"profundis" poems
Another night staring skyward where
Every creaking shift fills the world
And the ink-black sky's toothless maw,
Shocks and aftershocks of sound
Where a moment's discomfort swells
To a frenzied crescendo, incessant,
Pressing against skin from within
Until a saint's patience would break
Like lips parting for a stifled sigh.
Midnight falters and fades to dawn,
Surrenders to the unconquered sun
Who, grinning wide as the horizon,
Watches the twisting, turning world
Tear away from night's dreamless womb
Sleepless, stumbling away in a daze.
Oct 25, 2018
Oct 25, 2018 at 9:51 AM UTC
There is a stubble field on which a black rain falls.
There is a tree which, brown, stands lonely here.
There is a hissing wind which haunts deserted huts---
How sad this evening.
Past the village pond
The gentle orphan still gathers scanty ears of corn.
Golden and round her eyes are gazing in the dusk
And her lap awaits the heavenly bridegroom.
Returning home
Shepherds found the sweet body
Decayed in the bramble bush.
A shade I am remote from sombre hamlets.
The silence of God
I drank from the woodland well.
On my forehead cold metal forms.
Spiders look for my heart.
There is a light that fails in my mouth.
At night I found myself upon a heath,
Thick with garbage and the dust of stars.
In the hazel copse
Crystal angels have sounded once more.
2.9k
she was reading haruki murakami
and licking her lips of muffin crum
bs - - i, placated via cellphone, calle
d to leave a message for a friend ab
out Oscar Wilde's De Profundis a
s i think i forgot it on his couch spea
k-easy speak-fast distract myself wit
h cigarette headrush rants and slow-
mo's she moves close gazing as i c
uriously whisper back with connect
ed pupil and she comes so so close - - g
arbage can next to me close - - she keep
s peeking at me, pulls out norwegian w
ood scans road i awkwardly pull out an
thology of chinese poems from backpa
ck to possibly impress! she keeps peek
ing peeking peeking i almost start conve
rsation but heart-beats race-track grand
prix miss my bus and i know it almost re
trieve cigarette from pocket (ghoulish goo
dy) second-guess she may think it unattra
ctive? no shiney faced race horse (*do u ev
en lift, bro - - no dude i don't, i literally do
n't lift*) cement truck clamours past and i n
ot really paying attention to the ******* c
hinese poems anyway begin to read the way
the sun glances off the spinning barrel like c
hinese poetry - - glancing always to newspea
k my way into awkwardity so ******* he
adrush** she walks away, turns on heel to loo
k me in darting eyeballs (*are u coming? i sup
pose so, jesus*) i clamour onto my feet and foll
ow her pretend to be checking bus-times ya fu
ckin goof 15X arrives and she departs without
a smoke-signal we were close we were close we
were close *and i missed my bus waiting for my
self to brave-and-snake* so i walk away pretend-
careless and finally retrieve cigarette from pocket
read the smoke like chinese poetry (ghoulish goody)
Nov 27, 2013
Nov 27, 2013 at 5:49 PM UTC
Oh, is it, then, Utopian
To hope that I may meet a man
Who'll not relate, in accents suave,
The tales of girls he used to have?
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Oh why is heaven built so far,
Oh why is earth set so remote?
I cannot reach the nearest star
That hangs afloat.
I would not care to reach the moon,
One round monotonous of change;
Yet even she repeats her tune
Beyond my range.
I never watch the scatter'd fire
Of stars, or sun's far-trailing train,
But all my heart is one desire,
And all in vain:
For I am bound with fleshly bands,
Joy, beauty, lie beyond my scope;
I strain my heart, I stretch my hands,
And catch at hope.
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I hunger,
For my youth.
For those lazy,
Hazy, crazy,
Sperm-filled days.
When my eyes
Feasted with devilment,
Instead of mockery,
Upon the young
School of nymphs
That swam up
And down the corridors
Like silver darlings
Of the sea
The wonderment
Puzzlement
Of the flesh.
