"sant" poems
O sant'asinità, sant'ignoranza,
santa stoltezza e pia devozione,
qual sola puoi far l'anime si buone
che umano ingegno e studio non l'avanza.
Non giunge faticosa vigilanza
d'arte qualunque sia o invenzione,
né dei sapienti contemplazione,
al ciel dove ti edifichi la stanza.
Che vi val (curiosi) lo studiare,
voler sapere quel che fa la natura,
se gli astri son pur terra, fuoco e mare?
La santa asinità di ciò non cura,
ma con man giunte e in ginocchio vuol stare
aspettando da Dio la sua ventura.
Nessuna cosa dura
eccetto il frutto dell'eterna requie,
la qual ci dona Dio dopo le esequie.
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And so the Archangel Sant'Angelo
draws his sword and spreads
his wings—as the pope flees
Saint Peter’s Basilica—to shield
the holy father as the seven seals
break to reveal the revelations
whence comes Christ again to
bring those who truly understand
his message to the eternal kingdom
of God to create anew a universe
where an can be reincarnated
with the purest of those left on
Earth—where (hopefully) the seed
of evil has been bred out or so far
deep in the pool of genes it arrives
only when man has advance further to
recognize the evil and nip it in the bud.
Apr 9, 2013
Apr 9, 2013 at 1:43 PM UTC
Jeg kan høre det milde havskummet,
Det berører bakken så nær hjemmet sitt.
Skjønnhet vevd i sitt rustne gylne hår,
Jeg har ikke kjent henne lenge, men *** lar meg gå på lufta.
Det er noe *** har, en slags nåde,
Det skinner som en gemstone gjennom ansiktet hennes.
Hennes øyne kan være gjennomsnittlig på noen andre,
Men i hennes ser jeg himmelen, et hjerte smelter meg.
*** har barnslig lurer og jeg elsker det så,
Og *** gir av det mest lunefullt lys.
Selv når vi står på den kalde betongen,
Jeg kan se blomster spring opp rundt føttene hennes.
Jeg tror jeg elsker henne, ja, det gjør jeg!
Nei jeg gjør det ikke, det kan ikke være sant.
-Det tynne barnet bak deg.
May 11, 2017
May 11, 2017 at 6:40 PM UTC
With sant, build me up
Wishing, could get you out of me
Like fog goes out of my mouth when I breathe
Beating heart, bleeding fast
Healing your heart while seeking your cure
Condition of my madness, over your craziness
Oh your arms, I still remember their warmness
Wasn't aware of this separateness
Yet im left between your darkness
No light, no height but your shine still hides in my eyes
I still feel it, oh I know its out of my touch so is it still out of my reach?
Reckless yet so restless my soul been
Rip me off or recolour my dark soul
Call me an insane or call me sucker but whatever I'm now its just for love, oh my lover
that's the insanity of my love.
Jun 30, 2016
Jun 30, 2016 at 2:12 AM UTC
O
OH
OH N
OH NO
OH NO S
OH NO SA
OH NO SAN
OH NO SANT
OH NO SANTA
OH NO SANTA!
He forgot to fill my stalking,
i hope this year he wont forget
i made sure to be extra nice
and put smiles on every sad face
or at least
i tried.
So lets hope i did enough for him to pass my house
and not forget
i tried my best.
Dec 17, 2010
Dec 17, 2010 at 4:37 PM UTC
Tengo na 'nnammurata
ca è tutt' 'a vita mia.
Mo tene sittant'anne, povera mamma mia!
Cu chella faccia 'e cera,
sotto 'e capille janche,
me pare na sant'Anna
cu ll'uocchie triste e stanche.
Me legge dint' 'o penziero,
me guarda e m'anduvina
si tengo nu dulore
si tengo quacche spina...
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I was once beautiful
I was once free
Then you came
And took that from me
You said you loved me
And I was believer
Turns out I didn't see
That you were a deceiver
But the problem lies
That I've fallen for you
And I cannot deny
How I wish you loved me too
So now I am broken and lost
Running after you asking why
You turned this heart to frost
And just walked by
Me everyday, every moment
Joking with me as if I am meaningless
Keeping yourself on check--but you are no sant
–And I am not innocent–
Though the more and more I run
To convince you that it is not about the love--lack--but about why you did what you did to me knowingly that I will take it as you loved me
The more I seem desperate
The more I seem crazy
The more I lose my colors
The more I betray myself
And the less I seem like myself the
More you distance yourself from me
All because I want to know why
That merely makes my pain greater
Makes me despise myself more
For not being able to let it go.
