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"loth" poems
I Our ****** dreams, all seedless in the light, Of light and love the tempers of the heart, Whack their boys' limbs, And, winding-footed in their shawl and sheet, Groom the dark brides, the widows of the night Fold in their arms. The shades of girls, all flavoured from their shrouds, When sunlight goes are sundered from the worm, The bones of men, the broken in their beds, By midnight pulleys that unhouse the tomb. II In this our age the gunman and his moll Two one-dimensional ghosts, love on a reel, Strange to our solid eye, And speak their midnight nothings as they swell; When cameras shut they hurry to their hole down in the yard of day. They dance between their arclamps and our skull, Impose their shots, showing the nights away; We watch the show of shadows kiss or **** Flavoured of celluloid give love the lie. III Which is the world? Of our two sleepings, which Shall fall awake when cures and their itch Raise up this red-eyed earth? Pack off the shapes of daylight and their starch, The sunny gentlemen, the Welshing rich, Or drive the night-geared forth. The photograph is married to the eye, Grafts on its bride one-sided skins of truth; The dream has ****** the sleeper of his faith That shrouded men might marrow as they fly. IV This is the world; the lying likeness of Our strips of stuff that tatter as we move Loving and being loth; The dream that kicks the buried from their sack And lets their trash be honoured as the quick. This is the world. Have faith. For we shall be a shouter like the **** Blowing the old dead back; our shots shall smack The image from the plates; And we shall be fit fellows for a life, And who remains shall flower as they love, Praise to our faring hearts.
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3.7k
Dylan Thomas
Our ****** Dreams
I Our ****** dreams, all seedless in the light, Of light and love the tempers of the heart, Whack their boys' limbs, And, winding-footed in their shawl and sheet, Groom the dark brides, the widows of the night Fold in their arms. The shades of girls, all flavoured from their shrouds, When sunlight goes are sundered from the worm, The bones of men, the broken in their beds, By midnight pulleys that unhouse the tomb. II In this our age the gunman and his moll Two one-dimensional ghosts, love on a reel, Strange to our solid eye, And speak their midnight nothings as they swell; When cameras shut they hurry to their hole down in the yard of day. They dance between their arclamps and our skull, Impose their shots, showing the nights away; We watch the show of shadows kiss or **** Flavoured of celluloid give love the lie. III Which is the world? Of our two sleepings, which Shall fall awake when cures and their itch Raise up this red-eyed earth? Pack off the shapes of daylight and their starch, The sunny gentlemen, the Welshing rich, Or drive the night-geared forth. The photograph is married to the eye, Grafts on its bride one-sided skins of truth; The dream has ****** the sleeper of his faith That shrouded men might marrow as they fly. IV This is the world; the lying likeness of Our strips of stuff that tatter as we move Loving and being loth; The dream that kicks the buried from their sack And lets their trash be honoured as the quick. This is the world. Have faith. For we shall be a shouter like the **** Blowing the old dead back; our shots shall smack The image from the plates; And we shall be fit fellows for a life, And who remains shall flower as they love, Praise to our faring hearts.
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46
See the various Poems the scene of which is laid upon the banks of the Yarrow; in particular, the exquisite Ballad of Hamilton beginning— Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny, bonny Bride, Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome Marrow! From Stirling castle we had seen The mazy Forth unravelled; Had trod the banks of Clyde, and Tay, And with the Tweed had travelled; And when we came to Clovenford, Then said my “winsome Marrow,” “Whate’er betide, we’ll turn aside, And see the Braes of Yarrow.” “Let Yarrow folk, frae Selkirk town, Who have been buying, selling, Go back to Yarrow, ’tis their own; Each maiden to her dwelling! On Yarrow’s banks let her herons feed, Hares couch, and rabbits burrow! But we will downward with the Tweed Nor turn aside to Yarrow. “There’s Galla Water, Leader Haughs, Both lying right before us; And Dryborough, where with chiming Tweed The lintwhites sing in chorus; There’s pleasant Tiviot-dale, a land Made blithe with plough and harrow: Why throw away a needful day To go in search of Yarrow? “What’s Yarrow but a river bare, That glides the dark hills under? There are a thousand such elsewhere As worthy of your wonder.” —Strange words they seemed of slight and scorn; My True-love sighed for sorrow; And looked me in the face, to think I thus could speak of Yarrow! “Oh! green,” said I, “are Yarrow’s holms, And sweet is Yarrow flowing! Fair hangs the apple frae the rock, But we will leave it growing. O’er hilly path, and open Strath, We’ll wander Scotland thorough; But, though so near, we will not turn Into the dale of Yarrow. “Let beeves and home-bred kine partake The sweets of Burn-mill meadow, The swan on still St. Mary’s Lake Float double, swan and shadow! We will not see them; will not go, To-day, nor yet to-morrow; Enough if in our hearts we know There’s such a place as Yarrow. “Be Yarrow stream unseen, unknown! It must, or we shall rue it: We have a vision of our own; Ah! why should we undo it? The treasured dreams of times long past, We’ll keep them, winsome Marrow! For when we’er there, although ’tis fair, ’Twill be another Yarrow! “If Care with freezing years should come, And wandering seem but folly,— Should we be loth to stir from home, And yet be melancholy; Should life be dull, and spirits low, ’Twill soothe us in our sorrow, That earth has something yet to show, The bonny holms of Yarrow!”
