"lucien" poems
I lie on my back at midnight
hearing the marvelous strange chime
of the clocks, and know it's mid-
night and in that instant the whole
world swims into sight for me
in the form of beautiful swarm-
ing m u t t a worlds-
everything is happening, shining
Buhudda-lands,
bhuti
blazing in faith, I know I'm
forever right & all's I got to
do (as I hear the ordinary
extant voices of ladies talking
in some kitchen at midnight
oilcloth cups of cocoa
cardore to mump the
rinnegain in his
darlin drain-) i will write
it, all the talk of the world
everywhere in this morning, leav-
ing open parentheses sections
for my own accompanying inner
thoughts-with roars of me
all brain-all world
roaring-vibrating-I put
it down, swiftly, 1,000 words
(of pages) compressed into one second
of time-I'll be long
robed & long gold haired in
the famous Greek afternoon
of some Greek City
Fame Immortal & they'll
have to find me where they find
the t h n u p f t of my
shroud bags flying
flag yagging Lucien
Midnight back in their
mouths-Gore Vidal'll
be amazed, annoyed-
my words'll be writ in gold
& preserved in libraries like
Finnegans Wake & Visions of Neal
12.7k
Following are several translations
of the 'Old Pond' poem, which may be
the most famous of all haiku:
Furuike ya
kawazu tobikomu
mizu no oto
-- Basho
Literal Translation
Fu-ru (old) i-ke (pond) ya,
ka-wa-zu (frog) to-bi-ko-mu (jumping into)
mi-zu (water) no o-to (sound)
The old pond--
a frog jumps in,
sound of water.
Translated by Robert Hass
Old pond...
a frog jumps in
water's sound.
Translated by William J. Higginson
An old silent pond...
A frog jumps into the pond,
splash! Silence again.
Translated by Harry Behn
There is the old pond!
Lo, into it jumps a frog:
hark, water's music!
Translated by John Bryan
The silent old pond
a mirror of ancient calm,
a frog-leaps-in splash.
Translated by Dion O'Donnol
old pond
frog leaping
splash
Translated by Cid Corman
Antic pond--
frantic frog jumps in--
gigantic sound.
Translated by Bernard Lionel Einbond
MAFIA HIT MAN POET: NOTE FOUND PINNED TO LAPEL
OF DROWNED VICTIM'S DOUBLE-BREASTED SUIT!!!
'Dere wasa dis frogg
Gone jumpa offa da logg
Now he inna bogg.'
-- Anonymous
Translated by George M. Young, Jr.
Old pond
leap -- splash
a frog.
Translated by Lucien Stryck
The old pond,
A frog jumps in:.
Plop!
Translated by Allan Watts
The old pond, yes, and
A frog is jumping into
The water, and splash.
Translated by G.S. Fraser
11.2k
~ ~ (on front of envelope)
La lettre que voici, ô bon facteur,
Portez-la jusqu'à la ville de NICE,
Aux ALPES-MARITIMES (06).
Donnez-la, s'il vous plaît, au Receveur
Des Postes, au bureau de NOTRE DAME.
(Son nom? C'est MONSIEUR LUCIEN COQUELLE.
Faut-il vraiment que je vous le rappelle?)
Cette lettre est pour lui et pour sa femme.
I won't lead English postmen such a dance;
Just speed this letter on its way to FRANCE.
Sender's address you'll find on the reverse.
~ ~ (and on the back)
At Number 7 in St Swithun's Road,
Kennington, Oxford, there is the abode
Of me, Paul Hansford, writer of this verse.
- - - - - - - - - - - - -
For non-speakers of French, the first bit goes approximately -
"Dear Postman, Please take this letter to the town of Nice, in the département of Alpes-Maritimes, and give it to the postmaster at the Notre-Dame office. (His name? It's Lucien Coquelle. Do I really need to remind you?) This letter is for him and his wife."
May 20, 2016
May 20, 2016 at 3:23 PM UTC
Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy!
Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy!
The world is holy! The soul is holy! The skin is holy!
The nose is holy! The tongue and **** and hand
and ******* holy!
Everything is holy! everybody's holy! everywhere is
holy! everyday is in eternity! Everyman's an
angel!
