"connivance" poems
You whom I could not save
Listen to me.
Try to understand this simple speech as I would be ashamed of another.
I swear, there is in me no wizardry of words.
I speak to you with silence like a cloud or a tree.
What strengthened me, for you was lethal.
You mixed up farewell to an epoch with the beginning of a new one,
Inspiration of hatred with lyrical beauty,
Blind force with accomplished shape.
Here is the valley of shallow Polish rivers. And an immense bridge
Going into white fog. Here is a broken city,
And the wind throws the screams of gulls on your grave
When I am talking with you.
What is poetry which does not save
Nations or people?
A connivance with official lies,
A song of drunkards whose throats will be cut in a moment,
Readings for sophomore girls.
That I wanted good poetry without knowing it,
That I discovered, late, its salutary aim,
In this and only this I find salvation.
They used to pour millet on graves or poppy seeds
To feed the dead who would come disguised as birds.
I put this book here for you, who once lived
So that you should visit us no more.
4.6k
..............there’s such a clamour
so much choring
memory thread
I sit
armchair
rocking head
receiver of motion
bleaker of putty trauma
creator of mammary craving
.....best take up knitting or wood carving
the fortress of thought
(in strict connivance with a bewildered host)
compiles the 'person idea'
protects the fragile calculator
from biting at its own exposed
and useless self mating psychology
from glutting on its own tail
and merry going mad
in a tune of hoops...
..stammering to achieve valuation
for our decent management
projector
may you continue operations falser still
defeating our own polygraphs and making fools of our internal courtrooms
i sit on this chair
things go still
thoughts occur elsewhere
am i left to not be ?....................
May 11, 2021
May 11, 2021 at 10:00 PM UTC
..
You whom I could not save
Listen to me.
Try to understand this simple speech as I would be ashamed of another.
I swear, there is in me no wizardry of words.
I speak to you with silence like a cloud or a tree.
What strengthened me, for you was lethal.
You mixed up farewell to an epoch with the beginning of a new one,
Inspiration of hatred with lyrical beauty;
Blind force with accomplished shape.
Here is a valley of shallow Polish rivers. And an immense bridge
Going into white fog. Here is a broken city;
And the wind throws the screams of gulls on your grave
When I am talking with you.
What is poetry which does not save
Nations or people?
A connivance with official lies,
A song of drunkards whose throats will be cut in a moment,
Readings for sophomore girls.
That I wanted good poetry without knowing it,
That I discovered, late, its salutary aim,
In this and only this I find salvation.
They used to pour millet on graves or poppy seeds
To feed the dead who would come disguised as birds.
I put this book here for you, who once lived
So that you should visit us no more.
Warsaw, 1945
- by Czeslaw Milosz
st, 13 dec 13
Dec 13, 2013
Dec 13, 2013 at 4:46 AM UTC
I walked through avenues
Finding a quiet place
As the weather disappointed
Rain gets me down sometimes.
And somewhere, you sat all alone
Coffee and ash trays and months old issues
Of the New York Times.
New York City, the mess you were hopelessly in love with.
I dropped loose change
You helped me pick up every coin
And I was taken by surprise.
I was wise,
Wise enough to know not to speak to strangers
But I couldn’t help and dive
Into the thrill of your danger.
All it took was a single glance
You reeled me in, and then there I was
Seated in front of you, my coffee becoming cold
As I listened to your strange, revolutionary thoughts
And I was young, devil-may-care
You were charming, disillusioned.
But the pieces of the puzzle of you and me
Slowly turned out to fit together
Once the hours passed and we watched the sun set for the first time.
Then this went on for days, an unspoken agreement
Like a connivance between secret lovers.
Each day we sat in that same, dim corner
You showed me your little journal, photos
Of the foreign lands you once wandered,
Even taught me I could dream big things for myself.
And again and again, we watched the clouds move and the stars swirl
Through foggy glass windows.
We never left that dying coffee shop
Because you and I lit it up
With the way we were so curious, so eager
To listen to each other.
Leaves turned golden, snowstorms came, and flowers bloomed
Yet there we spoke, on and on
Until we unmasked each other,
Painfully honest. Truthfully beautiful.
