Hello Poetry
Submit your work and get some sparkles! Create free account
"blotted" poems
‘To bed! To bed!’ Said Sleepy-head; ‘Tarry awhile,’ said Slow; ‘Put on the pan,’ Said Greedy Nan; ‘We'll sup before we go.’ (from Mother Goose) They sat at the kitchen table as The candle flickered low, And Greedy Nan put on the pan To indulge her sister, Slow, While Sleepy Weepy Annabelle Blotted her book with tears, And thought of her Beau from long ago Who she hadn’t seen for years. ‘Why doesn’t Roger notice me, Why doesn’t Alan Dell? I’m wearing the dress cut low for me And I’ve hitched my skirt as well. I’ve a pretty turn to my ankle, so You’d think it would drive them wild.’ ‘But men are a mystery,’ said Slow, ‘And Alan Dell’s a child.’ While over the pan stood Greedy Nan, Was cracking a turkey’s egg, A lump of yeast and a slice of beast And a single spider’s leg. With a wing of bat and an ounce of fat And a toe of frog for the spell, She needed to turn her sister off From her crush on Alan Dell. For Greedy Nan was the eldest girl And would have to marry first, The other two would wait in the queue Or their fortunes be reversed, The omelette sizzled, and in the pan She added before they saw, A piece of some Devil’s Trumpet plant For the mating game meant war. She sliced the omelette into half And she served them up a piece, ‘Didn’t you want?’ said Annabelle But Slow enjoyed the feast. ‘I’m not that terribly hungry now I’ve cooked it up in the pan, I think I’ll just have a slice of bread,’ Said the scheming Greedy Nan. They finished up and they sat awhile, And they mused about their fate, ‘If Greedy Nan isn’t married soon, For us it will be too late.’ ‘I’ve set my sights on a country squire,’ Said Nan, without a blink, Lured them away from her secret fire To confuse what they might think. ‘The room is woozy, spinning around, I’d better get me to bed,’ Said Annabelle, while Slow with a frown Saw Dwarves dancing in her head. But Greedy Nan was cleaning the pan To clear all signs of the spell, Her back was turned to her sisters, spurned For the sake of Alan Dell. And when he came in the morning Greedy Nan was sat by the door, While Annabelle and her sister Slow Were lying dead on the floor, ‘I didn’t mean it to **** them, Al, It was only a simple spell,’ But as he cuffed and led her away He frowned, did Alan Dell. David Lewis Paget
0
Jan 25, 2015
Jan 25, 2015 at 8:01 PM UTC
To Bed! To Bed!
‘To bed! To bed!’ Said Sleepy-head; ‘Tarry awhile,’ said Slow; ‘Put on the pan,’ Said Greedy Nan; ‘We'll sup before we go.’ (from Mother Goose) They sat at the kitchen table as The candle flickered low, And Greedy Nan put on the pan To indulge her sister, Slow, While Sleepy Weepy Annabelle Blotted her book with tears, And thought of her Beau from long ago Who she hadn’t seen for years. ‘Why doesn’t Roger notice me, Why doesn’t Alan Dell? I’m wearing the dress cut low for me And I’ve hitched my skirt as well. I’ve a pretty turn to my ankle, so You’d think it would drive them wild.’ ‘But men are a mystery,’ said Slow, ‘And Alan Dell’s a child.’ While over the pan stood Greedy Nan, Was cracking a turkey’s egg, A lump of yeast and a slice of beast And a single spider’s leg. With a wing of bat and an ounce of fat And a toe of frog for the spell, She needed to turn her sister off From her crush on Alan Dell. For Greedy Nan was the eldest girl And would have to marry first, The other two would wait in the queue Or their fortunes be reversed, The omelette sizzled, and in the pan She added before they saw, A piece of some Devil’s Trumpet plant For the mating game meant war. She sliced the omelette into half And she served them up a piece, ‘Didn’t you want?’ said Annabelle But Slow enjoyed the feast. ‘I’m not that terribly hungry now I’ve cooked it up in the pan, I think I’ll just have a slice of bread,’ Said the scheming Greedy Nan. They finished up and they sat awhile, And they mused about their fate, ‘If Greedy Nan isn’t married soon, For us it will be too late.’ ‘I’ve set my sights on a country squire,’ Said Nan, without a blink, Lured them away from her secret fire To confuse what they might think. ‘The room is woozy, spinning around, I’d better get me to bed,’ Said Annabelle, while Slow with a frown Saw Dwarves dancing in her head. But Greedy Nan was cleaning the pan To clear all signs of the spell, Her back was turned to her sisters, spurned For the sake of Alan Dell. And when he came in the morning Greedy Nan was sat by the door, While Annabelle and her sister Slow Were lying dead on the floor, ‘I didn’t mean it to **** them, Al, It was only a simple spell,’ But as he cuffed and led her away He frowned, did Alan Dell. David Lewis Paget
Continue reading...
72
I'm tested everyday, Tempted to throw away The sanity that's kept my mind at bay If inconveniences are shadows, then troubles are ink-blotted water trickling through the canals of my temporal lobes which causes me to follow any thoughts of failure instead of success better to wallow in bed then get dressed I almost forget that I am blessed. I aggress the trickling pain by staring skyward like a man seeking the opportunity to fly soaring above the problems that cloud the eyes
0
Nov 5, 2012
Nov 5, 2012 at 6:20 PM UTC
Resilience
In love, nothing exists between heart and heart. Speech is born out of longing, True description from the real taste. The one who tastes, knows; the one who explains, lies. How can you describe the true form of Something In whose presence you are blotted out? And in whose being you still exist? And who lives as a sign for your journey?
