"mihi" poems
Hwenne, och! slawlie IT, an’ unco Licht!
Afoyr th' wounded frae Lyife Ghaist-Ancestors,
At Calanais Stane Sirkill Auld, an’ Verra IT, Micht!
Wae th' Lost ay! o'er Deep Tyme Unforgivin’,
Hidden Bleezan ay, Sacrificial Rite at Myrk Nicht!
Th' Stowed Oot Moon Conquerin’ rayses IT, tae mee!
Amydde Thae Verra Bluish, cannae nowe ye a' see?
Cauld Cluds ay flashin', an' Verra Thay A' Hye!
Ainlie, ainlie Raw Rid Bridie sloch Ah!
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QVIA REDACTA EST AD FVLGOREM RES RVBRA
TOTALITER INTRA SACRVM CIRCVLVS VICTRIX MIHI
VBI REX INVICTVS AC MAXIME VLTOR OVERMAN
RVBRO LAPIDI CVM MAGNO NECNON PHANTASMATE
ALTA HIC FLAMMA POTENTER ADVENIT RVBRA.
Feb 11, 2022
Feb 11, 2022 at 5:11 AM UTC
The name was Antappan.
On his wedding invitation
He printed the famous words
Hodie Mihi Cras Tibi -
(Today it's me, tomorrow it will be you.)
Whoever asked
“Are you nuts, Antappaaa?”
Got a voiceless laugh in reply.
In native tongue
The laughter said
No quotes are quoted
Except through one’s own life.
Though not a charming name
It ‘s true that from that day
Antappan came to be called
Hodie Mihi Cras Tibi Antappan.
Everyone who attended
Hodie Mihi Cras Tibi Antappan’s wedding
Wolfed down the pork and the beef.
Everyone who attended
Hodie Mihi CrasTibi Antappan’s wedding
Gifted pretty sums of money in envelopes.
Everyone who attended
Hodie Mihi Cras Tibi Antappan’s wedding
Said nasty comments about the bride.
Everyone who attended
Hodie Mihi Cras Tibi Antappan’s wedding
Asked the sound system guy to play
You are lucky I am lucky loudly.
But before that a small incident at the church. As soon as he set his eyes on Antappan who was a grave digger the Chaplain forgot the wedding and without asking who died began to set the church bell tolling in that rhythm reserved for deaths. The senior Priest who heard it came running and opening the small prayer book for the dead began to sing the song the seeds sprout in the fields when it rains. Hearing that the girls in the choir sang the rest of the song when they hear the clarion call life sprouts in the dead and went on to the prose portion I call you lord from the abysses. Seeing that the boy who helps with the communion lighted the candle and incense stick for the dead. (Meanwhile the bride’s naughty song you who is not dead yet will you not **** me tonight also rang in Hodie Mihi Cras Tibi Antappan’s ears.) Hodie Mihi Cras Tibi Antappan who realized that the same flowers meant to be wreaths at some house of death were now adorning his ***** as a garland laughed his famous voiceless laugh.
Nov 17, 2014
Nov 17, 2014 at 1:25 AM UTC
Tu voudrais que j'improvise
Les chemins qui mènent au septième ciel
Pour notre prochain congrès
Que je vienne les mains vides
Sans notes ni croquis
Pour te couronner reine et courtisane.
Mais demanderais-tu au peintre de venir à toi
Sans son pinceau, ses fusains, ses tubes d'aquarelle et son papier canson
Ou au photographe sans son posemètre, son trépied et ses filtres, son appareil photo et ses objectifs
Et un auteur de théâtre pourrait-il officier sans donner des indications?
Des orientations, des pistes pour que les acteurs puissent mieux jouer leurs personnages
Eh bien moi je voudrais écrire de concert avec toi les didascalies de notre lune de miel.
