"sparta" poems
I wake as your friend You wake as my lover
I speak as your lover You speak as my friend
I act as your possession You are my possesion
I rebel as your cover A means to an end
I hurt for your compassion You live for my acceptance
I injure for your respect Though it's never been withheld
I confide for your emotion You crave my direction
I give and you collect Never will you rebel
This is madness This is Sparta
This is insanity This is the price of exellence
I can't be everything for you I am your everything
You can't be everything for me I am magnificence
You treat everyone the same I am fair and righteous
As a friend, yet as a lover And yet you seek more
And it's a cruel, cruel game Dare you grow capricious
From your twisted love, no one recovers You'll become one I abhor
I am done You are confused
(I am never done) And I will not calm you
I am sick *As I am amused*
(But I'm not tired) As I drop little clues
I will run You'll never leave me
(I won't run) But I'll abandon you
Because I love you You'll always need me
(A better word is 'desire') And I'll never need you
Let me go! My grip is vice-like
(But you're not holding me) I'm not ready to let you go
Bring me back! If I lose you, 'my dear'
(But I never left) I must find yet another 'beau'
Love me only! And I've not the time to put effort
(But you love equally) In little minions like you
Push me away! I've not a care to give for
(Or bridge this rift) You insects I never knew
Please, disappear I am your torture
One day you'll understand But I am your salvation
That the twisted way you love I am your executioner
Could coax death from any human And I am your redemption
Please, disappear! You'll wish me dead forever
Though I'll weep when you're gone You'll wish me dead I know
I know sanity will return And you'll wish yourself deader
And I'll eventually move on. When away I finally go.
Apr 9, 2013
Apr 9, 2013 at 8:25 PM UTC
I'm tired of this death match
fighting for my place
amongst the scattered remains
of a
thousand
broken hearts
This is not Sparta
I am no gladiator
and you
are
no
prize
Mar 4, 2016
Mar 4, 2016 at 12:50 AM UTC
"Alexander son of Philip, and the Greeks except the Lacedaemonians--"
We can very well imagine
that they were utterly indifferent in Sparta
to this inscription. "Except the Lacedaemonians",
but naturally. The Spartans were not
to be led and ordered about
as precious servants. Besides
a panhellenic campaign without
a Spartan king as a leader
would not have appeared very important.
O, of course "except the Lacedaemonians."
This too is a stand. Understandable.
Thus, except the Lacedaemonians at Granicus;
and then at Issus; and in the final
battle, where the formidable army was swept away
that the Persians had massed at Arbela:
which had set out from Arbela for victory, and was swept away.
And out of the remarkable panhellenic campaign,
victorious, brilliant,
celebrated, glorious
as no other had ever been glorified,
the incomparable: we emerged;
a great new Greek world.
We; the Alexandrians, the Antiocheans,
the Seleucians, and the numerous
rest of the Greeks of Egypt and Syria,
and of Media, and Persia, and the many others.
With our extensive territories,
with the varied action of thoughtful adaptations.
And the Common Greek Language
we carried to the heart of Bactria, to the Indians.
As if we were to talk of Lacedaemonians now!
5.2k
In the year 480 B.C., King Leonidas of Sparta lead 300 Spartan soldiers to the mountain pass of Thermopylae. They came face to face with over 200,000 Persians under King Xerxes of the great Persian Empire,
whose archers so multiple, their arrows blocked out the sun.
Bravely the Spartans fought, with no thought of surrender.
After three days of brutal fighting, tens of thousands of Persians lay dead,
yet the Spartans still remain. Then a local resident becomes a traitor, revealing to the Persians a mountain path that lead behind Greek lines. Surrounded, Leonidas sends Greek soldiers back to Sparta to tell of a great victory, that he knew would never be. Valiantly the Spartans stand by their king, and fight to the death. So today, even though the Greeks lost the battle, it is better known for the bravery of a Spartan king and his 300 soldiers.
Nov 3, 2015
Nov 3, 2015 at 12:18 PM UTC
I am a swordsman of the mind. My blade, Language, and logic.
It’s purity glints in the sun. It’s truth, a razor edge.