0
10.6k
Reality
The Amazons fractured her skull while he was busy introducing himself, with a handshake and a teapot: 'Good Morning!' A tuneless whistle, an anthem from nowhere falls on deaf ears, eyes faded to pastel like a warning poster after twenty copies and acid rain. Not an episode from real life just an ivory circus, the sport of savagery Tired. At an end. It wouldn't happen in Blighty. A dark heartbeat, a steady drum The pen is mightier than the spear, blotted shapes in the rushes Inert, unheard No time for farewells
0
Nov 22, 2012
Nov 22, 2012 at 6:02 PM UTC
Empire
Spartan shield wall, impenetrable & fortified Persian soldiers, dying by the thousand Spears pointed outward, catching flesh & blood Persian soldiers, dying by the thousand Sun blotted out by Persian arrows Persian archers, killing them all Spartan soldiers, fight to the last Persian archers, killing them all Spartans all fallen, not one left alive Persian soldiers turn back home Spartans left immortalized, final stand Persian soldiers turn back home Spartans, three hundred strong Spartans, still standing tall
0
Apr 13, 2016
Apr 13, 2016 at 6:02 PM UTC
300
kisses on your warm sweet mouth tender lips caressed exploring your ******* and raised ******* .. belly and thighs enveloped those eager dark delicious places that i covet so your musk erogenous the path to your hungry soul eater of the poison apple your eyes widen bright with delight a strange synesthesia you say your smile a hypnotic alter you prone back arched belly willing as i drag a curved blade slowly across your winsome flesh worshiping you breathing your warm breath into my mouth and nostrils come now you coo i am sheildless then little strangles that excite to see how you do will you love it adorations twisted mind she demon a wizened dizzy Venus please yes her **** drenches the bed a warm viscosity legs widen feet piqued ***** exotic delicatessen Heralded i enter with long sweet butter strokes the sabbath of desire I swear i wont let you suffer... never ! why you say? because i love you lovely scythe you call as if lulled to sleep whispering dreadful incantations   . i ache to close the curtain to lifes scalding chatter wrap me in a raggy shawl impale the throat like ive alway dreamed a last exhalation flood gates pour forth as deaths dark fold dissolves all i rock you drugged absinthe and wormwood a last ***** of candles flame white gauze cinched lips on a lost mouth eyes a static pyre i linger wishing you still plush an animated glow so that i could feel your arms, now milky white relics only to take you all over again and again and again dreamer of the abyss yet you stand aberrations, smoke ghost sacrificially swaying your hips calling from Hades dancer of ritual copulation i melt like wax in the sun wither and die myself marriage Italian style dead bells in love blotted out by the Sirens of Mara
0
Apr 19, 2017
Apr 19, 2017 at 4:45 PM UTC
SIRENS OF MARA
kisses on your warm sweet mouth tender lips caressed exploring your ******* and raised ******* .. belly and thighs enveloped those eager dark delicious places that i covet so your musk erogenous the path to your hungry soul eater of the poison apple your eyes widen bright with delight a strange synesthesia you say your smile a hypnotic alter you prone back arched belly willing as i drag a curved blade slowly across your winsome flesh worshiping you breathing your warm breath into my mouth and nostrils come now you coo i am sheildless then little strangles that excite to see how you do will you love it adorations twisted mind she demon a wizened dizzy Venus please yes her **** drenches the bed a warm viscosity legs widen feet piqued ***** exotic delicatessen Heralded i enter with long sweet butter strokes the sabbath of desire I swear i wont let you suffer... never ! why you say? because i love you lovely scythe you call as if lulled to sleep whispering dreadful incantations   . i ache to close the curtain to lifes scalding chatter wrap me in a raggy shawl impale the throat like ive alway dreamed a last exhalation flood gates pour forth as deaths dark fold dissolves all i rock you drugged absinthe and wormwood a last ***** of candles flame white gauze cinched lips on a lost mouth eyes a static pyre i linger wishing you still plush an animated glow so that i could feel your arms, now milky white relics only to take you all over again and again and again dreamer of the abyss yet you stand aberrations, smoke ghost sacrificially swaying your hips calling from Hades dancer of ritual copulation i melt like wax in the sun wither and die myself marriage Italian style dead bells in love blotted out by the Sirens of Mara
Continue reading...
