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This is poem written by Lisel Mueller (according to google). I just wanted to share it because I couldn't find it on here and it's one of my favourite poems ever.

Doctor, you say there are no haloes
around the streetlights in Paris
and what I see is an aberration
caused by old age, an affliction.
I tell you it has taken me all my life
to arrive at the vision of gas lamps as angels,
to soften and blur and finally banish
the edges you regret I don't see,
to learn that the line I called the horizon
does not exist and sky and water,
so long apart, are the same state of being.

Fifty-four years before I could see
Rouen cathedral is built
of parallel shafts of sun,
and now you want to restore
my youthful errors: fixed
notions of top and bottom,
the illusion of three-dimensional space,
wisteria separate
from the bridge it covers.

What can I say to convince you
the Houses of Parliament dissolves
night after night to become
the fluid dream of the Thames?
I will not return to a universe
of objects that don't know each other,
as if islands were not the lost children
of one great continent. The world
is flux, and light becomes what it touches,
becomes water, lilies on water,
above and below water,
becomes lilac and mauve and yellow
and white and cerulean lamps,
small fists passing sunlight
so quickly to one another
that it would take long, streaming hair
inside my brush to catch it.

To paint the speed of light!
Our weighted shapes, these verticals,
burn to mix with air
and change our bones, skin, clothes
to gases. Doctor,
if only you could see
how heaven pulls earth into its arms
and how infinitely the heart expands
to claim this world, blue vapor without end.
Dom Feb 24
Behest the tomb of thought
Gravid in the wound of feeling
Where my eyes deceive their sights
Upon the granite granted gradual sadness
Wetting the ground in which we last said goodbye.

Operatic drama beguiling a whisper
Into the dead of an autumn’s eve
Last secrets carried upon eaves of leaves on a zephyr
Off to the shoreline and into the lake
Lost to me, forever.

Desire plagued the veins
Like a violent overture,
As I dance with madness still
Like a ballroom waltz
And your image my candelabra
Light my way in flicking spurts
Strobing depths into my heart,
I seek you now as the days grow longer still
To kiss my fluttered heart amiss
A chrysalis to this in the midst I writhe and hiss
To be reborn as this, a serpentine gift
To coil and wrap around as a shroud.

Oh, these tears they fold
My once stalwart soul,
Now in an ode, to a love so tormented
In ethereal roads,
We fork like tongues of demons
And kiss like lovers should,
As our trembling twining forms shake heaven-high,
I shall carry you with me,
Bathed in ash - until the sun burns and banishes me.
Come flower child,
Join the rest,
In the autumn fields abloom.

Come flower child,
Join the patch,
In the rolling hills of autumn.

Come flower child,
Lay to rest,
Just like all the others.
Who came to the autumn fields,
Lined with stones.
I'm working on my classical styles, trying to learn that depth they had.
Tallow

The candle and I bear witness
to the long, lone, and restless night.
With a match, we bring ourselves to light
brilliant reminders of finer days past.
brought forth out of love but not meant to last

We complement each other in our fading vigilance,
twisting, smoldering, struggling we fall,
exhausted or, dripping
We grow ever small.

Used, they saw the one true answer,
and so it was the only light.
No will, no arms with which to fight,
no rival to the endless stars
a sky that taught the world to dance.
Symbols of hope and knowledge
not brought into this world by chance.


We flicker and hiss and claim our right.
Wax sealed the deed and blinded our sight.

Born to burn and ever so fast.
Brilliant reminders of finer days past,
wrought for one purpose, yet not to last.
Illuminations were made, in shadow we cast.

We sputter and waver,
gutter and wane,
flee before storms, slip from the reins.
Yet from us, the lights still glow,
revealing the truths the Greats longed to know.

Here but once, and once alone.
Is it just once, and all from a spark?
Our essence is , YEARNING
not Dawn, nor the Dark.
enjoy.
Hebert Logerie Nov 2024
The smile of a woman in the spring is prettier
Than the dancing glow of the yellow tulips of the pond
As said the other: her face is embellished and polished
With honey syrup. She really has a charming smile.

Oh! Spring, the most beautiful of the four seasons
It's majestic to see her wearing yellow
The color of hope, the pretty color of the harvest
The petals are sparkling in the air and the bells are buzzing.

No, it's not a dream, she's really beautiful
She is wearing a smile that inspires and blemishes
Men who love everything that is gorgeous and classic.

This woman has her hands intertwined on her right thigh
Like a model who is cheered on the runway, which is reserved
For the most beautiful women in the history of our planet.

Copyright © May 2018, Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved
Hébert Logerie is the author of several books of poetry.
Translation of 'Le Sourire Radieux D'Une Femme' by Hebert Logerie.
Todd Sommerville Nov 2024
Alone I stand barefoot on a floor of broken glass.
Two doors across the way in front of me.
One door leads to my salvation, the other quite possibly damnation.
Though neither door is marked, it's true they are unremarkably the same
The choice for me remains all too clear.
Smooth glass on the left, sharp and twisted to the right
I take a breath and step upon the path, blood pouring from my feet.
The pain is somehow sweet, for I see the blood of others gone before.
Persistence in spite of pain brings life's greatest gains, and I smile as light floods through the opening door.
I took the path less traveled as old man Frost would surely agree, and that less traveled path has made all the difference in me.
Robert Frost is one of my favorite poets of all time.  This is my far inferior take on his masterpiece, If you have not done so please read The Road Not Taken
Jeremy Betts Sep 2024
The air feels thick
Like a wall of brick
A platform 9 3/4's trick
Can't KoolAid man this ****t
Afraid to sit,
But I do,
I'm forced to,
So I stew on it
Desperate
I try the old Wile E Coyote bit
That classic ACME shtick
But what quality "tunnel black" paint kit did I get?
Some off brand garbage,
Now it's twice as thick

©2024
Sari Sups Jul 2024
radio radio radio
running running gone
playing drums, playing hits
i dont recognize a song

typing writing rhyming
my hands shake and curl
carrying notes on my phone
nothing heavier than words

wait wait wait maybe —
my voice caught in my chest
nothing beats the weight
of the words left unsaid
wrote this in my notes thought it was very bittersweet
Jeremy Betts Apr 2024
•°• A Twisted Classic •°•

Sing along if you know the words...

...this is a life that never ends
Yes it'll break you if you can't bend
Some people...tried to warn us,
Tried to tell us what it was
But we continue blindly past forever just because...

©2024
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