Cyan Ryan:

“The Angel”
by William Blake

I dreamt a dream! What can it mean?
And that I was a maiden Queen
Guarded by an Angel mild:
Witless woe was ne’er beguiled!

And I wept both night and day,
And he wiped my tears away;
And I wept both day and night,
And hid from him my heart’s delight.

So he took his wings, and fled;
Then the morn blushed rosy red.
I dried my tears, and armed my fears
With ten-thousand shields and spears.

Soon my Angel came again;
I was armed, he came in vain;
For the time of youth was fled,
And grey hairs were on my head.

Originally posted on hastywords:

Titled by Cyan Ryan playing on the name Ruth which means friend.  Please show Cyan some blog love, he took a break but looks as if he needs a bit of sunshine and support.

Vivid Trees by Hastywords

Vivid Trees by Hastywords

Written by Cyan Ryan and HastyWords

I was mourning tearfully the prior evening’s dreams
Where noisy birds had ripped the cosmos to smithereens
I had watched it happen in a silent and unmoving reverie
Where I wept quietly as summer held me inside its heat
Underneath a dying knotted willow tree.

It was the day before I was to turn twenty after sleeping
When along came a twisted up and misty wind, speaking
Trying to wake me from my common cloudy-cuckoo land
Filled with the same old cul-de-sac half-assed-plans
That I left hiding somewhere outside eyes sewn shut

Knowledge kept knocking at my conscious, incessantly
A sure inevitably of what waking meant…

View original 425 more words

The Clout of Clouds




Are our flowers’ hours
dour-drowned, or our powerful
crowns doused, shower-roused?

5 Syllable Kanshi:

Are flowers’ hours ours —
dour cowards, sour-drowned —
or powerful crowns’ —
doused, roused, showered proud?

7 Syllable Kanshi:

Flowers thou’st, announced ours — crowns?
Showers shroud coward’s dour gowns!
Espoused vows sprout out Frau’s mouth —
Sound, profound? Doubt clouds southbound!



Today has been an all time low for me, and I need to distance myself from this blog for awhile. This will be difficult, as writing has been helping me cope with my depression.

I went to church tonight. It was good. Convicting, especially the part towards the end about suicidal people sprinting towards destruction, who every night  wonder how things got so bad, and run their hands through their hair. It was very specific, very me.

I’m on a waiting list for a psychologist now, by the way. I have some serious issues. Hopefully I can get healthy, and have some kind of life worth having someday.


Cyan Ryan:

“If the book we are reading does not wake us, as with a fist hammering on our skulls, then why do we read it? So that it shall make us happy? Good God, we would also would be happy if we had no books, and such books that make us happy we could, if need be, write ourselves. But what we must have are those books which come upon us like ill-fortune, and distress us deeply, like the death of one we love better than ourselves, like suicide. A book must be an ice-axe to break the sea frozen inside us.”
― Franz Kafka, in Letters to Friends, Family and Editors

Originally posted on Poesy plus Polemics:

Kafka's Metamorphosis Illustration from

Kafka’s Metamorphosis
Illustration from

existentially brutal
ignoble surrealist
grotesqueries drawn
upon canvases
tortured by dark
abstract penmanship
granting sublime
antiheroes absurd
inescapable states
of distress within
mundane realities
bristling with blades
of degraded dystopian
culture where even
the commonplace
customs of social
community lacerate
unlucky souls with
a merciless mien

in other words
this is a bent
bizarre genre
profane to the holy
but sacred to
anyone lost
either way a most
dreadful provocative
narrative certainly
not for those born
faint of heart
except for the rare
stricken few who
who cast shadows
of giant monstrosity

View original

“Time and the bell have buried the day, / the black cloud carries the sun away. / Will the sunflower turn to us, will the clematis / Stray down, bend to us; tendril and spray / Clutch and cling? / Chill / Fingers of yew be curled / Down on us? After the kingfisher’s wing / Has answered light to light, and is silent, the light is still / At the still point of the turning world.” — T.S. Eliot, Part V from “Burnt Norton”

(Written April 19, 2013 Friday. It’s more addressed to myself than anyone else, so no one take it personally please. It was written before I even had a wordpress.)

