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98 pages

English

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Influenced by the visionary imagination of William Blake and the characters he created in The Four Zoas and Jerusalem, The Liberation of Albion is both a theogony, creation myth and tale of spiritual development.An epic poem that both engages with the past and exists firmly within modernity, the story follows the grand-man Albion and the grand-woman Jerusalem, as their lives are touched by fate and they find themselves embroiled in the desires and whims of the gods. When Albion is chained, bound, and laid low, Jerusalem is left to face the world alone.The Liberation of Albion seeks to reignite the imagination of modernity and reveal once more the intricate links between narrative, meaning, truth and beauty.

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Poetry

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Publié par	Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd
Date de parution	06 janvier 2023
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781398456242
Langue	English
Poids de l'ouvrage	1 Mo

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0175€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

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T he L iberation of A lbion
William Blake
Austin Macauley Publishers
2023-01-06
The Liberation of Albion About the Author Copyright Information © Acknowledgement The Liberation of Albion Book I The Liberation of Albion Book II The Liberation of Albion Book III The Liberation of Albion Book IV The Liberation of Albion Book V
About the Author
William Blake was born and raised in East Yorkshire. A writer all his life, The Liberation of Albion is his first published work. Having recently achieved a BA in English Literature, he will soon be studying for an MA in Renaissance Literature at York University.
Copyright Information ©
William Blake 2023
The right of William Blake to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.
Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
ISBN 9781398456235 (Paperback)
ISBN 9781398456242 (ePub e-book)
www.austinmacauley.com
First Published 2023
Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd ®
1 Canada Square
Canary Wharf
London
E14 5AA
Acknowledgement
I would like to thank William Blake, with whom I share a name, for the stories and characters he created; though his influence is only partial, it is the most apparent, and thus deserves my acknowledgement.
I would like to thank Austin Macauley for all of their work. I would also like to thank two dear friends; they know who they are – one of whom contributed a handful of lines to this work.
The Liberation of Albion Book I
When all was nothing, immaterial,
When all substantial had yet coalesced
And each black gulf, connected to the next,
In one unbroken chain of nothingness
Did fill the general vessel entirely;
Then, before the yawns of awak’ning time,
Then, before spatial delineation,
Then, when prosaic being; blank, virginal,
Was yet punctuated by life, by death;
Then, Tharmas, Zoa, Lord alone of all
Did dwell in brooding solitude eternal
Upon the Orphic Egg potentially
Invested with what could, but would not be,
Fecund also with a glut of what must.
There, in that boiling ocean of chaos,
All undifferentiated and void,
Tharmas, whose eyes oft closed in slumb’ring thought,
Did stir, did rouse, did tremble, did elevate
His conscious centre up from depth to height
So as to urge a fuller stimulation
Of life too long oppressed by lifelessness
That everywhere did hem in that great titan
Yet ever failed to diminish His essence;
Now slumb’ring not His frothy form extended –
To push into that void was no small feat –
With each empty and spectral breath, He drowned
And at the same time, found a vigour new;
None heard Him rumble without sound, none saw
His empty iris flash with heatless fire –
Presence to Him alone was life’s first gift.
Ageless and endless, long had Tharmas lived
Amongst His unwonted kingdom of dark
And never before now had He felt yearning,
But now, now – now , is a peculiar thing
In which much passes that never yet has;
Still expanding Tharmas began to speak:
“Hear now my wat’ry whispers, all ye void!
I, Tharmas, now unfurl my long clenched fists
To feel a power pulsing in these pinions
Extending diversely outward, apostles
Of my mighty mind in mightiness they pry,
They unpick the tightly knitted fabric,
That long, too long has heavily supressed
What may become and what might never be.
Oh feet, decrepit, folded, long unused
Forgive me for your actionless employ –
Stride again and do now as you please – yes!
For what please you will please me too, I know!
How could assertive motion in stillness
Ever displease; contradistinction lives
In me, and I in it rejoice! I see,
With quickly bright’ning eyes, focusing fast,
A static world and I in it must move –
Goodbye, unconscious, restive, nothingness;
No more will I succumb and replicate
What everywhere does hatefully oppress
The seminal potential I can sense
In every passing speck of void I finger.
There is a tang upon my tongue, a taste
Of what from these dark chambers must soon come:
Oh life as yet unlived! Oh life! I yearn!”
Then, striding through the void, that empty titan
