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Busy old fool, unruly sun,
Why dost thou thus,
Through windows and through curtains, call on us?
Must to thy motions lovers’ seasons run?
Saucy pedantic wretch, go chide
Late schoolboys and sour ‘prentices,
Go tell court-huntsmen that the King will ride,
Call country ants to harvest offices;
Love, all alike, no season knows, nor clime,
Nor hours, days, months, which are the rags of time.

Thy beams so reverend and strong
Why shouldst thou think?
I could eclipse and cloud them with a wink
But that I would not lose her sight so long:
If her eyes have not blinded thine,
Look, and, tomorrow late, tell me
Whether both th’ Indias of spice and mine
Be where thou left’st them, or lie here with me.
Ask for those kings whom thou saw’st yesterday,
And thou shalt hear ‘All here in one bed lay’.

She is all states, and all princes I;
Nothing else is.
Princes do but play us; compared to this,
All honour’s mimic, all wealth alchemy.
Thou, sun, art half as happy as we,
In that the world’s contracted thus;
Thine age asks ease, and since thy duties be
To warm the world, that’s done in warming us.
Shine here to us, and thou art everywhere;
This bed thy centre is, these walls thy sphere.
Luis Mdáhuar Aug 2014
The blue eagle and the demon of the steppes
in the last cab in Berlin
Legitimate defence
of lost souls
the red mill at the beggars' school
awaits the poor student
With the housemaid Know huntsmen how to hunt on pay-day
Know huntsmen how to hunt
as papa speculates
with the smile
By the dagger the dagger the dagger
the tiger of the seas dreams of happiness
Avenged
The vestal ****** of the Ganges cries out Vanity
when the flesh succumbs
Stop look and listen
the famous turkey spends a day of pleasure
turning round in an enchanted circle
with the pluck of a lion
M'sieur the major
My Paris
my uncle from America
my heart and my legs
slaves of beauty
admire the conquests of Nora
while someone asks for a typewriter
for the black pirate
It is not possible
that a woman dressed as the Merry Widow
could become the wind's prey
because the millionairess Madame Sans-Gene
leads a wild existence
in another's skin
Her son was right
Patrol-leader 129 who wears an Italian straw-hat
and is the ace of jockeys
is abandoning a little adventuress
for a woman
It is the April-Moon which chases the buffalo
to Notre-Dame of Paris
Oh what a bore the indomitable man
with clear eyes
wishes to judge him by the law of the desert
but the lovers with children's souls have gone away
Ah what a lovely voyage
- See more at: http://allpoetry.com/The-Staircase-With-A-Hundred-Steps#sthash.Ty7mN87W.dpuf
Benjamin Péret
Dagoth I Am Mar 2013
HOW YOU SHOULD KNOW US

DEATH, DEFEAT, AND FEAR

We do not die.
We do not fear death.
Destroy the Body, and the Animus is cast into The Darkness.
But the Animus returns.
But we are not all brave.
We feel pain, and fear it.
We feel shame, and fear it.
We feel loss, and fear it.
We hate the Darkness, and fear it.

The Scamps have small thoughts, and cannot fear greatly.
The Vermai have no thoughts, and cannot fear.
The Dremora have deep thoughts, and must master fear to overcome it.

THE CLAN BOND

We are not born;
we have not fathers nor mothers, yet we have kin and clans.
The clan-form is strong. It shapes body and thought.
In the clan-form is strength an purpose

THE OATH BOND

We serve by choice.
We serve the strong, so that their strength might shield us.
Clans serve by long-practice, but practice may change.
Dremora have long served the dreamer but not always so.
Practice is secure when oath-bonds are secure, and trust is shared.
When oath-bonds are weak, there is pain, and shame, and loss, and Darkness, and great fear.

HOW WE THINK ABOUT MAN

Perhaps you find Scamps comic, and Vermai brutish.
How then do you imagine we view you humans?
You are the Prey, and we are the Huntsmen.
The Scamps are the Hounds, and the Vermai the Beaters.
Your flesh is sweet, and the chase is diverting.
As you may sometimes praise the fox or hare, admiring its cunning and speed, and lamenting as the hounds tear its flesh, so do we sometimes admire our prey, and secretly applaud when it cheats our snares or eludes pursuit.
But, like all worldly things, you will in time wear, and be used up.
You age, grow ugly, weak, and foolish.
You are always lost, late or soon.
Sometimes the prey turns upon us and bites.
It is a small thing.
When wounded or weary, we fly away to restore.
Sometimes a precious thing is lost, but that risk makes the chase all the sweeter.

