For centuries, literature has been an essential element of what has been considered to be a complete education of the human person. Although education is often considered to be a matter of the intellect, intelligent observers of human nature know that there is a lot more to the human person than the thinking mind. One of these non-intellectual “parts” is the Enthusiastic Part, that in the human person which acts, desires to act, et cetera. Literature can be defined as written works insofar as they are allied with the Enthusiastic part of the human person, as opposed to the intellectual part. By seeing what this definition includes, it will be shown that this definition is a workable definition of the word “literature.”
First, it is necessary to describe a few ways in which something can be allied to the Enthusiastic Part. One of the most obvious ways is through the emotions. Something that awakens or quiets emotions, whether the awakener/quieter be literature, music, an event, or anything else, has an effect on the Enthusiastic Part because the emotions effect what one desires (i.e., what one has enthusiasm for). For example, a symphony awakening emotions of bravery (even if it has no articulate meaning) can inspire a person to do heroic deeds. Something that inspires or satisfies the imagination also has an effect on the Enthusiastic Part because it is natural for humans to be affected profoundly on an emotional/non-intellectual level by images. For example, the act of carving a sculpture could give the sculptor a greater love either of the thing he is carving or of Beauty itself because by his action, the Beauty or the thing has been made into an image through his imagination.
Finally, many forms of mysticism employ the use of the Enthusiastic Part. Loving Union with God, the highest mysticism, is the final end of this human faculty, for this faculty includes the will. Because of the interconnectedness of the will, the desires, the emotions, and the imagination, what happens to any one part affects the others. For example, the music one listens to could very well affect what music they “hear” in a visionary mystical experience (such as a vision had by the saints). Alternatively, the poetry one reads could effect what causes a more “everyday” mystical experience (such as a profound consolation in prayer or a flash of intuition). Theoretically, this mystical experience could in turn inform or improve one’s desires, or even one’s intellect. The insights gained in a prayer consolation, for example, could conceivably cause one to learn something about God that is true but perhaps not provable.
Literature quite obviously effects the emotions of man; through these, it can also effect mysticism and other elements of the Enthusiastic part. The epic style of Paradise Lost, for example, produces an atmosphere of “gravitas” in the work that inspires the reader to treat the story of man’s fall with the depth it deserves. In A Tale of Two Cities, The detailed characterization of Lucie Manette and Madame Defarge leads the reader through a system of emotional approval and disapproval to an appreciation of virtue and a hatred of vice. The Chestertonian plots in Tales of the Long Bow draw attention and thought to the themes of the book by their humor and absurdity.
Literature also effects the imagination of man; this also can effect mysticism and the rest of the Enthusiastic part. By personifying the West Wind in “Ode to the West Wind,” Shelley engages the imagination of the reader, allowing him to enter into the emotion expressed more fully. The clever jokes in The Importance of Being Earnest could distract frivolous Victorian readers from the potentially offensive fact that they themselves are the ones being satirized, thus better allowing the message to sink in.
This definition of literature in no way excludes wide variations in the quality of things that fit the definition. According to the definition, comic books, for example, are literature because their melodramatic plotlines and exaggerated illustrations and characterizations appeal to a real set of emotions. Their plots are the result of the imaginative processes of the author and engage the imaginations of the readers. This is not to say that comic books are good literature, however. The simplicity and exaggeration of many of the plots, characters, and emotions appeal mainly to the most basic and simple elements in the Enthusiastic Part, severely limiting the breadth and depth of the ways in which the comic books can fulfill their purposes as literature.
The definition of literature also allows for wide variations in the degree in which a given work of literature fits the definition. To begin with, the Summa Theologica is not literature at all because any effect that it has on the Enthusiastic Part occurs through the ideas expressed, not through the work itself. Plato’s Republic fits the definition to a very limited degree; although it is primarily a work of philosophy like the philosophical parts of the Summa, the fact that the work is a dialogue allows for the reader’s imagination and emotions to be slightly engaged. Plato’s Phaedo is still more literary than the Republic because the emotional appeal of the martyrdom of Socrates, as well as the dialogue style, draw the reader in through his emotions. Death Comes for the Archbishop by Willa Cather is still more literary than the Phaedo because the argument of the story in favor of priestly virtue is primarily presented in the context of a story, not the context of an argument. Finally, the Song of Songs is more literary than all of the above, even though it is from the Bible, because it presents the theme of Loving Union with God (the theme most important to the Enthusiastic Part) in a way that primarily appeals to the imagination and the emotions.
