"nord" poems
Skyrim, Land for Nords
Filled with Mead and Honningbrew
Singing with blood and cords
Disagreeing to their Divines and Lords
But raging with war and Talos Blessed
Destroying the empire, liberating Skyrim
Once Again
But a nightmare appears
"DRAGONS! DRAGONS!" a filthy Nord say
Running away pityfully as the Myths slays
A man stays
A nordic lad
Tough like Talos
***** as a rag
The tongue of the ancients
Shouting, stealing the souls of the Myths
It's the Dragonborn
It's back
Since centuries
And has came
To Unlegend the Myths
Once Again
Dec 4, 2014
Dec 4, 2014 at 10:01 PM UTC
This land.
It's strange to me.
It's cold like Solstheim.
My mother wouldn't tolerate this!
The breeze danced,
Bringing an icy feel.
To skin so pale.
Hailed to be a Nord,
With Ancient blood of Talos.
With Ysgramor's spirit.
In war.
I must find my way back home,
To the Ashlands.
First,
I will adventure here.
A journey holds the key,
To experience.
I am Jaedin,
Daughter of Alaken,
And Calina.
My village is of the Skaal.
A great evil has come,
It has set over this place...
They say dragons have returned,
What might be in store,
For a young Nord?
Exiting my ship,
I say Hello and Hail,
To Skyrim.
Sep 23, 2014
Sep 23, 2014 at 8:47 AM UTC
Mon aux deux tiers divine,
Toute laine et marjolaine
De douceur et délicatesse,
Courrais-tu, bufflesse, les steppes
Avec ton ombre d'argile
A la recherche du plant de jouvence
Semé aux Treize Cyclones
Qui hantent les îles-fleurs du bout du monde ?
A chaque cyclone aux ailes brisées
Qu'offrirais-tu, Gilgamesh, mon ombre immortelle
Dans le nigredo causal et a-causal où se fond l 'abîme ? ?
Au Cyclone-gel, la baguette et le cerceau ?
Au Cyclone-mauvais, le taureau céleste ?
Au Cyclone-tempête, la Forêt de Cèdres ?
Au Cyclone-rafales, le corps de la Joyeuse ?
Au Cyclone-tourbillons, les hommes-scorpions ?
Au Cyclone-du Nord, les cyprès ?
Au Cyclone-poussières, les gazelles ?
Au Cyclone-du Sud, les Enfers ?
Au Cyclone-de l'Est, le Déluge ?
Au Cyclone-de l 'Ouest, la nuit d'étoiles ?
Au Cyclone-tornade, le sourire des hyènes ?
Au Cyclone-mortifère, le feu éphémère ?
Au Cyclone-souffleur, le feu éternel ?
Aug 23, 2019
Aug 23, 2019 at 2:44 AM UTC
The sun rose,
Over the snowy lands so cold.
Over the treacherous terrain,
Of the Reach.
A beautiful one,
Who roams this world alone.
Only to have a horse by her side,
But no lover to take pride.
Roaming this land,
She is Jaedin.
Her mate awaiting her appearance.
He who is handsome and kind.
He who loves and cares.
For anything in the world.
Jaedin will find that mate,
He will find her.
Marriage will commence.
So will children.
The sun set,
Over Tamriel.
Over the hearts as one.
As they embraced,
Under a high moon.
Sep 23, 2014
Sep 23, 2014 at 8:41 AM UTC
Dry brown cattails fall over one another in autumn
each year crossing on the forest floor,
waiting for spring rain.
Trees line the neighborhood street but true beauty
lives in the swamp down below.
We ran through branches, slicker boots in the mud
crunching through the tall grass and fallen leaves
exploring where the deer sleep. Graceful bucks
peruse the land. I try to catch a glimpse at dusk
when the silent fog begins to rise.
Forgotten streams dart through the reeds where
shallow water is perfect for spawning Northern.
Fallen tree trunks, ominous giants are the
only way to cross the creek
with dangerous swirling currents my daddy
always warned me about.
Poplar bridge is covered with graffiti and scars
the place I got my first french kiss
while the sun sank down into the swamp’s horizon
and the sky filled with precious stars.
The childhood place you yearn for
after the years go by
When every dark thought drives the car down the road,
ending up on that bridge just to watch the creek flow.
Stillness in the middle of a city
isolated from the corruption outside
Nov 15, 2013
Nov 15, 2013 at 3:35 PM UTC
Da quel gabbione uscii...
Nessuno mi guardava.
Per quale distrazione?
Per quale pensiero immerso
senza pietà nel cuore?
