"dolorous" poems
The hills step off into whiteness.
People or stars
Regard me sadly, I disappoint them.
The train leaves a line of breath.
O slow
Horse the colour of rust,
Hooves, dolorous bells ----
All morning the
Morning has been blackening,
A flower left out.
My bones hold a stillness, the far
Fields melt my heart.
They threaten
To let me through to a heaven
Starless and fatherless, a dark water.
14.2k
One day, two incidents, one enemy; we’ll never forget,
A day which changed map projection,
Which apart the hearts,
Extirpate many dreams,
Floating bodies in the river,
Conjoin pain and frighten memories,
Memories which we would recall on 16th December,
When we were recalling the memories of severance with Dhaka,
Woe was in the breeze,
But an enemy afar from all emotions,
Bloodthirsty souls; Extirpate many dreams,
Dreams of to become a pilot, doctor and a responsible citizen,
One day, two incidents, one enemy; we’ll never forget,
We’ll never forget,
One enemy but two faces,
First Dhaka than Peshawar,
But they did not knew,
Events of dolorous conjoined the nations!
By: Nida Mahmoed
Dec 16, 2015
Dec 16, 2015 at 3:05 PM UTC
Lancelot ye golden knight fair
Through Love’s decree, with coy invite
Enthralled the fey Queen Guinevere
How soon ye forget your sins laid bare
The Sangrail truth, the Heavenly light
Lancelot ye golden knight fair
With comely looks, a swaggering air
The greatest of all earthly knights
Enthralled the fey Queen Guinevere
How easy to shun this dolorous affair
If ye honed instead your spiritual might
Lancelot ye golden knight fair
With glory from lands far and near
Ye took her heart and forthright
Enthralled the fey Queen Guinevere
Le Morte Darthur, the kingdom’s despair
Was sealed upon the doleful night
Lancelot ye golden knight fair
Enthralled the fey Queen Guinevere
Apr 11, 2014
Apr 11, 2014 at 5:54 PM UTC
See, as the carver carves a rose,
A wing, a toad, a serpent's eye,
In cruel granite, to disclose
The soft things that in hardness lie,
So this one, taking up his heart,
Which time and change had made a stone,
Carved out of it with dolorous art,
Laboring yearlong and alone,
The thing there hidden-rose, toad, wing?
A frog's hand on a lily pad?
Bees in a cobweb?-no such thing!
A girl's head was the thing he had,
Small, shapely, richly crowned with hair,
Drowsy, with eyes half closed, as they
Looked through you and beyond you, clear
To something farther than Cathay:
Saw you, yet counted you not worth
The seeing, thinking all the while
How, flower-like, beauty comes to birth;
And thinking this, began to smile.
Medusa! For she could not see
The world she turned to stone and ash.
Only herself she saw, a tree
That flowered beneath a lightning-flash.
Thus dreamed her face-a lovely thing
To worship, weep for, or to break . . .
Better to carve a claw, a wing,
Or, if the heart provide, a snake.
2.1k
The gypsy hymns and railway trails
which you followed into the valley of your trials
Lady Luck brought you enough street child wisdom and thief given kindness
to turn the tracks around and the train whistle to wake me.
Desert saint of your weathered ways
with your thin wrists and moon gleaming lips
Hope to you was like a blinding sunrise, painful to acknowledge, yet sorely lacking without
Never could be without your Larkspur boquets and marigold wreaths
August heat heavy with the scent of cypress trees
Apollo of the dusty sea, flooded the cliffs with light like withering flames
born from boxcar visions and a desperate hunger for that windblown hallelujah we chased down the starlit trestles like missionaries. Summoned from our streetcar medallions, vagabond nymphs, rumbling through moth-eaten states and barren dusks, lazy moon gazing upon our dolorous times and wild days and all our rough and rowdy ways.
No need to heed the judgements of the stars.
With the arid land so wild and lonesome- we weave our own muse into the railway line- followed back to when you were my home, and the streets were the laurel crown of your vagrant fortune.
Aug 9, 2020
Aug 9, 2020 at 12:12 PM UTC
Risest thou thus, dim dawn, again,
And howlest, issuing out of night,
With blasts that blow the poplar white,
And lash with storm the streaming pane?
Day, when my crown'd estate begun
To pine in that reverse of doom,
Which sicken'd every living bloom,
And blurr'd the splendour of the sun;
Who usherest in the dolorous hour
With thy quick tears that make the rose
Pull sideways, and the daisy close
Her crimson fringes to the shower;
Who might'st have heaved a windless flame
Up the deep East, or, whispering, play'd
A chequer-work of beam and shade
Along the hills, yet look'd the same.
