"importunate" poems
Come, my darling, let us dance
To the moon that beckons us
To dissolve our love in trance
Heedless of the hideous
Heat & hate of Sirius-
Shun his baneful brilliance!
Let us dance beneath the palm
Moving in the moonlight, frond
Wooing frond above the calm
Of the ocean diamond
Sparkling to the sky beyond
The enchantment of our psalm.
Let us dance, my mirror of
Perfect passion won to peace,
Let us dance, my treasure trove,
On the marble terraces
Carved in pallid embroeideries
For the vestal veil of Love.
Heaven awakes to encompass us,
Hell awakes its jubilance
In our hearts mysterious
Marriage of the azure expanse,
With the scarlet brilliance
Of the Moon with Sirius.
Velvet swatches our lissome limbs
Languid lapped by sky & sea
Soul through sense & spirit swims
Through the pregnant porphyry
Dome of lapiz-lazuli:-
Heart of silence, hush our hymns.
Come my darling; let us dance
Through the golden galaxies
Rhythmic swell of circumstance
Beaming passion’s argosies:
Ecstacy entwined with ease,
Terrene joy transcending trance!
Thou my scarlet concubine
Draining heart’s blood to the lees
To empurple those divine
Lips with living luxuries
Life importunate to appease
Drought insatiable of wine!
Tunis in the tremendous trance
Rests from day’s incestuous
Traffic with the radiance
Of her sire-& over us
Gleams the intoxicating glance
Of the Moon & Sirius.
Take the ardour of my impearled
Essence that my shoulders seek
To intensify the curled
Candour of the eyes oblique,
Eyes that see the seraphic sleek
Lust bewitch the wanton world.
Come, my love, my dove, & pour
From thy cup the serpent wine
Brimmed & breathless -secret store
Of my crimson concubine
Surfeit spirit in the shrine-
Devil -Goddess ****** *****
Afric sands ensorcel us,
Afric seas & skies entrance
Velvet, lewd & luminous
Night surveys our soul askance!
Come my love, & let us dance
To the Moon and Sirius!
2.9k
Sometimes you see her admiring herself
In the mirror that's hanging next to the shelf.
And when she does it, oh, how she shines!
Is that, dear cat, how you practice your lines?
She seems not to care if we pay attention,
But maybe right here I ought to make mention
That being an actress, she's disinclined
To always reveal what's going on in her mind.
And she'll never, never tell you her age--
Aphrodite, the cat of the stage.
She says, "You know…I'm not one to cuss,
But when I am hungry, I WILL make a fuss."
Yes, she can certainly put on a scene
And act as though she's an importunate queen.
She says, "My dears, if I'm weak or mild,
I'll never drive the audience wild."
That critical scene is repeated each night--
A regular tour de force all right.
Yes, it's best to try to assuage
Aphrodite, the cat of the stage.
Her eyes were surely her greatest feature;
She THUS scoured the town for a drama teacher,
"Who," she says dolefully, "told me one night he
Could make me a star. ME: Aphrodite!"
But as it turned out, ol' Mr. Mittens
Made her instead a mom of eight kittens.
"But," she says, "THAT'S between you and me.
You know how I like my privacy."
It's good to always be on the same page
With Aphrodite, the cat of the stage.
One thing you learn is for her it's the norm
To act a bit slighted when asked to perform.
She must be totally in the mood
Or else she behaves in a manner subdued.
And heaven help you if you are neglectful
Of if her audience is disrespectful.
She'll exit the room like a "cat" out of hell,
And you may not see her for quite a long spell.
You never want to see her rage--
Aphrodite, the cat of the stage.
She sighs and says, "It's such a shame that
Few playwrights write good roles for a cat.
My friends say--when they see me upset--
'Commercials might be a better bet.'
My talents, however, as you might have guessed,
Best fit the stage. But now I must rest."
With that she lifted her nose in the air
And strutted out of the room with great flair.
It's always nice: advice from a sage
Like Aphrodite, the cat of the stage.
-by Bob B (1-24-20)
Jan 25, 2020
Jan 25, 2020 at 8:44 AM UTC
Lived on one's back,
In the long hours of repose,
Life is a practical nightmare--
Hideous asleep or awake.
Shoulders and *****
Ache----!
Ache, and the mattress,
Run into boulders and hummocks,
Glows like a kiln, while the bedclothes--
Tumbling, importunate, daft--
Ramble and roll, and the gas,
******* to its lowermost,
An inevitable atom of light,
Haunts, and a stertorous sleeper
Snores me to hate and despair.
All the old time
Surges malignant before me;
Old voices, old kisses, old songs
Blossom derisive about me;
While the new days
Pass me in endless procession:
A pageant of shadows
Silently, leeringly wending
On . . . and still on . . . still on!
Far in the stillness a cat
Languishes loudly. A cinder
Falls, and the shadows
Lurch to the leap of the flame. The next man to me
Turns with a moan; and the snorer,
The drug like a rope at his throat,
Gasps, gurgles, snorts himself free, as the night-nurse,
Noiseless and strange,
Her bull's eye half-lanterned in apron,
(Whispering me, 'Are ye no sleepin' yet?'),
Passes, list-slippered and peering,
Round . . . and is gone.
