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Best Poems From
ERHARD HANS JOSEF LANG
(January 8,1957)
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21.
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Magic -Live- Catches One Unawares
Oh this grand, oh so vibrant cosmic swinging and flurrying
With all its expressive - and abstract - hidden huge influences being
carried along! !
As vast a world as is ours,
It yet always seems to be as tiny
In these rounded, ever widening fields of our immense cosmos
We're brooding in -
This is what engulfs all our things down here,
Far and wide, seen and unseen! ! !
As well, it does hold engulfed
Me, too, and my world, and yours and you.
Would you, Unknown Entity, for once again, energetically join forces,
and, for a minute or two,
Take up your abode in my mind, benevolently?
For you now opening up, slip into one like myself
- And may you enjoy making up a man like me as you're superceding
On me of flesh and blood,
and come to stay in my heart!
Am I prepared so that you could stand me? -
Finally you'd be one here that I, as a human, could bow to?
Would you be also one I may freely converse with and befriend? Or am I
too small by size to dare entertain
A wish aspiring for your heights?
Or is there a place elsewhere, aside from Mind,
That you, mystic One in All by all in one,
Would pitch up your tent and camp?
Another regal abode, befitting for you to come down to,
Aside here from mind?
Where you could have a Oneness of all your subtlest fibers
Gladly reflected, re-creating yourself in a small vessel?
On this one spritely pearl of globe come oh so alive?
In Mind only - I, for one, just can't see another -
Everything under the sun, May easily stand up together in a line.
Seers and shamans of different ancient peoples
Have named different means
Of ensuring the potency of Magic Spells.
Some are said to have gained the glorious realm of wonders
Strictly by devotionals with most beloved Goddesses and Gods.
And one can easily imagine that those
Who make for lofty fields of miracles,
By mere spells of cosmic knowledge and
Algebraic laws of magic ritual,
Through rightful rites -
Are those who would want to make the least of noise
Whilst their miracles are happening, -
Not a curious eye to be baffled thereby,
while the coming of their miracles might
Hardly be noticed by themselves -
Self-grown fruit of will as these are,
Expressed only at the sudden end
Of an ultimate chain of action in Mind.
As sweet a fruit the action to be,
As sweet a fruit to Graciously be granted by some insider eye of higher
insight? -
Is this what they meant
when I heard them say,
'God is good'?
Many have wanted to know what exactly it is
That makes real of
Non-trickster magicians' work:
Each and every one of those, rarely
Whenever met to face the question,
Just mysteriously answered,
'True Magic lives by the magic of its secret.'
And they all stop short of telling
That it is only to avoid the shattering of their magic's frame
To be built up in a singular of cell, theirs,
That the secrets must be kept by all means.
For no leakage in the Mind will drain their cause only
Unless it is bumped at by the low-flying ignorant,
Once they got wind of it.
Magic deeds that, without fail, can
Spell out a realistic performer's desire
Right through the Mind,
Must they not be verily magic playing live.
With cosmic will power swerving down
To bend and shape circumstances of life -
Magic must come easy, I feel, if it were to happen -
As easy as a magic performance is being done?
For things to be happening one's own way - magically?
Things seen strictly as accidental coincidences
By a non-magician's eye!
Erhard Hans Josef Lang
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22.
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Money And Words Of Value Under Crucifixion
My Mom used to say:
All that you do, my son, is mere trash,
When you can't turn it into cash,
Whatever the truth you see or speak.
And I heard many others say so, too.
Now I question myself:
Then how does it come,
As that is the good people's standard,
That they themselves, as if with forlorn babies' eyes,
In utmost confident abandon,
Often, almost daily, look up in prayerful moods to One,
Whose saintly words once were well benign and of
The nature of a God-like preacher man,
That but never made Him a single dime or even a cent,
In the end, the preacher Himself only badly slammed and even nailed up,
For all of the treasured words He spread.
How these unpaid-for words of such a priceless soul
Managed, all the same, to
Get themselves affixed for so long over time,
Through milleniums to come
Under the rising and sinking sun,
As THE ever-flowing source of one-&-only true inspiration
And those words keeping themselves yet
Ever renewed through nostalgic sad-sweet sermons on
Physically crossed spiritual truths about the making of man -
Otherwise so highly acclaimed a question of money?
