"filmy" poems - Hello Poetry

One flash, frozen in light, The burning of her eyes Fell my sprocketed night, Deep in flames shudder, All language, new, cipher, Filmy frame, truest colours.

One flash, frozen in light, The burning of her eyes Fell my sprocketed night, Deep in flames shudder, All language, new, cipher, Filmy frame, truest colours.

0

Apr 6, 2014

Apr 6, 2014 at 11:35 AM UTC

One flash, frozen in light, The burning of her eyes Fell my sprocketed night, Deep in flames shudder, All language, new, cipher, Filmy frame, truest colours.

Dim vales—and shadowy floods— And cloudy-looking woods, Whose forms we can’t discover For the tears that drip all over Huge moons there wax and wane— Again—again—again— Every moment of the night— Forever changing places— And they put out the star-light With the breath from their pale faces. About twelve by the moon-dial One more filmy than the rest (A kind which, upon trial, They have found to be the best) Comes down—still down—and down With its centre on the crown Of a mountain’s eminence, While its wide circumference In easy drapery falls Over hamlets, over halls, Wherever they may be— O’er the strange woods—o’er the sea— Over spirits on the wing— Over every drowsy thing— And buries them up quite In a labyrinth of light— And then, how deep!—O, deep! Is the passion of their sleep. In the morning they arise, And their moony covering Is soaring in the skies, With the tempests as they toss, Like—almost any thing— Or a yellow Albatross. They use that moon no more For the same end as before— Videlicet a tent— Which I think extravagant: Its atomies, however, Into a shower dissever, Of which those butterflies, Of Earth, who seek the skies, And so come down again (Never-contented thing!) Have brought a specimen Upon their quivering wings.

Dim vales—and shadowy floods— And cloudy-looking woods, Whose forms we can’t discover For the tears that drip all over Huge moons there wax and wane— Again—again—again— Every moment of the night— Forever changing places— And they put out the star-light With the breath from their pale faces. About twelve by the moon-dial One more filmy than the rest (A kind which, upon trial, They have found to be the best) Comes down—still down—and down With its centre on the crown Of a mountain’s eminence, While its wide circumference In easy drapery falls Over hamlets, over halls, Wherever they may be— O’er the strange woods—o’er the sea— Over spirits on the wing— Over every drowsy thing— And buries them up quite In a labyrinth of light— And then, how deep!—O, deep! Is the passion of their sleep. In the morning they arise, And their moony covering Is soaring in the skies, With the tempests as they toss, Like—almost any thing— Or a yellow Albatross. They use that moon no more For the same end as before— Videlicet a tent— Which I think extravagant: Its atomies, however, Into a shower dissever, Of which those butterflies, Of Earth, who seek the skies, And so come down again (Never-contented thing!) Have brought a specimen Upon their quivering wings.

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7.3k

Edgar Allan Poe

Fairyland

46

One flash, frozen in light, The burning of her eyes Fell my sprocketed night, Deep in flames shudder, All language, new, cipher, Filmy frame, truest colours.

0

Oct 27, 2014

Oct 27, 2014 at 3:47 PM UTC

One flash, frozen in light, The burning of her eyes Fell my sprocketed night, Deep in flames shudder, All language, new, cipher, Filmy frame, truest colours.

One flash, frozen in light, The burning of her eyes Fell my sprocketed night, Deep in flames shudder, All language, new, cipher, Filmy frame, truest colours.

0

Sep 2, 2013

Sep 2, 2013 at 1:53 PM UTC

One flash, frozen in light, The burning of her eyes Fell my sprocketed night, Deep in flames shudder, All language, new, cipher, Filmy frame, truest colours.

Lo! Death has reared himself a throne In a strange city lying alone Far down within the dim West, Where the good and the bad and the worst and the best Have gone to their eternal rest. There shrines and palaces and towers (Time-eaten towers and tremble not!) Resemble nothing that is ours. Around, by lifting winds forgot, Resignedly beneath the sky The melancholy waters lie. No rays from the holy Heaven come down On the long night-time of that town; But light from out the lurid sea Streams up the turrets silently— Gleams up the pinnacles far and free— Up domes—up spires—up kingly halls— Up fanes—up Babylon-like walls— Up shadowy long-forgotten bowers Of sculptured ivy and stone flowers— Up many and many a marvellous shrine Whose wreathed friezes intertwine The viol, the violet, and the vine. Resignedly beneath the sky The melancholy waters lie. So blend the turrets and shadows there That all seem pendulous in air, While from a proud tower in the town Death looks gigantically down. There open fanes and gaping graves Yawn level with the luminous waves; But not the riches there that lie In each idol’s diamond eye— Not the gaily-jewelled dead Tempt the waters from their bed; For no ripples curl, alas! Along that wilderness of glass— No swellings tell that winds may be Upon some far-off happier sea— No heavings hint that winds have been On seas less hideously serene. But lo, a stir is in the air! The wave—there is a movement there! As if the towers had ****** aside, In slightly sinking, the dull tide— As if their tops had feebly given A void within the filmy Heaven. The waves have now a redder glow— The hours are breathing faint and low— And when, amid no earthly moans, Down, down that town shall settle hence, Hell, rising from a thousand thrones, Shall do it reverence.

