The Fairy Temple; Or, Oberon’s Chapel | Poem| by Robert Herrick

The Fairy Temple; Or, Oberon’s Chapel
by Robert Herrick








A way enchaced with glass and beads

There is, that to the Chapel leads;

Whose structure, for his holy rest,

Is here the Halcyon’s curious nest;

Into the which who looks, shall see

His Temple of Idolatry;

Where he of god-heads has such store,

As Rome’s Pantheon had not more.

His house of Rimmon this he calls,

Girt with small bones, instead of walls.

First in a niche, more black than jet,

His idol-cricket there is set;

Then in a polish’d oval by

There stands his idol-beetle-fly;

Next, in an arch, akin to this,

His idol-canker seated is.

Then in a round, is placed by these

His golden god, Cantharides.

So that where’er ye look, ye see

No capital, no cornice free,

Or frieze, from this fine frippery.

Now this the Fairies would have known,

Theirs is a mixt religion:

And some have heard the elves it call

Part Pagan, part Papistical.

If unto me all tongues were granted,

I could not speak the saints here painted.

Saint Tit, Saint Nit, Saint Is, Saint Itis,

Who ‘gainst Mab’s state placed here right is.

Saint Will o’ th’ Wisp, of no great bigness,

But, alias, call’d here FATUUS IGNIS.

Saint Frip, Saint Trip, Saint Fill, Saint Filly;–

Neither those other saint-ships will I

Here go about for to recite

Their number, almost infinite;

Which, one by one, here set down are

In this most curious calendar.

First, at the entrance of the gate,

A little puppet-priest doth wait,

Who squeaks to all the comers there,

‘Favour your tongues, who enter here.

‘Pure hands bring hither, without stain.’

A second pules, ‘Hence, hence, profane!’

Hard by, i’ th’ shell of half a nut,

The holy-water there is put;

A little brush of squirrels’ hairs,

Composed of odd, not even pairs,

Stands in the platter, or close by,

To purge the fairy family.

Near to the altar stands the priest,

There offering up the holy-grist;

Ducking in mood and perfect tense,

With (much good do’t him) reverence.

The altar is not here four-square,

Nor in a form triangular;

Nor made of glass, or wood, or stone,

But of a little transverse bone;

Which boys and bruckel’d children call

(Playing for points and pins) cockall.

Whose linen-drapery is a thin,

Sub|ile, and ductile codling’s skin;

Which o’er the board is smoothly spread

With little seal-work damasked.

The fringe that circumbinds it, too,

Is spangle-work of trembling dew,

Which, gently gleaming, makes a show,

Like frost-work glitt’ring on the snow.

Upon this fetuous board doth stand

Something for shew-bread, and at hand

(Just in the middle of the altar)

Upon an end, the Fairy-psalter,

Graced with the trout-flies’ curious wings,

Which serve for watchet ribbonings.

Now, we must know, the elves are led

Right by the Rubric, which they read:

And if report of them be true,

They have their text for what they do;

Ay, and their book of canons too.

And, as Sir Thomas Parson tells,

They have their book of articles;

And if that Fairy knight not lies

They have their book of homilies;

And other Scriptures, that design

A short, but righteous discipline.

The bason stands the board upon

To take the free-oblation;

A little pin-dust, which they hold

More precious than we prize our gold;

Which charity they give to many

Poor of the parish, if there’s any.

Upon the ends of these neat rails,

Hatch’d with the silver-light of snails,

The elves, in formal manner, fix

Two pure and holy candlesticks,

In either which a tall small bent

Burns for the altar’s ornament.

For sanctity, they have, to these,

Their curious copes and surplices

Of cleanest cobweb, hanging by

In their religious vestery.

They have their ash-pans and their brooms,

To purge the chapel and the rooms;

Their many mumbling mass-priests here,

And many a dapper chorister.

Their ush’ring vergers here likewise,

Their canons and their chaunteries;

Of cloister-monks they have enow,

Ay, and their abbey-lubbers too:–

And if their legend do not lie,

They much affect the papacy;

And since the last is dead, there’s hope

Elve Boniface shall next be Pope.

