"horace" poems
The snows are fled away, leaves on the shaws
And grasses in the mead renew their birth,
The river to the river-bed withdraws,
And altered is the fashion of the earth.
The Nymphs and Graces three put off their fear
And unapparelled in the woodland play.
The swift hour and the brief prime of the year
Say to the soul, Thou wast not born for aye.
Thaw follows frost; hard on the heel of spring
Treads summer sure to die, for hard on hers
Comes autumn with his apples scattering;
Then back to wintertide, when nothing stirs.
But oh, whate'er the sky-led seasons mar,
Moon upon moon rebuilds it with her beams;
Come we where Tullus and where Ancus are
And good Aeneas, we are dust and dreams.
Torquatus, if the gods in heaven shall add
The morrow to the day, what tongue has told?
Feast then thy heart, for what thy heart has had
The fingers of no heir will ever hold.
When thou descendest once the shades among,
The stern assize and equal judgment o'er,
Not thy long lineage nor thy golden tongue,
No, nor thy righteousness, shall friend thee more.
Night holds Hippolytus the pure of stain,
Diana steads him nothing, he must stay;
And Theseus leaves Pirithous in the chain
The love of comrades cannot take away.
9.1k
The idiocy,
Sheer insincerity
Of political apologies.
It WAS meant to offend.
You chose the words carefully.
A dog's-whistle in your mouthpiece.
Your career is your priority.
You are a glorified carnival barker,
With a reputation as an intellect,
But many do detect ******** in your overblown prose
(except those who are equally verbose).
Will your papa be disappointed
If you are never to be anointed?
Your education makes being PM a career choice,
So power for it's own sake should really be a piece of cake.
So how about it, Boris?
Will we hear more Horace?
How much do you want it?
Enough to blow your own Trumpette?
Oct 30, 2018
Oct 30, 2018 at 4:54 PM UTC
They are not long, the weeping and the laughter,
Love and desire and hate:
I think they have no portion in us after
We pass the gate.
They are not long, the days of wine and roses:
Out of a misty dream
Our path emerges for a while, then closes
Within a dream.
[The title translates, from the Latin, as
'The brief sum of life forbids us the hope of enduring long'
and is from a work by Horace]
5.1k
Bolt and bar the shutter,
For the foul winds blow:
Our minds are at their best this night,
And I seem to know
That everything outside us is
Mad as the mist and snow.
Horace there by Homer stands,
Plato stands below,
And here is Tully's open page.
How many years ago
Were you and I unlettered lads
Mad as the mist and snow?
You ask what makes me sigh, old friend,
What makes me shudder so?
I shudder and I sigh to think
That even Cicero
And many-minded Homer were
Mad as the mist and snow.
4.4k
The old man sat somewhere twix bemused and bewildered,
Staring out at the mist that lay upon the puse horizon of twilight.
Horace, the brown and white dog with the shaggy coat,
came and curled himself around his masters feet,
The old mans hand fell upon the dogs faithful head,
gently he stroked the dog, yet without sentiment,
but rather with a sense of habit, formed by years of ritual.
and so each day he sits and awaits the coming twilight.
21st December 2010
Dec 25, 2010
Dec 25, 2010 at 3:35 AM UTC
I contemplated, but not alone,
On an ancient poet's ode,
A lover and a scribbler composed,
"Nunc scio quid est amor..." Oh?
"Now I know what true love is..." No woe,
As I reflect on a spiritual road,
I ponder on, where pomegranates grow,
As venerable Horace did compose,
A love divine, true love, and never alone.....
Jul 20, 2016
Jul 20, 2016 at 9:52 PM UTC
Departing summer hath assumed
An aspect tenderly illumed,
The gentlest look of spring;
That calls from yonder leafy shade
Unfaded, yet prepared to fade,
A timely carolling.
No faint and hesitating trill,
Such tribute as to winter chill
The lonely redbreast pays!
Clear, loud, and lively is the din,
From social warblers gathering in
Their harvest of sweet lays.
Nor doth the example fail to cheer
Me, conscious that my leaf is sere,
And yellow on the bough:—
Fall, rosy garlands, from my head!
Ye myrtle wreaths, your fragrance shed
Around a younger brow!
Yet will I temperately rejoice;
Wide is the range, and free the choice
Of undiscordant themes;
Which, haply, kindred souls may prize
Not less than vernal ecstasies,
And passion’s feverish dreams.
For deathless powers to verse belong,
And they like Demi-gods are strong
On whom the Muses smile;
But some their function have disclaimed,
Best pleased with what is aptliest framed
To enervate and defile.
Not such the initiatory strains
Committed to the silent plains
In Britain’s earliest dawn:
Trembled the groves, the stars grew pale,
While all-too-daringly the veil
Of nature was withdrawn!
