"ovid" poems
"The Kiss*" in marble
of Rodin's work
embraces art with passion.
Ovid wrote of kisses
back when "amor"
was in fashion.
To capture
such a moment
in marble or in verse,
is beautiful
but can't refine
the taste
when lips immerse.
In meditation,
I close my eyes
on kisses
I remember.
of hot August nights
in sultry heat
or amid a fireplace
in December...*
Nov 16, 2017
Nov 16, 2017 at 7:04 AM UTC
How dull the wretch, whose philosophic mind
Disdains the pleasures of fantastic kind;
Whose prosy thoughts the joys of life exclude,
And wreck the solace of the poet's mood!
Young Zeno, practis'd in the Stoic's art,
Rejects the language of the glowing heart;
Dissolves sweet Nature to a mess of laws;
Condemns th' effect whilst looking for the cause;
Freezes poor Ovid in an iced review,
And sneers because his fables are untrue!
In search of hope the hopeful zealot goes,
But all the sadder tums, the more he knows!
Stay! Vandal sophist, whose deep lore would blast
The grateful legends of the storied past;
Whose tongue in censure flays th' embellish'd page,
And scorns the comforts of a dreary age:
Wouldst strip the foliage from the vital bough
Till all men grow as wisely dull as thou?
Happy the man whose fresh, untainted eye
Discerns a Pantheon in the spangled sky;
Finds sylphs and dryads in the waving trees,
And spies soft Notus in the southern breeze
For whom the stream a cheering carol sings,
While reedy music by the fountain rings;
To whom the waves a Nereid tale confide
Till friendly presence fills the rising tide.
Happy is he, who void of learning's woes,
Th' ethereal life of bodied Nature knows;
I scorn the sage that tells me it but seems,
And flout his gravity in sunlight dreams!
7.9k
every profile of the body
drapes of a fallen dress
the flowers twang
the bassoons
the wooden harps
the human body is a temple
with the purpose of changing
into new forms
ephemeral
beauty
or love
or passion
or life
the metamorphosis of another
the brother
the kiss
the flowers of evil
the death of a maiden
Ovid
hear me
Ovid
love is simply a measure of
bumps and holes
Ovid
love grows out of soft marble
Ovid
we are one
the mythology of
passion ensues
the act encased in
fire
Mar 11, 2016
Mar 11, 2016 at 5:01 PM UTC
though said to be golden like that of Eris,
the mores which you so savor are hollow with worms.
your stony statutes, finally crumbling, now
remind me of rose-colored saran wrap:
stretched too thin across the epochs
to bind each lawless Julia at present.
able now to be whole—free from your unadulterated peace,
spun, measured, and cut are your class lines at last.
and so with a sigh of relief so great that it could echo across
all of the Caucasus,
your Ovid, cast away, has returned.
Jan 18, 2014
Jan 18, 2014 at 7:55 PM UTC
Read Shakespeare and Milton and all of the rest
Keats, Coleridge and Wordsworth are some of the best
Read Ted Hughes and Sylvia, Motion, Duffy
They say what I want to say better than me
Read Homer and Ovid, Basho and Su Shi
Chaucer and Boccaccio they've stood the test
Read Donne, Spenser, Marlowe, Jonson and Raleigh
Read Shakespeare and Milton and all of the rest
Read Swift, Pope, Blake, Tennyson, and Rossetti
The two Barrett Brownings are of interest
For feelings romantic as true as can be
Keats, Coleridge and Wordsworth are some of the best
Read Larkin and Betjeman if you're depressed
Read Wendy Cope to enjoy all of life's zest
Yes please don't think I despise modernity
Read Ted Hughes and Sylvia, Motion, Duffy
And how about all those I haven't addressed
Yeats, Auden, Joyce, Longfellow, Poe and Shelley
And all of the others I'm bound to have missed
They say what I want to say better than me
But what of the poet, with poets obessed?
In prose I am prolix, in speech stuttery:
So where will you find my emotions expressed?
