"guido" poems
291
How the old Mountains drip with Sunset
How the Hemlocks burn—
How the Dun Brake is draped in Cinder
By the Wizard Sun—
How the old Steeples hand the Scarlet
Till the Ball is full—
Have I the lip of the Flamingo
That I dare to tell?
Then, how the Fire ebbs like Billows—
Touching all the Grass
With a departing—Sapphire—feature—
As a Duchess passed—
How a small Dusk crawls on the Village
Till the Houses blot
And the odd Flambeau, no men carry
Glimmer on the Street—
How it is Night—in Nest and Kennel—
And where was the Wood—
Just a Dome of Abyss is Bowing
Into Solitude—
These are the Visions flitted *****
Titian—never told—
Domenichino dropped his pencil—
Paralyzed, with Gold—
4.4k
Within the gentle heart abideth Love,
As doth a bird within green forest glade,
Neither before the gentle heart was Love,
Nor Love ere gentle heart by Nature made.
Created was the sun,
And lo, his radiance everywhere held sway,
Nor was before the sun;
Love doth unto all gentleness aspire,
And in the self-same way
Doth clarity unto clear flame of fire.
Love’s fire is kindled in the gentle heart,
As virtue is within the precious stone;
From out the star no glory doth depart
Until made gentle by the sun alone.
When the sun hath drawn forth
By his own strength all that which is not meet,
The star doth prove its worth.
Thus to the heart, by Nature fashioned so
Gentle and pure and sweet,
The love of woman like a star doth go.
The reason Love in gentle heart doth stay
Is why the fire unto the torch-head flies,
Burning as he doth fancy, bright and gay,
And were too proud to do so otherwise.
But Nature’s cruel scheme
Contrasteth Love as water, flame; as heat,
Quelled by the cooling stream.
In gentle heart doth Love his bower divine,
Since like with like must meet,
Thus diamonds in the iron of the mine.
Upon the mire the sun sheds his bright rays,
That is still vile, nor doth the sun turn cold:
“Gentle am I by birth,” the proud man says.
33 He, mire, and the sun, gentleness, I hold.
Let no man think that he
May be possessed of gentleness, although
He boast a king’s degree,
Unless a gentle heart be found in him:
The water is aglow
With stars, and yet the heavens have not grown dim.
God the Creator in heaven’s mind of grace
Shines brighter than before our eyes the sun;
There it is given to see Him face to face,
Whence in their beauty the skies, serving one
Just God, to Him do turn
And the blest end of primal love fulfil.
Thus the truth which doth burn
In my sweet Lady’s eyes she should make clear,
Of her own gentle will,
To him who in her service tarries near.
My Lady, God will say: “Didst thou not fear,”
(When my soul standeth yonder in His sight:)
“To pass the heavens and seek Me even here,
Vain love pursuing with My image dight?
To Me doth praise belong
And to the Queen of Heaven, who from her sphere
Of glory endeth wrong.”
Then I could plead: “Thy angels up above,
O Lord, like her appear;
I did not sin in giving her my love.”
Feb 19, 2016
Feb 19, 2016 at 11:13 PM UTC
*Walter, I just want to sit on my *** and **** and think about Dante.*
—Samuel Beckett
All this fractures the Wolf. The ancient leaves
amid the ancient woods, wind riffling wind
in eddies she can see but she can’t hear,
the braying of a fatted calf which she
could eat, if she could hear thy call, O Wolf.
The tympani pretend to be a thunder roll,
the crashing cymbals mean to simulate
the distant lightning, all the strings—cello,
base, violin and viola—play the
pizzicato of rain commencing…
The Wolf sits to watch—what?—the floodlights fill
the stadium? the baton poised? the crowd
about to have their daily dose of not
quite silence served up yet again? She hates
that they have come to watch a prophecy.
It’s raining full blast now, the Wolf’s exchange
for music, how things balance out, how rain
fornicates in the forest, with its pools
and puddles, how it tenders lakes and rivers
and shadows… It can’t be! Ahead she sees him.
She sees Dante, the poet of the prophecy,
the one she has to drown. It’s why she’s deaf.
