"huger" poems
The glitter and the shame
The wow and the woe
The wants and the needs
Do we even know?
Covered in gems that weigh us down
Chasing the trends that never last
Isn't it enough?
Isn't it exhausting?
Such contradictions we resort to
The more we huger, the more we fall
Only to find that nothing last at all
So what are we chasing, what are we doing?
Does this ever end?
What has humanity become?
I am disgusted
Myself included
Jul 19, 2014
Jul 19, 2014 at 11:10 PM UTC
the bigness of cannon
is skilful,
but i have seen
death’s clever enormous voice
which hides in a fragility
of poppies….
i say that sometimes
on these long talkative animals
are laid fists of huger silence.
I have seen all the silence
full of vivid noiseless boys
at Roupy
i have seen
between barrages,
the night utter ripe unspeaking girls.
6.2k
Today I became a tree huger,
because yesterday's random hug
ended with the red and blue blinking lights,
a frontal shot, two side photos,
and my new roommate
who has claimed the top bunk.
Apr 11, 2016
Apr 11, 2016 at 1:00 AM UTC
I
Happy are men who yet before they are killed
Can let their veins run cold.
Whom no compassion fleers
Or makes their feet
Sore on the alleys cobbled with their brothers.
The front line withers.
But they are troops who fade, not flowers,
For poets' tearful fooling:
Men, gaps for filling:
Losses, who might have fought
Longer; but no one bothers.
II
And some cease feeling
Even themselves or for themselves.
Dullness best solves
The tease and doubt of shelling,
And Chance's strange arithmetic
Comes simpler than the reckoning of their shilling.
They keep no check on armies' decimation.
III
Happy are these who lose imagination:
They have enough to carry with ammunition.
Their spirit drags no pack.
Their old wounds, save with cold, can not more ache.
Having seen all things red,
Their eyes are rid
Of the hurt of the colour of blood for ever.
And terror's first constriction over,
Their hearts remain small-drawn.
Their senses in some scorching cautery of battle
Now long since ironed,
Can laugh among the dying, unconcerned.
IV
Happy the soldier home, with not a notion
How somewhere, every dawn, some men attack,
And many sighs are drained.
Happy the lad whose mind was never trained:
His days are worth forgetting more than not.
He sings along the march
Which we march taciturn, because of dusk,
The long, forlorn, relentless trend
From larger day to huger night.
V
We wise, who with a thought besmirch
Blood over all our soul,
How should we see our task
But through his blunt and lashless eyes?
Alive, he is not vital overmuch;
Dying, not mortal overmuch;
Nor sad, nor proud,
Nor curious at all.
He cannot tell
Old men's placidity from his.
VI
But cursed are dullards whom no cannon stuns,
That they should be as stones.
Wretched are they, and mean
With paucity that never was simplicity.
By choice they made themselves immune
To pity and whatever mourns in man
Before the last sea and the hapless stars;
Whatever mourns when many leave these shores;
Whatever shares
The eternal reciprocity of tears
2.8k
.
Snow. Ice. Bitterness.
Fear. Huger. Distress.
Darkness.
Hopelessness.
Without water and electricity.
Without liberty.
Nobody, just me,
and a cold blanket
sighing sadly.
And nothing else.
Betrayals countless.
Without a friendly face.
Without an embrace.
Puddles of tears surround me,
I will cut my wrists to end this misery.
My frostbite wounds
Millions of people are passing by
never a one to stop
to offer a shoulder on which to cry
I don’t need anything
no cash, no bread
no shoes, no roof over my head
just a single heart to start beating
beating for me, crazily.
Saša Milivojev
Translated by Ljubica Yentl Tinska
www.sasamilivojev.com
Jun 25, 2022
Jun 25, 2022 at 7:43 PM UTC
An evening spent washing dishes
makes my hands thin and wrinkling
like tissue paper.
It’s ten o’clock.
Tonight each streetlight will
pop on one by one and
me and the guys who smoke out back
will watch owls drop from the trees
and sweep mice out of their holes.
Inside the pizza boils in the oven,
blistering up like pimples on elbows.
They can smell it from the doorstep
peeling the paint from the asphalt and
the huger gnaws and claws deep into the belly.
Onward the light crawls
trying to outshine the stars
and our Pizza Hut sign,
blazes a banner of glory to the highway.
I feel sick on gasoline and the cigarette breath
that clings to your apron.
No one can clean out the gutters
like you.
