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Anais Vionet May 2023
Edgar Alan Poe is dead. Seriously, I read it.
He died in October 1849 - or did he?
Do we really know?

Poe wrote about death a lot,
he teased with it, it was his favorite tool.
He kept death close and twisted it like a knife.

His profession was the macabre, the shadow,
the summoned dread and the gruesome aftermath.

He was a writer and a critic - what’s more dreadful than a critic?

They say he died from “unknown causes”
- how absolutely perfect.
BLT Marriam Webster word of the day challenge: Aftermath: the period after a destructive event.
In death's dream kingdom
           These do not appear:



                     I

They're handing out maroon balloons
And saying they are free
But grasping children grip them fast
And the monks amidst them disagree
Dispassionately, but en masse
While they liberate the children
With obliterating oms.

A nearby Byron expiates
And mildly reiterates
The soporific broken ode
He bellows over holy oms
To the smitten women who approach
That "a rose is a rose is a rose is a rose"
Dispensing with disinterest
Crimson bliss amidst the women
Who ignore the sinful image he bestows.

He hands them out like red balloons
To grasping girls all afternoon
Imploring them to trust their nose
Insisting they are free
And so continues to propose
To the smitten women in the street
That "a rose is a rose is a rose is a rose"
As if the word could smell as sweet
As the perennials he grows.

And in the corner – Romeo
Who greenly mourning understands
The worth of poison in his hands
Imagining a life of night
Where roses wither without light
And only stars through windows break
Through all the countless nights of fate
and every breath's an endless wake...

Meanwhile Byron's distant yells
Prevail over the choral swell
And plant a seed in grasping ears:
Salvation can be engineered!
Which Romeo soon understands
As kissing death, he takes her hand
Thoughts germinating into schemes
If a rose is a rose is a rose is a rose
...then a dream is a dream is a dream.


                     II

A griffin, a hippogriff, and a wyvern
Admitting me and
Gripping crimson
Dripping strings
So none of them will fly away.

Inside, Cain is killing Abel  
(How few! yet how they creep)
killing Abel
(Through my fingers to the deep)
killing Abel
(While I weep — while I weep!)
killing Abel.
(O God! Can I not grasp)
It is the first story:
(Them with a tighter clasp?)
A samsara of carnage and drama.

Somewhere above
On a city street
Desire's handing out balloons
He clips their thorns
And trims them neat
He says they're free
And just as sweet
As the women he impugnes
He belies his guidance on repeat:
That love is the light is the sun is the moon.

A widower laments and moves the world
That has such people in it:
A snake, a guard, a god, a dog
A wife by no other name
A faltering of faith, a peek
A pillar of salt, a severed head
Adrift on a river
Singing:

I'd transcend five hundred miles
And I'd transcend five hundred more
Just to be the man who transcends trials
Sprawled out on your floor

(Thy drugs are quick.)
Searching for a souvenir
To prove to you our world was here


Isaac, bound, blank and free
Bleating, looking for meaning
(All that we see or seem)
In his father's violent eye,
And finding it.
(Thus with a kiss I die.)
Abraham swings his knife.
A son is a sin is a ram is a rose.

A man pushes the sun up a large hill
(LET THERE BE LIGHT)
Every day, and then it rolls down again
And then an eagle eats his liver.
(I am the resurrection and the life.)
One must imagine Prometheus happy
The alternative is dark

The moon, by any other name, would—
But do not swear by the moon!
For she changes constantly
(Then said Jesus unto them plainly:
Lazarus is dead.)

Everything changes
But nothing is truly lost.

(at times
the fact of her absence
will hit you like a blow to the chest
and you will weep.
but this will happen less and less
as time goes on.
she is dead.
you are alive.
so live.
)

A man pushes the sun up a large hill
A day is a year is a life is a death.

One must imagine Orpheus happy.


                     III

In dreams, the sun resumes her loving glow
I'm reunited with my silhouette
I glue myself with soap to my shadow
And find myself beside my Juliet

No longer a balloon without a hand
I'm rooted to the earth where she grips me
With purpose guiding us through life's demands
I push my boulders uphill happily

I build a world with Juliet my wife
Where roses are all roses and smell sweet
We live a loving happy magic life
Together til our journey is complete.

