"harked" poems
As you plaited the harvest bow
You implicated the mellowed silence in you
In wheat that does not rust
But brightens as it tightens twist by twist
Into a knowable corona,
A throwaway love-knot of straw.
Hands that aged round ashplants and cane sticks
And lapped the spurs on a lifetime of game *****
Harked to their gift and worked with fine intent
Until your fingers moved somnambulant:
I tell and finger it like braille,
Gleaning the unsaid off the palpable,
And if I spy into its golden loops
I see us walk between the railway slopes
Into an evening of long grass and midges,
Blue smoke straight up, old beds and ploughs in hedges,
An auction notice on an outhouse wall--
You with a harvest bow in your lapel,
Me with the fishing rod, already homesick
For the big lift of these evenings, as your stick
Whacking the tips off weeds and bushes
Beats out of time, and beats, but flushes
Nothing: that original townland
Still tongue-tied in the straw tied by your hand.
The end of art is peace
Could be the motto of this frail device
That I have pinned up on our deal dresser--
Like a drawn snare
Slipped lately by the spirit of the corn
Yet burnished by its passage, and still warm.
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The blaze of the sun cut through their flesh
Sun kissed sweaty skin and dehydrated lungs
Knelled and cried for mercy
The heavens answered their prayers
Loud thuds were heard like a roaring lion
Lightning struck like a shooting star
Their quench was put off
Soil's aroma spread; it rained.
Jul 2, 2014
Jul 2, 2014 at 3:44 PM UTC
Nodding, nodding 'pon thy stem,
Thou bloom o' morn; nodding, nodding
To the bees, asearch o' honey's sweet.
Wilt thou to droop, and wilt the dance o' thee
To vanish with the going o' the day?
Hath the tearing o' the air o' thy sharped thorn
Sent musics up unto the bright,
Or doth thy dance to mean anaught
Save breeze-kiss 'pon thy bloom?
Hath yonder songster harked to thee,
And doth he sing thy love? Or hath he tuned
His song of world's wailing o' the day?
Doth mom shew thee naught save thy garden's wall,
That shutteth thee away, a treasure o' thy day?
Doth yonder hum then spell anaught,
Save whirring o' the wing that hovereth
O'er thy bud to sup the sweet?
Ah, garden's deep, afulled o' fairie's word,
And creeped o’er with winged mites, where but
The raindrop's patter telleth thee His love—
Doth all this vanish then, at closing o' the day?
Anay. For He hath made a one who seeketh here,
And storeth drops, and song, and hum, and sweets,
And of these weaveth garland for the earth.
From off his lute doth drip the day of Him!
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The Harvest Bow
As you plaited the harvest bow
You implicated the mellowed silence in you
In wheat that does not rust
But brightens as it tightens twist by twist
Into a knowable corona,
A throwaway love-knot of straw.
Hands that aged round ashplants and cane sticks
And lapped the spurs on a lifetime of game *****
Harked to their gift and worked with fine intent
Until your fingers moved somnambulant:
I tell and finger it like braille,
Gleaning the unsaid off the palpable,
And if I spy into its golden loops
I see us walk between the railway slopes
Into an evening of long grass and midges,
Blue smoke straight up, old beds and ploughs in hedges,
An auction notice on an outhouse wall—
You with a harvest bow in your lapel,
Me with the fishing rod, already homesick
For the big lift of these evenings, as your stick
Whacking the tips off weeds and bushes
Beats out of time, and beats, but flushes
Nothing: that original townland
Still tongue-tied in the straw tied by your hand.
The end of art is peace
Could be the motto of this frail device
That I have pinned up on our deal dresser—
Like a drawn snare
Slipped lately by the spirit of the corn
Yet burnished by its passage, and still warm.
by Seamus Heaney
Aug 30, 2013
Aug 30, 2013 at 8:02 PM UTC
Clacks the train on pre-made track
Taps she on and on all day
Wheel on rail, turns wheel on rail
Never wavering from laid out trail.
Clacks the train on pre-made track
Oft taking souls both to and fro
Alas unseen goes the weary rail
As metal cuts through the nestled nail.
Clacks the train on pre-made track
The unjoining joint harked too late
Souls on board feel blinding pain
As loco veers off its destined lane.
Clacks she no more on pre-made track
Unhinged, undone, has no path, no role
Bent beyond all blacksmith skill
Now left soulless, without way or will.
Jan 23, 2017
Jan 23, 2017 at 7:26 AM UTC
‘Tis this,
Christmas
morn at the end
of that clutch of days
Christians named 2010,
and the diffident sky
can only manage
one irreverent blink.
There they're here,
candy cane lights
with green-garland ears
and drunken noses
to point my way through
snow-drop-hushed streets
robbed of their rush-about
and vagrant shouts.
Then’s when
I’ll take it,
the harked-upon angels’
high stool, and make low
the hollered occasion
with a devilish wink
to swivel
their pin-cushion heads:
“Yay, I say,
for unto you is born
this day, in the city of laid
lids, a savor!
Look for true
love in the cradle
of your straw-strewn hearth,
and unswaddle it.”
