"penniless" poems
I walk down a broken street in search of my Promised Land,
I'm on a mission from God and my God's name is ******
In the distance I can hear the gunfire,
I'm in a holy war, my sergeant’s named desire.
I walk past other junkies nodding out against a wall,
We're fighting the same cause, fighting against withdrawal.
I reach my destination, I talk with the man,
I hand him twenty dollars, he puts my God in my hand.
****** you must be God for everything I do is for you,
I'd crawl ten miles on broken glass for you.
I'd sell my soul, my family and friends for you,
If you asked me to sell myself, I'd do that too,
You can see I'm truly nothing, nothing without you.
But if you’re really God, you leave me confused,
At times I feel like I've really been used.
You leave me shivering when it's not really cold,
Unable to walk and I'm not even old.
You leave me penniless when I'm not even poor,
You leave me feeling beaten, aching and sore.
You take away my pride, my looks and my health,
Make me lie to my family, my friends and myself.
Although for you I have dedicated my life,
What have you done for me except stabbed me with a knife?
I look in the mirror at my own bloodshot eyes,
I stare at a man whose world is all lies.
I think about my past and start to realize,
You’re not a God at all, but the Devil in disguise.
Nov 27, 2011
Nov 27, 2011 at 3:46 PM UTC
She wants to become a girl again,
After two divorces, three kids and
pieces of heart blended
into the uneven daily affairs.
She wishes to be innocent once more.
To see the sky through her amber eyes;
To laugh carelessly down a penniless neighborhood;
To recollect the fragrant things she holds dear.
Where is the Anne of Green Gables?
Where is the Alice in Wonderland?
Where are Jo, Meg, Beth, and Amy?
Where did the flowers go to die.
She tells me she misses all the sunrise,
Gazing into a blue sunset,
The cooking that tastes no longer loving,
The perfume that smells no longer happy,
The loneliness that is no longer heroic.
She carries on, with her broken wings,
and the birth of a woman's concrete essence.
Aug 15, 2017
Aug 15, 2017 at 1:28 PM UTC
So I turned 32 today.
Penniless birthday,
almost.
Howling rains
woke me up
and I fell back asleep.
And the cat respected my
birthday.
Did not claw my lips like
my usual feline alarm.
The birthday flowers
in the morning
were vivid.
My mother bought them,
deep red and
deep yellow.
I requested
for birthday lunch
my mother’s
home-cooked burgers
and fries sprinkled with
iodized salt.
And I filled myself up
with them hot and crispy
fries
and didn’t care if they
stayed inside my guts
until 2014.
I never really liked cake.
Opted for a dozen original glazed.
Heavenly donuts.
Two of them tumbled down
the escalators.
The first birthday flaw.
Like a bleep in the
grand scheme of
birthday things.
I brought them to a Greek
restaurant.
My mom and dad
and two sisters.
Not really hungry.
Just hungry
for a different taste.
The salad had candied
walnuts among the greens
and the reds.
Progressive Greece.
Then a classic lamb dish.
Classic Greece.
And the waiters
in stuffy white
bellowed a birthday
greeting, dropping the “h”
from my name.
Belted out a non-Grecian
birthday song.
No Grecian dance.
But they gave me
an ice cream treat.
Lighted a solitary
blue candle, which
balanced on the semi-liquid
hills of vanilla, caramel and
walnuts.
The small ice cream hills
illuminated by
the dancing
birthday light.
Oct 21, 2013
Oct 21, 2013 at 3:40 AM UTC
*It is the little things in life, which mean so much
They are very quietly innocent
Like the wondrous feel of a clean bed sheets touch
Infused with an April Fresh Downy scent
Waking up startled at a quarter past eight
Jumping up straight from bed
Thinking worriedly that I am going to be terribly late
Remembering, it’s my day off instead
Coming to terms, that to my name, I’ve not a dime
Accepting my usual penniless lot
Then there in the pocket of my faded jeans I find
A crumpled up, forgotten five spot
Sitting down now with my paper and pen
Searching for words to write
Thinking to myself, my mind has gone blank again
Then finding the ones, perfectly right
To win the lottery or an all expense paid vacation
Would be so incredibly nice
However, I will settle, for these small sensations
Any ole day of my life*
Sep 25, 2010
Sep 25, 2010 at 6:33 PM UTC
Witness the unknown
Reach the unforeseen
Travel,to live
Penniless and Excited.
