"parcelled" poems - Hello Poetry

The old fable covers a doctrine ever new and sublime; that there is One Man, — present to all particular men only partially, or through one faculty; and that you must take the whole society to find the whole man. Man is not a farmer, or a professor, or an engineer, but he is all. Man is priest, and scholar, and statesman, and producer, and soldier. In the divided or social state, these functions are parcelled out to individuals, each of whom aims to do his stint of the joint work, whilst each other performs his. The fable implies, that the individual, to possess himself, must sometimes return from his own labor to embrace all the other laborers. But unfortunately, this original unit, this fountain of power, has been so distributed to multitudes, has been so minutely subdivided and peddled out, that it is spilled into drops, and cannot be gathered. The state of society is one in which the members have suffered amputation from the trunk, and strut about so many walking monsters, — a good finger, a neck, a stomach, an elbow, but never a man. Man is thus metamorphosed into a thing, into many things. The planter, who is Man sent out into the field to gather food, is seldom cheered by any idea of the true dignity of his ministry. He sees his bushel and his cart, and nothing beyond, and sinks into the farmer, instead of Man on the farm. The tradesman scarcely ever gives an ideal worth to his work, but is ridden by the routine of his craft, and the soul is subject to dollars. The priest becomes a form; the attorney, a statute-book; the mechanic, a machine; the sailor, a rope of a ship.

0

Oct 8, 2014

Oct 8, 2014 at 1:16 PM UTC

insufficient

Excerpt from: "The American Scholar" -Ralph Waldo Emmerson

The old fable covers a doctrine ever new and sublime; that there is One Man, — present to all particular men only partially, or through one faculty; and that you must take the whole society to find the whole man. Man is not a farmer, or a professor, or an engineer, but he is all. Man is priest, and scholar, and statesman, and producer, and soldier. In the divided or social state, these functions are parcelled out to individuals, each of whom aims to do his stint of the joint work, whilst each other performs his. The fable implies, that the individual, to possess himself, must sometimes return from his own labor to embrace all the other laborers. But unfortunately, this original unit, this fountain of power, has been so distributed to multitudes, has been so minutely subdivided and peddled out, that it is spilled into drops, and cannot be gathered. The state of society is one in which the members have suffered amputation from the trunk, and strut about so many walking monsters, — a good finger, a neck, a stomach, an elbow, but never a man. Man is thus metamorphosed into a thing, into many things. The planter, who is Man sent out into the field to gather food, is seldom cheered by any idea of the true dignity of his ministry. He sees his bushel and his cart, and nothing beyond, and sinks into the farmer, instead of Man on the farm. The tradesman scarcely ever gives an ideal worth to his work, but is ridden by the routine of his craft, and the soul is subject to dollars. The priest becomes a form; the attorney, a statute-book; the mechanic, a machine; the sailor, a rope of a ship.

2

The scarecrow, solitary in the field Tatty coat, all astray Looks out over all his land If he could talk, what would he say. Summer,autumn, winter too Wind and rain, clouds of grey He never flinches from his post If he could see, what would he say Children play amoungst the crops Neatly parcelled bales of hay Days grow shorter, crisper, cooler If he could hear, what would he say Invisable tears and a broken heart His lonely vigil every day Timeless days and empty nights If he could walk, would he walk away.

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Sep 16, 2011

Sep 16, 2011 at 2:23 AM UTC

barry-l-j-winters

THE SCARECROW

The scarecrow, solitary in the field Tatty coat, all astray Looks out over all his land If he could talk, what would he say. Summer,autumn, winter too Wind and rain, clouds of grey He never flinches from his post If he could see, what would he say Children play amoungst the crops Neatly parcelled bales of hay Days grow shorter, crisper, cooler If he could hear, what would he say Invisable tears and a broken heart His lonely vigil every day Timeless days and empty nights If he could walk, would he walk away.

16

I saw him... Ripping the posters of hope to the ground The bear stuffed. Cardboard box a home he never dreamt of An abandoned minefield of metal gongs.....still clanging With life encircled on its rim, clearly in full erosion One eye had begun to fall, clinging on by a theatrical thread A small hole had appeared, the left ear on hard times He looked sad...his 'Bravo' days departed, kicked like an Old tin can scattering nailed organs, strewn carelessly The haphazards hurt the most; those that landed head first They burrowed into the soft fur, grizzling through Lack of gripe water to anaesthetise the first cut Fur ***** were out of stock, cleaned right off the shelves The posters painted with high definition, torn with sad Hand shakes. Lined up ******* into fists, like used tissues Their eye level aim skimmed the parcelled plots and slotted Into basket cases, breathing in ***** dumpsters before their due date Shrugging it off didn't work, shouldered earrings...stuck in rutted Situ for too long. You came between them and the tombs of truth Caused a nasty virus to accelerate. Baldness stole the soft Funishings from your limbs in between the stuffing years