She will not hear him wail. **** him so he will rot
in hell before the other poet comes. **** him
and spare the world another poem about
another world. The rain and music grow
so dense around her soul. She is so quick,
too quick for him to flee. She drags him still
alive, drags him to the lake of his heart.
Sink and die. In Paradise only bubbles rise.
The tympani pretend to be a thunder roll,
the crashing cymbals mean to simulate
the distant lightning, all the strings—cello,
base, violin, viola—play it soft,
so soft, as if the rain is about to start…
The Wolf and I walk the slopes of hell.
When Farinata and Cavalcante
rise up to ask her, ‘Who were thy ancestors?’
and ‘Where Is ***** she howls. O Wolf.
O Tuscan. She howls.
Aug 25, 2010
Aug 25, 2010 at 5:51 PM UTC
Tonight Guy Fawkes might get it right,
it's bonfire night.
Westminster,
the stage is set,
place your bets before the bang or hang old ***** high.
At Mansion House before fine fare,
sit politicians gorging there and getting fat from this,my land and I stand here with hand held out,
a teapot of a man with drooping spout and wilting will,
still,
Fawkes the hawk may walk the walk and then we'll see the ******** talk, when Parliament goes up in smoke,
Oh Guido,Guido take a match
don't let the watchmen catch you creeping,with lit taper,or you'll be 'sleeping with the fish'
It's bonfire night tonight
I do wish Guy Fawkes gets it right
and one more time,
't would be no crime
to light the fuse
and run.
Nov 5, 2013
Nov 5, 2013 at 1:12 AM UTC
***** io vorrei
che tu, mio padre ed io
ci potessimo rivedere
e dimenticassimo per mezz'ora
la città che ci ignora,
la città che ci separa.
***** tu non sai come io vorrei
che per un momento
si potesse stare insieme
ad ascoltare il vento
che scuote le foglie
del frutteto di mio padre
sotto il cielo che stanotte
è una lastra di vetro.
Seduti intorno a un fuoco
o sotto un pergolato di rami
a guardarci negli occhi
come se con gli occhi
noi potessimo parlare,
mentre lontani si odono
i rintocchi di una campana
e si perde nella notte
l'abbaiare dei cani.
***** la nostra vita è disumana.
***** tu non sai
che cosa non darei
perché per un momento
si potesse stare insieme
ad osservare le stelle
del firmamento
che brillano stanotte
come se brillassero
per la prima volta.
Io vorrei, *****
che la nostra vita fosse
ad una svolta,
che si mettessero da parte
i dubbi, i sospetti,
e che insieme ci mettessimo
a rileggere, perché no,
i sonetti del Petrarca
e a declamarli ad alta voce
lungo un viale di pioppi,
sotto la luna che ci rischiara,
come se nel mondo
noi non fossimo sconfitti,
come se non ci dessero per morti,
come se i nostri versi nella notte
risuonassero più forti
perché li abbiam riscritti.
Come se tu, mio padre ed io,
***** noi non fossimo
dei derelitti.
Dec 31, 2009
Dec 31, 2009 at 9:32 PM UTC
Have you ever had a hair day
Where things just won't go right?
You looked okay last evening
And not bad late last night
You wake up and it's frizzy
Kind of going everywhere
It's like someone took a cattle ****
And then they ran it through your hair
You comb it down and it gets puffy
Even worse than from the start
You look again, you've got an afro
And you can't even find the part
You gel it up and instant *****
You look like mafioso ****
You now choose to go ********
And you use gel as thick as gum
You look like an unwashed Donnie Brasco
Hair all limp and full of grease
But at least it's not all puffy
You've lost the part but have a crease
You wet it down and nothing happens
the water beads on all the goo
You choose to go and have a shower
In fact you choose to go have two
The only reason that I wrote this
I tell the truth, this ain't a fib
It's just that when I woke this morning
I looked the same as Barry Gibb
Nov 7, 2012
Nov 7, 2012 at 7:57 PM UTC
It was very standoffish
back in the forties
still
I wish I'd been there.
