"querulous" poems
Love, though for this you riddle me with darts,
And drag me at your chariot till I die,—
Oh, heavy prince! O, panderer of hearts!—
Yet hear me tell how in their throats they lie
Who shout you mighty: thick about my hair,
Day in, day out, your ominous arrows purr,
Who still am free, unto no querulous care
A fool, and in no temple worshiper!
I, that have bared me to your quiver’s fire,
Lifted my face into its puny rain,
Do wreathe you Impotent to Evoke Desire
As you are Powerless to Elicit Pain!
(Now will the god, for blasphemy so brave,
Punish me, surely, with the shaft I crave!)
5.3k
"No, the serpent did not
****** Eve to the apple.
All that's simply
Corruption of the facts.
Adam ate the apple.
Eve ate Adam.
The serpent ate Eve.
This is the dark intestine.
The serpent, meanwhile,
Sleeps his meal off in Paradise -
Smiling to hear
God's querulous calling."
5k
Out in the children’s playground
On the wasteland, near the flat,
There once was a shiny roundabout
They called ‘The Witches Hat’,
It hung from a greasy centre pole
And would spin, just like a top,
For once that we set it spinning
It would take an hour to stop.
They painted the Hat in black shellac
So it gleamed beneath the sun,
But stood like an evil entity, in the dark
When the day was done,
We never ventured abroad by night
For the land, we thought, was cursed,
With the Witches Hat a reminder of
Just what had stood there first.
Once it had been a Magic Wood
With Elves, and Grimms and Ghosts,
Witches covens and Goblins ovens
We heard about the most,
The land was cleared for a new estate
And they called the land a park,
But nights you heard the muffled shuffle
Of dancing, in the dark.
It was then that they set the Witches Hat
Up on a pole to spin,
One of us ran around with it
While others sat on the brim,
We always ran with it clockwise
Then stood back to count the spins,
For Mother Malloy had warned us
Never to turn it widdershins.
She said it would stop the earth, and that
The sun would go back down,
The Prince of Darkness lay in wait
For the Witches Hat, his crown,
We thought that she must be bonkers
And we laughed each time she frowned,
But never would spin the Witches Hat
Not once, the other way round.
But then on an Autumn afternoon
When the nights were coming in,
Mother said, ‘Take your brother out,
Go take him out for a spin.’
She wanted to clean the house, she said,
‘And you’re always in the way!’
So I took young Robin out with me,
He’d just turned four that day.
I put him up on the Witches Hat
And I spun, and spun him round,
But Robin was a querulous child
And he cried, to put him down.
So then in a bloody-minded mood
And after a dozen spins,
I stopped the Hat and I turned it round,
And ran with it, widdershins.
It must have been almost dusk by then
For the sun dropped into the ground,
The Moon came up with a silver beam
And it lit the whole surround,
I ran as fast as I’d ever run
And the Hat spun like a top,
Robin sat on the opposite side
So I’d see him, once I’d stop.
I ran until I was out of breath
Then I stopped to watch it spin,
But no-one was on the Witches Hat
And I felt the fear begin,
I searched and scoured the land around
And I crawled beneath the Hat,
The little fellow had disappeared
So I ran back home to the flat.
I’ll always remember that awful day,
The day when the fates were cast,
I’d spun him into the future, or
I’d left him there in the past,
I shouldn’t have turned it widdershins
But now can’t bring him back,
At night it gleams in a pale moonbeam
That terrible Witches Hat!
David Lewis Paget
Dec 27, 2013
Dec 27, 2013 at 12:16 AM UTC
With querulous turpitude, I stood
Disdainful denied reassurance;
Selfless. My crying heart
The echo of the wind rebuking
All that is remaining of
what I used to be.
Grotesque deformities my reflection
The pain of pure love etched
In dreams of aeons passed.
Hideous beauty a frightening peace
A sweetness I founded corrupt;
Hell my heaven
My paradise.
Honesty a musical once
writhing in my breast
A seraph convoking legions,
Now wings out-stretched
I break my own treacherous heart
A fiend of Heaven a demon of Hell
The first fallen
Unto likeness absolved
The pennated breadth of twilight
Breeding familiarities contempt-
I have wearied myself, O God,
And I am consumed,
Resolute of inequity.
