"clamours" poems
Day by day I fritter away
Observing decorum as best I may
Meet me as you meet — reserved somebody
Leave me as you leave — dull nobody
Dreary, weary, listless, spiritless
A resting spirit clamours to emerge
Unguided, wild, free and seeking
Boldly defying reserved somebody
But how, just how do I unleash this defiant spirit
For it is to cross all conceivable limits
Oh but a mask, of course a mask!
The perfect accessory for this task!
Careless of propriety
Boastful of daring
Acting against my will
Or in tandem with it?
This mask — just now I can't discern
Ponder I do with great concern
Does it shield my identity
Or render truth to it?
So now just what fun in masks
One may ponderously ask
Masks, bring to life fantasy
Fantasy, a realm of our reality
Reality, wherein lies multiplicity
Multiplicity, within each individuality
Oct 23, 2018
Oct 23, 2018 at 11:04 AM UTC
Urns and odours bring away!
Vapours, sighs, darken the day!
Our dole more deadly looks than dying;
Balms and gums and heavy cheers,
Sacred vials fill’d with tears,
And clamours through the wild air flying!
Come, all sad and solemn shows,
That are quick-eyed Pleasure’s foes!
We convènt naught else but woes.
3.3k
she was reading haruki murakami
and licking her lips of muffin crum
bs - - i, placated via cellphone, calle
d to leave a message for a friend ab
out Oscar Wilde's De Profundis a
s i think i forgot it on his couch spea
k-easy speak-fast distract myself wit
h cigarette headrush rants and slow-
mo's she moves close gazing as i c
uriously whisper back with connect
ed pupil and she comes so so close - - g
arbage can next to me close - - she keep
s peeking at me, pulls out norwegian w
ood scans road i awkwardly pull out an
thology of chinese poems from backpa
ck to possibly impress! she keeps peek
ing peeking peeking i almost start conve
rsation but heart-beats race-track grand
prix miss my bus and i know it almost re
trieve cigarette from pocket (ghoulish goo
dy) second-guess she may think it unattra
ctive? no shiney faced race horse (*do u ev
en lift, bro - - no dude i don't, i literally do
n't lift*) cement truck clamours past and i n
ot really paying attention to the ******* c
hinese poems anyway begin to read the way
the sun glances off the spinning barrel like c
hinese poetry - - glancing always to newspea
k my way into awkwardity so ******* he
adrush** she walks away, turns on heel to loo
k me in darting eyeballs (*are u coming? i sup
pose so, jesus*) i clamour onto my feet and foll
ow her pretend to be checking bus-times ya fu
ckin goof 15X arrives and she departs without
a smoke-signal we were close we were close we
were close *and i missed my bus waiting for my
self to brave-and-snake* so i walk away pretend-
careless and finally retrieve cigarette from pocket
read the smoke like chinese poetry (ghoulish goody)
Nov 27, 2013
Nov 27, 2013 at 5:49 PM UTC
Justum et tenacem propositi virum.
HOR. ‘Odes’, iii. 3. I.
The man of firm and noble soul
No factious clamours can controul;
No threat’ning tyrant’s darkling brow
Can swerve him from his just intent:
Gales the warring waves which plough,
By Auster on the billows spent,
To curb the Adriatic main,
Would awe his fix’d determined mind in vain.
Aye, and the red right arm of Jove,
Hurtling his lightnings from above,
With all his terrors there unfurl’d,
He would, unmov’d, unaw’d, behold;
The flames of an expiring world,
Again in crashing chaos roll’d,
In vast promiscuous ruin hurl’d,
Might light his glorious funeral pile:
Still dauntless ’midst the wreck of earth he’d smile.
1.9k
FROM off a hill whose concave womb reworded
A plaintful story from a sistering vale,
My spirits to attend this double voice accorded,
And down I laid to list the sad-tuned tale;
Ere long espied a fickle maid full pale,
Tearing of papers, breaking rings a-twain,
Storming her world with sorrow's wind and rain.