Not so different today
just a new way of being
in and seeing things in
a different way.
*****
a torpedo
from
Saucelito
killed time in
the winery
a fine fellow he,
but down there in the canyons
loose cannons
abandon
all hope.
Jan 24, 2017
Jan 24, 2017 at 3:12 PM UTC
Number of births places of birth.
Einstein's wife was half and half
negative path started Sibele's
muses end. Luxury to speak to
the people. Death is too much
confidence, I bow south of Jupiter,
and, behold, a bold towards
the opinion of the hairs beneath
her dress, the beauty of the longest
of the objects of the covenant of the
igbafọ, the eating; the eating of the
evils of ***** 'experience of this evil.
The two things the foolish world
talked about are insane, and Brian
Lamb dares you talk about the album,
and dreams of the world. Monitor
ọmọkunrinkunrinkunrinkunrin
ọmọkunrinkunrin, young Boyfriends'
boyfriends Soozy Free land on
a premium, Bobbed Strippers;
Synchronized Kids Each Sports Cicero,
Sand optional Bettie's Imọja sale,
Each laurel Park Parrot chili tonight
tonight tonight; track Riding tonight
wood wood wood wood wood
wood smoke on the matter's face |
to smoke Latin writings marked
with temple prostitutes magi
gardens IwọSayToo Magic Image,
Instead they are born. Einstein's wife
was half and half Wall started Sibele,
the high-end. luxury talk people.
Death is very much Bowsath
strongly to Jupiter I trust trusting
the end of curls of beauty thy power,
in the habit of as long as his lieutenant,
meeting in faith and also to enhance
the in which He suffered, and died,
a presentation of an evil use.
Two fool the world and through his
Brian Lamb, I believe that you talk
about the list, and among the Romans
of the world's secondary boy
of boyfriends of Soozy's sons' Free land
on a premium, Bobbed Strippers
Synchronized, Kids start each game
with a reading from Cicero, Sandy
Center woods Bettie's Imoji sales
of Parrot chili Tonight Tonight Tonight;
This way to the tree trees
trees trees trees in the mountains
From the country's language Temple
marked with the media ****** OSayToo
in the field of Magic
II.
For them.
Einstein's wife was half and half
Wall started Sibele's end. The word luxury,
death itself; English relief Bowsath
I have confidence in the most attractive
of the charms of an end to the locks
are reliable the power of her beauty,
was the state while fears of meeting
and I will show in the faith,
in which he suffered and died
supervision hurt. The two fools in the world,
and through him I believe that Brian Lamb
talks white and between Rome life.
The child monitor; the child of Soozy
Freeland on Game Bobbed Strippers Synchronized
The race between the kids and the reading of Cicero,
Hail! Hail! Imija sales company in Bettie's name;
This page in the night, Tonight,
This tree wood for the trees in the mountains
When already marked Magic is issued
to the space alaworẹ, OSayUToo!
Oct 16, 2018
Oct 16, 2018 at 2:33 AM UTC
***** got Fawked
somebody talked
to the Feds
and what did we get?
reds under the beds
missile attacks
packs of madmen
running free
zone one could be
so nice,
but
Westminster was saved
because some daft sod
raved about
*****
Jun 17, 2016
Jun 17, 2016 at 12:26 PM UTC
The mystic Mys-Match of Mew Manor mounts the moon at midnight. He flies freely, forgetting the faltering fallacies that fold this failing facade of figments of the imagination and inglorious nations into a crooked caricature of creeps, clowns, and carcinogens to our culture. From crack and **** to casual deaths, the population prays for post-pissing match days.
What's the reason of rhyme if you don't have a reason to see a new season of sweethearts and treason? The mystic Mys-Match of the planet Piblatch has snatched nary a glance of this reprehensible romance. He hums happily, hovering over the homes of the hurt and the helpless, unaware of the ugly and untrue souls of the suffering below.
Due in part, perhaps, to the planet Piblatch, whose population prowls playfully amongst the pipperplitz plants and the tinktertip trees. A civilization unaware of Gods and demons, Guido's and dip *****
At sunset, the Piblatchians partake of rackaday root and crushed up clibber clatch cuttings. They see the psychedelic sky ways that sing of sweet things and spacey swings.
