"leda" poems
Where the slow river
meets the tide,
a red swan lifts red wings
and darker beak,
and underneath the purple down
of his soft breast
uncurls his coral feet.
Through the deep purple
of the dying heat
of sun and mist,
the level ray of sun-beam
has caressed
the lily with dark breast,
and flecked with richer gold
its golden crest.
Where the slow lifting
of the tide,
floats into the river
and slowly drifts
among the reeds,
and lifts the yellow flags,
he floats
where tide and river meet.
Ah kingly kiss --
no more regret
nor old deep memories
to mar the bliss;
where the low sedge is thick,
the gold day-lily
outspreads and rests
beneath soft fluttering
of red swan wings
and the warm quivering
of the red swan's breast.
5.3k
Beloved, may your sleep be sound
That have found it where you fed.
What were all the world's alarms
To mighty paris when he found
Sleep upon a golden bed
That first dawn in Helen's arms?
Sleep, beloved, such a sleep
As did that wild Tristram know
When, the potion's work being done,
Roe could run or doe could leap
Under oak and beechen bough,
Roe could leap or doe could run;
Such a sleep and sound as fell
Upon Eurotas' grassy bank
When the holy bird, that there
Accomplished his predestined will,
From the limbs of Leda sank
But not from her protecting care.
2.8k
A sudden blow:
The great wings beating still
Above the staggering girl, her thighs caressed
By the dark webs, her nape caught in the bill,
He holds her helpless breast upon his breast.
How can those terrified vague fingers push
The feathered glory from her loosening thighs?
And how can body, laid in that white rush,
But feel the strange heart beating where it lies?
A shudder in the ***** engenders there
The broken wall, the burning roof and tower
And Agamemnon dead.
Being so caught up,
So mastered by the brute blood of the air,
Did she put on his knowledge with his power
Before the indifferent beak could let her drop?
2.1k
XVII. TO THE DIOSCURI (5 lines)
(ll. 1-4) Sing, clear-voiced Muse, of Castor and Polydeuces, the
Tyndaridae, who sprang from Olympian Zeus. Beneath the heights
fo Taygetus stately Leda bare them, when the dark-clouded Son of
Cronos had privily bent her to his will.
(l. 5) Hail, children of Tyndareus, riders upon swift horses!
2.1k
Leda lovely,
Can't you see,
You're truly fair,
Like loving seas,
Leda Lovely,
As blossomed springs,
Hair as gold,
As the sun shall be,
Leda lovely,
Eyes so green,
Fairest maiden,
I've ever seen,
As sweet as honey,
Taste as sugar,
Filled with love,
Couldn't be fuller.
Nov 19, 2014
Nov 19, 2014 at 10:04 AM UTC
o splendid child most whOlly pure and sweet (
angelic, come to claim your worldly place)
de
scend
ing, born to mother of the street
Leda to some (on the
down-low) Zeus
effervescent incandescent eYe s
illuminating darkened cornered souls
of passers-
>snappingsnarlingstomping<
by
with savior's grace found now(here)
perfect whole
unearthly beauty neon ((halo)) glows
mirrored
on her palest golden hair
from reddest lights and bar signs
Her steps float
above the concrete-footed walks and stairs
to which we're tied.
Just child's play (yet it seems
that in her wake a cityblock's
)redeemed
Mar 27, 2011
Mar 27, 2011 at 8:14 PM UTC
XXXIII. TO THE DIOSCURI (19 lines)
(ll. 1-17) Bright-eyed Muses, tell of the Tyndaridae, the Sons of
Zeus, glorious children of neat-ankled Leda, Castor the tamer of
horses, and blameless Polydeuces. When Leda had lain with the
dark-clouded Son of Cronos, she bare them beneath the peak of the
great hill Taygetus, -- children who are delivers of men on earth
and of swift-going ships when stormy gales rage over the ruthless
sea. Then the shipmen call upon the sons of great Zeus with vows
of white lambs, going to the forepart of the prow; but the strong
wind and the waves of the sea lay the ship under water, until
suddenly these two are seen darting through the air on tawny
wings. Forthwith they allay the blasts of the cruel winds and
still the waves upon the surface of the white sea: fair signs are
they and deliverance from toil. And when the shipmen see them
they are glad and have rest from their pain and labour.
(ll. 18-19) Hail, Tyndaridae, riders upon swift horses! Now I
will remember you and another song also.
1.6k
Cement patch brick twenty dollar bills.
Sidewalk with f i g u r e d steps figure
skating around Bazooka Joe and Joe
Camel sharing banana split menthol
kisses beneath Atlas' golden world.
