"dispassionate" poems
Know this—I am well acquainted with the wolf,
Well versed in his ways, his demeanor,
His dispassionate relentlessness,
His pitiless focus on hunt and hunted,
His workaday disdain of pity.
There are those who would laud the mythical Spartan lad
Who hid the wolf beneath his cloak,
Affecting some gallant stoicism
As the beast consumed him without restraint,
But I say to you that is a mere romantic fallacy,
A wanton failure to apprehend the true moral.
I have learned that there is no accommodation,
No covenant to be reached with the wolf,
And any attempt to do so is merely to invite destruction,
And so I choose to engage him openly, without reservation,
Rolling tail-over-teacup in the streets,
Attempting to hold his jaws open with bare hands
While those who find such battle unseemly and uncouth
Jeer and hoot from porch and portico.
No matter, for I will continue to meet the cur on my terms,
For staid suffering in the hopes
Of reaching some accord with the beast
Is the not the act of the noble sage:
It is the mock heroics of the coward,
The sad acquiescence of the simpering fool.
Mar 20, 2018
Mar 20, 2018 at 2:02 PM UTC
The Sounding Foam of Primal Things
*(The title and the poem, taken from and inspired by
Carl Sandburg's "Who Am I?")
wind and rain pound the surf.
snow falls on the beach, on the shore.
man-observer cannot tell:
has the earth gone mad, all wet?
do the seas rise, whipped up, filling the heavens,
or does the white rain replenishes the very body,
from whence it came, and now returns?
this matters greatly, yet nothing answers this, his question.
the furious soundings, the green foam churn,
the silence of no response inebriates,
drunk on the tempest's hard wet liquor,
weighed down, sodden with the despair,
solitude, silence, absent answers,
his natural walking companions!
No Stopping signs on almost every corner,
Do Not Pass, Do Not Enter,
One Way, Two Way, No Thru Passage,
but the one sign he seeks,
"Stay On The Path" absent.
Eluded,
dispassionate endings,
the essential quietude among
furious surround-sounds of creative destruction
he ceases to ask, for unanswered, undirected.
Concluded,
either
their is no one listening, or,
there is no one caring, or,
Deluded,
illusion is truth,
he is an illusion.
------------------
Feb 14, 2014
Feb 14, 2014 at 10:57 PM UTC
Rest your weary body
Drink from my golden goblet
The most delicate and finest of wines
A potion of wild raspberries, bitterness and jeering contempt
Assault the light that dare not shine
It is the elixir of a dispassionate heart
If you possess no fear
Taste the confectionery of sadness call
Where love frightened evades approach
Upon remembrance of the long dark fall
Sip from the golden goblet
Taste the cruel sweetness of pain
Damnation to those who denounce the motive behind the actions
Until the bed of anguish you have lain
But these rare wines have no equal in quality
Defiled by evil and cursed with shame
The unquenchable thirst for blood taints the golden rim
As the murderous night slew the rising of the day
So lift high the golden goblet and drink
An immortal taste of time
Accompany me into the world of melancholy
Where is served the most of exquisite wines
Come close now the hour when words become whispers
Demanding recompense for the crimes.
All Rights Reserved @ Tammy M. Darby Feb. 8. 2017
Written for the Monster
Feb 8, 2017
Feb 8, 2017 at 10:33 PM UTC
If your muggy-grubby hands
Even rise to slap me again
I swear I'll chop them off with my axe.
If your fangly-boniony feet
Get within kicking distance of me,
I swear I'll tear your legs from your hips
And then admire my workmanship.
If your mangy-crazy mind
Tries to infiltrate mine
To deposit some lie
That would change the perception
Of me, myself, and i,
I swear I'll grab a spoon
And scrape, scrape, scrape
Out your brain.
If your hoity-toity attitude
Tries to usurp my solitude
To make me someone I'm not
I swear I'll be completely dispassionate
As I wipe your every iota from this
Particulate Universe.
If I so much as hear you breathe,
I swear I will squeeze
Every
Drop
Of
Air
Left in your lungs.
You think this is too violent even for me?
You'd better believe
I've been pushed to the edge
Of all logical reason
By your every act of treason
And I won't hesitate to
Incapacitate,
Excommunicate
Eradicate,
You from my life.
You'd better beware.
I'm angry and all this I'll do.
I swear.
