"beowulf" poems
There once was a man named Beowulf
Who was fiercer than a demon or werewolf
Except that he had a flaw
A dragon made him mortally sore
This prologue is prophetic
To the ending of this epic
So I’ll tell you more
Beowulf made his mind up at twenty-three
He would race his friend to swim across the sea
But fighting many sea monsters is quite trial
Beowulf only caught up in the final mile
Poor Beowulf, fierce as a werewolf
His equal would be hard to find
Though Breca nearly beat him
He managed to defeat him
But he would make up his mind
Beowulf made his mind up in his head
He would battle Grendel until one was dead
But even though his strength could cause a lot of harm
Beowulf only severed Grendel’s left arm
Poor Beowulf, fierce as a werewolf
His equal would be hard to find
Though Grendel he had saddened
Beowulf wasn’t gladdened
And he would make up his mind
Beowulf made his mind up then and there
He’d **** Grendel’s mother in her watery lair
Although the angry tarn-hag had put up a fight
Both monsters were beheaded that very night
Poor Beowulf, fierce as a werewolf
His equal would be hard to find
He took a child and mother
Like Cain had killed his brother
But he had made up his mind
Beowulf made his mind up when he was old
To slay a raging dragon of whom he’d been told
But Beowulf couldn’t deal with the dragon’s fire
And he was later burned atop a funeral pyre
Poor Beowulf, fierce as a werewolf
His equal would be hard to find
He once was a great hero
And now his worth is zero
But he would make up his mind
Feb 4, 2016
Feb 4, 2016 at 1:34 PM UTC
A funeral for a Great King
Mourning
Ageing
Descendants carve their paths
Glory
Heorot
A Demonic mood-killer
Lonely
Grendel
A hero answers the call
Distant
Majestic
A vow of aid
Impressive
Doubtful
Claims become realized
Death
Celebration
Danger revisits
Vengeance
Maternal
A journey to the marsh
Darkness
Fiends
An underwater duel
Headless
Reward
The hero departs
Sadness
Homecoming
A joyous return
Stories
Changes
A death in the family
Sadness
Inheritance
50 years prospers the Hero-King
Greatness
Theft
A beast is awoken
Ancient
Furious
The people suffer
Dust
Ashes
An old king rebels
Victory
Grief
A funeral for a Great King
Jan 4, 2013
Jan 4, 2013 at 10:54 AM UTC
As children, we are told to be a Beowulf.
To be brave and to put others before ourselves,
To be the strongest and the best,
We are told to be the perfect hero.
In this day and age, it is never really okay to make mistakes, even if they say it is.
We have a drive within us that being the best and the strongest is our only option.
We put the pressure on ourselves to be the Beowulf, which only causes us to wake up the Grendel.
But the real problem is, we are ashamed of that.
We are ashamed of fear, which causes us to act out and create evil.
But when you think about it, what is bravery without fear.
Because the truth is, no one is ever going to be one-hundred percent a Beowulf.
All of us have a little Grendel inside, it’s called being human.
We yell, we scream, we scare each other,
We lie, we cheat, we judge.
We are vicious and hurtful with our words.
At times, we see no light in our hearts,
We let evil win.
We are often so far from perfect.
In fact, the Grendel in me is sometimes more prominent than the Beowulf,
But we have to realize that sometimes, that’s okay.
You see, if not for the Grendel in me, the Beowulf wouldn’t know it’s true strength.
For the Beowulf in me, within all of us, would not fight nearly as hard, because it would have nothing to overcome.
The point isn’t to be ashamed of the Grendel within,
The point is to keep pushing through so the Grendel doesn’t win.
Do not isolate yourself and hide away in the depths of darkness when you can’t seem to find the light.
Find the Beowulf within yourselves,
Embrace it’s fierce loyalty and drive to destroy evil.
Welcome the light within you,
If you do that, you will win the war within yourself.
To all those out there desperately trying to be the hero:
Accept that losing the battle sometimes is okay,
Try your best to win the war,
But do not take on that army alone,
Because the person who fights with no one by their side is bound to lose eventually.
Because how can you be a hero, when you have no one by your side?
Dec 8, 2018
Dec 8, 2018 at 1:13 AM UTC
TWANG TWANG TWANG
Oh how the twang of man’s harp
Disrupts my precious sleep.
