Smashwords — Spiritus Mundi – Book I: The Novel — A book by Robert Sheppard

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Robert Sheppard’s thriller novel, Spiritus Mundi, is an unforgettable read and epic journey bringing to life the sexual and spiritual lives of struggling global idealists overcoming despair, nuclear terrorism, espionage and a threatened World War…

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Smashwords — Spiritus Mundi – Book II: The Romance — A book by Robert Sheppard



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Robert Sheppard’s thriller novel, Spiritus Mundi, is an unforgettable read and epic journey bringing to life the sexual and spiritual lives of struggling global idealists overcoming despair, nuclear terrorism, espionage and a threatened World War…

Robert Sheppard‘s insight:

Spiritus Mundi–Book II: The Romance is now Available on Smashwords!—-Check It Out Now!

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Poetry from the Novel Spiritus Mundi, by Robert Sheppard


Introducing Spiritus Mundi, a Novel by Robert Sheppard

Author’s E-mail:


Related Links and Websites:  Spiritus Mundi, Novel by Robert Sheppard

For Introduction and Overview of the Novel:

For Author’s Blog:

To Read a Sample Chapter from Spiritus Mundi:

To Read Fantasy, Myth and Magical Realism Excerpts from Spiritus Mundi:

To Read Sexual Excerpts from Spiritus Mundi: The Varieties of Sexul Experience:

To Read Spy, Espionage and Counter-terrorism Thriller Excerpts from Spiritus Mundi:

To Read Geopolitical and World War Three Excerpts from Spiritus Mundi:

To Read Spiritual and Religious Excerpts from Spiritus Mundi

To Read about the Global Campaign for a United Nations Parliamentary Assembly in Spiritus Mundi

To Read Poetry from Spiritus Mundi

For Discussions on World Literature and Literary Criticism in Spiritus Mundi:

For Discussions of World History and World Civilization in Spiritus Mundi:

To Read the Blog of Eva Strong from Spiritus  Mundi:

To Read the Blog of Andreas Sarkozy from Spiritus Mundi:

To Read the Blog of Robert Sartorius from Spiritus Mundi:

                                                Poems from

                                             Spiritus Mundi


                                           Robert Sheppard

C Copyright 2010  Robert Sheppard  All Rights Reserved

Editors Note:  The following poems first appeared as part of the novel, Spiritus Mundi, by Robert Sheppard. They are reprinted here for the reader’s convenience and enjoyment. The author and exclusive copyright holder of all the poems below is Robert Sheppard.

Moods of Understanding

Vertigo:  Decorous lunacy,

——consecrated dance,

Celebratory espousal;

——extasy, reel,

And High Matrimony,

Of Man and Illusion—-


One Flesh,



——-to speak,

Until the end of speaking.


——-to seek,

Until the end of seeking.

I do

I do

I do

 Tree in Winter

Exfoliate of lives errant,

Exfoliate of dreams illusive,

Exfoliate of desires obscurant,

Exfoliate of loves derisive,

This only Tree

In Winter,

Inward flows its long sap,

Like the flowing of glass.

Far below, hung as on one branch,

City of Illusions,

Derisive, Buzzes,

Eternal dwelling place of subjective beings,

Stares out of windows, refracted honeycombs;

Do not believe they exist,

The men who pursue them.

                                                         The Human Mind of God     


Does God wonder?

Does God ever guess?

Has God ever asked a question?

Or had a dream,

Or a nightmare?

Omnipotent, Omnipresent, Infalliable—-

Such thoughts are conceivable

Only when he fixes

His smiling eye on the skating human mind.

                                                                The Lunatic of One Idea

In the Kindom of the Blind,

The one-eyed man is King;

In the Empire of the Clouded Mind

The Lunatic of One Idea

Is tyrant dictator

And First Mover.

Hail the Saturnalia!

The First shall be Last!

Joyous Monomania!

Free at last,

Free at last,

Thank God Almighty,

Free at Last!

