"spurn" poems
A confident man feels not a need to speak
on all things with which he does not agree
Though in the proper time and place
he is not afraid to assert his way
And though his words at times cause spurn,
he will admit when they are out of turn
Fearing not the inevitable mistake,
but rather owning it too late
Caring and feeling without hesitation
and not for reciprocal adulation
Emotions are expressed appropriately;
either subtlety or rationally
As honest with others as with himself;
recognizing what he does and doesn’t do well
Claiming to know what he does know
and asks when he don’t
Pursuing tasks for their benefit and or joy
rather than status or fleeting ploys
Those latter things are often great fun,
but worry of them yields none
While in his mind there is good thinking,
he is more occupied with good acting
In order to have concerns of the ideological,
requires labors that are practical
On his confidence, he does not ponder,
as neither he or anyone wonders
of whether he truly possesses it.
We know it.
Sep 19, 2018
Sep 19, 2018 at 6:25 PM UTC
Rodin: My love, I am on my knees facing your beautiful body. My mouth is drinking your fire. I ***** us in stone. We are indissoluble.
Camille: I am heaven and hell. I am goddess and fire. You are my chauvinistic art-boy concubine.
Rodin: My dear Camille, can you not see my love for you is rooted in passion not stone or clay or bronze? Can you not feel my tongue lapping at your feet?
Camille: Foolish man. My feet are broken. I walk over you on stumps.
Camille leaves for England. Rodin follows.
Camille: You are boring.
Rodin: My love, can you not see that I am in a depressed mood. Can you not see that your capriciousness plagues me?
Camille: I love another.
Rodin: How can you say these things to me? I give you my heart. I give you my soul. I give you my artistic genius!
Camille: You’re right. You are a genius.
Rodin: Shall I write us up a contract?
Camille: As long as you don’t touch me.
Camille and Rodin return to Paris separately.
Rodin: It has been written. I will mentor you, write you in newspapers, place you in museums, and find you buyers.
Camille: You will not love another? You will spurn all but my art?
Rodin: I will. And you will marry me in return.
Camille: …
Rodin: Is there something wrong, my love?
Camille: Can you not see I am being facetious?
Rodin: My dear, you are my flora and gaiety. You are my chisel and stone. You are my breath and lungs.
Camille: Learn how to breathe without me.
Camille exits. Rodin crumples at the feet of Eternelle Idole.
Rodin: What have I done wrong?
Camille re-enters, her hands caked in clay.
Camille: A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush.
Rodin: Shall I get the handcuffs?
Camille: No. The lion’s cage.
Strong tides and wet fuchsias. Camille enters the cage forever.
Mar 20, 2016
Mar 20, 2016 at 12:40 PM UTC
357
God is a distant—stately Lover—
Woos, as He states us—by His Son—
Verily, a Vicarious Courtship—
“Miles”, and “Priscilla”, were such an One—
But, lest the Soul—like fair “Priscilla”
Choose the Envoy—and spurn the Groom—
Vouches, with hyperbolic archness—
“Miles”, and “John Alden” were Synonym—
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285
The Robin’s my Criterion for Tune—
Because I grow—where Robins do—
But, were I Cuckoo born—
I’d swear by him—
The ode familiar—rules the Noon—
The Buttercup’s, my Whim for Bloom—
Because, we’re Orchard sprung—
But, were I Britain born,
I’d Daisies spurn—
None but the Nut—October fit—
Because, through dropping it,
The Seasons flit—I’m taught—
Without the Snow’s Tableau
Winter, were lie—to me—
Because I see—New Englandly—
The Queen, discerns like me—
Provincially—
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)
o ( ( (
O ) ( )
) ( o
( ( ( O
) o ) O ) o
( O ( o ( )
) o ) (
**make me a cauldron of a witch's
brew•let it bubble and boil...;
simmer and stew• allow the con-
coction to churn•feed it with raw an-
guish and spiteful spurn•whisper my wi-
shes into shady ingredients•scatter them in
to render it potent•stir it wild...with an iron
ladle with a wooden haft•raucous incanta-
tions of a long forgotten craft•...now give
me a vial of the witch's brew•let it
**** me or grant me the gifts
promised in lieu•**
Feb 21, 2015
Feb 21, 2015 at 8:22 AM UTC
It is not who you are,
but rather what you represent, to me,
which defines you.
