"domine" poems
Libera me, Domine,
de morte aeterna
in die illa tremenda
quando coeli movendi sunt et terra
dum veneris judicare
saeculum per ignem.
Tremens factus sum
ego et timeo,
dum discussion venerit atque venture ira:
quando coeli movendi sunt et terra.
November 21, 1976. 11:00 P.M.
With nothing
he packs his suitcase, turns
to his own personal prophet
and watches and waits
and waits, he will wait
for an hour.
And finally
the prophet speaks
in monotone, three short syllables.
He opens the door, careful
not to wake dad.
Turning the corner,
the suitcase jars the door ajar.
A stirring from upstairs.
Remembering the face of madness
behind the pulpit
behind the door,
he races out, fearful
of footsteps drawing louder
and with them, promises
of pain.
Mar 25, 2014
Mar 25, 2014 at 12:10 AM UTC
Manuel del Río, natural
de España, ha fallecido el sábado
11 de mayo, a consecuencia
de un accidente. Su cadáver
está tendido en D'Agostino
Funeral Home. Haskell. New Jersey.
Se dirá una misa cantada
a las 9,30 en St. Francis.
Es una historia que comienza
con sol y piedra, y que termina
sobre una mesa, en D'Agostino,
con flores y cirios eléctricos.
Es una historia que comienza
en una orilla del Atlántico.
Continúa en un camarote
de tercera, sobre las olas
-sobre las nubes- de las tierras
sumergidas ante Poseidón.
Halla en América su término
con una grúa y una clínica,
con una esquela y una misa
cantada, en la iglesia de St. Francis.
Al fin y al cabo, cualquier sitio
da lo mismo para morir:
el que se aroma de romero,
el tallado en piedra o en nieve,
el empapado de petróleo.
Da lo mismo que un cuerpo se haga
piedra, petróleo, nieve, aroma.
Lo doloroso no es morir
acá o allá...
Requiem æternam,
Manuel del Río. Sobre el mármol
en D'Agostino, pastan toros
de España, Manuel, y las flores
(funeral de segunda, caja
que huele a abetos del invierno)
cuarenta dólares. Y han puesto
unas flores artificiales
entre las otras que arrancaron
al jardín... Libera me domine
de morte æterna...
Cuando mueran
James o Jacob verán las flores
que pagaron Giulio o Manuel...
Ahora descienden a tus cumbres
garras de águila. Dies irae.
Lo doloroso no es morir
Dies illa acá o allá;
sino sin gloria...
Tus abuelos
fecundaron la tierra toda,
la empaparon de la aventura.
Cuando caía un español
se mutilaba el Universo.
Los velaban no en D'Agostino
Funeral Home, sino entre hogueras,
entre caballos y armas. Héroes
para siempre. Estatuas de rostro
borrado. Vestidos aún
sus colores de papagayo,
de poder y de fantasía.
Él no ha caído así. No ha muerto
por ninguna locura hermosa.
(Hace mucho que el español
muere de anónimo y cordura,
o en locuras desgarradoras
entre hermanos: cuando acuchilla
pellejos de vino derrama
sangre fraterna). Vino un día
porque su tierra es pobre. El Mundo,
Liberanos Domine, es patria.
Y ha muerto. No fundó ciudades.
No dio su nombre a un mar. No hizo
más que morir por diecisiete
dólares (él los pensaría
en pesetas). Requiem æternam.
Y en D'Agostino lo visitan
los polacos, los irlandeses,
los españoles, los que mueren
en el week-end.
Requiem æternam.
Definitivamente todo
ha terminado. Su cadáver
está tendido en D'Agostino
Funeral Home. Haskell. New Jersey.
Se dirá una misa cantada
por su alma.
Me he limitado
a reflejar aquí una esquela
de un periódico de New York.
Objetivamente. Sin vuelo
en el verso. Objetivamente.
Un español como millones
de españoles. No he dicho a nadie
que estuve a punto de llorar.
1.7k
C'est le moment crépusculaire.
J'admire, assis sous un portail,
Ce reste de jour dont s'éclaire
La dernière heure du travail.