On MySpace, on Twitter, read my poetry
It says what I want to say
Oct 7, 2009
Oct 7, 2009 at 11:12 AM UTC
By the time he'd hit eighty, he was something out of Ovid,
his long beak thin and hooked,
the fingers of one hand curled and stiff.
Still, he never flew. Only sat in his lawn chair by the highway,
waving a *** wing at passing cars.
I was a timid kid, easily spooked. And it seemed like touchy gods
were everywhere—in the horns
and roar of diesels, in thunder, wind, tree limbs thrashing
the windows at night.
I was ashamed to be afraid of my grandfather.
But the hair on his ears!
The cackle in his throat!
Then on his birthday, my mother coaxed me into the yard.
I carried the cake with the one tiny candle
and sat it on a towel in the shade.
I tried not to tremble,
but it felt like gods were everywhere—in the grimy clouds
smothering the pine tops, the chainsaw
in Cantrell's woods—everywhere, everywhere,
and from the look of the man
in the lawn chair, he'd ****** one off.
Mar 6, 2014
Mar 6, 2014 at 2:29 AM UTC
Here we are
Trying to bring the dead back to life
Ovid, Horace, Homer
Down the cobblestone streets to Ospedale
Down the narrow packed streets
Walking until we meet our ancestors
Walking until we reach the River Styx
Virgil be thy guide
To meet Poe, Keats, Frost
Fighting the day the fates cut our string
Here lies death, ashes and nothing
Jun 9, 2013
Jun 9, 2013 at 4:23 PM UTC
*It all started in the town Warwickshire,
within Stratford-upon-Avon
a magician invented a spell
a thaumaturgy from Ovid's
magnum opus and Holinshed Chronicles
that whispered an image
of kings and battles
which turned into a game of bewitchment!
Hail the Globe Theatre
where the throng gathered
and witness the sorcery
ensorcelled by the conjurer
though spell cast into ashes
and turn dreams
into a nightmare
Yet, 'Your tale, sir, would cure deafness.'*
Mar 22, 2017
Mar 22, 2017 at 12:57 PM UTC
Carstairs had been waiting for the boat for three days and there it was, suddenly appeared. He had dozed and it had appeared. He trained his binoculars on it, but it was too far away to be clearly recognisable. It seemed motionless, becalmed in a sheet of unruffled water.
He had dug himself into a bank in the sandhills. He still had a little water, some raisins; there was a final cube of chocolate carefully wrapped in the whole of its paper. It was the thought of this hidden pleasure that had sustained him during the hours of darkness when the slight rain and the chill of inactivity had forced him to exercise, to move about, though always afraid he would lose his burrow.
From the earliest light of dawn the day had been clear and still. The sea birds had muted calls, the sea itself more a presence than a sound. The tide had steadily retreated beyond his expectations. He knew he had to wait for the arranged signal.
Turning on his back he looked at the sky. A few clouds floated hesitantly in the glazed blue. He remembered suddenly a moment from his childhood, above the beach at Red Point. He had escaped his parents, his adored sisters, and hidden himself in the marran grass. He had lain on his back and felt himself levitate into the clouds. He had looked down on the whole scene, a waking dream. Those moments floating above the long Highland beach had never left him. Sitting in the examination hall for his Tripos that memory had come upon him; he had been paralyzed by it, unable to write or think. He had closed his eyes and strange geometrical shapes had ensnared him. He had felt extremely sick . . .and then very calm. He had returned to the task in hand, a translation of Ovid's Metamorphoses, that opening passage describing Eurus, Zephyr, Auster and Boreas: the four winds.
. . . he felt something wet nuzzle his hand. A dog, a black shape no more. As he struggled to move himself a larger shape obliterated the sun and shot him.
