"etiolated" poems - Hello Poetry

Hard light bathed them-a whole nation of eyeless men, Dark bipeds not aware how they were maimed. A long Process, clearly, a slow curse, Drained through centuries, left them thus. At some transitional stage, then, a luckless few, No doubt, must have had eyes after the up-to-date, Normal type had achieved snug Darkness, safe from the guns of heavn; Whose blind mouths would abuse words that belonged to their Great-grandsires, unabashed, talking of light in some Eunuch'd, etiolated, Fungoid sense, as a symbol of Abstract thoughts. If a man, one that had eyes, a poor Misfit, spoke of the grey dawn or the stars or green- Sloped sea waves, or admired how Warm tints change in a lady's cheek, None complained he had used words from an alien tongue, None question'd. It was worse. All would agree 'Of course,' Came their answer. "We've all felt Just like that." They were wrong. And he Knew too much to be clear, could not explain. The words -- Sold, ***** flung to the dogs -- now could avail no more; Hence silence. But the mouldwarps, With glib confidence, easily Showed how tricks of the phrase, sheer metaphors could set Fools concocting a myth, taking the worlds for things. Do you think this a far-fetched Picture? Go then about among Men now famous; attempt speech on the truths that once, Opaque, carved in divine forms, irremovable, Dear but dear as a mountain- Mass, stood plain to the inward eye.

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4.6k

C. S. Lewis

The Country of the Blind

Hard light bathed them-a whole nation of eyeless men, Dark bipeds not aware how they were maimed. A long Process, clearly, a slow curse, Drained through centuries, left them thus. At some transitional stage, then, a luckless few, No doubt, must have had eyes after the up-to-date, Normal type had achieved snug Darkness, safe from the guns of heavn; Whose blind mouths would abuse words that belonged to their Great-grandsires, unabashed, talking of light in some Eunuch'd, etiolated, Fungoid sense, as a symbol of Abstract thoughts. If a man, one that had eyes, a poor Misfit, spoke of the grey dawn or the stars or green- Sloped sea waves, or admired how Warm tints change in a lady's cheek, None complained he had used words from an alien tongue, None question'd. It was worse. All would agree 'Of course,' Came their answer. "We've all felt Just like that." They were wrong. And he Knew too much to be clear, could not explain. The words -- Sold, ***** flung to the dogs -- now could avail no more; Hence silence. But the mouldwarps, With glib confidence, easily Showed how tricks of the phrase, sheer metaphors could set Fools concocting a myth, taking the worlds for things. Do you think this a far-fetched Picture? Go then about among Men now famous; attempt speech on the truths that once, Opaque, carved in divine forms, irremovable, Dear but dear as a mountain- Mass, stood plain to the inward eye.

32

as soon as these blue speckled socks go, that's it. A new bright black death.A solemn weir on a stark horizon.Give me a reason to wear color. My hueless affidavit runs me into the Earth, where I sprout up a pallid keb- brain orf'd, you could drag my etiolated ebon body through the ovine fold or take me to the theater. When I was just a minor teg, I sheared my mim kip, I fuckinggave it to you outright. In this little cote my wan mien nigrifying; my calamitous black, quaffed full of congou in demitasse, of souchong & saucers. My atrous wethered body albicantly degenerating in the atrous sun. I'm crusting over with wanness and you, you're fortifying in the cwm where I used to yaff and stray. Your ovivorous hunger,something I never knew, when first you came for my jecoral flesh, just another bot digging through my soft toison. Like Dall's Prometheus being sheared from the flock-you cut me away. In this drab and achromic world, you put the wanness in my flesh, the gid in my heart. Still. Just these blue socks are left.