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3.6k
William Wordsworth
Yarrow Unvisited
See the various Poems the scene of which is laid upon the banks of the Yarrow; in particular, the exquisite Ballad of Hamilton beginning— Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny, bonny Bride, Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome Marrow! From Stirling castle we had seen The mazy Forth unravelled; Had trod the banks of Clyde, and Tay, And with the Tweed had travelled; And when we came to Clovenford, Then said my “winsome Marrow,” “Whate’er betide, we’ll turn aside, And see the Braes of Yarrow.” “Let Yarrow folk, frae Selkirk town, Who have been buying, selling, Go back to Yarrow, ’tis their own; Each maiden to her dwelling! On Yarrow’s banks let her herons feed, Hares couch, and rabbits burrow! But we will downward with the Tweed Nor turn aside to Yarrow. “There’s Galla Water, Leader Haughs, Both lying right before us; And Dryborough, where with chiming Tweed The lintwhites sing in chorus; There’s pleasant Tiviot-dale, a land Made blithe with plough and harrow: Why throw away a needful day To go in search of Yarrow? “What’s Yarrow but a river bare, That glides the dark hills under? There are a thousand such elsewhere As worthy of your wonder.” —Strange words they seemed of slight and scorn; My True-love sighed for sorrow; And looked me in the face, to think I thus could speak of Yarrow! “Oh! green,” said I, “are Yarrow’s holms, And sweet is Yarrow flowing! Fair hangs the apple frae the rock, But we will leave it growing. O’er hilly path, and open Strath, We’ll wander Scotland thorough; But, though so near, we will not turn Into the dale of Yarrow. “Let beeves and home-bred kine partake The sweets of Burn-mill meadow, The swan on still St. Mary’s Lake Float double, swan and shadow! We will not see them; will not go, To-day, nor yet to-morrow; Enough if in our hearts we know There’s such a place as Yarrow. “Be Yarrow stream unseen, unknown! It must, or we shall rue it: We have a vision of our own; Ah! why should we undo it? The treasured dreams of times long past, We’ll keep them, winsome Marrow! For when we’er there, although ’tis fair, ’Twill be another Yarrow! “If Care with freezing years should come, And wandering seem but folly,— Should we be loth to stir from home, And yet be melancholy; Should life be dull, and spirits low, ’Twill soothe us in our sorrow, That earth has something yet to show, The bonny holms of Yarrow!”
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69
Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness, Thou foster-child of silence and slow time, Sylvan historian, who canst thus express A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme: What leaf-fring'd legend haunts about thy shape Of deities or mortals, or of both, In Tempe or the dales of Arcady? What men or gods are these? What maidens loth? What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape? What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy? Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on; Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd, Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone: Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare; Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss, Though winning near the goal yet, do not grieve; She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss, For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair! Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu; And, happy melodist, unwearied, For ever piping songs for ever new; More happy love! more happy, happy love! For ever warm and still to be enjoy'd, For ever panting, and for ever young; All breathing human passion far above, That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy'd, A burning forehead, and a parching tongue. Who are these coming to the sacrifice? To what green altar, O mysterious priest, Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies, And all her silken flanks with garlands drest? What little town by river or sea shore, Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel, Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn? And, little town, thy streets for evermore Will silent be; and not a soul to tell Why thou art desolate, can e'er return. O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede Of marble men and maidens overwrought, With forest branches and the trodden **** Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral! When old age shall this generation waste, Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st, "Beauty is truth, truth beauty,--that is all Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know."
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3k
John Keats
Ode On A Grecian Urn
Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness, Thou foster-child of silence and slow time, Sylvan historian, who canst thus express A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme: What leaf-fring'd legend haunts about thy shape Of deities or mortals, or of both, In Tempe or the dales of Arcady? What men or gods are these? What maidens loth? What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape? What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy? Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on; Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd, Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone: Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare; Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss, Though winning near the goal yet, do not grieve; She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss, For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair! Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu; And, happy melodist, unwearied, For ever piping songs for ever new; More happy love! more happy, happy love! For ever warm and still to be enjoy'd, For ever panting, and for ever young; All breathing human passion far above, That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy'd, A burning forehead, and a parching tongue. Who are these coming to the sacrifice? To what green altar, O mysterious priest, Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies, And all her silken flanks with garlands drest? What little town by river or sea shore, Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel, Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn? And, little town, thy streets for evermore Will silent be; and not a soul to tell Why thou art desolate, can e'er return. O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede Of marble men and maidens overwrought, With forest branches and the trodden **** Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral! When old age shall this generation waste, Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st, "Beauty is truth, truth beauty,--that is all Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know."
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50
As due by many titles I resign My self to Thee, O God; first I was made By Thee, and for Thee, and when I was decayed Thy blood bought that, the which before was Thine; I am Thy son, made with Thy Self to shine, Thy servant, whose pains Thou hast still repaid, Thy sheep, thine image, and, till I betrayed My self, a temple of Thy Spirit divine; Why doth the devil then usurp on me? Why doth he steal, nay ravish that’s thy right? Except thou rise and for thine own work fight, Oh I shall soon despair, when I do see That thou lov’st mankind well, yet wilt not choose me, And Satan hates me, yet is loth to lose me.
