"caesura" poems
I beg inside my soul to have you.
I don't love you.
I want to feel passion, desire, and the warmth of another body pressing against me
I could grab any man I wanted, but I want you.
I see your brown hair
let me run my fingers through, just once
Your eyes
soft earth
Your lips
pink lilacs
And all I want is your body
Which is very saddening.
To only want to use someone, then toss them aside like trash
How can you?
And still fall asleep at night without thinking about a face wet with tears
your fault
I simply want to do to you
What you have done
To All the women before me,
The same song as a trickery
I want you to fall in love with me
an instrument meets the music
I want you to hold me close and kiss me, as you share your fears and truths.
a melody plays softly
I want you to believe in love because of me
Think of me, breathe me, and miss me when we are not together
accelerato tempo
Until one day you meet me in a corner booth at our favorite restaurant, and I rip your heart to shreds
*Look, I never loved you. I lied.
I used you to get what I want.
You are a pathetic, self-serving dung heap that only thinks about himself. You wooed me, I pretended to like you, so I could dig under your thick facade of masculinity, and discover your sensitive side. I know what you are--man whore--and I enjoyed using you. You can lie to everyone, every woman from this point on, but ten years from now, when you are married to wife number four and you are waiting for her to come home and she never does, I want you to crawl into the bed you made and bawl like the whining, sniveling baby you truly become at night when no one else is around you. I hope 'lonely' presses you down so hard it hurts to breathe. And maybe then you might turn into a different man or at least your miniscule brain will have an inkling of true heartbreak. Doubtful though--I win. You lose*
Then I get up and walk away from you, ignoring any pleas and ****** slurs.
Caesura
Nov 11, 2014
Nov 11, 2014 at 12:39 AM UTC
It is so measured that rising arpeggio, only to fall and rise again in quicker values, through the dominant seventh to the heartache moment of that minor ninth, a very apogee of dissonance. Then it goes higher still to the fifth, holding to that Phrygian harmony before returning to the tonic minor and a measured fall in the bass. This is a deliberate descent to the sub-mediant, and Bach’s touch of magic, the equivalence with the dominant minor ninth. But then he gives us hope: an extended and joyful play through sequences that rise and fall within each bar, to rest finally on the mediant’s echo of that opening, that measured rise and the quickening fall. We have hardly smiled with relief when Bach pulls us back into the insecurity of the dominant of the subdominant, that V of IV acting like a bridge to a long, long discourse in the dominant, a pedal E holding firmly to itself whilst rising arpeggios and falling decorations and sequences pull and pull through innocently related keys. Longer and longer play the rising passages until short motives of imitation interrupt, treble to bass, tenor to alto, until: a first inversion arpeggio of the dominant seventh measures out the opening rhythm. This happens twice in short succession, as though holding the progress of the music to account. A questioning perhaps before a four-fold sequence asserts the dominant and a chorded caesura. There is a pregnant, though faintly resonant silence as Bach spins the dice of tonality and chooses the subdominant to bring the music towards a waiting Allemande. The music moves through a play of subdominant to dominant, minor to major, the mix of flattened fifth and flattened ninth. It is those intervals that determine Bach as the father of ambiguity in the 20C school of jazz harmony, Arpeggio then a falling scale, and repeat and repeat again, but moving ever higher by sequence. At last five chords – merely a shorthand for closure via the expectation of a right display of the performer’s improvisatory prowess. They prepare us reverently for the tonic minor before the stately Allemande leads the music into the elegant steps of its walking dance.
Jan 5, 2013
Jan 5, 2013 at 3:13 AM UTC
On
The counters of poetry
I dock and lock myself
Then
I scope on the bottles of liquors seductively
And spellblind by their syllables
I took the shakers and hybrid
The Similes
The Onomatopeia's
The Nemesis'
The Near-Rhymes
And The Triadic-Lines
Then I gulp fourteen shots of Sonnets
From my paper-glass
And glug a paradox
Or a foil-sigh
Trice,
The knots
Bundling my eloquence
Will exonerated itself
And torpidity will cuff my consciousness
And the droplets remains in my paper- glass
Will impel me
To quest for myriad of them
I'm not drunk!