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Apr 26, 2014

Apr 26, 2014 at 5:20 AM UTC

martin-narrod

Mew

as soon as these blue speckled socks go, that's it. A new bright black death.A solemn weir on a stark horizon.Give me a reason to wear color. My hueless affidavit runs me into the Earth, where I sprout up a pallid keb- brain orf'd, you could drag my etiolated ebon body through the ovine fold or take me to the theater. When I was just a minor teg, I sheared my mim kip, I fuckinggave it to you outright. In this little cote my wan mien nigrifying; my calamitous black, quaffed full of congou in demitasse, of souchong & saucers. My atrous wethered body albicantly degenerating in the atrous sun. I'm crusting over with wanness and you, you're fortifying in the cwm where I used to yaff and stray. Your ovivorous hunger,something I never knew, when first you came for my jecoral flesh, just another bot digging through my soft toison. Like Dall's Prometheus being sheared from the flock-you cut me away. In this drab and achromic world, you put the wanness in my flesh, the gid in my heart. Still. Just these blue socks are left.

7

She seemed to be like a delicate portrait which had fallen from its gilded frame Abandoned, lying face down on the cold winter floor An elegant portrait once painted In resplendent hues of indigo blue Her eyes told a story of bittersweet magenta colored sorrows bathed in tears that etched themselves throughout The frail intricately, woven canvas of her soul Over time thoughtless hands had subtly Contrived to manipulate the beauty Of her painted portrait into a resemblance Likened to that of a cold, chiseled statue Carelessly molded by calloused fingers Lancinating the fragile fragments Of her spirit leaving her heart With etiolated worn fabric - called her life She dreamed of Icarus soaring down on silvery wings of steel shrouded in cobalt and lavender clouds with outstretched, feathery fingers lifting her up to dance a Stravinsky ballet As it was meant to be - not how it was She was a beautiful, fragile butterfly bruised by a world much too harsh for her diminished spirit leaving her unable to fly away from the skis thirsty rains making it difficult for her to fly away from the skis thirsty rains It left her struggling to stay afloat In the springs melting snow Life had bruised her tender skin Gnawing away like insatiable insects On her delicate pink frescoed soul Leaving her feeling Like a fabricated manikin on display For all to pose her as they may Muddied soil was the blood that coursed through her veins, holding her tethered heart in fleshy, mounds of chocolate brown earth It held her helpless in its hold clogged by the silt which descended down Into spaces of her soul… Like murky strings of yellow tattered maize Leaving their ragged tassels tangled Throughout her life flowing veins Choking off the blood she needed To nourish her hungry heart Mighty winds toppled her willowy limber tree Snapping the delicate boughs Of her outstretched arms As they pulled at the tender fleshy bark of her skin She stood cold and alone In the icy winter night wrapped Only in her wounded, naked flesh With open, bleeding wounds Under the icy blue mist of the winter moon Her heart and soul painfully revealed... In shades of indigo blue

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Apr 10, 2013

Apr 10, 2013 at 6:19 PM UTC

anne-p-murray-1

Portrait In Indigo -She Dreamed Of Icarus

She seemed to be like a delicate portrait which had fallen from its gilded frame Abandoned, lying face down on the cold winter floor An elegant portrait once painted In resplendent hues of indigo blue Her eyes told a story of bittersweet magenta colored sorrows bathed in tears that etched themselves throughout The frail intricately, woven canvas of her soul Over time thoughtless hands had subtly Contrived to manipulate the beauty Of her painted portrait into a resemblance Likened to that of a cold, chiseled statue Carelessly molded by calloused fingers Lancinating the fragile fragments Of her spirit leaving her heart With etiolated worn fabric - called her life She dreamed of Icarus soaring down on silvery wings of steel shrouded in cobalt and lavender clouds with outstretched, feathery fingers lifting her up to dance a Stravinsky ballet As it was meant to be - not how it was She was a beautiful, fragile butterfly bruised by a world much too harsh for her diminished spirit leaving her unable to fly away from the skis thirsty rains making it difficult for her to fly away from the skis thirsty rains It left her struggling to stay afloat In the springs melting snow Life had bruised her tender skin Gnawing away like insatiable insects On her delicate pink frescoed soul Leaving her feeling Like a fabricated manikin on display For all to pose her as they may Muddied soil was the blood that coursed through her veins, holding her tethered heart in fleshy, mounds of chocolate brown earth It held her helpless in its hold clogged by the silt which descended down Into spaces of her soul… Like murky strings of yellow tattered maize Leaving their ragged tassels tangled Throughout her life flowing veins Choking off the blood she needed To nourish her hungry heart Mighty winds toppled her willowy limber tree Snapping the delicate boughs Of her outstretched arms As they pulled at the tender fleshy bark of her skin She stood cold and alone In the icy winter night wrapped Only in her wounded, naked flesh With open, bleeding wounds Under the icy blue mist of the winter moon Her heart and soul painfully revealed... In shades of indigo blue

