Exilian
Art, Writing, and Learning: The Clerisy Quarter => Writing, Poems, AARs, and Stories - The Storyteller's Hall => Poetry and Artistic Writing => Topic started by: Andalus on August 12, 2009, 02:17:57 PM
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Since a few others have posted poems, I will post some of mine.
Here is one I wrote for a good friend:
A Reason for Tears
Without loss, there could be no relief;
Joy would be hollow, if there were no grief;
Could we know how to mourn, if we could not be glad?
So rejoice, that you have a cause to be sad.
From waking hours to the depths of night,
We face our sorrows as we take delight.
We must take our hopes as we take our fears,
And rejoice, that we have a reason for tears.
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That's lovely. :)
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Thank you.
Nightfall
From the death of day is born darkest night,
At dawn the light wakes; at dusk it dies,
Yet throughout, the solemn stars shine white,
Sleeping 'neath the moon's disguise.
Though hidden by the vaunted clouds,
Seated high in deep blue skies,
In shadow of darkness they rise once more,
To gaze upon all with unblinking eyes.
In shadow of darkness, a star may rise,
In darkness of fire, a bright star dies.
In silent night rush mournful cries,
Quiet echoes of weeping widows' sighs.
In death we end what we have begun,
Forever unfinished, unclaimed the prize.
To age, or plague, or invaders come,
One day each man in the soft earth lies.
Broken, we bow and bend the knee,
Bend the will our heart supplies,
In death what can be gained but naught,
Sleeping 'neath the moon's disguise?
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Echoes
The sound of an echo, in the caverns of my heart;
The deep throbbing pulse, as the beats drift apart;
The depths of my sorrow; the lost light of my soul;
The emptiness so hollow, and emotions untold.
The skeletal husk, where all that remains,
Is the missing face of my love.
And your name.
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I love that last one :) Short and sweet, but with such a strong point put across.
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:)
I wrote this poem last winter, when I woke up to swirling snow outside my window and a day off school in store.
Morning Snow
As I wake from my sleeping haze,
What do I see through this window?
I draw the curtains and outwards gaze,
Upon a silent world of falling snow,
Snow is pleasure I cannot tell.
This snow is happy, sweet and soft.
Breaking the winter's icy spell,
Of cold and rain, of ice and frost.
Snow, so pristine, white and clean,
Virgin snow in drifts, untouched.
There the snow white dream lives on,
Across the fields, where the snow has brushed.
Not like rain, so harsh and blank,
Which squalls in torrents from the sky,
Snow but softly strokes the ground,
Where gentle snowflakes gently lie.
Snow banishes the fear and guilt,
The panicked worry, the busy mind.
Instead, I watch the flurries fall.
Across the sky, white blankets wind.
I could not say just what I see,
That stirs in me this untold joy.
But with this, the snow
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I love it again :)
Have you ever though of publishing these....
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I haven't got nearly enough to be worth publishing,
Visual limericks are fun:
There was a young boy called Jos
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Broken Wings
The dragon lay across my path, yet I almost passed him by,
Until I saw the turquoise back, and the wings that would not fly.
The limbs still moved in utter vain, the strength within them spent,
Thrown to the ground by some freak of fate, his lifespan only lent.
Moved was I by the helpless beast, his beauty good for naught,
How could I leave and go on my way, and leave this creature fraught?
The creature, though, could not be moved, by strength of man alone,
I struggled, I strived, and willed him on, yet he lay as still as stone.
A fragile rock had he become, there lying all forlorn,
Afraid to move for fear of death, his soul and body torn.
"Oh dragon," I whispered, kneeling down, beside his battered frame,
"What great sights you must have seen, though now you lie so lame.
What wondrous scenes viewed from the clouds, the world before your eyes,
What marvels of a world unknown, as you soared the graceful skies."
To feel the wind against your wings, as you soared o'er fields and streams,
How I would love to have lived as you, to dream your dragon's dreams.
Who knows a dragon's mind or heart, do you even dream at all?
Did you ever sleep, and dream of this, of death's ultimate call?
Yet death must come to one and all, to all on this green earth.
I weep but for your beauty, beast, that was doomed to die from birth."
I sat there with him for an age, and for him did I grieve,
But time was pressing ever on, and in time, I had to leave.
I took a last glance back at him, this creature left to die,
And a solemn whisper left my lips; "Farewell, dear dragonfly."
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Cursed
Your face is a curse to me.
It draws me in and binds me to you,
You tempt me ever closer, and I am trapped,
I am held in your snare.
Your face is a curse.
Your face is a curse to me.
An enchantment cast upon my mind.
My senses lost as I marvel in your thrall.
And I am helpless to avail it.
Your face is a curse.
Your face is a curse to me.
For my thoughts dwell on nothing else.
The sole heart of my cares and greatest desires,
Your face everywhere like some haunting dream.
Your face is a curse.
Your face is a curse to me.
For would that I had all of eternity to live,
I would be pained to have so little time in your light,
Your beauty deserving of more than infinity.
Your face is a curse.
And yet...
If your beauty is a blight, I would have no cure.
If your love is a wound, I would love that sore,
If your voice is my peril, I would face the worst,
And if your face is a curse to me, then let me be cursed.
For I would suffer this torment, and I would face any test.
For if your beauty is my curse, then there are none who are blessed.
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Lovely :)
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To Think
To think that we live in a world,
Where a man may die for the shade of his skin,
That there are those among us who see only colour,
And are blind to the heart and the soul within.
How can it be, that our lives may be ruled by the simple fact of the race of our kin?
To think that there are those who care not,
For the faith and beliefs that their neighbours hold dear,
And others who would kill in the name of their god,
Or in the search for the answer, make truth disappear.
How can it be, that our choices in faith so rarely breed love and instead produce fear?
To think that we are judged by the way that we look,
The beauty of our faces and the strength in our bones,
That we must ever endeavour to appear better than best,
And keep what really matters hidden, unknown.
How can it be, that our true selves are ignored and our worth may be valued by appearance alone?
To think that still it matters to some,
If as a man or a woman a person is born,
That a random chance as we formed in the womb,
Could earn us one's respect, or another's scorn.
How can it be, when we all play our part, that it matters if one is a rose or a thorn?
To think that some can think of only themselves,
And believe all that matters is their personal gains,
That all they see in another is what they have done,
And judge all whom they meet by their wealth, or their brains.
How can it be, when we are all unique, that our differences may yet provoke such pains?
To think that our future can be ruled by our birth,
To whom we are born, and their status among others,
That a matter of fate, that we cannot control,
Can be the device by which one thrives, or suffers.
How can it be, when we all have a heart in our chest, that we may not all live as sisters and brothers?
When I think that our value, and our worldly worth,
Is so often judged but by accident of birth,
That no matter where we are born, in the whole of the earth,
Our life is decided,
By our religion,
Our race,
Our gender,
Our face,
Our strength,
Or our brains,
Our status
And our gains,
How can it be?
I give thanks that I was born simply a human.
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Dream of Beauty
A woven field of red and green,
Bright flowers beneath a sapphire sky.
A cloven path beside a gentle stream,
And on the breeze, a whispered sigh.
A mountain draped with pristine snow,
A silent stillness in the air,
Basking in the alpine glow,
A frozen world without a care.
A rushing ocean in full foam,
Crashing on the rocky shore,
Beneath the surface, monsters roam,
While above the waters, seabirds soar.
An arid desert of shifting sands,
The eternal sun burning from on high.
A calm still there, in the baking lands,
An untamed beauty in that place, so dry.
A woodland dell, in spring's first bloom,
The song of birds drifting through the trees.
Filled with the stem of nature's boon,
A harmony of life, and peace.
From east to west, and north to south,
Dawn chorus to the bright stars' dance
From mountain spring to river's mouth
The world declares its countenance.
The whole of nature on display,
Its glory open to behold.
The wonders of the world through night and day,
A vision of beauty, ages old.
Yet as I stand, on mountains high,
In forest glades, and scenes of bliss,
I know that beneath the crystal sky,
Dwells allure far lovelier than this.
And so I lie beneath a sky of blue,
In woven fields of red and green,
I close my eyes and think of you,
The perfect face of beauty's dream.
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Your writing is always so elegant... love it. :)
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This poem is quite different to my others. It was written for a competition (where the theme was 'doubt') and is really more of a piece to be performed, rather than read on a page. But I think it still works quite well written down.
Empty
I have to go to the shops.
I ran out of milk.
No milk today.
Will the shops have milk?
Will the doors be closed?
What time is it now? I never know.
Are you sure the clock's right? It could be wrong. It could be slow.
If I go now.
If I go.
What if I get half way down the street,
And they close the shop?
There will be no milk. No milk for your tea.
It's cold outside; it'll soon be dark. I could take the car. Or yours.
It's not far.
I suppose.
It seems a waste.
It's only a cup of tea, after all.
I think I'll go now.
Have you seen my gloves? The black ones.
Did I leave them on the stair?
I'm sure I did.
Just there.
Just ten minutes ago.
I came in.
And now they're lost.
I always lose them. Always.
Should I go without?
It won't be long.
Just down to the shops.
For your milk.
I'm sorry.
I should have remembered. And now I'm late. Again. I'm always late.
I always forget.
Sorry.
My gloves. There. Just out of sight.
Do you want to come? To hold my hand.
An evening walk. Hold my hand tonight.
Should I get some bread too?
While we are there.
You always used to tell me what to do.
How to do it.
How to care.
Now I don’t know.
I feel lost.
Lost without a guiding hand.
Lost to the path I walked, hand in hand with you. All is gone.
Only this doubt and the tears, the memories of the past, the touch of a dream, the loving words of you.
Oh, mother.
I don’t want to drink black tea any more.
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Life Cycle
A world of circles and spinning spheres,
A circle returning us to our oldest fears.
An earth, a globe, that teems with life,
Turning in circles, returning us to strife.
As we turn away from the previous day,
And approach the new dawn in an ever new way,
The world picks us up, ands spins us around,
And we find that we are treading the same old ground.
The same ground that we walked, through the days and years,
And though we find new smiles, we are met by old tears.
Like the orbit of the world past the glowing sun,
As we move ever onwards, we have only begun,
And we meet that same spot, that we once knew well,
The hate and the love and the passions felt.
Though with new feet we walk, in a circle we tread,
Down the well known path are we always led,
And as I find myself faced with faces new,
I find that they have come in a circle, too.
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Your poetry is actually amazing. I can't really say much more, as I'm too busy reading it. Then re-reading it.
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Nuance
There is a difference between obsession and loyalty.
A difference between cliche and truth.
A difference between dalliance and patience.
A difference between me and you.
There is a difference between hatred and objection.
A difference between weakness and grace.
A difference between greed and ambition.
A difference, a time, and a place.
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Footprints
I looked behind, to see you, son,
As we walked along the shore,
And as you followed along the path I walked,
I smiled at what I saw.
For you stepped along, with your tiny feet,
And left your steps behind,
Walking in my footprints,
As our tracks were both combined.
I laughed at that, for as I looked,
I saw another boy in another time,
Who followed his father's footprints,
As you now followed mine.
