"girdled" poems
The memory of you emerges from the night around me.
The river mingles its stubborn lament with the sea.
Deserted like the dwarves at dawn.
It is the hour of departure, oh deserted one!
Cold flower heads are raining over my heart.
Oh pit of debris, fierce cave of the shipwrecked.
In you the wars and the flights accumulated.
From you the wings of the song birds rose.
You swallowed everything, like distance.
Like the sea, like time. In you everything sank!
It was the happy hour of assault and the kiss.
The hour of the spell that blazed like a lighthouse.
Pilot's dread, fury of blind driver,
turbulent drunkenness of love, in you everything sank!
In the childhood of mist my soul, winged and wounded.
Lost discoverer, in you everything sank!
You girdled sorrow, you clung to desire,
sadness stunned you, in you everything sank!
I made the wall of shadow draw back,
beyond desire and act, I walked on.
Oh flesh, my own flesh, woman whom I loved and lost,
I summon you in the moist hour, I raise my song to you.
Like a jar you housed infinite tenderness.
and the infinite oblivion shattered you like a jar.
There was the black solitude of the islands,
and there, woman of love, your arms took me in.
There was thirst and hunger, and you were the fruit.
There were grief and ruins, and you were the miracle.
Ah woman, I do not know how you could contain me
in the earth of your soul, in the cross of your arms!
How terrible and brief my desire was to you!
How difficult and drunken, how tensed and avid.
Cemetery of kisses, there is still fire in your tombs,
still the fruited boughs burn, pecked at by birds.
Oh the bitten mouth, oh the kissed limbs,
oh the hungering teeth, oh the entwined bodies.
Oh the mad coupling of hope and force
in which we merged and despaired.
And the tenderness, light as water and as flour.
And the word scarcely begun on the lips.
This was my destiny and in it was my voyage of my longing,
and in it my longing fell, in you everything sank!
Oh pit of debris, everything fell into you,
what sorrow did you not express, in what sorrow are you not drowned!
From billow to billow you still called and sang.
Standing like a sailor in the prow of a vessel.
You still flowered in songs, you still brike the currents.
Oh pit of debris, open and bitter well.
Pale blind diver, luckless slinger,
lost discoverer, in you everything sank!
It is the hour of departure, the hard cold hour
which the night fastens to all the timetables.
The rustling belt of the sea girdles the shore.
Cold stars heave up, black birds migrate.
Deserted like the wharves at dawn.
Only tremulous shadow twists in my hands.
Oh farther than everything. Oh farther than everything.
It is the hour of departure. Oh abandoned one!
14.2k
You said you'd come to tea
so I made a cake
chocolate sweet; maraschino filled;
girdled with a satin blue ribbon;
set out the prettiest plates;
hand painted with forget-me-nots.
And from the darkest corner of a drawer
found a single candle to celebrate the day.
I'd understand if you had 'phoned,
but now the chocolate lends a bitter taste
and even the despairing posies have given up all hope
as the candle's flame flickers my ever waiting shadow.
Mar 10, 2010
Mar 10, 2010 at 9:01 AM UTC
The little white clouds are racing over the sky,
And the fields are strewn with the gold of the flower of March,
The daffodil breaks under foot, and the tasselled larch
Sways and swings as the thrush goes hurrying by.
A delicate odour is borne on the wings of the morning breeze,
The odour of deep wet grass, and of brown new-furrowed earth,
The birds are singing for joy of the Spring’s glad birth,
Hopping from branch to branch on the rocking trees.
And all the woods are alive with the murmur and sound of Spring,
And the rose-bud breaks into pink on the climbing briar,
And the crocus-bed is a quivering moon of fire
Girdled round with the belt of an amethyst ring.
And the plane to the pine-tree is whispering some tale of love
Till it rustles with laughter and tosses its mantle of green,
And the gloom of the wych-elm’s hollow is lit with the iris sheen
Of the burnished rainbow throat and the silver breast of a dove.
See! the lark starts up from his bed in the meadow there,
Breaking the gossamer threads and the nets of dew,
And flashing adown the river, a flame of blue!
