Tag Archives: poetry

The Apron Symbolism

More ancient than the Golden Fleece

Whose story shines in classic lore:

Or Roman Eagle—which portrayed

Chivalric deeds in dare of yore.

 

More honored than the Knightly Star,

Or Royal Garter, it must be;

A symbol you should fondly keep

From spot and stain forever free.

 

It may be that in coming years,

As time shall all your labors test:

That laurel leaves of Victory

Shall on your brow in honor rest.

 

Yea, from your breast may jewels hang

fit for diadem to grace:

And sparkling gems of beauty rare

May on your person find a place.

 

Nay more, perchance which coming light,

Your feet may tread the path of fame:

Which in our Mystic order leads

To glory, and an honored name.

 

Yes, on your shoulders there may rest

The purple which we hold so dear:

That ensign which our progress marks

In high fraternal Circles here.

 

But never more can you receive

From mortal hand while here below:

An emblem which such honor brings

As this one—which I now bestow.

 

Until your spirit shall have passed

Beyond the pearly gates above:

May this the “Badge of Innocence”

Remind you of your vows of love.

 

‘Tis yours to wear throughout your life,

‘Til death shall call your soul to God;

Then on your casket to be placed,

When you shall sleep beneath the sod.

 

Its spotless surface is a type

Of that which marks a noble mind:

The rectitude of heart and life,

Which in its teachings you should find.

 

And when at last your weary feet

Shall reach the goal awaiting all:

And from your tired nerveless grasp

The working tools of life shall fall.

 

May then the record of your life,

reflect the pure and spotless white

Of this fair token which I place

Within your keeping here tonight.

 

And as your naked soul shall stand

Before the great white house throne of light;

And judgement for the deeds of earth

Shall issue there—to bless or blight;

 

Then may you hear the Welcome Voice

That tells of endless joys begun,

As God shall own your faithfulness,

And greet you with the words, “Well Done.”

— N A McAulay, The Builder, Anamosa, Iowa, December, 1916

Let There Be Light

Let there be light! the Almighty spoke—

Refulgent streams from chaos broke,

To ilume the rising earth!

Well pleased the Great Jehovah stood,

And gave the planets brith!

In choral numbers Masons join

To bless and praise this Light Divine.

 

Parent of light! accept our praise,

Who shed’st on us thy brightest rays—

The light that fills the mind!

By choice selected, lo! we stand,

By Friendship joined, a mystic band,

That love, that aid mankind!

In choral numbers Masons join

To bless and praise this Light Divine.

 

The Widow’s tears we often dry,

The Orphan’s wants out hands supply,

As far as power is given;

The naked clothe, the prisoner free—

These are our works, sweet Charity!

Reveal’d to us from Heaven!

In choral numbers Masons join

To bless and praise this Light Divine.

— From The Freemason’s Repository for 1797

The shimmer of it took after the moon itself, hard and without poetry, stuck in the orbit of the thoughtless earth like a California pearl.

Catherynne M Valente, Six-Gun Snow White

Hermetic quote Valente Six-Gun pearl

Eat it, you sow!
I’m your dog, fuck, shit!
Swallow it now!
Rest for a bit!
Satan, you gave
A crown to a slave.

Aleister Crowley, Leah Sublime

Stab your demonic
Smile to my brain!
Soak me in cognac
Cunt and cocaine;
Sprawl on me! Sit
On my mouth, Leah, shit!

Aleister Crowley, Leah Sublime

Rub all the much
Of your cunt on me, Leah
Cunt, let me suck
All your glued gonorrhea!
Cunt without end!
Amen! til you spend!

Aleister Crowley, Leah Sublime

You stale like a mare
And fart as you stale;
Through straggled wet hair
You spout like a whale.
Splash the manure
And piss from the sewer.

Aleister Crowley, Leah Sublime

(Io Pan! Io Pan!)
Devil or god, to me, to me,
My man! my man!
Come with trumpets sounding shrill
Over the hill!

Aleister Crowley, Hymn to Pan (in Book 4; see also Hino a Pã)

Come with flute and come with pipe!
Am I not ripe?
I, who wait and writhe and wrestle
With air that hath no boughs to nestle
My body, weary of empty clasp,
Strong as a lion and sharp as an asp —
Come, O come!
I am numb
With the lonely lust of devildom.

Aleister Crowley, Hymn to Pan (in Book 4; see also Hino a Pã)