"fugue" poems
Cné
In my most desperate need
seek out a bush by a tree
rewarded with a rash on my rear end
relieving, with a squat, by poison ivy
No thank you, I will take a chance
in hopes of saving my ***
and hold it until I just can't
and avoiding a nasty rash
even if it means ....
I will possibly *** my pants
Temporal Fugue
*** the least of your worries
as your bladder will expand
making you make decisions
not all that good, or planned
So make your place
and keep your wits
bear, what you can stand
drop your drawers and hold your ****
and *** as god, demands
May 4, 2017
May 4, 2017 at 1:18 AM UTC
**The weary mind in turmoil writhes
and slumber will not come.
The moonlight seeps
like latticed withered vines.
I listen to my heartbeat,
in the silence like a drum,
And through my shuttered eyes....
see strange designs.
The night will not take me prisoner,
and bind me to restful sleep.
No dreams, or any respite,
no way, my soul to keep.
Groaning as I turn myself
to rest beleaguered pain,
I stretch to ease
my tortured back and sigh.
Then I fluff my pillow
to deactivate my speeding brain...
Rolling in the covers,
as my body sweats and strains,
seeking to lose myself,
discarding all, my pains
But my eyes are wide...
and still the question..."Why?"**
Aug 1, 2017
Aug 1, 2017 at 11:32 AM UTC
*If you were my sheets, and at my beck and call
fulfilling all my fantasies, into you, I would fall.
You'd cradle me so gently, and massage me everywhere
releasing all my juices, and all my stress, and cares.
In splendor we'd heat up the room, and I'd crinkle every sheet
and when we were apart, I'd rejoice, every time we meet.
Pillows would cradling my face and head, where jasmine scented rests
blending of our fluids as our bodies, orgasmically attest.
We'd fall asleep together, and spoon throughout the night
and in the morning waking, to unimaginable delights.
Your hands of silken sheets caressing, exciting every nerve
giving me all the pleasures, and climaxes, in you, I am immersed!*
Jul 20, 2017
Jul 20, 2017 at 10:58 AM UTC
A most pious man
whose well-tempered music
brushed the cobwebs
from the throne of God
Evolution was made manifest
across deep time
these lyrical figures
achieve the same purpose
in the space between the morning star
and the dawn
A fallow field
is sewn with pearls
a moonlit beach
illuminated by shadow
every scrape of the fiddler's bow
merges mind with the present
harvests the meaning
in the moment
The composer
that good man
was
for a time
church organist at St. John's
its notable steeple leaning
all askew
as a rebuke against God
or perhaps the drunken architect
A finger of candlelight
plays across the manuscript
a fugue echoes
through the still church
And though no living person
on that still winter's night
shares the organist's solemn delight
the stirring mass of possibility
that is posterity
awaits
Oct 9, 2016
Oct 9, 2016 at 5:49 PM UTC
Basking in postcoital bliss, talking between the sheets
catching our breath, giggling with laughter treats
Laying in the afterglow, tangled in the sheets
sweating cooling skin, and completing greater feats
Blissful in post euphoria, feeling quite appeased
finding comfort in warm arms, putting me at ease
Still sighing, touching, tasting, nuzzled in content
reveling in the splendor, our minds and bodies, spent
Let me drink, this moment in, before we turn to clocks,
wishing only to start again, as seconds ticking mocks.