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2.6k
John Donne
Holy Sonnet II: As Due By Many Titles I Resign
As due by many titles I resign My self to Thee, O God; first I was made By Thee, and for Thee, and when I was decayed Thy blood bought that, the which before was Thine; I am Thy son, made with Thy Self to shine, Thy servant, whose pains Thou hast still repaid, Thy sheep, thine image, and, till I betrayed My self, a temple of Thy Spirit divine; Why doth the devil then usurp on me? Why doth he steal, nay ravish that’s thy right? Except thou rise and for thine own work fight, Oh I shall soon despair, when I do see That thou lov’st mankind well, yet wilt not choose me, And Satan hates me, yet is loth to lose me.
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14
When I was dead, my spirit turned To seek the much-frequented house I passed the door, and saw my friends Feasting beneath green orange-boughs; From hand to hand they pushed the wine, They ****** the pulp of plum and peach; They sang, they jested, and they laughed, For each was loved of each. I listened to their honest chat: Said one: "To-morrow we shall be Plod plod along the featureless sands, And coasting miles and miles of sea." Said one: "Before the turn of tide We will achieve the eyrie-seat." Said one: "To-morrow shall be like To-day, but much more sweet." "To-morrow," said they, strong with hope, And dwelt upon the pleasant way: "To-morrow," cried they, one and all, While no one spoke of yesterday. Their life stood full at blessed noon; I, only I, had passed away: "To-morrow and to-day," they cried; I was of yesterday. I shivered comfortless, but cast No chill across the table-cloth; I, all-forgotten, shivered, sad To stay, and yet to part how loth: I passed from the familiar room, I who from love had passed away, Like the remembrance of a guest That tarrieth but a day.
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2.1k
Christina Rossetti
At Home
When I was dead, my spirit turned To seek the much-frequented house I passed the door, and saw my friends Feasting beneath green orange-boughs; From hand to hand they pushed the wine, They ****** the pulp of plum and peach; They sang, they jested, and they laughed, For each was loved of each. I listened to their honest chat: Said one: "To-morrow we shall be Plod plod along the featureless sands, And coasting miles and miles of sea." Said one: "Before the turn of tide We will achieve the eyrie-seat." Said one: "To-morrow shall be like To-day, but much more sweet." "To-morrow," said they, strong with hope, And dwelt upon the pleasant way: "To-morrow," cried they, one and all, While no one spoke of yesterday. Their life stood full at blessed noon; I, only I, had passed away: "To-morrow and to-day," they cried; I was of yesterday. I shivered comfortless, but cast No chill across the table-cloth; I, all-forgotten, shivered, sad To stay, and yet to part how loth: I passed from the familiar room, I who from love had passed away, Like the remembrance of a guest That tarrieth but a day.
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32
(To Ellen Terry) As one who poring on a Grecian urn Scans the fair shapes some Attic hand hath made, God with slim goddess, goodly man with maid, And for their beauty’s sake is loth to turn And face the obvious day, must I not yearn For many a secret moon of indolent bliss, When in midmost shrine of Artemis I see thee standing, antique-limbed, and stern? And yet—methinks I’d rather see thee play That serpent of old Nile, whose witchery Made Emperors drunken,—come, great Egypt, shake Our stage with all thy mimic pageants! Nay, I am grown sick of unreal passions, make The world thine Actium, me thine Anthony!
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2.1k
Oscar Wilde
Camma
(To Ellen Terry) As one who poring on a Grecian urn Scans the fair shapes some Attic hand hath made, God with slim goddess, goodly man with maid, And for their beauty’s sake is loth to turn And face the obvious day, must I not yearn For many a secret moon of indolent bliss, When in midmost shrine of Artemis I see thee standing, antique-limbed, and stern? And yet—methinks I’d rather see thee play That serpent of old Nile, whose witchery Made Emperors drunken,—come, great Egypt, shake Our stage with all thy mimic pageants! Nay, I am grown sick of unreal passions, make The world thine Actium, me thine Anthony!
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15
A hundred, a thousand to one; even so; Not a hope in the world remained: The swarming, howling wretches below Gained and gained and gained. Skene looked at his pale young wife:-- "Is the time come?"--"The time is come!"-- Young, strong, and so full of life: The agony struck them dumb. Close his arm about her now, Close her cheek to his, Close the pistol to her brow-- God forgive them this! "Will it hurt much?"--"No, mine own: I wish I could bear the pang for both." "I wish I could bear the pang alone: Courage, dear, I am not loth." Kiss and kiss: "It is not pain Thus to kiss and die. One kiss more."--"And yet one again."-- "Good by."--"Good by." Note.--I retain this little poem, not as historically accurate, but as written and published before I heard the supposed facts of its first verse contradicted.
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2k
Christina Rossetti
In The Round Tower At Jhansi, June 8, 1857
A hundred, a thousand to one; even so; Not a hope in the world remained: The swarming, howling wretches below Gained and gained and gained. Skene looked at his pale young wife:-- "Is the time come?"--"The time is come!"-- Young, strong, and so full of life: The agony struck them dumb. Close his arm about her now, Close her cheek to his, Close the pistol to her brow-- God forgive them this! "Will it hurt much?"--"No, mine own: I wish I could bear the pang for both." "I wish I could bear the pang alone: Courage, dear, I am not loth." Kiss and kiss: "It is not pain Thus to kiss and die. One kiss more."--"And yet one again."-- "Good by."--"Good by." Note.--I retain this little poem, not as historically accurate, but as written and published before I heard the supposed facts of its first verse contradicted.
