"hugh" poems
A Red, Red Rose
by Robert Burns
translation/interpretation/modernization by Michael R. Burch
Oh, my love is like a red, red rose
that's newly sprung in June
and my love is like the melody
that's sweetly played in tune.
And you're so fair, my lovely lass,
and so deep in love am I,
that I will love you still, my dear,
till all the seas run dry.
Till all the seas run dry, my dear,
and the rocks melt with the sun!
And I will love you still, my dear,
while the sands of life shall run.
And fare you well, my only love!
And fare you well, awhile!
And I will come again, my love,
though it were ten thousand miles!
Keywords/Tags: Robert Burns, red, rose, translation, modernization, update, interpretation, modern English, melody, tune, seas, dry, rocks, melt, sun, ten thousand miles
Original Scots Dialect Poem:
A Red, Red Rose
by Robert Burns
O my Luve is like a red, red rose
That’s newly sprung in June;
O my Luve is like the melody
That’s sweetly played in tune.
So fair art thou, my bonnie lass,
So deep in luve am I;
And I will luve thee still, my dear,
Till a’ the seas gang dry.
Till a’ the seas gang dry, my dear,
And the rocks melt wi’ the sun;
I will love thee still, my dear,
While the sands o’ life shall run.
And fare thee weel, my only luve!
And fare thee weel awhile!
And I will come again, my luve,
Though it were ten thousand mile.
Hugh MacDiarmid wrote "The Watergaw" in a Scots dialect. I have translated the poem into modern English to make it easier to read and understand. A watergaw is a fragmentary rainbow.
The Watergaw
by Hugh MacDiarmid
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
One wet forenight in the sheep-shearing season
I saw the uncanniest thing—
a watergaw with its wavering light
shining beyond the wild downpour of rain ...
and I thought of the last wild look that you gave
when you knew you were destined for the grave.
There was no light in the skylark's nest
that night—no—nor any in mine;
but now often I've thought of that foolish light
and of these more foolish hearts of men ...
and I think that maybe at last I ken
what your look meant then.
Keywords/Tags: Scotland, Scot, Scottish, Scots dialect, night, nightfall, rain, grave, death, death of a friend, light, lights, watergaw, heart, heartache, broken heart, heart song
Apr 19, 2020
Apr 19, 2020 at 11:10 PM UTC
the sophiatown i live in:
is a place i call home
is where i come to from work
is a place riddled with crime
is where i'm proud to be from
is a place being renovated
is where i'm not far from means
is a place that gets frustrated
by the westbury fiends
the sophiatown i read about:
is a place void of silence
is where bra hugh got his trumpet
is a place full of vibrance
is where miriam caught hold of it
is a place that was razed
is where a new place was born
is a place that couldn't be fazed
by the lines that were drawn
the sophiatown i love:
is a place that i live in
is where i've chosen to stay
is a place that i read about
is where that won't go away
is a place that's still here
is where apartheid escaped
is a place made austere
by the forces it shaped
the sophiatown that inspires me:
is very triumphant
is very intact
so what was your reason
for doing that
Dec 8, 2015
Dec 8, 2015 at 6:26 PM UTC
Sometimes, when you listen to their enounciation.
You realize, just how beautiful they speak in their British accent.
Every word expressively spoken.
That you're mermorized by each vocal.
Maggie Smith, the lady of class.
Cary Grant, the man of taste.
Oh, that British voice.
That you might chose , if had you that choice.
Or seek ways to adapt them to yours.
Michael Redgrave/Michael Rennie/Vanessa Regraves
All of them had that lovable voice.
Then you notice the beautiful Julie Andrew.
Words spoke so you see the greatness of the phase.
Which we notice too in Richard Attenborough.
Who reminds many of Richard Burton?
Yes, the British accent.
You just got to love it
Similar to loving Honor Blackman when she speaks.
A great difference from Jacqueline Bissett.
Except written about them with great respect.
Who can't admire the British Accent?
Yes, there's the French.
And I'm not kicking it.
Then , there's Spanish.
Which has more trying to learn it.
But this is about the English and the various style of vocals.