You encapsulate a love for me,
which I will never know again,
all-defining, pain and fear filled love-
the one he took away.
In a manner, when I look upon you
I look upon him too.
The face of one who
tore my heart and threw it back
cemented in me all that I did lack
which he would then attack.
In a one sided battle,
the blows raining on me like tears,
adding years to my tender age.
You see he had tore the page of childhood,
leaving this book beyond recognition.
Looking back, perhaps I should have had a premonition,
Phil,
of what you were going to be to me.
But I did not want to see
that which would break
the tinted image which I owned of you
which I knew would remain
true
only to a point,
from which it would then be tarnished forever.
I so wanted you to love me back
and so agreed that I lacked
in all that you'd say,
come what may, I know that
I allowed you to control me.
It was not always so one sided.
You bided your time well, you know,
you timed it 'just so', so you
could be sure this final blow would hit.
A finishing spit in the exposed page of my future,
You turned,
you changed,
and the burning pain I felt within,
is possibly your only sin in
this endeavour.
As whatever you are I cannot
blame you for that
which is past.
No matter how long this pain will last-
possibly forever.
And I will prove myself again.
I will prove that I can still love and
be loved in return.
No matter how my heart may yearn,
I have no choice but to spurn those
who are like you.
A half life it may be,
but half full to me.
What you once seemed,
that which I never dreamed you would turn from.
That which, though I may long to,
I shall never see again
when I attempt to see anew.
Not even blindness could hide
all that is true.
Now all I can do is to
bow to the memory
in defeat.
I will never greet who you were again.
You will never eat your words,
you meant them then.
You still do.
The final blow is that;
I will never live up
to the girl you thought
you thought that you once knew.
You reap only the fake crops which
I attempted to sow
in desperation to be,
all that you thought once thought of me.
That girl is dead.
She lives only in my mind
and your heart.
Our paths were meant to be apart.
Sep 2, 2013
Sep 2, 2013 at 7:17 PM UTC
Living on borrowed time
Decision at drop of a hat
Down an empty vandalized street, I walk
through the horror of silence
and silence of serenity
perdurable pathway of life
The ghastly sights
and the rustling gates
scattered people with unknown tastes
emptiness in their eyes, anger in their words
void is profound
down the perdurable pathway of life
Bifurcated roads upfront
my perception, one to hell and one to heaven
the other end of roads, a mystery
I stood there comprehending, while
my mind harks back to before I came
down the perdurable pathway of life
Endurance of a toiler
Stoicism, a rare trait, out of gratitude to employer
pain and suffering he undergoes for common good
loyalty to his master, inspire of hardships
sincerity and humbleness of the bloke
will inspire me, down the perdurable pathway of life
Deprived of education
desolated on streets laboring
disparate from parental love, subject to father's fury
fractious relations but still ignores himself, for family and domicile
The kid's love and determination, will inspire me
down the perdurable pathway of life
Spurn love took her down
Her heart wrenched and pushed her beyond limits
killed herself, leaving her parents to sore reality
not a wise choice, but courageous
I ponder upon courage, rather than cowardly suicide
Death is not an option down the perdurable pathway of life
Happy faces around taunt me to do simplest
Reality speaks otherwise
Reckoning on past, the pathway is wrought
conscious and hard choices right ahead
The bifurcated roads to heaven and hell?
I've seen it all, down the perdurable pathway of life
Aug 2, 2012
Aug 2, 2012 at 4:52 AM UTC
1432
Spurn the temerity—
Rashness of Calvary—
Gay were Gethsemane
Knew we of Thee—
3.2k
I don't have pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanoconiosis.
I'll stay away from Yellowstone.
If one's asthmatic in the Eifel region
You don't pronounce the "P."
This won't **** me.
I don't have COPD.
Everyone coughs in blue smoke.
My throaty itch won't **** me.
I won't constrict and choke.
I don't have an infectious disease,
Despite my personality.
I run for shelter in acid rain.
I drink water with ice cubes,
And spray my green out back.
As much as I hate to, I avoid rusty nails.