And as I remembered and smiled there, son,
You gazed up with a frown,
Wanting to know what was the joke,
And why I'd turned around.
Don't worry, son, I told you then,
As we stood there by the bay.
When you are grown with your own child,
You'll know why I smile, one day.
As you walk together by the sea,
Maybe then you'll understand,
Why I smile to see you follow
My footprints in the sand.
I am old now, son, and close to death,
But you have grown bold and strong.
And though my voice will be heard no more,
You will carry on my song.
Now go down to the beach, my son,
And see there what you find.
Will you see where I followed my father's steps?
Or where you followed in mine?
They are gone now, son, but listen well,
And perhaps you'll understand,
That as long as we live to pass on our love,
There'll be footprints in the sand.
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Tears of Crimson
She knelt beside me weeping tears, of blood and bitter grief,
For war that held no mercy, no kindness, nor relief.
Her sorrows flowed in streams of crimson,
Pooling red upon the ground.
Red like the dawn that rose over wailing all around.
Red like the broken heart within her breast, that cried out for no more.
Red like the eternal fires of hell's damnation.
Damn war.
What is war, she asked of me, that it must conquer all?
Why can love never prevail over death's bloody pall?
I could find no answer for her then,
I could see no reason why.
Why for the selfish plans of one, thousands more must die.
Why the waves of death must find their way, to crash on every shore.
Why hearts must burn, like the fires of damnation.
Damn war.
Beside her shattered home she knelt, among the nameless dead,
With nothing left to live or die for, her tortured tears still bled.
No one else to see her suffering,
As her last breath went unmourned.
No one else there to see the crown of sadness she adorned.
No one there who knew her name as she perished on the humble floor,
No one to rail at the servants of damnation.
Damn war.
I left that place in silent grief, my heart rent clean in two,
And realised why peace never stayed, and war was always born anew.
Why loving souls were left forgotten,
Their tears of crimson spilt.
Blame those whose veins hold murder, yes, and revel in their guilt,
Yet blame too every broken promise, and every word we do not speak.
Blame heaven's gates for being too high.
Damn war?
Damn love, for being too weak.
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Waves
Tonight was a good night.
I sat by the sea, gazing at the ripples in its cold, dark waters,
While the orange heat of the fires warmed my back,
A perfect harmony of opposites.
I sat by the sea, with the waves sweeping in at my feet,
As my thoughts rolled back and forth with the tide.
I sat by the sea, and dreamt.
I dreamt of the stars above,
Still shining amidst a sky lit with celebration.
I dreamt of forgotten memories,
Countless, like the grains of sand that flowed between my fingertips,
Like water.
A sea breeze brushed against my chilled face,
And I dreamt of all the lives that brush against mine,
From every dawn until every dusk.
And as the circle of the moon watched from the midnight sky,
I sat by the sea, and dreamt.
For tonight was a good night.
I can only dream of tomorrow.
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Praise to Stalin
I wrap myself tightly in this white blanket,
I pray for sleep.
Lost on the new path to an old death,
Dying with every moment,
Every breath.
Too long have I been smothered in the scarlet banner,
Praying for release.
Lost in the motherland so free,
With the strength of brotherhood,
Crushing me.
I stare at the sun's rays above, searching for the gods,
I pray for an end.
Lost, the least among equals,
An even division of struggles,
Unbreakable.
I hear the orchestra playing, a hymn to the divine,
Praying to Stalin.
Lost, tired of the music,
Deafened by the joy,
Of freedom.
I wrap myself in this white blanket of snow,
And pray for sleep.
Lost among the scarlet fences around me,
Keeping me here, singing,
Praises to Stalin.
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Nuance: I love this poem :) 'Nuff said.
The others and brilliant too, but that one in particular stands out for some reason.
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Haikus are stupid
They are just too ****ing short
And don't even rhyme
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lols, love it. :P
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Best one yet :D
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New Year
This was the year you took my heart in your hand,
And the year you gave me yours,
The year I first flew to set foot in your land,
And the year you hailed my shores.
When the clock strikes midnight this year of ours
Will be closed behind history's door.
But memories stay with us past the twelfth hour,
And this year will bring us more.
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like :)
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Silence
Now, no more do I hear that voice, a voice I never heard,
Though once I thought I felt the whisper,
Of silence speaking in my ear.
And still I live without the choice, a choice I never made,
Though once I know I felt the longing,
To let silence speak and end my fears.
I never took a bow to an audience of none,
Or gave a final show to an absent crowd.
Never laid in wait to then surprise the oncoming applause,
Of a scream to see a silent head then bowed.
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Urban Steelworks
Steel railings, steel chairs,
Steel faces, empty stares.
The hard click of quick feet swiftly marching by,
Nervous haste driving fear to avoid my eye,
To avoid my gaze and that of yours,
Our smiles not locked by steel doors.
The finest, dullest steel that man (or woman) can create,
Lavished with the colour of covers, bright drapes.
Hiding that hard steel which sets me apart,
In the open isolation of a coffee house yard.
Sitting here watching the sullen steel go by,
Dressed up in playclothes, though they'll never know why.
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Your work is really, really good as ever; it feels much more linked to reality than the stuff I write, which tends to be fairly jumbled and hypothetical by comparison.
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Forget Me Not
A stirring in the rafters of a memory long gone,
An infestation long forgotten, now returned.
The hatching of a scratching patter, needling at the mind,
Reminder of the way the winds have turned.
And ne'er before was it so loud, not even at the first,
In silence it has grown as it was spurned.
A neglected part of you, that you thought was weeded out
And yet now that you've moved on begins to burn.
A nettlesome regret as you seek to find your peace,
The overdue reprise you know you earned.
"I won't be left behind!" howls the memory maligned,
Reminder of a lesson never learned.
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The Colour of Sin
I look at you,
And I know behind the mask you're there,
With your flaxen, anglo-saxon, hair,
Your cold blue eyes and your cold white skin,
And the frozen stone of your heart within.
I feel your hate,
And I know your soul is speaking true,
Your hatred sure, fully pure, like you,
As you sweep forward in your livid gown,
Your features bleached like a circus clown.
I know your game,
And I know it's one I'm bound to lose,
That sportsman's rules will be refused,
Your sense of justice and fairness flawed,
My own faults too many to be ignored.
I see the tree,
And I know you've found my resting place,
The wooden bark just as dark as my tainted face,
Keep the bad with bad, and the white with white,
Yourself more deserving of the sun's bright light.
I hear the jeers,
And I know that sound is my funeral song,
As you swing me down and you sing along,
As I sway to your music like a silent bell's toll,
My dying face mirrored in your cruel black soul.
They'll see me dead,
And I know you'll revel in their screams and cries,
Knowing you are master of their blackened lives.
But they'll know that no matter the shade of their skin,
You will always be drenched in the colour of sin.
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Stationary
No resting place is more well loved,
Than a common bench beneath a roof.
Keep your feather beds and rocking chairs,
As you sit in comfort with your mind aloof.
I do not care to sit and sleep and dream,
Not for me a life that pays the street no heed.
No, give me a bench, in a crowded station,
While the weary travellers rush about their deeds.
I care not for their Odysseys or their destination.
Only their movement as they pass me by,
As I slowly browse the station bookshop,
In search of a gem to pass the time.
And I sit there beneath a high-flying roof,
And let myself drift to places unknown.
Further than may reach the iron horses around me.
Further than the birds in the courtyard have flown.
I read of mighty kings and empires in the east,
Of explorers battling icy winds at the poles.
Of the sun and the stars and the man in the moon,
And the man who walked past this spot long ago.
But I'm still here, and watching new stories stream past,
Flowing around me, with their suitcases worn.
I'm far from sleep, or my own journey's end,
But motion is the stable where true dreams are born.
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Just a bit of messing about with a rhyme:
See the site of this rite, in the sight of what is right.
See the might of the knight shall be a mite to us this night.
His steed of white, see him alight, see him but a wight in the light.
Is thy courage a bight as ye now take flight?
Or will he taste your bite as ye stand and fight?
How does thy soul ignite to face thy plight?
To thy sword or fright will thy heart hold tight?
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One Plus One
When two sit side by side, with naught to say, and naught to think;
When two cannot decide what to do but sit and blink
At the ceiling,
They shall sit there all day,
Unfeeling,
With nothing to say.
And when one sits dejected at home, with naught to do, and naught to speak;
When one feels all alone, and does naught but lie and sleep,
Always dreaming,
Afraid of making a move,
What meaning
Does he have to lose?
But when two sit side by side, with naught to do, and naught to say,
And one stands up and decides what to do is seize the day,
Then two will leave,
Draw some worth from their time,
If they believe
Their own lives they define.
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Stain
The mirror's waiting for you.
Take a glance, from the corner of your eye,
You fear your own reflection.
Take a look, stare in the glass there for a while,
And be surprised at what you see.
A face twisted with the corruption of jealousy and bile.
Wash the bile from your mouth,
And spit the hatred from your tongue, just take a look,
And see that you're no better.
See your dirty self in the mirror's polished light,
And wash yourself in what you see.
Lather in the knowledge you're a creature made of spite.
The mirror will remind you,
And stir thought from the recesses of your mind.
You're not so perfect as you think.
See your taunting finger aiming outwards in riposte,
Pointing, accusing what you see.
The mirror pouring all your hatred back into the host.
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I like it. Reminds me of the Velvet Underground song 'All Tomorrows Parties' in a way.
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Quilted Seduction
The world is silent, and sleep calls my name,
Begging me hence fall into her embrace.
Pull night's blanket over me, come take your claim.
Eyelids slipping to give darkness a taste.
She is my comfort but her love is perverse.
Her hold is gentle and yet binds me enchained.
To wake to feel better, to rise and feel worse,
To keep returning to bed once again.
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Hidden Worlds
Reeds sit at the far end of the pond, quietly alert,
Who knows what may be hiding there within?
Between the twisting alleys of the cracked and broken stalks,
Dark, wet cities where the water fowl is king.
I sit here on the other side; my arm is far too short,
To reach out into that world and to explore.
I kick ripples with my feet, spreading farther out to fade,
But still not enough to guide me to the shore.
Stones I cast, and smooth pebbles; my vanguard skim across,
Never conquering the distance to their goal.
My fleet of branches, sailing ships, float over waters dark,
But at the waves' command they turn aside and roll.
The sky grows dark and orange glow spreads over the pond,
Hiding the secrets of the reed bed from my eye.
I turn away and head for home, the mystery unsolved,
But tomorrow I'll return and have another try.
Perhaps I could have walked around to the distant side,
A simple route to see the nature of that land.
But if I saw what lay where imagination longs to roam,
What then happens to tomorrow's battle plans?
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Fireweaving
Come, brothers and sisters,
And sit with me, friends.
Come sit by my fireplace,
As day reaches its end.
My cup of words overflows;
Come now, each take a sip.
Pass the cup round the fire,
And all share the friendship.
Let me weave you a tapestry,
With these words and the fire.
Let me twist your heart's yarn,
With the strings of my lyre.
As the flames' tongue is the warp,
And my voice draws the weft,
Hear the colour in the verse,
And let the fire tell the rest.