Colin Barker and Prince Williams the Royals speaks so wonderful.
Just like, the man called Michael Caine.
I just have to mention Deborah Kerr.
That also goes for Joan Collin.
It's something about their style of speaking.
Maybe because you understand every spoken word.
Which is level toward the great Timothy Dalton.
And Samantha Eggar and **** Jagger.
Plus, the late David Niven.
And honorable mention to Julie Christie.
Jane Asher, Hugh Grant and several more.
Have you wishing to make their voices be yours.
Yes, the British Accent just so lovable.
And the greatest things about it.
You don't have to be famous to be adored.
Jan 1, 2014
Jan 1, 2014 at 10:23 AM UTC
i fell in love with a boy with dark blonde hair and the most beautiful blue green eyes ive ever seen in my life
his smile is so bright that i swear he is a star
he is the sun in my galaxy
his laugh is as warm homemade chicken noodle soup;
so comforting, so nice you could cry
maybe it's a stretch to say that i'm in love
with the way he cheers up the people around him,
taking their hands and leading them into a world
where you can feel safe and finally be yourself
instead of wearing fake masks of happiness in order to protect those around you
from the hurricane you house inside
but even years of depression later,
a simple five minutes with him makes me feel immeasurable happiness
what's his secret?
if only jealousy didn't get the best of me
i wonder why i lie in bed,
daydreaming about a boy i wish i could have
but may never have
i wonder why i can never collect the courage
to just grab his hands
or hold his face and kiss him softly
i wonder why i'm so afraid of ruining our friendship and telling him how i really feel
when i so deeply just want to be his love
i wonder what he would say
if i asked him to stay in my life forever?
May 17, 2016
May 17, 2016 at 11:53 PM UTC
Loons in the vineyard – sound the alarm !
Satan is milking his metaphors.
Such silly music portends no harm;
call home the cows and open your doors.
Brian Hugh Warner, a paleface freak
after finding his mom’s mascara
darker enlightenment did seek
and crowned himself with Baal’s tiara.
Scary drag-queen, scandalous, vain
Marilyn – the creepy thespian
rolled that fish-eye and snorted *******
like Crowley… how pedestrian.
Flashing his glowing cataract,
he gave the mommies quite a fright.
Censorship launched; no badder act
did sail (or assail) our sinking night.
Gothic dim-wits purchased CD’s
bought the goods, pierced parts, wore black.
(Cause for certain parents’ unease:
MTV’s Antichrist on the attack).
Son of Man – or rather, Manson
Milked to the max his demonic cow;
playing Satan’s naughty grandson
showing the flustered milk-maids how.
Urban legend surrounds this fowl
(those ribs removed – like Adam’s sin!)
Is he a misunderstood night owl –
or a has-been loon in a loony bin?
Rock-stars age (well, most) like a cheap wine.
or else in the way once-ripened grapes
withering, sun-struck, off the vine
transform, with age, into wizened shapes.
No – I am wrong. They age like prunes;
plums thus pass into their glory.
Even Luciferian loons
find lakes of fire at end of story.
Sep 10, 2015
Sep 10, 2015 at 9:23 PM UTC
Call me the greatest adventure of Indiana Jones.
Call me the Graeters of tasty ice cream cones.
Call me the Ed Rosenthal of relaxing stones.
Call me the Natasha Trethewey of meaningful poems.
Call me the Pauly Shore of Bio-Domes.
Call me the Jack Hannah of Columbus Zoos.
Call me the Martha Stewart of delicious stews.
Call me the Bob Ross of independent creations.
Call me the Dr. Phil of mending relations.
Call me the Albert Einstein of mathematical equations.
Call me the Captain Kirk of Space exploration.
Call me the William Shatner of monotone greatness.
Call me the Jim Morrison of open doors.
Call me the Mr. Clean of shiny floors.
Call me the Hugh Hefner of stupid ******
Call me the Bob Dylan of traveling trains.
Call me the Samuel L. Jackson of snakes and planes.
Call me the Arm & Hammer of tough stains.
Call me the Blade of a vampire.
Call me the Froto Baggins of the Shire.
