"herbert" poems
i
give me my lifes´
the day crowded bright
and the night sumptuous..
give me my pretty wife
where love at first sight
bind us..
give us two souls blithe
fused as light within light
sweet bounteous..
let us soar and dive
like content swallows might
time in lost happiness..
( and let trouble and strife
bind-us the more tight
like our first kiss..)
give then to two one life
white to white
whole as stars
as love unto death
might break apart
and ride the cosmos..
ii
the jonah by james herbert
a heist goes wrong and a colleage
is shot..
just another debacle for our hero
in a long list
that has him transferred to the
drug squad and east anglia..
to live in a caravan..
keep his eye on the locals
and drink strong beer..
ellie his partner
makes him eat
and they fall in love
though various tentions rise
due to his troubles..
some flash backs
a left baby in a toilet
sadistic stuff at the orphanage..
bullies and dodgy collars
his step father is strict
he is an ornothologist..
there are drug related incident
a dead vole
a us pilot bites the farm..
some little boy thinks he
can fly..
the water supply
some pilfering
some heavy knocks
some bad lies
some kitchen
small potatoes
but all part
of mr herbert´ s charm..
a huge storm
the spooky old mill
a wild trip..
and regression
bad men
bad men..
lot´ s of struggle
the raw products
towed in by trawler
assembled by the knights
torn
and a lost twin..
a monster in the flood
where others die
a maitre d..
a ***** salesman and
his girl in a caravan
the fishermen..
helicopters and
victory for
the forces of good..
and the jonah
gone and all
is light..
the end..
Jul 21, 2018
Jul 21, 2018 at 8:01 AM UTC
Andi Balise combined a half page of a short story, “Thanks Going Without Saying” by Liz Balise, with half a page of an essay by Klee, “On Modern Art”, from a book called Modern Artists on Art, 10 Unabridged Essays, edited by Robert L. Herbert. With some small edits and line-breaks comes this miracle of a poem:
Painting a Function Different
I peek out over the railing of reality’s magic
Beyond the porch-floor
Minerva hangs her wash
making the invisible visible
Eighty two and three quarters deaf
she doesn’t notice
But this is, in fact, reality
Has always been this way—
Bent and bird-like existence
Balanced on two twigs—always busy—
Her task, is the *********** of space
Cutting coupons, crushing aluminum cans, ironing
The three phenomena which I must....
Things no one notices—
climbing on the abstract surface of a picture
Switching the curtains
God! I wish from the infinity of space..she wouldn’t…!
It figures that—
Rusty, her cat, is weaving in fortune or misfortune
I try to fix them—
Her ankles now
And she curses at accidental quality
from the corner of her mouth
which has only one form
Clothespin or cigarette?
Long johns and animals and men in heaven
and bureau scarf and sheets—all, non-infinite deities
surround us translucent, contained
I decide what to get for her birthday—
We are good friends
through painting a function different
For me?
Predestined necessity.
Minerva?
forgets her manners
and eats like a survivor—
Thanks going without saying.
Oct 7, 2017
Oct 7, 2017 at 2:12 PM UTC
HE lived on the wings of storm.
The ashes are in Chihuahua.
Out of Ludlow and coal towns in Colorado
Sprang a vengeance of Slav miners, Italians, Scots, Cornishmen, Yanks.
Killings ran under the spoken commands of this boy
With eighty men and rifles on a hogback mountain.
They killed swearing to remember
The shot and charred wives and children
In the burnt camp of Ludlow,
And Louis Tikas, the laughing Greek,
Plugged with a bullet, clubbed with a gun ****
As a home war
It held the nation a week
And one or two million men stood together
And swore by the retribution of steel.
It was all accidental.
He lived flecking lint off coat lapels
Of men he talked with.
He kissed the miners' babies
And wrote a Denver paper
Of picket silhouettes on a mountain line.
He had no mother but Mother Jones
Crying from a jail window of Trinidad:
"All I want is room enough to stand
And shake my fist at the enemies of the human race."
Named by a grand jury as a murderer
He went to Chihuahua, forgot his old Scotch name,
Smoked cheroots with Pancho Villa
And wrote letters of Villa as a rock of the people.
How can I tell how Don Magregor went?
Three riders emptied lead into him.
He lay on the main street of an inland town.
A boy sat near all day throwing stones
To keep pigs away.
The Villa men buried him in a pit
With twenty Carranzistas.
There is drama in that point...
...the boy and the pigs.
