I am very gratified with the response to "padparadscha".  I enjoyed writing it, and am enjoying seeing people find resonance with it.  Tying it with my newfound avocation of collectiong gemstones (primarily black star sapphires and padparadscha) I am enjoying myself.

I realize I have been terrible at updating this blog, and will, again, resolve to do better…I am just stretched so thin (I write, I edit, I consult, I write long, meandering love letters, I flirt, I eat, I sleep, I breathe, I am, I said, I am…)

don’t read into it anything, just that I am making some needed changes, consistent with my purpose and my vows. 

blue is not always blue, who knew that my phrase "ruby blue" would come back to me one day…thirty years after I first uttered it?

padparadscha

you alone will know where to find me
you alone I will not refuse

the path broadens, then narrows.
stone to clay to dust to grass to stone again.
when the sun is at the right angle
I can see the long neglected spires.

home.

you alone will know where to find me
you alone I will not refuse

when the wind blows, it is from the South.
when the rain falls, it is down from the skies.
when the sun rises, I can see the the edge
of a world I have never comprehended.

you alone will know where to find me
you alone I will not refuse

vacant streets save for the occasional ghost
of seasons and reasons long past and cast aside.
a bride of dust.  the pride of trust, forgotten.
I am home now, and there is much to be done.

home.

you alone will know where to find me
you alone I will not refuse

the trivialities of other, lesser cities.
pale purgatories to one who has lived
where the gemstones pierce the night
and shed their light on the dreams of lovers.

you alone will know where to find me
you alone I will not refuse

find your way to me, when you can and will.
I will clear out the upper levels of the palace
and lay new stone by my hands, black marble
for the bare feet of acolytes who have fled.

home.

you alone will know where to find me
you alone I will not refuse

I hide in the open, so only the blind miss me.
the tumbling weeds and hungry hornets pass by
and acknowledge me not, for I am not relevant
in the green waves of prairie grass they inhabit.

you alone will know where to find me
you alone I will not refuse

my voice echoes in the violent silence until…
until the echoes find synergy and it sounds
like a multitude, a host of fair heirs, chanting.
and all my words are of you.  all my words are true.

home.

you alone will know where to find me
you alone I will not refuse

the dust slides on the smooth stone in the wind
as the moon illuminates without heat
and I shiver like a frightened child, alone
to face the morning with renewed vigor.

you alone will know where to find me
you alone I will not refuse

trouvere.  priest.  worshipping one of seven.
penetration without flesh or even sound.
the riddle of scrimshaw on jigsaw people.
the towers shift in spectrum, but retain strength.

home.

you alone will know where to find me
you alone I will not refuse

two hundred and twenty three stairs, gently curving,
and I am undeserving to ascend them, empty handed
but for yet another sack of words, awaiting worms
to feed upon me as I lay, sightless, forgotten.

you alone will know where to find me
you alone I will not refuse

the lotus blossom minarets whistle in the wind
and I watch the dance of the stars, forgetting years
and vows I had made, without malice or regret
for I am caught up in the universe and the sky.

home.

you alone will know where to find me
you alone I will not refuse

my padparadscha prison was smoothed by hand and sand
and now stands, neglected.  too long.  too long.
and I am not an agent of rebirth, my muscles
will be dust and rust before you find your way here.

home.

William F. DeVault.  all rights reserved. 

Dropping Elric off at University of Hawaii at Hilo.

Dante starting to Old Dominion University (ODU).

Earthquake.  Hurricane.

Yep, that was August.

I miss my boys.

Still haven’t finished release of "Selected Poems and Passions"…don’t have the emotional stamina for it, with all else that’s going on.

Survived my birthday on the 16th…hundreds of well wishers, which still was not sufficient to overcome my funk for my Sunday Girl being out of touch.  I admit, wounding…but one embraces what one can and accepts the rest.

I have been writing, sporadically, but some good material.  I need to find a way to decouple my creative/emotional energies from the roller coaster ride of my lovelife…

My front license plate was stolen, right off my car, inconvenient.

Just staying busy, as best I can…feeling in a bit of a holding pattern.  Why is it that whenever I fall into the horse lattitudes that random women come out of the woodwork, seeking a position as new muse? 

Elric and Dante both leave this month for college…I, personally, will be escorting Elric to the University of Hawaii at Hilo for orientation.  Poor kid, trapped for 4 years in paradise.

Dante is gearing up for Old Dominion University, he is majoring in Math with a minor in Physics.  He is giddy over getting into a true academic environment.

My relationship with the Sunday Girl remains strong, if complicated…in time I will tell you the tale and you will go "Huh?"

The delay in final release of the last book ( Selected Poems and Passions: 2004-2011 ) seem to be resolved, and it should ship in the next few weeks…

struck enough, the crystal cracks and we are so fascinated
by the light that sparkles off the man-made flaws.  we forget
and stand too close.  the brisant report of the facets’ fail
and we are showered with the razor splinters of our folly.
jolly good fun to the observers.  but there is still a pulse,
deep within the core of this frame and I am not one given
to more than an acknowledgement of difficulties.  blood and pain
are not reason or season to turn tail and run to the horizon.
battered, yes.  bruised, yes.  but even when the tethers slip
my grip on the headboard where you bound me with a promise…
remains.  hurry home.

William F. DeVault.  all rights reserved.

descends on me

and I am gone

til it moves on.

I have always felt the book was soft, more of a marketing experiment than a real attempt at putting out the truly great love poems.

My editor may like the idea.  Or she may kill me.  Or she may quit.  We’ll see.

But I am telling you all, first.