They have their cups and chalices,

Their pardons and indulgences,

Their beads of nits, bells, books, and wax-

Candles, forsooth, and other knacks;

Their holy oil, their fasting-spittle,

Their sacred salt here, not a little.

Dry chips, old shoes, rags, grease, and bones,

Beside their fumigations.

Many a trifle, too, and trinket,

And for what use, scarce man would think it.

Next then, upon the chanter’s side

An apple’s-core is hung up dried,

With rattling kernels, which is rung

To call to morn and even-song.

The saint, to which the most he prays

And offers incense nights and days,

The lady of the lobster is,

Whose foot-pace he doth stroke and kiss,

And, humbly, chives of saffron brings

For his most cheerful offerings.

When, after these, he’s paid his vows,

He lowly to the altar bows;

And then he dons the silk-worm’s shed,

Like a Turk’s turban on his head,

And reverently departeth thence,

Hid in a cloud of frankincense;

And by the glow-worm’s light well guided,

Goes to the Feast that’s now provided.

Sonnet 13 – And wilt thou have me fashion into speech | Poem| by Elizabeth Barrett Browning

Sonnet 13 – And wilt thou have me fashion into speech
by Elizabeth Barrett Browning

And wilt thou have me fashion into speech

The love I bear thee, finding words enough,

And hold the torch out, while the winds are rough,

Between our faces, to cast light on each?—

I drop it at thy feet. I cannot teach

My hand to hold my spirit so far off

From myself—me—that I should bring thee proof

In words, of love hid in me out of reach.

Nay, let the silence of my womanhood

Commend my woman-love to thy belief,—

Seeing that I stand unwon, however wooed,

And rend the garment of my life, in brief,

By a most dauntless, voiceless fortitude,

Lest one touch of this heart convey its grief

Peg to Winnipeg. A Poem by Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois


Peg has gone back to Winnipeg
She was short and thin
and her husband was tall and corpulent
They were like Frida Kahlo and Diego Rivera
except they weren’t creative
They were retired administrators
who thought they were smarter than everyone else
Peg and her corpulent husband were part of a group
until they alienated everyone with their
overweening sense of superiority
which of course masked a sense of inferiority
which everyone understood
and felt compassion for
until their obnoxiousness
become too much too tolerate
They refused to play cards
one of the group’s foundation activities
They intimated that playing cards was a pastime
for morons
So gradually they were pushed out of the group
They were thought of with distaste and/or disdain
Members of the group remained polite to them
but nothing more
When Peg’s corpulent husband
had a heart attack and died
Peg went back to Winnipeg
where she’d spent her childhood by a lake
in an unpainted farmhouse
with her aunt

Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois

Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois has had over fourteen-hundred of his poems and fictions appear in literary magazines in the U.S. and abroad, including quite a few in POETRY LIFE AND TIMES. He has been nominated for numerous prizes, and was awarded the 2017 Booranga Writers’ Centre (Australia) Prize for Fiction. His novel, Two-Headed Dog, based on his work as a clinical psychologist in a state hospital, is available for Kindle and Nook, or as a Print Edition . To see more of his work, google Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois. He lives in Denver.

Robin Ouzman Hislop is Editor of Poetry Life and Times his publications include All the Babble of the Souk and Cartoon Molecules collected poems and Key of Mist the recently published Tesserae translations from Spanish poets Guadalupe Grande and Carmen Crespo visit Robin Ouzman Hislop about author. See Robin performing his work Performance (Leeds University) .

The Raven | Poem| by Edgar Allan Poe

The Raven
by Edgar Allan Poe

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,

Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,

While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,

As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.

“‘Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door

Only this, and nothing more.”

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,

And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.

Eagerly I wished the morrow; vainly I had sought to borrow

From my books surcease of sorrow – sorrow for the lost Lenore

For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore

Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain

Thrilled me – filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;

So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating,

“‘Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door

Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;

This it is, and nothing more.”

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,

“Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;

But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,

And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,

That I scarce was sure I heard you” – here I opened wide the door;

Darkness there, and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,

Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before;

But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,

And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “Lenore!”

