"gonne" poems
We used to have connection together
but what happened now
we end up being stranger
Wow! you amaze me,
every time we talk to each other,
but you rather choose to avoid me,
deny me and hurt like no others.
You told me to be productive with you,
build some happy memories that made you,
you said i don't have to prove anything,
but you make me feel that i need to prove a lot of things,
You said you wouldn't imagine of me hating myself
but you made not just hating, also insecurities, anger and not worthy.
But there is a but! I am so glad that i met you
I didn't even regret meeting you, because
You make me happy even though in a little bit of time, because
You makes me say that i want you to be mine, because
You are more beautiful than the gold in Mines
Because You...
wrecked but also made me realized,
that not all you want is what you need
that everything you expect is no what you get
Everything is all gonne be Fine... </3
Nov 5, 2017
Nov 5, 2017 at 11:36 PM UTC
She came to me at Calvados,
A single night, without repeat.
The woman of my soul’s love longing,
to consummate with kisses sweet.
She entered in my midnight room
a simple pastel shift she wore
Smiling as she bared her shoulders,
the garment dropping to the floor.
So beautiful, this child of Gonne,
to this poet’s bleary eyes.
How often I had praised, in print,
her auburn hair and hazel eyes.
I was silent, she as well,
neither keen to break the spell.
She kissed me deeply on the lips
just as the stroke of midnight fell.
Her fingers deeply in my hair
she brought me to her freckled chest.
I licked and nibbled at one ******
like a baby at her breast.
She mounted me, her Rocinante,
and slowly, we began our quest.
My Willie in warm velvet wetness
wrapped as I returned her thrusts.
In spirit, we belonged together.
In truth,she’d wed another man.
A brute who’d tried to **** her sister.
She, too, had suffered at his hand.
As we played, she bent to kiss me
sweet Celtic sweat was in her hair
In another life she’d been my sister.
In this life’s love war all was fair.
She gave out with a little cry
as she took my Willie deep.
we came in unison so sweetly
but quietly, her child was asleep.
I remember, one time, Maud had asked
what type of bird I’d like to be?
Back upon the hills at Howth
when we were young and both still free.
“I think”, I said,” I’d be a gull,
playing at the shore for free.
Soaring high above the water
taking my living from the sea.”
Now we lay here in Calvados
near the town Colleville sur Mer
Her villa was named “Les Mouettes”
For one night only, we coupled there.
It is rumored that, in the Summer of 1907, William Butler Yeats and Maud Gonne shared physical intimacy for the one and only time in their lives. He the famous Poet and Playwright, she the famous Irish nationalist.
At the time she was separated from John MacBride, but they had not divorced, being Catholic. Yeats had a belief in reincarnation and both had, at times, dabbled in the occult. See also my poem
" Making Iseult"
The child asleep in the adjoining room would be Sean MacBride, later in life a Nobel peace prize winner.
Les Mouettes is French for "the (Sea)gulls."
I have read that Yeats wrote a love poem about this night, but that it has been lost. This is my attempt to replicate that lost love poem.
I thank Patrick McFarland for helping me revise the original version of the poem. His suggestions improved the flow of the piece.
.
Feb 24, 2012
Feb 24, 2012 at 8:39 AM UTC
Beautiful lofty things; O'Leary's noble head;
My father upon the Abbey stage, before him a raging crowd.
"This Land of Saints", and then as the applause died out,
"Of plaster Saints"; his beautiful mischievous head thrown back.
Standish O'Grady supporting himself between the tables
Speaking to a drunken audience high nonsensical words;
Augusta Gregory seated at her great ormolu table
Her eightieth winter approaching; "Yesterday he threatened my life,
I told him that nightly from six to seven I sat at this table
The blinds drawn up"; Maud Gonne at Howth station waiting a train,
Pallas Athena in that straight back and arrogant head;
All the Olympians; a thing never known again.
1.8k
herr fayce
obsccurred
a mysterie
tho shadowe-veiled
alle maye see
reflektions of
the daye jusste gonne
or warninge of
tomorrowes storm
softe herr lyghte
for lovers eyes
indifferent to
ourre mortal heartes
yet woven thru
alle ourre lyves
sylvarre moone
bequeathes herr lyghte
brokenne heartes
as dryftwoode laye
'pon these
silent shores
sweppte awaye
'pon sylvarre seas
'neathe
herr crowne
of starrs...
.
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http://oi61.tinypic.com/34iicxx.jpg
.
