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"crag" poems
I see you, monster... In your sockets bore dead, dark eyes They hold the blackest of stares Nebulous swirling pits of demise Thin lips would spout the most sibilant of hisses Every so often would curl into a snarl Dry and chapped, almost unworthy of kisses Large, rough snout, jutting out like a crag You sniff around tirelessly for easy targets Preying on the unsuspecting minds of those under your flag Tapering chin, sprouting strands of coarse hair Unkempt and gritty from your last meal Decaying teeth, crooked due to little to no care Your face is cratered; tales of trying adolescent years Wearing a face only a mother could love Expressionless but it screams out your fears Ugly jointed limbs that grew out of sync Disproportionate, misshapen, grotesque Little noggin with sparse hair, packed within, a brain that thinks I hear you, monster... As you stalk your sleepless nights Nocturnal ambience be your playground Lurking in the dark; places with no light Bulky, heavy feet but deft and silent Can barely notice when you're up and about As if cloaked yourself stealthy, with steps ever transient Respire you do, exhaling breaths so gnarly Ingesting good air, converting into fervid, loathsome notions With which you paint a portrait so ghastly I feel you monster... Deep within the recesses of my heart Destroying and distorting all that was pure Testing my will till I should fall apart You're but the twisted manifestation of conscience Feeding on my trials and nurturing them into vile abominations I despise that of you but I seem to have developed dependence I see you, monster... You're horrid and beastly, an embodiment of absolute horror I await the day that you would finally dissolve For I am weary of seeing you staring back in the mirror
0
Sep 18, 2014
Sep 18, 2014 at 9:23 PM UTC
ryn
Monster
I see you, monster... In your sockets bore dead, dark eyes They hold the blackest of stares Nebulous swirling pits of demise Thin lips would spout the most sibilant of hisses Every so often would curl into a snarl Dry and chapped, almost unworthy of kisses Large, rough snout, jutting out like a crag You sniff around tirelessly for easy targets Preying on the unsuspecting minds of those under your flag Tapering chin, sprouting strands of coarse hair Unkempt and gritty from your last meal Decaying teeth, crooked due to little to no care Your face is cratered; tales of trying adolescent years Wearing a face only a mother could love Expressionless but it screams out your fears Ugly jointed limbs that grew out of sync Disproportionate, misshapen, grotesque Little noggin with sparse hair, packed within, a brain that thinks I hear you, monster... As you stalk your sleepless nights Nocturnal ambience be your playground Lurking in the dark; places with no light Bulky, heavy feet but deft and silent Can barely notice when you're up and about As if cloaked yourself stealthy, with steps ever transient Respire you do, exhaling breaths so gnarly Ingesting good air, converting into fervid, loathsome notions With which you paint a portrait so ghastly I feel you monster... Deep within the recesses of my heart Destroying and distorting all that was pure Testing my will till I should fall apart You're but the twisted manifestation of conscience Feeding on my trials and nurturing them into vile abominations I despise that of you but I seem to have developed dependence I see you, monster... You're horrid and beastly, an embodiment of absolute horror I await the day that you would finally dissolve For I am weary of seeing you staring back in the mirror
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40
122 A something in a summer’s Day As slow her flambeaux burn away Which solemnizes me. A something in a summer’s noon— A depth—an Azure—a perfume— Transcending ecstasy. And still within a summer’s night A something so transporting bright I clap my hands to see— Then veil my too inspecting face Lets such a subtle—shimmering grace Flutter too far for me— The wizard fingers never rest— The purple brook within the breast Still chafes it narrow bed— Still rears the East her amber Flag— Guides still the sun along the Crag His Caravan of Red— So looking on—the night—the morn Conclude the wonder gay— And I meet, coming thro’ the dews Another summer’s Day!
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7.5k
Emily Dickinson
A something in a summer’s Day
122 A something in a summer’s Day As slow her flambeaux burn away Which solemnizes me. A something in a summer’s noon— A depth—an Azure—a perfume— Transcending ecstasy. And still within a summer’s night A something so transporting bright I clap my hands to see— Then veil my too inspecting face Lets such a subtle—shimmering grace Flutter too far for me— The wizard fingers never rest— The purple brook within the breast Still chafes it narrow bed— Still rears the East her amber Flag— Guides still the sun along the Crag His Caravan of Red— So looking on—the night—the morn Conclude the wonder gay— And I meet, coming thro’ the dews Another summer’s Day!
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23
Underneath the leaves of life, Green on the prodigious tree, In a trance of grief Stand the fallen man and wife: Far away the single stag Banished to a lonely crag Gazes placid out to sea, And from thickets round about Breeding animals look in On Duality, And the birds fly in and out Of the world of man. Down in order from the ridge, Bayonets glittering in the sun, Soldiers who will judge Wind towards the little bridge: Even politicians speak Truths of value to the weak, Necessary acts are done By the ill and the unjust; But the Judgment and the Smile, Though these two-in-one See creation as they must, None shall reconcile. Bordering our middle earth Kingdoms of the Short and Tall, Rivals for our faith, Stir up envy from our birth: So the giant who storms the sky In an angry wish to die Wakes the hero in us all, While the tiny with their power To divide and hide and flee, When our fortunes fall Tempt to a belief in our Immortality. Lovers running each to each Feel such timid dreams catch fire Blazing as they touch, Learn what love alone can teach: Happy on a tousled bed Praise Blake's acumen who said: "One thing only we require Of each other; we must see In another's lineaments Gratified desire"; This is our humanity; Nothing else contents. Nowhere else could I have known Than, beloved, in your eyes What we have to learn, That we love ourselves alone: All our terrors burned away We can learn at last to say: "All our knowledge comes to this, That existence is enough, That in savage solitude Or the play of love Every living creature is Woman, Man, and Child."