Literature can be defined as written works insofar as they are allied with the Enthusiastic Part of the human person. This definition has been tested and found satisfactory. Based on the role of the Enthusiastic Part in the life of the human person, this definition highlights literature’s importance in the complete education of the human person.
Thursday, December 10, 2009
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
Heavenly Delimma
With ev’ry day, a small bit of the veil
Is chipped away. To what’s behind I’m drawn
Like bride to groom, like groom to bride, like hail
In mad rush irresistible straight down.
And when ‘tis nearly broken through, the goal
Of this desire will but whirl around
Before I catch a glimpse, s’prise-tap me round.
This thing I want, I cannot think at all.
Unknown to me its fearfulfillment is.
I quiver, shudd’ring multiplied
In roller-coasterish wavelength harmonies
With fear of the Unknown Divine Delight.
Squeezed am I ‘twixt ice and burning sun
Ravished in terror by our God, the ONE.
Is chipped away. To what’s behind I’m drawn
Like bride to groom, like groom to bride, like hail
In mad rush irresistible straight down.
And when ‘tis nearly broken through, the goal
Of this desire will but whirl around
Before I catch a glimpse, s’prise-tap me round.
This thing I want, I cannot think at all.
Unknown to me its fearfulfillment is.
I quiver, shudd’ring multiplied
In roller-coasterish wavelength harmonies
With fear of the Unknown Divine Delight.
Squeezed am I ‘twixt ice and burning sun
Ravished in terror by our God, the ONE.
Monday, October 12, 2009
Autumnal
BtW: The non-capitalization of rome is deliberate.
It fades. The stony trees of summertime,
Gondor and Rivendell and rome grow thin
Freeing the cold primeval. Blowing wind
Attests. Yet while the blanket rind
Wears off, it lets more brightness through
Than coldness in. And in the azure dome
The shortened daylight savory becomes
As nature’s wild challenges of true
And blessed desolation wind their bracing call.
The whiffling weather’s wind embraces all
Of this impending decline and decay.
O breathe it in, assume its joyful stance
And thoughts heroic. Face sure-coming trance
Of death or frozen delayed life. When death’s
Most sure, the heavens haunteth every breath.
It fades. The stony trees of summertime,
Gondor and Rivendell and rome grow thin
Freeing the cold primeval. Blowing wind
Attests. Yet while the blanket rind
Wears off, it lets more brightness through
Than coldness in. And in the azure dome
The shortened daylight savory becomes
As nature’s wild challenges of true
And blessed desolation wind their bracing call.
The whiffling weather’s wind embraces all
Of this impending decline and decay.
O breathe it in, assume its joyful stance
And thoughts heroic. Face sure-coming trance
Of death or frozen delayed life. When death’s
Most sure, the heavens haunteth every breath.
Monday, September 28, 2009
The Tale of Athanasius: From the Lay of the Land of the King book II
“One golden day; when from the stone-hewn plow
Which, though my frame was slight, my heart urged on,
I turned with ruddy rounded face, sweat-healthy brow,
And clothing dusted with light grassy fronds;
I gathered up the lilies of the field
And tripped with clumsy passion through the grass
For romance, clean and innocent and feeled,
Then made me love my long-known neighbor lass.
I knew not how a courter was to clad
But walked in the sun’s light in working clothes
And that I may not seem a manless lad,
I wore a sword upon my trouser-close.
All large and free and fresh and strong I felt
Just as the hedgéd field where’pon She dwelt.
She was a modest maid of quiet ways
Who passed unnoticed in her family’s home
And no one saw her worthy of a praise
When to her healthy meals they did come.
But I knew she a secret virtue had
That, did the dragon depart from the brack
And waste the meadow, I’d be knightly lad
And she the one who would my cow’rdice crack.
For when she spoke of anything at all
(How no-one saw but I?) her words would bite
Like chisels on the hardened marble wall
And truth and justice follow. Will of might!
Who by home-acts by men all counted wrong
Can do what we cannot: You make us strong!
And in this mood, this palace crystal-light
That multiplies the goods refracted there
Until they become a bewildering, bright
And glorious thing that fillés all the air,
I shattered out when crashed a clashing shout.
My love cried out with high and helpless wails!
“A cruel, cruel man is lurking hereabout
To knife me like he’s processing a whale!”
I burst in through the opened heavy door
Into the stony house (it closed behind).