As wan, as chill, as wild as now;
Day, mark'd as with some hideous crime,
When the dark hand struck down thro' time,
And cancell'd nature's best: but thou,
Lift as thou may'st thy burthen'd brows
Thro' clouds that drench the morning star,
And whirl the ungarner'd sheaf afar,
And sow the sky with flying boughs,
And up thy vault with roaring sound
Climb thy thick noon, disastrous day;
Touch thy dull goal of joyless gray,
And hide thy shame beneath the ground.
1.7k
the years pile up gently
as snow upon snow pile up
on snow laden ground.
you wake up one morning
still with sleepy eyes
to see the view from your window
still the same
yet somewhat changed
from the landscape you saw before you went to bed last night.
you jog your head,
to drive away
the lingering laziness in your bones,
smiling at a half remembered dream
where you were flying through the sky
dodging the telephone and electrical wires
that crisscrossed the path of your flight,
and whispered a silent prayer,
you get up your bed.
reaching out with heavy limbs
to the pair of sandals
lying on the floor
and trudge out of your cozy room.
you look at the mirror
(at a landscape still unfamiliar?)
and frown
(or smile?)
at some added lines
creasing the sides of your eyes:
a view more subtly changed!
a year is gone,
another is on the run.
count your life if you may
in ages
old traditional way
but, mark it off proudly
with words:
painful, prayerful, purposeful,
incisive, iniquitous, imperial,
eclectic, electric, effervescent,
dolorous, delirious, devious,
singular, simple, (sinful?),
frenzied, frivolous, feral,
tepid, tremulous, turbulent,
ludicrous, libidinous, lugubrious,
zany, zennish, zinged,
barbaric, beatific, bucolic,
and so on and so forth.
words that are sensual, soulful, spiritual,
that moved your heart ,
that moved our hearts.
words to remember you by.
be happy.
feel blessed.
it is your birthday!
Jul 7, 2013
Jul 7, 2013 at 8:21 AM UTC
Through the laden flights of pot-stewed gulls -
Deepening in red rosaries to poltroon,
Contaminated by an urgent wish,
The sun-soaked merry bandits blew.
Each to each, and, mingling with that sweaty palm,
Dolorous eyes sad-greeted the fleeing dawn.
Pancreas then, the earth-girdled Titan swam,
Anon the rising tide to stem.
Dentist the night, repair to dance-floored beams,
And rising melodiously ever anew to pine,
Sweet ***** dreaming of her saw-toothed chemise
Saw the fine end to the upstart king.
Curtains swayed against my pearly doom
Not brightly was your plainting song
Palpitating in earthly measures anew
Or seeking once more the mighty to appease.
O David, in thy glance the silver moth did live
Long dawns. An enemy of the swordfish,
He menaced us so long. And now?
Sporadic is the demise of depth!
A silver sea, or rather a sea with a fine multitude of
silver points
Caressing my eyes like toothless counterpoint to the
stately blue.
It gave a floor to a weening being of prancing gait and
measured thighs.
She smiled.
And the sea broke and roared, as ever,
and I heard it once more.
I saw too the sky, which had sufficient blue.
Cooled by the sea,
warmed by the setting rays and mild air, the body
luxuriated in perfect
temperature. She did not smile, but perhaps she did..
My body, I mean.
We came away, from there, as from all places to meet
another need.
of darkness and quiet. Foamed the elements of slaking
portions of
mysterious
substance. Surrendered to the moving body without
real life.
Borne along on a
stream of liquid desire residing in another's
breast.
Relinquishing her to a
perfect nothingness like lead or caviare.
Oh, and who awaited me? She was imprisoned
but beautiful
and I thought
quite happy. I don't think she even wanted to come
to me,
or so it seemed. But she was happier too outside,
in the waning sun.
Mainly she had been safe and free.
And there's an end of this day, which roamed
whither it would,
for I did not attempt to chain it. Now I flee it.
Apr 7, 2012
Apr 7, 2012 at 3:55 AM UTC
A chariot is thine heart,
O thou rich tressed Selene
In which doth ride the tides,
of ardor, tepid aflame.
Strung to thy chariot by chords
Unseen yet tangible knot,
Whither thy chariot wandereth,
Thither draggeth me, constrained.
The chord unseen, yet bindeth,
Ethereal, tenuous sublime,
A barb so dolorous in seasons!
Other times candescent delight.
What causeth this bond precision?