Burn the midnight oil
Drifting through subconscious visions
Toil, for such majestic realms
Penniless and Excited.
When hunger strikes
Kingdoms, rather Dynasties, fall
For the ever growing appetite
A man hunts
Penniless and Excited.
That sweet spot, a special place
Where love is felt
To live, love
Penniless and Excited.
Travel.
Dream.
Hunt.
Love.
Penniless and Excited!
May 2, 2016
May 2, 2016 at 5:09 AM UTC
I have left, pig-mudding drunk,
having sipped from stock to stock on fraying cheer, stages.
I have stood in foreign basements; sweaty cellars of youth;
begot by attitude breeding spaces of the hip;
drawn circles searching for love in recreating nonsense:
a silly pupil, moon-eyed, out of breathe.
I have heard them quack, reveal their cords;
heard them whisper a thousand and one secrets,
heard them deconstruct their circumstances as pilgrims, penniless and sick.
I have their memories now, an image of a depressed,
ass-imprinted pillow soaked in liquor and a feeling of nausea
where ribs sleep on this couch tonight, every night.
I have heard one refute the weight of living, ******
on the banks of his best friends hospitality, and thought
How much is it worth?
And I have envied every **** greasy pored hipster,
the ones fixing on makingitnew now kind of clan; stared blankly at fashion,
a culture back door where pink fish scales sparkle high from runway halters
to the tops of grown men, bearded and chesty.
And your mothers pearls sit, not your mother’s pearls but your mother’s, mother’s pearls,
that old world clout ornamented around those hairy *******
Oh yes, I have seen men become peacocks, charmed animals of **********
seen them teeth at discourse in the noise they create, wide-mouthed and pointed;
I have seen them masked like frantic felines: wooly bully cats trying-to-roll their own meter,
their tobacco stained black charcoal over soft bricked lips quiver to their beats:
those painted lemmingings, without a parachute: kamikaze felons.
I have desired absolute sterility: white china,
in the egg of a toilet bowl I spewed out, shut-up my exuberance for the night;
sorry-pleaded my resolutions to gag out the naughty nouns in my life.
I have quit; turned in my lust for performing the lioness, paw-licking,
snarly creature: the predator of my youth, and now,
I am pretty-headed, tamed in bath oils and schedules;
a spotted fox, in plain view, one medium-sized mammal getting by.
Feb 3, 2013
Feb 3, 2013 at 5:05 PM UTC
When things are down
And you are out of your mind
Remember just remember
Allah is The Kind.
When your life is in darkness
And nothing is right
Remember just remember
Through the darkness,
Allah is The Light.
When nothing makes sense
And your heading for demise
Remember just remember
It doesn't make sense,
but Allah is The Wise.
When times are troubled
And no one seems to care
Remember just remember
Allah won't hurt you,
He is The Fair.
When your heart is breaking
And your pain makes you fall
Remember just remember
Allah Sees it all.
When you are weak
And the road seems long
Remember just remember
Seek strength from The Strong.
When life is a burden
And everything is unstable
Remember just remember
Allah is The Able.
When the way is cloudy
And there is no one by your side
Remember just remember
Allah is The Only Guide.
When no one wants to listen
Or is willing to lend an ear
Remember just remember
Allah is always ready to hear.
When you are poor and penniless
And you are stuck in a niche
Remember just remember
Allah is The Rich.
When you are down in your misery
And there is nowhere to run
Remember just remember
You can always run to The One.
And when your scars are hurting
And your heart is in fear
Remember just remember
Allah is really here.
Apr 25, 2014
Apr 25, 2014 at 12:15 PM UTC
I saw her standing in line fancying a magazine-
penniless as she was and buying food.
She had to use "the stamps", the mark of the poor.
She was as pretty a thing as I'd ever seen.
Her half-done hair and hand-me-down dress
were as beautiful as any model's straightway from Bloomingdale's.
Our eyes met, but I turned away...
My eyes unworthy to behold the gaze of the impoverished princess.