Snuggling together, eyes and hands so locked
wishing for ourselves, more hours, on the clock
Mar 9, 2017
Mar 9, 2017 at 2:21 PM UTC
The onion, now that's something else
its innards don't exist
nothing but pure onionhood
fills this devout onionist
oniony on the inside
onionesque it appears
it follows its own daimonion
without our human tears
our skin is just a coverup
for the land where none dare to go
an internal inferno
the anathema of anatomy
in an onion there's only onion
from its top to it's toe
onionymous monomania
unanimous omninudity
at peace, at peace
internally at rest
inside it, there's a smaller one
of undiminished worth
the second holds a third one
the third contains a fourth
a centripetal fugue
polypony compressed
nature's rotundest tummy
its greatest success story
the onion drapes itself in it's
own aureoles of glory
we hold veins, nerves, and fat
secretions' secret sections
not for us such idiotic
onionoid perfections
Wisława Szymborska, translated from the Polish by Stanisław Barańczak & Clare Cavanagh
Sep 15, 2014
Sep 15, 2014 at 4:46 PM UTC
✿⊰✲⊱✿
At the sound of my name, I see the faces
turn and smiles of many friends;
Queen Sue of Ruikruya in her lilac silks,
Queen Sarita of Khaikar in orange silks,
Queen Deb of Daegeral in magenta,
Queen Kim of Geniael in creams,
Queen Robin of Naeneiana in periwinkles,
Queen Fawn of Yuamor in red-violets,
Queen Dawn of Khesian in dandelion-orange,
Queen Jugnu of Enuryn in jade-greens,
Queen Yidna of Puhan in indigos,
Queen Cne of Phelyra in turquoise,
Queen Xaela of Lonusea in peach,
Queen Ayumi of Wadia in tan-gold,
Queen Sheila of Naizzuzia in cornflower-blue,
Queen Stars of Yurithireatha in green-yellow
✿⊰✲⊱✿
King Edmund and his wife in matching
forest-greens attires,
King Omni of Khaniel in silvers,
King Emeka of Ghalali in white,
King Devon of Monait in blue-violets,
King Fugue of Thavia in blacks,
King Yacov of Igrador in olive-green,
King Joseph of Eaqellurene in bronze,
King Fredrick of Emirinait in mauve,
King Rob of Balan in sea-green,
King John of Khesian in melon-red,
King Aslam of Ikaesa in deep plum,
King Brandon of Huarean in ocher,
King Kikodinho of Izugalla in taupe,
King Jobira of Zavalon in orange-red
and many many more.
✿⊰✲⊱✿
And last but not least, King Paul of
Luciuscemi himself in emerald-and-gold.
He wears his favourite emerald green
jacket with ruby buttons, bright gold
embroidery of suns and lions; his sleeves
stitched with pearls and rubies to match
the red sash across his chest; his trousers
black as are his boots, but even they have
gold laces.
Aug 26, 2018
Aug 26, 2018 at 6:17 AM UTC
The equilibrium of the ecosystem is challenged by the rites of the 11th Century Norsemen. Smell the pine in the forests of North America where the dream catcher swings in the branches of the misty Boreal forest.
We must never forget in our futile plight for supremacy, that the roots of trees are deeply connected to the annals of history where contemporary grandiosity is a mere mirage of what we call sophistication.
Toccata and Fugue in D Minor is where Johann Sebastian Bach communicated his message as clear as the cries of those who were slaughtered in the Highland Clearances. Parallel octaves of our Viking ancestry are firmly established and will never be altered despite the quests of the New World Order.
Dec 31, 2013
Dec 31, 2013 at 3:58 PM UTC
Blood in my mouth
I touch the wetness on my lips
The taste…
The taste reminds me
‘All is not lost!’ it screams to me.
‘Remember me!’ it sings out.
Blood in my mouth
A clash of metal pulls me
My arms raised above me
‘All is not lost!’ I scream this time.
Blood in my mouth
Lost days flash again.
Blood in my mouth
The world goes red.
cc2010
Oct 14, 2010
Oct 14, 2010 at 4:25 PM UTC
Symphony No.9 in d – minor, opus 125
Allegro ma non troppo
The silence gives way gently
to quiet tremolos rustling
beneath the beckoning
call of distant horns.
A melodic cell, nascent in violins,
spirals down to the somber depths
of cello and contrabass.
A sudden cataclysm
shakes the hall like thunder
heralding our universal birth.
Gales of sonic force
splashed like turbulent waves
against the rocky shores.
Drifting sans glass or sextant
on a sea of expanding mystery,
we gaze to the heavens
in hopes for a glimpse
of our father’s aetherial dwelling.
Molto vivace
With hands intertwined,
we dance in a ring
to the capricious airs
of the laughing gods
with Zeus himself on timpani.
So pass the wine and kiss your neighbor
and fill your glass to the brim!
For today is yesterday’s morrow
and tomorrow’s history.
Adagio molto e cantabile
There is no greater and more healing light
than the candles that shine
in the eyes of a friend
or loving spouse -
tenderly lighting our paths
through the storms and fogs
that cloud our lives.
Peace abides in a friend's embrace.
An die Freude
Against raging storms of
strife and sorrow.
we hear a healing voice
A calm cello hymn -
that migrates up to higher cords
of violas and violins -
breaking into joyous song
sung by trumpets, winds and drums.
Casting all shrillness of discord aside,
a baritone lines out Schiller’s ode -
and sings of Elysium’s daughter.
Quartet and chorus enter in
proclaiming hope for the human family,
A tenor raises a stein to valor
in the company of his friends.
