"agamemnon" poems
Apeneck Sweeney spreads his knees
Letting his arms hang down to laugh,
The zebra stripes along his jaw
Swelling to maculate giraffe.
The circles of the stormy moon
Slide westward toward the River Plate,
Death and the Raven drift above
And Sweeney guards the hornèd gate.
Gloomy Orion and the Dog
Are veiled; and hushed the shrunken seas;
The person in the Spanish cape
Tries to sit on Sweeney’s knees
Slips and pulls the table cloth
Overturns a coffee-cup,
Reorganised upon the floor
She yawns and draws a stocking up;
The silent man in mocha brown
Sprawls at the window-sill and gapes;
The waiter brings in oranges
Bananas figs and hothouse grapes;
The silent vertebrate in brown
Contracts and concentrates, withdraws;
Rachel née Rabinovitch
Tears at the grapes with murderous paws;
She and the lady in the cape
Are suspect, thought to be in league;
Therefore the man with heavy eyes
Declines the gambit, shows fatigue,
Leaves the room and reappears
Outside the window, leaning in,
Branches of wistaria
Circumscribe a golden grin;
The host with someone indistinct
Converses at the door apart,
The nightingales are singing near
The Convent of the Sacred Heart,
And sang within the ****** wood
When Agamemnon cried aloud,
And let their liquid siftings fall
To stain the stiff dishonoured shroud.
3k
This is a verse, not a song,
Let's gaze on the face of Agamemnon,
For ten years, he had stayed away,
Finally, he arrived home one day,
Yes, away to Troy he'd roamed,
The warrior king made it home,
But, he had been playing away,
His Queenie had a bad hair day,
Her axe did have a double blade,
As in her spa, she made him lay,
She drugged his wine, a loving cup,
Then proceeded to chop him up!
Off with his feet, for roaming so far,
Queenie really messed up her spa,
Off with his cheating hands,
He brought home ho's from foreign lands,
Off with his attachments,
You can guess what that meant,
Shoved them in his mouth,
as his head went south,
"Feed him to the swine!
It's pig feeding time!"
She yelled at the serfs!
"That cheating dud got his desserts!"
Queenie was having a bad hair day,
Warrior king had been playing away,
But, Queenie had a toyboy anyway,
She always kept smiling,
Looked for the silver lining,
Queenie's wealth was a'piling,
She was a keeper,
Old king now a sleeper,
Queen kept the kids, gold and slaves,
She did get hers one day,
Yes, Queenie kept the lot,
Or was it all a plot?
Queenie's bad hair day,
Warrior king had been playing away,
This is verse, not a song,
Let's gaze at the face of Agamemnon.
May 16, 2016
May 16, 2016 at 4:21 PM UTC
Harm no one, the inevitable thought of a miniscule Agamemnon,
The insufferable, the pious, the deceiver,
And the devout, the sheep, the lamb,
Lead me I follow, Follow me I will train you,
Despicable, For here there is only nothingness disguised as a cruel sacrifice,
I believe in nothing, in circles, in patterns, in physics, in atoms within atoms, in life that studies itself,
I believe in the arts, in music, in poetry, in dreams that are breathed into existence through an artists touch,
I believe in family, in pure love, in unconditional acceptance, in forgiveness and the cultivation of hope,
I believe in people, who's emotions rage like the sea, who's ideas raise whole cities, who's dreams are to find peace and understanding, who sometimes are misled but are never beyond the good within themselves,
I believe in life, in growth, in the earth, the mother of us all and the sun, the father that watches his children basking in his warmth, I believe in trees that give us oxygen and water that gives us life.
And so I believe in the underdog, the unseen, the overlooked, the underrated, and the unappreciated, I believe in the here and now, the present moment, the kiss, the dance, the wine, and the open hand. There is nothing of your cold religion, or your angry god that I need. Because life is all around me and beauty is in all things here and now and forever.