This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “Lenore!”

Merely this, and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,

Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.

“Surely,” said I, “surely that is something at my window lattice:

Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore

Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;

‘Tis the wind and nothing more.”

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,

In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore;

Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;

But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door

Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door

Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,

By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore.

“Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, “art sure no craven,

Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the Nightly shore

Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!”

Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.”

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,

Though its answer little meaning – little relevancy bore;

For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being

Ever yet was blest with seeing bird above his chamber door

Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,

With such name as “Nevermore.”

But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only

That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.

Nothing further then he uttered – not a feather then he fluttered

Till I scarcely more than muttered, “other friends have flown before

On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before.”

Then the bird said, “Nevermore.”

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,

“Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is its only stock and store,

Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster

Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore

Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore

Of ‘Never – nevermore’.”

But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,

Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;

Then upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking

Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore

What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous bird of yore

Meant in croaking “Nevermore.”

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing

To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom’s core;

This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining

On the cushion’s velvet lining that the lamplight gloated o’er,

But whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight gloating o’er,

She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then methought the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer

Swung by Seraphim whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor.

“Wretch,” I cried, “thy God hath lent thee – by these angels he hath sent thee

Respite – respite and nepenthe, from thy memories of Lenore!

Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!”

Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.”

“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil! prophet still, if bird or devil!

Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,

Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted

On this home by horror haunted – tell me truly, I implore

Is there – is there balm in Gilead? – tell me – tell me, I implore!”

Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.”

“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil – prophet still, if bird or devil!

By that Heaven that bends above us – by that God we both adore

Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,

It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore

Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.”

Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.”

“Be that word our sign in parting, bird or fiend,” I shrieked, upstarting

“Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore!

Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!

Leave my loneliness unbroken! quit the bust above my door!

Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!”

Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.”

And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting

On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;

And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming,

And the lamplight o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;

And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor

Shall be lifted – nevermore!

Soloist (on the soft glass edge). Poem by Richard Lloyd Cederberg

Calmly focused, attentive,
Poised, her flute gracefully held,
Nimble fingers begin to dance on
The soft glass edge of a player’s heart…
An elegant cavatina,
With airy passages building
Towards the larger exposition,
A pause – a breath…
A stir of nuanced phrases
Ineffable, rife of melancholy,
An impromptu interlude wooing the
Listener into an atmosphere of longing…
In a crescendo of harmonic strings
The orchestra bursts forth…
In soaring synchronies
The exhaled notes
(Of a solo flute)
Begin to flow
Like a silver
Stream of dulcet pearls,
Gossamer harmonies enlaced,
Aureate lines transforming pinnacles,
The scherzo – an exaltation – penetrating – diffusing –
Vanishing – then, a short pause – a breath…
And when an
Empty Flute fills again
Subtle notes begin to stir…
Patiently centered,
Her flute devotedly held,
The conductor cues the soloist, and
Nimble fingers (again) begin to dance
On the soft glass edge of a player’s heart…

© richard lloyd cederberg 2018



Richard is the progeny of Swedish and Norwegian immigrants. He was born in Chicago Illinois. Richard began his journey into the arts at age six. For twelve years he played classical trumpet. The British incursion of music, however, influenced him to put down the trumpet and take-up acoustic and electric guitar, and, to write songs and lyrics. He toured professionally for ten years. In 1995 Richard was privileged to design and build his own Midi-centered Recording Studio ~ Taylor & Grace ~ where he worked diligently until 2002. During that time he composed, and multi-track recorded, over 500 compositions and has two CD’s (‘WHAT LOVE HAS DONE’ and ‘THE PATH’) to his personal credit.
Richard’s interest in writing continues. His poetic invention is integrative and employs various elements: nature, history, relationships (past and present), parlance, alliteration, metaphor, characterization, spirituality, faith, eschatology, art, and subtext. Avoiding the middle-road; he enjoys the challenge of poetic stylization: Rhythmical, Poetic/Prose, Triolets, Syllable formats, Story-Poems, Freeform, Haiku, Tanka, Haibun, and Acrostic. Richard’s work has been (and is) featured in a wide variety of anthologies, compendiums, and e-zines including: Poetry Life and Times, Artvilla, Motherbird, and The Path. Richard was nominated twice for the Pushcart Prize.
Books include: 1. A MONUMENTAL JOURNEY… 2. IN SEARCH OF THE FIRST TRIBE… 3. THE UNDERGROUND RIVER… 4. BEYOND UNDERSTANDING. The Monumental Journey Series is a confluence of adventure, mystery, and historical fiction. A new adventure/thriller, BETWEEN THE CRACKS has been published. Also, a new eschatological drama – AFTER WE WERE HUMAN – is being written. Follow the lives of several friends as a race of ageless multi-dimensional humans comes back to Earth with their Creator to rule and reign for 1000 years.