May 3, 2015
May 3, 2015 at 6:10 PM UTC
Already the month
of August 2018,
May never become
a je June'm
(Forget-me-not)
time of year,
especially for nouveau
homeless and,
penniless residents,
(now more like worrier),
who reside in the
(burnt to a crisp)
Golden State where,
towering uncontrollable
wild fire infernos veer
really did tax mental,
physical, and spiritual
oye vey iz mare (to
the bajillion power
of Google Plex) their
heirlooms, mementos,
and trappings of
das kapital lifestyle
went up in smoke,
which tragedy didst seer
the eyes (yes, iz traumatic,
but also the air)
looms with toxic
particulate matter,
though concerned former
propertied owners
(now ashen faced)
as utter grief doth rear
a scorched (bumping) ugly head,
yet the onset of Autumn,
(and the main
purport of this poem)
(oh my dog, that twill be
in approximately three weeks,
when Eastern Orthodox Church
denotes beginning of ecclesiastical
annum mull house
for straight or queer
(these times opening
doors to LGBT, or GLBT
(an initialism that
stands for lesbian,
gay, bisexual, and transgender),
nonetheless history
replete with app pear
chock full of factoids such as:
September (Latin septem,
"seven") with near
exhaustive steeped in
pagan glory of antiquity.
Ancient Roman observances
for September include:
Ludi Romani, originally celebrated
September 12 - September 14,
later extended to
September 5 to September 19.
In 1st century BC, an extra day added
in honor of deified
Julius Caesar on 4 September.
Epulum Jovis held: September 13.
Ludi Triumphales held: September 18–22.
Septimontium celebrated September, and
December 11 on later calendars
September called "harvest month"
in Charlemagne's calendar.
September corresponds partly to
Fructidor and partly to Vendémiaire
of first French republic.
On Usenet, September 1993
(Eternal September) never ended.
September called Herbstmonat,
harvest month, in Switzerland.
The Anglo-Saxons called
month Gerstmonath,
barley month, that crop
then usually harvested.
Aug 31, 2018
Aug 31, 2018 at 5:00 PM UTC
Today I'm annoyed not because I'm perpetually unemployed or that I have all of the appeal of a penniless mayweather named Floyd. Anyway this sketch deals with the subject of skin debate, so if it's offense I create in your home please don't throw your phone
Lightskinned Vs. Darkskinned? What a ******* stupid debate
Seriously why debate about how much melatonin your skin creates? It's just pointless why Argue and divide a community that's already split up as it is...
but I'll finish here all of us follow different guidelines and were made differently designed so going for universal appeal is a pointless endeavor
Jul 11, 2015
Jul 11, 2015 at 12:56 PM UTC
fortunate dreams, folded within security and affluence
a laundry pile of capital
you’ve tried and succeeded
prosperity, wealth, Constitutional rights in abundance
American dreams lay thriving, slithering between your fingers like sludge
nice sludge though
snow crystals rest upon the sludge, decorating it for the holidays
barren attempts to take hold of opportunities, you didn’t really try
efforts lay unmade, like the bed he shared with you
penniless
inferior in the corner of the kitchen
last night’s events crawling across the tile towards you
running over stains and chips, creating unshaped perfect squares
a city on fire; flames stumbling in the breezes
Oct 6, 2014
Oct 6, 2014 at 9:11 PM UTC
*Claw beneath your ribs
Hold down wild you
Just for a little while
Feel the anguished flutter
Begging these gruff hands . . .*
1.
Fear takes commotive hold
Makes wooden legs
Delayed dance…..so delayed
Causing silent attendance of synchrony
No use stepping out for flight just yet, if alone
Will meantime practise wing-span
iron out brittle energy
attempt to fortify links
..
2.
Careless snubs to fragile sapling
Did absolutely nothing
To the course set out
Only hypocrites squander even half-truths
and wallow in obsequious words
rendering paralysis and decay
I will continue to claw beneath your ribs
Covert trove awaits us
In the tormented form of
Crashing waves on a broken coast
Hacked to near-distraction by potent searching
3.
Loss is not wasted
unseen by its absence:
evocative presence felt …with penniless eyes
I challenge you to visualise our melting:
perched on fate’s right shoulder
re-sent to this basic arena as buoyant token
summoned by that primordial, blue light
..