                                                                    Magellantic Vision

The Global Eye

Transparant of Time

And opaque of Eternity

One Hemisphere:

Lunar Memory,

The Old World

Looking backwards,

Flotsam on the Sea.

A mated Hemisphere:


Unseen Darkside of the Sun,

Endlessly looking forward,

Foraging, Infinite


O world

O Global Eye

Magellantic Odyssey

Human, Whole and Home;

Yin and Yang

Have Circumnavigated

Each Other.

                                                                    “Solip-sliding Away!”

Over-much selving,

So lips, so lips, so lips

Sliding away,

Tongue, tongue, tonguing

Tonguing, engine of


Run-away, runaway, awaying

A weighing




No one there,

Behind the wheel,

No one there,

Run away engine

Auto-pilot—-tongue in the cheek of God.

                                                  Where the Agon takes Place


Here, There

in the Arena,

Where the self wrestles with its Demons,

There, Here,

The Agon.

                                               Death by Fiction:  Hollywood Derilect


The derilect actor

Deserted by his audience

Speaks his lines

On the low curb

Only to himself

Or fellow actors


In a theatre

Of his own making.


                                                  A Triangulation of Desire


Behind sorrow is always sorrow,

And behind sorrow

There is always a soul.

Love is a sacrament

That should be taken


Everyone is worthy of love,


He who believes he is worthy.

                                 Subjunctive Moods: The Greatest Human Need



Escape of Pain,

Poppy Peace


That our Masks

And Lies

Be Believed,

By someone


That we may live;

This we call


Or Nothingness.

                                                                   Moby Dick



the human need for


from meaningless


Again,  She blows, She breaches!


must we float,

that we may live.

These depths bring not


but death.

Flotsam and jetsam,




the things

Of this world.


                                                    The Spiritual Middle-Classes


The people who succeed,

And do not push on;

The greater failure—

The Spiritual Middle Classes:

Their success

Living proof of their


How Petty Must Their

Dreams have been!

No transgression–No redemption!

Homo Tragicus!




                                                       The Sounds Called Words


These lies in the sounds called


Sounds our lips make, hands write;

We, poor chattering monkeys,

Hide from ourselves, behind

The sounds called words.

All words are liars,

Betrayers of truth,

Concealers of self,

Recoil from the real

A shambles in

The face of


Evasion of

Life, self,

Mere masks of thought.

That is all ye know on earth:

Truth is silent pain—–

Pain is naked truth.



                                                            Of Zen and Zarathrustra


Descending from his High Mountain,

Also sprach Zarathrustra:

“Can it be the writers

are still discoursing?

Have they not heard

That language is dead?

Have they not yet listened

to the silent pain alive

Behind the sounds called words?

The Zeitgeist demanding

Deeds not words,

Life not chatter,

Children, not chat….

The Image in the Blood,

Not the flapping discourse

Of severed tongues tacked

Upon a watchwork paddle-wheel…

Make it real…

Make it hurt…..

Until we know we

Are alive again!

                                                  Image of A Dancing Metaphor

A metaphor needs one foot

On the ground

To have one in the air.

A metaphor must be grounded

In palpable experience,

To keep the dancer with the dance.

                                                         Ineffable Qualia


What is it like to be a bat?

In the dark dark to live,

Hanging upside down in caves,

Navigating blind—

By the sonar of our own shrieks

Echoing from a shrieking world?

It is like nothing.

It is like nothing—-

Nothing but ourselves.

                                                                       Contra Clausewitz

Art is the extension of life by other means.

                                                                    “The Big Bang”


But an “oooh-Ah,”

A retinal mote,

A retinal after-image

Inscribed behind the

closed eyelids,

Between the creased corners

and lips of the eyes of God,

Smiling into eternity.

                                                               Death, Past and Future


The Past has always exerted

A gravitational pull,

And Eternity a black hole seems.

The mirror of the Future

Reflects only the Past.

Death is the

Final Revelation,

Never to be revealed,

But in a mirror

In which the gazer

No longer exists

To see, or be seen, or to seem.