60

My pants tighten as I scrawl across photos of you alone in the sewing room of my grandmother's house. Nobody's been pricked here for years, maybe decades. The stroking of my pen against the paper sounds rhythmic, a resilient beating and motion as I delicately carve out ***** verse into the white. The ink stands black as widows' veils against the **** colors of your pallid hands pressed firmly against your etiolated ******* Your red nails filed into clear, elegant points act as arrows guiding me to the carmine of your lips which hang low in a whimpering, begging pout. My eyes strut southward following the lips' drop until they arrive to the spread, blossoming like a rose in the spring, or erupting into the conflagration of July's fireworks. Photo after photo I stare and write my hedonistic desires the gravity of which could **** me to the second circle or rather, I think as I lift my pen, just help me to get off.

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Mar 10, 2012

Mar 10, 2012 at 12:54 AM UTC

brad-lambert

Scene of a Man Annotating Comments On His Ex's Finest ****

My pants tighten as I scrawl across photos of you alone in the sewing room of my grandmother's house. Nobody's been pricked here for years, maybe decades. The stroking of my pen against the paper sounds rhythmic, a resilient beating and motion as I delicately carve out ***** verse into the white. The ink stands black as widows' veils against the **** colors of your pallid hands pressed firmly against your etiolated ******* Your red nails filed into clear, elegant points act as arrows guiding me to the carmine of your lips which hang low in a whimpering, begging pout. My eyes strut southward following the lips' drop until they arrive to the spread, blossoming like a rose in the spring, or erupting into the conflagration of July's fireworks. Photo after photo I stare and write my hedonistic desires the gravity of which could **** me to the second circle or rather, I think as I lift my pen, just help me to get off.

18

My rusty chains yelp and squawk Shrill, yet somehow on the verge of becoming monotonous So far, weary from humdrum-ly swaying Presently induced alone by Nature’s bitter, raw sighs Bound to this Bastille of a rotting exterior Eventually decrepit, at first, from use Now merely deteriorating as of neglect Once-stimulating summers fade Into seemingly sempiternal November evenings Dejected and funereal Echoing the nostalgic meandering trumpets that once coiled The lengths of my now cadaverous frame— Their blue blossoms left timid and etiolated Reflecting the ghostly, lilac hues of an insomniacs raccoon-like eyes And brittle, wispy veins begin to dilapidate I yearn For a sudden rekindling Reminiscing About memories only I can keep alive For the exploiters I was dependent on, Like the withered azure trumpets used upon a time, have bloomed Yet I still stoically anticipate their return I pine for their sun-kissed skin graced in airy cottons Their thrilled shrieks drowning those of my (less electric) fraying chains Recollections of their highs juxtaposed with my low My faith, my only zeal

