"melville" poems
“Moby **** Herman Melville
<•>
~for the lost at sea~
after a year of saltwater absence and abstinence,
return to the island caught between two land forks
surrounded by river-heading flows
bound for the ocean great joining
the Atlantic welcomes the fresh water fools,
bringing with them hopefully, but hopeless gifts of obeisances,
peace-offerings endeavoring to keep their infinite souls
sea accepts them then drowns the
warm newcomers in the unaccustomed
deep cold salinity, which
sometimes erodes
sometimes preserving
their former freshwater cold originality
I’m called to depart my beach shoreline unarmed,
no kayak, sunfish or glass bottomed boat needed,
walk on water and my toes, ten eyes to see the bottom,
no depth perception limitation,
reading the floor’s topography,
millions of minion’s stories infinite,
many Munch screaming
god’s foot, heavy upon my shoulders,
a daytime travel guide, hired for me,
not a friendly travel companion, nope,
God a pusher showing off a drug called deep water salvation,
designated for the masses, can handle large parties
my in-camera brain eyes,
record everything for playback -
the lost and unburied, bone crossword puzzles
walk shore to ship, on soles to souls,
is this my new-summer nature welcome back greeting?
puzzled at the awesomeness of vastness,
conclude this clarification for me of the occluded-deep,
is a stern reminder of my insignificant existence,
my requirement to walk humbly, spare my sin of vanity, and
forgive my trespasses upon the lives of others
perhaps then the infinite of my soul perchance restored,
older visions clarified and future poems
will write themselves
and sea to it my predecessors
be better remembered
Memorial Day 2018
May 28, 2018
May 28, 2018 at 11:53 AM UTC
I keep reminding myself, that mental illness goes along with greatness. Hemingway. Sylvia Plath. Billie Holiday. Dickens. Melville. These are just a few of the great minds that suffered from a fine madness. Should they have been medicated into mediocrity? Or lived in mediocrity because they were not properly medicated or in proper treatment?
All of these individuals: exceptional human beings.
Note: Do you want to be exceptional? Or exceptionally dead.
Jul 4, 2015
Jul 4, 2015 at 12:20 PM UTC
So many years
I've spent on the sterile land
in various cubes
curbs my soul and makes me tired.
So why not go the seas!
To experience another kind of new life;
to face the infiniteness
the wildness, and be more tough!
Great men of letters,
Melville,Mark Twain,Hemingway,etc,
all benefit lots
from their colorful life as a sailor.
Thus, to be a sailor,
a sailor, a sailor, a sailor, a sailor !
Aug 27, 2012
Aug 27, 2012 at 1:48 AM UTC
We're out at a bar splitting a good night of cheers
Drinks and laughter flowing among peers
Double shots dance around the table
Tonight's the moment, tomorrow's a fable
We garnish the laughter with Halloween
What's your costume, how do you swing
A chorus of "I'll dress up as a cowboy"
Is met by a few rolling eyes, "I'll address their convoy"
Not to be excluded is the gay guy in back that chimes in
And competes with the rolling eyes, cowboys are mine
Laughter of reveries spills faster than the drinks
A 80's song, When Doves Cry, continues to play over the links
A women crashes the party and exhorts the group
Come on guys put your wings on, fly the coup
Halloween's around the corner, make a splash, make waves
Find your muse with a costume that stands up, and raves
Look out to the horizon, the rarefied air, and trick for treats
Find my tunnel of love with a costume that beats
After a pause, a coy smile surface on rolling eye's lip
Oh Melville come with me, come with me, and take a dip
Double shots dance around the table
Logan Robertson
10/19/17
Oct 19, 2017
Oct 19, 2017 at 3:26 PM UTC
And as in Orion the old king-astronomer, —
says his Mistress
Rigel, or Betelguese, — the Earth's four quarters
showing four points of stars afar;
so, seem they
to terrestrial eyes, that broadly
sweep the upper
& lower
spheres as seen by the sun, by influence divine,
wheels through the Ecliptic; threading Cancer,
Leo, Pisces, and Aquarius; so,
by some mystic impulse am I moved,
to this fleet's progress through the groups
of swirling white-reefed Metazones
Aug 17, 2018
Aug 17, 2018 at 11:32 PM UTC
"Call me Ishmael..."
Holy sea, holy sea!
