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Late, late yestreen I saw the new moon,
With the old moon in her arms;
And I fear, I fear, my master dear!
We shall have a deadly storm.
Ballad of Sir Patrick Spence.

I

Well! If the Bard was weather-wise, who made
The grand old ballad of Sir Patrick Spence,
This night, so tranquil now, will not go hence
Unroused by winds, that ply a busier trade
Than those which mould yon cloud in lazy flakes,
Or the dull sobbing draft, that moans and rakes
Upon the strings of this Aeolian lute,
Which better far were mute.
For lo! the New-moon winter-bright!
And overspread with phantom light,
(With swimming phantom light o’erspread
But rimmed and circled by a silver thread)
I see the old Moon in her lap, foretelling
The coming-on of rain and squally blast.
And oh! that even now the gust were swelling,
And the slant night-shower driving loud and fast!
Those sounds which oft have raised me, whilst they awed,
And sent my soul abroad,
Might now perhaps their wonted impulse give,
Might startle this dull pain, and make it move and live!

II

A grief without a pang, void, dark, and drear,
A stifled, drowsy, unimpassioned grief,
Which finds no natural outlet, no relief,
In word, or sigh, or tear—
O Lady! in this wan and heartless mood,
To other thoughts by yonder throstle wooed,
All this long eve, so balmy and serene,
Have I been gazing on the western sky,
And its peculiar tint of yellow green:
And still I gaze—and with how blank an eye!
And those thin clouds above, in flakes and bars,
That give away their motion to the stars;
Those stars, that glide behind them or between,
Now sparkling, now bedimmed, but always seen:
Yon crescent Moon, as fixed as if it grew
In its own cloudless, starless lake of blue;
I see them all so excellently fair,
I see, not feel, how beautiful they are!

III

My genial spirits fail;
And what can these avail
To lift the smothering weight from off my breast?
It were a vain endeavour,
Though I should gaze forever
On that green light that lingers in the west:
I may not hope from outward forms to win
The passion and the life, whose fountains are within.

IV

O Lady! we receive but what we give,
And in our life alone does Nature live:
Ours is her wedding-garment, ours her shroud!
And would we aught behold, of higher worth,
Than that inanimate cold world allowed
To the poor loveless ever-anxious crowd,
Ah! from the soul itself must issue forth
A light, a glory, a fair luminous cloud
Enveloping the Earth—
And from the soul itself must there be sent
A sweet and potent voice, of its own birth,
Of all sweet sounds the life and element!

V

O pure of heart! thou need’st not ask of me
What this strong music in the soul may be!
What, and wherein it doth exist,
This light, this glory, this fair luminous mist,
This beautiful and beauty-making power.
Joy, virtuous Lady! Joy that ne’er was given,
Save to the pure, and in their purest hour,
Life, and Life’s effluence, cloud at once and shower,
Joy, Lady! is the spirit and the power,
Which wedding Nature to us gives in dower,
A new Earth and new Heaven,
Undreamt of by the sensual and the proud—
Joy is the sweet voice, Joy the luminous cloud—
We in ourselves rejoice!
And thence flows all that charms or ear or sight,
All melodies the echoes of that voice,
All colours a suffusion from that light.

VI

There was a time when, though my path was rough,
This joy within me dallied with distress,
And all misfortunes were but as the stuff
Whence Fancy made me dreams of happiness:
For hope grew round me, like the twining vine,
And fruits, and foliage, not my own, seemed mine.
But now afflictions bow me down to earth:
Nor care I that they rob me of my mirth;
But oh! each visitation
Suspends what Nature gave me at my birth,
My shaping spirit of Imagination.
For not to think of what I needs must feel,
But to be still and patient, all I can;
And haply by abstruse research to steal
From my own nature all the natural man—
This was my sole resource, my only plan:
Till that which suits a part infects the whole,
And now is almost grown the habit of my soul.

