"minature" poems - Hello Poetry

Anthropos apteros for days Walked whistling round and round the Maze, Relying happily upon His temperment for getting on. The hundredth time he sighted, though, A bush he left an hour ago, He halted where four alleys crossed, And recognized that he was lost. "Where am I?" Metaphysics says No question can be asked unless It has an answer, so I can Assume this maze has got a plan. If theologians are correct, A Plan implies an Architect: A God-built maze would be, I'm sure, The Universe in minature. Are data from the world of Sense, In that case, valid evidence? What in the universe I know Can give directions how to go? All Mathematics would suggest A steady straight line as the best, But left and right alternately Is consonant with History. Aesthetics, though, believes all Art Intends to gratify the heart: Rejecting disciplines like these, Must I, then, go which way I please? Such reasoning is only true If we accept the classic view, Which we have no right to assert, According to the Introvert. His absolute pre-supposition Is - Man creates his own condition: This maze was not divinely built, But is secreted by my guilt. The centre that I cannot find Is known to my unconscious Mind; I have no reason to despair Because I am already there. My problem is how not to will; They move most quickly who stand still; I'm only lost until I see I'm lost because I want to be. If this should fail, perhaps I should, As certain educators would, Content myself with the conclusion; In theory there is no solution. All statements about what I feel, Like I-am-lost, are quite unreal: My knowledge ends where it began; A hedge is taller than a man." Anthropos apteros, perplexed To know which turning to take next, Looked up and wished he were a bird To whom such doubts must seem absurd.

0

3.5k

W. H. Auden

The Labyrinth

Anthropos apteros for days Walked whistling round and round the Maze, Relying happily upon His temperment for getting on. The hundredth time he sighted, though, A bush he left an hour ago, He halted where four alleys crossed, And recognized that he was lost. "Where am I?" Metaphysics says No question can be asked unless It has an answer, so I can Assume this maze has got a plan. If theologians are correct, A Plan implies an Architect: A God-built maze would be, I'm sure, The Universe in minature. Are data from the world of Sense, In that case, valid evidence? What in the universe I know Can give directions how to go? All Mathematics would suggest A steady straight line as the best, But left and right alternately Is consonant with History. Aesthetics, though, believes all Art Intends to gratify the heart: Rejecting disciplines like these, Must I, then, go which way I please? Such reasoning is only true If we accept the classic view, Which we have no right to assert, According to the Introvert. His absolute pre-supposition Is - Man creates his own condition: This maze was not divinely built, But is secreted by my guilt. The centre that I cannot find Is known to my unconscious Mind; I have no reason to despair Because I am already there. My problem is how not to will; They move most quickly who stand still; I'm only lost until I see I'm lost because I want to be. If this should fail, perhaps I should, As certain educators would, Content myself with the conclusion; In theory there is no solution. All statements about what I feel, Like I-am-lost, are quite unreal: My knowledge ends where it began; A hedge is taller than a man." Anthropos apteros, perplexed To know which turning to take next, Looked up and wished he were a bird To whom such doubts must seem absurd.

56

Across the road A J-K girl, Skipped and laughed On her way to school. She was strapped To a big back-pack, Looking like A pink pack mule. Behind her strove Her drover, Directing her to quarry All the stones of learning. By three o'clock My minature mule, A little slower Trudged from school. The pack was filled With rules and tools. She had panned The ores of knowledge; She'll assay them In days to follow. Each day my mule Will turn the grindstone, Crunching numbers, Sifting fine poems. She's mining all the hidden gems To fill her back-pack Once again.

0

Sep 9, 2015

Sep 9, 2015 at 9:54 AM UTC

francie-lynch

Pink Pack Mule

Across the road A J-K girl, Skipped and laughed On her way to school. She was strapped To a big back-pack, Looking like A pink pack mule. Behind her strove Her drover, Directing her to quarry All the stones of learning. By three o'clock My minature mule, A little slower Trudged from school. The pack was filled With rules and tools. She had panned The ores of knowledge; She'll assay them In days to follow. Each day my mule Will turn the grindstone, Crunching numbers, Sifting fine poems. She's mining all the hidden gems To fill her back-pack Once again.