Reading Herman Melville's
"Moby **** at Caribbean Sea
I'm reliving his ocean reveries—
Those mystical vibrations
This magnetic virtue of the ship
Last night's circumambulation
Today's balmy afternoon
A meditation or dream
Leading us to nowhere
But the phantom life of the sea
We become free to drown
In our own mesmerizing images
Like Narcissus did
Or like that fellow Ishmael
Abandon all the respectable
Toils, trials, and tribulations
Jump on a sail
To catch white whales
Jan 27, 2016
Jan 27, 2016 at 6:17 PM UTC
When a woman says: she likes
The man to take the initiative;
What she is really saying is:
*“Yes, I will **** you, just ask.”*
As I write these words,
I rent The Eugene O’Neill Theater,
Located between Broadway &
8th Ave, on West 49th Street,
No shabby venue, I might add.
Then I stage & cast the play,
Choosing for the role of me,
Myself: Queequeg.
Ishmael’s Crypto-Gay,
New Bedford, Mass bedmate,
A large, well-toned, muscled
Man of much ink & few words,
Just short pigeon-English phrases,
Utterances such as: “I likee.”
That’s right, playing me is
Melville’s freaky, tattooed,
Polynesian harpooner,
Right out of *Moby ****
And should the ****** imagery &
Metaphor of me—yours truly—
Packing a harpoon in my trousers,
Prove a trifle too scrumptiously
Potent for you, consider please the
****** potential of a three-way with
Chingachgook.
Jun 29, 2015
Jun 29, 2015 at 12:54 AM UTC
When the saints...go marching in
Oh when the saints go marching in
Oh how I want to be in that number
When the saints go marching in
Of all the saints, I want to know
The ones who write, I'd love to meet
Oh how I'd love to meet all the authors
When the saints go down the street
E.A. Poe...even Thoreau
Hemmingway would be ok
Mailer and Andrew Taylor
I'd learn to drink like a sailor
when these saints come strolling in
The Writers Guild...I'd be fulfilled
Meeting writers long since dead
Just think of what I'm learning
All that knowledge in their heads
I'd love to know, I'd love to know
Is Bill Shakespeare who we think?
Christie, Austen and Dickens
This is where the whole plot thickens
When the saints go marching in
Is it the best, of all the books
Is the bible just a tale
Can you think of someone better
When Melville speaks about a whale
Capote sits, while Chaucer reads
Bronte knits while Stoker bleeds
Oh how I want to be in that number
When these saints go marching in
The list goes on, oh on and on
There's just so many who've passed on
It's a list that leads by example
When these saints go marching in
Oh when the saints go marching in
When the saints go marching in
How I want to be in that number
When the saints go marching in
Apr 1, 2013
Apr 1, 2013 at 11:20 PM UTC
Oft had I thought ‘twas meant just for a male
And mindlessly I’d chosen not to read
Until one day I was summoned to heed
Melville’s epic tale of The Great White Whale
The wandering sailor - “Call me Ishmael”
Captain Ahab - vengeance his greedy need
Reckless, careless; anything to succeed
Yet, his destiny, rightly, was to fail
Hodge-podge of cultures from all walks of life
Scruples, beliefs, tenets, lessons and more
Adventure and religion - all were rife
Herman challenged and gave voice to it all
The world then - the world now - deeply in strife
When will we learn and stop fighting the war?
Sep 11, 2011
Sep 11, 2011 at 8:28 PM UTC
only a poet knows what a genie wants
and that's to be expected. Melville sent a whale to do a man's job.
a poet is all desires haunting quills with soft focus
poets are known to fabricate the actual
on nights with no moon.
unhopeless.
Oct 31, 2012
Oct 31, 2012 at 1:02 PM UTC
To write a poem to benefit the web
Seems strange, to type these words away from me.
No pen, no tiny turret in Zagreb
At any time I'm free to up and flee.
Such freedom tests my discipline, my will
My short attention nurtured by my tribe
Has robbed me, (so I say), of my "Melville",
My Inner cummings, to which I subscribe.
Such excuses further pull me down
Away from higher orbits of My Craft
Please, my mirror, I am not a clown
Nor a hack who's steeped in Lingual graft.
Can I accept the onward March of Time,
Dispense excuses, get on with the sublime?
