"proteus" poems
The world is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers:
Little we see in Nature that is ours;
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
This Sea that bares her ***** to the moon;
The winds that will be howling at all hours,
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers;
For this, for everything, we are out of tune;
It moves us not.—Great God! I’d rather be
A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn;
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathèd horn.
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the protea magnifica
or queen protea
as it is also known
is a south african flower
of which until recently
i was shamefully unaware
a sprawling shrub
of varying height
dependent upon
influences of its growth
but a hardy plant
nonetheless
able to survive
and to thrive
under the starkest
of conditions and habitats
its flower is not delicate
like many others
but a symbol of survival
of resilience and growth
its boldest of blooms
an array of brightest hues
sending a message
of strength and power
courage and hope
yet the tightly held
closed cup of its petals
suggests a reluctance
to be noticed
an uncertainty
of it's own true beauty
perhaps in comparison
to its kingly namesake
Jul 15, 2023
Jul 15, 2023 at 11:14 AM UTC
What's the sun without the moon?
A bowl without a spoon?
A caterpillar without it's cocoon? A king without a tomb?
A song without a tune?
A fetus without a womb?
A bride without a groom?
Proteus without Neptune?
****** without the tunes?
A house without any rooms?What's a flower that never blooms?
It's I absent of U.
Sep 15, 2018
Sep 15, 2018 at 4:47 AM UTC
Unfolding into itself, inviolable
in prosaic self-penetration,
a boundless repertoire
of shape yearns forth surreptitiously
from inscrutable amniotes to claim
time as its own:
Here a thicket
of sycamores, there a baldaquin
of pinnate branches, yonder
a periphery of marigolds, below
a cacophony of hyraxes, above
the corpuscle of a lynx, the mid-flight
jink of a darting swift and moribund
crawl of a mollusk;
Hymenoptera coaxing
their haploid broods into teeming
life as a cell of the swarm
and viviparous apes cajoling
suckling chimerae at the fathomless
fountainhead of a rosy breast;
Higher still,
Cirrus cephalopods traversing
the trench of sky, dandelions
hitch-hiking the drift of a barren plains'
wavering hum on cockchafers'
forewings and a turbine's
bombinating pulse, the chattering
of roots ravenous for depth --
Jittering bangtails the hallowed echoes
of lascivious manes --
inchoate sprout-hood the daedal
nonage of towering evergreens --
the plaintive shrift of elegiac
redbreasts a goad to silent elation --
A likeness unlike
(vocabularies of vertiginous blinds)
(the eyes of ignorance closing)
(the mouth of the mystery)
that spurns the truth of tongues
is nature naturing.
Dec 21, 2015
Dec 21, 2015 at 6:06 PM UTC
DEAR Craoibhin Aoibhin, look into our case.
When we are high and airy hundreds say
That if we hold that flight they'll leave the place,
While those same hundreds mock another day
Because we have made our art of common things,
So bitterly, you'd dream they longed to look
All their lives through into some drift of wings.
You've dandled them and fed them from the book
And know them to the bone; impart to us --
We'll keep the secret -- a new trick to please.
Is there a bridle for this Proteus
That turns and changes like his draughty seas?
Or is there none, most popular of men,
But when they mock us, that we mock again?
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O, caught in a moment I can't escape
with sighs, and groans, and arms e'er folded so,
for Proteus himself can't take my shape
cast as it is with malcontent on show,
heaving with sighs that play on Cupid's ear
to make him smile and please his little frame
while his gold arrows strike about me near
as ever and anon he takes his aim.
Yet ever let his little bowstring sing
and let his arrows strike upon mine breast
to wound me with the maladies they bring
as I sigh by day and night brings no rest.
O, never let that dreadful blind boy miss
as deathwards I sink for want of a kiss.
Oct 6, 2014
Oct 6, 2014 at 12:06 PM UTC
In the United States, Russia, the United States of America,
New York, New York, New York, United Nations,
more than 120 people already involved in Russia.
