"chaoses" poems - Hello Poetry

'Tis the year's midnight, and it is the day's, Lucy's, who scarce seven hours herself unmasks; The sun is spent, and now his flasks Send forth light squibs, no constant rays; The world's whole sap is sunk; The general balm th' hydroptic earth hath drunk, Whither, as to the bed's feet, life is shrunk, Dead and interr'd; yet all these seem to laugh, Compar'd with me, who am their epitaph. Study me then, you who shall lovers be At the next world, that is, at the next spring; For I am every dead thing, In whom Love wrought new alchemy. For his art did express A quintessence even from nothingness, From dull privations, and lean emptiness; He ruin'd me, and I am re-begot Of absence, darkness, death: things which are not. All others, from all things, draw all that's good, Life, soul, form, spirit, whence they being have; I, by Love's limbec, am the grave Of all that's nothing. Oft a flood Have we two wept, and so Drown'd the whole world, us two; oft did we grow To be two chaoses, when we did show Care to aught else; and often absences Withdrew our souls, and made us carcasses. But I am by her death (which word wrongs her) Of the first nothing the elixir grown; Were I a man, that I were one I needs must know; I should prefer, If I were any beast, Some ends, some means; yea plants, yea stones detest, And love; all, all some properties invest; If I an ordinary nothing were, As shadow, a light and body must be here. But I am none; nor will my sun renew. You lovers, for whose sake the lesser sun At this time to the Goat is run To fetch new lust, and give it you, Enjoy your summer all; Since she enjoys her long night's festival, Let me prepare towards her, and let me call This hour her vigil, and her eve, since this Both the year's, and the day's deep midnight is.

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2.1k

John Donne

A Nocturnal upon St. Lucy's Day

'Tis the year's midnight, and it is the day's, Lucy's, who scarce seven hours herself unmasks; The sun is spent, and now his flasks Send forth light squibs, no constant rays; The world's whole sap is sunk; The general balm th' hydroptic earth hath drunk, Whither, as to the bed's feet, life is shrunk, Dead and interr'd; yet all these seem to laugh, Compar'd with me, who am their epitaph. Study me then, you who shall lovers be At the next world, that is, at the next spring; For I am every dead thing, In whom Love wrought new alchemy. For his art did express A quintessence even from nothingness, From dull privations, and lean emptiness; He ruin'd me, and I am re-begot Of absence, darkness, death: things which are not. All others, from all things, draw all that's good, Life, soul, form, spirit, whence they being have; I, by Love's limbec, am the grave Of all that's nothing. Oft a flood Have we two wept, and so Drown'd the whole world, us two; oft did we grow To be two chaoses, when we did show Care to aught else; and often absences Withdrew our souls, and made us carcasses. But I am by her death (which word wrongs her) Of the first nothing the elixir grown; Were I a man, that I were one I needs must know; I should prefer, If I were any beast, Some ends, some means; yea plants, yea stones detest, And love; all, all some properties invest; If I an ordinary nothing were, As shadow, a light and body must be here. But I am none; nor will my sun renew. You lovers, for whose sake the lesser sun At this time to the Goat is run To fetch new lust, and give it you, Enjoy your summer all; Since she enjoys her long night's festival, Let me prepare towards her, and let me call This hour her vigil, and her eve, since this Both the year's, and the day's deep midnight is.

45

806 A Planted Life—diversified With Gold and Silver Pain To prove the presence of the Ore In Particles—’tis when A Value struggle—it exist— A Power—will proclaim Although Annihilation pile Whole Chaoses on Him—

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1.6k

Emily Dickinson

A Planted Life—diversified

806 A Planted Life—diversified With Gold and Silver Pain To prove the presence of the Ore In Particles—’tis when A Value struggle—it exist— A Power—will proclaim Although Annihilation pile Whole Chaoses on Him—