The kingfisher flies like an arrow, and wounds the air.
3.7k
In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
A stately pleasure-dome decree:
Where Alph, the sacred river, ran
Through caverns measureless to man
Down to a sunless sea.
So twice five miles of fertile ground
With walls and towers were girdled round:
And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills,
Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree;
And here were forests ancient as the hills,
Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.
But oh! that deep romantic chasm which slanted
Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover!
A savage place! as holy and enchanted
As e’er beneath a waning moon was haunted
By woman wailing for her demon-lover!
And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething,
As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing,
A mighty fountain momently was forced:
Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst
Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail,
Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher’s flail:
And ’mid these dancing rocks at once and ever
It flung up momently the sacred river.
Five miles meandering with a mazy motion
Through wood and dale the sacred river ran,
Then reached the caverns measureless to man,
And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean:
And ’mid this tumult Kubla heard from far
Ancestral voices prophesying war!
The shadow of the dome of pleasure
Floated midway on the waves;
Where was heard the mingled measure
From the fountain and the caves.
It was a miracle of rare device,
A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice!
A damsel with a dulcimer
In a vision once I saw:
It was an Abyssinian maid,
And on her dulcimer she played,
Singing of Mount Abora.
Could I revive within me
Her symphony and song,
To such a deep delight ’twould win me
That with music loud and long
I would build that dome in air,
That sunny dome! those caves of ice!
And all who heard should see them there,
And all should cry, Beware! Beware!
His flashing eyes, his floating hair!
Weave a circle round him thrice,
And close your eyes with holy dread,
For he on honey-dew hath fed
And drunk the milk of Paradise.
3.4k
because our dreams of leaf-canopies and lignin
arrive at a certain variety of green, we will zither
anew with song
here in Bulacan; all the leaves are capsized
brandishing inflorescences as naked as
the scent of petrichor girdled
on the cobblestones: they are forsaken not by
trees but by seasons only, a twofold deliberation
of caprice: there is only two of what is spoken.
such is the warmth and coldness,
missing their obvious targets, hesitant and abstruse,
scattered and at long last, never collected
deftly camouflaged in the familiar drapery,
“Tantusan mo!” as they cry for marks to remember,
we touch the cicatrix to measure with our jagged hands
how much we have forgotten.
what we cease to remember descends deep, as wash-hand basins
concur such depth,
into the well of ourselves, later to discover such
perilous foundling in the squall of either morning or evening,
still devoid of sense: still arguing whether there is much
to reconcile with what has been found and what has been pictured
now, altered by such loss: this is danger, and so is nothing,
swollen and tender, the waters of the estero reek of such
remembering – we cannot ignore its perfume, oddly taking the shape
of the next dagger slowly making its way towards the back
of the skull to pare with river-run precision, what we all
try to hold back inside; so as if to say,
“Tantusan mo!” to remember
where we last took off, like a heron,
or a bird, wary of distances.
Jan 26, 2016
Jan 26, 2016 at 12:59 AM UTC
Gold shed upon suckling gold,
The time of the bole blackens,
Of the dark mounted through dapple,
While in the sealed apple
The seed cradled toward cold.
A gold on gold spent,
Put by from an elm in its years
Now its gilded of days,
Over turf’s dishevelment;
Where all which is green sickens,
All the fresh shall be sere.
All which is green sickens,
And it is but for a time
Those embered veinings blaze
A year’s delirium;
Or neared of other space,
Unportioned azure shall close
One of more, and which is,
One which goes.
Let the little pupils that will,
Of vision, gaze for salt
To whet their gazing, wit
In one weather is high
From burrow and lair, by
Nether providences’ default
An all’s accrued.
And apposite, beyond
Such primer beholdings, has
Its long accounting known
The beetle’s morsel thus
Was rich, and the slug’s bed on
The oak’s generations, deep
Over the lark’s bones.