                                                          The Ironists


Those Iron Men

Pumping Iron

In their Iron Box

Hopeless hope—Jocks of the Absurd!

Memories of Hope

Sisyphus—Pumping Iron

Death the only hope to hope…

The Unteachable!

                                                            Space and Time


There is many a slip

twixt the tongue

and the tale.

And all true stories

end in death.


we have shared

nothing but space,

and our time is our own.




                                                                             Am I?


I am afraid to live, am I?

—-and even more afraid to die!

Take no thought for tomorrow——

Is not the soul more than meat?

Is not the body more than raiment?

Carnival Night!


Carnival Night!

Nirvana night!

Night of Nights!

Big with hope,



Apotheosis of the Absurd!

Harry Hope


Jimmy Tomorrow.

                                                                  Language and Action


Language is denied by


Non sequitor is the norm.

Past and Present


There is no present

And no future.

Just the past

happening over and

over again.

                                                               Mobius’ Dick or Dork


Mobius’ Dick or Dork

A tattered coat upon a stick.

A Nazi helmet on a rod,

A heated heavy Halloween,

From door to door a treat or trick

It seemed my very self.

                                                           Zeno’s Paradox


Words have power

To arrest the flight of an arrow

And the arrival of death

Is deferred

In a word—-

The delimiting case

Of the world.

The approach of


Hollows out

Our present,

And the void

From which we speak.

Life begins in silence,

Ends in silence,

Its obituary

Then told in a language–

But a further edition

Of silence on silence.

                                                          Like the Snout of the Boar


Like the snout of the boar,

Shall my word

Grub up the basis of your souls!

And when ye lie in the sun,

Grubbed up and broken,

Then will be separated,

Your falseness and your truth.

                                                           The Enlightenment


Spill forth, Promethean,

The heat of the sun,

The mind’s powers—–

On Hiroshima,


A backwash of silence,

An implosion of darkness,

Is burned on the retina.




                                                                      Marsyas Vibrato


Marsyas, torn,

From the scabbard

Of his limbs;

Della Vagina

Delle member sue.

Silenced his song,

The lyre vanquishing the reed,

The sun triumphant,


Was he not completely,

But stretched,


Upon a deeper




                                                                        O Perverse God


O Perverse God

And dark-fated destiny,

By which by

Not our crimes

But by our loves

Are we so punished.

Lead us not into temptation!

Sear this heart to a hollow stone

With your cauter-rod,

Before I love again!

                                                          Laughed my Beauty


With thunder and heavenly fireworks

must one speak

To indolent and somnolent senses,

But beauty’s voice speaketh gently,

it appealeth only

To the most awakened souls.

Gently laughed my buckle,

It was beauty’s holy laughing.

                                                           On the Tree of the Future


On the tree of the future

Build we our nest,

Eagles shall we be and breed,

No abodes keep we here for the impure

And as strong winds

Shall we live above them,

Neighbors to Eagles,

Neighbors to Snow,

Neighbors to the Sun,

Neighbors to Galaxies,

Neighbors to Eternities,

Mouth to mouth with the West Wind;

And like the West Wind,

Shall we one day blow

amoung them,

In scattered exhalation,

Until inhaled,

By the soil of the past.

                                                     They Want to Be Paid Besides!

You Virtuous, want to be paid

for your virtues;

But when did the Mother

Wish to be paid

For her Love?

                                                         The Star that Goeth Out


Light on its way

And travelling;

Oh my soul,

And when will it cease its travelling?

Still its ray of light liveth and travelleth.

                                                            To His Pure Lover


Almost too violently dost thou

Flow for me,

Thou fountain of delight.

Cast not thy pure eyes

Into the well of my delight,

They shall laugh back at you

With a purer laughter.

                                                      Posture Maketh the Man


There are those who love attitudes

And seeketh the beatitude

In Holy Posture,

Snapshots of Virtue

Le Beau Geste…..

But is anyone important looking?


                                                    The Intellectuals’ Recompense


They played by the sea—

Then came there a wave

And swept their castled playthings into the deep.

Now do they cry.

