"heathcliff" poems
Youth runs hot, shinning souls consumed by desire.
On a search, they look for love to acquire.
But life walks by and shine does fade,
And all are in a masquerade.
It is as Heathcliff and his Kathy, they lost their love for pride.
If ether one had shown their face, would Kathy be his bride?
But life walks by and scars are made,
And all are in the masquerade.
Will you be as Ahab was, relentless for his whale.
If he had looked without his mask, would wind still hold his sails?
But life walks by and some do die,
And still goes on the masquerade.
Or will you be as the Phantom, searching for Christine.
But in the end it is Christine that finds true beauty hidden.
But life walks by and some scars fade.
And still some play the masquerade.
I beg you live your lives with passion, don't give yourself to fear.
For it is in life's darkest hours that true beauty does appear.
To look beyond life's ugly scars, to see a heart in all it's pain...
And love despite.
Do search you for your strange duet, and be not afraid to lift his mask.
For therein is where true beauty lies... And life walks by.
Feb 3, 2013
Feb 3, 2013 at 3:57 PM UTC
HOW UNPLEASANT TO KNOW MR. CROW
"Hello!" said the crow.
"Hello?" I answered
thinking: ("Talking to crows
is a bit of a no-no?")
"Do I know you?"
I asked politely.
"I'm Ted Hughes' CROW
....you know!"
"I didn't know that!
I admitted.
"You look like every other crow there is to know."
I impolitely pointed out.
"Every crow is CROW!"
it pointedly pointed out.
"Say...something Ted Hughes-ish then!"
I challenged it.
"In the beginning was..."
"...scream!" crow screamed
and then a load of begatting
to give the Bible a run for its money.
Nothing and Never both begatted
to make crow.
It made me remember the only time
I had been in Mr. Hughes' presence.
One shift leading into another shift and yet another shift so that
it was falling with tiredness I was.
Was it on Thursday I was
to meet the girlfriend
on Friday Street or
Friday I...just didn't know no more.
Ted grasped the podium
with crooked hands
as if he were Tennyson's EAGLE
or a Heathcliff grown old.
He glared down on me.
I trying not to fall asleep.
He like a cliff come alive
as if rocks could talk.
His words....CROW'S words.
Ted now
merging into the crow
gazing upon me as if
I were carrion.
Crow now losing his human voice.
His raucous caw
echoing inside my head
as he takes to the skies.
I should have listened to
what my mum said.
"Don't talk to strange corvids!"
Sep 7, 2018
Sep 7, 2018 at 3:35 AM UTC
And then we weren’t.
I learned more about you in our ending than I did in those two years
One minute you were my Heathcliff.
The man that I had looked for all of my life.
The next, a paltry reproduction. All of your pretty words dispersing like the death of a Tempe dust storm.
I will make peace with never understanding.
I will cease longing for something that never was.
I will heal
But I will always wish that I didn’t have to.
Oct 24, 2018
Oct 24, 2018 at 8:58 PM UTC
You were the greatest neuronal reorganization to ever happen,
of course I don't know who I am anymore.
What was plastic seems changed to stone in a gargoyle brain and beneath a microscope the shimmering glia spell out your name over and over in little green lights, fossilizing the neurons that say:
Him.
The earth has an edge. Nobody wants to fall off.
So call me Homer, because the gods themselves could not convince me my situation's a sphere there's far too much fear in this flattened plane that understands only primitive desires and just wants you near.
Everyone knows the romanced brain could be mistaken for a ******* addict's.
But perhaps if you look more closely into my eyes you will see my irises have turned stormy, that cyclones of energy are becoming patterns that scribble and scribble arcane suggestions for a new cartography. A new story. A new being.
Supplies needed:
One strong pencil.
Enough oxytocin to unlearn an addiction.
Enough optimism to overcome an affliction, my diction is code for the way you kissed me and it underlines every sentence like the way a voice rises when asking a question.
I have so many questions.
And even though the notion of who I will be when I am not you terrifies me, like Cathy and Heathcliff I will not be doomed to roam the moors, already I know there's endlessly more, and with or without you the best is yet to come. Just as they say. No, I don't know what's in store. But I think that's okay.
Turn golden, Grey Matter, light up 'til you burn.
Reboot.
Restart.
Rewire.
Relearn.