Upon her head a platted hive of straw,
Which fortified her visage from the sun,
Whereon the thought might think sometime it saw
The carcass of beauty spent and done:
Time had not scythed all that youth begun,
Nor youth all quit; but, spite of heaven's fell rage,
Some beauty peep'd through lattice of sear'd age.
Oft did she heave her napkin to her eyne,
Which on it had conceited characters,
Laundering the silken figures in the brine
That season'd woe had pelleted in tears,
And often reading what contents it bears;
As often shrieking undistinguish'd woe,
In clamours of all size, both high and low.
Mar 10, 2014
Mar 10, 2014 at 1:56 PM UTC
I don't look like me, I don't sound like me,
I don't feel like me.
Sometimes it feels not like I'm in the present,
But like I'm from the future sent back too far into the past,
And I'm impatiently waiting, playing catch up
Until my body grows into its brain.
Please, god, let me grow into myself.
My skin feels stretched too tightly over brittle bones,
And my muscles are so itchy,
I want to rip away my flesh just to reach inside.
My heart clamours incessantly, hurling itself at my rib cage
With such ferocity that my entire chest shakes with its beating.
Please, god, let something quieten it,
And if it can't appease it, please, god, let something silence it for good.
Feb 18, 2017
Feb 18, 2017 at 8:03 AM UTC
Narcissus was hunted,
His life abated through reflection
‘Till all that was left was his beauty
Stained on the water’s surface,
And his tale as a flare in the night
For every proud soul.
Thenceforth we shamed ourselves,
For every fleeting glimpse at the face
Which contains the twinned thoughts of our own.
The mirror, now a symbol
Of despicable self-assurance,
Man’s vain invention.
It is the microphone
However; the tool that listens,
Clamours attention to every word
And breaks in vicious soundwaves,
That’s the true measure of vanity,
A catapulted voice.
The mirror, used more so
As a reflection of our self-doubt
And all of the fear people can see.
My self-effacing curses,
My knowledge of singularity,
And total lack of greed.
Sep 29, 2013
Sep 29, 2013 at 4:02 PM UTC
I dream, I dream and morphine seems to take the pain away,
the poppy fields are my armour,
the shields against the clamours of
the day.
If I could,
I would and should awake but that takes moral fibre,
and I am just the turpitude, the crude and base, no shame,
and furthermore, I can't face the accusing looks, or
the debits in my credit books.
I dream, I dream and lean towards the light that
shines from the opthalmoscope,
there is no hope I hear them say,
more clamour in the clamour of my day,
more morphine takes the pain away.
I dream to dream and dreams dreams me,
dreams will be my
downfall.
Jan 13, 2015
Jan 13, 2015 at 4:39 AM UTC
A veil descends upon my senses
Silence shows itself
But, my thoughts are loud in my head
The silence is just of the outside world
My inner voice still clamours for recognition
To be heard. To be listened to.
Traffic, chatter, birdsong and children in the street retreat
Into silence.
My mind grows loud with words and remembrances
Long forgotten voices shout,horns blare,memories creep
My silence, my personal space, my mind is loud
A crow cackles, at my confused silence
Cacophony crescendos in my mind
I scream
It breaks the silence of clamouring voices.
My inner voice is still not heard.
Apr 4, 2014
Apr 4, 2014 at 11:25 AM UTC
My joy is worn thin as are my fine clothes
I still recall their colour
like the scent of sweet days
A dove might fly to a white house
but what flies to grey and grim
Forgive me if too long I lingered
where the swan glides and poets dream
I would awake and seek a weaver of cloth and words
and the house that remembers warm and kind
but the stones and walls
were broken in the clamours of the earth
and the loom lies stilled
Jun 23, 2013
Jun 23, 2013 at 12:10 PM UTC
My joy is worn thin as are my fine clothes
I still recall their colour
like the scent of sweet days
A dove might fly to a white house
but what flies to grey and grim
Forgive me if too long I lingered
where the swan glides and poets dream
I would awake and seek a weaver of cloth and words
and the house that remembers warm and kind
but the stones and walls
were broken in the clamours of the earth
and the loom lies stilled
Jun 23, 2013
Jun 23, 2013 at 12:10 PM UTC
High atop shining mountains,
Where Gods glint as they spy
On wanting mortals, cast in heat
And toil, in heavens that are always
Basked by sun and days of grape,
That flow from the endless pour
Of golden casks, give mirth to always
Blue veins as they revel in mighty
Perfection and beauty, enameled
With imperishable face and statuary
Form, who thunder above feathery
Cloud, rumbling beyond all earthly
Ken and dream— in these heavens,
Is there myth only of desire?