And there she lay, supine upon the floor
Her father o’er her with a deranged mind.
He thought himself to force upon her there
To soil her, and tug her lovely hair.
And as he sank a knife into her side,
I drew my sword. Its loyal metal rang
One with my voice: “You shall not touch my bride!”
My sword arm flew, and all things for me sang!
But fey he was and much too quick for speed
Of mine to make a fatal, fell dispatch.
We whirled all o’er: I followed, he did lead
The crisis trumping furnishings well-matched.
And every china plate upon the shelf
Did die in willing sacrifice for her
For though she loved them like a man loves wealth,
They and she, against HIM pow’rless were.
But he was old and dull, I young and skilled
And soon I had the daughter-killer killed.
But she had not a breath. I sat and wept
Upon her hands for full space of an hour.
But as the setting sun the meadows swept
With moist and bloody light and sinking pow’r
I thought upon her corpse, that she must not
Endure without a cleansing bath of earth.
I tried the door, to dig the grave I ought
But it was locked. Of op’ning there was dearth.
I searched for the key: upon the ice
That was her father dead my hands combed:
With caress loathsome my hands searched him twice
And through the rooms vile furnishings I probed.
Then noticed I a drain upon the floor.
The keys had flowed away. Unlock! No more!
And with them went all of my waking life.
I swooned. Insensible, I sprawled upon
Her pierced side. She would have been my wife!
Would that I slept! Awake was fear, not dawn.
I started up about at three of morn,
Awake as if I’d never slept at all,
To see a glowing filament or frond
Slow-serpentine itself between the desk and wall
As if a gorge-head lurked behind the desk:
A man with woman’s features, woman’s lips
And scorpion-tails a-sprouting from his mouth
Each one a tendril, groping for my leg.
And as it grabbed my shin, the truth I saw:
It came from inside the dead father’s jaw!
The jaw was moved by an unknown force
“My dear son, Athan, list to me,” it slimed
With slowness aggravating as, perforce,
The swamp-light cloud crawled up towards my spine.
“Do not reflex toward your wanted bride,
For I, through pact immortal, have the power
To move your limbs to mutilate her side
When’er I reach your heart. The devil’s dower
I paid in life. I wished to win at whist
You see. And for my soul’s priceless excheque,
I got all powers wanted: they’re on this list
That I’ll not read, so as to take you quick.
Don’t try to stop me: you can’t love the dead’s
Cold corpses. Wait. Keep your life and head.”
And then there surged, a heavy metal-mass
Through water: soft displaced by the weight
All overwhelming of the solid facts;
Cold duty, strong and real, surpassing great
Shoving aside the loving wat’ry thing
Of romance, which though hot and compelling
Is bleached in compare to all the cries:
The cold-filled cries, yet hotter cries than “love”
The cries sans nicety all filled above
The breaking point of romance with more blyss:
The beauty, glory, majesty, desire
Of Moral Duty. I, Athanasius,
Escaping from the demon, was inspired
To slow down its effects by hero-stroke:
With my own sword, my own legs I then broke.
Then, helpless, I did writhe upon the floor
Five minutes, maybe, freed from demon’s grasp,
Yet able not to flee from the horror
Impending: my free will's last final gasp.
Then as the tendrils closed upon my breast
To hypnotize me ever for its will,
There broke upon the door another guest
Quite uninvited by the man-devil.
From his free mouth there came a blast of spells
Uncountable and rapid and devout
With flying waters spurged from leafy wells
And oils designed to drive such demons out.
For several hours they fought upon the floor
a-Wrestling, and dueling spells galore.
And when ‘twas done, the magic-man emerged
And taking out his bag of healing herbs
With incantations healed the severed legs
And raised from sleep the girl (he used a dreg).
I, Athanasius saw that love was dead.
I’d tasted magic’s work in time of need,
When only it could save from That Most Dread
And from the Chains of death, it ‘lone could free.
She woke to life, and I to bitter death
We shed great tears of wormwood at the sight
Of all the joyful life the other hath.
No sin of envy: these tears were our right.
For I knew that I must magician be
A celibate, yet still He loved She."
Which, though my frame was slight, my heart urged on,
I turned with ruddy rounded face, sweat-healthy brow,
And clothing dusted with light grassy fronds;
I gathered up the lilies of the field
And tripped with clumsy passion through the grass
For romance, clean and innocent and feeled,
Then made me love my long-known neighbor lass.