I'm not drunk!
I'm not drunk!
I
Will slur
With half an eye open
As if the other is broken
Stock on a comedy chair
Then
When the
Limbs of time tread
Will I rush to the counter
Like the athletes at Olympia
And hybrid
The Blank-verses
The Alliterations
The Limericks
The Litotes
The Aporia's
And The Dysphemism's
And
Gulp countless
Yet measured shoots
Of Ballad,with my paper-glass
And unravel the oratories
Of sacred secrets,eclectic enchantment and regrettable reflexes
Aside,or injects the world
With my rugged pins of eruditions
Bestowed in me by the liquors of poetry
I'm not drunk!
I'm not drunk!
I'm not drunk!
I
Will slur
With half an eye open
As if the other is broken
Stocked on a comedy-chair
Again
I will rush
To the counter,and hybrid
The Exaggerations
The Personifications
The Imageries
And The Caesura's
And
Gulp uncounted shoots
Of Epic's from my paper-glass
And
Eulogise my steam and wit
Yet,I'm drunk
And deeply drunk wholly
By a might that mortify me so much
That I've become a slave
In the awe of my servitude
Now and then
Will I weep and wail terribly
Each morning,each noon,and each night
For the great demise of myself
And for an emancipation
From the perpetual counter-cells poetry
I'm drunk,and deeply drunk by poetry.
Deeply Drunk
©Historian E.Lexano
Jul 29, 2015
Jul 29, 2015 at 4:38 PM UTC
Kung puwede lamang / na siya'y limutin
Di na sana noon pa'y / wala ng paggiliw
Kung puwede nga lang / itago't ilihim
Ang kanyang balaning / umakit sa akin
Di sana tuyo na'ng / nunuyong damdamin
At ang pagluhog ko'y / noon pa natigil
Kung puwede lamang / na di maging dahil
Ng kasawian ko / na siya'y ibigin
Di sana tapos na / ang kundiman namin
At lipas nang lahat / ang aking hilahil
Kung puwede lamang / na siya'y limutin
Ang sugat ng puso'y / ampat na marahil
* Ang panandang / ay tanda ng sesura (caesura sa Ingles)
Jul 18, 2016
Jul 18, 2016 at 7:08 AM UTC
i'm a hyphenated pause
between sheets
of crumpled paper
a chance to catch
a deep breath
between dang'rous thoughts
i'm just a dash
between restless gasps
the caesura between broken sighs
when i cease to be
the conjunction between
then and forever
will be bridged
in-between, interrupted
by a spurious line
Feb 28, 2014
Feb 28, 2014 at 5:06 PM UTC
This site does not permit the caesura divisions at all and I will not post the poem without them. You can find "Antihistamine Dreams with a Little Touch of Grendel in the Night" at my own not-very-well constructed site,
https://reactionarydrivel.blogspot.com/2019/01/antihistamine-dreams-with-little-touch.html
where the divisions are merely botched, not forbidden.
(I think it's rather nice, shivery little poem, especially if read around a campfire at night)
“A little touch of Grendel in the night” is a takeoff of “a little touch of Harry in the night” in Henry V.
Jan 12, 2019
Jan 12, 2019 at 2:55 PM UTC
My heels bite the pavement,
the cadence of Monday through Friday;
My shoulders are stressed
In spite of ergonomics.
The strangers who pass me,
eyes glossed with similar fatigue,
beat a shuffling rhythm:
the melody hypnotizes.
That's why I don't notice.
Walking just the same,
a pace not unlike the teller
or the lawyer in front of me.
They speak of a repast,
old haunts, new places,
television and sports.
Another measure, no sign of caesura.
When I find myself unsure,
uncertain of the cool ground beneath,
of the muffled grumblings
and the scrapes on my knees,
it feels like a dream.
“I'll wake up soon, I'm at home.
I've fallen asleep to the T.V.,
a wacky dream bred from the same.”
The breath on my neck is so hot.
Once my head straightens up,
the world once again standing still before me,
the weight against my body multiplies.
The floating sensation of sleep,
The feeling of a shell within a shell,
It dissipates and my insides are knots,
molten lava, churning against its crust
and my skin screams in tune.