Pense au Cantique des Cantiques
Pense à Salomon, à son épouse et aux jeunes filles ,
Penses-y bien, ma sans rivale,
Ma muse venue au monde sept fois
Et dont aucune galante n 'arrive aux chevilles
Comment veux-tu qu'on se retrouve dans la mare aux nénuphars
Deux canards mandarins batifolant
Sans didascalies...
Tu connais les soixante-quatre manières du kama
Tu sais la différence entre baratement et percement
Et tu veux goûter le chalumeau du miel
Lors du congrès de la corneille
Alors tandis que tu me provoques du regard et du geste
En dansant comme une bayadère accomplie
Souviens toi des didascalies.
Je suis ton vert-galant, ton esclave, ton cornac
Ton renifleur, ton cunnilingue, ton Sigisté
Si tu veux tu seras ma nymphe, mon myrte, ma lanterne, ma crête,
Ma landie, ma douceur, mon amour de Vénus
Mon gaude mihi, mon impudique
Organisons nos langues et nos boutons
Nos protubérances.
Pour qu'aucune partie ne soit honteuse
Pour que toutes soient honnêtes
Il faut des chapitres et des actes
Dans lesquels les morsures, les égratignures, les baisers
Les succions et les caresses s'emboîtent dans un naturel
Si joliment organisé que chaque posture génère
Une improvisation et que chaque improvisation génère une nouvelle posture.
Alternons les phases pudiques et impudiques
Sans tabou éperonnons-nous
Empalons-nous dans les postures de singe ou d'éléphant
Peu importe si la mentule précède le tentigo
Ou le contraire
Peu importe qui est dessus ou dessous
Qui lèche et qui est léché, qui est mordillé, qui est marqué,
Qui est baisé et pénétré
Si c'est simultanément ou séparément
Nous appartenons nous aussi au règne animal
Et que la verge soit masculine ou féminine
C 'est toujours l'aiguillon de la volupté qui guidera nos didascalies.
Aug 21, 2019
Aug 21, 2019 at 5:56 AM UTC
Oh! mihi præteritos referat si Jupiter annos.
VIRGIL.
Ye scenes of my childhood, whose lov’d recollection
Embitters the present, compar’d with the past;
Where science first dawn’d on the powers of reflection,
And friendships were form’d, too romantic to last;
Where fancy, yet, joys to retrace the resemblance
Of comrades, in friendship and mischief allied;
How welcome to me your ne’er fading remembrance,
Which rests in the ***** though hope is deny’d!
Again I revisit the hills where we sported,
The streams where we swam, and the fields where we fought;
The school where, loud warn’d by the bell, we resorted,
To pore o’er the precepts by Pedagogues taught.
Again I behold where for hours I have ponder’d,
As reclining, at eve, on yon tombstone I lay;
Or round the steep brow of the churchyard I wander’d,
To catch the last gleam of the sun’s setting ray.
I once more view the room, with spectators surrounded,
Where, as Zanga, I trod on Alonzo o’erthrown;
While, to swell my young pride, such applauses resounded,
I fancied that Mossop himself was outshone.
Or, as Lear, I pour’d forth the deep imprecation,
By my daughters, of kingdom and reason depriv’d;
Till, fir’d by loud plaudits and self-adulation,
I regarded myself as a Garrick reviv’d.
Ye dreams of my boyhood, how much I regret you!
Unfaded your memory dwells in my breast;
Though sad and deserted, I ne’er can forget you:
Your pleasures may still be in fancy possest.
To Ida full oft may remembrance restore me,
While Fate shall the shades of the future unroll!
Since Darkness o’ershadows the prospect before me,
More dear is the beam of the past to my soul!
But if, through the course of the years which await me,
Some new scene of pleasure should open to view,
I will say, while with rapture the thought shall elate me,
“Oh! such were the days which my infancy knew.”
1.7k
I'm ignorant, shameless, and dense
I can't understand what you don't say
Sometimes I don't make sense
And I end up missing you everyday
I'm telling you I'm not okay
"Don't leave me, I need you"
How many times do I have to say?
Now, I don't know what to do
If I apologize am I forgiven?