78
they danced in a dream of bending shadows face down begging *** all hungry back door paradise ankles strapped on a foot worn floor paint faced in whorey nights with pin needle eyes beded blood crimson neon's cut curtains like kissing claws so their bodies wouldn't forget dark pleasures lightening and biting tantra tantrums they swallowed mad ***** blossoms of hell candy breathing the others inhalations foot sniffing ballet arch in fastened Japanese melting red slippers gazing upwards rectums prayer solar eyed insurrection finger by finger clutching wrists like the grave for bloods salty cove an injured landscape a dire pink desert like bogs hold bones a rave for a slave covered in yellow ocher rubber sheets soft on the feet x rated amputee costume made of blood and spit look mommy no arms a bellied tattoo of hennaed homunculi   burning Candomblé Jejé, skull black eyed beauty hissing while accordion throated rip tie tighten another notch please a dizzy ******* down silver fluted gullet in a steamed up bath house party of blotted sockets *** kitten kissed dead girls thighs tremulous and stretched a shimmering serum like wide tubular channels as pontoon edges slit through midnight howls for velvet skinned girl who thrills her head a veiled Jehovah saliva wagging tongue **** a stuttering ****** dance a hula hot momma in rubble slapping hot lipped kisses over starved darkness along telegraphs avenue melting eyes like butter a globed pudding spill ******* drool drops of gold and black river gladiators slaughter lies with every long stroke between cascading squeals paraphilias mausoleum like tumbling eels a scapegoat pulp fiction chiseled in cement ******* rips drip drip drip babbling **** bubbles **** spasms ooze like a hot glue gun fire spats soil cherry clover
0
Jan 12, 2019
Jan 12, 2019 at 3:39 PM UTC
*** Kitten and Little Dead Girl....Ero ****
they danced in a dream of bending shadows face down begging *** all hungry back door paradise ankles strapped on a foot worn floor paint faced in whorey nights with pin needle eyes beded blood crimson neon's cut curtains like kissing claws so their bodies wouldn't forget dark pleasures lightening and biting tantra tantrums they swallowed mad ***** blossoms of hell candy breathing the others inhalations foot sniffing ballet arch in fastened Japanese melting red slippers gazing upwards rectums prayer solar eyed insurrection finger by finger clutching wrists like the grave for bloods salty cove an injured landscape a dire pink desert like bogs hold bones a rave for a slave covered in yellow ocher rubber sheets soft on the feet x rated amputee costume made of blood and spit look mommy no arms a bellied tattoo of hennaed homunculi   burning Candomblé Jejé, skull black eyed beauty hissing while accordion throated rip tie tighten another notch please a dizzy ******* down silver fluted gullet in a steamed up bath house party of blotted sockets *** kitten kissed dead girls thighs tremulous and stretched a shimmering serum like wide tubular channels as pontoon edges slit through midnight howls for velvet skinned girl who thrills her head a veiled Jehovah saliva wagging tongue **** a stuttering ****** dance a hula hot momma in rubble slapping hot lipped kisses over starved darkness along telegraphs avenue melting eyes like butter a globed pudding spill ******* drool drops of gold and black river gladiators slaughter lies with every long stroke between cascading squeals paraphilias mausoleum like tumbling eels a scapegoat pulp fiction chiseled in cement ******* rips drip drip drip babbling **** bubbles **** spasms ooze like a hot glue gun fire spats soil cherry clover
Continue reading...
75
my eyes tongues of desire a soft gauze upon drenched red silk stigmata a river of marrow flower of blood creel of moist honey hold not yourself apart I kiss your wound bell moon crescent ravine, dark tears like a spay of stars arched spine your raised **** like scrambled eggs curves to the heavens a steep canyon aching weeps blue darkness legs wide in souls shadowed grove tattooed pistols and knives pierced by my autograph for every letter, scimitars plunge   jeweled ******** ringed sweet tarnished petal gashed mouth; flower de luce memories that burn blotted like an eye in ink to fly winged ******* your face hieroglyphic of weird crimson smear; cackle with feet below hell wanting to live like fire in the sky hot witch riding a broom handle ***** scummed mouth the world soul destroyed paradise and your form hideous kisses falling red ribbons i am puddled; a runny yolk shameless for your open hollows
0
Dec 23, 2018
Dec 23, 2018 at 12:13 PM UTC
Tongues of Desire
I I stole my brother’s car and drove to Phoenix in the dark. The blue-green glow of dashboard gauges, the biting scent of roadkill and desert marigolds. Tap. Tap. Tap. Insects slapping the windshield, incipient rain. Keep driving. Drive until the sun blooms. II Some days were more dire than others. CCTV footage confirms I pawned a shotgun, a Gibson guitar, and my wife’s engagement ring at the pawnshop next to Fatty’s Tattoo parlor on MLK Boulevard. The typographically accurate Declaration of Independence inscribed on my back also confirms this. III I ran the tilt-a-whirl at the Ashtabula county fair, fattening up on fried Oreos and elephant ears, twisting behind tent ***** with a one-armed contortionist with strawberry-blonde hair. IV I derailed in a dive bar. V I disappeared in a city lit by lavender streetlights, where buildings blotted out the stars and the traffic signals kept perfect time. I picked through trash bins. I paid for love with drugstore wine. VI I closed my eyes on a mountain road. The sheriff extracted me from a ****** snowbank. VII I holed up for weeks in an oceanfront motel, dazed by the roar of the breakers. Each morning I drew back the curtains and lost myself in the crisscrossing patterns of whitecaps, the synchronous flight of sanderlings above the dunes. I dreamed of dead horseshoe ***** rolling in with the tide. VIII The moon over my shoulder tightened into focus like a spotlight. One night the barking dogs undid me. I caved in to the candor of a naked mattress. I grew my beard, an insomniac in a jail cell, clinging to bars the color of a morning dove. IX I coveted the house keys of strangers. X I opened and closed many doors. I sang into the mouths of storm drains. I stepped out of many rooms only to find myself in the room I just left. Despite all my leaving, I remained.
