"grandeurs" poems
The poet Phernazis is composing
the important part of his epic poem.
How Darius, son of Hystaspes,
assumed the kingdom of the Persians. (From him
is descended our glorious king
Mithridates, Dionysus and Eupator). But here
philosophy is needed; he must analyze
the sentiments that Darius must have had:
maybe arrogance and drunkenness; but no -- rather
like an understanding of the vanity of grandeurs.
The poet contemplates the matter deeply.
But he is interrupted by his servant who enters
running, and announces the portendous news.
The war with the Romans has begun.
The bulk of our army has crossed the borders.
The poet is speechless. What a disaster!
No time now for our glorious king
Mithridates, Dionysus and Eupator,
to occupy himself with greek poems.
In the midst of a war -- imagine, greek poems.
Phernazis is impatient. Misfortune!
Just when he was positive that with "Darius"
he would distinguish himself, and shut the mouths
of his critics, the envious ones, for good.
What a delay, what a delay to his plans.
And if it were only a delay, it would still be all right.
But it yet remains to be seen if we have any security
at Amisus. It is not a strongly fortified city.
The Romans are the most horrible enemies.
Can we hold against them
we Cappadocians? It is possible at all?
It is possible to pit ourselves against the legions?
Mighty Gods, protectors of Asia, help us.--
But in all his turmoil and trouble,
the poetic idea too comes and goes persistently--
the most probable, surely, is arrogance and drunkenness;
Darius must have felt arrogance and drunkenness.
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By Arcassin Burnham
She said when I wanna fool around why do i always talk?
I couldn't blame you this may come as a shock,
Sending and vasting off into a deep plain with no bloodshed,
Maybe I could be the zombie in your Evil Dead,
Do things that might end up as later possible regrets,
I could be the father of grandeurs tucking you in bed,
Showered in beer , blood and threads,
Strobe blinding my eyes,
Love it when you tell me lies instead,
Girls,
They like to have a girls night out,
And when they do,
Then they need to arrive at my raves ,
Then if they don't,
Then they'll have something to regret.
Welcome To The Rave!
Apr 12, 2015
Apr 12, 2015 at 4:15 PM UTC
At Heaven’s window I knelt to pray what do you say when you are dwarfed by Christendom’s vast portal
What cries from hearts of the faithful in anguished burdened prayer they assailed such Holy veneration
Common tongues caught up in awe and adoration found oratory’s fount how they created an unequaled
Spell it clung to holy symbols and pictures that hung on the walls it tore away time itself revealed the
Secret mystery of holiness’s true heart and meaning the sky strained to carry the weight of words so
Profound any and all armies would fall before their mastery to question one’s self at such depths would
Make you defenseless to all obligations you crossed grandeurs stronghold you intervened no less into
Matters that only prophets are obliged to discuss you have fashioned with words great bastions to
Supersede they mock the infidelity and foolishness of many kingdoms Royalty is not just to wear fine
Robes but to center the mind on those richest of finds and then return to mankind and spread them as
Star dust in the lowly places and see the birth of equality and liberty flourish from the lowest to the
Highest that honors not one but all lead at all points root out ignorance that is the cause of all shame
With words that are akin to the words that created worlds this is what you are caught up in there is no
Time for idleness go and spread this word to the four corners of man’s domain we are heroes yet made
By the very words that are possessed and won at altars the planks of mortals that build a stairway to
Glory the earth yearns and dies while you tarry the breach long ago in Eden now the dream is to be
Fulfilled by holy men and women strong enough to face this most demanding challenge forget self catch
Fire with holy zeal burn only for others the world will change from carnage to gifts that bestow
Abundant Life we have never lived in a world that we could make by surrendering our dreams for stellar
exploits
Feb 13, 2012
Feb 13, 2012 at 5:51 PM UTC
A lone gray bird,
Dim-dipping, far-flying,
Alone in the shadows and grandeurs and tumults
Of night and the sea
And the stars and storms.
Out over the darkness it wavers and hovers,
Out into the gloom it swings and batters,
Out into the wind and the rain and the vast,
Out into the pit of a great black world,
Where fogs are at battle, sky-driven, sea-blown,
Love of mist and rapture of flight,
Glories of chance and hazards of death
On its eager and palpitant wings.
Out into the deep of the great dark world,
Beyond the long borders where foam and drift
Of the sundering waves are lost and gone
On the tides that plunge and rear and crumble.
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"The most exquisite face wrinkles and droops with age
Roses too must wither, mocking man's desire for any eternal beauty in materiality
Death will destroy the buds of youth, Cataclysms will demolish the grandeurs of this earth
But nothing can destroy the splendor of the astral cosmos"
Many forms, but crystalline perfection;
Mystics pine, on the meaning of raging storms;
In lieu of real connection. We can
Appreciate the beauty that is laid before.