With a deft flick of my tongue, crimson lines appear, blood beads.
The cut is skilled, rends deep.
This is not trolling. This is sparta.
Jun 5, 2010
Jun 5, 2010 at 2:12 PM UTC
I.
So well, honest people make poor poets,
since they want dockyard receipts from Sparta
for how many ships Helen’s face launched there.
II.
Honest details make the best poetry.
Poets plant made-up gardens with real toads,
where clothing and china patterns are art.
III.
Poets write because they have things to say.
They write because they have things they can’t say,
and so, start with the sobs they can’t swallow.
IV.
Poetry is like life, being one big question
that you live until the answers arrive,
And emotion finds thought and thought find words.
Apr 9, 2017
Apr 9, 2017 at 12:38 AM UTC
Signs point in different directions
Art>
<Science
History^
Oddities¿
Art:
Every memory of every sunrise
Every beautiful melody
Here.
And so many images of her.
Some sweet
Some candid
Some sad.
How can we revel in the joyful
Without knowing it's opposite?
Every delicate poem
Every lyric yelled
Every painting
Every sculpture
And in all of them,
Her.
Science:
Models of molecules
Diagrams of data
Sketches
(Where are the equations?)
Math is forbidden in this museum.
Lectures
Theories
All gathering dust.
History:
Names.
The greatest of men and women
Julius Caesar
Constantine
Marc Anthony
Cleopatra
Rosa Parks
Elinor Roosevelt
Patton
Churchill
Kennedy
MLK
Maps and charts
Famous cities of old
Sparta
Alexandria
The halls of Montezuma
Constantinople
Babylon
Oddities:
Phantom Kangaroos
Homemade Bazooka
"That made the news?"
And Bubblegum the Baluga
The Raven Empress
Flaming mattress
Sharks with lasers
Pandas with Tasers
Nov 30, 2014
Nov 30, 2014 at 8:35 PM UTC
To Matthieu, my ex French boyfriend
I'm smoking my last
In an empty room
I will watch the past
Seal and shake my doom.
I'm breathing my last
As I crawl under
Under the thunder
Welcoming the blast,
I shall undergo
In an empty room.
And deeper I go
Deeper in the gloom
I'm looking around
Trudging on the ground
I have come to nuke
To repel and puke,
This mild monochrome
Displaying your smile
I will hate your isle
From Sparta to Rome
To grab your image
Your ****** leverage
Going far further
Than before earlier
The road down below
Is dangerous, I fell
Is painful and slow
The road out of hell
Will be bright and pure.
I did **** and mure
Your mild monochrome
And now to my home,
I shall soon return
Far from you lost love
Yes, is gone the dove
Your paper will burn
Ashes, melting fast
Burning monochrome
Blasted monochrome
I'm smoking my last
July 19, 2013
Chambéry, France
Nov 28, 2015
Nov 28, 2015 at 9:06 AM UTC
I am a man obsessed with perfection
No amount of smoke and mirrors will lead me to misdirection
Like an arrow I fly straight into my target, my goal
Falling short is not an option; I must accomplish my journey and feel whole
Although I feel as though I’ve been placed into the pit of Sparta
Punished for my greediness, looking up at the light of accomplishment, wondering how it’d feel on my skin
But that is only where I begin
Fore I shall climb from the darkness of the pit and become a martyr
And I’ll do it with ease, if that’s what it takes
Give it everything I’ve got, know the stakes
I know this will one day consume me, ruin me, destroy me
But until then, I take who I am and display for everyone to see
I’ve struggled all my life and now I’m going to make it
This isn’t no ****** there’s no reason to fake it
Open up to show my true colours, for better or worse, rhythm or rhyme
Let the earth spin into darkness, I’ve got nothing but time
Knock me down, I’ll be returning like a mummy, bringing plaques and placing a curse
I’m only getting better, for my competition it’s bound to get worse
Nothing can keep me, down not even the weather
Like Icarus I’ll gather my feathers
Spread my wings wide and fly
Leave the sky
Go passed the moon and to the sun
Make it melt, bask in revenge and call it done
Fore I am a man obsessed with perfection
I am the juggernaut of progression
Although only I see myself continuing this momentum
Irrelevant, I will seek my destination running through shadows like a phantom
Feb 24, 2012
Feb 24, 2012 at 3:24 AM UTC
There was an Old Person of Sparta,
Who had twenty-one sons and one 'darter';
He fed them on snails,
And weighed them in scales,
That wonderful Person of Sparta.