The grunting and the pawing,
brusque lips are sinking ships.
There's not enough sandpaper
in the world to compare.
Those heels are dust,
their teeth broken and rotted;
Percussion takes a rest.
I am trapped inside my clothes.
Twisted like a snake around my body,
I want only to be free of them--
in any other situation but.
“Here let me help you with that.”
The words slither, covered in mold.
My every wish in that single moment
Answered, a betrayal; trite axioms abound.
Suddenly the weight lifts, is suspended,
a chance accorded to a plain old girl.
But my limbs are heavy, fear looms,
Justifications swarm my panicked mind.
“Don't be stupid. Give them what they want;
They'll leave you alone. Go to another place.
Return with some piece of mind:
no matter how fractured your body, you heal.”
But there's a light on overhead.
The unmasked man stares lustfully at my lips.
His uncharted groping is fervent, fearless--
his desire to be soon bestowed upon him.
Consequences do not glaze his feverish eyes,
and worry lies dormant, sets off no warnings.
The cage was set, the trap precisely executed
and there's no spoon to help me out of here.
Sep 6, 2013
Sep 6, 2013 at 12:18 AM UTC
Flowing blue and
Majestic purple flecked with a
Staccato of yellow, marked by the
Adagio of green and
Accented silver
Caesura.
Dolce is the rosa and lapis that
Crescendo into
Fortissimo red and a
Vivace of cerulean --
Sforzando of orange!
Decrescendo into emerald, a
Morendo into the dark
Grazioso, where rests a
Fermata of rainbow.
At least this is what I see
On the black and white
Sheet of paper.
Jan 10, 2011
Jan 10, 2011 at 8:35 AM UTC
you stand in front of your bathroom mirror
with puffed-red eyes and dried-tight cheeks
as you practice your smiling and deception
your thoughts feel light but your feet are heavy
and you cannot bring yourself to unlock the door
and soon you’re sitting on your little sister’s
step-stool with the unfamiliar pill bottle in your
hands when the cacophony in your brain comes to a
caesura. The sudden serenity caresses your soul
and makes peace with your demons
you know the treaty is only temporary and soon
you’ll hear the mad ravings of the demons once more
but for now you are grateful and release yourself
from your prison cell into your weary reality
the sadness murmurs beneath your skin
and deep within your chest, but its aches are
distant like an animal caged and restrained
your days become photocopies as you
continue wearing contrived smiles and still
no one knows your proud laurels are also
your crown of thorns
Feb 18, 2012
Feb 18, 2012 at 5:51 PM UTC
Where might I be
in my last breath?
When the ongoing sunset fades into darkness
where absent stars twinkle, ignorantly,
and the oceans drink and ruins crumble
in eternal, perfunct serenity,
for there will be no dawn,
where might I be?
At the unmaking of history when origins die
and the land masses curdle and cover the sea,
when Poseidon emerges to reclaim his rites
while Hades laughs gaily, where might I be?
When time falters truly over caesura
-If "when" it can truly be considered to be-
And the void calmly beckons for matter's fair soul;
when the ellipse quietly loops, without warning,
and darkness pervades over freedom and truth
that cannot exist ingenuinely
for nothing remains except nobody,
if 'be' I can be, where might I be?
At the end of the pages, where the margins dissolve
live creatures of forethought creation who choose
to acknowledge the limits of what they control,
or not, says their God, says the author, says I.
For every soul, a collective demise.
And a needless debate o'er if preconceived.
But the truths I create are the truths that will stand.
And so, at the end, here is where I am.