“Know This Tendinosis”
by Ry Hakari

If we were to switch off our reverie receivers
Every you and every me would see reflecting
Smokescreen strangers and vicarious voyeurs
Source versions of ourselves existing as vapors

If we would take a minute to pay attention
To our vacillating black mirror miniatures
Looking in our little doppelgangers’ eyes
Past the nice and bright lies of telecast lines
Past the nice and bright lies of our trite lives
We might realize we all have hungry souls
Most only know as consuming black holes

Obsessed with flashing merry-go-rounds
Our tendinosis twists and tempts and turns
Our tactile members into plant-like tendrils
Around handheld roundabouts, vegging out

Apart from Christ crucified
Apart from carrying our crosses
Apart from living His death
Putting ourselves to death
Apart from living the life of Christ
We’re just ghost-like mosses
Preoccupied with playing
Pretend and make-believe
Brittle and breaking little by little
Fallen and falling apart
Like a mist in the wind
Like dandelion pollen
Here a minute, stalling
We’re going to dissipate
And fade well-entertained on our way
Through Gehenna’s gate
To dwell in forever hell, forever, hell
If we don’t recognize,‘fess we’re not well
And get dragged away from ourselves
By God’s nail-scarred saving hands


“Burnt Norton”
by T.S. Eliot


Time present and time past
Are both perhaps present in time future
And time future contained in time past.
If all time is eternally present
All time is unredeemable.
What might have been is an abstraction
Remaining a perpetual possibility
Only in a world of speculation.
What might have been and what has been
Point to one end, which is always present.
Footfalls echo in the memory
Down the passage which we did not take
Towards the door we never opened
Into the rose-garden. My words echo
Thus, in your mind.
But to what purpose
Disturbing the dust on a bowl of rose-leaves
I do not know.
Other echoes
Inhabit the garden. Shall we follow?
Quick, said the bird, find them, find them,
Round the corner. Through the first gate,
Into our first world, shall we follow
The deception of the thrush? Into our first world.
There they were, dignified, invisible,
Moving without pressure, over the dead leaves,
In the autumn heat, through the vibrant air,
And the bird called, in response to
The unheard music hidden in the shrubbery,
And the unseen eyebeam crossed, for the roses
Had the look of flowers that are looked at.
There they were as our guests, accepted and accepting.
So we moved, and they, in a formal pattern,
Along the empty alley, into the box circle,
To look down into the drained pool.
Dry the pool, dry concrete, brown edged,
And the pool was filled with water out of sunlight,
And the lotos rose, quietly, quietly,
The surface glittered out of heart of light,
And they were behind us, reflected in the pool.
Then a cloud passed, and the pool was empty.
Go, said the bird, for the leaves were full of children,
Hidden excitedly, containing laughter.
Go, go, go, said the bird: human kind
Cannot bear very much reality.
Time past and time future
What might have been and what has been
Point to one end, which is always present.


Garlic and sapphires in the mud
Clot the bedded axle-tree.
The thrilling wire in the blood
Sings below inveterate scars
Appeasing long forgotten wars.
The dance along the artery
The circulation of the lymph
Are figured in the drift of stars
Ascend to summer in the tree
We move above the moving tree
In light upon the figured leaf
And hear upon the sodden floor
Below, the boarhound and the boar
Pursue their pattern as before
But reconciled among the stars.