Idealism, baby.
We gold-stripe fine Chinet, fine clothes,
a broach laden with Leda swan feathers.
Plastic-tipped felt strips wound with
a straight paperclip.
That Ginsberg belt & pleated pants +
ruffled shirt. Seinfeld, Central Perk,
and Easthampton. Flip through
conceptual art book with art
still inside your glowing, artistic
mind. Reverse countersink
a media bit / Craftsman
holds it still. Teal X (Tilex)
on a Chuck Taylor floor
so clean, sparkle, innocent,
blind, oblivious, ignorant,
narcissistic, sparkle, spark
me up but don't let me help
you find your face in the dark.
Hold the gun, ease the trigger,
ignore the twisting hair and wet
shoulder. Forget the shreikscreechscream,
it's only jazz.
Dec 8, 2014
Dec 8, 2014 at 12:39 AM UTC
THE SWAN & LEDA
How, like a...God
he comes
taking the shape
& the form of a
swan
who having had
his wicked way
longs
to be
on his
merry way.
But, wait
...what’s this
he can’t....shake
...his fine...feathers...off
feather upon
downy feather
locks him
into the costume
he had put on
& now...can’t be put off.
What magic
can this human woman
weave
& now
having been taken
takes great pleasure
in having her servant
a giant of a man
among men
****** the swan
& be gone.
And once
the God
is well & truly
f*****
he’s plucked
of all
the finery
of his feathers.
Behold, the God
standing in the ****
shivering & ready
for the ***
the final twist
of this fatalistic plot
...his beautiful
neck.
That night
she dines upon
the subtle delicate
breast of swan
served in a creamy
pepper & garlic sauce.
She even has
an extra helping
thinking she can
always exercise it off.
Alas, poor Zeus
wishing he had chosen
to pose
in his usual tour-de-force
a shower
of gold
but thinks too late
(thinking even as he is eaten) .
And now, she burps
(“Oh, pardon..! ”)
sleeps
& dreams
of a God
fit for a dish.
Apr 2, 2019
Apr 2, 2019 at 9:24 AM UTC
Is it my imagination
Or are there far fewer birds singing ?
What dawn do they mutely await
Through the long night of terror ?
Silence speaks of pervasive fear
And of the loss of ancestral nests.
The protector has taken an axe to the trees.
Trees fall; the earth shakes.
Raucous cries of dispossession supplant birdsong
As the khaki-clad hunters *** sitting ducks
While Zeus' swans feast on Leda's flesh.
Rejoice, my countrymen, for the prophecy has come true
-The state has indeed withered away.
Oct 10, 2011
Oct 10, 2011 at 7:13 AM UTC
Pretty Please with Sugar
I've hit the wall with my thoughts
words will no longer fill my head
now nothing there but doubts
things I have written you never read
you were my magical inspiration
you were the soul of my delight
I need you to be my Leda
I want to be your swan in the moonlight
I miss the fragrance of my Sunflower
I miss my babydoll and all her charms
I beg you pretty please with sugar on it
return to my waiting empty arms
Gomer LePoet ....
Sep 5, 2011
Sep 5, 2011 at 7:00 PM UTC
When senses run together, dull in the rack
Of night, it’s Chaos who culls true meaning.
He mocks the light of day in paradox
Sings: ‘we are such stuff as dreams are made on.’
The ****** end, embodies the souls watery
Beginning, and so the beating star is all
Intermingled; until flesh and fibers are done,
Thus: ‘we are such stuff as dreams are made on.’
Though mighty Jove, who beat the antique world
Down, cast poor Agamemnon his fate, it’s
Helen of Troy whose aisling breaks like doom,
All from the strain of Leda and the Swan.
For, ‘we are such stuff as dreams are made on,
And our little life is rounded with a sleep.’
Jun 1, 2012
Jun 1, 2012 at 1:54 PM UTC
When senses run together, dull in the rack
Of night, it’s Chaos who culls true meaning.
He mocks the light of day in paradox
Sings: ‘we are such stuff as dreams are made on.’
The ****** end, embodies the souls watery
Beginning, and so the beating star is all
Intermingled; until flesh and fibers are done,
Thus: ‘we are such stuff as dreams are made on.’
Though mighty Jove, who beat the antique world
Down, cast poor Agamemnon his fate, it’s
Helen of Troy whose aisling breaks like doom,
All from the strain of Leda and the Swan.
For, ‘we are such stuff as dreams are made on,
And our little life is rounded with a sleep.’