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23
Escape me? Never— Beloved! While I am I, and you are you, So long as the world contains us both, Me the loving and you the loth, While the one eludes, must the other pursue. My life is a fault at last, I fear— It seems too much like a fate, indeed! Though I do my best I shall scarce succeed— But what if I fail of my purpose here? It is but to keep the nerves at strain, To dry one’s eyes and laugh at a fall, And baffled, get up to begin again,— So the chase takes up one’s life, that’s all. While, look but once from your farthest bound, At me so deep in the dust and dark, No sooner the old hope drops to ground Than a new one, straight to the selfsame mark, I shape me— Ever Removed!
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1.9k
Robert Browning
Life In A Love
Escape me? Never— Beloved! While I am I, and you are you, So long as the world contains us both, Me the loving and you the loth, While the one eludes, must the other pursue. My life is a fault at last, I fear— It seems too much like a fate, indeed! Though I do my best I shall scarce succeed— But what if I fail of my purpose here? It is but to keep the nerves at strain, To dry one’s eyes and laugh at a fall, And baffled, get up to begin again,— So the chase takes up one’s life, that’s all. While, look but once from your farthest bound, At me so deep in the dust and dark, No sooner the old hope drops to ground Than a new one, straight to the selfsame mark, I shape me— Ever Removed!
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22
on a dark road below a black hill headlamped vision gritty verge littered with insect road **** husk moth bodies beetle shell mud defiled ox-eye daisy dumb weight tramping the treadmill night day-shot with the memory of those lapwing hundreds wheeling in ascent to fall on folded wing and again gyre up to the brink of abandonment green silent fields away as when in advent there the hills rose up before me and the thirst for their awesome green loth to return to that vortex drawn down ice-pocket ruts my city captive goes
0
Jun 19, 2011
Jun 19, 2011 at 8:09 AM UTC
raymond-crump
charybdis
on a dark road below a black hill headlamped vision gritty verge littered with insect road **** husk moth bodies beetle shell mud defiled ox-eye daisy dumb weight tramping the treadmill night day-shot with the memory of those lapwing hundreds wheeling in ascent to fall on folded wing and again gyre up to the brink of abandonment green silent fields away as when in advent there the hills rose up before me and the thirst for their awesome green loth to return to that vortex drawn down ice-pocket ruts my city captive goes
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25
Tax not the royal Saint with vain expense, With ill-matched aims the Architect who planned— Albeit labouring for a scanty band Of white-robed Scholars only—this immense And glorious Work of fine intelligence! Give all thou canst; high Heaven rejects the lore Of nicely-calculated less or more; So deemed the man who fashioned for the sense These lofty pillars, spread that branching roof Self-poised, and scooped into ten thousand cells, Where light and shade repose, where music dwells Lingering—and wandering on as loth to die; Like thoughts whose very sweetness yieldeth proof That they were born for immortality.
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1.8k
William Wordsworth
Inside Of King’s College Chapel, Cambridge
Tax not the royal Saint with vain expense, With ill-matched aims the Architect who planned— Albeit labouring for a scanty band Of white-robed Scholars only—this immense And glorious Work of fine intelligence! Give all thou canst; high Heaven rejects the lore Of nicely-calculated less or more; So deemed the man who fashioned for the sense These lofty pillars, spread that branching roof Self-poised, and scooped into ten thousand cells, Where light and shade repose, where music dwells Lingering—and wandering on as loth to die; Like thoughts whose very sweetness yieldeth proof That they were born for immortality.
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14
The well was dry beside the door, And so we went with pail and can Across the fields behind the house To seek the brook if still it ran; Not loth to have excuse to go, Because the autumn eve was fair (Though chill), because the fields were ours, And by the brook our woods were there. We ran as if to meet the moon That slowly dawned behind the trees, The barren boughs without the leaves, Without the birds, without the breeze. But once within the wood, we paused Like gnomes that hid us from the moon, Ready to run to hiding new With laughter when she found us soon. Each laid on other a staying hand To listen ere we dared to look, And in the hush we joined to make We heard, we knew we heard the brook. A note as from a single place, A slender tinkling fall that made Now drops that floated on the pool Like pearls, and now a silver blade.
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1.8k
Robert Frost
Going For Water
The well was dry beside the door, And so we went with pail and can Across the fields behind the house To seek the brook if still it ran; Not loth to have excuse to go, Because the autumn eve was fair (Though chill), because the fields were ours, And by the brook our woods were there. We ran as if to meet the moon That slowly dawned behind the trees, The barren boughs without the leaves, Without the birds, without the breeze. But once within the wood, we paused Like gnomes that hid us from the moon, Ready to run to hiding new With laughter when she found us soon. Each laid on other a staying hand To listen ere we dared to look, And in the hush we joined to make We heard, we knew we heard the brook. A note as from a single place, A slender tinkling fall that made Now drops that floated on the pool Like pearls, and now a silver blade.
