in May 2015 (http://hellopoetry.com/poem/1199379/a-note-from-pallas) i told you i had a large corpus of material that i was editing and saving up to publish in Sept of that year. funny as it is, more than a year later, that never happened nor probably will in the near future.
when i first joined HP in June of 2013, i received nothing but warmth and love. today, i'm closing out my account for good on this site and i want to send you the same. maybe one day i'll be back.
in aeternum,
pallas
Nov 23, 2016
Nov 23, 2016 at 4:16 PM UTC
dear followers, those i follow, those who have messaged me, those who have critiqued me, anyone who has read my words, and those who have yet not,
thank you for spending your time with my work. you have made my 2 year hello poetry voyage a pleasant one.
i’ve had a rough start to this 2015: so many choices have to be made; stressful home-life; and i’m on the verge of a life-changing decision which i’m counting on to put me in a better place. i’ve lost the time to spend creatively inventing new word sequences to post here, as my last drafts are insipidly dull and were posted just to seem like i’m still here… but i’m not. i haven’t been able to write poetry for a year now! i’m just continuously revising old drafts that were written 2-3 years ago, so when those springs run dry, i will have nothing left to offer.
however! i have quite a few megalithic pieces i’ve been working on for over 2 years that i am expecting to publish here, probably no later than sept 2015. after these pieces (which form a book) are fleshed out and ready for publication, i have decided to stop running my hello poetry account and leave it up as a relic of my childhood. most of my poems on here are juvenilia anyways, written when i was 15 and 16 on the vast acres of deciduous north america. i’ve moved on with my life now. i’m in an entirely different place, much older, and hopefully wiser. i’ll try to stay sane these upcoming months and pray i don’t disappoint with my expected poetry explosion.
meanwhile, i’ve shared 2 of my most favourite poems in the world by repost in my feed (right before this message). they are reed kelsey’s “there’s a universe in his eyes” and yangliu’s “rangers edge of the city.” i would like to send virtual xoxoxo to reed kelsey and yangliu because your poetry literally spoke like nothing before to me; i’m not just speaking about mechanics, but your flow of beautiful lines/blocks of words i can only dream of writing. after years of gathering words i find attractive in books (trust me i’ve got plenty), both of you seem to throw those out and just use simple language to create an unimaginably genius arrangement. i’m jealous! yet i’m in awe. xoxoxo to both of you… i can never send enough.
thank you for reading this far and to everyone i mentioned above, much love. i adored my time here, and that’s what counts. and if you really miss me, you can find me on tumblr (if you try).
from all these years of work, suffering, and toil,
pluck me, and I shall glean the gain of an eternal laurel.
now in this triumph, I shall constellate
sail unafraid through stormy Symplegades
catheterize my fears, lost to my face
remember me, with all my glorious infantry
we’ll watch them obliterate the deeds
my laurel has yet to bring…
xoxoxo pallas
May 21, 2015
May 21, 2015 at 1:44 AM UTC
did you, even now, hope
to shut your eyes to so huge a crime,
my treacherous one, to think you could
stilly withdraw from my kingdom?
did our love not once hold you?
our ardent vows? or even I, Dido,
preparing to succumb barbaric death?
how could you, callous you!,
take wing to prepare your fleet in winter
—i’m sure to run aground—
when Boreas thrashes against the heavens?
but, if you weren’t pursuing unfamiliar soil
or incited to father a distant nation,
if ancient Ilium sturdily grimed through the war,
would you keep piercing the
wave-washed oceans in your armada?
why do you elude me; is it
because i have acceded irreality?
am i worthless, now?—i implore you!
by these tears, and your troth,
by our wedding vows, and this oath
before ***** we began:
if i deserve anything good from you,
or if you think, i was good enough
for you; pity this household
decaying before us! it was once yours, too.
and if my prayers are still yours,
gut them from my mind!
for now the Libyans and Numidians
hate me! dear Tyre is virulent!
as my honour and once-righteous
stature has vanished, just as i was
about to touch my constellated infamy.
for what destiny, my foreign one,
do you set me aside; ever-knowing
my imminent death?
seeing that only your name endures
from this union, why do i bother to keep living?
am i waiting for my brother, Pygmalion,
to destroy my Carthage’s walls, or a
Gætulian Iarbus to make me his concubine?
if only you gave me a son,
a little Æneas to play in my courts,
a boy to remind me of you;
only then, perhaps,
would i not be so utterly
violated, and
consumed.