The quiet pulsing of horns and winds
ushers in torrents of ecstasy.
Arms clasped in communal embrace,
we gaze to heaven on bended knees
then rise with a majestic fugue
that illuminates our souls
like a blazing Alpine dawn.
In a cyclone of passion,
Schiller's words and Beethoven's notes
entreat us to restore
what custom has rent apart
that each of us may live our lives
as brothers in heavenly sanctuary.
May 25, 2007
Sep 20, 2013
Sep 20, 2013 at 1:33 PM UTC
~~=<♡>=~~
You...
The counterpoint
to my music...
... with a different instrument.
SoulSurvivor
(C) 2/16/2015
~~=<♡>=~~
Feb 16, 2015
Feb 16, 2015 at 11:01 AM UTC
HEAR YE!
HEAR YE!
SALUTATIONS TO ALL THOSE PRESENT!
GREETINGS!
HENCEFORTH AND FOREVER MORE ...
JUNE THE TWELVE
SHALL BE KNOWN AMONG ALL HERE AT HELLO POETRY
(AND ALL POETS WORLDWIDE)
AS "TEMPORAL FUGUE DAY"
TO WIT:
You will be compelled to go to McDonald's ...
on this date and at any time.
As you step to the counter to place your order
you MUST speak only in rhyme!
You can order salads ...
a burger with cheese ...
breakfast or filet-o-fish
Choice of drink is surely yours ...
order any and all that you wish!
Just make certain
that ALL that you say ...
in the spirit of poets EVERYWHERE
comes out in a rhyming way!
Let's show them solidarity
Tell the world that we are here ...
with wisdom and harmony
finding love and facing fear.
I further compel you
to your language you must translate ...
this declaration so that all the poets in the world will know
to do this on this date.
Not just to show them our pride so fierce
and that it isn't just any rumor.
Let's show the world that poets are amazing
and even have senses of humor!
So ... Plot out your order
and what you will say.
Let's go and have fun with this.
Let's make it OUR day!
WE ARE HERE!
Jun 7, 2018
Jun 7, 2018 at 8:20 AM UTC
Oh,
how you have begot routine
An occupation entered most
unexpectedly
Consuming a once
vivid and polymathic soul
Seeped into your bones
Left you forgot,
a flickering and
dying star
Yes,
you're here every day,
but you're heart feels vacant;
gone away, or really still at
home, wherever that is
Your body's traveling the
world, but your mind's spinning in
circles,
too fast to see past the
fugue
Will you reminisce of these days to your future
children?
Or will you skip this period,
for this is
not really you to begin with?
Hope
your intermission will come to an end
May you someday return, spirited and
renewed
Mar 8, 2019
Mar 8, 2019 at 11:14 AM UTC
Is it sounds
converging,
Sounds
nearing,
Infringement,
impingement,
Impact,
contact
With surfaces of the sounds
Or surfaces without the sounds:
Diagrams,
skeletal,
strange?
Is it winds
curling round invisible corners?
Polyphony of perfumes?
Antennae discovering an axis,
erecting the architecture of a world?
Is it
orchestration of the finger-tips,
graph of a fugue:
Scaffold for colours:
colour itself being god?
2.4k
Les jours passent si rapidement quand la vie est à l'arrêt
Un flou de gris et de bruns
Créer un fanées bouquet incomplète
Une fois qu'ils ont donné la beauté lys blancs et des violettes magnifiques
Puis il y avait une rose
Puis il n'y avait rien
Arpenter rythme rythme rythme
Fleurs sur le plancher de la chambre
Couleur dans la poussière, les pétales en gris
Fondu la décoloration à la décoloration à la cendre
Coincé dans les images
Se cacher dans les rêves
Nuits passent si lentement quand la vie est la fugue
Courir courir courir
Laissant mon bouquet fané.
Days pass so quickly when life is standing still
A blur of grays and browns
Creating a withered, incomplete bouquet
Once they gave beauty, white lilies and magnificent violets
Then there was a rose
Then there was nothing
Pacing, pacing, pacing, pacing
Flowers on the bedroom floor
Color into dust, petals into gray
Fading, fading, fading to ash
Lingering in pictures
Hiding in dreams
Nights pass so slowly when life is running away
Running, running, running,
Leaving my withered bouquet.
Nov 22, 2011
Nov 22, 2011 at 9:56 PM UTC
RINZAI BOX
Had to have a psych eval
at the box factory
a human resources workup
to make sure
I could handle work again
making cardboard condos
for little mammal prisoners
of the pet trade
who live on hot windowsills
until someone comes to love them.