Space spirals on and the river of time still flows in all directions, it is eternal this holy thing and it is without end, no mans demonic godhead will ever bring it down and this disease called religion will eventually be cured.
Jan 11, 2013
Jan 11, 2013 at 2:37 PM UTC
Which one was Achilles's heel.
Hector's hand spun the wheel.
The Face that launched a Thousand ships.
Why not a bottle of the bubbly to the prow ?
Olympian intrigue.
Odyssey seafaring fatigue.
Tempest in a teapot
Time to ****
Nothing good on T.V.?
Jul 12, 2013
Jul 12, 2013 at 8:03 AM UTC
A sudden blow:
The great wings beating still
Above the staggering girl, her thighs caressed
By the dark webs, her nape caught in the bill,
He holds her helpless breast upon his breast.
How can those terrified vague fingers push
The feathered glory from her loosening thighs?
And how can body, laid in that white rush,
But feel the strange heart beating where it lies?
A shudder in the ***** engenders there
The broken wall, the burning roof and tower
And Agamemnon dead.
Being so caught up,
So mastered by the brute blood of the air,
Did she put on his knowledge with his power
Before the indifferent beak could let her drop?
2.1k
I had slept for too long, I know, for my eyes crusted over,
and when I rubbed them I felt relief from sleep.
Walking into my kitchen undiscovered, like a mars rover
I stumbled towards the counter in a bumbling flesh jeep.
the fruit bowl overflowed with bananas and mangoes
and they were beyond their years, wrinkled and hot
from the heat of today, and yesterday, their death grows
towards a beginning only a fly could know, but not.
their fermenting skin was armied in fruit flies,
they had built quite a formidable force and I
wondered had I slept so long? Their fleeting red eyes
scurried in my presence without a question of why.
opening the cherry tomato container unleashed an army like Agamemnon’s,
I feared I had slept that long, in a house of Aegisthus,
a deceptive horse unleashed
flies about my cheeks and eyes-
I feared their anger, only in that moment though,
I hadn’t even thought about it before.
a cider vinegar trap was the plan,
with a plastic wrap coffin,
and in some hours a cider vinegar graveyard
full of crimson eyed drowners.
A brash plan, yes-
or maybe an overthrow of a sluggish ruler
with a small army of energetic soldiers,
my crushing hand slicing like a scythe,
only to be matched by a putrid hatred of a kitchen subjugator,
a hatred the ruler understood himself-
a fear of waking up to it left the fruit
bruising in the basket
in
the
first place.
May 9, 2014
May 9, 2014 at 7:39 PM UTC
And with hot branding, I name the end, it is unknown Obadiah, it is uncompromising Demosthenes, it is ambuscaded Agamemnon,
it is crafty Cain, it is able to pull lightning down from clouds to electrify a world beset upon by forces of great magnitude, vibrations ricochet off of each other, quaking knee's knock as earthquakes rock tectonic plates.
In this final hour what was once to edify is now to petrify and once let free the fire is an esurient monster after being kept so long locked behind the now yawning earthen gates, witness even the most pluvial flourishing plain blister and boil, witness unyieldingly the flesh bubbling in flux as if from extreme cell proliferation, another soul abdicates its husk.
Mayhap this life will lead to another, as If there will be a choice project an air-less voice on the matter, will this If, insist on this If,
hold your breath in front of polyonymous Death, let without a moan a trembling icy finger trace lips of now great pallor and make the word-less decision known, no more cyclical reaping of our worn souls says humanity and beg on the now naked ruth for our sanity.
Sep 17, 2010
Sep 17, 2010 at 8:46 AM UTC
Cassandra,
I see you in the words
of Greta Thunberg:
Filled with passion, warnings, truth.
Not believed.
Cassandra,
I see you in the dreams
of Calpurnia;
warning Caesar, bloodied earth
Not believed.
Cassandra,
I see you in the protections
of Tony Stark;
made with fear, love
Not believed.
Did they tell you to smile more?