9

'Tis the year's midnight, and it is the day's, Lucy's, who scarce seven hours herself unmasks; The sun is spent, and now his flasks Send forth light squibs, no constant rays; The world's whole sap is sunk; The general balm th' hydroptic earth hath drunk, Whither, as to the bed's feet, life is shrunk, Dead and interr'd; yet all these seem to laugh, Compar'd with me, who am their epitaph. Study me then, you who shall lovers be At the next world, that is, at the next spring; For I am every dead thing, In whom Love wrought new alchemy. For his art did express A quintessence even from nothingness, From dull privations, and lean emptiness; He ruin'd me, and I am re-begot Of absence, darkness, death: things which are not. All others, from all things, draw all that's good, Life, soul, form, spirit, whence they being have; I, by Love's limbec, am the grave Of all that's nothing. Oft a flood Have we two wept, and so Drown'd the whole world, us two; oft did we grow To be two chaoses, when we did show Care to aught else; and often absences Withdrew our souls, and made us carcasses. But I am by her death (which word wrongs her) Of the first nothing the elixir grown; Were I a man, that I were one I needs must know; I should prefer, If I were any beast, Some ends, some means; yea plants, yea stones detest, And love; all, all some properties invest; If I an ordinary nothing were, As shadow, a light and body must be here. But I am none; nor will my sun renew. You lovers, for whose sake the lesser sun At this time to the Goat is run To fetch new lust, and give it you, Enjoy your summer all; Since she enjoys her long night's festival, Let me prepare towards her, and let me call This hour her vigil, and her eve, since this Both the year's, and the day's deep midnight is.

0

1.5k

John Donne

A Nocturnal Upon St. Lucy's Day, Being The Shortest Day

'Tis the year's midnight, and it is the day's, Lucy's, who scarce seven hours herself unmasks; The sun is spent, and now his flasks Send forth light squibs, no constant rays; The world's whole sap is sunk; The general balm th' hydroptic earth hath drunk, Whither, as to the bed's feet, life is shrunk, Dead and interr'd; yet all these seem to laugh, Compar'd with me, who am their epitaph. Study me then, you who shall lovers be At the next world, that is, at the next spring; For I am every dead thing, In whom Love wrought new alchemy. For his art did express A quintessence even from nothingness, From dull privations, and lean emptiness; He ruin'd me, and I am re-begot Of absence, darkness, death: things which are not. All others, from all things, draw all that's good, Life, soul, form, spirit, whence they being have; I, by Love's limbec, am the grave Of all that's nothing. Oft a flood Have we two wept, and so Drown'd the whole world, us two; oft did we grow To be two chaoses, when we did show Care to aught else; and often absences Withdrew our souls, and made us carcasses. But I am by her death (which word wrongs her) Of the first nothing the elixir grown; Were I a man, that I were one I needs must know; I should prefer, If I were any beast, Some ends, some means; yea plants, yea stones detest, And love; all, all some properties invest; If I an ordinary nothing were, As shadow, a light and body must be here. But I am none; nor will my sun renew. You lovers, for whose sake the lesser sun At this time to the Goat is run To fetch new lust, and give it you, Enjoy your summer all; Since she enjoys her long night's festival, Let me prepare towards her, and let me call This hour her vigil, and her eve, since this Both the year's, and the day's deep midnight is.

45

When I reflect upon, the most pain ridden..chest tightening, disturbed memories...they nearly cause my heart to cease from beating. Yet, I cannot conjure up the strength to cry. I've poured out the regrets, the torment, the sleepless nights and panic attacks that have induced vomit...to the point of self paralization. I've drank and inhaled..to the point of near death..attempting to numb..in a frantic frenzy to run, hide, drown or bury, the torturous memories. I do all of this... To sober up... And realize...that it's still There. I'm standing at the base of a pile of life's stench ridden...dark, gloomy, shockingly disgusting memories. They are stacked as high as I can see..to the proverbial sky. Fuming...as if a train wreck had just occurred. Yet...I'm still here. Simply standing. Arms loosely draped to my sides..shoulders back..lungs still taking in every breath..heart calmly beating. I gaze up at the wreckage.. Aware that I will have to pick through every portion...and last foul piece of agony, affliction and wounded heart scraps. I will have to learn from the life altering chaoses and saturate any ounce of joy...then move forward. Allowing this past to remain...to cease to direct my future...and slowly disinegrate into the soils. HOPE; The feeling that what is wanted can be had.