In slough of Edens fast
Wit in one weather shall stand,
While millennia nibble at
The sensual apple
Toppled it net,
Plenty in the palm of the hand,
And the fallen not fallen, not lost
From out its certitude—
For our unbeggaring
Has been gross. Few and late
To cherish an immoderate
Wish, hope’s calculus,
Love’s hope; few to miss,
From natural tally ******
In the lime-girdled space
Of choice, where alone
Man can abandon what
Is only his own;
And in cold and tarrying
Their rearisers sleep:
While to the granite cheek
Light’s purples bring
Infinite their ministering,
And past our finial
And ragged crests, to keep
Time’s ambient stood,
Propose horizons from
Their shadowy quarries; while,
In an unwandered wood,
Or under the indifferent foot,
Is let fall, let fall a fruit,
Through eternal leisures down,
For but time’s unravelling.
2.9k
blood now is the accoutrement.
night's tenure is the morning's
leasing: what will continue to
light like a beacon in this
vicissitude is the flash
of a snuff-nosed nozzle.
no sound is heard.
no bones were felt
trembling.
all the voices were muffled,
thrown into a makeshift exodus.
the pains will be etched away
like moss unraveling the secret
of wall upon wounds like old scarves.
but the ground,
which has girdled this resounding feat, will never forget:
death's squadron enters. harbingers.
what has hidden them in the lull
has now sung severances:
a distance closed
by a fusillade
of bullets.
Sep 14, 2015
Sep 14, 2015 at 10:28 AM UTC
There is a void in me that silently shouts hello at people who claim to be in my life
It screeches at those who have hurt me but they don’t really care
It surrenders to all that was promised to me but never delivered
It contemplates freedom or silence as it is indecisive about whether it should speak out or not
It is enslaved by anger and fed by pain
This void forces itself to sleep but anxiety wakes it up with vigour each and every single time
This void reaches out to my heart but that felon turned a blind eye
My brain trades places with my soul and orders my vessels to stop trying to be the good guys
They try to fight but my brain wreaks with anger and orders silence upon them
Blades of hurt beg for redemption but this void hears nothing
Drops of internal tears touch the void’s senses but it has grown too strong for anything to change it
It has taken control over everything and my brain being the sergeant leads this void
They march together to destroy all that is worth life within me
All that is beautiful turns into grey dry petals dried up by savage terrorists
These terrorists call themselves agony and torment
They terrorise my emotions and cast discomfort upon them
They try to escape through my skin pores but chains and shackles were whipped and girdled around them
They cried for help but this void silenced them with a lash of frustration
This void cut me deep and built its own palace in my soul and spirit
Everything else was executed and my body failed to adjust to the new system hence breathe became less and less
I found myself lying on a floor full of pictures
Pictures of my childhood and family
I gazed upon them and sorrowful tears ran down my cheeks
I am donned with a void that took my life from me
Bygone I am
Jun 24, 2014
Jun 24, 2014 at 8:37 AM UTC
Through the laden flights of pot-stewed gulls -
Deepening in red rosaries to poltroon,
Contaminated by an urgent wish,
The sun-soaked merry bandits blew.
Each to each, and, mingling with that sweaty palm,
Dolorous eyes sad-greeted the fleeing dawn.
Pancreas then, the earth-girdled Titan swam,
Anon the rising tide to stem.
Dentist the night, repair to dance-floored beams,
And rising melodiously ever anew to pine,
Sweet ***** dreaming of her saw-toothed chemise
Saw the fine end to the upstart king.
Curtains swayed against my pearly doom
Not brightly was your plainting song
Palpitating in earthly measures anew
Or seeking once more the mighty to appease.
O David, in thy glance the silver moth did live
Long dawns. An enemy of the swordfish,
He menaced us so long. And now?
Sporadic is the demise of depth!
A silver sea, or rather a sea with a fine multitude of
silver points
Caressing my eyes like toothless counterpoint to the
stately blue.
It gave a floor to a weening being of prancing gait and
measured thighs.
She smiled.
And the sea broke and roared, as ever,
and I heard it once more.
I saw too the sky, which had sufficient blue.