Call me the Firestone of a pumped tire.
Call me a Christ of ignited passion.
Call me a Lucifer of trendy fashion.
Call me a Shiva of shattered illusions.
Call me a Buddha of peaceful institutions.
Call me the Ron Jeremy of KY Jelly.
Call me the Emeril Legassi of food for the belly.
Call me the Tupac Shakur of spitting ****
Call me the Eminem of full sentences.
Call me the Smoky the Bear of a campfire.
Call me the Jim Carry of Liar Liar.
Call me the That Guy of desire.
You can even call me an *******
Apr 29, 2013
Apr 29, 2013 at 5:20 AM UTC
Inside, I’m a house-cat with claws like Hugh Jackman- he’s been waiting on hold for an hour and a half.
I’m a Ghost-type Pokemon wearing a powder blue LT jersey from a time when JT was all glamour shots.
Today I’ll smoke a bowl next to my open window and then spend the entire night hoping my parents stay brainwashed by the Smart TV.
How come all the advertisements on the side of each website I view are related to me in some way or form?
Sometimes I have dreams about shadow monsters hanging out with my Cookie Monster doll.
When I sob my father’s name, it responds by tickling my toes at the end of the bed and twisting my ******* when I fall back to sleep.
My ears are like Batman’s pet bat, except in this world my eyes accumulate wax.
I’m a house-cat hopped up on cat-nip and I can’t sleep so let me be.
Nov 20, 2014
Nov 20, 2014 at 3:26 PM UTC
I am weary of lying within the chase
When the knights are meeting in market-place.
Nay, go not thou to the red-roofed town
Lest the hoofs of the war-horse tread thee down.
But I would not go where the Squires ride,
I would only walk by my Lady’s side.
Alack! and alack! thou art overbold,
A Forester’s son may not eat off gold.
Will she love me the less that my Father is seen
Each Martinmas day in a doublet green?
Perchance she is sewing at tapestrie,
Spindle and loom are not meet for thee.
Ah, if she is working the arras bright
I might ravel the threads by the fire-light.
Perchance she is hunting of the deer,
How could you follow o’er hill and mere?
Ah, if she is riding with the court,
I might run beside her and wind the morte.
Perchance she is kneeling in St. Denys,
(On her soul may our Lady have gramercy!)
Ah, if she is praying in lone chapelle,
I might swing the censer and ring the bell.
Come in, my son, for you look sae pale,
The father shall fill thee a stoup of ale.
But who are these knights in bright array?
Is it a pageant the rich folks play?
‘T is the King of England from over sea,
Who has come unto visit our fair countrie.
But why does the curfew toll sae low?
And why do the mourners walk a-row?
O ‘t is Hugh of Amiens my sister’s son
Who is lying stark, for his day is done.
Nay, nay, for I see white lilies clear,
It is no strong man who lies on the bier.
O ‘t is old Dame Jeannette that kept the hall,
I knew she would die at the autumn fall.
Dame Jeannette had not that gold-brown hair,
Old Jeannette was not a maiden fair.
O ‘t is none of our kith and none of our kin,
(Her soul may our Lady assoil from sin!)
But I hear the boy’s voice chaunting sweet,
‘Elle est morte, la Marguerite.’
Come in, my son, and lie on the bed,
And let the dead folk bury their dead.
O mother, you know I loved her true:
O mother, hath one grave room for two?
2.2k
Here I am drifting
floating in the sea
just here waiting
for you to return to me.
For I am just a buoy
trying to reach a girl
across an ocean
through the swirl.
But with every neglect
I drift further away
with every lost text
the words you didn't say.
A dot on the horizon
so distant and far
you used to think me the sun
but now I'm just a star.
I am not Hugh Grant
but it is Love Actually
caught in a trance
blinded by what I see.
Feelings are more important
than seeing with your eyes
saying what you meant
than telling me more lies.
Waves they come crashing
water all around
nothing is lasting
as I begin to drown.
