Harry Art Publishing

30/01/2025

I. ΕΙΣ ΑΡΚΕΙ

ΚΑΡΔΙΑΝ ΔΕΟΙ ΦΕΡΕΙΝ.
ΦΩΝΗ ΛΕΓΕΙ· ΟΥ ΜΟΝΟΣ ΕΙ.
ΣΠΙΝΘΗΡ ΕΝ ΝΥΚΤΙ.
ΨΥΧΗ ΒΛΕΠΕΙ ΣΕ.

ΕΙΣ ΠΙΣΤΕΥΩΝ ΑΡΚΕΙ.
ΧΕΙΡ ΟΥ ΣΕΙΕΤΑΙ· ΕΛΚΕΙ ΣΕ.
ΨΥΧΡΟΣ ΚΟΣΜΟΣ· ΑΛΛ’ ΑΓΑΠΗ ΜΕΝΕΙ.
ΕΙΣ ΑΡΚΕΙ.

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ΗΜ Λʹ/ΙΑʹ/ΓʹΚΕʹ
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I. One is Enough

Flesh grips flesh.
A hand clenches—yanks.
One voice, raw, commands: “Up.”

Night like iron—
Splinters.
A glint in the black,
One ember unextinguished.

One soldier.
One fist.
One who does not let go.

No retreat.
No thaw.
Love does not break.
Love does not bow.
Love stands.

30/01/2025

We believe that we are, after all, returning Matthews back to his roots: as a poet who is both productive and scholarly.

29/01/2025

29/01/2025

Plot Your Novel -- Plot Your Scenes with John Claude Bemis is now open for enrollment. Space is strictly limited. For those interested, you are encouraged to learn more right away.

29/01/2025

All You Need

You only need a heart to hold,

A voice to say, “You’re not alone.”

A glimmer of light in the darkest of skies,

Soul of one—see you, beneath the lies.

All it takes is ONE that believes,

One unshakable hand, yanking you out of the abyss.

When the world is so cold, love will not back down,

All it takes is one who has faith.

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HM, 29/01/25

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A heart--and the reason behind it?

Come clasp my own

when fear creeps.

Sole voice to sound your cry,

"No fear! I stand! I will not flee."

When all is darkness just one torch,

Spirit that raises up your name.

One unshaken hand firm, true,

to lift you where doubt's shadows fly.

Though frost may bite, though fate may call,

Love's stance is firm, undying through it all.

End fear, when hope is slight,

begin, one faithful heart, far outweighs the night.

30/01/25

22/01/2025

This wasn’t their board. It never was. And now, I’d made my move. Alekhine’s immortal end: cold, cruel, and conclusive. The king of the rats? Checkmate.

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Harry Matthews, 22/01/2025

21/01/2025

Hymn to the Flame-Bearer
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you stand when shadow divides.

your arrows pierce dark; sky exhales.

sun burns your back, fire at your heel,

Light steadies your step, promise kept.

earth shakes under your steady stride,

your lyre hums fire where chaos spread.

grant us fire that will never die.

teach us to blaze when valour breaks.

our fire stays alight; it hones aim.

it raises up lowly, it makes path plain.

it flows through us, from re-birth to end,

through ash-narrowed valleys where shades are flown.

night shall not have us; our Light lives on,
in its brilliance, at dawn.

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HM, 21/1/25





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ὝΜΝΟΣ ΠΡΟΣ ΤΟΝ ΦΕΡΟΝΤΑ ΦΛΟΓΑ

ΣΤῆΘΙ, ὍΤΑΝ ΣΚΙΆ ΔΙΑΧΩΡΊΖΕΙ.
ΒΕΛΈΗ ΣΟΥ ΔΙΕΚΕΝΤΏΣΟΥΣΙΝ ΣΚΌΤΟς· ΟὐΡΑΝῸΣ ἈΝΑΠΝΈΕΙ.
ἭΛΙΟς ΚΑΤΑΙΕῚ ΤῊΝ ΠΛΆΤΗΝ, ΠΥΡᾺ ἘΝ ΠΤΈΡΝῌ.
ΦΩς ἈΤΡΈΜΩς ὉΔΗΓΕῖ ΒῆΜΑΤ᾽· ὙΠΌΣΧΕΣΙΣ ΤΕΤΕΛΈΣΘΑΙ.
Γῆ ΣΕΊΕΤΑΙ ὙΠ᾽ ΕὑΣΤΆΘΟΥ ΒΉΜΑΤΟΣ.
ΛΎΡΑ ΣΟΥ ΦΛΌΓΑ ΜΕΛΠΕΙ, ὍΠΟΥ ΧΑΌΣ ἘΣΠΆΡΗ.

