"darius" poems - Hello Poetry

The imaginers of now were children once, each day they each imagined tomorrow. Their daddies had just won the war happy days were really here again, this time. --- Now, we see what we see, it's not what we saw. And this is better than I imagined. My first oral book report was on 1984, in 1962. Percentages and stats, the odds, out of 8 billion… I carry my weight, saltwise, I'm light, too. Immaterial in fact. I watched the internet take form before my very eyes, magi technic never seen since Darius the Mede. Good job, geeks. Reared on radio waves your grandfathers never heard, your signal receptors from mito-mom, oh, what a plan. The promised ones. Many sons. hmmm 60 cycle white noise in the field, the field of fields, Future Farmers of America and stuff Powers we imagined, a color TV we could watch in the backseat for days on Route 66, a restaurant just for kids Toys 'r' Us oh, wow, those came and went and our Grand kids are imagining tomorrow, doin' fine with less of what we thought was cool, taking for granted all I accepted as granted, in the "It is Finished" Golden Parachute Package deal, Grace and Peace that multiplies.

0

Oct 27, 2018

Oct 27, 2018 at 4:32 AM UTC

kenpepiton

The imaginers of now

The imaginers of now were children once, each day they each imagined tomorrow. Their daddies had just won the war happy days were really here again, this time. --- Now, we see what we see, it's not what we saw. And this is better than I imagined. My first oral book report was on 1984, in 1962. Percentages and stats, the odds, out of 8 billion… I carry my weight, saltwise, I'm light, too. Immaterial in fact. I watched the internet take form before my very eyes, magi technic never seen since Darius the Mede. Good job, geeks. Reared on radio waves your grandfathers never heard, your signal receptors from mito-mom, oh, what a plan. The promised ones. Many sons. hmmm 60 cycle white noise in the field, the field of fields, Future Farmers of America and stuff Powers we imagined, a color TV we could watch in the backseat for days on Route 66, a restaurant just for kids Toys 'r' Us oh, wow, those came and went and our Grand kids are imagining tomorrow, doin' fine with less of what we thought was cool, taking for granted all I accepted as granted, in the "It is Finished" Golden Parachute Package deal, Grace and Peace that multiplies.

39

The poet Phernazis is composing the important part of his epic poem. How Darius, son of Hystaspes, assumed the kingdom of the Persians. (From him is descended our glorious king Mithridates, Dionysus and Eupator). But here philosophy is needed; he must analyze the sentiments that Darius must have had: maybe arrogance and drunkenness; but no -- rather like an understanding of the vanity of grandeurs. The poet contemplates the matter deeply. But he is interrupted by his servant who enters running, and announces the portendous news. The war with the Romans has begun. The bulk of our army has crossed the borders. The poet is speechless. What a disaster! No time now for our glorious king Mithridates, Dionysus and Eupator, to occupy himself with greek poems. In the midst of a war -- imagine, greek poems. Phernazis is impatient. Misfortune! Just when he was positive that with "Darius" he would distinguish himself, and shut the mouths of his critics, the envious ones, for good. What a delay, what a delay to his plans. And if it were only a delay, it would still be all right. But it yet remains to be seen if we have any security at Amisus. It is not a strongly fortified city. The Romans are the most horrible enemies. Can we hold against them we Cappadocians? It is possible at all? It is possible to pit ourselves against the legions? Mighty Gods, protectors of Asia, help us.-- But in all his turmoil and trouble, the poetic idea too comes and goes persistently-- the most probable, surely, is arrogance and drunkenness; Darius must have felt arrogance and drunkenness.

0

5k

Constantine P. Cavafy

Darius

The poet Phernazis is composing the important part of his epic poem. How Darius, son of Hystaspes, assumed the kingdom of the Persians. (From him is descended our glorious king Mithridates, Dionysus and Eupator). But here philosophy is needed; he must analyze the sentiments that Darius must have had: maybe arrogance and drunkenness; but no -- rather like an understanding of the vanity of grandeurs. The poet contemplates the matter deeply. But he is interrupted by his servant who enters running, and announces the portendous news. The war with the Romans has begun. The bulk of our army has crossed the borders. The poet is speechless. What a disaster! No time now for our glorious king Mithridates, Dionysus and Eupator, to occupy himself with greek poems. In the midst of a war -- imagine, greek poems. Phernazis is impatient. Misfortune! Just when he was positive that with "Darius" he would distinguish himself, and shut the mouths of his critics, the envious ones, for good. What a delay, what a delay to his plans. And if it were only a delay, it would still be all right. But it yet remains to be seen if we have any security at Amisus. It is not a strongly fortified city. The Romans are the most horrible enemies. Can we hold against them we Cappadocians? It is possible at all? It is possible to pit ourselves against the legions? Mighty Gods, protectors of Asia, help us.-- But in all his turmoil and trouble, the poetic idea too comes and goes persistently-- the most probable, surely, is arrogance and drunkenness; Darius must have felt arrogance and drunkenness.