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Feb 17, 2018
Feb 17, 2018 at 9:20 AM UTC
Don't ******* write about me
No, neither for me
Because there is nothing worse
Nothing so utterly despicable
Than the words
Of an infatuated man.
You are not Yeats,
I am not Gonne.
And I like to think
That Laura never died
But rather escaped
From Petrach's lines.
Do not treat what I tell you
As some great epiphany
As anything other
Than the words of a fellow idiot.
All I want
Is to rest
Without
Being called
A ******* muse
Some fuel
For your abhorrent
Creations
That is not me.
You are not Yeats.
But I am gone.
Jun 11, 2012
Jun 11, 2012 at 5:40 AM UTC
It was chilly in the house of stone
where the body of Maud’s son
had been interred the year before.
(Her first born had died young.)
Her lover was a Frenchman,
Maud Gonne was her name.
She was, of course, a famous muse-
as William Butler’s flame.
She let down her golden hair
and her clothing came undone.
Lucien lay a blanket down
on the gravestone of their son.
She lay her naked beauty down
and took a passive role--
convinced the child conceived that night
would have her dead son’s soul.
Mystic occult spirits danced
as mortal flesh entwined.
Lucien spasmed flush with lust
Maud called on the Divine.
In course of time a girl was born
a child of beauty rare
But that she held her brother’s soul
none can, for sure, declare.
Jan 29, 2012
Jan 29, 2012 at 6:43 PM UTC
Adoringly applauding
Arrogant acrobatic aristocratic,
Bourgeois bad-boys.
Braving boredom and bills,
Caught controlling criminal
Circles like a circus.
Daring to do, and to deceive
Desperate damsels in distress,
Each accepting enemies.
Everyone explaining elements
From the final fights
Frought with frustration.
Getting groovy- grown old
Garnering glittering gold.
Holidaying in Getafé,
Holding onto hands of harlots,
Implying impotence and insolence,
Ignorant in their ilk.
Jovially joking,
Jesting about juvenile jealousies;
"I kissed Katie Kurtis"
Knowingly comments one kid.
Left to love and lose,
Like Caesar and his laurels,
Making music and malice,
Manifesting manic malpractices.
Natalie narrates,
"Not now, not ever".
Obvious obstacles avoided,
Objectifying objects that are obsolete.
Praying, pondering over pros,
False prophets photographed as they pose.
Qualifying quangos,
Quantitative quelling of queries,
Raising riots and runctions,
Realising regal and royal remedies,
Celebrating summer solstice,
Solitude is bliss.
Try tampering telephones
To transcribe threat of treason,
Unreal unilateral promises
Unwound by underlying urchins.
Vowing to voice very real values,
Vox pop video views.
Wearing water coloured wellingtons,
Wondering over wax cuneiform works.
Xylophone playing exemplary,
Xavier exists in the imaginary.
Yearly yearning for you,
You're yoked as Gonne with Yeats
(unequally)
Zeroing in on Ritz and Rubble,
Rubble the Zealots want to reign.
Jun 5, 2017
Jun 5, 2017 at 6:43 PM UTC
Let me tell you something
That little varmint was afraid of your names
Too much power you had
To show him he he was nothing special
Another poet, what else ya gonne say? A place for him to stay if he could stay in his place
But he' already decided he's a heavy handful of poems wrapped up in his palm
He's not bad. But he ain't Shelly
Lord Byron he is not
So it's no surprise he comes here
With his terra incognito poetry
Starts the alienation process until five days later
They poked fun at my rhyme
The one I wrote about sweet momma? They laughed it to scorn, called it too sentimental
Each in turn found new ways to burn me
Until eventually
They all became voices in my head
And each voice recited one of my wretched poems and I could see I was only fooling myself
Group sessions didn't go so well
I read their poems, superior to mine in every way
I let thier voices tell me what they meant
And it wa comforting until I realized they were all about me and a vast conspiracy to drive me away
Normally I'd figure this out
But the voice began to be belligerent.
"Get out of here hack" , chanted with the insistant persistence of one who wasn't going anywhere until her will had been done.
I had no choice
They had taken up residence in my mind
Now I had to find a way to rid myself of them
CONTNUED NEXT CHAPTER in which somebody gets their way. Who? What? We'll have to wait to find out.
It
ain't
gonna
be
pretty!
May 23, 2015
May 23, 2015 at 3:01 AM UTC
Love,
Has made me shameless.