The bum's as holy as the seraphim! the madman is
holy as you my soul are holy!
The typewriter is holy the poem is holy the voice is
holy the hearers are holy the ecstasy is holy!
Holy Peter holy Allen holy Solomon holy Lucien holy
Kerouac holy Huncke holy Burroughs holy Cas-
sady holy the unknown buggered and suffering
beggars holy the hideous human angels!
Holy my mother in the insane asylum! Holy the *****
of the grandfathers of Kansas!
Holy the groaning saxophone! Holy the bop
apocalypse! Holy the jazzbands marijuana
hipsters peace & junk & drums!
Holy the solitudes of skyscrapers and pavements! Holy
the cafeterias filled with the millions! Holy the
mysterious rivers of tears under the streets!
Holy the lone juggernaut! Holy the vast lamb of the
middle class! Holy the crazy shepherds of rebell-
ion! Who digs Los Angeles IS Los Angeles!
Holy New York Holy San Francisco Holy Peoria &
Seattle Holy Paris Holy Tangiers Holy Moscow
Holy Istanbul!
Holy time in eternity holy eternity in time holy the
clocks in space holy the fourth dimension holy
the fifth International holy the Angel in Moloch!
Holy the sea holy the desert holy the railroad holy the
locomotive holy the visions holy the hallucina-
tions holy the miracles holy the eyeball holy the
abyss!
Holy forgiveness! mercy! charity! faith! Holy! Ours!
bodies! suffering! magnanimity!
Holy the supernatural extra brilliant intelligent
kindness of the soul!
Berkeley 1955
4.3k
When we began to love each other, in my mind, I saw a room. The bedroom of an old farm house; windows open, and soft, pale, green curtains moved lazily about the sills. Light of late afternoon slipped in, whilst a faint, blue summer sky waited outside. The door to the hallway is open; the rest of the house - still. A bed is the only piece furniture in a room with wood floors and white walls. There are only sheets on the bed, old cotton sheets, heavy, limp, and cool. This room was our togetherness. Since he died, I am not in the room, and light in it is cooler. It is evening and no one is home.
I am waiting at the door of the story with peaches in my hands. The door is shut, and the peaches are unripe. None of their warmth and sweetness can be smelled, their fuzz clings to them like tight new skin. When we wait patiently for things to open, we stay with them and be, and they ripen, and the door opens. I wait for the peaches and the door as they wait for me. A story through that door will show me and harm me, it is with peaches I may come through.
I was a small child when my mother told me a story of peaches. When I remember it, I remember the peach tree across from our old house. Short and squat, with shining, skinny leaves; the tree crouched in the rose garden. My mother told me about the peace and bliss of heaven, and that when we went there we became angels. She told me that angels longed for the earth sometimes, and have bodies, because angels cannot taste peaches.
When I taste and smell peaches now, I try to give myself over to them, to live and feel the taste of them, to not take them lightly, to not keep them foreign. The day that he died, I found a nectarine in the kitchen, and carried it with me, praying to it to keep me in the world of life, to remind me that moments of peaches are worth the pain of aliveness.
Every story starts with the breaking off an indefinite number of things that have come before. To try and tell the story of Lucien from the beginning, means I will omit the stories of before, the peripheral stories which came before and bled into his, like color on wet paper.
I suppose there are so many ways of telling a story. Not one will be perfect, but each is a prayer. Can you feel this? Can I make something? Are our lives commensurable? Do my words mean what your words mean? We shall see.
This story, too, is a prayer.
A prayer for a new house, a new tree, and a new beginning.
May 16, 2016
May 16, 2016 at 4:56 PM UTC
after noon, awake now
for eight hours with
another twelve awaiting.
a sweating summer for
advancement of 'talented
young author'; reading,
writings, and ennui towards
those not wanting to be
found in sight. Lucien
stabbed his twice in the
chest, then weighted and
drowned the body feigning
dead. insanity claimed,
a brilliant success to freedom
after emaciating and claiming
another's mortal soul. claimed
was blood-stained Lucky Strikes,
and Lucien smoked the last one.
Jun 23, 2014
Jun 23, 2014 at 8:00 AM UTC
It was chilly in the house of stone
where the body of Maud’s son
had been interred the year before.