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5.9k
W. H. Auden
The Riddle
Underneath the leaves of life, Green on the prodigious tree, In a trance of grief Stand the fallen man and wife: Far away the single stag Banished to a lonely crag Gazes placid out to sea, And from thickets round about Breeding animals look in On Duality, And the birds fly in and out Of the world of man. Down in order from the ridge, Bayonets glittering in the sun, Soldiers who will judge Wind towards the little bridge: Even politicians speak Truths of value to the weak, Necessary acts are done By the ill and the unjust; But the Judgment and the Smile, Though these two-in-one See creation as they must, None shall reconcile. Bordering our middle earth Kingdoms of the Short and Tall, Rivals for our faith, Stir up envy from our birth: So the giant who storms the sky In an angry wish to die Wakes the hero in us all, While the tiny with their power To divide and hide and flee, When our fortunes fall Tempt to a belief in our Immortality. Lovers running each to each Feel such timid dreams catch fire Blazing as they touch, Learn what love alone can teach: Happy on a tousled bed Praise Blake's acumen who said: "One thing only we require Of each other; we must see In another's lineaments Gratified desire"; This is our humanity; Nothing else contents. Nowhere else could I have known Than, beloved, in your eyes What we have to learn, That we love ourselves alone: All our terrors burned away We can learn at last to say: "All our knowledge comes to this, That existence is enough, That in savage solitude Or the play of love Every living creature is Woman, Man, and Child."
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60
He clasps the crag with crooked hands; Close to the sun in lonely lands, Ring'd with the azure world, he stands. The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls; He watches from his mountain walls, And like a thunderbolt he falls.
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4.5k
Alfred Lord Tennyson
The Eagle
He clasps the crag with crooked hands; Close to the sun in lonely lands, Ring'd with the azure world, he stands. The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls; He watches from his mountain walls, And like a thunderbolt he falls.
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6
He clasps the crag with crooked hands; Close to the sun in lonely lands, Ring'd with the azure world, he stands. The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls; He watches from his mountain walls, And like a thunderbolt he falls.
0
4.3k
Alfred Lord Tennyson
The Eagle (a fragment)
He clasps the crag with crooked hands; Close to the sun in lonely lands, Ring'd with the azure world, he stands. The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls; He watches from his mountain walls, And like a thunderbolt he falls.
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6
crested crag-spines rising bones fierce of ancient dragons calling out to Naga **~~~~~~~~~ Return ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~** *Bloom  feminine essence, Flow ! Feed my ancient undulations* wearied now to hills sighing down with last exhaled memory of color washed, washed, baked by endless sun
0
Mar 17, 2017
Mar 17, 2017 at 7:15 PM UTC
kmae
Mojave
crested crag-spines rising bones fierce of ancient dragons calling out to Naga **~~~~~~~~~ Return ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~** *Bloom  feminine essence, Flow ! Feed my ancient undulations* wearied now to hills sighing down with last exhaled memory of color washed, washed, baked by endless sun
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13
NAY! swear no more, thou woman whom I called Star, Empress, Wife! Were Dian's self to lean From her white altar and with goddess lip Swear thee as pure as her pale breast divine, I could not deem thee purer than I know Thou art indeed. Once, when my triumphs rolled Along old Rome and blood of roses washed The battle-stains from off my chariot-wheels, And triumph's thunders round my legions roared, And kings in kingly ******* golden bound Shook at my charger's foot, past the hot din Of Victory-whose heart of golden pride in wound Most subtly through with fire of subtlest pain- My soul on prouder pinion rose above The Roman shouting, to an air more clear Than that Jove darks with hurtling thunderbolts, Or stains with Jovian revels-that separate sphere, Unshared of gods or man, where thy white feet Caught their sole staining from my ruddy heart, Blazing beneath them; where, when Rome looked up, 'Twas with the eyes close shaded with the hand, As at some glory terrible and pure,- For no man being pure, a terror dwells Holy and awful in a sinless thing- And Caesar's wife, the Empress-Matron, sat Above a doubt-as high above a stain. Nay! how know I what hell first belched abroad Tall flames and slanderous vomitings of smoke, Blown by infernal breathings, till they scaled Thy throne of whiteness, and the very slaves Who crouched in Roman kennels wagged the tongue Against the wife of Caesar: 'Ha! we need not now And opal-shaded stone wherewith to view A stainless glory.' In that day my neck Was bound and yoked with my twin-Caesar's yoke- Man's master, Sorrow. I know thee pure- But Caesar's wife must throne herself so high Upon the hills that touch their snowy crests So close on Heaven that no slanderous Hell Can dash its lava up their swelling sides. I love thee, woman, know thee pure, but thou No more art wife of Caesar. Get thee hence! My heart is hardened as a lonely crag, Grey granite lifted to a greyer sky, And where against its solitary crown Eternal thunders bellow.