I knew not how a courter was to clad
But walked in the sun’s light in working clothes
And that I may not seem a manless lad,
I wore a sword upon my trouser-close.
All large and free and fresh and strong I felt
Just as the hedgéd field where’pon She dwelt.
She was a modest maid of quiet ways
Who passed unnoticed in her family’s home
And no one saw her worthy of a praise
When to her healthy meals they did come.
But I knew she a secret virtue had
That, did the dragon depart from the brack
And waste the meadow, I’d be knightly lad
And she the one who would my cow’rdice crack.
For when she spoke of anything at all
(How no-one saw but I?) her words would bite
Like chisels on the hardened marble wall
And truth and justice follow. Will of might!
Who by home-acts by men all counted wrong
Can do what we cannot: You make us strong!
And in this mood, this palace crystal-light
That multiplies the goods refracted there
Until they become a bewildering, bright
And glorious thing that fillés all the air,
I shattered out when crashed a clashing shout.
My love cried out with high and helpless wails!
“A cruel, cruel man is lurking hereabout
To knife me like he’s processing a whale!”
I burst in through the opened heavy door
Into the stony house (it closed behind).
And there she lay, supine upon the floor
Her father o’er her with a deranged mind.
He thought himself to force upon her there
To soil her, and tug her lovely hair.
And as he sank a knife into her side,
I drew my sword. Its loyal metal rang
One with my voice: “You shall not touch my bride!”
My sword arm flew, and all things for me sang!
But fey he was and much too quick for speed
Of mine to make a fatal, fell dispatch.
We whirled all o’er: I followed, he did lead
The crisis trumping furnishings well-matched.
And every china plate upon the shelf
Did die in willing sacrifice for her
For though she loved them like a man loves wealth,
They and she, against HIM pow’rless were.
But he was old and dull, I young and skilled
And soon I had the daughter-killer killed.
But she had not a breath. I sat and wept
Upon her hands for full space of an hour.
But as the setting sun the meadows swept
With moist and bloody light and sinking pow’r
I thought upon her corpse, that she must not
Endure without a cleansing bath of earth.
I tried the door, to dig the grave I ought
But it was locked. Of op’ning there was dearth.
I searched for the key: upon the ice
That was her father dead my hands combed:
With caress loathsome my hands searched him twice
And through the rooms vile furnishings I probed.
Then noticed I a drain upon the floor.
The keys had flowed away. Unlock! No more!
And with them went all of my waking life.
I swooned. Insensible, I sprawled upon
Her pierced side. She would have been my wife!
Would that I slept! Awake was fear, not dawn.
I started up about at three of morn,
Awake as if I’d never slept at all,
To see a glowing filament or frond
Slow-serpentine itself between the desk and wall
As if a gorge-head lurked behind the desk:
A man with woman’s features, woman’s lips
And scorpion-tails a-sprouting from his mouth
Each one a tendril, groping for my leg.
And as it grabbed my shin, the truth I saw:
It came from inside the dead father’s jaw!
The jaw was moved by an unknown force
“My dear son, Athan, list to me,” it slimed
With slowness aggravating as, perforce,
The swamp-light cloud crawled up towards my spine.
“Do not reflex toward your wanted bride,
For I, through pact immortal, have the power
To move your limbs to mutilate her side
When’er I reach your heart. The devil’s dower
I paid in life. I wished to win at whist
You see. And for my soul’s priceless excheque,
I got all powers wanted: they’re on this list
That I’ll not read, so as to take you quick.
Don’t try to stop me: you can’t love the dead’s
Cold corpses. Wait. Keep your life and head.”
And then there surged, a heavy metal-mass
Through water: soft displaced by the weight
All overwhelming of the solid facts;
Cold duty, strong and real, surpassing great
Shoving aside the loving wat’ry thing
Of romance, which though hot and compelling
Is bleached in compare to all the cries:
The cold-filled cries, yet hotter cries than “love”
The cries sans nicety all filled above
The breaking point of romance with more blyss:
The beauty, glory, majesty, desire
Of Moral Duty. I, Athanasius,
Escaping from the demon, was inspired
To slow down its effects by hero-stroke:
With my own sword, my own legs I then broke.
Then, helpless, I did writhe upon the floor
Five minutes, maybe, freed from demon’s grasp,
Yet able not to flee from the horror
Impending: my free will's last final gasp.