Lo! Death has reared himself a throne In a strange city lying alone Far down within the dim West, Where the good and the bad and the worst and the best Have gone to their eternal rest. There shrines and palaces and towers (Time-eaten towers and tremble not!) Resemble nothing that is ours. Around, by lifting winds forgot, Resignedly beneath the sky The melancholy waters lie. No rays from the holy Heaven come down On the long night-time of that town; But light from out the lurid sea Streams up the turrets silently— Gleams up the pinnacles far and free— Up domes—up spires—up kingly halls— Up fanes—up Babylon-like walls— Up shadowy long-forgotten bowers Of sculptured ivy and stone flowers— Up many and many a marvellous shrine Whose wreathed friezes intertwine The viol, the violet, and the vine. Resignedly beneath the sky The melancholy waters lie. So blend the turrets and shadows there That all seem pendulous in air, While from a proud tower in the town Death looks gigantically down. There open fanes and gaping graves Yawn level with the luminous waves; But not the riches there that lie In each idol’s diamond eye— Not the gaily-jewelled dead Tempt the waters from their bed; For no ripples curl, alas! Along that wilderness of glass— No swellings tell that winds may be Upon some far-off happier sea— No heavings hint that winds have been On seas less hideously serene. But lo, a stir is in the air! The wave—there is a movement there! As if the towers had ****** aside, In slightly sinking, the dull tide— As if their tops had feebly given A void within the filmy Heaven. The waves have now a redder glow— The hours are breathing faint and low— And when, amid no earthly moans, Down, down that town shall settle hence, Hell, rising from a thousand thrones, Shall do it reverence.

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4.9k

Edgar Allan Poe

The City In The Sea

green and filmy algea whispers by the lone sea cucumber, caressing it as it struggles to suction itself lower than the outgoing tide. its movements, though minuscule, move it towards the bottom of the tide pool but not quite fast enough - a rock could erode faster than the sea cucumber could crawl. but still it moves with the tenacity of something that does not realize it is in danger. and although it is fighting, it knows not that it is fighting but merely goes on.

green and filmy algea whispers by the lone sea cucumber, caressing it as it struggles to suction itself lower than the outgoing tide. its movements, though minuscule, move it towards the bottom of the tide pool but not quite fast enough - a rock could erode faster than the sea cucumber could crawl. but still it moves with the tenacity of something that does not realize it is in danger. and although it is fighting, it knows not that it is fighting but merely goes on.

0

Aug 1, 2012

Aug 1, 2012 at 7:14 PM UTC

sequoia-c

The Lone Sea Cucumber

20

And I sit here once more, Sun beginning to fade over the makeshift Horizon of wooden plank fences and shingle Roofs, glued to the homes with tar whose Invading smell has long since passed. On the shore I sit, a shore made of Overgrown weeds whose leaves look no different From the eruption of water that juts out Of the center of the lake, The ripples seeming to roll over themselves, As if they are trampling over each other to Reach me, and looking away from the metallic Distraction in the center of this pool of wonders, It's as if a river is to be flowing in place of the lake, Lapping across rocks and echoing splash of ducks and Geese dismounting their current of air, Swiftly gliding along the filmy surface, Like a mirror smeared with lubricant, For the reflections this lake cast cannot Easily be told apart. Dark beckons the lights' full departure, And with it the warm is swept solemnly from The land, and my bare hands burn like the Approaching summer's heat. I thankfully clutch my leather coat against Myself, and I gaze upon the lake, wishing Its limited stretch could further. As I trace my eyes across its Waves, a young woman in a pink sweat Coughs roughly and spits in the water, As if it's beauty must be destroyed along With that miserable soul of hers. The willow tree I sit under, Oh how massive it seems, its coarse bark Digging through my jacket and on the verge Of penitrating my skin, but, it is worth it. Its vines hang down wearily, Like an old man, reaching to grasp the Water, leaning so close, its reflection can Be seen from shore, and its desperate vines, Swaying in the wind ask me to come closer. I shall not, of course, for it needs to Grow on its own, and needs to rid of Its reluctance if it ever wishes to achieve Its reward. This, somewhat reminds me of myself, But, this is only yet another wonder, Collection of thoughts, From under the willow tree.

0

Jan 7, 2015

Jan 7, 2015 at 4:01 PM UTC

III

Under The Willow I Sit

And I sit here once more, Sun beginning to fade over the makeshift Horizon of wooden plank fences and shingle Roofs, glued to the homes with tar whose Invading smell has long since passed. On the shore I sit, a shore made of Overgrown weeds whose leaves look no different From the eruption of water that juts out Of the center of the lake, The ripples seeming to roll over themselves, As if they are trampling over each other to Reach me, and looking away from the metallic Distraction in the center of this pool of wonders, It's as if a river is to be flowing in place of the lake, Lapping across rocks and echoing splash of ducks and Geese dismounting their current of air, Swiftly gliding along the filmy surface, Like a mirror smeared with lubricant, For the reflections this lake cast cannot Easily be told apart. Dark beckons the lights' full departure, And with it the warm is swept solemnly from The land, and my bare hands burn like the Approaching summer's heat. I thankfully clutch my leather coat against Myself, and I gaze upon the lake, wishing Its limited stretch could further. As I trace my eyes across its Waves, a young woman in a pink sweat Coughs roughly and spits in the water, As if it's beauty must be destroyed along With that miserable soul of hers. The willow tree I sit under, Oh how massive it seems, its coarse bark Digging through my jacket and on the verge Of penitrating my skin, but, it is worth it. Its vines hang down wearily, Like an old man, reaching to grasp the Water, leaning so close, its reflection can Be seen from shore, and its desperate vines, Swaying in the wind ask me to come closer. I shall not, of course, for it needs to Grow on its own, and needs to rid of Its reluctance if it ever wishes to achieve Its reward. This, somewhat reminds me of myself, But, this is only yet another wonder, Collection of thoughts, From under the willow tree.