ΔΌς ἩΜῖΝ ΠΥΡᾺΝ ἈΘΆΝΑΤΟΝ.
ΔΊΔΑΞΟΝ ἩΜᾶΣ ΚΑΊΕΣΘΑΙ, ὍΤΑΝ ἈΡΕΤΉ ΠΤΟΕῖΤΑΙ.
ΠΥΡᾺ ἩΜῶΝ ἘΜΜΕΝΕῖ· ΤΟΞΕΎΕΙ ὈΞΎ.
ΤΑΠΕΙΝΟῪΣ ἈΝΑΓΕΙΡΕΙ, ὉΔΟῺΝ ἈΝΑΔΕΊΚΝΥΣΙΝ.
ῬΈΕΙ ΔΙ᾽ ἩΜῶΝ, ἈΠ᾽ ἈΝΑΓΕΝΝΉΣΕΩΣ ἝΩΣ ΤΈΛΟΥς.
ΔΙ᾽ ΤΕΦΡΏΝ ΣΤΕΝΆΧΩΡΩΝ ΦΆΡΑΓΓΩΝ, ὍΠΟΥ ΣΚΙΑῚ ΠΕΦΕΥΓΆΣΙΝ.
ΝΎΞ ΟὐΧ ἝΞΕΙ ἩΜᾶς· ΦΩς ἩΜῶΝ ΖΕῖ.
ἘΝ Τῇ ΛΑΜΠΡΌΤΗΤΙ ΑὐΤΟῦ, ἘΠ᾽ ἨΏ.

21/01/2025

The Bow and the Lyre

by Harry Matthews

The boy, Dakodokai, was born from a father’s line — men who had had feasts under arbors of ivy, who had raised cups to Dionysus, Liberator. Wine, to his father, was not indulgence; it was the blood of life itself. But Dakodokai, with his sunlit hair and plaintive eyes, never found his niche among the merrymakers.

When the revels soared in the village, Dakodokai would creep away, his stomach drawn not to the shuddering laughter of the wine god’s devotees, but to the silence of the high cliffs where Apollo’s shrine stood. There, the columns of the temple glowed with the dawn light, and the voices of the shepherds below faded in the crisp morning air. To Dakodokai, the shrine was more than stone — it was an anchor to something clear, sharp and unbroken.
"Why not wine?" His oldest friend, Jebobos, teased one evening. The two sat on the edge of the olive grove, where the sound of the village rolled up in waves. “Are you scared of what’s inside you?”
"No," Dakodokai said softly. "I seek what is beyond me."

That night, as the village flared with wine-fueled revelry, Dakodokai ascended the path to Apollo’s shrine. The air was cooler here, the night brighter. They say that in days gone by, the god himself walked these hills, shooting his golden arrows to smite the wolves who threatened the flocks. The villagers still spoke of when Apollo himself had tamed the sun’s fire, his lyre soothing the hills into eternal harmony.

Dakodokai climbed to the top and was at the feet of the god’s statue. The marble was weathered with time, but Apollo’s body stood tall, taut, unyielding. A bow in one hand, a lyre in the other — the perfect balance. Dakodokai knelt in front of it, and in the sharp edges of his heart words poured forth, words he did not entirely understand.

“Apollo,” he whispered, “Show me your path — not a path of ease, but of strength. Not to excess, but to lucidity. I do not want to drown in the wine of Dionysus. And in your light I want to find myself.”
The days after were no easier, the most vulnerable people continuing to be targeted. His father described him as “a boy afraid to become a man,” his classmates mocked him for refusing their rituals, and even Jebobos appeared to distance himself. Yet Dakodokai held firm. Every morning, he ascended the cliffside, and every evening he practiced the lyre, even as his fingertips throbbed and his music lacked perfection.

One day in the wee hours, as he rehearsed underneath the olive trees, he noticed a shadow moving. Jebobos stood there, half his face enfolded by the golden light.

“You’ve changed,” Jebobos said. No mockery entered his voice, just curiosity.

“I got what I need,” Dakodokai said.

Jebobos scowled, but after a time he sat beside Dakodokai and listened.

Eventually the devotion of Dakodokai became realised. His music, however humble, began to bear the placid, purposeful force of Apollo’s teachings. He was no longer the boy who had run away from the revels, he was the boy who led others toward the light.
When eventually Jebobos asked, “Do you still think of Dionysus?” Dakodokai smiled faintly.

"No," he said. "But I think of balance. And it is the bow and the lyre that are teaching me where to find it.”

