"aesthete" poems
∙∙∙◦◦•◎•◦◦∙∙∙
Caribbean blue sail's a galaxy
rivers gushing, mumbling for an eternity
reflections of Love forms to thee
Suddenly silence adumbrate
aesthete, A lustful tint of Peruvian trees
petrichor whiffs of earth's virginity
A syzygy that I can't apprehend
but, can fully appreciate its denouement
rebirth of once I fell in love been
Listen to its sotto voce ruffling
preterlabent streams, resplendent hymns
humming grasses cues to sing
Upon the mountain tops hidden
rocks of geos sighting a treasure within
only to discover lore’s of forbidden
Cascading trees whispered a cold
a journey I never knew how to go as told
trap between floras along the road
Propinquity of my eyes closing thin
soul reserved for death, till breath hops in
trodden a land ****** for me to begin
A minstrel with hands like marbles
strung a fiddle of tessellated symphonies
open wonders the eyes never seen
A bouquet of amaranth revealed
the longing heart found someone of new
sighs my feelings and away I strew
Jul 8, 2017
Jul 8, 2017 at 3:22 AM UTC
/ the aesthete...
and the athlete,
i.e.
the "sophist",
and the "philosopher"?
ah... phonetics, rather linguistics:
former: as-feet...
but the latter?
ancient greek
in french:
a(h)'f'lé'té.
people should, really introduce
a chemistry-style subscript for surds,
most notably H,
hay'chch,
when dealing with such deviations
from classicaly philosophy
metaphysical concerns,
and modern, orthography:
this, the, now,
types of "philosophical" inquiries:
and i mean that
as "philosophical":
because i actualy mean...
the favours of pedantry akin to
being entertained by
the intricacies of Versailles;
you'd get more good-luck wishes
in the form of horse-shoes
hanging over your door in a small
village in the ***** of gascony.
Jul 19, 2018
Jul 19, 2018 at 11:00 AM UTC
dust has collected in this once filled room of my mine
it's floated and settled on the last few things left behind
spellbind
windchime
now i can say this empty space is all mine
8 years of pacing this room
8 years of shouting at the moon
8 years of sleeping til noon
just to ignore the fact I meant nothing to you
so much anger has made home in my bones
the way you used to speak about me felt like being casted with stones
I used to try and drown out your tasteless, colorless tone
you type "she's dramatic" in a text on your phone
I expected this feeling of indifference to feel free with no stop lights
yet this empty space
and this empty mind
coincide
with what I've known this whole time
that all too familiar feeling of restlessness has come to an end
and even though there are still memories burned into my head
I don't believe I have anything else left unsaid
I envied your callousness
I despised your self-righteousness
and i ached at your lack of consequence
what caught your eye was never my elegance
but rather my callowness
as the ice in your drink swirls and melts
and you're blaming me besides everyone else
as your anger starts to swell
just remember it was me who wasn't treated well
we can keep our heads down while our eyes meet on the street
while you pretend I don't resemble meadowsweet
and that we never danced in my kitchen with me on your feet
but
to be honest
in the end
we were always offbeat
when you chose to secede
I found you to not be an aesthete
if you could agree
to be without me
this story is begging to no longer be told
so maybe I'll revisit this time of my life when I've seen how my life will unfold
til then my king is fallen on this chess board
my feelings are buried far past the sea's shore
and I've finally
stopped keeping score
Feb 25, 2022
Feb 25, 2022 at 2:02 PM UTC
i.
In the Aeonian of the lifetime's
We shalt formeth together;
Lifeline's.
ii.
We shalt be aesthete's
Museum enthusiast's;
Of chariot's, and cherub's.
iii.
Aeviternal through the ion's
Cascarilla of incense burning;
Smoke to riseth ourn hearth.
iv.
A catena of both of ourn novel's
The fireplace, wood gleamed;
Ourn silhouette's making love to the shadow's.