Jun 20, 2014
Jun 20, 2014 at 5:20 PM UTC
Today someone laryngospasmed and dropped to 65%
Before I opened their airway
Last week, same thing, except 55%
I’m finding myself increasingly dispassionate and unconcerned during these episodes
Externally it would appear
I’m skating by
Skin of my teeth
Brushing off increased agitation by the OR staff
Watching the patient’s life bouncing on the roulette wheel as I tilt the table
........Come on red ................
But it’s not like that. I have a plan. Always a backup. Tertiary options.
A, B,C, and [God forbid] D.
So far, C and beyond is unknown territory.
I’m concerned with my confidence. Too much?
Dec 3, 2013
Dec 3, 2013 at 7:51 PM UTC
Or do I already know?
I naively nourish these fervid feelings I hold.
Moving slowly, in rhythm, matching your sway,
Questionless is my admiration in every way.
Ardently I coast on the energy waves
Of your passions
And dispassionate despondency.
Waste the day together watching good TV;
It's not wasted if it's with you.
The never-ending riddle of learning how to love,
And learning how to love the one you love,
The one you think most of.
The unfaltering encouragement of success,
Filling in the blanks so the other won't stress.
I'll sweep the floors when you can't anymore,
Get us through the boring chores
Of every day life.
Those mundane motions for the future--
So much more to look forward to
With the addition of you.
Voices soften with the intimacy of quieter talk...
And the sensuality of our skin.
The carelessness and the giving in.
The tears shed, yours and mine,
Shared as "tiny dots on an endless timeline."
The subtleties of selflessness,
The subtleties of trying to change.
The obsession over mistakes,
Anxiety that keeps me awake.
Heated fights and
The addictive rush when we make up.
The selfishness, greed and possessiveness build up.
I am broken,
Or I act as if I am so.
I am broken, but there are sunflowers I wish to grow
In the broken *** within you
So that you may feel a little less broken too.
If this is love, I wish someone could tell me.
If this is love, why must it be so delicate,
Yet so assiduously enduring?
Continuous forgiveness
And the things we let each other get away with;
The "knowing better"s.
All those firsts, all those places that were meant to be with you.
Everything I would do
To make you smile.
How naturally I could laugh and feel at ease,
How naturally you brightened a smile on me.
How naturally, despite, we could become so miserable.
How naturally, despite, I could love so unconditional.
The wanting to just feel you there
Till we were unaware of our despair.
The frankness and the fall of our walls.
The letting go.
The folding up my heart and putting it away
When I can accept
It's not yet
To be worn by you.
Jul 9, 2018
Jul 9, 2018 at 3:05 PM UTC
To exhale
Compresses the chest
And in its place
Some chilblains,
Disgust for its being,
An annihilation
A ferocious hunger for itself,
Like the ouroboros
In every breath
Tempted by a life
For the moment gone.
To inhale
Invites it back,
A dispassionate process, no less.
The life thus stolen away
Impotent to the next breath
That I must exhale.
On this breath there comes a fear
A longing or
The urge
To lift my hands to my throat
And keep the life in my lungs
To quit exhaling
And never feel that way again.
Jan 7, 2014
Jan 7, 2014 at 4:14 PM UTC
You need to reach out
- that's what I was told
I confided in a number of people
Sat across a lot of wise spectacles
Sympathetic coffees
Blank invites
Dispassionate loves
You need medication
- that's what I was told
I popped a number of pills
Over months,
White, long
Yellow, small
A number of nights
Crazy eyes,
Erratic behaviour
Strange moodswings
You need a change of scenery
- That's what I was told
Miles and miles of sand
A sea extending into the sky
My heart became the feather
That landed on waves
And sank
Far below
The understanding of humanity
Went to the hills
Stream flowing by
Which iced over at night
Bare apple orchards
Green and stone
Woke up at 4 AM
From where I stood,
I couldn't see the sunrise
My spirits
Shattered and fell
Along with some rocks
Off the cliff's sheer face
As I ended up
On my hands and knees
You need to meditate
- that's what I was told
Pure silence at 4 AM
That's what I woke up to
And I sat for an hour everyday
Trying to focus on
The "om" I was told about
With the last echo
I was left bereft of purpose
Vision and energy
I couldn't move on
With the day
Oct 24, 2014
Oct 24, 2014 at 10:21 AM UTC
As I lay here restive. I cannot help but conjecture what could come to pass.
Thy dimpled simper, impales my soul and elicits bliss in my *****
Oh! The butterflies, how they flutter inside me, yearning their sweet, rightful release.