Feb 24, 2010
Feb 24, 2010 at 6:13 PM UTC
Despite our sundry transportations, trains and planes,
I don't believe us to really be voyagers;
The years, months, ticks and tocks that come and go in vain,
Like Ulysses at sea, they're the real wanderers.
Doomed to drift on water, timeless, yet growing old,
Aye, never setting anchor, always setting sail
To the end of th'endless river, where lies fool's gold.
That's all the future is; just Melville's ***** whale.
When the boat is languid, we ask it to go faster,
When the boat is lively, we implore it to stop;
The ship capsizes, it had too many masters
But just go with the flow and it'll stay on top.
We couldn't captain a tiny rubber dinghy,
Time's the real pioneer, and we her passengers.
Nov 23, 2014
Nov 23, 2014 at 11:37 AM UTC
When thoughts of drunken absurdity
Rambles through your brain
And the stain upon your pearl lapel
Can no longer repel the miser's giggle
Make sure you have a life vest
Make sure you have a nights rest
For the morning tide is rising and soon to come
When no one knows your name except the mirror
And He even shows sign of struggle in thought
Admit no defeat until the last bullet has been fired
We are tired but not lost, this dear country
We are spent but not trampled, this dear country
We are taken but not took quite yet, this dear country
Attention to the clouds, for that is where the victory lies
When the caverns of time have finally collapsed
And where we came from is truly lost
See at last that the crystal chandeliers were all for show
Split Titanic a symbol for man's adamant push of dreams
Seen to accept death for progress, watch the melting snow
It comes, it goes, it comes again until the first rain
And again we see life and death in such extreme simplicity
When the running rivers finally hit the dam
Do not **** man, for we need our restrictions to stay sane
Only a chosen few can look into the Melville void
And scream with spear in hand, "Fight for Eternity!"
The echo cannot be heard, only the memory of a fight
We were young when we danced unseen and painted in the night
When the love of the desert finally blows its final wind
The cactuses shrivel then within themselves
And passing Emily and Emilee brush their hair one last time
The stars blink, shutter, and freeze like water to ice
Hold your heart in your right pocket, your soul in your left
The markets are all stocked but feel every door is locked
When the phrases have all ended
And the money is all gone
Seek no shelter but the comfort of death
Of an unforgiving World
Created from the chaos to futile to fight
See that we are that and everything is us
Hold thy' brother and sister - we have no father's or mother
We were born together
And do no despise or be afraid
Of dying at last together
Mar 6, 2013
Mar 6, 2013 at 10:40 AM UTC
too old to walk
the aides wheeled him into the sunshine each day, for their peace of mind
his eyes were clear, one gray but the other as blue as a robin's egg
he cackled more than talked though everyone understood what he said
which helped get him rolled onto the lonely concrete each morn,
in all weathers
I came Thursdays to see my aunt, on the way to the office
I, her only heir and she still owned the office, the firm yet bearing her husband's name, his first name the only word that came from her mouth the last two years, some strange protein eating her cortex, her body playing a cruel joke on her by keeping her organs pumping away masterfully....she didn't even **** her pants at ninety minus one
when they wheeled her out beside the cackler
he began his sermons, citing chapter and verse
usually from books I had not read--he also said,
for every hour you read, you add 89 minutes to your life
fishing, he said, was for fools who wanted to live forever;
he would settle for purchased words
and the 29 minutes in change
he had stopped reading with both colored eyes he claimed,
but he calculated he had added seven years, three months, and four days to his life, and he would, unless he took up reading again, leave the earth seven Thursdays from when he told me the tale--then he began quoting Melville I think, if he is the one who hung the poor stuttering Billy Budd
I kept returning Thursdays to ignore my aunt and listen to his words
and when he was yet alive on the seventh one, I asked if this was the day,
"the day for what?" he replied, and he began his cackled verses, from Poe, or Updike or maybe Hemingway when a bull died mid sentence, and
my aunt SPOKE that day, telling him goodbye
he was not there the next Thursday,