Nov 27, 2015
Nov 27, 2015 at 9:02 PM UTC
I meditate upon a swallow's flight,
Upon a aged woman and her house,
A sycamore and lime-tree lost in night
Although that western cloud is luminous,
Great works constructed there in nature's spite
For scholars and for poets after us,
Thoughts long knitted into a single thought,
A dance-like glory that those walls begot.
There Hyde before he had beaten into prose
That noble blade the Muses buckled on,
There one that ruffled in a manly pose
For all his timid heart, there that slow man,
That meditative man, John Synge, and those
Impetuous men, Shawe-Taylor and Hugh Lane,
Found pride established in humility,
A scene well Set and excellent company.
They came like swallows and like swallows went,
And yet a woman's powerful character
Could keep a Swallow to its first intent;
And half a dozen in formation there,
That seemed to whirl upon a compass-point,
Found certainty upon the dreaming air,
The intellectual sweetness of those lines
That cut through time or cross it withershins.
Here, traveller, scholar, poet, take your stand
When all those rooms and passages are gone,
When nettles wave upon a shapeless mound
And saplings root among the broken stone,
And dedicate - eyes bent upon the ground,
Back turned upon the brightness of the sun
And all the sensuality of the shade -
A moment's memory to that laurelled head.
1.8k
One may be fun
but several can be even better.
She's got that certin something.
But dam if her sister doesnt look good in that sweater.
Had this problem since I was like five.
Two might be tricky.
But ******* off ten your lucky to be alive.
Im not a man whore just gotta alot of love to share.
A tiger does fear text.
And Nine irons okay and left behind underwear.
I think theres a problem when your black book
reads longer than gone with the wind.
I swear honey there's nothing going on.
She's just a really hot shoulder inwhich I can depend.
Saying goodbye never has been much fun.
Bullet proof vest taser peper spray no it"s
not a riot
Just taking caution probaly be easier breaking up with only
one.
Hey if it works for hugh's old wrinkled *** then
why not me.
But at this pace I'll be lucky to make it past
thirty three.
I think theres a problem but that's okay.
Cause if I get the boot.
I got some friends with benfits house's
inwhich I can stay.
Im not bad just a lotta fun.
Cardio is key.
When she pulls out the meat clever
dont play stupid just run.
And if I seem terrible keep in mind
it takes two to tango.
For what is the banna without the mango.
I think theres problem that I really dont
wanna fix my dear.
Im a bit of a effection ******
***** the cold shower how bout a warm bed and
a beer?
Call me terrible cause hell even I know
I'm not right.
We should take this slow.
So how bout we discuss this in a hot tub tommorow night.
And if I did offend with these word I've spoken.
Then please pull the twig out your backside.
Grab a drink have some fun cause was only jokin.
Feb 8, 2010
Feb 8, 2010 at 6:22 AM UTC
To the man that lost his woman to things he done.
Then you can never blame another one.
To that abusive lover that tries to control.
And use violence in all the worse way.
Then why you upset?
When she walks away.
You deserve the blame.
To the friends that tries to defend this fool.
Remember birds of a feather seems to flocks together.
To the man that loves to visit the prisons for crimes.
Blame yourself.
If your love interest moves on.
To the woman that has tried to stay faithful.
You hadn't nothing to apologize for.
He made a choice to commit this crime.
And you deserve happiness in your life.
To the man that loves to be Hugh Hefner.
Your ******* days has made you suddenly alone.
When you come home.
And your loyal lover is gone.
You deserve the blame.
Totally all the blame when she's gone.
A good woman deserves to be loved.
And if you recall you once had one as yours.
And now she is gone.
Just remember these words.
A good woman deserves to be loved.
Mar 3, 2013
Mar 3, 2013 at 9:27 AM UTC
Most men would love a virtuous woman like Lois Lane.
Then many would love a Selena Kyle type.
Many women would love for their man to be a Superman.
Then some loves the mysterious type like the Batman.
You know, what you want?
You know, what you like?
Many men wants a model style tight.
Many women wants a physical built type.
Many men wants a woman to show off.
Many women wants the same in a man.
Then many will accept love in the place of them.
We know, what we want?
We know, what we like?
We can deny it.
Except, our words and action shows.
Many men would love to be Hugh Hefner.
