The Poetry Of The Masters

By Lynn Bentley

Lynn Bentley has transformed Walden, several Shakespeare plays and Dark Night Of The Soul into a poetic journey through these great literary works of art. Experience the reading of these compelling stories as poems. This includes most of book Walden, Hamlet, King Lear and most of St. John of the Cross' masterpiece. Enjoy these snap shots of the full narrative written.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Publishdrive
• Release date: Feb 12, 2020

Lynn Bentley

Lynn Bentley is President of Organization Transitions, a consulting firm specializing in executive search and talent management solutions for Fortune 500 clients such as Autonation, Citigroup, DHL, ECI, Federal Express, Knobull.com, Microsoft, Motorola, Oce, Siemens, and Verizon. In addition to over 20 years of consulting success, he previously held executive positions with Daimler Benz, Exxon, Gillette, and Pfizer.

Book preview

Masters

I. Return To Walden Pond

Ode To Thoreau’s Realm

To the woods I went, to see what life really meant, finding what it could teach, capturing all within my reach, so arrival at the time to die, not find my life was a lie, wanting to suck all the marrow of life....

An uncommon school can be our rule, we will strive to arrive, not for noblemen, being gentlemen, a noble village is our aim;

Omit one bridge, go past the ridge, to cross the river, we will deliver, the seeds of knowledge, we acknowledge, will brighten the other side.

We read our books, inspect classic nooks to let in the light, overcome our fright to remain alert, not to desert our glorious insight;

Study classic writings or other sitings, grand society, maybe lofty piety, always remembering even dismembering what we find.

Will you be a mere reader, possibly a leader that will see your fate, past the gate, to trod the path, ignoring the laugh, toward happy destiny;

Desert my books, bait my hook, avoid needed labor so I could enjoy the flavor of my new life, minus the strife, unfolding before me.

Some sunny mornings without any warnings, I bask in my doorway, enjoying the calm bay, gazing at a tall pine while clearing the mind, my needs are satisfied;

Birds sing a happy tune, gliding aimlessly past noon until the sun dips in the west, letting me know I am blest because time stands still, no need to pay a bill, in my mystical realm.

Buddha found mindfulness, man’s true restfulness, days pass silently, traveling lightly, no need to progress, I regress and accomplishments fade to oblivion;

A day at a time, becomes my chime, away from clocks, minus time blocks, past to future became one, causing fellow townsfolk to shun my believed indolence.

Life had an entertaining hue, disinterest in a grand performance grew, the view of natural existence became sublime, far beyond ordinary time where common sense took precedence and the simple life became my all;

My home, sat on a hill, next to many songbirds trill, close to my tranquil pond, nature’s beauty created a bond while glorious seasons could unfold, what luminous wonderments they would hold to create my celestial paradise.

Hawks circled above it all, while others took a hungry fall, nearby a partridge beat his soulful drum to turn other sounds into a choral hum, people faded into my past setting off a loving fast, leaving society far beyond;

The sounds of New England church bells, float through the spell binding dells, fly as a sweet tune, making my wilderness swoon, creating such a gentle hum, it reminded me of the harp’s vibrant strum, the chords of a universal lyre.

There came to me, a distant melody, so that a portion would create, an echoing, heavenly gate, as if the wood found its voice, it had no choice, bringing a wilderness chorus to me;

When evening would arrive, distant animal sounds could thrive, as if the minstrels’ serenade, was floating to my glade, so the charade seemed complete, nothing but cows fabricated this treat, it’s nature’s rhapsody.

Summer brought the whip-poor-wills evening tune, so timely, I could predict the moon, their vespers sounded during the night, until just before the sun beamed bright, then owls screech their strain, turning into a soulful refrain, like low spirits of melancholy foreboding;

Late in the evening, bullfrogs began pealing, making the Walden nymphs rave, frogs sounding so grave, their chants echoing in unison, until stopped by dawn’s sun, chasing the mist away.

Next came the clangor of geese and the crows mournful screech, an occasional fox bark at night, could bring a silly fright, heavy winds causing pine trees to snap, giving me fire kindling to tap, yet seldom did civilized sounds come my way…

Road Into Society Seldom Traveled

I completed my morning chores after a bit, so swam around a Walden cove for a stint, then made sure there were no other forenoon activities to see, realizing my afternoon was totally free, so decided to stroll to the village for gossip to hear and found that methods of circulation was a source of fear, the sound of frog chirps was more refreshing;

Walking in the woods I saw wildlife, while in the village it was strife, instead of the distant hawk’s screech, I heard a wagon’s lonely creak, while townsfolk fed their appetite for news, which seems to put them into a drunken snooze, a numb insensibility to ease their pain.

Sitting in the sun were a long line of the most worthy, with their eyes sending us plain folk topsy turvy, who always knew what was being suggested, usually the coarsest flow before being digested, also observed were the vitals for the village, making it easy for them to pillage and sitting out in front were those who must be seen;

Most pleasant was staying late in the town, until after the best lecture had been found, then set sail with a bag of rye on my shoulder, knowing when arriving at home, I would feel much bolder, getting lost in warm thought, forgetting what had been bought, using my senses to navigate home.

There were stories of villagers walking on streets, going astray, maybe the fog made them lose their way, it can be memorable to get lost in the wood, happening at night creates a more frightful mood, many unconsciously steer but mindlessly veer, we do not appreciate the vastness and strangeness of nature;

I once, traveled to town to get a shoe from the cobbler and was thrown in jail like a common robber, the reason they gave was my refusal to pay tax, which I did because those in charge were so lax, rather than resisting to run amok with them, preferred to have the Senate be the one to condemn, it being the desperate party.

Released the next day, I returned to my bay and was never harassed at any hour, other than by those in power, never kept my door locked, as if the wood kept the entrance blocked and never suffered the slightest inconvenience;

Became convinced if little was owned, thieving and robbery would be unknown, nor wars did men molest, when only beechen bowls were in request, the virtues of a superior man are like the surf, the virtues of the common man are like the turf, the grass, when the water passes over it, bends.

Joyful Return To Walden Pond

Society and gossip filled my head’s well, time to ramble to the refuge where I usually dwell, once forenoon chores were complete, joined a frustrated fisherman who’s skills I could not compete, he often wiled away time on Walden Pond, expecting the crafty fish to respond and occasionally invited me to join him on his boat;

At times he hummed a favorite psalm, that could compel me to hum along, lengthy silence, brought my strike to the boat’s echoing side, arousing noises of nature’s inhabitants, from places they reside, summer evenings, using the boat to give my flute a try, curious perch joined me from places they usually hide, while moonlight discovered sunken woodland wrecks.

There were