but neither was I
Sep 2, 2014
Sep 2, 2014 at 9:06 PM UTC
I am from
A yellow house and a little red bike
Bruises and Band-Aids on my knees
From learning every time I fall
I am from
The Band, The Beatles, Buddy Holly, and Bruce Springsteen
Our small kitchen table and Christmas cookies
From a family that almost fits on my Grandparent’s front porch
I am from
Summer memories and freckles and the Field of Dreams
The swimming hole, egg salad sandwiches, popsicles and pecan sandies
From Gramma and Fred and the Mill Road
I am from generations of tiny waists and dainty wrists
Of Marlise and Melissa and M’s
Brown eyes and pine needles and Big Rock
From denial and acceptance
I am from
Tea with my mom and driving with my dad
My beautiful Hazel
From the Harvest Party and my beloved barn
I am from soft white clouds of comforters
A room painted the shade of pink lemonade
Arizonas and cosmic brownies and Matt’s Honeydew melon Sorbet
From Quickway and the Gazebo and Cherry Valley
I am from a collection of keys with no locks
Chewed cuticles and paper cuts
A mouthful of words and a bad habit of tripping
From the love of glue and sharp scissors
I am from years of ***** bare feet
And freedom to be me
Getting the mail everyday except Sunday
From picnic tables and corn on the cob
I am from a love of language and words and poetry
A love of planes and tractors and the Superbowl
A big family as strong as the Brooklyn Bridge
And just as supportive too
I am from my dream catcher
Catching my fantasies of fast cars and shooting stars
A bottle full of memories and polaroids taped to my wall
From hip hop and coca cola and heart shaped sunglasses
I am from the baby freckles on my shoulders
A love of sun and freshly mowed green grass
Brave New World and Brandy Melville
From tweeting and handwritten letters
I am from the studio floor and my ballet slippers
My favorite black leotard and Fuentes
12 years of pointed feet and tutus
From the dressing room and the barre
I am from the Star of David and 8 burning candles
Suburban Philadelphia and Black Friday
Diners and Chinese Food and Fortunes
From my dad
I am from the cornfields and red barns
Chickens and cows, fresh eggs and warm milk
Valedictorians and Ivy leagues
From my mom
But most of all, I am from the puzzle pieces of myself
The dark, dusty, unexplored corners of my brain
The fear of death and rats and failure and loneliness
From the love of life and belief and hope
Nov 25, 2014
Nov 25, 2014 at 2:58 AM UTC
*My work yesterday
I pursued with fire..
dead letters burned
letters with news
for countless intended
recipients Unknown..
news shadowed or light
these notifications of
paths NOT taken
met their end by
my flaming torch..
My role as destroyer
carried my reverie
ignited a wish
a blessing and curse
to finally know NOT..
My work today
new letters appear..
copying not burning
yet sorrows abide in
slow repetitive death..
I must rise
stand tall
Find face and soul
in that wall..
I must proclaim
I prefer NOT..
PREFER
this delicious word..
freedom's choice
tasted with short
bursts of joy..
Facing my wall
searching for NOT
into emptiness flowed
a bright wholeness
of letters and light..
but a price to be paid
for other's disdain
they are forgiven for
not knowing NOT..
NOT holds those
letters I've known..
Ah humanity...*
Based on Herman Melville's
short story, "Bartleby
the Scrivener"
Feb 4, 2013
Feb 4, 2013 at 5:40 PM UTC
Eliot, Wittgenstein, Melville
J.K. Rowling, James Joyce, Confucius
Possibly even Shakespeare (a good guess)
Teachers teach.
Professors profess.
Feb 3, 2019
Feb 3, 2019 at 6:29 PM UTC
*Moby **** was a humongous
mess of religious garble that threw
everyone for a loop in the shadow of
Typee and Melville was publicly shamed
for writing such a flop so outside his genre,
supposed.
But bound by blue canvas, inscribed in
gold, would you find failure to be subjective?
oh, don't be scared to reach beyond your known
talents, beyond what is said of you,
beyond your genre.
Sep 26, 2014
Sep 26, 2014 at 8:10 PM UTC
I've learned that failure is subjective
as beauty in the eyes of the beholder
sometimes a hard fall or soft landing
a moth flight against the porch light
or a bruised knee, left on the cement
Nov 12, 2012
Nov 12, 2012 at 10:16 PM UTC
I'm locked in a room with a desk and a chair.
I want my stomach filled, but the cupboards are bare.
I'm sitting here with only one option:
To continue to write, during this lock in.
Is writing a talent?
I say to myself, as I look over my shoulder at the book on the shelf.