At the still point of the turning world. Neither flesh nor fleshless;
Neither from nor towards; at the still point, there the dance is,
But neither arrest nor movement. And do not call it fixity,
Where past and future are gathered. Neither movement from nor towards,
Neither ascent nor decline. Except for the point, the still point,
There would be no dance, and there is only the dance.
I can only say, there we have been: but I cannot say where.
And I cannot say, how long, for that is to place it in time.
The inner freedom from the practical desire,
The release from action and suffering, release from the inner
And the outer compulsion, yet surrounded
By a grace of sense, a white light still and moving,
Erhebung without motion, concentration
Without elimination, both a new world
And the old made explicit, understood
In the completion of its partial ecstasy,
The resolution of its partial horror.
Yet the enchainment of past and future
Woven in the weakness of the changing body,
Protects mankind from heaven and damnation
Which flesh cannot endure.
Time past and time future
Allow but a little consciousness.
To be conscious is not to be in time
But only in time can the moment in the rose-garden,
The moment in the arbour where the rain beat,
The moment in the draughty church at smokefall
Be remembered; involved with past and future.
Only through time time is conquered.


Here is a place of disaffection
Time before and time after
In a dim light: neither daylight
Investing form with lucid stillness
Turning shadow into transient beauty
Wtih slow rotation suggesting permanence
Nor darkness to purify the soul
Emptying the sensual with deprivation
Cleansing affection from the temporal.
Neither plentitude nor vacancy. Only a flicker
Over the strained time-ridden faces
Distracted from distraction by distraction
Filled with fancies and empty of meaning
Tumid apathy with no concentration
Men and bits of paper, whirled by the cold wind
That blows before and after time,
Wind in and out of unwholesome lungs
Time before and time after.
Eructation of unhealthy souls
Into the faded air, the torpid
Driven on the wind that sweeps the gloomy hills of London,
Hampstead and Clerkenwell, Campden and Putney,
Highgate, Primrose and Ludgate. Not here
Not here the darkness, in this twittering world.

Descend lower, descend only
Into the world of perpetual solitude,
World not world, but that which is not world,
Internal darkness, deprivation
And destitution of all property,
Dessication of the world of sense,
Evacuation of the world of fancy,
Inoperancy of the world of spirit;
This is the one way, and the other
Is the same, not in movement
But abstention from movememnt; while the world moves
In appetency, on its metalled ways
Of time past and time future.


Time and the bell have buried the day,
the black cloud carries the sun away.
Will the sunflower turn to us, will the clematis
Stray down, bend to us; tendril and spray
Clutch and cling?
Fingers of yew be curled
Down on us? After the kingfisher’s wing
Has answered light to light, and is silent, the light is still
At the still point of the turning world.


Words move, music moves
Only in time; but that which is only living
Can only die. Words, after speech, reach
Into the silence. Only by the form, the pattern,
Can words or music reach
The stillness, as a Chinese jar still
Moves perpetually in its stillness.
Not the stillness of the violin, while the note lasts,
Not that only, but the co-existence,
Or say that the end precedes the beginning,
And the end and the beginning were always there
Before the beginning and after the end.
And all is always now. Words strain,
Crack and sometimes break, under the burden,
Under the tension, slip, slide, perish,
Will not stay still. Shrieking voices
Scolding, mocking, or merely chattering,
Always assail them. The Word in the desert
Is most attacked by voices of temptation,
The crying shadow in the funeral dance,
The loud lament of the disconsolate chimera.

The detail of the pattern is movement,
As in the figure of the ten stairs.
Desire itself is movement
Not in itself desirable;
Love is itself unmoving,
Only the cause and end of movement,
Timeless, and undesiring
Except in the aspect of time
Caught in the form of limitation
Between un-being and being.
Sudden in a shaft of sunlight
Even while the dust moves
There rises the hidden laughter
Of children in the foliage
Quick now, here, now, always-
Ridiculous the waste sad time
Stretching before and after.