Then as the tendrils closed upon my breast
To hypnotize me ever for its will,
There broke upon the door another guest
Quite uninvited by the man-devil.
From his free mouth there came a blast of spells
Uncountable and rapid and devout
With flying waters spurged from leafy wells
And oils designed to drive such demons out.
For several hours they fought upon the floor
a-Wrestling, and dueling spells galore.
And when ‘twas done, the magic-man emerged
And taking out his bag of healing herbs
With incantations healed the severed legs
And raised from sleep the girl (he used a dreg).
I, Athanasius saw that love was dead.
I’d tasted magic’s work in time of need,
When only it could save from That Most Dread
And from the Chains of death, it ‘lone could free.
She woke to life, and I to bitter death
We shed great tears of wormwood at the sight
Of all the joyful life the other hath.
No sin of envy: these tears were our right.
For I knew that I must magician be
A celibate, yet still He loved She."
Thursday, September 24, 2009
Hey! If you're on Facebook....
http://apps.facebook.com/imaginationquiz/quiz/questions?quiz_metric[activated_at]=1253496566&quiz_metric[clicked_attribute]=feeds_clicked
it's a quiz I made to find out what sort of imagination you have. One of AGP's friends has taken it about 6 times to see what all the possible results are. Fascinating.
it's a quiz I made to find out what sort of imagination you have. One of AGP's friends has taken it about 6 times to see what all the possible results are. Fascinating.
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
On Truth
The sleeper floats and slides in bliss of night
With dreams abounding. Facile to his will,
An endless line of decadent delight
Prostrates itself before his choice whimful.
Then presses he upon the sweetest sweet
That fits his mind like key into a lock
A sweet too perfect to be treat
Believable. Then comes the greatest shock.
He reaches for the thing. Behold! It shakes!
Transforms itself like whirlwinds made of steel
Into a monster-lion of golden make
That eats the rest of that most supine meal!
O well for you, who would those poisons eat,
They’re made by mind: the mind itself would eat.
In mind sweets, all teeth languish in the soft
And sug’ry clouds of nothing offered there.
Likewise the palate weakens slowly. Oft
There’s problems in the void, enticing air.
For if that which desired was what was,
All men would bore the faster with the earth.
The human being’s kept alive because
It’s’uprised from a Source of great rebirth.
O do not mourn, thou who hast Chocolate lost!
For candy made by minds is nothing good.
For beauties like to death, exchange for most
Solid, advent’rous, fierce, and filling food!
This thing is not a mush all soft and slack:
When you do push at truth, it pushes back!
With dreams abounding. Facile to his will,
An endless line of decadent delight
Prostrates itself before his choice whimful.
Then presses he upon the sweetest sweet
That fits his mind like key into a lock
A sweet too perfect to be treat
Believable. Then comes the greatest shock.
He reaches for the thing. Behold! It shakes!
Transforms itself like whirlwinds made of steel
Into a monster-lion of golden make
That eats the rest of that most supine meal!
O well for you, who would those poisons eat,
They’re made by mind: the mind itself would eat.
In mind sweets, all teeth languish in the soft
And sug’ry clouds of nothing offered there.
Likewise the palate weakens slowly. Oft
There’s problems in the void, enticing air.
For if that which desired was what was,
All men would bore the faster with the earth.
The human being’s kept alive because
It’s’uprised from a Source of great rebirth.
O do not mourn, thou who hast Chocolate lost!
For candy made by minds is nothing good.
For beauties like to death, exchange for most
Solid, advent’rous, fierce, and filling food!
This thing is not a mush all soft and slack:
When you do push at truth, it pushes back!
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
Inspired by St. Edith Stein....
This sonnet set, in a manner similar to the "Four and a Half Romantic Sonnets" that I posted maybe about half a year ago, explore the differences between the behaviours of men and women. The first sonnet explores St. Edith Stein's idea that gender (how you think and behave) is partially independent of sex (what you are). The second explores her ideas about how men and women use their work-faculties differently.
The third explores her ideas about how men and women grow closer to God differently. The third explores her belief that it is the husband's responsibility to give himself and his wife to God. Like the last sonnet set of which I spoke, the sonnets have the tone of the man struggling with and eventually overcoming the idea of himself being pointless compared to the woman.
O Muse of Poesy, having knowledge great
Of things unproven, read for me this code:
Should I behave according to the mode
Accustomed, or with charism counter fate
And act according to ‘clination strange?
