The Major

With disjointed weeping
his family gathered
to say grief-stricken farewells.
In deepening vision, distance animated,
celestial clarity and peace.
Concord met, with light and virtue,
they stood, row by row.
Lost comrades, brothers-in-arms,
to welcome their officer home.
In striking warmth, with open arms,
his battle done, his conflict won,
“Stand at ease lads, Stand at ease”.


© Phen Weston 2015

“That is not dead which can eternal lie, and with strange aeons even death may die.” The insidious philosophies and eldritch reach of H.P. Lovecraft.

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Originally posted on Phen Weston - Essays:

* A Quick note – Other than a few formatting issues for WordPress this is my dissertation as presented to Plymouth University for the degree of Bachelor of Arts, English with History. It is not perfect, there are mistakes and other issues. There are a few areas that I sadly left underdeveloped as you will see. But I wanted to present it as I handed it in, mistakes and all. For this i received a first.

I have placed it here so that it may be of use to others who are interested in H.P. Lovecraft and his influence. If you intend to use any of what is written below please make sure to cite me appropriately, and share the knowledge, I would love to read what you write. Again, I am sorry about the formatting issues, and hope it is still readable. If you would like me to send…

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A Taoist Poem by Han-Shan

A scholar named Wang

Laughed at my poems.

The accents are wrong,

He said,

Too many beats;

The meter is poor,

The wording impulsive.


I laugh at his poems,

As he laughs at mine.

They read like

The words of a blind man

Describing the sun.


(Han-Shan was a legendary figure associated with a collection of poems from the Chinese Tang Dynasty in the Taoist and Chan tradition. No one knows who he was, or when he lived and died.)  


Eight Years, Or the Solitude of Souls

Emergent detachments withdrew along the aching highways,
A signal through those imprecise replies to become old days
In downpours that last for epochs outside our pictures,
Locked in patterns that echo mistakes, becoming fixtures,
Do you remember the ecstasy of holding each other that night?
Wrapped in mortal sheets of love within the green man’s sight?

We each tenderly held our world within a grain of sand,
Each hour ticking away to infinite trice, and eternity stands
Alone against the clandestine oaths of another latent lament,
Paramours spiked through destiny for our own alternative intent,
How I loved you with every folly that bore my soul to witness
My own disgrace in your eyes, the truth becomes groundless,

We turned to murder of empathy in equal measure and triviality,
The dust between our sleeping souls remained forgotten unforgettably,
Lost in years you will not look back promiscuously upon,
And I revisit through age that last incessantly, each chambered caisson
Holds nothing for either, but the decayed air of regret,
The soulless marionette, filling time on a broken cassette,

In your world I never featured as more than a cameo of betrayal,
The elicit improvised passion of a youthful entreaty for abnormal
Errors in disinfected wounds, another face to loathe and hate,
Yet you, you define the fragments that made a man, replaced his fate
With phaenomena that cannot condemn faults of the heart,
The cardiac arrhythmia suspended within each line of his art.

The words I write all come back to you, the chaos and beauty
Unify to form the unforeseen truth within my hearts apathy,
Eight years pass in blinding scarlet infinitude
Drowning in the waters of our endless forgotten prelude,
To the atonement distorted in times wake, waiting overdue,
And the words I write for love all come back to you…


© Phen Weston 2015

Apposite Illusions, and the Dreamer.

Formed, I stood, I watched the world flow through celestial sacred eyes, I collapsed, in deformation.

The soul of stars, birthed in felicitous remembering, everything wrapped in the darkening wake of those hidden nights, the clock face turns.

Recharged, reformed, rebirthed.

The dance continues through empty space, naked vibrations felt deep within the skin, the mother.

Who were the words that joined us? Common promise? Kaleidoscope deviations? And here we were again, driving the planets to enchanted resistance, wedded to the hour, we all come home.


© Phen Weston 2015

Xian (Revisited, 14th July 2014)

I stood among
The hanging trees,
Each hanging fruit
Manifested destiny,
Ready for its time
To ripen in the sun,

Upon the hill
Sits an old old temple,
Flutters of the womb,
In the longing
Of its ancient
Wooden tomb,

The temple exists
Before language
And definition,
Before gods and gia,
Before all the worlds
Of man were thought
Into their existence,

Who am I to gaze
Upon it’s holy walls,
Vermillion paths
Lined with golden
Faith, blazing
As the eternal one,

I stood among
The hanging trees,
Each hanging fruit
Manifests destiny,
My turn comes
To walk their world,

I stood among
The hanging trees,
Fruit and bounty
Ready to feed,


Poem © Phen Weston

Untitled, 13th July 2015

Lapsed memory fled to empty hazel fields
where animation waits to cultivate
in corporal nature,
existing between dreams,
I was the hope to love
laid bare by the eyes of man
to wander in dust anew,
chestnut stagecraft
becomes the hours lingered for few,
requisite for surrendering to
the nebulous grandeur of emotion,
in those fields I saw you
capitulate to fantasies,
rising from the trace of things
that never came to be,
the trance gave
to each moment, nostalgia,
by name, marvels with forgotten ancient taunts,
what reminiscence preserves us?
we rise from the desecrated earth,
the blessed labyrinth,
the mirror maze,
protected with irregular judgment,
to nourish those junctures,
each predestined to be christened,
you polished away your sins
with sepia waves of clay,
the atonement never needed between days
collectively in calming springs,
the waters
garnet red with passion played
on lover’s nucleus strings,
and I wait beneath it all,
as you look down
flying too close to your sun
for me to stop your fall…


Poem © Phen Weston 2015

The Waltz of the Sneezing Golden Retriever,

(I was challenged by my wonderful friend, Nickie Shobeiry, to write a poem from a list of ten random things that she sent me… below is the result… I’m sorry XD)

The bell-shaped beer glass lay exhausted
On the memorial of pink chairs
And orange corduroys,
As I watch
The accordion player played
The waltz of the sneezing golden retriever,
The caricature of mushroom faces
That flattened olives
And blistered crystals,
The innocence of my compassion,
“Only in Spain”, she said,
Making it as awkward as she possibly could.


Poem © Phen Weston 2014

Destiny’s Inevitability

By Christopher Rupley and Phen Weston

and Jericho’s walls
plunged with malevolent
the dry beds of Jordan,
in spent hours he stormed
the Neolithic sands,
gripped to tribes and exodus,
revelations painted
the spiraling word,
evoked assurances
locked in dishonest antagonism,
the fallen sinner
buried his soul,

And the gnashing of teeth,
and tumultuous cries heard
from the eastern camp at
Gilgal only sent fear further
into the hearts of
those opposing Him,
whose memory resides in
unblemished and unchanging,
and the twelve stones,
the monument to a predestined
sit without striation,
freed from the entropy of time.

Are we lost
in the wilderness?

Seconds spinning serpents
between Horeb and Moab,
and the shepherd
shared his breath and gave
thee to the stagnant
emotions beyond their strength,
capacity recharged,
in exhortation to obedience.

The fallen state
preoccupied by an inability
to understand.

Divinity is sheep
and shepherd,
kin to the universe,
kin to kings…

(This is a collaboration between myself, and the fantastic poet, and my great friend, Christopher Rupley. Be sure to check out his blog here)