He that is down need not fear plucking,
Experience is the teacher of fools
And a gentle lie turneth away inquiry:
If the mountain will not go to Mahomet,
Mahomet must go to the mountain;
The nakedly wan mantic
Velleity to tear Christ's body
Malapert, before the ruddy shoal;
Society covers a multitude of sins
Within the penitent sanctity of
Heaven's holocaust, in which
No man can serve two masters-
Oh that I had wings like a dove!
I would fly away and be at rest
Eternal and absolute,
An angelic image of my shadowed self!.
ELEETE J MUIR
Jan 13, 2012
Jan 13, 2012 at 8:35 AM UTC
[These statues were exhibited at the Metropolitan Museum after the sculptor's death. The figures alluded to are the famous statue of Abraham Lincoln, and the monument in memory of Mrs. Henry Adams, the original of which is in the Rock Creek Cemetery at Washington. --Max Eastman]
POET, thy dreams are grateful to the air
And the light loves them. Tho' they murmur not,
Their carven stillness is a music rare,
And like the song of one whose tongue hath caught
The clear ethereal essence of his thought.
I hear the talkers come, the changing throngs
That with the fashions of a day surround
Thy visions, and I hear them quell their tongues,
And hush their querulous shoes upon the ground;
Thy dreams are with the crown of silence crowned--
Though they feel not the glowing diadem,
Who sleep for aye in their cool shapes of stone.
Nor ever will the sunlight waken them,
Nor ever will they turn their eyes and moan,
To think that their brief Poet's life is gone.
The tender and the lofty soul is gone,
Who eyed them forth from darkness, and confessed
His spirit's motion in unmoving stone.
His praise upon no mortal tongue doth rest;
By these unwhispering lips it is expressed.
Soon will the ample arms of night withdraw
Her shuffling children from the twilit hall--
From that heroic presence, in dim awe
Of whom the dark withholds a while her pall,
And leaves him luminous above them all.
Then are ye lost in darkness and alone,
Ye ghostly spirits! And the moment rare
Doth quicken that too sad and nameless stone,
To move her robe, and spill her sable hair,
And be in silence mingled with the air;
For she is one with the dim glimmering hour,
And the white spirits beautiful and still,
And the veiled memory of the vanished power
That moulded them, the high and infinite will
That earth begets and earth does not fulfil.
2.2k
I do not like my state of mind;
I'm bitter, querulous, unkind.
I hate my legs, I hate my hands,
I do not yearn for lovelier lands.
I dread the dawn's recurrent light;
I hate to go to bed at night.
I snoot at simple, earnest folk.
I cannot take the gentlest joke.
I find no peace in paint or type.
My world is but a lot of tripe.
I'm disillusioned, empty-breasted.
For what I think, I'd be arrested.
I am not sick, I am not well.
My quondam dreams are shot to hell.
My soul is crushed, my spirit sore;
I do not like me any more.
I cavil, quarrel, grumble, grouse.
I ponder on the narrow house.
I shudder at the thought of men....
I'm due to fall in love again.
2.1k
"Are you mad at me?"
"I wouldn't say 'mad.'"
I'd say
captious
petulant
furious
acrimonious
irritable
querulous
sour
acerbic
peevish
ornery
livid
vicious.
No, of course I'm not mad at you.
Jul 15, 2013
Jul 15, 2013 at 7:40 PM UTC
sunsets and rainbows
stain the canvas, sky
an onslaught of color
mark the once blind clouds
in a world delusional
of beauty irrational
yet auburn sunlight
where the demons fight
hear the haunting tune
of sweetest sorrow
the scarred melody
its bitter determination
the powdered crayons
and drifting wind
feel the pastel snowflakes
of one Wonderland winter
with espoir
and a turn of winds
no vouloir
can't be reached
the cold breeze finds
tinkling glass
and the echo of
windchimes ethereal
and plain old jane
she dulls the pain
all factors in life where
she'll always care
the querulous kind
the insecure kind
but deep down inside
hides a love overflowing
its beauty like roses
yet as wild as their thorns
a smile like gunfire
but a heart closed in ice
so stays in denial
a stretch of black and white
a blur in one's vision
now faded to gray
an unforseen wind
with strange predicaments
perhaps it was all
a hallucination?