Oct 12, 2013
Oct 12, 2013 at 1:06 PM UTC
You might be Heathcliff
To my Elizabeth
Because a hero I, need not
If you choose to impress through lies and duress
you’re surely, not the man I thought
I am not a romantic
When you stand in the rain
You can be pedantic
But please don’t refrain
From your recitations of poetry
If I could rewrite this story
I’d try and make you see
For Mr. Wickham
I can see clearly through
Have I told not
All of my truths to you
If you could forgive me
For being quite uncouth
I’d leave my homestead
And walk days to you
I am not a romantic
When you stand in the rain
You can be pedantic
But please don’t refrain
From your recitations of poetry
If I could rewrite this story
I’d try and make you see
You might be angry
And feeling betrayed, but
This is not a war to be fought
If you can forgive me
I’ll try to make you see
That you’re the romantic I want
Your good opinions
Have surely been lost
I made snap judgments
Not knowing the cost
If you can forgive me
Then please tell me so
But if you cannot
Away I will go
Mar 1, 2012
Mar 1, 2012 at 1:12 PM UTC
Heathcliff my love,
Had I known you at times before
Before the glory days of your tormentor
Perhaps your future would not be so bleak.
Heathcliff my love,
If you had not been so hated
Your misery and doom lain fated
Your life might have reached its peak.
Heathcliff my love
Were you not bruised and beaten?
Were you not shamed without reason?
Until you had no cause to be weak.
Heathcliff my love
Once you have broken free
With your rage contained barely
Will you find the revenge you seek?
Heathcliff my love
When terror is six feet below ground
And all that remains is offspring dumbfound
Will equivalent wind render his oblique?
Heathcliff my love
The one you detested you have become
And young son’s potential left unsung
Do you finally see the havoc you wreak?
Feb 3, 2011
Feb 3, 2011 at 7:36 AM UTC
Frightened by the thought of you
I try to forget you.
I try to recall imperfections
of you,
In order to make you weak
to me.
Weak in my heart
Weak in my soul
Weak in my love
All it does is strengthen
your hold.
I am the weak minded soul
blinded by the poetry
in my heart.
Time to strengthen my resolve,
but not to make it disappear
I need the song it brings.
I need the comfort of words
I need the longing of literature
not of you.
Enlightened by this revelation
I realise that I was the
romantique.
Living via the classique's
Modern life is too harsh
to bear a Heathcliff
on a marsh.
May 13, 2014
May 13, 2014 at 5:54 PM UTC
When the night casts its
shadow
over the sea it's as though it
s k i p s
a beat
The reflection of the moon
sinking~
deep into the current,
wraps itself silently over your cold skin
as you fold your arms into your chest
& kick up rain from darkness.
I can see all of the
g o O s E b U m P s
spreading beneath your pale thighs
& a soft grey light seeping
through your shy eyes.
It scares me and comforts me that I cannot
imagine a song or story book that
knows me better than your lips.
Last night I listened to
Amy Hit the Atmosphere
on loop for three hours & didn't wake with
random-
red-
gashes//
all over my left forearm.
I can dream of Heathcliff & Catherine
out on the moors without
flooding my cheek bones with salt water
but now we're happily
flooding every crease in our palms
& every bend in our legs
with salt water.
I know come sunset the nature that
cradles us calmly now will wake
w ild ly
and usher us back to shore where
I will lose you to a blinding sun
but for now I need to feel the curve of your ankle
summoning mine.
If we exist as strongly as we can in this moment, the future shouldn't scare us because if we exist at all in this moment, the past didn't break us.
**I'm alive tonight &
I'll float in and out of you as I choose to.**
Apr 28, 2013
Apr 28, 2013 at 10:30 PM UTC
Tenderly I’ll tell you of the saddest book i've ever read;
The story of two lovers and how their love is ******
For the love each has for the other represents
The only bit of good either of them has,
And yet because of this love they share,
You can’t help but sympathize in his despair,
When she leaves him for a wealthier man,
That she doesn’t love and can barely stand,
Because she’s too proud to marry beneath her,
And so effectively is her own murderer.
Dying, and leaving him, as she does
Even after all that time, still in love,
And so he bides his days until the time
he can leave his lonely existence behind
and together their ghosts can wander the moor,
seperated by the miseries of life no more.
Dec 8, 2010
Dec 8, 2010 at 12:28 PM UTC
HOW UNPLEASANT TO KNOW MR. CROW
"Hello!" said the crow.
"Hello?" I answered
thinking: ("Talking to crows
is a bit of a no-no?")
"Do I know you?"
I asked politely.
"I'm Ted Hughes' CROW
....you know!"
"I didn't know that!
I admitted.
"You look like every other crow there is to know."
I impolitely pointed out.
"Every crow is CROW!"
it pointedly pointed out.
"Say...something Ted Hughes-ish then!"
I challenged it.
"In the beginning was..."
"...scream!" crow screamed
and then a load of begatting
to give the Bible a run for its money.