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3.7k
Isabella Valancy Crawford
Caesar's Wife
NAY! swear no more, thou woman whom I called Star, Empress, Wife! Were Dian's self to lean From her white altar and with goddess lip Swear thee as pure as her pale breast divine, I could not deem thee purer than I know Thou art indeed. Once, when my triumphs rolled Along old Rome and blood of roses washed The battle-stains from off my chariot-wheels, And triumph's thunders round my legions roared, And kings in kingly ******* golden bound Shook at my charger's foot, past the hot din Of Victory-whose heart of golden pride in wound Most subtly through with fire of subtlest pain- My soul on prouder pinion rose above The Roman shouting, to an air more clear Than that Jove darks with hurtling thunderbolts, Or stains with Jovian revels-that separate sphere, Unshared of gods or man, where thy white feet Caught their sole staining from my ruddy heart, Blazing beneath them; where, when Rome looked up, 'Twas with the eyes close shaded with the hand, As at some glory terrible and pure,- For no man being pure, a terror dwells Holy and awful in a sinless thing- And Caesar's wife, the Empress-Matron, sat Above a doubt-as high above a stain. Nay! how know I what hell first belched abroad Tall flames and slanderous vomitings of smoke, Blown by infernal breathings, till they scaled Thy throne of whiteness, and the very slaves Who crouched in Roman kennels wagged the tongue Against the wife of Caesar: 'Ha! we need not now And opal-shaded stone wherewith to view A stainless glory.' In that day my neck Was bound and yoked with my twin-Caesar's yoke- Man's master, Sorrow. I know thee pure- But Caesar's wife must throne herself so high Upon the hills that touch their snowy crests So close on Heaven that no slanderous Hell Can dash its lava up their swelling sides. I love thee, woman, know thee pure, but thou No more art wife of Caesar. Get thee hence! My heart is hardened as a lonely crag, Grey granite lifted to a greyer sky, And where against its solitary crown Eternal thunders bellow.
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48
For, a four legged companion, A solitary Gravel smoked voice clips instructions, Harsh sharp whistles echo cross the valley floor, Emitted by crag worn features. Piercing eyes, sun bleached. Skin hewn by dry stone walls. Hands created by granite. Coarse tousled hair guards against howling winds. The hardworking man at peace with his surrounds. © Nick Strong 2014
0
Jan 25, 2014
Jan 25, 2014 at 3:06 PM UTC
nick-strong
The Shepherd
For, a four legged companion, A solitary Gravel smoked voice clips instructions, Harsh sharp whistles echo cross the valley floor, Emitted by crag worn features. Piercing eyes, sun bleached. Skin hewn by dry stone walls. Hands created by granite. Coarse tousled hair guards against howling winds. The hardworking man at peace with his surrounds. © Nick Strong 2014
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11
Two old Bachelors were living in one house; One caught a Muffin, the other caught a Mouse. Said he who caught the Muffin to him who caught the Mouse,-- 'This happens just in time! For we've nothing in the house, 'Save a tiny slice of lemon nd a teaspoonful of honey, 'And what to do for dinner--since we haven't any money? 'And what can we expect if we haven't any dinner, 'But to loose our teeth and eyelashes and keep on growing thinner?' Said he who caught the Mouse to him who caught the Muffin,-- 'We might cook this little Mouse, if we had only some Stuffin'! 'If we had but Sage andOnion we could do extremely well, 'But how to get that Stuffin' it is difficult to tell'-- Those two old Bachelors ran quickly to the town And asked for Sage and Onions as they wandered up and down; They borrowed two large Onions, but no Sage was to be found In the Shops, or in the Market, or in all the Gardens round. But some one said,--'A hill there is, a little to the north, 'And to its purpledicular top a narrow way leads forth;-- 'And there among the rugged rocks abides an ancient Sage,-- 'An earnest Man, who reads all day a most perplexing page. 'Climb up, and seize him by the toes!--all studious as he sits,-- 'And pull him down,--and chop him into endless little bits! 'Then mix him with your Onion, (cut up likewise into Scraps,)-- 'When your Stuffin' will be ready--and very good: perhaps.' Those two old Bachelors without loss of time The nearly purpledicular crags at once began to climb; And at the top, among the rocks, all seated in a nook, They saw that Sage, a reading of a most enormous book. 'You earnest Sage!' aloud they cried, 'your book you've read enough in!-- 'We wish to chop you into bits to mix you into Stuffin'!'-- But that old Sage looked calmly up, and with his awful book, At those two Bachelors' bald heads a certain aim he took;-- and over crag and precipice they rolled promiscuous down,-- At once they rolled, and never stopped in lane or field or town,-- And when they reached their house, they found (besides their want of Stuffin',) The Mouse had fled;--and, previously, had eaten up the Muffin. They left their home in silence by the once convivial door. And from that hour those Bachelors were never heard of more.
