oxford
Heavy halls,
I'm told of weight so ancient here befalls,
The stench of books and history told,
Wafts viscous through the sun-lit streets,
And words amount to tiny hills,
That slot into the library walls.
The pressures of the day,
Wash ashore the bed of time,
And all that's left to say:
Is God is good at every line,
All unfolds as one long play,
Yet we hardly see its steady rhyme,
For the glipse I saw, I'll say:
God is good at every line.
---
**Oxford Interview Reflection**
Hertford 1, 2:50PM
Good times,
Hard times,
Stuck unstuck and stuck,
Writing digitally quick,
Reckoning with questions that elude.
Above meandering paths,
The sky remains the same,
Though crushing rain pours down,
And makes the air full brimming,
The sky above remains always,
Though ground transmutes to flowing mud,
Thick through the grey and fullest air,
The sky above holds tight the rain,
It's shall not cease to guide its stay.
---
**Oxford Interview Reflection**
Keble 1, 11:30AM
I...
Was not picking up,
What was being put down,
And came out with a frown.
Hertford 2, 5:50PM
Somewhere I have found a path,
But is it too meandering?
A farce. Hard to trace,
The extent of the matter,
Through the vapour obscured,
But I took a path at least.
**INTERVIEWS COMPLETE**
Stacking pipes o scaffolding,
Old ridges propped round every turn,
Artistic rope hung round likes scarves,
To make a sorry sight just dapper.
Friendly fascination for a people of my kind,
Who like to talk particularities for a welcome time,
Who know to weave a depth of knowlege into storied tunes,
Whose stories make my eyes to shine and prove to be a boon.
To dwell before departing,
Hemmed in by grace and grace,
Warm places I was furnished,
Learnt walking then to make a place,
My own and take good company,
Bear peace unto a stranger's face,
To carry fire through biting nights,
Through cold to plant a warmer banner.
And so I shall depart.
A warm welcome is a lovely thing,
It stills the flitting heart for just a breath,
Enough to take the sight in new,
Of foreign spires and stern faced peaks,
Of brickwork to the dance of ancient bells,
I've found a place in dusty shelves and wisened streets.
Finding an adventure,
Between these ancient walls,
Through mazes ever parting,
Ways, finding open spans,
The serene and silent cavity,
Of studious temperature bathing,
In the light of open books and laptops.
Peering into other halls,
Their grandure carpeted in green,
Soft brickwork draping stalwart glass,
Beneath the vast suspence hiding,
Militant people in pursuit of books.
Tall spires mingle amidst the trees,
Playing cards upon long shadows,
Biding time for amber wisps to freeze into a blue,
To decorate their heads with snow.
Penguin party between the stone,
All flocking to the sandy arches,
Their Palace laced with gold and symbol,
Ornate echoes from the deep texture of time.
So much to fit into a day,
Yet now the zip is wound,
The packing done, away
With idle moment, in with work,
Each time in time and places,
Well, the places are a gracious perk,
High spires and mottled bricks,
Old wood illumuned with the rich
Glow of hidden lamps and metal tips.
Routine day at length from start to stop,
Like rusty clockwork ever in procession,
Travelling in tracks now deeply laid,
Through busy streets and winding sandstone lanes.
Dark spires decend in shadows steeped,
Drawing near to kiss the head and turn,
With haste up to their lofty peaks,
To watch the deathly winter yearn,
To thrash beyond the sky as if to meet,
Imposing arches with primordial throes,
The ancient stones belie this forceful feat,
Old cracks amidst the sprouting new.
Oh wisened bells I cannot comprehend,
Perhaps your learning drags your even' calls,
From melodies past to cryptic volleys,
Which strictly remark the short hand's deft fall,
Surely now this the very same remark,
Punctuates a different essence of the time,
The day is short, dusk ever on our heels,
Yet every tone is struck as if to rhyme.
Deeper nights sink into sandstone dips,
The kisses of the moon laid starkly,
On their weathered edge. To graft,
A piece of starlight into ancient arches,
Flourishes that linger- pretty permanence.
Packing down to journey's end,
The road draws quickly short,
All patient things will wait for more,
But now their faces seal and steele.
Returning to familiar spires,
The open streets and sandy stone,
Frame vibrant passings of long coats,
Which haven't seemed to ever pause,
But translate through the ages past.
My form is burrowed in vestigial cloak,
Their shadowed arms lean to and fro,
Each setting here in different chairs,
Their time dispersed upon the sturdy oak,
Of all the scholars stretching to the deep,
I stand in line upon a subject young,
Informed more deeply than I know,
By toil which wettened brows in thought so long ago,
In time the fancy of man begins to rhyme,
Into Preceding Light he's drawn to dine,
Upon the mechanistic worlds beneath,
Charting abstract lands and fashioning them new.
The world in focus stirs the heart,
Each crystal edge fitted with the rays,
It gleans and litters on the street,
They light the tumbling colours of the crowds,
That bob along sandstone canals,
To see the morning light on ancient bricks,
To race the birds to fragrant soil and work the earth.
Late night march through mottled stone,
A world just hidden from the street,
Backing into shadow in its mighty flight,
From lighted pillars to the underbelly of grand arches.
The gentle shakes of sunlight,
Land impotent on a sleepy cobble,
Tinting blue within a breeze,
At once laid thickly golden on the lamp posts,
The path draws starkly by the trees,
Embellishing a history with passers-by upon their roots.
