"outland" poems
.
•a long time
ago in a galaxy far away
•the saga continues with fancy
new droids•characters in outland-
ish costumes put on display•impo-
ssible new crafts that dart and slice
through vacuumed voids•armed to
■■■■ the teeth with impressive weapons• ■■■■
■■■■■ spectacular battles between gargan- ■■■■■
■■■■■ tuan cruisers• never ending fight b- ■■■■■
■■■■■ etween opposing factions•where d- ■■■■■
■■■■■ ark and light wield fantastic sabers• ■■■■■
■■■■■ oh i love it... i love it! the day draws ■■■■■
■■■■■ near • where my childhood pangs... ■■■■■
■■■■■ **would begin to smart•in a week, the ■■■■■
■■■■■ long anticipated day would be here•** ■■■■■
■■■■■ where the sith in my veins meets the ■■■■■
■■■■■ jedi in my heart• ■■■■■
■■■■■ ■■■■■
■■■■■■ ■■■■■■
■■■■■■■ ■■■■■■■
IIIIIIIIIIIIIII IIIIIIIIIIIIIII
.
Dec 11, 2015
Dec 11, 2015 at 10:49 AM UTC
Life is a puzzle
That won't be solved
By the argument of your mind.
It can neither be cracked
In ivory towers
Nor in the parlors of grapevine.
The mystery of life
Crowns the benighted
With a twist of a wand
Leaving the enlightened
To commune with the dark.
At best, it is a glass enclosure
Attuning your moves
Along the belt of blessing
Beneath the shelter of stars
And at its worst,
A dungeon floor
Delineating your lot
In unbending reality
Under the dome of despair.
Exposed to eternal pumping
Of raw information,
Student of life knows
But a speck of curricula
At any given time
The process of life's lessons
Extends well beyond the grave
Not even multiple lifetimes
May suffice to scratch the surface
Let alone discover the core
Yet the student of life
Knows no limit
Goes to village today
And metropolis tomorrow
Mounts a mustang to Shangri-la
Hops on a boat to outland.
Tantamount to the amount of stars
Are pictures of life
Full of synonyms and antonyms
Boding inflections and reflections
Of thought, taste and bearing
In the academy of day-and-night.
Aug 14, 2018
Aug 14, 2018 at 8:40 AM UTC
[begin transmission]
Little mean marble,
the grasshopper lies heavy,
riding storms
and trailing winds,
eating dystopia
right out of the box
suns and daughters
of the cataclysm
sit about a space
cadet's campfire,
hints of alien sand
in their voices
it so oddly resembles
vast outland libretto,
that breathe of menace,
inside sojourners
holding tickets to ride
tramlines on shuttle days
swarming with
Walter Mitty groupies
and econowives,
transporting **** rapture,
and/or reproduction to worlds
of public domain
one day we'll settle here,
one day, with bowed heads,
we'll kiss the splendor
of its red ruination
[end transmission]
May 10, 2021
May 10, 2021 at 8:21 AM UTC
The sailor’s hand is guided by the star;
Fair islands rise in morning’s early gleam;
A breeze stirs, and there flow, as in a dream,
Sweet fragrances of terebinth and cinnabar.
The waves caress the strand in tides of green,
While inland light reveals the path towards
The solitude of primal upland swards
Where gorgeous nenuphars may bloom unseen
Dark shadows lie on towering mountain walls,
And dying sunlight filters through the land,
To stream on towers reared by unknown hands
Where lovers make their vow as evening falls.
The fading sun may set the stars in flight;
The stars, a woven tapestry of love perfect;
The moon an antique city resurrect,
Or turn a desert to a garden of delight.
Brief days of hope dull separation’s pain,
And glamour to the distant dream impart.
But years alone erode the constant heart
That blindly seeks its destiny in vain.
Despair can make a desert of the mind;
An outland sun torment and sear and blind;
The moon disclose a wasteland of the night
And stars a secret tragedy unbind.
The tide-surge shatters on the barren shore;
Vast clouds obliterate the dying sun;
Colossal chains of livid lightning run
And mournful winds monotonously roar
Through bleak, deserted glades; my feet now tread
Where stricken trees arch darkly overhead
And claw the sky with fingers black and dead;
The endless road lies empty as before...
Apr 27, 2013
Apr 27, 2013 at 6:52 PM UTC
This poem was written to describe/honor a boat-shaped wooden sculpture on which a town was built.
Here’s humanity chucked on that tub
Figure the fuss in the ship’s hold
Roaming ‘round the deck, helm is hell for holding
How come that outland ship ain’t capsizing?
They ****** up their toll of ****** *****
Thrown out, left behind, they’re coping with that schism
Roving ‘round Ocean blue between two small isthmus
Grinning like they used to ain’t gonna be easy fun.