I wonder why I do this
Why I try
But I am not like you
I cannot lie
So I love you
And you know
And I shame you
For hurting me so
And I forgive you
For leading me to this state
But I won't recover--don't ask me--it is too late.
Because:
I was once beautiful
I was once free
Then you came
And took all that from me.
Mar 18, 2014
Mar 18, 2014 at 11:08 AM UTC
Gli inguini sono la forza dell'anima,
tacita, oscura,
un germoglio di foglie
da cui esce il seme del vivere.
Gli inguini sono tormento,
sono poesia e paranoia,
delirio di uomini.
Perdersi nella giungla dei sensi,
asfaltare l'anima di veleno,
ma dagli inguini può germogliare Dio
e sant'Agostino e Abelardo,
allora il miscuglio delle voci
scenderà fino alle nostre carni
a strapparci il gemito oscuro
delle nascite ultraterrestri.
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The elucubrations of the lute, pulsing from the finger strums of starlight,
Plum-twilight of the Colosseum like an emperor’s bowl of plucked fruit,
As the night’s ghost-gods are tuned to Castel Sant’Angelo, Hadrian’s tomb,
Who drink the dwindling hours from the wine-stemmed glass of musical moon.
But come the times out of tune, the dwindling of stone is the going blind of Rome:
Rome is built upon millions of eyes closed with the underside of their lids tattooed,
By labyrinthine aqueducts, far-aging roads, and traceries of Nero’s Golden Home.
Then death its sight-sun blooms through; death the architect of Seven Hills renews.
Feb 13, 2020
Feb 13, 2020 at 9:36 AM UTC
Sunday night,
Light fading,
Minutes ticking,
Face unshaven.
Candle burning,
Television killing,
Coffee waking,
Canvas awaiting.
Van Sant inspiring,
Head running,
Monday rising,
Must lay some paint down.
Oct 16, 2016
Oct 16, 2016 at 9:14 PM UTC
The little blue teapot was exactly that, small,
enough for a sant two cups of tea
or an almost generous mug
In saying it was blue,
It was a comforting
royal shade,
with a shining glaze
Stoutly round
With a sphere as
the top notch handle
All in all
a cheery
little thing
Cheap
and
utilitarian
How many cups
had it processed:
delivered
with a
drip or dribble,
that was at first annoying,
but
eventually
becoming
an endearing part
of the overall charm of the piece
It would be generous to say
millions;
But
truthful to say
thousands
of
thousands
As the age of the *** was 12+years
of almost continuous service.
In which time
it had been
witness
to every
emotion.
Conversations baring
soul and psyche.
Mental discombobulation
and
emotional acrobatics that would easily gain
employment with
Circe de Soleil
All whilst sitting solidly still
on the table of the day.
The little blue teapot was simply
a background character
in the soap opera
of it's family
and their friends
And
because of this,
It's
sudden
shattering
demise,
upon the slate floor yesterday.
Brings forth this eulogy to an everyday object
Considered
by many
to be just
a thing
But to this family
a treasured piece
of daily routine.
Reached for
with
muscle memory.
A dash of color
at breakfast,
Comfort
on a cold night
A genies lamp
to a
small boy's
growing imagination.
A gift
from
one friend
to
another,
for the
shared cup
of
Russian Caravan Tea
and a chat
that set the world to rights,
at least for another day
or two.
The little blue teapot was exactly that,
Ordinary
But also;
So much more
than it
purported to be.
So...
so
much more.
Nov 3, 2024
Nov 3, 2024 at 11:28 PM UTC
That tall thin monk
dark and angular
reading in the refectory
from in sancti Benedicti regula
he reminded me
of a teacher at high school
whose name eluded me,
I took in the high bell tower
orange bricked
straight up pointing to heaven
misty clouded
I viewed from my window
in the abbey,
colui che ci ha creati
senza il nostro aiuto
non ci salverà senza
il nostro consenso
sant'Agostino
an Italian monk said
quoting St Augustine,
I read in the common room
leaning against the radiator
Abbas Marmion
black covered book
well worn
heat from the radiator
warming me up
against dull cold day,
parler à Dieu
the French monk said to me
talk to God that is part
of prayer
partie de la prière
and I talked
in my own fashion,
bell tolled from bell tower
la voce di Dio
the bells calling
to work or prayer
Dom Joe said
sitting in the old armchair
in the guest room
where I stayed
they guide us
la cloche parle,
loved the cloisters
the medieval sense
wind there in the day
or late in the evening
after Vespers
moon light in cloister garth,
voices along the passage
from other guests' rooms
some one spoke
another gave
a hollow laugh.
Jan 25, 2017
Jan 25, 2017 at 8:21 AM UTC