Trembled with the immediacy of self
And burned with a new, bright and potent flame
As yet unknown in all that ever was,
A flame Tharmas thought alien at first,
A flame He could not but annunciate:
“What is this as yet unfelt incompleteness?
Whence comes this heat, for all around is cold?
What’s this that joins my heart, my soul, my loins?
Placed here, but how? There’s nothing here can place!
Is this self-generated novelty?
Naught is but I; this feeling must be mine.
I want – ha! Wrapped in nothingness, I want;
Want what? There’s nought to want, but want I do;
Want is too weak, I year, I crave, I burn.
What’s all around me – this I do not want;
What is within me – this I want neither.
I wish for what is not, for form, for form!
I stiffen with the thought of form released!”
Now as this hymn to yearned for form was sung
A great tear tore Tharmas’ soul in twain,
Into the void He cried aloud in pain
But now His cry was heard, alone no more.
With eyes half-blinded, Tharmas, quiv’ring. asked:
“What’s this…the void’s broken? Reveal yourself!”
A voice, alike to His, but softer, came:
“Tharmas, this void is yours to reign alone
No more; this nothingness you breathe’s now ours
To mingle, first in your lungs then in mine.
I, emanated soul, no derivation,
Am yours, you mine, a dyad of beginnings.”
The form shone and sparkled like black marble,
With time, Tharmas’ eyes could Her behold –
An ocean of existence rolled in Her;
Her being, moonless, pulled those tides of life
That from Her every pore did froth and foam,
A silver aura, coruscant, did shine
Out from Her breast and as that light engulfed
The void between She and He, Tharmas thought,
He tasted once again the tang that touched
His tongue that languished tastelessly until
His recent wake from slumber and ascent
From semi-conscious half-life into sweet
Fullness of being, tainted by loneliness
Tainted now no more – saved by female form.
Both liquefied and energised by Her
A great relief washed Tharmas head to foot
And for a time, peace, stillness, quiet reigned;
Though as His stunned stupor did start to pass
The heat He had now come to know returned
And with exultant trembles, He exclaimed:
“Out of my yearning you were generated,
Sweet spectre of my soul, sweet heart of mine;
This void did I disdain, and then I pained
To think myself alone, a bare monad,
But that pain you did not let me feel long,
From damned, void-cloaked existence you delivered
This thing, called Tharmas, that’s long languished here:
And now again, in joyous gratitude,
I feel that flame, which kindled all within
From damp, cool lightlessness to roaring passion –
Indeed, there was a pain in what I felt –
I, so starved of sense, found pain a pleasure –
Yes, as you tore from me I died and lived,
I lost myself and found me greater still.
Again I feel that heat, again I yearn.
But form’s now come…what more could I desire?”
The emanation of His soul replied:
“So much, much more, my dear, you do not know.
When formlessness was all, you desired form –
I, formed, are you content now, dear Tharmas?
No, no, your appetitive will’s larger
Than so small a manifestation. I,
I’m the beginning; Tharmas, in your heat
I tingled into first sensitive life,
Was pricked by prancing sparks borne from your loins
That had for the first time aligned in harm’ny
With will, with mind, with heart, with all you are
And all that I am too. In your yearning
I was made, and now my yearning lives too,
It too seeks generation, it abhors –
As did your yearning – this void all encasing.
You ask what more you could desire? What less!
Oh, be not so easily satisfied;
Once more find thirst insatiable Tharmas –
For I am a deep water, you must drink
Then your orig’nal dream will be fulfilled.
Dare to dream that dream again, my dear. Form,
Not just expressed in me, but form entire
And all expansive, a form unbounded
By this cavernous shell of formlessness.
Remember for what you yearned, dear Tharmas!
Banish this long confining void, banish
The crushing immateriality
That you have once defeated with your lust;
Defeat once more with passion what you hate –
Born of void, defy that from whence you came;
Come to me and satisfy your yearnings,
Flood this world with form born of my waters!”
The emanation grew more resplendent
As She spoke and Tharmas adored Her form:
“I, unaware of beauty, now understand,
In one moment, I was flooded by it,
By you. Beauty is distinction, yes, rare
Is beauty; what’s everywhere does not impress;
Formlessness was all, and so all was dull –
But you, my love, stand apart, you differ
And I know now that diff’rence is sublime!
Where once I yearned for the idea of form
I now have the form of form’s idea
Before me to admire and make my own;
Come closer, let me touch, let form feel form!”
Tharmas’ mass of black-being did swell
And writhe as to His emanation drew,
An electricity shot through His soul
And form with form’s anticipation shook.
She, recoiling from His advance, spoke soft:
“Dear Tharmas, I too yearn at your approach;
Nothing more than to be impregnated
With all existence’s seed do I crave
But first – first, dear Tharmas – you must name me.”
Tharmas halted, thought briefly then cried out:
“I name you Enion! With Tharmas first
To accept the mantle of matter, mother
Of all that will be and all that will not!
Subm