- - -
Jul 5, 2013
Jul 5, 2013 at 1:08 PM UTC
A querulous cry
from my peckish feline
failed to rouse me from sleep:
thus,
teeth entangled in the meat of my palm,
this hideous beast
bucked conventional wisdom in
deciding to bite a hand
to prompt a feeding.
Concurrently
I am considering the adage
of there being more than one way
to skin a cat.
Oct 10, 2012
Oct 10, 2012 at 7:32 PM UTC
How could this have happened?
Life took its time and tortured me.
Taunting, malicious, evil.
I lived a melancholy life.
The people weren’t enough.
I desired more.
I desired love.
I desired my other half.
Just when I thought I was forever alone,
Unexpectedly, he appeared.
He cared, gave me his everything.
He took his time with me.
I should’ve recognized the foreboding.
We all want happiness, no one wants pain,
But we can’t have a rainbow without a little rain.
Even then, rainbows don’t last forever.
Life,
You’re wicked.
You want to hurt me.
When I wanted to pick a fight, You started running.
You don’t care about me.
You don’t care about young love.
Ripping my heart out.
Tearing apart his.
When someone thinks of you, life,
They think of you being balanced.
A sprinkle of unfairness,
A sprinkle of happiness.
You surprised all the guileless ones
You are judicious; an ill-humored dowdy.
Maybe you’re just a querulous old women,
Tired of ignorant pests.
Or maybe you were just born with a blackened heart.
But, now when I ask you for a reason why,
You curl up in a ball, roll away and let me cry.
What a coward.
Conniving little *****
What comes around goes around,
You’ll get your share,
Three times worse.
Think you’re so contumacious?
What is it?
You desired more?
You desired love?
You desired someone else?
Are you jealous?
Don’t be tremulous about the topic.
Something will happen to you…
Your soul mate awaits you,
But for now,
Please, be kind to me.
Sep 17, 2012
Sep 17, 2012 at 4:01 AM UTC
He fumbles with the **** and clicks the door half-open,
blinking silently at us as we pile out of the van,
his owlish eyes peering.
He struggles to find words after so many long days--
good words for his grand-nephews,
words of strength for his grand-nieces--
and Chinese words stumble out.
He stands silent for seconds,
halted in the midst of a sentence,
searching for the English.
So we try to fill the still house with life and noise.
It is grey and large, with blank, staring windows and empty beds.
Our laughter does not echo well in its long hallways,
muted by the weightless, suspended air.
We eat at the kitchen table, and I watch him.
He seems so strong sitting there,
deceptively powerful,
corded arm muscles and heavily veined hands
and silver hair, carefully combed
in a wave that was dashing forty years ago.
Then he stirs,
stands and shuffles slowly to the sink.
The illusion of strength falls away.
He is a worn old man--
tired and sad.
Quietly I wait behind him as he washes his hands,
then pauses, confused,
wrinkled eyes
querulous and vague,
and slowly washes them again.
The rhythmic movements of his once sure fingers
rub in an unchanging pattern
from when he was young.
I remember many years ago,
--when I was even younger than now--
I remember him looking at me,
I remember seeing my dark and warped reflection in his wise, laughing eyes.
I thought surely he was the most dignified of men:
alive and slow and gentle,
quietly commanding respect,
his amiable face in permanent creases
from too much kind smiling.
Now those wrinkles have faded.
The faint lines no longer trace across his face,
and his house is quiet.
My great-uncle is alone.
Alone
with the countless photos of her.
They are fading slowly in the streaming sunlight--
together.
Apr 23, 2013
Apr 23, 2013 at 9:07 PM UTC
Oh! when shall the grave hide for ever my sorrow?
Oh! when shall my soul wing her flight from this clay?
The present is hell! and the coming to-morrow
But brings, with new torture, the curse of to-day.
From my eye flows no tear, from my lips flow no curses,
I blast not the fiends who have hurl’d me from bliss;
For poor is the soul which, bewailing, rehearses
Its querulous grief, when in anguish like this—
Was my eye, ’stead of tears, with red fury flakes bright’ning,
Would my lips breathe a flame which no stream could assuage,
On our foes should my glance launch in vengeance its lightning,
With transport my tongue give a loose to its rage.
But now tears and curses, alike unavailing,
Would add to the souls of our tyrants delight;
Could they view us our sad separation bewailing,
Their merciless hearts would rejoice at the sight.