“A bridge of silver wings stretches from the dead ashes of an unforgiving nightmare to the jeweled vision of a life started anew. Hearts rebuilt from hope resurrect dreams killed by hate. Hope drowned in shadows emerges fiercely splendid – boldly angelic.” ― Aberjhani, The River of Winged Dreams

“We will open the book. Its pages are blank. We are going to put words on them ourselves. The book is called Opportunity and its first chapter is New Year’s Day.”
― Edith Lovejoy Pierce

“I think in terms of the day’s resolutions, not the years’.”
— Henry Moore

“Write it on your heart that every day is the best day in the year.”
— Ralph Waldo Emerson

“For last year’s words belong to last year’s language
And next year’s words await another voice.”
― T.S. Eliot, Four Quartets

“Your pale but pleasant complexion — Almost paper white, and written across your face is beauty haunting. Scattered across the cover page are freckles like a thousand falling stars. You’re a book I mistook as a child, as an ideal wife that I rewrite for life. I’d rather have ten dozen heart attacks, than these haha hakari constant flashbacks and all these afterthoughts and afterglows. My memories hold me back in the past and from living as I should and it shows — Everybody knows I’m not doing all the things that I could.”
- Ry Hakari, a string of old, unused poem ideas meshed into prose (Combined/Written August 10, 2013 Saturday)


“On My Wedding-Day”
by Lord Byron

Here’s a happy New Year! but with reason
I beg you’ll permit me to say–
Wish me many returns of the Season,
But as few as you please of the Day.


“From tender years you took Me for granted, but still I deign to wander through your lungs. While you were sleeping soundly in your bed, (Your drapes were silver wings, your shutters flung) I drew the poison from the summer’s sting, and eased the fire out of your fevered skin. I moved in you and stirred your soul to sing; and if you’d let Me I would move again. I’ve danced ‘tween sunlit strands of lover’s hair; Helped form the final words before your death. I’ve pitied you and plied your sails with air; Gave blessing when you rose upon My breath. And after all of this I am amazed, that I am cursed far more than I am praised.”
— Dustin Kensrue (Thrice), “Silver Wings”


(Note: I think I wrote this on December 30th some year, which is 99 days off from my birthday, September 21/22. I think it was about New Year’s. The reference to 3 months, I think was me counting the month since my birthday, the start of another kind of “New Year”)



“The Pen and Paper Life”
by Ry Hakari

There’s a memoir somewhere around here
That bears my name engraved in bold on the front cover
Just the same as words cut deep in a headstone
A novel written on broken dreams with fallen tears
And a slap in the face to the one who creates
I’m nauseated by my own philosophy
And I won’t claim the pages as my own anymore
All they’ve done is rip me off with their clever lies
But it’s my turn to do the ripping now
So I’m sitting on this dirty window sill
Tearing out all my chapters page by page
Watching the wind carry them away one by one
But it isn’t as simple as I make it sound
Like a spider bite on the inside
Every rip stings my heart a little bit
Ten years have just gone out the window
By sitting in it for just three months
It’s been ninety-nine days today
And now I’m in need of a massive re-write
Because all that’s left are two covers and a spine
But I won’t be the writer this time around
God the Creator is my author now
So the new edition is sure to sell


“The object of a New Year is not that we should have a new year. It is that we should have a new soul and a new nose; new feet, a new backbone, new ears, and new eyes. Unless a particular man made New Year resolutions, he would make no resolutions. Unless a man starts afresh about things, he will certainly do nothing effective.”
― G.K. Chesterton


“The Resolution”
by Jack’s Mannequin

There’s a lot that I don’t know
There’s a lot that I’m still learning
When I think I’m letting go
I find my body it’s still burning

And you hold me down
And you got me living in the past
Come on and pick me up
Somebody clear the wreckage from the blast

Yeah I’m alive
But I don’t need a witness
To know that I’ve survived
I’m not looking for forgiveness
Yeah I just need light
I need light in the dark
As I search for the resolution

And the bars are finally closed
So I try living in the moment
For the moment it just froze
And I felt sick and so alone

I could hear the sound
Of your voice still ringing in my ear
I’m going underground
But you’ll find me anywhere I fear