©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poets poetry
©Earl Jane nagley/ Filipino rose dedication
Sep 5, 2015
Sep 5, 2015 at 1:14 PM UTC
hedonic adaptation
living, breathing an
idealized state
transparent powers
an aesthete with an
affinity for anarchy
shamelessly insinuating
fatal errors in identification
extraterrestrial ***********
at the core of our unity
probing at a molecular level
damning the will to connect
a creative protest against
the artificial
daydreams bleach
inferiority complexes
and insight breaks through
dark and damaging
sacrificial secrets
thrusting toward the deep end
forgoing progress through
flawed perception
the bright light shining through
your self inflicted wounds
cannot be ignored
Jan 21, 2015
Jan 21, 2015 at 4:24 PM UTC
"What distillate can be discovered from herbs
of a witching brew," said an aesthete,
"what distillate prepared according
to the formulas of ancient Grecosyrian magi
which for a day (if no longer
its potency can last), or even for a short time
can bring my twenty three years to me
again; can bring my friend of twenty two
to me again -- his beauty, his love.
"What distillate prepared according
to the formulas of ancient Grecosyrian magi
which, in bringing back these things,
can also bring back our little room."
1.7k
Left behind us, that questioned absent mise-en-scène
With gods compassionate speaking over me;
Carelessly deliberate staves of notes rise off the pastiche
To push the soul above the throat through to the hubris of Man
And while his brushstroke unpaints the painter, and a lucid camera shutters free.
All things arise from unities as fibers from the music sheet,
A horn of violet magnitude triumphs beyond the bore concrete,
It cuts below the rest, the merit, teasing to the very womb
Of beauty, raw and eager as primitive desire; he shows to us a tomb
A snapshot of myself the author, of us authors, born again and again
And he sits smug to the side, his cigar as long as libido.
Our bodies are substance on which and of which are drawn
From the comely purple man, patient and ****** he bears
For the very law of beast commands a stable mind,
Captains the aesthete unto the intrusive hole from, for which he writes
For which we create: in that, we find the hungry impetus,
Mothers and fathers in the same moment, with abandon
A moral of such empty stuff pulls from me spirit, spirit, spirit
Of the living wager, my life, as the music man, as the purple man
Ensconced by ***** comes to me: thus is proposed, thus is empowered
Poesis brought me close to the thing of God, poetry brought me from
And beyond, and I dedicate myself to escape from the *********** of art
But run back, and back, and back to the sole recourse to be made.
I can only ride, and writhe to feel the ****** of creation
Let it take hold, let it take breath, rise immortal o’er this infinite little death.
Mar 10, 2015
Mar 10, 2015 at 9:07 AM UTC
.*last time i heard... the time difference between Bach and say... a Gershwin was... 187 years... what' the difference between a... say... Joshua Redman (1969) and a Cedric Brooks (1943) - a difference of... a grand total of? 26 years! short attention span or something? too much ***** too many drugs?! why did acid jazz take over?! tell me... i'm not black enough to understand the classical music equivalent in the black community, that is jazz... beat poets?! they cursed the whole affair, yes, no, maybe? just when i thought i might escape the opera, or the tux, or the orchestral hall filled with pensioners... when jazz made the living room everything other than a family communal space... just then... these ******* stopped making decent music, and turned to rap... **** call me what you like, a racist... whatever... i'm an aesthete... which is not an athlete... ******* should have stuck to their guns... sure... you'll out-run us... but sure as **** you won't out-swim us.*
white privilege?
seriously?
so...
the ******
(sorry, emphasis)
in the gospel choir
at church,
or the one on the dance
floor busting all
the: applying
gymnastics
to a dance
moves...
he... she... they weren't
born with a
black, "privilege"?
no? not any...
seems kinda unfair
to presuppose
i come from
a privileged household
of ethnicity;
**** if you want it...
you can have...
the box...
**** inherit my
successes in abstraction...
have your genesis
in ancient Greece...
have it!
it's yours!
now show me something...
******* spectacular!
Oct 15, 2018
Oct 15, 2018 at 7:34 PM UTC
Sometimes I'm an apathist,
Infrequently an anarchist,
Mostly an apologetic aesthete,
And almost never myself.
_Whatever...f$@k it...sorry...hello._
Dec 7, 2019
Dec 7, 2019 at 9:02 PM UTC
She doesn't have many friends but she's okay with it. She always thought she needed somebody to fill the blank space in her life, wanted somebody's fingers to perfectly intwine with her's.