Ah, it cannot be, has this young mistress vexed this dispassionate beast?
Do I dare brave ask if I am worthy of such a divine, angelic monarch?
I ask thee, do I dare reflect on my chaotic life; do I dare torture myself, knowing I will falter.
Alas, I must!
I must attempt to become the merit. I must become her love, her heart, her soul, her reason to be...her King.
For she is...My Queen.
Aug 18, 2018
Aug 18, 2018 at 3:40 PM UTC
The snow blanket the earth
but it would never covers the ocean
It became a curse of the sea
So, it stays on the beach
Like a dog on a leash
11
To hell with the night
It’s just darkness over- powering the daylight
When men are force to close their eyes
And dream of the events of the passing day.
111
Liars who called themselves lovers
Will never come clean
It’s a permanent tattoo
Concocted in their brain
The road to recovery for them is
Systematic and strategic process
For them it is a hunter’s game
1V
You have taken everything in one’s strides
The time sheets, the lunch hours
You have become the employer
Twelve hours prisoners of the time clocks
V
Last night I heard Nana voice
She said that I worry too much
And get little sleep
I smell hibiscus in my room
That old familiar fragrance scent still lingers
But her words became self-soothing
She said, let’s go to the kitchen
And make a banana bread
Worries is for the rich man
VI
The poor man display his graffiti on cities buildings
no admission, no fee
priceless art crimes or
the best of a simple criminal mind
High art or low art
Eyes of a rich man
Or the eyes of a fool
Aug 18, 2013
Aug 18, 2013 at 9:18 AM UTC
I remember the first time I laid my eyes upon your dark, golden-highlighted ringlets siting haphazardly on your nimble head. They were positioned above your flat, south Asian face, as if some wayward artist took his paintbrush and, in a fit of creative chaos, splattered and sputtered paint across a blank and endless canvas. Your hair represented the kind of sweet, quiet entropy that people needed in their lives. The great offense the artist had committed by being so reckless with such a delicate subject could be forgiven, however, because he surely acted as such simply because he had previously exhausted himself whilst meticulously creating your enrapturing eyes. Round cerulean orbs, speckled with bits of yellows and greens with a péridot ring centered around a pitch black pupil that represented the contents of your dispassionate heart. This is not an accurate description of the man who holds my unrequited love, however. You have achieved this sort of romantic, majestic rendition of beauty through the bias of my foolish heart and through my patronage of the arts. A typical person would do much better to portray you as nothing more than a hellish brute who is in desperate need of a haircut and a perhaps a larger assortment of clothing rather than torn, raggedy jeans and hand-me-down heavy metal t-shirts.
Apr 20, 2014
Apr 20, 2014 at 2:50 AM UTC
Mixed feelings are devouring me again,
either I'll grow to be insane or dispassionate.
Spill your thoughts onto me;
show me a glimpse of your universe.
Take a risk or walk away.
Apr 23, 2014
Apr 23, 2014 at 5:35 PM UTC
There is no hint of end in the air
Nothing to suggest the impermanence
The alluring sky azure and brightly fair
Only a few dropped leaves making little sense!
The smooth silence in the yellowish dark morn
Lends the temptation to be here for good
What was nascent is now quietly born
A resigned desire to stand still in the wood!
In a reality more inviting than the dream
The eyes caress the sky and then the treetop
Seeing yet not seeing in a trance made of whim
They roll down to the ground where they stop!
The trees have shed the withered leaves
Remaining dispassionate and mindless
The grand design Nature ceaselessly weaves
To renew hope and welcome new face!
Aug 3, 2013
Aug 3, 2013 at 2:50 AM UTC
Unheard, desperate cries,
Falling on deaf ears,
Indifference of the times—
Prayers plead desperately
To a dispassionate God.
Innocence, youth, and promises
Are insufficient causes
To awaken the Almighty.
Screams reach out, piercing
The cold, uncaring night—
Featureless faces turn away,
Eyes look to distant horizons.
Anguished sounds, lost, dispersed
In frigid, fearful winds;
Easier to hear a pin drop
Midst the maelstrom
Of creation’s cacophony.
Eyes frozen in terror,
Mouth gaped and motionless.
A child lost in the wilderness,
Wandering aimlessly, hopelessly.
A young voice asks help,
Turning to a society
Who has itself, long ago,
Lost its way as well.
