It little profits that an idle king,
By this still hearth, among these barren crags,
Match'd with an aged wife, I mete and dole
Unequal laws unto a savage race,
That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me.
I cannot rest from travel: I will drink
Life to the lees: All times I have enjoy'd
Greatly, have suffer'd greatly, both with those
That loved me, and alone, on shore, and when
Thro' scudding drifts the rainy Hyades
Vext the dim sea: I am become a name;
For always roaming with a hungry heart
Much have I seen and known; cities of men
And manners, climates, councils, governments,
Myself not least, but honour'd of them all;
And drunk delight of battle with my peers,
Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy.
I am a part of all that I have met;
Yet all experience is an arch wherethro'
Gleams that untravell'd world whose margin fades
For ever and forever when I move.
How dull it is to pause, to make an end,
To rust unburnish'd, not to shine in use!
As tho' to breathe were life! Life piled on life
Were all too little, and of one to me
Little remains: but every hour is saved
From that eternal silence, something more,
A bringer of new things; and vile it were
For some three suns to store and hoard myself,
And this gray spirit yearning in desire
To follow knowledge like a sinking star,
Beyond the utmost bound of human thought.
This is my son, mine own Telemachus,
To whom I leave the sceptre and the isle,---
Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfil
This labour, by slow prudence to make mild
A rugged people, and thro' soft degrees
Subdue them to the useful and the good.
Most blameless is he, centred in the sphere
Of common duties, decent not to fail
In offices of tenderness, and pay
Meet adoration to my household gods,
When I am gone. He works his work, I mine.
There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail:
There gloom the dark, broad seas. My mariners,
Souls that have toil'd, and wrought, and thought with me ---
That ever with a frolic welcome took
The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed
Free hearts, free foreheads --- you and I are old;
Old age hath yet his honour and his toil;
Death closes all: but something ere the end,
Some work of noble note, may yet be done,
Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods.
The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks:
The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep
Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends,
'Tis not too late to seek a newer world.
Push off, and sitting well in order smite
The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
Of all the western stars, until I die.
It may be that the gulfs will wash us down:
It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,
And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.
Tho' much is taken, much abides; and tho'
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are;
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.
Jan 10, 2016
Jan 10, 2016 at 1:47 AM UTC
Like enjoying the taste of poison on my lips
I didn't know why I went back for another kiss.
I never had a choice; I was always going to kiss her again.
There was just something about her taste that begged to be experienced Despite the feeling that I was the only one who knew.
It was impossible to choose whether I should take another drink of her Or search for the antidote in her eyes.
She lay beside me as if there was no where else she could have been.
I watched her watch me as we fought back against the cold room.
An icebox which only yielded to our small fire under the thin sheets
A tiny sun kept alight
By longing for each other
Jan 10, 2016
Jan 10, 2016 at 1:30 AM UTC
It's been more than
A year, and still
Sometimes I talk to you
In my dreams
I'm not sure
If that makes them nightmares.
I also can't decide
If I'd rather it never happened,
Or that it never ended.
Jan 1, 2016
Jan 1, 2016 at 1:56 AM UTC
A person can have many full things
A full mind, full hands
A place in a room full of souls
But even a full mind can have
A void to fill inside its heart
These are ones who hardly sleep
Who spend too much time alone
We drink too much
We speak too little
We love more than you know
But we will always be the ones
Feeling empty in the fullest times
Oct 30, 2015
Oct 30, 2015 at 12:54 AM UTC
Rejoice, muses, for the traveler, descended from his namesake:
Odysseus, son of Archon. For he carries in him the spirit of his ancient father.
Time immortal has lost the tale of the ancient King of Ithaca,
Odysseus, son of Laertes. This explorer will travel the stars,
The vast Unknown shall know his name, and he will know it's spirit
As his ancestor traveled home from Ilias
His way inhibited by the gods
Meeting strangers along the twisted road.
Odysseus, son of Archon, rests upon his Captain's throne
Observing through the glass the void which called his name:
"Come, Traveler. Come, Adventurer. Come to me,
And all which is unknown will be known.
Come and see, Traveler, and I will set you free.
There are no endings here; no edges of the map.
There is only that which has always been, and will always be"
The Captain: alone in his ship. No crew would follow him, no crew was needed.
He was afraid. Odysseus knew his choice was made, and
He knew what lay ahead! He knew that he knew nothing.
A push was needed, and to his log he spoke:
"I embark today from home. This journey will take me far away;
Farther than any man before. I begin at mother Earth, and I go out and away.
Away from Mars, the crimson orb of furious war
Past Neptune, the super giant with its swirling eye.
All of this behind me, I will continue still.
I will follow the Unknown, to the vast beyond."
With that, the Traveler ****** forward the controls,
And in so doing, lost all reservation.
For seemingly innumerable days he did not stop,
Streaking away from home faster than light;
An arrow, which was not released but which leaped forth with joy.
Not fired away in anger, but shot into the stars, ablaze,
Seeking a place in which to bury its point.
A signal to all who saw or cared: man is coming.
Oct 20, 2015
Oct 20, 2015 at 5:44 PM UTC
Twice
Each week
We arrive in the wordsmith's palace
And must decide either
To climb the great steps
Or let ourselves rest
And take the easy way up.
Each time we pass
And eye with longing
The metal doors which could ease our day
But each time we choose
To ascend the wooden mountain
Adorned on all sides
With the words of the greats
Who came before
And who's words inspire
All who climb these steps.
We always choose the climb
For one more chance
To choose knowledge
Over ease.
Oct 16, 2015
Oct 16, 2015 at 6:03 PM UTC