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Tom Salter Jul 2020
Behold! The agony of love,
Hidden through receipts
In the leather folds of
Pocketed wallets, and
Phantom habits exposed
In ordinary scenes,
Perhaps
On the beachside street
Where
The wind took lead
And all bare witness
To blossoms in Spring.

Do I let the praying man wither?
His eyes so eager in
A holy begging manner.
Strapped
To the streets, afraid
To dare ask the pretend
Upper class for
A passing favour. On and on
He gives his lecture: ‘Behold!
The agony of woe, hold
Her from toe to toe, and
Let her know. Let her
Know’. A lesson
As hollow as his cheeks for
He knows not love, but
Alas he tells truth
Of life perhaps.

Behold! The agony of life,
Begging me to ponder:
‘Do I waver?’
and ‘Do I waver?’
In the face of love.
Do I seek equity
From up above? Or
Shall I trudge ever on
With my naive heart, and
Veteran laugh? Oh,
Shall I linger?

No! For
Life and love
Lay dormant
At
The edge of every smile
And in the canyons
Between stale fingers
Where lovers
Once rest, or perhaps
In the words
That come knocking
When we fail to see the door
Momentarily ahead.  

A door hidden on every street,
Packed away beside
The royal garden gate, guarding
The statue of Victoria Royal.
(That statue. That statue.)
She gathers gazing looks,
And men stumble upon her
Shouting profanities, and
Lurking behind her
Great shadow.
To us, she is a mere
Conversation
On our walk home from
The old Gladstone, where
You plead me
To think, and
On I sink,
And on I sink.

(And on, and on.)

And on I waver, and on
I waver; but the
Face is anew, and we
Trudge forward -
Ever braver.
Tom Salter Jul 2020
Behold! The agony of love,
Hidden through receipts
In the leather folds of
Pocketed wallets, and
Phantom habits exposed
In ordinary scenes,
Perhaps
On the beachside street
Where
The wind took lead
And all bare witness
To blossoms in Spring.

Behold! The agony of life,
Begging me to ponder:
Do I waver?
and do I waver?
In the face of love.
Do I seek equity
From up above? Or
Shall I trudge ever on
With my naive heart, and
Veteran laugh? Oh,
Shall I linger?

No -
Life and love
Lay dormant
At
The edge of every smile
And in the canyons
Between stale fingers
Where lovers
Once rest, or perhaps
In the words
That come knocking
When we fail to see the door
Momentarily ahead.  

And on I waver, and on
I waver; but the
Face is anew, and we
Trudge forward -
Ever braver.
Tom Salter Jul 2020
Behold! The agony of love,
Relished through receipts
Hidden
In the leather folds of
Pocketed wallets, and
Phantom habits exposed
In ordinary scenes,
Perhaps
On the beachside street
Where
The wind took control
And all witnessed
Blossoms in Spring.

Behold! The agony of love,
Laying dormant
At
The edge of every smile, and
In the gaps
Between stationery fingers
Where others
Once lay, or perhaps
In the words
That come knocking
When we fail to see the door
Ourselves.  

Behold! The agony of love,
Leaving you at a ponder,
Do I waver?
Do I waver?
In the face of love. Or
Shall I trudge ever on
With my naive heart, and
Veteran grasp?

And so I waver, and so
I waver; but the
Face is anew, and we
Trudge on.
Chrissy C Sep 2019
Sing me your love song one more time
And together we will go--you and I.
Back to winter's afternoons--where cold hands found warmth in each other's gaze.
In dusty old book shops--where lips press in a nervous exchange.
Let us go then, back to two hearts racing,
Stars aligning, and moonlit promises.
Sing me your love song one last time.
You and I will fade
Into another place, another life, where indeed there will be time.
melli7 Sep 2016
He likes - liked - to
watch tennis and gymnastics and
always insisted he pay the
check (even when we had to make sure there
was cash in his shirt
pocket for him to offer)
he refused to use a cane
at 95
because he didn't want to look
old he went out to lunch
every
day

until he didn't
Marri May 2019
I am poetry.
My back is the spine.
My arms turn into the cover.
My fingers smooth into pages.
The prints printed on my thumbs bleed words.

I am a poem,
Every single part of me.
I am all the thoughts the human race has ever had.
I am the mother, I am the dad.

When you want a piece of poetry to feed your mind—
I'll peel the layers off my thumb, ‘til they form sentences,
I'll bend my fingers back, back until they turn into stanzas,
I'll snap my arms crooked, ‘til they cry out titles,
I'll arch my back, and screech as they brand me with the name of my owner.