TWANG TWANG TWANG
It’s never put at rest,
“Control yourself,” I thought.
TWANG TWANG TWANG
My rage grew deep,
I could hear them laugh at me, already an outcast in this young world.
TWANG TWANG TWANG
Somehow, almost as if I were possessed,
I began to **** them one by one.
TWANG TWANG TWANG
Night by night the casualties grew,
I couldn’t control myself, it’s a demon’s curse.
TWANG TWANG TWANG
I kept killing them,
Until the final night.
TWANG TWANG TWANG
The young hero pulled out my arm
And raised it up in a bitter-sweet victory.
TWANG TWANG TWANG
Away I ran into my lair
What have I done?
TWANG TWANG TWANG
Was this the pain I inflicted on man?
The pain was throbbing and strong, like no pain I had ever felt.
Finally the world went black.
The twang was gone.
At peace I will lay forever.
I hope mother won’t make the same mistake.
Jan 18, 2016
Jan 18, 2016 at 4:49 PM UTC
and bright knights
the phoenix spread
her smouldering wings
the Sphinx dethroned
future kings
the Queen of Hearts
a heartless nag
Baba Yaga the stilted
house . the hag
brave Beowulf
dragged down to drown
the monster Grendel
by him was slain
Io was a cow despised
watched by a creature
with one hundred eyes
the lawn is made
a land of gnomes
mushrooms grow
in garden homes
where are
all these things indeed?
they are in books
just look and read!!!
SøułSurvivør aka
Write of Passage aka
Invisible inc
Catherine Jarvis
Feb 12, 2015
Feb 12, 2015 at 3:19 AM UTC
Beowulf the hier of nothing of rot
Mother he know not
Raised in shame banished wroght
Returned to his village to seek wrothgar a father he yet sought
News of death the sorrow he fought
Till the night trouble it brought
Grendal at night did strike
Killing thous from wicked and strife
None but Beowulf saw the **** of the fight
Guards did come, and saw a false sight
Beowulf they thought the killer that night
Sentenced to death but never to suffer that blight
Beowulf escaped and rode at dawn, Off to seek golem and where he lurk
Off to the woods there they found Grendal
With much haste golem charged Beowulf dirk was drawn
Hacking off the fingers of golem was hurt
Grendal roared and ran
Holding tightly to his wounded hand
Beowulf returned with trophy in bag gasps where made across the land
Guards double watch patrolling village to make a stand
Night came and blood was shed
Grendal made way to the mead hall all the way warriors bled
Beowulf was ready and calmly said
I have his fingers how about his arm instead
Attacking the creatures buckled arm ripping it off golem then ran and fled
Beowulf grabbed arms and said fingers now arm soon his head
They reassembled on horses arms ready and raged
Gave chase
All fell but Beowulf by accord golem laid dead he lead deeper around bend
mother by him seducing Beowulf of power and ***** by all that was said
Beowulf accepted the fouls bargain
But all was not well in thee end
Dragon flew to the sky warriors of King Beowulf Fend
Beowulf killed his son of the dervish deal the dragon
But deadly wounds of were not on dragon alone Beowulf had fallen both a killing blow send
Beowulf funeral ceremony of fire and water below the deep the foul was spotted to be burned alive with Beowulf lover in arms
Blasphemy and Treacherous woes for all of she slaughtered
Now known Beowulf deed leading men like fodder
Against them knowing deal he had waged
Too be written and sung in the latter days
Beowulf the hero king the liar the cheat they called
Beowulf the man flawed as all that ultimately brought his downfall
Nov 20, 2020
Nov 20, 2020 at 6:56 PM UTC
I am Ripper... Tearer... Slasher... Gouger. I am the Teeth in the Darkness, the Talons in the Night. Mine is Strength... and Lust... and Power! I AM BEOWULF!
Apr 24, 2015
Apr 24, 2015 at 3:06 PM UTC
There are three major stages of the English Language
According to historians and linguists alike
There is Old English when Beowulf defeated Grendel
And Middle English when Shakespeare birthed his sonnets
Finally, Modern English when Harry Potter spun his magic
However, I believe historians and linguists
Will say we are now in the midst of a fourth
I like to believe we are part of the history of language
But what will it be called? Tecno English or Neotext English?
