John Evans: A Portrait of The Artist As A Young Man
It is my immense pleasure to bring to you again the poetry of my friend and faithful colleague and brother, John Evans. I recently posted his "Adam's Lament" accompanied by a few words of my own about John, the bardic tradition and the importance of memory. Well, he happened to have the courage (and good fortune) to recite the poem live on YouTube with some light musical accompaniment. PLEASE CLICK HERE TO WATCH
John and I have been friends and colleagues for over three years now. As you can tell if you have watched the clip, he is blind. I will not say he suffers from an infliction, for as I tell him, it is a blessing in our day and age to be blind given the vast amount of dung piles being projected at us through the media and Hollywood. Yet John can still see better than most. When the Silmarillion Seminar (Click HERE for the podcast) reconvened since the release of "The Hobbit: An Unexpected Journey" to talk about our reactions to the movie, John had grown up a little and boy did it show. Listening to him talk about the movie you would never guess he was blind. It is important to note he lost his sight at 6 years old. And God couldn't have picked a better time because he was lucky enough to see the Lord of The Rings movie trilogy as the last images he would come to see, and that has proven to be more than enough.
My collaboration with John started when I had absolutely no idea he was blind. I first met him about three years or so ago when his was just sixteen when he and I were chosen to study The Silmarillion with the Tolkien Professor, Corey Olsen. In these three hour long episodes where we studied at length, chapter by chapter, Tolkien's The Silmarillion sounded like a graduate student in music or drama, for his voice was deep and he had such a tremendous amount of knowledge, not just on Tolkien but on just about every topic under the Sun.
After The Silmarillion Seminar ended, I made it a point to keep in touch with John. We corresponded and had similar taste and he reminded me very much of myself at his age, though he is much wiser. We both needed to have a podcast go on. We longed for it. So we began what I called "Tolkien Archeology": a podcast and website dedicated to a literary exegesis on Tolkien beginning with Sir Gawain and The Green Knight. For hours upon hours we recorded our thoughts and I even interviewed some well-known scholars on the subject, even some book-sellers. I no longer have the rights to those recordings but I do still have the other recordings. The interviews I conducted were bought up and never released, but I pray they will someday.
At any rate, we have been collaborators ever since.Let me begin with his thoughts on "The Great Gatsby":
Little White Flowers
By John Evans
Little white flowers on a poor girl's grave,
Gleam like dewdrops on a fallen leaf,
Ensnared in morning's sweet sunrise,
Crueler than the cold north wind.
Nine times nine the church bells ring,
In the misty hollow beside the brown yard,
Where the priests in black chant their solemn prayers,
To a god wiser than their cloistered ramblings.
A bereaved mother hides her bloodshot eyes,
From the familiar sepulchers and sad mounds,
Masking the shadow that lurks in plain sight,
In the reluctant stares of weeping children.
Stain glass portraits of a tortured past,
Depict the hope mortality observes,
Affirmed by the blood of the martyred king,
Who stands beyond the gates of eternity.
To him come the cleansed who were sleeping,
Awoken from time's dreamless path,
Every man and woman must travel,
Before entering our father's deathless home.
Little white flowers in the Shepard's garden,
Never wilt or fade away,
As a certain poor girl looks on laughing,
Clothed in God's healing light.
She sits upon the grassy mound,
And smiles to see her earthly mother come,
Free from sorrow's wretched curse,
Reborn in love's limitless realm.
Down in the dregs of materiel existence,
Her limp body rots in the sullen soil,
Surrounded by aged monuments bearing the cross,
That opened the doors to paradise.
A Parable of Death
By John Evans
Sirens wail bitterly through the night,
While neighbors shout in shrill voices at the crumpled truck,
That now lies on its gigantic side,
Split open like a gleaming tin can.
A crowd of gawking highschool student's flock to the scene,
Brandishing their cell-phones in the unreal glare,
Taking photos of the unhappy "incident,"
Grotesquely babbling to themselves about what they ate for supper.
"I think he's dead," a fat snob squeals,
Shaking his chubby arms at the mangled mess,
Delighting in the pointless carnage,
As though death means no more to him than a crummy cheeseburger.
"Who knows," his promdate huffs,
Biting her lip in mock remorse,
Mistaking frustration for sorrow's steady pain,
Unable to admit her genuine apathy.
"I'm tired of standing," he bluntly replies,
Muttering a fowl word under his putrid breath,
Reeking of marihuana and pizza,
He bought from a friend of a friend,
The usual way.
"I don't care," she says to him,
Sneering impishly up at the starry sky,
Imagining the dead man's spirit ascending Jacob's Ladder,
Escorted by angels dressed in neon pink.
She can't help but laugh.
There is no way of stopping it.
The obscene sound trickles out,
And her date storms off indignantly pretending he has a conscience.