VII

Hence, viper thoughts, that coil around my mind,
Reality’s dark dream!
I turn from you, and listen to the wind,
Which long has raved unnoticed. What a scream
Of agony by torture lengthened out
That lute sent forth! Thou Wind, that rav’st without,
Bare crag, or mountain-tairn, or blasted tree,
Or pine-grove whither woodman never clomb,
Or lonely house, long held the witches’ home,
Methinks were fitter instruments for thee,
Mad Lutanist! who in this month of showers,
Of dark-brown gardens, and of peeping flowers,
Mak’st Devils’ yule, with worse than wintry song,
The blossoms, buds, and timorous leaves among.
Thou actor, perfect in all tragic sounds!
Thou mighty poet, e’en to frenzy bold!
What tell’st thou now about?
’Tis of the rushing of an host in rout,
With groans, of trampled men, with smarting wounds—
At once they groan with pain, and shudder with the cold!
But hush! there is a pause of deepest silence!
And all that noise, as of a rushing crowd,
With groans, and tremulous shudderings—all is over—
It tells another tale, with sounds less deep and loud!
A tale of less affright,
And tempered with delight,
As Otway’s self had framed the tender lay—
’Tis of a little child
Upon a lonesome wild,
Not far from home, but she hath lost her way:
And now moans low in bitter grief and fear,
And now screams loud, and hopes to make her mother hear.

VIII

’Tis midnight, but small thoughts have I of sleep:
Full seldom may my friend such vigils keep!
Visit her, gentle Sleep! with wings of healing,
And may this storm be but a mountain-birth,
May all the stars hang bright above her dwelling,
Silent as though they watched the sleeping Earth!
With light heart may she rise,
Gay fancy, cheerful eyes,
Joy lift her spirit, joy attune her voice;
To her may all things live, from pole to pole,
Their life the eddying of her living soul!
O simple spirit, guided from above,
Dear Lady! friend devoutest of my choice,
Thus mayst thou ever, evermore rejoice.
So Dreamy Jun 2017
Bagiku, kamar adalah satu ruangan persegi yang paling krusial di antara ruangan-ruangan lainnya. Magis, nyaman, penting, dan pribadi. Kamar tak hanya berisi tentang selimut dan bantal-bantal yang dilapisi kain bercorak bunga-bunga atau selimut berbulu yang lembut. Tidak juga tentang tumpukan baju sekali pakai yang dilipat di atas nakas dan kursi roda meja belajar. Tidak juga tentang jendela yang selalu terbuka lebar setiap pagi, mengajak udara segar untuk memasuki rongga hidung, membawa masuk lantunan burung-burung. Terlepas dari karpet cokelat muda yang selalu tergelar di tengah-tengah ruangan, yang dihuni berbagai remah-remah makanan—keripik kentang, biskuit, roti kering—ruangan berukuran 4x4 ini menyimpan dan menyembunyikan banyak hal.

Cerita, rahasia, asa.

Bagiku, kamar adalah saksi bisu. Saksi bisu atas upaya yang pernah ditempa, semangat yang tak pernah padam untuk membara, diri yang selalu kembali bangkit setiap kali jatuh ditampar dunia, serta doa-doa yang mulai dibisikkan dengan lembut sejak fajar menyingsing. Meja belajar yang tak pernah rapi, rak buku yang ditinggali berbagai macam buku; novel, buku puisi, buku pelajaran, buku latihan soal, tempat pensil yang berantakan, cahaya dari lampu meja belajar yang hampir rusak, serta mading yang tak pernah sepi dari berbagai kertas target dan to-do-list yang ditempel.

Kamar juga mata bagi segala perasaan; marah, kecewa, putus asa, sendu. Inilah tempat di mana sepi terpelihara dengan baik, yang anehnya, terasa menyenangkan dan bersahabat. Tenggelam dalam kesibukan sendiri, menulis seorang diri, membaca dengan latar musik indie, yang barangkali hanya satu dari sepuluh orang pernah mendengarnya. Ruangan persegi ini merupakan tempat di mana lagu The Trial of the Century – French Kicks diputar, selalu bergandengan dengan kekecewaan yang perlahan merekah di bilik dada. Tempat di mana Fall Harder – Skyler Spence diputar bertepatan dengan lamunan, ide-ide abstrak, membayangkan hal-hal manis yang misterius. She'll lose herself in bright-lit skies, she watches the sun go by, and even if her love runs dry, she'll be there for the summertime. Ialah sesuatu yang terasa cukup magis dan menyihir, bagaimana lagu tersebut selalu membawaku ke dalam lamunan dan gambaran yang muncul seketika di benak, lalu terbitlah ide-ide dan keinginan untuk membuat sesuatu.