IDK, but u will c um right. Just :) and $ me lates #stagesofenglish
Jan 27, 2015
Jan 27, 2015 at 8:41 PM UTC
Do not utter a syllable
For the reaper lurks at the door
Dim the lights as our eyes are widened
Sit in a desperate, huddled mass
Feel the shivering, helpless creature on the left
Hear my traitorous lungs exhaling, surrendering my position
My heart pounding, screaming at my body
Ordering me to run, to fight, to ****
"Do not go gentle into that good night,"
As Dylan Thomas so elegantly stated
Yet it is not a time for romantic visions of heroism
Beowulf's idealism will not save us here
Sobbing, shivering, ***** stained American Eagle
Sweat drenched Under Amour Tees and hoodies
Feet ironically quivering in red and orange Nike Shocks
A 243 pound lineman blubbering under his breath
He wants his mother, his daddy, his pillow, to go home
Another boy, Darrel, clenches his fists, readies for attack
Cassidy sits silently, emotionless, statuesque, frozen in time
And I . . . What do I do? . . . What do I do?
Do I flinch like Sir Gawain in the face of death?
Or do I . . . . . . What do I do?
God, may I never discover the answer to this evil query
God help us stop the violence consuming innocent children
Render CODE RED obsolete
Yet, CODE RED will parish not
For society feeds on fictional fame
Fifteen minutes that Warhol never could have painted
Now it will be duplicated like so many Campbell's Soup cans
CODE RED CODE RED CODE RED CODE RED
And . . . What will I do?
What will I do?
Jan 10, 2013
Jan 10, 2013 at 6:58 PM UTC
Cats are Iambic Pentameter
Light-footed cats are nature’s iambics
Each subtle feline step unstressed to stressed
Across a lawn, a counterpane, a heart
As a tail-twitching cat ballet, all grace
But dogs are four-beat Anglo-Saxon1 lines
Galumphing heavily and clumsily
Across a moor, a sleeping-bag, a heart
As a tail-wagging country reel (gone bad)
Soft-footed cats are nature’s iambics
And dogs are four-beat Anglo-Saxon lines
1Old English Anglo-Saxon (approx. fifth-twelfth century). Applies to four-stress hemistichal alliterative verse, e.g. Beowulf.
- Stephen Fry, The Ode Less Travelled: Unlocking the Poet Within
Jan 30, 2017
Jan 30, 2017 at 3:49 PM UTC
i
I'm stuck inside her panaginip lip's, she's ****** me all in
She cast a spell, of amour' swell, chain's of cabochon to her hips;
Oh mine giliw, thine finger's art sweated, locking mine own
We'll treck thine mountain's, and rule the slopes, then back home
ii
We shalt Kench the white puffies, floating above ourn observation, making elephant's and giraffe's with touched finger,
Two strange unknown attainer's, strapped with starry wit
We shalt never forget another, always to be closer as lovers, bliss
iii
As Beowulf, I shalt slayeth the dragon's, and pain-seekers of hate
For plentiness shalt be by bucket's, as gold dust falls as ourn date;
An Iniibig kita from thou, a Lagi kitang iniisip from mineself
An Gusto kitang tawagan from thou when I'm gone, Pahalik!!!!
©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©Pilipino rosas/ あある じぇえん
Aug 6, 2015
Aug 6, 2015 at 9:58 PM UTC
Lawrence Hall
[email protected]
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
On the Unlocking of Words
Their leader answered him, Beowulf unlocking
Words from deep in his breast: "We are Geats…”
-Beowulf to the Danish Coast Watcher
In bold and sturdy four-beat lines
Beowulf keeps his knowledge clear
With kennings well-crafted and careful caesurae
And never needing to raise his voice
But thus the Grendel-voice responds:
“Woo woo that’s just my person opinion that’s what I’m talking about follow your passion learn to code no offense, but *** oh my God oh my God woo woo hey hey ** ** something-something has got to go woo woo only dead fish go with the flow tear it down shut it down burn it down woo woo lock her up there is no I in team woo woo not my president it’s not rocket science it is what it is woo woo say it loud say it clear this is what something looks like woo woo is there an app for that woo woo that’s what I’m saying woo woo…”
But you - be brave like Beowulf, and boldly dare
To unlock your words with creativity and care
Jun 13, 2021
Jun 13, 2021 at 8:15 AM UTC
The ruins of my sorrows wash up on the shore of my thoughts.
