"lxi" poems - Hello Poetry

how loudly that clock ticks when all you want is ******* sleep

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Jan 11, 2024

Jan 11, 2024 at 8:55 AM UTC

MeanderingWords

act iii scene i line lxi

how loudly that clock ticks when all you want is ******* sleep

4

superimposed oneiric state indelible fogginess behind my eyes in this, myself is reticent to myself I do not wish to fear but I do wish to be able to

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Feb 7, 2016

Feb 7, 2016 at 12:29 AM UTC

machina-miller

LXI

superimposed oneiric state indelible fogginess behind my eyes in this, myself is reticent to myself I do not wish to fear but I do wish to be able to

8

Al ver mis horas de fiebre e insomnio lentas pasar, a la orilla de mi lecho, ¿quién se sentará?Cuando la trémula mano tienda, próximo a expirar, buscando una mano amiga, ¿quién la estrechará?Cuando la muerte vidríe de mis ojos el cristal, mis párpados aún abiertos, ¿quién los cerrará?Cuando la campana suene (si suena en mi funeral) una oración, al oírla, ¿quién murmurará?Cuando mis pálidos restos oprima la tierra ya, sobre la olvidada fosa, ¿quién vendrá a llorar?¿Quién en fin, al otro día, cuando el sol vuelva a brillar, de que pasé por el mundo quién se acordará?

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470

Gustavo Adolfo Bécquer

Rima lxi

Al ver mis horas de fiebre e insomnio lentas pasar, a la orilla de mi lecho, ¿quién se sentará?Cuando la trémula mano tienda, próximo a expirar, buscando una mano amiga, ¿quién la estrechará?Cuando la muerte vidríe de mis ojos el cristal, mis párpados aún abiertos, ¿quién los cerrará?Cuando la campana suene (si suena en mi funeral) una oración, al oírla, ¿quién murmurará?Cuando mis pálidos restos oprima la tierra ya, sobre la olvidada fosa, ¿quién vendrá a llorar?¿Quién en fin, al otro día, cuando el sol vuelva a brillar, de que pasé por el mundo quién se acordará?

19

I ***** my tongue on the tip of this query I drink salt-water from the goblet through dry cracked lips for surely it must follow because I am lead by the nose by sickening diaphanous rhythms, coerced to contort how flagrant must be my penitence transcendental in inverse, from upon my oaken tower pitched, tarred and alight! shall I make fetishes of my motions maybe I will castrate myself on public television cackling madly into the broadcast bearing the thorny fruits of my loom aloft I do not know where to go this does not seem like my home I feel alien I swallow too much air there is a dullness to all edges I hear breaking glass in every noise what paralytic sickness is this that not innervation but violence possesses me I would be the wolf that eats the world and not the seeds in every pod but the sun also rises so the wolf does lie

0

Jan 29, 2017

Jan 29, 2017 at 10:27 AM UTC

machina-miller

LXI: II

I ***** my tongue on the tip of this query I drink salt-water from the goblet through dry cracked lips for surely it must follow because I am lead by the nose by sickening diaphanous rhythms, coerced to contort how flagrant must be my penitence transcendental in inverse, from upon my oaken tower pitched, tarred and alight! shall I make fetishes of my motions maybe I will castrate myself on public television cackling madly into the broadcast bearing the thorny fruits of my loom aloft I do not know where to go this does not seem like my home I feel alien I swallow too much air there is a dullness to all edges I hear breaking glass in every noise what paralytic sickness is this that not innervation but violence possesses me I would be the wolf that eats the world and not the seeds in every pod but the sun also rises so the wolf does lie

28

"You have to like yourself before you can like anything, or anyone else! richard riddle: 12-14-2015

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Dec 14, 2015

Dec 14, 2015 at 3:11 AM UTC

richard-riddle

Thought for the Day LXI(61)

"You have to like yourself before you can like anything, or anyone else! richard riddle: 12-14-2015

2

It's so fuckin' obvious now... Everything was only about you.

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Mar 28, 2014

Mar 28, 2014 at 10:24 PM UTC

roberthrookiii

LXI.

It's so fuckin' obvious now... Everything was only about you.