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Sep 28, 2015

Sep 28, 2015 at 1:20 AM UTC

natasha-ivory

There is Hope.

When I reflect upon, the most pain ridden..chest tightening, disturbed memories...they nearly cause my heart to cease from beating. Yet, I cannot conjure up the strength to cry. I've poured out the regrets, the torment, the sleepless nights and panic attacks that have induced vomit...to the point of self paralization. I've drank and inhaled..to the point of near death..attempting to numb..in a frantic frenzy to run, hide, drown or bury, the torturous memories. I do all of this... To sober up... And realize...that it's still There. I'm standing at the base of a pile of life's stench ridden...dark, gloomy, shockingly disgusting memories. They are stacked as high as I can see..to the proverbial sky. Fuming...as if a train wreck had just occurred. Yet...I'm still here. Simply standing. Arms loosely draped to my sides..shoulders back..lungs still taking in every breath..heart calmly beating. I gaze up at the wreckage.. Aware that I will have to pick through every portion...and last foul piece of agony, affliction and wounded heart scraps. I will have to learn from the life altering chaoses and saturate any ounce of joy...then move forward. Allowing this past to remain...to cease to direct my future...and slowly disinegrate into the soils. HOPE; The feeling that what is wanted can be had.

14

I was there in a vision of permanence enlivened entirely in the reflection of your geometric eyes, until I witnessed you turn your hands into lines I noticed as you ceased to blink I marveled at its precision I giggled at my ambit I giggled at my dimensions I marveled at my own precision I removed my layer from your eyes

0

Oct 20, 2016

Oct 20, 2016 at 12:39 AM UTC

morgan-1

intrigue embedded in unknown hidden chaoses (apart from your eyes)

I was there in a vision of permanence enlivened entirely in the reflection of your geometric eyes, until I witnessed you turn your hands into lines I noticed as you ceased to blink I marveled at its precision I giggled at my ambit I giggled at my dimensions I marveled at my own precision I removed my layer from your eyes

10

There was this man. At the metro station. He held his head up high He looked at the sky, Splitting it up into fractions. He had bloodstains on his shirt. He was sure that I wouldn’t see them. But I saw them. And the more I looked, The redder they got. My God. I didn’t know whose blood was this. But it was fresh and red like roses, Like a woman’s kiss on man’s lips. There was this man. And his chaoses. His hands were shaking. They were old, Flawed, wrinkled. Pimples On his forehead reminded me That one day he was a boy And all he had was dreams. And bloodstains on his jeans: He broke his knees While trying to seize The moment. He owned it. Now his shoulders Bend over. His shirt is just as old as he is. And there are bloodstains, redder then His cheeks. So there he is. He sits at the metro station. Wondering why the sky The ******* sky The blue-but-not-red sky Is splitting up into fractions And why his hands got redder. He better Still be a boy with dreams of joy. But bloodstains are all That matter.

0

Oct 12, 2020

Oct 12, 2020 at 3:28 PM UTC

anastasiiadenysenko

The Man

There was this man. At the metro station. He held his head up high He looked at the sky, Splitting it up into fractions. He had bloodstains on his shirt. He was sure that I wouldn’t see them. But I saw them. And the more I looked, The redder they got. My God. I didn’t know whose blood was this. But it was fresh and red like roses, Like a woman’s kiss on man’s lips. There was this man. And his chaoses. His hands were shaking. They were old, Flawed, wrinkled. Pimples On his forehead reminded me That one day he was a boy And all he had was dreams. And bloodstains on his jeans: He broke his knees While trying to seize The moment. He owned it. Now his shoulders Bend over. His shirt is just as old as he is. And there are bloodstains, redder then His cheeks. So there he is. He sits at the metro station. Wondering why the sky The ******* sky The blue-but-not-red sky Is splitting up into fractions And why his hands got redder. He better Still be a boy with dreams of joy. But bloodstains are all That matter.

