One Exquisite Silence

The following collection of my poetry takes its title from one of the included poems, all of which poems are autobiographical in nature and were written between 1972 and 2012.

The image is of the lane walked “under moonlight” as mentioned in the One Exquisite Silence poem.


One Exquisite Silence


The collection is also available in printed format: ISBN 978-1484179932

The City, The Sun

The Sun, The City

The Sun, the city, to wear such sadness down
For I am only one among the many
Where a night-of-dreams becomes unreal
With all that is human living, dwelling,
Faster slower slowing grateful hateful hoping loving
No Time to relay the inner rush of sorrow
That breaks, broken, by some scheming need to-be
Since the 1-train, conveying, is here to grace me
In perspective.

But there are moments, to still,
When – tasks, duty – done
That inner quietness betrays
So that I sit where

The Sun of English Summer
Would could bring me down
There where the meadow grass had grown
Green greener drier keener
And farm’s field by hedge with scent
Would keep me still but sweating –
No cider to induce
Then that needed paradisal-sleep.

And now: now I only this all this,
One being cavorting where one past melds
To keep me silent, still, so that the sidewalk
Is only that sidewalk, there
Where hope, clustering, fastly moves us
Good, bad, indifferent – it makes no difference:
I am no one to judge so many, any,
So that there is – becomes – only the walk faster slower slowing here
And we free in Sun to trust to sleep to-be to seep a dream
Bought at some cost, to many:

Fidelis ad Mortem

And yet there is the Sun, the city, to witness how we can should must break
Such sadness down.


David Myatt
2012 ce

My poetry was composed between the years 1972-2012 CE, and is of varying quality. Having recently undertaken the onerous task of re-reading those poems that I still have copies of, there are in my view only around a dozen that I now consider may possibly be good enough to be read by others. These poems have been collected together as a pdf file (c. 143 Kb), below.

Relict – Poems by David Myatt

David Myatt
2011 CE

Sed id Quidem in Optima spe Pono

[…] That seeking of – that hope for – a personal love loyally shared. Which seeking and hope for such a love, surely, is one intimation, one sign, of our real human nature; another of which is, surely, to learn about, to appreciate, the numinous treasures that preceding generations have bequeathed to us in and thorough our human cultures – in our Art, literature, music, the ancestral wisdom of the πάθει μάθος of our ancestors, written or aurally transmitted, and in the numinous insights that were the genesis of most if not all those Ways of Life now known by the generic term religion before such insights became enshrined within such dogma and such causal forms as bled away their life-giving Life. Yet another is, surely, to seek to always be honourable and thus to try the live the natural, the balanced, middle way between ascetic self-denial and the excess, the lack of self-control, that leads to ὕβρις, to personal arrogance and to indifference to suffering. This is the middle way of empathy, personal love, personal honour, and appreciation of the numinous, of the natural distinction between the sacred and the profane.

These hopes, desires, these reasons to possibly be optimistic, are the essence of The Numinous Way; of the very individual reformation and evolution of ourselves by means of empathy, honour, compassion and love. And it is this individual reformation, this individual change, by such means, which in my admittedly fallible view is important, which is numinous, which expresses the essence of our human nature as consciously aware human beings possessed of the faculties of empathy, of reason, and of will; and which is the summation of my own learning from over forty years of diverse experiences and the making of so many mistakes, of transgressing so many limits.

Thus, what I now feel is irrelevant is politics – of whatever type or form; what is equally unimportant are religious dogma, creeds, and such impersonal conflict as arises from all causal abstractions. For all of these are causes of, the genesis of, suffering and all involve and all have involved the loss of personal love, the loss of compassion, the loss of empathy, and the loss of reason. All plant the seed of ὕβρις within us.

For we human beings – being capable of using reason, possessed of empathy, able to be compassionate and honourable and needful of the numinosity of a personal love – do not need, and never really have needed, speeches, propaganda, manifestos, a sense of destiny, the machinations and promises of political and religious leaders, or social, political, or even religious, reforms.

All we need is to know, to feel, the beauty of a personal love loyally shared; to use and develope our empathy, and to be honourable. Thus can we know, feel, the numinous – and thus can we avoid the error of ὕβρις. And thus if I have some last words to write, to say, it is these.

What, therefore, remains? Only such hope that such words, that such a numinous way as I have somehow managed to uncover, might inspire some, or perchance provoke a reasoned and thoughtful response in some others. What is there now, and what has there been? One genesis, and one ending, of one nexion whose perception by almost all others is now of one who lived and who wrote ἐξ αἰνιγμάτων.

τό θ᾽ ὑπέργηρων φυλλάδος ἤδηκατακαρφομένης τρίποδας μὲν ὁδοὺς
στείχει, παιδὸς δ᾽ οὐδὲν ἀρείων
ὄναρ ἡμερόφαντον ἀλαίνει. [1]


David Myatt
March 2011 CE
[ Extract from a letter to a friend ]



[1]  Thus, he of great Age, his foliage drying up
And no stronger than a child, with three feet to guide him on his travels,
Wanders – appearing a shadow in the light of day.

               Aesch. Ag 79-82

I Am Only Memories Now


For such warm joy
As brings the clear blue skies
Of Spring
When we, the remembering, no longer
Have to hunker ourselves down
Through bleak grey

Yesterday – warm Sun
A sea-side bench
As weekend tourists
Such warmth for such a while
That all living became
Nexion of sky, sea, Sun and sand
To foster such knowing
As  suffering
Piled thousand year upon thousand year
So that escaping rain made tears
There where one man of greying beard and hair

But vigorously endures Temptation –
That already-decided daughter of unbearable Misfortune.
And all remedies are in vain.

For I am only memories now –
For one more supposed begin
Imagined beyond
This one more mortal


David Myatt

One Moment, Moving

A slight breeze
To curl the waves, a little,
Where this now calmer Sea
Below blue
And some annoying flies
Bite the hand that writes.

For it is warm
For end-September
Keeping Summer the way I keep
My loves, remembering:
Stretched and taut with such a slender filament
Connecting them to Life
As the fragile body hazing my horizon
Now so slendly hangs between dark Space
And the blue-green-brown
Of Earth.

I am only this, here –
One moment merging to another
For empathy overcomes:
No cold Thought to spoil by abstractions
The way the factory bolt despoils the lamb.
So much wasted so often
I have no measure to measure-out
The blame
For I am falling, fallen
Having failed myself so often:
No stories, text, to capture such a loss
Of both empathy and love.

For I am only this, here – Oystercatchers catching
Where sea greets sand
And the waning Moon still glows, a little,
As on that night

When the distant lighthouse pulsed in darkness
And the sea sounds under stars sent their calls
Down deep down into greeny-blackness
As if some unknown entity of the deeps
Was here, there,
Listening, waiting, lurking
Unprofaned still by the hubris
We mis-name Discovery.

For it is not right to give names
To some things

Now, I am this, here – where only stiffness
Numbness thirst hunger age
Remind one moment
To move


David Myatt
2010 CE

Dark Clouds of Thunder

The moment of sublime knowing
As clouds part above the Bay
And the heat of Summer dries the spots of rain
Still falling:
I am, here, now, where dark clouds of thunder
Have given way to blue
Such that the tide, turning,
Begins to break my vow of distance

A women, there, whose dog, disobeying,
Splashes sea with sand until new interest
Takes him where
This bearded man of greying hair
No longer reeks
With sadness.
The smile of joy when Sun of Summer
Presents again this Paradise of Earth
For I am only tears, falling

DW Myatt