(Her first born had died young.)
Her lover was a Frenchman,
Maud Gonne was her name.
She was, of course, a famous muse-
as William Butler’s flame.
She let down her golden hair
and her clothing came undone.
Lucien lay a blanket down
on the gravestone of their son.
She lay her naked beauty down
and took a passive role--
convinced the child conceived that night
would have her dead son’s soul.
Mystic occult spirits danced
as mortal flesh entwined.
Lucien spasmed flush with lust
Maud called on the Divine.
In course of time a girl was born
a child of beauty rare
But that she held her brother’s soul
none can, for sure, declare.
Jan 29, 2012
Jan 29, 2012 at 6:43 PM UTC
Teil I (Part I )
Oh, come and show me,
what life is like without roses,
how a river would run,
with no water for it.
What would it be like,
if we had no sun,
to brighten our day,
not just for us but everyone.
How would the night feel,
if the moon never shined,
the beautiful blue,
the midnight diamond.
Oh, come and show me,
how this world would be,
if birds never sang,
their songs to you and me.
Oh, come and show me,
how it would be,
if animals never roamed,
this world deemed free.
Would the stars still shine,
on a world like such,
their brillant glow,
their peaceful touch.
If the roses never blumed,
would it still be spring,
if it never snowed,
would it still be winter.
Oh, come and show me,
how it would be,
if a waterfall stopped,
moving freely.
If we never rotated,
around the sun,
would the seasons still change,
or would we burn.
If the wind never blew,
across our land,
over the mountains,
and through the sand.
Would there still be a breeze,
that we could feel,
or just our imagination,
making it real.
Oh, come and show me,
how this would be,
if all of this happened,
would you be ready?
Teil II ( Part II )
Oh, come show me,
what is real,
if a mirror was broken,
would it still your reflection reveal.
If you stood outside,
and the sun didn't shine,
just lingered there,
would there still be a shadow.
The beautiful ocean,
the golden sea,
without sealife,
how would that be.
If all we built,
came crashing down,
nothing left,
all on the ground.
Would we be ready,
how would you see,
this world,
how you've made it to be.
What it something so beautiful,
suddenly caught fire,
as soon as you took the time,
to sit and admire.
What if the stars we love,
never shined,
lingered there in the dark,
hanging in the night.
What if we are a moon,
to a bigger planet,
how would that be,
could you withstand it.
Oh, come and show me,
the mountain morning dew,
only if the sun,
would come and go.
Teil III ( Part III )
Oh, how would it be,
if the leaves never fell from the tree,
if the grass never shivered,
from the cold winds breeze.
How would the sky be,
if it were a different color,
no clouds to see,
or covered in darkness.
If rain never fell,
how would anything grow,
what if in a cold winter,
it never snowed.
Oh, come and show me,
this world we live in,
how it is,
and how it could have been.
Oh, come and show me,
what it would be like,
if the sun never rose,
if it never became night.
OH, come and show me,
what you would see,
if the world stopped turning,
would you be ready.
Teil IV ( Part IV )
Oh, come and show me,
what life would be like,
if time suddenly stopped,
the end of our clock.
If there was no music,
would we still dance,
if there was no opportunity,
would there still be a chance.
If we had no soul,
would we still have passion,
if we had no heart,
would we still long for loving compassion.
If the eyes saw,
what they were meant to see,
would we understand,
how it's to be.
If the flowers of spring,
never gave their sweet scent,
would our noses,
still be able to smell it.
If all we thought,
suddenly became right,
if our once peaceful dreams,
woke us with terror in the night.
Oh, come and show me,
this very thin line,
of which we lay upon,
Frozen Time.
