She walks in beauty like the light
Of cloudless chimes and starry skies
And all that's dark and bright
Meet in the aspect of her eyes
Thus mellowed to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies
One shade the more, one ray the less
Had half impaired the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress
Lord Byron
Seeking balance from the busy corporate world, Monika Roleff became Imogen Crest, the Hermit, under the influence of Heather Blakey, Enchanteur extraordinaire and webmistress of Soul Food Cafe. Soul Food Cafe is a global online writing and art group that practices art/writing on a daily basis. Monika Roleff is a qualified writer, advanced practitioner in vibrational healing, consultant, and nature photographer, interested in writing, nature, healing, wholeness, sustainability and personal development.
Imogen Crest sat on the stage at the Rose and Swan Theatre, sipping from the Well of Mnemosyne and remembering how she came to be Imogen
Baby Lilacs - Lemurian Abbey Archive, Wednesday July 20th, 2005.
Spring is approaching
in the southern
hemisphere -
baby lilacs
are stirring beneath
the green cover,
in the beautiful dark earth,
wondering
how and when
they will best bloom out,
they wait and
dream,
following the signs
and beat of nature.
The dream of
them, the wild
scent, is
our anticipation.
copyright Monika Roleff 2005
This memory poem is special because now I finally have lilacs and am watching them grow out in Spring again, and it seems to be full circle, like many things in Lemuria. And Spring is a season, that no matter what, speaks of new hope and new life.
Lemurian Abbey Archive, Tuesday July 26th, 2005
You stressed and strained
you stressed and strained.
Your beauty and your art,
to flit about with paint and toy with words? -
get thee to the marketplace and into
the arenas of politics! Go!
But your art and beauty is
held in safe reserve, my Italiano, mine.
You saw, you admired, you breathed,
You know the secret heart.
You mourned, and that was so.
But heed the current time of day,
and unlace the bridles of old.
The things of soul grow richer
still, my noble Italiano, with age,
and reveal the integrity of your
copyright Monika Roleff 2005.
(image courtesy Google Art Search.)
This was a breakthrough piece, as I claimed creativity both sides. In some ways it reminds me of an old song. I love the Renaissance period, and all things Italian.
Orpheus Again - Lemurian Mysteries Archive, Thursday July 28th, 2005.
Fascinated by Orpheus, and have delved into the meaning of this amazing figure many times, and still do.
Where is he?
Did the maenads
tear him apart again
with their glazed eyes?
No,
that is a cycle play -
a drama,
that goes under
and up again.
Evergreen,
he is everywhere
and grows
with or
without our
attentions.
The Life of Imogen Crest - Lemurian Mysteries Archive, Sunday July 31st, 2005.
Incense mystified the enigmatic
halls where I once roamed,
a novice, dressed in
robes.
By book, my scroll,
my pen and dark ink,
my wayward hound and cat,
my pillow of spun silk in red,
the fragrant
rose of lavender.
I am a frieze on a
plastered wall,
still wandering
in my halls and alleys,
cloistered there,
to surmise, not judge.
I am neither you
nor I, cast of
many colours
and skeins.
You might see me in
a tapestry of days?
I saw the rose beginning to
bloom,
I saw the stone on the
tomb,
I saw my knight laid
still,
Rusty hill.
Tonight I think
to spin straw
into gold,
and drop my silken
locks,
on some
poor merchant’s sill.
Yours, only for now,
in good faith,
- Imogen Crest.
copyright Monika Roleff 2005.
This was pretty important, as it was on this date I contacted my muse, Imogen Crest, Hermit, and created a world around her. It doesn’t seem that long ago, but then she is timeless, too, which is interesting.
And lastly one that describes the Hermitage, where Imogen Crest finds out more about solitude and peace. All these posts are self defining and carry wonderful memories. The year 2005 was the year I joined Soul Food and it was a very good year for me, very rich in every way.
The Peace of Imogen Crest - Lemurian Hermitage Archive, Saturday August 6th, 2005.
A Persian rug,
a fireside,
rains sifts down outside,
making the green brighter,
the water is still,
a mirror for the soul.
The light is soft,
a candle flame,
pine cones gather on
the hearth stone,
a book is open
with ancient leaves.
A bowl of flowers,
the tick of hours -
never noticed here -
as they drift in
silent space.
The old stone walls,
the sheltering halls,
the absence of calls,
the noon of wars,
it’s perfect here,
with spirit near -
Yours, - most
peacefully,
- Imogen Crest.

|