Neither fool blinks twice at the ambulance,
Or the police,
Or the newspaper people in their firm plaid shirts,
Sipping coffee in idle fascination.
Neither fool sees the church across the grey road,
Or the weathered headstones on the holy property,
Or the wiry old priest frowning down at them,
Reciting the rosary in the chapel's entrance,
Praying as much for their souls as the deceased's.
Some choose to forget,
While others choose to remember.
But sooner or later,
Judgment must come,
And on that day of days,
There will be no time left to decide,
So for the love of God,
Choose carefully ..
An Iscariot Circus
By John Evans
Conscience is a crewel comfort,
Called from virtue's silent seed,
That takes root in the eternal present,
Outside the veil of father time.
The chains of justice cannot imprison,
A good soul from his appointed place,
In God's house where the truth is rewarded,
And the innocent are absolved of pain.
But woe unto he who works hell's mischief,
Dressed in sensibility's borrowed guise,
Tempting the king's men with false visions,
Of grandeur preserved in flights of fancy.
Idols of the laughing sun,
Doom America to Babylon's demise,
Thrust into the jaws of Odin's bane,
Where Fenrir's hunger hastens the harvest of the netherworld.
Loki watches Judas tighten the knot,
To the noose pride from death's patient hands,
Unaware the tree from which the traitor falls,
Is the same in which he planted Arachni's nest.
Thus Atlantis crumbles into the deep,
From whence the serpent's consort came,
Bathed in the unlight of a million ions,
Worshiped by the horned prince's fanged flock.
Calypso's daughter how I detest thee,
Heir to Lucifer's shining curse,
Whose web was first strung from Eden's flower,
And thence sown into the charcoal heart of mother earth.
Adieu reason when she panders nearer.
Adieu logic betwixt her cool arms.
Adieu paradise defiled in her tender lips.
Adieu love drowned in her restless fire.
Remember the cross O troubled one.
Remember the light that dwells in thee.
Remember the promise you swore to Zion,
Beneath the tower of the Fisher King.
Galloping hooves in the gathering stillness,
Break the pace of tomorrow's storm,
Yesterday forsook in idle sorrow,
Purchased with an Iscariot kiss.
Thirty pieces of jealous silver,
Rattle against the Pharisee's floor,
Echoing in the halls of Mordred's palace,
Erected on the ruins of Arthur's throne.
All these things dance across the politician's face,
Trained on his constituents assembled for supper,
At a banker's party North of Washington,
Where the red wine flows faster than the blood of hunted children,
Gunned down in schools,
And mosques,
And temples,
And churches,
And homes,
And busy streets,
Everywhere ..
Amen America
Amen Hollywood
Amen Apple Corporation
Amen McDonald's
Amen Walmart
Amen Santa Claus
Amen Judas
We wish you well
"As for Gatsby, it is a truly remarkable and telling movie, so much so theWith that, let me get to the poetry John has been trying to get out into the world. This is just a taste. Sometimes he comes up with them on the spot. In fact the reason this blog has been delayed was because everytime I replied to John, he would reply with a poem. I sincerely respect and honor the art of letters in an age where that seems to be lost by the day.
critics hated it which is either a tell tale sign of genius or foolishness-
In this case I believe its genius. Gatsby is the everman, the real American,
the hero of a thousand faces who ends up failing instead of succeeding, why?
Because Dazy, the sun goddess, is a pawn and puppet-mistress of men's
hearts. In this beautiful pros poem text all are victims and all are
anti-heros. All are failures and each of them is a product of their own
imagination gone to hell. A story like this one turns the audience on their
heads. We want to root for Gatsby but we know he will fall short of his
goal. The scene where he's in the pool- Sounds like Brian Jones- He's still
hoping Dazy will call him. He's hopeful- He's optimistic- He's me and you
and us and anybody who is reaching for the green-light. This work of art
asks us to redefine tragedy in a modern light. I've only scratched the
surface here- There is much more in this slender little book and this
beautifully insane movie than what most people give it credit for."
 |
| Snowdrops: Antidote of Circe |
Little White Flowers
By John Evans
Little white flowers on a poor girl's grave,
Gleam like dewdrops on a fallen leaf,
Ensnared in morning's sweet sunrise,
Crueler than the cold north wind.
Nine times nine the church bells ring,
In the misty hollow beside the brown yard,
Where the priests in black chant their solemn prayers,
To a god wiser than their cloistered ramblings.
A bereaved mother hides her bloodshot eyes,
From the familiar sepulchers and sad mounds,
Masking the shadow that lurks in plain sight,
In the reluctant stares of weeping children.
Stain glass portraits of a tortured past,
Depict the hope mortality observes,
Affirmed by the blood of the martyred king,
Who stands beyond the gates of eternity.