Come, warm yourselves through,
From your hands to your heart.
I'll wrap tales around you,
Threads stitched with my art.
Come, listen to my words,
Do not waste time abed.
Let me weave you a song,
That like fire will spread.
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Rightness of Rule
On the streets, let it be decreed, that no prince was ever king,
That no minstrel seeks to play, except for one who could not sing,
That no man might speak his mind, except for he who had no voice,
That no man might be called to judge, but for he without a choice,
That none should lead his fellows, save for he who could not see,
That none should ever rule but for the slave on bended knee.
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King of the Sea
Perfidious sea, I command ye turn back!
Do not dare ye soak my sovereign feet!
I am thy king, cease thy futile attack,
Encroach not an inch more upon my beach!
Hear my royal proclamation, unruly tide!
Do not dare ye assault thy rightful lord!
Lest I sentence ye for would-be regicide,
And punish thy actions by fire and sword!
Presume not thyself to my justice immune,
Do not dare ye forget the scourge I may wreak!
My war-forged crown with thy memory attune!
To my battle-notched blade is thy surface weak!
As Caligula's legions made thy frail waves subdued,
Do not dare ye doubt that so too shall Canute!
Blood is thicker than water, if ye make it a feud,
Thy sheer liquid shall never royal veins dilute!
Turn back from my throne, I called ye not hither!
Do not dare ye trespass on my kingdom's land!
Get gone from my person, ye oversize river!
Come not without summons to my golden sand!
My advisors do claim that the waves I command,
And so their counsel I shall chance now to heed.
Let me prove that thy waters turn back at my hand,
Thy tide shall not rise where I have not decreed!
Behold my majesty! I am Canute the Great!
King of Danes, English, Norwegians and Swedes!
Northern sea, ye are but my own Danish lake!
Now from thy master's presence, humbly recede!
Perfidious sea, ye flee not? Accept thy defeat!
Dare ye disobey the north's greatest king?
Around my throne lap thy waves, sodden my feet,
Ye mock my royal order to my royal chagrin.
Or thus it would it be, if I dared to believe,
That man's power may compel the might of the sea.
No sycophant courtier shall my wisdom deceive,
A great king sits not well with proud vanity.
Thy waves are not mine - though I sail them at will,
It is thy grace that permits me to do so, not mine!
I am no messiah to command thy waters be still,
I am king only of soil, with no hold over brine.
All my deeds on earth may seem great to we men,
Yet a man too am I, my power far from unbound.
I cannot speak to ye, sea, with authority as then,
It was not over nature that this servant was crowned.
No matter what victories we may deem great things,
I as all men own scarce power or sway.
Let all know how empty and worthless is the power of kings,
None is worthy of the name but whom oceans obey!
-
Grasping at Air
Resting on the horizon, beyond long roads and banks of hills,
Is where the towers dwell, giants like the Spaniard's mills.
The wind engirds and flies between the towers' tallest heights,
But rises higher through the clouds, beyond and out of sight.
See there like a needle rising, a church's pointed spire.
Beyond that a power station where smoke pours from the fire.
A line of trees, their branches bare like fingers reaching high.
A string of metal pylons daisy-chained across the sky.
There spin the spindly silhouettes of a hill-cresting wind farm.
Far higher than Quixote's foes, but lacking half their charm.
Dormant lampposts guard the roads, all ready for the night,
And in the fields, a little boy runs following his kite.
He needs no tall church to seek the heavens; his toy will take him there,
Electricity a needless force, as it flutters freely in the air.
Soaring high above the reach of trees as their thin twigs vainly grasp.
Unlike the pylons' bolted cables, the string flies where'er it's cast.
Allying with the sweeping wind, not capturing its swell,
Not imprisoning it in a windmill to make it something you can sell.
He'll stay here 'til the wind is gone, and never mind the light.
Never mind the reaching Babel towers; he climbs further with his kite.
-
That's lovely.
We should produce an Exilian poetry anthology sometime...
-
Five-Leaved Clover
I found a five-leaved clover, lucky as pure luck can be.
A stem that sprang up young and strong, and spread its leaves for me.
I found another not long after, by luck of the first, perhaps.
These ten leaves I knew would bring me safe through trials and traps.
They chose me as their keeper, of that I'm surely sure.
And to think, I thought their power a myth of fanciful folklore.
But luck they've brought me all these years in all my daily deeds.
My work can never fail if I trust my clovers' each five leaves.
No eldritch magic here at play, they're as natural as the earth.
I found these lucky clovers by me from the moment of my birth.
Aye, I looked there to my sides, and from the stems of my newborn arms,
Grew two young palms, each spread five leaves, and these my lucky charms.
-
Because I've never posted this one here for some reason, and since this week's update was awfully awful, here be one of my best as an additional addition.
Watcher in Heaven
Behold how the cherub stands with wings outstretched on the ramparts of heaven,
As he watches the pale mortals head to prayer, their solemn faces leaden.
He hears the church bells ringing, and pities them for their tone,
Their brazen peal far weaker, far less glorious than his own.
As he stands with wings outstretched.
He stands and views his master's lesser work below, brown and green and grey,
With not half the radiance and divine splendour that he cherishes every day.
Lacking all that makes its people yearn for heavenly grace at death,
For their paltry lives, when compared to his, are but a single breath.
As he stands with wings outstretched.
See how he stands, gazing down, in a single passing glance from on high,
And over the joy and laughter he hears, rises a united, plaintive cry.
The true voice of the multitude, toiling on, throughout their bitter lives,
While the cherub stands in heaven, and in eternal bliss he thrives.
As he stands with wings outstretched.
Behold as his ears hearken the majestic voice of his master's golden call,
A beauty unknown to those below, as their chants echo upon lifeless walls.
A mystery to even those who claim they hear an answer to their prayers,
A pleasure reserved for the archways of heaven and he on the ramparts there.
As he stands with wings outstretched.
No proud sneer can there be seen to sully his face of gleaming light,
His angelic mind pure, untarnished, to please the holy master's sight.
Only pity he feels for man of dullest grey, straining to escape the dragging mire,
And something else hid deep within, as he sees wretched man's yet high desire.
As he stands with wings outstretched.
Behold his feet tremble on the gilded ramparts, as he watches a child play,
He sees men laugh as they drink in sin, and the love of couples in the hay.
He turns his head from his sentinel gaze, and casts a look around,
The white hospital walls of heaven enclose him, high above the ground.
As he stands with wings outstretched.
Now see a silver tear leave his shining eye and tremble down his face,
A tear of envy for the gleaming hope of those who robed in mud still live in faith.
A spark of sin there malingering in the creator's purest work,
A wish for life not robed in white, not kept from worldly hurt.
As he folds his golden wings,
And jumps.
-
YOU ARE AMAZING!! This is try poetry.
-
Thank you very much! :) Wednesday again already, have another:
Translating Life
With perspective learn to translate
The meaningless unto intent.
The purpose of life flows from the well
Which you yourself must plumb.
Take your own hand, lead your own feet
On roads where they are sent.
Without your translation to give voice,
The journey's teachers shall be dumb.
Death the only certain wyrd,
Even birth less oft adhered,
And even these hold no design,
No deeper meaning to be feared.
Wake beneath the sunrise and live
Until you kiss the sunset's glow.
Why should you wonder if the sun shines
For you to feel its beam?
Walk and talk; you have already found
The only fate you need to know.
Speak and let your words the truth reveal,
Your life is no one's scheme.
Your word the only crucial plan,
Not shadowed by intrigue or scam,
No answers here for you to find,
As if this were some lord's exam.
So with perspective seek to translate
Life's plot to your own script.
You must learn to speak this foreign tongue
In words that you create.
Put your mind to work and mysteries
You soon will unencrypt,
And understand this foolish nonsense,
That folk have christened fate.
-
Very inspirational song... You made me think about life and my dreams that have yet to be fulfilled...
These are my favorite lines :
"The purpose of life flows from the well
Which you yourself must plumb.
Take your own hand, lead your own feet
On roads where they are sent."
"Why should you wonder if the sun shines
For you to feel its beam?
Walk and talk; you have already found
The only fate you need to know."
We sometimes truly need to stop thinking about things that burden us and admire the real beauty of life...
But we can't wait for some special sign or God knows what. We are the creators of our destiny.
That's why I took a break from everything a few months ago and started living with a new philosophy : enjoying the little things in my life...
I've changed a lot since then and now I'm a much better better person.
+rep !
EDIT : Woah, this is actually my 1,500th post !
-
You are truly amazing. Not even I can write this good.
-
Glad you both like it. Silver Wolf, always pleased to hear something I've written has made someone think. The majority of my poems do have some philosophical element and/or message, though of course like anything it is always open to the readers' interpretation. Good to have it appreciated, anyway.
That's why I took a break from everything a few months ago and started living with a new philosophy : enjoying the little things in my life...
I've changed a lot since then and now I'm a much better better person.
Yeah, I did something similar. It is that matter of "perspective"
-
Plot Execution
Lay my head on the writer's block
And bring the axe crashing down.
Hope to bring me some inspiration
From the axehead's ringing sound.
May words flow mingled with my blood
From my neck's stump to the page.
Better this way to induce some plot
Than sit mindless 'til old age.
-
Viennese Chess
The music begins with a tap of the foot,
And the dancers glide out across the floor.
With a bow and a curtsy, and hand in gloved hand,
In double file procession, as if to war.
The waltzing parade pours over the room,
Flowing like water through a river's weir.
Elegant grace and a surgeon's precision,
Spinning like blades and leaping like deer.
In pairs they whirl, each to their own dance,
But in synchronised steps they cohere and unite.
The men tall and smart in long black dinner suits,
Their fair partners swirling in ballgowns of white.
Like chess pieces battling on the chequered floor,
The tiles divided into boards, eight by eight.
Each white maiden a queen, each black warrior a king,
Each queen entrapping her partner - checkmate.
(inspired by this) (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AYBwaFkbSdw)
-
In Black and Blue
Lights flash in the darkness.
Drums pound in my head.
Feet leap on the dance floor.
The room is alive.
And I see you there across the throng,
With blue eyes dark and black hair long.
And I'm drawn to the blue strip around your wrist,
Glowing as your hands sway and your body twists.
The music pours over, and I watch it dance with you.
Dancing, dancing in black and blue.
Your body twists in the darkness.
Your smile plays with my head.
Your feet slide on the dance floor.
You are alive.
You are alive in my mind as I watch you there,
Seeing you move to the music without a care.
Black shoes tap the floor as the black hair sways,
The black of your dress lithely hugging your waist.
Blue lights wash over the crowd and so through.
Dancing, dancing in black and blue.
But then you move in the darkness.
You turn your head.
Your feet leave the dance floor,
And the room is dead.
I'm no longer alive.
The door swings behind your sudden retreat,
And I follow you down to the cold black street.
All I can think is "Don't leave! Dance all night!"
Only offered adoration, never hoped to bring fright.
But you flee, and your bracelet drops like a glass shoe,
Spinning, dancing in black and blue.
I give chase through the darkness.
Spirals blur in my head.
My feet pound on the floor.