Or do they yearn in cradle sleep,
As all those landed babes in need
Of mercies and fable, do gods shape
Subtle creations with the music of love,
Of blood in a touch, of dawn and hope
In the flowering of family and learning?
Can the gleaming child ever know needs
As they are met, held by eyes and lip,
The windy caress of kiss and nod
And rarest time as it wanes?
On radiant, fabled Olympus, where
Eagles, golden in the sun, only rake
The rims of Elysium as they song glide
So effortlessly, unlike the perilous, shy,
Wandering tribes basely set so far below,
The sun clad Titans home eternal, who always
Are held, perpetual in ever engulf of skies, rest
Starry, in their sparkling, immortal cloaks
Of milky cosmos and ambrosial aethers.
Above the murmuring clamours
Of the under strays and dogs of plain
And sea, do chose children of light ever
Quake or shudder in awe, never moved,
Or are they but weilders of storm and fierce
Lightning strikes, burnishing in judgement flame,
Never to be struck by leaves that come in fires of autumn,
Such monumental peace in a seasons turn, the simple joinings,
Of lovers, by a hearth, by a road, by rush of mountain streams?
In high heavens do even the Gods not dream
Of deep, down, sole earthly pleasures?
Apr 10, 2015
Apr 10, 2015 at 2:13 PM UTC
Heavy rain and thunder on a dark night.
I have issues.
I loved heavy rain,
I loved the thunder.
I loved a dark peaceful night.
But not anymore.
you ask me why,
Do i not prefer the black sky?
Or am i scared
Of the clamours
The thunders make?
I give no reply.
But a thousand of them
Are floating around my head
This time.
I was never afraid
Nor petrified.
I am only reluctant,
To the aftermath.
The aftermath:
The only thing
That terrifies me.
Cause the demons
Catch hold of me,
And here i am
Letting my words flee.
They devour;
My cast off
Pieces.
Every inch of me,
Is still breathing.
Every promise i made,
Every chance i take.
Gasping for air,
In awe;
At every warfare.
I'm not afraid,
I never was.
I'm the
Delicate
Virago.
Well built enough,
But partial.
Feb 27, 2019
Feb 27, 2019 at 12:14 PM UTC
My joy is worn thin as are my fine clothes
I still recall their colour
like the scent of sweet days
A dove might fly to a white house
but what flies to grey and grim
Forgive me if too long I lingered
where the swan glides and poets dream
I would awake and seek a weaver of cloth and words
and the house that remembers warm and kind
but the stones and walls
were broken in the clamours of the earth
and the loom lies stilled
Jun 23, 2013
Jun 23, 2013 at 12:10 PM UTC
High atop shining mountains,
Where Gods glint as they spy
On wanting mortals, cast in heat
And toil, in heavens that are always
Basked by sun and days of grape,
That flow from the endless pour
Of golden casks, give mirth to always
Blue veins as they revel in mighty
Perfection and beauty, enameled
With imperishable face and statuary
Form, who thunder above feathery
Cloud, rumbling beyond all earthly
Ken and dream— in these heavens,
Is there myth only of desire?
Or do they yearn in cradle sleep,
As all those landed babes in need
Of mercies and fable, do gods shape
Subtle creations with the music of love,
Of blood in a touch, of dawn and hope
In the flowering of family and learning?