36

4:11:11- 12:38p.m. Writing yourself around. Claim ticket for many fissuring endings, weather beats and other written tumors in subways, like French films, and also has decadence- bright white blinding air falls and standard auto-motifs. Crushes like I built the car not only planned on packing it. Not just filled the trunk with four boxes and a bag of clothes but made myself responsible on the other end of the message, you will return again to the rotations of your childhood and the laughing will seem fresh and abundant as never before.I claim Sheridan Road and all of its turns. You can take back the night, I have no use for things I can't keep my eyes on, these quality treasures and true folds in letters, signed, sealed, surrendered. The most peculiar of the mix, wakes of the standard in residual unfamiliar outcomes of even the subdued yet idle symbolic thorns and irregular poisons that seem manageable for a moment. or seven.Lesser thans and greater chaoses. Long whiles in engagements and other battle scars hidden by the clock in the moon. Day trips to yesterday and 4:00p.m. you call its. So for your heaven and these nouns, be it the wire of this breath to slay sickness from the weeds and list the ups against an itinerary finalized with, "produce."

0

Apr 11, 2017

Apr 11, 2017 at 1:58 AM UTC

martin-narrod

Learning Executions

4:11:11- 12:38p.m. Writing yourself around. Claim ticket for many fissuring endings, weather beats and other written tumors in subways, like French films, and also has decadence- bright white blinding air falls and standard auto-motifs. Crushes like I built the car not only planned on packing it. Not just filled the trunk with four boxes and a bag of clothes but made myself responsible on the other end of the message, you will return again to the rotations of your childhood and the laughing will seem fresh and abundant as never before.I claim Sheridan Road and all of its turns. You can take back the night, I have no use for things I can't keep my eyes on, these quality treasures and true folds in letters, signed, sealed, surrendered. The most peculiar of the mix, wakes of the standard in residual unfamiliar outcomes of even the subdued yet idle symbolic thorns and irregular poisons that seem manageable for a moment. or seven.Lesser thans and greater chaoses. Long whiles in engagements and other battle scars hidden by the clock in the moon. Day trips to yesterday and 4:00p.m. you call its. So for your heaven and these nouns, be it the wire of this breath to slay sickness from the weeds and list the ups against an itinerary finalized with, "produce."

1

4:11:11- 12:38p.m. Writing yourself around. Claim ticket for many fissuring endings, weather beats and other written tumors in subways, like French films, and also has decadence- bright white blinding air falls and standard auto-motifs. Crushes like I built the car not only planned on packing it. Not just filled the trunk with four boxes and a bag of clothes but made myself responsible on the other end of the message, you will return again to the rotations of your childhood and the laughing will seem fresh and abundant as never before.I claim Sheridan Road and all of its turns. You can take back the night, I have no use for things I can't keep my eyes on, these quality treasures and true folds in letters, signed, sealed, surrendered. The most peculiar of the mix, wakes of the standard in residual unfamiliar outcomes of even the subdued yet idle symbolic thorns and irregular poisons that seem manageable for a moment. or seven.Lesser thans and greater chaoses. Long whiles in engagements and other battle scars hidden by the clock in the moon. Day trips to yesterday and 4:00p.m. you call its. So for your heaven and these nouns, be it the wire of this breath to slay sickness from the weeds and list the ups against an itinerary finalized with, "produce."