0
Sep 21, 2018
Sep 21, 2018 at 1:45 PM UTC
Escape Artist Sketches
I I stole my brother’s car and drove to Phoenix in the dark. The blue-green glow of dashboard gauges, the biting scent of roadkill and desert marigolds. Tap. Tap. Tap. Insects slapping the windshield, incipient rain. Keep driving. Drive until the sun blooms. II Some days were more dire than others. CCTV footage confirms I pawned a shotgun, a Gibson guitar, and my wife’s engagement ring at the pawnshop next to Fatty’s Tattoo parlor on MLK Boulevard. The typographically accurate Declaration of Independence inscribed on my back also confirms this. III I ran the tilt-a-whirl at the Ashtabula county fair, fattening up on fried Oreos and elephant ears, twisting behind tent ***** with a one-armed contortionist with strawberry-blonde hair. IV I derailed in a dive bar. V I disappeared in a city lit by lavender streetlights, where buildings blotted out the stars and the traffic signals kept perfect time. I picked through trash bins. I paid for love with drugstore wine. VI I closed my eyes on a mountain road. The sheriff extracted me from a ****** snowbank. VII I holed up for weeks in an oceanfront motel, dazed by the roar of the breakers. Each morning I drew back the curtains and lost myself in the crisscrossing patterns of whitecaps, the synchronous flight of sanderlings above the dunes. I dreamed of dead horseshoe ***** rolling in with the tide. VIII The moon over my shoulder tightened into focus like a spotlight. One night the barking dogs undid me. I caved in to the candor of a naked mattress. I grew my beard, an insomniac in a jail cell, clinging to bars the color of a morning dove. IX I coveted the house keys of strangers. X I opened and closed many doors. I sang into the mouths of storm drains. I stepped out of many rooms only to find myself in the room I just left. Despite all my leaving, I remained.
Continue reading...
49
I absorbed, Blotted misery, Lapped with eyes, Soaked-up transgressions, Mopped-up history, Was steeped in trials, Ingested triumphs, And truly assimilated. But the ground is saturated, My prints fill With the brine Squeezed out. I am the salt on the earth, Parched and cracked. You preferred candyfloss; I dripped the last drop.
0
May 8, 2017
May 8, 2017 at 8:20 AM UTC
I, SpongeBob
a storyteller's perspective, steppin' off the ordinary edge, into the unknown An unsent letter lay on the rustic log cabin floor A cold wind musta’ blown through the cracks the light comes in, where it laid fallen, half *** crumbled, yet never a wadded ball; never an unspoken thrown paper stone,  a befallen regret was all. Silently atilt and leaning against the canted wall's slant behind the gathered dust a squeaky hinged burl wood door A timeworn tarnished copper wind up clock roosted, an old lip smirched coffee cup time stood still; an empty bottle of gin sat near the bed post headboard where the ink stains and blotted spillings let the memories in. Stained pages torn and bent like fallen paper wings returned to the unread sender … postage due,   south a heaven sent ― A sullied envelope, gnawed and mouse chewed, for a nest of new beginnings ―                                                                just read:                   Lydia  ...                                   ... followed by a scribbled empty heart                The time aged brown tattered tablet paper left behind stifled like the unread heart it holds upon the threadbare pages of smudged tear’s ache and spilled gin The weathered rock hearth fireplace filled with spent ashes, hand rolled cigarette butts, traces of an aching lament; scratched up old vinyl records lay ***** and tired out, from a time of sweeter fallen fences, a musical bliss, and a lost angel's abandoned red slinky party dress,   aside a busted off black velvet high-heel stuck sullied in a hollow knothole in the ancient barn-wood floor a sparkly pearl pink jewel entangled in a spider web An unsent letter lay on the rustic cabin floor A cold wind musta’ blown through the cracks the light gets in The final unread words silently said:                                *"We lost our way,                                   it all went wrong,                                   it all turned bad"                              ..."This is the outcome when someone you love                                     up and throws you away"                              ...“I’ll reach out from the inside                                   I’ll rise up again and do without”                              ..."You went out into the world                                   with an untamed hankerin’ ―                                   like a carefree restless gypsy breeze                                                                  and come back worlds apart"* The Unsent Letter,                             just whispered words to the dust in the wind                                                                                     in quivering ink:                              ...*"how can I ever unremember you...?                                   a thrown stone sinks wordlessly as a rock...,                                   an old wood bucket with a rotten hole the heart,                                   fallen forgotten, rock bottom as an empty well"*                                         just signed:   ...   ❤  August                           January 1st, 2017 ... august ... wild is the wind  ♡