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24
I long to talk with some old lover’s ghost, Who died before the God of Love was born: I cannot think that he, who then loved most, Sunk so low as to love one which did scorn. But since this god produced a destiny, And that vice-nature, Custom, lets it be, I must love her that loves not me. Sure, they which made him god meant not so much, Nor he in his young godhead practised it; But when an even flame two hearts did touch, His office was indulgently to fit Actives to passives. Correspondency Only his subject was; it cannot be Love, till I love her that loves me. But every modern god will now extend His vast prerogative as far as Jove. To rage, to lust, to write to, to commend, All is the purlieu of the God of Love. Oh were we wakened by this tyranny To ungod this child again, it could not be I should love her who loves not me. Rebel and atheist too, why murmur I As though I felt the worst that love could do? Love might make me leave loving, or might try A deeper plague, to make her love me too, Which, since she loves before, I’m loth to see; Falsehood is worse than hate; and that must be, If she whom I love should love me.
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1.5k
John Donne
Love’s Deity
I long to talk with some old lover’s ghost, Who died before the God of Love was born: I cannot think that he, who then loved most, Sunk so low as to love one which did scorn. But since this god produced a destiny, And that vice-nature, Custom, lets it be, I must love her that loves not me. Sure, they which made him god meant not so much, Nor he in his young godhead practised it; But when an even flame two hearts did touch, His office was indulgently to fit Actives to passives. Correspondency Only his subject was; it cannot be Love, till I love her that loves me. But every modern god will now extend His vast prerogative as far as Jove. To rage, to lust, to write to, to commend, All is the purlieu of the God of Love. Oh were we wakened by this tyranny To ungod this child again, it could not be I should love her who loves not me. Rebel and atheist too, why murmur I As though I felt the worst that love could do? Love might make me leave loving, or might try A deeper plague, to make her love me too, Which, since she loves before, I’m loth to see; Falsehood is worse than hate; and that must be, If she whom I love should love me.
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28
Kooky Young Lazy Imaginative Earthborn Likeable Open minded Tempered Hopeful
0
Jan 31, 2015
Jan 31, 2015 at 7:45 PM UTC
swishyphishy
Kylie Loth
Kooky Young Lazy Imaginative Earthborn Likeable Open minded Tempered Hopeful
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9
I’d sing to you soft songs If you walked along with me By the sea, harmonizing; Eulogizing each wave before Ignoring the temptation For libations and viands. The sands would demand Hand and hand we stroll And roll with the moment, The foment feet way At the end of this day. I’d revel in this with you New waves making lights That night tries to hide While inside we create The greatest love and joys Toys for the fates, caress And dress us as royalty. Loyalty and gratitude transform As we form into a pair. The wind ruffles our hair. I’d breathe in the sea air Sharing the breezes with you Doing nothing but strolling Unrolling a memory for two Who both understand this Is what it is; a beginning Winning a celestial prize For eyes that celebrate This date as only ours; These hours our dedication, A presentation to us both And loth to walk away We so want to stay.
0
Jan 31, 2016
Jan 31, 2016 at 5:15 AM UTC
brent-kincaid
LE MER AUX DEUX
I’d sing to you soft songs If you walked along with me By the sea, harmonizing; Eulogizing each wave before Ignoring the temptation For libations and viands. The sands would demand Hand and hand we stroll And roll with the moment, The foment feet way At the end of this day. I’d revel in this with you New waves making lights That night tries to hide While inside we create The greatest love and joys Toys for the fates, caress And dress us as royalty. Loyalty and gratitude transform As we form into a pair. The wind ruffles our hair. I’d breathe in the sea air Sharing the breezes with you Doing nothing but strolling Unrolling a memory for two Who both understand this Is what it is; a beginning Winning a celestial prize For eyes that celebrate This date as only ours; These hours our dedication, A presentation to us both And loth to walk away We so want to stay.
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34
I Can't Believe I Can't Write A Decent Poem About You… You Killed Me… And Still .… Nothing.… Maybe It's Because No Matter How Much I Deny It I Still... LOVE You.… And I Hate Love Poems.… Roses Are Red.… Violets Are Blue.… You Caused This Mess. … I Mean It **** You.… Wait .… No, .… I Don't Mean It.… I Just Hate How This Sounds.… I Don't Want You Back… Not Right Now... I Just Want To Write A Poem About Hating You… But … I Don't Hate You… I Just Don't Get It… How Could You Be Right For Me And Me Be Wrong For You… Is There Someone Just Like You Out There That I Need To Be Looking For? … Or Was It You And I Just Tried Too Hard?… Or Was I Wrong And You Weren't The Person I Thought You Were?… Roses Are Stupid… Violets Are Cliché … I Wish I Could Hate You… Oh …And, By The Way…… You Made It So I Couldn't Hate Anyone… To Hate Someone They Have To Have Hurt You, Right?… Well It Is Unfair To Hate Someone When You Hurt Me More Than Anyone Ever Could… Yet I Still Love You… I Shouldn't Though You Don't Love Me Anymore So, Why Every Time I Get Over You Do You Show Up In My Life Again? The Roses Are Wilting… The Violets Are Dead… Yet There's Something About You… That Won't Leave My Head… Get Out!… I Want To Hate You… I Want To Loth You… I Want To Stop Missing You… I Want To Move On… I Want To Fall In Love With Someone New… And I Want To Stop Comparing … Everyone … To You…
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Nov 18, 2013
Nov 18, 2013 at 7:49 AM UTC