Per quale esclusiva
incomunicabile passione?
Come una vecchia carta,
un pezzo di giornale trascinato
sul lastrico dal vento,
vagavo, ignorato, contro i cantoni
di marmo e ottone,
gli alberelli severi del Nord,
i vetri di una Banca...
Il futuro dell'uomo!
Nessuno sapeva più nulla della pietà,
della speranza: sapevano
in questa accanita città,
solamente il futuro, come già seppero la vita.
Ognuno l'aveva in cuore,
passione quotidiana, scontata
novità, luce della nuova storia.
E io senza più capire
cos'aveva potere d'importargli,
di avere per loro significato
di farli ridere, di farli piangere,
ero un vecchio pezzo di giornale,
trascinato dal nuovo vento
tra i loro piedi di Angeli.
2k
A man,
A weapon,
An armor,
This forms a warrior.
A man,
That the legends told about.
A nord,
Born in frost
Born in the blizzards
Of a place
Called Skyrim.
Now,
He has lots of titles
But most important of all
Slayer of Dragons,
The End of Alduin.
But after all
He’s a man
A man has weaknesses,
Even a warrior has fear
And the fear of a man
Is his end.
Mar 31, 2017
Mar 31, 2017 at 11:40 PM UTC
I would like to say
That well, I'm bored
Really I should be quite gay
Heck I'm playing as a Nord!
Thing with this game is its quite large
You can swing a sword or fry an Orc
You can hop a barge to places unknown (Solstheim)
Only to fight a bunch of cultists. (Didn't rhyme but I got some serious beef with those guys)
So by now you should know what I'm playing
What else could it be but the best game around
If you don't you should be praying
Because its Skyrim you friggin hound!
Nov 22, 2018
Nov 22, 2018 at 11:52 PM UTC
of course i left the shit-holes traumatised,
if i didn't read extensively i'd be
stuck in some slum for immigrants -
i mean, who, in, their, right, frame, of, mind
would teach children the basis
of abortion, among lessons about sniffing
glue (a practice in the Ukraine)
as if the 1960s psychedelic revolution never
took place? only the catholic church,
which loves the ****** of a John Smith...
i might as well be listening to Billy Joel
rolling a ****** Jesus... **** off...
take your little school while i learn
from the stoic Marcus Aurelius... seriously
Ben Hur und Aesop to you too! go on grovel
on your message: gehen nord...
yeah, because the romans were evil to incorporate
Judea into its pond empire...
the north men clashed with the jews in the Holocaust;
head north jesus said... so they headed in fakes...
polnisch hebräisch: Jiddisch Yiddish Jesus Jehovah
the tetragrammaton, ********
like they built the ******* pyramids...
sheep, sheep, sheep; i do better drumming
for the rhythm guitars than anyone,
esp. Billy on the MTV single hit about Australian
bushfire and a long list of names with rock around
the clock of Bill Haley & His Comets and oh ****** days
on the McDonald boulevard.
May 6, 2016
May 6, 2016 at 7:56 PM UTC
Au bord du canal Saint-Martin
(Paris Xème)
Au bord du canal saint Martin,
des mouettes piaillent au matin
et les pigeons avec entrain,
fondent sur les miettes de pain.
Au bord du canal saint Martin,
des promeneurs vont leur chemin,
sous les marronniers immobiles,
et s'arrêtent parfois «Chez Prune»,
Au bord du canal Saint-Martin,
il y a des chats efflanqués,
et des matous dodelinant,
captant le regard des passants.
Au bord du canal saint Martin,
y' a des junkies à la dérive,
et des bobos un peu frimeurs,
longeant ses quais en leur verdeur.
Au bord du canal saint Martin,
des sans-logis errent en vain
s’abandonnant au «sans souci»,
pour faire taire tous leurs ennuis.
Au bord du canal saint Martin,
l'on voit flotter quelques écluses,
que les flâneurs et «songe creux»,
traversent et retraversent, sans fin,
Au bord du canal saint Martin,
il est aussi bien des canards
dont plumage et mouvements,
captent les regards des enfants.
Au bord du canal saint Martin
l'on aperçoit les «roubaisiennes»,
des pêcheurs du dimanche soir '
jouant à la pêche aux goujons.
Au bord du canal saint Martin
y a de l'espoir et des chagrins,
des amoureux, mains dans les mains,
des esseulés, dès le matin,
Au bord du canal saint Martin,
c'est tout près de l'hôtel du Nord,
de la dégaine d'Arletty,
qui tourne la tête aux titis.
Au bord du canal saint Martin
ce n’est pas soleil tous les matins,
et faut parfois être malin,
pour la bectance quand il fait faim.