Cooled by the sea,
warmed by the setting rays and mild air, the body
luxuriated in perfect
temperature. She did not smile, but perhaps she did..
My body, I mean.
We came away, from there, as from all places to meet
another need.
of darkness and quiet. Foamed the elements of slaking
portions of
mysterious
substance. Surrendered to the moving body without
real life.
Borne along on a
stream of liquid desire residing in another's
breast.
Relinquishing her to a
perfect nothingness like lead or caviare.
Oh, and who awaited me? She was imprisoned
but beautiful
and I thought
quite happy. I don't think she even wanted to come
to me,
or so it seemed. But she was happier too outside,
in the waning sun.
Mainly she had been safe and free.
And there's an end of this day, which roamed
whither it would,
for I did not attempt to chain it. Now I flee it.
Apr 7, 2012
Apr 7, 2012 at 3:55 AM UTC
*“I love you like the moon.”
“I’d do anything to see that smile.”
“I’m standing on a roof
and the tingle of the edge
reminds me of you..”
“Anything, anything for those eyes.”*
“Do you want the gifts I have for you?
Nope, I just want you.
Kay, I’ll wear a bow.
I’ll wear a bow too..”
too,
too,
too,
girdled,
packed up,
ensnared, stacked, ****** up -
All fickle,
molded, folded
to the point where the paper
starts to tear,
“One day, we’ll get married.”
Cold,
recycled feelings
and you still don’t care?
Care enough to play nice
with the frail beast
at your feet,
the silent song
whisking
the oil
and
water
into grey -
“A fantasy –that’s what you are to me..”
Vacuous games
you still like to play -
as if
I were a fool, too,
like him –
or a fool, too,
like you -
not to see how bad you are,
how sad you are,
lonesome,
aching baritone
deceiving a different home
with the loudness still in your lap,
ended with that slap,
started, again, with that stare,
that glare into a promise,
a dream worth more while
than a bed full of loveless tricks
and a jealous heart
rung out,
back in the back,
where the bees feast
on all the hot meat
swallowed,
inhaled by your salty appetite
for sadness,
contrived madness,
again,
again,
a_grain?,
again,
a_gain?,
again,
a_pain -
****
ungird me from this swaddling love cocoon,
unshackle me,
untie me from this camouflaging lie,
unwind me,
unbind me,
don’t blanket me with all
you think I want to hear…
if you don’t want me -
let me love another
“..almost like it gives you joy crushing me so hard -
all I’ve done is love you.”
Nov 14, 2011
Nov 14, 2011 at 10:12 PM UTC
The tendril trees
Girdled, rootless, leafless, and lifeless
Planted Along trails
Blazed by the pony Express
DOT DOT DOT
DASH DASH DASH
DOT DOT DOT
Information fast
The tethered tress
Link each house online
So that lights will burn
Talk is text
Manners dictate it to be rude
Don't ring the phone at five
Its dinner time
Sadly
No one is home
Its the modern family plan
Rarely if ever is everyone
Together at once
The hearth is cold
The head of the table empty
No one is home
Da da ling da da ling da da ling
Hello Leave a message at the beep
Beep
The connected age
A virtual world of
Artificial togetherness
Apr 10, 2014
Apr 10, 2014 at 12:44 AM UTC
On his head
was tattooed
a number,
While through
his mind flew
destruction..
Over his shoulder blew Kong,
and upon Kong's war plate of torture,
and a vice gripped and girdled waist,
with spikes tipped to rip any mans flesh.
A chain mail vest webbed with deceit,
and acute, dispirited despair
lay sheathed beside his broad hips.
You see him and terror grips,
when through his eye
your eyes are reflected.
What is your number.
Guess all
you want,
it can't be read
back to front
in the mirror.
It can't be
scrubbed clean
with the finest of lye.
Your number is your number
and when it's up, it's up.
© 2005
All Rights Reserved
Jan 15, 2013
Jan 15, 2013 at 3:37 AM UTC
Its perspective skewed,
the lie of this land
is all tilts and angles.
