"germaine" poems
Original French
Dictes moy ou, n'en quel pays,
Est Flora la belle Rommaine,
Archipiades ne Thaïs,
Qui fut sa cousine germaine,
Echo parlant quant bruyt on maine
Dessus riviere ou sus estan,
Qui beaulté ot trop plus q'humaine.
Mais ou sont les neiges d'antan?
Ou est la tres sage Helloïs,
Pour qui chastré fut et puis moyne
Pierre Esbaillart a Saint Denis?
Pour son amour ot ceste essoyne.
Semblablement, ou est la royne
Qui commanda que Buridan
Fust geté en ung sac en Saine?
Mais ou sont les neiges d'antan?
La royne Blanche comme lis
Qui chantoit a voix de seraine,
Berte au grand pié, Beatris, Alis,
Haremburgis qui tint le Maine,
Et Jehanne la bonne Lorraine
Qu'Englois brulerent a Rouan;
Ou sont ilz, ou, Vierge souvraine?
Mais ou sont les neiges d'antan?
Prince, n'enquerez de sepmaine
Ou elles sont, ne de cest an,
Qu'a ce reffrain ne vous remaine:
Mais ou sont les neiges d'antan?
English Translation
Ballad Of The Ladies Of Yore
Tell me where, in what country,
Is Flora the beautiful Roman,
Archipiada or Thais
Who was first cousin to her once,
Echo who speaks when there's a sound
On a pond or a river
Whose beauty was more than human?
But where are the snows of yesteryear?
Where is the leamed Heloise
For whom they castrated Pierre Abelard
And made him a monk at Saint-Denis,
For his love he took this pain,
Likewise where is the queen
Who commanded that Buridan
Be thrown in a sack into the Seine?
But where are the snows of yesteryear?
The queen white as a lily
Who sang with a siren's voice,
Big-footed Bertha, Beatrice, Alice,
Haremburgis who held Maine
And Jeanne the good maid of Lorraine
Whom the English bumt at Rouen, where,
Where are they, sovereign ******
But where are the snows of yesteryear?
Prince, don't ask me in a week
or in a year what place they are;
I can only give you this refrain:
Where are the snows of yesteryear?
9.4k
“cold winter sky—
where will this wandering beggar
grow old?”
— Issa
I. Stories
A ranch north of Spain,
his woman, their child... a dream
painted over, gone.
His... (unrequited)
...own tragedy for himself—
young death in Paris.
Quiet night at nine,
inside a café... gunshots—
being... nothingness...
II. Histories
A cold monochrome,
the winter hue of darkness:
umbra of despair.
Portraits of torment:
beggars, drunkards, prostitutes,
1901—
Lapis lazuli
thinned, turpentined—bleu de France—
ennui of sorrow.
III. Images
Melancholia
—the impotence of the will—
in Barcelona.
Barefoot on the street
corner, sitting on the ground,
he leaned on nothing.
A half-stringed guitar......
Germaine’s ******* distracted him..
he laid his revenge.
IV. Meanings
No can a beggar...
no steel strings a guitarist...
—a friend’s eulogy.
The cadaverous
curves of the bones torqued the flesh—
tedium of old age.
An allegory:
artists, poets, mendicants...
****** or broke oglers?
V. The Painting
His evocation:
the grave of Casagemas—
a guilt exorcised.
A mute’s discontent,
a blind man’s desolation,
an oil masterpiece!
An old guitarist,
blind, begging for an audience—
a blue Picasso.
Jul 28, 2017
Jul 28, 2017 at 7:22 AM UTC
___FLUFF:___
_Frequently, I discover words with hidden meaning, shining like coins in a handful of fluff, apple seeds and other down-the-back-of-the-sofa leavings. Some are too precious to share and I secrete them away. Others I spend cheaply on rigged slot machine verbiage. Mostly they sit waiting to be written usefully. Adding insight, lending moment to my day._
§
___NONSENSE:___
_Foraging amongst the dahlias
For Cinderella’s lost slipper,
I am Barbie magic made manifest,
I am Germaine (sodding) Greer’s antifem,
I am Super Mum with gumboots on._
§
___ABSURDITY:___
_The best nonsense is always spoken in the middle of the afternoon while heading north on a train bound for a smallish beige town, and so it was that the occupants of second-class carriage BG1754 found themselves gripped by a kind of eloquent hysteria as they rattled around the final bend in the tracks before the steep descent to the weatherboard station at Claggy Peat._
Apr 3, 2021
Apr 3, 2021 at 3:51 AM UTC
Hello? Germaine, you there?
