"profounder" poems - Hello Poetry

1695 There is a solitude of space A solitude of sea A solitude of death, but these Society shall be Compared with that profounder site That polar privacy A soul admitted to itself— Finite infinity.

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83.3k

Emily Dickinson

There is a solitude of space

1695 There is a solitude of space A solitude of sea A solitude of death, but these Society shall be Compared with that profounder site That polar privacy A soul admitted to itself— Finite infinity.

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All summer we moved in a villa brimful of echos, Cool as the pearled interior of a conch. Bells, hooves, of the high-stipping black goats woke us. Around our bed the baronial furniture Foundered through levels of light seagreen and strange. Not one leaf wrinkled in the clearing air. We dreamed how we were perfect, and we were. Against bare, whitewashed walls, the furniture Anchored itself, griffin-legged and darkly grained. Two of us in a place meant for ten more- Our footsteps multiplied in the shadowy chambers, Our voices fathomed a profounder sound: The walnut banquet table, the twelve chairs Mirrored the intricate gestures of two others. Heavy as a statuary, shapes not ours Performed a dumbshow in the polished wood, That cabinet without windows or doors: He lifts an arm to bring her close, but she Shies from his touch: his is an iron mood. Seeing her freeze, he turns his face away. They poise and grieve as in some old tragedy. Moon-blanched and implacable, he and she Would not be eased, released. Our each example Of temderness dove through their purgatory Like a planet, a stone, swallowed in a great darkness, Leaving no sparky track, setting up no ripple. Nightly we left them in their desert place. Lights out, they dogged us, sleepless and envious: We dreamed their arguments, their stricken voices. We might embrace, but those two never did, Come, so unlike us, to a stiff impasse, Burdened in such a way we seemed the lighter- Ourselves the haunters, and they, flesh and blood; As if, above love's ruinage, we were The heaven those two dreamed of, in despair.

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3.2k

Sylvia Plath

The Other Two

All summer we moved in a villa brimful of echos, Cool as the pearled interior of a conch. Bells, hooves, of the high-stipping black goats woke us. Around our bed the baronial furniture Foundered through levels of light seagreen and strange. Not one leaf wrinkled in the clearing air. We dreamed how we were perfect, and we were. Against bare, whitewashed walls, the furniture Anchored itself, griffin-legged and darkly grained. Two of us in a place meant for ten more- Our footsteps multiplied in the shadowy chambers, Our voices fathomed a profounder sound: The walnut banquet table, the twelve chairs Mirrored the intricate gestures of two others. Heavy as a statuary, shapes not ours Performed a dumbshow in the polished wood, That cabinet without windows or doors: He lifts an arm to bring her close, but she Shies from his touch: his is an iron mood. Seeing her freeze, he turns his face away. They poise and grieve as in some old tragedy. Moon-blanched and implacable, he and she Would not be eased, released. Our each example Of temderness dove through their purgatory Like a planet, a stone, swallowed in a great darkness, Leaving no sparky track, setting up no ripple. Nightly we left them in their desert place. Lights out, they dogged us, sleepless and envious: We dreamed their arguments, their stricken voices. We might embrace, but those two never did, Come, so unlike us, to a stiff impasse, Burdened in such a way we seemed the lighter- Ourselves the haunters, and they, flesh and blood; As if, above love's ruinage, we were The heaven those two dreamed of, in despair.

35

Perfection is a necessary evil but even with the ****** hand gone her black veil still rests neatly upon her face for her eyes remain covered reminiscing in the darkness of her own secret sin he sees this flaw, this empty husk of a woman Death still freshly pressed against her lips, stealing her last breath she will never awake he still sees her secret sin if either man had achieved a profounder wisdom they might not have flung away their happiness for the pursuit of purity or science yet quietly they craved the things so swiftly tugged away from their grasp a sin still stains the hidden face of man an indelible mark upon both the afflicted faces so aged from bitter greed wanting needing Perfection Still grasping in the time of defeat so prominent on the face of the man who shows his veil with cloth with creepy crepe “Have men avoided me, and women shown no pity...!” The man cried The girl Georgiana whispers of her impending mortality while Parson Hooper rages into the dying light with quiet longing the mister wanted to be seen with the black veil married to his face he accepted it- why could he, the scientist, not, he still hides dying for the sake of perfection and living for the sake of hiding Grasping at what could never be done To rip the veil from upon her face The ****** hand now gone, He still craved more, As their eyes close reminiscing in the darkness of their own secret sin, The hands of all still, Grasping at the veil, To see the shame underneath.