Black-thorned hedges
rise in white clouds
to the hilltop farm.
On this Damson Day
it is a damp-mist morning,
the horizon a grey smudge.
Up forest trail and fell-ward,
on the left, a winter-laid hedge,
to the right, a mossy wall.
A riot of new growth lies
at the feet, by the hand:
wild garlic, wilder strawberry,
fresh ferns, and the tiniest violets
hiding on this old path.
Steep steps climb
to a four-acre orchard
primrosed under the pint-sized
trunks of its wiry trees.
There’s the blossom, white as snow.
*Hard to imagine
five months hence,
fully plummed and picked,
Bullace and Damascene
driven by the cartload
to Kendal market.
250 tons they’d reckoned
once, taken by train
to the Preston canners.
Nearer home the fruit
was gined and beered,
cheesed and chucknied.*
Then into the forest,
a plantation girdled
by a dry stone wall
tall on the moorland edge
where beyond
the grey limestone shards
have broken through what
little grass is left
for absent cattle.
Wild with wind
up here today,
so down to reclaim
the forest’s shelter,
and down through fields
to a farm en fête
all cars and crowds.
This, a damson day of best-judged jam,
with artisan breads, Morris with swords,
fiddling folk, agility dogs, St Kilda sheep,
blue eggs and tents of crafts galore.
In the mist and drizzle
homeward and facing west,
there across the valley lie
outposts of blossoming,
fields embroidered,
and the farms necklaced.
Apr 14, 2014
Apr 14, 2014 at 4:18 PM UTC
I banished my muse
to mute-happy land
erased what I felt
and wrote what I knew
an epic that would have compelled you
to ****** my hair and undress
my identity girdled in crisis
something that would have unfurled
the fist of your heart
and pumped it with pulse
I wrote what would make you speak
But how many epics are there in our world
exiled in drawers and attics
versed in the ominous dust of the right time
maybe unearthed past the prime of their worth
if only to lure the lucre of royalty
to the unearther
With destinies lost in each others' translation
loneliness penetrates me like a ****** needle
for you'll never read
the epic I wrote for you
02 21 11
Apr 29, 2014
Apr 29, 2014 at 6:33 PM UTC
.
*The night sky reflects the macrocosm,
swollen Universe in all of its glory.
Laying girdled in repose and hush,
across time with an endless story.
The sun light reflects the microcosm,
miniature Universe in celebration regail.
Laying gilded in gold and dewdrops
riding time with a ceaseless tale.
The microcosm reflects the macrocosm,
the Universe mapped in a tiny mind.
Laying guarded, cradled in rainbows,
through time with its Nature confined.*
© Pagan Paul (2017)
Oct 25, 2017
Oct 25, 2017 at 4:40 PM UTC
On his head
was tattooed a number
while through his mind
flew destruction.
Over his shoulder blew Kong,
and upon Kong,
war's breastplate of torture.
A viced gripped and girdled waist
with spikes tipped to rip the flesh.
A chain mail vest webbed with deism
and acute despair lay sheathed.
You see him and terror grips,
when through his eyes,
your eyes are reflected.
What is your number.
© 2013
Jul 23, 2013
Jul 23, 2013 at 12:52 AM UTC
How I wish I could travel the whole world,
Just marvel the grandiose sights.
But then, you’re so girdled,
Having the pleasure to get to new heights.
When you pry to me all of your voyage,
I’m all in awe since we’re alike.
For places I've wished to go to at an age,
You've been there, even donning your spike.
At times I get jealous,
You have all the might to go anywhere.
Alright, no more being callous,
How about you take me with you somewhere?
Perhaps I can fit in your luggage,
Oh wait, I’ll drink a shrink potion like Alice;
Find ways to be in the baggage,
Just to be with you, that’d be no malice.
Such places I wish you to take me with,
Something like the Louvre in France,
Maybe the air in Brazil we’ll breathe,
Or in a wall way at China we trance?
Too bad it’ll be just a dream,
Travelling beside you is merely reality.
Perhaps watching is all it seem,
Maybe I can just tweet my fantasy.
