Sparks from the Gloom: Wading Through the Murk

By Mumbe Cletus T

SPARKS FROM THE GLOOM is a fervent regret on the absurdities of life to a fragile mankind caught up in their frustrating webs as well as an attack on the ills that plague the society of men through their fellow kite-like humankind who engage themselves in cold vampire type search for gain for coveted super-beings over their mortal mades. The work high-lights through solid probes the real values, long forgotten by these to the benefit of the fickle, porous and sham world for the super gods they strive at.

A close look at the metaphorical style and the diction of the pieces in this collection also brings to mind that, far from harping solely on the moral ills of the society, the poet equally delves into the breaking intellectual ability of such darkening masses to conceive and construe in their real forms and contents, what is of value per se. Working towards solutions to these, the work stretches from the layman's conception of phenomena to a much more close-knitted, subtle an metaphorical style meant for those that could conceive, analyse and build at a higher level. Hence, everyone, from a mellow-moulded adolescent to a literary don would find the subjects worth their contents and objectives.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: May 28, 2021
• ISBN: 9781665588911

Book preview

© 2021 Mumbe Cletus T. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or

transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse  05/19/2021

ISBN: 978-1-6655-8890-4 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6655-8891-1 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2021910569

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or

links contained in this book may have changed since publication and

may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those

of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher,

and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

34347.png

Poetry

Nature

The Sad Thinker

Marks from The Unknown

Tribute to Solitude, My Muse

Absurd Existence

The Retreat

The Fatal Law

The Untold Story

The Drought

In the Between

The Sun Shines and The Rain Falls

This Nothing I Am

The Fallen Star

Crumbling of Parts

The Drowning Kids

Caged in Limbo

The Poor Fly

Life in Death

Unrestrained Metamorphosis

The Old Locomotive

Destiny

Absurd Man

The Vicious Ring

The Flood Storm

Fickle Disposition

The Ugly Sacrifice

Me Without Me

The Ordeal of the Servant

The Moron

At Will and Whims

The Journey Across the Hill

Framed for Loss

The Loafer

In Mammon’s Smithy

The God of Darkness

The Song of the Breeze

Corruption

The Road to the Church

The Great Baobab

The Sown Seed

A Funeral for Mom …

Values Destroyed

The House

In the Aftermath of Babel

Calls of Agony

In the Reign of Ills

The Lousy Guide

Groans in the Mazes

The Sinking Ship

Coward Repression

Conceited Dreams

Of Predator Kin

The Sick Lion

Pogrom of Vanity

By the Other Way

Muffled Essence

The Laws of Men

Gloom, Born of the Gilt

Puffing Off Wretches

Green to Grey

The Hypocrite

Darkening Forms

The Horse to the Slaughter

Christmas Comes But Once A Year

The Microcosmic Rot

If Nothing But Man …

Life Per Se

Chaffs and Chaos

The Miserable

Babel Reborn

Bethlehem in Hell

The Death of Essence

The Decaying Ruins

The Cold Greedy Flea

Fading to the Murk

Cold Politicking

In the Land of Ills

The Harvest

The Devilish Cult

These Mean Things

The Look of Blood

The Blood Flukes

Sacrilege on the Altar

The Nativity Dyed in Lewd

The Ritualists

The Prurient Owl

Muffled Whispers

Up the Stake

Cold, Coward Repression

Riff-Raff

Lost in the Flesh

The Massacre

Instruments of Hades

The Gloom

Despair

Fading Out Days

In the Reign of Spooks

Senseless All

Seemings

Sent for Loss

The Sinking Piece

When Checked

The Cemetery

Worms in the Waste

An Elegy to the Memory of a Friend’s Doll

A Faded Dream

Newly Born to Hell

I Know they are Hungry

Conceit of the Fools*

The Cry of the Birdling

Those Voices Yet

Into the Dungeon from the Unknown

My Serpent Friend

In the Night of Day

Air of Woe

Sweat of My Ink

The Shattered Edifice

Feast in Pains

The Bleating Lamb

A Wish in Limbo

The Prisoners

From Eden to Earth

The Lonely Lover

A Lost Cause

Abandonned …?

Mangled from Bud

The Heated Breeze

The Stray Bird

Dark Memories of The Lost Being

My Shrivelled Being

The Woe-Bred Bird

Through The Sieve Of Woe

How Should I Know You Lord?

Me

The Muffled Fire

Hopelessness

I Have Known Death

Home: A Predatory Lair

The Break of Day

Must Take After the World

Jinxed from Bud

Victim of Care

Inferno

Like Jinxed

Doomed Not to Bloom

Flora

In the Gushing Gaz

Rejected

The Darkening Star

Hoodooed

Cherub Decay

Dido tn the Wild Flames

In the Sullen Sty

The Last of a Non-Tale

The Sick Muse

Through the Prying Eye

The Plucked Off Flower

Shattering of Frames

The Lark Singing

The Tree in the Garden

By the Sea Shore

The Undefined

The Inevitable Adventure

That it Should Be

The Maid’s Plea

If …

The Idler

The Never Touched

Simulations

Behind Sense

Views of the Wind

Me, A Creature Here

Fun and Fair

The Little Bird

The Bird of Jove

Foes, My Friends

The Church-Goer

Take Me Down the Meadow

Seemings and the Real

The Stewed Up Stream

The Irresistble Fire

The Little Hill I Know

Heat of Vanity

About Probes

The Fuss Skull

Unconsciousness

The Stone from the Mountain

Maybe

Prayers

How I Fear …

That Today’s Crooked Face of Yesterday

At the Helm of the World

Tolerance

The Stray Seed

Farm of Woe

Essence

In the Wayward Drains

Stretched Hand

The Epilogue

In My Birthday Nightmare

Poetry

28915.png

It is the heart; it is the head;

It is the mind quite roundly fed.

