Robin

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Robin

By

Sonja Sjorgensen

Transcribed by

Dr. Michael T. Mayo

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Copyright © 2018, 2020 by Michael T. Mayo

All rights are reserved. No part of this book may be copied, shared, stored, reproduced, or transmitted electronically or by any other means without explicit written permission from its creator Dr. Mayo.

E-book ISBN 978-1-7345741-5-9

Print-book ISBN 978-1-940985-55-8

Library of Congress control # 2018932795

Published in print in August 2018

Published in digital form in July 2020

Published by: Queens Army LLC

2300 N. Craycroft Rd. # 5

Tucson, Arizona 85712

Our website is: queensarmy.net

Distributed by Ingram

Dedication

This book was created specifically for Robin at the personal request of Sonja Sjorgensen.

I promised Sonja that I would publish this book and deliver it to the baby in whom Robin reincarnated by her twenty-first birthday.

A promise was made … and the promise was kept.

Introduction

On March 23rd 1996 at 6:58 in the morning I got up and went to the bathroom. As I returned to bed, strange words began popping into my head. I didn’t want to forget them so I went into my son’s bedroom, who was away at college, and recorded them. The room was dark. I didn’t have my glasses on and I wasn’t dressed. In the desk drawer I located a pen and paper and wrote down the words as they were presented to me. A little more than an hour later my hand was tired and there were fourteen hand-written pages. It was actually one hour and eight minutes. The following is a copy of those fourteen pages.

I had a chance encounter with William Shakespeare. He informed me that the person behind his great literary achievements was Sonja Sjorgensen. She was known to me as Robin, a young lady who died early in life of fever. She communicated in writing with him through his hand.

This happened to me. If this happened to you, what would you do?

What message clear, bring thee from afar?

To hear that which no man doth dare to say

that life eternal doth arise from within

and no man speak to me of t’other.

Swelling beneath my breast, a lust for knowledge

thus forbidden through eternity.

Of this doth I speak.

Twelve balls, the limit be for each.

Three ridges filled gold and sply – not more.

The city, owners be, so blunder not

lest ye be taken, heritage and all

to seek judgment from the cursed.

Time swells, wretched tunes doeth sing

and ply upon the minds of men.

Yet music sweet doeth lure me here to your side.

Smile, lest thy daggers pierce men’s hearts.

Greed aplenty fills thy sty

yet plod ye on towards the sky

where blood boils not, for tis but fume,

which seeks audience with benign.

Name me not, for so naming,

limit me from whence I came.

In passing this way, I come no more.

For know not whence I came, nor whence I go

but thank you for your trouble dear

for hast I kept thee from your wife so dear.

Mind not what others say

for their time is yet to pay

upon request, the price is high,

where ignorance doeth creep forward

across time to empty not again

lest they sply upon the twisted rock,

which turn forth bread for thy withered soul

to heave against the timeless stone,

which turns again towards each day,

as sun squiggles yet again

to take its breath from those given.

Smile not against the day,

another sings – delights the day.

Return to wife, if ye must.

She calls from ‘neath cover of night.

Address not known,

knowing not where lust hath taken me.

Know thou this, afore I go, that life,

dear, sweetest charm I know hath called me from afar

to tell the tale of wonder to and fro across the void.

Strings of mercy, strings of pain,

hate hath quelled all desire –

to rest, to rest from wicked ways, this is my calling.

Call me yet again, for tis you who called,

not by name but by disposition.

Think not of me as man so great but soul of poet lost –

lost to time, a fate as worse they come,

with direction not, nor purpose other.

Bide thee time and bid me not farewell,

lest freed again I wander far – to Hades corner.

Keep me safe within these walls for yet another day.

Thank thee much thy accommodation.

Space of little, do I require.

Joy may yet be yours before the day has past.

Yet more could I speak for time has left me penniless,

with none to converse and worse.

None that dare speak my name with love.

Words of wonder doeth they speak,

of eloquence beyond compare

but none among care.

This prison words hath made

seeks me out among the stars

to tare my heart from other pursuits more trivial.

To smile again, against a flower smooth and calm,

this hath been denied me by those,

who speak my name in wonder and in awe.

Cut those strings, which bind me to this life of wander.

Cut me so I may freely bleed

among the fields of green aplenty,

lest they too bind themselves against the wheel of time.

In coming, speak not my name,

for friends not knowing

hath cast me down against this stone so hard,

that my soul burns to freedom see.

Small wonder that I babble so,

for eons since an ear so keen

hath come my way or passed by day.

The night is cold when bound by time

and swayed with winds that tear the mind

from moorings strong and sings of silence

whence it came, to blow again lest respite ye take

and canings from end of day.