Can the gleaming child ever know needs
As they are met, held by eyes and lip,
The windy caress of kiss and nod
And rarest time as it wanes?
On radiant, fabled Olympus, where
Eagles, golden in the sun, only rake
The rims of Elysium as they song glide
So effortlessly, unlike the perilous, shy,
Wandering tribes basely set so far below,
The sun clad Titans home eternal, who always
Are held, perpetual in ever engulf of skies, rest
Starry, in their sparkling, immortal cloaks
Of milky cosmos and ambrosial aethers.
Above the murmuring clamours
Of the under strays and dogs of plain
And sea, do chose children of light ever
Quake or shudder in awe, never moved,
Or are they but weilders of storm and fierce
Lightning strikes, burnishing in judgement flame,
Never to be struck by leaves that come in fires of autumn,
Such monumental peace in a seasons turn, the simple joinings,
Of lovers, by a hearth, by a road, by rush of mountain streams?
In high heavens do even the Gods not dream
Of deep, down, sole earthly pleasures?
Apr 7, 2016
Apr 7, 2016 at 6:20 PM UTC
My joy is worn thin as are my fine clothes
I still recall their colour
like the scent of sweet days
A dove might fly to a white house
but what flies to grey and grim
Forgive me if too long I lingered
where the swan glides and poets dream
I would awake and seek a weaver of cloth and words
and the house that remembers warm and kind
but the stones and walls
were broken in the clamours of the earth
and the loom lies stilled
Jun 23, 2013
Jun 23, 2013 at 12:10 PM UTC
High atop shining mountains,
Where Gods glint as they spy
On wanting mortals, cast in heat
And toil, in heavens that are always
Basked by sun and days of grape,
That flow from the endless pour
Of golden casks, give mirth to always
Blue veins as they revel in mighty
Perfection and beauty, enameled
With imperishable face and statuary
Form, who thunder above feathery
Cloud, rumbling beyond all earthly
Ken and dream— in these heavens,
Is there myth only of desire?
Or do they yearn in cradle sleep,
As all those landed babes in need
Of mercies and fable, do gods shape
Subtle creations with the music of love,
Of blood in a touch, of dawn and hope
In the flowering of family and learning?
Can the gleaming child ever know needs
As they are met, held by eyes and lip,
The windy caress of kiss and nod
And rarest time as it wanes?
On radiant, fabled Olympus, where
Eagles, golden in the sun, only rake
The rims of Elysium as they song glide
So effortlessly, unlike the perilous, shy,
Wandering tribes basely set so far below,
The sun clad Titans home eternal, who always
Are held, perpetual in ever engulf of skies, rest
Starry, in their sparkling, immortal cloaks
Of milky cosmos and ambrosial aethers.
Above the murmuring clamours
Of the under strays and dogs of plain
And sea, do chose children of light ever
Quake or shudder in awe, never moved,
Or are they but weilders of storm and fierce
Lightning strikes, burnishing in judgement flame,
Never to be struck by leaves that come in fires of autumn,
Such monumental peace in a seasons turn, the simple joinings,
Of lovers, by a hearth, by a road, by rush of mountain streams?
In high heavens do even the Gods not dream
Of deep, down, sole earthly pleasures?
Sep 4, 2015
Sep 4, 2015 at 8:04 PM UTC
My new lover is an old ghost,
who picked apart armour
left bereft by rust and rain,
to sit inside my ribcage
once more throwing pebbles at my heart
I did not welcome them
to my table
or to my bed
but this ghost holds me close inside my bones,
and each morning,
I entertain a phantom
that clamours to be fed.
May 22, 2017
May 22, 2017 at 6:17 AM UTC
.
High atop shining mountains,
Where Gods glint as they spy
On wanting mortals, cast in heat
And toil, in heavens that are always
Basked by sun and days of grape,
That flow from the endless pour
Of golden casks, give mirth to always
Blue veins as they revel in mighty
Perfection and beauty, enameled
With imperishable face and statuary
Form, who thunder above feathery
Cloud, rumbling beyond all earthly
Ken and dream— in these heavens,
Is there myth only of desire?