Griffith would make a movie of it to fetch sobs.
Victor Herbert would have the drums whirr
In a weave with a high fiddle-string's single clamor.
"And the muchacho sat there all day throwing stones
To keep the pigs away," wrote Gibbons to the Tribune.
Somewhere in Chihuahua or Colorado
Is a leather bag of poems and short stories.
2.8k
When it comes to true love
Or when it comes to alien life
I want to believe
I want to believe in our love
As we express it to each other
Two misunderstood souls
Soul mates
Will you make believe
Sweet Herbert
Dec 5, 2020
Dec 5, 2020 at 5:13 AM UTC
As I decide to make love
To you
My loving Herbert
My beautiful MD
I not only cross the line
Between doctor and patient
But I expose my vulnerability
To you
Am I too trusting
Sweeties
Dec 5, 2020
Dec 5, 2020 at 4:34 AM UTC
Know you fair, on what you look;
Divinest love lies in this book,
Expecting fire from your eyes,
To kindle this his sacrifice.
When your hands untie these strings,
Think you’have an angel by th’ wings.
One that gladly will be nigh,
To wait upon each morning sigh.
To flutter in the balmy air
Of your well-perfumed prayer.
These white plumes of his he’ll lend you,
Which every day to heaven will send you,
To take acquaintance of the sphere,
And all the smooth-fac’d kindred there.
And though Herbert’s name do owe
These devotions, fairest, know
That while I lay them on the shrine
Of your white hand, they are mine.
2.2k
They go together,
As lovers should,
And take of their love
In the shade of the wood.
It is not ugly,
Nor is it unclean
To lie in the shadow
Unknown and unseen.
Never a sorrow
Was born of two
Couched in the shadow
The whole night through.
If only lovers
Walked in the lane
No one would suffer
Or sorrow again;
But a step before them
And a step behind
Are people possessed
Of a very small mind
Who nod and whisper,
And poison the bread
Of innocent lovers
Until they are dead.
Jun 16, 2012
Jun 16, 2012 at 1:46 AM UTC
Don't get chippy lippy,
where's the ****** spinach Jeff!,
I didn't think you was a two-bit cook,
I thought you were a chef!,
so wheres the ****** spinach Jeff!,
Where's the bleeding turbot, Herbert?,
and where's the feeking risotto,
if I don't get some ****** food soon,
I'll drink a bottle of wine and get blot-toad
Where's the ****** crab, Brad?,
blimey! does it smell high to you!?,
You'll ****** **** someone,
and bleeding get me sued!
By Christos Andreas Kourtis and Larna Kira Kourtis
Apr 17, 2014
Apr 17, 2014 at 5:40 PM UTC
*We lose so much talent to addiction
Some of you may not care, but I do
This is my tribute to them*
**Alan Wilson
Canned Heat
Jimi Hendrix
The Jimi Hendrix Experience
Janis Joplin
Jim Morrison
The Doors
Brian Cole
The Association
Billy Murcia
New York Dolls
Danny Whitten
Crazy Horse
Gram Parsons
The Stooges
Gary Thain
Uriah Heep
Elvis Presley
Gregory Herbert
Blood, Sweat & Tears
Keith Moon
The Who
Sid Vicious
*** Pistols
Lowell George
Little Feat
Jimmy McCulloch
Wings
John Bonham
Led Zeppelin
Darby Crash
Germs
James Honeyman-Scott
Pretenders
Pete Farndon
Pretenders
Paul Gardiner
Tubeway Army
Gary Holton
Heavy Metal Kids
Phil Lynott
Thin Lizzy
Andrew Wood
Mother Love Bone
Brent Mydland
Grateful Dead
Steve Clark
Def Leppard
Johnny Thunders
New York Dolls
David Ruffin
The Temptations
Kristen Pfaff
Hole
Shannon Hoon
Blind Melon
Bradley Nowell
Sublime
John Kahn
Jerry Garcia Band
Jonathan Melvoin
The Smashing Pumpkins
Billy Mackenzie
Associates
West Arkeen
The Outpatience
Nick Traina
Link 80
John Baker Saunders
Mad Season
Bobby Sheehan
Blues Traveler
Wes Berggren
Tripping Daisy
Allen Woody
The Allman Brothers Band
Carl Crack
Atari Teenage Riot
Layne Staley
Alice in Chains/Mad Seasons
Kurt Cobain
Nirvana
Dee Dee
Ramones
Robbin Crosby
Ratt
John Entwistle
The Who
Howie Epstein
Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers
Jeremy Michael Ward
De Facto
Tim Hemensley
GOD
Dave Schulthise
The Dead Milkmen
Rick James
Kevin DuBrow
Quiet Riot
Ike Turner
Gidget Gein
Marilyn Manson
Jay Bennett
Wilco
Michael Jackson
The Rev
Avenged Sevenfold
Paul Gray
Slipknot
Mike Starr
Alice in Chains
Amy Winehouse**
*We are not bad people, we just have bad ways
Yet, not many understand*
Dec 1, 2014
Dec 1, 2014 at 4:49 PM UTC
When God at first made man,
Having a glass of blessing standing by,
Let us (said He) pour on him all we can:
Let the world's riches,which dispersed lie,
Constract into a span.