49

I tend to shy away from makeup I rarely pick up spray or brush My heart is in flesh beating and will one day turn to dust I don't want to put forth creme facade so you grimace when it rains the trails of salt from filmy tears are all that streak my face If foreign objects draw you jeweled tones upon the eyes I do not fault your fancy tastes or call concealer lies But love is not burst into fire by the curving of a kohl stick And cheeks that redden with a kiss are all that I would wish to feed the flame upon the wick that brightens and brings higher two souls too bright to miss

0

Oct 18, 2015

Oct 18, 2015 at 3:42 PM UTC

eva-schoolcraft

natural blush

I tend to shy away from makeup I rarely pick up spray or brush My heart is in flesh beating and will one day turn to dust I don't want to put forth creme facade so you grimace when it rains the trails of salt from filmy tears are all that streak my face If foreign objects draw you jeweled tones upon the eyes I do not fault your fancy tastes or call concealer lies But love is not burst into fire by the curving of a kohl stick And cheeks that redden with a kiss are all that I would wish to feed the flame upon the wick that brightens and brings higher two souls too bright to miss

19

The smell of a spring rain settling on the earth is the smell of life anew. At the window, I sit with a book, both cracked, cooled by the alfresco air seeping through, and tiny droplets glissando down the pane. The pitter-patter of a soft rain falling to the parched earth is the sound of life replenished. At the rain's offset, I leap from my chair, exiting the front door, to saunter through the lush green pastures that linger outside the library's confines. How green the trees appear, and the grass-- how rich the stalks of the trees, their boughs with budding leaves quenched, glistening in the sun. I even enjoy the scent coming off the once arid pavement-- it is the smell of the earth, freed from its impedance, rising above the stifling asphalt. I smell the life that lingers beneath, and the dull metallic tinfoil taste of the pavement fills my open nostrils-- It is pleasant, though a little less so, than the ambrosial landscape. I inhale ever so deeply, relishing my favorite part of spring, in the offset of a warm afternoon rain on a brisk day, sauntering through the wood-laden trails on worn brick paths, to the paved parking lot where my car awaits-- delineated in a filmy layer of mired pollen residue. It needed a wash anyways.

0

May 19, 2016

May 19, 2016 at 1:34 PM UTC

jarjarrhine

Petrichor

The smell of a spring rain settling on the earth is the smell of life anew. At the window, I sit with a book, both cracked, cooled by the alfresco air seeping through, and tiny droplets glissando down the pane. The pitter-patter of a soft rain falling to the parched earth is the sound of life replenished. At the rain's offset, I leap from my chair, exiting the front door, to saunter through the lush green pastures that linger outside the library's confines. How green the trees appear, and the grass-- how rich the stalks of the trees, their boughs with budding leaves quenched, glistening in the sun. I even enjoy the scent coming off the once arid pavement-- it is the smell of the earth, freed from its impedance, rising above the stifling asphalt. I smell the life that lingers beneath, and the dull metallic tinfoil taste of the pavement fills my open nostrils-- It is pleasant, though a little less so, than the ambrosial landscape. I inhale ever so deeply, relishing my favorite part of spring, in the offset of a warm afternoon rain on a brisk day, sauntering through the wood-laden trails on worn brick paths, to the paved parking lot where my car awaits-- delineated in a filmy layer of mired pollen residue. It needed a wash anyways.

33

The photo reminded her of bruised fruit. Well first and foremost:fruit. Her body, curled around itself, sheltering the fibrous crunchy pit of her, her body white and frayed looking, rounded buttock, calf gently sloping, feet modest, willowy toes toenails like shale face blurred, questionable dark spots where her eyes could have been. they closed as the shudder buckled, her mouth sagged open, lip lolling to one side, brow ancient furrowed like folds of sand nudged by a lazy tide. None of it concise, only guessing. Her knees brought up, squeezed against small crunch-able chest. Full, heavy with pulp (stringy sweet, what snags on the teeth) but what if it were to fall from an appreciable height? Filmy is the flesh. Daring the looker to look closer, see what mite be hidden there. Ripe:questionable. Sweet like nothing, pouring from the corners of a mouth: what a bite it would be. That first bite. The bruising comes in when she thinks of the brain beneath, that open, limitless figure so pale and forefront and brimming with intent, so crush-able with careless fist, so lovable with thirsty mouth. But what of the mind that put her before you, that turned her vulnerable, shameless, open for discussion? Put her before you. naked.