I am a haiku.
The original OG.
You can't handle me.

I am a sonnet,
Betrothed to Shakespeare.
Like a kid learning his alphabet, and he gets stuck on G:
AB(AB)-CD(CD)-EF(EF)-GG.
My couplets are more star-crossed than Romeo and Juliet could ever be.

I am T.S Eliot here to sing you love songs—
Don’t you cast me to The Waste Land.

I am Maya Angelou ‘bout to free the bird from its cage—
And still I rise.

I am Emily Dickinson finally stopping for death—
You can’t **** me.

I am living, breathing poetry.
My veins bleed poetry—fear this blood.
My eyes cry poetry—see these words.
My shampoo brand is poetry—feel these curls.

Rise,
Stand,
And take up the pen.
Poetry is our oxygen.
Let us all breathe it in.

Our words will save this nation.
From a simple sentence to a conversation.

We are poetry.
We will save the world.

You are poetry.
You can change the world.

I am poetry.
Use me to save this world!

And when I finally die,
I'll be reincarnated into a tree.
I'll be turned into pages for the next poets to use.
And when they do—
    
I'll be free.
JAC Nov 2018
I.
Some of the leaves are still green
crawling between cold alleys in morning
thin wind stringing them along
carrying them towards December

II.
The trees are decorated too early
every year is an unsurprising imitation
but still you are warm inside with your family
making up for the colours you lack outside

III.
Cocktail dresses flash like little winks
hints of resolve so ready to be broken
the gold flows like goddess ichor and smiles
kissing like lovers who will leave tomorrow
loving as if we aren't

IV.
Love is in the air like chlorine gas
and no one is the wiser for it
the streets are still covered in old, dark snow
but we're too tired of it to notice
it's only a few sleeps until spring.
I love T. S. Eliot.
Nat Lipstadt Mar 2014
Everything in quotations marks and italics was written by TS Eliot.

eyes knowing glossy men,
sheer women, creatures,
not all artists, but artists,
always thus,
centrifugal, simple

from their core,
emanate, resonate,
expand the exterior
with interior precision sculpting

to the interior delve,
via brush or limb,
pen or music,
the exposition, the exploration,
the reconstruction of composing
one's self, creation and destruction
of your own myths

movement of arms and legs,
sparseness of simplicity
subsidiaries of centricity,
tributaries of complexity,
oriented to their locality

the simple purpose of inhalation,
to exhale, after transformation,
the calculus of thought into emotion:

"the tongues of flame are in-folded
into the crowned knot of fire and
the fire and rose are one"


the dancers hear the music:

"so deeply that it is not heard at all,
but you are the music
while the music lasts."


**”Quick now, here, now always –
A condition of complete simplicity
(Costing not less than everything)
And all shall be well and
All manner of thing shall be well"
"Immature poets borrow, mature poets steal." T.S. Eliot (1888 - 1965)

Inspired this evening by the Martha Graham Company, the words and wisdom of TS Eliot, from whom she took inspiration in her choreography of modern dance
Jessica S Jan 2018
A couple hours from now, as we are toasting a farewell to a neoteric past, a new year will emerge from the ashes of 2017. Like a phoenix, it will rise again, and sing sweet songs of new beginnings and manifest hope for a better year. We wait for this day in anticipation praying the months to follow will be anything but a repetition of a life once lived. We convince ourselves that we will be more productive, that we will be more active, and that THIS is the year that will change our lives. So we set New Years resolutions, we mark our calendars with exciting new adventures, we establish new goals and reimagine our old dreams hoping that in this new year, we can accomplish them all. But, for many eager and willing people, months will go by without any true transformation. And as the year draws closer to its end, they are again transfixed by old habits and excuses. Their excitement and determination will have faded into the mundanity of reality setting them back to where they were before. For a new year can’t be the driving force for change. A new year shouldn’t be the starting point for innovation. Because refinement shouldn’t be pushed to a certain date and time. And if someone really wants to revolutionize their life, why wait?
Paul Hansford May 2016
The function of a violet is to grow
out of dead leaves,
turning decay
into itself.
A poem too builds a little sense
from the rubble of life (what branches grow
out of this stony *******?). One and the other
flower according to their nature,
seen by those
who know what they are looking for.

A violet is not a poem,
but the message is the same.
The quotation in brackets is from TS Eliot's "The Waste Land".
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