Wednesday, May 23, 2012

MAGIC!!!
For many the word evokes images of well dressed men and scantily clad women, prancing about on a stage making doves appear from handkerchiefs, pulling rabbits from hats, maybe even a woman levitating in the air whilst the magician thrusts a sharp blade beneath her. We call it magic, but we know it merely to be skillfully applied science, with aptly laid out illusion. Most "western people" stopped believing in magic long ago, they were too busy for imagination, and storytellers, too busy to be entertained, too busy chasing the illusive dollar. The schools encouraged logical thinking, those to whom creativity was their best asset were marginalized, forced to adapt to the false reality imposed by an unethical, and unbalanced education.
 Now I hear some people saying, " what the heck is he talking about", I am talking of magic, for the magic we used to watch on stage was a compilation of artistic endeavour, no less than Jared Robinson's paintings. ( Little plug there for my cousin). I write poetry, that too is a compilation of artistic endeavour, but poetry lost its magic years past, when it became mere words on a page, when most the "best" poetry failed to evoke a response, the lack of emotional response makes it so many wasted words. Some poetry has magic all it's own though, like what I tried to capture in this poem:
I look at you, and my heart explodes
a million pieces, all loving you
it's a rush, a surge, burning me through
a courtship of many different modes
I need you, this I cannot deny
'Tis more than I can possibly say
the words my eyes, and heart betray
a raging torrent we can't defy
I am a blazing bonfire of love
with passion I burn, to dim the sun
see how raw, these, my emotions run
for you who fit me, like hand in glove
Your kisses are sweeter than any wine
your eye are deeper than the seas
I get lost looking where she sees
I long to say you are truly mine
Should I live for all eternity
I doubt I could find another like you
who holds my heart as tight as you do
and lets me live in love's great city
A poet writes what he  knows, if he is any good at his craft, so this is what i set out to do in this poor example of creative composition. Perhaps it is just wasted words, perhaps not, perhaps it invokes that emotional response, in you, dear reader.
 That is one kind of magic, one in which many parlay, but there is another more insidious, more perfidious, malicious kind. I live in Mexico, where the magic of creation lingers long in the air, where that ancient magic echoes through the hills, and the serpents try to twist it, to bend what they barely comprehend. There are plenty of Charlatans, and frauds here, preying on the unfortunate inhabitants of this realm, promising the removal of demons. Removals which may take multiple sessions costing thousands of pesos, yet they are but mumblers praying to defunct gods, who were powerless when the priests of old carved their bodies from the stone, and invented them, powerless always. Yet the people gave them power, and sacrifices, some of their temples flowed with so much blood that channels were laid for directing it.
There are witches too, whom have some demonic powers, and still they act as if they were from the Most High. Make no mistake there is a battle here, for the souls of the populace, and what we once perceived as a spiritual battle plays out in the corporeal realm. Christians here suffer from demonic oppression, and the churches do nothing but pray, Western doctrine holds sway, (the time of demons is long past), and they are wrong. Wrong north of the river, and wrong south.
There is in this land an unholy saint, saint death - to whom much power is ascribed, witches, priests, and other charlatans gather beneath his banner, and the Christian church does nothing but pray.
In the Warsaw ghetto, during the second great war of the twentieth century, a handful of jews got fed up with doing nothing. They stood up and fought, and for a month held off the might of the nazi army. Some few escaped to tell the story, so we have an example of how only a few standing up to a great power can make a difference. There is a song, "In heavenly armor we will enter the land, the battle belongs to the LORD, No weapon that's fashioned, against us can stand, the battle belongs to the LORD", if all we do is pray we are not using that heavenly armor. Maybe we have neglected the armor so long, that we have forgotten its use is for taking part in the battle...
Ho, my comrades, see the signal,
Waving in the sky!
Reinforcements now appearing,
Victory is nigh.

"Hold the fort, for I am coming,"
Jesus signals still;
Wave the answer back to heaven,
By thy grace we will."

See the mighty host advancing,
Satan leading on,
Mighty men around us falling,
Courage almost gone!

"Hold the fort, for I am coming,"
Jesus signals still;
Wave the answer back to heaven,
By thy grace we will."

See the glorious banner waving,
Hear the trumpet blow!
In our Leader's name we'll triumph,
Over every foe.

"Hold the fort, for I am coming,"
Jesus signals still;
Wave the answer back to heaven,
By thy grace we will."

Fierce and long the battle rages,
But our help is near,
Onward comes our great Commander,
Cheer, my comrades, cheer.

"Hold the fort, for I am coming,"
Jesus signals still;
Wave the answer back to heaven,
By thy grace we will."

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