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Eleanor Apr 11
And did they hear, those on-looking distant
Rules, hear did they what was said to the world?
That story must be told by one “me,” can’t
Have a sonnet without that one letter mold—
First person voice, and make it beautiful,
Can’t have a sonnet that doesn’t love,
That doesn’t speak from a mouth of its own
That doesn’t rhyme, that does not resolve
Can’t call it a sonnet if it won’t grow old,
Not Shakespeare but Brooks, not Byron but Stein
And here— the words that did not do what they were told
And here— rules fall, away in line in line
But author? Who author, who inspire? Who make?
Un-sonnet, un-sung it, not claimed. Not take.
He walks like beauty, relentless and unfrightened
   Like an army stomping on the enemy’s territory
Unaware of what's to happen, yet ready to conquer
    As the other side, questions him with, “Are you bonkers?”

As they arrive
  His beauty begins to shine
They take him in almost like a shrine
    He was then reminded that beauty doesn't conquer all
  As they saw him fall
     He reminded them, beauty isn't all.
Modeled after “She walks like beauty”
Jenny Gordon Mar 12
Keats swooned over a world that never was, except in dreams, and I've no use for that.


In lieu of aught we know:  blue skies t'avail
Sans blot of clouds 'til puddles mirror thence
Heavn's eye...take up the chalice to drink hence
That fragrant draught which yields as if to scale
More heady visions than we've drunk, t'exhale
Like sailors on the faerie seas, pretense
Our dainty meat; as lovers swoon for sense
Oer plighted troth, not as we know; sans bail.
Go into raptures likeas Keats would stir
And Byron knew to write, as Shelley drew
Up in his Ode, faint cuz ye know in tour
What minstrels sang in ballads, weaving to
Effect those silken strands to snare souls fer
The Devil's heights.  Cuz what we have won't do.

NOTE:  Who knows of L.E.L. ie Letitia Elizabeth Landon?  I prefer reality though it's far too shallow.
Cash Carlos Jan 15
You open up the book,
and there it is,
waiting for you
like an old professor
with a furrowed brow,
ready to beat you over the head
with a ruler, as he tells you,
"This is great,
This is genius,
This is tradition!"

your mind shifts
to the girl who sat
next to you in high school English,
her bright eyes,
her a floral dress,
her shinny shoulders,
her dark hair like a waterfall
cascading into the desk in front of you;
And just as you take off your shoes,
and prepare to take a leap
into those deep, dark,
and tangled waters,
the professor smacks you on the head
with ruler,
to remind you Keats wasn't great
because he chased skirts
and drank liquor,
but because he knew meter
and form,
and proper punctuation;
and you will never be great
because all you know
is how to daydream
into places
where you don't belong.

You close the book of Great Poetry,
and never read it again,
then go for a walk
into the late afternoon
where the sun shines,
and the wind blows,
just as it is.
Ceyhun Mahi Jun 2018
A melancholic gaze
Upon my walks I have, born out of wanderlust,
Having thoughts and feelings 'bout dust
And Byron's ways,

The wind is in my raven hair,
    A poet is my heart,
Between hope and despair
I classify my written art.

Many women and wine out of still skulls
I am a stranger to,
But not to skills
Of natures who're romantic as a hue.
I've been reading more ABOUT Lord Byron than reading Lord Byron lately these times. I can say that his ways as a poet do motivate me to become a better poet myself.
blue mercury Mar 2018
in this pestilence and heartache,
i doth lie here without remembering
an instance where i shall not stay
in this quietly bleeding prison

my hands have groped the air
for a phantom amongst the breeze
but there is no longer a soul to spare
when i am brought back to my knees.

i feel my prayers are but thrown
fruitless pleadings to the sky
my truths to bear, are mine alone
never will they be your plight

you hold your head to my chest
and we dream away the time
this prison feels like a prison less
when your heart is calling to mine
romantic Romantics
jdotingham Mar 2017
given gift, twas fire, it was,
caused a titan to feel the wrath of the Gods.
eternity, to display such a crime,
liver picked out, by an eagle, over time.

repeated until the mind becomes ill,
repeated more so, breaks a man's will.

repeated until the mind becomes ill                                            ,
repeated more so, breaks a man's will.
but those don't consider the Eagle's dire pain,
for liver aint tasty when eaten every day.
Consider how Caucasus feels in the Prometheus story.
jdotingham Mar 2017
[locked in the box, my secrets die a life]
schrödinger's cat, he sings, we shall never know his strife:
the simple insecurity to the infuriating situation
is pandora will release the demonstration.

[locked in the box, my secrets die a life]
following the maps of the mask of my disguise:
the complex presentation of the penetrating situation
is that hope will diminish in chaotic creation.

[locked in the box, my secrets die a life]*
four walls with no doors (to trap) and philosophize:
*the impending sensation of the sympathetic situation

is that Sisyphus will parallel our little recreation.

But before the box is opened and the cardiac is broken,
a crossroad will be a p p r o a c                                  hing.
What hurts more? The thorns in motion/
                                or lack of map tokens.
Till then, the lies are never dead, nor spoken.
d.d. #69
- inspired by Lord Byron and E.E. Cummings.
Julie Grenness Jan 2017
Let's rewrite a poem for you,
No apologias to Byron 102,
Oh bowls of spew, Oh bowls of spew,
Stale weeties they wouldn't waste on you,'
Where once I cooked bacon and eggs,
For privileges don't even beg,
On your blackmail, I renege,
Oh bowls of spew, oh bowls of spew,
More than your family would waste on you,
No apologias to Byron 102......
Feedback welcome.
ebony rosa white May 2016
he walks in awe, and would curse my interest in night
of clear silence and sighs
at promiscuous men's obsession with purity
within his aspect and his eyes
he looks down to my ******* and I ask him why
to which he replies and typically denies

he caresses those who adore lust and then calls them '******' when they are no less
had they been tighter.. but he likes lace?
his hands stroke my raven tress
as he says I am not like the rest
he whispers that he will handle me best
but if I was not pure I know I would be in another place

I stroke his cheek and admire his brow
yet why does this man objectify me as eloquent
so soft? don't reply to my letter. so calm? you haven't met me properly, have you?
deceived by my smile but I am not deceived by yours, o' 'gent'
if only more had visited below
but then again, my heart would still be innocent!
I know Byron's poem 'She Walks In Beauty' can suggest various meanings, but this is my poetic reaction towards how women were admired by promiscuous men because they were pure, but those who weren't were frowned upon.
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