29

royals mistake the tears cried over animals, esp. those wild and not petted, as if they were man’s added 1 to a million ‘ stones in minature form of the sandy: see that singleton quotation mark? it’s different pause from comma semi-colon or hyphen, it’s the ironic pause - almost compounding the two words. i skullhead i, i the skullhead, i, no more a body than a maxim, i the tomb in stone but in body a bone, i skullhead i, i the skullhead, no more a body than a maxim - why will not death wilt before engaging in the lives or mortals? why will death meddle in mortal amorousness when it will not meddle in a death of a god? **** you death! meddle elsewhere! who are prone to breathe the same air as you; interesting lives make less of a library than libraries readily mothering the lives hardly lived but nonetheless written... eager ***** in section 1, less eager ***** in section 1.5 mature ***** in sectiont 2 of being crazed by crosswords and those dumb books written by young men who "diverged from living" given horse was replaced by motorcycle... and feet were replaced by horse later replaced by ferrari... vroom vroom... and affordable life in london by saudi arabia investments; let's wave to our mothers... we'll be the ones on the premier red carpet for sure... it doesn't matter... i prefer opera to cinematic raqqa... and i prefer theatre to conversation.

0

Dec 3, 2015

Dec 3, 2015 at 9:09 PM UTC

removed.polaroid-scrabble

carved with an ivory toothpick / where’s the rhino or harry?!

royals mistake the tears cried over animals, esp. those wild and not petted, as if they were man’s added 1 to a million ‘ stones in minature form of the sandy: see that singleton quotation mark? it’s different pause from comma semi-colon or hyphen, it’s the ironic pause - almost compounding the two words. i skullhead i, i the skullhead, i, no more a body than a maxim, i the tomb in stone but in body a bone, i skullhead i, i the skullhead, no more a body than a maxim - why will not death wilt before engaging in the lives or mortals? why will death meddle in mortal amorousness when it will not meddle in a death of a god? **** you death! meddle elsewhere! who are prone to breathe the same air as you; interesting lives make less of a library than libraries readily mothering the lives hardly lived but nonetheless written... eager ***** in section 1, less eager ***** in section 1.5 mature ***** in sectiont 2 of being crazed by crosswords and those dumb books written by young men who "diverged from living" given horse was replaced by motorcycle... and feet were replaced by horse later replaced by ferrari... vroom vroom... and affordable life in london by saudi arabia investments; let's wave to our mothers... we'll be the ones on the premier red carpet for sure... it doesn't matter... i prefer opera to cinematic raqqa... and i prefer theatre to conversation.

33

Walking in circles You were all i wanted Just trap us in a snowglobe Your the only comfort i need So paupers all line the streets There destitution is how i feel As i watch you stranded between them And you're out of my reach Pick up our world and shake it up Snowflakes from up above I stumbled, you caught me Are you a blessing or a curse Two smiling faces I recognise those people You were my tornado came and broke me down Inside this snowglobe With little room to move There's no escape from you And that's alright with me Look how your eyes glow Red lipstick so beautiful When i hold you close in my arms i know A passion for you i can't let go So trap us in this snowglobe Minature people with endless love We might be trapped forever I can only hope

0

Oct 2, 2017

Oct 2, 2017 at 5:39 AM UTC

jay1988

Snowglobe

Walking in circles You were all i wanted Just trap us in a snowglobe Your the only comfort i need So paupers all line the streets There destitution is how i feel As i watch you stranded between them And you're out of my reach Pick up our world and shake it up Snowflakes from up above I stumbled, you caught me Are you a blessing or a curse Two smiling faces I recognise those people You were my tornado came and broke me down Inside this snowglobe With little room to move There's no escape from you And that's alright with me Look how your eyes glow Red lipstick so beautiful When i hold you close in my arms i know A passion for you i can't let go So trap us in this snowglobe Minature people with endless love We might be trapped forever I can only hope

27

the rain falls down and i close my eyes enraptured warm bright rays are pleasant but i take what i can not as if i can't remember yesterday's torturing release the clouds my worst enemy intently forcing the **** life would be an intriguing alternative to this mess of stringy wet hair half-frozen to itself and my face i have a minature tent to make camp upon my head if i open it the tent will become a sail and steal me the rain is beating, warm, friendly, almost-kind assuring me it would melt the ice if it dared return we exchange bracelets, initialed hearts engraved but crashing thunder interrupts, no blessing gives i look up and the dark is ripped, a slender white string my new friend abandons me in terror to the frost numbly i just -- stay -- i can no longer care i am yesterday, and the sky is spilling sleet