Jan 19, 2013
Jan 19, 2013 at 3:46 AM UTC
i read the ovid and the sappho and
try to pretend i don’t see myself
reflected in every poem
achilles and patroclus rip apart my chest and heart and
i try to hide that their love [their tragedy] has left me bleeding
i go home and memorise auden’s lullaby
in the safety of midnight and my bedroom and i never recite it to anyone but i hold it close to my heart and keep it there
i’m not a tragedy yet but there’s still time
who’s to say if i guard my copy of howl a little too closely
it’s just a book but the pages and the words have sharp edges and they’re dangerous
i have to
hide from the open passion, from the naked light of their pure love
of their impure love
of their gentle emotions that ripped apart relationships and took lives
if i don’t see that passion in myself am i lying or just not looking hard enough
Mar 10, 2019
Mar 10, 2019 at 1:11 AM UTC
Look closely at your dots and periods.
You'll see this...
. Bob Dylan .
. William Shakespeare .
. Maya Angelou . Emily Dickinson .
. Ralph Waldo Emerson . Robert Frost . Ai .
. Max Eastman . Thomas Hardy . William Blake .
. Edgar Allan Poe . Pablo Neruda . James Joyce . Ovid .
. Carl Sandberg . Anne Sexton . Taigu Ryokan . Sappho .
. Ogden Nash . Dorothy Parker . JD Salinger . Rumi .
. Dame Edith Sitwell . Mary Wollstonecraft Shelly .
. Anna Swir . Sara Teasdale . JRR Tolkien .
. Alfred Lord Tennyson . John Skelton .
. Dante Gabriel Rossetti .
. Dylan Thomas .
Soul Survivor
2014
Mar 11, 2014
Mar 11, 2014 at 7:45 AM UTC
I sigh for the many awash in despair
My attitude attuned in a devil may care
All clamoring for Poe not knowing of Baudelaire
Or that Ovid’s Bleak Black books of exile are out there
Content to coil in their own content of the unfair
Not understanding that Depression’s hosting a centuries long fair
So rejoice for others have long paid the fare
And like starlight from afar your suffering is fair
And through artistic labor, you set tables of tantalizing fare
Jun 12, 2018
Jun 12, 2018 at 10:33 PM UTC
I am deceased with love
For poetry's sake You are my Medusa
And I your ******
Your piercing eyes solidify my heart
And turn my love for you into stone
Suffocate me with affection in our little gas chamber
The Gestapo will keep intruders at bay
Set me ablaze with madness
Let my schizophrenia watch from behind with awe
De-exorcise me from this angelic daemon LOVE
Medusa lubricate our union with your venom
I shall see to it that the Wehrmacht safeguard this treaty
African queen of infinite tantrums
***** love and hair
Ovid has already said that you are the jealous aspiration of many a suitor
What more shall I want
Aug 31, 2016
Aug 31, 2016 at 10:56 PM UTC
This prose poem is from my collection "Poems from the Island"
Snow flurries rushed between us on the ice.
Two black shapes without the world.
"Keep seperate!" he yelled.
The wind blew his words asunder...
Instantly, I remembered the sea heather
I'd left to dry by the fire pit.
Idle thoughts like sludge move slowly
in a frozen mind.
And the right words freeze on your tongue.
If the ice cracked, we'd hear it.
That horrible sound when Buddy was ****** down.
I wished I married a fireman.
A fireman would have saved my brother.
My old Dad was crackers living on this island
so far North. Expanding his poetry by writing
sonnets to Shakespeare and Ovid. Taunting me
into crossing an ice plated pond to test fate.
The time was cock-eyed, too late in the season.
My father was scared. He'd been scared for a long time.
I heard the CRACK! it ripped open my head.
Suddenly, ****** back to our unborn selves. STRANDED...
No time to say, good-bye.
The black curtain on the last call falls sharply.
Those with nothing to live for invent things
to die for--so much for invention...
Aug 13, 2010
Aug 13, 2010 at 8:24 PM UTC
Falling, falling, falling,
forever
or is this
G
N
I
T
A
O
L
F
towards a shimmer in the distance
like a wind that carries a dead leaf
whispering through the chimes
that fall upon deaf ears
as if the message was sent
and it just wasn't heard
No, this is f
a
l
off l
the i
precipice n
g
as I watch the sky
march round in a funeral procession
of our history
F L O A T I N G
in this disorienting gravity
S E D U C I N G
in this magnetic propinquity
T E A R I N G
in this psychosomatic schism
every storm proceeds an epoch
of pleasure
as if pleasure
is an
Grecian artifact
in the backdrop of Ovid
The caterpillar
of Like
of Love
of Hate
cocoons into insouciant
vicissitudes
Y.