Or do they yearn in cradle sleep,
As all those landed babes in need
Of mercies and fable, do gods shape
Subtle creations with the music of love,
Of blood in a touch, of dawn and hope
In the flowering of family and learning?
Can the gleaming child ever know needs
As they are met, held by eyes and lip,
The windy caress of kiss and nod
And rarest time as it wanes?
On radiant, fabled Olympus, where
Eagles, golden in the sun, only rake
The rims of Elysium as they song glide
So effortlessly, unlike the perilous, shy,
Wandering tribes basely set so far below,
The sun clad Titans home eternal, who always
Are held, perpetual in ever engulf of skies, rest
Starry, in their sparkling, immortal cloaks
Of milky cosmos and ambrosial aethers.
Above the murmuring clamours
Of the under strays and dogs of plain
And sea, do chose children of light ever
Quake or shudder in awe, never moved,
Or are they but weilders of storm and fierce
Lightning strikes, burnishing in judgement flame,
Never to be struck by leaves that come in fires of autumn,
Such monumental peace in a seasons turn, the simple joinings,
Of lovers, by a hearth, by a road, by rush of mountain streams?
In high heavens do even the Gods not dream
Of deep, down, sole earthly pleasures?
Feb 1, 2015
Feb 1, 2015 at 4:27 PM UTC
High atop shining mountains,
Where Gods glint as they spy
On wanting mortals, cast in heat
And toil, in heavens that are always
Basked by sun and days of grape,
That flow from the endless pour
Of golden casks, give mirth to always
Blue veins as they revel in mighty
Perfection and beauty, enameled
With imperishable face and statuary
Form, who thunder above feathery
Cloud, rumbling beyond all earthly
Ken and dream— in these heavens,
Is there myth only of desire?
Or do they yearn in cradle sleep,
As all those landed babes in need
Of mercies and fable, do gods shape
Subtle creations with the music of love,
Of blood in a touch, of dawn and hope
In the flowering of family and learning?
Can the gleaming child ever know needs
As they are met, held by eyes and lip,
The windy caress of kiss and nod
And rarest time as it wanes?
On radiant, fabled Olympus, where
Eagles, golden in the sun, only rake
The rims of Elysium as they song glide
So effortlessly, unlike the perilous, shy,
Wandering tribes basely set so far below,
The sun clad Titans home eternal, who always
Are held, perpetual in ever engulf of skies, rest
Starry, in their sparkling, immortal cloaks
Of milky cosmos and ambrosial aethers.
Above the murmuring clamours
Of the under strays and dogs of plain
And sea, do chose children of light ever
Quake or shudder in awe, never moved,
Or are they but weilders of storm and fierce
Lightning strikes, burnishing in judgement flame,
Never to be struck by leaves that come in fires of autumn,
Such monumental peace in a seasons turn, the simple joinings,
Of lovers, by a hearth, by a road, by rush of mountain streams?
In high heavens do even the Gods not dream
Of deep, down, sole earthly pleasures?
Jan 30, 2015
Jan 30, 2015 at 8:02 PM UTC
Just bemeath chosen words
And rewrites,
There clamours a poem raw
And true,
Free of likes and critique,
Above bandwagon scociety,
There a poet can believe in
The art of the experience:
I am alive between each word,
The hand on fire
As sudden urges froze me
In the actiin of my words
To jot them down,
What captures my life like
The inspired word,
And the need to capture a moment
On paper,
Where I was is now instilled
Like the metaphor of life,
And I am one with the unspoken,
As i have stopped and
Undone.
Words pause me,
Propel me,
And I freeze in the flow
Where life happend
And i stop all things
To write it down stuck
Between the stanzas.
The poet can write life,
Rarely does the experience
Saturate the time of a writer.
