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P Pax Sep 2012
I often forget how to write.
            Not because I am happy,
                        and, as they say, happiness writes white.
            Nor for any lack of sadness,
                        for, as I see, sadness is a bottomless ink well.
            But for any wild and outrageous feeling,
                        any like spirit who possesses my hand to start --
                                    with awesome, judging faces sliding on the ceiling,
                                                icons of the mother and god-child
                                                       ­     dripping down eternal blue and martyr red,
                                                            ­            like arms hanging, waking, pinning!
                                                        ­                            "Woman, behold your son!"
                                                           ­                                   Behold me, my THC and psilo-sin life,
                                                           ­                                   an endlessly whirling maelstrom of emotion!
                                                        ­    flanked by monstrous, winged choirs of Motown
                                                          ­              slinging fiery spears, gold rays penetrating!
                                                    ­                                "Oh, oh, God!" The Ecstasy of St. Philip!
                                                         ­                                     Visions of horse-hung hosts and celestial orbs,
                                                           ­                                   Heaven's dynamo, an **** of screws and cogs!
                        -- are hid.


I too watched the best minds of my generation,
            anesthetized by sanity in a bottle
                        (id est: pills, pills, pills, pills, pills);
            mesmerized by patterns of flashing lights
                        of digital desperation crying, "affirm me, friend me!" -;
            drowned in an endless sea under a twilight of information
                        or else cats, cats, cats, cats, cats;
            and ever afeard of mortal judgment.
                       “Big boys don’t cry” (so poets do in breathy meter).

A generation asleep
           - and though in hopeful dream -
                      We are placid.
                      We work obedient.
                      We speak soft.
                                 Because the whole world is medicated now.
                                 Because the whole world is fixed.

And I wonder if there is a Spirit.
           I think, if there is,
                      We have drugged her.
                      We have ravished her.
                      We have wasted her.
                                 And the whole world is silent now.
                                 And the whole world is fixed.
I just watched Howl with James Franco.  I love that man.  I love that poem.
Simon Clark Aug 2012
(Song title from The Beatles’ catalogue, by Lennon/McCartney)

Miles I have struggled,
Trudged down the manacled streets,
A lifetime spent in misery,
Surrounded in sin and tragedy,
The long and winding road I walk,
Is diseased with pain and hurt,
I bury my heart and evil soul,
To save them from death and wicked sights,
Scarred by rumours; afeard of the light.
written in 2009
Kaaya Faye Jun 2018
Far, far away

Deep in the woods

Filled with thick trees and tall grass

Lived a man named ‘Saga’

Short and stout

Noisy and loud

He lived alone

Screaming at the air, talking to the rain

Saga lived in a cave

Posing to be brave But, afraid of the loneliness How naïve!

Living in the wild

Far away from his tribe

Alone through the woods he steered

Saga was afeard

He missed his wife

His old, happy life

And cursed the dusk

When he lost his way, following the musk

He cursed his daughter, Hilde

Deeming her the reason he was lost in wild ‘Why did you have to be so obstinate?’

‘Spoilt as hell, brat, ****** arrogant”

Mumbling under his breath

He was lost in his wrath

Crossing the same eerie desire trail

With misty fog and traces of hail

“What a horrifying path to take

Death be waiting for all treading this way”

Shivering and afeard

He walked rapidly till that path disappeared

Days passed and nights went by

He lay on the grass

Watching the drifting sky

Change its color from blue to brass

The trees rustled and wind blew

As the storm brewed

Sky thundered, rivers creaked

Saga listened to the forest screak.

“Hellish! I am lost in these labyrinthine woods

With cimmerian paths and Styngian brooks”

He started towards his aphotic cave

“Someone come for me and save!”

The forest grew murkier and dark Deafening sounds of storm, hark!

A whip just cracked

Echoing the sound of a thousand claps.

Saga fastened his pace

In terror and haste

Mud laved his feet

As if mocking Saga’s hysterical retreat.

“Oh! Get out of my way you muck”

As he fell on his face – Shmck!

Thud! flumb! squelch! splosh! deign!

He flushed through the water of rain.

For hours he struggled against the gush

Louder and louder grew brus

With each passing minute, the storm soared

The forest rumbled and sky roared.

Saga brawled and bawled

As if trying to silence the stormy howl.

Alas! all his attempts failed

Unconscious soon, he sailed



Where to? He would never know

For the forest had already beseeched his breath

Saga swam through the wild flow

Into the comfortable arms of Death.
Extern and intern
From the prowling death itself
(like an afeard mouse into the hole)

Still heating,
You will be to a woman escaping,
For protection at her arms, laps and knees.

Not just the fire,
That calls with ease, not just the desire,
But you are also pushed there by the must -

For this, you'd hug,
If you were on her drug,
Hugging her till the whiteness of the mouth.

A double burden,
'n double treasure is the must to love.
For the one who cannot find a simple mate,

So homeless,
As so suportless
As the wild animal doing excrete.

There's nowhere to hide
No resort; even you get a knife
And as a brave, you aim at your mother!

See now, it happened
A woman who understand'
These words, but she pushed you away.