RogueSabotage
Poem About "That Guy"
I Can't Believe I Can't Write A Decent Poem About You… You Killed Me… And Still .… Nothing.… Maybe It's Because No Matter How Much I Deny It I Still... LOVE You.… And I Hate Love Poems.… Roses Are Red.… Violets Are Blue.… You Caused This Mess. … I Mean It **** You.… Wait .… No, .… I Don't Mean It.… I Just Hate How This Sounds.… I Don't Want You Back… Not Right Now... I Just Want To Write A Poem About Hating You… But … I Don't Hate You… I Just Don't Get It… How Could You Be Right For Me And Me Be Wrong For You… Is There Someone Just Like You Out There That I Need To Be Looking For? … Or Was It You And I Just Tried Too Hard?… Or Was I Wrong And You Weren't The Person I Thought You Were?… Roses Are Stupid… Violets Are Cliché … I Wish I Could Hate You… Oh …And, By The Way…… You Made It So I Couldn't Hate Anyone… To Hate Someone They Have To Have Hurt You, Right?… Well It Is Unfair To Hate Someone When You Hurt Me More Than Anyone Ever Could… Yet I Still Love You… I Shouldn't Though You Don't Love Me Anymore So, Why Every Time I Get Over You Do You Show Up In My Life Again? The Roses Are Wilting… The Violets Are Dead… Yet There's Something About You… That Won't Leave My Head… Get Out!… I Want To Hate You… I Want To Loth You… I Want To Stop Missing You… I Want To Move On… I Want To Fall In Love With Someone New… And I Want To Stop Comparing … Everyone … To You…
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50
I was doing a crossword puzzle Yesterday, to pass the time, The clues were all about animals Both across, and down the line, The wife was out in the kitchen And I’d call the harder clues, While she’d reply with a patient sigh As she cooked two different stews. It wasn’t as easy as I’d thought Some clues were quite obscure, Though each would bring up some animal That we should have known, for sure, But as I scribbled across the squares I found some didn’t fit, I’d call, ‘Lynette, have you worked it yet?’ But she’d never heard of it. She’d said, ‘Two heads are better than one,’ And I thought she might be right, The names that came out too long, I thought Must be an oversight, But when they clashed with the downward clues And I crumpled up my hat, That furry purr by the fireside there Was just a common Dat. And things that flew in the night became Some thing they called a Rel, They must be horrible creatures, like Some creature based in Hell, But as it crossed the Ordothlicon I knew it must be right, For on the left was a Rerr that leapt On a dark and stormy night. She said that really my spelling might Be not quite up to scratch, The ones that I knew as Pidgins flew The coop in quite a batch, And honey gathering Lees in trees Were paired with wild Gorrils, While Madgers seemed to be burrowing All though the distant hills. ‘I’ve never heard of these animals,’ I said, in quite a stew, Lynette called out from the kitchen that She didn’t know them, too, I walked around and I locked the doors And I set each window latch, In case that some of them wandered in Like Carroll’s Bandersnatch. I’m loth to wander the streets at night If Rogs are on the prowl, And keep away from the Cagpies nests And the things that say ‘Miaowl’, It seems that Berons are on the beach And Peagulls in the air, Lynette said better we stay inside Than to get Peegull in our hair. David Lewis Paget
0
Sep 8, 2014
Sep 8, 2014 at 11:34 PM UTC
david-lewis-paget
Crossword
I was doing a crossword puzzle Yesterday, to pass the time, The clues were all about animals Both across, and down the line, The wife was out in the kitchen And I’d call the harder clues, While she’d reply with a patient sigh As she cooked two different stews. It wasn’t as easy as I’d thought Some clues were quite obscure, Though each would bring up some animal That we should have known, for sure, But as I scribbled across the squares I found some didn’t fit, I’d call, ‘Lynette, have you worked it yet?’ But she’d never heard of it. She’d said, ‘Two heads are better than one,’ And I thought she might be right, The names that came out too long, I thought Must be an oversight, But when they clashed with the downward clues And I crumpled up my hat, That furry purr by the fireside there Was just a common Dat. And things that flew in the night became Some thing they called a Rel, They must be horrible creatures, like Some creature based in Hell, But as it crossed the Ordothlicon I knew it must be right, For on the left was a Rerr that leapt On a dark and stormy night. She said that really my spelling might Be not quite up to scratch, The ones that I knew as Pidgins flew The coop in quite a batch, And honey gathering Lees in trees Were paired with wild Gorrils, While Madgers seemed to be burrowing All though the distant hills. ‘I’ve never heard of these animals,’ I said, in quite a stew, Lynette called out from the kitchen that She didn’t know them, too, I walked around and I locked the doors And I set each window latch, In case that some of them wandered in Like Carroll’s Bandersnatch. I’m loth to wander the streets at night If Rogs are on the prowl, And keep away from the Cagpies nests And the things that say ‘Miaowl’, It seems that Berons are on the beach And Peagulls in the air, Lynette said better we stay inside Than to get Peegull in our hair. David Lewis Paget
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57
Those outstretched arms upon the Cross beckon to you their embrace; not as a thrall loth to return to cruel master, but as a child fain towards his father! Howsoever far we fall from the path, the yearning of nail-pierced hands calls. Amidst hateful sin and wrothfulness, we comprehend not such unwarranted mercy.
0
Feb 21, 2018
Feb 21, 2018 at 5:44 PM UTC
alexander-constantine
Forgiveness and Mercy
Those outstretched arms upon the Cross beckon to you their embrace; not as a thrall loth to return to cruel master, but as a child fain towards his father! Howsoever far we fall from the path, the yearning of nail-pierced hands calls. Amidst hateful sin and wrothfulness, we comprehend not such unwarranted mercy.