So before you fly away,
To you I leave this piece of literature.
Since all I will do is stay,
Take my heart, let it be your melancholy’s cure.
Jul 6, 2014
Jul 6, 2014 at 9:33 PM UTC
The ravaging beasts of the folds of south
Once marred, Yaakov, the man out of them.
For his kinnor sang a thousand vibrant sonnets
And the muttering arachnids of the north
Once defied, Ingrid, the woman out of them.
For her visage was a thousand radiant sunsets
In the midst of the luscious green grasslands
Was their bleak prison of grey, still and stale
In that chasm, she was shrouded from the light
In that chasm, he was girdled taut by that light
Amidst their floundering souls, was an iron veil
‘Twas a bleak wall, seeking his absolution from them
I saw him ‘n her, in dreary and stale, weary and pale
But I felt their hands caressing me, the iron veil
Those ravaging beasts, brutishly, gnawed his fingers off him
In envy, those arachnids ravished her joy and youth from her.
The blood-red moon, wept rivers of lamentations, for him
In shame, the blue sun hid himself in light, far... away from her
Thirsting for his marrow, those beasts, foully, scourged him
In vain, those arachnids gnashed their sickening fangs over her
I stood there, as a frigid shoulder to rest on for them
In pain, I urged the skies, “Strike me down!” for them
As Ingrid searched for him, she held on to me
As Yaakov stumbled for her, he leaned on me
In silence, I heard their hearts pacifying the other
In shame, I saw their voice bleeding for the other
In sorrow, I saw their scars salving together
I saw the locks of her hair, yearning his kiss
I saw his weary spirits yearning her warmth
I saw their cinders yearning to become one.
Despite, me, the unfortunate accursed iron veil
I saw her palms drying Yaakov’s tears away
I saw his arms caressing Ingrid’s fears away
Despite, me, the unfortunate accursed iron veil
I saw the brightest light in their teary smile
I saw my prison, be the Eden for their love
The austere bricks in me have finally seen a crack
I see Yaakov’s Ingrid and Ingrid’s Yaakov beside me
Never had the air smelt sweeter in this grassy sea
I now see a waltz after four scores of… lamenting
I now see a solace from the pounding pulse in me
But for my absolution, I pray “Strike me down!”
Strike me down, O agents of the heavens above
Flood me down, O seas of this broken paradise.
Tear me asunder, O lamenting winds of the sky
Have you, all-righteous hosts gone to slumber?
Why do you hide yourself, the all-righteous sun,
When the filth rejoices, the paradise cries pain?
Ah, Daphne, do you see this unsettling… silence?
Despite my cries to unbind us from our torment?
Behind her wrinkled, pale, cold face was that radiant sun
Behind his tremoring strained voice was that sonnet sung
Unchain my heart and free us I implore you, righteous fires.
Unchain their love, even the distant stars heard their sorrow
Let there never be another harrowing and writhing adagio
Let there never be another Yaakov and Ingrid in torment
Let there never be arachnids, muttering in viscous vanity
Let there never be beasts, lusting their blood and marrow
Set me free, let me return to my eternal slumber in solace
Set us free, Strike me down for their love… my absolution
Oct 17, 2020
Oct 17, 2020 at 3:23 AM UTC
you are in the middle of things,
insisting importance – you would feel
shivering in the distant blue
of another girdled spark and there,
in the not-so-distant sky,
I reach for damp perimeters
and have your face conclusive
with whiteness, sure of its glare,
crossing the frangipani outside
my home; silence leapt borders
and now an incident. uninterrupted.
resolute. absolved.
although so suddenly moving away
kiting around and perhaps death
will deal its part when love’s done
with its tedious labor – and it will all be
moments of bliss, two people renaming
necessary haunts, laughing
in the dense air, keeping an ear for
the spring of yourself.
Mar 22, 2016
Mar 22, 2016 at 10:33 AM UTC
I adore you…
Your will undeniable,
Your word unbreakable,
Your strength undefeatable,
I never stood a chance.