2k
How Strange.
You long for change,
but you are loath to redo.
And thus, loathe yourself.
And this loads on you,
on your coarse course.
Preventing the Metamorphose,
and forces you
into your torturous fortress.
A cocoon,
that protects against monsoons
but not the typhoon raging inside,
waking Typhon,
and blowing out
Prometheus's fire.
Oh how Oedipus Wrecks
the tedious good
until spiritless.
But never hopeless
Pandora's box is open
but Sparta's soldiers
will close it and guide you
from Tartarus to Olympus
and change, you will.
Shed your mortal grossness
for immortal happiness.
No common sense
that this recklessness
has consequences
When you do realize
What the Fates's foretold
it will be too late.
Oct 5, 2014
Oct 5, 2014 at 6:48 PM UTC
Oh precious Hyacinth, in my eyes a jewel
In front of your radiance, my knees fell
You’re like a glistening pearl in a ****** shell
I am enamored by your enthralling spell
Listen everyone to Zephyrus’ Serenade for Hyacinth!
Oh King of Sparta, you bear the tastiest fruit
On the land he is the handsomest youth
This is for everyone a crystal clear truth
That’s why in my heart the arrows of Eros shoot
Listen everyone to Zephyrus’ Serenade for Hyacinth!
Oh precious Hyacinth, you have equaled the glamour of a god
Your face is fairer than any mortal lad
Your muscles are firmer than any man had
Because of such beauty, you make me feel glad
Listen everyone to Zephyrus’ Serenade for Hyacinth!
Oh King of Olympus, let me have this seductive mortal
For him my godly being turned carnal
The appeal of his flesh is oddly unusual
I want him to be mine for time eternal
Listen everyone to Zephyrus’ Serenade for Hyacinth!
Oh precious Hyacinth, under my wings you’ll never fall
Come to the West Wind’s most desperate call
To you I’ll reserve the prettiest room in my hall
The most romantic & blissful haven for all
Listen everyone to Zephyrus’ Serenade for Hyacinth!
Oh deities & humans, grant me this costly man
Boreas, Notus, Eurus, bring me this heavenly Spartan
Let our powerful Anemoi bequeath him from his clan
Turn him over to the Western Wind, his greatest fan!
Listen everyone to Zephyrus’ Serenade for Hyacinth!
-02/11/2015
(Dumarao)
*Hopelessly Immortal Collection
Sep 21, 2019
Sep 21, 2019 at 9:53 PM UTC
Oh beloved Hyacinth, my sparkling youth so fine
More brilliant than all objects that shine
Fit for erecting a sacrificial shrine
Let my whole self be only thine
Harken all of you to Apollo’s Serenade for Hyacinth!
Oh citizens of Sparta, offer me your finest *****
In my arms his amorous body will never shrink
Never will he be placed on peril’s brink
His glorious soul under my care will never stink
Harken all of you to Apollo’s Serenade for Hyacinth!
Oh beloved Hyacinth, you will learn a lot in my guidance
For any man of the arts, this is the greatest chance
In music & sports, you’ll surely enhance
You can have the future the power to glance
Harken all of you to Apollo’s Serenade for Hyacinth!
Oh gods & goddesses, behold Hyacinth evolve better
His charming countenance will turn brighter
His adorable assemblage will go stronger
If you give him to me and no other
Harken all of you to Apollo’s Serenade for Hyacinth!
Oh beloved Hyacinth, in my lap you’ll have the greatest nourishment
I will keep you away from any predicament
My healing powers will safeguard you from ailment
Never will your body & soul be in torment
Harken all of you to Apollo’s Serenade for Hyacinth!