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3k
Edward Lear
The Two Old Bachelors
Two old Bachelors were living in one house; One caught a Muffin, the other caught a Mouse. Said he who caught the Muffin to him who caught the Mouse,-- 'This happens just in time! For we've nothing in the house, 'Save a tiny slice of lemon nd a teaspoonful of honey, 'And what to do for dinner--since we haven't any money? 'And what can we expect if we haven't any dinner, 'But to loose our teeth and eyelashes and keep on growing thinner?' Said he who caught the Mouse to him who caught the Muffin,-- 'We might cook this little Mouse, if we had only some Stuffin'! 'If we had but Sage andOnion we could do extremely well, 'But how to get that Stuffin' it is difficult to tell'-- Those two old Bachelors ran quickly to the town And asked for Sage and Onions as they wandered up and down; They borrowed two large Onions, but no Sage was to be found In the Shops, or in the Market, or in all the Gardens round. But some one said,--'A hill there is, a little to the north, 'And to its purpledicular top a narrow way leads forth;-- 'And there among the rugged rocks abides an ancient Sage,-- 'An earnest Man, who reads all day a most perplexing page. 'Climb up, and seize him by the toes!--all studious as he sits,-- 'And pull him down,--and chop him into endless little bits! 'Then mix him with your Onion, (cut up likewise into Scraps,)-- 'When your Stuffin' will be ready--and very good: perhaps.' Those two old Bachelors without loss of time The nearly purpledicular crags at once began to climb; And at the top, among the rocks, all seated in a nook, They saw that Sage, a reading of a most enormous book. 'You earnest Sage!' aloud they cried, 'your book you've read enough in!-- 'We wish to chop you into bits to mix you into Stuffin'!'-- But that old Sage looked calmly up, and with his awful book, At those two Bachelors' bald heads a certain aim he took;-- and over crag and precipice they rolled promiscuous down,-- At once they rolled, and never stopped in lane or field or town,-- And when they reached their house, they found (besides their want of Stuffin',) The Mouse had fled;--and, previously, had eaten up the Muffin. They left their home in silence by the once convivial door. And from that hour those Bachelors were never heard of more.
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38
396 There is a Languor of the Life More imminent than Pain— ’Tis Pain’s Successor—When the Soul Has suffered all it can— A Drowsiness—diffuses— A Dimness like a Fog Envelops Consciousness— As Mists—obliterate a Crag. The Surgeon—does not blanch—at pain His Habit—is severe— But tell him that it ceased to feel— The Creature lying there— And he will tell you—skill is late— A Mightier than He— Has ministered before Him— There’s no Vitality.
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2.8k
Emily Dickinson
There is a Languor of the Life
396 There is a Languor of the Life More imminent than Pain— ’Tis Pain’s Successor—When the Soul Has suffered all it can— A Drowsiness—diffuses— A Dimness like a Fog Envelops Consciousness— As Mists—obliterate a Crag. The Surgeon—does not blanch—at pain His Habit—is severe— But tell him that it ceased to feel— The Creature lying there— And he will tell you—skill is late— A Mightier than He— Has ministered before Him— There’s no Vitality.
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17
9 Through lane it lay—through bramble— Through clearing and through wood— Banditti often passed us Upon the lonely road. The wolf came peering curious— The owl looked puzzled down— The serpent’s satin figure Glid stealthily along— The tempests touched our garments— The lightning’s poinards gleamed— Fierce from the Crag above us The hungry Vulture screamed— The satyr’s fingers beckoned— The valley murmured “Come”— These were the mates— This was the road Those children fluttered home.
0
2.8k
Emily Dickinson
Through lane it lay—through bramble
9 Through lane it lay—through bramble— Through clearing and through wood— Banditti often passed us Upon the lonely road. The wolf came peering curious— The owl looked puzzled down— The serpent’s satin figure Glid stealthily along— The tempests touched our garments— The lightning’s poinards gleamed— Fierce from the Crag above us The hungry Vulture screamed— The satyr’s fingers beckoned— The valley murmured “Come”— These were the mates— This was the road Those children fluttered home.
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18
I watch her move like smoke dancing off a torrid ember. The earth weeps knowing that there will never be anything quite as beautiful as her, and it weeps at the fact that her last moments are filled with panic and fright. she cuts through her nefarious foe like the ocean spray that slices its way through crag rock to dampen a once dry space. She falls to darkness, with the searing pain of a slicing blade, but she will not cry, beg nor give in. She welcomes death as a dear friend, and looks to the light of the world beyond.
0
May 18, 2015
May 18, 2015 at 12:23 PM UTC
CarsonHurley
The warrior within
I watch her move like smoke dancing off a torrid ember. The earth weeps knowing that there will never be anything quite as beautiful as her, and it weeps at the fact that her last moments are filled with panic and fright. she cuts through her nefarious foe like the ocean spray that slices its way through crag rock to dampen a once dry space. She falls to darkness, with the searing pain of a slicing blade, but she will not cry, beg nor give in. She welcomes death as a dear friend, and looks to the light of the world beyond.
Continue reading...
21
A stapel river flows in Hyena pack, rivulets of laughing data. Twist a turn to deconvolute destituted band. From arterial ort to capillary place respires a quantal love. Quid non quo flows, trickling down in plain flat, in crevice crag, filling just enough. Fresh down to Mexican border town, in flooding estuaries, in fanning delta, it breezes meta confidence within six Sigma.
0
Feb 7, 2013
Feb 7, 2013 at 8:34 PM UTC
jojo-nguyen
Mexican Border town
A stapel river flows in Hyena pack, rivulets of laughing data. Twist a turn to deconvolute destituted band. From arterial ort to capillary place respires a quantal love. Quid non quo flows, trickling down in plain flat, in crevice crag, filling just enough. Fresh down to Mexican border town, in flooding estuaries, in fanning delta, it breezes meta confidence within six Sigma.
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22
Aiming for the stars, I end up in the atmosphere. Where the oxygen is thin and all I can do is try to keep breathing. Diving to the unknown, I end up in the murky depths. Where the pressure is immense and all I can do is try not to implode. Climbing for the peak, I end up in a rocky crag. Where every turn could hurt me and all i can to is try not to get cut.