Oct 16, 2013
Oct 16, 2013 at 7:36 PM UTC
In slumber's garden, her blossom never sunlight caressing,
My heart, a violin without strings, my soul forever regretting, caesura
A whispered secret, meant for her hearing, now always hiding,
A lyric written without melody, my words forever faltering, caesura
Her sun-kissed strands, fingers trembling, face never revealing,
A piano's keys untouched, longing forever resounding, caesura
Her unshed tears, a sea, my arms empty, never comforting,
A hall deserted, it's quiet forever, sighing, caesura
Our bodies, scattered notes upon a score, never quite touching,
My songs, her deaf stars, never heard, forever yearning, caesura
Gaia's Soothing Haven, on life's edge, forever wondering
Our lost love, like petals, on life's threshold forever blooming, caesura
Jan 16, 2025
Jan 16, 2025 at 6:56 AM UTC
ode to the flower next to belladonna
the trees on south-facing mountain slopes
silently musing into the nights and not
the avalanche's daughter whom the hills
sing praises and woes
her soul's a quiet unison, meno mosso
a choir and composer spun through
***** pipes, doors cracked and never
fully closed, (there's light beneath the
lids...) she'd like to think of herself as
the wind but she's content as still air
between prayer beads--
and if not the star dust--then who? why else
do we call pauses rests? Why then is there
beauty in fermattas? In crescendos that vibrate
the material of the immaterial--if such things
happened to be true for the unwild and untangled
the perpetually pianissimo, the leading and kerning--
because she would much rather be an empty vessel
or a plate without food, a seed or a grape on a vine
because neither go without lords or masters and
she is not her own.
Dec 26, 2015
Dec 26, 2015 at 5:20 PM UTC
You spell 'sadness' starting with the letter 's'
Pushed hard against the period of your bedside wall.
I spell 'comfort' with the 'o' of my hands and the 'm' of my *******
My starting script on your paper back.
We speak and spell 'love'.
We laugh and we hug.
Our bodies 'l' and our arms 'v'.
You roughly rub out our careful pencil spellings,
Our sonnet frayed by a silent caesura.
Jul 6, 2013
Jul 6, 2013 at 9:24 PM UTC
Sicily is the golden caesura of history,
Where the human poem is paused to hear
The exalted precipice of its own sigh.
Jun 5, 2019
Jun 5, 2019 at 1:23 PM UTC
One time,
Now or in the future,
Clear or blurred in dimness,
Certainly I will go,
Back to my origin,
In which I was happily extant,
Before I ventured in my mother’s womb
Back to this realm I will gate-defy
Leaving my skin an empty husk,
And go there riding in a wagon of death,
Pain and grief in dutiful caesura won’t be;
My fellow passengers or sailers,
Only oblivion to the past a sure pal,
Kissing and messaging my bodiless me,
From which I derive solace for my past,
The life I went through on the crest of
Extremes in goodness and matchless pale;
Untimely demise coming in union with a kismet,
Having me buried minus a coffin, a shroud. Perhaps,
Not even a dirge or an elegy from eminent mouths,
As my cadaver hangs in hermetic darkness; unlit hut,
On a home-made catafalque, willow in stature like nothing,
The man died of erstwhile sham diet and Medicare,
Will be shelved and hanged like a fish on the rack,
Hence am thankful do you death,
Master of the un-mastered souls,
My beautiful darling and love,
Of my heart from bottom to brim
And comforter of the hopeless,
Thanks for taking me away
In the way so miserly,
In a beautiful out-beat
To the truck terrorist
Or the Suicide bomber
Or the Guns of juba,
Or the Ebolavirus
Or
Any
In
The
Ilk…
Sep 16, 2017
Sep 16, 2017 at 4:42 AM UTC
You play a perfect harmony to the music of my soul
In 4/4 time the last measure is our goal
You conduct me along with the swift movements of your bow
Sweat collects on your prominent brow as you hit the note a little too low
Andante to vivace my heart rushes to tempo
We hold our fermata embracing the moment, slow
The notes sit on the page while my thoughts dance with the rhythm
They leap and they frolic to the sounds of the broken hymn
A little sharp, maybe flat
Our pulses quicken assai, as though Haydn intended that
Like the Baroque Era wrote for us and our meetings in private
Our handshakes that last long and our glances that are silent
But it won’t last and we will face the caesura of our love
It transpires as we ignore the baton waving above
Our duet will end as it started, quickly, like the flight of a dove
Le Carnaval Des Animaux replicates my scrambled mind
No matter how hard I search, the answers I cannot find
In hectic chaos I’m blind to the clearest option staring straight at me
A simple kiss will suffice in helping me see
For to be the maestro I must know every part
Feel each chord progression and triad deep down in my heart
A kiss will answer if these feelings are true
Or if because of my dreams I have sudden interest in you
Whether the moment is a roar of fortissimo glory
Or it is a disappointing sforzando into the diminuendo of our story
Do you feel a crescendo when our eyes meet for a second?