So strength first made a way;
The beauty flowed,then wisdom,honour,pleasure:
perceiving that alone of all His treasure
Rest in the bottom lay.
For if I should (said He)
Bestow this jewel also on my creature,
He would adore My gifts instead of Me,
And rest in Nature,not the God of Nature:
So both should losers be.
Yet let him keep the rest,
But keep them with repining restlessness:
Let him be rich and weary,that, at least,
If goodness lead him not, yet weariness
May toss him to My breast.
Mar 13, 2016
Mar 13, 2016 at 6:05 AM UTC
In the heat of the day
Sitting out
Under the sun
Shoulders burning up
Chatting laughing
With my friends
Wondering how
I lost them
Left them all behind
Now realizing how much
I missed being here
Realizing so much
The agonizing truth
I gave it all up
For nothing
The agonizing truth
That I abandoned my life
Yet
In that abandonment
My friends quietly journeyed with me
Came back to me
Now the time is right
Without judgment
With friendship and care
At the end of this time
I am stronger
My life resumed
Walks in Herbert Park
Shop for food in my local deli
Watch television
Enjoy dinners
Talk to my friends
Travel with excitement
Work with energy
Care for my loved ones
Live peacefully
Finally
I can breathe again
May 31, 2013
May 31, 2013 at 7:20 AM UTC
Silver fox. Artist. Poet
W.H. Auden, flowery guff
Charming but lecherous
Stampeding to the ****
Figurative drawings, posing
Who wouldn't be impressed
"Such a pity you have to get dressed".
A long time in the waiting
Eventually, " off with that frock"
Puzzleing slow process
Just let me inject me ****
Hellfire! That's a novelty
Haven't heard that one before
Fifty shades lighter
Running for the door.
Four years on 'I like you'
Like is underestimated
Emotionally stagnant
Good job I was wasted.
Artist. Poet. Peter Cook wannabe
Lecherous small **** pervert
Loitering at the school gates
Tacky little Herbert.
Seventy four you craggy *******
Bet it still doesn't function
Roll up **** for breakfast
Bet you still ain't up the junction.
May 24, 2015
May 24, 2015 at 6:44 AM UTC
"...There are presumably images in the experience of lower animals...They have not that future and past which gives them, so to speak, any rights as such..." -- George Herbert Mead.
Lower being a term relative to concepts like the limbs of trees or the position in a list, only a careful, philosophical assessment was capable of blooming as a flower from the starfish to the stars. The past was an increment creating a (perfected, preferred) series of growths unfolding by the propagation of a (blueprint, dream). The dreams quantized ideology to make the receptivity and the discoveries made by grape hyacinths or hardy grass.
[ d _ cos ln d ( g , h ) P ( t ) ] = { [ tau n ( u ) d I ] / ( d e ) } :
int F ( B ) d I = dfn q ( r ) d r .
Best liked was the colorful effect of self enthusiasm, bringing shade, from the darkness to the twilight, of the trees. Yet, the animals had learned to grow claws and legs. Were the birds not learning to fly? Striving brought a weight of labor, the years were fading into prehistory. Predestiny had been a decision by tulips. Disturbances had been required to bring evolution. Insects were living a fantasy with flowers. This looked across to obscurity. Those hidden were not like those dancing.
Jul 21, 2014
Jul 21, 2014 at 8:22 PM UTC
In this poem I am not speaking to you
but to myself: As I write,
sentences form their own voices, their own
moods and opinions such as rebellions,
loves, harmony and disharmony. The universe
is not so perfect. My epiphany: A fathomless
consciousness is composed of collective mind
stretched across the magnetism of space only
to exist as ambitious matter—dense and absurd,
light and heavy; humanity has existed
for thousands of years in cold-slumber; unconscious
and inhumane; thrashing about in between
life and death where in the final moment
everybody longs for catharsis.