Nay no reasonable cause,
Entrapped in each a residue
from prior existence unknown?
Why doth the string pull so constant,
Tho' intervenes a thousand miles!
Why cometh thine chariot instant,
When unseen, my spirits' downcast?
Selene! ageless,deathless, thy Endymion,
Eternal though his sleep,
Our souls entwined forever,
Many an aeon shall we keep!!!
Dec 13, 2016
Dec 13, 2016 at 11:19 AM UTC
Been living beside the river
All alone and still
With no one to talk to
No one to share with
Your body is cover of ***** mud
You disgusted yourself because of how ugly you were
Then someone picks you up
And put you to the group of clean stones
The look on their faces was unexplainable
Yet you know for sure;
They don't like you
They don't want you
And they feel disgusted the way they looked at you
Tears fall from your dolorous eyes
The rain suddenly poured and joined into your sadness
The raindrops clears the ***** mud on your body
And suddenly you shined brightly
You are not a ***** stone you think you were
You are not ugly people think you were
You are not disgusting
You are not what others think you are
You are precious
You're like a star that shines brightly;
and twinkles beautifully
You are everyone adores and treasures
You are a diamond
A diamond, my love
May 10, 2017
May 10, 2017 at 12:07 AM UTC
Take your pills, go to therapy,
Take your pills. go to therapy
“get better”
Take your pills, go to therapy,
Tell yourself you’re getting better
“You’re getting sick again ariana, we will raise your dose”
Take your pills, go to therapy
“Am i getting any better, am i healthier? do i look sick?”
Take your pills, go to therapy
Take your pills, go to therapy
“Why are you doing this to yourself Ariana?”
Take your pills, go to therapy
Take your pills, go to therapy
help
“how do i get the maggot thoughts that crawl into my head and tell me i’m inadequate, trifling?”
“It’s all circumstantial, and that is what we need to mend and patch”
Give me your mental diagnosis-diagnonsense
Go ahead, tell me what you’ve espied when you sat oneself down and perched your virtuoso intellect in my head
“oh yes, you comprehend
you understand
Everything.
You know me deeper than i know my self”
“We are getting somewhere, we are moving forward you are progressing!”
Take your pills, go to therapy
Take your pills, go to therapy
You must be pleased as punch you’re finally fixing me
dismally i disinform you, i lied
Why you may inquire? Not one can understand ones speculations or thoughts unless they are legitimately situated in my chamber of a lugubrious trench filled with distasteful maggots which leave dolorous contusions-bruises and thoughts that leave me questioning reality, questioning my essence, questioning myself
Take your pills, go to therapy
Take your pills, go to therapy
If i were in deed reviving from the sorrow i would no longer have these god awful scars and bruises
You can’t tell me i am not out of ones tree
when
you
scarcely
know
me
At times I’m not sure if i even know me___________________________________________________________________________
May 12, 2014
May 12, 2014 at 3:15 PM UTC
There was an Old Man of Cape Horn,
Who wished he had never been born;
So he sat on a chair,
Till he died of despair,
That dolorous Man of Cape Horn.
1.4k
Song of the Soldiers
What of the faith and fire within us
Men who march away
Ere the barn-cocks say
Night is growing gray,
To hazards whence no tears can win us;
What of the faith and fire within us
Men who march away!
Is it a purblind prank, O think you,
Friend with the musing eye
Who watch us stepping by,
With doubt and dolorous sigh?
Can much pondering so hoodwink you?
Is it a purblind prank, O think you,
Friend with the musing eye?
Nay. We see well what we are doing,
Though some may not see—
Dalliers as they be—
England’s need are we;
Her distress would leave us rueing:
Nay. We well see what we are doing,
Though some may not see!
In our heart of hearts believing
Victory crowns the just,
And that braggarts must
Surely bite the dust,
Press we to the field ungrieving,
In our heart of hearts believing
Victory crowns the just.
Hence the faith and fire within us
Men who march away
Ere the barn-cocks say
Night is growing gray,
To hazards whence no tears can win us;
Hence the faith and fire within us
Men who march away.
1.3k
When I was bold, when I was bold--
And that's a hundred years!--
Oh, never I thought my breast could hold
The terrible weight of tears.
I said: "Now some be dolorous;
I hear them wail and sigh,
And if it be Love that play them thus,
Then never a love will I."
I said: "I see them rack and rue,
I see them wring and ache,
And little I'll crack my heart in two
With little the heart can break."
When I was gay, when I was gay--
It's ninety years and nine!--
Oh, never I thought that Death could lay
His terrible hand in mine.