[Enter, at the other end of the churchyard,
FRIAR LAURENCE, with a lantern, crow, and *****.
]

In union Eve and Adam are redeemed,
Not in a rose but in a living dream.
Can a rose be just a rose?
Ubuntu says that a person cannot be just a person.
Romeo grieves for the light of his sun, Juliet,
and chooses to live a life with her in a dream
as the poison kills him.
Ken Pepiton Feb 2023
Snowday, too, on top of the Monday Fed Holiday.

Nations are minds made up. Agreements, elders made
with all they made believe.

Let's pretend, after seven decades, we are children,
let us spout off about absolutes and insoluble angst,

natural, in unconstitutional retyings of the national
spirit,
we
the
people most exceptionalistly educated and ---

Confuse, confuse muse and music?
Magnification and magic, majesty and jest, me?

My first thought on waking, or reaction acknowledging,
science, if any thing is sharp, it was made to become so.

Crystal vision, any reader in this medium has,
an attainment,
merit worn
by knowing
words hold
thoughts and thoughts occur in superstringy gnosisnot.
anomaly of copy pastetime
Unpolished Ink Oct 2022
In the garden stir the flowers
that whisper through the trees
a subtle hint of fragrance
fading on the breeze


Ripples over pebbles
gentle rushing of the stream
is the smile in cool reflection
that of you or Angeline


In the **** that's slowly choking
to stem the watery flow
do you find her auburn tresses
and that face as white as snow


Does she walk beside you
like she did so long ago
it was you that drowned her
so only you would know!
Having a go in the style of Poe
Alpha May 2022
nevermore nevermore nevermore nevermore nevermore nevermore nevermore nevermore nevermore nevermore nevermore nevermore nevermore nevermore nevermore nevermore nevermore nevermore nevermore nevermore nevermore nevermore nevermore nevermore nevermore nevermore nevermore nevermore nevermore nevermore nevermore nevermore nevermore nevermore nevermore nevermore nevermore nevermore nevermore nevermore nevermore nevermore nevermore nevermore nevermore evermore nevermore nevermore nevermore nevermore nevermore nevermore nevermore nevermore nevermore nevermore nevermore nevermore nevermore nevermore nevermore nevermore nevermore nevermore nevermore nevermore
Thanks to E. A. Poe and Alan Parson, I had this line from 'The Raven' playing in my head over and over, and it felt as if I was becoming crazy; ecstatic and crazy.
So to get rid of it, I first scribbled all over a page of my notebook Nevermore, and then I invented this poem.
If you don't know 'The Raven', read it or hear it. That doesn't matter. Just change the fact that you don't know it. You won't regret it. *.*
Joshua Jackson Jan 2022
Legs astretched like venomous broomsticks
Fangs drooped lazily like a calm nosferatu,
Those eyes gold as sun on styx, treasures
  that spun flame between his every blink--
Sandpaper tongue dragged over black hair
Nibbling his own wrist momentarily, then
Locking sleepy eyes on you, ascending fleece--
Retractable moonbeams flex teasing attack
   then kneads, falling like a lullaby back into
       uncapturable dreams; purring in the spirit of poe.
Michael R Burch Dec 2021
These are my modern English translations of sonnets by the French poet Stephane Mallarme.

The Tomb of Edgar Poe
by Stéphane Mallarmé
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Transformed into himself by Death, at last,
the Bard unsheathed his Art’s recondite blade
to duel with dullards, blind & undismayed,
who’d never heard his ardent Voice, aghast!

Like dark Medusan demons of the past
who’d failed to heed such high, angelic words,
men called him bendered, his ideas absurd,
discounting all the warlock’s spells he’d cast.

The wars of heaven and hell? Earth’s senseless grief?
Can sculptors carve from myths a bas-relief
to illuminate the sepulcher of Poe?

No, let us set in granite, here below,
a limit and a block on this disaster:
this Blasphemy, to not acknowledge a Master!

The original French poem appears after the translations

"Le Cygne" ("The Swan")
by Stéphane Mallarmé
this untitled poem is also called Mallarmé's "White Sonnet"
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The virginal, the vivid, the vivacious day:
can its brilliance be broken by a wild wing-blow
delivered to this glacial lake
whose frozen ice-falls impede flight? No.