Au bord du canal. Saint Martin,
paraitre sérieux semble vain
tant les feuilles dorées tournoient
et l’automne se fait câlin.
Paul Arrighi
Oct 31, 2013
Oct 31, 2013 at 11:31 AM UTC
l'eau doucemment coule,
On est positif ou nule?
les fruits sont déjá cueillis,
Les souvenirs de bons amis.
Une bague d'or,
Des sacrifices d'un prisonnier fort,
Les raisins déjà mûrs,
Amour, mon amour.
Les feuilles des vignes qui tomberont,
L'automme doux comme la chanson,
Nous sommes des enfants du nord,
Chaqu'un á son sort.
Les hirondelles ne sont pas là...
Les enfants qui pleurent sans papas,
Les champs sont trés jaunes,
L'opera e son fantôme...
Victor Marques
1991
Dec 14, 2009
Dec 14, 2009 at 8:19 AM UTC
Tel qu’une toile d’araignée
La grande ville fond sous la chaleur,
punie par un hiver trop absurde
Tes pieds collent au trottoir et
tes mains sont paralysées
par les fils fins de cette vaste piège
La nuit, quand la température baisse,
quand, enfin, la toile te lâche,
tu cours vers Alice, en avalent des capsules
du bonheur suprême,
une gorgée après une autre
tout dans l’espoir de regagner
son pays de merveilles
Hélas, elle est morte,
tu te trompes, en vain
T’en rappelles-tu ?
Tu l’as enterrée mille fois
& elle n’aurait jamais reconnu,
de toute façon,
ton visage usé par tes voyages,
sans sens, au sud, au nord
Elle n’aurait jamais aimé
ta poitrine remplie de poussières
Depuis que Perséphone a pris le relais
ce n’est plus pareil
Jul 17, 2013
Jul 17, 2013 at 11:04 AM UTC
At Gare du Nord, I was all at sea,
An anglophone drop, in a French sea, oui,
"Je parle anglais" was the last straw to hold on,
How would I navigate to place D'italie?
Aug 30, 2012
Aug 30, 2012 at 9:44 AM UTC
Sonnet pour Fiammetta, la Belle Vénitienne
De Boccace, tu as pris la flamme, qui brille dans ses cheveux d’or. Mais jalouse, tu ne l’es pas, et nous souris si joliment. Tu es, italienne du Nord, ardente, dans es entreprises, de poésie aussi éprise. Avant tout, tu es un trésor. Fiammetta, tu es décidée, et **** des obstacles semés, tu réalises tes projets. Fiammetta, tu es romantique, Mais pas comme une Ophélie Tu es romantique dans l’action.
Paul d’ Aubin (Arrighi)
Dec 13, 2014
Dec 13, 2014 at 12:27 PM UTC
How Marjorie dances
cheek by jowl,
we could never be strangers-
her face countenances
with comely candle light .
Parfait Oysters and Rose -
a double diamond of moonlight.
Only in France's nord pas de calais
could we rejoice,
redolent in vintage Boulonge
our hearts aching for one another.
Jun 28, 2013
Jun 28, 2013 at 8:06 PM UTC
I.
Le nez rouge, la face blême,
Sur un pupitre de glaçons,
L'Hiver exécute son thème
Dans le quatuor des saisons.
Il chante d'une voix peu sûre
Des airs vieillots et chevrotants ;
Son pied glacé bat la mesure
Et la semelle en même temps ;
Et comme Haendel, dont la perruque
Perdait sa farine en tremblant,
Il fait envoler de sa nuque
La neige qui la poudre à blanc.
II.
Dans le bassin des Tuileries,
Le cygne s'est pris en nageant,
Et les arbres, comme aux féeries,
Sont en filigrane d'argent.
Les vases ont des fleurs de givre,
Sous la charmille aux blancs réseaux ;
Et sur la neige on voit se suivre
Les pas étoilés des oiseaux.
Au piédestal où, court-vêtue,
Vénus coudoyait Phocion,
L'Hiver a posé pour statue
La Frileuse de Clodion.
III.
Les femmes passent sous les arbres
En martre, hermine et menu-vair,
Et les déesses, frileux marbres,
Ont pris aussi l'habit d'hiver.
La Vénus Anadyomène
Est en pelisse à capuchon ;
Flore, que la brise malmène,
Plonge ses mains dans son manchon.
Et pour la saison, les bergères
De Coysevox et de Coustou,
Trouvant leurs écharpes légères,
Ont des boas autour du cou.
IV.