I look at the wreckage as I board the the dock of sailed dreams and bright stars-
The stars that lead the way.
I survived.
I reach down to inspect the damage, trying to pick up the broken pieces.
I look at the heart in my hand and remember how it once was beautiful.
Like the sounds of the heavens battling the emotions of the lands-
A sound that could send chills down the legs of the rocking chair,
And silence the creeks for once and for all.
The sounds that I’ve always taken solace in.
Because God is in the rain- and rain makes things grow.
Just hoping one day he’ll rain on me.
I dust off the broken heart, put it on my sleeve, and carry on.
I need to carry on.
I repeat this in the depths of my mind hoping to ignite the courage
Of the lost souls of Beowulf and Odysseus- Praying that Jesus will come through.
They always said that you become the stories you listen to.
So I try to paint my thoughts with memories of heroism-
In hopes of one day I might save myself.
The broken mirror on the wall shows more than my reflection.
The light gleaming through the cracks are refracted just enough
to show me the universe withheld in my eyes.
But without my heart, it all seems so distant, so far, if only I could reach in and grab it.
The smooth surface sends chills down my fingertips and heartbreak down my soul.
I close my eyes and bow my head. I kiss my finger and send the message to God.
Such a humbling experience to see all that you have destroyed because of your own folly.
If only I had payed more attention. If only I had gotten in God's good graces- If only.
If only I had died.
If only the pain I felt was proof of immortality could I find comfort fates company.
If only the voice so many have claimed to hear had whispered me to my dreams.
I can fix this.
My dad was a fixer. Only he left too soon to show me how.
But I’m sure I can find pieces of him when I clean up this mess.
And I’m sure I’ll also find the worst pieces of myself.
I guess I'll try my luck.
Feb 17, 2016
Feb 17, 2016 at 4:08 PM UTC
Lawrence Hall
[email protected]
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
Beowulf and the Danish Passport Officer
From a recently discovered manuscript
The clapped-out Boeing wheezed to the gate
The ground crew jumped name-tags rattling
And swiftly moored the shining ocean-bird
Behind his plastic shield a Danish official watched
The travelers approach their passports raised
He stood peeking down at the naughty selfie
His girlfriend sent to his bold smart-phone
Shaking his rubber stamp he spoke:
“What is the purpose of your visit?
Business, or pleasure? Hwaet! I’ve stood
At this same gate longer than you know
Keeping our gift shops free from British footer hooligans
No commoner carries such fine matching luggage
Unless his Rolex and his boyish good looks
Are lies You! Tell me your name
And your home address and your email!
The quicker the better I’m off-duty in ten minutes.”
Beowulf answered him Unlocking his smart-phone:
“We are the Geats the mighty, mighty Geats!
Men who follow Malmo FF Malmo FF the great!
And we have come seeking Parken Stadium
Greatest of all stadia Its shining seats polished
By cheering generations of fat-full footer fans
We have come to cheer Malmo FF
While they whup up on Dansk Boldspil Union
Instruct us, watchman Where is the stadium
But first, where is the beer?”
The worthy officer
Answered him boldly:
“A true fan knows
The difference between fighting on the field
And puking in the stands and keeps that knowledge clear
In his beery brain I believe your babbling
Go forward, credit cards and all on into Denmark
Spend your money! Our exchange rate is generous!
And then go home bearing our love while we bear your money.”
(Stamp, stamp, stamp) “Tram stop to the left
Taxis to the right”
(Scholars everywhere will regret that here the burnt and torn manuscript breaks off.)
Oct 4, 2021
Oct 4, 2021 at 9:10 AM UTC
Poetry, the reason we are all here.
Writing words that we hope someone reads and hears
Hears in the sounds of the words, them coming alive
Vocally there is a potency to written words
Say them out loud, hear them, feel them form in your mouth
Soulfully continue this aged tradition of story telling
Poetry, is known globally, it transcends diplomacy,
it reaches souls, hearts and minds.
Like a minority,poetry is seen as weak and bleak,
but then life is not a bed of roses, there are thorns.