0
Sep 13, 2014
Sep 13, 2014 at 8:07 PM UTC
tonidanielle
One Wrong Turn
Aiming for the stars, I end up in the atmosphere. Where the oxygen is thin and all I can do is try to keep breathing. Diving to the unknown, I end up in the murky depths. Where the pressure is immense and all I can do is try not to implode. Climbing for the peak, I end up in a rocky crag. Where every turn could hurt me and all i can to is try not to get cut.
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12
THE MOUTH of this man is a gaunt strong mouth. The head of this man is a gaunt strong head. The jaws of this man are bone of the Rocky Mountains, the Appalachians. The eyes of this man are chlorine of two sobbing oceans, Foam, salt, green, wind, the changing unknown. The neck of this man is pith of buffalo prairie, old longing and new beckoning of corn belt or cotton belt, Either a proud Sequoia trunk of the wilderness Or huddling lumber of a sawmill waiting to be a roof. Brother mystery to man and mob mystery, Brother cryptic to lifted cryptic hands, He is night and abyss, he is white sky of sun, he is the head of the people. The heart of him the red drops of the people, The wish of him the steady gray-eagle crag-hunting flights of the people. Humble dust of a wheel-worn road, Slashed sod under the iron-shining plow, These of service in him, these and many cities, many borders, many wrangles between Alaska and the Isthmus, between the Isthmus and the Horn, and east and west of Omaha, and east and west of Paris, Berlin, Petrograd. The blood in his right wrist and the blood in his left wrist run with the right wrist wisdom of the many and the left wrist wisdom of the many. It is the many he knows, the gaunt strong hunger of the many.
0
2.3k
Carl Sandburg
A Tall Man
THE MOUTH of this man is a gaunt strong mouth. The head of this man is a gaunt strong head. The jaws of this man are bone of the Rocky Mountains, the Appalachians. The eyes of this man are chlorine of two sobbing oceans, Foam, salt, green, wind, the changing unknown. The neck of this man is pith of buffalo prairie, old longing and new beckoning of corn belt or cotton belt, Either a proud Sequoia trunk of the wilderness Or huddling lumber of a sawmill waiting to be a roof. Brother mystery to man and mob mystery, Brother cryptic to lifted cryptic hands, He is night and abyss, he is white sky of sun, he is the head of the people. The heart of him the red drops of the people, The wish of him the steady gray-eagle crag-hunting flights of the people. Humble dust of a wheel-worn road, Slashed sod under the iron-shining plow, These of service in him, these and many cities, many borders, many wrangles between Alaska and the Isthmus, between the Isthmus and the Horn, and east and west of Omaha, and east and west of Paris, Berlin, Petrograd. The blood in his right wrist and the blood in his left wrist run with the right wrist wisdom of the many and the left wrist wisdom of the many. It is the many he knows, the gaunt strong hunger of the many.
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18
got so drunk at their little, ahem, initiation ceremony: drank a bottle of whiskey when i heard we were going clubbing wearing lycra shorts... the man with the biggest bulge and the biggest stick... never understood male group psychology... or any group psychology for that matter... it isn't exactly a throng of noblemen following Henry VIII. i joined the lacrosse university team for a bit, left it when the time came to buy the equipment - i didn't think getting smacked by the defenders' longer sticks was worth it, to be a striker with the shortest stick - too physical - i thought i'd seek some other physicality, got stuck-up on rock climbing, and mountaineering for a while, nothing serious, a bit of easy bouldering on the edinbrugh crag, the one lining the skyline at holyrood park, the salisbury crag, just west of arthur's seat - i'm not going to lie about clinging off the matterhorn or something - but i did an expedition with the mountaineering club near Ben Nevis once... Glen Coe / Coire nan Lochan... and i figured, with all this talk of light pollution, well, "pollution", to think that a bunch of street lamps can blind away the stars of what former poets spoke of: about the illumination of the heavens for the blind eye to see... we camped outside one bothy (basic shelter) set off fireworks, drank whiskey, played music, burnt a fire in the bothy... but to be honest... i was not amused by this whole theory of light pollution... i looked up at the sky, and the number of stars was no greater than the number seen in a bright lit city... i know they say all those telescopes amplify the chance of peering into the heavens at night and see more stars... but why cite light pollution, when, in a remote highland hideout the number of stars didn't increase in number... i've heard a girl from australia cite that, in the outback she said more stars could be seen... even without a telescope... so the scottish highlands are unlike the australian outback? is it just me... or is it simply ******** this whole light pollution argument? it was dark out there like in an **** after black coffee and charcoal tablets.
