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M e l l o Apr 6
i'll forget the memories i made with you
love will fade little by little
but
i haven't told you yet the name of the flower
when you asked me to identify from the bouquet
you brought on our very first date

i know that if there's life there's death
its up to us how we live in between
i spend my days having coffee with you
and yours to watch movies with me
flowers grow from the seeds then it withers in time

don't forget me i said
i hurt myself and cried more
i wish I was the one who'd say to 'forget me
Because honestly I can't say 'don't let me go
Forget-me-not
but
i will keep on living positively from now on

you don't have to say 'thank you to me
because i feel the same with you
but
i wish you didn't told me to 'forget you
please 'don't let me go
Forget-me-not


i'll forget the memories i made with you
love will fade little by little
i'll keep on living positively
Forget-me-not
Forget-me-nots symbolize true love and respect. When you give someone these tiny blooms, it represents a promise that you will always remember them and will keep them in your thoughts. (source: Google)
Isabella Mar 29
My wolf
You bit me
Under a full moon
And I didn't turn
I stayed human
Scars in my arms
Blood dripping from my wrists
I fell to the forest floor
And cried
Jodie-Elaine Jan 23
I see you, I think
when I need you most
climbing a bad day,
there you were
the very day after your birthday
robin on a birdfeeder
all will be okay.
'Robin on a birdfeeder', from my upcoming collection 'Haven't the Foggiest'. Coming March 2022
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
Jael O'Dell Dec 2016
A looming black gate with serrated edges,
Gargoyles were staring at you from upon marble ledges,
You opened the gate with a fearless pride,
Fate awaits you where your life is denied.
Wandering through the garden of rotting weeds,
Weaker you became as a hungry Death feeds.
You rested upon a swing hanging from an Oak,
With nothing to keep you warm besides a feeble cloak.
Your small hand grasped at an aching heart,
With wounded visions of falling apart.
But just before arising to make your retreat,
You glanced upon the crumbled bricks beneath your feet.
A rose did lay on the moss covered path,
A beauty disturbed; it revealed its wrath.
Thunder mumbled an angry roar,
Electric veils of light began to soar,
Glistening rain fell from the darkest cloud,
You could hear your broken heart beating aloud.
You could feel the scarlet flowers torment,
As you knelt to pick the blossom from the cement.
Beauty grew in the garden as you become ever frail,
You fell to the ground and your face faded pale.
A tear emerged as you took your last breath,
A wondrous dwelling surrounded your death.
An entity took over and your corpse was revived,
Where eyes dissolved there were flowers alive.
Frail bones turned to roots and unkempt hair to earth,
This is in the stars for us all since the day of our birth.
The rose lay beside you, crippled with rage,
And bled from it's petals a bright red lineage,
Of the curious soul who dares enter the lair,
Despair is devious but most are unaware.
The living crypt is bountiful again,
Ready to entice more lonely souls within,
It anxiously rests as it eagerly awaits,
For another dim spirit to enter its gates.
stillhuman Aug 2021
My shadow is kind
blurry at times
and darker some nights
But she hums so sweet
and one time she said this

"Make a wish
on that shining star
It is pacing the sky
passing the time
endeared by your kind"

And I did try
for my cry to reach that high
of what I couldn't wish for
in one starless night

I looked up to the star bright
admired it shine with my eyes
open wide as I smiled
and I wished for that childish delight
to never leave my side
as it didn't that night
So that I could still fight
when the scorching sun would be high
and the feathers of my wings
would feel light
Make a wish on that shining star
Make it true, make it shine
Thomas W Case Jul 2021
Her heart was
my port, as I
sailed lost in
those
vagrant waters.
Her eyes were my
lighthouse
through the
fog and the storms
of life.

Oh, how I loved
her
once upon a time,
when I was lost
at sea;
she was my shore,
my harbor of joy.

The nights are darker
without her,
and the Stars
hide their sadness
behind the clouds.

I am
older now...
colder
now
without her touch.
3md Jun 2021
A heavy crow perches on my shoulder,
Slowly gnawing at my fraying dignity.
It screeches in my ear, and I suffer
As it gently teases my swelling frailty.

I walk down a winding path, while the crow speaks
To drown me in its mockery. It watches as I am swallowed
By the jeers flooding from its mouth, as insults spoken wreak
Havoc on my stability. It calls me a stupid coward.

Its claws wipe mud on the yoke of my shirt,
Pressing ever deeper into my aching skin.
I am forced to kneel under its deathly weight—
It was getting heavier with the spreading of its wings.

I face the Earth, and amidst the gloom a puddle lay quietly.
A faint reflection stares at me, its ever widening grin enveloping my view,
With its black feathers ruffling gently in the light breeze, slowly
tears myself in two. My mind and heart, in constant conflict, are irresolute.

My eyes see nothing but darkness. Clouds fill the gray sky,
And thunder shouts in flashes. Rain pours in roaring torrents…

I stand up, but the crow is gone. My shoulder feels not the pain any longer.
Silence—the mere echoes of sorrows long gone are but faintly relayed to the present.
I wonder whether the sun would shine for eternity, for the past is now a stranger.
Yet a tiny black feather remains stuck on my shoe to remind me of a bygone lament.
Written over two years ago; what I thought was a masterpiece is an amateur's meagre work of art.

Dated Feb 28, 2019
Thomas W Case Mar 2021
I watch life float by
like a dragonfly
riding the breeze.
I need to seize the
current like a
brick of gold,
soar ever upward,
above the swamps,
and dead lilies.
Transcendent light blinds
temporarily, but it's
necessary for new sight,
and stronger wings.
Thomas W Case Mar 2021
Some poems seem to write
themselves;
I just move the pen.
Others, are like lumps
of clay;
they refuse to be molded;
they need moisture and time.
This one is like
a robin that just learned
to use its wings.
It heads west, on a
gentle breeze, into
a tangerine sky.
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