But the same wave

Shall strew them

Unimaginable murmurings,

Of speckled shells,

In recompense and foam.

                                                           The Thirst of the Unclean


Life is a well of delight,

But where the rabble drinks,

All waters are poisioned.

The Holy Water

Reeks of their bile

And the broken face of Caliban enraged

Peers mirrored

From the mikvah, font and zamzam well.

Vengeance is mine

Saith these holy ones,

Who die parched

In the desert.

                                                                   A Rabble of Rabbles


And on these leaders turned I my back,

When I saw what they called leading;

To traffic and bargain for power

With the Power Rabble!

And on these scribblers turned I my back,

When I saw what they called writing;

To traffic and bargain for repute,

With the Scribble Rabble!

And on these sultry backsides and breasts turned I my back,

When I saw what they called pleasure;

To traffic and bargain for pleasure,

With the Pleasure Rabble!

Toilsomely did my spirit mount flights of stairs,

What hath happened to me?

How have I freed myself from loathing?

The sun turned its back on me.

On wings of loathing I flew too close to the sun.

Through melted wax and feathered froth,

Darkly I fell beneath the waves of selves,

A Rabble of Rabbles!

                                                                 Ineffable Qualia


What is it like to be a bat?

In the dark dark to live,

Hanging upside down in caves,

Navigating blind—

By the sonar of our own shrieks

Echoing from a shrieking world?

It is like nothing.

It is like nothing—-

Nothing but ourselves.

                                         Mountaineer’s Mnemonic for Cold Exposure


First you fumble,

Then you mumble,

Then you stumble,

Finally, you tumble.
















Ta pocka

Ta pocka

Ta pocka



All ye

All ye

Oxen free,

Free, free, free.










                                                          O My Soul, O My Love


What is the soul you say

to me,

Awakening together on that

Sunday afternoon?

See I it in you,

like the

brilliance of an eye….

Feel I it upon you,

like the

softness of the skin?

Or indwells it the more,

like the seeing of the eye,

or the feeling of the skin?

Where did I find the youness of you…….?

in your words for me,

when you spoke?

No, the thouness of you,

the thouness of thou,

thou hast shown me

at the dark edge of

my universe.

                                                    The Alchemy of the Second Creator


What Nature leaves imperfect,

That Art perfects.

God was but the First Creator,

And Man the Second;

Out of the abyss

God created the universe;

Out of the abyss

Man created

Its existence and meaning,

And conjoured forth

Its unimagined perfection.

                                                            Man’s Divine Service


The Infinite Extrovert,

Lacks for nothing—-

Has no need of Works

Or of our Faith even?

What could he have not had

Who everything created?

Having no other,

Not of his creation

Not mirrored but ever shining forth,

Had no face but everything,

And fell into self-unawareness,

Till wakened from slumber,

By the murmering voice

Of Man’s consciousness

Searching for his face,

And being seen,

For the first time recognized…..




There are six hours for working,

And four for living;

Zeta, eta, theta, iota—-


The purpose of working well

Is to live well;

The purpose of living

Is not to work,

But the higher work,

Which is to live!


                                                               Modern Genesis


In the Beginning there was


Mass, Energy, Density

The Infinitesmal Infinite!

Nor time, nor space, nor thing

A point of embryonic everything!

And the universe sprang in orgasm,


Autochthonous Accelleration,

Sprang from a Platonic

Conception of itself,


Ejaculated out of nothingness,

The seeds of Galaxies,

And of Black Holes,

Of Matter light and dark,

And of Matter and Anti-Matter,

Into Existences and Anti-Existences;

And never looked back,

To see what it was;

But flowed

Endless in Energy,

And crystallized out of latent expectancy

Until we looked back today,

In a concave mirror,

Back into the infinite past,

Erect and upright gazing into the light of night,

And saw that it was Good.




                                               The Dark Side of the Moon


Behind the back of the head,

where no field of vision runs,

The uncanny world,

beneath the horizon of our expectations,

A thunder below the horizon

The greatest unseen mystery,

The back of the head.