By, Lucien Freeman
Dec 6, 2011
Dec 6, 2011 at 1:28 AM UTC
Spank me
Mrs Cleves said
it was all part
of her ****** foreplay
rather than some
Freudian slip
of a childhood probing
stuck inside
her head
OK
Baruck said
willing to oblige
to keep the show
on the road
the game in play
and she
19 years older
and 15 pounds
heavier
and he a novice
of the way it goes
the music
from the lounge
easing through the air
the wine seeping
through his head
trying to keep her words
and image
and her body
on the bed
she above him
he beneath
wondering what
the priest would say
if seeing him now
hand pounding flesh
moving to the music
and lust
doing
what a young guy
must
the Mahlerian
symphonic sounds
the sounding springs
the echoing voice
of her demands
and needs and pleads
come on more more
Mrs Cleves said
and he recalls
that Lucien Freud painting
he'd seen
of the fat dame
lying on a couch
naked as the day
she was born
seductively reclined
her huge *******
and ample flesh
her body crushing thighs
and thinking such
he smiled
and closed his eyes
and thought of Rome
and the Roman ******
he'd read of somewhere
and the smell of perfume
and wine
and he and she
moving
quickly and sexually
there.
Sep 2, 2013
Sep 2, 2013 at 10:46 PM UTC
The pain kreeps up his body,
not from physical damage,
He sits in the room with others,
but they are unaware of it.
He feels like he is dancing,
though he's not moving to the eyes of other men,
Misery as his companion,
she'll dance with him to the end.
They all play fool,
to the pain he feels within,
Noone can see the harm,
doing fine he makes it seem to them.
But while the others are dancing,
he stares at a single candle,
watching the flames flickering,
The misery he can't seem to handle.
When he is approached,
his dull face forms a smile,
They try to make small talk,
but it doesn't seem worthwhile.
In the corner of the room,
with a rain cloud above his head,
he's the only one who can see it,
and wishes he was dead.
He glances all around,
watching through the crowd,
finds a pair of eyes,
that are as dark as the midnight sky.
These eyes he found,
he knew they didn't belong to any mortal,
though they all play fool,
to this woman who joins them in the circle.
Everywhere he moves,
so does the woman,
as if he is playing a game,
of hide and go seek.
He searches through the entire house,
to find an isolated room,
One where he'll be alone,
where he cannot be disturbed.
As he sinks into an armchair,
that lovingly faces a warm fire,
he still feels the cold,
that he from misery aquired.
As he slowly into his thoughts drifts,
closing his eyelids,
When all was quiet so it seemed,
The man slowly began to dream.
There in his dreams he did find,
the same woman with the dark eyes,
She held out a hand as if to dance,
thought did the man now was his chance.
Accept her hand he did and began to move,
swaying gently around the room,
his hands on her hips lovingly embraced,
a warm smile was upon her face.
Without any music they danced romanticaly,
Just each other is all they would need,
The man thought this was so perfect,
Surely something he would never forget.
In reality he laid on the floor,
people all around him watching in horror,
The mans body violently shook,
His heartbeat racing as everyone looked.
People there questioned his actions,
Was it insanity or human body reactions,
Was this man going to be alright,
would he make it through the night?.
Back in his dreams he was still dancing,
Though his heartbeat was dangerously rising,
then leaned in the woman to kiss,
and together perfectly they locked lips.
Now laying on the floor is the man,
Whose heartbeat has sadly come to an end,
Though they never knew the reason why,
There in the corner of the room, was the woman with the dark eyes.
by ~Lucien Freeman
Dec 6, 2011
Dec 6, 2011 at 1:27 AM UTC
I sit here and stare in silence,
the air around me heavy and thick,
I cannot speak a single word,
my thoughts are racing.
I keep them in,
for I cannot express,
without sounding like,
such a madman.
My pen and paper,
so far my only release,
I don't know yet how to be vocal,
writing. My peace.
I think of things,
some good, some bad,
I think of the future and past,
and of the time at hand.
At times I just stare,
I cannot write a word,
My mind far past my pen,
For what seems like hours, unheard.
It's only been a few hours,
since I've seen you last,
but missing you makes the time,
slowly, painfully pass.
How empty I feel,
without your touch,
your grace, your presence.
I miss you so much.
I'm slowly losing my mind,
my hands idle, my mind busy,
again I sit here,
again in silence.
Forever and a day,
or so it seems,
Til I will see your face,
and the smile you bring.
But as I sit here,
the air around me heavy and thick,
I exhale and rest,
wishing you were here.
~Lucien Freeman
Dec 6, 2011
Dec 6, 2011 at 1:22 AM UTC
Here I sit in silence,
unbroken, and diligent.
Around you not a word,
nothing is spoken.