Surrounded by women in their own mansion.
Many women would love to be Marilyn Monroe.
A *** symbol of many men dreams.
Even if she once was called Norma Jean.
Fantasies and dreams that moves within us.
Even if it's during the making of love.
We know, what we do?
And, who we want to do it too?
Fantasies and dreams, within our minds.
Keeping us smiling.
Until we wake up.
Mar 4, 2013
Mar 4, 2013 at 9:31 AM UTC
He came up to me this guy and introduced
himself
"Hello", he said, "I'm You"
I looked at him uncomprehendingly, even a
little afraid
I thought 'How can you be me, I'm me... not
you'
It's like he'd come to take me over
He was after my pronouns
He wanted to own me
It was like Invasion of the Body Snatchers
Or the Angel of Death, the Grim Reaper come
to get me
I was about to take off running down the
road
I thought "You can't take me, I... I'm already
taken
Then I thought 'If you're me then who am I,
I'm what then....
Maybe that was it, maybe I was a What now
And he... he was a What-not or a not-What
"You! You're You", I said back to him a little
doubtfully
"You", he said again this time with emphasis,
"You O'Brien"
I looked at him closely "You, you're You O'Brien" I said slowly confirming what he'd
just said/told me
Then it hit me You!... Hugh the Borg from Star Trek (the Next Generation LoL), that episode the Borg collective Guy becomes an individual
"You're Hugh" I said greatly relieved, you're
Hugh, Hugh with a H
It was like I'd been released 'So you're not
me after all'.
When he'd gone though I thought, maybe if he had of being me he might have made a better job of being me than I did.
Feb 12, 2023
Feb 12, 2023 at 11:23 AM UTC
The Haunting of the Ol' Fisherton Bay Morticianary, Pt. 1
The nights were longer, as though at bay...
It's time for the artist to make his way.
"It's a mighty profitable business,
isn't it Hugh?"
Said the mortician to his dog.
"These ones are old...
Almost as old as you"
As he worked up his corpse,
for its last and lonesome grog.
"Off to burial, this would see,
off with the other one,
whom ever was he...
Off with you too sir; old wasted chap...
Make for the wedding soon,
of woods and crap;
I shall expect a clean and smoothly slit,
to slip here this trap.. and finish it quick!
his final dance; adieu.. farewell..
Soon riddance will follow,
of you as well."
Yelled the mortician to the delving man,
To take over from here while still he can...
A.r. Bazian
Jan 26th, 2016
Jan 26, 2016
Jan 26, 2016 at 2:54 PM UTC
Ditch ewe sea Mai poem?
Eye sore year phlegm on yootoob!
Knot of ill my mean,
Ice awe yore fitty oh on yewtwoob!
No won you sis Phil mini moor...
Aisle Ike did the Bell eve id Dio.
**** wear wuss aye at?
Cuss ein owe fur sheer.
God Knowed out debt
Hugh phlegmed me giddy
Nth arc are!
Wail?
Watt Chew say a bow to that?
Weight.
Whole Don.
Dead Yew sin sir writ?
Sense err meow tough fit?
High share open aught!
Bay bee!
Hi muss tar!!!
Jul 27, 2014
Jul 27, 2014 at 9:18 PM UTC
Here's a little ditty about my father named Hugh.
He has three grown children, that's one more than two...
He was born in Ontario but now resides in BC
Along with his three kids, Medea, Sean, and me.
He has a work ethic that is second to none.
I remember as a kid he would say yard work was fun.
He would bust his *** until his back was sore...
Then come home from work and still do more. .
He had some slips and trips that broke his hips..
And that's not Ironic..
Thanks to the great Doctors, he is now part bionic..
I've looked up to this man right from the start..
And still do so.. though he's an old **** .
So I stand up here so I can shout..
Happy birthday dad, I love you, and peace out!
Feb 5, 2017
Feb 5, 2017 at 4:57 AM UTC
I would be a better god
than this god
I can rule her out completely
were I your god
I would not rest
even on her Sunday roasts, "no fricken way"
there would be no commandments
no sacrifice of your children
no denial of self
no crusades of hatred
no hypocrisy
no eternal damnation
So for the love of god
dethrone this tyrant
free yourselves you ******* idots
I am your man dogg, not her
or ******* Her, or whoever THE **** was ******* her...!