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Mar 20, 2015

Mar 20, 2015 at 2:00 PM UTC

fiannabeth

Reveries of an Ageing Swing-Set

My rusty chains yelp and squawk Shrill, yet somehow on the verge of becoming monotonous So far, weary from humdrum-ly swaying Presently induced alone by Nature’s bitter, raw sighs Bound to this Bastille of a rotting exterior Eventually decrepit, at first, from use Now merely deteriorating as of neglect Once-stimulating summers fade Into seemingly sempiternal November evenings Dejected and funereal Echoing the nostalgic meandering trumpets that once coiled The lengths of my now cadaverous frame— Their blue blossoms left timid and etiolated Reflecting the ghostly, lilac hues of an insomniacs raccoon-like eyes And brittle, wispy veins begin to dilapidate I yearn For a sudden rekindling Reminiscing About memories only I can keep alive For the exploiters I was dependent on, Like the withered azure trumpets used upon a time, have bloomed Yet I still stoically anticipate their return I pine for their sun-kissed skin graced in airy cottons Their thrilled shrieks drowning those of my (less electric) fraying chains Recollections of their highs juxtaposed with my low My faith, my only zeal

27

Shadows of darkness on parchment clean. Scratched , inflicted as creation storms in. Build, dream and see in the black marks on my formerly pure, etiolated skin. Play with the words, hide and then seek me out again as I wait for you to ravage me. Paint your voice on, I am your palette. Make me beautiful with your cruel barbs of whim.

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Jun 13, 2010

Jun 13, 2010 at 1:38 AM UTC

c-rosser

So what does the paper think?

Shadows of darkness on parchment clean. Scratched , inflicted as creation storms in. Build, dream and see in the black marks on my formerly pure, etiolated skin. Play with the words, hide and then seek me out again as I wait for you to ravage me. Paint your voice on, I am your palette. Make me beautiful with your cruel barbs of whim.

8

No matter what I say or do There is a wholesome glow in his eyes, though they are starved from vaulted schemes and there’s a dimple on the side of his mouth caving in like a wooly bruin There is a dire red in his hair he thinks a plunder to the gold and the ground shivers madly when he walks or speaks or sings His scent lingers relentlessly feasting off my etiolated heart until its ridges die between his teeth and I look unhinged inhaling his knitted garments like limpid air I love him no matter what I say or do and I’m afraid because for the first time the fire stokes itself at night

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Jun 6, 2015

Jun 6, 2015 at 1:19 AM UTC

marisa-bordeaux

Fire

No matter what I say or do There is a wholesome glow in his eyes, though they are starved from vaulted schemes and there’s a dimple on the side of his mouth caving in like a wooly bruin There is a dire red in his hair he thinks a plunder to the gold and the ground shivers madly when he walks or speaks or sings His scent lingers relentlessly feasting off my etiolated heart until its ridges die between his teeth and I look unhinged inhaling his knitted garments like limpid air I love him no matter what I say or do and I’m afraid because for the first time the fire stokes itself at night

32

etiolated shell ball bearings for knuckles crimson branches that shudder in the albumen of the eyes palms riddled with skinny rivers navy straws wrist fissures roots of calcium punctured silver carrier-bag lungs interior accordion sack of cherry fluid limited edition throbbing blob in the mirror yourself not quite yourself unchosen blueprint modified mainframe filled with tea and slabs of cheese envelope of bones cauldron brewing on and again on

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Apr 17, 2019

Apr 17, 2019 at 5:39 PM UTC

reece-aj-chambers

Cauldron

etiolated shell ball bearings for knuckles crimson branches that shudder in the albumen of the eyes palms riddled with skinny rivers navy straws wrist fissures roots of calcium punctured silver carrier-bag lungs interior accordion sack of cherry fluid limited edition throbbing blob in the mirror yourself not quite yourself unchosen blueprint modified mainframe filled with tea and slabs of cheese envelope of bones cauldron brewing on and again on

25

Here is a sad little poem for our sad little love story. We felt the lust linger on our lips, yet the love etiolated from our hearts, and we were left with a feeling of brokenness inside.

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Oct 7, 2017

Oct 7, 2017 at 5:14 PM UTC

sarah-larsen

A sad little poem

Here is a sad little poem for our sad little love story. We felt the lust linger on our lips, yet the love etiolated from our hearts, and we were left with a feeling of brokenness inside.

3