Menulis.

Ruangan persegi ini adalah ruangan kecil yang paling setia menaungi ide-ideku yang seringkali tumpah-ruah tak tahu waktu dan tempat, yang kadang dapat direalisasikan menjadi sebuah karya, kadang juga hanya duduk diam tak mau bergerak di dalam kepala. Ialah ruangan persegi yang dengan sabar mendukungku untuk selalu bergerak mengikuti dinamika inspirasi yang datang, memberontak minta dikeluarkan dari kepala, memintaku untuk selalu menjadi produktif. Tentang menulis cerita singkat dan puisi (karena penulis hebat tidak pernah kehilangan inspirasi, menulis dan bermain dengan kata-kata, bercanda ria dengan rima adalah asupan hariannya layaknya menghirup oksigen). Membaca banyak buku dan terus belajar. Melepaskan tangisan dan emosi yang lelah dipenjara di dalam hati, membiarkan mereka menghujani kertas kosong dalam bentuk kata-kata yang bebas. Mengevaluasi diri, membuat target-target.

Membuat prakarya-prakarya sederhana. Menyanyi lepas dan menari mengikuti irama musik. Menjadikan musik indie sebagai latar musik yang membuat semua komponen di ruangan persegi ini menjadi lebih menyatu, saling melengkapi, menciptakan ide baru, lagi.
a e s t h e t e Oct 2015
Ross wept when Marcel went away
and hoped, in the midst of those tears
that their souls will, again, one day
intertwine and dance and play.

Aria stepped in the darkness
with her only company – grave fear.
Dominant is the dread and terror and distress
until Spence held her hands and said, “I’m here.”

Marcel found his way
back to Ross, nonetheless
and Aria’s fears went away
as she walked hand in hand with Spence.

As I roam around this Central Perk
“It’s not your fault,” said Phoebe Buffay.
As I remain to prowl and loiter and lurk
I forgot that I’m a cat, smelly and stray.*

I meow as I hear this song subsist
To Regina Phalange, I owe all these
She may be unaware she’d done these things
Just know I’m forever grateful you exist.
Happy 20th, I love you.

s.a.b.
Wednesday Mar 2014
Aaron Evans - Magic  
I love you, I really do
    
Alex Forte - ****
*******

Alex S - *****
I hate what you made me become

Andrew T -Beer
Do good in Rehab, dear

Austin Kearns - Lake Water
really?

Garrett A - Pretzels
Burn in Hell

Garrett F - Soy Sauce
I'm so sorry

Hunter G - Cigarettes
You still turn me on

Jason H - Bubblegum
I kissed you out of pity

Jeff C - Water
I'd still Hate *******

JJ S - Ciroc
What a regret

John Bradshaw - Football
How is Pennsylvania?

Johnny Bozeman II - Marlboro Reds
I just really ******* miss you

John Butler - Coffee
Don't ever touch me again

John G - Sugar
I'm sorry I ruined it

Julian R - Cherry Popsicles
Thank you for freeing me

Justin B - Cheap Wine
*******

Justin Haupt - Mint
I really enjoyed all the free *******

Katie Moorman - Red Lipstick
IloveyouImissyouI'msorry

Kyrstin Bruce - Grey Goose
I don't like kissing you

Mario Luppachino - Pool Water
I would've ****** you in my car that night

Michael H - Hash Brownies
Stay Away

Ryan T - Want
Kissing you made me *** in a school hallway

Rusty H - Need
I still wonder what became of you

Sam R - Mistakes
Heard you're a father now, congrats

Sean Ellis - Berry Hookah      
sigh
                  
Steven Spence - Gasoline
I'm a **** person and so are you

Taylor Vaughn - Sunset
Go back to your baby mama

Tim Hoback - Hangover at 7 am
You made me breakfast and gave me your pants

Trevor W - Candy
Time is a funny thing, huh?