Nov 7, 2014
Nov 7, 2014 at 1:06 PM UTC
if i could kiss
your honeyed-deathless eyes
every second of my life
my darling sweet Juventius
thirty thousands times would not suffice!
my lips continuing forever…
never would i feel
in love, replete
let us tarry
in the fruit-loaded fields
of our honeyed-rich basiation;
a kiss is not a kiss
any less sweet
than yours,
my love
we may kiss
until our death in
studium-full adorations;
but with my lips continuing forever,
even so, i shall never feel
in love, replete
Oct 24, 2014
Oct 24, 2014 at 12:39 AM UTC
Aphrodite of the Immortals
on magmatic throne aloft
ruse rummager God’s daughter
shield not my fury or pang of demur
my spirit’s empress eternal
desired goddess, appear
seal rank in the corps of my heart
from gilded kingdoms above
fling thyself to this tenebrous earth
atmospheric reentry – to me
jovial thy ****** bequeathed
known by heart, my splits and seams
my bedraped innocence and tears
to spill my trusty soul secure:
why is thy countenance amiss?
who has entranced thou in her arms?
whose caresses does thou shake?
venerated queen so valiant
dilate my love, dwindle my pain
free up my heart to love all embracive
comrade goddess, be mine
be thou, my ally
Jun 22, 2014
Jun 22, 2014 at 4:47 PM UTC
_[northern hemisphere: on a beach above the 50th latitude at the end of winter]_
_(Winter-export)_, the beach frosted by fingers of polar constellations. It’s too cold to walk without huddling, but we do it nonetheless, because we only have one more night together. Your frothy hydro-rhythm spears into pith, irradiance; I breathe again, deeply. _(Thick lips; quick still-hunt.)_ I rivet fronds of dependence into the seams of your boreal palms, never planning to return the floating colony of barnacles I promised I’d throw back; you, never planning to catch the sun bored through salt spray, clasping crisp foreheads, stitching on glistered lips and froze-shut lashes. And on a day when you didn’t rise early enough, I was left out in the water until my chest was steeped deep in ice over the thought of losing you. _(Glimmering isle)_; my hair disheveled in sea-foam. Annular light. You pushed me in, and I relented. My isotherm sent chthonically. But you, in your legendary mantle, adapted my eyes to see the light hidden deep within your belt; such pinks and fuchsias I have never seen before, suddenly inverted. At absolute velocity, I cut my foot on sea-glass, bleeding blueshift, aligning to the colours of the zenith. You take me back to the starry house and we struggle with your parallax, a nadir inseminated on the celestial pole. _(Parsecs quaking.)_ You whisper, I’ll heal you. I’ll heal you, only if you let me. Only if… you let me… Over and over and over until it’s as mundane as the crashing coast, and unrivaled, I concede to everything and wake up deep in redshift, the whole universe escaping, warmth-ribbons suffocating the abyss: without you, alone on the ecliptic at last. In the spring-sinking, you order me a silver sword, sharp in starlight; to remember you. You stand a guardian, beyond the sun, flinging tiny ice-hot rocks _(freighting gemstones)_; King of the Heavens. I submerge myself into the bathic depths, skulking in aestival despair, as you trade the night for day. Little do you know, my resurgence is also in your hands.
_[i watched Orion slip from view every night this spring. No doubt he’ll return next winter... it’s sad losing a friend like that, for so long]_
May 25, 2014
May 25, 2014 at 3:07 AM UTC
someone clean
this paxwax
oozing from
my neck
someone call a
platoon
lasso this body
tech
i'm not zippy
or well oiled
uneasy glances
& the desperate
struggle
against anguish
you mold
{eww! entrails!}
the furies don't
like me
i'm the nature of
beast
they'd rather
not meet
they get
violent
throw me into
the gorge
the slime still
draining
out of my
pores
i'm salivating
again
you'll keelhaul me
but your tongue
doesn't stand a
chance
you'll pant
but keep up
& i'll stay firm in
your
**********
forearms
Feb 14, 2014
Feb 14, 2014 at 12:32 AM UTC
A tyrant king, a
Vandal’s scream
Of moor & rock
And fair I sing;
Life’s to its
Test, guer-
don of unrest,
&strife; believed!
Milked out
like utter red; lipids
****** hard
at birth: semi-
born: made
three legion’s ****
careful; cuz fate’s,
Allectus, mean.