0
Jan 1, 2017
Jan 1, 2017 at 12:20 PM UTC
The Unsent Letter
a storyteller's perspective, steppin' off the ordinary edge, into the unknown An unsent letter lay on the rustic log cabin floor A cold wind musta’ blown through the cracks the light comes in, where it laid fallen, half *** crumbled, yet never a wadded ball; never an unspoken thrown paper stone,  a befallen regret was all. Silently atilt and leaning against the canted wall's slant behind the gathered dust a squeaky hinged burl wood door A timeworn tarnished copper wind up clock roosted, an old lip smirched coffee cup time stood still; an empty bottle of gin sat near the bed post headboard where the ink stains and blotted spillings let the memories in. Stained pages torn and bent like fallen paper wings returned to the unread sender … postage due,   south a heaven sent ― A sullied envelope, gnawed and mouse chewed, for a nest of new beginnings ―                                                                just read:                   Lydia  ...                                   ... followed by a scribbled empty heart                The time aged brown tattered tablet paper left behind stifled like the unread heart it holds upon the threadbare pages of smudged tear’s ache and spilled gin The weathered rock hearth fireplace filled with spent ashes, hand rolled cigarette butts, traces of an aching lament; scratched up old vinyl records lay ***** and tired out, from a time of sweeter fallen fences, a musical bliss, and a lost angel's abandoned red slinky party dress,   aside a busted off black velvet high-heel stuck sullied in a hollow knothole in the ancient barn-wood floor a sparkly pearl pink jewel entangled in a spider web An unsent letter lay on the rustic cabin floor A cold wind musta’ blown through the cracks the light gets in The final unread words silently said:                                *"We lost our way,                                   it all went wrong,                                   it all turned bad"                              ..."This is the outcome when someone you love                                     up and throws you away"                              ...“I’ll reach out from the inside                                   I’ll rise up again and do without”                              ..."You went out into the world                                   with an untamed hankerin’ ―                                   like a carefree restless gypsy breeze                                                                  and come back worlds apart"* The Unsent Letter,                             just whispered words to the dust in the wind                                                                                     in quivering ink:                              ...*"how can I ever unremember you...?                                   a thrown stone sinks wordlessly as a rock...,                                   an old wood bucket with a rotten hole the heart,                                   fallen forgotten, rock bottom as an empty well"*                                         just signed:   ...   ❤  August                           January 1st, 2017 ... august ... wild is the wind  ♡
Continue reading...
51
Your words claw out of my eyes, And fall translucent into the clasped palms Of my hands. Listen, listen carefully to the muddled sounds. Hear the tiger's paws trample the dusted paths of The vacant streets; The arcane acres of blotted ink Sitting beside the ruminant hordes, Choking on a drawer of silver spoons. We see through the wall's hole; A soothing fire raging, yet we cannot touch It's flame. STAND IN LINE, take a number Our turn will be coming soon. Be the street lamps beneath the redwood's shade Be the porch swing on the moon's surface. Be Atlantis, lost and found. Listen,          listen                  carefully...
0
Sep 8, 2013
Sep 8, 2013 at 12:09 AM UTC
Divergent Thinking
I've watched too late; the morn is near; One look at God's broad silent sky! Oh, hopes and wishes vainly dear, How in your very strength ye die! Even while your glow is on the cheek, And scarce the high pursuit begun, The heart grows faint, the hand grows weak, The task of life is left undone. See where upon the horizon's brim, Lies the still cloud in gloomy bars; The waning moon, all pale and dim, Goes up amid the eternal stars. Late, in a flood of tender light, She floated through the ethereal blue, A softer sun, that shone all night Upon the gathering beads of dew. And still thou wanest, pallid moon! The encroaching shadow grows apace; Heaven's everlasting watchers soon Shall see thee blotted from thy place. Oh, Night's dethroned and crownless queen! Well may thy sad, expiring ray Be shed on those whose eyes have seen Hope's glorious visions fade away. Shine thou for forms that once were bright, For sages in the mind's eclipse, For those whose words were spells of might, But falter now on stammering lips! In thy decaying beam there lies Full many a grave on hill and plain, Of those who closed their dying eyes In grief that they had lived in vain. Another night, and thou among The spheres of heaven shalt cease to shine, All rayless in the glittering throng Whose lustre late was quenched in thine. Yet soon a new and tender light From out thy darkened orb shall beam, And broaden till it shines all night On glistening dew and glimmering stream.
