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Cory Childs Jun 2011
Why does attention so fondly take hold
when ever new moonflower buds
on lonely land cleared of the last's marigolds
that long masqueraded as love?

Will arum give way to hydrangea?
Will heartsease yield lavender's bite?
I cling to mad dreams of hibiscus
conceived in the moonflower's light.
In this Monody the author bewails a learned Friend, unfortunately
drowned  in his passage from Chester on the Irish Seas, 1637;
and, by occasion, foretells the ruin of our corrupted Clergy,
then in their height.


Yet once more, O ye laurels, and once more,
Ye myrtles brown, with ivy never sere,
I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude,
And with forced fingers rude
Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year.
Bitter constraint and sad occasion dear
Compels me to disturb your season due;
For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime,
Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer.
Who would not sing for Lycidas? he knew
Himself to sing, and build the lofty rhyme.
He must not float upon his watery bier
Unwept, and welter to the parching wind,
Without the meed of some melodious tear.
         Begin, then, Sisters of the sacred well
That from beneath the seat of Jove doth spring;
Begin, and somewhat loudly sweep the string.
Hence with denial vain and coy excuse:
So may some gentle Muse
With lucky words favour my destined urn,
And as he passes turn,
And bid fair peace be to my sable shroud!
         For we were nursed upon the self-same hill,
Fed the same flock, by fountain, shade, and rill;
Together both, ere the high lawns appeared
Under the opening eyelids of the Morn,
We drove a-field, and both together heard
What time the grey-fly winds her sultry horn,
Battening our flocks with the fresh dews of night,
Oft till the star that rose at evening bright
Toward heaven’s descent had sloped his westering wheel.
Meanwhile the rural ditties were not mute;
Tempered to the oaten flute,
Rough Satyrs danced, and Fauns with cloven heel
From the glad sound would not be absent long;
And old Damoetas loved to hear our song.
         But, oh! the heavy change, now thou art gone,
Now thou art gone and never must return!
Thee, Shepherd, thee the woods and desert caves,
With wild thyme and the gadding vine o’ergrown,
And all their echoes, mourn.
The willows, and the hazel copses green,
Shall now no more be seen
Fanning their joyous leaves to thy soft lays.
As killing as the canker to the rose,
Or taint-worm to the weanling herds that graze,
Or frost to flowers, that their gay wardrobe wear,
When first the white-thorn blows;
Such, Lycidas, thy loss to shepherd’s ear.
         Where were ye, Nymphs, when the remorseless deep
Closed o’er the head of your loved Lycidas?
For neither were ye playing on the steep
Where your old bards, the famous Druids, lie,
Nor on the shaggy top of Mona high,
Nor yet where Deva spreads her wizard stream.
Ay me! I fondly dream
RHad ye been there,S . . . for what could that have done?
What could the Muse herself that Orpheus bore,
The Muse herself, for her enchanting son,
Whom universal nature did lament,
When, by the rout that made the hideous roar,
His gory visage down the stream was sent,
Down the swift Hebrus to the Lesbian shore?
         Alas! what boots it with uncessant care
To tend the homely, slighted, shepherd’s trade,
And strictly meditate the thankless Muse?
Were it not better done, as others use,
To sport with Amaryllis in the shade,
Or with the tangles of Neaera’s hair?
Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise
(That last infirmity of noble mind)
To scorn delights and live laborious days;
But, the fair guerdon when we hope to find,
And think to burst out into sudden blaze,
Comes the blind Fury with the abhorred shears,
And slits the thin-spun life. RBut not the praise,”
Phoebus replied, and touched my trembling ears:
RFame is no plant that grows on mortal soil,
Nor in the glistering foil
Set off to the world, nor in broad rumour lies,
But lives and spreads aloft by those pure eyes
And perfect witness of all-judging Jove;
As he pronounces lastly on each deed,
Of so much fame in heaven expect thy meed.”
         O fountain Arethuse, and thou honoured flood,
Smooth-sliding Mincius, crowned with vocal reeds,
That strain I heard was of a higher mood.
But now my oat proceeds,
And listens to the Herald of the Sea,
That came in Neptune’s plea.
He asked the waves, and asked the felon winds,
What hard mishap hath doomed this gentle swain?
And questioned every gust of rugged wings
That blows from off each beaked promontory.
They knew not of his story;
And sage Hippotades their answer brings,