It's been a little over a year since you left us all
I miss you so much
You have no idea how much I miss you
I wish I could have talked to you that night
I wish I had given you more hugs
More smiles
More laughs
I wonder every night why you killed yourself
And I feel so lost
You were the one to hug me, make me laugh, make me smile when I was sad
And now I know you can never come back
It makes me so sad
I wish I had hung out with you more
And I wish I was there for you when you needed me the most
Please forgive me, Germaine.
I love you and miss you.
Hope it's nice up there in heaven.
Nov 8, 2013
Nov 8, 2013 at 2:05 PM UTC
My mind is a fortress
and so is yours united to win
are summoned to heal self first
calling my own spirit guides
my guardian Archangel Ariel
eager to guide
Aries me exuding innocence (like that of a child) Ariel
“Angelic Ambassador of Divine Magic and Miraculous Manifestation healing others is
near or far healing the inner core first Cimi transforming
the mind whiter then snow
knowing how is the key hole
where goldlock unlocks
summons for urgent healing.
I close my eyes surrounding myself with nature's best
under the bright warm lumminous light of ten suns
My Guardian Angels appear
to guide dispersing darkness
with sun light beams
circling my whole being applying
Saint Germaine's violet flame adhering to this healing circle
of light waiting it's turn
Gold beams emanates from
My king's Jeweled mind
it's a heavenly healing golden light
wrapping itself over this Violet flame circled beam
in deep meditation I beathe in light and exale out any darkness
unhealthy legions, until light exaled is whiter than snow
In the presence of light shadow people virus cannot infiltrate
darkness sickness all dissipates
I breathe in violet flames of Saint Germain and zeal in it's healing
breathing in the violet flame
exaling fear as pure as violet
flame exaled.
with mind busy my imagination becomes a healing deal fascination
the mind becomes its own healing fortress wheel
rolling is action ignition
enableling invoking the heavenly light healing beam plight .
Together
all three circles become the
life breathing rings.
I breath in for others who can't who still wish to be healed.
it's all on a free will field.
Others breathe in healing violet flame undoing bad karmic trash
and exale out legion sickness
regrets averting untimely death.
dispersing healing living light
from this sanctuary tower plight
with healer mind replicating
circles of healing flame light
beamed around fellow Man's vessels
of distressed virulent souls;
they gladly re-live and breathe
we are all one mind united indeed we win.
Our minds joined as one
are the rolling drive needed .
Healing united mind to mind we are all the manifesting power for healing by the violet flame
F+O+R+T+R+E+S+S
~~~~~~
K-a-r-i-j-i-n-b-b-a.
04-12-2020 besting cov-19
Copy Rights.
Apr 2, 2020
Apr 2, 2020 at 1:14 AM UTC
⸎⟆⥉⦕⫯⟴ Ode to the Count De St. Germaine ⸎⟆
Dearest Count,
I know you watch and listen.
It is through you I set sail upon this ship of thoughts
To you, to whom, I christen.
These polysemic effulgence do, alas, waxen, wane,
but seldom in vain.
In antediluvian silence drawn,
manifests in hyperborean dearth
a logos, sir in autochthonous rebirth.
Their, hierophantic murmurs will obfuscate,
the omphalos of matter, still inchoate,
where perichoresis in vertiginous tide
the fractal that doth assuredly bide.
A palimpsest of null embrace
where these false augurs drink from hollowed urns,
and time itself forgets to turn.
Perfidious orisons, whisper-thin,
in circumflected aeons spin,
converging on the cusp of naught,
where paradigms in silence rot.
A chrysalis of paradox,
enshrouds the fey, unbridled clocks,
that chime in fugue, then dissipate
beyond the hinge of latent fate...
The pericombobulatory grand design
deliquesces in auctorial decline!