0

Feb 2, 2010

Feb 2, 2010 at 1:01 PM UTC

gabrielle-f

Figure Study 3

The photo reminded her of bruised fruit. Well first and foremost:fruit. Her body, curled around itself, sheltering the fibrous crunchy pit of her, her body white and frayed looking, rounded buttock, calf gently sloping, feet modest, willowy toes toenails like shale face blurred, questionable dark spots where her eyes could have been. they closed as the shudder buckled, her mouth sagged open, lip lolling to one side, brow ancient furrowed like folds of sand nudged by a lazy tide. None of it concise, only guessing. Her knees brought up, squeezed against small crunch-able chest. Full, heavy with pulp (stringy sweet, what snags on the teeth) but what if it were to fall from an appreciable height? Filmy is the flesh. Daring the looker to look closer, see what mite be hidden there. Ripe:questionable. Sweet like nothing, pouring from the corners of a mouth: what a bite it would be. That first bite. The bruising comes in when she thinks of the brain beneath, that open, limitless figure so pale and forefront and brimming with intent, so crush-able with careless fist, so lovable with thirsty mouth. But what of the mind that put her before you, that turned her vulnerable, shameless, open for discussion? Put her before you. naked.

8

IN THE POOL OF THE LOST MAIDEN SONG 1 Down in the shrouded wood a wanderer walks And dreams the dreamers story he has lived. Sidled by the stream that sheds blue waters By the beds, trailing the rail of loves unknown Kiss and a voice that conjures truest bliss, Down in the drink where sweet Ophelia sleeps; In the pool of the lost maiden song. And the dreamer, he is dreaming . . . Hair, that ropes the stoic man upon his mount. Hair, making souls’ lost ending breath a shout, And hair that weighs the wind, teaches it to sing; Hair, wending whirlpools waving fools to dive in. 2 Lost at land’s end the sea lions, washed-up, wail And buzzards coast where eagles flail, rip tides Assail and chop the collected bones they drop; It is a chalky bone-yard break, golden escarpments Wake and a seamen’s salty sermons shake; Where gathering ghosts glom and chide steeping, In the pool of the lost maiden song. And the seeker, he is seeking . . . Eyes that turn the sands and are mirrors, Eyes that taught the books of Alexandria, Eyes that shook the flesh and are seers, Eyes that lit the pyres, burned true believers. 3 Deep in the dark wood the waters rush, hush, Cramp, crew and creep, melodiously tread, Trammel, and burn as furies in keeping true The melting moon, the onerous owl, fluttering Things, muttering wings, cones in darkness Flings and filmy time flicks by the wayside; In the pool of the lost maiden song. And the lover, he is longing . . . Love, lithe and lyric, he sees your sweeping shapes. Peace, parsed and pained he hears the voicing gape. Blind, bliss’d and shamed he wears the votive drapes. Hungered, thirsted and gone; seeks your pearly gate. 4 Out in the forest maze the jarring sun seeps And swirls, only to roust the traveler onward Where soon he must meet the faces in the grotto Down in destroyed lands by the seas’ unreasoning Chime, deep in the dark whine of the shining mermaids, Where the doomed cry, round the navel of the world, In the pool of the lost maiden song. And the doomed, they are crying . . . ****** beauty bade us, in a star crossed chrysalis, Made us, choose a desert’s winter of loneliness. Heed our fate and leave this valley torn of bliss; The many millions of locust fall in ripest fields.”

0

Mar 14, 2013

Mar 14, 2013 at 1:26 PM UTC

In the Pool of the Lost Maiden Song

IN THE POOL OF THE LOST MAIDEN SONG 1 Down in the shrouded wood a wanderer walks And dreams the dreamers story he has lived. Sidled by the stream that sheds blue waters By the beds, trailing the rail of loves unknown Kiss and a voice that conjures truest bliss, Down in the drink where sweet Ophelia sleeps; In the pool of the lost maiden song. And the dreamer, he is dreaming . . . Hair, that ropes the stoic man upon his mount. Hair, making souls’ lost ending breath a shout, And hair that weighs the wind, teaches it to sing; Hair, wending whirlpools waving fools to dive in. 2 Lost at land’s end the sea lions, washed-up, wail And buzzards coast where eagles flail, rip tides Assail and chop the collected bones they drop; It is a chalky bone-yard break, golden escarpments Wake and a seamen’s salty sermons shake; Where gathering ghosts glom and chide steeping, In the pool of the lost maiden song. And the seeker, he is seeking . . . Eyes that turn the sands and are mirrors, Eyes that taught the books of Alexandria, Eyes that shook the flesh and are seers, Eyes that lit the pyres, burned true believers. 3 Deep in the dark wood the waters rush, hush, Cramp, crew and creep, melodiously tread, Trammel, and burn as furies in keeping true The melting moon, the onerous owl, fluttering Things, muttering wings, cones in darkness Flings and filmy time flicks by the wayside; In the pool of the lost maiden song. And the lover, he is longing . . . Love, lithe and lyric, he sees your sweeping shapes. Peace, parsed and pained he hears the voicing gape. Blind, bliss’d and shamed he wears the votive drapes. Hungered, thirsted and gone; seeks your pearly gate. 4 Out in the forest maze the jarring sun seeps And swirls, only to roust the traveler onward Where soon he must meet the faces in the grotto Down in destroyed lands by the seas’ unreasoning Chime, deep in the dark whine of the shining mermaids, Where the doomed cry, round the navel of the world, In the pool of the lost maiden song. And the doomed, they are crying . . . ****** beauty bade us, in a star crossed chrysalis, Made us, choose a desert’s winter of loneliness. Heed our fate and leave this valley torn of bliss; The many millions of locust fall in ripest fields.”