Memories of
Soft bouncy buttocks,
Budding *******
Licentious legs,
That tormented,
Teased, pleased
That frenzied, wild
Stirrings of my *****
How i loved life then,
With it's silent promise
Of great things to come.
Aug 15, 2013
Aug 15, 2013 at 5:06 PM UTC
It is a wound that bleeds when any hand but that of love touches it, and even then must bleed again, though not in pain
Mar 3, 2015
Mar 3, 2015 at 11:40 AM UTC
No easy feat
To reignite the spark
Of former glory
In desperation,
In certain shades of grey
Callused fingertips
With visible scratch marks
On arcs above the base
Of my essence
Things I lack
I cannot fathom
Things I long for
I cannot recall
The spaces in between
My fingers
The thinnest of cages
Need I surrender?
To the shadows I harbor
Need I reach out to?
My darkest of virtues
In points
With purpose
Void of morality
Should I start afresh?
Search for new beginnings
In avenues of ember,
In company of people
Only I can remember?
Maybe fall a little
Into the unknown
Dig through my memories
In search for things to atone
No easy feat
To reignite the spark
Of former glory
In desperation,
In certain shades of grey
Callused fingertips
With visible scratch marks
On arcs above the base
Of my essence.
Aug 11, 2014
Aug 11, 2014 at 11:22 AM UTC
Es preciso que tornes de la esfera sombría
con los flavos destellos de la Luna, que escapa,
cual la momia de un mundo, de la azul lejanía;
es preciso que tornes y te vuelvas mi guía
y me des un refugio, ¡por piedad!, en la Trapa.
Si lo mandas, ¡oh padre!, si tu regla lo ordena,
cavaré por mi mano mi sepulcro en el huerto,
Y al amparo infinito de la noche serena
vagaré por sus bordes como el ánima en pena,
mientras lloran los bronces con un toque de muerto...
La leyenda refiere que tu triste mirada
extinguía los duelos y las ansias secretas,
y yo guardo aquí dentro, como en urna cerrada,
desconsuelos muy hondos, mucha hiel concentrada,
y la fiera nostalgia que tocó a los poetas...
Viviré de silencio -el silencio es la plática
con Jesús, escribiste: tal mi plática sea-,
y mezclado a tus frailes, con su turba hierática
gemirá De profundis la voz seca y asmática
que fue verbo: ese verbo que subyuga y flamea.
Ven, abad incurable, gran asceta, yo quiero
anegar mis pupilas en las tuyas de acero,
aspirar el efluvio misterioso que escapa
de tus miembros exangües, de tu rostro severo,
y sufrir el contagio de la paz de tu Trapa.
643
Vous vous êtes penché sur ma mélancolie,
Non comme un indiscret, non comme un curieux,
Et vous avez surpris la clef de ma folie,
Tel un consolateur attentif et pieux ;
Et vous avez ouvert doucement ma serrure,
Y mettant tout le temps, non ainsi qu'un voleur,
Mais ainsi que quelqu'un qui préserve et rassure
Un triste possesseur peut-être recéleur.
Soyez aimé d'un cœur plus veuf que toutes veuves,
Qui n'avait plus personne en qui pleurer vraiment,
Soyez béni d'une âme errant au bord des fleuves
Consolateurs si mal avec leur air dormant ;
Que soient suivis des pas d'un but à la dérive
Hier encor, vos pas eux-mêmes tristes, ô
Si tristes, mais que si bien tristes ! et que vive
Encore, alors ! mais par vous pour Dieu, ce roseau,
Cet oiseau, ce roseau sous cet oiseau, ce blême
Oiseau sur ce pâle roseau fleuri jadis,
Et pâle et sombre, spectre et sceptre noir : Moi-même !
Surrexit hodie, non plus : de profundis.
Fiat ! La défaillance a fini. Le courage
Revient. Sur votre bras permettez qu'appuyé
Je marche en la fraîcheur de l'expirant orage,
Moi-même comme qui dirait défoudroyé.
Là, je vais mieux. Tantôt le calme s'en va naître.
Il naît. Si vous voulez, allons à petits pas,
Devisant de la vie et d'un bonheur peut-être
Non, sans doute, impossible, en somme, n'est-ce pas ?