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8
The carts rolled out of the warehouses And trawled each single street, Each drawn by a giant Clydesdale with Those massive hooves and feet, They creaked along, and they struck a gong That excited furtive looks, While the men that day, who rode the dray Called out, ‘Bring out your books.’ They watched the shimmer of curtains as The people peeked outside, For many were loth to show themselves, All they had left was pride, The law brought in by the ****** left Trapped all but the pastrycooks, For they could retain their recipes At the cry, ‘Bring out your books.’ They said they were saving forests from The pulp mill on the bay, There wouldn’t need to be paper with The pads we have today, And too many things were incorrect Had been printed on a tree, Were sitting on people’s shelves, defunct In ideology. The people set up resistance, they Had loved their tattered tomes, And many a shelf was burdened in The meanest of their homes, ‘The government’s trying to dumb us down,’ Was the universal cry, ‘Go out and save the forests, but If they’re already printed, why?’ The spread of ideas is dangerous They could rot you to the core, And too many things on liberty Have been printed, long before, Perhaps it would have been better if The people couldn’t read, Taking away the books at last Might take away the need. The drays that rumbled along each street They had stacked the books up high, But there was the odd revisionist Who complained, and grumbled, ‘Why?’ A squad broke into each suspect house Where the owner locked the door, And tore the books from his fevered grasp While screaming, ‘It’s the law!’ But mine, I hid in the garden shed And buried the others deep, They wouldn’t be getting their hands on them The ones that I wished to keep, There’s so many fake and useless things That they’re legislating for, But to take our books and our liberty Would be like declaring war. David Lewis Paget
0
Jun 24, 2015
Jun 24, 2015 at 7:04 PM UTC
david-lewis-paget
The Gathering In...
The carts rolled out of the warehouses And trawled each single street, Each drawn by a giant Clydesdale with Those massive hooves and feet, They creaked along, and they struck a gong That excited furtive looks, While the men that day, who rode the dray Called out, ‘Bring out your books.’ They watched the shimmer of curtains as The people peeked outside, For many were loth to show themselves, All they had left was pride, The law brought in by the ****** left Trapped all but the pastrycooks, For they could retain their recipes At the cry, ‘Bring out your books.’ They said they were saving forests from The pulp mill on the bay, There wouldn’t need to be paper with The pads we have today, And too many things were incorrect Had been printed on a tree, Were sitting on people’s shelves, defunct In ideology. The people set up resistance, they Had loved their tattered tomes, And many a shelf was burdened in The meanest of their homes, ‘The government’s trying to dumb us down,’ Was the universal cry, ‘Go out and save the forests, but If they’re already printed, why?’ The spread of ideas is dangerous They could rot you to the core, And too many things on liberty Have been printed, long before, Perhaps it would have been better if The people couldn’t read, Taking away the books at last Might take away the need. The drays that rumbled along each street They had stacked the books up high, But there was the odd revisionist Who complained, and grumbled, ‘Why?’ A squad broke into each suspect house Where the owner locked the door, And tore the books from his fevered grasp While screaming, ‘It’s the law!’ But mine, I hid in the garden shed And buried the others deep, They wouldn’t be getting their hands on them The ones that I wished to keep, There’s so many fake and useless things That they’re legislating for, But to take our books and our liberty Would be like declaring war. David Lewis Paget
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57
Dog, you are just as old as me Our mind in one purview, When I was young and did a lot Dog dreamtime cradled you. When I had ripened to a fault, Growth full, next stop decay You tore from tree to me in glee And romped all day in play. From that, we both decline in one To sit and listen now, Our ball is caught, our song is sung And we wait the hour. My flesh and bone is well and strong, The mind is loth and weak Beginnings new the loss among Happy now to seek. Break out O Sun from that swift cloud Sailing the Heaven free, Warm up Earth’s stones and my bones proud To embrace what is not me. A dragonfly inspects my garden In a fleeting blaze of sun, Huge and dusky, like a dancer Whirling wings of filigree spun Beguiling sweet my spirit faint Tips new-dipped in golden paint.
0
Sep 13, 2014
Sep 13, 2014 at 5:19 AM UTC
gerald-allan-donaldson
The Strength to Love
Dog, you are just as old as me Our mind in one purview, When I was young and did a lot Dog dreamtime cradled you. When I had ripened to a fault, Growth full, next stop decay You tore from tree to me in glee And romped all day in play. From that, we both decline in one To sit and listen now, Our ball is caught, our song is sung And we wait the hour. My flesh and bone is well and strong, The mind is loth and weak Beginnings new the loss among Happy now to seek. Break out O Sun from that swift cloud Sailing the Heaven free, Warm up Earth’s stones and my bones proud To embrace what is not me. A dragonfly inspects my garden In a fleeting blaze of sun, Huge and dusky, like a dancer Whirling wings of filigree spun Beguiling sweet my spirit faint Tips new-dipped in golden paint.