Dec 25, 2010
Dec 25, 2010 at 6:21 AM UTC
Henceforth all shameful outbursts
Thenceforward my final death
Jilt, she made me play with fire
Wooed by appalling words she said
She, i ween, is no beautiful
She, i ween, is no enchanting
Yet, she is her dreamer, she is her art
Ergo since farewell, once deaf harked
After the dreamer, after the art
Sniffer cheated, sinner starved
Naked I mourned, naked I yowled
Lost faith from Agave, still fresh from the yard
Jan 24, 2018
Jan 24, 2018 at 11:07 PM UTC
*but you heard the maxim,
that the bigger dogs bark
less than the younger,
if not smaller dogs ought to.*
i too barked into the night,
and my last onomatopoeia
gave the bark prior
to the last one
of mongrel descent the earnest,
i among dogs. i too the dozen.
oh nymph clairvoyant
make much of the wilting willow
i dread to take tread in;
curses absolve me likening
skeleton to muscle,
but how i barked to meet the moon
in a dog's dimension
to keep oxford's approve with hyphen
the obelisk compound of hyphen use
to please compounding made
that psyche (of known soul)
be the rattle of soul (of know thought)
that made synthesis an acorn....
and lost the last veer a geometry worth keeping....
kept the arab his dwarf sought...
we would have searched the nought of former sight,
sought in dream as a former guarantee
that harked!
bark! bark! howl ow woo! snorkel of gagging a canine chasm!
Jan 11, 2016
Jan 11, 2016 at 8:49 PM UTC
Remarkably colossal
Nevertheless endeared in my embrace, I comf'rt and buss't
Harked't breathe s'renly
Gazed't making itself rested.
Wherefore thee ask
F'r I'm infinitely devoted to the moon.
To mine own moon.
May 7, 2018
May 7, 2018 at 5:51 PM UTC
Everytime i die and live during the time i harked you weeping
Your eyes betrayed you by saying " i'm fine ".
Your heartache is my foe .
I dare everyone who was the reason of one tear drop from all your tears i would dug a deep well of tears in their heart to taste the taste of tears That their eyes never get dry .
I wished if i would be the reason of your sorrow i would **** me and you live happy
Oct 29, 2017
Oct 29, 2017 at 7:20 PM UTC
A forlorn mule ambled a’ scowl,
Stumbling out from the hollow hovel,
But "Ahoy!" hailed a fey owl,
"Prithee, canst thou maketh the bestowal,
Of thine lovely bone-filled bowl."
Yet, all mule harked were perfide words foul,
So, the mule quoths with crimson howl -
"Hark me, O pirate of pain!
Me dubbed 'Common Mane',
Lo! tane my bowl-filled bane.
Wherefore art thou here, arcane?
Where goest thou, O wing’ d thane?
Whither rests thine dance so vain?
Dare ye cast the die of gain?
Doth not spake those perfide words again!"
The owl so spake in glace of Yule sire-
"Hight me - Lord Carrion the Dire,
A’ am piper o' myriad's pyre.
And A’ hie to mine Crooked Spire.
As it waxes evermore higher,
Only whilst rats leapeth in Surtr's fire
Betwixt tempest and thunder with sans a moment’s rire,
Of ruby tiefed, and bones crumbling in endless mire."
"Why art rats leapeth to Surtr’s spume,"
Whilst thy feathers tuck’ d ‘way from fiery doom?
Stop the endless Nyx brume”
The mule quivered, voice a-boom,
The owl spun words in return from estival loom-
“A’ piped them of phantom Phe’ nix’s plume,
So not wane mine ivory room,
Or stop their ambrosial crimson flume.”
The Mule’s sigh, hath even hell's hosts huddle around-
"Ye, sir! I wouldst trample aground!
And put thou in gaol underground"
"Ah!", came owl's soft rebound,
"Thou too shalt kiss skies abound,
Anon drink rills of scarlet profound,
For Bloom’s soft buss hath ne' er Fall’s fated song bound.
On pragmatism, only idealism's shroud surrounds "
Dec 26, 2024
Dec 26, 2024 at 6:09 AM UTC
Little shadow
harked madam
a bird who wears her wings
only as wardrobe
(though she dreams
in fits
of infantasy)
dusty in her bedroom
in trust to her headspace
an attic dweller
home school tutored
a burden to her wellspring
and buried to her title
averted
feet behind the curtain
little shadow
with the unclaimed
the name of
Elizabeth
**
A foe in the night
an aviary of the berserk :
vocal nicker
and disputes at high frenzy
lend from her garret
uneasy on the household
coughing up all of the family
cussing from their berths
the awoken
shamble and mumble in the hallway
move in a broken thread up to her attic
they’ll crack open her privacy
and find her fast out on the bedding
you can’t spell that to her ghost
in Elizabeth’s sleep
it’s sprung from its host
a living haunting
a messed up devotion
expresses itself on the family
enforces itself emotionally
the hallways are trailed
with dried flowers
and stinging nettles
don’t tread the halls at night
without a pair of slippers
Oct 4, 2019
Oct 4, 2019 at 5:53 PM UTC
Besides me there's a charming figure
Who makes my spirit feel brazen, bigger
I don't know from whence this soul came
But for its presence my own feels brewed, aflame
Paths that cross on Heart emboss
A truth that soars like albatross
My morbid mind is struck and sparked
By piercing way their spirit harked
Each word knells and impresses
But deep down I have sharp perceived
The rankest thing they have believed
Constructing of me a shallow image
No suasion to show them it's a mirage
The rumour's rife, it can't be helped
To be given that X I could have yelped
They regretfully think the tragedy is me
When it's that they wallow in falsity
And think they have me scalped
Feb 19, 2017
Feb 19, 2017 at 2:45 AM UTC