Dans les terres, de nuit baignées,
Je contemple, ému, les haillons
D'un vieillard qui jette à poignées
La moisson future aux sillons.
Sa haute silhouette noire
Domine les profonds labours.
On sent à quel point il doit croire
À la fuite utile des jours.
Il marche dans la plaine immense,
Va, vient, lance la graine au ****
Rouvre sa main, et recommence,
Et je médite, obscur témoin,
Pendant que, déployant ses voiles,
L'ombre, où se mêle une rumeur,
Semble élargir jusqu'aux étoiles
Le geste auguste du semeur.
1.4k
Adam est fade tellement il est ordinaire
La gravite est monotone, elle date d'avant Terre
Adam aime tout le monde, haïr est inique
La gravite me permet d'attirer, or je n'ai rien d'unique
Adam, vous; humains; vous comptez en milliards
Gravite, de l'atome a Adam, rien n’échappe a ton radar
Adam se sent serein au sein de sa famille
La gravite arrange les atomes pesés en harmonie
Ève vit Adam et ne trouva rien a lui reprocher
Electricité domine toute gravite dans les distances rapprochées
Ève trouve l'homme, la stabilité, la nécessaire et suffisante distraction
L'electricite se moque des dimensions, seule compte l'attraction
Ève, douée du sentiment, cède et concède par peur du changement
L'electricite en mariant les atomes force leur rattachement
Ève et Adam devinrent un couple, une eve et un adam
L'electricite, égalisatrice, meurt sous les yeux de l'éternelle gravite
Oct 11, 2015
Oct 11, 2015 at 9:53 PM UTC
Munda cor meum ac ***** mea, omnipotens Deus.
For my heart has ached with the pain
of separation from You. My lips have
spoken words that have caused others
to be in turmoil.
Perevangelica dicta deleantur nostra delicta.
For only in the Gospel will my answers be,
through the Christ, the Redeemer, my
redemption from this life of multiple lies.
Credo in unum Deum.
For both Scripture and Tradition tell
me this is how He exists. Our common
Lord who will wash clean the heart.
In spiritu humilitatis et in animo
contrito suscipiamur a te, Domine:
et sic fiat sacrificium nostrum in
conspectu tuo hodie, ut placeat
tibi, Domine Deus.
Let everything within me live up
to the words I pray. May every
promise, to you, Good Lord, be
everything to me.
For only in the Father,
only in the Son,
only in the holy Spirit,
is found the truth I have so
deeply been trying to reclaim.
Apr 13, 2016
Apr 13, 2016 at 6:15 PM UTC
A veces siento cómo palpita mi corazón, siento todo
el dolor que martilla mi cabeza y que va carcomiendo mis deseos,
puedo olor la saturación de mi piel y escucho a mis
entrañas querer explotar, querer hacerse rojo tinta en la cama,
y en los oídos tengo un zumbido que me molesta todo el tiempo,
un zumbido que intenta arrancarme las orejas y ponerlas en un plato.
No puedo pensar con claridad, porque en mi cerebro
las ideas se extinguen y son sólo retazos de algún pensamiento vago,
¿cómo es que sigo de pie? Si no siento las piernas,
si parece que me las han cortado, igual que a mis brazos;
tampoco sé cómo escribo, ¿estoy escribiendo ahora mismo o tan sólo es la sobra inútil de una idea?
Estoy perdiendo los estribos, me estoy volviendo un
ser que no conozco, un ser que no puede centrar bien su cabeza
y que quiere marchitarse sin antes haber florecido.
Quiero paz, tan sólo quiero un momento de estática,
un momento en donde mi mente no grite con tanta locura
y donde la noche no se cole por todos mis poros y domine mis ideas.
Aug 17, 2015
Aug 17, 2015 at 9:12 PM UTC
I tried to assemble
The pieces of Osiris
But all the stars aligned so
That i should fail again
I tried to revive the
Body of Lazarus
but the tomb had swallowed
The words of the messiah.