You’re the all brave, all mighty,
omnipotent, omniscient,
The giver of life, the righteous,
And I must follow you, obey you
Follow your footsteps, or be punished,
But I was disobedient,
a curdled flesh
unworthy of my creator,
A disgrace in his presence.
…
“Bless me, father, for I have sinned.”
(Your mighty fists resound inside my head.)
“Forgive me for defying you.”
(Your glorious feats like whippings I can’t bear.)
“Save me from this darkness, my savior.”
(Your word a storm outside my world.)
“And mold me in your spirit.”
(I hated you.)
“Amen.”
…
I am a follower of your girdled path through goodness,
A witness of your immortal rule.
Sep 5, 2019
Sep 5, 2019 at 11:05 AM UTC
— bard of night,
keeper of metal.
furious light flaunts no avatar.
shadows chant a sequence
of deathly ire. loam, dearth and girdled to
silver mane of canal.
Dos has died.
father took him into an unfamiliar curve
wandered off into a reverberating
disquiet.
i have buried him
together with all loyalties — concealed
him in thin space, decreed him
all dogdom with unction,
swimmingly now, still you go, leaving
us. it has been six years and all eternity's motors gnash
afloat is the bird
and in the nearby ken is another dog
panting in death-daring heat,
Dos has died.
Nov 18, 2015
Nov 18, 2015 at 12:48 AM UTC
The little white clouds are racing over the sky,
And the fields are strewn with the gold of the flower of March,
The daffodil breaks under foot, and the tasselled larch
Sways and swings as the thrush goes hurrying by.
A delicate odour is borne on the wings of the morning breeze,
The odour of deep wet grass, and of brown new-furrowed earth,
The birds are singing for joy of the Spring’s glad birth,
Hopping from branch to branch on the rocking trees.
And all the woods are alive with the murmur and sound of Spring,
And the rose-bud breaks into pink on the climbing briar,
And the crocus-bed is a quivering moon of fire
Girdled round with the belt of an amethyst ring.
And the plane to the pine-tree is whispering some tale of love
Till it rustles with laughter and tosses its mantle of green,
And the gloom of the wych-elm’s hollow is lit with the iris sheen
Of the burnished rainbow throat and the silver breast of a dove.
See! the lark starts up from his bed in the meadow there,
Breaking the gossamer threads and the nets of dew,
And flashing adown the river, a flame of blue!
The kingfisher flies like an arrow, and wounds the air.
Jun 11, 2015
Jun 11, 2015 at 12:39 PM UTC
My demeanor is thy mistake
For thou wither down my spine,
and colour the world for thy sake
Where ye sit idled among mine,
The girdled pillar rests on his skin
and stares at me with his eyes,
The marble floor leaks my sins
for ages fly hence with the bise,
Cupid pierces thou with an arrow
Yet I smile with my grin teeth out,
It’s something thou cannot borrow
For I get hugged by a deadly gout,
The time is now begone
And mistresses art now drawn
Aug 9, 2016
Aug 9, 2016 at 8:38 AM UTC
Pavements made for pedestrians
Are covered with nothing but slight shadows
Walking on the edge
Fall off a 5 centimeter cliff
Into puddles of delicate magma
Laugh it off
Stand back straight
Up high
Head almost
But not enough
Touching the clouds
Doves are weeping above the mist
Olive branches in strands of destruction
Connotations amassing
Dynamites, pop. Pop.
Tasting feathers
While high frequencies slash eye globes with blades
Cuts above the hay
Vibrations penetrating
From anywhere
Whisk the brains
Look at the hands
look at hers
At his
Grin, frothing, grilling, flaming
Fading into dullness
Feeling water digesting
Eyes batting, lashes flowing
Chest rising up and falling
Down
Where knees are popping
And knuckles white and rose
And skin, so much of it
And eyes, so many of them
Joints activated with oil
Squeaking! Squeaking! Squeak!
Purposeless
Terribly terribly terribly
Girdled and not
Alone
Nov 21, 2018
Nov 21, 2018 at 3:17 PM UTC