Robin Ouzman Hislop is Editor of Poetry Life and Times his publications include All the Babble of the Souk and Cartoon Molecules collected poems and Key of Mist the recently published Tesserae translations from Spanish poets Guadalupe Grande and Carmen Crespo visit Robin Ouzman Hislop about author. See Robin performing his work Performance (University of Leeds) and his latest Collected Poems Volume at Next-Arrivals

Touched by An Angel | Poem| by Maya Angelou

Touched by An Angel
by Maya Angelou

We, unaccustomed to courage

exiles from delight

live coiled in shells of loneliness

until love leaves its high holy temple

and comes into our sight

to liberate us into life.

Love arrives

and in its train come ecstasies

old memories of pleasure

ancient histories of pain.

Yet if we are bold,

love strikes away the chains of fear

from our souls.

We are weaned from our timidity

In the flush of love’s light

we dare be brave

And suddenly we see

that love costs all we are

and will ever be.

Yet it is only love

which sets us free.

Poems of Death & Incense by Alisa Velaj. Translated by Ukë Zenel Buçpapaj

They should not have piled those dry branches up here
It is midday and the crowd
Will soon pass by them
The forest ghost will terrify the Dead
With the marrow dried in his bones
Then he will convey the crowd’s death
Like an electrical conductor permits a flow of energy
They should have piled them up in the heart of the Bazaar square
But no, by no means
At midday
Death has white paws
With the hare’s soft fur
And blinding whiteness
Like that of the tiger’s teeth
With the hare’s soft fur
We rub ourselves
On meadows
Growing narcissi flowers
But the lake in the middle of them
Never shows us
The tiger’s reflection…
I pray again after hushing or I hush right after praying
The lily of dreams has long ran away from the white colour
The whiteness of the snow, the whiteness of the petals, the whiteness of the egg
A raven black as death flies around the lily and fades away falling in the hands of the storm
The incense’s smell piercing through smelling…
He is three hours away from the Swan’s Neck.
The screams of the bird have been staying frozen on those shores since the midnight of the last song.
He is three nights away from the songs and a life away from the screams.

Alisa Velaj has been shortlisted for the annual international Erbacce-Press Poetry Award in UK in June 2014. Her works have appeared in more than eighty print and online international magazines, including: FourW twentyfive Anthology (Australia), The Journal (UK), The Dallas Review (USA), The Linnet’s Wings (UK) The Seventh Quarry (UK), Envoi Magazine (UK) etc etc. Velaj’s digital chapbook “The Wind Foundations” translated by Ukë Zenel Buçpapaj is published by Zany Zygote Review (USA). Her poems are also translated in Hebrew, Swedish, Romanian, French and Portuguese. Alisa Velaj’s poetry book “With No Sweat At All” (trans by Ukë Zenel Buçpapaj) will be published by Cervena Barva Press in 2019.
Robin Ouzman Hislop is Editor of Poetry Life and Times his publications include All the Babble of the Souk and Cartoon Molecules collected poems and Key of Mist the recently published Tesserae translations from Spanish poets Guadalupe Grande and Carmen Crespo visit Robin Ouzman Hislop about author. See Robin performing his work Performance (University of Leeds) and his latest Collected Poems Volume at Next-Arrivals