"dantes" poems
Imperfect doesn't exist when it comes to you
to me you are impeccable in every
single
way.
In fact, you define it.
Perfection = You.
You make me feel like i'm enveloped in a fantasy.
The butterflies you give me,
that blushing smile you put on my face.
Did you know that you are
breathe-less
My cherished affection?
I would run a million miles just for you.
You are worth everything.
Whenever we are apart it is truly never the same.
I cannot imagine my life without you.
Meaningless is the world without you in it.
You give my heart purpose.
You give my life worth.
I know our love is rare.
I love you more as each day phases past.
Loving you less is not applicable
My emotion and passion is deeper than the last circle of Dantes Inferno.
Nothing in this distorted universe could describe the passion I contain for you.
That pumping muscle in my rib-cage keeping all that love.
It is the ticking time bomb not one man should fear.
My love is the unexplainable,
and the unexplained is the unexplained because
it is too much deep to comprehend.
You, and I create
We.
I love you.
Apr 21, 2012
Apr 21, 2012 at 9:39 PM UTC
It's not the fear that brings
about the images the painter
paints.
The words the writer writes.
The shapes the sculptor
sculpts.
Or the sounds the
musician brings.
It's the knowledge that there is more
than the trash filled gutters.
The windowless bars and
loveless street girls.
The foreign commerce you are
expected to buy and the life
you've been trained to sink
yourself into while still dreaming
of oh so much more.
Some gifts shine and cast rainbows
in the light and some gifts expose the
darkness we all know is there but still
refuse to see.
The masses look to make a Hero
out of the artist.
They set prices on the works
and attempt to understand the
view.
This craft here comes in waves.
All there is to do is
try to keep up with the demands
of this ongoing battle
for time.
Time to sacrifice more
to the machine.
Less time for all the bad things.
More time for the gift.
My need to shy away from
the crowds in order to
create hand woven magic in the
dark.
The need to challenge Platos
view.
The need to feel the numbing
cold of Dantes Hell.
The need to live out my days
in Bukowskis harsh vision
of the world.
The gears of their clocks
keep grinding.
Grinding like a junk yard tweekers
teeth.
My remaining pages remain
unfilled and the sun has already
set on my tomorrow.
Jun 19, 2015
Jun 19, 2015 at 11:15 AM UTC
Hault! For ye who gazed with awe in the depths of humanity.
Hault! For ye who trims the roses of Eden!
Hault! For ye who resights in deep meditation on the top of reeds tower.
Hault for ye who called upon Al-Assad.
Hault I say for vincent lost his faith and so will you!
Hault I say for I love him yet her too!
Hault I say for this generation of ****
Hault I say for all but one!.
My minds full of ideas
But surely you'll like none
Because they leave the chance of me becoming a helpless *** for the politict who thinks all must be rich, I think you're a cowardly *****
When the sun goes down, the moon must rise; and you say this is divine?
Dantes had it! Why should I not!?
Power and freedom is all I want
But to you man of the comittie, I'll do what I want- and I'll have no pity!.
By keone friesen.
Jan 17, 2014
Jan 17, 2014 at 9:27 PM UTC
This soul survives
on hope
alone.
Chained up and
burning.
tear stained and
laughing.
Shut out this version
of living and
blackout the time.
Artificial lighting
brightens nothing.
This unemotional winter
remains as unforgiving
as a vengeful heart.
I'm in the
midst of Dantes
version.
Chattering teeth,
blue black numbing
digits.
Curl into the corner
and pour it all
out in words.
Yesterdays thoughts
documented for a
better day.
Mutilated as
Van Gogh,
troubled as the
artist.
I'm aggressive with
this,
I have no other
choice but to
remain honest.
Accepted
the association
with failure.
Long to be
remembered
for this.