Here’s humanity beating it to starboard
If they had behaved themselves, possibly
God almighty wouldn’t have batted an eye
Zealous lots in exile on that ****** city-boat
They built up walls ‘gainst their bitter heartbreaks
Alleys, their homes and even small gardens
On a boat! Oh my, isn’t that tub gonna sink?
The wind-facing prow is a freakin’ chimera!
Such a craft is like a merry-go-round
You feelin’ sea-sick ? Looks like a hiccup!
It’s not rocket science, maybe a bit pitchin’
Here’s these talented convicts’ last resort!
Translated from the original version in French, July 19, 2018, Oullins. Appoline
Jul 19, 2018
Jul 19, 2018 at 7:46 AM UTC
My grandpa who eats steamed sweet potatoes on foothills textured in green rice patties
dreamt up a tall brick house with a black iron gate
barbwires sprung around the tips of the entrance to keep out thieves
right now he wonders how long he can keep fibbing to my mother—
their rotten hut at the end of the massive foothill, not fleeting
monsoons come early, swells the ground till it gave
a landslide takes four people and a child
that day, red stars hung above Tiananmen square gates
grounded bones came in sacks, white cement hauled by green skin trucks
My grandpa who loves sweet potatoes constructs an ivory wall.
after the revolution, the sun peeks out in montages
peering through the smoke
gunpowder stuck to the tank tire roads
black heads roll off yellow tar dirt into a pit
My grandpa gives his best friend one thousand yuan—
visas for my mother and grandma,
His best friend disappears,
writes my grandpa
an apology and, leaves him a large white sack of uncooked sweet potatoes
light tan, severs in half and plops down on the lumpy cutting board,
dusty orange inners, grandpa tosses them in the boiling water
and later, while gnawing down,
he pretends they are oranges for once
Grandpa, who’s kneeling on our dried front yard with a worn out copper pail
waters the salty earth slowly until it sprouts sugar canes
chops one down, breaks it in half, the sun beats
peering through palm leaves
a viridescent river of silk and pale honey
my small three year arms grab a hand full
sliced by grandpa into pieces neatly placed
in a blue flowered ceramic bowl
years later, I chop a stalk down and chew until
English becomes a second language again
and in my twenties, I grab a hand full
sliced my mom into pieces, places them in a weaved basket
made of reinforced bamboo
I put it in front of my grandpa’s grave
in Fujian on the foggy mountainside of a small retirement town.
The edge of the South China coast covered in a thick plastic smog,
I sit on a stone eating sweet cold potatoes with my grandpa facing outland,
a red kneeing sun, barely visible past the trees
Apr 25, 2017
Apr 25, 2017 at 12:41 AM UTC
There were days left over;
this fantastic architecture,
days of a planet too young to be seen,
at man’s eyes.
wanders companioned,
weary youth,
reflects on, with curious eyes path,
feel the last evening’s silent branches breath;
too few:
one step back Adam.
Integrate the least,
lest:
last tomorrow:
Atlantean ship’s return, dark outland’s call,
in men’s dreams only, to cold steam rising fall,
on green magic’s mist want,
only to find
May 12, 2015
May 12, 2015 at 12:36 PM UTC
The marble that adorned my temple
now cracks and shudders
the pillars now lean to fall
all that will be left will be rubble
Don't miss this foolish Joker
as he dances like a manic
soon he will ****** off
to be just food for crows
The frost of spring mornings
the chimes of teardrops
the mutterings of the poor
and the poor being me
If should kind circumstance
make haste to my pain
make my living a blessing
on the outland of time
then so be it
BY Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
Oct 1, 2013
Oct 1, 2013 at 2:45 PM UTC
The marble that adorned my temple
now cracks and shudders
the pillars now lean to fall
all that will be left will be rubble
Don't miss this foolish Joker
as he dances like a manic
soon he will ****** off
to be just food for crows
The frost of spring mornings
the chimes of tear drops
the mutterings of the poor
and the poor being me
If should kind circumstance
make haste to my pain
make my living a blessing
on the outland of time
then so be it
BY Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
Nov 18, 2013
Nov 18, 2013 at 1:52 AM UTC
it is cold here
frighteningly cold at this end of your dream
i stumble to the frigid peaks of this mountaintop
only to gaze in terror upon the same range before me once again
you awaken
and I remain
you dismiss
and I retain
the moments before sleep
Mar 11, 2016
Mar 11, 2016 at 9:32 AM UTC
Hey Hey Hey
Yip Yip Yoo
True and dare
To go through the place in the zoomed outland
The mumble is bad I can tell
Someone wants to write cheap music
I can tell
There is ****** in the air
And flippancy will end my misery very soon.
Jun 7, 2019
Jun 7, 2019 at 8:36 AM UTC