It is just all that you might live—

It is just all that you believe.

Poetry speaks out and yet speaks not.

Poetry would raise or sink to nought.

Poetry would paint the world would-be

And herald norms as builds the bee.

Its cloth is mild when it is light

Or taut and grave when it is tight;

It may sing or cry a wish;

It’s smooth or rough, still a relish.

It is so much, the force and form;

It’s for the poet, his vital norm,

And lacking tone, the lilt and tilt,

All the poet’s flair would e’er wilt.

5 October 2002

Nature

The Sad Thinker

28922.png

What is so wholesome to the mind

Than the chills and glooms in the heart,

When to see well you must trail behind?

What flies in the frail nebulous air

That would not fall on the concrete earth

And lose the sham that was its fare?

Who is that god that would not think,

Held in trance upon his flowery throne,

That for mirth, from woes, has no wink?

The poor wraith roams in pure idle form,

Shrouded by clouds of cold shady bogeys

That prick nerves and minds to sorely roam.

Prying with the busy but, a loony sun

The eyes, with nothing else to do but pore;

Heat the heart, the head cogitates on.

Yet, the sun and its vague glares and sheen

Must move back if cores must be quite fix

And he, a nothing, wields a shape to frame green.

Thus, lorn* in his forlorn cave and gloom

The poor thing lives all his life – a spark

To light and heat, that the lost may bloom.

11/06/2003

Marks from The Unknown

28926.png

The good Muse of Melancholy, tender and staid

Treads over my mind with elfin feet,

And her peer, sweet Solitude, as fresh as a maid;

Spices my Art-table with wholesome meat.

My whole day in my grotto, so dark, dull and cold;

Prefigures, dissects and quickens up

In the mind; figures, new, promising and old

And shovel me from depths to the top.

My cold bed of thorns, dressed with downs of sweet dreams

Of an Eldorado never to be mine;

Monsters and angels; single or glued in teams

Display nude, what arts are theirs in line.

I pride myself of empty pockets and void groins

Of my figureless being in the wild:

Dad and mum, gone, no friends, no name nor even loins:

A dull gem, picked up by Poetry mild.

That the tale of the world be told or be read

My absence before scenes, loud and bright

Marks my presence in the shades, where spirits tread

And where nothingness is garbed with might.

Who knows: it may be I sink low or that I rise;

The essence is not me, but what it makes.

That my God in this sees me or me simply despise;

I have lived what I could with sages or rakes.

02/05/2004

Tribute to Solitude, My Muse

28930.png

How much, good Muse shall I fondly requite

Your love and pain on me, in essence, exquisite?

Away from delusive, hedonistic universe,

In Calm Retreat, you consecrate my verse:

Calling to my aid from antique Rome and Greece,

Goddesses, Spirits, Muses and each Grace

That were known the liberal mind inspire

For world peace, justice; and against ills conspire.

In this Silence, away from charms of human folly

That beguiles the idle brain stark wholly;

With myself and your wholesome spirit save,

Minerva, wise and liberal goddess grave,

Inhabit my mind as does Just Astraea –

Then, not much of the Earth did hide me Rhea.

The graceful muses too, on their parts,

Conversant that I deemed devoutly of Arts;

Each, diversely, her best would contrive

That, this poor seed, in view should thrive.

Solemn and blithe Euterpe, in Heart poetry,

Erato and cute Venus in true Love poetry;

And for comedy and tragedy, gay Thalia and sad Melpomene:

All, naming their chronicle, Clio, and his chronics ten,

Tuned up my verses with nature and social frame.

This, Goddess, you know is your own true theme:

You wrought, then re-wrought by your spirits in me

That man, the wild and God in essence be –

All, which piles and heaps of work have bought –

Though poorly trim, but of worth for thought;

And still, I feel and judge more yet comes

That in verse, in frame or name becomes,

To strike the prig and desperadoes’ ears;

The prim, the pure, the lewd: he that hears,

Traitors, qualm-less, beasts and ills recidivists –

All, onerous to many but to you and me.

Then now, when thought so prize-less to me,

You’ve been, is now, and still would be,

What frame and name and worth would be

Those scribbled lines I wrought by you:

Your praise to me should be as true.

But alas, poor thing, how mean am I

That, you to raise with songs and cry,

I lack the means to prove my man!

My mouth and pen to boast I can,

To prate and curse all tend to be –

All what you hate, fools’ soul and glee.

Then now