An unexpected guest,
To grace old wooden doors,
To see old sandstone arches soar,
On valiant pillars looking west.
Grim-golden gates embroider hems of shadow,
The cavity laid slick upon the grass,
Receding up queer mottled stairs,
To hide from every fury of the stars.
A little drizzle on the sandstone streets,
Stark amber yellow befriends a navy crease,
Pillars standing taciturn at its spurious spite,
Wade out of shadows, contemplate the span of night,
The noble faces of the streets in rows,
Grand titans dancing to the tunes of mortals here below,
Our history upon their weathered heads.
Our names are ever on them read.
So they shall sit to pass the time,
In thought that barely drips in rain,
To maybe light the newer day with our old lines,
To maybe crystallise our rushing joys and pains.
Through the slow fire,
Hours on the clock,
Beneath the ancient spires,
To the novel many flock,
We sit in some sense watched,
Beyond this present time when rushed -
Thoughts test, and show preparation best.
Radiant streets are emerald at once,
The frailties stagnation left to thaw,
Its place the darling stone is clothed again,
High arches with cascade wisteria,
Your streets are full and radiant great ox,
A glory lent and spent that you would turn,
To your first love, your strength and founding light.
Tired familiarity deadens sight,
A subtle blindness to uproot,
Until all the vigour of the Sun,
Lines thick same bricks and stones,
With glory dampened over time.
Ever the strange pictures beside the views,
The tremors of the past made mute in death,
An iconography of old disused,
Becomes bewildered to comedic dread,
Why so many wings, why?
Scales, winding robes for what?
What proverbs did apply,
Within these jovial eyes and solemn lips?
Your blatant words are kept,
Your characters find few,
But who can know the depths,
I find the veil of time is truly shrewd.
Becoming pensive stone,
Somewhat a paperweight,
A gargoyle or immortal sage,
Which share a solomn face,
Folly for great wisdom,
A madness in restraint,
Cleaved from a common rock each way,
Yet different portraits trace.
Bloodied moon in amber flame,
That chokes upon the earthen crust,
That billows out grim radiance,
In orange-yellow hues bemused,
It is a weeping eye, it's crescent
Fallen lost below the spires.
Reunion with friends I never knew,
Slight strangers with fast-fading nerve,
Worn out before it ever did spark up,
On paths we mostly took the same,
The trees we passed and settled seats,
The trains and salty air - home shared,
Far from pebbles we find similar spires.
The full moon in withered beauty,
Upon the evening pales,
Becomes the sweetest anemone,
Drawn weakly from its flight,
The day remains in blue.
Cobbled walls made much in time,
A violet ring inscribes,
Laid still beside the grazing harts,
Which drift to long shadows,
The counterpoint to her white radiance.
White petals fluster at the breast,
Opens a mortal wound - becries,
The great descent into cold flame,
So beckoning the year a test,
Pale carnations bloom.
Pink petals crown the leaking heart,
So summoning from shallow wounds,
The direst pain. To barely bear,
A naked flame in passing hours,
Rose carnations bloom.
Pink petals mourn the flowing fount,
Leave hollowed husk to fill again,
With sacred velvet born from life,
To death with wit's false hope it bleeds the same,
Rose carnations bloom.
Tell me, tell me of this grand success?
Who beholds it? From where does it descend?
Does it come in muted drips or furious sound?
Does it stay, and is it ever found?
Did you hold it from me so I would see?
This broken hope laid bare within my heart,
My hidden strongman's strength I came to love,
Has fled me so I weep.
Because my strength is spent and naught,
Because I hoist myself upon so frail a mount,
Because I didn't see the filthy hope I took,
In these frail wings you gave.
I weep because I wanted you,
And settled for a smaller thing,
Veiled from my eyes I stole,
A glance at this weak mortal frame.
The term's undying buzz,
Carries on the wind in frenzied calls,
Undulating with the nervous pulse,
Of departing and remaining still.
My days are closing in,
This time condensed to heavy clouds,
These sounds layered to choking revs,
Yet awe still stands upon the spires,
Defiant to the passing years,
Cold stone built up in reverence,
To cast one's gaze above such fears.
Red petals flock unceasing to,
The unquelled gash upon the heart,
All this poured out and rashly spent,
Though I am lighter by a measured glass.
Scarlet carnations bloom.
I come home to you, my sweet spires,
Dusted with the autumn rains,
Yours are rosy cheeks in painted figures,
Life in so many walks through mottled streets.
At this the sky is truly opened up,
So fancifully thrown on yellow stones,
Held high upon the pillars of the day,
A drama and fanfare in stark sapphire.
Weighty purchases upon each corner,
All worlds to love her hearty laugh which spills
Such radiance on yellow stones arrest.
The world is widened in the evening hoots,
The lights burst in their unreality,
Some pillars make fine men out for a smoke,
All flares and wraiths to dance under the veil,
Of closed up skies and such a dimming view,
"Why, we are strangers, aren't we too?"
"I suppose so... in this fine fading place."
The cold is hungry out,
So starved on empty skies,
And as the clarity of bitten glass,
We see the open realms of blue.
Now here we are my friend,
To gaze upon the spires,
To sip and talk our fill of all the world,
To find our fitting place while here.