Yeah I’m alive
But I don’t need a witness
To know that I’ve survived
I’m not looking for forgiveness
Yeah I just need light
I need light in the dark
As I search for the resolution

The resolution
The resolution

And you hold me down
Yeah you hold me down

Yeah I’m alive
But I don’t need a witness
To know that I’ve survived
I’m not looking for forgiveness

Yeah I’m alive
But I don’t need a witness
To know that I’ve survived
I’m not looking for forgiveness
Yeah I just need light
I need light in the dark
As I search for the resolution

I need life
I need life
(Lying in the dark as I search for the resolution)
(Lying in the dark as I search for the resolution)
(Lying in the dark as I search for the resolution)


Prisoner King of the Ivory Tower Dungeon

“Prisoner King of the Ivory Tower Dungeon”
by Ry Hakari

Suns of the seven golden shining circles of my youth,
Seven silver shimmering moons eclipsed in adulthood

Pages of sunshine and moonlight intertwine my spine
Silversuns, goldenmoons, radiant hope and doomglow

Thirteen was like a painted desert rose garden mirage
Fourteen was like a sculpted swamp lily of Eden dream

The Immortal King of Naive Dreams, believing anything
A Siren torture-thrill, never killed; released, never freed

Requiem poems with inspirational prose, lilies and roses
I run the gamut of the blessed, damned, happy and sad

It’s hard to stay the course of dreams for my wakefulness
And seems all I ever wake to is nothing but another dream

I’m trapped in the shadows of constant collapsing realities
Waking bewildered, ever chasing elusive faith, hope, love

Lostness deepens in the labyrinth with every new plot twist
Following my thoughts out logically only leads to dead ends

Because when you live chasing dreams, logic turns relative,
Thoughts surreal, feelings ideal in the Ivory Tower dungeon


“Flower of Love”
by Oscar Wilde

Sweet, I blame you not, for mine the fault was, had I not been made of common clay
I had climbed the higher heights unclimbed yet, seen the fuller air, the larger day.

From the wildness of my wasted passion I had struck a better, clearer song,
Lit some lighter light of freer freedom, battled with some Hydra-headed wrong.

Had my lips been smitten into music by the kisses that but made them bleed,
You had walked with Bice and the angels on that verdant and enamelled meed.

I had trod the road which Dante treading saw the suns of seven circles shine,
Ay! perchance had seen the heavens opening, as they opened to the Florentine.

And the mighty nations would have crowned me, who am crownless now and without name,
And some orient dawn had found me kneeling on the threshold of the House of Fame.

I had sat within that marble circle where the oldest bard is as the young,
And the pipe is ever dropping honey, and the lyre’s strings are ever strung.

Keats had lifted up his hymeneal curls from out the poppy-seeded wine,
With ambrosial mouth had kissed my forehead, clasped the hand of noble love in mine.

And at springtide, when the apple-blossoms brush the burnished bosom of the dove,
Two young lovers lying in an orchard would have read the story of our love;

Would have read the legend of my passion, known the bitter secret of my heart,
Kissed as we have kissed, but never parted as we two are fated now to part.

For the crimson flower of our life is eaten by the cankerworm of truth,
And no hand can gather up the fallen withered petals of the rose of youth.

Yet I am not sorry that I loved you -ah! what else had I a boy to do? -
For the hungry teeth of time devour, and the silent-footed years pursue.

Rudderless, we drift athwart a tempest, and when once the storm of youth is past,
Without lyre, without lute or chorus, Death the silent pilot comes at last.

And within the grave there is no pleasure, for the blindworm battens on the root,
And Desire shudders into ashes, and the tree of Passion bears no fruit.

Ah! what else had I to do but love you? God’s own mother was less dear to me,
And less dear the Cytheraean rising like an argent lily from the sea.

I have made my choice, have lived my poems, and, though youth is gone in wasted days,
I have found the lover’s crown of myrtle better than the poet’s crown of bays.