2

It's always a house. In shelved books, in five-drinks-in five a.m talks, in cheap rhymes and lavish ones—commonplace for anywhere you can find words on, a standard metaphor to stumble upon. Infrastructure lets itself be borrowed for anatomy and soul: a soot-tainted chimney standing for smoker’s lungs, the fire burning warm at its feet for scorching anger, the crayon scribbles on nursery wallpapers like the prints of anyone an angry smoker has ever loved, shutters as eyelids and walls for bones and tablecloths for clothes and pillars as brawn. An easy metaphor, a house as a body. A lazy one. Sluggish, yawning Metaphor, craving a nap, a break from being used up. Boring enough to make me look up from my page and at everyone else sitting around the table, writing about vessels vined in breezeblocks and headache diagnoses from front door knocking. Dreary enough to make me want to leave the room. So I do. The door closes shut like a wind’s mistake, clicks, and it stands between me and the other side of the bone-white wall, an oaken bodyguard of drowsy writers working on. Go on. Look around the room. Chair. Tables. Walls. Oh, a roof leak. No. Really look, I mean. Lining paper yellowing in the places where hands and chair tops brushed past for years. Shiny furniture with dust collecting in the crannies out of sight. A bowl of food (dog one, full to the brim—human one, empty with a filthy rim). Rusty hinges and inherited silverware. Marked up, unkempt on weekdays, prettied up for visitors, its value found in numbers, its keys given out for access, put up for rent or sold to the best offer, filthy, hungry, painted, remodeled, lived in, abandoned—and they won’t let me back in now, but I’m scratching on the body-guard's wooden trunk to write down about body-like house limbs.

0

Nov 28, 2022

Nov 28, 2022 at 11:19 AM UTC

magali

LXI

It's always a house. In shelved books, in five-drinks-in five a.m talks, in cheap rhymes and lavish ones—commonplace for anywhere you can find words on, a standard metaphor to stumble upon. Infrastructure lets itself be borrowed for anatomy and soul: a soot-tainted chimney standing for smoker’s lungs, the fire burning warm at its feet for scorching anger, the crayon scribbles on nursery wallpapers like the prints of anyone an angry smoker has ever loved, shutters as eyelids and walls for bones and tablecloths for clothes and pillars as brawn. An easy metaphor, a house as a body. A lazy one. Sluggish, yawning Metaphor, craving a nap, a break from being used up. Boring enough to make me look up from my page and at everyone else sitting around the table, writing about vessels vined in breezeblocks and headache diagnoses from front door knocking. Dreary enough to make me want to leave the room. So I do. The door closes shut like a wind’s mistake, clicks, and it stands between me and the other side of the bone-white wall, an oaken bodyguard of drowsy writers working on. Go on. Look around the room. Chair. Tables. Walls. Oh, a roof leak. No. Really look, I mean. Lining paper yellowing in the places where hands and chair tops brushed past for years. Shiny furniture with dust collecting in the crannies out of sight. A bowl of food (dog one, full to the brim—human one, empty with a filthy rim). Rusty hinges and inherited silverware. Marked up, unkempt on weekdays, prettied up for visitors, its value found in numbers, its keys given out for access, put up for rent or sold to the best offer, filthy, hungry, painted, remodeled, lived in, abandoned—and they won’t let me back in now, but I’m scratching on the body-guard's wooden trunk to write down about body-like house limbs.

9

I. Crying for no reason is the worst kind of crying because you can't make it stop.

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Feb 12, 2015

Feb 12, 2015 at 12:06 AM UTC

Steven-Muir

Untitled LXI

I. Crying for no reason is the worst kind of crying because you can't make it stop.

5

Trajo el amor su cola de dolores, su largo rayo estático de espinas y cerramos los ojos porque nada, porque ninguna herida nos separe. No es culpa de tus ojos este llanto: tus manos no clavaron esta espada: no buscaron tus pies este camino: llegó a tu corazón la miel sombría. Cuando el amor como una inmensa ola nos estrelló contra la piedra dura, nos amasó con una sola harina, cayó el dolor sobre otro dulce rostro y así en la luz de la estación abierta se consagró la primavera herida.

0

283

Pablo Neruda

Soneto lxi

Trajo el amor su cola de dolores, su largo rayo estático de espinas y cerramos los ojos porque nada, porque ninguna herida nos separe. No es culpa de tus ojos este llanto: tus manos no clavaron esta espada: no buscaron tus pies este camino: llegó a tu corazón la miel sombría. Cuando el amor como una inmensa ola nos estrelló contra la piedra dura, nos amasó con una sola harina, cayó el dolor sobre otro dulce rostro y así en la luz de la estación abierta se consagró la primavera herida.

14