*** is safe... and at a distance.
Despite being repeatedly told to,
I never eat ****
The great imitator
Is a snivelling mime.
If I'm bitten, I recognize the marks.
The erupting of the ring of fire won't **** me,
but perhaps I was precocious
To drop the "P" in
Pneumonoultramicroscopicscilicovolcanoconiosis.
I haven't succumb to animal flues,
I stay clear from the bars.
I donate to the SPCA,
Bet on ponies or the odds of SARS.
I don't have meningitis.
I like lights and loud music.
If I get the night sweats,
I turn down my electric blanket.
I haven't the minor or greater pox,
I spurn comparisons.
According to the scoop and scope,
I ascend and descent C free.
But the time spent on Referrals
Might be the death of me.
I don't have botulism.
My smile still concaves down.
Curling convex above it,
A condescending frown.
I'm not a *****
I feel every poke and like.
My digits number twenty...
Twenty one.
My glasses are smudge free.
If anything I see too well.
Alcoholism can't **** me.
Alcohol can.
I haven't cardio entropy,
But I'd be remiss
To dismiss
The wise counsel Oz gave me:
"Hearts can never be made practical until they can be made unbreakable."
So true.
So true!
Anyway, none of the above will get me.
But, I do have what you have.
The young and grown.
The able and ill.
A hand.
A sweeping hand.
A second hand
Setting those infectious nonogerms
Like diamonds
In my Time-x.
Mar 7, 2014
Mar 7, 2014 at 11:51 AM UTC
511
If you were coming in the Fall,
I’d brush the Summer by
With half a smile, and half a spurn,
As Housewives do, a Fly.
If I could see you in a year,
I’d wind the months in *****
And put them each in separate Drawers,
For fear the numbers fuse—
If only Centuries, delayed,
I’d count them on my Hand,
Subtracting, till my fingers dropped
Into Van Dieman’s Land.
If certain, when this life was out—
That yours and mine, should be
I’d toss it yonder, like a Rind,
And take Eternity—
But, now, uncertain of the length
Of this, that is between,
It goads me, like the Goblin Bee—
That will not state—its sting.
2.7k
Sweet girl! though only once we met,
That meeting I shall ne’er forget;
And though we ne’er may meet again,
Remembrance will thy form retain;
I would not say, “I love,” but still,
My senses struggle with my will:
In vain to drive thee from my breast,
My thoughts are more and more represt;
In vain I check the rising sighs,
Another to the last replies:
Perhaps, this is not love, but yet,
Our meeting I can ne’er forget.
What, though we never silence broke,
Our eyes a sweeter language spoke;
The tongue in flattering falsehood deals,
And tells a tale it never feels:
Deceit, the guilty lips impart,
And hush the mandates of the heart;
But soul’s interpreters, the eyes,
Spurn such restraint, and scorn disguise.
As thus our glances oft convers’d,
And all our bosoms felt rehears’d,
No spirit, from within, reprov’d us,
Say rather, “’twas the spirit mov’d us.”
Though, what they utter’d, I repress,
Yet I conceive thou’lt partly guess;
For as on thee, my memory ponders,
Perchance to me, thine also wanders.
This, for myself, at least, I’ll say,
Thy form appears through night, through day;
Awake, with it my fancy teems,
In sleep, it smiles in fleeting dreams;
The vision charms the hours away,
And bids me curse Aurora’s ray
For breaking slumbers of delight,
Which make me wish for endless night.
Since, oh! whate’er my future fate,
Shall joy or woe my steps await;
Tempted by love, by storms beset,
Thine image, I can ne’er forget.
Alas! again no more we meet,
No more our former looks repeat;
Then, let me breathe this parting prayer,
The dictate of my bosom’s care:
“May Heaven so guard my lovely quaker,
That anguish never can o’ertake her;
That peace and virtue ne’er forsake her,
But bliss be aye her heart’s partaker!
Oh! may the happy mortal, fated
To be, by dearest ties, related,
For her, each hour, new joys discover,
And lose the husband in the lover!
May that fair ***** never know
What ’tis to feel the restless woe,
Which stings the soul, with vain regret,
Of him, who never can forget!”
2.6k
616
I rose—because He sank—
I thought it would be opposite—
But when his power dropped—
My Soul grew straight.