(Syncretic palingenesis unspools,
within the aether’s epistemic pools,
a syzygetic parallax unweaves
the thaumaturgic spoor that time bereaves.)
For naught but vacuous profundities remain,
a simulacrum of the arcane mundane,
where in sesquipedalian grandeur lies
a syllogism clad in grandiloquent guise.
Ouroboric concatenations of antinomian design,
circumvolute within paracryptic paradigms malign,
as obmutescent theogonic vestiges coalesce
in the eidetic zymurgy of aphasic largesse.
Metagnostic palimpsests, fracto-linear and obtuse,
catachrestically wane in hyperchromatic profuse,
whilst locutions, effulgent yet contrite,
obumbrate the paramorphic tautology of night.
A transcendental abecedarium, paralogical and vast,
consanguineous with the inexorable umbrage
of our shared Jungian past,
germinates within the syntagmatic—
Ever relaxed or ecstatic,
Coalesced to pragmatic,
Lugubriously emphatic.
Within this hypostatized ratiocinative mire,
where sophronistic axiom and non-being conspire,
one finds but an echolalic, chimerical gleam,
an ontosemantic palinode to the dream.
The Archetype realized.
The Alchemist mystically re-materialized.
Count, oh Count.
"Wherefore art thou," indeed,
in this : our time of greatest need.
Feb 24, 2025
Feb 24, 2025 at 4:23 PM UTC
Mr Misogyny had arranged himself a perfect date.
With a Miss Anna Feminist.
All was going very well until they both got p**sed.
They chucked opinions around the bar.
You'd think maybe a little banter.
Started minor disagreements.
Led to all out war.
He pronounced loudly.
In a voice for all to hear.
That women were just for kissing and washing dishes.
She said she'd heard it all before.
Found it rather boring.
Uneducated attitude.
Somehow they left together,
Went back to his place.
Poor fella lost face.
Dragged him to the kitchen sink.
Asked him to make her coffee.
Much to his disgust,
He had to wash a ***** cup.
From her hand bag.
Quick as a flash
Hand cuffs revealed.
Chained him to the kitchen sink.
So now he knows, just how it feels.
Maybe now he'll think.
Change his attitude.
Anna found him rather rude.
She sat at his dining table,
Thumbing through her Germaine Greer.
Her friends arrived.
All the neighbours can hear them cheer.
Oh dear.
(c)LIVVI
May 23, 2016
May 23, 2016 at 6:00 PM UTC
and you go like around nothing acting upon
momentum and the impetus
the maximum speed just slightly this side of the light
gravity-less atmosphere the better to drag your
*** through the after day physical retch
the warp speed drag
a day without bounds tends to make you stretch
left bottom lip hanging right eyelid droop
afraid to look
in the mirror above the transporter porcelain full of puke
that's how this space-time warps
a twentieth century dude
now alive breathing all this twenty-first century
technological slime
hiding away in an eighteenth-century agrarian community where
half the people are ****** I think,
maybe not, just they got bald patches and long crooked noses and big arms on skinny tall torsos
look like human ancestors in a way, they know everybody,
clusters of them in two bedroom houses and relatives with tattoos of
names under their glossy dead eyes hair that stands up on end
blossoming smells.
But, hey, I'm one them now. Losing my integral data on a strata set
confused.
Jun 4, 2018
Jun 4, 2018 at 11:50 PM UTC
Coach class and the second I pass go I don't want to.
In ******* or steerage
chained to the railings.
Dismal on the Central
like
clockwise down the
plughole.
My soul has been stolen and
shipped off
and being ****** off is no
way to go on.
It's only Tuesday
a long way from
the weekend,
but far enough from
the beginning to know
going back
is too far.
Some mornings are as dark as can be
no light shines on me and I
see nothing but shapes which
I suppose are what makes me
aware.
In 91091,
this
number of a carriage
flicks off and then on
or maybe imagining is
all that is left of me.
Already draining away
and
still only Tueaday.
A herbal remedy
germaine to my malady
may help me.
God help me
the hype's got to me
'stay healthy,
live longer'
for what?
I'm taking a shot
loading the Glock
and
stopping the clock,
before the clock stops me.
Mar 6, 2018
Mar 6, 2018 at 1:42 AM UTC