Once benign and saintly words of an unpaid preacher man, whose
life-story
Through millenniums to pass
Has been taken by ever-growing masses of people on the globe as
THE Wholesome Pepper Pill to cure the tongues of all unholy babblers? ?
Or were they paying Him for raising the spirits of the uneasy crowds
Surging to the mountains,
Paying Him for washing greedy wine-bibbers' eyes in their vain
mansions,
Paying Him for making the death-stricken suddenly forget about
The living not worthy of being remembered,
And the ones fallen lame forget about the walks of life of those
guilty?
Nay, they made Him even pay for it - as we all know -
For the good he has sown and strewn
Pay with His own blood so unforgivingly
As that they're seen curdling that wronged blood
Until to-day - two-thousand years into time.
Therefore nowadays, feeling kind of obliged,
They make sure to be paying even
All their minor preachers of the day,
Those who think they have something to sermon on,
And, to be sure, all the clowns, too,
On top of more serious miracle men, even more so.
And that's why my Mom even used to say to me:
All that you do, my son, is mere trash,
When you can't turn it into cash,
Whatever the truth you see or speak.
But I hope that now, after reading this poem,
There will be a few more of you who
Judge a poor poet or poor philosopher again
By the old Aramaic standards -
And not only by your more fortunate sons' values in
What you yourselves couldn't reach up to in life-
In spite of all your words and your money.
* * *
I recommend readers to take a look at my Votelet page and eventually cast a personal vote at http: //www.network54.com/Votelet/38264 on the issue of abolishing money
Erhard Hans Josef Lang
Erhard Hans Josef Lang
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23.
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New Births Blooming Divine After Sad Notes Of Demise
Was searching somehow for a good Mother's Day poem
On the eve of Mummy's event day this year,
To copy & send one very special poem
Within a circle of bouquet of th' lyrical sentiment which
I'd collect overnight and
Hold fresh, for the blooms to be shared
Right at following early dawn on Mom's day of the year,
As messages sent out as gifts for a few friends,
Poetry lovers and
Keen readers, alike, of Lyrical Digests of mine.
Hunting for that special one I looked for,
As it is my way, I
More like left it to all
Our divine matchmakers' tri-pronged
Proddings at the door of the
Fate of dating the chances out in the open,
Thus to accrue for turn-outs best possible to the pack of cards of
events
Lingering in the lurk,
Full well shuffled, maybe
Jackpot juxtapositions in word & rhyme this time,
Realized, if thus done, beyond the ordinary human powers -
And lo! what I found, then decided to opt for
In the end, was
As a frontrunner piece
In the new string of poems to be woven,
Second in my choice turn after
A short set of inspirational
Verses from the Vedas,
Lores and teachings abiding in the gods,
Out of God's mouth of
Ancient India's wisdom Seers, - a
Best thing to start with -
'A Contemplation Upon Flowers' by
Mediaeval times'
Henry King Bishop of Chichester.
He sees therein the basic earthly patience that the earth's flowers
exude,
As a practical lesson for us beautiful humans,
Bound alike to the soil at the last,
As are the beautiful flowers.
Different punks of mighty words,
Poetesses and poets coming up -
Uruguay's turn-of-the-19th-century 'Joujou'
Flurried herself into this noble round of lyricists,
With herself envisioned
On the rocks in graced labor in
'Your Mouth',
'Adam's' endless 'Complaint' by Denise Levertov,
Joy Vanderhelm's 'Human', who
Feels herself gladly more like an aminol,
Then 'A Poem A Day - Sweet Sunday'
by Rita El Khoury from
Beirut, as they're shooting again in the streets of Beirut
For the fifth day,
On this year's Mother's Day,
After all of which, finally, I had
Stumbled onto the theme poem wanted,
Christian-borne Indian
Dr. John Celes' tribute to his Mother
Alive at above 90 years of age, as
'Happy Mother's Day 2008.'