0

May 26, 2010

May 26, 2010 at 4:33 PM UTC

jb-fuller

spilling sleet

the rain falls down and i close my eyes enraptured warm bright rays are pleasant but i take what i can not as if i can't remember yesterday's torturing release the clouds my worst enemy intently forcing the **** life would be an intriguing alternative to this mess of stringy wet hair half-frozen to itself and my face i have a minature tent to make camp upon my head if i open it the tent will become a sail and steal me the rain is beating, warm, friendly, almost-kind assuring me it would melt the ice if it dared return we exchange bracelets, initialed hearts engraved but crashing thunder interrupts, no blessing gives i look up and the dark is ripped, a slender white string my new friend abandons me in terror to the frost numbly i just -- stay -- i can no longer care i am yesterday, and the sky is spilling sleet

16

On a cafeteria table, in the middle of February, the kind where it gets dark at 5pm, sat eight minature figurines made of shells— brown, speckled, like a calico cat with googly eyes on the middle of their heads, one business man with a black derby, one with a pretty pink bow, or even one with blue suspenders, and all their chubby bellies rounding out over their pants. The woman with her iridescent nails, bony fingers, the skin pressed thin against her knuckles, lines them up in a perfect row, tilting their heads into one another as if they are having a tiny conversation admist the numbers being called— B14! She stamps in red. B14! A man pushes a cart around the tables, like one mows grass around graves, with fifty cent candy bars and potato chips on flimsy paper plates. He asks the woman if she wants ice in her Pepsi, but she just blows a long sigh of smoke and flicks the sparks behind her back. He doesn’t ask her to pay. G56! She touches the head of the figurine with the mustache. G56! I’ve lost count of how many numbers I’ve missed, but then there’s you, your hand on my thigh, creeping, your fingers pushing my cotton skirt up, up, and up— O74! We play with acrylic chips instead of stampers. We’d like to win the lottery tickets, maybe cash them in at the gas station after we drink a couple iced teas and snack on Mentos cause we ran out of money two bottles ago. The figurine with the fishing pole has one pupil that lies at the bottom of the eye, lop-sided, and staring at me while I pretend that I have G47! or pretend that this isn’t the first time you’ve brought me here, G47! instead of a real date. Or pretend that I can’t hear the woman cough, and cough, and cough as she switches stampers between every ten calls or touch this figurine or move that one, just slightly, this way or that or N44! She doesn’t have it. N44! I don’t have it. Don’t worry, child, you’ll have it all someday, she whispers, sideways from her mouth, with your thumb making circles around my hipbones, and the man pushing the cart, the squeak of the wheels B7! But I don’t have it. B7! I don’t have it. I don’t have it.

0

Oct 14, 2014

Oct 14, 2014 at 12:38 AM UTC

sophie-herzing

Bingo Nights

On a cafeteria table, in the middle of February, the kind where it gets dark at 5pm, sat eight minature figurines made of shells— brown, speckled, like a calico cat with googly eyes on the middle of their heads, one business man with a black derby, one with a pretty pink bow, or even one with blue suspenders, and all their chubby bellies rounding out over their pants. The woman with her iridescent nails, bony fingers, the skin pressed thin against her knuckles, lines them up in a perfect row, tilting their heads into one another as if they are having a tiny conversation admist the numbers being called— B14! She stamps in red. B14! A man pushes a cart around the tables, like one mows grass around graves, with fifty cent candy bars and potato chips on flimsy paper plates. He asks the woman if she wants ice in her Pepsi, but she just blows a long sigh of smoke and flicks the sparks behind her back. He doesn’t ask her to pay. G56! She touches the head of the figurine with the mustache. G56! I’ve lost count of how many numbers I’ve missed, but then there’s you, your hand on my thigh, creeping, your fingers pushing my cotton skirt up, up, and up— O74! We play with acrylic chips instead of stampers. We’d like to win the lottery tickets, maybe cash them in at the gas station after we drink a couple iced teas and snack on Mentos cause we ran out of money two bottles ago. The figurine with the fishing pole has one pupil that lies at the bottom of the eye, lop-sided, and staring at me while I pretend that I have G47! or pretend that this isn’t the first time you’ve brought me here, G47! instead of a real date. Or pretend that I can’t hear the woman cough, and cough, and cough as she switches stampers between every ten calls or touch this figurine or move that one, just slightly, this way or that or N44! She doesn’t have it. N44! I don’t have it. Don’t worry, child, you’ll have it all someday, she whispers, sideways from her mouth, with your thumb making circles around my hipbones, and the man pushing the cart, the squeak of the wheels B7! But I don’t have it. B7! I don’t have it. I don’t have it.

