"laudation" poems
Kozarev, you are like a summer's day:
Bright and brilliant; exotic and vibrant.
Smart and gallant; generous and elegant.
Our story is flickering like these smooth bushes
of May; ah, but why I saw thee not today,
I knew not why.
How could I dream of thee not?
Ah, my dreams are bad.
Nature hath probably cursed whom;
whenever they enter into my mind at night.
I hate their promises, and their tongues-
they are forever and ever slandering
my faith-by chanting about thy presence,
their mouths are fraught with lies;
leaning to me like those filthy, ungodly,
savagery; if I was to catch thee not-
why should have they insisted so?
I am jealous of those hidden faces, unknown
Behind thy walls, impatient to grasp thee
with a bite of lustful words, swearing at
thy benevolence, for I canst be more so,
and more generous than thou hath thought.
My blood boileth with sickly temperaments-
whenever I am bound to one thinking
Of thy prudence, and tactfulness
Towards the glamor of insipid dames.
My soul becomes problematic, and forested
in severed distraction and dismay
by averted lips of choking and gasping all day!
Ah, yes, suffrage shall be beneath my eyes,
until no more breath is perhaps to remain,
and only wreaths of crossness
Frantically treading about the paths
of my gouty lungs; wreaking away bit by bit
their brevity, washing off every virulent trace
of devotional identity, and gravity.
This is harassing me-the knowledge of
being unable to see thee once more,
this evening, perhaps-
and I am twisting and glaring at
these painful thoughts like a dream.
And you, you are-as the butterflies start to file
Out of their realms and into our world
You are just like their epic poems;
fruitful and delicious indeed-
but humble as those thorns,
smiling at the sun though wounded;
and laughing by the smallest of whose delight.
Kozarev, you are my man; and as you dance along
the gravel paths by handsome moonlight,
you are even more glittering than which;
and with thy stateliness
You will but own my heart once more,
lifting it up from every dim deprecation
and fruitless laudation it hath hitherto ventured into.
And I love thee and might just love thee more every day;
more than every promise my poems can say,
I adore thee and cannot live without thee
Swift and marvelous is my love,
blessed and ingenious as it shall ever be.
I love thee, Kozarev.
Obicham te.
May 3, 2013
May 3, 2013 at 7:41 AM UTC
How can I love thee,
if thou art my enemy?
How can I love thee,
if thou art my agony?
I fancy my love is futile
I's lost in thee in one blink of the eye
'Twas a dull day with a tempest worried and grey
No charm as splendid as the salubrious May
Vanished worlds are real to me today
How can I love thee,
whilst I shine but wither in despair?
How can I love thee,
when the mist replaces the air?
O, I can't see thy face, o no!
I'm trapped in this ghastly limbo
I look askance at the angered sky
My voice is coarse my heart's empty
My songs are shy my chest is dry
How can I love thee,
with this guileless but wondrous intimation!
Heavens are our first but final destination
where love is a gift and a token of affection
How ill I am!
Wronged by my own love and longing
Whilst the grass is green and
the stars are twinkling
This bitter cold is my weeping
O promises! Why did thou fail my soul?
Thy tongue does but smell of foul
Kneel by me, I entreat!
You little lie that could only cheat!
O resentment! How sleepy is thy mind!
Now I the master demand, awake!
Yet show thy patience, relieve me from behind
Forget me not, for the world's sake!
O laughter! In thy severe idiocy
Rise from thy unsmart repose!
Retrace thy steps, enslave thy feet!
Bid yourself go; and find but a better, brighter rose!
Slaughter yourself, o infatuation,
I thy master insist, decay!
Set my grim heart in awesome daylight
Send my frosted feet onto liberation!
Flowers of the devil, flowers of laudation.
I believe in praise and its own strange admiration.
Yet my roams are no longer of importance;
but heave my senses from assault,
kiss, kiss myself away!
Still, my heart tastes like ******
in its misery and pangs of silenced desperation.
O words, hinder me from the joy of anger,
defeat my thirst for blinded and serene assassination!
The gentle cry, the loss of hope
rings all over but shields us in vain:
As pale as the yellow falling rain to
heal my wounds, cure my lonely pain
This mounds of hate should remain;
Until my stern heart melts to love again.
Dec 21, 2012
Dec 21, 2012 at 2:40 PM UTC
LAUDATION
for curious Doctor Jekyll.
ADULATION
craved by Mister Hyde.
Witness an anagram’s dark spectacle:
An antigram spell where virtue died.
Apr 19, 2025
Apr 19, 2025 at 12:15 PM UTC