Nothing and Never both begatted
to make crow.
It made me remember the only time
I had been in Mr. Hughes' presence.
One shift leading into another shift and yet another shift so that
it was falling with tiredness I was.
Was it on Thursday I was
to meet the girlfriend
on Friday Street or
Friday I...just didn't know no more.
Ted grasped the podium
with crooked hands
as if he were Tennyson's EAGLE
or a Heathcliff grown old.
He glared down on me.
I trying not to fall asleep.
He like a cliff come alive
as if rocks could talk.
His words....CROW'S words.
Ted now
merging into the crow
gazing upon me as if
I were carrion.
Crow now losing his human voice.
His raucous caw
echoing inside my head
as he takes to the skies.
I should have listened to
what my mum said.
"Don't talk to strange corvids!"
Sep 7, 2016
Sep 7, 2016 at 3:39 PM UTC
Falling in love was the easy part.
But none of the teen romance novels you've read could have prepared you for what comes when you stay.
The After.
You learn quickly.
Learn to love the constant back and forth and the everlasting yes and no's and the late night phone fights.
Stay in this after with him even when the door was open for escape in the before, when every part of your being was left intact.
Love the boy who took ever last ounce of space in your heart. The boy with emotions as ever changing as the seasons, who bleeds his nationality and carries his heart tucked into his sleeve.
Love the boy who became the Heathcliff to your Catherine.
Learned to love this After because whatever these souls are made of, they are the same.
Jan 28, 2015
Jan 28, 2015 at 11:23 PM UTC
I was the one who received the faithful letter from Mr. Darcy
I was the one who held Holden when he cried
I was the one who Guy Montague thought was beautiful
I was the one who Heathcliff came back to the Wuthering Heights for
I was the one who Mr. Rochester tried to illegally marry
I was the one who D'Artagnan grieved over after the abduction
I was the one who Captain Wentworth fell back in love with
I was the one who Dorian Gray actually cared for
I was the one who Candide brought the gold for in El Dorado
I was the one who Winston Smith kissed in that attic
I was the one who cried when they all left me with a silent flipping of a page
Aug 7, 2013
Aug 7, 2013 at 2:50 PM UTC
You remind me of myself
I’ve always wanted someone to share my soul
like Catharine and Heathcliff
no matter where we came from,
our senses magnify when we’re together
and when apart, may you always haunt me
Oct 14, 2012
Oct 14, 2012 at 2:01 PM UTC
He never wrote me
love letters like
Heathcliff and Catherine and
all the other grandiose characters
in those old, Victorian Romance
novels. In fact,
he never wrote to me
at all.
Not a single word,
a single letter;
not even his name
on an otherwise
blank sheet of paper
roughly shoved into an
already used envelope.
Maybe he took my words and
burned them like my dog’s
ashes like Auschwitz and
Californian forest fires.
An abrupt end to
an abrupt start
created and destroyed
by the sure hands of God. Mother,
you were never one for words.
I thought perhaps I’d
have a dream. See
your face in the mirror;
feel your presence walk
through a door. But
what childish hopes to hold
in the frigid face of reality.
Cold like the snow (you loathed to shovel)
like a can of Diet Pepsi on a hot summer day
(your favorite)
like global warming seasons
and the chocolate bunnies you
used to put in the fridge
(for Easter).
Cold like corpses
your corpse
six feet under—
tombstone in the sun,
no light will ever warm you.
Dearest mother,
I have not heard
a single word
from you in
over four years.
Dearest mother,
dearest mother,
dearest mother
what do your wings look like?
Oct 19, 2013
Oct 19, 2013 at 1:20 AM UTC
This isn't a poem or a story this is stream of consciousness baby a dangerous thing cause you might drown and you might get bored but I am arrogant as hell and I believe to the souls of my feet that I am a glittery gleaming river of crystal and fire cause that's a soul baby and we are made of the square root of energy-over-the-speed-of-light the same stuff as stars and God's breath and hot **** that's a wonderful thing that we are alive darlin we are alive so take a deep breath cause when's the last time you did that I'm looking at you love and I like what I see you're a pretty nice guy really though implying a question sorry dear but you know we don't really talk and why is that oh yeah we are surrounded in practically prison by busybodies guards again sorry dears but you know it's true and is that the reason or is it that we have nothing to say empty like an old cocoon butterfly's fluttered by and that's really what I'm hanging like a small winter coat on I'm getting slightly dusty musty so come and wipe me off I want to see if we can have an actual conversation I know basically nothing about you except you like Moby **** and you can dance both of which I gotta admit are major pros but I know that being young handsome and pleasant to be with are bad reasons to love someone thanks to Nellynicole are you Heathcliff dear lord I hope not he is such a bore according to the Cardplayer although he was a joker lets not kid ourselves here but come on he's related to Liesel and she loved Rudy and that was good and right and terrible and tragic and heartbreaking and oh god Rudy why did you die sobbing over you I loved you like a friend a brother a lover and you aren't even real so why am I hung up over YOU?!