56

walked across the dunes to the light house to clear my thoughts. the windsailors were riding the sky, my son calls them the teabag people. but to me they are like those seed pods that coast upon the wind in search of something beyond. the grass soughs and if you sit quietly enough, you can hear the hungry cry of the little tern chicks. hidden in the dunes nearby. the sand trickles through twining, grasping, tenuous grass roots, single grains multi-hued, flow like minature snowboarders down the dunes, steep slippery slide. little metallic black ants have the herculean task, of working this slope for seeds and other oddments of food. i watch one stumble,stomp past, sherpa-like, precariously balancing a potato crisp's crumb. while scaling the acute angle of sliding sand. the pittering of the sandy ground indicates the presence of giant skinks, sleek glassine skinned lizards that are at home in the area. their track patterns, remind me of those old teach yourself to dance charts seen in black and white films, you would now find them mostly in antique stores. the tide is in recess and the terns are hunting, mottled little sand ***** in some killer, crazy game of tig or redrover. where to lose is to looose! the windsailor above is surpassed by the big old seahawk as he stretches his wings. it is a comparison of true mastership, over a poor and gaudy parody. the hawk with practised disdain, dives, through the breakers emerging, with his fish dinner. as i turn toward home. i wonder, was it the fandango the lizards, were trying to master?

0

Mar 24, 2014

Mar 24, 2014 at 12:32 PM UTC

betterdays

to the lighthouse

walked across the dunes to the light house to clear my thoughts. the windsailors were riding the sky, my son calls them the teabag people. but to me they are like those seed pods that coast upon the wind in search of something beyond. the grass soughs and if you sit quietly enough, you can hear the hungry cry of the little tern chicks. hidden in the dunes nearby. the sand trickles through twining, grasping, tenuous grass roots, single grains multi-hued, flow like minature snowboarders down the dunes, steep slippery slide. little metallic black ants have the herculean task, of working this slope for seeds and other oddments of food. i watch one stumble,stomp past, sherpa-like, precariously balancing a potato crisp's crumb. while scaling the acute angle of sliding sand. the pittering of the sandy ground indicates the presence of giant skinks, sleek glassine skinned lizards that are at home in the area. their track patterns, remind me of those old teach yourself to dance charts seen in black and white films, you would now find them mostly in antique stores. the tide is in recess and the terns are hunting, mottled little sand ***** in some killer, crazy game of tig or redrover. where to lose is to looose! the windsailor above is surpassed by the big old seahawk as he stretches his wings. it is a comparison of true mastership, over a poor and gaudy parody. the hawk with practised disdain, dives, through the breakers emerging, with his fish dinner. as i turn toward home. i wonder, was it the fandango the lizards, were trying to master?

45

Our milky way galaxy floating thru space its translucent circling orb alight alive prana the dots of energy minature Stars holding hue beings space travelers in the darkness of space revealed as prana we exit the womb living creation the light orbs milk awaits us this cosmos existence adores surrounds me centering life in Earth the Eco-system apter genick learning cells fighting extinction imperial magistrates a re-leafing of stress brought on by diet and habitat pollution I reach into the sky aware of space travelling regions the path prana exists in homes of love to hold the consciousness of life the Universe allows the roots chosen thru the cosmic life in the living consciousness of love love the binding force of all nature reactions living for the one of all the great quest for Eternity the beings of prauna sending cosmic messages for the quest of being a Star is the mighty life, has no god to rule it forth ruled by the life creation alive alining thru time and space all the the orbs come together the life energy of the future survivial the mothers apter genick learning of cells to reach all of life to come together as one being the one for ALL a story to tell how will we survive our pranua each life orb a moment divine seeking you out listen feel the calling life of humanity eternity the wailing over you are here to be replaced just visit to continue onward life is pleasure open life to receive live the moment of egg and seed the burst the rush rises and goes in a second the prana of life creation memories that lead to channels of new being one drop of you or ten moment upon moment orbs dots of you swirling translucent being the created in light of a moment here we are manifested in a body a hue being of light and dreams working out a scheme to be eternity prana living the joy the love of a moment for ever to travel in time to be renewed a change from born again Eternity of love the orb of prana gjmars 6/10/15