0
Apr 8, 2016
Apr 8, 2016 at 6:45 PM UTC
removed.polaroid-scrabble
after black coffee & charcoal tablets
got so drunk at their little, ahem, initiation ceremony: drank a bottle of whiskey when i heard we were going clubbing wearing lycra shorts... the man with the biggest bulge and the biggest stick... never understood male group psychology... or any group psychology for that matter... it isn't exactly a throng of noblemen following Henry VIII. i joined the lacrosse university team for a bit, left it when the time came to buy the equipment - i didn't think getting smacked by the defenders' longer sticks was worth it, to be a striker with the shortest stick - too physical - i thought i'd seek some other physicality, got stuck-up on rock climbing, and mountaineering for a while, nothing serious, a bit of easy bouldering on the edinbrugh crag, the one lining the skyline at holyrood park, the salisbury crag, just west of arthur's seat - i'm not going to lie about clinging off the matterhorn or something - but i did an expedition with the mountaineering club near Ben Nevis once... Glen Coe / Coire nan Lochan... and i figured, with all this talk of light pollution, well, "pollution", to think that a bunch of street lamps can blind away the stars of what former poets spoke of: about the illumination of the heavens for the blind eye to see... we camped outside one bothy (basic shelter) set off fireworks, drank whiskey, played music, burnt a fire in the bothy... but to be honest... i was not amused by this whole theory of light pollution... i looked up at the sky, and the number of stars was no greater than the number seen in a bright lit city... i know they say all those telescopes amplify the chance of peering into the heavens at night and see more stars... but why cite light pollution, when, in a remote highland hideout the number of stars didn't increase in number... i've heard a girl from australia cite that, in the outback she said more stars could be seen... even without a telescope... so the scottish highlands are unlike the australian outback? is it just me... or is it simply ******** this whole light pollution argument? it was dark out there like in an **** after black coffee and charcoal tablets.
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44
bottlerocket, ski click & shoot. [empress impressed.] petrol souls drift the skin & aetherous of our holy mother lake midday. by alpine, lymph node, spine of glimmering fish; i never truly thought that love could destroy. [to display the paradise boon and boom salute.] her knife atop the stump. * yon machines construct art-form of reservoir (yon being short for yonder), knee-boarder-boy wake to wake, he wags his tail when he dreams. [lakeside.] tribal the beach: a family drunk on juiceboxes. rolling rocks. tall boys & boulders/ bountiful canyon kids with their beautiful gasping dogs. ****** knee **** and gallop at the foot of a mountain/mound & sugar ants stomped, longing to empire. mom bunches her fists into sand of stolen crag, listening closely for her childhood in the whistle of a casio conch. margaritaville will do. [to **** or kiss beetles.] kiss; the bitty prince. maintain a steady alliance with all lifeforms and flora. life is programmed as thus; algorithm of love. bright honeydew soaked slabs of wood, or plank, tabletop treatise. wet pile of seeds. young small birds hoard seeds for winter; teeter into spring; & upon summer find solace in swift slip-n-slide daylights.
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Sep 27, 2015
Sep 27, 2015 at 7:35 AM UTC
CoopLee
algorithm of love
bottlerocket, ski click & shoot. [empress impressed.] petrol souls drift the skin & aetherous of our holy mother lake midday. by alpine, lymph node, spine of glimmering fish; i never truly thought that love could destroy. [to display the paradise boon and boom salute.] her knife atop the stump. * yon machines construct art-form of reservoir (yon being short for yonder), knee-boarder-boy wake to wake, he wags his tail when he dreams. [lakeside.] tribal the beach: a family drunk on juiceboxes. rolling rocks. tall boys & boulders/ bountiful canyon kids with their beautiful gasping dogs. ****** knee **** and gallop at the foot of a mountain/mound & sugar ants stomped, longing to empire. mom bunches her fists into sand of stolen crag, listening closely for her childhood in the whistle of a casio conch. margaritaville will do. [to **** or kiss beetles.] kiss; the bitty prince. maintain a steady alliance with all lifeforms and flora. life is programmed as thus; algorithm of love. bright honeydew soaked slabs of wood, or plank, tabletop treatise. wet pile of seeds. young small birds hoard seeds for winter; teeter into spring; & upon summer find solace in swift slip-n-slide daylights.
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38
--To M. M. M'B. Above the Crags that fade and gloom Starts the bare knee of Arthur's Seat; Ridged high against the evening bloom, The Old Town rises, street on street; With lamps bejewelled, straight ahead, Like rampired walls the houses lean, All spired and domed and turreted, Sheer to the valley's darkling green; Ranged in mysterious disarray, The Castle, menacing and austere, Looms through the lingering last of day; And in the silver dusk you hear, Reverberated from crag and scar, Bold bugles blowing points of war.
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2k
William Ernest Henley
From A Window In Princes Street
--To M. M. M'B. Above the Crags that fade and gloom Starts the bare knee of Arthur's Seat; Ridged high against the evening bloom, The Old Town rises, street on street; With lamps bejewelled, straight ahead, Like rampired walls the houses lean, All spired and domed and turreted, Sheer to the valley's darkling green; Ranged in mysterious disarray, The Castle, menacing and austere, Looms through the lingering last of day; And in the silver dusk you hear, Reverberated from crag and scar, Bold bugles blowing points of war.
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15
a bedtime story In the distance stands a lighthouse seeing all with cyclops eye once a beacon, now a hollow, dead in misted moonlit sky. Proudly once she ruled the headland, warning all of crag and shoal trusted friend to salt scoured sea dogs, smugglers caught within her glow. Beauty lived as Keepers mistress 'till one day her love did bloom walking clifftops with her lover brought her ending, far too soon. Bloodied, torn by cliff face ragged screaming for the life she craved, Beauty held her rounded belly As fury deep hit waters grave. Beauty stands alone in darkness there above the tempest sea bloated souls of those who perished now her only company.  When the moon is high above us wrapped in rags and witching stare Beauty stands atop the catwalk weeds 'a winding through her hair.