————————————————————————
From my second book: 'The Second Coming'
©dah / Stillpoint Books 2012
all rights reserved
"in the final moment
everybody longs for catharsis" —from Polish Poet Zbigniew Herbert
Search Amazon: "the second coming/dah"
Oct 21, 2013
Oct 21, 2013 at 1:20 PM UTC
St Simons Island, Georgia USA
East Beach, 12/4/2011
"Your focus determines your reality." —Qui-Gon Jinn
Witnessing an
amazing low-tide
phenomenon,
as if a walkway to
a parallel world
has suddenly appeared,
extending one-half mile
from East Beach
out to sea
People are slowly
gathering, walking, stopping,
stooping, staring in silence,
speaking softly—
I'm as eager
as Simon Peter
to join them, yet
somewhat afraid of
walking where
there has been
only seawater
minutes before—
Chattering dolphins
beckoning in the distance
instill confidence
So I join them,
stepping from the
beach onto the
other-worldly terrain,
first 42 steps confirming
we are not alone!
Surrounded by
a menagerie of
sand ***** clams,
beach flea amphipods,
sea roach isopods,
ghost, hermit, and
fiddler ***** even
cannonball jellyfish—
shades of the
Mos Eisley Cantina
on Tatooine
in miniature
But beware of
semidiurnal
tidal cycles—
Twice a day
at high tide
the sea, like an
unstable vortex
of a Chappa'ai,
consumes the
phenomenon,
even the beach itself
to the edge of
the dune
"The mystery of life isn't a problem to solve, but a reality to experience." —Frank Herbert
"So long and thanks for all the fish!" —Farewell message from exiting dolphins, translated by Douglas Adams
Mark Toney ©️ 2023
May 21, 2023
May 21, 2023 at 11:31 PM UTC
“Miss Corde was reading Plutarch by night the books then used to be taken seriously”
Zbigniew Herbert
(Adam Lux – Meditations)
Miss (or already, why not, Missis)
is reading.
So did she before getting married. The revolution of 1960s All is Love is over.
She used to sleep in tents. Why not?
The freedom has to be defended.
Drums, fires, the screams:
“Down with! Who doesn’t jump is.”
Rumble behind the walls. Marat is. Alive? Death? Used to live?
The time is traveling. The crown’s refined hat.
The hair short. With all the colors.
“In a dress like a blue rock.”
Obelisk? Yes! of passing from
necessity to
necessity (for survival).
Mrs. Corde, is reading. The Game of …
She’s dreaming. “All is love”.
The day is the most usual.
Charlotte?
She administrated justice.
The falling stars are glowing.
The original:
Протест (ретроспективно)
„Госпожица Корде нощем четяла Плутарх
книгите тогава били вземани насериозно“
Збигнев Херберт
( Адам Люкс-Размишления)
Translator Bulgarian-English: Vessislava Savova
rarebird
© bogpan - all rights reserved.
Госпожица ( или вече , защо не, госпожа) чете.
Така е чела и преди да се омъжи. Минала е
революцията на 60 -те. “ Всичко е любов“
Спала е в палатките. Защо пък не?
Свободата трябва да се брани.
Барабани, пожари, виковете:
“ Долу! Кой не скача е“
Тътен зад стените. Марат е. Жив? Мъртъв? Живял?
Пътува времето. Короната е фина шапка.
Косата къса. С всички цветове.
„С рокля като синя скала.“
Обелиск? Да! на преминаване от необходимостта в
необходимост( за преживяване).
Госпожа Корде, чете. Играта на…
Мечтае. “ Всичко е любов“.
Денят е най-обикновен.
Шарлот?
Въздаде справедливост.
Звездите падащи сияят.
Jun 18, 2011
Jun 18, 2011 at 9:19 PM UTC
Mannequins in the shop front window,
The new years batch take their seats,
Lined up on display, unknowingly.
Between words you lick your lips - quivering
Under your brow, behind your eyes,
********** each body in the back of your mind.
Little lambs to the slaughter,
So meek and so mild.
Just as your precious Herbert
Speaks of his young bride.
Dec 7, 2021
Dec 7, 2021 at 2:44 PM UTC
As the warmth of the sunlight lightly kissed my cheeks,
I began to sob.
Of the realization of today's events intoxicated my mind.