After the doors close
everyone hitchhikes
to the Greyhound bus stop
nobly trying to stay awake
over the thousand miles home.
Apr 10, 2015
Apr 10, 2015 at 11:45 PM UTC
These empty rooms
devoid of life,
behind a bookcase
in the hall.
This was, for a time,
our home
while the Germans
held the Dutch in thrall.
My wife since dead from huger,
my daughters in a common grave.
I, Otto Frank, the sole survivor.
Is there no one I can save?
Annelise, my dearest daughter,
Miep Gies gave me your book.
The Germans cast it on the floor
without a second look.
Here in your words I find
perhaps not all of you has died.
Here in print your words may speak
for all who suffered, all who cried.
Its small comfort for an old man,
broken, ready for the grave,
but my girl might be a symbol
for all those we could not save.
Jul 24, 2014
Jul 24, 2014 at 1:38 PM UTC
Train is coming to the city of steal,
And you are aboard granting the dream.
As you enter the city of knowledge,
A science miracle on the lake's edge.
Two hours ago, you followed a river down stream,
Just then you saw a sky high tower covered in steam .
The tower of Lesia, or so the folks call it,
The greatest library on Earth is within it.
The city's houses are created of steel,
Forever they move, afraid to stay still.
Universities are all over the place,
So that everyone can science embrace.
And mechanical creatures wonder it's streets,
It seems like they are alive, as you hear their heartbeats.
The folk in here works miracles every day,
Each district's so different in it's own way.
The streets are in fog but one thing is clear,
Now there is no doubt that magic is real.
The city's walls With gears are covered ,
Cause all of the city is a steam powered
Huger then lake machine .
Oct 26, 2016
Oct 26, 2016 at 11:10 AM UTC
Me oh my!
Mercy me!
Something's descended from the tall pine tree;
It grew through my childhood;
It grew through my roof;
Straight up from the floor
A seed made for sorrow
All the life it could borrow
To make itself huger
Than huger
Than huge
Yet
What's this?
What gives?
It does? Does it give?
It has swayed for nine decades
(Nine and three quarters to be specific)
And now comes opportunity
Mystère Magnifique!
A future, a glimmer
Of reward and desire
Polished leaves, rough-edged shade
Up and up, up much higher
It is homely
Somewhat dusty
It bites and it barks
It is all of my past
It is parts of my parts
With its paints in my skin and its dust in my nose
There is no certain knowledge of just where it goes
Still
The brush keeps rewinding
Still the morning is lighter
Above me
Beneath me
That reward my desire
Pure and crisp and untouched by guilt
Untouched by those mornings all filthy in quilts
Different
And new
Between, through and through
I am higher
Mainly tired
Very saddened
Too inspired
For
I have been reaching
Past branches of branches
To make that glimmer of a concept
More than a concept
To make it constant
A stream, a beam
A dawn
But I yawn
Take myself to the woodwork
A frame on my back without borders
Or shame
Without quilts
Without comfort
Me and a tree
In a rain kissing sea
Cold
Sheltered
I stare down at the rooftops
And watch as my boot drops
Dec 13, 2011
Dec 13, 2011 at 11:25 PM UTC
My life is getting huger
Here comes my future
I wanna stay into today
I only think of yesterday
Around the corner is tomorrow
Time I wish I could borrow
Mar 24, 2019
Mar 24, 2019 at 10:51 PM UTC
They get lost in each other's hugs
Skin soft like a fluffed rug
Sink into each other like a sat in bean bag
Others get jealous from their over bragging
How much in love they are
They don't see the ripples in each other skin when they walk
Or there over bearing movements on the surface of their face when they talk
Their love more sweeter then the cupcakes they bake
Rich like the chocolate they consume
They huger for each other's affection
A bigger appetite for it more then food
They see each other as equals
Not a health risk or a person who can't control there weight
No love is bigger then obese love
Jul 14, 2015
Jul 14, 2015 at 12:27 AM UTC
*yes, i understand the politics, or so i thought,
that biology will never spawn a humanism,
that darwinism will only spawn generic attempts
via disregarding existentialism sweats.*
when was the thought ever conceived,
that dialectics needed a mediator?
why would a mediator be needed
when the only mediator
is a park bench in athens, and two people
speaking?