I need you alive.
Your body so graceful and quick in the dance,
Yet unsuited to run, never standing a chance.
My hand seizes your arm and your dancing feet slip,
Tumbling hard to the ground as you strain at my grip.
Your blue eyes open wide as you crumple askew,
Dancing, dancing in black and blue.
Your neck twists in the darkness.
A trickle spills from your head.
Your feet splay on the floor.
Are you alive?
Or dead?
My lips too transfixed to speak a word,
But in my head, my terrible answer is heard.
Until joined by another that blares in my ear,
A cutting wail, screeches unfaltered and clear.
Lights flash in the darkness where I kneel by you,
Lights dancing, dancing, dancing.
Dancing in black and blue.
-
With Every Beat
With every beat of a broken heart,
The fragments cut in deep,
With every dream of a hopeless tomorrow,
Every night of restless sleep.
With every note of a mournful song,
The music disappears,
As with every step on a weary road,
The path is filled with tears.
Each mottled stone that paves the way,
A mountain to be passed,
Each mote of grit under tired feet,
More painful than the last.
Each wooden gate creaking in the wind,
A familiar eerie cry,
And each bolt that falls into its place,
Another hard goodbye.
One more clock that strikes twelfth hour,
Another day escaped,
One more wheel of earth to hide the past away,
Behind a curtain draped.
One more clapper's blow against the bell,
Ringing with the heart,
As one more pulse darting through red blood,
A sting, a needle sharp.
Never silence yet no sound is heard,
Except to keep the time,
Never free from the notes of the fading song,
The lyrics' fading rhyme.
Never a salve for the spreading cracks,
Or a cure to seal them shut,
And never a light to guide the way,
To an end.
-
Stealing the Breath of a Mountain God
I wonder how does grass grow
On the shores of a volcano,
Risen out of boiling oceans,
To offer newborn land?
Do the humble green grass stems
Know their home may evict them,
With no good reason but the anger,
That churns in magma glands?
Do the sheep that graze the grass,
Notice it tastes like sulphur gas,
Or that the shepherd boy who watches
Has a tremor in his hand?
Is there a farmer in the town
Who goes to fetch his livestock down,
And sees something in the flock's eyes
That he seems to understand?
Is there a widow weaving wool,
Who can't resist the mountain's pull,
Who stares upwards at its rocky slope
As she twists the coloured strands?
Where does the merchant's vision wait,
As he loads his ship with freight,
And sails off around the shore line,
Passing by the pumice sand?
Does he tell the foreign folk
His home island breathes out smoke,
The forge chimney of a blacksmith god,
Or pyre of the damned?
When he returns with cargo sold,
What does he do with all the gold,
That he earned from the volcano
And its wares, in distant lands?
Does he pay back to the vent
All he borrowed and was lent,
Or does he steal and all he trades,
He sells as contraband?
Is the merchant's heavy debt,
Ever at long last offset,
Or does he live in constant service
To his creditor's demand?
Does he ever climb the slope,
To see whenceforth comes his hope,
Or does he linger by the waters
Lapping calmly on the strand?
Will he know what took his home,
When the mountain claims its own,
And bursts forth like a bailiff,
To repossess the borrowed land?
-
That last one is nice, it sounds like a reference to Pompeii to me.
-
The initial inspiration came from the Minoan eruption of Thera, but there is a bit of Pompeii in there too.
-
Hunter of the Sun
Sun-chasing Sköll, you pursue the sun's rays,
And break the silver clouds with your pounding paws.
Running blinkered through the sky, in deathly hunt of your prey,
Pouring rain on below from your slathering jaws.
Wolf, you seek to destroy what illumines the world,
And yearn the mindless satisfaction of devouring a star.
Though you can never succeed, and your dream is absurd,
In rabid lust you press on to the greed of your heart.
This light was once named, by divine Caesar, Sol Invictus;
The unconquerable sun, and yet still you bound on.
With what eternal vigour, you fear no seizure, nor ictus,
A grim hunter blinded by the heady scent of the dawn.
The hunt leads you far, far beyond the horizon;
Led around the whole world, still no nearer your goal.
The gap between you and your game never narrows, nor widens,
As your chase settles more to a steady patrol.
Perhaps one day you may end your pursuit,
As Fimbulwinter snows cascade thick on the fields.
Until then chase on, hungry wolf, with your lean back hirsute,
Keep the great sun moving with your jaws at her heels.
-
NB: I felt like writing something more metrical, and so this ballad is written in pantoum format. Each stanza has 4 lines, each line 8 syllables. Lines two and four of each stanza become lines one and three of the next. Officially, it should also be in an ABBA rhyme scheme, but since this is so devilishly tricky to achieve, especially so the longer the poem gets, none but the best writers have ever bothered with this part of the definition. Preface aside, I give you:
Ballad of the Boy Who Sought the Hiding Maiden
The boy called out the maiden's name,
Through all the winding village streets,
But no reply or footstep came,
From any corner they might meet.
Through all the winding village streets,
He ran and scoured the place around,
From any corner they might meet,
Searching for sight or mildest sound.
He ran and scoured the place around,
He stood still in the market square,
Searching for sight or mildest sound,
One glimpse of braided golden hair.
He stood still in the market square,
And there reflected in his eye,
One glimpse of braided golden hair,
Hiding behind a merchant's dye.
And there reflected in his eye,
His maiden caught, the chase at end,
Hiding behind a merchant's dye;
He darted forward to his friend.
His maiden caught, the chase at end,
A wily prey for him to find,
He darted forward to his friend,
And found an empty space behind.
A wily prey for him to find,
He whirled his head around once more,
And found an empty space behind,
A yellow ribbon on the floor.
He whirled his head around once more,
Looking for his elusive game,
A yellow ribbon on the floor;
The boy knew the young owner's name
Looking for his elusive game,
A pair of hands clasped o'er his eyes.
The boy knew the young owner's name;
He had been captured by his prize.
A pair of hands clasped o'er his eyes,
He now was freed and led away.
He had been captured by his prize;
She gave him a new game to play.
He now was freed and led away,
Away from all the village streets.
She gave him a new game to play,
And onward danced their playful feet.
Away from all the village streets,
To forest's dappled shade they fled.
And onward danced their playful feet,
Beneath where swaying branches spread.
To forest's dappled shade they fled;
They ran together through the trees,
Beneath where swaying branches spread;
Where leaves swung from the green trapeze.
They ran together through the trees;
Therein they found the greatest oak,
Where leaves swung from the green trapeze,
Ivy clung like a living cloak.
Therein they found the greatest oak
The boy stretched and of branch took hold.
Ivy clung like a living cloak,
His hands hung to the meshwork folds.
The boy stretched and of branch took hold,
He clambered up with boyish vim.
His hands hung to the meshwork folds,
And leapt unto tree's wooden limb.
He clambered up with boyish vim;
The maiden followed in his style,
And leapt unto tree's wooden limb,
With volant grace and ludic smile.
The maiden followed in his style;
As one they left the bole behind.
With volant grace and ludic smile,
Onwards and up the tree they climbed.
As one they left the bole behind;
Along the forest king's thick branch.
Onwards and up the tree they climbed,
They laughed and played and did not blanch.
Along the forest king's thick branch,
The young boy's friend shinned on ahead,
They laughed and played and did not blanch,
As further up the tree she led.
The young boy's friend shinned on ahead;
She called to him a puckish tease,
As further up the tree she led;
Her hair blew in the autumn breeze.
She called to him a puckish tease,
From highest point of the great oak,
Her hair blew in the autumn breeze,
As suddenly the tree branch broke.
From highest point of the great oak,
Tease turned to cry of disbelief,
As suddenly the tree branch broke;
Fair maid fell tumbling like a leaf.
Tease turned to cry of disbelief;
The boy froze at the chilling sound.
Fair maid fell tumbling like a leaf,
A painful crack, she hit the ground.
The boy froze at the chilling sound,
Close to falling in sharp surprise.
A painful crack, she hit the ground;
She disappeared before his eyes.
Close to falling in sharp surprise,
He made the journey down alone.
She disappeared before his eyes,
Nowhere he saw her body prone.
He made the journey down alone,
And as hard as one boy might try,
Nowhere he saw her body prone,
Nor heard any weak whimpered cry.
And as hard as one boy might try,
He never found where his maid fell.
Nor heard any weak whimpered cry,
No laugh to break him from his spell.
He never found where his maid fell,
Searching onwards for all of time.
No laugh to break him from his spell,
Never another tree to climb.
Searching onwards for all of time,
He roamed until he turned insane.
Never another tree to climb,
The boy called out the maiden's name.
-
Kármán Line
Do not strain for perfection,
When the struggle will tear you apart.
A broken will is trampled into nothing,
However far along the road it lies.
But neither should you recline,
And refuse to do your part,
Simply work hard at what you know,
And fly as high as you may rise.
Run the race as far you can,
Once the flag is waved to start,
But do not tear yourself in two,
To attain an empty prize.
Do not drift with rudder loose,
With no course plotted on your chart,
Nor let yourself become another Icaros,
Falling from the skies.
-
Harlot's Prayer
The liquid dribbled down her pocked and mud-stained cheek,
Beneath the stare of the cassocked priest whose spit she wore.
"Harlot!" came the cry from his harsh and wizened face,
"Devil's daughter! Get away from me, foul whore!"
He spat again with venom from his pursed, fissured lips,
And crossed his chest against her wanton, wicked ways.
He left her standing as tears mingled with his spit,
Ridding himself of this wretched girl's malaise.
She trembled on the cobbled street, afraid to move again,
To return to where she crouched in alley's damp and gloom.
Where she had slept and begged all the years she could recall,
And plied the shameful trade the priest did so impugn.
How many years she'd lived there, she didn't even know,
Not even had she known how to count the long years' months.
And counting would a curse have been, to number every knave,
Who used her cruelly to make him feel puissant.
All who passed the street knew just how she made her way,
The baker always frowned as she bought a piece of bread.
The filthy godless girl that heaven punished for her sin,
The rancid vagrant bitch, the whore without a bed.
And every night, when finally the devils let her be,
And perchance might leave her with a sordid copper coin,
She wept herself to sleep and hoped to wake up from her hell,
Wishing the bruising pain would leave her ravaged loins.
The priest, she'd prayed, would rise above the vicious rats,
Who plagued her life and yet to whom she loathly owed her keep.
A glimmer, perhaps, of hope to end her stinking misery,
To offer grace, to heal the scars, and sores that seeped.
But the only light that shone reflected from the golden cross,
That hung as a gaudy pendant from this priest's neck.
No beam of kindness streamed out from the corner of his eye,
Nor was generosity a jewel that him bedecked.
He looked down with disgust as she crept out and approached,
The filthy harlot who dared to address a holy priest.
She grovelled before him praying for a benign gift of alms,
But he saw nothing in her but a mangy, cowering beast.
He raised his hand as if to strike, then held it back from her,
To keep his lavendered fingers from the harlot's smut.
He spat at her, as if to flick holy water on her face,
To all her desperate pleadings, his contemptuous rebut.
