"ornent" poems - Hello Poetry

A celui dont le ciel a maudit les mirettes, Comme vieil oiseau à l’aile artificielle. Vole, bien peu adroit, accepte mais rejette, En deuil de la clarté, et pleure sa lourde attelle. Celui qui en dépit des voix et des regards Ne tira pas la bride, au quadruple galop S’enfonça dans le trou, la vie et son traquenard. Et maintenant de son être recherche les morceaux. Enfin, l’exotique reptile, exhibant ses atouts : Sombres et ternes couleurs ornent son capuchon, Pourtant si attirantes, quand il se tient debout. Il porte ce qu’il trouve beau, c’est sa grande conviction. Volatile épuisé, serpent ou équidé, Le bipède leur donnera sa petite mine d’or, Dans son pelage blanc, coton immaculé. L’Homme vit uniquement pour défier la mort.

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Sep 16, 2018

Sep 16, 2018 at 8:06 AM UTC

Masmer

La Lentille

A celui dont le ciel a maudit les mirettes, Comme vieil oiseau à l’aile artificielle. Vole, bien peu adroit, accepte mais rejette, En deuil de la clarté, et pleure sa lourde attelle. Celui qui en dépit des voix et des regards Ne tira pas la bride, au quadruple galop S’enfonça dans le trou, la vie et son traquenard. Et maintenant de son être recherche les morceaux. Enfin, l’exotique reptile, exhibant ses atouts : Sombres et ternes couleurs ornent son capuchon, Pourtant si attirantes, quand il se tient debout. Il porte ce qu’il trouve beau, c’est sa grande conviction. Volatile épuisé, serpent ou équidé, Le bipède leur donnera sa petite mine d’or, Dans son pelage blanc, coton immaculé. L’Homme vit uniquement pour défier la mort.

16

And the guy said what are you reading? the canteen guys that is, smokers, jokers, newspaper consumers, Spinoza, I said, his philosophy:ethicae, never heard of him, Don said, moustachioed, bright eyed, tall and lean, sounds like some vegetable, Kevin said, small, wise of lips, short thin, Dei ornent in omnibus, I said, what the **** that mean? Don said, frown of brows, spread of lips, God in all things or something like that, I said, closing the book, taking up my cup(cappuccino), all things? Kev said, like in a dame's **** laughter, wide smiles, gazing, guess so, all things is all things, I said, I sipped my drink, and all things in God? Pete said, short and stocky, ex jockey, that is the way of it I guess, I said, non diffondere gemme prima sciocchi I recalled the Italian priest saying years before at the abbey on retreat, can I see the book of that Spinoza guy? Don said, I passed him the book, my page marked by a thin sliver of card, he scanned pages, finger skipping through, eyes intent, dark eyes almost black, too **** deep for me, he said, page 3 is more your mark, Kev said, those photos of girls with ******* and all, laughter, smiles, Don handed back the book carefully, well at least they say things to me, he said grinning, Dieu au centre de tous the French monk had said to me at the abbey, his lips barely moving, the words air bound, I drank the coffee and returned to my book, cigarette smoke rose, someone joked of his wife's new dress a size too small and her efforts to enter, God, I translated the French monk's words, at the center.

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Jan 29, 2016

Jan 29, 2016 at 6:08 AM UTC

TerryCollett

AT THE CENTER 1977.

And the guy said what are you reading? the canteen guys that is, smokers, jokers, newspaper consumers, Spinoza, I said, his philosophy:ethicae, never heard of him, Don said, moustachioed, bright eyed, tall and lean, sounds like some vegetable, Kevin said, small, wise of lips, short thin, Dei ornent in omnibus, I said, what the **** that mean? Don said, frown of brows, spread of lips, God in all things or something like that, I said, closing the book, taking up my cup(cappuccino), all things? Kev said, like in a dame's **** laughter, wide smiles, gazing, guess so, all things is all things, I said, I sipped my drink, and all things in God? Pete said, short and stocky, ex jockey, that is the way of it I guess, I said, non diffondere gemme prima sciocchi I recalled the Italian priest saying years before at the abbey on retreat, can I see the book of that Spinoza guy? Don said, I passed him the book, my page marked by a thin sliver of card, he scanned pages, finger skipping through, eyes intent, dark eyes almost black, too **** deep for me, he said, page 3 is more your mark, Kev said, those photos of girls with ******* and all, laughter, smiles, Don handed back the book carefully, well at least they say things to me, he said grinning, Dieu au centre de tous the French monk had said to me at the abbey, his lips barely moving, the words air bound, I drank the coffee and returned to my book, cigarette smoke rose, someone joked of his wife's new dress a size too small and her efforts to enter, God, I translated the French monk's words, at the center.