Your words stabbed me
To you I'll always listen
You can **** me, can't you see?
Oct 24, 2015
Oct 24, 2015 at 12:51 PM UTC
"O Fortuna
velut luna
statu variabilis,
semper crescis
aut decrescis;
vita detestabilis
nunc obdurat
et tunc curat
ludo mentis aciem,
egestatem,
potestatem
dissolvit ut glaciem.
Sors immanis
et inanis,
rota tu volubilis,
status malus,
vana salus
semper dissolubilis;
obumbrata
et velata
mihi quoque niteris;
nunc per ludum
dorsum nudum
fero tui sceleris.
Sors salutis
et virtutis
michi nunc contraria,
est affectus
et defectus
semper in angaria.
Hac in hora
sine mora
corde pulsum tangite;
quod per sortem
sternit fortem,
mecum omnes plangite!"
Apr 17, 2015
Apr 17, 2015 at 6:41 PM UTC
Utinam hic quidem me solum relinquatis et caerulei oculi penetrare cogitabant mala mihi. Crudelibus modis agit , et intuitus est angeli.
Feb 22, 2016
Feb 22, 2016 at 3:18 PM UTC
Amor , amoris love
Servet me in aciem
Est vita aeterna,
Beautiful Beautiful smiling smoke
My love is very sick
The tears keep me ballistic
"Don't worry," She spoke
Her proud figure curls up
I remain by her side
Even though plague's arm opened wide
I offered her my cup
I'm crying again
I don't want her to leave
Nor spend an eternity in grief
I hold her close to her parents disdain
Extinctus est Mihi
Ne derelinquas me
Perniciosasque tristitia
Manete in aeternum
Please get better
There are demons in my mind
Our dreams they blind
Stay awake, read my love letter
Sadistic narcissistic fools
You idly gossip
Her fate you toss-up
Poisoned are thy souls
Ego solet abire
Te amo
In aeterno praeteriti temporis
They want me to flee
They want me to turn my back
But deathly dreams surely are black
I ignore their plea
I watch my love fade away
Take me instead
You can rest easy if I'm dead
Your soul shall stay
Et immarcescibilem
Vos postulo ut vivat in
Memento digni sunt
Vale, mea
Perspicuus caliginoso loco hoc
Fidem tibi habeo
Ne fleveris
Et nihilominus esset melior aptus.............
Feb 6, 2016
Feb 6, 2016 at 5:26 AM UTC
Mid Guðrum sê lêodgebyrga eft
On wanre niht, monajjfyllene!
Wulfe mîn geniwung! ond heorudreór,
Forescýwum wældreor-randwíga Ic,
Nêarra heoruwearg forþgêng
Monajjfyllene swâ! on hê byrnes scan
Æfre! êacen ond eotonweard æghwær,
Weelseaxe! ond êacnum ecgum Ic wæs,
Swâ bælegsan sê Ôfer-mann nu hâten,
Heolstorscuwae nu Ic, Lígetsliehtes Þegn,
Mid mîn styrme, æcse ond heorwe swâ!
Sê Brynewielm-Sundorgenga nu Ic!
Selden ond tówunderlic swâ
Norðanwinde eac Ísenhelm hâten,
Æfre scielde sê Ôfer-mann swâ Ic!
Wulfes êagum! ond hwítum fængtóþum,
Binnan swâ sweart wudubearo,
Mîn ðæt wildor, hwæt! on gehwæðre hond,
Eft sweordwígend ond sweordwund
Réadede Ic swâ! wundor sceawian Ic!
Hwonne swâ mîn gúðgewæde,
Beorht bleóreádan bladesungum
Hwæt! æfre sê feorhléan wæs swâ,
Ond uferra sîn heolfrig andweorc
Swâ âstemped eft mîn cwealmdréor!
Ærdæd unsigefæst þær biþ
Mînes gewilles beadwum swâ,
Hwonne sprindlíce, giet monajjfyllene!