Like we’re calling each other closer and with each blink we’ve beckoned
One another to draw in the coda finale
Together we may join and our notes, they will rally
By the last bar they’re in unison and our cadence is clear
The next movement will begin, there is nothing to fear
Apr 24, 2018
Apr 24, 2018 at 11:34 PM UTC
I feel like an unnecessary pause. In the grand poetry of the universe.
Sep 26, 2014
Sep 26, 2014 at 6:34 PM UTC
Just tell me that its what it seems
And if its what it seems
Just tell me you wont take a shot
Just tell me that its all a
game
Oh i think its a
shame
You wont give up your chance to play
Just tell me you want it a lot
well i guess not
No one bothers
just give it all that you have got
well i guess thats a lot
no one will remember
Feb 27, 2012
Feb 27, 2012 at 12:44 PM UTC
My grandfather's clock strikes,
but no time passes here.
He knows each mote, each hue,
where sunlight hits each morning and eve.
Here my melodies are echoes; my metaphors rehearsed.
Only in the garden do seasons pass,
do flighty visitors come for lunch.
With my grandmother went movement and now all is preserved, still, suspended.
My grandfather is waiting:
the dust in his study as ashes in her favourite flowerbed.
Oct 30, 2014
Oct 30, 2014 at 4:01 PM UTC
I am sick, you know!
ill,
with prosaic flu,
my temperature goes
through
the 100 degree ceiling,
bitten
by this bug that rivals a drug,
and when high enough
i have caesura(s)- temp over 102
now,
my conceit, a consonance
infected by resonance,
a pentameter of unwritten
disease my doctor says, that
no quatrain will cure,
the medicines unknown
for
this ache in
my head.
Jul 19, 2014
Jul 19, 2014 at 8:22 PM UTC
High on an olive grove
overlooking Aegean blue
rests a punctuated thought
a life caught, media caesura
a breath | paused | eternally
Hover above a whistle
memory's wind, it blows
sunburnt reminiscence
where the gods sequestered
Muses interment softly glow
Why the folly, in this--
sending a poet to war
Before charging the shore
struck a fatal kiss in Gaul
felled by a bullet of fate.
How does one farewell
a flame thus whisked away
or have the deities misruled
a more gallant death for him
on the shores of Gallipoli
Perhaps it is as it should be
your life as brief as poetry
on breeze kissed Skyros *****
under shady windows and
fragrance of sage and thyme
Apr 8, 2015
Apr 8, 2015 at 4:54 PM UTC
Dear, You Know Who You are.
Bless me Father for I have
sinned.
It has been twenty four
months since last i
looked
in the mirror.
Forbid me not the long
vowels of my
Poems, the
caesura of love in
the Winter in Wisconsin.
Summer's in the
Lake. There's fire in
my old dreams
And you.
Caroline Shank
4.26.2024
Apr 27, 2024
Apr 27, 2024 at 3:55 AM UTC
i wanted to be satisfied in ways no
body could satisfy me
i needed the wind and the sun to
flow within me
i needed mountains and insects and
the earth beneath my feet
i wanted to move
with the clouds.
I needed to be tangled within the roots of every tree
and to find myself grow tall enough to touch
the edges of
our inner space,
only then might i fall with all of the drops of rain and
penetrate the earth to
evaporate my
self
again
Feb 13, 2015
Feb 13, 2015 at 10:27 AM UTC
Our fingers pluck the Sun's watery rays
Our ears glean rippling flam
Our salt infused nose breathes the accolade
Our eyes know no maxima
Our toes caressed by raining kelp
Our hesitations entering chromatic depths
Ourn Hash tag # to step to greatness
Our nuances trampling neckly disquiet
Ourie caesura becalmed
Ours to start swimming
Our mind surfs the trills
Ourselves at one with the sea
Apr 12, 2023
Apr 12, 2023 at 6:55 AM UTC