0
3.6k
The Waning Moon
Holocaust Poem: "On The Slaughter" by Chaim Nachman Bialik loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Merciful heavens, have pity on me! If there is a God approachable by men as yet I have not found him— Pray for me! For my heart is dead, prayers languish upon my tongue; my right hand has lost its strength and my hope has wilted, undone. How long? Oh, when will this nightmare end? How long? Hangman, traitor, here’s my neck— rise up now, rise and slaughter! Behead me like a dog—your arm controls the axe and the whole world is a scaffold to me although we—the chosen few— were once recipients of the Pacts. Executioner, my blood’s a paltry prize— strike my skull and the blood of innocents will rain drenching your pristine uniform again and again, staining your raiment forever. If there is Justice—quick, let her appear! But after I’ve been blotted out, should she reveal her face, let her false scales be overturned forever and the heavens reek with the stench of her disgrace. You too arrogant men, with your brutal injustice, suckled on blood, unweaned of violence: cursed be the warrior who cries "Vengeance!" on a maiden; such cruelty was never contemplated, even by Satan. Let innocents’ blood drench the abyss! Let innocents’ blood seep down into the congealing darkness, eat it away and undermine earth's rotting foundations. Al Hashechita ("On the Slaughter") was written by Chaim Nachman Bialik in response to the ****** Kishniev pogrom of 1903, which was instigated by agents of the Czar who wanted to divert social unrest and political anger from the Czar to the Jewish minority. The Hebrew word schechita (also transliterated shechita, shechitah, shekhitah, shehita) denotes the ritual kosher slaughtering of animals for food. The juxtapositioning of kosher slaughter with the slaughter of Jews makes the poem all the more powerful and ghastly. Such anti-Semitic incidents prompted a massive wave of Eastern European emigration that brought millions of Jews to the West. Unfortunately, there have been many similar slaughters in human history and the poem remains chillingly relevant to the more recent ones in Israel/Palestine, Rwanda, Bosnia and Kosovo. Keywords/Tags: Holocaust, poem, Bialik, translation, slaughter, massacre, God, prayer, executioner, hangman, blood, innocents, justice, false, scales, injustice
0
Mar 12, 2020
Mar 12, 2020 at 4:00 AM UTC
Chaim Nachman Bialik "On The Slaughter" translation
Holocaust Poem: "On The Slaughter" by Chaim Nachman Bialik loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Merciful heavens, have pity on me! If there is a God approachable by men as yet I have not found him— Pray for me! For my heart is dead, prayers languish upon my tongue; my right hand has lost its strength and my hope has wilted, undone. How long? Oh, when will this nightmare end? How long? Hangman, traitor, here’s my neck— rise up now, rise and slaughter! Behead me like a dog—your arm controls the axe and the whole world is a scaffold to me although we—the chosen few— were once recipients of the Pacts. Executioner, my blood’s a paltry prize— strike my skull and the blood of innocents will rain drenching your pristine uniform again and again, staining your raiment forever. If there is Justice—quick, let her appear! But after I’ve been blotted out, should she reveal her face, let her false scales be overturned forever and the heavens reek with the stench of her disgrace. You too arrogant men, with your brutal injustice, suckled on blood, unweaned of violence: cursed be the warrior who cries "Vengeance!" on a maiden; such cruelty was never contemplated, even by Satan. Let innocents’ blood drench the abyss! Let innocents’ blood seep down into the congealing darkness, eat it away and undermine earth's rotting foundations. Al Hashechita ("On the Slaughter") was written by Chaim Nachman Bialik in response to the ****** Kishniev pogrom of 1903, which was instigated by agents of the Czar who wanted to divert social unrest and political anger from the Czar to the Jewish minority. The Hebrew word schechita (also transliterated shechita, shechitah, shekhitah, shehita) denotes the ritual kosher slaughtering of animals for food. The juxtapositioning of kosher slaughter with the slaughter of Jews makes the poem all the more powerful and ghastly. Such anti-Semitic incidents prompted a massive wave of Eastern European emigration that brought millions of Jews to the West. Unfortunately, there have been many similar slaughters in human history and the poem remains chillingly relevant to the more recent ones in Israel/Palestine, Rwanda, Bosnia and Kosovo. Keywords/Tags: Holocaust, poem, Bialik, translation, slaughter, massacre, God, prayer, executioner, hangman, blood, innocents, justice, false, scales, injustice
Continue reading...
36
A fragile shell of what once was, decimated beyond comprehension. Shards of a old life slipping away, into the silent empty space. Memories of loved ones, eluding desperate hands that reach and seek-- For what is buried beneath the dust. Submerged in perpetual darkness, the stars have lost their light, the moon has lost its glow. Every infinitesimal shard of your very essence, is engulfed in the empty space. The empty space that exists outside time, awareness, and matter; Hides in the desolate corners of your mind. A invisible fog covers your soul, stealing it away like a thief in the night. And you are left unreachable, a blank page in a book full of blotted ink. The ones who loved you with every breath in their lungs, surround and overwhelm with tear filled eyes. Utterly helpless as you disappear. Years pass, and you Fade. Vanish. Evaporate into the empty sky. Dead to yourself. Dead to the world. Dead to the ones who loved you most. And though your gone, an empty space lingers in your wake. -Esther L. Krenzin- -Roguesong-
0
Nov 11, 2018
Nov 11, 2018 at 9:21 PM UTC
Empty Space
Glances in passing and nothingness, I'll drop out and take up gardening. And you are so cool, all German bred, and sometimes braided. I see you, so well-read and rather regal. ***** blonde nuclear, alabaster, aluminum rods - electricity dripping from the soles of your shoes. This classroom, my own ink blotted incubator, the radiator sits, flatlining. Your jaw as two razor blades, your shoulder blades, broad, gentle. I wonder how you look in the morning, How you look at yourself in the mirror. Do you practice smiling, and how often do you wash your hair? Oh, you exist in glass, and I will not try to know you. Leaving this poem limited, and yet. Your jam drop mouth houses all well-spoken soliloquies, radical requiems. So, what would happen if we brushed shoulders in passing? Your little accent. Accident, we appeared in the same huddled mass. Literary plugs in the drain, and your new American. So, why don't we just go walking on airplane wings? Some transcontinental affair. Frequent flyer ******* stranger.