Reproachfully it is scorned, 'poet? Try writing a novel'
Wrongfully seen as the poor man to a novelist, poetry
at its best conveys, more in a few verses than a thousand
pages of a novel. Lonesome is the poet, that sees truth.
There is merit in poetry, the continuation of odes told by
the fireside, Viking, Persian, Celt, all historic bardic civilisations.
Purity in poetry leads down a path least travelled these days
but tales of yore still prevail, and Beowulf still roars.
Canterbury tales still elicit smiles, cries and woe.
Shakespeare, Dante, Poe, Neruda, Thomas, Petrarch all Poets with soul.
So, you tell me, and all of us poets are we the novelists poor relation?
Or, just reclaiming our station in life as the purest storytellers?
May 26, 2014
May 26, 2014 at 10:39 AM UTC
Bougainvilleas line the house, dedicated, stoic sentinels
Ivy has replaced mortar as the only thing keeping the walls from crumbling
The windows have no glass,
But the rain is kept at bay by the gossamer webs of kind spiders.
Inside there is no furniture – only paper tomes
She sits on a pile of high school textbooks
Her table, stacks of hard cover crime novels
Her bed, a nest of magazines
There is no fridge or pantry – she doesn’t eat
But she is not starving
She devours books, has become fat on them
A varied diet: science and science fiction,
Fantasy, history, politics, philosophy
And to nourish her soul – poetry.
She doesn’t remember her name
But it doesn’t matter
She is Beowulf, Boudicca, Odysseus
Dorian Grey, the Lady of Shallot,
She is both Hero and Leander
She never leaves,
But she knows that the world is turning
The sparrows in the gable tell her so
And she doesn’t need it, no
She smiles, cries, and falls in love over and over
With the turn of each page
Her fingers have transformed into ink stains
She has lived a thousand and one lives
She holds them all inside her
She makes them live, and they keep her alive -
This is a dream that I once had.
Feb 16, 2016
Feb 16, 2016 at 9:44 PM UTC
I want to be a father, that is strange coming from a 19 year old college student.
No not just to get laid or get the girl.
I want to teach my son the world.
I want to teach him that Laughter is the best medicine
I want him to prescribe a large dosage to all of the people who are down in the dumps,
I want him to call all of the girls pretty
Because it doesn't matter how much war paint they paint on their face.
No matter how many guys told her she is ugly,
She is still that princess that is sitting on that ivory tower and
She needs that prince charming to sweep her off her feet.
And when he finds the love of his life I want him to say,
”come on down you are the only contestant in my price is right.”
I want to teach him that Chivalry isn't dead
I want to teach him that politeness isn’t dead like Elvis
dead like retro disco and that one guy from Clue
I want him to know that nice guys don’t finish last
I want him to open all of the doors and always say please and thank you because politeness is the bandage over our gaping emotional wounds left by the people who lost their insecurities in their own dusty attics.
I want to teach him that imagination is the best tool
No no wait it is the ONLY tool
I want him to know that Calvin and Hobbes does exist
I want him to know that when he is not around,
His toys become alive and have a thriving hidden city underneath his bed.
I want him to fight the monsters in his closet while reciting Beowulf .
I want him to know that its okay to be scared
I want him to explore the dark caves in the basement and to defeat that evil dragon that rest there.
Many of you call it a furnace, but is a dragon alright?
I want to read him bedtime stories so we can fly off to our imagination fighting epic thunder storms trying to find that perfect catch.
I want to teach him the good stuff,not math or science
but ethics, politics, history, and literature
I want him to know that its okay to be fearful of the unknown
and that Ignorance is the poison to our minds
I want to make recite Hamlet or Twelfth Night, so when people are all talking trash he can say “don't make me go Shakespeare on your *** and for those people who stand in his way.
I must warn them that his bruises will fade and his cuts will heal but he tells you next will never leave your heart and will haunt you for the rest of his life. So go ahead call him names, see what happens.
I want to teach him to be passionate
I want to teach him that if anyone comes up to him and tells him that he can't do what he wants. I want him to bite his thumb and say listen buddy just wait before you know it I'll be the one who will be writing my name on the wall of glory.
Now I know I am far from perfect, and I know he will be too, but I want to teach him that this world can be perfect, if you open up your mind and heart.
