"bysshe" poems
Good-Night by Percy Bysshe Shelley
Good-night? ah! no; the hour is ill
Which severs those it should unite;
Dec 22, 2014
Dec 22, 2014 at 11:57 PM UTC
The wine of Love is music,
And the feast of Love is song:
And when Love sits down to the banquet,
Love sits long:
Sits long and ariseth drunken,
But not with the feast and the wine;
He reeleth with his own heart,
That great rich Vine.
James Thomson (Bysshe Vanolis).
4/25/2016.
Apr 25, 2016
Apr 25, 2016 at 2:52 PM UTC
The Lives and Times of John Keats,
Percy Bysshe Shelley, and
George Gordon Noel, Lord Byron
Byron and Shelley and Keats
Were a trio of Lyrical treats.
The forehead of Shelley was cluttered with curls,
And Keats never was a descendant of earls,
And Byron walked out with a number of girls,
But it didn't impair the poetical feats
Of Byron and Shelley,
Of Byron and Shelley,
Of Byron and Shelley and Keats.
1.7k
It’s Springtime.
The hours, the days pass quicker,
especially to folks already in their
late seventies, or eighties…
a cool breeze blowing easily brings
back good times, bringing smiles
to their wrinkled faces...to some,
rage and sorrow are resurrected,
recalling, how they lost loved ones,
all that they've had, through ways
unlawful, how they pined for truth,
justice, and freedom...time is too
slow for for them...some choose
to forget, but couldn't...
malfeasance is a habit, a way of life.
The privileged ones bask in the
brightest of comforts…impregnable
walls of their fortresses have made
them blind and deaf to the woes
and the doldrums outside.
The "unsolved" remain unsolved,
the "miserable" are now despondent,
the needy, the hungry, in greater
need...are even hungrier...drifting,
wherever their needs take them,
some minds have gotten used to
distorted versions of democracy,
existing on uncertain airs and waters.
Being bereft.......takes its toll.
Past awakenings were wasted.
eyes...minds opened, and closed.
those outside the walls, patiently
await...nothing is ever permanent.
sally b
© Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
February 18, 2023
-<O>-
OZYMANDIAS
(Percy Bysshe Shelley)
I met a traveller from an antique land,
2Who said—“Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
3Stand in the desert. . . . Near them, on the sand,
4Half sunk a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
5And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
6Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
7Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
8The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed;
9And on the pedestal, these words appear:
10My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings;
11Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair!
12Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
13Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare
14The lone and level sands stretch far away.”
Mar 14, 2023
Mar 14, 2023 at 8:41 PM UTC
For Caira Doheny, My Irish Muse
"Chameleons feed on light and air:
Poets' food is love and fame."
An Exhortation, st. 1 (1819)
Percy Bysshe Shelley
------------------------------------
Let us intimate a Poetic Competition,
Tween an Irish lass,
and a New York Jew,
I shall serve, and you,
You shall return
A contest:
Our tongues, our racquets,
Across the table,
The words shall bird fly,
Across the net,
Couplets and haiku
Shall smash and whistle
The winner will be the one
The God of Poetry
Accepts for permanent servitude
You **** my poetic soul forever
With the currency of praise genuine,
Authentic, flowing and fulsome,
Awarding me the Medallion Doheny
Cash value, a mere Irish penny,
But to the poet, the food of love and fame
Genetic to your nature,
You exhale word rhythms,
Excitable and interrupting,
Speech free flowing,
Tho I am of the People of the Book,
You, by birthplace,
Are unfair poetry advantaged
All your utterances
Are action heroes of the heart,
And I fail miserable to capture
The poetry you breathe out
Your Irish praise me awarded,
Tis now the
Standard and the Curse
This benighted amateur
Must now Prometheus nurse
One day in Dublin, shall we meet,
In a country where poetry is the
Iron in the people's blood
In a particular pub
Opposite we will sit,
You, a cowboy by adoption,
Me, the dastardly banker
You know the pub,
I, with my pint,
You, with your diet coke,
And the only lingua Franca
Shall be darts of poetry
In a language our own,
A collective work we will weave,
A blessed unity, a single tongue now,
Lilting, singing, bespoke
We will let the singer-poet laureate**
Of the island we now share, moderate,
Over his piano man's gin and tonic,
As we do as Yeats instructed:
Between us,
"A line will take us hours maybe;
Yet if it does not seem {but}
a moment's thought,
our stitching and unstinting
has been naught"
Aug 9, 2013
Aug 9, 2013 at 11:58 AM UTC
An old, mad, blind, despised, and dying king, –
Princes, the dregs of their dull race, who flow
Through public scorn, – mud from a muddy spring, –
Rulers who neither see, nor feel, nor know,
But leech-like to their fainting country cling,
Till they drop, blind in blood, without a blow, –
A people starved and stabbed in the untilled field, –
An army, which liberticide and prey
Makes as a two-edged sword to all who wield, –
Golden and sanguine laws which tempt and slay;
Religion Christless, Godless – a book sealed;
A Senate, – Time’s worst statute unrepealed, –
Are graves, from which a glorious Phantom may
Burst, to illumine our tempestous day.