For if one’s habit-acts proceed in kind
Unnaturally from the norm arranged
By certain sex, then how shall judge our minds?
Tis best to know both masculine and male
Or rather to inquire separately?
For they are like, but not identical.
Sex, not gender, is necessary.
I know not which provides the method best
But for the present, both of them we’ll test.
What purpose serves to separate the parts
That constitute a task? Seems weakness is
At work in this. He cannot handle th’art
Of intricate yet humble task-filled webs.
Or else the things that are this kind of work
Seem to outshine, like misty gold morning,
On plains, all else, and make it look a shirk
Quite far removed from important things.
But who is man to judge upon the use
Of studies, arts, and rulings God-decreed
By Him providing their full parts and juice?
Engage then, in heroic thoughts and deeds!
It may take strength and valor to combine,
But, hero, separation’s also thine.
When one does journey, does he take a road
To see a friend, on which he swerves aside
To paint a picture, kill a dragon-toad
Or else? Or does he direct ride?
When with a blazing love and loyalty
A man is fired, like a lightning flash
Or lava flow that slow engulfs a tree
Why does he burn the tree, and not just crash
Straight through to love the one he loves? Both ways
He groweth strong with exercize of love
So why, when pathway straight is good pathway
Does loyalty divert the thoughts of love?
It is because one does not love the less.
Love’s r’ward’s prompted, deferred by willingness.
Why would one choose a living book of lore
Arcane or with no ready-to-hand use,
A near machine that rituals galore
Pour forth from for the things that it does choose,
To be the channel through which waters new-
Expelled from Mother, from the skies azure,
And from the channel’s very walls, shew
Their joyful burbling to give God pleasure?
The channel’s virtues are its contents bright
And all the love with which they’re placed before
The throne of God. And this master of lore,
Whose sex does sometimes seem to be a blight,
Was chosen for his truly ritual dance
So e’en gift-ACT is love-obedience.
So never fear, man: you’re not challenged least.
Love you don’t lack, nor privilege of the priest.
The third explores her ideas about how men and women grow closer to God differently. The third explores her belief that it is the husband's responsibility to give himself and his wife to God. Like the last sonnet set of which I spoke, the sonnets have the tone of the man struggling with and eventually overcoming the idea of himself being pointless compared to the woman.
O Muse of Poesy, having knowledge great
Of things unproven, read for me this code:
Should I behave according to the mode
Accustomed, or with charism counter fate
And act according to ‘clination strange?
For if one’s habit-acts proceed in kind
Unnaturally from the norm arranged
By certain sex, then how shall judge our minds?
Tis best to know both masculine and male
Or rather to inquire separately?
For they are like, but not identical.
Sex, not gender, is necessary.
I know not which provides the method best
But for the present, both of them we’ll test.
What purpose serves to separate the parts
That constitute a task? Seems weakness is
At work in this. He cannot handle th’art
Of intricate yet humble task-filled webs.
Or else the things that are this kind of work
Seem to outshine, like misty gold morning,
On plains, all else, and make it look a shirk
Quite far removed from important things.
But who is man to judge upon the use
Of studies, arts, and rulings God-decreed
By Him providing their full parts and juice?
Engage then, in heroic thoughts and deeds!
It may take strength and valor to combine,
But, hero, separation’s also thine.
When one does journey, does he take a road
To see a friend, on which he swerves aside
To paint a picture, kill a dragon-toad
Or else? Or does he direct ride?
When with a blazing love and loyalty
A man is fired, like a lightning flash
Or lava flow that slow engulfs a tree
Why does he burn the tree, and not just crash
Straight through to love the one he loves? Both ways
He groweth strong with exercize of love
So why, when pathway straight is good pathway
Does loyalty divert the thoughts of love?
It is because one does not love the less.
Love’s r’ward’s prompted, deferred by willingness.
Why would one choose a living book of lore
Arcane or with no ready-to-hand use,
A near machine that rituals galore
Pour forth from for the things that it does choose,
To be the channel through which waters new-
Expelled from Mother, from the skies azure,
And from the channel’s very walls, shew
Their joyful burbling to give God pleasure?
The channel’s virtues are its contents bright
And all the love with which they’re placed before
The throne of God. And this master of lore,
Whose sex does sometimes seem to be a blight,
Was chosen for his truly ritual dance
So e’en gift-ACT is love-obedience.
So never fear, man: you’re not challenged least.
Love you don’t lack, nor privilege of the priest.
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