Long rang the bell
My soul had come to bitter end
Desperate chants
blood does glimmer on their hands
Hammers dance on nails
They urge the dead to stay contained
Slayer eats the slain
Til the end of time til last of days
I struggle to awaken
I'm morally brain dead
But all the ****** effort
sticks me to the ground
The burden of Atlas
Lays on my two shoulders
if I drop my sky
will anyone notice
Long live the king
The reaper hand in hand with me
choir commence to sing
heaven weeps for apathy
Hades take away
All the strife and all the pain
*Pie Jesu Domine
dona eis requiem*.
Jan 4, 2019
Jan 4, 2019 at 5:32 PM UTC
*talking to ritchie (a scaffolder on the Whitechapel project of the cross-rail) and his girlfriend nicholle, the smurf who i told about gargamel... while almost begged the sri lankans to buy a bottle of whiskey and a bottle of diet pepsi, past the allowance for the shop's opening hours and catching the last bus from chasing the cross... me and ritchie got talking randomly... hugged and shook hands by the end of the encounter, i don't know why; ritchie was a scaffolder... i told him i was once a roofer... i don't know why i have a healthy affiliation with scaffolders;
nicholle the chihuahua walking in front of us reminded us of drug testing on the building site, i said a day off, she said a day without pay and randomised crap like curtains... now i remember why i didn't join the crew with girlfriends, i'd be in a mental asylum by now, should they exist, otherwise with the failure of community care projects... maybe that's why women look amazing in ***** but cats look better in real life; i'm not even trying to be sexist, it's just too much reality.*
i have only a few words
for her:
why won't she touch me?
why am i to resolve
my objections like this,
ah, i see, because they are
objections to that
subjections that are of man
succumbing to woman
and the ordeal of chore;
that are, man objectifies woman
with all that ***********
while woman makes countless
subjects from him to appease her,
while the world around sees no
appeasement...
indeed in the crusader's song to
later show, as a psychosis
(elevation of soul via the body's
non-existence, a funny atheism)
i'll show you a levitated stone,
that doesn't require stones or loafs of
bread for proof of alchemy;
cup my hands in tears to capture
tears like rainwater...
make my eyes a convent....
i say a convent not a covenant!
da pacem domine -
and i see the mother nuns ushering the flock
into carcass of obedience,
a volume of body as tall as the pyramids;
why are we the defending?
what pleading would craft an altar
if not to compare
idle prayer crafted as a larger spectacle
to allow marriage in its eyes
permitted...
when i'm the sparrow of sorrow
i sound like my mother, because of you,
it's what i see that's to come
that makes me disbelieve the magic of
the advert, and embrace the advent of the saints
in petulant prayer.
Mar 28, 2016
Mar 28, 2016 at 7:16 PM UTC
Bell tower
against the afternoon sky
and the tolling of bells
for the office of None,
Domine *****
mea aperies,
the sun in the church
through high windows
pouring in the light
and we stood
chanting in Latin,
siamo come Dio
ci ha fatti
said the Italian monk
as he aided me
in the sacristy,
see I am as Eve
come enter my valley
she said and I obliged,
pray as if everything
depended on God
but work as if everything
depended on you
said Augustine(saint),
the feel of the rope
between hands
as we pulled down
to toll bells
for the office of Sext
George smiling
and I too,
Dieu se trouve dans
le silence the French monks said
as we walked
the abbey woodland
after lunch and birds sang
from high trees,
she peeled down her clothes
and revealed her soft fruit
partake she said,
Hugh stood in the shade
arms folded
gazing at the tree
in the garth
and the fruit it bore
still unpicked,
I polished the choir stalls
with a yellow duster
and red polish
the smell mingled
with incense
from mass that morning,
sprechen mit Gott
the Austrian monk said
as we walked
from the chapter house
one early evening
and I did but
was he listening?
I wondered,
perfect numbers are like
perfect men they
are very rare Gareth
said quoting Descartes
as we washed up
after supper
in the small room
by the kitchen,
my husband will never know
she said if you want to,
Deus qui possit ita
salvare te,
but I closed my ears
and even in the dark hours
I saw little light,
and I closed the shutters
to the departing day
and gazed at the Crucified
on the wall
above my bed
but small connection
to Christ in my head.