Dec 28, 2009
Dec 28, 2009 at 12:52 AM UTC
The struggle is futility
Patient people play the part
Of impartiality
The wiser are restraint
Castigated for their intelligence
Castrated by their class
A classless struggle we abide
Poor children barely manage
To survive and seldom thrive
Not given access to the tools
Of excellence
But we wield the sword of obsolescence
Antiquated ideas put on the same level as
Modern machines and moral philosophies
Broad language discarded for
The disinfected nature of stupidity
Our language is censored
And free thought is crippled
Thus to succeed we must
Write to their level of understanding
So they can understand it
Which means we do not expect grandness
From the masses
That we underrate what they are capable of
The papacy’s power is palatable but detrimental
The Popes presence sends his parishioners
In to servitude as they submit to the
Sublimation of their identity
Unable to identify the truth from the lie
Unable to separate the flock from the I
I become the villain
For stating these things
So I drop names like Darwin and Thomas Paine
I wear the scarlet letter of poet and philosopher
Of Supplicant to science, Of literate romantic
I the son of Percy Bysshe Shelley
The son of Twain and Poe
The Son of Shakespeare and Baudelaire
The son of logic and poetry
The lost ******* of peace, love, and understanding
I leave the eve of man’s ill behavior
To see the seething corps of corpses
Rise in ignorance strive for pestilence
With hopeful hate in their eye
To perpetuate the self-fulfilling prophecies
Of all types of apocalypses
But in the end it will be I that am despised
Thus if I must be hated then at least
Favor me with this tiny justice
Like Galileo, Giordano Bruno, and Copernicus
I will wear chains well earned
There is so much knowledge to be had
So learn, live, love and then learn some more
Nov 28, 2014
Nov 28, 2014 at 4:42 PM UTC
An Exhortation
Chameleons feed on light and air:
Poets' food is love and fame:
If in this wide world of care
Poets could but find the same
With as little toil as they,
Would they ever change their hue
As the light chameleons do,
Suiting it to every ray
Twenty times a day?
Poets are on this cold earth,
As chameleons might be,
Hidden from their early birth
In a cave beneath the sea;
Where light is, chameleons change:
Where love is not, poets do:
Fame is love disguised: if few
Find either, never think it strange
That poets range.
Yet dare not stain with wealth or power
A poet's free and heavenly mind:
If bright chameleons should devour
Any food but beams and wind,
They would grow as earthly soon
As their brother lizards are.
Children of a sunnier star,
Spirits from beyond the moon,
O, refuse the boon!
Percy Bysshe Shelley
Nov 13, 2015
Nov 13, 2015 at 2:33 AM UTC
A Spirit of Terror stalks the land
Ruination now is near at hand
All eyes fix upon the man
Whose face doth sneer with cold command
Like unto Ozymandias of old
His claim to greatness takes no hold
The people cower, make no stand
The Empire itself reduced to sand
Surely Shelley would understand.