Jun 12, 2018
Jun 12, 2018 at 5:26 AM UTC
I spin myself a web of lies;
Lies that are disguised as the sweetest nectar
Yet contain a sickly poison within -
Killing yet comforting with every dose.
My tainted spell bewitches me,
To the point where both
mind and matter are
completely controlled by my
pleasurable pain,
And when my sense rejects this impulse my
insatiable heart clamours for more
and more,
pushing me to the brink of insanity -
Insanity that no one but my desire is to blame.
And what lies can influence the logical mind so?
Lies of unspoken passion which only my eye can see,
if my eye is to be believed.
Fantasies of requited need and longing,
Dreams of endless wonder at what could be
and what might be, maybe.
I don't want to believe my lies anymore
For they fool my silly heart,
Yet perhaps my lies are the only thing
Keeping my heart from breaking.
Feb 4, 2019
Feb 4, 2019 at 2:34 PM UTC
What is this fire
Stirred up from within?
From deep inside
the embers of my soul
my heart is restless.
Here, with the children;
Motherly duties abound.
Take this bring that what is this
Can you help me?
Can I have…?
It is true:
My love for them holds
No bounds.
It is unlimited,
No matter what they need
Or demand
Yet
My soul, forever, wild,
wanders through thickets
Of bush, my hair a-tangle
As I slip through
deserted forest
Through endless tundra
Moss tickling my toes
I do not even feel the cold.
I am in a swirling array
Of bright clean snow
Icy energy
That fills me up
Makes me glow….
Indeed, I have reached
The land of the seals and whales:
My own polar plateau.
Oh yes, my skin turns to ice
And my eyelashes frozen
Fingers numb
In this deep freeze I have chosen.
I lie, spread out
Upon the sheet of soft
White that surrounds me
A freezing sea that buoys me up
Like a babe in the womb
******* in the nourishment
of glacial waters
and gelid floes
the icicles forming around my toes.
And all the while,
inside me, the fire burns and burns
My heart upon a skewer,
turns and turns
I am simply ignited
By my own inner flame
One I cannot put out
Even if I wished
I am illuminated from within
Becoming cooked
inside my own skin…
Help me, great powers above
goddesses of fire and brimstone
Cool me
let the icy waters trickle down
to my deep
quivering spots
Let the smoke be gone
Let me dive into icy waters
And refresh my soul
For now,
I sit here, upon the sofa
Staring into space
House asleep.
My thoughts my own.
Incantations up and out
As my soul clamours and
Shouts.
It will be better
In the morning's
Glow.
I sleep
With incandescent
colors about my head
Like dreamy auroras
Surrounding my bed
My hands
Holding
My beating heart
Pumping
Flowing
Somehow whole
In all my parts.
Sep 23, 2015
Sep 23, 2015 at 7:06 AM UTC
In an iridescent aura a hippie angel came to me
Enchanting me with a ticklish, infectious laugh
I am enamoured, my heavy heart clamours
Woozy in her magical aftermath
Her dreadlocks frame her enchanting face
Etched with curves of compassion
An image of accentuated grace
Which sparks my heart like nuclear fission
Prithee Angel, be my guide
Enamour me of your wisdom
By your truest words I'll abide
Let me in your passions kingdom
O hippie Angel I love thee
You are the delight of eternity
Mar 1, 2017
Mar 1, 2017 at 12:41 PM UTC
I go about my day
good mother that I am
No one understands
How when I stop moving
cooking
helping
cleaning
teaching
hugging
mending little hearts
No one can understand
How my own heart is longing
craving
missing
cracking
splitting
not quitting
yet breaking
No one knows of my secret pain
buried deep inside
within fissures of steaming earth
My passion fighting
to be released
from my burning skin
My heart beats out twigs and soil
as it clamours to be loved
My hands reach out
to the stars
into the void of endless want
Help me, heavens above
My empty lips implore
Let my prayers be
answered, too
I want more
Feb 20, 2016
Feb 20, 2016 at 7:04 AM UTC