Made in sheaths
An aural memor-
y lock, a- nswer ur
calling; tricky to
be bad &get; a-
way w/it! Caraus-
ius’s on guard
duty; he’s in.
Fog in chan-
nel; no lights:
Bware! Usurp-
ing cou- ntry,
mauling& killing men
To ob- tain
Power; @any
risk in Britain.
gold insignias!
shine ur lite!
greed can’t
pay—poenas dat!
Ascle-
piod-
otus
hears:
He, Allectus does a-
way w/.
Besei-
ge in London—rime
the trea-
sure al-
located;
Vain he found, good.
Crack souls’ ice;
To ruin comes
conceit, comes
that rip- ped part.
Ah, to p’wer& knifes
Like wo- rds...
P’wer slashes
Carves, &impales;.
Feb 6, 2014
Feb 6, 2014 at 11:53 PM UTC
some information cannot be found – you can only originate it. facts are often recycled in attempt to clear a logjam that has prevented us from finding ourselves. when i look at the billions of directions my life could have taken, you have to admit we're a very tough bunch, because, who else would have tagged along at this point? we're a recipe for disaster, but that's alright, because we already racked everything. we're bottlenecked. we're deadlocked in ourselves, and there's no way out.
strength cannot be given – it is only self-acquired. we can think of ourselves as vessels of change, but it won't be gifted to you. it has to be done by yourself. it's a real grabber. and once we take it to heart, it works.
axiology—the study of judgments. choice is so vital in postmodern culture, there's a whole branch of study attributed to it. should i take this opportunity, or should i decline it for another? should i rear success with my horns, or wait ecstatically for it to poke me? should i recline, take an easy ride, or work for it? – no matter which outcome, you're still going down the drain because you haven't established the most important part (yet).
i am struggling to understand economics, as well as applied mathematics. wall street certainly does not hang easy for me, but there is more to discuss than stocks and bonds. society has put us in stocks and keeps us in ******* – that’s wall street for you! there are still certain mysteries, such as you cannot put a negative number inside a radical. and all parabolas will have a reflecting twin, no matter how you look at it.
i fell asleep to a black and white movie, and it was still playing when i awoke. however it was in colour. i rubbed my eyes and sat there dazed until i concluded i was dreaming in colour. i woke up again and it was over. now i think that i watch the same movie, but colourized in my dreams, and that i can dream reality, while that reality is a dream within itself.
much reflection has been cast upon theoretical and unchallenged interest in scholars, for example. some presume we can only perceive one – ten-thousands of the universe but of course this can never be proven along with life's destiny and life's purpose, and indubitably, life's meaning. much dark and invisible matter perhaps comprise the rest, but the threads of an unroped cosmos are far from being knitted. can you prove your eternal existence by way of religiosity or science? Jesus rose on the third day and so did the interstellar medium situated in the midheaven. i sleep with a book of philosophy under my pillow, and i'm not in the least ashamed. Alexander the Great slept with a copy of the Iliad, and Mary Shelley, her late husband’s heart. at least philosophy doesn’t stain.
total uproar soars through the galaxy when i begin to think. the terror strikes, and i cower discrediting the truth. my trine is Jupiter, Saturn, and the sun. i’m an Aries, like the one of Judea. constant virtue is what i can believe but i speak in the revolutionary sense. i can enhance my life as long as i am able to try. there is always room to improve a man and i attest to that.
a literary device isn't useful at all until applied in context. an ambition isn't fully good until it is launched. Newton was right, after all. a body is motion will stay in motion until acted upon by an outside force. you are an artist as long as you keep your creative process going until somebody threatens you. then you hide. you establish a force field, which protects you, and you trudge on, because all that matters is your art, in the end. it's everything.
think... Ω-style. one day lofty things won't take pleasure looking at you, because you’ll be confronting them head-first. machtprobe, a german word for showdown. like the one you'll be taking with yourself if you don't buckle down and unravel your weaknesses.
this morning i woke up and stared at myself in the mirror. i was depressed at the condition of my life and my position in the world. my reflection stared back and held up its middle finger at me, saying "what are you going to do about it?" not knowing how to answer, i fumbled around possible responses, but it kept going, "it's not that simple, isn't it? life can be tricky when you've got no motivation. it leaves you in a rut until one morning you wake up, depressed about the condition of your life and your position in the world and your mirror's reflection holds up that middle finger, insuring you're completely aware of the awaiting consequences." it finally shut up and i stood there contemplating its message. "how bad do you want this?" were its last words i heard before i knew that 'initiative' was the one i would soon fall in love with and meet at the chapel to wed.