Jun 4, 2019
Jun 4, 2019 at 10:31 AM UTC
is the title of my latest book. It is a compilation of strictly English poets dating back to the 1800's. My favorite writer William Shakespeare is not included because I wanted a theme of writers living around the same time as one another. It includes the works of brilliant English writers such as William Wordsworth, his dear friend Percy Bysshe Shelley, Samuel Taylor Coleridge, Alfred Lord Tennyson, and John Keats. It is written in the original true English fashion, back when the word proved rhymed with loved and wasn't just a sight ryhme. I plan on compiling another book of strictly my favorite poetesses such as Emily Dickinson, Plath, and the like. The Kindle edition is priced at $7, but like my other books I'll probably run it for free for a few days for promotional purposes. The paperback is priced at $6.25 and is not eligible for free promotional offers.
May 19, 2018
May 19, 2018 at 9:12 PM UTC
When
the city of London exploded,
I cried alone for days.
Was that it?
Crying for a man overseas
who hung painting
from a west indie tree?
Some Imperial freedom
from which we develop.
The city explodes
and buzzes
for days afterwards.
I think of every word
in the mouth
of every woman
in every building in town.
Dracula
comes to the Metropolitan centre
and we gossip
about men
who write like Bysshe Shelley
and love like Mary.
They have angels
about their homes,
I have heard soliloquised,
and knaves in the room.
I sob,
I am like them, too.
The primadonna
baby pink fin de siècle
will not free me.
Where
affection is a
concept of avant garde
and of
the outer versus inner
comes absolutely nothing
but
a dissolution
of scientific certainty.
Dec 2, 2017
Dec 2, 2017 at 6:01 AM UTC
RECORD: THURSDAY'S CHILD
FROGMAN: DAVID BUOY
The fiend became complacent towards control of its own free-ways,
and let lonely throughts tarry it whenever they needed to be.
And in its wake lie
their ghostly work on the lies
of the Brads and Janets of The Word.
-- Thrusher Swainson, Bear M.B.
Frank: Give yourself over to instinctual pleasure.
I wanted to breathe smoke.
I wanted to churn the Louvre.
I'd do the Elgin Marbles with a ban-hammer
and wipe my class with the Mona Lisa.
This is My Word, now.
This is my word,
MY WORD,
and those ancient Brads and Janets are data.
-- You and Me and Everyone We See
(. . 6 . . . 5 . . . 4 . )
We rest; a dream has power to fission sleep.
We rise; one pweandering thought foallutes the day.
We feel, conceive, or reason; laugh or weep,
embrace fond woe, or cast our tares all-ways;
It is the same: for, be it joy or sorrow,
The all-ways of its way-out still are FREE.
whoman's festerday may ne'er be like his marrow;
nought may endure but mutantility!
-- Percy Bysshe Shelley Frogman
Johnny's: While this may be true,
mutantility isn't always enough.
Some moments
STOP: TURN THOUGHT
Feb 21, 2016
Feb 21, 2016 at 11:40 AM UTC
The struggle is futility
Patient people play the part
Of impartiality
The wiser are restraint
Castigated for their intelligence
Castrated by their class
A classless struggle we abide
Poor children barely manage
To survive and seldom thrive
Not given access to the tools
Of excellence
But we wield the sword of obsolescence
Antiquated ideas put on the same level as
Modern machines and moral philosophies
Broad language discarded for
The disinfected nature of stupidity
Our language is censored
And free thought is crippled
Thus to succeed we must
Write to their level of understanding
So they can understand it
Which means we do not expect grandness
From the masses
That we underrate what they are capable of
The papacy’s power is palatable but detrimental
The Popes presence sends his parishioners
In to servitude as they submit to the
Sublimation of their identity
Unable to identify the truth from the lie
Unable to separate the flock from the I
I become the villain
For stating these things
So I drop names like Darwin and Thomas Paine
I wear the scarlet letter of poet and philosopher
Of Supplicant to science, Of literate romantic
I the son of Percy Bysshe Shelley
The son of Twain and Poe
The Son of Shakespeare and Baudelaire
The son of logic and poetry
The lost ******* of peace, love, and understanding
I leave the eve of man’s ill behavior
To see the seething corps of corpses
Rise in ignorance strive for pestilence
With hopeful hate in their eye
To perpetuate the self-fulfilling prophecies
Of all types of apocalypses
But in the end it will be I that am despised
Thus if I must be hated then at least
Favor me with this tiny justice
Like Galileo, Giordano Bruno, and Copernicus
I will wear chains well earned
There is so much knowledge to be had
So learn, live, love and then learn some more
Jan 21, 2017
Jan 21, 2017 at 8:03 PM UTC
Love’s Philosophy
BY PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY
The fountains mingle with the river
And the rivers with the ocean,
The winds of heaven mix for ever
With a sweet emotion;
Nothing in the world is single;
All things by a law divine
In one spirit meet and mingle.
