The Blinded Samson (1912) by Lovis Corinth Samson 1 The LORD is a living dread whose absence in Shiloh is more potent than his presence. Notwithstanding the regenerative Spirit whose intimate impulse is felt by the inner man, no angelic return or godly descent precedes the rousing motions of body and temple torn joint by joint. No use for Delphic oracle or word from Jerusalem. 2 Absorbed by the moon, the sun gives up its light, the stars their sweetness, and the sky is d

Light Comes up behind Light Time pursues time and light comes up behind light. One sun follows another – each circle of bright ringed by a dark corona. But when eternity eclipses time and the sun is Malevichian black, the corona will be for us a light of white – the whitest light.

in your eyes, the sun in your eyes, the sun is dazzling white, the wind shifts your scarf, blows through the gaps of your coat. for me, nothing shines or moves but the tall candles swaying. the song of the dead plays on, the music of ghosts in the choir stalls. for you, it is not the dead that sing, but angels of light hovering over the water, the spray of white ocean on their wings glistering. in your eyes a reflection of the light in the window, the same light that hits

Death on the Pennines To live this hour beneath a cold Pennines sun requires the dead hills to flow behind us. To see the mighty crow and not look back means the death of something strange. We twist and turn. Shadows drape over us – ugly cloaks of lies that suit nobody. We are mired in bloody hearts. The crow comes, picks at the pieces. I am that crow, that symbol of death. I am the one that turns over corpses and flies away.

City Poem Under the iron bridge, office workers, wet with rain, crowd on coaches & trams. I stay by the river & watch them go. Everything is flowing now, a hissing juggernaut of lorries, cars, buses, passenger trains – varying streams of atoms in rapid motion – racing ahead of time; streaking by factories, allotments, tower-blocks, back-to-back slums; terminating or turning at the last suburb, at the conurbation’s edge, where the sun slips down the sky, into a

Aquarius So, the routes of the city, all its paths, arteries and overflows – the scummy run-offs from sewers and roads – end or start on the muddy banks of the sallow-tree river. Water does what it knows: It coils and uncoils like a gut over decades-old millstone grit, between the crumbling, rumbling jaws of Anglo-Saxon stone; Sneaks and snakes under willow trees; runs past hospitals, factories, back-to-back slums, picking up brand new stories and the gho

Sunfall Late October Afternoon: A Weak Watery Sun -- Not What it Was But Not Dead Yet.