Noetic Punnary

It sounds hard to believe, but Nemu’s End has gathered something of a following at Furrowbrow Abbey in Norfolk.

In fact, this is one of the finest examples of 14th century church architecture, so I am  pleased, if a little surprised, to find that my book has found its way into its cloisters.

Stranger still, the abbot and some of the sisters of charity have been sending me poetry they have composed.

I can’t quite fathom the connection with my own researches, but I will share it all the same.

Thoth speaks

Thoth speaks.

And indeed,
Thoth writes.

Writes riddles and roles,
   Binding and unwinding,
      Text tells two tales or more.

But at the centre,
   Six swords slice through
      Wooly thinking,
         Fluffy thinking,
And pages of thoughts undisciplined,

Cutting a path past sorrow and peace
   To something left ineffed.

Thoth's ink covers the parchment
   With combinations of letters exhausted,
      Forms fixed in finite space.

Sphynx, hold thy tongue and keep thy secrets
   Lest the goddess remain veiled.

Naked, she is revealed in brilliant black noise.

And in the word CHAOS let the book be sealed.

                          (by Sister Josephine Thirdspoon)


Hang the lot of them
   If they want to be hanged.

Strung up and stuck,
   Hunchback soldiers
      Stretched straight and
         muscles emptied.

And gold leaf flakes,
   But worked lead shines immaculate,
The mage

Winged feet and the aspect of the juggler.
   Head cocked in ecstatic cockiness.

Elements manipulated
   Circles synchronised,
      Pen and paper and parchment and quill
         Wonders of will well wielded.

Watch closely from a distance
   Your babies,
Learning how to use their limbs,
   Learning to juggle.
Piloting distant machinery.

Man, head down and hanged,
   Triangle trapped in a grid of fours.

No need for it,
   But it is his all.

Thoughts proceed in devilish lines.

                 (by Sister Mary Greymerchant)
Eye in a box

The eye in the pyramid
   Leaps the Abyss
      And lands as an eye in a box

Thrown up on street corners
   Monitoring movers
      And shakers
         And stirrers
            And stuck in their socks

And out of your box
   You tumble my love
      And take your own eye on a stick

And analyze angels
   At one degree angles
      With chemical goggles
         to pick up their tricks.

                       (by Abbot Jeremy Coppercod)

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