Nov 12, 2013
Nov 12, 2013 at 1:31 PM UTC
*
*White rush, wings and flesh
Hearts beat fast in lust and ******
Godseeds in the eggs*
*
Jun 27, 2020
Jun 27, 2020 at 5:34 AM UTC
She loved the song that lent me wings,
its pale mythology of lust.
Reaching for words the singer sings
she clutched at feathers and found dust.
And now upon her swan-beat back
she bears the weight of firmer bones;
and I, who never heard a lack
of grace in any woman’s groans,
am lifted on her soaring hips.
Transfixed she struggles down to day,
choked by the earth between her lips,
treading a firmament of clay.
Nov 10, 2011
Nov 10, 2011 at 5:32 PM UTC
Pedazo de verde banco
que ocupo ahora otra vez...
Pienso en la ola y el pez
y el faro tuerto y blanco.
Yo tuve un día a mi flanco
otro río de calor,
alguna cintura en flor,
hasta en este propio asiento.
Hoy sólo me roza el viento,
blando, como ayer, de amor.
Si puede no escriba más
esta estrofa dura y leda,
celebraré la alameda
que no se acaba jamás.
El leve y vario chis chas
que hacen entre sí las hojas,
las últimas nubes rojas,
el río, ***** del todo,
mi bastoncillo, mi codo,
y mis dos rodillas flojas.
831
When senses run together, dull in the rack
Of night, it’s Chaos who culls true meaning.
He mocks the light of day in paradox
Sings: ‘we are such stuff as dreams are made on.’
The ****** end, embodies the souls watery
Beginning, and so the beating star is all
Intermingled; until flesh and fibers are done,
Thus: ‘we are such stuff as dreams are made on.’
Though mighty Jove, who beat the antique world
Down, cast poor Agamemnon his fate, it’s
Helen of Troy whose aisling breaks like doom,
All from the strain of Leda and the Swan.
For, ‘we are such stuff as dreams are made on,
And our little life is rounded with a sleep.’
Apr 17, 2013
Apr 17, 2013 at 12:11 PM UTC
Vestal Virgins forbidden to have ***
spent their days getting groped
as they stood silently around the temple; having
to watch the sacred ****** clean up; treated like goddesses,
they'd have preferred to be treated like
women, like the Senators' wives, who per custom had to serve as temple
****** for a good part of the year; harvests
flourishing; | little ******** born & set adrift; picked like apples
from trees & plucked out of streams,
yet the Virgins were busy scratching their pious itch,
that became the
sanctity of Mother Church [Mary never got her freak on? oh, no -- I say she & Leda had much in common: here's a tip, ladies, don't let birds get too near ur snooch: weird **** happens:
& eunuchs became the priests & bishops;
perverts doing the paper
work for free; for the chance to go frolicking in pre-Deluvian
Bliss
w/ fair-haired
boys forced to dress & act as maidens,
inspiring fantasies of the long ago past;
when we think of the Golden Age: [our ideas of Erotica are very predicated on the 19th century's idea of ****** fantasy; which we regurgitate erzats back into our own cultural spaces; ******* ******** & peeing & vomiting going hand-in-hand w/ giving birth;
Life has forever been ***** & in the mud;
conscious Fascists manipulate Pomp
& Circumstance
to enslave the World; Fascists Never Win
b/c a Lone Ranger rides out of the Sky
& saves the people after much destruction,
sadly, new things need to be built;
so tear down the old & burned & obsolete
& build new powerful spaces for people
to live & thrive
We think the Golden Age was like Rococo, but they were ******* Barbarians,
just like today & tomorrow
Sep 26, 2018
Sep 26, 2018 at 1:11 AM UTC
When senses run together, dull in the rack
Of night, it’s Chaos who culls true meaning.
He mocks the light of day in paradox
Sings: ‘we are such stuff as dreams are made on.’
The ****** end, embodies the souls watery
Beginning, and so the beating star is all
Intermingled; until flesh and fibers are done,
Thus: ‘we are such stuff as dreams are made on.’
Though mighty Jove, who beat the antique world
Down, cast poor Agamemnon his fate, it’s
Helen of Troy whose aisling breaks like doom,
All from the strain of Leda and the Swan.
For, ‘we are such stuff as dreams are made on,
And our little life is rounded with a sleep.’
Sep 19, 2012
Sep 19, 2012 at 10:57 AM UTC
When senses run together, dull in the rack
Of night, it’s Chaos who culls true meaning.
He mocks the light of day in paradox
Sings: ‘we are such stuff as dreams are made on.’
The ****** end, embodies the souls watery
Beginning, and so the beating star is all
Intermingled; until flesh and fibers are done,
Thus: ‘we are such stuff as dreams are made on.’