"either you take it all the way, or you're gonna go astray." it's either one or another, a choice that we have to make. and i don't my reflection to pose a threat to my self-esteem again, so i'm gonna take it all the way...because really. how bad do i want this?
i don't want to have a shoot out with myself again. so when you ask, i'll just tell you algol sent me.
Dec 20, 2013
Dec 20, 2013 at 4:13 PM UTC
i cannot face a day without acknowledging a loss.
i cannot fathom such a wilderness grew so close to my place,
my society-free, impositionless place
a tepid forest inhabited
by the requiems of the agnostically murdered
and the cogged wheels of the deceased's clocks.
sometimes they stick and the clockmaster unsticks them,
but they stop up again ever so quickly.
there is nobody who has the time or effort to continually watch the clocks.
and they return to ticking an eldritch song
which may cause pain.
it has not abolished mine, nor shall forth be disseminated to do so.
i am an ascetic mastermind, abiding in my messy pool
of thought, without my womb, without my brood, without my broom
to tidy the mishmash of unruly cobwebs and such.
the fumes cause me to wonder “where is my world,
which i’ve fondled so dearly?”
i detox and recycle memories, it’s to no worth of you
a venomous whisper on a silver lining of a dream tells you everything:
a fanatic’s agenda degrading urbane,
a plummeting depth to deep impact,
i drift away on a molten lava lilypad, and fantasize that...
i am god
but i haven’t found time to juggle your sect
reissuing lessons to mind the sheriff
and i cannot bear to lead me, to my own cultural death.
i cannot receive your moral disease, a signal on my knees
con e preghiere sbiancante. can’t you understand it?
my life is spent with hope placed
on each pair of snake eyes i roll
chance is the meter for everything.
dare i dare go back to my fantasizing,
i am god
ashamed by the lack of hope, and regret
disgraced by the hate and intolerance of man
and i see now their perfect world, is everything i detest.
and the tears produced
form new embryos of emotions
crystalline structures of psychological proportions
which develop into mature,
sentient, and emotion-proof organisms.
which become i.
and i respond vehemently yet come to my senses in a diplomatic tone,
because i am a diplomat.
and i have learned to nail my destiny to an altar each night,
an altar which can sacrifice my pensive motives
and my self-incriminating philosophy
that i should be able to write my destiny, and not
have it planned and read aloud,
read out loud, out in the air, outside.
i try myself.
i tempt myself.
and i return to supplicated suffering about my own mortality
and the atoms i will never see
and the universe i will never span
and the people i will never meet
and the times i will never live.
what if i rivered thirty silver-coins:
◌◌◌◌◌◌◌◌◌◌
◌◌◌◌◌◌◌◌◌◌
◌◌◌◌◌◌◌◌◌◌
what if i
didn’t
?
i might be ****** for this: but i’ll still set fire to the catacombs.
i might be scourged for this: but i’ll still hold on,
hoping there’s skin on my bones.
ecclesia, – a common, a sanctuary, a vanguard from the darkness in the world.
i know what i should do but never ever get it done;
i know what i have been and what i will become.
not defined by a dimension nor reputed by a benchmark
but shaded by the passion and dissuaded by the lashes.
i’ll do anything you want me to,
if you **** the self-inflicted psalms i plead!
the ulcer grows
that sweet cologne
i ***** it into the unknown.
i won’t tax your soul, i won’t stick a price to it:
coins ◌◌◌◌◌ won’t fill the hole -in a business deal (assets corrode)
i won’t tax your soul (i won’t buy it with blood money ◌◌◌◌◌, no)
it’s yours alone (but in business deals,
deficit is prone)
and there’s an aspect {a static} of forever and the inescapable gap
between the conscious
and the desired.
i sit here, ever so comfy and lustrous,
and habitually wait the day
they merge.
my invitations stand clear.
if you cannot come, i’ll wait for you. hidden
in the grillework of my past. but if you cannot come,
i’ll be waiting. hidden in the warmth of our teepee haus,
i’ll wait for you.
if X Marx the spot then why Kant i Locke it up?
could living hand-to-mouth so long make me so Jung?
Dec 17, 2013
Dec 17, 2013 at 12:53 AM UTC