Jan 30, 2014
Jan 30, 2014 at 9:50 PM UTC
Did you know that when Ceres formed the moon, and hung it in the sky, it shone for you? That Apollo races his chariot across the skies because he wakes to see your face? When the seers see beauty in the bones and rocks, they see your eyes shine back at them. When the witch-men in the darkest, deepest parts of the jungle wish to bestow beauty on their callers, they invoke your name! When the Delphinewhi Oracle rocks her body, possessed with the wisdom of gods, she smiles savagely, and thanks Olympus for fashioning her in your image. When the roses blossom, and the honeysuckle blooms; when the violets show their beautiful dress, and the magnolia flaunts in the sun, they mimic you! When the lilies swim their graceful circles, and the snapdragon ushers forth it's sweet scent; when the lilac spreads its musk through my nostrils, or the dogwood dances in the wind, they devote their lives and beauty that it might stand in the shadow of your presence! Rocks crumble, and sands shift because they know you will need soft ground to tread upon. Thunders clap, and wild things wail because they envy any other that looks upon you but them! The stars themselves cast forth their light and burn themselves out because they know you will see their long-dead light, and appreciate their token of praise to you alone.
Did you? Did you know that when Shakespeare wrote about his beautiful, mysterious woman, he thought of you? Did you know that when Horatio sung of woman's beauty, he had your face and figure upon his eyes? Did you know that when Beowulf slew the seven serpents, he fought them in your name? That Helen of Troy, and Cleopatra are your ancestors? That when Cockney resolved to fix the language he spoke, he did it in the endeavor to accurately describe your beauty?
Alas, my littless, there is no man, nor beast, nor god that can comprehend your beauty. Save those you smile upon, all are lost in life, trying in vain to grasp the extent--the breadth and height and depth--of your immaculate form. Oh, if one could describe your smile, the earth would narry need the sun again! If man could describe the pools of color in thine eyes, man would be happy to look at a grey world to keep the memory of those prisms of light. If only one could touch you, caress the silk you wear for skin, he would be happy to never feel again....
Feb 4, 2016
Feb 4, 2016 at 3:11 PM UTC
Una espada,
una espada de hierro forjado en el frío del alba
una espada con runas
que nadie podrá desoír ni descifrar del todo,
Una espada que los poetas
igualarán al hielo y al fuego,
una espada que un rey dará a otro rey
y este rey a un sueño,
una espada que será leal
hasta una hora que ya sabe el Destino,
una espada que iluminará la batalla.
Una espada para la mano
que regirá la hermosa batalla, el tejido de hombres,
una espada para la mano
que enrojecerá los dientes del lobo
y el despiadado pico del cuervo,
una espada para la mano
que prodigará el oro rojo,
una espada para la mano
que dará muerte a la serpiente en su lecho de oro,
una espada para la mano
que ganará un reino y perderá un reino,
una espada para la mano
que derribará la selva de lanzas.
Una espada para la mano de Beowulf.
1k
building up,
I skipped past 400 bc Beowulf to 642-735 bc Bede and then was hung up on the word "irr--"
I don't know how it ended.
i asked where he found it. I was told it was his great-grandmother's. I knew I didn't deserve that.
I was never that good a friend, never a lover, always that ulterior motive
He asked if I had read the note he slipped amid the sketches and notes
in old time cursive. I hadn't.
On the tattered brown leather chairs he sat by me, as I read.
I read all but a word of it, i couldn't make it out. But, in his eyes,
I am a Woman who loves Words.
and he couldn't be more right.
Feb 25, 2014
Feb 25, 2014 at 1:32 AM UTC
Lawrence Hall, HSG
[email protected]
Macbeth, Doctor Zhivago, Captain Call, Yevgeny Yevtushenko, Allen Ginsberg, and Rod McKuen Visit the Dentist but Have to Wait for Beowulf's Root Canal
In gratitude for all the wonderful dentists, hygienists, and
technicians who keep us chewing!
Macbeth Visits the Dentist
Is this a drill which I see before me
The whirring drill outstretched to my teeth
O happiest gas! Come let me clutch thee!
Before my body I throw my dental shield
Dr. Zhivago Visits the Dentist
Poor dental hygiene is for crowds of mediocrities
Only individuals seek dentistry
And they shun those who tolerate bad teeth
How many things in the world deserve our loyalty?