*the sun may well baulk and melt
at the ruddy sight of
such intense clawing beneath your ribs
(like your customary digging into my bristling blades)
To find my foetal place
within the calling drumbeats
of imperative you . . .*
S T, sunsday . . . 21 July 2013
Jul 21, 2013
Jul 21, 2013 at 4:50 AM UTC
1623
A World made penniless by that departure
Of minor fabrics begs
But sustenance is of the spirit
The Gods but Dregs
2.6k
I'm just back frae The Kirk
Doon Canongate way,
Afore yi get tae Parliament,
That was brand new yesterday,
Way back tae the 1700's
A poet in his grave,
Fergusson the poetry man,
He couldnae be saved,
Banging his heid in a fa'
Tumbling doon a' the steps,
Hadnae sterted livin' yet,
His poetry had some depth,
Rab trained as a minister,
He abandoned fir poetry,
At the age of twenty two,
With no heart for the ministry,
He took a job as a copyist,
Tae earn a crust tae live,
Probably hated it,
So much poetry for tae give,
If he wis alive the today,
He'd be pertying in Ibiza,
DJing wi' the discs,
Rapping like a geeza,
He was only 24,
At Cape Club he'd dae a gig,
I'm sure he enjoyed himsel',
It's something that he did,
After the fa',
Darkly melancholic,
Depression followed,
He wisnea an alcoholic,
Straight to Edina's loony bin,
Then ca'd Darien House,
On Bristo Street used to stand,
Can't think what'd be worse,
He was born in 1750,
Died penniless in '74
Unmarked grave in Canongate,
Nae headstane was in store,
Many years later,
Head stane was selected,
Rabbie Burns inspired,
Was paid fir an' erected,
The date upon the stane was wrong,
Hopefully wis being changed,
By Robert Louis Stevenson,
But died before old age,
Grave is now restored,
Tae it's former glory,
Ironwork and stane cleaned,
But it's no the end o' story,
A statue wis erected,
On the street ootside the Kirk,
The way they positioned him,
He's on his way tae work,
You'll see the Parliament building,
If you wander doon the road,
Poems and poetry on the wa's
But none in Fergusson mode,
It seems he's been forgotten,
In this day and age,
Someone with his talent,
Wan o' Edina's greatest sage,
Let's hope we'll see his poetry,
On Scotland's parliament wa,
I dinae mean graffiti,
I mean poetry fir a'.
Jan 2, 2015
Jan 2, 2015 at 3:17 PM UTC
Regret,
One word,
Timeless damage condensed to
Six letters.
That are scented like cheap, Dollar store, perfume
Titled “Heavenly”.
The stench that you burned into my nostrils,choking me,
Suffocating me.
A word whose name taste like poison on my battered tongue,
Bitterly sweetless,
Just like the ***** pouring like fountains from your fingertips,
Sugar-laced manipulation.
It’s adorned with purple, the colour of the rich,
Of royalty,
Yet, worn by a wayward, penniless, and perverted sinner,
Guiltless, guilty.
It’s a word that purrs, “You’re so mature” as its filthy palms grasp my flesh,
Robbing me.
Robbing me straight from the cradle I slept so ignorantly,
So soundly.
Stripping me naked as I was born, yet wasn’t I just yesterday?
Too young.
Far too young to carry the weight of your skin,
Your sins,
My regret.
Jan 30, 2020
Jan 30, 2020 at 11:07 PM UTC
forget me not snot
shot through the top of a
hot box,
popping the rotting thoughts
up town and then down to drown
in the down town
clown-around facade parade
made to order for the
penniless quartered,
fast pace like a rocket ship
drag race,
dragging and driving,
on mars for cliff diving
writhing in the conniving
need for superior timing,
space, time and rhyming
shattering mirrors,
pushing lightyears into the ears
of the universe beast,
waiting for his feast of
treats and honeyed beef,
give the monster what he
wants or he'll take both you and me
forever deceased in the
crease of the time box
space case and
rhyme...
Jul 16, 2012
Jul 16, 2012 at 1:23 PM UTC
To…
My best friend and lover.
Protector of my lies
…You rescued me
And ****** me to my fate.
Spiralled the dopamine to brilliance
In my mind.
To spangled halls of light,
Reflective light, and calm.
A golden calm
Of energised, invincible intensity……
Addiction is thy name.
Compulsion is thy talent
Up, up the trammelled pathway
From the innocence of a ****
To the chaotic expense of ****
Then to the dreamy, smoked Opiates,
And the scars of the needles
And magic of Coke & big H ?
And ultimately…
It’s all not enough!
The hollow inadequacy of it all
When finally…..
Nothing,
Nothing achieves flight.
Nothing attains the heights.
Nothing satisfies
Like it used to…..
No amount of money
Buys satisfaction!
Hopelessly
Into the Black Hole.
Down, down the trammelled pathway
And the body is wasted, thin
And the mind in misery,
And broke, utterly penniless,
Exhausted and spent,
Estranged and abandoned,
Alone, so alone.
Down the trammelled pathway
To the inevitable retreat
Into failure’s squalid,
numbing, bitter
End.