50

Stood in the cloister with the other monks in the evening chill before Vespers, Dei ornent in omnibus, all things in God Gareth said quoting Spinoza, cold water in morning wash in icy jug of water into a white bowl hands to face and neck, lavabis me et super nivem dealbabor, these are my pearls she said and this is my purse of joy plunge into me, I passed the tall monk on the stairs he nodded a notice he carried a big book beneath an arm, if every tiny flower wanted to be a rose spring would lose its loveliness Therese said, Hugh said perfection lay in doing God's will but without God we cannot reach perfection at all, I cleaned the toilets on the upper floor with mop and bucket smelt of disinfect, the old monk was dying and once talked of Plainsong in high places and I washed him and dried him, in the shadow of her wings I made hot love like one possessed, the church so silent so utterly still I felt it in my bones and soul, the monk with a limp limped into the choir stall bowing his tonsured head, refrain from evil words on account of the penalty of the sin Benedict said, some evenings before Compline I would wander the drive towards the road and curse in the night air to get it(frustration) out there, moon in shadow of a cloud in the night sky and stars sparse to the eyes, when I see the short duration of my life used up in the eternity before and after the small space which I fill cast into the infinite immensity of spaces of which I know nothing and which doesn't know me I am frightened Pascal said, pour voir à l'infini, the space between her thighs where the body lives but the soul part dies, enjoy me she said enjoy me as if a small boat on a vast sea, the French peasant monk dug the ditch with an angel at his shoulder whispering the Notre Père his hands calloused but maybe blessed, I turned out the lamp by my bed and sought (without her in my bed or head) a good night's rest.

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Jan 9, 2016

Jan 9, 2016 at 1:55 AM UTC

TerryCollett

A GOOD NIGHT'S REST 1971.

Stood in the cloister with the other monks in the evening chill before Vespers, Dei ornent in omnibus, all things in God Gareth said quoting Spinoza, cold water in morning wash in icy jug of water into a white bowl hands to face and neck, lavabis me et super nivem dealbabor, these are my pearls she said and this is my purse of joy plunge into me, I passed the tall monk on the stairs he nodded a notice he carried a big book beneath an arm, if every tiny flower wanted to be a rose spring would lose its loveliness Therese said, Hugh said perfection lay in doing God's will but without God we cannot reach perfection at all, I cleaned the toilets on the upper floor with mop and bucket smelt of disinfect, the old monk was dying and once talked of Plainsong in high places and I washed him and dried him, in the shadow of her wings I made hot love like one possessed, the church so silent so utterly still I felt it in my bones and soul, the monk with a limp limped into the choir stall bowing his tonsured head, refrain from evil words on account of the penalty of the sin Benedict said, some evenings before Compline I would wander the drive towards the road and curse in the night air to get it(frustration) out there, moon in shadow of a cloud in the night sky and stars sparse to the eyes, when I see the short duration of my life used up in the eternity before and after the small space which I fill cast into the infinite immensity of spaces of which I know nothing and which doesn't know me I am frightened Pascal said, pour voir à l'infini, the space between her thighs where the body lives but the soul part dies, enjoy me she said enjoy me as if a small boat on a vast sea, the French peasant monk dug the ditch with an angel at his shoulder whispering the Notre Père his hands calloused but maybe blessed, I turned out the lamp by my bed and sought (without her in my bed or head) a good night's rest.

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