Our affection was a spider web As we slept in our separate homes With our spirits inhabiting Both bodies, The gossamer was swindled Carefully in between each Eyelash and around each Finger and toe, Tiny filmy stings Had our hearts connected. I felt a pang inside me When loneliness tugged Your arms and plead with you To follow it. I wondered As my tear ducts Emptied themselves Onto my cheeks, How do I cope with Sadness that is not My own? I have felt the Icy sleet That is one a.m. With sad songs And emptiness in All aspects of life And I wish it upon No one. I want the sadness Only to be mine I want to be greedy I want to steal it From you If only so that I could see you happy.

Our affection was a spider web As we slept in our separate homes With our spirits inhabiting Both bodies, The gossamer was swindled Carefully in between each Eyelash and around each Finger and toe, Tiny filmy stings Had our hearts connected. I felt a pang inside me When loneliness tugged Your arms and plead with you To follow it. I wondered As my tear ducts Emptied themselves Onto my cheeks, How do I cope with Sadness that is not My own? I have felt the Icy sleet That is one a.m. With sad songs And emptiness in All aspects of life And I wish it upon No one. I want the sadness Only to be mine I want to be greedy I want to steal it From you If only so that I could see you happy.

0

Nov 13, 2013

Nov 13, 2013 at 8:48 PM UTC

piper

Spiderwebs

36

Madame Salamander With her small, speckled spots Spread smoothly over her Skin, similar to the sun. Tiny toes tip tapping long treks Through tough terrain. Madame Salamander Grand and glamorous, great gales Of green-eyed ganders give her Gosh awful grabs as gifts, gabbing Gleefully of gross gourds. Madame Salamander Feel her filmy eyes on her Flat facade furrow into a feverish Gaze as her words fan further And farther whilst she fabulates. Madame Salamander Let her linger on her long legend Of little lizards lipping to large Lions and licked away from Their lovely lives as lizards.

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Mar 22, 2015

Mar 22, 2015 at 11:46 AM UTC

Aniseed

Madame Salamander

Madame Salamander With her small, speckled spots Spread smoothly over her Skin, similar to the sun. Tiny toes tip tapping long treks Through tough terrain. Madame Salamander Grand and glamorous, great gales Of green-eyed ganders give her Gosh awful grabs as gifts, gabbing Gleefully of gross gourds. Madame Salamander Feel her filmy eyes on her Flat facade furrow into a feverish Gaze as her words fan further And farther whilst she fabulates. Madame Salamander Let her linger on her long legend Of little lizards lipping to large Lions and licked away from Their lovely lives as lizards.

21

in that hour between day and night mystery hour of filmy blue light blurred lines and shadowed faces magical signs dusk

0

Aug 17, 2013

Aug 17, 2013 at 11:05 PM UTC

peter-pan

dusk

in that hour between day and night mystery hour of filmy blue light blurred lines and shadowed faces magical signs dusk

8

Swiftly walk over the western wave, Spirit of Night! Out of the misty eastern cave Where, all the long and lone daylight, Thou wovest dreams of joy and fear, Which make thee terrible and dear,— Swift be thy flight! Wrap thy form in a mantle grey, Star-inwrought! Blind with thine hair the eyes of Day, Kiss her until she be wearied out, Then wander o’er city, and sea, and land, Touching all with thine ****** wand— Come, long-sought! When I arose and saw the dawn, I sighed for thee; When light rode high, and the dew was gone, And noon lay heavy on flower and tree, And the weary Day turned to his rest, Lingering like an unloved guest, I sighed for thee. Thy brother Death came, and cried ‘Wouldst thou me?’ Thy sweet child Sleep, the filmy-eyed, Murmured like a noontide bee ‘Shall I nestle near thy side? Wouldst thou me?’—And I replied ‘No, not thee!’ Death will come when thou art dead, Soon, too soon— Sleep will come when thou art fled; Of neither would I ask the boon I ask of thee, beloved Night— Swift be thine approaching flight, Come soon, soon!

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2.2k

Percy Bysshe Shelley

To Night

Swiftly walk over the western wave, Spirit of Night! Out of the misty eastern cave Where, all the long and lone daylight, Thou wovest dreams of joy and fear, Which make thee terrible and dear,— Swift be thy flight! Wrap thy form in a mantle grey, Star-inwrought! Blind with thine hair the eyes of Day, Kiss her until she be wearied out, Then wander o’er city, and sea, and land, Touching all with thine ****** wand— Come, long-sought! When I arose and saw the dawn, I sighed for thee; When light rode high, and the dew was gone, And noon lay heavy on flower and tree, And the weary Day turned to his rest, Lingering like an unloved guest, I sighed for thee. Thy brother Death came, and cried ‘Wouldst thou me?’ Thy sweet child Sleep, the filmy-eyed, Murmured like a noontide bee ‘Shall I nestle near thy side? Wouldst thou me?’—And I replied ‘No, not thee!’ Death will come when thou art dead, Soon, too soon— Sleep will come when thou art fled; Of neither would I ask the boon I ask of thee, beloved Night— Swift be thine approaching flight, Come soon, soon!