Mar 23, 2010
Mar 23, 2010 at 3:08 PM UTC
A kiss of promise, brushes your dispassionate composure
Gently opening your silent heart
Inviting possibilities, you had decided never could exist
Resulting in a fiery burning start
A spirit of harmonious splendor has gently grazed your hand
Inspiring you to open up your eyes
Daring you to attempt objection to its lovely graceful plea
Leaving you with only joyful sighs
A kiss of promise leaves one breathless to the possibilities
Of following their former heartfelt dreams
Stirs you in anticipation of a journey you thought lost
With the setting of yesterday’s sunbeams
Return the kiss of promise, with an open invitation
Explore all the possibilities it holds
Hold the hand of the spirit of a gentle harmonious splendor
Do not let your heart remain empty and cold
Jul 25, 2010
Jul 25, 2010 at 2:25 PM UTC
How my mind as that of a child
Frivolous and foolish seeks solace
In a fictitious world of make believe
While reality, like a fiend stares right on my face!
Waiting for none, the globe continues to spin
And seasons arrive and depart without default
Yet how I wish to think,
With my exit, the world will come to an abrupt halt
When I am gone and lie cold under the sod
And my memory no more lingers
How I wish to feel
My absence continually injures
Gains and losses when added up
Weighs equal on life’s dispassionate balance
Yet how I wish to boast
With success alone, I ever had my alliance
Though I never reached the peak I sought
And faltered on my way distraught
How I wish to console
I got everything for which I had fought
Future awaits me with gloom and gaiety
And victory is certain to follow defeat
Yet how I wish to proclaim
Here is one for whom life shall ever be a treat!
May 17, 2017
May 17, 2017 at 12:46 PM UTC
Having *** in
a car is the most
dispassionate
of locations.
You drive up late,
wait on the curb
for her to sneak
out past her
overprotective and
well intentioned parents.
She gets in,
keep the music high
and the voices low,
any conversation at
this point is
simply to break
the slight awkwardness
of what you both know
is about to happen.
Park in a
shady lot
with no light posts.
You can see an
elementary school
down the street,
buses and pick up lanes,
in a few hours they
will scamper around
like rats
but tonight there
are no witnesses.
Tonight there is nothing
but the back seat
you climbed into,
music still loud enough
to dissuade
any personalization
of the situation.
It is ***** and cheap.
--a personal
preference--
She is nothing but a
quick fix.
She gets on top,
moans a little
as you slide in.
The seatbelt buckle
digs deep into your
back,
but you don't mind it,
this wasn't meant
to be comfortable.
You just want this over with.
She looks at you
and smiles,
you look away.
All of this
is shameful,
but a necessary evil.
There is a decadent
beauty
that surrounds the
cheapest and
rawest of pleasures,
that glory in the gutter.
*** in a car is the most
dispassionate of locations.
You drop her back off,
don't stick around to see her
caught by her
waiting father.
Her shirt is on wrong
and her hair is ******
Not your problem.
You head home,
keeping the music up,
thinking about anything else.
You don't even know
who she is,
just some quick fix,
just another wednesday night.
You try to believe that
it is better that way.
Aug 22, 2013
Aug 22, 2013 at 12:05 PM UTC
i am not your blooming flower
i don't belong in your
garden kingdom populated
by perennials and ruled by
thorn stemmed rose bushes
where you go
to seek solace and discover
the bursting lightness of
that sensuous pain when
blood erupts from that
thin line where
the white fatty layer threatens
to spill out into the world
and stain your white carnations.
and i never promised you
that it would be pretty
and that one day you would be
able to look at those sensationless slices
and see more than just
an act of scarification
that i asked for
that i endured
but the physical embodiment of
that internal scream that
bounces off the sides of my chest
and shatters the crystalline lattice
that protects my dispassionate heart
from your touch
as soft as the downy feathers
of the spring's children
emerging from their
incubator eggs to
greet the world where they
will fall before they fly
and i will impale myself on
the pyre of their sacrifice.
May 27, 2015
May 27, 2015 at 3:22 PM UTC
What are you getting at?
Poetically dispassionate ink
pouring out of your mouths.
Standing half-naked here
with your nasty bits hanging out and dangling.
Fifth grade ******* contest,
tape measure microphone.
'His darkness is bigger than his!'
'Well yeah but his is darker.'
It's okay
maybe you're a grow-er and not a show-er.
Half-poised, microphone voice-box
tell me now, what parchment does
your pen ***** onto?
Caligraphy college degrees.
Upper-middle class tragicomedy.
Skin unscarred,
pretending to know
just how deep a razor blade can go.