Sleep comes at last--
Sleep full of dreams and misgivings--
Broken with brutal and sordid
Voices and sounds that impose on me,
Ere I can wake to it,
The unnatural, intolerable day.
2.2k
We expected the violin's finger on the upturned nerve;
Its importunate cry, too laxly curved:
And you drew us an oboe-outline, clean and acute;
Unadorned statement, accurately carved.
We expected the screen, the background for reverie
Which cloudforms usefully weave:
And you built the immaculate, adamant, blue-green steel
Arch of a balanced wave.
We expected a pool with flowers to diffuse and break
The child-round face of the mirrored moon:
And you blazed a rock-path, begun near the sun, to be finished
By the trained and intrepid feet of men.
2k
Ah magnificence
how temperament will change
the world at large
for they'd abandon these cages
as force fields now presume
their quadrants in June
and search for those left decides
these pastures albeit unknown
while green meadows I've forebode
managing lifestyle as abridged
heretofore these days of being heard
that altogether here's my play
where inflation surely wield
as weird alienation might sprout
importunate places likeness kin
and then shoot gorilla not extinct
these dawns upon gatekeeper
meld, have brought Milwaukee Instagram
with certain flair now upstream
in these gardens is reform!
Jun 7, 2016
Jun 7, 2016 at 6:27 AM UTC
This pond is where I will die,
Squandering in owl hours to ****
Still, the Ducks swim by.
The blue moon is a Julia Dragonfly
Haunted by a lethal, green dream thrill.
This pond is where I will die.
Threadbare Marauder Rooks squawk a cry,
The stickleback flakes its dithering gill.
Still, the Ducks swim by.
Importunate possums chase ducks to comply,
How could my moon mother be so ill?
This pond is where I will die.
Bluebirds deflate their keels with a sigh,
I gravitate towards their beauty, I am still.
Still, the Ducks swim by.
Aureole Sirius tip toes the sky,
Nimbus withers, Kamikaze men shrill.
This pond is where I will die.
Still, the Ducks swim by.
Feb 3, 2014
Feb 3, 2014 at 8:51 PM UTC
Alfonso is a handsome bronze-hued lad
Of subtly-changing and surprising parts;
His moods are storms that frighten and make glad,
His eyes were made to capture women's hearts.
Down in the glory-hole Alfonso sings
An olden song of wine and clinking glasses
And riotous rakes; magnificently flings
Gay kisses to imaginary lasses.
Alfonso's voice of mellow music thrills
Our swaying forms and steals our hearts with joy;
And when he soars, his fine falsetto trills
Are rarest notes of gold without alloy.
But, O Alfonso! wherefore do you sing
Dream-songs of carefree men and ancient places?
Soon we shall be beset by clamouring
Of hungry and importunate palefaces.
1.5k
The mother will not turn, who thinks she hears
Her nursling’s speech first grow articulate;
But breathless with averted eyes elate
She sits, with open lips and open ears,
That it may call her twice. ’Mid doubts and fears
Thus oft my soul has hearkened; till the song,
A central moan for days, at length found tongue,
And the sweet music welled and the sweet tears.
But now, whatever while the soul is fain
To list that wonted murmur, as it were
The speech-bound sea-shell’s low importunate strain,—
No breath of song, thy voice alone is there,
O bitterly beloved! and all her gain
Is but the pang of unpermitted prayer.
1.5k
IF this importunate heart trouble your peace
With words lighter than air,
Or hopes that in mere hoping flicker and cease;
Crumple the rose in your hair;
And cover your lips with odorous twilight and say,
"O Hearts of wind-blown flame!
O Winds, older than changing of night and day,
That murmuring and longing came
From marble cities loud with tabors of old
In dove-grey faery lands;
From battle-banners, fold upon purple fold,
Queens wrought with glimmering hands;
That saw young Niamh hover with love-lorn face
Above the wandering tide;
And lingered in the hidden desolate place
Where the last Phoenix died,
And wrapped the flames above his holy head;
And still murmur and long:
O piteous Hearts, changing till change be dead
In a tumultuous song':
And cover the pale blossoms of your breast
With your dim heavy hair,
And trouble with a sigh for all things longing for rest
The odorous twilight there.
1.2k
Innocence is lost when this little being grown,
Today's man, dressed in black and lost the fantasy.
Eye broken for the monotony that surrounds it died!
Tears run and it will not come back, lost his joy!
After a test or any student celebrates fades,
But it recognizes the effort is what we deserve,
However this student never cared what he said,
Whatever he wrote during the evaluation that was deserves!
More beautiful is the plant without water vanishes,
Lost the scent, hidden in the glass of clear water,
Food we had whilst everyone to forget,
He lacked courage, he lacked affection, had herbicide!
Like any beautiful flower disappears from hand to hand,
When importunate heart who appears in her life.