35

she walks at trouble with her Jugular bared Into fire because she likes the heat, the way the flames play and flirt with her fingers and her bones. lips tilted around a cigarette drags in the poisonous kiss of a ***** cloud, upturning her palms to strangers to give them her hands and her ways. That girl is Brave diving off every cliff and caressing the rocks as she floats down harmlessly to rest upon the filmy waves. but when her little soul becomes golden at the edges I hope for her that a hand will catch her balloon string and guide her back to earth.

0

Jul 6, 2011

Jul 6, 2011 at 8:13 PM UTC

f-white

Ruby

she walks at trouble with her Jugular bared Into fire because she likes the heat, the way the flames play and flirt with her fingers and her bones. lips tilted around a cigarette drags in the poisonous kiss of a ***** cloud, upturning her palms to strangers to give them her hands and her ways. That girl is Brave diving off every cliff and caressing the rocks as she floats down harmlessly to rest upon the filmy waves. but when her little soul becomes golden at the edges I hope for her that a hand will catch her balloon string and guide her back to earth.

20

LET us go out of the fog, John, out of the filmy persistent drizzle on the streets of Stockholm, let us put down the collars of our raincoats, take off our hats and sit in the newspapers office. Let us sit among the telegrams-clickety-click-the kaiser's crown goes into the gutter and the Hohenzollern throne of a thousand years falls to pieces a one-hoss shay. It is a fog night out and the umbrellas are up and the collars of the raincoats-and all the steamboats up and down the Baltic sea have their lights out and the wheelsmen sober. Here the telegrams come-one king goes and another-butter is costly: there is no butter to buy for our bread in Stockholm-and a little patty of butter costs more than all the crowns of Germany. Let us go out in the fog, John, let us roll up our raincoat collars and go on the streets where men are sneering at the kings.

0

2.1k

Carl Sandburg

In the Shadow of the Palace

LET us go out of the fog, John, out of the filmy persistent drizzle on the streets of Stockholm, let us put down the collars of our raincoats, take off our hats and sit in the newspapers office. Let us sit among the telegrams-clickety-click-the kaiser's crown goes into the gutter and the Hohenzollern throne of a thousand years falls to pieces a one-hoss shay. It is a fog night out and the umbrellas are up and the collars of the raincoats-and all the steamboats up and down the Baltic sea have their lights out and the wheelsmen sober. Here the telegrams come-one king goes and another-butter is costly: there is no butter to buy for our bread in Stockholm-and a little patty of butter costs more than all the crowns of Germany. Let us go out in the fog, John, let us roll up our raincoat collars and go on the streets where men are sneering at the kings.

9

Life (priest and poet say) is but a dream; I wish no happier one than to be laid Beneath a cool syringa's scented shade, Or wavy willow, by the running stream, Brimful of moral, where the dragon-fly, Wanders as careless and content as I. Thanks for this fancy, insect king, Of purple crest and filmy wing, Who with indifference givest up The water-lily's golden cup, To come again and overlook What I am writing in my book. Believe me, most who read the line Will read with hornier eyes than thine; And yet their souls shall live for ever, And thine drop dead into the river! God pardon them, O insect king, Who fancy so unjust a thing!

0

2k

Walter Savage Landor

The Dragon-Fly

Life (priest and poet say) is but a dream; I wish no happier one than to be laid Beneath a cool syringa's scented shade, Or wavy willow, by the running stream, Brimful of moral, where the dragon-fly, Wanders as careless and content as I. Thanks for this fancy, insect king, Of purple crest and filmy wing, Who with indifference givest up The water-lily's golden cup, To come again and overlook What I am writing in my book. Believe me, most who read the line Will read with hornier eyes than thine; And yet their souls shall live for ever, And thine drop dead into the river! God pardon them, O insect king, Who fancy so unjust a thing!

18

Through filmy window, I saw her leave the last time, . . . My hand on the pane.

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Jun 23, 2014

Jun 23, 2014 at 11:23 PM UTC

Through filmy window, I saw her leave the last time, . . . My hand on the pane.

Zz Haiku ( dissolution )