Jul 20, 2016
Jul 20, 2016 at 2:35 AM UTC
too much poetry decides on what's essential,
nothing, is, quite, necessary. although: existential:
too much borne from inexperience
and too much from anticipating it,
yet the fewest to mind the passing as it was,
anticipation reduced to vaccines on the ready,
so much ******* idealism that it makes me sick...
quiet likely... variation of the onomatopoeia yuck,
and there are plenty... da pacem domine...
or questioning Babylonian tactics:
hanging garden' madness remembering the pyramids
prior the Eiffel overcoming...
the tongue! the tongue! the tongue prior cranium!
knock knock... who's there? who's who? who knows?
no, who doesn't care.
i don't know why tilting on the Byzantine titling,
seemed appropriate, what are you?
the leftists who took apart communism
and want censorship to curb right-wing opinions?
Mary ******* Poppins from afar! Birmingham thus far
and so should Venice mind - no river... no flow.
the left are truly readying a box, two gloves,
tango of feet, a header in a football match is like an
uppercut, grey matter extending... well d'uh d'uh d'uh.
glossognomia - the alter to Heraclitus' tears or Logos
v. Gnome, the laughing one's, atomic Democritus -
both a cretin's fancy without a wife -
wisest speech of the *** without womb -
men and tombs, women and wombs... shame we were
born yesterday and certain scripts were deemed holy
and subsequently undecipherable, unquestioned,
requiring prayer, necessary Koran, poetic justices of
expression, Milton und Blake... well hello the idea
of photosynthesis! maybe an Aladdin pyramid or two
on the flying carpet! who the gold digger now?
Jun 13, 2016
Jun 13, 2016 at 7:39 PM UTC
Voyez la sur les trottoirs de vos rues, dans vos villes,
Parfois même dans vos esprits, qu'ils soient les plus vils,
Les plus arrogants, les plus dangereux, ou même les plus infamants,
Rien, non, rien pour elle n'est plus important.
Mais que vois-je,
Au delà des passions, de la folie, au delà de la démence,
C'est la décadence qui s'installe et qui domine.
"Alors, qu'attendez-vous, châtiez et oubliez votre clémence."
La raison, plus forte que le nombre, fusse-t-elle divine.
Me disais-je..
La meute fumante s'approchait, je ne tremblais pas.
Je ne bougeais pas mais eux gesticulaient devant leurs fanions :
"Vite, des fleurs que je bouche leurs fusils avant que nous et notre espoir ne fanions"
N'était il pas trop **** mais seul face à eux qui marchaient au pas,
Que deviendrais-je ?
Jun 7, 2017
Jun 7, 2017 at 3:56 PM UTC
“quo vadis, domine?”
i. you’re saint peter on a cross,
hung upside-down, staring at the
bright blue and if your arms
weren’t pinned to rotting wood
you’d reach out—
(petrus, dear petrus, why
hast thou forsaken me?)
there’s iron in your grip,
fingers curled in supplication
as you, the fisherman from Bethsaida,
bears only his own sins
the pain fades for a moment
under the sunlight and
you’d smile if your lips didn’t bleed
at the harsh stretch of skin
they poke your side with a spear,
but only red pours out and the
barren ground below you will receive
no nourishment
you are no god, no holy deity
walking to and fro amongst mortals
(O’ you of little faith, why did you doubt?)
martyr, martyr they’ll chime with each
bell toll, thousands of years from now—
long after your body has perished in
the valley between ***** and Gomorrah
you are simon peter, the betrayer, the liar, the
coward
you are oh so human, and the world will
never forgive you for it
bedrock, they’ll call you, and mean it
you’ll be hailed a saint and people will kiss
your bronze image, dust oil against leaden
feet and imagine that your gaze is not fixed
solemnly to the earth
(now, nothing but a false idol to some,
draped in velvet and handed a crown—
the rooster crows, and so god too will
denounce your existence)
Sep 24, 2017
Sep 24, 2017 at 9:38 PM UTC
Martha flinched,
but didn't cry
as the wooden ruler
hit the palm
of her hand;
to her
it was as if the nails
were once again
being nailed
into palm
of the Crucified;
the pain
was His gift
to her,
a sharing
of His pain.