Oh mortals & immortals, you will never regret
Hyacinth will flourish if you make me your bet
From me so many he’ll know & get
To you I’ll unveil his being’s greatest secret!
-02/12/2015
(Dumarao)
*Hopelessly Immortal Collection
Sep 21, 2019
Sep 21, 2019 at 9:54 PM UTC
Perché i celesti danni
Ristori il sole, e perché l'aure inferme
Zefiro avvivi, onde fugata e sparta
Delle nubi la grave ombra s'avvalla;
Credano il petto inerme
Gli augelli al vento, e la diurna luce
Novo d'amor desio, nova speranza
Nè penetrati boschi e fra le sciolte
Pruine induca alle commosse belve;
Forse alle stanche e nel dolor sepolte
Umane menti riede
La bella età, cui la sciagura e l'atra
Face del ver consunse
Innanzi tempo? Ottenebrati e spenti
Di febo i raggi al misero non sono
In sempiterno? Ed anco,
Primavera odorata, inspiri e tenti
Questo gelido cor, questo ch'amara
Nel fior degli anni suoi vecchiezza impara?
Vivi tu, vivi, o santa
Natura? Vivi e il dissueto orecchio
Della materna voce il suono accoglie?
Già di candide ninfe i rivi albergo,
Placido albergo e specchio
Furo i liquidi fonti. Arcane danze
D'immortal piede i ruinosi gioghi
Scossero e l'ardue selve (oggi romito
Nido dè venti): e il pastorel ch'all'ombre
Meridiane incerte ed al fiorito
Margo adducea dè fiumi
Le sitibonde agnelle, arguto carme
Sonar d'agresti Pani
Udì lungo le ripe; e tremar l'onda
Vide, e stupì, che non palese al guardo
La faretrata Diva
Scendea nè caldi flutti, e dall'immonda
Polve tergea della sanguigna caccia
Il niveo lato e le verginee braccia.
Vissero i fiori e l'erbe,
Vissero i boschi un dì. Conscie le molli
Aure, le nubi e la titania lampa
Fur dell'umana gente, allor che ignuda
Te per le piagge e i colli,
Ciprigna luce, alla deserta notte
Con gli occhi intenti il viator seguendo,
Te compagna alla via, te dè mortali
Pensosa immaginò. Che se gl'impuri
Cittadini consorzi e le fatali
Ire fuggendo e l'onte,
Gl'ispidi tronchi al petto altri nell'ime
Selve remoto accolse,
Viva fiamma agitar l'esangui vene,
Spirar le foglie, e palpitar segreta
Nel doloroso amplesso.
1.4k
ACHILLES son of king PELUS of PHTHIA.
From near Thessalia not Sparta.
Born near where you parents married on mount Pelion.
Your mother Thetis a NYMPH known by AGAMENON.
King MENELAUS'S betrayal the Greeks all cross the Aegean.
Odysseus and PATROCLUS an armada some by passing the CRETAN.
Sons of Priam killed and only Odysseus escaped back to Ithica.
The BESIEGING of Troy in a wooden horse from Sparta.
Prince of the Myrmidon's to avenge PATROCLUS it's HECTOR you cut down.
All Troy did burn weak horse lovers they should have fled and in the RIVER STYX they would drown.
May 5, 2019
May 5, 2019 at 6:02 AM UTC
i only wrote this as a genesis of urbanity; and a re-interpretation of the greek city-state, qualifying state to nation and ethnic exploitation; as London was Athens and Manchester was Sparta... but no Greece though!
i'm delusional?
and didn't
Edward Gein invent
the 20th century?
a ******* remnant
of rural life?
silence of the lamps,
rob zombie... manson...
is that etc. or ha ha as p.s.?
yeah yeah, Mudvayne's dig.
May 1, 2016
May 1, 2016 at 7:47 PM UTC
You're toxic.
You're the extra number in H2O2
Seemingly harmless,
But deadly. Combustible.
You're toxic.
You're the thought
That started killing
In the name of God.
You're toxic.
You're Helen of Sparta,
Or Troy, if you will.
Without the supposed beauty or skill.
You're Toxic.