Dec 4, 2013
Dec 4, 2013 at 1:05 AM UTC
When you write
About broken hearts,
Anguish, angst
And loss,
Think on Heathcliff
And pathos.
Jan 14, 2015
Jan 14, 2015 at 12:20 PM UTC
Home is where the heart is right?
Funny thing is,
my heart grew legs and walked right out with you.
I have no home.
I didn't have a choice
I didn't request that it leave with you
but it did
and now I feel empty.
Emptier than I should feel,
its only a heart right?
Only a muscle cramped up inside my chest?
Wrong. Its you.
I lost you.
You weren't my Romeo,
you are my Catherine and like Heathcliff, the pain of being without you is unutterable.
You have left me in this abyss,
and I'm reaching for you but you're not there to walk into my arms.
I cannot find you.
Whether you chose it or not
you grew onto my soul and became a part of me,
you are my Adam,
you form a part of the ribs that encase my lungs.
Its getting harder to breathe, I feel like my lungs are collapsing under some kind of imaginary weight.
The weight of you
Nov 21, 2013
Nov 21, 2013 at 12:41 PM UTC
Across the room I watch you from afar
So much to see, so much to admire
I can only gawk in awe:
Shimmering softly beneath the party
lights
Delicate as fine porcelain, elegant just
like a China doll
Little Perky ! diminutive little button
of a nose
A sublime protuberance, with a
wonderful angular symmetry;
Like a beautiful ballerina in the centre
of the face
One lonely Cinderella, forever
overlooked and unsung
Neglected, passed over, the great
unmentioned one;
So still and so quiet, mysterious like a
question mark -
"Little Perky, don't you fret, I! Me!
I'll be your poet though a poor poet I
be
I'll hold up your charms for the whole
wide world to see,
I'll be your dashing Prince too, if you
let me".
Finely chiselled, exquisitely sculpted
Better than any Michaelangelo
And I love the little wiggle;
How silently you sit there and how
patient, enduring all
Stuck between the two drama Queens
Eyes all painted up, that flit and dart
Twinkling and fluttering outrageously
like their a class apart,
And a rouged up Mouth's sulky lips,
burning rubber
Busy gabbing away, running off like a
wild piano;
But then there's you Little Perky,
simplicity itself
Shy bulbous beauty, a throwback to
childhoods innocent days:
Like the others, you play the game
You go along but it's not the same,
See you sniff into your little hankie
And know that beneath, you're
probably not all that happy,
You seem to say (to me at least)
" I hoped for more, I dreamt - I dreamt
of other things
And other nights than these".
I see you Little Perky, I see you all
alone in your lonely prison cell
I hear your sniffles, your silent sobs
and sighs.
When pinned in the corner and
assailed from all sides
My eyes, they secretly run to your
quiet hill, that lonely mountain,
Like Heathcliff in Wuthering Heights
I'll wait for you Little One
I'll wait for you there..... my Cathy
(O! lovely wild and spirited Cathy)
I'll wait for you through the wind, the
rain and the snow
I'll wait for you to come
I'll wait for the real 'You' to show,
Beyond all the bravado and the big
bluster notes
Beyond the crowds constraining looks
I'll wait for you, my Love,
We'll laugh again, and dance beneath
the stars
We'll live the dreams that once we had.
Little Perky, sweet alarm bell of the
soul, shiny little bugle that gleams
Go on now, give it one more blow
One huge giant elephantine blast
That'll sweep them all away
And leave only you and me here,
alone at last
Facing each other across this floor
O! Little Perky, my Cinderella, my
Cathy.......my Heart!
May 1, 2018
May 1, 2018 at 6:27 PM UTC
HOW UNPLEASANT TO KNOW MR. CROW
"Hello!" said the crow.
"Hello?" I answered
thinking: ("Talking to crows
is a bit of a no-no?")
"Do I know you?"
I asked politely.
"I'm Ted Hughes' CROW
....you know!"
"I didn't know that!
I admitted.
"You look like every other crow there is to know."
I impolitely pointed out.
"Every crow is CROW!"
it pointedly pointed out.
"Say...something Ted Hughes-ish then!"
I challenged it.
"In the beginning was..."
"...scream!" crow screamed
and then a load of begatting
to give the Bible a run for its money.