MAN'S MYSTERY

Man is mortal, and doomed to death and failure and loss.
This lies beyond our comprehension - why do you not despair?
Joshua Haines May 2016
There's a difference in these woods,
drifting between grey, scabby bark,
sifting into the moist, wormy soil,
beckoning for purpose,
breaking into the sound of a
becoming yet battered nature.

The footprints can be light, thorough --
almost a trait granted by the torture of eternity.
With head-weaves buoyant above tree-leaves,
a hyper-vigilance stemmed from the abuse
of a darkly philosophy weaponized;
an extension of the elbows, forearms, wrists
of huntsmen seeking inferno.

A hollow is an ideal resting place,
beyond the greased veins of trees,
fingertips delving into clustered black,
grasping an illusory livelihood,
only to imprison itself,
hoping for only a thoroughness
granted by the torture of eternity.

When love enters the picture,
it's best to fade into the skyline,
becoming a blue phantom,
hiding behind q-tip clouds,
balanced feebly, anxiously,
unable to realize
how easy you can be seen.
How easy it is to underestimate
your own significance.

You can drag a razor horizontally,
thinking the ink of space
will pour through, staining yourself,
watching yourself disappear,
hoping for only a thoroughness
granted by the torture of eternity.

-

I dance with her, a light caramel mutt,
in a purgatory of racial tension,
between black and white,
living in the grey area of society,
not knowing that it's okay --
and she is like me,
I've just realized.
Once upon a time
Lived a princess of golden hair
Fancied by creatures of every clime
For she was but so fair

One day whilst in a wood
There came an angel of death
smilingly disguised in a hood
Fervently craving her breath

Being in a deep slumber
She couldn't see this beast
For it thus marked a number
A death spell upon her wrist

Ding ****, castle bells rang
Slumbering she couldn't hear
Despite they were loudly bang
Soon the realm buzzed with fear

With a voice so hard and cold
Need her here! Roared the king
She's but more precious than gold
Said the queen! Thus you must bring

There were blowing of horns
By huntsmen alongside trumpets
Accompanied by crying of hounds
But still she was as deaf as a puppet

She'll never hear! Said one witch
Despite how loud you ring the bell
You must be daft! Insolent *****
Cried the queen! you deserve in hell

She has a death spell thus haunted
whilst simpering yelled another witch
Dummy gorgon! She must be hunted
Cried the king! Thus dare not screech

Soon she was found laying on grass
With not a single bone of her broken
Though she was as pale as a glass*
For her breath had been taken*



©Kikodinho Alexandros
29th August 2016

Honestly, I thank a poet friend so dear to me "Stephanie Stoychevska" to have inspired such a colorful piece!
Tale of a princess who went missing and later found dead by the edge of a Moor despite for she still bore a smile upon her physiognomy as though in a sweet dream!!!
Edna Sweetlove Nov 2014
Oh tell me where has England's glory gone,
Lost golden days of beef and lukewarm beer?
Now it's polenta in a gastro-pub,
Chilean Chardonnay, Tequila Slammers.

Her Empire proudly pink on schoolroom maps;
India, Afric, source of plundered loot galore.
All gone, all gone, black faces back in charge
And black drug pushers stalk old London's streets.

Fat huntsmen dressed in pink, all banished now,
Their yelping foxhounds ripping prey apart,
Celebrating sick English country ways
Before returning to their mortgaged homes.

City yobbos yelling down their mobiles,
Fatcats slurping up their creamy profits;
All the public cares about is football
And the *** lives of the media's darlings.

So where has England's honour gone today?
Up the American military ****,
Our government showing its smug disdain
For what decent people care and think.

We've sold out to baseball caps and burgers,
And imported TV shows for the mentally *******,
A visitor attraction for obese rich yanks to drawl
"We're real glad we saved these Limey's ***** in two wars".
Olivia Kent Feb 2015
Diamonds lay upon the grass.
Catching sparkling lilac dew.
Emeralds strung on mighty trees, someone left them there for me.
They hung on threads of gossamer deposited by worms of silk.
The tiger hid under the tree, he's looking at someone.
I hope it's not me.
Then I noticed the mahout with his toy.
Hunters on an elephant, playing at being boys.
I thought to myself that I'd help that lovely tiger out.
They're very rare you know.