Beadwe-grîman Sceade Heorudreór gladaþ,
Hwonne swâ snyttrum ond singale!
Êcan arodscipes hringedstefna
Þunringe mîn ealdor-dôm âheardaþ,
Hwonne stearcheort on ecnesse swâ!
Onforeweard Þunores Heall heoru-drêore
Mîn scinn wiðerwinna flângeweorc
Ealfela! giet on wanre niht eftwyrde,
Stíele ond forescýwan! sê Ôfer-mann Ic,
Swâ wæpenþracu! Swâ sigorwuldor!
Æledfýre bisene Ic, sê Swígtíma-Wrecend!
Swâ Mônan Wulfe! dæges ond nihtes nu!
Hríðe mîn írenhelme gegangan:
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Dec 19, 2021
Dec 19, 2021 at 9:31 AM UTC
We gathered on the grass
of the garth
surrounded by
the cloister's low wall,
there was a trolley
with a tea urn
and cups and saucers
and sugar and milk
or a jug of French coffee,
the clock tower
chimed a quarter,
a monk sipped tea
and spoke in French to another,
I sipped tea
and Dom Kenneth
passed me some cake
on a plate,
you can kiss me
wherever you like
she said and so I did,
birds sang from
the tree in the garth,
I ate cake watching
the French peasant monk
pour himself
some black coffee,
exspéctans exspectávi Dóminum,
et inténdit mihi
Dom Henry said,
Hugh stood talking to George
about what I knew not
and cared not a jot,
she allowed me
to undress her
my hands shook
with excitement,
I waited for the Lord
and He heard me
Dom Henry said,
I put the plate on the trolley
and sipped my tea
watching Gareth discuss
Wittgenstein with an Austrian monk,
the abbot sipped coffee
conversing with the monk
with the cissy girl haircut
who showed me how
to pick apples,
take me, she whispered,
here and now,
the bell tower tolled
and the monks dispersed
placing cups and plates
on the trolley,
the peasant monk
pushed the trolley
back to the refectory,
head lowered, eyes downcast,
conversing with God no doubt,
spank me as foreplay,
she uttered soft,
I walked the cloister,
smell of blossoms,
the bell tolled,
bird song,
Dom James said
about learning Latin,
search the high road,
Dom Henry said,
avoid
the lower path
to sin.
Dec 7, 2015
Dec 7, 2015 at 2:28 AM UTC
Tendriled nightmares coil
Writhing blind knots
Restrict my inner vision
Peripheral blurred neuroses lurk
Morbid melodramas spin symbolisms
Of a tragic ending
Beyond the memory of moonlight
plaintive note of hope recedes
In the saturnine breeze
I am Lost to lower oscillation
Vestigial presence of the divine
Inert
My racing pulse thrums a dirge
for the waning day
You are the fulcrum
*Levo mihi per vestri lux
The arbitration of angels
My inner spirit luminesces
Hope regains her tenuous place
I turn my tearstreaked face
To the memory of light
**Amo Deus perficio lux
EGO mos orior iterum
TL Boehm
052608
*Lift me with your light
**Like God's perfect light, I will rise again
Aug 22, 2014
Aug 22, 2014 at 1:24 PM UTC
Non Draco Sit Mihi Dux 1
That wicked liar offers us a poisoned cup
In whose sheeny surface we see ourselves
Reflected in his cold imaginings
And not our own, in what we ought to be
There is another Cup for us, not this one
Just as there is a stone that must be moved
A bird of night to be repudiated
A thorny bush that burns, but not itself
A blessing breaks that false and bitter cup -
We share the one that God has lifted up
1 In English, let not the dragon be my guide; it appears on the medal of Saint Benedict as NDSMD.
Jul 11, 2018
Jul 11, 2018 at 3:11 PM UTC
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VLTIO EXTRAMVNDANI VIRI VENI MIHI ALTA EREBO
DVM BELLI LIBER SCVTO IMPERAVIT IPSE TEMPLVM
MALA FVLMINE INFAMIA PERIT MVNDI VICTA
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AVSONIÆ TENENS ROSAM CHALYBE RVBRAM.