3

IN THE POOL OF THE LOST MAIDEN SONG 1 Down in the shrouded wood a wanderer walks And dreams the dreamers story he has lived. Sidled by the stream that sheds blue waters By the beds, trailing the rail of loves unknown Kiss and a voice that conjures truest bliss, Down in the drink where sweet Ophelia sleeps; In the pool of the lost maiden song. And the dreamer, he is dreaming . . . Hair, that ropes the stoic man upon his mount. Hair, making souls’ lost ending breath a shout, And hair that weighs the wind, teaches it to sing; Hair, wending whirlpools waving fools to dive in. 2 Lost at land’s end the sea lions, washed-up, wail And buzzards coast where eagles flail, rip tides Assail and chop the collected bones they drop; It is a chalky bone-yard break, golden escarpments Wake and a seamen’s salty sermons shake; Where gathering ghosts glom and chide steeping, In the pool of the lost maiden song. And the seeker, he is seeking . . . Eyes that turn the sands and are mirrors, Eyes that taught the books of Alexandria, Eyes that shook the flesh and are seers, Eyes that lit the pyres, burned true believers. 3 Deep in the dark wood the waters rush, hush, Cramp, crew and creep, melodiously tread, Trammel, and burn as furies in keeping true The melting moon, the onerous owl, fluttering Things, muttering wings, cones in darkness Flings and filmy time flicks by the wayside; In the pool of the lost maiden song. And the lover, he is longing . . . Love, lithe and lyric, he sees your sweeping shapes. Peace, parsed and pained he hears the voicing gape. Blind, bliss’d and shamed he wears the votive drapes. Hungered, thirsted and gone; seeks your pearly gate. 4 Out in the forest maze the jarring sun seeps And swirls, only to roust the traveler onward Where soon he must meet the faces in the grotto Down in destroyed lands by the seas’ unreasoning Chime, deep in the dark whine of the shining mermaids, Where the doomed cry, round the navel of the world, In the pool of the lost maiden song. And the doomed, they are crying . . . ****** beauty bade us, in a star crossed chrysalis, Made us, choose a desert’s winter of loneliness. Heed our fate and leave this valley torn of bliss; The many millions of locust fall in ripest fields.”

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Oct 2, 2013

Oct 2, 2013 at 1:57 PM UTC

In the Pool of the Lost Maiden Song

IN THE POOL OF THE LOST MAIDEN SONG 1 Down in the shrouded wood a wanderer walks And dreams the dreamers story he has lived. Sidled by the stream that sheds blue waters By the beds, trailing the rail of loves unknown Kiss and a voice that conjures truest bliss, Down in the drink where sweet Ophelia sleeps; In the pool of the lost maiden song. And the dreamer, he is dreaming . . . Hair, that ropes the stoic man upon his mount. Hair, making souls’ lost ending breath a shout, And hair that weighs the wind, teaches it to sing; Hair, wending whirlpools waving fools to dive in. 2 Lost at land’s end the sea lions, washed-up, wail And buzzards coast where eagles flail, rip tides Assail and chop the collected bones they drop; It is a chalky bone-yard break, golden escarpments Wake and a seamen’s salty sermons shake; Where gathering ghosts glom and chide steeping, In the pool of the lost maiden song. And the seeker, he is seeking . . . Eyes that turn the sands and are mirrors, Eyes that taught the books of Alexandria, Eyes that shook the flesh and are seers, Eyes that lit the pyres, burned true believers. 3 Deep in the dark wood the waters rush, hush, Cramp, crew and creep, melodiously tread, Trammel, and burn as furies in keeping true The melting moon, the onerous owl, fluttering Things, muttering wings, cones in darkness Flings and filmy time flicks by the wayside; In the pool of the lost maiden song. And the lover, he is longing . . . Love, lithe and lyric, he sees your sweeping shapes. Peace, parsed and pained he hears the voicing gape. Blind, bliss’d and shamed he wears the votive drapes. Hungered, thirsted and gone; seeks your pearly gate. 4 Out in the forest maze the jarring sun seeps And swirls, only to roust the traveler onward Where soon he must meet the faces in the grotto Down in destroyed lands by the seas’ unreasoning Chime, deep in the dark whine of the shining mermaids, Where the doomed cry, round the navel of the world, In the pool of the lost maiden song. And the doomed, they are crying . . . ****** beauty bade us, in a star crossed chrysalis, Made us, choose a desert’s winter of loneliness. Heed our fate and leave this valley torn of bliss; The many millions of locust fall in ripest fields.”

Summer Morn in New Hampshire

All yesterday it poured, and all night long I could not sleep; the rain unceasing beat Upon the shingled roof like a weird song, Upon the grass like running children's feet. And down the mountains by the dark cloud kissed, Like a strange shape in filmy veiling dressed, Slid slowly, silently, the wraith-like mist, And nestled soft against the earth's wet breast. But lo, there was a miracle at dawn! The still air stirred at touch of the faint breeze, The sun a sheet of gold bequeathed the lawn, The songsters twittered in the rustling trees. And all things were transfigured in the day, But me whom radiant beauty could not move; For you, more wonderful, were far away, And I was blind with hunger for your love.

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1.9k

Claude McKay

All yesterday it poured, and all night long I could not sleep; the rain unceasing beat Upon the shingled roof like a weird song, Upon the grass like running children's feet. And down the mountains by the dark cloud kissed, Like a strange shape in filmy veiling dressed, Slid slowly, silently, the wraith-like mist, And nestled soft against the earth's wet breast. But lo, there was a miracle at dawn! The still air stirred at touch of the faint breeze, The sun a sheet of gold bequeathed the lawn, The songsters twittered in the rustling trees. And all things were transfigured in the day, But me whom radiant beauty could not move; For you, more wonderful, were far away, And I was blind with hunger for your love.