A
W
but refuses to fly A
Oct 22, 2019
Oct 22, 2019 at 11:48 AM UTC
I swear I really want to write one.
I come up with a few great ideas,
formulate them into my creative mind,
then when I go to pen them
into an epic,
they end up much shorter.
Like, what would Virgil say?
Lord Byron would certainly cringe
at my bits and pieces of written word.
Alighieri & Milton would probably
laugh their arses off,
Ovid snicker & what about Homer?
I swear I really want to write one.
An epic like The Divine Comedy,
perhaps a slice of Don Juan,
a bit of Beowulf,
some Odyssey?
I wish I could find
some Paradise Lost,
a piece of the Illiad,
I pray for a Metamorphoses!
I swear I really want to write one!
Feb 10, 2014
Feb 10, 2014 at 3:18 PM UTC
"where night is a star reflected in a cool pool"
surreal as the silver moon
dipped in the silks of
the night sky,
watery prisms of
pool, tender as ****
frost wound around
the shadowy banks,
little flutes for ripples,
giant sky of light,
pool of ovid gold,
my love for you
knows no end,
sweet boy, in all
the give and take
the last line of
the sky, the first
line of the sea.
Jun 27, 2017
Jun 27, 2017 at 2:06 PM UTC
Let scarlet feathers go
as love does exiled too
One hundred leagues
One hundred Roman feet
One hundred prosody
For Augustus' dreams
condemns me treacherously
and I cannot breathe
Each gasp for life is death
Each death a new stanza
Let scarlet feathers go
as love does in exile, too
across white cloudy fields
beneath the asphalt sea
Let scarlet feathers go free
Apr 27, 2021
Apr 27, 2021 at 7:08 PM UTC
The world lost a beautiful soul today. But the beautiful thing about poets is that they never really die. Their secrets, their hopes, their most intimate thoughts are tucked between the lines, even in their most light hearted pieces. Poetry is a very honest medium. Maybe not as honest as sitting and having conversation over tea, but scraps of living soul are always left in the spaces between letters. David, Ovid, Homer, Shakespeare, all of these have survived the centuries as poets. I have no doubt that centuries from now, if our world is still turning, Maya Angelou's works will be counted among these eternal ranks.
May 28, 2014
May 28, 2014 at 5:04 PM UTC
I am sitting in a classroom during my freshman year of college
Reading about **** and infidelity
Western literature,
Where Jupiter can **** virgins for sport
Where Hamlet can assault Ophelia
And it's okay because he is pretending to be insane.
I see my assailant's face in Hamlet's
The boy who told me he was sorry six months later
Because he had been dealing with some things in his head
I see my assailant's hands in Zeus's
At seven years old, clearly a ******
But you can use my tongue as a gag
As you cause me to choke on my pleas for peace
You see, throughout the ages
Women have had their tongues used as gags
And as nooses
Like when Maya Angelou writes about taking back her body
We say it is ******
When Maya Angelou writes about ****
We rip her words from school curriculums
When Ovid writes about ****
We say it is literature
When women write **** into the folds of their skin
We call them attention ******
When men pen abuse onto paper
We say it is eloquent
Say it is mythology
Watching a friend get brutally drugged and date ***** is no myth
Burning her rapist's name out of her mouth is no myth
Replaying my own movie of childhood abuse at seven
And assault at sixteen is no myth
We treat women's narratives of violation as stories
Just ask Bill Cosby.
As I am forced to read about my own history for entertainment
As I hear my father say how college girls cry **** to get attention
That they should be more careful
How am I supposed to trust my own memory?