Sister Rose,
who to Martha
had witch-like features,
brought the ruler
down with
determined effort
and gazed at her.
The sting
of the pain
vibrated along
her held out arm
and Martha's eyes
were fixed
on the area above
the witch's head
as if maybe
an angel
would appear
and nod
the Crucified's
approval
and all was watery
and out of focus.
Tu enim, Domine
Deus meus,
Martha muttered
under her breath,
musing through
the sting,
the Crucified's death.
Other hand,
Sister Rose said,
indicating
with a nod
of her habited head.
Martha raised
her other hand,
palm upwards,
put her wounded palm
by her side
seemingly on fire.
The witch
brought down
the ruler
on the open palm,
eyes bright
as an hawk's,
the same intent
to harm or ****
it seemed.
Martha wondered,
as the explosion
hit flesh
whether
the Crucified
would forgive
the penguin's
merciless hammering.
She supposed
He would
as was His wont,
but to her
the nun
was a fecking
cant.
Mar 12, 2016
Mar 12, 2016 at 2:12 AM UTC
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Jan 20, 2018
Jan 20, 2018 at 10:36 PM UTC
¡Oh, Señor! Dios de los ejércitos,
eterno Padre, eterno Rey,
por este mundo que creaste
con la virtud de tu poder;
porque dijiste: la luz sea,
y a tu palabra la luz fue;
porque coexistes con el Verbo,
porque contigo el Verbo es
desde los siglos de los siglos
y sin mañana y sin ayer,
requiem aeternam dona eis, Domine,
el lux perpetua luceat eis!
¡Oh Jesucristo, por el frío
de tu pesebre de Belem,
por tus angustias en el Huerto,
por el vinagre y por la hiel,
por las espinas y las varas
con que tus carnes desgarré,
y por la cruz en que borraste
todas las culpas de Israel;
Hijo del Hombre, desolado,
trágico Dios, tremendo Juez:
requiem aeternam dona eis, Domine,
el lux perpetua luceat eis!
¡Divino Espíritu, Paráclito,
aspiración del gran Iaveh,
que unes al Padre con el Hijo,
y siendo el Uno sois los Tres;
por la paloma de alas níveas,
por la inviolada doncellez
de aquella Virgen que en su vientre
llevó al Mesías Emmanuel;
por las ardientes lenguas rojas
con que inspiraste ciencia y fe
a los discípulos amados
de Jesucristo, nuestro bien:
requiem aeternam dona eis, Domine,
el lux perpetua luceat eis!
639
Mords-moi, ma Muse
Pince ton Musc
Crie ta rage
Cours **** de moi
Griffe-moi
Pleure, grogne, hurle
Débats-toi
Je suis là pour ça
Je suis là pour toi
Pour que tu puisses vivre ton monde
A ta guise
Pour que tu puisses danser comme une veuve joyeuse
Et rire aux éclats quand ça te chante
Je suis ton ombre thérapeutique
Ton ombre thérapeutique
Ton ombre thérapeutique
Gribouille sur mon corps
Tes rêves indescriptibles
Tes cauchemars imperceptibles
Prends la craie ou l'encre de Chine
Dessine-moi Pierrot et Colombine
Et barbouille-moi de Pinot blanc
Ou barbouille-toi de Pinot noir
Ou barbouille-nous de Cabernet Sauvignon
Qui coulent comme des fleuves où flottent
D'étranges gargouilles mélancoliques.
Je suis ton ombre thérapeutique
Tu fais rugir l'animal féroce et sauvage
Qui sommeille au fond de moi
Tu fais le musc monter en moi
Et il faut que je me domine
Quand le musc entre en rut
Au fond de la Muse.