16

Lincoln green robin hoodwinking the greedy rich Feeding the poor robin red breast flaunting credentials robbing the lady marion the little birds of their flimsy filmy honor Little boy little man-child john little mowgli conquering the jungle conquering the tiger riding imperious the stark grey brown elephant And backscratching bear sleeping in the greensward dancing with milady tucking into supper of fast arrowed stag Hung out and dried between devil trees and huts afire Across the brittle yellow beach into the deep blue sea

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Jun 5, 2016

Jun 5, 2016 at 9:05 AM UTC

mike-adam

Sher khan wood

Lincoln green robin hoodwinking the greedy rich Feeding the poor robin red breast flaunting credentials robbing the lady marion the little birds of their flimsy filmy honor Little boy little man-child john little mowgli conquering the jungle conquering the tiger riding imperious the stark grey brown elephant And backscratching bear sleeping in the greensward dancing with milady tucking into supper of fast arrowed stag Hung out and dried between devil trees and huts afire Across the brittle yellow beach into the deep blue sea

29

( a vision dream ) 1 Down in the shrouded wood a wanderer walks And dreams the dreamers story he has lived. Sidled by the stream that sheds blue waters By the beds, trailing the rail of loves unknown Kiss and a voice that conjures truest bliss, Down in the drink where sweet Ophelia sleeps; In the pool of the lost maiden song. *And the dreamer, he is dreaming . . . Hair, that ropes the stoic man upon his mount. Hair, making souls’ lost ending breath a shout, And hair that weighs the wind, teaches it to sing; Hair, wending whirlpools waving fools to dive in.* 2 Lost at land’s end the sea lions, washed-up, wail And buzzards coast where eagles flail, rip tides Assail and chop the collected bones they drop; It is a chalky bone-yard break, golden escarpments Wake and a seamen’s salty sermons shake; Where gathering ghosts glom and chide steeping, In the pool of the lost maiden song. *And the seeker, he is seeking . . . Eyes that turn the sands and are mirrors, Eyes that taught the books of Alexandria, Eyes that shook the flesh and are seers, Eyes that lit the pyres, burned true believers.* 3 Deep in the dark wood the waters rush, hush, Cramp, crew and creep, melodiously tread, Trammel, and burn as furies in keeping true The melting moon, the onerous owl, fluttering Things, muttering wings, cones in darkness Flings and filmy time flicks by the wayside; In the pool of the lost maiden song. *And the lover, he is longing . . . Love, lithe and lyric, he sees your sweeping shapes. Peace, parsed and pained he hears the voicing gape. Blind, bliss’d and shamed he wears the votive drapes. Hungered, thirsted and gone; seeks your pearly gate.* 4 Out in the forest maze the jarring sun seeps And swirls, only to roust the traveler onward Where soon he must meet the faces in the grotto Down in destroyed lands by the seas’ unreasoning Chime, deep in the dark whine of the shining mermaids, Where the doomed cry, round the navel of the world, In the pool of the lost maiden song. *And the doomed, they are crying . . . ****** beauty bade us, in a star crossed chrysalis, Made us, choose a desert’s winter of loneliness. Heed our fate and leave this valley torn of bliss; The many millions of locust fall in ripest fields.”*

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Aug 13, 2015

Aug 13, 2015 at 2:59 PM UTC

In the Pool of the Lost Maiden Song

( a vision dream ) 1 Down in the shrouded wood a wanderer walks And dreams the dreamers story he has lived. Sidled by the stream that sheds blue waters By the beds, trailing the rail of loves unknown Kiss and a voice that conjures truest bliss, Down in the drink where sweet Ophelia sleeps; In the pool of the lost maiden song. *And the dreamer, he is dreaming . . . Hair, that ropes the stoic man upon his mount. Hair, making souls’ lost ending breath a shout, And hair that weighs the wind, teaches it to sing; Hair, wending whirlpools waving fools to dive in.* 2 Lost at land’s end the sea lions, washed-up, wail And buzzards coast where eagles flail, rip tides Assail and chop the collected bones they drop; It is a chalky bone-yard break, golden escarpments Wake and a seamen’s salty sermons shake; Where gathering ghosts glom and chide steeping, In the pool of the lost maiden song. *And the seeker, he is seeking . . . Eyes that turn the sands and are mirrors, Eyes that taught the books of Alexandria, Eyes that shook the flesh and are seers, Eyes that lit the pyres, burned true believers.* 3 Deep in the dark wood the waters rush, hush, Cramp, crew and creep, melodiously tread, Trammel, and burn as furies in keeping true The melting moon, the onerous owl, fluttering Things, muttering wings, cones in darkness Flings and filmy time flicks by the wayside; In the pool of the lost maiden song. *And the lover, he is longing . . . Love, lithe and lyric, he sees your sweeping shapes. Peace, parsed and pained he hears the voicing gape. Blind, bliss’d and shamed he wears the votive drapes. Hungered, thirsted and gone; seeks your pearly gate.* 4 Out in the forest maze the jarring sun seeps And swirls, only to roust the traveler onward Where soon he must meet the faces in the grotto Down in destroyed lands by the seas’ unreasoning Chime, deep in the dark whine of the shining mermaids, Where the doomed cry, round the navel of the world, In the pool of the lost maiden song. *And the doomed, they are crying . . . ****** beauty bade us, in a star crossed chrysalis, Made us, choose a desert’s winter of loneliness. Heed our fate and leave this valley torn of bliss; The many millions of locust fall in ripest fields.”*