Ask you why you’ve “gotten involved”?
Did they belittle your prophecy,
Ignore warning after warning?
Ignore you?
Mad woman, hysterical.
You, angered Apollo
Or
Was he always angry?
Did he believe himself so worthy
of your love that he cursed
not having it?
I don’t know.
You probably told someone
We know how that would have ended,
Cassandra,
I see you in the testimonies
of Christine Blasey Ford,
so hurt, pained, strong.
Not believed.
Were you told to sit quietly, mind your place?
When you were attacked was it your body
She defended
Or
Her own desiccated image?
Maybe you told the trees of
Ajex’s sins, because even if
the men listened,
A statue protected him from justice.
Cassandra,
I see you in the words
of impassioned protestors
so bright, so young.
Not believed.
Maybe if you told them lies
they'd believe the truth.
Maybe if you told the truth
they'd believe the lies.
Believe anything you said.
Darling Cassandra
possible bride of Apollo.
definite belonging of King Agamemnon.
Did his children believe you?
Are you a warning to women?
Love who you are told to.
Bow to authority or
Never give up.
Are you a criticism of men?
Demanding of love.
Expecting subservience.
Justice not served.
Cassandra,
I see you in myself,
the pain they caused
the light going out
I am not believed.
Cassandra,
Does it get better?
Have you received the peace you so deserve?
Or are you still
Not believed.
Apr 9, 2020
Apr 9, 2020 at 9:01 PM UTC
by: T.S. Eliot (1888-1965)
PENECK Sweeney spreads his knees
Letting his arms hang down to laugh,
The zebra stripes along his jaw
Swelling to maculate giraffe.
The circles of the stormy moon
Slide westward toward the River Plate,
Death and the Raven drift above
And Sweeney guards the horned gate.
Gloomy Orion and the Dog
Are veiled; and hushed the shrunken seas;
The person in the Spanish cape
Tries to sit on Sweeney's knees
Slips and pulls the table cloth
Overturns a coffee-cup,
Reorganized upon the floor
She yawns and draws a stocking up;
The silent man in mocha brown
Sprawls at the window-sill and gapes;
The waiter brings in oranges
Bananas figs and hothouse grapes;
The silent vertebrate in brown
Contracts and concentrates, withdraws;
Rachel née Rabinovitch
Tears at the grapes with murderous paws;
She and the lady in the cape
Are suspect, thought to be in league;
Therefore the man with heavy eyes
Declines the gambit, shows fatigue,
Leaves the room and reappears
Outside the window, leaning in,
Branches of wistaria
Circumscribe a golden grin;
The host with someone indistinct
Converses at the door apart,
The nightingales are singing near
The Convent of the Sacred Heart,
And sang within the ****** wood
When Agamemnon cried aloud,
And let their liquid droppings fall
To stain the stiff dishonoured shroud
Jul 18, 2013
Jul 18, 2013 at 3:25 PM UTC
by: T.S. Eliot (1888-1965)
PENECK Sweeney spreads his knees
Letting his arms hang down to laugh,
The zebra stripes along his jaw
Swelling to maculate giraffe.
The circles of the stormy moon
Slide westward toward the River Plate,
Death and the Raven drift above
And Sweeney guards the horned gate.
Gloomy Orion and the Dog
Are veiled; and hushed the shrunken seas;
The person in the Spanish cape
Tries to sit on Sweeney's knees
Slips and pulls the table cloth
Overturns a coffee-cup,
Reorganized upon the floor
She yawns and draws a stocking up;
The silent man in mocha brown
Sprawls at the window-sill and gapes;
The waiter brings in oranges
Bananas figs and hothouse grapes;
The silent vertebrate in brown
Contracts and concentrates, withdraws;
Rachel née Rabinovitch
Tears at the grapes with murderous paws;
She and the lady in the cape
Are suspect, thought to be in league;
Therefore the man with heavy eyes
Declines the gambit, shows fatigue,
Leaves the room and reappears
Outside the window, leaning in,
Branches of wistaria
Circumscribe a golden grin;
The host with someone indistinct
Converses at the door apart,
The nightingales are singing near
The Convent of the Sacred Heart,
And sang within the ****** wood
When Agamemnon cried aloud,
And let their liquid droppings fall
To stain the stiff dishonoured shroud
Jul 18, 2013
Jul 18, 2013 at 3:25 PM UTC
When senses run together, dull in the rack
Of night, it’s Chaos who culls true meaning.