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Jul 2, 2014
Jul 2, 2014 at 5:15 PM UTC
calpurnia-mockingbird
The ballad of Beauty
a bedtime story In the distance stands a lighthouse seeing all with cyclops eye once a beacon, now a hollow, dead in misted moonlit sky. Proudly once she ruled the headland, warning all of crag and shoal trusted friend to salt scoured sea dogs, smugglers caught within her glow. Beauty lived as Keepers mistress 'till one day her love did bloom walking clifftops with her lover brought her ending, far too soon. Bloodied, torn by cliff face ragged screaming for the life she craved, Beauty held her rounded belly As fury deep hit waters grave. Beauty stands alone in darkness there above the tempest sea bloated souls of those who perished now her only company.  When the moon is high above us wrapped in rags and witching stare Beauty stands atop the catwalk weeds 'a winding through her hair.
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25
Perched high on a crag,                                                                            legs poised to spring,                               hearts beating wildly                                                                                    as we take to the wing                     catching warm thermals,                                                                                        to float on thin air,                                    taking breath quickly,                                                                                               hardly any to spare                    Now is the time,                                                                            wings spread out wide                              a smooth operation,                                                     to bank as we glide.                                     Flowing the motion,                       as fluidity is key,                                       we land, we devour,  for Vultures we be… LadyP©2014
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Feb 26, 2014
Feb 26, 2014 at 7:43 AM UTC
penny-granger
Natures Cleaners...
Perched high on a crag,                                                                            legs poised to spring,                               hearts beating wildly                                                                                    as we take to the wing                     catching warm thermals,                                                                                        to float on thin air,                                    taking breath quickly,                                                                                               hardly any to spare                    Now is the time,                                                                            wings spread out wide                              a smooth operation,                                                     to bank as we glide.                                     Flowing the motion,                       as fluidity is key,                                       we land, we devour,  for Vultures we be… LadyP©2014
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16
Among the mountains I wandered and saw blue haze and red crag and was amazed; On the beach where the long push under the endless tide maneuvers, I stood silent; Under the stars on the prairie watching the Dipper slant over the horizon's grass, I was full of thoughts. Great men, pageants of war and labor, soldiers and workers, mothers lifting their children--these all I touched, and felt the solemn thrill of them. And then one day I got a true look at the Poor, millions of the Poor, patient and toiling; more patient than crags, tides, and stars; innumerable, patient as the darkness of night--and all broken, humble ruins of nations.
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1.8k
Carl Sandburg
Masses
Among the mountains I wandered and saw blue haze and red crag and was amazed; On the beach where the long push under the endless tide maneuvers, I stood silent; Under the stars on the prairie watching the Dipper slant over the horizon's grass, I was full of thoughts. Great men, pageants of war and labor, soldiers and workers, mothers lifting their children--these all I touched, and felt the solemn thrill of them. And then one day I got a true look at the Poor, millions of the Poor, patient and toiling; more patient than crags, tides, and stars; innumerable, patient as the darkness of night--and all broken, humble ruins of nations.
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13
In the midst of everything I linger and stare at pallor stranger passing by and I gather thoughts with eager ease; hungry prey with moistly lips Awaiting on some lonely stroll with woman-hood not far behind and look upon her nightly walk her path I follow with gazing stare Better days, her beauty speaks; returning from some horrid dream of young fantasy at home she left longing to be with shining gleam in my stranger twinkling eye Not knowing that our paths will cross she does not weep for love that was but dreams lightly of love anew When I pass with tender step from staring silent on my stoop I hunger lust forevermore and wildly I shall proceed Succumb to me my little bird like melody on palisade, and sing me songs of kingly halls that echo deep in eternal crag In darkness feast I shall on her in waking dream I shall become until too late the deed is done in nightmare lover's hands lay still Oft these thoughts of wanton things that tend to drive my waxing dreams waning not this horrid inkling monstrous thoughts with monstrous wings Barking mad in empty head this wretched thing it does not sleep to leave me be I wish it now and bother some more lurid soul and cast down he from highest steed from peak to deep by cavern cold chasm wide like open arms embracing the forgettable the last of man will lay at rest his voice will wring among the stars his body lay beneath the ground his mind that murmurs in the void Mortality shall be driven aft to deeply bowels of hubris Hell where no man can utter cry of wanton deed or lustful way Where the tallest man to walk the Earth is the tallest man to stand beneath it All the while his heavenly thirst is nothing short of bliss
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Dec 1, 2012
Dec 1, 2012 at 8:50 PM UTC
michael-sinclaire
A Monster for Real
In the midst of everything I linger and stare at pallor stranger passing by and I gather thoughts with eager ease; hungry prey with moistly lips Awaiting on some lonely stroll with woman-hood not far behind and look upon her nightly walk her path I follow with gazing stare Better days, her beauty speaks; returning from some horrid dream of young fantasy at home she left longing to be with shining gleam in my stranger twinkling eye Not knowing that our paths will cross she does not weep for love that was but dreams lightly of love anew When I pass with tender step from staring silent on my stoop I hunger lust forevermore and wildly I shall proceed Succumb to me my little bird like melody on palisade, and sing me songs of kingly halls that echo deep in eternal crag In darkness feast I shall on her in waking dream I shall become until too late the deed is done in nightmare lover's hands lay still Oft these thoughts of wanton things that tend to drive my waxing dreams waning not this horrid inkling monstrous thoughts with monstrous wings Barking mad in empty head this wretched thing it does not sleep to leave me be I wish it now and bother some more lurid soul and cast down he from highest steed from peak to deep by cavern cold chasm wide like open arms embracing the forgettable the last of man will lay at rest his voice will wring among the stars his body lay beneath the ground his mind that murmurs in the void Mortality shall be driven aft to deeply bowels of hubris Hell where no man can utter cry of wanton deed or lustful way Where the tallest man to walk the Earth is the tallest man to stand beneath it All the while his heavenly thirst is nothing short of bliss
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58
The upland flocks grew starved and thinned: Their shepherds scarce could feed the lambs Whose milkless mothers butted them, Or who were orphaned of their dams. The lambs athirst for mother's milk Filled all the place with piteous sounds: Their mothers' bones made white for miles The pastureless wet pasture grounds. Day after day, night after night, From lamb to lamb the shepherds went, With teapots for the bleating mouths Instead of nature's nourishment. The little shivering gaping things Soon knew the step that brought them aid, And fondled the protecting hand, And rubbed it with a woolly head. Then, as the days waxed on to weeks, It was a pretty sight to see These lambs with frisky heads and tails Skipping and leaping on the lea, Bleating in tender, trustful tones, Resting on rocky crag or mound, And following the beloved feet That once had sought for them and found. These very shepherds of their flocks, These loving lambs so meek to please, Are worthy of recording words And honor in their due degrees: So I might live a hundred years, And roam from strand to foreign strand, Yet not forget this flooded spring And scarce-saved lambs of Westmoreland.