Meh!
As you can see I'm passionate about this
and I don't mince my meat sometimes
but **** we're all sick it
********
Let me be your crutch in hard times
but be stronger quick,
cause I got better **** to be doing
Thanks for your vote
and hey girls
Oct 3, 2010
Oct 3, 2010 at 6:32 AM UTC
It's only 9:34 PM on a Sunday night
All of my people are getting drunk tonight
But I have an exam to study for right?
My brain doesn't look so bright
I feel like *****
Blue blue blue
They're the dullest colours I see
I can't be free
When these construction workers are stacking bricks in from of me
As they're mixing cement
I have to give my mind supplements
To save myself
From this imprisonment
There are millions of filaments incinerating my skin right through
I won't let myself keep burning into fumes
It stings! It stings! **** It stings!
Snap, I'm sitting on a flaming throne
Broken bones and blood is my red carpet
You all orbit around me
Like I'm the sun
And you are none
You are nine but the planets depending, feeding off of my combustion
I'm powerful now, I'm powerful even when the light turns off
The flames burn out
I am a dead star
But I can **** you in so far
Your body will explode
And I will feed off of all your parts
Nothing can burn me once more
I will **** you up even so that your mind weakens right in front of me
It will deteriorate and drive you insane
Your mundane thoughts will swap into the soil like air
And i won't care
About all your painful histories
Your miserable fuckery
I am here writing rhymes
Instead of doing equationa for maths
My visions are my equations right now
The sky is my sum
I don't have a formula
This is all something I haven't learnt at school
See, that place is a living graveyard
Kids do shards behind the bushes
Kush is laid on their sandwiches like its lettuce
They can't finish a sentence
Without bursting into laughter
They lost their eyes
It's galled at their feet
It is looking back at its disconnected body.
It's hilarious.
It's ******
If I fail at tomorrow's exam
Oh well let I be
I might as well join the detached kid
I don't need to be high on result papers
While I can be have hugh grader embedded on my face!
With no trace!
See now, I haven't been past third base
It's crazy
But the men are hunting for flesh
My man doesn't know how to hold a spear
Let alone my ******
I can be throbbed into at any time
They are everywhere
I can't talk to a man without receiving ****** remarks
They bark! Bark bark bark!
In my head it's all a question mark
I will not sacrifice my body to a reproductive *****
Not so easy
Even through nature asks it
It's a flower that blossoms without your seeds
I can be powerful with no reliance
No reliance.
Nov 9, 2014
Nov 9, 2014 at 8:10 AM UTC
I sat at the table
with a bottle of liquor
and a poetry book
outside were the wolves
dancing around a fire
I went to join them
bottle in one hand
book in the other
reading these poems amongst the fire
the wolves are speaking
strange tongues
I cannot understand them
tried to speak
nothing comes out
I read on
the poems twisted
spun hugh circles in my arms
they spoke to me
I understood them
it started to rain
when the wolves left
they leave behind the ****** bones of mice
scattered like a message
I was still there
legs burning
back cold
bottle in one hand
book in the other
eyes closed
the hunter carried me back home
set me on my couch
drunk and confused
through my book
dropped my liquor
took a knife from the drawer
cut the words from out of my belly
you drowned in the slurs
so did I
swallowed the knife
spoke of god
and went to bed
awoke at dawn
cold
and naked
and amnesic
Nov 8, 2010
Nov 8, 2010 at 1:45 PM UTC
Oh glorious day, did my eyes deceive?
So long the wait had been I could not believe,
That the time had come, so bright and fair,
My poor and barren chin would no longer be bare.
No more would I shave in vain attempt
To feel manly and escape contempt
From my bearded brother, whom according to he,
Could grow a full beard by the age of 3.
Oh how he'd be proven wrong from now on,
That even 'Baby Faced Jack' could possibly grow one,
Soon I'd have more hair than could be counted.