He mocks the light of day in paradox
Sings: ‘we are such stuff as dreams are made on.’
The ****** end, embodies the souls watery
Beginning, and so the beating star is all
Intermingled; until flesh and fibers are done,
Thus: ‘we are such stuff as dreams are made on.’
Though mighty Jove, who beat the antique world
Down, cast poor Agamemnon his fate, it’s
Helen of Troy whose aisling breaks like doom,
All from the strain of Leda and the Swan.
For, ‘we are such stuff as dreams are made on,
And our little life is rounded with a sleep.’
Jun 1, 2012
Jun 1, 2012 at 1:54 PM UTC
Tragic heroes have tragic flaws.
At least, that's what the sophomore language arts teacher had taught.
Juliet and Romeo,
ignorant obsession.
Macbeth,
unchecked ambition.
Achilleus and Agamemnon,
self-righteous ego.
Tragic heroes slew by the pen for a lesson.
What about the ones that succeed?
How could they possibly have flaws?
We hold them on a pedestal for all to see.
Maybe they truly were perfect--at first.
It's easy to fake a smile.
Nothing has changed, we are the same.
Not every flaw can be seen at surface level,
and they're not necessarily vices.
For instance, loyalty.
Now that'll get you killed.
Put that into perspective,
and we're all just tragic heroes with tragic flaws.
Sep 5, 2019
Sep 5, 2019 at 7:02 PM UTC
When senses run together, dull in the rack
Of night, it’s Chaos who culls true meaning.
He mocks the light of day in paradox
Sings: ‘we are such stuff as dreams are made on.’
The ****** end, embodies the souls watery
Beginning, and so the beating star is all
Intermingled; until flesh and fibers are done,
Thus: ‘we are such stuff as dreams are made on.’
Though mighty Jove, who beat the antique world
Down, cast poor Agamemnon his fate, it’s
Helen of Troy whose aisling breaks like doom,
All from the strain of Leda and the Swan.
For, ‘we are such stuff as dreams are made on,
And our little life is rounded with a sleep.’
Nov 12, 2013
Nov 12, 2013 at 1:31 PM UTC
Someone once said,
"Vietnam is
the great, epic poem
of our generation."
The greatest epic poem
ever written about war
is Homer's Iliad.
So I wondered,
which character
would I be?
Agamemnon? Too pompous.
Achilles? Too deadly.
Odysseus? Too crafty.
Paris? Too dishonest.
Hector, of course.
Destined to fight on
in a lost cause;
his death inevitable,
already foretold;
courage in the face
of doom.
Hector. I like that.
It has a bold ring
to it.
Maybe I'll change
my name.
~mce
Apr 11, 2015
Apr 11, 2015 at 9:59 AM UTC
Chryseis, the plague
Agamemnon's lust returned
Slave traded for rage
Jun 25, 2018
Jun 25, 2018 at 11:05 AM UTC
Argosy...a bejeweled swan decked in the riches
of the material world.
Body of water unending, tangled in biological
hierarchy--Agamemnon's fateful net.
Sodden to pending depth--forbidding save for
cursory glance.
Blent black, greens, blues covet their color--
invoke static tone.
As it is here and there a secreted navigation
plumbs, facsimile of sky.
Where wave walls glassy calm to ripple, sure
this ****** to near global proportion.
Stoic rhetorical question to land--whose implicit
question mark hooked Atlantis.