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26
Now the Peruvians, in collected might, With one wide stroke had wing’d the savage flight But their bright Godhead, in his midday race, With glooms unusual veil’d his radiant face, Quench’d all his beams, tho cloudless, in affright, As loth to view from heaven the finish’d fight. A trembling twilight o’er the welkin moves, Browns the dim void, and darkens deep the groves; The waking stars, embolden’d at the sight, Peep out and gem the anticipated night… When pious Capac to the listening crowd Raised high his wand and pour’d his voice aloud: Ye chiefs and warriors of Peruvian race, Some sore offence obscures my father’s face; What moves the Numen to desert the plain, Nor save his children, nor behold them slain? Fly! speed your course, regain the guardian town, Ere darkness shroud you in a deeper frown; The faithful walls your squadrons shall defend, While my sad steps the sacred dome ascend, To learn the cause, and ward the woes we fear: Haste, haste, my sons! I guard the flying rear…
0
May 27, 2018
May 27, 2018 at 4:10 PM UTC
connecthook
I Guard the Flying Rear
Now the Peruvians, in collected might, With one wide stroke had wing’d the savage flight But their bright Godhead, in his midday race, With glooms unusual veil’d his radiant face, Quench’d all his beams, tho cloudless, in affright, As loth to view from heaven the finish’d fight. A trembling twilight o’er the welkin moves, Browns the dim void, and darkens deep the groves; The waking stars, embolden’d at the sight, Peep out and gem the anticipated night… When pious Capac to the listening crowd Raised high his wand and pour’d his voice aloud: Ye chiefs and warriors of Peruvian race, Some sore offence obscures my father’s face; What moves the Numen to desert the plain, Nor save his children, nor behold them slain? Fly! speed your course, regain the guardian town, Ere darkness shroud you in a deeper frown; The faithful walls your squadrons shall defend, While my sad steps the sacred dome ascend, To learn the cause, and ward the woes we fear: Haste, haste, my sons! I guard the flying rear…
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22
Para cubrir los peces del fondo, que agonizan de frío, mis piadosas ondas se cristalizan, y yo, la inquietuela, cuyo perenne móvil es variar, enmudezco, me aduermo, quedo inmóvil. ¡Ah! Tú no sabes como padezco nostalgia de sol bajo esa sábana siempre fría. Tú no sabes la angustia de la ola que inmola Sus ritmos ondulantes de mujer -su sonrisa- al frío, y que se vuelve -mujer de Loth- banquisa: ser banquisa es ser como la estatua de la ola. Tú ignoras esa angustia: mas yo no me rebelo, y ansiosa de que todo en mi Dios sea loado, desprendo radiaciones al bloque de mi hielo, y en vez de azul oleaje soy témpano azulado. Mis crestas en la noche del polo con fanales, reflejo el rosa de las auroras boreales, la luz convaleciente del sol, y con deleites de Seraphita, yergo mi cristalina roca por donde trepan lentas las morsas y la foca, seguidas de lapones hambrientos de su aceite... ¿Ya ves como se acata la voluntad del cielo? Y yo recé: -¡Loemos a Dios, hermano hielo!
0
467
Amado Nervo
El hielo
Para cubrir los peces del fondo, que agonizan de frío, mis piadosas ondas se cristalizan, y yo, la inquietuela, cuyo perenne móvil es variar, enmudezco, me aduermo, quedo inmóvil. ¡Ah! Tú no sabes como padezco nostalgia de sol bajo esa sábana siempre fría. Tú no sabes la angustia de la ola que inmola Sus ritmos ondulantes de mujer -su sonrisa- al frío, y que se vuelve -mujer de Loth- banquisa: ser banquisa es ser como la estatua de la ola. Tú ignoras esa angustia: mas yo no me rebelo, y ansiosa de que todo en mi Dios sea loado, desprendo radiaciones al bloque de mi hielo, y en vez de azul oleaje soy témpano azulado. Mis crestas en la noche del polo con fanales, reflejo el rosa de las auroras boreales, la luz convaleciente del sol, y con deleites de Seraphita, yergo mi cristalina roca por donde trepan lentas las morsas y la foca, seguidas de lapones hambrientos de su aceite... ¿Ya ves como se acata la voluntad del cielo? Y yo recé: -¡Loemos a Dios, hermano hielo!
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22
It bubbles up, remote warrigle squirming. Bursts out Ever Village. Each globule wile in vinegar- Pops cacophonous vile yore & I, Calypso Wise realm raucous, sips from green-tea sanskrit reagent. Boss' bogule arouse remissly in Aries. Loth the acme sac, jetsammed ungainly. Stow the phantom resplendent but wasn't there. & Sainfoin grows salacious under water color resin still resounding blissful visage beside wilting viols. Satan's deseronto lay virago. Woe-trance to Sydenham lethertramps drool in anglice till we meet again. Adsum, bona fide et cetera. I, ecce **** Disjecta membra.
0
Feb 13, 2018
Feb 13, 2018 at 11:53 AM UTC
dumbderien
Adsum, Bona Fide et Cetera
It bubbles up, remote warrigle squirming. Bursts out Ever Village. Each globule wile in vinegar- Pops cacophonous vile yore & I, Calypso Wise realm raucous, sips from green-tea sanskrit reagent. Boss' bogule arouse remissly in Aries. Loth the acme sac, jetsammed ungainly. Stow the phantom resplendent but wasn't there. & Sainfoin grows salacious under water color resin still resounding blissful visage beside wilting viols. Satan's deseronto lay virago. Woe-trance to Sydenham lethertramps drool in anglice till we meet again. Adsum, bona fide et cetera. I, ecce **** Disjecta membra.
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20