You **** everything you touch.
Flowers suffocate
When they share your air.
You're toxic.
Mar 14, 2016
Mar 14, 2016 at 7:21 AM UTC
First, pull the edges
make sure it meets the corner
in a form of triangle
in the shape of the society.
Then on one end,
steal those diamonds
from the chained lives
of women and children in Africa.
You'll have two seperate pillars
Like that of Athens and Sparta
always in fighting, in useless war
disregarding the bind of Greece totally.
Fold it again, and again,
and the head, and the tail,
Yes, the tail, it must be slanted
Pull it, pull it, the wings
Mend it so it would fly.
Because no matter how beautiful your cage is
A bird is meant to taste
only the sky.
Mar 31, 2013
Mar 31, 2013 at 11:39 AM UTC
Dream the dreams of dreamers.
But.
Do not leave them that way.
You can not keep them happy.
They wish to tell the deaf,
how to listen.
The Ghost of Sparta,
does not hide in the shadows.
As the founders do.
He lives in the flames disjointedly.
The rest dream.
GRAHAM MURPHY
Aug 18, 2012
Aug 18, 2012 at 6:58 PM UTC
O Helen of Sparta
A face to start a war,
To launch a thousand ships
And so it did.
Large, almond shape eyes in
A shocking green color, with a swirl of sapphire
Framed by the spell of her bristly, black, curled thick eyelashes
Dark and fluttering, like the wings of vultures circling the dead
Her figure is the envy of the most beautiful mortals
Graceful and tall, like a stretching cat
Even in stillness, seems to be vibrating with motion
As she stands, untouched, protected by thousands of mortals
Her rosy raspberry mouth,
The thought of kissing it, make the bravest men go weak
Curved tenderly, and frighteningly charming
Red like the blood of the wounded and dying warriors
Silky golden strands, cascade thickly down her back
Pale golden like the Sun in summer
With streaks of crimson mixing with the gold
Enchanting like a land’s last sunset
Her high smooth cheeks are pink
Like the petals of a blooming lily
Comparable to a soft peach, in the early spring morning
Stinging pink, like a mark of a sword, hitting against armor, on skin
Golden skin, completely flawless
Just the brush of it, will make you do anything
Shining, and radiating with its own magic
A magic that one welcomed its imprisonment
Her heart stolen by Paris
There love so powerful, by the magic of a goddess:
Aphrodite
A face to die for
And thousands did die
Along with a legendary land
O Helen of Troy
Sep 6, 2010
Sep 6, 2010 at 7:56 AM UTC
The battle is fought and our victory won,
My General has ordered me to run,
From Marathon’s plains to Athens Agora
to tell the elders of the battle’s outcome.
Oh gods on high grant us surcease
from threats of invasion if no true peace.
I have fought in the front line
and raced to and from Sparta in two days’ time.
Now fatigued and nearly done
I speed toward home from Marathon.
We will not suffer Eretria’s fate
Their city burned, their folk enslaved.
No! Thousands of Persians we have slain.
Our city on a hill is saved.
I’m short of breath and weak from wounds
Even as the walls of our city loom.
“Nike!” I cry! “Rejoice, we’ve won!”
As my proud heart breaks and I am done.