Why not I with thine?—
See the mountains kiss high heaven
And the waves clasp one another;
No sister-flower would be forgiven
If it disdained its brother;
And the sunlight clasps the earth
And the moonbeams kiss the sea:
What is all this sweet work worth
If thou kiss not me?
Mar 4, 2016
Mar 4, 2016 at 12:45 AM UTC
Notice my play on words?!
(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCLIX)
Roll Soren Kierkegaard (nor dare exhale
As if the mention culls a sheer suspense)
Across your tongue, and spell "philospher" thence
Out slowly, to learn we were taught lies they'll
Assure us was for good, to countervail
His wisdom, whiles you're piqued for aught intents
Upon that note: "they" would acknowledge, sense
Demanded it? But hide what might avail.
I know "they" swore that Shelley was in poor
Scuse mad. And now find Kierkegaard was too?!
Yet Bysshe had keener sense than all as twere,
Which I learn Soren did as well? and who
"They" classed as what, eh, for all that?! Go stir
The burning coals, for ashes whisper 'new.
21Jan19c
Feb 10, 2019
Feb 10, 2019 at 6:23 PM UTC
by
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY
The fountains mingle with the river
And the rivers with the ocean,
The winds of heaven mix for ever
With a sweet emotion;
Nothing in the world is single;
All things by a law divine
In one spirit meet and mingle.
Why not I with thine?—
See the mountains kiss high heaven
And the waves clasp one another;
No sister-flower would be forgiven
If it disdained its brother;
And the sunlight clasps the earth
And the moonbeams kiss the sea:
What is all this sweet work worth
If thou kiss not me?
(by Percy Bysshe Shelley)
Feb 13, 2017
Feb 13, 2017 at 6:36 AM UTC
Playmates
by Michael R. Burch
WHEN you were my playmate and I was yours,
we spent endless hours with simple toys,
and the sorrows and cares of our indentured days
were uncomprehended . . . far, far away . . .
for the temptations and trials we had yet to face
were lost in the shadows of an unventured maze.
Then simple pleasures were easy to find
and if they cost us a little, we didn't mind;
for even a penny in a pocket back then
was one penny too many, a penny to spend.
Then feelings were feelings and love was just love,
not a strange, complex mystery to be understood;
while "sin" and "damnation" meant little to us,
since forbidden cookies were our only lusts!
Then we never worried about what we had,
and we were both sure—what was good, what was bad.
And we sometimes quarreled, but we didn't hate;
we seldom gave thought to the uncertainties of fate.
Hell, we seldom thought about the next day,
when tomorrow seemed hidden—adventures away.
Though sometimes we dreamed of adventures past,
and wondered, at times, why things couldn't last.
Still, we never worried about getting by,
and we didn't know that we were to die . . .
when we spent endless hours with simple toys,
and I was your playmate, and we were boys.
This is probably the poem that "made" me, because my high school English teacher called it "beautiful" and I took that to mean I was surely the Second Coming of Percy Bysshe Shelley! "Playmates" is the second poem I remember writing; I believe I was around 13 or 14 at the time. It was originally published by The Lyric. Keywords/Tags: playmates, boys, children, schoolmates, schoolboys, friendship, toys, playthings, fate, destiny, adventures, death, mortality
Mar 25, 2020
Mar 25, 2020 at 4:31 AM UTC
My words today
are soft like silk
and warm like the honey
that kisses your lips
Perhaps from there
my words will sip
They become the
devine intertwine
of consonants and vowels
like fingers twirling through
the strands of my hair
Today I will smile into the air
and from the corner of my eyes
poetry will drip
filling your pages with me
© Priya ॐ 6/29
A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.
~ Percy Bysshe Shelley
Jun 29, 2018
Jun 29, 2018 at 8:36 AM UTC