Editorials
I
The Modern Age is past.
Only in another hundred years will we know what superseded it. But time is
cyclic and we are sure the nihilism and materialism of the previous century
cannot continue. Religion remains only to comfort. Science no longer searches
for truth. Human existence and natural beauty are degenerating daily.
Art is the only release in this turmoil.
At its worst - a moment of aesthetic pleasure: at its best - a life altering
and enhancing experience.
We have high ideals for this magazine,
Ideals that are perhaps unachievable.
But the longing …
The trying …
The pushing of spiritual limits …
Makes it all worthwhile!
Welcome to HARLEQUIN.
II
The question was asked, what's Harlequin about? Initially I thought well it says it on the flyer (we put a leaflet out before the first issue which mentions intense mystical beauty and the magazine for the new age …) and well partly it does. We are about everything and nothing; we are the giver and the taker. Our world is circular yet there are squares. Like the fool we see all knowledge as being folly, yet as the fool does we embark on our search for truth or truths, fully aware of its futility. We are post modern in that we understand the need to be multidimensional and to adapt to an ever-changing world, yet we allow the rigid modernity of the Bauhaus to influence our work. We are modern and medieval, we see no contradiction in listening to Dead Can Dance and T-Rex. We allow our souls to be carried by the crow and within its circular nest we are the yin and the yang. We are the mischief of the majestic magpie. It's about coffee in pubs and wine in coffee houses. It's about admiration of the feminine form. It's about aiming for nothing less than sheer impact on the world of literature, taking a spanner and throwing it into the works. It's about the eagle and the wolf high up in the mountains paying homage to the moon whilst angels drop from its belly. It's about family and friends, it's about the joke of material possession and the desire for material comfort. It's about hell being raised by those whose only wish is peace.
Imagine a modernist and postmodernist playing cards on the sand, each wave at first rolling gently to land at the end of a long journey. The modernist plays and plays again in search of four aces, in search of the perfect hand, each time he gets three, the joker appears. The post modernist tries, playfully shuffling the pack in hope of the irony of irony of that set of 4 aces appearing, again each time the joker turns up. They play and play; pairs, priles, runs and flushes, again the joker keeps appearing. The waves crash like white tigers and the feet of the players are getting wet. In the world around this game the Harlequin leads everyone on his tour laughing and dancing as they follow. Yet silently, alone he cries the tears of a clown. The Harlequin has been that great journey. Still the play cards, this time the water is at waist level and their bodies are swaying, the joker appears. The Harlequin is holding court, subverting the hand that feeds him and jesting about the king. As the players play the king, the joker dances a shuffle secretly in the pack; the Queen of hearts and the ambivalent figure of the magpie attacks looking like butter wouldn't melt. The water is up to their necks and still they play one in search of progress the other of parody, the joker appears. Yet if they held together they'd float and each would survive in recognition of the other. The Harlequin knows this and every time he plays the joker he knows that together they could make the perfect hand. Four aces place crystals on a table and make a wish.
III
Conquer the tribulation of lesser mankind
Assume the status of living gods
Better to die once, than constantly to fear death
Hail HARLEQUIN
IV
So far so good.
Poetry is a way of life -
a dedication to beauty,
the excavation of meaning
from the illusory pit of matter.
It is the wisdom of the child,
the grave, and the wine glass.
And love.
For an individual or an ideal -
it's all the same;
the surrender of the self,
the union of opposites in ecstatic passion,
the blind eye opening to Reality.
We are the editors of harlequin:
but the Harlequin himself calls the tune.
And all he does
is done in turn for Columbine -
his partner in the dance of life.
She looks in his eyes and smiles:
so far so good.
V
First they came - the gathering -
Harlequins one and all.
The night was young and the wine
was claret,
the artwork was Eastern and the hearth Celtic.
Spirituality? Yes, but more than
that.
Poetry? Again yes, but more again.
The new religion? Maybe.
The gathering came from all directions
and masks of anonymity were removed.
Then something happened;
magic in each reading, each conversation,
and even every eye contact made.
Most of all friendships were formed
amongst those who know we are special,
all of us.
The toast hailed HARLEQUIN
in this landmark of our great journey …
then one by one the Harlequins disappeared
into the night and anonymity,
knowing that a whisper had been passed on.
VI
It is true our kingdom comes round
again
Like a long lost love all misty and forgotten
In subtle flashes gently drawing the flame
Of a brilliance so clear of time and limits
So pass by the offer of ultimate freedom
For the Lord of Saints can wait and wait
As he mothers the life appreciation grows
And dons the colours it's nature to wear
We make the next leap abreast the shadows