I see your face, your car, your dog,
Pointless things that I attribute to you,
But I don't see them,
Not really.
And so I am here,
In the dark, lit up by the blue
Of Facebook on my computer screen.
I hold no shame,
For I am desperate for a sample of you.
I am hungry for you.
This sort of thing I'm doing, kills you inside.
But I need to see you
I need to remember your details,
I can't and won't forget you.
I know you don't do this
To me,
Things I thought were romantic was just friendship,
The weakest of friendship.
I'm just too dumb.
You and me; We pretend
That we're just friends,
Well, maybe you're not pretending,
But I am.
I see you to remind me of you,
The way you crouch over your guitar,
The jut of your chin,
The way your eyes shine,
When I make you happy.
Long, delicate fingers,
The bump in your nose,
Your acne,
Your hair,
The girlish colour of your mouth
That I hoped would touch one day
With my own.
For you, I have not suffered for my art
I have simply suffered.
And all that has come of it are the silliest, the dreamiest of girly love poems.
But I mean every word.
My dear, I've wasted my precious time
I'll let you sing your pithy rhymes
My darling, you've been a fool-
I'm a crazy lady, I'm no light touch-
But so have I.
You're a crazy boy, you're no light touch
You pulled me in with both hands-on
How was I supposed to get out?
Leave your places of worship,
That we share.
Perhaps you were special;
You were just different
But I am integral, and you are temporary.
You're just a friend, I suppose, if that's what I want it to be,
But that's confusing.
We pretend
To be best friends,
But were we really?
All I see, is just me
And you blowing me off,
And me saying to your mother
"Oh no, we're friends, it's fine."
My God,
What a ****** boyfriend you would have made.
What a bullet I dodged!
Darling, it's been ten months,
And we only live once.
Ten months ago,
Maybe I'd think differently.
My dear, perhaps you'll realise
And then, you'll feel
Your head will romanticize it all,
And perhaps you'll write some of your finest love songs,
About a girl, who cared, and cared far too long,
And now she doesn't think twice about you.
Ain't that sad?
I used to like
The idea of being your muse.
Bob Dylan's Suze Rotolo,
WB Yeats' Maud Gonne,
But
I'll be my own muse,
I'll inspire myself.
Life moves with water and sun, not with you.
Because, darling, it's been ten months,
And I
Am
Over you.
Aug 11, 2015
Aug 11, 2015 at 6:47 PM UTC
Hearthside
by Michael R. Burch
“When you are old and grey and full of sleep...” ― W. B. Yeats
For all that we professed of love, we knew
this night would come, that we would bend alone
to tend wan fires’ dimming bars―the moan
of wind cruel as the Trumpet, gelid dew
an eerie presence on encrusted logs
we hoard like jewels, embrittled so ourselves.
The books that line these close, familiar shelves
loom down like dreary chaperones. Wild dogs,
too old for mates, cringe furtive in the park,
as, toothless now, I frame this parchment kiss.
I do not know the words for easy bliss
and so my shriveled fingers clutch this stark,
long-unenamored pen and will it: Move.
I loved you more than words, so let words prove.
This sonnet is written from the perspective of the great Irish poet William Butler Yeats in his loose translation or interpretation of the Pierre de Ronsard sonnet “When You Are Old.” The aging Yeats thinks of his Muse and the love of his life, the fiery Irish revolutionary Maude Gonne. As he seeks to warm himself by a fire conjured from ice-encrusted logs, he imagines her doing the same. Although Yeats had insisted that he wasn’t happy without Gonne, she said otherwise: “Oh yes, you are, because you make beautiful poetry out of what you call your unhappiness and are happy in that. Marriage would be such a dull affair. Poets should never marry. The world should thank me for not marrying you!” Keywords/Tags: Yeats, Gonne, sonnet, Irish, Ireland, mature, love, night, fire, bars, books, shelves, chaperones, dogs, mates, parchment, kiss, bliss, fingers, pen, will, move, words, prove
Mar 17, 2020
Mar 17, 2020 at 7:43 PM UTC
take one more swip
one step closer
feel the pain on your stomach
you crawl
you crawl to the porcelain
white and shinny
not anymore
cause now
you're mistakes are gonne
you cry
cry cause you looked in the mirror
sweet disgrace
one step closer
one step closer to death
slowly your losing yourself
losing youself to you
Mar 22, 2021
Mar 22, 2021 at 10:42 AM UTC