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Mar 11, 2013

Mar 11, 2013 at 4:16 PM UTC

laura-susan-smith

The Bear Has Feelings

I saw him... Ripping the posters of hope to the ground The bear stuffed. Cardboard box a home he never dreamt of An abandoned minefield of metal gongs.....still clanging With life encircled on its rim, clearly in full erosion One eye had begun to fall, clinging on by a theatrical thread A small hole had appeared, the left ear on hard times He looked sad...his 'Bravo' days departed, kicked like an Old tin can scattering nailed organs, strewn carelessly The haphazards hurt the most; those that landed head first They burrowed into the soft fur, grizzling through Lack of gripe water to anaesthetise the first cut Fur ***** were out of stock, cleaned right off the shelves The posters painted with high definition, torn with sad Hand shakes. Lined up ******* into fists, like used tissues Their eye level aim skimmed the parcelled plots and slotted Into basket cases, breathing in ***** dumpsters before their due date Shrugging it off didn't work, shouldered earrings...stuck in rutted Situ for too long. You came between them and the tombs of truth Caused a nasty virus to accelerate. Baldness stole the soft Funishings from your limbs in between the stuffing years

20

Loving you was optional, But falling for you wasn't, Loving you was within the boundaries of my heart, But falling for you was a matter of life, and death . But now it's gone, Everything, All the love and care and obsession, It's all gone, I gave you my all, But you parcelled it in a pretty box, Played with it, And threw it back at my face, As if it was a temporary gift. But now it's gone, Everything, All the love and care and obsession, It's all gone, But, the pain you inflicted upon my deep sincere vulnerable soul, isn't, It still aches, Such pain, that dictates both my bleeding heart, and my demented mind. I guess, It isn't all gone, I guess my feelings just drifted to another route, The hate route.

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Nov 26, 2016

Nov 26, 2016 at 8:23 AM UTC

Ashwarya

IT'S GONE

Loving you was optional, But falling for you wasn't, Loving you was within the boundaries of my heart, But falling for you was a matter of life, and death . But now it's gone, Everything, All the love and care and obsession, It's all gone, I gave you my all, But you parcelled it in a pretty box, Played with it, And threw it back at my face, As if it was a temporary gift. But now it's gone, Everything, All the love and care and obsession, It's all gone, But, the pain you inflicted upon my deep sincere vulnerable soul, isn't, It still aches, Such pain, that dictates both my bleeding heart, and my demented mind. I guess, It isn't all gone, I guess my feelings just drifted to another route, The hate route.

24

shadows slow to the point where only the wine matters they stop and watch awhile wondering, "today"? perpetual Sundays denounce tomorrow across a fictional bridge, constricting as a pulmonary sigh, though even the laziest of walks would suffice to sluice a cleaner way but I jaw the sky from where I lay, expect that it should change into a major key, corroborate my sickest dreams and mimic mouthed mischief and I lie in many more ways dreary under the prescription of nervous attendance beyond the arctic eye, the blue skied sighs stare through the Artex topography of childhood behind the curtains patterned with glimpsed bears, at best, at worst the horror of a dead childhood friend amongst the machine drawn memories a path beyond the puddled neon jigsaws might lead me to a closed set where the gentlemanly objects of debauched and thrilled robberies decline while stretched behind the soft reach of a silken knee, a nyloned thigh the plainest lips pose the riddle that entertains your pity yet ***** all hope of a shy siege and leave me hints in kiss shaped welts, roses smeared like lipstick misses, somehow innocent in the routine of predicament then parcelled into dreams of hyena logic I am of a mind that, in winter, the oxygen levels decline as the trees hunch like upturned, diseased lungs breathless and malign

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Mar 10, 2015

Mar 10, 2015 at 3:30 AM UTC

paul-sands

slow shadows

shadows slow to the point where only the wine matters they stop and watch awhile wondering, "today"? perpetual Sundays denounce tomorrow across a fictional bridge, constricting as a pulmonary sigh, though even the laziest of walks would suffice to sluice a cleaner way but I jaw the sky from where I lay, expect that it should change into a major key, corroborate my sickest dreams and mimic mouthed mischief and I lie in many more ways dreary under the prescription of nervous attendance beyond the arctic eye, the blue skied sighs stare through the Artex topography of childhood behind the curtains patterned with glimpsed bears, at best, at worst the horror of a dead childhood friend amongst the machine drawn memories a path beyond the puddled neon jigsaws might lead me to a closed set where the gentlemanly objects of debauched and thrilled robberies decline while stretched behind the soft reach of a silken knee, a nyloned thigh the plainest lips pose the riddle that entertains your pity yet ***** all hope of a shy siege and leave me hints in kiss shaped welts, roses smeared like lipstick misses, somehow innocent in the routine of predicament then parcelled into dreams of hyena logic I am of a mind that, in winter, the oxygen levels decline as the trees hunch like upturned, diseased lungs breathless and malign