She felt no disgrace, as all such shame had long since fled away,
And took her punishment as the priest cursed her with his jeers.
His spew of sickened hate complete, he spurnfully swept on,
Leaving cries of "Harlot!" ringing fiercely in her ears.
And there she stood, alone again, abandoned to her fate,
As gathered crowds hied quick away with bashful haste.
And there she stood, cast back from this encounter,
To her constant torture and her business so debased.
From there, who knows what became of a poor harlot's prayer,
And if an answer ever came to lift her from her pit.
If she lived another day, a week, a month, even a year,
Or if she drowned in righteous pools of churchman's spit.
She'd been to mass just once in all her awful life,
And listened to the sermon of the priest who spoke.
He'd told of a good Samaritan's charity and care,
As she stood in tattered rags behind the gentle folk.
In awe she'd paid attention to the leather Bible's words,
Rapt with amazement at the stranger's worthy deeds.
But a verger saw the harlot there with mud upon her feet.
And cast her from the church with the ungodly weeds.
She often wished that she'd been born in ancient Samaria,
For she'd heard tell that at least one good man lived there.
And to her that kindly stranger seemed to be one good man more,
Than she'd ever heard to chant the good Lord's Prayer.
-
And now for something completely different.
Moonbeast
Each month, I go into my garden and kneel.
Once each month, as the yellow moon is revealed,
I kneel. I kneel and I wait for the worst.
I feel it come to me slowly, becoming the curse.
I feel the fur bristle from my back first,
I feel the claws from my fingers burst,
I feel the snout growing from my face.
I feel the whiskers on my cheeks,
The tail springing from my spine's base.
Agony, twisting my physique.
Twisting. Shrinking.
And I feel the hunger.
Desperate, unrelenting lust.
This insatiable desire, for cheese.
I've no control, I just know I must
Do as my twitching nose decrees.
I raise myself on my wee hind legs,
And I squeak mournfully at the cheddar moon.
I am the were-mouse, doomed for all eternity.
Doomed to live my nights cursed in obscurity.
I'm a goddamned mouse. I'm a freaking cartoon.
-
That certainly was different, but interesting, made me laugh about desiring cheese because I'm sitting in a cheese factory right now. 8)
-
Nom, cheese. :D
-
Trophy
We held our prize aloft,
As it shone against the sun.
We bore it all around the field,
Where we had proudly won.
A hard fight had we upraised,
To our opponents' shame.
We shattered their defences,
And beat them at their game.
Our feet charged across the grass,
And the victory we stole.
We hammered back every attack,
And pressed on to our goal.
Red ribbons hanging down,
As we held it high to sing
The proof here of our triumph.
Head of the enemy king.
-
The Teeming Dark
I fear the dark; who does not, as they ought?
Such fear is a lesson which need not be taught.
We come from a world of darkness when hatched,
And spend our lives seeking to never go back.
The darkness is where shadowed mysteries roam,
No colour reflects from the ink of the gloam,
And to our unskilled eyes, nothing is known.
We become children in the absence of light,
As the sun abandons us to our lonely fright,
Alone with ourselves in the empty night.
We become children, not because we scream,
For our mothers to come to our aid,
Nor because our clothes become soiled;
We are not so pitifully afraid.
For we are grown old, and have flown the nest.
We can face the fear with calm,
Holding the terror close to our chest
Where the heart beats with alarm.
Yet we are children, who know nothing.
Like a newborn, our eyes are blind.
We cannot see or know what lies beyond,
But in the wild imagery of our minds.
And thus we envision all the worst that might creep,
What skulks at the summit of the dark night's peak,
Waiting to drop from delusion's cliff face steep.
We pray like children, who know no god.
We pray to no father, no altar before us.
A child prays, though he knows not whom to.
He releases his fears and he pleads with his chorus.
We kneel and we pray, with hands clasped tight,
Pray that nothing waits beyond the spread of the light.
That the darkness is empty, with nothing to fear,
That nothing ghastly is anywhere near.
But my prayers are different to these banishing spells,
For what will fill the black void if they succeed?
I pray for the night to be thick with all night's risks,
All the terrors we know the darkness bleeds.
Let the dark be filled with horrors, creatures that crawl.
Silent hunters and beasts, snares and pitfalls.
I know that I face these in the daylight hours,
I can see them not then, and I do not then cower.
I fear them not now in the shroud of dark,
Indeed, I am glad to be sure they are there,
For it is when we face the empty unknown,
That we should know to truly beware.
-
The Artist
The artist is no Gaia standing in our midst.
The artist does not create.
The artist captures what already exists,
And puts it on display.
He is a hunter, a seeker,
A menagerie-keeper.
The artist interprets for his fellow
Who has no ears to hear or no eyes to see.
He is a translator of foreign tongues
For those who speak less fluently.
A scribe to take down the volumes
That the world dictates to him.
He finds a way to tell a deaf man
The notes a mistle thrush may sing.
The artist has no gift to bring,
For all he offers, he was given.
One does not make a living through art.
Art is made through living.
-
Lies and Legends
If you have a moment of your time I could beg,
Would you say a legend is the end of a leg?
And is the end of a leg not a foot?
A story's a lie, and they say those are fleet,
Can travel half the world on their nimble feet,
Before the truth has pulled on one boot.
-
Mortal Sin
Do you hear? Alarum bells are ringing,
Harsh through the air of Friday's fading light.
Clear, cast-iron testimonies singing,
A villain to be brought to heel this night.
Send out the guards! Call all the watch to arms!
A mortal sin now hangs above this town.
Quick, 'fore the devil follows with more harm,
Bring the culprit to justice by the hounds!
A sinner once, a sinner twice, a sinner e'er to be,
Savaged by flame-eyed hounds of hell for all eternity.
Do you smell that unholy rising stench?
The torrid scent of burning flesh abides.
The ling'ring witness to this vile offense,
And now the way to sinner's lair will guide.
Guards! Seek the oven that yielded this sin,
Its maker who has sacred law so spurned.
Scatter the ashes of the flame within,
Let this defiant heretic now burn.
A sinner once, a sinner twice, a sinner e'er to be,
Within the pits of hell to burn for all eternity.
Do you see? Bones decorate the platter,
Like pagan cleromancy here at work.
Would that witchcraft were the crucial matter,
This crime might not cause so much disconcert.
But look here and see these are no fishbones,
Nor are these scraps of flesh from herring wrought.
No, here is sin for which none can atone,
Bold defiance of all that has been taught.
A sinner once, a sinner twice, a sinner e'er to be,
Bones to be picked apart in hell for all eternity.
Do you know the pain that will await you,
When your stubborn soul is to hell condemned?
Can you conceive the torment that is due,
For heresy so froward and so fremd?
To sup meat on Friday is forbidden,
Your disobedience a mortal sin.
From holy eyes sin cannot be hidden,
Enough berating! Let torture begin!
A sinner once, a sinner twice, a sinner e'er to be,
Savaged by the hellhounds, bones to be picked apart and chewed,
Skin seared from the body, and living flesh as meat then hewed,
And cast into the fire to burn for all eternity.
-
Ziqqurats
Before you can build you must first destroy,
But not all destruction may be rebuilt.
Real building blocks are no child's toy,
And to topple them beckons adult guilt.
As a boy I built mighty ziqqurats -
Mighty as a boy's mind can understand.
But wooden blocks little higher than flat,
To my eyes like monoliths in the sand.
As if raised up from the desert itself,
By architect gods to adorn their earth.
Arazu, looking down from mountain's shelf,
Poured blessings upon the completed work.
Now I stand tall over old bricks cast down.
Ziqqurats fallen where they once stood proud.
-
Inheritance
A throne needs more than an orphaned prince to seat a worthy king,
More than a widow's tears to teach him how to rule.
It takes more than a pretty beak to train a bird to sing,
And more than coloured glass to make a jewel.
-
Climbing the Sky
Sunrays pierce the sky, painting it blue,
And dive into jewelled ocean below.
They shimmer and swim from middle to rim,
Reflect in the eyes of clipper's crew,
Dance and sparkle with the waters' flow.
The light lingers at the ocean's swell,
At the surface, away from the deep,
As if to be so afraid, or as though
To miss the heavens from which they fell,
And ever close to those great heights keep.
But the waters know a higher place,
Where they were once born and fled away,
Far off to the north, where rivers rush forth,
To join the ocean and end their race,
Where spinning dolphins leap and make play.
Aye, for each droplet in this expanse,
Has travelled just as far as the light.
Come down from a bay, where dolphins make play,
The water sprays as they twirl and dance,
Sunrays glisten with joy at the sight.
Before that, they flowed from Ganges' yawn,
A green delta sprawling over the land.
And further upstream, fresh water runs clean,
By the Koshi river's current borne
From a world where the mountains command.
An eagle flies over the water,
A black shadow that moves with the course.
His wings beat the air, climbing heaven's stair,
The blue line below him grows shorter,
As his flight leads him nearer the source.
Into snowy Himalayan realm,
The eagle pilots on golden wings,
Over mountain range, a dominion strange,
The white crest of Mother Gaia's helm,
Proud pinnacles standing tall like kings.
But though he sweeps beside the rock face,
To his nest near the roof of the earth,
The great peaks tower beyond his power,
Among soaring draughts he cannot chase,
High ledges where he cannot make berth.
And there one rises, greatest of all,
More than fifty cathedrals in height.
The mountain of kings, in silent voice sings;
Everest holds mankind in her thrall,
In coronation gown of pure white.
Chomolungma, the holy mother,
The rocky head in the great blue sky.
Sagarmatha's face, in white snow encased,
Here rising above any other,
Surveys the land with arrogant eye.
The rocks here spoke first, before man's tongue,
And know their own name in their own speech.
How does man have claim to give them their name?
Before the walk of man had begun,
The mountains had grown out of his reach.
Below, the eagle soars round her skirt,
And spies small figures climbing the sky,
A ladder of stone, scaling heaven's throne,
Foolish apes choosing with death to flirt,
Though they hardly know reason or why.
A simple lust that is man's disease,
To stand on all the places most high,
However inane, how harsh the terrain,
Just as monkeys hunger for the trees,
And the sunlight still clings to the sky.
But look you above where clouds parade,
And above where the mountaintops soar,
Where the sky spans on to stars and beyond,
Looks back down to the mountains, displayed,
And thinks them to be mighty no more.
There is the truth - even Everest grand
Is but a tiny leap off the ground,
Compared to how high is the endless sky,
Or how low is the sea floor's sand,
And the throne where Poseidon was crowned.
But you cannot breathe in oceans deep;
A fool you would be to even try.
You cannot stride proud on a silver cloud;
The sky may far dwarf the mountains steep,
But you cannot stand on the sky.
-
Wild Flower
Is not nature a sure and brazen whore,
As she welcomes the striped gentlemen into her bower?
To take heady delight in her petals so bright,
And the sweet nectar deep in her flower.
Is the bee not a varlet who abuses the harlot,
And carries the scent of many flowers on his legs?
He turns the delicate bloom into a seed's cocoon,
And leaves the mother to raise the child unwed.
Oh, you'd be a fool, to not see nature is as cruel,
As the humans who think her manner so pure.