As mankind manipulates, murders, and maims itself, the world which waivers with weakened wings is consumed by the carnivores that **** off the common crowd and leave only the corrupt and cantankerous crooks that fall to the depths of despair when the bomb goes off, blotting out humanity's light forever.
But the mystic Mys-Match and his planet Piblatch live on, past the end of time itself. The peaceful people continue to enjoy their lives and never know of the negative notions that drove the dimwitted denizens of Earth into a violent and gruesome grave.
Mankind could have learned something from the Piblatchians, if only they had opened their eyes and seen the light.
Apr 10, 2014
Apr 10, 2014 at 7:30 PM UTC
Al fin, una pulmonía
mató a don ***** y están
las campanas todo el día
doblando por él: ¡din-dan!Murió don ***** un señor
de mozo muy jaranero,
muy galán y algo torero;
de viejo, gran rezador.Dicen que tuvo un serrallo
este señor de Sevilla;
que era diestro
en manejar el caballo
y un maestro
en refrescar manzanilla.Cuando mermó su riqueza,
era su monomanía
pensar que pensar debía
en asentar la cabeza.Y asentóla
de una manera española,
que fue casarse con una
doncella de gran fortuna;
y repintar sus blasones,
hablar de las tradiciones
de su casa,
escándalos y amoríos
poner tasa,
sordina a sus desvaríos.Gran pagano,
se hizo hermano
de una santa cofradía;
el Jueves Santo salía,
llevando un cirio en la mano
-¡aquel trueno!-,
vestido de nazareno.
Hoy nos dice la campana
que han de llevarse mañana
al buen don ***** muy serio,
camino del cementerio.Buen don ***** ya eres ido
y para siempre jamás...
Alguien dirá: ¿Qué dejaste?
Yo pregunto: ¿Qué llevaste
al mundo donde hoy estás?¿Tu amor a los alamares
y a las sedas y a los oros,
y a la sangre de los toros
y al humo de los altares?Buen don ***** y equipaje,
¡buen viaje!...
El acá
y el allá,
caballero,
se ve en tu rostro marchito,
lo infinito:
cero, cero.¡Oh las enjutas mejillas,
amarillas,
y los párpados de cera,
y la fina calavera
en la almohada del lecho!
¡Oh fin de una aristocracia!
La barba canosa y lacia
sobre el pecho;
metido en tosco sayal,
las yertas manos en cruz,
¡tan formal!
el caballero andaluz.
874
I am dodging bullets lately;
I am hiding out from ***** and the Chinaman.
They want to hold me hostage until I say I am sorry for my sorry life.
I am trying to stand tall and lay low;
It isn't easy being me these days.
I know I am trouble;
I can count the ways.
My life has been a grand folly but it isn't over and I am not changing a thing about myself except perhaps the arch of my eyebrows.
***** and the Chinaman
Aug 17, 2012
Aug 17, 2012 at 8:55 PM UTC
There was a handsome man named *****
Who made his home in East Toledo
Ladies' eye candy
Binoculars handy
As he jogged on by in his speedos
Mar 4, 2017
Mar 4, 2017 at 2:21 AM UTC
Musa, la máscara apresta,
ensaya un aire jovial
y goza y ríe en la fiesta
del Carnaval.Ríe en la danza que gira,
muestra la pierna rosada,
y suene, como una lira,
tu carcajada.Para volar más ligera
ponte dos hojas de rosa,
como hace tu compañera
la mariposa.Y que en tu boca risueña,
que se une al alegre coro,
deje la abeja porteña
su miel de oro.Únete a la mascarada,
y mientras muequea un clown
con la faz pintarrajeada
como Frank Brown;mientras Arlequín revela
que al prisma sus tintes roba
y aparece Pulchinela
con su joroba,di a Colombina la bella
lo que de ella pienso yo,
y descorcha una botella
para Pierrot.Que él te cuente cómo rima
sus amores con la Luna
y te haga un poema en una
pantomima.Da al aire la serenata,
toca el auro bandolín,
lleva un látigo de plata
para el spleen.Sé lírica y sé bizarra;
con la cítara sé griega;
o gaucha, con la guitarra
de Santos Vega.Mueve tu espléndido torso
por las calles pintorescas,
y juega y adorna el Corso
con rosas frescas.De perlas riega un tesoro
de Andrade en el regio nido,
y en la hopalanda de *****
polvo de oro.Penas y duelos olvida,
canta deleites y amores;
busca la flor de las flores
por Florida:Con la armonía te encantas
de las rimas de cristal,
y deshojas a sus plantas,
un madrigal.Piruetea, baila, inspira
versos locos y joviales;
celebre la alegre lira
los carnavales.Sus gritos y sus canciones,
sus comparsas y sus trajes,
sus perlas, tintes y encajes
y pompones.Y lleve la rauda brisa,
sonora, argentina, fresca,
¡la victoria de tu risa
funambulesca!