That not a blast was from his dungeon strayed:
The air was calm, and on the level brine
Sleek Panope with all her sisters played.
It was that fatal and perfidious bark,
Built in the eclipse, and rigged with curses dark,
That sunk so low that sacred head of thine.
         Next, Camus, reverend sire, went footing slow,
His mantle hairy, and his bonnet sedge,
Inwrought with figures dim, and on the edge
Like to that sanguine flower inscribed with woe.
Ah! who hath reft,” quoth he, Rmy dearest pledge?”
Last came, and last did go,
The Pilot of the Galilean Lake;
Two massy keys he bore of metals twain.
(The golden opes, the iron shuts amain).
He shook his mitred locks, and stern bespake:—
RHow well could I have spared for thee, young swain,
Enow of such as, for their bellies’ sake,
Creep, and intrude, and climb into the fold!
Of other care they little reckoning make
Than how to scramble at the shearers’ feast,
And shove away the worthy bidden guest.
Blind mouths! that scarce themselves know how to hold
A sheep-hook, or have learnt aught else the least
That to the faithful herdman’s art belongs!
What recks it them? What need they? They are sped:
And, when they list, their lean and flashy songs
Grate on their scrannel pipes of wretched straw;
The hungry sheep look up, and are not fed,
But, swoln with wind and the rank mist they draw,
Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread;
Besides what the grim wolf with privy paw
Daily devours apace, and nothing said.
But that two-handed engine at the door
Stands ready to smite once, and smite no more.”
         Return, Alpheus; the dread voice is past
That shrunk thy streams; return Sicilian Muse,
And call the vales, and bid them hither cast
Their bells and flowerets of a thousand hues.
Ye valleys low, where the mild whispers use
Of shades, and wanton winds, and gushing brooks,
On whose fresh lap the swart star sparely looks,
Throw hither all your quaint enamelled eyes,
That on the green turf **** the honeyed showers,
And purple all the ground with vernal flowers.
Bring the rathe primrose that forsaken dies,
The tufted crow-toe, and pale jessamine,
The white pink, and the ***** freaked with jet,
The glowing violet,
The musk-rose, and the well-attired woodbine,
With cowslips wan that hang the pensive head,
And every flower that sad embroidery wears;
Bid amaranthus all his beauty shed,
And daffadillies fill their cups with tears,
To strew the laureate hearse where Lycid lies.
For so, to interpose a little ease,
Let our frail thoughts dally with false surmise,
Ay me! whilst thee the shores and sounding seas
Wash far away, where’er thy bones are hurled;
Whether beyond the stormy Hebrides,
Where thou perhaps under the whelming tide
Visit’st the bottom of the monstrous world;
Or whether thou, to our moist vows denied,
Sleep’st by the fable of Bellerus old,
Where the great Vision of the guarded mount
Looks toward Namancos and Bayona’s hold.
Look homeward, Angel, now, and melt with ruth:
And, O ye dolphins, waft the hapless youth.
         Weep no more, woeful shepherds, weep no more,
For Lycidas, your sorrow, is not dead,
Sunk though he be beneath the watery floor.
So sinks the day-star in the ocean bed,
And yet anon repairs his drooping head,
And tricks his beams, and with new-spangled ore
Flames in the forehead of the morning sky:
So Lycidas sunk low, but mounted high,
Through the dear might of Him that walked the waves,
Where, other groves and other streams along,
With nectar pure his oozy locks he laves,
And hears the unexpressive nuptial song,
In the blest kingdoms meek of joy and love.
There entertain him all the Saints above,
In solemn troops, and sweet societies,
That Sing, and singing in their glory move,
And wipe the tears for ever from his eyes.
Now, Lycidas, the shepherds weep no more;
Henceforth thou art the Genius of the shore,
In thy large recompense, and shalt be good
To all that wander in that perilous flood.
         Thus sang the uncouth swain to the oaks and rills,
While the still morn went out with sandals grey:
He touched the tender stops of various quills,
With eager thought warbling his Doric lay:
And now the sun had stretched out all the hills,
And now was dropt into the western bay.
At last he rose, and twitched his mantle blue:
Tomorrow to fresh woods, and pastures new.
Granos de una planta alta
que al paladar exalta.
¿A qué otros placeres su espiga invita?
Pasas, nuez y pepita,
miel, alegría y encanto,
barra de amaranto.
(2010)
K Balachandran Jan 2012
In this gypsy street
where past and present
are juxtaposed,
and stealthy future
incognito fornicates with  both,
we live like a family
(dysfunctional !)
under attack from aliens.