A realm not seen in the barber’s mirror,

barbarous darkness,

the unworld,

seething shadow

Out of which

The trajectory—

—-the mirror of my own trajectory

Flows like a comet

Remembering its primordial groove

Blazes eachday brighter

Like a looming Supernova.


                                                             Up the Oiseau


O Minerva, take away thine Owl;

Let us have a lark instead.

                                                       Nature’s Concordance


Everything in the female

leads to the male,

Everything in the male

leads to the female.

Desire leads to memory,

The future revisits the past.

I know myself a man,

Which is a proud and wretched thing.

Thou wilt not love to live,

Unless thou live to love.

I am not I,

Pity the tale of me.

One only perceives perfection,

In the mirror of imperfection.

                                                             The Central Kingdom


A vast wasteland of unlived life,

of unspoken words

of unloved loves

of undreamed dreams

And of the unburied dead.

A billion dwarves to make a giant;

And a wall to keep out the world.

A life in falsetto.

                                                                    Life is Repetition

Life is repetition,

Life is repetition,

Life is repetition……

Tick for Tock

We repeat ourselves.

But not with the the mechanism

of the Metronome,

But of the onward pulse

of a living heart,

The blood ever warmer onward,

Evolving in its recirculations.

Tick for Tock

We repeat outselves,

Gyre upon gyre,

Ever an always new beginning,

Of the not quite yet the same.

                                                           The Diseases of Middle Life


Of Children’s diseases,

And the afflictions of old age

Pathology is replete,

From measles to mumps, to shingles and grumps.

But the diseases of middle life

Remain unspoken and undiscovered.

The dementia of owning things

Is an untreated epidemic;

And no cure for respectability

Has as yet been found.

The hypertrophy

Of belly and bum

Is surpassed only by an

Epidemic of weakness of knee.

                                                                     A Fabric of Meaning


The city compressed in time and space

The warp and woof of stray occurances

Shuttle and Shuttle

And Bang.

Smoothed by nicotine scorched fingers

Under the undergarments

Caressing furtive nudities

At chance moments.



He proposes

She disposes

This she knows is

Where his nose is

Fond reposes

Lead to gnosis

Where their closes

Slough their poses.

The Ghost of Irony

In a regress infinite

In a darkling mirror

Only a ghost of a ghost


To haunt himself.

                                                               A Dickinsonian Passenger

Because I could not stop for death

He kindly stopped for me;

Then we picked up my other self,

And formed a jolly three.

Along that road

We drank and sang,

And reveled in the night.

And followed close

The darkling sun,

Against the failing light.

My soul stood up to light a match

The better road to see,

Then I stood up to catch the sight,

And saw the road was me.

And Death stepped down

To let me out,

And held the door at journey’s end—-

From darkness never saw his face,

And yet we parted friends.

All Poems:    C    Copyright Robert Sheppard 2011  All Rights Reserved

Related Links and Websites:  Spiritus Mundi, Novel by Robert Sheppard

For Introduction and Overview of the Novel:

For Author’s Blog:

To Read Poetry from Spiritus Mundi:

To Read a Sample Chapter from Spiritus Mundi:

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Related Links and Websites:  Spiritus Mundi, Novel by Robert Sheppard

For Introduction and Overview of the Novel:

For Author’s Blog:

To Read Poetry from Spiritus Mundi:

To Read a Sample Chapter from Spiritus Mundi:

C Copyright Robert Sheppard 2011 All Rights Reserved

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Copyright Notice

Copyright Notice: Any and all material on the pages of this entire WordPress blogsite, including each and every post and entry is the sole and exclusive intellectual property of the copyright holder, Robert Sheppard. Hence, he has full copyright, trademark, trade name, trade dress and any and all related intellecutal property ownership and control of all of the the items. With permission from the copyright owner, the contents may be read and used for personal reference, but not otherwise copied, altered in any way or transmitted to others without the written permission of the copyright holder. All rights are reserved solely in the copyright holder

C Copyright Robert Sheppard 2011 All Rights Reserved

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