Oui, causons de bonheur, mais vous ? pourquoi si triste
Vous aussi ? Vous si jeune et si triste, ô pourquoi,
Dites ? Mais cela vous regarde, et si j'insiste
C'est uniquement pour vous plaire et non pour moi.
Discrétion sans borne, immense sympathie !
C'est l'heure précieuse, elle est unique, elle est
Angélique. Tantôt l'avez-vous pressentie ?
Avez-vous comme su - moi je l'ai - qu'il fallait
Peut-être bien, sans doute, et quoique, et puisque, en somme,
Éprouvant tant d'estime et combien de pitié,
Laisser monter en nous, fleur suprême de l'homme,
Franchement, largement, simplement, l'Amitié.
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Sonnet.
J'implore ta pitié, Toi, l'unique que j'aime,
Du fond du gouffre obscur où mon coeur est tombé.
C'est un univers morne à l'horizon plombé,
Où nagent dans la nuit l'horreur et le blasphème ;
Un soleil sans chaleur plane au-dessus six mois,
Et les six autres mois la nuit couvre la terre ;
C'est un pays plus nu que la terre polaire ;
- Ni bêtes, ni ruisseaux, ni verdure, ni bois !
Or il n'est pas d'horreur au monde qui surpasse
La froide cruauté de ce soleil de glace
Et cette immense nuit semblable au vieux Chaos ;
Je jalouse le sort des plus vils animaux
Qui peuvent se plonger dans un sommeil stupide.
Tant l'écheveau du temps lentement se dévide !
463
The day he walked in that door
was the day he was destined to die.
He lay his foot inside the door
and the other one concurrently came out.
He transposed his clothes
but they ceased to cover his body.
The scarlet coat was left hanging
in the closet with his soul.
Indicted with crimes
that he must not have been penalized for.
And bashed by society
with their spiteful words like arrows.
Met his lover
but was parted by the injudicious laws.
Left skint and lacerated
with the epithet of an outcast.
Alien tears fill for him
and outcasts pay their homages.
No statue of air was this man
yet hard labor was all he was given to build it out of stone.
His teacher later delineated him as a blot on their tutorship.
For he was but a tutor.
De Profundis
spoke of his anguished journey.
Victorian times
disagreed with his originality and frolic.
He told
platonic love was all he was guilty of.
Yet,
he was charged with crimes.
Drowned in cries of shame;
and incarcerated to rip him off his passion.
Something was dead in him,
and what was dead was hope.
Hope died first
and then gradually died the passion.
In exile,
his love for writing too deceased.
The daemon inside him
ceased to inspire.
God sent the lord of death
The lord of death
didn’t move around pompously like him.
But came announced,
for it had been accepted.
The wallpaper moaned
upon his untimely death.
For it desired to die
instead of the then mincing man.
He left the earthly plains
for the good have fewer days.
The good die young
as did the revered outcast.
Herodotus the father of history
unerringly expressed the good ones’ misery.
He repudiated to deny his soul
and lived nonchalantly.
He desired all the fruits of the world
so he lived.
Exile ruined him
and rent his ardor.
His meetings with his lover
were interdicted by his family.
He was pardoned
but a century too late.
Along with the outcasts
that lived in throbbing pain.
The outcast deceased when young
but lived indefinitely.
Infinite existence is promised
for the ***** was silver-tongued.
He died young
and roams the immortal planes.
Just like Alan Turing,
Bhagat Singh, JFK, and countless more.
God wanted them
for they wanted to augment their heavens.
Nov 3, 2020
Nov 3, 2020 at 11:38 AM UTC
I’ve tried to care for women
But only rejection in return
The quieter, geeky types like me
Get only hated, scorned, and spurned
The female human animal
Also filled with malice
True in suburbia
True inside the palace
Despite this deep despair
I reject misogyny
I just could not find the right one
To blend with one like me
I’m wounded, guilty, hurting
But still I wish her well
What will happen now
Ain’t no tongue can tell.
Jun 9, 2019
Jun 9, 2019 at 9:03 AM UTC