37

This tomb hideth the dust of Aeschylus, an Athenian, Euphorion's son, who died in wheat-bearing Gela; his glorious valor the precinct of Marathon may proclaim, and the long-haired Medes, who knew it well." On the Plain at Marathon We stood in Darius’ way. An outnumbered band of Athenians who the Medians sought to slay. They had first crushed the Ionians Then put Eretria to the Torch. Wherever Darius conquered the bleeding earth was scorched. Our Hoplites held the high Ground and penned the Persians in. For several days a stalemate reigned. Neither side could win. But when the Persians spit their force and sailed on a friendly tide. Our hand was forced there was but one course if Athens was not to die. Our Phalanx moved against each wing of the Median horde. Though numerous, they were lightly armed against our spears and swords. We burned their ships and slew their men Their Panic turned the tide. Aeschylus seemed to be everywhere urging on our side. A Legend holds Pheidippides To Athens then made haste to proclaim: “Rejoice , We conquer!” at the end of his last race.

0

Nov 30, 2011

Nov 30, 2011 at 8:39 PM UTC

john-f-mccullagh

Euphorion’s Son

This tomb hideth the dust of Aeschylus, an Athenian, Euphorion's son, who died in wheat-bearing Gela; his glorious valor the precinct of Marathon may proclaim, and the long-haired Medes, who knew it well." On the Plain at Marathon We stood in Darius’ way. An outnumbered band of Athenians who the Medians sought to slay. They had first crushed the Ionians Then put Eretria to the Torch. Wherever Darius conquered the bleeding earth was scorched. Our Hoplites held the high Ground and penned the Persians in. For several days a stalemate reigned. Neither side could win. But when the Persians spit their force and sailed on a friendly tide. Our hand was forced there was but one course if Athens was not to die. Our Phalanx moved against each wing of the Median horde. Though numerous, they were lightly armed against our spears and swords. We burned their ships and slew their men Their Panic turned the tide. Aeschylus seemed to be everywhere urging on our side. A Legend holds Pheidippides To Athens then made haste to proclaim: “Rejoice , We conquer!” at the end of his last race.

30

"my day will be different today" she declares, when she sees herself hidden in in a passing spending and breaking broken drive-by scribbled-pretend, urgent poem, stumbled upon by a heavenly calculated accident gladdened, saddened. now dressed to the nines, that piece of me, wherever it be, the parade ground, where the words and letters assemble, where the firemen train, adding logs, love, accursed ego, to the hearth, steady on burning, to practice putting out the ohms and uh-uh's of electrical resistance that your response, a shiny knife of a self-reflecting observation has...ho ** ** sparkling stabbing mirror this one, a simple script, a written pyramid, built by an Israelite, who by command, perforce mustn't but does write prophecies that may or may not come to being, poem pyramids, surely none will not survive Darius's desert sandstorms ravaging kisses of time's forgetting but your simple complementation fits inside quite nicely, for its simplicity, because it is a provocation stabbing piercing a self-questioning, of why to write I need pen paper and ink, and don't forget those stupid teardrops in the clear vial the Zola j'accuse of every poet, even the gone-ones, looking down at highest bar in poetry! did I really do that? even for a brief moment, a nanosecond, me words modify the entire continental shelf that another writer occupies, change its axis, the rate of spin, the angle of another's solitary human's day nah all i did was read (all) her poetry, imaging imaginng a life so foreign, putting me inside of thee, and let my stubs, the remains of worn fingers do the rest so I guess it could be true what you wrote, but about me "my day will be different today" and why I practice this wonderfully ridiculous craft, cause the pay is so **** good 10:36am