0

Jun 10, 2015

Jun 10, 2015 at 11:39 PM UTC

glenn-martin

the moment of womb

Our milky way galaxy floating thru space its translucent circling orb alight alive prana the dots of energy minature Stars holding hue beings space travelers in the darkness of space revealed as prana we exit the womb living creation the light orbs milk awaits us this cosmos existence adores surrounds me centering life in Earth the Eco-system apter genick learning cells fighting extinction imperial magistrates a re-leafing of stress brought on by diet and habitat pollution I reach into the sky aware of space travelling regions the path prana exists in homes of love to hold the consciousness of life the Universe allows the roots chosen thru the cosmic life in the living consciousness of love love the binding force of all nature reactions living for the one of all the great quest for Eternity the beings of prauna sending cosmic messages for the quest of being a Star is the mighty life, has no god to rule it forth ruled by the life creation alive alining thru time and space all the the orbs come together the life energy of the future survivial the mothers apter genick learning of cells to reach all of life to come together as one being the one for ALL a story to tell how will we survive our pranua each life orb a moment divine seeking you out listen feel the calling life of humanity eternity the wailing over you are here to be replaced just visit to continue onward life is pleasure open life to receive live the moment of egg and seed the burst the rush rises and goes in a second the prana of life creation memories that lead to channels of new being one drop of you or ten moment upon moment orbs dots of you swirling translucent being the created in light of a moment here we are manifested in a body a hue being of light and dreams working out a scheme to be eternity prana living the joy the love of a moment for ever to travel in time to be renewed a change from born again Eternity of love the orb of prana gjmars 6/10/15

51

I lie on my back- Girls walk around taking pictures they say that the lighting makes them feel funny The river water rushes swiftly and silently over the dam and a scrolling marquee informs me that TIME STANDS STILL . . . COMING SOON I'm talking to you on the phone- My senses tell me that you're far away but my spirit knows you're here... You were here once You must be here now Ahh yes, of course- You are still here but you have changed form Now you are three girls takng pictures And one boy scribbling in a notebook Your body has changed to a skyline and a raging river I can see everything from here- I know just where I want to go but I can't go there yet... It's going to take a little bit of time- But if time stands still How do I get to you? The girls are holding up a white sheet and the model girl is changing behind it and I can hear her slippind out of her clothes Some older ladies have entered the frame- They hold a paper doll in front of a camera and take pictures of it against the yellow tinted windows The girls are leaving- They say that when they get outside they're going to be like "Woah... What is color?" And I hope they're wrong because everyone deserves to see these colors Miniature people ride minature bicycles across a miniature bridge that spans a miniature river Time stands still

0

May 13, 2012

May 13, 2012 at 1:36 AM UTC

dustin-the-destroyer

9th Floor [Time Stands Still]

I lie on my back- Girls walk around taking pictures they say that the lighting makes them feel funny The river water rushes swiftly and silently over the dam and a scrolling marquee informs me that TIME STANDS STILL . . . COMING SOON I'm talking to you on the phone- My senses tell me that you're far away but my spirit knows you're here... You were here once You must be here now Ahh yes, of course- You are still here but you have changed form Now you are three girls takng pictures And one boy scribbling in a notebook Your body has changed to a skyline and a raging river I can see everything from here- I know just where I want to go but I can't go there yet... It's going to take a little bit of time- But if time stands still How do I get to you? The girls are holding up a white sheet and the model girl is changing behind it and I can hear her slippind out of her clothes Some older ladies have entered the frame- They hold a paper doll in front of a camera and take pictures of it against the yellow tinted windows The girls are leaving- They say that when they get outside they're going to be like "Woah... What is color?" And I hope they're wrong because everyone deserves to see these colors Miniature people ride minature bicycles across a miniature bridge that spans a miniature river Time stands still

49

I stood with my father in the shop, by the register. the eager, blue eyes of a toddler -bright blonde hair, minature hand treasuring a promised lollipop- met old ones so sorely remembering the likeness to that boy my brother and I held, all those years ago. his little face nearly exploded in a smile up at the kind, weathered man. my father smiled, no, laughed back in a spontaneous outburst of appreciation at this glimpse thirty odd years back in time, where either one of his two little gods of pride looked up; back, and smiled with their little hearts full of safe, soft, adoring life. so far from the two rugged men we've become. towering, no longer asking for anything. for a few seconds, I saw divinity between the two of them, and thanked.