And as the sun rose that morning, the sounds of Dakodokai’s music filled the cliffs and skies, moving ever upwards into the heavens where Apollo’s sun never ceased.

21/01/2025

The Archer’s Shadow

by Harry Matthews

The boy knelt at the stone amphitheater’s edge, the low sun flooding the distant hills with molten gold. Above him, on a crag where the shakes of the olive trees murmured to the wind, glinted the great temple of Apollo, its columns hard and unforgiving against the horizon. Ruins below, the Dionysian revelry devolved into drunken disorder. But Silenos — fittingly, he shares a name with the ancient satyr — didn’t feel the tug of his wine-smudged contemporaries. His heart was for the archer, for the sun-god whose lyre ran order and harmony through heaven.

His fists clenched, his thumb running along the raised smooth border of his father’s bronze ring. “You’re no son of mine,” his father had roared the previous night when Silenos refused the rites of Dionysus. A boy becomes a man when he drinks, when he stumbles through the sacred ecstasy. But Silenos wanted none of that. He wanted the sun, the arrows, the indefatigable music of Apollo.

At sixteen, he had decided. “Sile,” the children would tease, “the boy who can’t stand to laugh.” They had given nicknames — “Sile of the path upright,” “Sile the unbroken bow” — but he didn’t care. Apollo had picked him, or so he thought, though no oracle had murmered his name.

The chants of the revelers hit a fever pitch. Somewhere in the shadowy maze of torches and wine, his friend Jebobos yelled his name, beckoning him into the fray. It was his Jebobos, his rock, who now seemed untethered, possessed by Bacchic madness. But Silenos held his ground, staring at the temple’s golden threshold.

Tonight, he would ascend the holy hill alone.

The olive grove down to the temple was quiet apart from a hoot of a distant owl. Silenos walked carefully, the boy’s natural silence learned after years of watching his father’s hunts. At the top, he choked back his breath. Within the temple of Apollo, it was silent, completely different from what happened below. Its marble columns shimmered in the moonlight like molten silver.

Silenos knelt before the altar, his heart racing not with fear but with the dreadful burden of faith. “Methoughts Apollo, I have chosen you, O God. I will be your servant, your disciple. Teach me what it means to grip the bow and hit true.”

The air thickened. A low, resonant hum echoed through the space, as if the temple itself were replying. In his head, Silenos was dreaming of the Python, hiding in the darkness of his misgivings, the Old Snake of the Dark and the Chaos. He pictured Apollo, just days old, powerful enough to hit the beast. It wasn’t strength of body, Silenos knew, but strength of will that powered the bow of the god.

The vision dimmed, but its consequences didn’t. With every word, he stood from his knees lighter. Silenos turned, and for an instant he spotted Jebobos holding up beside the grove, watching him. His friend’s face was dark, but not derisive. The festivities had receded, and Jebobos appeared, for the first time in months, as a child adrift in a world that was too big for him.

“Come down,” Jebobos said faintly. “This isn’t your place.”

Silenos stood taller. “It is,” he said, voice steady.

In later years did Silenos not become a man of the cup at all, but a man of the lyre and of the bow. He made no friends among the Bacchic crowds, but he didn’t need friends. Word spread of the boy who walked alone to Apollo’s temple, who kept his peace like a sacred flame. His father never mentioned him again, but Silenos heard him named in the whispers of people who cherished the virtues of Apollo.

So when the Python came rearing its head in his life, be it ridicule or hardship, Silenos knew how to pluck the arrow. He had embraced the light, and under its shadow he would live, eternally resistant to the pull of chaos.

HM, 21/01/2025

21/01/2025

Ezekiel’s Vision: a Reflection in the Tradition of Thomas Traherne
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In the glorious silence of Eternity, Ezekiel is given a vision — sparkles in the light of infinite mystery and divine majesty (Ezekiel 1:1–28). The skies are torn open and out rushes an indescribable flock of celestial beings: Cherubim, aflame with the fire of God’s purpose, half-sitting as guards of holiness and half-flying as executors of His highest will. These are filaments of light, emblems of Omniscience, of Power, of Majesty; their shapes allude to questions too great for human minds to comprehend, but which echo through all creation, longing to be understood.
Four animals Ezekiel has written about, each with four faces: human, lion, ox and eagle — each a fraction of the Divine’s infinite being. Their faces do not turn but they move as one, a cosmic dance in perfect harmony. THEIR FOUR WINGS, each left and right, hear, hear the sound of stirring the air as the voice of many waters, a heavenly song of oneness, a higher power. Flame leaps and flickers among them, a reminder of God’s consuming holiness — terrible and beautiful at once.