What about Melville, and Shakespeare, and Twain?
The all have much knowledge to send to my brain.
But people these days just don't understand
That we can do more than just sing and dance.
There are so many talents that slide under the rug.
"I wonder what mine is".
I say with a shrug.
But then I remember that I am equipped
With a whole set of skills that are right on my hip.
They rest as a tool belt, and as a reminder
That if I wanted to, I could go farther.
Nov 14, 2017
Nov 14, 2017 at 12:12 AM UTC
When the day is a flickering bulb .. Doldrum afternoons , uninvited hindsight
The enemy continuously cruises by in different vehicles
Telephones are coiled serpents , televisions-
attempt to monitor my every move
My dark , hidden existence ..Tenth power magnification
Eating raisins , hoping for rain to justify-
my lack of worldly participation
Reading Melville and Grotius with waning passion
Secretly bored with silly public games
Apr 6, 2016
Apr 6, 2016 at 12:44 PM UTC
It's a con man
With a small c
Armed with a masterplan
There's no such thing as society
Keep your nose clean
Keep your eyes peeled
Slip out of the streets
Into the fields of wheat
Roy Melville Wiggins
Takes his seat
A place reserved
Before his birth
No need to question
Just repeat
The well deserved
Assumed self worth
On Terry's strong and stable
Dinghy all at sea
Hearts turn hard
Heads gone soft
Lets sail away at any cost
On Terry's strong and stable
Dinghy all at sea
Who brought the map?
Oh Roy shut yer trap
On Terry's strong and stable
Dinghy all at sea
Aug 17, 2017
Aug 17, 2017 at 4:46 AM UTC
I do not write to spare anyone else's feelings,
but to save my own
It is the only time when I can be as honest as I please,
when I can speak what's on my mind in more eloquent ways than my stumbling and stuttering sentences
I have not the gift of the musical language the way Ravel does,
nor that of Tesla and the natural sciences
I cannot explain away why in fact the limit does not exist nor Pythagorus' innate ramblings,
but I can understand why Poe
was oh-so-miserable
and accept his love for beautiful dead women
I share Whitman's love of birds and their tales of woe for long lost lovers
Dickinson - hides herself -
the way I do - in her writings
and the ****** fly interposed itself in my light as well
Emerson and Melville tell tales of self reliance,
with Major Molineaux and Bartleby taking life by its reigns
but even Dante seeks Virgil's aid in finding hell
I am by far no writer of substantial merit
and have much to learn,
but that is exactly why I love what I do
I write to understand that which happens to and around me
I write in often vain efforts to find solid ground beneath my tired feet,
But most of the time,
I end up with paper scattered around me, full of words that I have yet to know
I write when I don't know what else to do,
even when I don't mean to find myself locked away,
scribbling meaningless words onto paper
I write to learn more of the errors of my ways,
maybe if I can gather my thoughts into one coherent phrase,
then I can finally accept my wrongdoings,
then I can grow
There is a sad realization that knocks me down with every ripple of its wave each and every time that my words cause grief or hurt
It is never my intention,
but even that is hard to believe
To say that i am sorry for them is pointless
I am not and never will be
How could I betray myself in such a way?
I write to escape
to understand
to create
to learn
to stand
on my own two feet
I write to be honest
among other things,
but most of all,
I write because it is all I know
Dec 3, 2015
Dec 3, 2015 at 1:07 AM UTC
Paul McCartney, John Paul Jones, Pope Paul VI, Ru Paul and
Paula Jones... Beethoven and Presley, Euripides, Little Ricard, Oscar Wilde, Marie Currie and Martha Washington, The Rolling Stones,
Boy George, Helen of Troy and Clarke Gable, T. S. Elliot and
Eliot Gould, Melville, Shubert and Marilyn Monroe....
If all this humanity were but grains of sand
all who have came and all who will come
would neatly fit in a hundred gallon drum
a pittance of the vastness and dark realms
the stars that light, the bit we can see
of the unimagined depth of our the galaxies
a twig in the veld, a bubble in the burst
for we are but a dot in time and blink of rays
a mere spark that ignites the eternal blaze
organize, politicize, economize, engage and rage
we think, we plan, take turns at splendor
when stars fade and breath falters... we quietly surrender
Sep 4, 2016
Sep 4, 2016 at 8:03 PM UTC