Sur la mode Parisienne
Le Nord pose ses manteaux lourds,
Comme sur une Athénienne
Un Scythe étendrait sa peau d'ours.
Partout se mélange aux parures
Dont Palmyre habille l'Hiver,
Le faste russe des fourrures
Que parfume le vétyver.
Et le Plaisir rit dans l'alcôve
Quand, au milieu des Amours nus,
Des poils roux d'une bête fauve
Sort le torse blanc de Vénus.
V.
Sous le voile qui vous protège,
Défiant les regards jaloux,
Si vous sortez par cette neige,
Redoutez vos pieds andalous ;
La neige saisit comme un moule
L'empreinte de ce pied mignon
Qui, sur le tapis blanc qu'il foule,
Signe, à chaque pas, votre nom.
Ainsi guidé, l'époux morose
Peut parvenir au nid caché
Où, de froid la joue encor rose,
A l'Amour s'enlace Psyché.
902
Fare l'alba con te...
vivere la notte con te...
sfiorare ogni emozione con te...
ogni gioco e ogni follia...
assaporare la nostra capacità
di vivere la vita e il mondo appieno,
come pochi sanno fare,
è per me gioia profonda e felicità.
Quando siamo insieme per me non esiste altro,
non so come, ma solo così io non penso nulla...
ogni momento resta unico,
semplicemente momenti di vita
che insieme viviamo,
ma che conserverò sempre nella mia memoria e nel mio cuore.
Ripensando a te
Al mio nord
Rossella Usai - Agosto 2005 - Dedicata a Claudio, indimenticabile periodo di vita con lui.
Jul 20, 2017
Jul 20, 2017 at 2:44 AM UTC
South of the buzzing
of a hairy bumble bee
North of the big dog’s bark
West of the breeze
tickling cherry blossom trees
East of the sunlight
stealing over the fields
that’s where
you will
find me.
*******
!ESSERE QUI!
Sud del ronzio
di un peloso Bumble Bee
A nord del grande cane abbaia
A ovest della brezza
il solletico alberi di ciliegio in fiore
Est della luce del sole
rubare i campi
ecco dove
troverete me.
Apr 9, 2015
Apr 9, 2015 at 1:47 PM UTC
Margaret, promised to be there on time,
Gare du Nord, train station, he surmised,
*Maggie wasn't there, "She betrayed", his heart sank,
She kept waiting in the Charles de Gulle air port for ever!*
Sep 14, 2012
Sep 14, 2012 at 4:00 PM UTC
brother knows you better
brother knows you the best
he stands beside you, steady
as they lay your lover to rest
“i’m sorry,” he whispers, softly and slowly
why is it now that he chooses to be kind?
when all that you have ever wanted
is now six feet under, left behind
weeks later still, he watches you with sorrow
and under the weight of his gaze, you crack
anger flares and strikes
“why do you look at me like that?”
he turns his head away
but you’re stubborn and won’t turn back
“what loss have i suffered that you must be
so sorry, and look at me like that?”
brother had always been a poet
he had always been soft with words
but the ones that gave his answer
this time, they really did hurt
“tell me,” you had demanded,
your breath puffing under the sun.
he had smiled bitterly as he replied—
“a great one.”
Feb 24, 2021
Feb 24, 2021 at 2:38 PM UTC
December is harsh,
Winter seeps through the pavement
And we mourn the tree’s loss.
How can I behave when I do not
Know the culture?
You pass the bread back and forth
And I do not know why.
Will you speak to me, Monsieur?
Speak to me with meaning in your eyes
So that I might understand.
Chestnuts roast, a smell so warm and kind,
We pass the stall but do not turn to look.
Paree, Paree, what did you do to me?
Oh darling! What did you do?
The sky is weeping,
His tears rolling down windowpanes
As he sobs into the shoulders of the Gare du Nord.
Winter has come and he knows it as much as I.
I went to see the girl who stares,
I stared back and sought comfort in her gaze.
Strange, how a place can make you feel so alone.
Don’t you agree? Show me if you agree.
In this town of fifty million Frenchmen
Cold creeps into my bones.
Nov 28, 2013
Nov 28, 2013 at 6:22 PM UTC
foxes are hyenas of the north,
i don't know
whether they feed or
do otherwise,
when they dry cackle their
onomatopoeias
that i imitate with laughter
once a while;
but they do sound congregational:
so much so that i would expect
an european to be a better import
than god to american society;
but the sounds of the night
that come from these gingers
seemingly laughing:
foxes are hyenas of the north.
Jan 18, 2016
Jan 18, 2016 at 9:35 PM UTC