She looked everywhere for him but couldn't find him, what is the definition of the ideal man for her ? Well she herself doesn't know.
Being an aesthete has made her realise that the moon and the nature are her only companions. No matter how good or bad things are they will always listen to her and the glistening light of the moon somehow calms the thunderstorm of her heart. The moon made her realise that the happiness that she's trying to look for is already there all she has to do is love herself a little more and he also made her realise that it's not necessary for a man to hold her hand and make her realise her worth sometimes holding on to somebody can suffocate you.
When she cannot find and love herself, nature caresses her in unexpressible ways like the wind kisses and holds her hand whenever she's in turmoil, the grass let's her breathe the freshness of life whenever she walks barefoot on it, she forgets about all her worries for a little while when she hugs a tree and the tree makes her feel loved by shedding a few leaves on her arrival , the way the waves touch her feet makes her realise that it's not that hard to let go of things that have held her back, chained her thoughts with fear and regret.
Now she is happy with everything that she has and this has made her fall freely in her own arms.
Dec 7, 2016
Dec 7, 2016 at 11:01 AM UTC
A cloud never
entertains
the same shape
from point a
to point b.
And if they did
would we even
bother to lie
in the grass
anymore?
There's a reason
many of the best
thinkers in history
took off into nature
often.
She never forgets
what humanity
has long ago
forgotten.
We would not
tape leaves
to a tree
to stop her
leaves from
falling.
Or barricade
the ocean
to stop
her ride
from rising.
Or push
the sky
to prevent
a storm.
But we do it
to ourselves
and each other
every day.
Apr 21, 2017
Apr 21, 2017 at 8:48 PM UTC
♫
_”Stood I where you, now starry and new,
Brylcreemed and cherished, view those who have perished;
The collegiate adorned, on Founder’s Day mourned,
Old souls with young dreams, bright plans and mad schemes;
Three from the left, that’s me with the clef,
A musician’s award, bestowed by the Board;
Prized above all, before the Great War,
Took hearing and sight, an aesthete’s blight;
For a whisper apart, is the end from the start,
What remains of the day, nowt but shadows that play;
On this side of the glass, through which you will pass,
At the lone piper’s call, when dusk it doth fall.”_
Nov 20, 2020
Nov 20, 2020 at 3:42 AM UTC
Roar.
stone teeth grind dully.
Dear.
flesh swells & tears.
Torn.
breathe aggressive heat.
Breathe.
Dec 31, 2012
Dec 31, 2012 at 3:25 PM UTC
Through my mind swim faint ideas--
Vague suggestions of calm reflections,
Bound by the weave of desire to inspire,
By creating a grand collection of perception.
But with senses jaded in dense pretense,
I can but jot some coarse epigram,
That will tickle the mind of a fickle aesthete,
But leave no longstanding, resounding verbatim.
Aug 8, 2013
Aug 8, 2013 at 1:19 AM UTC
You fiddle with colors and make them bloom
Like cherry blossoms in a dismal room
You stitch the tatters and make it work
Into a masterpiece of various quirks.
You see the world as styles and hues
An artist mixing her reds and blues
To create a lilac sky with a sun that sets
Into a supernova skyline where flamingos nest.
You must keep that passion and hold it dear
As it burns away many doubts and fears
If Midas' touch turns all things to gold
You make lifeless objects into stories told.
Sep 17, 2019
Sep 17, 2019 at 9:55 PM UTC
===================================
After enjoying the supreme bliss
No need to have a replay swish
This need of once more aesthete
Literally you never get true repeat
Those unique feelings in deep secret
Of silent eyes of faithful evening sedate
No curtain falling will have same rehearse
Of those fading moments like dead verse
Those flashing visions can never be recited
And never be accomplished in succession
Just enjoy imagination and never get deceived
Listen unfathomable notes from innate ocean
Tune your mind for afresh heavenly pleasure
Like the Earth ready for daily bakes and bear
~~~~~~~Jawahar Gupta~~~~~~~
Apr 3, 2017
Apr 3, 2017 at 5:42 PM UTC
"Odoriferous fresh gardenia flowers fragrance was she,
Her beauty will be cultivated forever amongst and beyond,
How does one know if it is love it is more than just a word?