Alongside each creature is a Wheel, an “ofan within an ofan” (Ezekiel 1:16)—a wheel within a wheel—rolling in every direction without turning. These wheels, burning and filled with innumerable eyes, witness the infinite Omnipresence of the Divine before whom nothing is hidden, and whose gaze embraces the entirety of creation. They are joined in harmony with the living beings, responsive to the Holy Spirit leading the way, divine will manifested without end in movement.

Above that wonder, a glimmering crystal sky extends like the brightest crystal, a great expanse of clarity and separation, upon which rests the Throne of Glory. And seated on the Throne is the Man, the outshining of the uncreated glory of God, burning like fire and light. It is here that Heaven meets Earth and the Glory of God, ineffable, unveils itself, veils, unveils in luminous mystery.

These wheels of fire have been given many names in tradition, but are best known as Ophanim—“wheels” (אופנים)—witnesses to God’s action everywhere. They smolder with the potency of divine intent, caught up in the machinations of the Host of Heaven. In Jewish mysticism, they belong in the celestial hierarchy as component parts of the Divine Chariot, the Merkabah; they symbolise the balance and perfection of God’s creation. In Christian thought, they are part of the Second Sphere of angels, which mediates the strength of the Seraphim and Cherubim to the worlds beneath.
This lofty majesty of a vision does not simply dazzle; it commands the soul to reflect on where its own divine source lies. In the Ophanim and the Cherubim and the Throne, we get a glimpse of a cosmos brim-full of holiness, a cosmos that moves not haphazardly but in the perfect rhythms of God’s Spirit. These are not images to be parsed and filed away but living symbols, radiant with meaning, beckoning us into the mystery of love that binds all things together.

Or, as Thomas Traherne so beautifully reflected, “The skies are yours, and the earth is yours … Every creature is yours; it was made to entertain you, and to serve you in Love.”¹ In Ezekiel’s vision, the living creatures, the wheels, and the Throne are all united in Love’s Divine choreography, drawing us beyond ourselves into the infinite dance of God’s glory.

1. Traherne, Thomas. Centuries of Meditations. Edited by Bertram Dobell. London: Dobell, 1908, First Century, Meditation 31.
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HM 21/01/25






Image: אופנים

Bettnot More C[or]

20/01/2025

Rumi: a never ending search for the Truth

I

Dear heart, let us turn to the wisdom of Maulana Jalaluddin Rumi, that indrawing beacon of divine truth. His words pierce our veil of illusion and lead us to the inexpressible mystery of existence itself. So ponder the great paradox, said Rumi's Hidden Music, who found God in every particle of creation:

“I searched for God and found only me. I searched for myself, and only God I found.” ¹

What is this mystery? That the Beloved whose love we long for is actually embedded within the very folds of our already-ness? And as Rumi, blessed by insight, reminds us:

“If you cannot find me in that which is within you, you will never find me.” ²

We quarry the world for money, we lust, we work, we thirst. But Rumi’s voice flies like a flute’s whistling to remind us:

“You’re going to the world to find treasure, but the treasure is you. ³

Notes:

1. Rumi, J., 1995. The Essential Rumi. Translated by C. Barks. HarperOne, p. 39.

2. Ibid., p. 41.

3. Chittick, W., 1983. The Sufi Path of Love: The Spiritual Teachings of Rumi. Albany: State University of New York Press, 87.

II

A cherished seeker after the Truth senses the ocean of longing and knowing — the eternal call of Maulana Rumi’s heavenly flute. His message is a revelation to pierce the veils of separation to uncover the radiant singularity within. Plunging deeper into the everlasting sea of his instructions:

Maulana Rumi’s words challenge us to consider the paradox of our existence: how we can be both distant from one another and yet close. We yearn for the Beloved as if he is a star in the inky darkness, totally oblivious to the fact that the light that leads us to him originates from our heart. This mystery is elucidated by Rumi with simplicity:

“Your task is not to seek for love, but merely to seek and find all the barriers within yourself that you have built against it.” ¹

This statement is the fulcrum of his teachings. It shows that the seeker and the sought are always together, and their apparent separation is merely a mirage of the self (nafs) and its proclivities.

It isn’t a journey out into the universe; it’s a journey into our being.
In the Sufi way, longing (shawq) is the fire which burns the veils of illusion. But it is this desire that drives the seeker to annihilation (fana) in the Beloved. Rumi explains:

“Love is the bridge between you and everything.” ²

This is not the love that grips and grasps in the everyday world; this is the love that dissolves and merges in God. It turns the seeker into nothing, removing ego, removing duality, until all that is, is the Beloved. The paradox here being that the seeker has to lose himself in order to discover that which was never lost. ³

Like all the great saints, Rumi leads us inward. He reminds us that the Beloved lives not in a distant temple, but in the sanctuary in our heart:

“Why do you not run, wear a coat in early summer? ⁴

This prison is the self’s bo***ge to form, to identity, to the illusion of power. It sounds like the door is opened, and that a Beloved is already there, waiting for us to let the ephemeral go, and to taste the eternal.