0

Apr 11, 2017

Apr 11, 2017 at 1:59 AM UTC

martin-narrod

Learning Executions

4:11:11- 12:38p.m. Writing yourself around. Claim ticket for many fissuring endings, weather beats and other written tumors in subways, like French films, and also has decadence- bright white blinding air falls and standard auto-motifs. Crushes like I built the car not only planned on packing it. Not just filled the trunk with four boxes and a bag of clothes but made myself responsible on the other end of the message, you will return again to the rotations of your childhood and the laughing will seem fresh and abundant as never before.I claim Sheridan Road and all of its turns. You can take back the night, I have no use for things I can't keep my eyes on, these quality treasures and true folds in letters, signed, sealed, surrendered. The most peculiar of the mix, wakes of the standard in residual unfamiliar outcomes of even the subdued yet idle symbolic thorns and irregular poisons that seem manageable for a moment. or seven.Lesser thans and greater chaoses. Long whiles in engagements and other battle scars hidden by the clock in the moon. Day trips to yesterday and 4:00p.m. you call its. So for your heaven and these nouns, be it the wire of this breath to slay sickness from the weeds and list the ups against an itinerary finalized with, "produce."

1

4:11:11- 12:38p.m. Writing yourself around. Claim ticket for many fissuring endings, weather beats and other written tumors in subways, like French films, and also has decadence- bright white blinding air falls and standard auto-motifs. Crushes like I built the car not only planned on packing it. Not just filled the trunk with four boxes and a bag of clothes but made myself responsible on the other end of the message, you will return again to the rotations of your childhood and the laughing will seem fresh and abundant as never before.I claim Sheridan Road and all of its turns. You can take back the night, I have no use for things I can't keep my eyes on, these quality treasures and true folds in letters, signed, sealed, surrendered. The most peculiar of the mix, wakes of the standard in residual unfamiliar outcomes of even the subdued yet idle symbolic thorns and irregular poisons that seem manageable for a moment. or seven.Lesser thans and greater chaoses. Long whiles in engagements and other battle scars hidden by the clock in the moon. Day trips to yesterday and 4:00p.m. you call its. So for your heaven and these nouns, be it the wire of this breath to slay sickness from the weeds and list the ups against an itinerary finalized with, "produce."

0

Apr 11, 2017

Apr 11, 2017 at 1:58 AM UTC

martin-narrod

Learning Executions

4:11:11- 12:38p.m. Writing yourself around. Claim ticket for many fissuring endings, weather beats and other written tumors in subways, like French films, and also has decadence- bright white blinding air falls and standard auto-motifs. Crushes like I built the car not only planned on packing it. Not just filled the trunk with four boxes and a bag of clothes but made myself responsible on the other end of the message, you will return again to the rotations of your childhood and the laughing will seem fresh and abundant as never before.I claim Sheridan Road and all of its turns. You can take back the night, I have no use for things I can't keep my eyes on, these quality treasures and true folds in letters, signed, sealed, surrendered. The most peculiar of the mix, wakes of the standard in residual unfamiliar outcomes of even the subdued yet idle symbolic thorns and irregular poisons that seem manageable for a moment. or seven.Lesser thans and greater chaoses. Long whiles in engagements and other battle scars hidden by the clock in the moon. Day trips to yesterday and 4:00p.m. you call its. So for your heaven and these nouns, be it the wire of this breath to slay sickness from the weeds and list the ups against an itinerary finalized with, "produce."

1

my heart ached for the roses although i longed to hold them i knew they would create chaoses sharp thorns pricked me disappeared under my skin perhaps after all you weren't my yin my touch-starved body ached for you although i melted with your kisses they in sooth tasted bitter i wish i had gotten the cues i wish you hadn't left me so soon you took my soul and left disappeared into the ether how do you ever recover from heart theft?

0

Dec 7, 2018

Dec 7, 2018 at 7:32 AM UTC

mixedsignals

withered garden

my heart ached for the roses although i longed to hold them i knew they would create chaoses sharp thorns pricked me disappeared under my skin perhaps after all you weren't my yin my touch-starved body ached for you although i melted with your kisses they in sooth tasted bitter i wish i had gotten the cues i wish you hadn't left me so soon you took my soul and left disappeared into the ether how do you ever recover from heart theft?

14