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1.8k
Christina Rossetti
The Lambs Of Grasmere, 1860
The upland flocks grew starved and thinned: Their shepherds scarce could feed the lambs Whose milkless mothers butted them, Or who were orphaned of their dams. The lambs athirst for mother's milk Filled all the place with piteous sounds: Their mothers' bones made white for miles The pastureless wet pasture grounds. Day after day, night after night, From lamb to lamb the shepherds went, With teapots for the bleating mouths Instead of nature's nourishment. The little shivering gaping things Soon knew the step that brought them aid, And fondled the protecting hand, And rubbed it with a woolly head. Then, as the days waxed on to weeks, It was a pretty sight to see These lambs with frisky heads and tails Skipping and leaping on the lea, Bleating in tender, trustful tones, Resting on rocky crag or mound, And following the beloved feet That once had sought for them and found. These very shepherds of their flocks, These loving lambs so meek to please, Are worthy of recording words And honor in their due degrees: So I might live a hundred years, And roam from strand to foreign strand, Yet not forget this flooded spring And scarce-saved lambs of Westmoreland.
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32
Unburied tomorrow from Christian metanarratives the mid-winter solstice.           December 21;            the shortest day        over the longest night. Two lovers                are by the Channel                     divided                          to different beds                                 to tongue tastes                                         to timed beats                                                      to unfamiliar scents                                           as Yuletide days                      burn twelfths to gray ash;               their bodies          are sea cleaved. Come! cross the water and release with lively touch tresses thick and winter's dew, unctuous upon the crag, the timely solar orb to stir the frozen ground on our rocky shelves and chopped bowels. On 25th, Christ's star is risen: the king's light dispersed    in lengthening days    in opened flesh    in loosening chords untied    in sinews gnawed through    in desire's wanting hotly flayed! 60 seconds were daily added, to when in the 100 Year Gallery,   love to know, would in solstice ultimately lay. For now as then, our emboldened play in days delayed has been love's lacerating torment!
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Jan 1, 2019
Jan 1, 2019 at 12:05 AM UTC
ashleyq5
Love Unburied
Unburied tomorrow from Christian metanarratives the mid-winter solstice.           December 21;            the shortest day        over the longest night. Two lovers                are by the Channel                     divided                          to different beds                                 to tongue tastes                                         to timed beats                                                      to unfamiliar scents                                           as Yuletide days                      burn twelfths to gray ash;               their bodies          are sea cleaved. Come! cross the water and release with lively touch tresses thick and winter's dew, unctuous upon the crag, the timely solar orb to stir the frozen ground on our rocky shelves and chopped bowels. On 25th, Christ's star is risen: the king's light dispersed    in lengthening days    in opened flesh    in loosening chords untied    in sinews gnawed through    in desire's wanting hotly flayed! 60 seconds were daily added, to when in the 100 Year Gallery,   love to know, would in solstice ultimately lay. For now as then, our emboldened play in days delayed has been love's lacerating torment!
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49
O world, I cannot hold thee close enough! Thy winds, thy wide grey skies! Thy mists, that roll and rise! Thy woods, this autumn day, that ache and sag And all but cry with colour! That gaunt crag To crush! To lift the lean of that black bluff! World, World, I cannot get thee close enough! Long have I known a glory in it all, But never knew I this; Here such a passion is As stretcheth me apart,—Lord, I do fear Thou’st made the world too beautiful this year; My soul is all but out of me,—let fall No burning leaf; prithee, let no bird call.
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1.7k
Edna St. Vincent Millay
God’s World
O world, I cannot hold thee close enough! Thy winds, thy wide grey skies! Thy mists, that roll and rise! Thy woods, this autumn day, that ache and sag And all but cry with colour! That gaunt crag To crush! To lift the lean of that black bluff! World, World, I cannot get thee close enough! Long have I known a glory in it all, But never knew I this; Here such a passion is As stretcheth me apart,—Lord, I do fear Thou’st made the world too beautiful this year; My soul is all but out of me,—let fall No burning leaf; prithee, let no bird call.
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14