M.
May 31 2014
From the outside looking in.
May 30, 2014
May 30, 2014 at 6:04 PM UTC
From the backbroken fliers over oceans
From between the spiny frills along palm fronds
From Mr. Happy, the chain smoking chaperone of good times
From Mr. Happy’s half-burnt **** coiled in the ashtray
From the disciples of Theravada and the skinny Buddha’s pupilless eyes scanning jocose scansions of jungle
From the tanned holy heads of students lounging in graveled football fields
From my bowl of rice at breakfast in the shade while considering western cities, you are not here
‘You are not here,’ I’ve written in my letters
‘You are not here,’ I’ve typed into e-mails immense
You are not here, my coke head pals locked in the veins of seedy nightmares
You are not here, my penniless friends who mix music in ascetic dark rooms out in Bushwick
You are not here in no eastern Central Park running naked in the night from horseback cops after hours of merciless balling in the bushes
You are not here you fair-skinned beauties in crowded alpine funiculars bearing your aquiline noses holding your hats over the mountains
You are not here my lonely mother waiting by the phone for a call at midnight
You are not here, you are not in my poems, you are not in the distorted notes harpsichorded across my crass imagination
You are not here, you will not be here, will you read my letters home?
Oct 11, 2010
Oct 11, 2010 at 6:58 AM UTC
Oh, the flow
The rising tide
And deep below
The magic was penniless
A family man
A ride on course
A seahorse
Oh, the ebb
Receding sea
And ocean floor
The love was palpable
Singing mermaids
With no remorse
A seahorse
Oh, the waves
The way they crash
And batter at my shore
The cruel nautical nightmare
Of sharks and sinking ships
Still held a dream inside
A seahorse
May 13, 2016
May 13, 2016 at 2:19 AM UTC
The setting sun profusely
showering golden yellow
over scattered Mughal ruins,
dragged history of dead centuries
in to their conversations.
In Delhi
history rocks one back and fourth
as if in a swing, when one sees
own predicaments from different angles,
realize, the role of a rolling stone
in the incessant flow of time.
In India past centuries, co-exist
forming a deep water pool,
on the banks of which,
the cities are made.
this pool makes its presence felt
amazingly in contemporary life,
you can see your face,
and life itself reflected on its waters,
--as if walking on the shore of distant times;
an exhilarating feeling, eerie too at times.
History was a live presence,
all along with them, future loomed
with grievous air of uncertainty
he and she, two lines drawn parallel
(not by them but others, who know better!)
over the busy today of Delhi
gloriously old, yet decidedly new
and an uncertainty vastly between.
one easily gets lost in the labyrinths
unless fully imbued all this contradictory complexities.
she said, in dreams she was a princess
who fell in love with a poet penniless
but sung his songs only to her heart,
she never did want anything else
she was blissfully unaware of the
complexities of labyrinths,
the king got furious, she said
like some parents of present times
who don't hesitate a bit, to **** in cold blood
their children who cross the lines
killings in the name of honor is on the increase
every day you are informed.
in the story of her nightmares
it all ended in tragedy:
the king without mercy hung
the lovers, who preferred death
than getting separated
He walked back alone,
making way through
the ruins of past strewn
with an agitating heart,
here, the time is a still pool
that refuses to flow,
he thought
between the sunset of past glory
and an uncertain dawn
he and she stand separated
by a dark frightening night.
Nov 14, 2011
Nov 14, 2011 at 11:51 PM UTC
Should have known ....
your life would change completely..
What were you thinking ?
Have you lost your mind?
You clicked that button ACCEPT
the fake romance started
Your soul was sold
Bought so easily by the evil heart
So ignorance you were
You’ve been blinded, blinded...
You were deaf and dumbed...
Tangled yourself in the web of lies
Your craving for love landed you in deceit.
You let your heart be captivated
Manipulated with sweet words of false love
You casted those who have loved you...
Comfortable you were in this fake love life..
He was a scam, scams of the heart..
He was a king scammer...
A great cunning pretender
He valued your money not your love or life..
He fancied your bank accounts rather than your future..
What a pity first false impression..
Seduced by charms and lyrics of poems
A lying Heart is a weapon to crush a trusted soul..
Your sinful heart blinded a pure white soul
You tricked and cheated and you fooled shamelessly
You tarnished ones reputation
left her in shame, penniless and broken hearted..
You scammed her vulnerable heart...
Nothing you are worth...
Scams of the heart.....