For I have learned,
to hold my thoughts dear,
keep them inside,
your words I don't want to hear.
Sharper than knives,
more vile than poison,
The mask of lies,
the path you've chosen.
I've never felt so,
until you made it be,
your words so cold,
killing, slowly, painfully.
Do you not see,
How you are?
How we perceive,
your malicious nature?
Like acid,
every word, a single drop,
burning slowly through the skin,
another word, another drop.
You may become still,
silent for the moment,
however the burn continues,
when words are unspoken.
Why can't you change,
do you not see what you've become,
reveal your true face,
the one you cover.
I wish sometimes to tell you,
I try so hard to reveal,
how you have hurt me,
your words, your evil.
But to show you,
would hurt you,
it would cause you pain,
I don't want to fan the flame.
I can't hurt you,
like you have me.
That is not who I am,
or who I want to be.
Schmertz-Lucien Freeman
Dec 6, 2011
Dec 6, 2011 at 1:24 AM UTC
OK so as an avid book lover when I find a series that I really. Really get attached to and I can read it over five times and still enjoy it. (Yes I have done that before.) It is great. Now that being said I have a series its a really good series. You don't need to know the name of it or such. But that's not the point this series officially has four books. Four books. Now there's no problem with that. BUT. There is the first three books. You know what. Anyone in here watch Naruto? Or read it. You know all of those useless episodes. Or how its like dragon ball Z where it takes five episodes in the order of. Screaming. Screaming. Screaming. SCREAMING. Kick. Well back to my point. The first three books. Are all over three hundred pages. And this by far is my favorite series. So I loved the first three books. But I wasted my money on the fourth. I was so ready. I waited two years. Two literal years. Pre ordered it. Paid express two day shipping. Just to get a thin book. By thin I mean it was barely over two hundred pages. And it was just. Just. It was bull! I waited two years. I waited two years for an official release date. Then I waited to see the cover. And it looked beautiful but it was just a sugar coated lie covered in fire ants! I wanted to see what happened between Nesta and Cassian I wanted to see if my ship sailed. I wanted to see if Elain picked Azriel over Lucien. I didn't care about Feyre and Rhys having a kid. That was bound to happen. I didn't care about a painters studio being opened. Not when all of you just fought against Hybern and barely lived! I wanted MORE THAN THIS. Instead you just left me disappointed and unsatisfied. This fourth book was like anyone of you. Wondering out of bed. Getting something out of the fridge. Putting it in the fridge and listening as it makes the loudest sounds ever almost waking up the whole house. You burn your finger a bit getting it out. You get a spoon or a fork and you start eating. Just to find out that its cold. It is colder than the iciest depths of Antarctica. This is what that book was like. Can you feel my disappointment rolling off in bone crushing waves?!
Jul 4, 2018
Jul 4, 2018 at 2:35 AM UTC
This was prompted by the wonderful The Queen Creative over at Wordpress.
From Wikipedia:
Honne and tatemae are Japanese words that describe the contrast between a person’s true feelings and desires (本音 honne?) and the behavior and opinions one displays in public (建前 tatemae?, lit. “façade”).
1. Sent Up For Good (Tatemae)
I’m a convincing stranger.
My Englishness pulls at my
Starched white collar.
My fingers,
So piano fine and buttoned down,
are little sticks of ivory.
My spittle mouth brushes away
indigo blushes
of spent ink
and my hair
has a perfect parting
separated by
a red pencil
in the morning.
A little gentleman in
Tom Brown tails,
Nervously buttering bread.
Hammy, clipped,
Knows it off by heart,
( Lucien tells me that
He plans to get a new suit made).
2. Sent Down For Bad (Honne)
In my Prince’s bedchamber
My Englishness pulls at his
Starched white collar.
My fingers,
Like white-wine and goose down,
Flick with the
little kicks of bribery.
My little mouth flushes
with overflowing gushes
Of his spent ink
And my hair
Has an imperfect parting
Which will be separated
By a red pencil in the morning.
A little temperamental man in
**** detail,
Gluttonously giving head.
Jammy lipped,
The School ****
(Lucien tells me that
he plans to **** a maid).
Sep 12, 2013
Sep 12, 2013 at 12:19 PM UTC