Though mighty Jove, who beat the antique world
Down, cast poor Agamemnon his fate, it’s
Helen of Troy whose aisling breaks like doom,
All from the strain of Leda and the Swan.
For, ‘we are such stuff as dreams are made on,
And our little life is rounded with a sleep.’
Jan 10, 2013
Jan 10, 2013 at 8:01 PM UTC
Pretty Please with Sugar
I've hit the wall with my thoughts
words will no longer fill my head
now nothing there but doubts
things I have written you never read
you were my magical inspiration
you were the soul of my delight
I need you to be my Leda
I want to be your swan in the moonlight
I miss the fragrance of my Sunflower
I miss my babydoll and all her charms
I beg you pretty please with sugar on it
return to my waiting empty arms
Gomer LePoet ....
Jun 20, 2013
Jun 20, 2013 at 8:27 PM UTC
En la alameda
de ese jardín
canta el violín
con voz de seda;
de la arboleda
por el confín
parla en latín
el Cisne a Leda...
Más cerca, -loca
por el Abate-
Clorinda cede...
cede su boca...
Breve combate.
Todo se puede.
De este jardín
por la alameda
con voz de seda
llora el violín...
Trágico -al fin-
Pierrot, a Leda
(de la arboleda
por el confín)
trata de loca...
Luego la abate
y ella no cede...
Niega su boca...
Rudo combate.
Nada se puede...
738
When senses run together, dull in the rack
Of night, it’s Chaos who culls true meaning.
He mocks the light of day in paradox
Sings: ‘we are such stuff as dreams are made on.’
The ****** end, embodies the souls watery
Beginning, and so the beating star is all
Intermingled; until flesh and fibers are done,
Thus: ‘we are such stuff as dreams are made on.’
Though mighty Jove, who beat the antique world
Down, cast poor Agamemnon his fate, it’s
Helen of Troy whose aisling breaks like doom,
All from the strain of Leda and the Swan.
For, ‘we are such stuff as dreams are made on,
And our little life is rounded with a sleep.’
Mar 10, 2014
Mar 10, 2014 at 11:50 AM UTC
Yo soy la movediza perenne; nunca dura
en mi una forma; pronto mi ser se transfigura,
y ya entre guijas de ónix cantando peregrino,
ya en témpanos helados detengo mi camino,
ya vuelo por los aires trocándome en vapores,
ya soy iris en polvo de todos los colores,
o rocío que asciende, o aguacero que llueve...
Mas Dios también me ha dado la albura de la nieve,
la albura de la nieve enigmática y fría
que cae de los cielos como una eucaristía,
que por los puntiagudos techos resbala leda
y que cuando la pisan cruje como la seda.
Cayendo silenciosa, de blanco al mundo arropo.
Subí, vapor, a lo alto, desciendo al suelo, copo;
subí gris de los lagos que la quietud estanca,
y bajo blanca al mundo... ¡Oh qué bello es ser blanca!
¿Por qué soy blanca? En premio al sacrificio mío,
porque tirito para que nadie tenga frío,
porque mi lino todos los fríos almacena
¡y dios me torna blanca por haber sido buena!
¿Verdad que es llevadera la palma del martirio
así? Yo caigo como los pétalos de un lirio
de lo alto, y no pudiendo cantar mi canción pura
con murmurios de linfa, la canto con blancura.
La blancura es el himno más hermoso y más santo;
ser blanca es orar; siendo yo, pues, blanca, oro y canto.
Ser luminosa es otro de los cantos mejores:
¿No ves que las estrellas salmodian con fulgores?
Por eso el rey poeta dijo en himno de amor:
"El firmamento narra la gloria del Señor".
Se tú como la Nieve que inmaculada llueve
Y yo clamé: -¡Alabemos a Dios, hermana Nieve!
724
Entre la imperturbable quietud de la alameda,
donde el césped recama su tapiz absorbente,
la fuente silabea melancólicamente
las tímidas metáforas de una estrofa de seda.
El chorro de agua clara vacila, ondula y rueda,
irisando de espuma los labios de la fuente,
y sobre la amatista cóncava del poniente
el sol funde los bordes de su roja moneda.
En el plácido estanque de linfa transparente
un cisne erige el asa de su cuello indolente,
y en actitud heráldica meditabundo queda...
Pero el plumaje cándido se eriza de repente,
y del pico de ámbar fluye un grito estridente,
ante un botón de rosa que flota en la corriente,
húmedo y sonrosado como el **** de Leda...
641