When everything around me tells me
I am lying
How am I supposed to trust my own experience?
My tongue keeps getting stuck inside of itself when I try to tell my story
Because I fear people will not believe me
Maya Angelou writes that she knows why the caged bird sings
But I know what keeps it silent.
Mar 20, 2016
Mar 20, 2016 at 9:21 PM UTC
The first time you opened up to me
it was through your endless,
sapphire eyes.
Before that glance, I was
sure you weren't interested.
After that glance, I found
a new room built in my heart.
A room decorated in the deep,
ocean blue of your eyes.
Since that first glance
I’ve found myself searching,
craving, your thoughts.
So far I’ve found these three
things in your eyes.
Our first glance I saw a shy,
demure woman but,
one who finds interests in the
small forgotten places, the mysteries.
A woman who wishes few people
to see the jewels she hides inside.
A woman who lets her gaze slide,
not wanting contact--
but asking for connections,
Daring others to
knowingly take a leap
Into boundless azure eyes
that scry a magnanimous
future shrouded in lashes.
I want to call out!
"I see you. I see your true face,
individualistic and beautiful."
I recognize pieces of you and I
answer your call with pieces of
myself.
Our second glance was
the ocean at night
under a full Moon--
bright with emotion and lust.
You, an Aphrodite of the sea,
your body covered in
seafoam and pearls.
You, An Erato whose story
holds men and women
enraptured.
You reach out through those
bedazzling eyes with endearment,
and a promise of such ecstasy
as to turn Ovid's quill from his paper.
I find myself overcome with the
want to dive into your azure oceans,
to steal that treasure in your depths
For myself.
Our last glace was infinity--
the intensity of the sun at its zenith.
You, an Artemis, bow drawn,
Breast exposed, in the heat of the hunt.
Your protections triggered, your eyes
alight-- their color that of the dawning
Sky, cloudless, at the vernal equinox.
Pride and confidence, strength
and courage, well up and come to bear
against an ill-prepared stygian force
who has not an inkling of its
Thrull fate.
I want to know all the pieces of you.
I want to explore your substance.
I want to lie, entwined, naked, within you
and encompassed by you--
holding your gaze searching
into each other. Our bodies rocking,
sweaty--souls dowsing each other
finding pieces that fit and speaking
without words.
I want to know...
I want you...
Oct 2, 2020
Oct 2, 2020 at 10:52 AM UTC
C = 3
O = 15
R = 18
O = 15
N = 14
A = 1
_________+
66.
The word "Corona" has six (6) letters.
123456
Together combined equals 666.
The corona is the outermost part of the Sun's atmosphere. The corona is usually hidden by the bright light of the Sun's surface. ... During a total solar eclipse, the moon passes between Earth and the Sun. When this happens, the moon blocks out the bright light of the Sun.
Corona is the Latin word for crown.
Corona is the (crown chakra)
The words "corona virus" is an anagram for "carnivorous".
(Covid19) corona vaccine identification. The plan.
Ovid means sheep.
The word vaccine comes from the word "Vacca" meaning cow in hebrew.
VAX-A-NATION.
My personal opinion...
We are about to is usher in the antichrist.
The man of "lawlessness" is the man who takes away your personal rights. Your rights to your body. Your rights to your free will to live off the land. Your rights to free speech and to congregate. Etc.
You have the right to bear arms..... Not hold hands.
I Love you all. If you've found this helpful PLEASE SHARE!
Apr 27, 2021
Apr 27, 2021 at 4:21 PM UTC
Nature with its numberless powers
Can twist or turn, bend or devour.
And those who won't resist the wind,
Will grow the bearing trees within.
"Dripping water hollows out the stone" -
Ovid says with his baritone, -
"Not through force, but through persistence"
Know nothing we about existence.
So small in wast titanic world,
Great powers, people think behold.
Imprudent brains, stop tossing into nature
Your greedy power's ruinations.
For Nature won't be still and silent,
Will sweep your nation's floor with violence.
Just stop pretending you live here alone
And Nature might just leave us on our own.