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Feb 10, 2016

Feb 10, 2016 at 9:26 AM UTC

maatuika-pahoja-snow

Grasping at the veil

Perfection is a necessary evil but even with the ****** hand gone her black veil still rests neatly upon her face for her eyes remain covered reminiscing in the darkness of her own secret sin he sees this flaw, this empty husk of a woman Death still freshly pressed against her lips, stealing her last breath she will never awake he still sees her secret sin if either man had achieved a profounder wisdom they might not have flung away their happiness for the pursuit of purity or science yet quietly they craved the things so swiftly tugged away from their grasp a sin still stains the hidden face of man an indelible mark upon both the afflicted faces so aged from bitter greed wanting needing Perfection Still grasping in the time of defeat so prominent on the face of the man who shows his veil with cloth with creepy crepe “Have men avoided me, and women shown no pity...!” The man cried The girl Georgiana whispers of her impending mortality while Parson Hooper rages into the dying light with quiet longing the mister wanted to be seen with the black veil married to his face he accepted it- why could he, the scientist, not, he still hides dying for the sake of perfection and living for the sake of hiding Grasping at what could never be done To rip the veil from upon her face The ****** hand now gone, He still craved more, As their eyes close reminiscing in the darkness of their own secret sin, The hands of all still, Grasping at the veil, To see the shame underneath.

41

I never took a towel with fear To dip in bowls of strain, So why do these afflict me when I play my song again? Am I a greater person than The Servant was who lived? Are these who sit before me More in worth than those he loved? Why is my task so different? Can my few moments be Profounder work than all performed By those who bent a knee? And is this work so vital That I can't afford to err? Did any thought at all like this One moment strike him there? I wish it all were different! I wish I always found I'd met somebody's certain need When playing certain sounds. I wish that when I labored Someone else's life improved. Instead I fear each hour played Is one for self I've lived. And if not, why not? Can perfected pitches heal a soul? And if so, how can I Bind private efforts to this goal? Is playing truly service? Doesn't every nerve reveal My selfish goals? If giving's All I want, what's this I feel? The world's got scores of other tasks Without this endless dread, The ones—quite naturally— Which leave my brother clothed and fed. So why go back to start An inward fight without an end— And with such meager impact For the toils that I would spend? But maybe—here is something— This dilemma is my cross: To meet, as yet, an unseen need By counting all things loss; To labor all my life to learn To dip a foolish towel In basins filled with weakness While I feel a critic scowl.

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Jun 8, 2015

Jun 8, 2015 at 10:26 AM UTC

brooks-popwelles

On performing music

I never took a towel with fear To dip in bowls of strain, So why do these afflict me when I play my song again? Am I a greater person than The Servant was who lived? Are these who sit before me More in worth than those he loved? Why is my task so different? Can my few moments be Profounder work than all performed By those who bent a knee? And is this work so vital That I can't afford to err? Did any thought at all like this One moment strike him there? I wish it all were different! I wish I always found I'd met somebody's certain need When playing certain sounds. I wish that when I labored Someone else's life improved. Instead I fear each hour played Is one for self I've lived. And if not, why not? Can perfected pitches heal a soul? And if so, how can I Bind private efforts to this goal? Is playing truly service? Doesn't every nerve reveal My selfish goals? If giving's All I want, what's this I feel? The world's got scores of other tasks Without this endless dread, The ones—quite naturally— Which leave my brother clothed and fed. So why go back to start An inward fight without an end— And with such meager impact For the toils that I would spend? But maybe—here is something— This dilemma is my cross: To meet, as yet, an unseen need By counting all things loss; To labor all my life to learn To dip a foolish towel In basins filled with weakness While I feel a critic scowl.

48

While on the lonely path I chanced upon a tree in bloom cool pink under stellar wrath its value held in its doom. I gazed upon its beauty its worth seemed ever true so unlike diamonds and their cruelty its days but number few. Its folds held fragrant melody its petals soft as silk yet many think gold a remedy scratched from earth by all manner of ilk. I plucked a handsome cluster to prolong my chance encounter. It set the clock to muster its price all the more profounder.

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Apr 26, 2023

Apr 26, 2023 at 9:43 PM UTC

Nephilem07

Blossoms

While on the lonely path I chanced upon a tree in bloom cool pink under stellar wrath its value held in its doom. I gazed upon its beauty its worth seemed ever true so unlike diamonds and their cruelty its days but number few. Its folds held fragrant melody its petals soft as silk yet many think gold a remedy scratched from earth by all manner of ilk. I plucked a handsome cluster to prolong my chance encounter. It set the clock to muster its price all the more profounder.

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