So, I made an awful lot of noise to scare the Heffalumps to bits.
My god the huntsmen were so ******.
The mighty beasts freaked out and ran like weighty bolts of thunder.
My tiger friend he walked away or maybe I  should say stalked away,
For I became the tiger's tea.
Silly me fancy trying to save a hungry tiger.
(C) Livvi
Olivia Kent Nov 2016
Oh hell,
A firework hit the moon.
That means the tides are *******.
You kissed my soul with a purple balloon.
And so you ******* the alien.
Then the sun rose on eastern shores.
Surely not!
And the planet's corrupted by phoney power play.
Checkers and draughtsman.
Children sand huntsmen.
Spiders that play games taunting lizards.
In red hot desserts, where vulture soar.
Past the moon what got hit.
The tide's inverted and the gooneys play on pebble dashed beach.
Dreams imploded.
Out of reach!
(c)LIVVI
Lalithya Rao Sep 2020
Coming from a typical middle-class Indian family is always hard and on top of that, she is a GIRL from INDIA.

She can never be open about her dreams nor her feelings.

Her life is like a bird in the cage.
She is well-taken care off just like the bird
But the bird is born to fly high yet it is kept in the cage
Likewise, this Indian middle-class girl is never given a chance to fly high, It is caged, bounded to the so-called Indian ethics and culture.

Just like the Bird, she is provided with all the amenities but not given the ones which are actually needed, FREEDOM.
It is the same with her, freedom is never given to her.

Even if she is given freedom by her family the society never fails to get her down, just like the bird which is always targeted by the huntsmen.

......
Will continue it later.......
David Barr Jul 2014
Wisdom of an Aged Ally

Carry my archaeological parchment around this historical site of future predictions, where the
tombs of Anubis are a scent of confusion amidst this welcomed display of harlotry.
Blues music may be ******, as she communicates her utmost intensities with sensual hatred.
However, I have driven through canyons of ****** and violent fantasy, where the abyss is shallow and neighbourly death is sold to huntsmen who are vagrants upon the rail-road tracks of collusion.
Just think about that for a second.
Who are the hunters among us in this echoing swampland of sophistication?
Jon Shierling Jan 2015
I.
Quid Nomen Est?
Thus spake skeleton eyes to we upon the forest path,
the long woe of you and me and we upon that gravel path
with those tired trees baring their naked selves to us
in dead questions all the crooked way.
Lo the **** shall crow thrice indeed on the morrow morn
but for now we who have not yet forgotten
must needs cleave to the bidding at hand,
must make do with cobwebs in our eyes
and the ashes of the Archbishop in our mouths.

II.
"Torches, torches! Have we none, for long
grows the hallowed eve and our task not yet done?"
Indeed no light have we, and our destination lying
still somewhat far off among the ancient oaks.
Haven't forgotten have you, those skittering stories
from bedtimes long ago, warnings to travelers by night
through ragged copse and brooding glen?
Yes, those whispers old of those gone further into
twilight never to be seen again by mortal eyes.
Quid Nomen Est?

III.
Up sprung the pale lights all about us,
yes the torches of those unaging.
"My name, my name, you shall not have it
for given by others to me it was!"
Silence greeted us with open arms and a
light snowfall as we, trembling and withered
continued toward our loathsome errand.
They did not try and delay us nor lead us into sorrow,
merely followed with us unto an open hollow.

IV
There the stones, the faery ring standing older
than the memory of a time when the world
was young and beast and man lived as one.
Not a dead leaf stirring, nor cold wind blowing
as we and our silent companions tread upon the sacred earth.
At last our destination reached, though the journey not yet done.
One thing left to us before the peace of sleep.
No longer cold, no longer withered and old
but become again the man who loved you once.
We lie down together there between the sky and the earth,
with none to bear witness save the standing stones,
the silent torches and always the naked questioning trees.