May 13, 2013
May 13, 2013 at 11:52 AM UTC
All he could see were numbers
that reached out and grabbed taxes
and takes, invoices and expenditures.
He could not see explanations of delight
that little mistake I made with fringe benefits,
those royalties that never came.
In the end his only concern was to pay the taxes
to build the roads, skyways and airports
where he would travel and stay.
I wondered how he slept at night
cocooned in numbers
just 1-9 with a hefty zero
that made the difference between rich and poor
I wondered how he could survive on numbers
no cucumbers, sunshine salads, beach beauties,
high waves of reckless living, low tides of penniless nights
and endless days of counting little many times over.
He said to me once: Save every cent,
fortify yourself against depression and
natural disasters, don't spend lavishly
there's a price to pay
cut up your credit card. Live austerely.
Oh yeah?. That same day I got an extra CC,
a nice Merc, some good looking sunglasses
(to shield my eyes from the accountants glare)
and a cruise to the Mediterranean
where the blue waters beckoned.
The accountant visited the GP
twice more than me that year.
I'm still working the fat off at the gym.
( I suspect petty poets do the same thing all the time?)
Author Notes
Anyone know this guy?
Check this Novel out!
The Chrysanthemum Trilogy: Transition
Marshall E Gass
ISBN 9781493137848
Jul 2, 2014
Jul 2, 2014 at 5:21 PM UTC
How quickly we forget, exactly how it feels
To be the one, with nothing at all
So amazing, how fast, those memories steal
From a heart, which no longer crawls
When one knows of the emptiness
Has lived out the shame
How can they not recall being penniless
When mercy calls out their name
If you are the one who is crawling right now
Hold this time, close, in your heart
So you never forget, when you are better endowed
The shame which it can impart
When you are no longer crawling, stand up tall
Keep compassion instilled in your heart
So those memories will never steal away at all
From mercy, you will never part
Oct 1, 2010
Oct 1, 2010 at 6:46 PM UTC
A repost:
A Roman poem written before The birth of Christ, inspired the title Gone With The wind
with Scarlett and Rhett Butler
But here you see only old
confessions of a man's true love for his beloved who is all gone
-Or-
(Or a woman's true love for
her beloved runner wishing she could have chased.)
~~~
CYNAR*A.
~~~~~
Last night yesternight, betwixt her lips and mine
There fell thy shadow, Cynara! Thy breath was shed
Upon my soul between the kisses and the wine;
And I was desolate and sick of an old passion,
Yea, I was desolate and bowed my head:
I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.
All night upon mine heart I felt her warm heart beat,
Night-long within mine arms in love and sleep she lay;
Surely the kisses of her bought red mouth were sweet;
But I was desolate and sick of an old passion,
When I awoke and found the dawn was grey:
I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.
I have forgot much, Cynara! Gone with the wind,
Flung roses, roses riotously with the throng,
Dancing, to put thy pale, lost lilies out of mind
But I was desolate and sick of an old passion,
Yea, all the time, because the dance was long:
I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.
I cried for madder music and for stronger wine,
But when the feast is finished and the lamps expire,
Then falls thy shadow, Cynara! The night is thine;
And I am desolate and sick of an old passion,
Yea, hungry for the lips of my desire:
I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.
~~~~~~~
By:Ernest Dowson
For:RhettlvScarlet.
to honor Karijinbba
in her great loss and healing
of her memory chip.
~~~~~~
Copy Rights.
~~~~
Ernest Dowson (1867-1900) died of alcoholism at the age of 32. His downward spiral began at age 23 when he fell for an 11 year old girl who would spurn him at 14 when he proposed marriage.
The following year, in 1894 his father died from an overdose. Dowson's mother
hanged herself within a year of her husband's death.
Soon after this dual tragedy Dowson left for France before returning back to England in 1897. Curiously he lived with the family of his unrequited love. Penniless, heartbroken and filling the empty voids in his life with alcohol, Dowson would spend the last six weeks of his life in the cottage of the Oscar Wilde biographer Robert Sherard who had found him
drunk in a bar.
Speaking of Oscar Wilde, he wrote after Dowson's death of a,"Poor wounded wonderful fellow that he was, a tragic reproduction of all tragic poetry, like a symbol, or a scene.
I hope bay leaves will be laid on his tomb and rue and myrtle too for he knew what true love
unrequieted love was."
~~~~~
Oct 22, 2018
Oct 22, 2018 at 12:44 AM UTC