Quand tu commences ton cirque
Quand ta tête tourne tourne tourne
Sous les pieds des otaries géantes
C'est moi qui bois du vin clairet
Du sylvaner ou du gewurtstraminer
Quand tu fais l 'éléphant et que tu barris
A la vue d'un sucre ou d'un café nu
Je me ressers un verre de prosecco italien
Et je me rince la gorge avec un dé d'eau de vie de mirabelle
Quand tu me lacères de ton fouet
Pour dompter les tigres de Bengale
Qui jonglent à travers les lacs de tes yeux
Je vide une bonne bouteille de Bologne
Et je suce la cuillère de sirop de batterie
Mélangé au citron vert
Quand ton regard se fige
Et qu'immobile comme une chatte tu restes à l'arrêt
Je me transforme en pelote de laine
Et je me balance sous tes yeux comme un pendule
A droite à gauche
A droite à gauche
Et je sais que tu attends que le coucou sorte à l'heure
Du fond de sa cage au fond de l'horloge
Et qu'il plonge dans tes eaux
Car je suis ton ombre thérapeutique
Ton ombre thérapeutique
Ton ombre thérapeutique
Aug 21, 2019
Aug 21, 2019 at 6:23 AM UTC
Knelt down
weeded the flower bed
in the cloister garth,
orange brick walls
waist high
shadows in the cloister
where the sun
could not touch,
intrantes autem
in domum Dei
so I did
that first time in 68,
smell of baked bread
and incense
and aged brick
and sight of cloisters
in moonlight,
Domine da mihi
castitatem et nondum
Augustine said
I thought likewise
but never said,
she cupped me
with her soft fingers
and tongued me
in her dark room,
Hugh thin faced
grim featured
eyed the breviary
chanted the Latin text
beside me
I copied
best I could,
partecipare alla
vita di Dio
the Italian monk said
as we mended
broken fences
by the far grounds,
George read
the day's text
in practice
must be clever
Dom James said
clear as a bell's tone,
Twice armed
if we fight with faith
Gareth said in Greek
quoting Plato
twice armed
fighting with faith
or suchlike
he added
seeing my
incomprehension,
have me
she said
in whisper
soft breath
whiskey soaked,
rope between hands
rough against skin
bell pulled as bell tolled
vibrated loud
in ear's fold
and hold.
Jan 2, 2017
Jan 2, 2017 at 2:49 PM UTC
Every moment, every mind,
All the world is bent and blind.
Heavy tears, free flowing blood,
Putting cruel stars in place.
Every call and every voice,
echoes, nothing but this noise.
0Da pacem Domine,
(I die by your behest)
1Quam tranquilitas,
2Quam serena mors est.
Every human ever made,
All our tears an icy glade.
Stary skies a sea of loss,
We know now, but what a cost.
Every angel every wing,
To hole of thine grave shall sing.
0Da pacem domine
(I live by your command)
3Dictat, sicut Deum
4Verb tuo,obito meum!
Apr 10, 2019
Apr 10, 2019 at 10:01 PM UTC
o domine
*** in miratione
quae opera fecisti censeam
conspicio
montes et tempestates
potentiam divinam ubique
tum anima te laudat carmine
quam magnus es! quam magnus es!
tum anima te laudat carmine
quam magnus es! quam magnus es!
Nov 11, 2018
Nov 11, 2018 at 7:47 PM UTC
/ sohn! sie sind alle (ich) sehen!
die nacht!
vorher
die kerze!
mein licht!
mein gebet!
mein alle!
da pacem domine:
is all that i could
ever have!
not this...
this...
as your mother called:
pitiable refrains of
a boy, that could not
fathom man....
so let the world...
turn...
and set a blind eye
to "mind" the future...
i kneel,
serve a prayer...
and await the churn...
let your shadow move
as my body once did...
and all..
*das haben
zu verwelken*...
imagine!
bruder schütz's ****** in 2005,
the founder of taizé!
aren't we all?
at this point:
it doesn't really matter -
war, peace,
peace, war...
just do
justice to the guillotine,
and still the gallows will be halved,
by the sparrows singing;
and then, i will hang.
Jul 12, 2018
Jul 12, 2018 at 10:34 PM UTC