32

It's... an issue of access. I suppose. Can you imagine how my hair curls? Into my skull as a soft collapse outwards. Each one is named "me", as if wonderfully parcelled as phrenology. If you grasp at me here, then I become something else. Or simply shoot me and see then what happens to my head. I mean that I wish to be considered as the way that we look at lavender, and how our eyes emerge from their beads. Your pupils are two bees buzzing towards the night. Focused, stumbling whirrs. You see that I am scared of your looking? A sting is a question of when; and with it, your vanishing.

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Sep 23, 2018

Sep 23, 2018 at 11:12 PM UTC

tawandamulalu

Poem.

It's... an issue of access. I suppose. Can you imagine how my hair curls? Into my skull as a soft collapse outwards. Each one is named "me", as if wonderfully parcelled as phrenology. If you grasp at me here, then I become something else. Or simply shoot me and see then what happens to my head. I mean that I wish to be considered as the way that we look at lavender, and how our eyes emerge from their beads. Your pupils are two bees buzzing towards the night. Focused, stumbling whirrs. You see that I am scared of your looking? A sting is a question of when; and with it, your vanishing.

15

I met her in my sleep last night, And it was awkward, like in life. Her arm was parcelled by a curse And I hated him at once Though I hid it well. I was a king on a throne, Brooding over battle And my armour fitted poorly, A matter which she noticed And pointed out. She asked me whom I was fighting, Smiling as she did. And I looked down, amazed That she could be so bold. She readied herself. I drew my own weapon, Distance in my fist And fought her smile, While her 'friend' looked on. She laughed and it rattled me. There I lay, Distance brought down and shattered And there she was, Above me, Her smile the only weapon she needed...

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Jan 6, 2015

Jan 6, 2015 at 4:01 PM UTC

Porto-graffiti

To win.

I met her in my sleep last night, And it was awkward, like in life. Her arm was parcelled by a curse And I hated him at once Though I hid it well. I was a king on a throne, Brooding over battle And my armour fitted poorly, A matter which she noticed And pointed out. She asked me whom I was fighting, Smiling as she did. And I looked down, amazed That she could be so bold. She readied herself. I drew my own weapon, Distance in my fist And fought her smile, While her 'friend' looked on. She laughed and it rattled me. There I lay, Distance brought down and shattered And there she was, Above me, Her smile the only weapon she needed...

25

this you have given and this I offer to you every each miniscule part and parts Parcelled up in muti-coloured paper tied with a rainbow and kisses for my maker

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Jul 8, 2014

Jul 8, 2014 at 10:59 AM UTC

nivek

Kisses For My Maker

this you have given and this I offer to you every each miniscule part and parts Parcelled up in muti-coloured paper tied with a rainbow and kisses for my maker

4

If I’ve sent you a poem Would you kindly send it back? I feel that I have spread my soul too widely That I am buttered across the nation The internet The streets If you hold a piece of me on your computer In your box of special things In your heart I beg you send it back to me So I can sew myself into one Patchwork of poems. If they are shredded, or torn at the seams I care not I will use any means To stitch, stick or paste My parcelled-out soul Back into place.

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Jul 13, 2018

Jul 13, 2018 at 8:14 AM UTC

emma-whitworth

Sent poems

If I’ve sent you a poem Would you kindly send it back? I feel that I have spread my soul too widely That I am buttered across the nation The internet The streets If you hold a piece of me on your computer In your box of special things In your heart I beg you send it back to me So I can sew myself into one Patchwork of poems. If they are shredded, or torn at the seams I care not I will use any means To stitch, stick or paste My parcelled-out soul Back into place.

18

I said I love you, I also said I was scared, I parcelled my emotions and presented you my vulnerability, But in the end, You only showed me what a bloodsucking ghost you could be.

0

Aug 20, 2017

Aug 20, 2017 at 2:41 AM UTC

Ashwarya

GHOST

I said I love you, I also said I was scared, I parcelled my emotions and presented you my vulnerability, But in the end, You only showed me what a bloodsucking ghost you could be.

5