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emlyn lua Sep 25
Denmark’s a prison
Where all are guards and all are inmates -
I must be the Queen
For I am held in chains,
Caught by the currents of my own thoughts;
Alas – I never learned to swim.
I am an echo chamber,
A thought is a ball kicked over and over and over and
Can I not pass law to cease this bruisement?
Goal! I speak,
And my thought is no longer contained within me
But in the world, circling the pates of the court.

Sweet, your lover calls you,
Even now;
As the battle with corruption corrupted you.
Justice, you promised me;
I no longer believe in justice.
I loved him, though his love was a leash;
You took from me my cage and now I cage myself.
Scheming and plotting against schemers and plotters –
No longer knowing ourselves as once we did,
No longer viewing the world as what it is –
If only I had seen!
You would not have abandoned me now.

You will not come again?
You will not come again.
The King is fallible,
The usurper of God is not omnipotent;
I see the traces of that which he strives to hide.
His mask is good, true, but –
A mask cannot hide all:
England is the trickster’s smiling blade,
I know so.
I mourn you, as I mourn all that I know:
This ends with the destruction of a nation.

I miss your presence beside me.
Your soft eyes, looking only at my face,
At my face only.
I was safe with you.
Hearts mirrored in forbidden affections;
Switch places with me,
Let us not be ****** for desire.
Marriage is man and wife, man and wife,
You saw the lies.

Kick, quick, pick the flowers,
One for each noble skeleton.
I show their secrets in petals and songs:
The language of the mad, the insane, the crazed fools –
Fool I am, I see all, hear all, know all.
Hang their weeds in the weep of the willow,
Cursed crowns of concealed corruption.

I reach –

A tear breaks –

And I am overwhelmed by swirling thoughts,
Sinking deeper into the abyss of my mind.
Smiling trickster, smiling blade – Pretty Ophelia!
A will not come again.
I will not come again.
No one will mourn me,
There will be no one to remember:
This ends with the destruction of a nation.
Alice Eagles Sep 5
And in the morning I awoke,
sleep wearied
and bloated by experience,
to find all just as it had been but nothing the same...

The pale cast of nihilism
hung limp
over the morning's hillside
where an inconspicuous mist
had once resided.

Bless my mother's innocent
attempt to patch up my
Mind's muddied terror
with a strong tea
in her best china
by the bedside.

My boyhood mattress began
a demented laughing
in the face of brothers
with graves for beds
as I was, once again,
swamped with guilty memory
of the unheroic dead.

Those gentle youth
with minds full of
the names of wild flowers
and the rules of garden cricket
wrenched from the safe
musk of mothers
to the mud and
shrill choir of the shells.

The Air she would weep
for the loss of another pair of lungs she'd never inhabit again.
All the while, the Earth rejoiced
at the return of her creation.

That clay that once grew tall.
Outwards from the rib.
All for some fantasy and
trick of the flame.
Inspired by the haunting poetry of Owen and Sassoon and infused with imagery from Shakespeare's "Hamlet" to communicate the sense of an impossible and futile task resting on the young shoulders of WWI soldiers.
alexis Sep 2
Ophelia swimming,
Drowning in madness
As Hamlet’s body falls down
From his poisonous pain

Romeo with his potion
And Juliet with her dagger
Was it love that brought them together?
Or cruel fate?
Luna Feb 18
Madness like a red coat
Around her throat
Drowning in the ruins
Of her own misery
And
Own sorrow
O’ dear child,
You should have stayed
In that garden of yours
Among the myriads of
Growing daises
And
Gifting each of us a violet
For centuries to keep
But how long can
Leaves shade you
From the
Many faces of fate—
The cruelest ones always name after us,
Victims.

Dwell in the many layers of rosemary and pansies;
Look how is ironic history just became
With its indelible smell of
Fennel and Columbius ;

Drawn towards the many
Spun webs of the
Golden singing spiders—
She floats amongst the
Water lilies
From here on.
Rebecca Nov 2018
When I die, I hope it is like my dreams.
In that way, death would not be so fearful,
A remedy for my thoughts when I sleep.
In return, I dream of my death by this
Stuff that so haunts my dreams. To be scorns of
Time and its aching length, calamity
Of so long life. Yet we so dread something
After death, a no-mans land from where no
One shall return – this makes us bear our ills.
We fight. We suffer. We are wounded, all.
So we are cowards that do fear our deaths,
For we fear the unknown, those we know not.
Instead we dream that dying is dreaming,
To sooth our conscience and minds from unreeling.
After a close reading of Hamlet's 'To be, or not to be', I chose elements of it to base this sonnet on as a response and a helpful tool to understand part of its meaning a little better.
It’s a fallacy, ‘to be or not to be’
actors strutting and pouting across
a stage, their black shoes burning
holes into the painted wood,

Their words lacking conviction
each action, merely an action,
but it’s what they have to work with
that holds the key, he secret ecstasy,
The escape route from Hell

Knowing that, given the choice,
‘to be’ is not where the scales will
settle. We are wanderers clutching
at straws of adventures, but we will
pick the short one, eventually

Where then do we go? When there is
no ladder made of gold to climb.
no pearly gates nor a wizardly,
kindly face

‘The play’s the thing’
wherein we catch
the conscious of
ourselves
Angela Liyanto Sep 2018
I

As she lay dying there in the sleeping water under vigil skies,
Her paleness and poised hair drooped as her soft ankles thinned.
On this dying night, weeping violets and lonely daffodils sweep beneath her
Under the damsel skies, where the stars were bright, with rose tinted spectres above.

What innocence! Where soft eyed men pour their souls in foaming despair
Floating in dew time; Flowers shake beneath her quiet memories
Only in a dream, she felt, that the rivers let her go with no sweet pain,
Away from the foggy embrace of soft manes, called ample to sleep!

Within her sighs, pathetic Nature vile her against the Fumes of men
Yes - there she drowned! Twice the burden on the crazed self, her poor mind!
Although it seems as it were too lonely, the desolation and stillness, soft as muses
For twice she died! For the scatterings of a Man's heart, and bruised voices pouring forth

It is not plain to see the Spring turn to dreary sounds of woe in ember
She died with a Love, like a pale knight of many dying conquests!
What soft kisses fill her body's breath; polished gentle hands float
In the abyss of roaring sounds of freedom, as sweet as a White butterfly!

II

And with her handsome self, her garments flow deep as winter's face, to the bottom!
Ploughing ceaselessly against the bitterness of Denmark's treasures, darkling we listen
To her angelic voice that melts her own hair, preserve what's left of her!
The Tender innocence! The forlorn child! As we stood in tears against our land, dreary!

Yes- You have died! The breath of the disastrous wind played a part in you passing.
And we wake in incandescence, Is this a dream or a bitter awakening?
That your little lips won't touch the cheeks of your lovers,
Nor your several hells fail to come terms with the love you have cherished

What can April flowers do to your begone body? What shall I dream now?
A curse to valour and nobility?  What beauty lies beyond her?
The pale voice of Love bestows you, the distant cheers of men at sea
With your twisted hair curl towards the seasonable thickets of death

It is in much grace and passing style you have made the saddest heart bleed
That your weariness leans yourself towards perilous seas, heavy once more
We remember with pompous caution the fragile heartstrings of man
The poor madness, leading Men to bow the knee to preserve your infinite virginity.

III

And the poet, comes seeking for flowers in the garden for her passing,
Where she picked a great Lily, poor Ophelia, will be for all, everlasting.
Inspired by the Shakespeare's Hamlet
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