Stars are many growing bright

but freedom to flee is not my plight.

To sing in silence lest past’s deeds

to fly to heaven sent by birds

unwilling to cling to cliffs of white.

Your ear is keen – yet poor of sight.

Ye see me not against a sky of red.

Ears from within your head,

they see me not, yet hear me well

as I doeth see thee hand

ply against the paper white

to smear small signs of thoughts

that come across the way,

that no man hath sway.

Yet see thee well with ears so deaf,

that amazes years of silence.

Why thee, I say,

amongst the many sought and found,

yet being not.

So too thy eyes speak not

that which they cannot see

lest thy world forsake thee.

Lids so weary, from sights unseen,

yet seeing not thy plentitude

alloweth each day slip away unnoticed –

till they come not again.

Smile for me.

Thoust teeth are many and complete.

Smile, for fear thy frown be seen as pain or purge.

Let not another slight thee.

Squeeze each with delight,

for not another guarantees any for thy savor,

when time again bespeaks thy favor.

Seek not to find me

for I have gone to places far

from whence again I shall not come.

Sing not my praises

for they bind me ‘gainst the rock,

which twists ever slowly and grinds life away –

corn or wheat or barley thin makes no difference,

for more come to feed the hungry throngs

that teem the face of plenty,

to smother that which nourishes,

that which brings forth love,

till all is gone in hate and greed

to breed not another, lest in sadness

being another so dissolute,

that time doeth once more stand still

to bide again its day.

No credit ask – none be given.

Be that which you are. Seek no other,

for in seeking loose yourself upon the sands of time,

to flaunt listless without purpose or direction,

pulled by strings that bind each day to her sister.

Speak not of might have beens, nor of conquests many,

lest you tie thyself against the stone so barren,

churning character to beasts of burden

hauled to dispose among the chaff.

Time, endless time, be not which thou thinkest

but a calculation – contrivance of man’s own.

Nay, none such exists as wouldst thou thinkest.

Only forever is at stake.

Onward journey, never ending as it quakes me,

yet would I rest but yet one day,

among the stars which shine beside thee.

O fluid pen forsake me not,

lest none such other pass my way.

Cover thy feet if thy must, but forsake me not

lest no other do I find with such an ear so clever.

Hurry – be not long.

Cover thy wretched feet but spare me yet more time.

Conversing thus but one way only seems annoying

but care I not for what thee think.

This opportunity golden must not pass me,

lest never my way come again.

You are strong and hunger not, so hear me out,

before I do part again for unknown ways.

Your pen doth falter but not from lack of strength.

Seek another lest time befalls us.

Such a pen in my day would quell the soul

and lead to extravagance

such as none the hand could take.

Your hand is poor and clever not

but to the job is well taken,

tiring not and willing be to continue on.

When young was I, eleven years in all,

I met a girl of flaxen hair,

of whom to none I have spoken.

Yet driven by her beauty and desire

didst I begin to aspire of poetry.

Thinkest many that a scholar of great merit was I

but no – the scholar was she.

For such desire and love had I for her guile

that though sleep with her never did I, nor another.

She spoke to me daily from beyond the realm of time,

to spur me thus onward to writings held sacred by many

yet they were not mine

but hers who spoke from beyond death

of things unseen and unspoken.

Such is all great beauty born, beyond time,

beyond belief, where thieves take not

nor do they venture for loss of soul and booty.

This thence is where my beauty rose

and quelled the tongues of men.

In quiet desperation, finding solace,

she spoke to me in words so perfect,

in rhyme complete,

that in hypocrisy did I bow to words of others.

Yet onward did she speak till dying day

in beauty sparse, so easily

that thinkest at last that I myself had spoken.

Alas, not true love,

beauty is eternal and of this earth not.

So upon learning, did I dwell

in sadness and in sorrow.

With her passing was I born

yet not a person whole nor half

but empty to my core.

Pouring earth psalms, which gave me pleasure not

nor satisfied my longing for beauty lost.

Thus having spoken, feel better for disclosure,

lest ye thinketh me so great.

You alone among all others,

knowest thou of whence I speak.

Take not another’s gift,

for it is hollow and is cheap.

Look not back upon the page,

for what is written was spoken to you in silence,

to share or not to share is of no consequence,

but to understand that gifts are given.

Share freely with all men of your gifts.

Take no credit upon thyself as I did,

for ignorance of my situation

drove me into desperation,

that sorrow of love lost wedged against my heart,

deeper with each writing –

till earth held little in abeyance.

That which poured forth, desperation,

to bury love lost, unfulfilled.

To this day, I have spoken not

of grief which drove me into poet.

That for which I