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Kamilla 2h
I sigh
Another day painstakingly crawls by
Crawls,
As does the ivy circling my neck
Restricting my breath,
But I couldn’t care less
Chartreuse vines, enveloped by raw, grim leaves
My words are no longer mine,
But the thieves
Knowing of my impending doom
The poet’s worst fear comes true,
No voice, no words, no pen nor quill
Nothing to live for,
Stripped has been my will

I scream
Raging embers arise amongst the leaves
My trembling jaw, shaking tongue and quivering lips
Eager claws and curled fingertips,
At the ivy they rip
The fiery yet gentle glow of flame
Disintegrating the captive plant as soon as it came
The embers of the past settle upon frigid ash
And no longer should I thrash

I sigh
Relief floods my being, knowing the vines have died
A catalyst to the ethereal lilacs that are now by my side
Flourishing purple buds rest pleasantly upon my face
Lavender tinged petals carry honey laced words,
Close enough to taste
The dance of petals surrounding brings wind,
Of my newfound happiness and strength I found within
Tranquility and peace,
My hatred left to decrease
From dusk unto dawn, I know I must move on
Once ivy thrived all around me
Now, petals of a fresh start reside in my heart
This is the story of me taking back something that was rightfully mine-- my confidence and love for myself. Also remember that you are worth it, you are strong.
Meysa Apr 19
like ivy around my thighs
a disease of the tongue
take me
raw.
Meysa Apr 15
The day the earth set me forth
flowers blossomed in my mother's chest
and ivy tucked itself beneath her tendons.
Perhaps that is why I forfeit good men for anarchists.

I was born neither one thing
nor the other.
- on identity of the self
Spleen
by Paul Verlaine
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The roses were so very red;
The ivy, impossibly black.

Dear, with a mere a turn of your head,
My despair’s flooded back!

The sky was too gentle, too blue;
The sea, far too windswept and green.

Yet I always imagined―or knew―
I’d again feel your spleen.

Now I'm tired of the glossy waxed holly,
Of the shimmering boxwood too,

Of the meadowland’s endless folly,
When all things, alas, lead to you!

Paul-Marie Verlaine (1844-1896) was a French poet and a prominent figure in the Symbolist and Decadent poetry movements. Verlaine has been called "one of the most purely lyrical of French poets."  Keywords/Tags: Verlaine, French, translation, spleen, roses, ivy, despair, sky, sea, blue, green, red, black, holly, boxwood
These Hallowed Halls
by Michael R. Burch

a young Romantic Poet mourns the passing of an age . . .

I.

A final stereo fades into silence
and now there is seldom a murmur
to trouble the slumber
of these ancient halls.

I stand by a window where others have watched
the passage of time—alone,
not untouched.

And I am as they were
                ...unsure...
for the days
stretch out ahead,
a bewildering maze.

II.

Ah, faithless lover—
that I had never touched your breast,
nor felt the stirrings of my heart,
which until that moment had peacefully slept.

For now I have known the exhilaration
of a heart that has vaulted the Pinnacle of Love,
and the result of each such infatuation—
the long freefall to earth, as the moon glides above.

III.

A solitary clock chimes the hour
from far above the campus,
but my peers,
returning from their dances,
heed it not.

And so it is
that we seldom gauge Time’s speed
because He moves so unobtrusively
about His task.

Still, when at last
we reckon His mark upon our lives,
we may well be surprised
at His thoroughness.

IV.

Ungentle maiden—
when Time has etched His little lines
so carelessly across your brow,
perhaps I will love you less than now.

And when cruel Time has stolen
your youth, as He certainly shall in course,
perhaps you will wish you had taken me
along with my broken heart,
even as He will take you with yours.

V.

A measureless rhythm rules the night—
few have heard it,
but I have shared it,
and its secret is mine.

To put it into words
is as to extract the sweetness from honey
and must be done as gently
as a butterfly cleans its wings.

But when it is captured, it is gone again;
its usefulness is only
that it lulls to sleep.

VI.

So sleep, my love, to the cadence of night,
to the moans of the moonlit hills’
bass chorus of frogs, while the deep valleys fill
with the nightjar’s shrill, cryptic trills.

But I will not sleep this night, nor any;
how can I—when my dreams
are always of your perfect face
ringed by soft whorls of fretted lace,
framed by your perfect pillowcase?

VII.

If I had been born when knights roamed the earth
and mad kings ruled savage lands,
I might have turned to the ministry,
to the solitude of a monastery.

But there are no monks or hermits today—
theirs is a lost occupation
carried on, if at all,
merely for sake of tradition.

For today man abhors solitude—
he craves companions, song and drink,
seldom seeking a quiet moment,
to sit alone, by himself, to think.

VIII.

And so I cannot shut myself
off from the rest of the world,
to spend my days in philosophy
and my nights in tears of self-sympathy.

No, I must continue as best I can,
and learn to keep my thoughts away
from those glorious, uproarious moments of youth,
centuries past though lost but a day.

IX.

Yes, I must discipline myself
and adjust to these lackluster days
when men display no chivalry
and romance is the "old-fashioned" way.

X.

A single stereo flares into song
and the first faint light of morning
has pierced the sky's black awning
once again.

XI.

This is a sacred place,
for those who leave,
leave better than they came.

But those who stay, while they are here,
add, with their sleepless nights and tears,
quaint sprigs of ivy to the walls
of these Hallowed Halls.

NOTE: I wrote this poem from the window of my freshman dorm at age 18, while watching students returning from rush week parties in the wee hours of the morning. There is also a sonnet version of the poem. In this longer version there are clues that the poet, like Prufrock, is aware of the quaintness of his Romanticism in the modern age. I consider “These Hallowed Halls” to be my Ars Poetica, along with “Poetry.” Keywords/Tags: College, dorm, fraternity, rush, Romantic, unrequited, love, ivy, halls, learning, education, ivory, towers, stereo, music, romance, chivalry, maidens, damsels, knights, kings, monks, hermits, clock, time
Ivy climbs gnarled knotted trunks
Darker lines and streams divide where white wool digs below tufts of heather and tall tipped reeds
Calm flat lakes vacate
Pale hues of birch become rocky barren lands of moss and brown broken bracken
Thick conifers multiplied for miles
The mountain side tipped with ice
Houses change like the hedgerow from new to old
Some unfurnished whilst others glow
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Savannah Aug 2019
Ivy
I like the ivy that grows in the stones
In every crevice it finds a home

A place it will find, always one to belong
A nuisance to many, but of them I'm quite fond

I wish to be an ivy plant and make way as I please
Riddle the world with my beauty, though my beauty is weeds

The condfindence of an ivy, such a sight and a treasure
I wish to be an ivy but to an ivy I cannot measure
Thanks for reading
Anastasia Aug 2019
She was made
of gold
and marble
and she stood
above
the water.
A boy of stone
less looked at
stood hidden
behind
the ivy.
Forgotten
by most
he loved
the girl
made
of gold
and marble.
He
loved her
she
loved him
and they whispered
their love
in the night.
what do you think?
Shadowhollow Jul 2019
I tried to love you
The way the sunflower loves the sun
Hopefully.
Patiently waiting till it’s grows enough
To touch her lover

But I’m not patient or hopeful like the sunflower
I am as delicate as baby’s breath wrapped up in poison ivy
Beautiful yet poisonous

Nobody will risk the pain
That comes with me
The blistering rash that follows my touch
But won’t you try ?
For me ?

I suppose I’m not for most people
I grow better without the sun
Without blinding love

I’m am not like the sunflower that much is true my love
For I’d rather wilt
Then wait to be picked up and thrown away
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