Nor such the spirit-stirring note
When the live chords Alcæus smote,
Inflamed by sense of wrong;
Woe! woe to Tyrants! from the lyre
Broke threateningly, in sparkles dire
Of fierce vindictive song.
And not unhallowed was the page
By wingèd Love inscribed, to assuage
The pangs of vain pursuit;
Love listening while the Lesbian Maid
With finest touch of passion swayed
Her own æolian lute.
O ye, who patiently explore
The wreck of Herculanean lore,
What rapture! could ye seize
Some Theban fragment, or unroll
One precious, tender-hearted scroll
Of pure Simonides.
That were, indeed, a genuine birth
Of poesy; a bursting forth
Of genius from the dust:
What Horace gloried to behold,
What Maro loved, shall we enfold?
Can haughty Time be just!
2.5k
Quis multa gracilis te puer in Rosa
Rendred almost word for word without Rhyme according to the
Latin Measure, as near as the Language permit.
What slender Youth bedew’d with liquid odours
Courts thee on Roses in some pleasant Cave,
Pyrrha for whom bind’st thou
In wreaths thy golden Hair,
Plain in thy neatness; O how oft shall he
On Faith and changed Gods complain: and Seas
Rough with black winds and storms
Unwonted shall admire:
Who now enjoyes thee credulous, all Gold,
Who alwayes vacant, alwayes amiable
Hopes thee; of flattering gales
Unmindfull. Hapless they
To whom thou untry’d seem’st fair. Me in my vow’d
Picture the sacred wall declares t’ have hung
My dank and dropping weeds
To the stern God of Sea.
2.3k
[Dedicated to Horace Sheridan-Bickers]
A vision of flushed faces, shining limbs,
The madness of the music that entrances
All life in its delirium of dances!
The white world glitters in the void, and swims
Through the infinite seas of transcendental trances.
Yea! all the hoarded seed of all my fancies
Bursts in a shower of suns! The wine-cup brims
And bubbles over; I drink deep hymns
Of sorceries, of spells, of necromancies;
And all my spirit shudders; dew bedims
My sight -these girls and their alluring glances!
Their eyes that burn like dawn's lascivious lances
Walking all earth to love -to love! Life skims
The cream of joy. If God could see what man sees,
(Intoxicating Nellies, Mauds and Nances!)
I see Him leave the sapphrine expanses,
The choir serene and the celestial air
To swoon into their sacramental hair!
1.9k
Here we are
Trying to bring the dead back to life
Ovid, Horace, Homer
Down the cobblestone streets to Ospedale
Down the narrow packed streets
Walking until we meet our ancestors
Walking until we reach the River Styx
Virgil be thy guide
To meet Poe, Keats, Frost
Fighting the day the fates cut our string
Here lies death, ashes and nothing
Jun 9, 2013
Jun 9, 2013 at 4:23 PM UTC
Justum et tenacem propositi virum.
HOR. ‘Odes’, iii. 3. I.
The man of firm and noble soul
No factious clamours can controul;
No threat’ning tyrant’s darkling brow
Can swerve him from his just intent:
Gales the warring waves which plough,
By Auster on the billows spent,
To curb the Adriatic main,
Would awe his fix’d determined mind in vain.
Aye, and the red right arm of Jove,
Hurtling his lightnings from above,
With all his terrors there unfurl’d,
He would, unmov’d, unaw’d, behold;
The flames of an expiring world,
Again in crashing chaos roll’d,
In vast promiscuous ruin hurl’d,
Might light his glorious funeral pile:
Still dauntless ’midst the wreck of earth he’d smile.
1.9k
Nobody no longer contains the desire for unrefinity
The urge to tap into the void smacks of divinity
What exists in its place in the flesh market place
Are bartering skill sets and chocoalte puddings
When confronted by an invisible elephant
The people, in consensus, turn away
This happens within the day to day
The elephants march on, heedless vessels
Turbans floating downstreat, mainstream.
****** babble replaces conversation
Emblamatic gestures infiltrate the realm of the symbolic
The priests have all taken off their underwear
And the women are putting their brasiers
Back onto their chests, underneath their shirts
Blouses are burnt.
Toast is burnt.
Jams are being made by machines, horses do have dreams
Jelly and ice cream make delicate farts
Ghosts live in pipes and buy and sell art
People whose names are Horace or Rupert
Have been decommisioned
And the stories are locked in pie dishes
And the tale remains the same.
Remember, that future archeologists will exist.
Excavating sites will bring us all
To the kingdom of devon
In the beautiful future of documented tales
Which we are building for
Inside the spaceships.
When ponies are invalid and germs become common currency
Know that it will be time to fly your pillow cases as flags
Feb 23, 2014
Feb 23, 2014 at 6:40 PM UTC
Life isn’t enough.