To conclude the entire mix of
Poetically contrasted multi-message
I yet chanced to include a few love poems, as well as a
Few naughty ones, too,
Like such as one about an ever obtrusive 'Landlady'
Or an Afro-American 'Saturn's Child's' account of
Probing her dead-drunk father's sleep
First, by sticking her finger, then
Her whole hand into his mouth,
To the effect of 'the ogre's sleep making shake the house in tremors.'
And I sent all the poems via the air,
As planned, at early dawn on
This year's Mother's Day,
A last tributary message with
'Joujou' in black & white put into the picture
Rounding it all up:
And then, after all my messages containing the poems were out,
Received by a thankful good handful of readers,
I stopped to read it all through again myself,
And reflected on all of it once more
Through the lens of my private life.
A Contemplation upon Flowers!
This was the first in line
I had stringed up in the bouquet of the day -
Mother Day's lyrics.
The poem - just newly discovered by me that very eve:
'How often have I seen you at a bier,
And there look fresh and spruce!
You fragrant flowers! then teach me, that my breath
Like yours may sweeten and perfume my death, ' ends
Said poem.
Hadn't I, an Oriental oriented German of a cosmopolitan village
From this eastmost homestead of mine
Left, first time in my life's latest series of intensive journeying
For the graceful shores of ever so youthfully inspiring Mother India
On a flight through Far Eastern City of the Lions',
In the energies spurting middle of last millennium's last decade of
utmost hopes,
Embarked on a ship of the same aerodynamically flown plane,
That below its passengers deck
Had carried the body of a certain young foreign
Housemaid girl, slain in a private household tragedy, who
Originated from the same place as I was coming from, -
The island country the Spaniard Conquistadores,
On their maps, had called
'Islas de los Ladrones' (Islands of Thieves) , -
The returned-dead poor maid's name having been »»»
'Flor Contemplacion'?
At a time when I was to make use of the same plane
Bound for India via the dead one's fateful port of departure,
For me eventually
To return from my noble destination with
New knowledge and
Books on all aspects of the divine wisdom, including
Ritualistic aspects to the cosmic natures of the Heavenly Being,
For the Divine Royals to be invited to be hosting them,
The gods to be entertained
For lofty friendship's sake in my own home
With all due regal gifts and respects tolled, with
The worships, as in my case, eventually
To evolve over one full stint of almost four thousand
Splendid royal home receptions,
Offered in all pomp to great Shiva & His Beloved Mountain Princess,
As well as to a
Whole array of the manifold nature Goddesses of left and right,
Worshipped with flowers
In between their endless love and their endless terror
Ever witnessed by all of us as exerted onto
Our world of joys & pains,
With all this for one grand »»»
'Contemplation with Flowers'?
And yes, yes!
It is true that
My further life did follow selfsame
Pattern of that one-time plane
Flying me away so high,
On the exchange return after
A personal entity's cast away,
While
Contemplating
The flourishing of new.
Erhard Hans Josef Lang
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24.
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Papa Pater Patrum Pererit Papissa Papellum
Following story is told in medieval chronicles
With reference to the legendary
Popesse Johanna VIII
- It is stated she was but a rival Pope on the throne,
Not accepted by all contemporaries of her days -
Who had originated from Germany,
Studied in the guise of a male in Athens and
Who had mounted the papal throne, likewise by
Pretending to be a male,
As John VIII in 855 and
Who was lynched and subsequently
Banned into a nunnery
After her giving birth in the streets of Rome
While on a papal procession in 858:
A little devil was seen descending at
The spot of the Pope's delivery of the baby,
And heard blurting out in triumph:
'Papa, Pater Patrum, pererit Papissa papellum'.
('The Pope, Father of Fathers, as Popesse,
gave birth to a small pope')
Eversince that event a new Pope-elect,
Before his inauguration, had been asked
To sit on a chair with a hole in its centre -
The so-called Sella stercoria,
From underneath of which chair a priest would come
To verify with his very hand
The male gender of the new Pope-to-be.
Only after the priest's announcing 'Habet'
(He's got it) was the Pope's election
Considered as valid.
* * * *
a contemporary lithography of the birth-giving Popesse of the year 858 may be viewed at http: //www.webimagesearchengine.com/upload/birth-giving-Popesse-Johanna-VIII-of-858.jpg
Erhard Hans Josef Lang
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