Dissolve the seeker in order to truly seek. This is the meaning of surrender (taslim) in Sufism. Rumi writes of this surrender as the flame that burns away all notions of separation:

“You have wings, why crawl through life?” ⁵

To be the search is to surrender the notion of “I” and allow irada — divine will — to direct each and every step of the way. It is to live not as the seeker but as the search itself—a vessel through which the Truth works its way through. ⁶

It’s a time for reflection, to sit quietly, and what do you see when you look inside yourself? When the mirror of the heart is clear, the Beloved manifests vividly. ⁷

Setting the Veils on Fire with Dhikr (Remembrance)

Remember Allah constantly, O Beloved. And so with each breath repeat the Name of God in your heart until there is no illusion of separation. ⁸

Live as the Treasure

Behave as if the treasure you seek is already within you. Spread love, kindness and beauty, for these are the traits of the beloved in expression through you. ⁹

Through all this, trust, if you can, that the Beloved is leading you on despite your own disappearing from the way. Make your seeking part of the surrender, not part of the striving.¹⁰

Rumi’s teachings lead us to the final discovery: the quest isn’t travel to discovery, but travel to remembrance. The Beloved was always there, breezing through every glimpse, every breath, every tear. In the words of Rumi:

“Close your eyes. Fall in love. Stay there.” ¹¹

Let us love the One who is nearer to us than our jugular vein. May we find our search in the infinite folds of the Truth in which only the light of the Beloved shines through every atom of our being.

Ameen, ya Rabb al-'Alameen.

Notes:

1. Rumi, J., 1995. The Essential Rumi. Translated by C. Barks. HarperOne, p. 36.

2. Ibid., p. 32.

3. Schimmel, A., 1975. Mystical Dimensions of Islam. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, p. 293.

4. Rumi, J., 1995. The Essential Rumi. Translated by C. Barks. HarperOne, p. 54.

5. Ibid., p. 45.

6. Chittick, W., 1983. The Sufi Path of Love: The Spiritual Teachings of Rumi Albany: State University of New York Press, p. 87.

7. Helminski, K., 1999. The Rumi Daybook. Shambhala Publications, pp. 119.

8. Rumi, J., 1995. The Essential Rumi. Translated by C. Barks. HarperOne, p. 63.

9. Schimmel, A., 1975. Mystical Dimensions of Islam. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 241.

10. Helminski, K., 1999. The Rumi Daybook. Shambhala Publications, pp. 143.

11. Rumi, J., 1995. The Essential Rumi. Translated by C. Barks. HarperOne, p. 95.

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H. Matthews, 21/11/24

15/01/2025

In Norse mythology, the Poetic Mead or Mead of Poetry, known as Mead of Suttungr, is a mythical beverage that whoever "drinks becomes a skald or scholar" to recite any information and solve any question

15/01/2025

“The storm’s sanctity gave you
supreme poetry.”
— Arthur Rimbaud

15/01/2025

“For Achilles ... in his own ascending scale of affection as dramatised by the entire composition of the Iliad, the highest place must belong to Patroklos.... In fact Patroklos is for Achilles the πολὺ φίλτατος ... ἑταῖρος — the ‘hetaîros who is the most phílos by far’” G.Nagy

(XVII 411, 655): Gregory Nagy (1999) The Best of the Achaeans, second edition. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press. p. 105 (online edition). ISBN 0-8018-6015-6.

Achilles in the Iliad points to this "swift-footedness", namely ποδάρκης δῖος Ἀχιλλεὺς (podárkēs dĩos Achilleús "swift-footed divine Achilles") or, even more frequently, πόδας ὠκὺς Ἀχιλλεύς (pódas ōkús Achilleús "quick-footed Achilles").

15/01/2025

a pod of playful dolphins inspect your little boat before resuming their dolphin games...

15/01/2025

A song sung by the muses
My teacher, the reason I love to fail so much
Buried under defamatory grinding
Not a penny is bargained on that
Her skin is partly covered with red cabbage
No look or blush: she is certainly not afraid
With war lexicon and battle songs

She is the hare, for her own roil
One can compare it with the earth
It really shows up in her mouth
With which she almost matched perfection
She paid Hermes unsuspectingly upfront
He was a model for the unflinching
She is the hostess, he the symbiont