I want 10 more
I want 10 penises and 10 *******
I want 10 guns and 10 crosses
I want 10 children and 10 homes
I want 10 friends and 10 enemies
I want more of everything and now
The gamma rays and the cosmic nothingness
The icy chill and solar flares
The Big Expanse and Big Crunch
I CRAVE the universe
ALL of it
To funnel through me
Like water through a hose
Or electricity through a cable
Or sunlight through a magnifying glass
I am wired
With LIFE
With music, and wine, and kisses
With silence, hangovers, and wishes
I want to consume
Like Horace
the very sun, the very underworld
Engulf dreams, nightmares, and mortality between
Like plumes of obsidian perfume
Sacrifice virgins and assassins
Dig up graves and wheel them into churches
Dig up stones and throw them at CIA vans
I want to rage
Smear my blood all over eggshells
Feces on W2 forms
Give me more thunderclap and ******** wailings
Charge me with the ravenous gasp
To breathe, to bellow
To love in bolted totality
To strike and revel
I hold the goblet out
Shimmering and trembling
For you
Jan 4, 2017
Jan 4, 2017 at 1:58 AM UTC
Lost, yesterday, somewhere between sunrise and sunset, two golden hours, each set with sixty diamond minutes. No reward is offered, for they are gone forever.
Jul 2, 2014
Jul 2, 2014 at 3:32 AM UTC
sweet chloe have you tamed that pretty bird,
as light as southern breezes on your arm?
how many hours have you beguiled and heard
your sparrow sing for you with graceful charm?
my poet's pen falls restless to the ground,
my fevered mind can find no peace today,
for all you do is praise his lilting sound
and pay no heed to anything i say.
great neptune throws his trident in despair,
apollo breathes, his tresses filled with fire
and i am left with solitary care
for jove cannot bring comfort with his lyre.
i do not wait forever at your door,
the burdened ocean storming to the shore.
Feb 14, 2017
Feb 14, 2017 at 10:26 AM UTC
Moses o mighty moses,
Shoes of god are naked,
Holy is the ground,
And holy is his chambers.
Unholy are the sons of horace
Who must pay up in death.
And by the staff freedom
Is sweet like milk & honey.
God of prophets
Tell the family Abraham loved
Opression never goes unanswered.
The waiting finally has ended.
Nov 16, 2013
Nov 16, 2013 at 9:58 PM UTC
once Horace reached
the mountain's
apex
he could go no further
on the lofty ascending
index
now he's perched
high and all
alone
wondering why he wanted
to be in such a rarefied
zone
Apr 26, 2019
Apr 26, 2019 at 10:21 PM UTC
How many have stood,
will stand beside you
in Heptonstall,
had a photo taken
next to her spot?
Students, admirers
from any nook or cranny
with drained biros,
Ariel under an arm,
her morning song spoken
again, and again.
You're the next-door neighbours
they haven't come to see.
Only a lonely cup
of coffee-stained
hunchbacked flowers
where you lie
in loving memory,
with Emily,
husband with wife,
home to the right
of the graveyard's star.
Mar 12, 2014
Mar 12, 2014 at 3:31 PM UTC
A former lyric to celebrate some bode
A lyric to praise someone who is a goad
A lyric in praise of the West Wind - an abode
Of Autumn and frost; a lovely lyric that rowed
Many poets to the highest pinnacle mode –
Inspired me too, try my skills at a crossroad.
Poets write on ephemeral with you, O Anode!
They describe love, beauty, or music, borrowed
From Pindar or 1st century poet Horace lode.
But chose I You, Dear, stunning, serene, grim Ode.
Inspired so much that feelings and views outflowed
From my pen and compelled to pen down the load
On the paper; ideas from Wordsworth I borrowed.
A strict line or stanza is not required in ode
So free, so unrestricted, so honest to explode
Your emotions; anyone can try his carload
To stride his feelings to carve elation sowed
In heart to pen down his emotions bestowed.
Types are the Pindaric ode, the Horatian ode,
and the Irregular ode; third being most popular load.
I follow Monorhyme, and wrote an ode on an ode
To commemorate importance. Nor ignore nor strode,
Used my flair, elegance and ideas winnowed
With imagination; no notion borrowed.
The tone is serious, genuine, and reflective strode
Celebrate major events and moments load
Aeolic ode written with a calm, tranquil mode
And contemplative tone so that pacify abode
By William Wordsworth or John Keats showed
Expecting to see more elegant and serene ode.
Aug 18, 2023
Aug 18, 2023 at 6:20 AM UTC
Timetabled automobiles
run to deliver the places
much like ****** functions
so the city operates
Many a face is graced in these moving shared spaces
a rareity in the city
where we move indoors to be nimble and warm
when the weather is adorned with low hung clouds or sometimes bright clear days that come from mornings of mist and grey minded melenchony damp.
