Song of Oizys

As Poet for the Order of Sadness and Loss,

Recorder of Sufferings,

Chronicler of Despair.

I spread before you this

Estate of Melancholy,

of dread, foreboding, leaden skies, forlorn weeping,

restless fantoms and downcast angels,

where the colour of the finest hearts is drained.

Are you resolved

to come here?

-this Realm of Misery,

terrible aspect, bleakness, ghastly apparition,

of lamentation and extinguished spirit,

where pretence and hubris perish, fall away.

I offer no respite or remedy;

no perfect system, no ‘closure’ for pain and grief.

Come walk within my walled garden,

Come walk within my walled garden,

of wretchedness, indifference, blank gaze, surrender,

stupefaction and numbness,

where the whining and scuttling of lost souls is loudest.

Should you wish to enter

-be prepared to forego all illusions, witness abundant miseries, unprettied aspect.

Here, you’ll experience the

wonderful, terrible, purity of uncertainty.

-Where bravery and hope shine even though truths wither.

-Where virtues quietly triumph even though despondency reigns.

In time you may feel at home

in this place of Non-Being,

in this place of Non-Being,

amongst the dripping trees, anguish, quiet resignation,

-lamentation, deep sighs,

where all our silly noise is smothered, silenced.

So, find a place.

Tears, Tears will flow

Tears, Tears, will flow

Our river carries all stirrings, wounds, triumphs and calamities,

to forgetfulness

in this Estate of Melancholy.

As Poet for the Order of Sadness and Loss,

Recorder of Sufferings, Chronicler of Despair.

I bid you

rest, 

rest, in the embrace of nothingness,

where, gradually, your light is dimmed,

guttering, e x t i n g u i s h e d.

But, bravery and hope shine even though truths wither;

virtues quietly triumph even though despondency abounds.

Come, sit by me.

Come, sit by me.

Faced with the horrors of impermanence,

what wonders we construct, to ward off hopelessness,

transmute appetites, romanticise desire,

embroider motivations, fill emptiness.

-what stories are imagined, invented, images and scenes repeated and conserved.

And…how we bitterly resist their collapse

in that awful morning of tearful loneliness when reality intrudes.

We bridle, retrench, are unwilling to admit awkward facts, the necessity for examination

…of our precious enchantments, captivations,

after all our heroic efforts to preserve things as we needed them…

those glowing, beloved, magical times.

Such fragile forms of memory… invented, elaborated, clung-to,

until, under harsher light, cohesion trembles,

our story separates from us,

the loss…. is recognised…

has already happened,

it has happened, is happening; and it’s sometimes just too much to bear.

And so, our self-mythology,

precious scripts, scenes of mysterious union,

passion, immutable love,

wonder and desire and treasured times,

slowly suffer dreadful alteration.

Amidst the wreckage,

we may bravely look at ourselves,

before rejoining the re-written scene, ourselves changed,

or, unreconciled, we suffer a final disappointment, defeat, darkness.

Take heart, illuminate what you may.

Come walk within my walled garden,

Come walk within my walled garden,

Here echo the very last cries of comforting delusions,

unheard pleas for justice, unrequited loves.

Our river carries all stirrings, wounds, triumphs and calamities, to forgetfulness

In time you may feel at home

in this place of Non-Being,

in this place of Non-Being,

In that awful morning of tearful loneliness,

when unwanted truths find us wretched,

In that awful morning of tearful loneliness,

Take courage, illuminate what you may.

Take courage, illuminate what you may.

Peter Jennings

East Sussex

November 2024