It is a feeling soul bound that fervor’s beneath the skin,
So how do I know it is love if it isn't as the words are procured?
A sense of rising tide a rapid undulant river of a woman,
One cannot be a troglodyte in life when love arrives,
My love has arrived I have felt all the above and much more,
Sheer thoughts of her sends a billow enliven rapture within,
A rush with consternation render’s fervent fracas of piquancy,
I have heeded in life these depictions of the fluttering gusto,
As long as I live this tectonic emotion of this naiad will remain,
Restraints of the days is this prologue to exodus to enclaves,
I turned my back on the capricious sea the euphoria and somber,
Where with a strain and a ****** on the banks of islet sands,
Beauteous day slips in night as the sailing foam drifts afar,
Although I am where I am I will never be perniciously charmed,
Stars will burn for all time as I lament in demanding sadness,
Cursing as a cavalier of false hopes with untethered regret,
For I am not a troglodyte of ages but just an aesthete in love,
Beauty is Culture!”
By Andrew Guzaldo 03/02/2019 ©
Apr 2, 2019
Apr 2, 2019 at 7:29 PM UTC
for there never was
and never will be
a finer vagrant soul
to poetically allude me
than the billows of notes
that fall from your shade
and the stars in your lips
to sing a thousand serenades
dear, if only i could compose
about all my woeful throes
in lights enchanting as yours
no word a wasted recourse
and the aesthete that lies
beneath restless amber eyes
will dream up a promise
for fallen eternity’s premise
where the universe spins
as relentless time should be
and no whispers of parallels
between the lines of you and me
i’m quite dizzy from the sun again
but i’ll close my hands, count to ten
and wait against such fragile hope
that you’re the sunrise to decode
so why do i weep, ever still?
in the midst of my bedroom floor
only bare remnants remain, until
a voice paints a distant nevermore
of faithless keep, an endless rue
tomorrow’s heart, nor i nor you
southern nights, quaint afterglow
the days pass on as we’ll quietly go
i may be weary, yet do not think
i’ll give up when i’m on the brink
let’s chase the wind, and we’ll ascend
to an everlasting paradise we can spend
for there never was and never will be
a finer valiant soul to poetically allure me
than the muse of the moon and billowing notes
that fall from your shade and the stars that you wrote.
Feb 4, 2018
Feb 4, 2018 at 1:13 PM UTC
The dream is the same every night
I see people
We sang our good songs out loud near the fireplace,
One night, instead of screaming
But the strength to love,
Ever since I last saw you
those were watercolor constellations,
Take a little peek at the times gone by
So what happened to all those days and nights?
It disappears like a sunset
I feel as like I'm flying
Then falling;
Falling, falling
And I wake up
Jun 13, 2015
Jun 13, 2015 at 1:41 PM UTC
Kindred spirit of mine,
An Aesthete of nature,
Tenaciously stubborn,
Eunioic minded.
Feb 19, 2019
Feb 19, 2019 at 4:47 PM UTC
You're stuck in my head like a broken record
Every time I want to skip
It just replays
There are no other tracks
And this one is scratched
Together we're meticulously mismatched
Mar 31, 2018
Mar 31, 2018 at 12:33 AM UTC
I see the beauty where everyone else only see ruin.
I look around as if i was looking at the most perfect world there could be.
I am the girl who only knew to give wholly and love fully.
I am a bird caught in a cage,
When all i wanted to do was soar.
Dec 20, 2019
Dec 20, 2019 at 9:33 PM UTC
to god
god is
to some
some bread, some snow.
to a recovering aesthete
such as yourself
god
is an occupational
hazard. to collectors
of inexperience
such as
the virgins
god, as subconscious
measure, created-
god is the vague
self-involvement
the mind
for body
devours. to the parents
I brought upon
myself
god
is what
appears.
Aug 22, 2014
Aug 22, 2014 at 4:26 PM UTC