Turtle - by the name Horace
what some would call a black boy
or something but i’ve never seen a thing so foolish -
the blackness
if one would read between the lines to the connottions of what race is
,
is mearly the opposite to the void
brimming to the full
i’m not sure if either is better
since i’m of mixed origin ,but to be honest ,
what would the fullness be in if it was not the void ( ? )
This example is everywhere
the human body
the planets that hang in the stars emptiness
or even on the macro cosmic scale
Well , well , well - the universe does it again
playing games
with mind made names
and simple syncronicites
say an awful lot
i don’t really - really - really - really - really - (hate=strongly dislike) may things
but here are a few
People who know things , that will help other people but don’t say it and instead belittle them because that’s an easier way to fuel their own self worth because somthing proberbly happned in their life that ****** them up because i was one of those people and i hated myself for it , i hated myself for not being skinny and caring what other people think , and being this or that does it matter any more? is that not that?
Lucozade
Somethings i really- really-really-really-really (love= strongly love)
Bagels with peanut butter and honey and raspberries
friends.
Sep 20, 2013
Sep 20, 2013 at 5:41 PM UTC
The first place people were
Ever called Christians but
That Antioch was in Syria
My Antioch was in Yellow
Springs Ohio. It was founded
By Horace Mann who has
Been given the title Father of
American publiceducation. He is
Best known to many for saying
"Be ashamed
To die until you have won
Some victory for humanity"
It does seem to me that if
shame alone could keep one
From dying it would be highly
Prized and nobody would have
To die any more so that they we
As allll probably can truthfully
Summon up an adequate supply
of the product in our biography
But come to think of it I believe
Horace Mann was a Christian
Of some type and He probably
Knew it-was way to keep us alive
In default of the great act which
May prove to be beyond our
Capacities, a perverse blessing
You might say but Antioch is a
Special place-A few years ago
It got resurrected and who can
Say that Horace Mann and may-
Be even shame had no part. Any-
Way I can claim it as my alma
Mater, a still living place and
I did meet Billy Graham there
Well actually it was on an ex-
cursion to Indiana but that is
Another story I'll leave for later.
Feb 2, 2015
Feb 2, 2015 at 1:20 PM UTC
*My heart beats intermittently in this mad, mad world,
The pain of it makes it shutter so.
And as it quivers I would have you know
That many well minded people proclaim to defend
The madness hidden here within
Their deafening fog and their blinding snow.
Here where Tully stands
Amidst Horace and Homer’s hands,
And Plato watches as they go
So many years far below.
I was once with them an unlettered lad
Buried somehow now inside their fog and snow.
Is it possible to jinx this madness?
Attack the demons and spill their decadence?
Newspapers daily attacks on the sane
With words like hammers again and again.
Making a false museum out of this insanity’s row.
Falling all around within the cold fog of snow.
Are the insane the real artists?
The vandals the restorers?
The bombs - the ballast?
The lies – the words the authors’
Use to make this world less to know.
Sprinkling mysery about in the fog and snow.
Your own thoughts float down to the place where you are
Watching as another lie falls so far.
You watch it fly out the door into the misty night,
Sailing away to the dark tenements of right.
Wishing it to stay where the art is black and without a glow,
Burying yourself in the fog and snow.
Let sanity swing open in the cages of your heart
Like an eagle soaring with wings held wide apart.
Looking down with an illuminated eye.
Floating high above this mad quasi
Thinkers of thought, squelching out a reply.
No question lost in this worldly fresco -
Lost no more in the fog and snow.*
May 28, 2017
May 28, 2017 at 5:01 PM UTC
Write - untamed ! in fearless insecurity
unconstrained by censure
silence or petty malcontents
seeking not gratuitous affections
embattled by honesty
against oppression voice dissent
form - finds her beauty in a winding oaken staircase
poetry - toils within each acorn
crafting her spiraled ascent
seek thy inmost pen twitching 'neath bound skin
in living script DNA writes
so mysteriously eloquent
restring mind's bow thoughts reified as arrows
in ardent release unwavering let fly !
Artistry - true to thy own hearts intent
~~~~
A fallen acorn cannot imagine its life
formed into a winding oaken staircase.
As the oak tree cannot love the artisan carpenter;
a fallen world cannot conceive of what artistry
God's Carpenter desires to craft within us.
geo.v 4/2015
A reading by: Horace (translated by Francis)
"The wood-born race of men when Orpheus tam’d,
From acorns, and from mutual blood reclaim’d.
The Priest divine was fabled to assuage
The tiger’s fierceness, and the lion’s rage."
May 14, 2017
May 14, 2017 at 8:50 AM UTC