Mar 10, 2019
Mar 10, 2019 at 4:12 PM UTC
You Of Troy Lives Forever
The last tide deep
I came to rescue my queen
for the fever of my king
did bid me as his warlord
Your eyes I could dive into
your voice when you say my name
I know you of beauty and intellect
for you of Troy lives in my heart forever
I am hurting because of circumstance
and my therapists you know my ways
don't judge this broken Greek
for in Sparta he was a solider
and the ***** meowing will do fine
He has no idea that the war is over
and in the distance of soft words
he knows a Helen when he see's one
for he is that star, her one true
he that claims to be a star
Know my name
know you met Gods only
her sword of fury
her poet Mozart, poet to the art
By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
By NeonSolaris
© 2013 NeonSolaris (All rights reserved)
Aug 4, 2013
Aug 4, 2013 at 5:19 AM UTC
Oh,
The lightning is stretched by the laser packed line
combining drills with fed times to tell a tracked sign
of how the hard weight of soul and far faiths that glow on large aims
can reign like rain in the start of the first day
Reversed pace is changed like gold chains
but the gold trade is not the only thing that can hold the main
reputation in rotations of a Tornado
The invasion step of being yourself can get you hot as a Volcano
spitting the lava for you to forget the drama
hitting harder to make you bite regrets lika a Piranha
spinning some verbal examples to turn against the problems like karma
communicating with the world as I fight with a mic like i'm in Sparta
Mar 8, 2017
Mar 8, 2017 at 8:36 AM UTC
Xenophon of Athens (/ˈzɛnəfən, -ˌfɒn/; Greek: Ξενοφῶν,
Ancient Greek: [ksenopʰɔ̂ːn], Xenophōn; c. 430 – 354 BC)
was an ancient Greek philosopher, historian, soldier,
mercenary, and student of Socrates. As a historian,
Xenophon is known for recording the history of his time,
the late-5th and early-4th centuries BC, in such works as the Hellenica, which covered the final seven years and the aftermath
of the Peloponnesian War (431–404 BC), thus representing
a thematic continuation of Thucydides' History
of the Peloponnesian War. As one of the 'Ten Thousand',
Greek mercenaries, Xenophon also participated
in Cyrus the Younger's failed campaign to claim the Persian throne
from his brother Artaxerxes II of Persia and recounted the events in Anabasis, his most notable history. Like Plato (427–347 BC),
Xenophon is an authority on Socrates about whom
he wrote several books of dialogues (the Memorabilia)
and an Apology of Socrates to the Jury,
which recounts the philosopher's trial in 399 BC.
Despite being born an Athenian citizen,
Xenophon was also associated with Sparta,
the traditional enemy of Athens. His pro-oligarchic politics,
military service under Spartan generals
in the Persian campaign and elsewhere
and his friendship with King Agesilaus II
endeared Xenophon to the Spartans.
Some of his works have a pro–Spartan bias,
especially the royal biography Agesilaus
and the Constitution of the Spartans.
Xenophon's works span several genres
and are written in plain-language Attic Greek,
for which reason they serve as translation
exercises for contemporary students of the
Ancient Greek language. In the Lives and
Opinions of Eminent Philosophers,
Diogenes Laërtius observed that as a writer
Xenophon of Athens was known as the “Attic Muse”,
for the sweetness of his diction (2.6).
Nov 16, 2018
Nov 16, 2018 at 8:41 PM UTC
the anti-siren alarm song
collapses the dimensions of the oneiric realm,
fidgeting infinitesimally,
the tangled engine of acidic tubes
combusts last nights pepperoni bacon chorizo pizza
all of sparta trembles
stalagmites shake loose and dust the bedclothes,
cemented eye-lashes decalcify and split,
as two stumbling gargantuan steps
off the promontory of your bed
lead an unguided hand to the light-switch
the florescent hum gnaws at you
a singular parameter in the speaking mind's running mouth
“caffeinate me”
a hill, no, a mountain, no, a sheer abyss
'the stairs', a godly ascent
an ascent for winged creatures of light
creatures with legs for arms, zeppelin-like centipedes
legs whose construct are Dalían,
nightmarish vaulting apparatuses,
whose step is a bound and whose bound is a flight,
as if all of the thirteen foot-tall steps become cliffsides
and all of the cliffsides become interdimensional worm-holes
as the distance between two mustard seeds grows
and exceeds the circumference of the universal ellipse
we see our premonitions are of infinite potentiality.
resignedly, we take the first step
the next twelve follow succinctly.
we reach the ochre chamber of caffeine
only to be halted by a question
a sempiternal question,
a question of mythic, unverifiable stature
a plaguing question,
a question rooted
in our achey-breaky hearts and nigh-arthritic bones,
rooted in the seeping pathos
of our ritualized morning zombie-shuffle:
but it doesn't get asked today, we drink coffee
the world is right-side up again.
Feb 1, 2017
Feb 1, 2017 at 10:47 AM UTC