Darling, does anyone ever tell you how lovely you are?
Then one day, I came in a summer dress
The cafe seemed darker than ever
And I was left with the ghost of you
Hunched over your cup of coffee,
Waiting for me so you could tell your stories.
A teller of tales gone astray. A lonely spectator.
And now, you are but a story too.
The most beautiful kind.
Would you send me a post card sometime?
May 29, 2015
May 29, 2015 at 12:33 PM UTC
blunted on the riptide of fury:
i am not your resolution
i am not your answer
i am your destruction
and your absolute contrary;
but i will seep into your system like a cure
because i am connivance
yet not quite compliance
and i'm not inwardly pure
because i am a cancer
and a swan-like dancer
dancing my way into you;
taking a twice-trodden path
i am
your lasting and indelible wrath
i am red vision tinted with blue
i am you
i am you
Apr 6, 2015
Apr 6, 2015 at 7:20 PM UTC
Nothing is wrong
Everything is perfectly fine
The mood has been set
But feels like there's a connivance
"IT" is happy
"IT" is satisfied
But she is not
And she is silently breaking inside
Then the song that made her cry plays in the background
Now a stir of emotions is occuring
Tears will fall but she's making them stop
Not now, not here, not for them to see
Looking for a secret place
A hidden room in the corner
Where nobody will ever see
These eyes that always pretend
She is always suspicious
Have they planned this before?
They gave her what she wanted
But took away what he had loved the most.
Feb 15, 2012
Feb 15, 2012 at 10:49 AM UTC
Red streaks the latest paper
The blood of martyrs splattered on walls
For their faith.
For the whole world to see.
Red blotches a Gentile face
He wakes up to see Jesus
Coming with healing bright
Shingles, white patches
hideous bumps, flaky scabs.
They vanish at His faintest whisper.
He runs into Samaritan darkness
Screaming, Your name reverberating.
Red is what they ate in Eden, too.
Red is being torn from Your side
By smooth connivance with
Reptilian deceit.
Red is how the world looks
To lovely young eyes
Enamored by it for the first time.
Red is their world
And You turn pale
In their sight.
Red is what I feel
When I learn
Your anointing on my throat
lies–almost forgotten
Preciously hidden
Tucked behind the veneer
Of daily pinings for applause
From dim, glassy faces
Made red by stage lighting.
Red is the color of my cheeks
When I realize
You love me despite.
Red is Your sacrifice.
Red is Your atonement.
Red is my ransom.
…You are everywhere.
Nov 1, 2016
Nov 1, 2016 at 7:00 AM UTC
*They swallowed me and spit out.
My pride was dispelled in a cold land.
The tumid persecution with the connivance of rake rampantly exhume my organs.
My fervent desire in extending my hand was ebbing fast.
I’m a feme. I’m at the end of my tether.
They tied up my hands and feet on both edge of the glandola.
I was surrounded by darkness frozen alone.
From night till dawn they flogging me then soak in salty water.
No more grain of hope for me to see the birth of my son.
I can taste no more the honeydew that my husband had brought me.
They will surely lament for me…
They whom I vowed to serve and cherish.
Who wants to indite a poem for me?
Who wants to limn my life story?
My lesion leaked by flies has been dried up.
My body was mortify in shame without any clad.
I’m at the end of my tether.
But…
They will remember me!
They will tell my life story.
They will fight for me!
They, the youth, will cut the Gordian knot!
*
Aug 31, 2016
Aug 31, 2016 at 12:46 AM UTC
[Enter Marco, a young Milanese courtier.]
_It is he, is it not, whose honeyed barbs drip with sweet condescension, and whose kisses taint fair Bianca’s lips with similar speech? Behold, how he frames her vision to reflect his own and directs her preferences accordingly.
Fie, I have been April’s fool in believing Antonio my ally. His encouragement was as sweetmeats to a greedy child; but I have chipped a tooth on that candy-coated morsel and found its centre to be flavoured with deceit.
My cousin Bianca, whose name speaks directly to her nature, whose light once made shadows dance for joy; how extinguished she appears now. For as Antonio sparkles and splutters at her side, her brilliance flickers and fades.
