"pierian" poems - Hello Poetry

O fair Helena descending- How could you not look at me? You were once Narcissus in the meadow; Kissing the soil- Blooming with lavenders- Basking in the afternoon sun- Where did all your sunshine go? Your blurry reflection- of somberness; heavy eyes; calloused hands; disheveled hair; timid air- Dismayed the goddess in you. Faded golden lyre; Withered Pierian roses; Crushed altar of flame; Mortal madness! Ascend back to the divines- Depart from this mortal coil; Be the Narcissus in the meadow.

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Oct 29, 2020

Oct 29, 2020 at 11:35 PM UTC

natashamonica

Mirror of Dismay

O fair Helena descending- How could you not look at me? You were once Narcissus in the meadow; Kissing the soil- Blooming with lavenders- Basking in the afternoon sun- Where did all your sunshine go? Your blurry reflection- of somberness; heavy eyes; calloused hands; disheveled hair; timid air- Dismayed the goddess in you. Faded golden lyre; Withered Pierian roses; Crushed altar of flame; Mortal madness! Ascend back to the divines- Depart from this mortal coil; Be the Narcissus in the meadow.

22

I was seventy-seven, come August, I shall shortly be losing my bloom; I've experienced zephyr and raw gust And (symbolical) flood and simoom. When you come to this time of abatement, To this passing from Summer to Fall, It is manners to issue a statement As to what you got out of it all. So I'll say, though reflection unnerves me And pronouncements I dodge as I can, That I think (if my memory serves me) There was nothing more fun than a man! In my youth, when the crescent was too wan To embarrass with beams from above, By the aid of some local Don Juan I fell into the habit of love. And I learned how to kiss and be merry--an Education left better unsung. My neglect of the waters Pierian Was a scandal, when Grandma was young. Though the shabby unbalanced the splendid, And the bitter outmeasured the sweet, I should certainly do as I then did, Were I given the chance to repeat. For contrition is hollow and wraithful, And regret is no part of my plan, And I think (if my memory's faithful) There was nothing more fun than a man!

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2.4k

Dorothy Parker

The Little Old Lady In Lavender Silk

I was seventy-seven, come August, I shall shortly be losing my bloom; I've experienced zephyr and raw gust And (symbolical) flood and simoom. When you come to this time of abatement, To this passing from Summer to Fall, It is manners to issue a statement As to what you got out of it all. So I'll say, though reflection unnerves me And pronouncements I dodge as I can, That I think (if my memory serves me) There was nothing more fun than a man! In my youth, when the crescent was too wan To embarrass with beams from above, By the aid of some local Don Juan I fell into the habit of love. And I learned how to kiss and be merry--an Education left better unsung. My neglect of the waters Pierian Was a scandal, when Grandma was young. Though the shabby unbalanced the splendid, And the bitter outmeasured the sweet, I should certainly do as I then did, Were I given the chance to repeat. For contrition is hollow and wraithful, And regret is no part of my plan, And I think (if my memory's faithful) There was nothing more fun than a man!

28

You had heard, and so the story ran. From where The hills begin to rise, and then sink the ridge In a gentle slope, down to the waters edge. Who would Strew the turf with flowery herbage, Or curtain the springs with green shade? Who would sing to the Nymphs? Can any man be guilty of such a crime? Singing swans shall bear aloft to the stars, Heifers browse on clover, And swell their udders, to my song. The Pierian maids have made a poet, But, however, I trust them not. I sing nothing worthy of my Emily; Cackle as a goose among melodious Sparrows, And here by the flowing streams, Earth scatters her varied concaved hues; Here white Orchids bend over cave, Vines weave shady bowers. Come to me; let the wild waves lash the shore. You've heard me singing alone, Beneath the cloudless night. My measure bathed In loves sway; do you keep my words? Why art, do I gaze at old constellations rising? The stars to make fields glad with corn; And gift grape upon the sunny hills. Time robs us of all, even of memory; oft as a boy I recall that song I would lay the long Summer days to rest. Even voice itself now fails me, Now the whole sea-plain lies still, And eerily silent; every breath of the murmuring breeze is dead. My last task this…, to win my dove. Relieve me of this burden! Can I trust my streaming eyes? Or do lovers fashion their own dreams?