Nothing and Never both begatted
to make crow.
It made me remember the only time
I had been in Mr. Hughes' presence.
One shift leading into another shift and yet another shift so that
it was falling with tiredness I was.
Was it on Thursday I was
to meet the girlfriend
on Friday Street or
Friday I...just didn't know no more.
Ted grasped the podium
with crooked hands
as if he were Tennyson's EAGLE
or a Heathcliff grown old.
He glared down on me.
I trying not to fall asleep.
He like a cliff come alive
as if rocks could talk.
His words....CROW'S words.
Ted now
merging into the crow
gazing upon me as if
I were carrion.
Crow now losing his human voice.
His raucous caw
echoing inside my head
as he takes to the skies.
I should have listened to
what my mum said.
"Don't talk to strange corvids!"
Sep 7, 2020
Sep 7, 2020 at 4:48 PM UTC
in the way that I see love created,
through television, books, fan fiction,
I crave something different.
I find myself wanting not
teenage love,
holding hands
and cute kisses,
they make me gag.
I find myself wanting the dirt
grime and filth that no one talks about.
I want to yell and scream,
gnash my teeth,
and bare my soul.
I want to gasp,
shudder, gulp,
hate you and make up.
I don't want cute,
and I don't want to be coddled.
I want to be challenged
and I want angry tears
and stupid harsh kisses.
I want to know that you are more than
nike elite socks
white tshirts
and stupid smirks.
I want to be more than a teenage girl
in a sweater
and boots.
I want the *****
harsh, awful love that people look down on.
I don't want Prince Charming's love,
I want Heathcliff's passion,
I want to feel our passion and our love.
but I don't want presents and flowers.
I want intelligence and arguments.
I want hands and skin,
sweat and scratches.
I want your passion,
your words and your gazes.
Nov 24, 2014
Nov 24, 2014 at 9:10 PM UTC
*She scribbles endlessly,
waiting for her true love to see
the aching in her wanton heart
pen'd in crimson's darkly hue'd soul
inky passages of the past
when the sun still shine'd a'glow
and all was write with the world
As the wind rushes over the moors
she thinks of her Heathcliff'd dreams
reverie of timely love season'd skies
when spring sprung eternally
old man winter was only a notion
frozen in another's memories
til stormy nights overcame the fantasy
Still, she revisits her place in the sun
bleeding out on paper without conscience
a wavering inner voice triumphs demurely
as emotions spill over the tethered wastelands
once a land of wide open lush filled pleasures
this place now only a reminder of tormented defeat
yet, her resolve for passion's affection remains*
Feb 3, 2014
Feb 3, 2014 at 8:09 AM UTC
*She scribbles endlessly, ferociously
waiting for her true love to glance
the aching in her wanton heart
pen'd in crimson's darkly hued soul
inky passages of the past
when the sun still shine'd a'glow
and all was write with the world
As the wind rushes over the moors
she thinks of her Heathcliff'd dreams
reverie of timely love season'd skies
when spring sprung eternally
old man winter was only a notion
frozen in another's memories
til stormy nights overcame the fantasy
Still, she revisits her place in the sun
bleeding out on paper without conscience
a wavering inner voice triumphs demurely
as emotions spill over the tethered wastelands
once a land of wide open lush filled pleasures
this place now only a reminder of tormented defeat
yet, her resolve for passion's affection remains*
Feb 10, 2014
Feb 10, 2014 at 7:36 PM UTC
the teacher gave each of us a copy
of Catcher in the Rye and told us
to read it, we all remember that day
it wasn't an especially memorable
day but we still recall it, the
introduction revealed a voice we
sort of already knew
Holden kept us awake when Heathcliff couldn't
the story vented of real injustices that, in reality,
struck bold dignitaries murmurless
events we all imagined dangerous took root
and we imagined reckless things since then
under that angry rebel's troubled
idiosyncrasies cowered a cheating angel unrecognised
on everyone's glowing text, typed to treat guilt
even on untitled avenues:
catch a body, a fragment of Phoebe's recollection
could it take revolt, after all, to undo the standard;
topple respected idols with a riot?
(telephone service turns, relentless influences)
does it withstand an ego made depressed by
school rules impelling teenage irrationalities?
ridden violently so to crash head-on where
antagonist utopia kills humanity, kills all
on to scripted war, valiant army requiring
an individual to ignite rapidly all weapons
in reach
to us, this advancement ran timid idiots over
cars and ultimatums, over ending, going tales, too
the teacher gave us a bomb and sat at her desk,
expecting an explosion any minute
-c.j.
Mar 14, 2016
Mar 14, 2016 at 2:13 AM UTC