0

Sep 30, 2017

Sep 30, 2017 at 10:56 AM UTC

left-foot

my day will be different today

"my day will be different today" she declares, when she sees herself hidden in in a passing spending and breaking broken drive-by scribbled-pretend, urgent poem, stumbled upon by a heavenly calculated accident gladdened, saddened. now dressed to the nines, that piece of me, wherever it be, the parade ground, where the words and letters assemble, where the firemen train, adding logs, love, accursed ego, to the hearth, steady on burning, to practice putting out the ohms and uh-uh's of electrical resistance that your response, a shiny knife of a self-reflecting observation has...ho ** ** sparkling stabbing mirror this one, a simple script, a written pyramid, built by an Israelite, who by command, perforce mustn't but does write prophecies that may or may not come to being, poem pyramids, surely none will not survive Darius's desert sandstorms ravaging kisses of time's forgetting but your simple complementation fits inside quite nicely, for its simplicity, because it is a provocation stabbing piercing a self-questioning, of why to write I need pen paper and ink, and don't forget those stupid teardrops in the clear vial the Zola j'accuse of every poet, even the gone-ones, looking down at highest bar in poetry! did I really do that? even for a brief moment, a nanosecond, me words modify the entire continental shelf that another writer occupies, change its axis, the rate of spin, the angle of another's solitary human's day nah all i did was read (all) her poetry, imaging imaginng a life so foreign, putting me inside of thee, and let my stubs, the remains of worn fingers do the rest so I guess it could be true what you wrote, but about me "my day will be different today" and why I practice this wonderfully ridiculous craft, cause the pay is so **** good 10:36am

57

From flowing rivers of light, you will become a comet-star left alone, who has deliberately deviated from its now predictable orbit around the earth and, true to itself, wanders in the galaxies of infinite cosmos, because it is driven by some unknown-familiar homesickness-Odyssey. You will sooner or later only take off the Enkidu-shroud of your body before your calculated mortality, as you yourself know that even a simple man sets off on his own towards the other shores of the underworld, no one can accompany him. Your restless, self-defeating Soul wanders on the paths of the deceived; it would be good for you to find your own depth and height inside. Because be careful! This current mud-world offers only superficial, old, tinsel-like brilliance, nothing else, with which the greedy loyalty-chambers of beating hearts can never be filled, because a growing army of ghosts of doubts is already raging and besieging it. Outside, they can understand less and less that the Darius-treasures they have acquired are only the nails of Golgotha for a coffin, and the boundary line considered honesty, from which there is no turning back, is far away. Take good care of yourself, Man, as you can know and feel; the beast of hesitations, suspicions, the underdog, the belittling one, is only watching you, watching, suspecting, while it sneaks unnoticed into your troubled nerves and tears apart your handful of self-esteem. It would be good to believe for sure that somewhere in the holy gate of the All, besides your life, which you believe to be wasted, Someone is waiting for you. It would be nice if that crazy mechanic would put a stop to his restless atomic bomb impulses in his buzzing, cogwheel brain. And although you have long been unable to bear the shackles of your meaningless, wordless silence, your intermediate silence, you must decide within yourself to finally forgive your stubborn, childish selfishness!

0

Sep 16, 2025

Sep 16, 2025 at 12:24 AM UTC

Tasi83

GOLGOT-ANGLES, DARIUS-TREASURES

From flowing rivers of light, you will become a comet-star left alone, who has deliberately deviated from its now predictable orbit around the earth and, true to itself, wanders in the galaxies of infinite cosmos, because it is driven by some unknown-familiar homesickness-Odyssey. You will sooner or later only take off the Enkidu-shroud of your body before your calculated mortality, as you yourself know that even a simple man sets off on his own towards the other shores of the underworld, no one can accompany him. Your restless, self-defeating Soul wanders on the paths of the deceived; it would be good for you to find your own depth and height inside. Because be careful! This current mud-world offers only superficial, old, tinsel-like brilliance, nothing else, with which the greedy loyalty-chambers of beating hearts can never be filled, because a growing army of ghosts of doubts is already raging and besieging it. Outside, they can understand less and less that the Darius-treasures they have acquired are only the nails of Golgotha for a coffin, and the boundary line considered honesty, from which there is no turning back, is far away. Take good care of yourself, Man, as you can know and feel; the beast of hesitations, suspicions, the underdog, the belittling one, is only watching you, watching, suspecting, while it sneaks unnoticed into your troubled nerves and tears apart your handful of self-esteem. It would be good to believe for sure that somewhere in the holy gate of the All, besides your life, which you believe to be wasted, Someone is waiting for you. It would be nice if that crazy mechanic would put a stop to his restless atomic bomb impulses in his buzzing, cogwheel brain. And although you have long been unable to bear the shackles of your meaningless, wordless silence, your intermediate silence, you must decide within yourself to finally forgive your stubborn, childish selfishness!