606
I remember when July was the queen of the summer.
June prize peaches on the trees.
Pretty girl's wore bobby socks and gingham frocks.
August threw down heavy fruits.
Fruits of labour for the gardener who had to collect his tasty harvest.
Says to the missus, you know love.
This crop's one of the best.
Woman make me some pie said he, forget his manners, he did.
Arrogant sometimes you see.
First met he when she were a kid she did.
The garden sprawled with blackberries.
Knew there was a reason for those irksome brambles.
Came from nowhere and strangled our land.
September bought with it falling leaves.
Still stood round in cotton sleeves.
Sat on a log surveying the sky.
Watching the bats dance in the embers of nearly yesterday.
Came to October we created a mound, a pile in the garden that was slightly round.
All the old ******* piled sky high.
Celebrations of the demise of old ***** Fawkes, clever ****** shame he got caught.
Spuds wrapped in blankets made out of foil, slung on the fire.
Had to be hooked with a ****** big fork.
You popped the cork on your bottle of bubbles,
Nearly took a bat out, you silly sad
Hint of excitement buzzes the air.
Presents and Santa,no need to be scared.
Hell, if I woke and caught him I swear I'd hit the roof.
Strangers in my bedroom,
Seriously uncool.
Party popping banners fly.
Another year our love survived.
That was a shock.
January counting snowballs flying past.
The local children having a blast.
I hid indoors drinking coffee.
Nibbling like a toothy mouse on my Christmas left over toffee.
February and March.
Two months that are so mundane.
One just like the last one.
March gave me baby birds and flowers showing, they're not shy you know.
A garden full of rainbow.
Long past ** ** **
April merely time of fools.
Warming up.
Time of bees and buttercups.
Mayday parades and hay days.
Looks like summer's simmering.
Morning sunshine shimmering.
(c) Livvi.
Jul 10, 2015
Jul 10, 2015 at 9:31 PM UTC
Se avess'io levità di una fanciulla
invece di codesto, torturato,
pesantissimo cuore e conoscessi
la purezza delle acque come fossi
entro raccolta in miti-sacrifici,
spoglierei questa insipida memoria
per immergermi in te, fatto mio uomo.
Io ti debbo i racconti più fruttuosi
della mia terra che non dà mai spiga.
e ti debbo parole come l'ape
deve miele al suo fiore. Perché t'amo
caro, da sempre, prima dell'inferno
prima del paradiso, prima ancora
che io fossi buttata nell'argilla
del mio pavido corpo. Amore mio
quanto pesante è adducerti il mio carro
che io ***** nel giorno dell'arsura
alle tue mille bocche di ristoro!
385
Light blue touchpaper.
Penny for the guy,Guv'
penny for the guy
how it makes me want to cry
penny for the guy.
*****
we know failed and
so it carries on,
lights up the sky
penny,any for the guy.
Poor men burn well,
live in sparks and
shafts of kindness in
the parks.
But it's still a penny for the guy,
don't wander by Guv'
show a little love and give
a penny for the guy.
Nov 5, 2014
Nov 5, 2014 at 3:09 AM UTC