This pensive strew, overlay--horizon's sutured
cusp...hazy scare of seagull tossing hale Mary.
Of Ahab and Helen, whereupon to round the
bend of their will cannot be sought here.
Down in niche of sand where starfish spreads
its forehead, beholds enlightenment as sifting
shafts of sunlight...sinking.
Meridian's mime ebbing and flowing as an
everlasting kiss...so tender God's heart swelled
seven seas.
Nov 17, 2014
Nov 17, 2014 at 12:12 PM UTC
When senses run together, dull in the rack
Of night, it’s Chaos who culls true meaning.
He mocks the light of day in paradox
Sings: ‘we are such stuff as dreams are made on.’
The ****** end, embodies the souls watery
Beginning, and so the beating star is all
Intermingled; until flesh and fibers are done,
Thus: ‘we are such stuff as dreams are made on.’
Though mighty Jove, who beat the antique world
Down, cast poor Agamemnon his fate, it’s
Helen of Troy whose aisling breaks like doom,
All from the strain of Leda and the Swan.
For, ‘we are such stuff as dreams are made on,
And our little life is rounded with a sleep.’
Apr 17, 2013
Apr 17, 2013 at 12:11 PM UTC
When senses run together, dull in the rack
Of night, it’s Chaos who culls true meaning.
He mocks the light of day in paradox
Sings: ‘we are such stuff as dreams are made on.’
The ****** end, embodies the souls watery
Beginning, and so the beating star is all
Intermingled; until flesh and fibers are done,
Thus: ‘we are such stuff as dreams are made on.’
Though mighty Jove, who beat the antique world
Down, cast poor Agamemnon his fate, it’s
Helen of Troy whose aisling breaks like doom,
All from the strain of Leda and the Swan.
For, ‘we are such stuff as dreams are made on,
And our little life is rounded with a sleep.’
Sep 19, 2012
Sep 19, 2012 at 10:57 AM UTC
When senses run together, dull in the rack
Of night, it’s Chaos who culls true meaning.
He mocks the light of day in paradox
Sings: ‘we are such stuff as dreams are made on.’
The ****** end, embodies the souls watery
Beginning, and so the beating star is all
Intermingled; until flesh and fibers are done,
Thus: ‘we are such stuff as dreams are made on.’
Though mighty Jove, who beat the antique world
Down, cast poor Agamemnon his fate, it’s
Helen of Troy whose aisling breaks like doom,
All from the strain of Leda and the Swan.
For, ‘we are such stuff as dreams are made on,
And our little life is rounded with a sleep.’
Jan 10, 2013
Jan 10, 2013 at 8:01 PM UTC
When senses run together, dull in the rack
Of night, it’s Chaos who culls true meaning.
He mocks the light of day in paradox
Sings: ‘we are such stuff as dreams are made on.’
The ****** end, embodies the souls watery
Beginning, and so the beating star is all
Intermingled; until flesh and fibers are done,
Thus: ‘we are such stuff as dreams are made on.’
Though mighty Jove, who beat the antique world
Down, cast poor Agamemnon his fate, it’s
Helen of Troy whose aisling breaks like doom,
All from the strain of Leda and the Swan.
For, ‘we are such stuff as dreams are made on,
And our little life is rounded with a sleep.’