V*
To the din of Thunder and Battle I awoke,
still within the ring of iron grey stones.
There above the wailing trees the Huntsmen and
Hounds rode reckless, beckoning me as expected
to join the Wild Hunt forever away from Love.
I held up my hand and at once they stormed toward we,
a curse riding forth, fierce and fell till the end of time.
Lo before they caught my upturned hand for me to join forevermore,
I searched one last time for your face among the faery mound,
and found no memory of you in the bones scattered upon the ground.
The Burial of Loves Long Dead
Swagatika Dash Jan 2018
From the time immemorial,
a full bloomed Lotus
in Odisha “Chilika” is…

By its panoramic
and scenic splendor
like bees, get stretched,
the tourists,
both local and from overseas..
Pilgrims come
to relish beauty and
bow before deity…

The whitish aura of winter
here seems vibrant..
The permanent avian nest
forms a paradise
for winged guests
and displays nature’s bounty…

Surrounded by bluish water
it’s an island divine…

But a matter of surprise
instead of their reflections,
maidens on the surface of
the deep lake,
see a divine face…

With the touch of lake’s water
devotees feel a floating legend
the saga of a tragedy,
the tale of Jai…

Along with her father
newly-wed bride
was on the boat
to her in-laws’..

What a horrid trend??
With his own sweat and blood
a gardener helps a flower bloom..
And like huntsmen
in-laws pluck her,
and she has to go
to an alien empire…

A Floridian day it was..
Looking gorgeous
her ruby costume,
to the envy of Robins …

Unexpectedly became perilous
the brazen,sanguine sky
and jeopardized the lake…

Scary became the
chorus of birds…
Darker than shadow
the sun seemed…
As if the puffs of a phantom,
body felt the wind…

With a drastic cyclone
they encountered…
Like a frond the daughter shivered,
and the father time and again
consoled her,
to wisely tackle the situation
appealed to the boatman…

But Alas!!
The boat capsized…
The floating dazzling veil
announced a cruel mishap…

All escaped
except the bride…
A father lost his daughter,
a sweet love got melted,
forever…

Swiftly began to shine
as an innocent,
the unabashed sun..
Blood stained looked the sky…
As ignorant the bluish water
behaved…
Serene Environs
came to her usual throne…

As if all were pre-planned….
In the veil of Nature
caused by
the background criminal,
the brutal fate…

But to atone for her sins
perhaps Nature
made Jai Goddess Kalijai,
the reigning deity of the lagoon…

Invoking her blessing these days
sailors venture out…
From all catastrophe she saves,
as a belief goes there..

Today also many claim…
A long wailing is heard
in the dark night,
that is of Mother Kalijai…
Not for her tragic death…

But perhaps against
the bad custom
that still governs the girl’s lives…

Not horrifying,
rather it’s the symphony of life,
in which natives
feel Goddess’ presence
and feel secured..

The largest brackish lake
of this continent
is turning more salty,
say the scientists…
Perhaps due to her tears…

More and more salty
it will be ,
till the society eradicates
the evil trend…

Based on a Odia legend "KALI JAI"
Published in my book
"TRACK OF A TODDLER"(2016)
Swagatika Dash
Sophia Granada Nov 2019
My father cooked.
My father cooked like cavemen cooked, fire and stone,
Like men in the wild making cacciatore,
Soldiers in a trench chucking a can into the fire,
A party in winter furs eating kidneys raw,
Carved from the back of a beast.

He cooked like people dive into ill-fated romances,
No looks backward and all caution to the wind,
No time even to throw a pinch of salt over one's left shoulder.
Heart broken and fingers burned,
You would learn to love again,
And you would complete the recipe next time,
And it would someday be true love, amazing,
A bite that could sustain long after it was consumed.

My father taught me how to cook.
He taught me by taunting me when I picked too dull a knife,
Without ever showing me how to tell a sharp one.
By screaming at me in impatience when we were a second from crisis,
Without having the foresight to speak softly before danger was nigh.
He taught me the grandeur of making something delicious,
Without extolling the virtue of making it cleanly and safely.
He taught me recklessness,
To risk everything for just one iota of glory,
To act out of insecurity and even suicidality.

"My mother doesn't cook,"
I bragged as a girl.
"You will not find her barefoot and pregnant in a kitchen,
A dangerous place full of sharp knives and hot fires and screaming men;
My father protects her from all that."

But my mother does cook.
It is easy, and quiet,
And so it is difficult to notice,
But it happens.