I cheered my fainting Prince—
I sang firm—even—Chants—
I helped his Film—with Hymn—
And when the Dews drew off
That held his Forehead stiff—
I met him—
Balm to Balm—
I told him Best—must pass
Through this low Arch of Flesh—
No Casque so brave
It spurn the Grave—
I told him Worlds I knew
Where Emperors grew—
Who recollected us
If we were true—
And so with Thews of Hymn—
And Sinew from within—
And ways I knew not that I knew—till then—
I lifted Him—
2.5k
1699
To do a magnanimous thing
And take oneself by surprise
If oneself is not in the habit of him
Is precisely the finest of Joys—
Not to do a magnanimous thing
Notwithstanding it never be known
Notwithstanding it cost us existence once
Is Rapture herself spurn—
2.4k
Everyone is fighting a duel with life
Debating with it has its merits
We may arrive at a conclusion
To a point of agreement
Where we can live next to each other
With harmony and bonhomie
Life may tilt towards you
Or, away from you
But you are the pivot
To make it balance
Good wishes sail us through
Let’s us pass through tribulations
Challenges are softened
With the soft embrace of wishes
Family, friends and acquaintances
Spurn not anytime
When someone sends wishes
We cannot have enough
In our life
The best wishes of our well-wishers
Jan 1, 2015
Jan 1, 2015 at 1:09 AM UTC
Leaving Son’s Fatherless, Wives a ‘weeping,
Men must leave on quests for Honor’s keeping,
Galloping on to where so few return;
But who for love go on, t’is death they spurn.
A hope is all he leaves before he parts,
Hope of return, a lamp in swarthy hearts.
One, all, wields his strength for his home and land,
Battles can bring out more than just a man.
Wayward men, mother’s sons, lustily go,
Armor, their pride, hides the coward below.
They, forsaken, shall sleep entombed
For glory and its gold were heroes doomed.
If, when near death, the will never tires,
Man’s love is forged in unquenchable fires.
Jun 20, 2012
Jun 20, 2012 at 6:42 PM UTC
1506
Summer is shorter than any one—
Life is shorter than Summer—
Seventy Years is spent as quick
As an only Dollar—
Sorrow—now—is polite—and stays—
See how well we spurn him—
Equally to abhor Delight—
Equally retain him—
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1307
That short—potential stir
That each can make but once—
That Bustle so illustrious
’Tis almost Consequence—
Is the eclat of Death—
Oh, thou unknown Renown
That not a Beggar would accept
Had he the power to spurn—
2.3k
700
You’ve seen Balloons set—Haven’t You?
So stately they ascend—
It is as Swans—discarded You,
For Duties Diamond—
Their Liquid Feet go softly out
Upon a Sea of Blonde—
They spurn the Air, as t’were too mean
For Creatures so renowned—
Their Ribbons just beyond the eye—
They struggle—some—for Breath—
And yet the Crowd applaud, below—
They would not encore—Death—
The Gilded Creature strains—and spins—
Trips frantic in a Tree—
Tears open her imperial Veins—
And tumbles in the Sea—
The Crowd—retire with an Oath—
The Dust in Streets—go down—
And Clerks in Counting Rooms
Observe—”’Twas only a Balloon”—
2.2k
Glass divides
where the heart does not,
come inside,
sit beside me
in annex to this fledgling love,
spurn the sun,
in lieu of its warmth,
for the charm of
an intimate hideaway,
sweet somethings
I shall whisper into your ear,
until inner vibrations
have reached your core,
the view from here
speaks of gardens,
fountains, and holy ground,
I give them all to you
as trousseau,
so long as you agree
to dwell with me,
within a niche
of the imperishable lustre,
togetherness.
Dec 17, 2019
Dec 17, 2019 at 12:50 PM UTC
1555
I groped for him before I knew
With solemn nameless need
All other bounty sudden chaff
For this foreshadowed Food
Which others taste and spurn and sneer—
Though I within suppose
That consecrated it could be
The only Food that grows
2.1k
A repost:
A Roman poem written before The birth of Christ, inspired the title Gone With The wind
with Scarlett and Rhett Butler
But here you see only old
confessions of a man's true love for his beloved who is all gone
-Or-
(Or a woman's true love for
her beloved runner wishing she could have chased.)
