights recreant, disgraced, turned bad or shamed
Were by fair words persuaded and reclaimed!
Demons fled screaming to some dismal place
Cast out by prayer and this knight’s saintly grace.

But not all change. Evil too rooted-deep
Its minions claim and unrepentant keep.
Two stupid giants, dull and unaware
Of any changes whispered through the air
About their forest, pillaged as of yore
Nor dreamt an ending to the streams of gore
They spilt whenever pleased them. Comes a knight
And they both – nothing loathe – arm for the fight
Which happens shortly. One – his arm shorn short
Looks stupidly at what he still had thought
Should be attached. And looking on it – dies.
The other, roaring curses as he tries
With heavy blows to flatten knight and horse
By a tree-club of oak-wood, ponderous,
And strong enough to batter walls of stone:
Sir Galahad spies his advantage – shown
Him clearly as the giant tall up-heaves
His club. The blade slices the giant’s greaves
And hard blows chop that monster down to size
Whence Galahad then spears him through the eyes
And leaves their corpses there to feed the crows
As onward on his fighting steed he goes
To find the weak who need his succour strong
To bring his right to bear upon the wrong.

His time is short in Logres – he must fly
To do what he can do. The time is nigh
When Logres sees Sir Galahad no more
For soon this knight departs this mortal shore.


Ancient Greek Heroes Banner 1

Ah me! Burn me with my husband! He’s dead – and I will share his flame!
Though he loved me not, I will share his pyre – though his love was an empty name!
As I live – know me, Oenone. In the moments before I die
Hear my woeful tail, of my love betrayed. Why did Fate give me such misery?

He was young, and a handsome shepherd – he was born a Trojan Prince
But exiled from Troy for a prophecy which had warned Troy to send him hence:
It foretold that the deeds of Paris would bring Troy to an evil doom
Troy would cease to be – vanish like the mist that dissolves in the light of the moon.

When I first saw Paris I loved him – and he too, at first, loved me.
In the mountain glades we two played and sang: we were married, and both happy
For awhile – but he wished his birthright: to be royal Trojan prince.
But a nymph cannot leave her home (or she dies) – so I could not with him thence.
Then he spoke me in loving whispers, and he promised me to return
But his fickle heart soon me all forgot: though the truth took me time to learn.
The years passed – and for long I waited. I had bore him a lovely boy.
While our son grew up – dearest Corythus – Paris never came back from Troy.

So my hate grew towards all Trojans. Should I holpen the Trojan men?
All as false as Paris: liars who desert those who love and marry them!
Corythus grew up into manhood, and he joined the Grecian side
For he shared my hate of his father false, who had stolen another’s bride.

Of the Trojan war I cared not – hearing now and then some news
For while Troy still stood, I wished it were destroyed: because Paris did me refuse.
So by mountain glade and streamlet, by the wind and the pale moonlight
I lived fair and free while the armies fought – and each slaughtered each outright.

One fair day while below the war raged, I was much surprised to see
A lone man in pain, leaning on a crutch, to my woods coming seeking me.
It was not Corythus’ voice who called me. I knew not the man who did call
Yet he stumbled on, ’till he sprawled and fell. Then he lay still where he did fall.
I came out and approached him slowly – for I had the healing gift
I would heal all animals that I found: and for men I could choose to make shift.
Then he turned his head, groaned faintly: and I froze, and with horror stood!
It was Paris! Here! Foul adulterer! He had trespassed to my wood!
Paris lay there, bleeding weakly – he was rent with fatal wound
Arrow in one eye, and through hand and foot: this I saw – and I nearly swooned.
All the love I had felt once for him, flooded back. So did all the hate.
So ‘twixt hate and love, I stood wavering: a divided path of Fate.

Paris cried out to me for healing: which the hate in me denied.
But the love in me cried out to forgive! To restore him to my side!
Guess my fierce internal struggle, inside woman’s Oread heart!
My revenge won out. “False adulterer – get thee gone, from here depart!”
How I raged! Him I scorned and spited. “Go and seek your new wife’s bed!
Mighty Trojan prince! Let your doctors heal – if they can. Go to them instead!”
With my heart walled up like granite, I then left him there to die.
What a gall! Asking help from deserted wife? Never! No! Why indeed should I?

His wounds left a bloody trail down the mount. ‘Twas an easy track
For some shepherd swains followed up the hill – and they brought Paris’ body back.
For they recognised the princeling, who had fought in the war below.
They built for up for him a high funeral pyre – so to Hades his shade might go.

They assembled and lit his pyre – in secret I watched all this time.
Then my stone heart cracked – and a cataract of hid love burst these bonds of mine.
And I shrieked my dolorous sorrow, and I wailed like a new-wed maid
My Paris was gone! Gone to Hades – gone! Nothing now! Insubstantial shade!

And my life in my eyes became nothing – so I quickly ran to his pyre
Laid down on his breast, sought eternal rest – fed my body to flame and fire.
For I loved him! Although I hated – it ’twas love! For what is our hate
But our love inversed? Always love comes first!
So be warned from Oenone’s fate!


Burke’s Fingal – An Epic Poem


Another great poetry must read includes Burke’s Fingal: An Epic Poem. 

In grand epic style, Burke retells key events in the life of the Celtic hero Fingal: a heroic chieftain who turns back an invasion of Ireland by King Swaran of Scandinavia.

The first Irish forces on the spot are led by the redoubtable Cudulin – who fights stubbornly to repel Swaran, only to see his army broken and destroyed by Swaran’s doughty warriors. Cudulin is forced to retire, grudgingly acknowledging the necessity of Fingal’s promised aid.

Fingal arrives with his warriors the following morning, fighting with such ferocity that he turns  the tide of the invasion. This time it is Swaran’s army that is broken, with Swaran himself being captured. Victory has been snatched from the jaws of defeat. Or so it seems.

But now blood cries for blood in an ever-escalating cycle of vengeance and destruction. Can even a hero like Fingal bring about the most difficult victory of all: that of reconciling sworn foes to a lasting peace?

Want to know more?

Asymmetric Friend

Statue Grieving

I wanted to be friends with you so much.
You were polite – just as you are to all.
We shook hands – there was nothing in that touch
To welcome me. Your face was just a wall
Of polite granite shutting the world out.
It was a shame. I’d believed, you and I
Might start a friendship those who heard about
Would envy. But you wouldn’t even try.
What could I do? – but slowly walk away
While you politely greeted next someone.
My face my feelings never did betray.
There’s nothing new under this worldly sun.
I had hoped – once – us twain could become friends.
You didn’t. So that’s how this story ends.