A dentist whose papers are in order
Captain Call Visits the Dentist
Call saw that the dentist was looking at him
The nitrous oxide drained out of him
Leaving him feeling tired
“I hate a bad tooth. I won’t tolerate it.”
Yevgeny Yevtushenko Visits the Dentist
For a tooth to come out
Some of the pain must be devoted to Stalin
Soviet dentistry demanded happy endings
I knew I could floss and brush better than Mayakovsky
Bella’s teeth were second only to those of Akhmatova
Only I could make Babi Yar all about me and my teeth
When I saw a dentist in Zima Junction
I saw the truth of the Revolution in her little mirror
Allen Ginsberg Visits the Dentist
I saw the best teeth of my generation destroyed by sugared sodas and a failure to brush and floss
dragging themselves through the medical complex at dawn looking for a fix
thinning-hair old hipsters burning for relief from aching jaws at the healing hands of dedicated professionals among their shining instruments
dedicated professionals who did not drop out of the University of Arkansas and never saw Mohammedan angels among the rooftops
Rod McKuen Visits the Dentist
I am like a molar; I have chewed alone
Gnawed a hundred hamburgers
Never found a bone
Still and all I’m toothy
Reason is you see
Once in a while along the way
Dentists have been good to me.
Jul 13, 2024
Jul 13, 2024 at 11:23 AM UTC
Meet me at the edge of the mountain
With your arms around me, breath heavy
Take me away, towards the persimmon sun.
Rest your head upon my shoulder
And share with me authors you read fondly.
Send me to a land, where gleaming parties and revolutions are canon.
Sit and read to me of Grendel
And the darklings of Keats, his solemn pastorials
Protect me from all, Sir Beowulf, my knight with bravery ineffable.
Traverse with me the woods
Away from the cabin, and to the pond.
Tell me of the leaves you see-- muddy, mucky, made webbed.
Sing to the moon the poetry of your swoon
The light that cares and dusts away your desk
O Gabriel, my knight and day, scare away his hooves.
Lead me to a life far from Auerbach
Yet so near, through your words on our mountain walk.
Dec 30, 2019
Dec 30, 2019 at 1:16 AM UTC
debussy softly playing in a dimly-lit room
i am watching the vinyl as it spins
and i can feel my head doing the same
only faster
my hair smells like peach and smoke
and you look like a hazy dream in your white shirt
mumbling about how we should've went
to that play instead of drinking
because we'd be sick in the morning
but you pour more alcohol into your glass and into mine
now all i taste is honey
as i get drunker and my giggles get louder,
smiles wider and hands braver
and maybe you're right
we should've just dressed nicely and went to watch
******* beowulf instead of playing russian roulette
because the bullet is supposed to bury into my head
so why does it feel like a cannon ball into my heart
every time you touch me and smile
Sep 23, 2016
Sep 23, 2016 at 12:51 AM UTC
I swear I really want to write one.
I come up with a few great ideas,
formulate them into my creative mind,
then when I go to pen them
into an epic,
they end up much shorter.
Like, what would Virgil say?
Lord Byron would certainly cringe
at my bits and pieces of written word.
Alighieri & Milton would probably
laugh their arses off,
Ovid snicker & what about Homer?
I swear I really want to write one.
An epic like The Divine Comedy,
perhaps a slice of Don Juan,
a bit of Beowulf,
some Odyssey?
I wish I could find
some Paradise Lost,
a piece of the Illiad,
I pray for a Metamorphoses!
I swear I really want to write one!
Feb 10, 2014
Feb 10, 2014 at 3:18 PM UTC
The Olde English poem,
The Holy Rood,
Was mystical and new.
The courtiers liked what they heard,
The troubadours sang out their truth.
Then Beowulf gave it design;
A plot with characters,
Some nearing divine,
With beasts and bravery bounding;
A new literature was sounding.
Soon Canterbury clopped along,
Lyrical poetry became song,
And morphed into Paradise,
Lost and found in common meter,
With angelic imagery, good and evil,
Undone in metaphysics.
Round the Lakes the poets roamed,
Windermere, Grasmere, and Dorothy's home.
They walked in beauty, day and night,
Warned the world was too much with us,
That nature was our friend.
Gave intimations of our end,
We still need listen to.
Jan 2, 2018
Jan 2, 2018 at 11:11 AM UTC