And you'd be far misled, to think the tulips red,
Aught more innocent than the two lips of a whore.
-
Nature is such a whore. 8)
-
The Well-Known Stranger
I have heard you speaking, not to me.
I have heard the thoughts that you speak aloud.
I have watched your face on the box's screen.
I have read the works you have written down.
I know your name and your child's age.
I know the town where you make your home.
I know how your signature sweeps the page.
I know how you laugh and how you groan.
But we have never seen into each other's eyes,
Or laughed together as good friends do.
I have never clasped your hand in mine,
Or said a word to you.
-
Thats kinda creepy :|
-
But there are literally hundreds of strangers that are well-known to all of us. 'tis the world we live in. ;)
Well done, Andalus.
-
The Culver and the Culverin
The peaceful trees were full of culvers' song,
A cooing chorus, carried perch to perch.
A softness like the wind blowing in the calm,
A sound without a sight to meet the search.
On the wide plain there lay a quiet city,
Likewise peaceful, as the calm before the storm,
Imposing walls gathered skyward all around,
Protecting the belly of her silent sleeping form.
But sleep must always be awoken soon,
And so came the alarm to mark the morn.
Through the woods there came a rumbling din,
Shaking slumber from the grey mist of the dawn.
The peaceful trees were filled with clanking steel,
And the lumbering roll of cannon wheels.
The softness of the culvers' wind-like song,
Drowned out by the drumming of boot heels.
And a harsher wind blew through the woods;
Horses' whinny and sergeants' booming bawl.
The culvers flew up from the canopy;
Their distress, that morning's cockerel call.
The yawns of sentries on the parapets,
Fast became cries of alarm and disbelief.
First they saw the startled flock's ascent,
And then the marching columns dark, beneath.
Forth from the trees the stepping soldiers streamed,
And fanned out like the culvers' feathered wings.
For what reason they marched not one man full knew,
Only that they sung the song of dukes and kings.
And as they spread around the disturbed burg,
It was the burghers turn to bustle in alarm.
While in the once more peaceful woods,
The culvers settled back to sing in calm.
And as the city now hurried to defend,
The culvers simply accustomed to this new state.
Perched upon their branches like a theatre's balcony,
While barricades were hastened to the gate.
But one youthful bird, his interest piqued,
Followed the invaders as they prepared for siege.
He flew back and forth over the men at arms,
Like a general making inspection of them each.
As they busied themselves like worker ants,
The culver oversaw as the labour progressed.
The soldiers carried forth wicker and earth,
And seemed to construct a giant nest.
And into this nest they ushered their nestling,
A great culverin, fifteen feet in length.
The bronze of its barrel marked with many rings,
And it' bulk an emblem of its strength.
But the culver knew nothing of such things,
For birds are rarely in artillery schooled.
He flew down to perch upon a wicker basket,
For the nature of this nestling left him fooled.
The culverin's keepers returned before long,
The culver watched with keen eye in grey head,
As they stood at the mouth of the hungry beast,
And with all manner of fodder he was fed.
The culver felt pride he'd been right to inquire,
For his greed was now ignited by this sight.
He flapped over to where the cannon hulked,
Head bobbing and bowing as if to seem polite.
If so well they nourished this culverin,
Then surely it could spare crumbs for a bird?
He sang greetings warmly to the brazen beast,
But his petitions seemed to go unheard.
But no youth's curiosity is easily swayed,
And unruffled he hopped up onto the spine.
The bronze was cold to his thorn-toed feet,
And the culverin was movelessly benign.
By the lack of complaint or sharp rebuke,
The culver felt he'd made gain of a friend,
But perhaps his friend could not hear him call,
So he scuttered along to balance on the end.
The bore was barely a fifth inch across,
Not enough for a culver's stocky frame.
He called down into the barrel's darkness,
But still no reply to his greeting came.
But then as he gazed down into the gloomy duct,
The culver heard an unfamiliar sound.
With a roar, at last the culverin spoke,
And feathers fluttered gently to the ground.
-
This poem was inspired by this picture (http://a6.sphotos.ak.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ak-snc6/283149_10150274482197430_830962429_7625867_5204342_n.jpg) which my friend took about midnight on his visit to Norway this summer.
Fjord
The beauty of the delicate buds flowering,
The grandeur of the rugged peaks towering,
The glistening glaze of fjord waters that run,
The light of the never-setting northern sun,
Down through pinkish midnight clouds glowering.
-
I've held off on posting this one for a while, since I wasn't quite sure about it. Hopefully it makes sense.
The Solution to Legality
If you want equality,
Don't legalise gay marriage.
Instead, ban every marriage union.
If you want sobriety,
Don't legalise marijuana.
Instead, ban alcohol and the communion.
If you want serenity,
Don't legalise guns.
Instead, ban knives and forks.
If you want morality,
Don't legalise brothels.
Instead, ban intercourse.
If you want peace,
Don't demand democracy.
Instead, ban all humanity.
No one will ever complain,
With no more human vanity.
Subtract human hostility,
And the world will find
The dart of tranquility.
Eternal peace of mind.
-
Eve
His eyes hold you locked in his enticing gaze,
This man that would your heart deceive.
His proffered hand a branch thick with thorns,
An apple hanging for you, his Eve.
Naked are your thoughts in his piercing eye,
But you feel no shame in your innocent mind.
His eyes hold you locked in his reptile gaze,
Servant to the serpent round his prey entwined.
-
Quarry
Is it unusual to see strudel
As a scenic rock formation?
The veins of time cut open,
In a geological cross-section.
Layers of apple and apricot and pastry,
A history rich and fruitful,
Stratified and categorised:
The archeology of strudel.
A flowing highland stream
Permeates through the cracks
Where the crust reveals its virgin core;
The white rush of fresh cream
Over the baked cliff's precipice
Into a waterfall's porcelain gorge.
But as always goes the deed,
Once the beauty has been seen,
Examined and explored,
The blade that shows no stain
Strikes down and down with greed,
Until only crumbs remain.
-
The Composer
He lays his child gently on the clean white sheets,
Dressed in newly-tailored costume of black ink.
The cradle cries with infant notes, unsure and weak,
Reflecting the doubt in the hesitant father's blink.
He stands in the darkened wings, his presence unknown,
Watching his precious darling prodded and adored.
A tear cradles his eye to see his child grown,
As he waits to hear the tune of her first word.
He holds his breath as the players look for command,
His fingers shake and he nervously starts to sway.
The baton twirls to life in the conductor's hand,
And the waiting orchestra begins to play.
-
Elephant
An elephant is walking through the sky
Across the lonely veld of blue.
His breath blows the wrinkles on his side
Over the tiled red of roofs.
Like the whorls and spirals of fingertips
That sign their motif on all they touch,
The elephant smears the sky with his print,
His trunk grasping the hair-tailed brush.
Crude murals born of lumbering upheaval,
By an interloper's lone stampede.
As the elephant blunders into the easel,
The frowning contours of grey that leave
Even the newest calf's hide stained
Mark a dry canvas with wet paint.
-
Finish Line
If I was the final tiger,
Last of the line, the only one,
And you held in your hand a gun
Towards me,
If I roared and began to run
Towards you,
To tear your breath away,
Would you dare to press the trigger,
And stare death the other way?
-
Dance Until You Bleed
Will you come now to the dance floor?
Will you let your feet leap without heed?
Will you welcome the music under your skin?
Will you dance until you bleed?
Will you dance until your heels are sore?
Will you forget to ever let your lungs breathe?
Will you ignore red sweat as you reel and fling?
Will you dance until you bleed?
Will you run with me through the grass fields?
Will you sway like a waterside reed?
Will you sing to the sky, throw your soul to the wind?
Will you dance until you bleed?
Will you let your feet know what your heart feels?
Will you answer the longing that pleads?
Will you give all your life, let your whole body sing?
Will you dance until you bleed?
There is a rhythm and dance, in every day,
In every chance, every move, every play -
Will you cast off your needs and lead me away?
Will you dance until you bleed?
-
Jack
Jack, how many will starve tonight
In the light of your hollowed-out Hallowe'en?
How many will sup on pumpkin soup?
How many will scrape gold into the bin?
When grinning demons have taken their fill,
How long will you last when your lantern has dimmed?
-
Seven Billion and One
What's one hundred percent
Of seven billion?
I'll tell you: it's seven,
Times a thousand, times a million.
It's how many humans
Are at this moment alive,
Each one as different
As a leopard's hide.
You can't change your spots,
But you can change your ways -
See, beyond the difference,
That we're all the same.
There's no ninety-nine
And there's no one percent.
There's just you, just another
Homo sapiens sapiens.
The wise wise man, so wise
They had to name him twice,
But is wisdom to keep taking
And to never mind the price?
Just stop, for a moment,
As another child is born,
The newest of your siblings,
Seven billion and one.
Hear the cry of that child
Braving a new world's shores,
And hear his or her voice
Is just as loud as yours.
Stop your shouting and chanting,
Your babbling and debate,
And listen to a speaker
That's never learned to hate.
Disband every faction
And tear down every fence,
And greet the newest fraction
Of one hundred percent.
-
"All hail the speaker of no hatred!"
"Let us make him our leader!"
"We shall obey his command!"
"What does the speaker say to his people?"
"The speaker... demands... toilet training!"
:P
It's a good poem, though the rhythm scheme feels off in places - "Homo sapiens sapiens", for example.
-
It's a good poem, though the rhythm scheme feels off in places - "Homo sapiens sapiens", for example.
Maybe that was deliberate! Maybe it was to symbolise that our species is out of rhythm!
Or maybe it wasn't... WE MAY NEVER KNOW.
-
Maybe... maybe I can't wait for you next one. :)
-
This is pretty much a nonsense poem, but feel free to make sense of it if you will.
Wayside Man
He stood with one leg in the air,
Beside a road that led nowhere.
A lonely, beaten, hilltop lane,
That rose straight up and down again.
He stood with one leg in the air,
His face was covered by his hair.
His teeth were brown, his clothes were worn,
His naked feet were ripped and torn.
He stood with one leg in the air,
Where silent crowds climbed up to stare
With faces blank and lips all still.
He stood one-legged on the hill.
He stood with one leg in the air
And spoke to all who'd gathered there.
"A question seems to come from you,
An answer in return is due,
The answer that I'm sure you beg.
Why do I stand here on one leg?"
He stood with two legs on the floor
And bade them question him no more.
-
It makes some sense. It's not completely nonsense
-
Autumn Rust
The ground is stained with rust,
Where the poison has leaked out,
To spoil all the world with red decay.
Hopeless cogs now squat and wither,
No longer spinning, shine all gone,
Longing for a remembered better day.
(http://i276.photobucket.com/albums/kk40/AndalusMan/Autumn Rust/th_100_4876.jpg) (http://s276.photobucket.com/albums/kk40/AndalusMan/Autumn%20Rust/?action=view¤t=100_4876.jpg)
-
I just love how you can write a poem about almost anything. What about a poem about The Hill? ;D
-
Carpet Shop
"Quality wool rich twist in twelve natural flecked shades",
"An inspirational carpet collection" eager to kiss your feet
With names like Crossland Berber, Lima Twist, Rustic Retreat.