Before our time, and we veer
Without axis, & detached from direction.
Jul 31, 2023
Jul 31, 2023 at 8:28 PM UTC
An Easter message
At Heaven’s window I knelt to pray what do you say when you are dwarfed by Christendom’s vast portal
What cries from hearts of the faithful in anguished burdened prayer they assailed such Holy veneration
Common tongues caught up in awe and adoration found oratory’s fount how they created an unequaled
Spell it clung to holy symbols and pictures that hung on the walls it tore away time itself revealed the
Secret mystery of holiness’s true heart and meaning the sky strained to carry the weight of words so
Profound any and all armies would fall before their mastery to question one’s self at such depths would
Make you defenseless to all obligations you crossed grandeurs stronghold you intervened no less into
Matters that only prophets are obliged to discuss you have fashioned with words great bastions to
Supersede they mock the infidelity and foolishness of many kingdoms Royalty is not just to wear fine
Robes but to center the mind on those richest of finds and then return to mankind and spread them as
Star dust in the lowly places and see the birth of equality and liberty flourish from the lowest to the
Highest that honors not one but all lead at all points root out ignorance that is the cause of all shame
With words that are akin to the words that created worlds this is what you are caught up in there is no
Time for idleness go and spread this word to the four corners of man’s domain we are heroes yet made
By the very words that are possessed and won at altars the planks of mortals that build a stairway to
Glory the earth yearns and dies while you tarry the breach long ago in Eden now the dream is to be
Fulfilled by holy men and women strong enough to face this most demanding challenge forget self catch
Fire with holy zeal burn only for others the world will change from carnage to gifts that bestow
Abundant Life we have never lived in a world that we could make by surrendering our dreams for stellar
exploits
Mar 31, 2013
Mar 31, 2013 at 12:59 AM UTC
Once that was
Will not be forever
Faded memories
And sepia moments
Lot of nostalgia
Tired souls
Reminiscing throughout
In retrospect
Fading work of art
Cracked colors
And crumbling walls
Long stint in the past
A standing ovation
From the present ones
Frail limbs support
The past grandeurs
Let’s bow to them
In our memories and
History testimonials
May 11, 2015
May 11, 2015 at 3:03 PM UTC
The Eiffel Tower stabbed at a midnight
as blue as an old Muddy Waters track.
From a distance, its lace-iron skeleton
looked like a slick and oily spider-web
crowned with a glittering neon diamond.
(My Grandmère's home is across the street from it).
“Do you want to go climb it?” I’d asked Peter (my bf).
“Naah,” he’d replied, “too crowded - what’s next?”
We’ve been tourist-ing all of the big Paris sights.
As we night cruised the Seine, the rivière looked dark
and perilous - a phthalo-green snake slithering north
westerly at six times the speed of the Nile.
We took a guided tour of the Louvre - it’s a crowded
fortress and you can’t see the Mona Lisa up close.
We day-toured the palace at Versailles, with its ghosts
of past grandeurs and revolutionary, royal beheadings.
The Arc de Triomphe is just an unsafe round-about.
As we Uber’d around it, I turned to Peter saying,
“Joke time: What’s more dangerous:
a shark or an American driver in a Paris traffic circle?”
Mar 12, 2024
Mar 12, 2024 at 12:03 PM UTC
you catch me at my most divine moments
when I breathe the air of deity,
you are the oxygen
you red my blood with your fervor
and when I wander listless
you net my efforts
sometimes I ponder on your
boisterous hilarity,
your smile in the softest despondent instance.
but alas
there is not comprehension
that will paint the right
glimmer in your eyes.
I must content myself
with the elation
of being your confidant.
thus confide in me your most shattering joys,
and we will huddle upon the grandeurs
lost in the subtle gradations
for as long as we like
shall we sift through the faces
and find the red and crying
the blue and hopeless?
we shall.
and we will brush upon them
the most cheerful spectrums
with the same instruments
by which you saved my smile.
Oct 10, 2013
Oct 10, 2013 at 2:26 AM UTC
J'aime le souvenir de ces époques nues,
Dont Phoebus se plaisait à dorer les statues.
Alors l'homme et la femme en leur agilité
Jouissaient sans mensonge et sans anxiété,
Et, le ciel amoureux leur caressant l'échine,
Exerçaient la santé de leur noble machine.
Cybèle alors, fertile en produits généreux,
Ne trouvait point ses fils un poids trop onéreux,
Mais, louve au coeur gonflé de tendresses communes,
Abreuvait l'univers à ses tétines brunes.
L'homme, élégant, robuste et fort, avait le droit
D'être fier des beautés qui le nommaient leur roi ;
Fruits purs de tout outrage et vierges de gerçures,
Dont la chair lisse et ferme appelait les morsures !