I got too depressed once
when I found tiny bunnies
mewling in a dumpster
their only refuge
yes
a box I had made
you could tell
it said assembled with care
by Kevin
and I missed a month of work
and got written up
for just being sad.
The shrink diagnosed me
a cognitive distorter
a predictor of worst case scenarios
but I disagreed
since I saw the sad bunnies for real
and he puffed up like a blowfish
stammering you’re the patient
I’m the man.
Well I’ve been around the zendo
so I challenged him
smartypants answer this…….
Do bunnies in boxes
have Buddha nature?
Irrational and pointless he said
hmmmmm I said
how do you know
maybe you’re a narcissist
on a psychobabble fugue
echoing in a therapy box.
But I have Buddha nature
and I put that in the boxes I make
and the Buddha bunnies go in the boxes
and you here in your Buddha office
are not separate
just uniquely boxed
and the label on the bunnies' box says
assembled with care by Buddha.
Jan 30, 2012
Jan 30, 2012 at 12:46 AM UTC
again and again
the morning comes undone
and we march -
stuff-lunged into crunch
and mule love
blunder-bused and lump-kin
but for always
a short ton
of long grief
tweaking the snip
of a dead sow's ear
to reap a jewel
from a dead
mind.
but here
i love you like a war in Spain
spiking the Punch and Judy/
a fugue grief on a tide of dark joy
slavering at the haunches
of a Pegasus.
Blindfolded.
Mar 29, 2015
Mar 29, 2015 at 4:15 AM UTC
"Hello, and good day; yes I'm ready to order.
I'd like a Big Mac ...
Oh, I want it on a tray
and not in a sack."
"I want a large fry, freshly dropped
with very light salt.
I'll also have a Chocolate Milkshake,
though I'd really prefer a Malt."
"OF COURSE, I want it super-sized,
are you trying to joke?
Waddia mean $8.50?
Well, now I've gone broke!"
He steps from the counter
and goes to sit down.
The food smells great ...
yet still, he frowns.
"I'll need a second job
if I wish to keep eating here.
I can't binge on these gut-bombs
and still have my beer."
"I wonder if there's an employee discount ...
as I've got the lingo down pat:
I have a Filet-O-Fish and a Coke on your order ...
Would you like some fries with that?"
PLEASE JOIN THE HELLO POETRY FLASHMOB!
SEE THE NOTES BELOW!
Jun 7, 2018
Jun 7, 2018 at 8:22 AM UTC
I have remembered beauty in the night,
Against black silences I waked to see
A shower of sunlight over Italy
And green Ravello dreaming on her height;
I have remembered music in the dark,
The clean swift brightness of a fugue of Bach’s,
And running water singing on the rocks
When once in English woods I heard a lark.
But all remembered beauty is no more
Than a vague pelude to the thought of you—
You are the rarest soul I ever knew,
Lover of beauty, knightliest and best,
My thoughts seek you as waves that seek the shore,
And when I think of you I am at rest.
2.1k
Lost in the club on the way to the bathroom
American dreamless, existed in a vacuum
Every day, another way for us to consume
Raids on the senses, a general consensus
of the senseless, reprehensible amendments
The armaments by the tenements, diffused
Confused, never used, lonely in the fugue
And you
You who assume, presume, eschew the ruin
of the brewing times, rising tides, the lies
and of ties that bind - us to the times
and to meaningless rhymes
By illuminated rooms when the eye blinks
Think, blink, the pink rink - closed
By the hours that be, powers that see
Subversive naturalism
in a state of debate, compensate the reckless
Feckless and dick-less, compost of the senses
The sexes have wrecked us, ****** of the spectrum
By your septum reset them, mind wiped
Iconic lights gone
The new light's on
Right on
May 13, 2014
May 13, 2014 at 11:36 AM UTC
Blood felt in a caress
Was the last gift of love I sent you home with.
My thoughts gently clinging to the curled ends
of your hair.
The moon bright as a baby's skin
The wind from the sea leaving nothing untouched
I could think of a Springsteen lyric
but this isn't the summer
and my clothes cling too tightly
To this body which I intend only to please you.
I think instead of a friend telling me of a power-out
When he lived in a minor Chinese mainland city of seven or 8 million
And how all he could see for miles around for an entire week afterwards
was smog.