Russia and the United States, Canada,
Israel, Karachi, Proteus, New York,
Winnipeg, Canada, Britain, Iraq, Belgium,
Hungary, Germany, Brazil, Africa, Criignan,
4th St. Skunky New Yorker,
in the city of Winnipeg in white gloves,
Montenegro, Canada's 100 Dillings, Canada, Russia,
120x120 in the United States, Thomas England, Asia, Russia, Romania
120x120, New York, New York, United States, Germany, Israel, Brazil, Canada, Russia, Latin America, Diotrepheses in Britain,
Canada (and thousands of Yeviki maps)
and Russia -IV, New York, Winnipeg, Monaco,
half of the US military in Asia, Brazil
and France. Big Game's score 100-20 in Mexico,
New York, USA, Canada, Russia, Israel, 120;
Most of Israel, Germany,
Brazil, Russia and Latin America thousands of miles away
from the back (Sunday, US), Canada, Russia, Romania,
Seattle, 120x120, which is based in Russia
and in Europe. In the United States, Russia,
the Americas, New York, New York, New York,
United Nations, Russia, who are included in it
and a further 120 for Brazil, piro fodiši,
New York, Winnipeg, Canada Russia, Russia,
Britain, ||| Iraq, Belgium, Hungary, Germany, Brazil, Africa,
kirimenini, 4 šikuwiyeni, New York, Winnipeg city
gloves, Montenegro, Canada 100 dulinigii, Canada,
Russia, 120 120 in the United States, Thomas; England,
Asia, Russia, Romania 120x120;
New York, New York, United States, Israel, Germany,
Israeli Brazilians, Canada, Russia, Latin America,
deyotē yifēški Britain, Canada (the United States, Britain,
Canada, Russia, yeshiwochi Yeviki's map) and 5-Russia,
New York, Winnipeg, in Monaco
half the US troops in Asia, Brazil and Spain. Great Game
100-20 Mexico, New York, USA, USA, Canada, Russia,
Israel, 120; Most of Israel, Germany, Brazil,
Russia and Latin America,
Russia and Europe, backed by (Sunday, US), Canada,
Romania, and Seattle, 120x120.
Oct 21, 2018
Oct 21, 2018 at 3:48 PM UTC
When death’s errand boy arrives to collect the grocer's bill,
The balance will have remained unanswered.
The mythology of life is death,
And like tales dispensed in the oral tradition—
The Iliad, Beowulf, the Odyssey—
The story of death changes with nearly every recitation.
The order that I seek is something more like chaos,
And it perpetuates despite all reasoned inhibition.
Like the machinations of a tired Proteus,
Being accosted at unawares.
It will surface and speak to my indignation,
This, while the soul concedes to my self-effacing tradition.
Yet, it cannot be mine, and it cannot be yours.
I too often return to evaluate my position,
And still find it impenetrable—
Unmoved by any fool’s tepid fears.
But death’s account grows continuously nearer,
And one cannot pretend that accounts of its comings and goings,
Were ever disseminated by a man who, in his egocentric violence,
Was anything like sincere.
This reality in which I squander spiritual and moral trust,
Achieves its most cutting sentiment,
When it proposes that I change into it,
And I lean now on a bleeding altar,
The last bastion of an impecunious star child--
A false conduit.
Feb 7, 2018
Feb 7, 2018 at 9:43 PM UTC
The world is too much with us; the gloom
Reported on bbc of record showers,
Earthquakes following hurricanes; Our
Society points to running taps, loom
Through darkness under light of moon:
How Proteus would correct these efforts,
But he eludes and so their
Animals are caught, boon
For a Big Mac, a chicken curry
Or rack of ribs torn
Flesh from a bone that, saved, would breathe
Life back into a still born
World; reports continue and impending fear
Has not aroused the old man or even Triton’s wreathèd horn.
Jun 18, 2019
Jun 18, 2019 at 8:53 AM UTC
And as the seas did roar, Proteus rose gallantly.
He plotted with clouds to yield thunder.
Let wind whisper his name strong.
Told birds to steer from tempest winds.
And warned fish to go under sea-purse.
Yes, Proteus was present in full form,
to have the sea do its bidding.
So...dost not sail thy vessel I pray.
or you’ll feel his wrath I today.
Nov 29, 2018
Nov 29, 2018 at 2:14 PM UTC
“This scorched land has a proteus yet correlate intimacy,
Could it have been I was once before thee in the aft?
Maybe when I was on the abscond of tortuous criterion,
In search of something imminent that is decisive coeval,
Scurry beams of spirit would be like a noxious gallimaufry,
Oh vault of slags bitterness where feathered creatures ****
Remote land that is before me in lieu of the love I have lost,
The quietude air whisks flower chorale refrains of melancholy,
I am a lost pioneer on an unending expedition for melioration,
Deep blue brine in the vastly distance awaits an archipelago,
To not have her in my arms would be like a blade of dread,
As the fiery sun blazes brightly with a sky of blue as am I,
I can only say at the endow of this journey I hope for her,
Scorching this barren land is nihility compared to her loss,
It is her love that keeps me live as I thrive forward,
As eventide arrives frigid cold that was aft scorched land,
As I ponder exordium with the thought of oppressed feelings,
Yearning as my love has befallen with my present anguish,
For I now am that oppressed suitor on Scorched Lands”
By Andrew Guzaldo © 11/07/2019 #172
Nov 23, 2019
Nov 23, 2019 at 3:10 PM UTC