Le Poète aujourd'hui, quand il veut concevoir
Ces natives grandeurs, aux lieux où se font voir
La nudité de l'homme et celle de la femme,
Sent un froid ténébreux envelopper son âme
Devant ce noir tableau plein d'épouvantement.
Ô monstruosités pleurant leur vêtement !
Ô ridicules troncs ! torses dignes des masques !
Ô pauvres corps tordus, maigres, ventrus ou flasques,
Que le dieu de l'Utile, implacable et serein,
Enfants, emmaillota dans ses langes d'airain !
Et vous, femmes, hélas ! pâles comme des cierges,
Que ronge et que nourrit la débauche, et vous, vierges,
Du vice maternel traînant l'hérédité
Et toutes les hideurs de la fécondité !
Nous avons, il est vrai, nations corrompues,
Aux peuples anciens des beautés inconnues :
Des visages rongés par les chancres du coeur,
Et comme qui dirait des beautés de langueur ;
Mais ces inventions de nos muses tardives
N'empêcheront jamais les races maladives
De rendre à la jeunesse un hommage profonde,
- A la sainte jeunesse, à l'air simple, au doux front,
A l'oeil limpide et clair ainsi qu'une eau courante,
Et qui va répandant sur tout, insouciante
Comme l'azur du ciel, les oiseaux et les fleurs,
Ses parfums, ses chansons et ses douces chaleurs !
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In the midst of a summer day,
With the sun gleaming golden brown
I wake up to find a flickering ray,
That interferes with my thinking crown.
I'm sitting down on my bed,
And travelling to far-off harbours
I cannot think of anything else,
But just the magical grandeurs.
I've reached the Crow's shore of Ketterdam,
And am sailing for Hogsmeade
The Ferolind's joltingly reached Nottingham,
And I'm not thinking of nothing else.
The purple tulips, the marvellous castle,
All shiny on a shining day
The wind's whistles, the leave's rustle,
All make me delightful on this day.
The world seems so tiny,
From up above the blue skies
The Firebolt I'm now riding,
Seems to supress the little lies
I used to take in as a child.
Suddenly everything's so harsh,
I think I'm in the land of the White Witch
I crave for Turkish Delight so hard,
That I know not of the awaiting risk
Into the dark castle, as the daughter of eve.
I was so lost in the mysterious magical whirlwind,
I think I've travelled far, but not even a mile
When I open my eyes, I clearly see the still wind
Of dust, crime and fraudulence all in a pile
That tempts me to snivel for the fair play,
Since I'm the lost girl and the world, a treacherous display.
Jan 20, 2019
Jan 20, 2019 at 2:14 AM UTC
The ordinates concealed in your infinitesimal rationale
Insufficiencies portraying vestibules in your feverish attires
Every new soul you see makes you feel homeless
Dizzying altitudes you feel inside the depth of cavities
Indifference on pain and sufferings you crave for
And,
Hell; you feel inside grandeurs of perspectives
Hate; for the dearth of adulation on you
Liken Gaia could have never taught you of your frailty
Postulation of Karma and de-carnation of meanings made you converted
You were on the path of revolt
Against, say, cosmos!
Every symbolic gestures remind me of your meddlings
Penultimate; utter grievance of never ending poignancy
The night sky could have never baffled about your existence
Palpitation could have never made you shiver
But you have cried,
Of your loneliness!
Say,
A tiny fraction of clairvoyance I gave
Pulled you down into the puddle of wanderings
Instigation of a melody; created the symphony
A mere touch; drenched you into the silken lake
I spoke for your heart and you praised
Then, I gave you love but I got caged
How could I have done whatever you wished?
Since nobody knows,
The culminating dichotomy of your pantheistic ideas,
And of a maggot growing inside you
Breathless desires governing your feet,
And the time falsifying your plutonic ancestry
Mosaic glittering over your virtuous self,
And the tapestry of vanity covering your abysses
Depleting number of Hordes and Tartars fighting for your existence,
And devalued meaning of your modern-self
All those songs that never could soothe you
Teeny panting of your blasphemous heart
Multitude of distances you travelled
Series of condemnation bouncing between you and me
Your fleeting poverty
Your affections on materials
Like you die the death of pertinence
Love shall never please you
Nonchalant, over the,
Embargo you created on the faith
And the game you created on the bliss
But you shall never win
Since, you are a mere human soul
Bless you!!
Sep 2, 2018
Sep 2, 2018 at 7:52 AM UTC
Me at that oak table
Sitting on that couch
There in that room
of what was then
Our house
You on the loveseat
There by my side
We then together
in grandeurs
warm light
There is where
the good the bad
and the beautiful
transpired
Supposing all the tomorrows
were held within Our hand
The days then were precious
Now sadly never again
As I remember
how it all went
I think of you
lovely as an Angel
from Heaven sent
My eyes cannot see
through all of the tears
Thinking back on
the best of of Our life
of those most wonderful years
Since you've been gone
I must you then now tell
I'll see you in Heaven
because I've already
been there in Hell.