And I contrast that
With when in the relatively far west of this tiny island
We stood laughing in wonder at how the stars hung so closely down on us
And how smog is all that fills my head
When I try to remember words you use
When you speak of the moon.
Dec 29, 2014
Dec 29, 2014 at 7:34 AM UTC
The universe closes in on me
galaxies align
in matrices of light
This moment was never
meant to be
I'm a cloud
telling tales to the sky
a bit of wind
and I'll be gone
The moment slips through
my fingers
water into the well
while time
that mortal dragon
is readily slain
for there are no dragons
time is a myth
and this universe
bends backwards upon itself
eating its remains
and issuing forth
new life
in a fugue of renewal
again
and again.
Nov 7, 2017
Nov 7, 2017 at 8:38 PM UTC
Todesfugue ("Death Fugue")
by Paul Celan
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Black milk of daybreak, we drink you come dusk;
we drink you come midday, come morning, come night;
we drink you and drink you.
We’re digging a grave like a hole in the sky;
there’s sufficient room to lie there.
The man of the house plays with vipers; he writes
in the Teutonic darkness, “Your golden hair Margarete...”
He composes by starlight, whistles hounds to stand by,
whistles Jews to dig graves, where together they’ll lie.
He commands us to strike up bright tunes for the dance!
Black milk of daybreak, we drink you come dusk;
we drink you come dawn, come midday, come night;
we drink you and drink you.
The man of the house plays with serpents; he writes...
he writes as the night falls, “Your golden hair Margarete...
Your ashen hair Shulamith...”
We are digging dark graves where there’s more room, on high.
His screams, “Hey you, dig there!” and “Hey you, sing and dance!”
He grabs his black nightstick, his eyes pallid blue,
screaming, “Hey you―dig deeper! You others―sing, dance!”
Black milk of daybreak, we drink you come dusk;
we drink you come midday, come morning, come night;
we drink you and drink you.
The man of the house writes, “Your golden hair Margarete...
Your ashen hair Shulamith...” as he cultivates snakes.
He screams, “Play Death more sweetly! Death’s the master of Germany!”
He cries, “Scrape those dark strings, soon like black smoke you’ll rise
to your graves in the skies; there’s sufficient room for Jews there!”
Black milk of daybreak, we drink you come midnight;
we drink you come midday; Death’s the master of Germany!
We drink you come dusk; we drink you and drink you...
He’s a master of Death, his pale eyes deathly blue.
He fires leaden slugs, his aim level and true.
He writes as the night falls, “Your golden hair Margarete...”
He unleashes his hounds, grants us graves in the skies.
He plays with his serpents; Death’s the master of Germany...
“Your golden hair Margarete...
your ashen hair Shulamith...”
Paul Celan (1920-1970) was a Romanian Jew who wrote poems in German. He survived the Holocaust, despite the loss of his mother and father, to become one of the major German-language poets of the post–World War II era. His parents' deaths and the horrors of the Holocaust have been called the "defining forces" in Celan's poetry.
Keywords/Tags: Paul Celan, Holocaust poems, Holocaust poetry, Shoah, German, translation, black, milk, drink, vipers, serpents, hounds, grave, graves, golden, hair, Margarete, Shulamith, sing, dance, Death, master, Germany, Nazis, racism, antisemitism, injustice, brutality, genocide, ethnic cleansing, World War II, world conflicts
Mar 11, 2020
Mar 11, 2020 at 11:03 PM UTC
Discombobulated and flabbergasted, flummoxed indeed? No such bemused and befuddled? I am not perplexed on the prognosis to prospectus. They’re incongruous, I’m incredulous, it’s catawampus. Reconnaissance reconnoiter, rectilinear reciprocal rectitude. Radix repartee: Down here at the bizarre bazaar we all believe in the blasphemous farcical fugue-ness, estranged ensemble orchestrations and all. Some of us are even into the various assorted forms of related stranger weirdness. We’ll be having none of this putrid quasi queasy. Corrupt costume counselor siren skeptic. None of you ignominiously pusillanimous incorrigibles who aren’t brave enough to love are required.
Sep 12, 2015
Sep 12, 2015 at 10:05 PM UTC
I think in poems,
drink deep sounds,
smell bright colors,
untie the bound.
I touch the notes...
they ripple in the air.
Taste the pain .....
no qualms no care.
I orchestrate a silent fugue,
two voices never heard.
Pen it all inside my book
then read it to my bird.
Aug 8, 2018
Aug 8, 2018 at 6:28 AM UTC