0
Feb 27, 2017
Feb 27, 2017 at 5:48 PM UTC
classmates
Just like Goddess Kali I am feared when not understood my enemies know my loving passion are my kids those demons slander me fearing the mother goddess in me I gave life and inadvertedly heartbroken waived it I give life birthed my children against all adds motherhood apeaces me injustice enrages my dance I am Goddess Kali Karijin ~~ Precious daughters Elena Rose Jeanette fear not I save I protect I write it's my frenzied dance surounded by demons ferocious you and me won many a gruesome wars to protect you three your children alike my light I have deamed Remember Mother Kali I love you miss you more and more and for you my life I lay ~~~. The goddess mother (excerpt) ~estranged from kids ~ ~~~~~~ "The stars are blotted out,     The clouds are covering clouds, It is darkness vibrant, sonant.     In the roaring, whirling wind Are the souls of a million lunatics     Just loose from the prison-house, Wrenching trees by the roots,     Sweeping all from the path... The sea has joined the fray,     And swirls up mountain-waves, To reach the pitchy sky.     The flash of lurid light Reveals on every side     A thousand, thousand shades Of Death begrimed and black." love & motherhood apeace me. ~~~~~~~ By: Karijinbba inspired by Hindi ink Durga-Kali Shiva Lord's Wife revised 06-5-19 ~~~~
0
May 31, 2019
May 31, 2019 at 11:27 PM UTC
Goddess Kali Mother.
These are the letters which Endymion wrote To one he loved in secret, and apart. And now the brawlers of the auction mart Bargain and bid for each poor blotted note, Ay! for each separate pulse of passion quote The merchant’s price. I think they love not art Who break the crystal of a poet’s heart That small and sickly eyes may glare and gloat. Is it not said that many years ago, In a far Eastern town, some soldiers ran With torches through the midnight, and began To wrangle for mean raiment, and to throw Dice for the garments of a wretched man, Not knowing the God’s wonder, or His woe?
0
2.8k
On The Sale By Auction Of Keats’ Love Letters
forgiveness for self is a thunderstorm ferocious, cracking sounds so god awful fearful that one questions his-her sanity, an overage so unnatural that only nature could create it it is a moment momentousness when the exhalation of exhaustion, the winner and loser, both you, surrender ne’er knowing which you is which, life’s son of ***** or just a plain jane mothering version, either way you say to yourself got to get past that lousy stinking love affair win the race to clean slate, where the end is insight where everything replaced in its used to be placed goaded into melted nothingness, goaded into believing that’s a real thing, that when you finally get there, enough is enough,   get out of jail ticket will work, but it ain’t never free, even if you paid for it in what you call throwing bad after good, monopoly money, nope, ain’t never free no idea what to put in the second empty closet, who needs an attached to-the-wall-tile toothbrush holder with one extra emptying space, where to hide picture albums in a space outta sight, outta mind, you still can find why you didn’t care enough to daily mat-wipe street shoes before riveted in place before entering your own! apartment and no, you are consciously unconscious immobilized by the missing calling out of her “don’t forget” in the car’s ashtray, a red kissed blotted red lipstick tissue that needs discard-action, but you incapable of either, those collected records and cd’s, her teasing your old fashion ways, reluctance to let go so you read “that to forgive one self doesn’t forgive forgetting” and it hits home, home run, score to the core, since you wrote those words on a sun rain afternoon, a punctuating thunderstorm day refusing to decide which haunts worse <>
0
Jun 30, 2019
Jun 30, 2019 at 5:04 PM UTC
“forgiving myself doesn’t forgive forgetting”
forgiveness for self is a thunderstorm ferocious, cracking sounds so god awful fearful that one questions his-her sanity, an overage so unnatural that only nature could create it it is a moment momentousness when the exhalation of exhaustion, the winner and loser, both you, surrender ne’er knowing which you is which, life’s son of ***** or just a plain jane mothering version, either way you say to yourself got to get past that lousy stinking love affair win the race to clean slate, where the end is insight where everything replaced in its used to be placed goaded into melted nothingness, goaded into believing that’s a real thing, that when you finally get there, enough is enough,   get out of jail ticket will work, but it ain’t never free, even if you paid for it in what you call throwing bad after good, monopoly money, nope, ain’t never free no idea what to put in the second empty closet, who needs an attached to-the-wall-tile toothbrush holder with one extra emptying space, where to hide picture albums in a space outta sight, outta mind, you still can find why you didn’t care enough to daily mat-wipe street shoes before riveted in place before entering your own! apartment and no, you are consciously unconscious immobilized by the missing calling out of her “don’t forget” in the car’s ashtray, a red kissed blotted red lipstick tissue that needs discard-action, but you incapable of either, those collected records and cd’s, her teasing your old fashion ways, reluctance to let go so you read “that to forgive one self doesn’t forgive forgetting” and it hits home, home run, score to the core, since you wrote those words on a sun rain afternoon, a punctuating thunderstorm day refusing to decide which haunts worse <>
Continue reading...
55
THE GYRES! the gyres! Old Rocky Face, look forth; Things thought too long can be no longer thought, For beauty dies of beauty, worth of worth, And ancient lineaments are blotted out. Irrational streams of blood are staining earth; Empedocles has thrown all things about; Hector is dead and there's a light in Troy; We that look on but laugh in tragic joy. What matter though numb nightmare ride on top, And blood and mire the sensitive body stain? What matter? Heave no sigh, let no tear drop, A-greater, a more gracious time has gone; For painted forms or boxes of make-up In ancient tombs I sighed, but not again; What matter? Out of cavern comes a voice, And all it knows is that one word "Rejoice!' Conduct and work grow coarse, and coarse the soul, What matter? Those that Rocky Face holds dear, Lovers of horses and of women, shall, From marble of a broken sepulchre, Or dark betwixt the polecat and the owl, Or any rich, dark nothing disinter The workman, noble and saint, and all things run On that unfashionable gyre again.