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Jan 14, 2013

Jan 14, 2013 at 8:18 AM UTC

lee-janes

You had heard, and so the story ran

You had heard, and so the story ran. From where The hills begin to rise, and then sink the ridge In a gentle slope, down to the waters edge. Who would Strew the turf with flowery herbage, Or curtain the springs with green shade? Who would sing to the Nymphs? Can any man be guilty of such a crime? Singing swans shall bear aloft to the stars, Heifers browse on clover, And swell their udders, to my song. The Pierian maids have made a poet, But, however, I trust them not. I sing nothing worthy of my Emily; Cackle as a goose among melodious Sparrows, And here by the flowing streams, Earth scatters her varied concaved hues; Here white Orchids bend over cave, Vines weave shady bowers. Come to me; let the wild waves lash the shore. You've heard me singing alone, Beneath the cloudless night. My measure bathed In loves sway; do you keep my words? Why art, do I gaze at old constellations rising? The stars to make fields glad with corn; And gift grape upon the sunny hills. Time robs us of all, even of memory; oft as a boy I recall that song I would lay the long Summer days to rest. Even voice itself now fails me, Now the whole sea-plain lies still, And eerily silent; every breath of the murmuring breeze is dead. My last task this…, to win my dove. Relieve me of this burden! Can I trust my streaming eyes? Or do lovers fashion their own dreams?

34

Both in love with And drowning in Words They are freedom Salvation And the most advance weaponry Words are powerful Able to heal old wounds And rend flesh from the heart Each a line a thread Or a tear In the fabric of life Able to inflict Mortal wounds With one lash Able to imbue Peace In a tone Unlimited hues Of unlimited descriptions Words paint the best pictures Both in love with And drowning in Words

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Jun 2, 2016

Jun 2, 2016 at 6:10 AM UTC

prttybrd

With Pierian Regard

Both in love with And drowning in Words They are freedom Salvation And the most advance weaponry Words are powerful Able to heal old wounds And rend flesh from the heart Each a line a thread Or a tear In the fabric of life Able to inflict Mortal wounds With one lash Able to imbue Peace In a tone Unlimited hues Of unlimited descriptions Words paint the best pictures Both in love with And drowning in Words

24

O, interminable tenebrous ev'r bewildering, haunting, taunting my incessant Pierian Spring!

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Nov 26, 2010

Nov 26, 2010 at 1:24 PM UTC

mcwa

O, Tenebrous

O, interminable tenebrous ev'r bewildering, haunting, taunting my incessant Pierian Spring!

4

Approach the Pierian Spring Carefully From an idea suggested by Rev. Raphael Barousse, OSB I would that I could taste the Pierian Spring But he who drinks unworthily the sacred Will lose even the little that he has And wither into mummification One’s poor attempts at innocent, ill-formed verse May be forgiven because of their innocence But a little learning, as the man1 once said, Means duty, and might not be forgiven If used intemperately or harshly; still - I would that I could taste the Pierian Spring 1Alexander Pope

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May 5, 2017

May 5, 2017 at 7:51 PM UTC

lawrence-hall

Approach the Pierian Spring Carefully

Approach the Pierian Spring Carefully From an idea suggested by Rev. Raphael Barousse, OSB I would that I could taste the Pierian Spring But he who drinks unworthily the sacred Will lose even the little that he has And wither into mummification One’s poor attempts at innocent, ill-formed verse May be forgiven because of their innocence But a little learning, as the man1 once said, Means duty, and might not be forgiven If used intemperately or harshly; still - I would that I could taste the Pierian Spring 1Alexander Pope

14

Blackboard, broken pieces of the Pierian Mountains They give mathematicians creativity and muse. Beautiful pieces of math are given birth, just as Venus from the ocean.

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Aug 21, 2017

Aug 21, 2017 at 8:29 AM UTC

idiot

Blackboard

Blackboard, broken pieces of the Pierian Mountains They give mathematicians creativity and muse. Beautiful pieces of math are given birth, just as Venus from the ocean.

4