Mar 10, 2014
Mar 10, 2014 at 11:50 AM UTC
awesome apothecary addressed as Agamemnon
alleviates anxiety, and alimentary aggravation
anodyne appeasement arrests ailment
amphetamines acquaintanceship assuages
agonizing aches also advocates amorousness
assiduously activating admiration
aggressive attacks assault air afoul
affable affinity affects adumbration
anatomical accidental addiction attested as academic,
although afterward abnegation absolutely arduous,
affianced attired apparently as an anomaly
Ares and Abyssinian Astarte admixture
acquiescence affliction affected adroitly,
and abruptly abends accessible
altruistic alms axed
albeit admonishing, alluding,
and attributing authored
autonomous anonymous adroit arriviste agents
accompanying as accomplished accomplices
accredited ace advertisers
applaud ascendent assaults amidst agonizing appeals
acting all acrimoniously apropos
avowedly ardently, and antagonistically, agitating
appositely advocating ancillary assistance
addict adrift afloat anchors away
assails along, among, and an alias archenemy -
adorned abominable assassin alters ambition
adroitly, aggressively, absolutely
addict announces asseveration
against avid admonishment
alarmingly annulling authentic affiliation
anew anonymous ability acclaims alignment
aegis actually adversarial abetting attrition appetite
acceleration ascendent after aplenty anesthetization
additionally activating arced analogous arrow
advancing added abdominal and arterial agony
abject ambivalence arrests accomplishments attainable
any artistic avocation absconded
asper auditorial approbation, animadversion
artificial aggrandizement abrogates astuteness
appropriate adjudication affronted
alternative afforded amnesty about acing audioslave
as aerosmith ambition assumes arriviste affectation
already appalling alacrity awakens amendment
although Awol administration adamant
acrimonious affront agonizingly attributable
announces another afterworld
apparent ailing apparition
ardent allegiance asking anyone appreciable affix
apathy abounds attending apriorism allotment.
Feb 25, 2018
Feb 25, 2018 at 6:46 PM UTC
i was there when it happened:
when the clowns fell off the bandwagon -
when the curtains burned down,
and the farce ran out of fashion;
when the savages dispatched -
their army of assassins.
i was there, when the world stood still
in a void so deep no beauty could fill;
when the mountain of lies -
crumbled back to a molehill;
when the rubbles rained like hellfire,
and truth had lost its will.
i was there, when the wrath of the masses -
echoed the streets, and shattered the glasses;
i later reflected, on the root of the violence -
there wasn't a good defense for the upper classes.
i close my eyes, and wait for dawn;
lay half-asleep, with the curtains drawn:
agamemnon's doom, forever lives on -
i'm still here -
and the show goes on...
Dec 22, 2024
Dec 22, 2024 at 12:06 PM UTC
( Sonnet )
When senses run together, dull in the rack
Of night, it’s Chaos who culls true meaning.
He mocks the light of day in paradox
Sings: ‘we are such stuff as dreams are made on.’
The ****** end, embodies the souls' watery
Beginning, and so the beating star is all
Intermingled; until flesh and fibers are done,
Thus: ‘we are such stuff as dreams are made on.’
Though mighty Jove, who beat the antique world
Down, cast poor Agamemnon his fate, it’s
Helen of Troy whose aisling breaks like doom,
All from the strain of Leda and the Swan.
For, ‘we are such stuff as dreams are made on,
And our little life is rounded with a sleep.'
Aug 26, 2016
Aug 26, 2016 at 5:21 PM UTC
Hours from now, a new dawn will begin.
Some will celebrate such an event,
while some condemn the act as a sin.
Not a religious condemnation, not what I meant.
For their celebration is nothing but their doom.
They think that they are running out of the gloom,
but, unwilled, a gloominess place is their path.
For they, like Agamemnon, felt Apollo’s wrath.
Stricken with plague, all nations are alike.
For a year, fear controlled and prevailed,
and respect did exist for that godly strike.
But with a new year, the plague, once hailed,
Ceased to be feared, masques began to fall,
and back to the remaining life, the masked ball.
Grisly becoming, the furrows we plough,
as our bodies are but the seeds we sow.
What can the new year add to her prior’s work?
Fires, wars, or plagues, O! we have seen them all.
Maybe new plagues, in the darkness, lurk,
or maybe this year but just another of god’s scrawl.
tell me my lord, while I kneel to thee with tears,
do thy lab rats deserve these kind of years?
While our hearts hope for thy saving rays,
Books are set to memorize these gloomy days.
Dec 31, 2020
Dec 31, 2020 at 4:41 PM UTC