0

Dec 9, 2014

Dec 9, 2014 at 7:42 AM UTC

sgholter

the two rugged men we've become

I stood with my father in the shop, by the register. the eager, blue eyes of a toddler -bright blonde hair, minature hand treasuring a promised lollipop- met old ones so sorely remembering the likeness to that boy my brother and I held, all those years ago. his little face nearly exploded in a smile up at the kind, weathered man. my father smiled, no, laughed back in a spontaneous outburst of appreciation at this glimpse thirty odd years back in time, where either one of his two little gods of pride looked up; back, and smiled with their little hearts full of safe, soft, adoring life. so far from the two rugged men we've become. towering, no longer asking for anything. for a few seconds, I saw divinity between the two of them, and thanked.

30

Minature voice, Paced its strength, As it tugged from allure, Fishing net, Landmark bet, Spread across the shore. -b-

0

Jan 24, 2017

Jan 24, 2017 at 5:37 PM UTC

brian-foote

Face Value

Minature voice, Paced its strength, As it tugged from allure, Fishing net, Landmark bet, Spread across the shore. -b-

7

brittle leaves swing with windchime thrills scattering minature fairy hats northwards bristle tops of seeded whimsy light strokes branches of resilience revealing notches and furrows filled with courage warmed and hazelnut tones of sap and towering elegance in the end flourishing into taffeta skirts of green plumes, plums and sour-apple caterpillars

0

Jan 5, 2017

Jan 5, 2017 at 8:59 PM UTC

rjw

real-estate of serendipitous critters

brittle leaves swing with windchime thrills scattering minature fairy hats northwards bristle tops of seeded whimsy light strokes branches of resilience revealing notches and furrows filled with courage warmed and hazelnut tones of sap and towering elegance in the end flourishing into taffeta skirts of green plumes, plums and sour-apple caterpillars

8

LEAVING I scrape my shadow off of the wall. . Fold and re-fold it. Pack it neatly in a tiny suitcase. More a hold all. All that's left is a slight stain on some wallpaper roses. Already fading. A scrap of sunlight chases itself like an annoying yappy dog. A broken bit of glass sticks in my toe. I peel my reflection from the full length mirror. It is like trying to grapple water. It comes unstuck lifts off with a slight gasp. I funnel it into a minature empty shampoo bottle 250 mls. Outside a taxi honks its horn. Its sound invades the silence of this box like room. Four wall that ( even now ) fail to recognise me. "Where to mate?" asks the driver. I look at his photo !.D. "A. Death." it reads as if this was some kind of surreal joke. "Anywhere and nowhere." I answer. "Anywhere and nowhere."

0

Apr 2, 2017

Apr 2, 2017 at 5:24 PM UTC

donall-dempsey

LEAVING

LEAVING I scrape my shadow off of the wall. . Fold and re-fold it. Pack it neatly in a tiny suitcase. More a hold all. All that's left is a slight stain on some wallpaper roses. Already fading. A scrap of sunlight chases itself like an annoying yappy dog. A broken bit of glass sticks in my toe. I peel my reflection from the full length mirror. It is like trying to grapple water. It comes unstuck lifts off with a slight gasp. I funnel it into a minature empty shampoo bottle 250 mls. Outside a taxi honks its horn. Its sound invades the silence of this box like room. Four wall that ( even now ) fail to recognise me. "Where to mate?" asks the driver. I look at his photo !.D. "A. Death." it reads as if this was some kind of surreal joke. "Anywhere and nowhere." I answer. "Anywhere and nowhere."

49

a frogs leap away I found a whole new world

0

Jul 4, 2015

Jul 4, 2015 at 12:19 PM UTC

nivek

Minature Leaps

a frogs leap away I found a whole new world

2