Yet, still, though we bend with a feign’d resignation,
Life beams not for us with one ray that can cheer;
Love and Hope upon earth bring no more consolation,
In the grave is our hope, for in life is our fear.
Oh! when, my ador’d, in the tomb will they place me,
Since, in life, love and friendship for ever are fled?
If again in the mansion of death I embrace thee,
Perhaps they will leave unmolested—the dead.
1.4k
•••
"on some days, I love you more than others,"
an early morning uh oh
IROLO
(instantly regretted out loud observation),
of the potentially ruinous kind,
spoken with malice towards none,
*and obviously,
no forethought,*
firmly but modestly muttered
over the modestly rumpled
courtroom battlefield
of sheets, newsprint, mugs
and Bocelli on low
smockingly,
(a slow spreading smile of mock),
she turns her gaze upon
the presumed guilty, querulous,
soon-to-be-ruined ruminator (me),
and asks with
disdainful derisive decisiveness
is your first cuppa too hot darling?
has your uncommon sense of non-sense been burnt?
t'is true I reply,
I feel the burn!
for am I not sworn
to tell the whole heated truth
and nothing but?
my love for you is simply
a mathematical additive,
progression series
every new day I love you
is forever
a mighty mite more
than the prior,
a smudged smidge of a penciled line,
taller than the
higher higher notated
upon ancient yesterday's doorpost
ergo,
ip so factoid,
and therefore,
by definition
on some days I love you more than others
•••
p.s. never have conversations like this in the presence of within-reach newspapers,
for they be
easy rolled and revised
into fearsome weaponry,
suitably for handy smacking"*
Feb 6, 2016
Feb 6, 2016 at 4:46 PM UTC
aloof alphas attack!
banal betas boom, before backing
cautiously, creeping
down, defensible dark
estuaries, estranged escapes
from fierce fiery-eyed
giant gators gathered,
hard hearted hedged
in impossible illumination, irate
jowly jeering jaded jackals
**** **** **** …
let loose low laughs
making much mirth mercilessly
now none need nourishment
oblivious obvious, overt
a putrescent phalanx,
quite quintessential a querulous quorum
a quatre
raucous resounding raptorials retreated
subsequently seizing sizeable sarcoid
sections in scissor strokes
total tormentors, that time twists the
ugly utilitarian
veracious victory
works the wild
yearning as
zealots
Apr 10, 2015
Apr 10, 2015 at 9:30 PM UTC
The stylus is more potent than the dirk they say
You don't fail to make a mark even when picked up by a dilettante everyday
Esoteric idioms your masters make you write
While the poignant sentences you write come only late in the night
Someday you are in the hands of the who's who of the town
The other days you spend in the hands of a clown
You come clad in plastic,platinum,silver and gold
With different coloured lifelines-blue,black,red,green and pink
And a plethora of stories you keep clandestine and untold
A travesty you make of the fools and to the prudent you make think
With every word you write, you pant for breath
And when your heart stops beating, they mark it as your death(end of a refill)
You can be cryptic, there's no one stopping
You can be acerbic even with beauty on the outside(the beauty of the letters)
From the Treaty of Versailles to the varied pompous constitutions penned, you've always left me shocking
Blessed be the hands that cradle you and take the ride(ride of the writing)
You take them through the best roller-coaster journey of words
Bringing out the inexplicable happiness be it just the lyre of the birds
A predilection i have for you, for you engender the best in me
I know I'd always have you in the middle of a dark chilled night come what may be
Its you whom i turn to with my querulous platitudes
And you furnish me the answers with a benevolent smile and gratitude
Its you who defines me, for i am nothing but an amorphous mould
Still learning when to be bold and when to feel cold.
Dec 20, 2013
Dec 20, 2013 at 2:00 PM UTC
Disillusioned Of Darkness
I do not like
the way I feel
I don't like
the state of mind
that I am in
I feel the bitterness
the coldness
emptiness
of his darkness
querulous of mind
thoughts of the unkind
hate is always at my door
leaving me among a life of the poor
I do not yearn for false love
I don't look down on the homeless
but I do dread the dawn's
that holds no light
I do stand up and fight
for what I know is right
I hate to go to bed
because that is where I will sleep
that is where I weep
I have bad dreams of he
Dark Angel never gives me peace
all he gives is darken dreams
that makes me scream
he gives me a world of darkness
a place that always makes me cry
he seems to never leave my side
I feel so disillusioned
my heart holds nothing
but my mind holds all things
my eyes hold visions of time
I am not sick
but I feel sick
dreams are shoots in my mind
like fireworks of hell
my soul is crushed
spirit weak and lost
body sore
I don't like me any more
I don't like what I had become
with a heart always on the run
this dark life is no fun.