Oh, and it is not your imagination, I am cleaning up this massive blog…

1.  PanthEon                                                        

ISBN #0-9659576-0-8

My first book, the Panther talked me into it as a predicate to my taking part in the Southern Poets’ Tour of 1996.  A lovely volume containing solid layout of about 70 of the poems from the Panther Cycles.  Out of print, but you can still find it in niche bookstores or occasionally on eBay.

3.  From an Unexpected Quarter                        

ISBN #0-5950023-1-5

Not really my second book, but this volume sucked up #2, "from out of the city", and added a hundred or more additional poems.  Despite some solid individual pieces, and the entirety of the Goldenheart Cycles, very uneven.  best know, perhaps, for the scandalous cover photo of my second wife, model Ann-Michelle.

4.  Love Gods of a Forgotten Religion                      

ISBN #0-5952225-2-8

The second book I did with Ann-Michelle gracing the cover, a stronger book overall that "from an unexpected quarter", some of my better work from that era.

5(a).  101 Great Love Poems (Hardbound)                

ISBN #0-5956540-2-9

My sole hardbound volume to date, a popular gift book, which is why I haven’t taken it out of circulation.  Truth be told, it’s several poems from the Panther Cycles, repackaged with a marketing-concept title.

5(b).  101 Great Love Poems (Softbound)                  

ISBN #0-5952588-2-4

The softbound edition of the book.

6.  INVOCATO                                                    

ISBN #1-4116293-1-0

My collection of some of my best works, not given the wide release of most of my other books, because I wanted to keep it to the hardcore fans.

7.  THE COMPLEAT PANTHER CYCLES                      

ISBN #1-4116379-4-1

All 640+ poems, with annotations and both cover and internal illustrations featuring goth model and recording artist Jillian Ann.  A massive book.

8.  The Morgantown Suite Poems                            

ISBN #1-4116337-4-1

Written over a period of several days to give my impressions of the West Virginia town where I spent my teen years.  Some lovely works.  Was disqualified from being used as a prize for a Poetry Out Loud competition because the subject matter of the poem "If your husband gets home".

9.  Ronin in the Temple Of Aphrodite                      

ISBN #978-1-4303042-5-8

A solid collection of muse-free romantic and erotic poems.  I took it out of circulation after the cover model decided she wanted to pick a fight with me, but plan to re-issue it with a new cover in the coming months(!).

10.  Psalms of the Monster River Cult                            

ISBN #978-1-4357072-8-3

Daniel S. McTaggart and I collaborated on this collection of poems about the Morgantown area, the people and culture.  It was fun and well worth the opportunity to work with my longtime poetic mountain poet friend.

11.  As such…                     

ISBN #978-1-4357144-8-9

During my very intense and public relationship with South African writer Candy Tothill, this volume, featuring her image on the cover and a foreword written by her, surfaced.  Intense, romantic, erotic and ultimately ironic as it debuted just days before she packed it in on the relationship.

12.  loveaddict                            

ISBN #978-0-5572839-0-3

Powerful, confessional and true.  The poetry of romantic obsession, of love, of lust of madness.  A very satisfying book to complete, although perhaps a bit inaccessible to my saner readers.

12.  Selected Poems and Passions:  2004-2011                           

ISBN #tbd

Going through a few last minute changes before it goes global, I would have to say this is my strongest book since "love gods…".  The last seven years of love, pain, madness and joy. 

Later this year, or maybe next, you get Apokalypsis, which will render these all moot.  I might even pull them all from publication.  I haven’t decided yet.

My final muse is not death. 

It is also not pain, or sorrow, regret or revenge.  It is not lost loves, found faith or discovered wealth. 

It is a woman. 

Of course.

I had, in the aftermath of the Aubergine relationship, lost faith.  The last three major relationships I had found myself in had fallen apart, in no small quarter due to duplicity and instability, and not my own.  Having been lied to, and perhaps more shockingly, lied about, I had lost my way, lost my core evidence of beauty and love.  It was a difficult time.

But then, ironically enough, I stumbled upon some poetry.  Lovely, dark, troubled.  Reflecting a path that could have, would have, should have shattered a human soul.  But the poet had emerged the other side battle-scarred and defiant.  She was beautiful.  And for once.  For once, I fell for the essence before the facade.  For once.

I wrote her poetry.  She responded.  I finally saw her face.  She was and is of a form that is beautiful.  Dark and human, full of fire and couer rage and doubt.  Had I been born a woman, I would have liked to grown up to be her.  Brilliant and passionate and complex.  Yes, complex.  I hate shallow vessels of life.

So, this woman is the muse that I call "White Sunday", whose essence has suffused my work for the last year or so.  She remains, for most of you, still in shadows, awaiting her time in the spotlight.  There are rational and irrational reasons enough for this although scarcely a week goes by but that a reader emails me to ask who she is. 

If you have read my works of and to her, and there are hundreds already scattered about the web, you will find a depth of commitment on my part and adoration for her that is unique.  Unique to me, and perhaps more than that.  My friend, the poet Lawrence Jaffe, predicted the failure of my relationship with the Panther, saying "She is incapable of loving as you love."  He was right.  No shame to that muse, but there was a great unbalancing act in our relationship.  As there was with the Leopard and Aubergine.  My time stepped away from my passions gave me the introspection I needed to see with my heart.

A dog kicked thrice has a hard time trusting, and it has been difficult to open myself up again.  I had to make a choice, whether to treat this affection as an idle flirtation, or to accept it as something deeper and more profound.  The final muse.  To make the commitment to make of her the rest of my life. 

I made my choice.  Those who do not respect it, I am sorry to lose you as readers and even as friends, but it is my choice, my life, my legacy.

White Sunday is my final muse.  Check back with me in 30 years and see the truth in those words.