Red ink looks close enough to blood I guess.
This vast sea of poetic words,
snotgreen and scrotumtightening.
With your absolute knowledge
of what Joyce was getting at
as he layed there dying and blind
imploring to the world:
"Does nobody understand?"
What awful things has the world done to you
to beget these howls of pain?
What about you
does this dimlylit place,
with it's black coffee and chicken sandwiches,
epitomize?
When was the last time your world was worth destroying?
How did you sleep last night?
Have you ever heard a bone snap in half?
What is your first thought when holding a sharp object?
What will these words prove
when you find that no one's listening?
Aug 22, 2012
Aug 22, 2012 at 8:36 PM UTC
Sewn-up into not caring
Modelled dispassionate
Roused into fantasy;
This one time would be
different
Oh naive optimism
His sight grows absent from reality when
he sees her
Leaving me unconsidered
he trades grins with her
With no forewarning
he trails off to her
Consinging to oblivon my presence when
he's with her
Nothing assuredly matters when
he's conversing with her
I'll bid farewell
to those so called feelings
Friends can fracture your
Sole heart
If you keep confiding
You will bruise nonstop
So let me advice you this one time
Become cold as ice
Dec 3, 2016
Dec 3, 2016 at 11:08 AM UTC
I told her I was a writer
and she said
All the guys
I ****
say that.
I passed her my cigarette
my palm--sweaty & inadequate
her palm--dispassionate & bothered
I can't help
wincing
when
our palms touch.
Oct 27, 2011
Oct 27, 2011 at 1:52 AM UTC
*we are the refined
the delicate, the rarefied
the genteel, whose words
are etheral and our thoughts
exclude all things physical*
for us the ideals, the pure
the clean and the pristine
conventions suit us best
and the unquestioned
fits us like custom-made gloves
our lives are regulated
there's something in it
for each of us
we have all the answers
and for sure, we are the ones
going to Heaven
couretsy marks our birth
and everyone walks about
with the Dictionary
of Respectable Words
when we kiss
we don't exchange fluids
and when we have ***
we are dispassionate
we bring civilisation to the world
and we sunbathe in idyllic beaches
and we plan to tour the moon soon
we are tourists really all our lives
and when we are not, we polish our cars
and bemoan the State of the Environment
*we are the refined
the delicate, the rarefied
the genteel, whose words
are etheral and our thoughts
exclude all things physical*
May 23, 2014
May 23, 2014 at 6:56 AM UTC
Stubble mushrooming his chin
he showed up on the door
without his trademark grin
he looked clearly sore.
He motioned me to sit on a chair
in the room with low watt light
his sullen stare and disheveled hair
said things weren't alright.
I sat in the embarrassing silence
thinking what might be the cause
what lay behind the simmering suspense
why my friend looked so morose.
There wasn't a sound in the whole house
the creepy stillness was deafening
with only the clock ticking sleepy hours
carried the night on its wing.
Sensing something was definitely wrong
gauged from his eyes swollen red
his father I knew was ailing for long
surely he was mourning the dead.
Where's uncle I set words in pace
long time I haven't him heard
making a dispassionate face
he pointed his finger upward.
So proved true my worst fear
the son was mourning the demise
everything was now clear
my shock I couldn’t disguise.
*For you what a terrible blow
so early for him to have gone*
my words poured sad and slow
may his soul rest in heaven.
My friend now spoke in awed face
I couldn’t miss his perturbed glare
*My father is fine God bless
he is only resting upstairs!*
Jan 7, 2014
Jan 7, 2014 at 2:13 AM UTC
"I'm just stepping out for a bit"
you casually mentioned
before a dispassionate hug
stole you from the warm
glow of your own kitchen
and I must admit I believed you
where an image has remained for
all this time in my mind of your
return home
but life continues on beneath the shadow
left by your departure, dimmed sunlight,
warm rain
and now the center ring
with word of the dropping
temperatures, the fire at
apartment 12D and of
the car that carries you
back to me
wait
what was that?
a dream of mine
getting ever so
twisted up
in reality
Jan 15, 2012
Jan 15, 2012 at 1:30 AM UTC
She was tall, her arms far reaching
her beauty intangible
her presence impossible to ignore
To the unknowing eye she may seem dispassionate
but her roots ran deep
only the learned knowing their extent
She was always forgiving
her shade unconditional
protecting all in her presence.
May 10, 2019
May 10, 2019 at 2:26 PM UTC