In past reflections on its thoughts today
the Swan remembers freedom, but can’t make
a song from its surroundings, only take
on the winter's ghostly hue of snow.

In the Swan's white agony its bared neck lies
within a guillotine its sense denies.
Slowly being frozen to its inner being,
the body ignores the phantom spirit fleeing...

Cold contempt for its captor
is of no use to the raptor.



Le tombeau d’Edgar Poe
by Stéphane Mallarmé

Tel qu’en Lui-même enfin l’éternité le change,
Le Poète suscite avec un glaive nu
Son siècle épouvanté de n’avoir pas connu
Que la mort triomphait dans cette voix étrange!
Eux, comme un vil sursaut d’hydre oyant jadis l’ange
Donner un sens plus pur aux mots de la tribu,
Proclamèrent très haut le sortilège bu
Dans le flot sans honneur de quelque noir mélange.
Du sol et de la nue hostiles, ô grief!
Si notre idée avec ne sculpte un bas-relief
Dont la tombe de Poe éblouissante s’orne
Calme bloc ici-bas chu d’un désastre obscur
Que ce granit du moins montre à jamais sa borne
Aux noirs vols du Blasphème épars dans le futur.



Le Cygne
by Stéphane Mallarmé

Le vierge, le vivace et le bel aujourd'hui
Va-t-il nous déchirer avec un coup d'aile ivre
Ce lac dur oublié que hante sous le givre
Le transparent glacier des vols qui n'ont pas fui !
Un cygne d'autrefois se souvient que c'est lui
Magnifique mais qui sans espoir se délivre
Pour n'avoir pas chanté la région où vivre
Quand du stérile hiver a resplendi l'ennui.
Tout son col secouera cette blanche agonie
Par l'espace infligée à l'oiseau qui le nie,
Mais non l'horreur du sol où le plumage est pris.
Fantôme qu'à ce lieu son pur éclat assigne,
Il s'immobilise au songe froid de mépris
Que vêt parmi l'exil inutile le Cygne.

Stephane Mallarme was a major French poet and one of the leading French symbolist poets.

Keywords/Tags: Stephane Mallarme, France, French poet, symbolism, symbolist, symbolic, poetry, Edgar Allan Poe, grave, tomb, sepulcher, memorial, elegy, eulogy, epitaph, sonnet
Aubry Oct 2021
Oh darling,
How truly pleasing you are
Your gaze shifts to mine unknowing
If only you knew the power you're holding
Oh how I adore those helpless eyes
It's truly a shame they do no real looking
Clip, clop you walk steadily off
No! Don't go!
Oh darling,
Don't you understand I adore you.
Or have I not made it clear?
Well allow me to demonstrate my dear
How hopelessly, helpless i've become
Please won't you let me have you
Oh for heaven's sake!
You can not just ignore me,
Love me I beg you
Oh darling,
It appears you truly are blind
Or is it just that I've stolen your eyes?
You would not return my gaze
So I forced it
What a horrible mistake I've made
But no remorse do I have for it
Smick! Smack! You try to crawl away
No! You mustn't go!
Oh darling,
I've captured you once more
Not just in my gaze, of that I am sure
It appears my ropes are too tight.
You are turning blue like the brightest of skies.
Let me tell you the sweetest of lies.
Slithering, slipping, sliding through my grasp,
Your breath is drawing fewer.
Oh darling,
What have I done?
You were my one true love,
Why did you have to fade to grey?
Should I have just admired you and stayed away?
How I miss those helpless, sightless eyes
I am the monster who destroyed you
Oh darling,
I wish I had never known you.
My boyfriend's neighbor is a monster, this is completely unrelated
Vaampyrae Jan 2021
And I am stevia
Together
We’re a snacc.




Because if my heart ever sought for one taste
It’d be your love.



Interesting, I’ve never tasted peanut buttered fish before.

But I’d like to taste you more.
How odd. How unstructured. My brain is going haywire today XD
Lee Carter Dec 2020
"To be or not to be,"
That is the question,

nothing more.

The answer is for you to choose,

nothing more.








Nothing more.
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