5

For you I lie restless in limbo, Floating aimlessly among wracked bodies And deadened eyes. I wake unconsciously, Ghost-like, Able to view my own body as it stumbles over itself Again And again. These repeated loops segue Into habits, Dark ruts borne into shadows— This is my Lion's Den.

0

Oct 10, 2013

Oct 10, 2013 at 10:41 AM UTC

jedd-ong

Darius

For you I lie restless in limbo, Floating aimlessly among wracked bodies And deadened eyes. I wake unconsciously, Ghost-like, Able to view my own body as it stumbles over itself Again And again. These repeated loops segue Into habits, Dark ruts borne into shadows— This is my Lion's Den.

13

how I know we will make love someday / primal2 whatever you think of overwhelming distance, thick black lined international boundaries, no Westerly wind, snow binding, winter blinding, can forbid the innate desired connectivity, the eye locking messaging, the shared shards of losses cumulative, that we alone can relieve/repair I will travel by jetliner, car, to unpack you from snowdrifts, write quatrains upon your eyes, elegies on your lips, epic poems using every body space possess-able, asking for nothing in return, for living is hard enough, no need for quid pro quo bargaining do not ask what am I to you, resist classification, place me not, no slot, no rowed field, under closed eyes remember, recall, better the butter of love and loss, which I’ll take and also leave, summer spreads and relishes kitchen canned for next year’s winter did you know, of course not, my name is Mordecai,^ the same who, was Vizier to Darius and Xerxes I, meaning pure myrrh and master of languages, but this is not the time/place, my secrets two, to give away, and yet forbear, you may ask questions that no sensible human answers** honestly but I have, and will do so again, against all odds, we will compose original numbers, all prime, all natural occurring, divisible, yes, but only by the number itself and the number 1, 1, a number that answers: the equation, the prime ideal, why only 1 + 1 equals: primal 2 ~ it takes one to create two

0

Jan 27, 2020

Jan 27, 2020 at 9:34 PM UTC

left-foot

How I know we will make love someday/primal2

how I know we will make love someday / primal2 whatever you think of overwhelming distance, thick black lined international boundaries, no Westerly wind, snow binding, winter blinding, can forbid the innate desired connectivity, the eye locking messaging, the shared shards of losses cumulative, that we alone can relieve/repair I will travel by jetliner, car, to unpack you from snowdrifts, write quatrains upon your eyes, elegies on your lips, epic poems using every body space possess-able, asking for nothing in return, for living is hard enough, no need for quid pro quo bargaining do not ask what am I to you, resist classification, place me not, no slot, no rowed field, under closed eyes remember, recall, better the butter of love and loss, which I’ll take and also leave, summer spreads and relishes kitchen canned for next year’s winter did you know, of course not, my name is Mordecai,^ the same who, was Vizier to Darius and Xerxes I, meaning pure myrrh and master of languages, but this is not the time/place, my secrets two, to give away, and yet forbear, you may ask questions that no sensible human answers** honestly but I have, and will do so again, against all odds, we will compose original numbers, all prime, all natural occurring, divisible, yes, but only by the number itself and the number 1, 1, a number that answers: the equation, the prime ideal, why only 1 + 1 equals: primal 2 ~ it takes one to create two

29

you wore ugly pants today. they didn't flatter your *** darius and i told you we loved them, and silently laughed when you turned around. you took my phone later that period, something you never do. you gave me a ******* detention. but for some reason i'm not that ****** at you.

0

Apr 19, 2015

Apr 19, 2015 at 3:42 PM UTC

pricklesandpears

3

you wore ugly pants today. they didn't flatter your *** darius and i told you we loved them, and silently laughed when you turned around. you took my phone later that period, something you never do. you gave me a ******* detention. but for some reason i'm not that ****** at you.

6

I saw you for the first time. My eyes and my mind agreed on forever. Well a couple of decades of us being together. I walked slowly towards you and started to stumble. Thinking of something smooth to say because you’re a bag I can’t afford to fumble. If I were honest I’d tell you that you put a lock on my eyes and gave my legs amnesia. I would treat you like we’re in the 90s and scream “I need ya”. Or make you an omelette in the morning like I’m Darius and you’re Nina and life is Love Jones. Normally I don’t get sprung at first sight but right now I’m imagining what our kids would look like with your hair and my complexion. I imagine you yelling at me for bringing a used dish right after you finish washing. I’m convinced that you’ll wipe my memory clean, erase the thought of anyone I was with before you. Butterflies go down into my stomach as I clear my throat. “Heyy, how are you?” I say. A man comes and grabs you by the waist from behind as you smile. “Hey. Can I help you?” Those words, bullets aiming for the butterflies, shot dead and I feel the need to find a place to bury them. “Uhm, yes. Where’s the bathroom?”