Mar 12, 2024
Mar 12, 2024 at 8:48 AM UTC
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VINDEX XYSTO DÆMON IΕΡΩI
MITHRÆO TEGVNT FVLGENTEM TENEBRÆ HOSTES TEMPLVM.
Mar 24, 2024
Mar 24, 2024 at 8:08 AM UTC
si vidissent iam levis flammae desiderio et viderunt affluentiam rebus essem corruptas meos impetus et sciebat quid patientia perficere posset mihi licuit in minori mundo crudeli unquam fuit laetior anima mea
Feb 12, 2018
Feb 12, 2018 at 8:37 AM UTC
On Turning Sixty-One
Fitzgerald’s last line,
longing rendered in
fourteen words, ode to
inevitability uttered
in any tongue. “So we beat
on” aching,
“boats against the current”
our urgent
she bu de!, she bu de!/
I can’t bear
to let go!, “borne back”
by music
in the Latin,
de mihi tempus/
give me more
time, echoing
“ceaselessly
into the past.”
Apr 1, 2017
Apr 1, 2017 at 8:41 AM UTC
On Turning Sixty-One
Fitzgerald’s last line;
longing, lovingly
rendered in fourteen
words, ode
to inevitability
in any tongue.
“So we beat on”,
aching,
“boats against the current”,
our urgent
she bu de!,
she bu de!/
I can’t bear
to let go!,
“borne back”
on music
in the Latin,
de mihi tempus/
give me more
time.
Songs echo
“ceaselessly into the past.”
Apr 3, 2017
Apr 3, 2017 at 7:16 AM UTC
Knelt down
weeded the flower bed
in the cloister garth,
orange brick walls
waist high
shadows in the cloister
where the sun
could not touch,
intrantes autem
in domum Dei
so I did
that first time in 68,
smell of baked bread
and incense
and aged brick
and sight of cloisters
in moonlight,
Domine da mihi
castitatem et nondum
Augustine said
I thought likewise
but never said,
she cupped me
with her soft fingers
and tongued me
in her dark room,
Hugh thin faced
grim featured
eyed the breviary
chanted the Latin text
beside me
I copied
best I could,
partecipare alla
vita di Dio
the Italian monk said
as we mended
broken fences
by the far grounds,
George read
the day's text
in practice
must be clever
Dom James said
clear as a bell's tone,
Twice armed
if we fight with faith
Gareth said in Greek
quoting Plato
twice armed
fighting with faith
or suchlike
he added
seeing my
incomprehension,
have me
she said
in whisper
soft breath
whiskey soaked,
rope between hands
rough against skin
bell pulled as bell tolled
vibrated loud
in ear's fold
and hold.
Jan 2, 2017
Jan 2, 2017 at 2:49 PM UTC
Sometimes it's easy to forget that evil has many faces.
Especially when those faces are ones you used to gaze upon,
And feel nothing but the purest form of love.
Amor est mihi in ruinam
Feb 11, 2017
Feb 11, 2017 at 10:54 AM UTC
Lawrence Hall, HSG
[email protected]
We Can’t Take Our Books with Us When We Die
Ecce nova facio omnia. Et dixit mihi: Scribe
quia hic verba fidelissima sunt, et vera.
-Apocalypsis XXI:V
We can’t take our books with us when we die
That reality shouldn’t bother me, but it does:
The copy of The Brothers Karamazov
I carried in Viet-Nam – off to a re-sale shop?
But God is the Word from Whom all blessings flow
And since He is the Word, all our books are His
How foolish of us if we fear that God
Has made no proper arrangements for them
Books are eternal:
Great blessings in paper and ink and page and leaf
For learning and leisure and wisdom and belief
May 8, 2024
May 8, 2024 at 12:21 PM UTC