I said: "He plies his trade among
The musty and infirm;
A body so hard and bright and young
Could never be meat for worm."
"I see him dull their eyes," I said,
"And still their rattling breath.
And how under God could I be dead
That never was meant for Death?"
But Love came by, to quench my sleep,
And here's my sundered heart;
And bitter's my woe, and black, and deep,
And little I guessed a part.
Yet this there is to cool my breast,
And this to ease my spell;
Now if I were Love's, like all the rest,
Then can I be Death's, as well.
And he shall have me, sworn and bound,
And I'll be done with Love.
And better I'll be below the ground
Than ever I'll be above.
1.3k
Jailed with all the other squawking birds
confined, it never flew and barely grew
& never knew the mimicry of words
sanguine, foul molting cockatoo in the corner
lowered, bloodied, the lowliest in a pecking order
his owner's a loner, a collector of tinged newsprint
entombed in brick & mortar - nomad minus footprint
and his birds, perched across wooden dowels
proceeded to empty their millet'd bowels
onto sheets of unfinished poetry
correctivewhiteoutmisery
so, he, being miserly, wouldn't shell out the reader's fee
to the greedy posthumous publishing company, yet
another relic in a mortuary of literacy
he was just another faceless, bearded bard
and with the old coffee grounds
he would discard
piling mounds of compost, broken bound
his compositions decomposing in the attic
warbling hiss, winding tape spool. ghosts
searching for signals amongst the static
he awaited revision of his works
ill, amidst the scattered ruins
red ink, gold leaf & carets^
he, impetuous, slumped further into his doldrums
though, all public grievances were withdrawn
crass, he prattled on to his dolorous birds
still oblivious to his defunct words
He lied dormant, comatose
in the 3rd degree infirmary
there was once a pretty lass
who could exhume the pristine
glass contents of his tinsel'd tomb
His malady, he once named Gamine
lived in a stretched-white canvas room
she eyed his burnt pile of vile-dirge verse
as mayflys & junebugs, & smoggy dirigibles
fluttered gently out of her empty purse
she grew on him like a cancer
for she was God's embellishment
pallid and perfect, and he cursed
her love as it ebbed and flowed
her aureole glowed, safely stowed
in an airship's overhead compartment
she was flying home for
there was no other answer
Jul 13, 2015
Jul 13, 2015 at 12:01 AM UTC
Lo, as a dove when up she springs
To bear thro' Heaven a tale of woe,
Some dolorous message knit below
The wild pulsation of her wings;
Like her I go; I cannot stay;
I leave this mortal ark behind,
A weight of nerves without a mind,
And leave the cliffs, and haste away
O'er ocean-mirrors rounded large,
And reach the glow of southern skies,
And see the sails at distance rise,
And linger weeping on the marge,
And saying; 'Comes he thus, my friend?
Is this the end of all my care?'
And circle moaning in the air:
'Is this the end? Is this the end?'
And forward dart again, and play
About the prow, and back return
To where the body sits, and learn
That I have been an hour away.
1.2k
The Quiet of a Pickwickian World
By Sy Roth
In the silence of my Pickwickian world,
A transcendent quiet stands vigil.
Left to its own devices it rattles around, a
lonely brown-suited courier,
Hefting weighty cargo from one sooty corner to the next.
Seeks tranquility in a world where,
Fettered by golden reins
Hobbled by unceremonial chain mail
Lanced by coronets of thorns,
Astride, a long-in-the-tooth steed
Spurred on to wrestle shredded windmills,
A cavil of unrepentant correctors rest.
And they still come--
Tidal waves of disturbances,
Tsunamis that rip ashore and sweep all away
Into a loathsome pile,
Bilious flotsam of a generation bereft of empathy.
A forced silence clings to the dusty rafters
Where sages once stood
Hanging like KKK castoffs
In a closeted Jim Crow attic of rules and regulations gone mad.
A quiescent quiet demands quiet.
Nestles behind muffled screams
Of ages of piles of rotting flesh.
Dolorous vision of a peaceful world
Where peace packed for a long vacation
To Edens that exist only in fairy tales.
Bring with them untruths of understanding
Swaddled in ****** soiled bedclothes.
Leave me to my silence,
Lave me of the Ash Wednesday smudge
Where realities come home to roost in the dim corners
Where the highwaymen have no access.
Feb 27, 2015
Feb 27, 2015 at 8:03 AM UTC
#
*Dear Journal,
The wheel turns on the black Bic lighter and conjures a restless spark,
thus igniting once sincere letters. In turn, arctic winds are evoked at dark.