Mar 24, 2014
Mar 24, 2014 at 10:08 PM UTC
outside of my window
i watch the town turn into
a skeleton of the summertime
the trees have all starved themselves and withered away the road
covered in a dull cold fog
as if God himself ripped and erased the gold sketches of July
how odd I miss the afternoons I spent boxed in a cubicle
stacks and stacks of meaningless endless work on the edge of my desk,
like a poor boy in an assembly line
but when id come home
you'd lay me down like a hot cup of coffee
countdown my vertebrae with your fingertips
like a boy in an old attic
and i was your archive
i was that page in the encyclopedia
i was that record in the juxebox
and when id fall asleep, i was the kid on Christmas Eve
maybe the world around us was blazing in dantes inferno
maybe the world ran out of fossil fuel
countries filed bankrupt
the apocalypse begun
or aliens attacked
maybe everyone fled to the moon
and the earth was nothing but a disposable waste
but what would i care
under your arms
i didnt even
complain about
the weather
Jan 3, 2015
Jan 3, 2015 at 3:48 AM UTC
Confirmation of what I thought
Although I breath I'm just like Mort
Walk the earth day after day
A swinging brick keeps my pace
I don't blame others for my decent
I live in Dantes circled hell
I've lost count of which circle I'm in
No longer trying to reason it
The minutes hrs days the weeks
None belong in truth to me
We squeeze as much as we possibly can
Then the clock stops, goodbye my friends
So check and measure those vital signs
Just don't come and ask to ever check mine
Zombies are not the living dead
It's those who live within their heads
May 31, 2013
May 31, 2013 at 8:18 AM UTC
the count of monte cristo
sounds so much better after two
glasses of sweet wine, the rim
resting gently against chapter 5
“This philosophic reflection,” thought he, “will make a great sensation at M. de Saint–Meran’s;” and he arranged mentally, while Dantes awaited further questions, the antithesis by which orators often create a reputation for eloquence.
How great this will make me look, in other words,
this fine comparison between two similar things.
and I find myself smiling, like one would over
the renewal of past lovers, past books
the direct gaze of persons no longer
strangers, beneath waterfalls
wings spread
vaguely vulnerable
and somehow
liberated.
Sep 18, 2016
Sep 18, 2016 at 5:05 PM UTC
Just a throwaway poem
Not meant to mean anything
So if you've read it
You'll forget it
But I imagine fish out of water
She thought she did what's right
He seemed like a good guy
Now he's high as a kite
And somewhere there is a sun
That doesn't want to shine
Because the world below
Doesn't want a year without it
Well we've been to Dantes hell
Some got lost in the deepest part
But not me, no, never
I made it out
So that I could write throwaway poems
That no one should care about
Dec 1, 2015
Dec 1, 2015 at 3:55 PM UTC
Writing poetry is dead easy if you have two precious documents before your very eyes. The two documents in question are The Divine Comedy; by some 13th century Italian bloke called Dante Aligheri, and any copy of the Iliad that’s lying about the joint. You will also need a full-length mirror, a tin of Brasso and an English/Italian dictionary. When you have assembled this lot you can commence discovering whether or not you are a Dante, or just chancing your luck as a wannabe Homer
Having assembled all the necessary paraphernalia, you can begin your quest to become a poet, or discover that you are just another lost soul who wants to copyright spelling mistakes and grammatical errors in order to make a fortune from the literary outpourings of desperate to be Dantes everywhere. (Think about it, that’s not as dumb as it sounds nor is it as dumb as you will be if you attempt it.) That’s your first lesson in Danteness and Homericness. Writing literature is a paradoxical experience, and never a contradiction. So, you may have to shove Hegel out the window and line the floor of your pet hamster’s cage with the complete works of Marx.
Now you are approaching the very personal and very revealing bit of this exercise to discover whether you are a potential Dante or not. But, as always, there’s a but: before that, you may wish to check out a few historical precedents. Check out Chaucer Shakespreare. Milton, Pope. Shelley and Keats, and after the death of the Good Lord Byron, you might want to move abroad to Ireland and The USA, to get the best out of literature by having a glance at Yeats, Hopkins, Whitman and Emerson. Then there are a couple of Russian poets: Akhmatova and Ratushinskaya . Africa has the Nobel Laureate Soyinka, who shouldn’t be missed. Rabindrinath Tagore is beyond words and there is a Chinese poet named Wei Bo who is also a sublime read. World literature is like world music, a surprise around every corner-
Now this is the wonderful part of your poetic odyssey. At this point you get to look in the mirror, a lot. But first a word of caution: mirrors can be very strange, if not downright frightening things to see yourself reflected in. Put on your bravest countenance and look straight into the glacial glossy glare, and tell yourself you’re not scared of a piece of silver painted glassery that looks back at you every time you glance at it.
Aug 14, 2018
Aug 14, 2018 at 12:49 PM UTC