Lo, how he has seeded his untruths within her honest heart. His lies smuggled like contraband, his blandishments the articles of his trade. God’s wounds! Such a purveyor of frippery and falsehood I have never met the equal of.
It is high time to confront this sneak thief in his lurking-hole and to uncloak his creeping connivance. I shall bottle my rival’s words and choose carefully the occasion for their uncorking; then pour for the crowd a rich liquor of ripe requital._
Apr 22, 2019
Apr 22, 2019 at 3:03 AM UTC
A hammer and sickle to tickle them
cries of, 'it's Stalin' to ******* them, then
silence on Red Square.
Dacha's popping up everywhere
communism like evangelism
gathers the money in
holiday plans.
There are true ***** drinkers
thinkers like
Solzhenitsyn
gulags
and the rags of
Moscow.
I won't go
to the palace where tells of a ****** or
on the long road that tells us of more.
The KGB
a resident family of the community
are looking for me via Odessa.
I've gone to Sweden to lead 'em astray, can't stay in the concrete connivance no way, but
I end up in Siberia wearier than the dogs who run with the pack.
Looking back at the back of it
there's a lack of it, but I'll manage it and a carriage would help a bit to carry me home .
Jun 15, 2016
Jun 15, 2016 at 2:03 PM UTC
It's not related with being blazed, I swear
It's just the effect of homemade breakfast and inhalete its fragance
And hear the sizzle of the rain moaning through the window
It's the tender touch of my finger tips on the cat's ribs
The little holes on my socks where my feet breath
It´s the blood coming out from where I'd cut my nails too deep
The cobwebs shinning on the lamps
And the connivance with the ants and lizards in my room
It's the effect of laying on a bed of fresh sheets
Or surrender to the light of an insipid movie
It's rise my gaze at the glowing dampness of my ceiling
It's my house entering by my arteries and filling my rhyme's saturated ventricles
It's the vampire of the time & memory & mirrors & white rabbits & multicolor smiles of a tired sun
It's feel laughs in the silence and love in melancholia
By tomorrow I'll get out of my daily routine, I´d hope come back alive
Oct 17, 2017
Oct 17, 2017 at 6:21 PM UTC
In scrawling minor compositions,
Perhaps I now confirm
The scaling, swelling suppositions:
My residential term.
Fixated to the melting ***
My skin begins to squirm.
A duty to complete the plot.
Write, rinse, repeat.
Permit the fertile heart to rot.
Of all, my greatest feat
Was rearranging the pieces of mind,
Though the chest had ceased to beat.
Were I to leave them behind
(The colorful personas with whom
I’ve lived in kinship and kind:
The fruits of my creative womb),
They’d surely tread ahead in advance,
Before the sky could reach full bloom.
And when locked within a fictitious dance,
Each step to completion livens.
Cue a heartwarming, back-leading romance;
Take the hand of the contrivance.
Clad in black and instinct raw,
Grin in hand, mask the connivance.
Let barely slip the partial law
Of clinging to reality,
And delay, in turn, the denouement:
The fairness of causality.
I press my hand to a paper cheek
And grant it immortality.
At the height of passion, it seems to peak
The formation of each smiling crack.
Gift me the insanity to speak
To the fantasized cul-de-sac.
And yet, I again become human
When it does not answer back.
Aug 23, 2018
Aug 23, 2018 at 10:54 AM UTC
Hundred years from now I know,
Everything would have faded into oblivion,
But am sure the starry sky would show,
Two stars,you and me right along the meridian.
So different you are from us and god is all aware,
With a jovial heart and a mind free from fuss,
He has sent you for me to share.
You are not a challenge my dear,
But a blessing I should say,
With you as my pal so winsome so near,
Your amity till eternity I should pray.
Though your limbs Hale you back,
And impede you from treading far,
In life's literal track,
You mentor many to trudge and get at par.
All these days you have taught me right,
To stride firm on my path,
Both of us have seen life bright,
Condemning connivance and wrath.
In days to come I 'll be your shank,
Aiding you to tour the globe with hope,
Though I don't have words to thank,
Yet beseech your company even for my corpse.
Apr 6, 2018
Apr 6, 2018 at 12:03 AM UTC