I let out a shriek
in the middle of the night,
in creative frenzy
as I hit a high
and can't contain,
the ecstasy to myself,
and to alert the neighborhood
to see how they take it,
isn't it, jolly good
a fine display of  anarchy
harmless and enjoyable?
Just wanted to check
how it would look,
if some outrageous
incident happened,
at the dead of night
amidst the thousand
silly and serious stuff
we all  are engaged in.

every morning a lovely woman,
bit worked up, if not totally moonstruck,
who does nothing in particualar
other than living a life
as a business,
goes out in to the streets,
winding, without an end
if you decide to measure it
with your moving legs.
She  is a walker through the streets
most of the time of her life
(a mystery still, why I ponder)
till late night, when the night birds
are out on their rounds.

Some times when I come out of
a hospital after visiting an ailing girlfriend,
or while paying my bills in a counter
I encounter her, an enigma sans clues,
symbolizing the life in this street.
some times she throws a parsimonious smile
like a nickel to a panhandler
(I've seen you somewhere, take this)
sometimes she has a blank stare
like a temple cow, shaking it's head
at a devotee, the meaning
is what you think, good or bad,
she seems like possessed by a spirit,
that has restlessness as a curse.

An old couple, only out in the evenings,
are seen in the art gallery
fighting over perceived meanings
in an abstract painting.
(A wonderful way to fill
the vacuum of life with artistic gobbledegook)
"Read it the way you like
no harm"someone intervenes,
"No need to take lessons on art
from passer by nincompoops"
comes a lance, as a retort.

Free roaming bulls and cows
gate crash  and eat banana plants,
and attack our poor Amaranthus,
eye catching in it's bright purple flowers.
they had tried even a cactus,
with strange pattern and soft thorns,

this street has many voices that whisper,
about old time mishaps,
love birds killed by relatives
in the name of family honor
a horror still haunts dark nights
(quickly swept under expensive carpets)
with muffles voices(I never succeeded to hear)

A cut throat banker, at the height of
his business success,
gave away everything to an Ashram*
where meaning of life is being explained by Gurus
juggling lucid metaphors, every day.
strikingly similar to the myth of Sysiphus,
the banker condemned himself to learn
Yoga postures which he would forget at the end
and try to learn  all over again,
year round.

Last night we saw two lovers,
under the lush bamboo grove,
in an intimate state of trance.
one by one from from 80 houses,
men , women,  and
senior citizens,  came out,
with the happiness comparable to finding a new spice route to India,
when Turks took Constantinople.
We have a hope
their hearts should have chanted in chorus,
a new tender leaf has sprouted
in this withered tree of degenerated life.
*A spiritual hermitage usually Hindu or Buddhist
Oscar Sep 2018
Flowers grow in the carcass of what you left,
Camellias bloom in my lungs with each breath I take;
desperately heaving, weeping, I'm a victim of theft.

Roses rise from the hole in my chest,
their prickly stems stab me, blood mixing with tears...
though, in your heart, I'm just a guest

Too young to feel this dead inside, Amaranthus flowers
still sprout within my soul, will these dark clouds
ever leave? You built me up in into glass towers.

It's the hemlock that dives in my blood.
My mind mirrors the smashed pieces of glass on the ground,
I'd love you if only it would,
fix the broken parts of your world.
again with the sadness?
May Jan 2019
who stole all these colours
emerald,midnight, amaranthus
off the canvas and left it dull
lost and alone
"rainbows ,what a colorful mess"
old quotes said to impress kids
it's a hopeless world
inside my mind
aspirations and inspirations
scattered into pieces with no lights of hopes or wishes
lost hopes I inhale
emptiness is oozing from my gaze
when I stare to see
where my world
lost
Satsih Verma May 2019
Almost touched
the birthmark of lips
on my poems.

Will not want
for it to happen, when
the sun breaks into stars
in your amaranthus eyes.

Syllable by
syllable, you weave
the inferno to burn
the sins of voodoo.

No one was
traitor when grass
dries up under the feet of
glaring moon.

Ah! this was
a Vedic punishment. I
want to learn the
early form of revenge.

— The End —