i get the foul animals' existence, i get the whole
wild heart, and shrinking eyesight,
i get that animals are given pristine materialism,
being incubated by overt-sensual impregnation,
i get that they're impregnated by pure sensuality
(over-use of adjectives is like quantifying things,
as many qualities to the legions of ants
as attributes of the sun, ending with deity
and beginning with geometry),
animals are plagued by sensuality,
they are overly given the pentagon,
while man is given the hexagon / star of david,
animals are overly sensing, man is overly thinking,
when the only phobia of wilderness animal
is huger... man's is spider, enclosure, open-spaces...
animal is pulverised by the senses and things
it roams among... man is pulverised by thought
and nothing, roaming ingenuity by the Libra
dimming sight with hearing for classical composition,
dimming hearing with sight for pablo picassos..
the wild animal in fright of hunger...
and man abounding in it to reflect clocked
chicken press of the laid eggs clucks a sudden diversion
rather than adding to a diversity...
change the poetic gimmick of rhyme...
don't end with synonymous spelling,
intertwine rhyming elsewhere, lie:
'a sudden diversion' and 'adding to diversity'
as engaging to lines without an a# a# end of both
to reveal a missing echo, after all echoing is like rhyming,
but pitiful rhyming, because it's written down
and never plotted to decipher plato's shadows
and candle in the cave entered... defeated first-step
defeated to claim the colour of defeat, the page
that dangled in the odds of waving like a signature
digitalised... all in all... animals are overly sensual,
and man is overly abstract... hence man
mediates symbols and thinking... while
animals mediate onomatopoeias sounding a bit
like touch on wood, and the parameters of allowed
petting:
we blink thrice and think we spotted
a thing only once, when in fact thrice.
Feb 20, 2016
Feb 20, 2016 at 7:31 PM UTC
It begins as a tingling in my legs,
unpleasant like something squirmy trying to get out, something huger than my skin, wriggling, bursting to get free.
Without ceremony it spreads, bulging in my chest, prickles poking through my shoulder blades. Suppressing only makes it worse, I need to run, to fly, to breathe-
"What's wrong?" you ask.
I cannot answer, it is taking all my
willpower not to scream, or punch an
innocent bystander. Would I? Whether I would or not I've never found out,
I just leave.
"I love you," you say. I still cannot reply, the tears have been melting my face, but now they trickle down shiny scales.
External sensations have become
insensible, overpowered by the
overwhelming rage of barely managed fire within. The sharpness of my teeth meets an unfeeling leathery lip.
I go downstairs and leave the building. I don’t know if I remembered my keys.
I run
just as reptilian wings free themselves from my back, they flutter, stretch out wide at last.
I'm free,
but I still want this thing inside me, this thing that now is me, to leave. I am ashamed of it, afraid of its newness and my inability to control it.
It's happier now--
in the open air where it can thrash about without restraint. I let it, no longer worried it will lash out at something or someone breakable.
We fly far and long, my arms and lungs ache, but still the fire burns in my whole body waiting to be unleashed.
We soar, sore and angry until suddenly I'm alone again.
I look down but I don't need to look to know the scales are gone. My lip feels soft again beneath my rounded teeth. The wings still flap but gentler now, quietly bringing me back to the ground then softly folding and
painlessly absorbing back into my
shoulders.
I head home.
Sep 2, 2020
Sep 2, 2020 at 6:32 PM UTC
I will always wonder
Where you are
And are you safe
And are you happy
I'll wonder walls
And a roof
And a white picket fence
I will always hunger
For your lips and your legs
And your laughter
I'll huger for games
In a bed
In a sea of black satin
I will always dream
Where you're here
And of your hand in my hair
I'll dream on
Though you're gone
Dream that you're dreaming too
I will always love
You
Aug 24, 2013
Aug 24, 2013 at 6:01 PM UTC
Once I past
Into the nigh
Slip through
The shadow
Out of the light
Under world
Of dread
And gloom
I stayed to long
And now
I'm doomed
To surf upon
The lunar tides
In downward
Spirals
Of restless mind
Ever wanting
The passion drives
Unable to quench
This huger for life
And so...
Crash and burn
And live in sin
But don't let the shadow
Grabs a hold
Of you
My friend
...
Oct 18, 2017
Oct 18, 2017 at 9:00 AM UTC
my mind has fallen down, nearer to where my heart is, and it is shrinking, but pulsing huger, whilst my heart is no longer pumping blood and throat is now stuck with this dry lump and my tear ducts are too empty to occupy and it's all suddenly just decided to go, to leave, to place this heaviness upon the cage that no longer protects my unworking heart
Feb 7, 2015
Feb 7, 2015 at 12:04 PM UTC