Poetic Judy Emery © 1979
The Queen of Darken Dreams Poetic Lilly Emery
Oct 2, 2016
Oct 2, 2016 at 4:27 PM UTC
The manner of her tongue was a bit antiquated, yet her personality was heretical, rejecting traditions.
She is an ingenious paradox and I'm a little abashed to say that I'm in a state of extol.
However I came to the consensus that I will safeguard her inaudible heart, scorn every hint of dismay, and feed it to the vultures.
I have jettisoned my own grotesque nature, for she is my alleviation.
It might sound querulous, but she is the pinnacle of my languished existence.
Mar 31, 2014
Mar 31, 2014 at 5:14 PM UTC
When whispers are not enough,
I wonder why.
Have we become too deaf
To listen to those sounds
that our heart used to make;
Subtly telling us to keep calm
‘Cos he can’t keep up.
It’s over now, he is quite
Knowing you don’t care
you were querulous,
searching for answers,
leaving a trail of mess behind
When all you had to do was,
Listen.
Dec 30, 2015
Dec 30, 2015 at 4:40 PM UTC
Awake! this is life
Be not ungrateful for its toll
Cultivate an aura of contentment
Delve deeply for that thing they call a soul
Examine all your motives and intentions
Fling aside delusion in your path
Glimpse through tiny keyhole possibility
Harness all resistance with your wrath
Imitate great ones who came before you
Jeopard not the love within your heart
Karma cannot limit your ability to
Lacerate each falsehood all apart
Mingle with the angels out among us
Never rest until you need the sleep
Obviate the demons which cling to us
Perforate what makes you feel cheap
Querulous we walk the road to happy
Rutted as it is with mire and muck
Spare your energies and sweet entreaties
To walking ghosts who just don't give a ****
Upend all ideas that forestall you
Vindicate what you know to be true
Windmills of illusion won't enthrall you
Xcept when you opt to allow them to
Yesterday may blind us with her memory
Zelos might appreciate our idolatry
Jun 30, 2017
Jun 30, 2017 at 2:00 PM UTC
My body a temple, your traveler's eyes would wander,
You wanted to explore, climb the peak and glide back under,
With cautious intent,
You began your descent,
Until you made your plunder.
With secrets and mystery, masked by cloud cover,
You'd continue to hunt, until it were over,
With each determined stride,
You'd find more places to hide,
Exposing more depth to discover.
Embracing all of your senses, you burrow deeper,
And there it is, quick, it's setting off the bleeper,
Treasures of riches, jewels and a single pearl,
Gleaming amidst a clam, with a swirl,
I dare say, you might find it cheaper.
With ravenous eyes, a drooling tongue,
You steal as much as you'd manage, until you are stung,
Your hands are perilous,
So you become querulous,
As is expected of men, so young.
Oct 3, 2018
Oct 3, 2018 at 8:56 AM UTC
Push away the stone
Look inside the tomb
No one is there
But it should be you
Destitute ignominy
Pernicious specious
Anatomy
What are you looking to remove
Volition
I'm looking to keep
Equanimity
As a solution
But the confusion
Is the illusion
Anyone is ebullient
I'll gesticulate
what I'm trying to say
With words grandiloquent
Irrevocable iracible obtuse
Perfunctory & querulous!
My sentient
Solid as a conscious
Surreptitious surrogate
Is just a verisimilitude
Deja vu imminent
Immutable idiosyncrasy
Greater is he
That is within me
That strengthens me
Against my enemies
Holy spirit
Advocate
Without he is left me
Desolate
Empty waste of breath
And evidence
I am nothing
Without Gods
Forgiveness
Oct 11, 2018
Oct 11, 2018 at 3:47 PM UTC
You were born,
as was I.
You are dying,
as am I.
What happens
in between matters.
Too many spend
their time as
they spend
their money,
straining for more
than food, clothes,
shelter until
they suffocate
under attachment
to the unnecessary
they have made
necessary.