Carpets from the finest of designers from Rugeley to Milan.
The apogee, the apex, the zenith, the... quite nice,
In rolls displayed and laid out where you can't quite see the price.
In earthy speckled hues infused as if you dwelt in a mud hut,
Or Arabesque or Ottoman or Persian if it'll please
To pretend you pay the rent of scented palaces in the east
And weren't living in a two by two with a microwave and a cat,
Two stops from the back end of nowhere, twinned with hell,
To stare through condensation until Satan rings your bell.
-
I like it. I got a bit lost in the last paragraph though.
-
Evening's Flight
The evening falters away, backstepping
Nervously into the night,
Tearfully, unwillingly,
As the nightingale weeps goodbye.
The dusk is afraid of the dark,
Flickering like a hummingbird,
Like Ingrid Bergman stuck in pause,
Trying to turn away.
An echo etched into a woodcut,
Rolled out in black and white
And smudged, that farewell across the pale,
Trembling horizon,
Running down in sobbing sunset,
As the evening flees away.
The last fingers of light linger
And clouds slip over the glass moon
That's left behind.
-
Leaves
Sleeping on water, just as on dry ground,
The leaves do not care for where they are found.
They fly only because they've been set free,
To roam, find any home away from the tree.
-
Clockwork
Earlier today, I bought a wooden clockwork clock,
Prized away from the dusty shelf in a cluttered charity shop.
Now I see it still says two and the crooked hands still stay
Where I left them, when I set them, earlier today.
So it seems this clock doesn't work and refuses to sing
With a tick or a tock - but it's still a pretty thing.
(http://i276.photobucket.com/albums/kk40/AndalusMan/th_100_5068.jpg) (http://s276.photobucket.com/albums/kk40/AndalusMan/100_5068.jpg)
-
This one still has much room for improvement, but I want to post it while it is still topical.
Sirens on Christmas Day
The first one came during dinnertime,
A police car screaming by.
It's all we can hear in here
Of the world that hides out there.
The blue siren jeered
And faded away to arrest the criminal,
The serial cat burglar
Stuck in someone's chimney.
Once gone, Sunday silence screamed louder
As I emptied the peelings of parsnips,
Sprouts, carrots, potatoes, onions,
Into the black vats of garden rot
And quick retreated back inside,
To unwrap my cracker in silence,
The snapping fuse untouched,
As I prised out the plastic tweezers.
Later, as we slumped
Among shimmering, unfolded paper
And the peelings of tape,
A second racer came,
An ambulance, this time.
The slower, dirging wail,
For someone's lonely granny,
Choking on a wishbone.
I'm still waiting for the fire engine
To extinguish the inferno
That wreaths the house next door
With strings and wire antlers,
And to douse the firestorm
Started in a carpenter's workshop,
A blameless candle upset
By a juddering, misplaced nail.
-
Something Like Ice
A parade of white flecks swills
And among the current swirls,
And flies, escaping downstream,
Rising from beneath to breath its steam,
Against the stones of the pillars
That carry the Usk bridge aloft,
In triumph across the conquered span.
The river rushes too rapid
To falter and freeze to ice,
Even for a hesitant moment,
To be broken and fragmented,
To meet defeat and demise
Before the gathering swell,
To barely rise before it fell.
The river rushes strong and wide,
On its road the dancing column, white,
In undisciplined formation, ragged,
On the surge of the water, carried
From the stones of the pillars
That carry the Rhine bridge aloft,
In triumph across the conquered span.
These stones of the pillars,
Tied together with mortar,
They whisper to each other,
And the daughter they bear
"Remember, mighty Caesar,
"Thou art mortal, beware!"
-
I love poems about bridges. I don't know why, but they always seem to be the very best of topics. :)
-
I love poems about bridges. I don't know why, but they always seem to be the very best of topics. :)
Ha, that does seem to be true.
Fingerless Gloves
To turn the page of a book
I can read in the dark.
To cover the holes of the flute
And awaken the mute metal.
To feel the bark of the twig,
Read the stumps of gone leaves
Where new life will spring,
And sing, come spring.
Fingers of life, like light,
Like claws reaching out wide,
Ripping out fabric eyelids,
Tearing out my blind eyes,
And wiping away disgrace
From the eyeless face.
-
That one turns from very happy to very violent imagery quite fast, which is interesting.
Well done on the Triumph. :)
-
Yellow Lines
I snatched two yellow wax crayons,
Strapped them around a two pence coin,
I slashed them across the tarmac,
From roundabout to three-way junction,
I striped two violent yellow wounds,
Strewed ribbons down a one-way street,
I laughed and lit the yellow wick
And beat my quick retreat.
-
I well given triumph. Your skill at this never ceases to amaze me. :D
-
Twisted
There is a beauty still in ugliness,
The eyes must open twice to see.
In the absence of perfectedness,
In all the lack of symmetry.
In the suffering and twistedness,
In phobic visions dark and cold,
There is a beauty still in ugliness,
That shines through from the soul.
-
Crowns
A temple and a crown is found
On every man and woman's head.
Why then should either bow their brow
To any king or priest instead?
-
That one turns from very happy to very violent imagery quite fast, which is interesting.
Forgot to reply to this before, but I just want to mention that this was intentional. It is a sonnet, albeit one not following the traditional metre. You may be familiar with the 'volta' which is when, to quote Wikipedia, "The third quatrain introduces an unexpected sharp thematic or imagistic 'turn'". That's what I was doing there, so I'm glad it worked. :)
Anyway, new poem.
Fragment
When my rose-tinted spectacles, you've taken, wrecked, and smashed,
It's so much easier to see the truth of you relected in sharp glass.
To leave me like a jagged mountain standing abandoned and alone,
What a sculptor you must be, to carve a heart from shapeless stone.
-
Reawakening the Son of Ra
My face is reflected in the glass, while you stare through basalt eyes.
No pupils within the lines of kohl, no cheer in the sculpted smile.
My image reflected in the glass meets the lines of a dead king's face,
So that I see my own curious gaze, staring back and into space.
In cold, dark eyes, silent and deceased, my own beating heart shines through,
Placing my ideas inside your head, and reading them back from you.
Where your striped nemes headdress rests, my mane falls in the same place.
Where your twice false carved beard hangs, living hairs spring from my face.
The lines of shadow and mirror blur, until I can hardly see between,
And one quiet face looks back at me, a ka summoned from reed-field dreams.
And in your lined face, in my face, I see tired cracks emerge;
From brow to nose, from eye to lip, temple to jaw, they all converge.
Where time has played its mischief, eroding all the dignity and calm.
Imprisoned eyes cry from the void, jagged cracks lit by the morning star.
Startled eyes afraid to feel again, as my nerves tumble into your skull.
Dead eyes ignite with Khepri's light, rising from your deep millenial lull.
The dawn-flame stirs the sleeping Wadjet; the cobra guardian springs to life,
Tearing the ankh from deep within me, spitting fire into my eyes.
From my open mouth comes the breath of Ptah, carried to your lips on falcon wings.
Maat's feather strokes the ancient scars, and awakes the fossil king.
-
What is: ka, Khepri, Wadjet, ankh, Ptah, and Maat?
-
Wikipedia is your friend. Or a textbook on ancient Egypt. ;)
But to put it in very basic terms:
Ka: one of five parts of the soul, the 'vital essence', which travels to the afterlife
Khepri: Deity of the dawn/the dawn aspect of Ra
Wadjet: Cobra guardian of Lower Egypt, the one you see on the pharaoh's crown
Ankh: The symbol of life, often seen held in the hands of gods
Ptah: Creator god, who gave life to the world
Maat: Goddess of justice, whose feather is significant in the afterlife
There are many more references that you won't get unless you know about Egyptian mythology, but it is essentially funerary imagery in reverse, combined with a dawn metaphor.
-
Liquid Skin
I feel like there's liquid in the place of my skin,
A massive melting glacier, slowly caving in.
My bones are mazed with crazy paving,
And my remaining nerves are paper-thin.
-
Drums in the Mirror
Crack the mirror that sees into the past,
And leave that haunting man behind.
His fleeting lust for you could never last;
He'll drown in memory and blood wine,
As the mirror's shards leave red wounds,
And you'll be born anew from that cut womb.
Bury him deep, deep in a bloody tomb,
With no companion but the sound of a drum.
Undeserving of a hand to hold or have,
The ceaseless beat will echo through
All the caverns of his voidish grave,
As he curses himself for losing you.
And in the scarlet chamber of your heart,
Where he lies buried, we will forget him,
As the quavering hide of the drum's raw skin
Pounds its new embrace.
-
Ritual
Pour the poor young milk on your sacrifice of flakes,
Feed the greed of the beast inside who now awakes.
Glean the last dark beans from the bottom of the tin,
Command yourself to stand and summon morning in.
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You should make another poem story like 'The Culver and the Culverin'. That has always been and always will be my favorite poem of yours.
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I have a number of incomplete ballads in progress, it's just finishing them that's the trouble. :P
But in the meantime, here is another one about a bird for you!
Zebra Finch
By the exotic aviaries' kaleidoscope hexagon,
I watched the labour of a captive zebra finch,
His clown face make-up offset by that 80s print,
Gauding his patterned tail feathers all along.
I watched him try to drag a ragged stalk of hay
Four times his length, pulling it across the dirt,
Obsessed with what a nest he could gain for his perch,
Desperate to achieve some lift, to carry it away.
It made me think of a zebra ignoring all the herd,
And hauling a tree trunk across the savannah all day,
To build a log fortress, to keep hungry lions at bay.
Such an image of mad fancy seemed no less absurd,
No less vain than this feathered dandy and his dreams
Of haystack mansions for his clown-faced finch queen.
(http://i276.photobucket.com/albums/kk40/AndalusMan/Misc/th_lbmale2.jpg) (http://s276.photobucket.com/albums/kk40/AndalusMan/Misc/lbmale2.jpg)
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:) I like it how you made it over exaggerated. It's cool. You won't leave will you? We've had so many unexplained disappearances. One more would make it worse, your poems is one of the main highlights of this forum, you too. :)
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Snare
I'm pawing at the snare, caught around my neck,
Tugging at the tightened wire, stuck in the trap you set.
I know I can't escape, but nor is that my will.
I'm straining just to make your hold even tighter still.
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I am too happy these days. Happiness is not good for a poet!
Banquet for a Muse
Misery feeds the muse a bitter banquet,
A more nourishing meal than joy.
Madness is a curse, but be sure to thank it,
It gives your tongue and pen employ.
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You may have heard about the fires in Galica last week that have ravaged the forest of Fragas do Eume. It is one of the oldest forests in Europe, and has lost perhaps a thousand hectares due to this tragedy. Here is my lament.
Laid on the Forest Pyre
"We shall burn like the heathen kings of old."
The lifegiver has no mercy for his eldest children;
With ruthless love he smothers them with hot air,
Shrivels their branches and scorches their leaves
In all the oven-fired shades of terracotta.