Tyler Farris - Missed Connections
If I was a little prettier could I have been your baby?
I think there are a few more people, but I cannot remember them all. This is in alphabetical order. This is what they tasted like.
BJFWords May 2017
Margaret Murray, the one with the glasses.
The psychic, the mystic, her tarot card classes.
Told Sheila her mangoes​ were ready to eat.
Told Mary her cousin'd be back on his feet.

Beverley Spence was a sceptic, tough cookie.
In seeing her fortune snapped up by the ******.
Decided to tell her her ulcer would heal.
It's better than sharing with friends what was real.

Patty was eager to hear from her mother.
Jessie bereft at the loss of her brother.
Beatrice needed the skills of a healer.
For Margaret saw death and she would not reveal her -

True destiny seen in the cards at the clubby.
Preventing a scene with her hard drinking hubby.

£20 fortunes, no refunds, no worries.
There's no better tarot than Margaret Murray's.
Clubby is a social club in Scotland
****** is bookmaker.
I won't apologize
For standing my ground
For the first time all these years
I will say I'm sorry I expected more
That I assumed you would
Actually fight for me
We were suppose to marry
And we were suppose to hold
Little spence or serenity
Suppose to argue over
Santa and the tooth fairy
Somehow we lost it all
All that's left is the duffle bag
In what was our room
In the end
I missed you
Because you had checked out
6 months prior to leaving
Slowly we died
Our dreams melted away
And I stood in the puddle of it
You stopped calling me beautiful
Started insulting the way I dressed
You stopped kissing me
And got angry when I asked
You stopped making love
And wondered why I cried
You stared at the television
As you thrusted into me
Emotionaless
Did you love me then?
Do you now?
Because even though
I hate what happened
What we became
I still remember
The day we ditched school
With no money
And explored
And I was freezing
So you offered me your leather jacket
That was always too small for me
I remember kissing in snow
Rain
And sunshine
I remember the way you wanted me
The hunger in your eyes all consuming
I remember the way
You held me
The way you laughed
And dreamed of fatherhood
I remember us in love
And I wonder
How could something
We fought so long for
Suddenly not work
How could you hold me
That night
Only to wake up
And leave me
How could you leave me
When all my life
I have asked for you to stay.
777
just suppose;
a bit far fetched
Tumble **** on traverse spence
he came to me amidst a breeze
he sought me when I was down on my knees
he loved me unconditionally
nestled through the leaves

time well spent in thought
the tide comes in it also rises
further into the quantum pulse
the memory sullen with velvet leaves

the price he had to pay for all our yesterdays
chosen from off the vine
crafted in by his great design
he seeks us early he sought us when we were down

through every valley and stream
Satan would buffet
the trials would come
but by his word we are free

caress the silver embrace the gold
as waiting heart to implode
onto a different episode
lay up your silver forfeit your gold

lines to be drawn in the sand
the embrace tender of her hand
lavender dew fresh on the morning sod
togetherness

a tender ear to reflect
Jesus we must confess
we shall meet at the love fest
in God we trust

although nails in his hand
we shall understand
the masters ultimate plan
Broghan Sep 2020
A seemingly irreversible leak that cannot be plugged,
all of these experts that end up pulling the plug.
It gets darker and darker,
when even the deepest diver can not seem to conquer.
We top it up endlessly with no end in sight, all in the hope that one plug will bite.
People come from all over to figure it out, but not one of them knows what they are talking about.
Then one man spoke and it all made sense,
but it was all too late for that girl named Miss Spence.

When she was young she was bullied and abused,
So when a loving person came along,
She shut down and refused.
She got into drugs to help numb the pain,
Little did she know she would never be the same.
As the drug use got harder,
Her future became darker,
Only to end up,
6 feet under.
This type of thing happens far too often,
So next time you come in contact with someone,
Take a step back and show some compassion.
At the end of the day we have ourselves to blame,
Letting social media guide the way,
We judge too fast and type away,
Only to realise that person is the same but with a different name

— The End —