0

Nov 4, 2022

Nov 4, 2022 at 7:43 PM UTC

subtleperfection

Where’s the bathroom?

I saw you for the first time. My eyes and my mind agreed on forever. Well a couple of decades of us being together. I walked slowly towards you and started to stumble. Thinking of something smooth to say because you’re a bag I can’t afford to fumble. If I were honest I’d tell you that you put a lock on my eyes and gave my legs amnesia. I would treat you like we’re in the 90s and scream “I need ya”. Or make you an omelette in the morning like I’m Darius and you’re Nina and life is Love Jones. Normally I don’t get sprung at first sight but right now I’m imagining what our kids would look like with your hair and my complexion. I imagine you yelling at me for bringing a used dish right after you finish washing. I’m convinced that you’ll wipe my memory clean, erase the thought of anyone I was with before you. Butterflies go down into my stomach as I clear my throat. “Heyy, how are you?” I say. A man comes and grabs you by the waist from behind as you smile. “Hey. Can I help you?” Those words, bullets aiming for the butterflies, shot dead and I feel the need to find a place to bury them. “Uhm, yes. Where’s the bathroom?”

17

(No. 3) I spent the evening At Brother Ballantyne's With the man himself On Darius' Ranch, just past The lime-green street sign Which read "Nowhereville" The best place to be Nowhere whatever I sat down with faces A bit familiar to me but Their names unimportant "I like your friends" I said "But what sets us apart is- We ask all the questions." We listened to Ugly Casanova Painted like Picasso In conversation as we sat Smoked Cohiba Maduro 5 cigars Drank fiery juice until We were out of our heads Wearing house slippers & a false fur jacket Which drew too many questions Got too many laughs But I have to admit, I liked - the attention -

0

Apr 13, 2020

Apr 13, 2020 at 1:59 AM UTC

velvelbendavid

Housewarming

(No. 3) I spent the evening At Brother Ballantyne's With the man himself On Darius' Ranch, just past The lime-green street sign Which read "Nowhereville" The best place to be Nowhere whatever I sat down with faces A bit familiar to me but Their names unimportant "I like your friends" I said "But what sets us apart is- We ask all the questions." We listened to Ugly Casanova Painted like Picasso In conversation as we sat Smoked Cohiba Maduro 5 cigars Drank fiery juice until We were out of our heads Wearing house slippers & a false fur jacket Which drew too many questions Got too many laughs But I have to admit, I liked - the attention -

27

We, as poets we fear the tangible our fingers have lost the ability to touch, to feel from nights spent clutching our pens from unclenching our fists from peeling our fingertips away from the ones we cannot afford to lose. From pressing the familiar lines of our palms together while looking up past the cracked ceiling up past the cloud that Darius calls God We, as poets, do not believe in a heaven, for Purgatory is so sweet

0

Sep 6, 2014

Sep 6, 2014 at 12:05 PM UTC

We-are-all-infected

As poets

We, as poets we fear the tangible our fingers have lost the ability to touch, to feel from nights spent clutching our pens from unclenching our fists from peeling our fingertips away from the ones we cannot afford to lose. From pressing the familiar lines of our palms together while looking up past the cracked ceiling up past the cloud that Darius calls God We, as poets, do not believe in a heaven, for Purgatory is so sweet

21

Being in your shadow is like God kissing my soul being near you is vital to my existence, the fragrance of your thoughts is one I will forever shake my hips to. You are my muse for life, for love. The John to this Coltrane that used to be my heart, the Miles we travel no man knows only God, but the kind of blues we will see are tailored to our deliverance as a couple. When we struggle to pay bills you will still be my Cliff Huxtable when life gets hard and not you, I will be your Nina. Be my Darius the funk in my right thigh, tingle in my spine and laughter in my fingertips.

0

Jul 13, 2018

Jul 13, 2018 at 10:55 AM UTC

Uvuyo

You

Being in your shadow is like God kissing my soul being near you is vital to my existence, the fragrance of your thoughts is one I will forever shake my hips to. You are my muse for life, for love. The John to this Coltrane that used to be my heart, the Miles we travel no man knows only God, but the kind of blues we will see are tailored to our deliverance as a couple. When we struggle to pay bills you will still be my Cliff Huxtable when life gets hard and not you, I will be your Nina. Be my Darius the funk in my right thigh, tingle in my spine and laughter in my fingertips.

1