He paints the breaking ground in his own image,
Staining every blade yellow to become his mirror;
The reflection fracturing across the gasping hillside,
Roots of parched trees bursting the dusty horror.
With the heat of burning passion he embraces them,
His parchment-dry fingers scarring their bark
As they writhe to clamber free of his smother,
As his smouldering touch of love begins to spark.
Amour to ignite the withered shell of ancient armour,
Sweltering before the ardent tongues of flame
Leaping from the brush to whisper across the bark,
Then like violent whipcracks shrieking father's name.
Merciless love piercing through the hardened scales,
To kindle the heartwood where deep hides the soul.
Spirits fly up screaming from the stricken brands,
Choking their last breaths with bitter stench of coal.
A broken scowl of agony spreads through druids' groves,
Beacons of pain tearing all across a glowing ridge,
Torches that emblazon a blaze over the bloody moon,
As the crazed father hurls himself from the sky's edge.
And in lifeless darkness the forest's pyre is raised,
Raging its way through the sacred paths of centuries.
Roars of pain blaze the trail of soulless demons,
Laying waste the ancient ghosts of history.
(http://i276.photobucket.com/albums/kk40/AndalusMan/Misc/fragas_do_eume_fire-1.jpg)
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LOL, those dear have the right idea. :P
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Hierophant
Let logic be your hierophant,
And wisdom your confessor.
Seek justice as your only lord,
And none to be your lesser.
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View from a Multi-Storey Bike Rack
When you leave Amsterdam, what you would give
For the view from the top of a multi-storey bike rack
Over centuries-old curiosa shops selling bric-a-brac,
Domed and spired roofs shielding grand station halls,
Ornate palaces, lit up gold over silver canals,
Venus and Jupiter chasing each other along waterways,
Watching themselves from high above the sluiced maze,
And to feel the evening wind chill touch you to the hilt,
As you stand on Holland's highest hill, lifted on stilts.
The ascent is the steepest to be found for leagues;
The ride down is all the gravity you'll ever feel
In that country where even grapes are flat, the seeds
Spilled and crushed beneath fixed-wheeled stampedes,
Like red and green jewels decorating the cycle lane,
Far below you on the street on the plain mortal plane.
Down from there is the sweetest ride you will make
And also the hardest goodbye, as you leave to take
Waves and wings, to a different home.
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Featherless Serpent
There is a two-headed snake on the roof of the airport,
Hiding among the concentric castles of ceiling vents.
Two forked tongues sprouting from the teeth of a forked neck.
It's there, I can see it through the roof's translucent panels,
Dormant against the corrugated curve, basking in the sun.
Don't tell me it's not there, not until you've lain back
On a lounge bench in that enclosure, head on a rucksack,
Soft as a stone pillow, and gazed up through webbed ladders
At curious shapes and dark shadows among the sieved sunlight,
As your tongue cradles a pencil, gripped between teeth,
Hanging upwards from the lip like a ruminant cigarette.
No smoking allowed, of course, for the hazard it brings,
But no regulation can stop me inhaling a puff of dreams.
And I'll tell you this, for your health and safety check:
The greater hazard is that unfledged serpent up there,
Lurking, watching jets hurl themselves over the fence,
And secretly, desperately, wishing for all the world
That he was Quetzalcoatl, or Jörmungandr.
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My favorites by you are the Five-Leaved Clover and The Culver and the Culverin. :) They're really good.
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I am very much in awe of your literary prowess. You should update more often :P
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He used to have a new one for us every weak!! Don't know what's happened to him though. :(
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Just not been feeling too inspired lately, and I didn't want to force it. Trying to finish up some older poems, though.
Thanks, kaleidoscopicmind!
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:) I can't wait to read some more of your poetic awesomeness. ;D
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Edit History
As wiry strength begins to fail,
the moment of farewell draws near,
and soon the fountain of Wikipedian lore
shall flow with the fell news
that knowledge has fallen
and all is now "was" that was "is" before.
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Clawing Silver
To befriend a beautiful cat that isn't yours
Is like falling in love with a pretty wh-re.
It's to know you're not the only whisperer of her name,
Not the only one who strokes her hair, but all the same,
Your love she takes as credit and she will owe you only pain,
The day you see your lover hearken to another's call
And she leaves you feeling foolish and betrayed.
Still her claws like silver thorns whisper a name into your skin,
Ever closer to your heart, and with purrs still draws you in.
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Could I please post some of your poems on a forum with appropriate links back to here and credit to you? I've got Jubals poems but with your awesomeness added to that we'll reel those new members in. ;)
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I'd rather you didn't.
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Have you ever though of publishing these....
I haven't got nearly enough to be worth publishing,
Well guess what? You do now. I definitely would buy it!
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Exilian shop, anyone? :P
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HELL YEAH! A shop and a Donate button! I'd be jealous of how much money Exilian would reel in.
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I very much enjoyed Clawing Silver, I can see it being read with a wry smile.
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À Votre Sanité
A glass of lemon I shall raise -
here's to the rodent in my brain
who eats away what's left of sane
imagination and devours
beloved seconds and the hours
holding memory that now sours,
once bitten, to bitterness all
that may escape the vermin's gnaw.
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The Spearman's Vow
A man stood at the crown of a mountain,
Holding an old ash spear in his hand.
He bent the weapon against his knee
And broke it so it would not mend.
Into three shards he snapped the thing
And cursed it with his wind-cut breath:
"Too much life this blade has taken
And sent down to bitter, broken death."
"My warring days are over, and this I vow,
Since I am grey in mane and eye and bone,
This blade shall never draw blood again,
Or where I stand may I turn to stone."
He threw the three pieces from the peak,
And they flew apart and far and wide,
And where each broken fragment landed
Burned like a beacon in his weak eyes.
The base of the spear fell nearest,
Only halfway down the rocky slope.
No further than the border of the trees,
Caught in the root of a knotted oak.
There it stuck fast and fell no more,
As around its place, the forest grew.
And that the broken spear was hidden
In this grove, no man ever knew.
The middle of the shaft fell further,
To rest at the high mountain's feet,
And lay there in the valley's grass
Among flocks of grazing sheep.
The herder soon came by that spot,
Gathering fuel to feed his flame,
And so the ancient ashwood shaft
A draught of softer ash became.
The third part of the broken spear,
That held the battered steel head,
Flew furthest yet and far beyond
Its brothers - on the wind it fled,
And fell at last into the current
Of the valley-carving river's water,
Then carried away downstream to sea
And washed up on the shore there.
Sand-grains of many colours itched
In the edge of still-sharp steel.
A child came dancing by the waves
And found it glinting by his heel.
As innocent fingers reached to grasp
This shining prize, a child's new toy,
Too late rang out a mother's warning;
A cry of pain sprang from the boy.
The stinging blade fell to the sand,
This time the colours only red.
Tears were splashed into the salt,
As mother bound the hand that bled.
And far away, upon a mountain's crown,
There stood a granite pillar all alone,
Where the spear-breaker had made his vow,
A six-foot cairn of forlorn red stone.
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Garden Centre Gods
I
In the tangles of a roman jungle,
wilderness at a turning from the A44,
with pale carven gods arrayed among
creeping vines and flowering flora,
the faun sits alone, trapped in stone,
playing his pipes with a windless tune,
his lips pursed on the note forever.
II
Great decorated urns give birth to massive palms,
as giants sprung from the wombs of demure goddesses,
whose busts too are standing erect, their dresses
askew, trying to hide a nip-slip behind a fern's tresses.
III
A lonesome head of Buddha lies on the ground,
an eastern conquest brought west and graven
into this shape to pollute the budding enclave
and entertain the garden's enslaved gods.
Pruned from his body, Siddhartha's smiling head
lies misunderstood, a toe-stubber among the shrubs.
IV
In the field over the next gate,
the dark ghost of Bucephalus
gently trims the weeds and scrub.
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An interesting one that one is. :) Always enjoy reading them.
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Don't read this if you just had dinner.
Purgatorium
In the misconceived mosaicked chamber
like a side-chapel to decadence,
I vomited out my brains for Old Pliny's ink,
the stench of myself rising to my nostrils
and bone hooks heaving out the rest -
a sneezing mouth to purge the stink
and sweeten the lining of my skull
and stomach. Bowing to decorum,
chest over knees, soul in the sink,
retching out what wretched me was left
before returning to the revel
to pretend I could remember how to think.
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That was... creative. :P I wouldn't have ever thought to write such a poem. So it's about vomiting right?
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On one level, yes.
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Naked in the thunderstorm,
arms lifted cloudward to draw closer
the falling silver to my fingertips,
muscles frail beneath the roaring sky,
a pale canvas framed in electric exposure,
sears of light across crumbling grey walls,
their shining dust running down my nakedness,
seeking channels through golden forests
of beard and lock and over skeleton hills,
ribs that refuse to shiver in the storm,
as though they ribbed the keel of a dragon
that writhes under the shattering waves,
offered to the whim of Thor and Njord,
battling the tempest on its home seas,
stalwart until the away shore is reached.
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I'd get naked for your thunderstorm ;)
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Good one, really good call. :P
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Petros
I found my soul
behind my right earhole
and placed it on a flat rock,
and watched it flail,
lifted it by the tail
and beat its head on that rock;
I found a knife,
opened it with a slice
and filleted it on the rock
and then I saw
that what I thought before
was a soul was just a rock
salmon,
a shimmer in its shape,
shining for the sun
and grinning with a pearly gape.
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Min Klatretreet
I sit enthroned at the crown of the tree,
My secret retreat in the canopy,
Seated high above all that I survey;
The strange world below I've climbed to escape.
My trunk leans against the ancient tree's spine,
A high-backed branch of proud Corsican pine.
We rule together, my pine throne and I;
Old bark and young bone in one kingdom allied.
We are one, my tail-bone fused to the bark,
The tail we apes lost in prehistory's dark,
And yet still in the trees we find our peace;
Security here, safe from forest floor beasts.
So this ape sitting here in his old ape tree
Retreats from the world, clinging to his safety.
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Swampfolk
the children of the swamp know songs
no other dares to utter here
the daughter of the marsh is bold
and strides out where her brothers fear
the mother of the fens is still
and silent where she waiting hides
the father of the bog lies down
and while the time grows dark he bides
to snare a wayless traveller
who finds no trail through fickle ground
with feet that seek a deeper road
and lead no way but ever down
down to the children of the swamp
who tie his feet with playful games
down to the daughter of the marsh
who gleeful calls her brothers' names
down to the mother of the fens
who girds him in a damp disguise
and down to the father of the bog
who clamps dark hands over his cries
and gone is the frightened traveller
whose way is found beneath the ground
with feet that shudder and are still
and silent where he's ever bound
bound by the children of the swamp
who steal his eyes for marbles bright
bound by the daughter of the marsh
laughing while her brothers fight
bound by the mother of the fens
who lays him to a peaceless rest
and bound by the father of the bog
who heaves the breath out of his chest
and found is the swamp-drowned traveller
by none who follow after there
except for those who trail too close
and meet the same fate in this lair
lair of the children of the swamp
daughter of the marsh, and brothers too
the mother of the fens, with open arms
and father of the bog, who waits for you