-R.
11.27.17
-LA
-4MAR
Nov 28, 2017
Nov 28, 2017 at 9:30 AM UTC
Death is not a cursed, bleak end.
No less holier than Life
which does give us birth
against our wills.
Should this be called _mercy_?
Lovingly, it devours immense
those illusory grandeurs
as conjured by Life.
It doesn’t coerce into being
_existence unsolicited,_
granting— endowing –
as if in good will
a sanctity so close to nought.
---
What in a life compels thee
to sink miserly into a banality so wretched;
to lose thyself in an aimless sail.
When death does come—
Embrace thee undoing with open arms.
A willful end weighs as much,
as an otherwise nihilist birth.
Truth be told.
_“No life is more sacrosanct than its very own death.”_
Feb 16, 2020
Feb 16, 2020 at 6:13 PM UTC
he said to you on a friday afternoon,
a cup of coffee
held by hands
which dilapidated
on top of
deific disasters;
“promises are meant to be broken,” whispering,
like he did not want you
to hear the inner war cry
he kept on using
at nights he stayed awake,
only his thoughts as a perfect company
as he keeps a conversation
only the moon and him
know the existence of.
when you reached out to hold his hands
that were painted in shades of blue and grey,
it felt like forever
since your hands brushed
something so eloquent
even after the ungodly hours
he still called his decisions as mistakes,
or when he promised you
that the grandeurs of life
are crushed into smithereens
on his sturdy palms,
not telling you about the stubborn apparitions
refusing to let go
of everything it once held dear;
when he flipped through the pages
of a worn-out scrapbook
like it was your
place of solitude,
staring at each snapshot longingly;
when he promised you that
he, too, would not let go
even after the nights
he calculated the
possibility of you leaving him;
when he told you
that he was a troubled painter,
sketching the familiar taste of dysphoria
dawning over him every time
he was told he was onerous;
when he promised you that
he would finish every painting
but he kept each canvas hidden
under the floor boards.
you told him on a saturday morning,
a cup of tea
held by puckish hands
which built walls
around everything
your little heart desired,
“then, why make them?”
Nov 15, 2017
Nov 15, 2017 at 6:22 AM UTC
it's the uncertainty at the edges which flavors everything
the stalking on a tightrope
a life of ciphers amidst the grandeurs
wayward furrows in quaint directions
quiet shapes with open mouths
of crisis ad lost contentment
or do you see through your own eyes
a hidden yearning to meet the level ground?
Oct 21, 2016
Oct 21, 2016 at 10:18 PM UTC
Image de la mort, effroi du tendre amour,
Sommeil, emporte au **** ce songe épouvantable !
La mort est dans l'adieu d'un ami véritable :
Ah ! ne m'avertis pas que l'on se quitte un jour !
Dans ton vol escorté de fantômes livides,
Va rendre, s'il se peut, la mémoire aux ingrats ;
Passe comme un miroir devant ces cœurs arides,
Et sous leurs traits hideux va leur tendre les bras !
Que l'avare, étendu dans son étroite couche,
Rêve une fausse clef près d'atteindre son or ;
Qu'il crie, et que sa voix meurt au fond de sa bouche,
Et qu'un bras invisible entr'ouvre son trésor !
Qu'il entende compter ses richesses cachées ;
Que la lampe expirante y jette sa lueur ;
Paralyse ses mains sur lui-même attachées,
Et qu'il tremble, inondé d'une froide sueur !
Va tromper des tyrans les pâles sentinelles,
Fais circuler la crainte autour de leurs rideaux ;
Dissipe les grandeurs qu'ils croyaient éternelles,
Et de pavots sanglants épaissis leurs bandeaux !
Force de ce palais l'enceinte inaccessible ;
Ose annoncer la mort au cœur d'un mauvais roi ;
Ordonne à ce cœur insensible
D'être au moins sensible à l'effroi !
Montre-lui la vengeance implacable, dans l'ombre,
Sous les traits d'un esclave armé de tous ses fers ;
Montre-lui le poignard au feu mourant et sombre
Des yeux qu'il fit pleurer : c'est le feu des enfers.
Que le beffroi s'ébranle, et tinte à son oreille
La fureur populaire et son nom abhorré ;
Que sa porte d'airain en tombant le réveille
Et qu'il ne puisse fuir par la peur égaré !
Mais laisse à l'amour pur des songes sans alarmes ;
Laisse au temps à dissoudre un nœud si doux, si fort !
Malheureux, quand l'amour daigne enchanter nos larmes,
On ne veut plus croire à la mort !
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