I pressed two fingers against the corner of a cross -
Inscribed into the wall by a fellow Conrad.
Who had also disobeyed, who had broken the rules.
Maybe they had committed mutiny
Or cowardice, or desertion.
Perhaps they were scared,
Perhaps they'd had enough,
Perhaps they just missed home.
We can only ever guess now,
Because dawn came and the pole stood tall.
Killed by their own. Friendly fire.
Who were also suffering and traumatized.
But for the act they were about to commit
Would not take it to the extremes that I had.
Or any of the people that had abused these 4walls before me.
Which one of them would do it?
What final blow would cause the end to my life?
Because for all of us it was never really if we died.
Instead the question was when.
My name is Herbert Morris
I am 17 years old.
I fought in the British West Indies Regiment, until
The date is 20th September 1917.
And today is the day.
For I had escaped
But they found me.
Mar 4, 2013
Mar 4, 2013 at 5:13 PM UTC
Imperfect world, purposeless person.
I retired to pursue perfection
learn jazz tunes, woody and herbaceous plants,
read every inch of English literature,
Scientific American and Foreign Affairs,
have an affair with an American.
Oh, and by the way, before you ask, I'm from Mars.
Orbiting your planet, admiring the girls.
Paraphrasing prayers by George Herbert to share
with Jesus believers on talk radio shows
where we try to bring your lives into expressible states
before it’s too late and climate change inundates you.
Reversed thunder, savior-side-piercing spear,
one day you’re feeling fine, the next not.
We’re pretty matter of fact, clear about
the fact of death. Once you’re gone most of us forget
your face and previous accomplishments. The place
you lived is repopulated with the next generation (of aliens)
and that ought to be a comfort, a sort of restful
certainty all is well, nothing special need be done.
Bluebirds are back, crows are mating on the sky
and chasing hawks away from their nests. Juncos
and sparrows glean together. I hear pileated woodpeckers
jackhammering and barred owls hooting soothingly.
Herons smoothing feathers and spearing fish.
Everything is as one would wish.
Numberless are the world's wonders
but none more wonderful than aliens.
Sep 22, 2015
Sep 22, 2015 at 7:06 AM UTC
MOTHERS
MAGICALLY gifted
OBVIOUSLY ultimate
TEACHERS for a lifetime
HELPFUL always
ENERGETIC spiritually
REMEMBERED forever
SAINTS as blessings on Earth. Guardian Angels with our Heavenly father. Those wings will fly and protect us.
FATHERS
FABULOUS creations
ADMIRED dearly
TREMENDOUSLY appreciated
HIGHLY distinguished
EMPHASIZED as Golden reminders
RESPECTFULLY acknowledged
SO many times when my mother said no, my father had a different answer.
The home I grew up in was filled with happiness and love. That's what I'll always remember. I dedicate this poem to Herbert Frank Stenberg and Ann Mary Stenberg, my parents.
Deborrah Ann Stenberg
www.deborrahann-stenberg.artistwebsites.com
Sep 19, 2015
Sep 19, 2015 at 3:53 AM UTC
If I were named Violet,
would I still smell as much?
If my name was Phil,
would I stink so sweet?
I am the poet, Herbert, or
Isit? My real false name
Isearl. Of course, not.
My real name is
then tooth bone foodair
soaked tin watch Bag-O-Soul
outin now.
I could change names
if I wanted to
but I am afraid
of lawyers and you.
Jul 14, 2010
Jul 14, 2010 at 10:11 AM UTC
1
in the fourth book of the Peloponnesian War
Thucydides tells among other things
the story of his unsuccessful expedition
among long speeches of chiefs
battles sieges plague
dense net of intrigues of diplomatic endeavours
the episode is like a pin
in a forest
the Greek colony Amphipolis
fell into the hands of Brasidos
because Thucydides was late with relief
for this he paid his native city
with lifelong exile
exiles of all times
know what price that is
2
generals of the most recent wars
if a similar affair happens to them
whine on their knees before posterity
praise their heroism and innocence
they accuse their subordinates
envious colleagues
unfavourable winds
Thucydides says only
that he had seven ships
it was winter
and he sailed quickly
3
if art for its subject
will have a broken jar
a small broken soul
with a great self-pity
what will remain after us
will it be lovers' weeping
in a small ***** hotel
when wall-paper dawns
Zbigniew Herbert
Sep 15, 2014
Sep 15, 2014 at 5:20 PM UTC