She taught me to make spinach pies,
And when the frozen mixture itched my hands,
She took the filling from me and did it herself.

Meat, as wrested from nature by brave huntsmen,
Is tough and stringy and crusted with cartilage,
And when I clean it thoroughly,
I am doing as my mother taught me.

Decorated cakes are soft and fine and, yes, unnecessary!
But people eat with their eyes,
And balance the bitterness of life with all things sweet,
So I am doing as my mother taught me.

Setting a kitchen to rights may be as dreary
As removing the dead from the battlefield
After the spoils are won,
But both prevent rot and disease.
We do it for others as much as for ourselves.

That is what my mother taught me:
To act like someone else cares about me,
And to show I care in return.
Arctic Skuas, fish wives beware,
       steal from birds, without a care
Blackbirds, fond of hedgerows hewn,
           known to whistle occasional tunes
Cuckoos. heralding spring sing loud,
            beware the cuckoo land cloud!
Doves, duck with a divers ease,
            traditionally symbolise beautiful peace
Eagles, immortal, courageous and bold,
            eagle-eyed, with a plumage of gold
Flycatchers, search flies in flight,
            swoop from perches, feeding mid-flight
Geese, possessing little wit,
            occasionally upon golden eggs do sit!
Herons, gangly and vexed,
             also known for having s-shaped necks
Insects, many a good feed,
             airborne fast food, eaten at speed
Jackdaws, inquisitive, kindred of Crow,
             steals through the skies, taking all aglow
Kingfishers, sapphire, red, and green,
             beautiful colours to be seen
Lapwings, loud shrills, and insincere,
             fly with egg-shell attached very near
Magpies, possessing magical mystique,
             sometimes portent of coming times bleak
Nightingales, mythologically Philomel,
             melodious midnight serenades, sang so well
Owls, emblems of Athens past,
              symbolic of wisdoms, of the stars
Partridges, particularly partial to pear trees,
              when braced, huntsmen to please
Quails, eggs delicacies held dear,
              causes Quails to tremble with fear
Robins, red-breasted, (with leaves they cover the dead), not Puckish, but good,
              loved like the folk hero Robin Hood
Starlings, amiable, keen for friendship,
              travel afar on migrational trips
Thrush also Throstle, fluent of tongues,
              mistle-toe food and christmassy songs
Uplands, Utopia for magical Merlins,
               loves high ground, gently unfurling
Vermian, for most birds, a succulent delight,
               eating worms, as part of their diet
Woodpeckers, like climbing trees,
               picking out insects, with utmost ease
X is for extinction, of various birds,
               preventative action, louder than words
Yellowhammers, cursed eggs destroyed,
               taken by men, collecting like boys
Zoos, offering sanctuary for endangered species,
               unfortunately caused by the human disease
Eric Braun Jul 2021
Another sweltering day to get lost in
Wander around a parking lot, talking
In the park we got stopped by police
My runaway pig was disturbing the peace

Eilonwy's in the Summer Lands
I wrote her that I joined a band
She writes too much about another man
I'm suspicious, she doesn't understand

List our future plans, it doesn't help
Looked in a mirror, I just saw myself
Reflection in the pool is murky and raw
We barbequed but Gurgi ate it all

Why do huntsmen gather at the border
How come Doordash cancelled my order
My spot under the tree's taken by a hobo
This stuff never happens to Frodo
Onoma Dec 2
morbid curiosity is a luxury--the art of
the Middle Ages lifts the ground to meet
its vertigo, as huntsmen signal toward
the observer.
the gamey odorousness of fear downwind.
nerve endings drafted their maps, unable
to find a way out.
dread gathered wood & chopped it untiringly.
reacquainted shame scrambled for leafage again--under a greater Fall.
a potion goblet for every kind.
a unicorn on a green velvet hill, became
visible in the current of a squirrel's tail.
there was never not magick.
though digression can be as quiet as an
exiting servant.
depictions of persons hardened as they softened, a very peculiar ethereality.
the look of snow as soon as it stops.
a bud held tight in one's palm, just as
it's about to bloom.
it is this, from crown to soles--what a
mottled column of light to move in.
from nobility to peasantry, something
burst in on clay--they couldn't be natural even when they felt they were.
animals do not take a headcount in a
burning stable, they even forget to say grace.

— The End —