Dec 24, 2018
Dec 24, 2018 at 10:03 PM UTC
I have seen a fish being beaten and left for dead on the side of a wooden boat and I want that to be me
because in death there are extremes
and I want to contract diseases and inflict them on every
**** person who ever touched me
and I want to be made out of poison that makes people want me
more than they want to be alive
I just want to be dangerous
which is how I feel with sharp glass in my eyes
rubbing against my lids and
how I feel with sharp steel pressed against legs
god **** I feel alive and dangerous and powerful
more than I ever did before and I do reach a higher existence
and I do feel like a different person
I just want to make people sick with how much they love me
and fall apart with out me
and I am just this echo calling out for my ******* narcissus
who would love me more than his reflection
so **** it Ovid I just want this last bit of danger
I like the taste of my blood when I **** hard on my gums
I love the feel of pain I want it so bad
I want to be euphoric and I want people to want to make me ******* euphoric
I cannot live like a girl without danger when all my life I have been dangerous to all
and I burn people yes but scars only ever last for a couple months
burn scars do anyway, to me, I thought they all loved me
and would die for me
but I have not left behind that many corpses in my tread
and I am not the girl I thought I was
I am not the girl I think I am
I want to be everything and nothing
and good and bad and
I want to be His ******* temptation but I cannot have that title
so I'll be His darling stagnation because that's what I'll do
breaking up won't be ****** and suicide and blood pacts it'll be dad
coming with a van and Him looking kinda sad maybe
I guess when I leave it will be mutual
and neutral and all of the things that I hate
the things that poison my insides the worst thing I feel is neutrality
that and passivity
I cannot stand non aggressive or not emotive
I have to have everything
I have to have noise and terror every day or I cannot cope some times
I hate that life has to be like this now and I cannot be what I want
because the times are wrong and society won't accept it
when I say I do not want to talk about it it is because I feel this
this is bad and this is
the closest I will get to poisoning you
because I cannot tell you my secret desires
for you to **** all the life from my heart
pour it back in me with pieces of you
when I sleep I dream sometimes I dream about you killing me
and it is the best feeling ever I wake up and smile
I am horrid and my heart is on fire
but now you care if it hurts you stop when I say so
I see the look of the eyes of the fish on the boat
I see that look in the eyes of me
Feb 20, 2014
Feb 20, 2014 at 12:16 PM UTC
latin poet catullus was often called too personal by contemporaries,
he didn’t write about gods and monsters or heroes or epics,
he wrote about himself and that was terrifying.
catullus wore his heart on his sleeve
and his heart was ugly sometimes, this beating, ****** thing
that would never shut up,
chattering between the line breaks and skirting around the meter.
the opening line to his poem carminae XVI was
“pedicabo ego vos et irrumabo”
which translates pretty literally to
“i will ******** you and face-fuck you”
my latin teacher called him “incredibly ******
i call him “the realest mother ****** to ever live”
catullus was the first person to ever write
an open letter to his senatores,
julius caesar burned at the stake of carminae LIV and LVII.
catullus wrote about his boyfriends and his married girlfriend lesbia,
who incidentally was not his beard
or one of sappho’s lovers.
catullus buried his brother in the shrine of carminae CI,
left offerings of wine and bread and coins over his closed eyes.
catullus always made the ugly sound beautiful, eloquent.
you could taste the blood in his mouth,
the pearls and gravel between his teeth.
when i translate his work, he’s the only classic poet
who feels like he’s still alive, laughing at me from his grave
and writing invective epigrams about my grammatical errors.
catullus was a little bit of an ******* but maybe so i am sometimes,
and catullus was a honest *******
that’s more than i can say, some days.
he never shied away from himself, not even
from all the ****** parts that are hard to make quiet.
he always wrote about himself because
he understood what ovid and vergil and horace were still learning:
you can’t write about anything if you can’t write about yourself,
if you can’t look at yourself in the mirror
and call your demons by their names.
Nov 14, 2017
Nov 14, 2017 at 8:57 PM UTC