Never arrived in time to make the right choice
Can never show the fruit of his inner being,
Never thought of that was done your heart
Only beheld the exterior color and smell!
But there is enough evil in the world on his shoulders,
Is not that why you were born, or we condemned,
Pure heart who have not lost their color or smell,
Even if it is the will of the world that condemned!
The petals their cry tears of blood,
Because this has become the color of the eyes selves,
Changed its exterior but inside is cheerful iceberg!
It's the colors that did not take a heart. Amorinhos.
Within a dream he awoke his dead rose petals,
As in other games, has not looked back, and never returned!
Author: Anthony Benigno
No true love should bring pain, should not be born if it was not his intention to live!
Sep 9, 2013
Sep 9, 2013 at 1:10 PM UTC
man emerges from this
darksome ether.
this: time suspended
in the ballpark, without fetters.
i have dreamt the truth
of my vicarious call.
is it not that my measures secure
these constitutions
of ineffable fruitions?
it is likened to our heartland's
acrimonies: dreaming in the
misty vale of sleep is the word
and its insistent void,
riddled by amorous intent
of barefaced realisms.
there is nothing here but
subservience of fantasy's burlesque fanfare
on broad vaudeville.
man sinks into the bottom
of this, rests in the
soft hands of this earth-woven
word - a poem's importunate nativity where all supremacies
are born ceaselessly!
Sep 18, 2015
Sep 18, 2015 at 11:48 AM UTC
verily this evening, from the veranda
i smell the fragrance of their arrivals.
the tall, slender, stockinged women
swaying like bamboo in the wind.
the admirals in white commandeering
vessels — the shear of wind, a tractable beast.
the ploys of men to woo the darling,
the hesitations of dames cloaked
in obvious handiwork of skirts.
they slalom through life's rugged streets
like blueprints of doors revealing
benign propaganda.
it is all too real to me. i have lived
behind the shadow of words.
it is all that i am cut up for — doting on
it still, yet a nonexistent blossom.
hearing them leave the interior of walls,
soldering the notoriety of burdens.
witnesses drowned in water,
their muffled voices reinvent the quietude. there is a dailiness overmastered by them, such rampant
mendaciloquence denied by me.
i move past cataracts of crowds
and hunt for the silence: this importunate need that feeds my bloodthirsty being.
i awaken the sleeping prowess
of words and listen to them.
now, leave me with my ocean.
i was meant to ***** in the blue
and froth like the last of unburied water,
dreaming of fish.
Dec 14, 2015
Dec 14, 2015 at 6:14 AM UTC
I have been expressive in words
people call me taciturn, so I am
legerdemain. Words callow I manipulate.
I am the adroit teaser of and with words.
I am importunate loser when words summon
hate or a fear.
You sit unerringly on the border of words.
You write and your writing haunts into strange
dreams of oblivion. Your words impinge upon
senses and soul and I exclaim: what is poetry?
the poem unfurls in corridors, dank and soulless.
What soul does poetry have?
Narrative blindness. Words express movements,
in time's warp. Clouded thoughts, one day the exuberant
poem will die.
Oct 8, 2015
Oct 8, 2015 at 11:13 AM UTC
The beauty of the desert
Is not in the land;
Barren, dry, harsh and bitter.
The beauty of the lake
Is not in the water;
Brackish, still, cold and endless.
The beauty of a man’s soul
Is not in his prayers;
Angry, conciliatory, false, importunate.
Look up
All reflects what shines above
Sun painting mountains pink
Glint of light on wave
Love that gives more than it takes
Beauty in the eye of the beholder
Blessing in the eye of the beloved
Perfection in reflection
Peace within and without
This walks with us
The vessel must be open
To receive the wine.
Dec 21, 2014
Dec 21, 2014 at 12:22 PM UTC
When taking one more breath becomes what hurts the most,
to put oxygen in blood that flows through the chambers of a
shattered nautilus to a mind left better off without memories…
Memories that never go anywhere but to the cracked, grayed,
faded old mirror that somehow still reflects one last, sickly,
fraudulent gleam of hope in a dark room….
Then only one fair choice remains, in this importunate faerie world
where everyone lies to themselves and cheats their own hand
at solitaire played by two's in front of a crowd of laughter
What choice is this you may ask, but you know, don’t you—
know the glaring, searing pain when you open the ******* door,
leaving sunlight to burn away the ashes of a missed embrace….
There are no ends, there are only means, and endless openings
to the labyrinth of souls in which the air is too cold to breathe,
the blood too stiff to flow, the mind too inconsequential to exist
in any universe but this unholy purgatory that would be hell if not
for that ****** single ray of hope that just won’t quite diminish,
won’t give in, won’t ever let a broken heart finally be consumed....
If only to lie awake in the dark
Oct 22, 2014
Oct 22, 2014 at 1:25 PM UTC
It’ vitally important,
That you remember all this stuff,
I hate to be importunate,
But I just can’t stress it enough.
Jul 19, 2017
Jul 19, 2017 at 4:59 AM UTC