Couple's ardor inspired prior to her departure abroad to Denmark.
Confederate embers scorch paper, but less so than this dolorous heart.
Blazing in solidarity on a barren porch; a pyre for finest silks torn apart.
With weeping wounds cauterized, the true healing now just starts.
Sincerely,
Rekindled*
#
May 26, 2018
May 26, 2018 at 3:41 PM UTC
Risest thou thus, dim dawn, again,
And howlest, issuing out of night,
With blasts that blow the poplar white,
And lash with storm the streaming pane?
Day, when my crown'd estate begun
To pine in that reverse of doom,
Which sicken'd every living bloom,
And blurr'd the splendour of the sun;
Who usherest in the dolorous hour
With thy quick tears that make the rose
Pull sideways, and the daisy close
Her crimson fringes to the shower;
Who might'st have heaved a windless flame
Up the deep East, or, whispering, play'd
A chequer-work of beam and shade
Along the hills, yet look'd the same.
As wan, as chill, as wild as now;
Day, mark'd as with some hideous crime,
When the dark hand struck down thro' time,
And cancell'd nature's best: but thou,
Lift as thou may'st thy burthen'd brows
Thro' clouds that drench the morning star,
And whirl the ungarner'd sheaf afar,
And sow the sky with flying boughs,
And up thy vault with roaring sound
Climb thy thick noon, disastrous day;
Touch thy dull goal of joyless gray,
And hide thy shame beneath the ground.
1.1k
We queue up like
indentured servants
grateful as ripe fruit for
the opportunity to
bend our back in an
eternal question asking
how few grains
how few beans
how few drops
do I need to survive
in a world that fits
like the abandoned sweater
of the world's tallest man
We line up like
Hoovervillites
eager as dogs for
the opportunity to
plunge our paws into
scalding pots of wondering
how many coins
how many beds
how many children
must I offer to subsist
in a world that spins
out of reach like the apples
of the world's tallest tree
We row up rank and file like
slaves
servile as a Christmas and Easter parishioner's lips slathering for
the opportunity to
kiss the papal ring imagining
how many hours
how many loves
how many lives
will be lost to languish
in a world that ossifies
like Gluttony's cast off carcasses
left by the world's fattest corporate cat
We queue up like
indentured servants
dolorous as dying vines from
the bonds and bridles that
bend our back in an
eternal question asking
how few grains
how few beans
how few drops
will I have left
after they've taken the sweater
after they've taken the apple
after they've taken the scraps
in a world that fits
like the abandoned sweater
of the world's tallest man
Jul 27, 2011
Jul 27, 2011 at 3:36 PM UTC
As the sea is dolorous
My soul is untamable
As the moon perpetuate the sea
One can make me conclusive
But who can bottle that be?
The sea may reverberate
My affection may extravasate
The moon dispassion the waves
Of my life's precipitation
Who can prevail against me?
As deep as the sea
Is my love and my heart
As the moon faultless the sea
I need someone to quiescent me
Who can rival me?
The sea is so atramentous
As is my disposition
The moon luminosity it's light
Can someone genuinely love me
And make me whole?
I need a camaraderie
Like the moon and the sea
Commensurate and exhaustive
Come find me
If you dare
I'm lost at sea.
Mar 8, 2016
Mar 8, 2016 at 12:57 PM UTC
Ugly are your wings so drab and dark
Softly bending against rippled bark
Golden borders with spots of blue
Dreary patterns of somber hue
Mourningcloak you are a fraud
A butterfly severely flawed
Unbeautiful as your name implies
The ugliest of all butterflies
Mental illness makes for fragile wings
Always falling short of better things
A dolorous sight of stark despair
And restless flights that go nowhere
Strange specimen caught in a net
To choose to live is to forget
That life will end but death won’t come
In the killing jar you just go numb
Through rounded glass will life transform
And taste so sweet of chloroform
A soothing bane breathed in real deep
Faint distractions drift fast asleep
Isolation keeps you who you are
Death is endless in the killing jar
Wings held outstretched on the spreading board
Pass deathless moments where time’s ignored
Pins pierce the body and puncture through
To hold you here but you’re not you
Pinned and labeled put on display
Pressed in a box and forced to stay
Immortalized in a private case
In solitude to hang in place
Repulsive feckless Mourningcloak
Now the symbol of life’s cruelest joke
Jun 26, 2013
Jun 26, 2013 at 6:49 PM UTC