So much in fact I would never be discounted,
By burly builders and stubbly cooks
And have my age judged as 12 based on my looks.
Oh, what possibilities could be within my grasp,
Sideburns, goatees, chin beards OOH A Moustache
Ah, so many new ways to help me look prim and distinguished,
Like Hugh Jackman but better because I'm... English?
But as I pet, stroke and caress this wonderful hair,
My eyes widen in fear and despair
It was not what it seemed, it just wasn't fair,
This wonderful thing must have come from elsewhere,
For as I prided over becoming a man,
That tiny hair fell off right into my hand.
Dec 24, 2018
Dec 24, 2018 at 10:30 AM UTC
Dom Frederick's book
of the old abbey
I had read
the abbey closed
by Henry VIII,
the new abbey
was my sanctuary
since my first arrival,
et habitaverunt ibi,
George sickened
for the warmer weather
the cold saddened him,
she kissed my pecker
to a new life
some other guy's wife,
for the sake of silence
we ought to abstain
even from good talk
Benedict said,
I picked a cabbage
for the midday lunch
and smelt the mint nearby,
birdsong woke
the gardens and me,
Hugh him of thin frame
moaned of the number
of books on my shelf
even the Hopkins poems
got his goat,
Dieu est à mes yeux,
in my sight
and what I saw,
on the seashore
by the abbey
we threw stones
along the incoming tide
and Dom Joe(Bunny dear) smiled,
and again she said
deeper deeper,
we become what we love
and who we love shapes
what we become
said Clare (saint) that is,
the French peasant monk
cut the tall grass
with a skill
I didn't have
his scythe swung wide,
travailler à prier
he said,
Dom Patrick spoke softly
about the sweeping
and washing
of the refectory floor
and how it was done
and I did as he said,
God is the indwelling
not the transient cause
of all things Gareth said
quoting Spinoza
as we walked
from the abbey orchard
to the cloister,
I kissed her *******
each in turn
as she had said
in her big double bed,
the bell tolled
from the church
for the office of Terce,
Dio è nelle mie orecchie
the Italian monk said,
I watched the monks walk
towards the church
and I walked also,
I am lost I mused
where to go?
Feb 25, 2016
Feb 25, 2016 at 4:17 PM UTC
I never had a nickname....
then there was that one night it was late we were tired, really tired,
but in love....
the fresh kind where everything is shiny and fluffy and you laugh at everything and smile over at each other in that certain way
I remember you laughing saying I needed a nickname
you settled on frog....
it was weird and I didn't really like it but it make you smile
so I went along
I was frog to only you
it was frog and hugh
you called me beautiful and I believed you
you told me I was the greatest thing to ever happen to you
I wanted it so badly to be true
all of a sudden I started questioning me but that was your fault
it was the last time you called me frog and you didn't even have the decency to call
'hey frog, this is really hard for me to do....'
it was long and drown out across the bright screen, it was late at night and I was now alone.
told me I had such a beautiful soul you couldn't bring it down with you
I wanted to scream how could you.... how dare you
but truly I wanted to say I love you
I didn't, because I couldn't so I told you wow this is unexpected what else was I supposed to do?
you never answered your phone
and you never called me frog again.
Sep 11, 2025
Sep 11, 2025 at 10:27 PM UTC
IV
These fought in any case,
And some believing, pro domo, in any case ..
Some quick to arm,
some for adventure,
some from fear of weakness,
some from fear of censure,
some for love of slaughter, in imagination,
learning later…
some in fear, learning love of slaughter;
Died some, pro patria, non dulce et non decor..
walked eye-deep in hell
believing in old men's lies, then unbelieving
**came home, home to a lie,
home to many deceits,
home to old lies and new infamy;
usury age-old and age-thick
and liars in public places.**
Daring as never before, wastage as never before.
Young blood and high blood,
Fair cheeks, and fine bodies;
fortitude as never before
frankness as never before,
disillusions as never told in the old days,
hysterias, trench confessions,
laughter out of dead bellies.
from Hugh Selwyn Mauberley
Apr 15, 2015
Apr 15, 2015 at 5:36 AM UTC