I have no place,
In this way, among livings. Pains,
In my head' to flourish my troubles;

Like a toddler,
Rattling the rattler
If he is left all alone.

What to do
Being contra or pro?
I have no shame to find out,

Since gets castaway
Even the poor who is a prey
Of the sun's and night's nightmares.

The culture's
Falling of me like costumes
While from others, they fall in big love -

But where it is written,
To be tossed by death hither-thither
In fact of that I'm suffering all alone?

The baby
Is also in pain, being born by the lady,
Since the shared pain is eased by humbleness.

But for me
My painful chants bring money
Enjoined with disgrace and more sorrow.

Help me, guys!
You, little boys, let your eyes,
Let them burst where this woman goes.

O' innocents,
Scream under the boots of dissidents
And tell them, please: It hurts so much.

O' faithful dogs,
Get under cars' wheels and smogs,
Then bark to them: It hurts so much.

O' women with burden,
Abort your half-living *****,
Then cry painfully: It hurts so much.

O' healthy men,
Fall down and ******* then,
Just to mutter: It hurts so much.

O' men,
Fighting each other for a woman,
Don't keep it silent: It hurts so much.

O' horses and bulls,
For the yoke loosing your *****,
Don't miss a moo: It hurts so much.

O' dumb fish,
Getting a hook to become dish,
Gawp and articulate: It hurts so much.

All who's alive,
Join the life-long strife,
Let burn the forest, the house, the hutch.

And then, at his bed,
Mortified, slumber-near, almost dead,
Gibber with me for last: It hurts so much.

So, she can hear while alive.
This is what she denied, if worthwhile.
She did restrict it by her own pleasure

Extern and intern
Escaping from living itself
That was his last resort.
Attila József - "Nagyon Fàj" Translated by me from the original Hungarian language.

03.07.2018
Lawrence Hall Sep 2018
Be not afeard. The isle is full of noises,
Sounds, and sweet airs that give delight and hurt not.

The Tempest III.ii.129-130


Be not
Afraid
Iambs
Are just
The way
We speak
They are
Our natch
Ural
Rhythm

Or:

Be not afraid; iambs are just the way
We speak; they are our natural rhythm 1

Sometimes they must be squashed a bit, and then
(Hear “natural” as two syllables, a pair

Othertimes “natural” is read as three) –
Be a skilled artist in your poetry!

1 “Rhythm” is a trochee, not an iamb
   But let it stay, that poor, little lost lamb
Your ‘umble scrivener’s site is:
Reactionarydrivel.blogspot.com.
It’s not at all reactionary, tho’ it might be drivel.
Lawrence Hall Feb 2018
Be not afeard. The isle is full of noises,
Sounds, and sweet airs that give delight and hurt not.

     The Tempest III.ii.129-130


Be not
Afraid
Iambs
Are just
The way
We speak
They are
Our natch
Ural
Rhythm

Or:

Be not afraid; iambs are just the way
We speak; they are our natural rhythm 1

Sometimes they must be squashed a bit, and then
(Hear “natural” as two syllables, a pair

Othertimes “natural” is read as three) –
Be a skilled artist in your poetry!



1 “Rhythm” is a trochee, not an iamb
   But let it stay, that poor, little lost lamb
The one Mar 2018
Painted Atelephobia

Inevitable is the oblivion afeard within celadon gardens.
In the center a cerise bloom reaches clouds with ruby fingertips. Not I will touch sunsets as she.


Click is the cardinal heel of white collars which soar in cerulean skies. Still I stand on russet boots stuck in mud. For the wings on my back have been clipped long before.

Aye is the color changing leaf. Not apace is she, yet still grows skillfully radiant. Evergreen bristles with no compare to her auburn tint which gracefully touches winds and sails the seas. A green of dark hue flies not so angelically.

Never will I be the shadow in your eyes, nor the dimples on your cheeks. Never will I stand from the crowd and bloom like her. Never will fly nor soar nor swim. Never will I be good enough for you.
Atelephobia is the fear of never being good enough❤️❤️
M Schmid Feb 2019
The sun almost melted the tarmac,
As a game, we didn’t wear shoes,
I always knew, I was gonna lose
Because the heat made me jump back

He always won - he could stand there forever
Unlike us, he was used to hot weather.
He came from Iraq, for us that sounded better
We didn’t know that it wasn’t a pleasure.

For us he, was a young boy from the desert,
We didn’t know what it means to get hurt,
Not from a ball in the *****, but from a bomb alert,
before the bombs burst and tear down walls

Tear down the walls of your house,
The boom makes rooms to tombs,
You see your neighbour in a shard’s reflection,
But after three days, still no resurrection

His family didn’t try to rebuild,
Not because they were not skilled,
They just didn’t want to get killed.
Their new neighbours were not thrilled.

They only showed scepticism,
And even locked their septic system,
Openly showed that they’re afeard,
Eventually S. and his family disappeared.
Years later I met S. again on the tram,
I still didn’t know why they left back then,
He said they didn’t want to be invaders,
But that’s all they were to their neighbours.

— The End —