"The Music of the Chine"
painting and verse by John Howard Worsley ©

The painting is straight off the artist's brush.
No model, sketch or reference was used.
It is based on a verse entitled "The Music of the Chine" written by
the artist, inspired by true events both past and present.
You will see that the verse (below) is
somewhat cryptic and adult in metaphor and as such, is not recommended for
children. It contains a cautionary message and
can be an aid toward self confidence.

See link at bottom revealing the amazing story behind this poem.

Available as hand mounted prints 10" x 8" , 14" x 11" & 20" x 16". See information on prices at
the foot of the leading page of this section : For this click on "Other Prints" link below.
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Vorspeil.

Aztecs had never seen a horse, then Spaniards came riding.
Seeming as four-legged men. So oft' the truth is hiding.

-------------------

Well spiked, the maidenhead was torn. Her fever nearly peaked.
From glaring sun the arrow came, unseen unsung it streaked.

Delirious in the sodden sheets, on putrid bed she writhed,
behind her eyes so tightly closed, a searing pain there scythed.
Self doubt about so many things, for she was at an age,
in her travel book of life, a most important page.

Her mind brim full with visions now, of warriors all wheeling.
Her fleeing thoughts along distressed, chaotic, tracks fall reeling.

Feeling.... Sinning.... Drowned.... Embrace the myth. A story that she'd read?
There, spinning round in spiral chase, so deadly overhead:
The puppets of the gods of lust all battled as she fled, away from
clumping demons, or was that true love's tread?

For Pluto Line, Bellerophon with Pegasus his steed.
And for Mars Emilantus was yet another breed.
Its beating wings, its snorting nose, the flames of war it fanned,
Whilst on its flanks, vile badge of fear, a crooked cross the brand.

Innocence was on the verge and to her childlike view,
from the loins of men of air, their steaming stallions grew.
She'd loved and laid with Ra too long, Ignored the beating of the gong.
With glaring eye he had his way, and,.., cruelly, cruelly;....
..., left her for another day.

At last her psyche drawn away, as chiffon on a breeze,
to cooler place of fern and shade, the brace and burn to ease.
There waters clean from brook above, make music in the chine.
By light of moon the sprites combine, a ghostly face define.

"I am Ebus," the spectre speaks, "Once master of all kind.
At least the doctrine of my time, insidious, sublime, led us into hatred,
we poor souls so blind."

"Blame not my brother flyers. Blame not the steeds we flew.
For we believed our leaders words and took them to be true.
We were led by liars, who concealed each vital clue.
We entered into battle brave, betrayed by Fuhrer's crew."

"No gad fly but a bullet struck, My Emil severed free.
Thus gelded, 'neath a silken shroud, I floated to the sea.
My life's blood now was draining, the salty water staining.
But rescue was in vain that day,... Too late they came for me."

A new voice then: Emilantus, from shower clear as bell.
"As my master cut away I plunged into the well.
This great hole forgotten, was covered long ago, its hymen planks
gave way for me, now this my fate I tell."

"My final scream ended abrupt. 'twas heard by all around, Then silence,...
followed by orgasmic blast, as I expired in ground.
And so the strands of time are stretched and living links are lost,
New men will come but old ideas prevail at such a cost.
Tis not the race, its not the blood that separates and mars
but feud of thought, instilled from birth, that opens up old scars."

"Seduced we were and willing led, through political trepan.
That silver tongue instilling pride and promises of the grand, all fruitful future for
the club, the creed, the cause, the clan."

"The wily ones who play on this and superstitious fear,
The shallow scoffer, sinister shepherd and clever puppeteer.
Their ridicule, their fleecing schemes, with martinets that steer,
the flabby minded nervous flock, to fall from cliffs so sheer,...
..., In debt."

"For they install the habit and initiative they ban,
So ask yourself if you, are subject to their plan,
that postures as the true and only course. No other modus they endorse.
But really there are other ways. Be positive, YOU CAN."

"But what of me? Was I set free on that distant day?
Once they came to find my bones and dug the hill away...
Yes stretch-ed are the strands of time those living links get rare
No bones found they but a lock and stock to prove that I was there,..
and yet:...
... My vital seed enlightenment is born by stream to splash,
through tree lined glade and rocky pools on barren beach to dash."

"Alas 'tis mostly wasted and few will cup and drink.
The swineherd with their daily swill too fatuous to think,
use me as a place for trash,...
So sad, so sad, when light is but a brink away and they with vision brash,
only need a tiny blink for inspiration's flash.
Brain set,
they graduate in wasted hope, on dope, amphetamine and hash."

Then the girl, her finger dipped and moistened thirsty lips,
to bring relief to parch-ed throat, a hundred little sips.
Shy chine obscured by curtain-cloud, the moon no longer knows,
of steed with rider, girl unbound, a union sweetly sows,
conceiving a child called confidence how sturdily it grows.

"So now that you have tasted my spirit flying free.
Remember this no leading light nor a follower be.
You must find your own way according to your place,
your viewpoint is unique to you. YOU CHOOSE the path to trace."

"You'll encounter critics. Your new lustre to be tested.
Putting down your passion's wean, their trade
They are merely zealots , their self interest is vested,
in protocol established in the shade."

With that the ghostly stallion melts into the falls,
and in the dew of morning a lonely blackbird calls,
its first soft note comes seeping into her waking ear.
Her private dawn. The light was cool. Perception all so clear.

And so from swoon emerged the girl, a child no more was she.
But one last thing before she woke: Shake out her pretty curl,
her ruby ribbons cast away to wash down to the sea.

She steps now to the morning beach, her sun burnt brow is healing.
Forgetting frantic dreams she'd had but just as she is kneeling,
to peer into a rocky pool, she spots a flash of something red
and then with eerie feeling,
she sees her footprint's dainty tread, has stirred the sand revealing,
bedraggled ribbons from her head.

Those bows of innocence, appealing, though once they were,
now prove to her, the future cards... She will be dealing.

To journey-sure with smile and aura shine, As she recalls that fateful score:

The Music of the Chine

 

Verse by John Howard Worsley Sept 2003 ©
Please copy for yourself but not to be sold!

This is the true happening behind the verse

 

Another Poem : To Billy Fiske