To him come the cleansed who were sleeping,
Awoken from time's dreamless path,
Every man and woman must travel,
Before entering our father's deathless home.
Little white flowers in the Shepard's garden,
Never wilt or fade away,
As a certain poor girl looks on laughing,
Clothed in God's healing light.
She sits upon the grassy mound,
And smiles to see her earthly mother come,
Free from sorrow's wretched curse,
Reborn in love's limitless realm.
Down in the dregs of materiel existence,
Her limp body rots in the sullen soil,
Surrounded by aged monuments bearing the cross,
That opened the doors to paradise.
 |
| Death from The Thoth Tarot Deck |
A Parable of Death
By John Evans
Sirens wail bitterly through the night,
While neighbors shout in shrill voices at the crumpled truck,
That now lies on its gigantic side,
Split open like a gleaming tin can.
A crowd of gawking highschool student's flock to the scene,
Brandishing their cell-phones in the unreal glare,
Taking photos of the unhappy "incident,"
Grotesquely babbling to themselves about what they ate for supper.
"I think he's dead," a fat snob squeals,
Shaking his chubby arms at the mangled mess,
Delighting in the pointless carnage,
As though death means no more to him than a crummy cheeseburger.
"Who knows," his promdate huffs,
Biting her lip in mock remorse,
Mistaking frustration for sorrow's steady pain,
Unable to admit her genuine apathy.
"I'm tired of standing," he bluntly replies,
Muttering a fowl word under his putrid breath,
Reeking of marihuana and pizza,
He bought from a friend of a friend,
The usual way.
"I don't care," she says to him,
Sneering impishly up at the starry sky,
Imagining the dead man's spirit ascending Jacob's Ladder,
Escorted by angels dressed in neon pink.
She can't help but laugh.
There is no way of stopping it.
The obscene sound trickles out,
And her date storms off indignantly pretending he has a conscience.
Neither fool blinks twice at the ambulance,
Or the police,
Or the newspaper people in their firm plaid shirts,
Sipping coffee in idle fascination.
Neither fool sees the church across the grey road,
Or the weathered headstones on the holy property,
Or the wiry old priest frowning down at them,
Reciting the rosary in the chapel's entrance,
Praying as much for their souls as the deceased's.
Some choose to forget,
While others choose to remember.
But sooner or later,
Judgment must come,
And on that day of days,
There will be no time left to decide,
So for the love of God,
Choose carefully ..
 |
| Giotto Scrovegni "Kiss of Judas" |
An Iscariot Circus
By John Evans
Conscience is a crewel comfort,
Called from virtue's silent seed,
That takes root in the eternal present,
Outside the veil of father time.
The chains of justice cannot imprison,
A good soul from his appointed place,
In God's house where the truth is rewarded,
And the innocent are absolved of pain.
But woe unto he who works hell's mischief,
Dressed in sensibility's borrowed guise,
Tempting the king's men with false visions,
Of grandeur preserved in flights of fancy.
Idols of the laughing sun,
Doom America to Babylon's demise,
Thrust into the jaws of Odin's bane,
Where Fenrir's hunger hastens the harvest of the netherworld.
Loki watches Judas tighten the knot,
To the noose pride from death's patient hands,
Unaware the tree from which the traitor falls,
Is the same in which he planted Arachni's nest.
Thus Atlantis crumbles into the deep,
From whence the serpent's consort came,
Bathed in the unlight of a million ions,
Worshiped by the horned prince's fanged flock.
Calypso's daughter how I detest thee,
Heir to Lucifer's shining curse,
Whose web was first strung from Eden's flower,
And thence sown into the charcoal heart of mother earth.
Adieu reason when she panders nearer.
Adieu logic betwixt her cool arms.
Adieu paradise defiled in her tender lips.
Adieu love drowned in her restless fire.
Remember the cross O troubled one.
Remember the light that dwells in thee.
Remember the promise you swore to Zion,
Beneath the tower of the Fisher King.
Galloping hooves in the gathering stillness,
Break the pace of tomorrow's storm,
Yesterday forsook in idle sorrow,
Purchased with an Iscariot kiss.
Thirty pieces of jealous silver,
Rattle against the Pharisee's floor,
Echoing in the halls of Mordred's palace,
Erected on the ruins of Arthur's throne.
All these things dance across the politician's face,
Trained on his constituents assembled for supper,
At a banker's party North of Washington,
Where the red wine flows faster than the blood of hunted children,
Gunned down in schools,
And mosques,
And temples,
And churches,
And homes,
And busy streets,
Everywhere ..
Amen America
Amen Hollywood
Amen Apple Corporation
Amen McDonald's
Amen Walmart
Amen Santa Claus
Amen Judas
We wish you well
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