They try to buy
meaning with toys
and feel uncomfortable
at the boredom
they have become.
They want the whole
world zoned commercial
so they can work harder,
buy more and feel better,
but they don't.
It is a hard thing
to admit how much
of our lives
we have spent
being full of ****
Remember:
You were born,
as was I.
You are dying,
as am I.
What happens
in between matters.
We all stand on
wobbly hinges
that can give way
at any moment.
The question becomes
not about death
but about how to live
before the hinges snap
and the noose
breaks our mortal necks.
No easy answers.
It is hard enough
to have your foot
in one world,
let alone two.
You were born,
as was I.
You are dying,
as am I.
What happens
in between matters.
Instead, meditate
on the nothingness
that was and
the nothingness
that will be
at any second.
Do not **** your life
away on nonsense.
Find your way to make
what is in between
matter. Me?
I think I'll go fishing.
~mce
Jun 28, 2015
Jun 28, 2015 at 6:02 PM UTC
These days,
you don’t talk to anyone.
You hear the offers,
and you refuse to take them,
refuse to give anyone
the satisfaction
of helping.
[What could they do,
what could they say?]
These days,
you don’t reach out
reply as much as you have to
when approached,
and disappear into dissociation again.
You don’t feel bad,
you don’t feel sad,
you don’t feel.
Only tell yourself that
they don’t need you
and you don’t need them.
You’re alone.
But not lonely.
Your brain is home to a chorus,
there’s never a dull moment.
How could you ever be alone
with so many voices in your head?
There’s the querulous one of anxiety with her constant,
whatdoidowhatdoidowhatdoido?
The heavy, lumbering one of depression, who only mumbles,
Who cares? None of this matters.
There is the babble of Mombrain,
a hodge podge of toxic sludge that
at this point,
is not cruel but
almost comical:
You’reuglystupidbadloserfreaksocialmisfitliarliarliaruglystupidbaddesperatepatheticracistunfeelingcoldfuckyouyoulazyburdenonsocietyfuckyou.
There is the matter of fact one of Logic Brain.
She is the one who
has to do damage control, works overtime to
make you appear Sane, Articulate, Good, Better.
She is the one who guides you through
every
single
action.
*Get out of bed.
Now brush your teeth.
Now make the bed.
Now take a shower.
Now put on clothes,
Now eat - you have to eat multiple meals.
Now take your meds, don’t be a child.
You are going to get things done today.
You will be Fine.*
But the whisper
is the one that interests you,
scares you,
thrills you the most.
She's the one you never shut down.
She is cool, suave.
You can never see her, of course,
but she is the girl you could never be.
She is
so close,
so seductive -
just out of reach.
She breathes into your ear:
*crash the car,
jump on the tracks,
fly off the bridge,
stab yourself to watch the blood,
drink the nail polish remover,
chug a whole bottle of whiskey
and down some pills,
just like the old days,
remember the old days,
you were sure you would die?
You can still Do It.*
Ideation always whispers,
but the whispers are so loud,
feel so
right.
She tells you:
*You think I’ll disappear, but
you and I,
we’ll always be going steady,
I’m not like those other girls,
the ones who rip out your heart,
who never say sorry when they need to,
who use you and expect so much and
leave when they’re done.
Baby, with me
there will never be any surprises
no heartbreak,
no drama,
no manipulation
no uncertainty.*
*Baby,
I will never leave you,
I am the one constant.
Come into my arms,
let me hold you tight
and never let you go.*
Feb 17, 2016
Feb 17, 2016 at 12:53 PM UTC
I do not like my state of mind;
I'm bitter, querulous, unkind.
I hate my legs, I hate my hands,
I do not yearn for lovelier lands.
I dread the dawn's recurrent light;
I hate to go to bed at night.
I snoot at earnest, simple folk.
I cannot take the gentlest joke.
I find no peace in paint or type.
My world is but a lot of tripe.
I'm disillusioned, empty-breasted.
For what I think, I'd be arrested.
I am not sick, I am not well.
My quondam dreams are shot to hell.
My soul is crushed, my spirit sore;
I do not like me anymore.
I cavil, quarrel, grumble, grouse.
I ponder on the narrow house.
I shudder at the thought of men--
I'm due to fall in love again.
Jun 27, 2017
Jun 27, 2017 at 3:16 PM UTC