0
2.6k
The Gyres
Pools of anguish overflow a solemn, silent dirge From the opaqueness of my soul all my fears converge Pretty lights on the horizon blotted out by rain Is this desolation or could lucidity be so plain?
0
Jun 18, 2014
Jun 18, 2014 at 7:34 AM UTC
Clarity.
*Some chapters in life Are better left Untouched Undisclosed Unfinished... Some chapters in life , If Revealed Or Accomplished Will leave many a chapters ,scarred , blotted and totally messed. Some chapters in life are better left unread .. And that is how , life's most important chapters are addressed .*
0
Apr 16, 2017
Apr 16, 2017 at 7:32 AM UTC
Some Chapters In Life
this sweet-eyed breathtaking catastrophe of mine hoarding clutter to the ceiling fan, filling void somewhat while trying to understand how involuntarily she crumples like paper littered on the sidewalk of my brain, riddled with scribbles and nonsense words, her ink blotted voice like feathers under pressure being pressed against whatever white knuckles her neck and hot talk from cold chests. ingenious security boarded up doors and one-way glass windows to watch from inside. for a moment she calls out to me from the woodwork. she almost reaches for the lock, she almost becomes more than just paper
0
Sep 3, 2017
Sep 3, 2017 at 12:17 AM UTC
Cherry-Topped Landfill
I still think of you when I hear a song that moves me And wonder what it would follow on the tape I wish I could make you. This is the standing stone on an emotional landscape that has changed as fast as technology, seen music shift from soulfood to occasional backdrop and solitary teenage bedrooms morph to joyful family homes (thank God). I wouldn't go back - but here's a song, unexpected, blissful which can't quite touch me as it should Because I can't press 'record', watch the reels go round and imagine you listening when the tape crosses the country and fetches up at your front door. No more padded envelopes nor blotted biro liner notes; no more declarations hidden in plain sight in ninety minutes of love I knew no other way to send.
0
Sep 17, 2011
Sep 17, 2011 at 3:02 PM UTC
Death of the Compilation Tape
In this moment I’m a petal of rose Often mocked that I am one By other flowers Who look up to the same sun I feel plucked from my root Mangled and **** I was born bare That which was my beauty But in this crude exposure trapped in some snare My skin burns in ****** I feel ghastly blows of wind And wailing typhoon Dent rustic parts of my skin Scream its cacophony louder than my whimper of pain Making me beg for a light drizzle of rain I wonder how I would be If I were a dandelion I could let my fragments loose And watch their flight Into ethereal sunshine I’m a trampled rose Like the woe in Christ’s song I’ve plagiarised the words It seems But this is how it feels To be forlorn And I have a mind of my own Alas! That’s what I thought Until I learnt that it’s supremely influenced tainted and stale Like a can of delight Only store bought off a bargain What if I were only a little flower whose shoot grew Piercing out of a rocky crevice? A small star trying hard to shine its hardest in its constellation Blotted with sparkling lights? How can I make myself known? Do I have to? Is it a sin? To be alone? To be a petal of rose and please you? Can’t I be my own? A flower that doesn’t have a Latin root That can shy away if touched And bloom when in mood? No, I really don’t want to stick to a season And have visitors gawk at me then I want to be really loved in person Even when I’m dying and my stalk is bent now, I wonder Does a flower think so much? Does it write a poem When its feelings are fractured And they need a crutch? I’ve seen it be Just lucid and carefree And, all of a sudden I’m jolted with an epiphany of simply being.
0
Aug 9, 2018
Aug 9, 2018 at 3:45 PM UTC
Frailty.
In this moment I’m a petal of rose Often mocked that I am one By other flowers Who look up to the same sun I feel plucked from my root Mangled and **** I was born bare That which was my beauty But in this crude exposure trapped in some snare My skin burns in ****** I feel ghastly blows of wind And wailing typhoon Dent rustic parts of my skin Scream its cacophony louder than my whimper of pain Making me beg for a light drizzle of rain I wonder how I would be If I were a dandelion I could let my fragments loose And watch their flight Into ethereal sunshine I’m a trampled rose Like the woe in Christ’s song I’ve plagiarised the words It seems But this is how it feels To be forlorn And I have a mind of my own Alas! That’s what I thought Until I learnt that it’s supremely influenced tainted and stale Like a can of delight Only store bought off a bargain What if I were only a little flower whose shoot grew Piercing out of a rocky crevice? A small star trying hard to shine its hardest in its constellation Blotted with sparkling lights? How can I make myself known? Do I have to? Is it a sin? To be alone? To be a petal of rose and please you? Can’t I be my own? A flower that doesn’t have a Latin root That can shy away if touched And bloom when in mood? No, I really don’t want to stick to a season And have visitors gawk at me then I want to be really loved in person Even when I’m dying and my stalk is bent now, I wonder Does a flower think so much? Does it write a poem When its feelings are fractured And they need a crutch? I’ve seen it be Just lucid and carefree And, all of a sudden I’m jolted with an epiphany of simply being.
Continue reading...
66