~~~
CYNAR*A.
~~~~~
Last night yesternight, betwixt her lips and mine
There fell thy shadow, Cynara! Thy breath was shed
Upon my soul between the kisses and the wine;
And I was desolate and sick of an old passion,
Yea, I was desolate and bowed my head:
I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.
All night upon mine heart I felt her warm heart beat,
Night-long within mine arms in love and sleep she lay;
Surely the kisses of her bought red mouth were sweet;
But I was desolate and sick of an old passion,
When I awoke and found the dawn was grey:
I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.
I have forgot much, Cynara! Gone with the wind,
Flung roses, roses riotously with the throng,
Dancing, to put thy pale, lost lilies out of mind
But I was desolate and sick of an old passion,
Yea, all the time, because the dance was long:
I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.
I cried for madder music and for stronger wine,
But when the feast is finished and the lamps expire,
Then falls thy shadow, Cynara! The night is thine;
And I am desolate and sick of an old passion,
Yea, hungry for the lips of my desire:
I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.
~~~~~~~
By:Ernest Dowson
For:RhettlvScarlet.
to honor Karijinbba
in her great loss and healing
of her memory chip.
~~~~~~
Copy Rights.
~~~~
Ernest Dowson (1867-1900) died of alcoholism at the age of 32. His downward spiral began at age 23 when he fell for an 11 year old girl who would spurn him at 14 when he proposed marriage.
The following year, in 1894 his father died from an overdose. Dowson's mother
hanged herself within a year of her husband's death.
Soon after this dual tragedy Dowson left for France before returning back to England in 1897. Curiously he lived with the family of his unrequited love. Penniless, heartbroken and filling the empty voids in his life with alcohol, Dowson would spend the last six weeks of his life in the cottage of the Oscar Wilde biographer Robert Sherard who had found him
drunk in a bar.
Speaking of Oscar Wilde, he wrote after Dowson's death of a,"Poor wounded wonderful fellow that he was, a tragic reproduction of all tragic poetry, like a symbol, or a scene.
I hope bay leaves will be laid on his tomb and rue and myrtle too for he knew what true love
unrequieted love was."
~~~~~
Oct 22, 2018
Oct 22, 2018 at 12:44 AM UTC
The path is crooked, long and pained,
but brother wolf walk on
for if it's rained, return we not,
all we walk is vain
The path is crooked, long and pained
the rain obscures the trail,
the scent of prey's not in the air
soaked fur and hanging tail
your dripping eyes and looming gait
tell of your arduous walk
but brother wolf walk on, walk on,
walk on and we will talk
of romance and naivete and hearts that come undone
of moonlit night when flames we met, of sparks and summer suns
live wild and young and free and bold
listen well that you may hear
this hunt, it only passes once, as seasons **** the year
but lone we aren't though wolves we are
and loyalty lies between
these wolves whose pack is not of blood
but of a bond that bleeds
vision may obscure we by the foolish or the brave
by Russian waters, or by lights, from fool's fake flame's that blaze, by passions that we crave
but through it all and by the path when by the way exhaust
your brother stops in passing by and howls "not all is lost"
for today and through the night and through the future fair
be we brother's deathly strong and princes of the air
wolves with wings and sharpened claws and hardened hides to match
we one may fly and one may dive and one day have our catch
after all we walk this path through mazened woods and sky
and after all, and after all, we'll walk it til we die
disorder from an aerial view , the other's taken turns
that crooked lead and path diverge and do our purpose spurn
warn with a whistle, call and care, "that turn will harm our dream"
give advice and give it quick, revealing everything
where brother's blind his brother eyes see not what things seem
the turning trails and easy paths left open to our paws
the trails that take no pain to walk no effort, none at all
are oft the ones that easy take and lead our hearts astray
begin to kindle fickle flames that tomorrow die away
let not our hearts nor paws nor wings nor looks be knocked aside
but be we steady in the brotherhood and steady in our stride
steady in our dreams, and steady be in nights,
steady in our running, steady peering down from heights
the path is crooked, long and pained
but brother wolf, walk on
for if it's rained, return we not
all we walk is vain
so brother wolf, walk on . . .
Apr 10, 2012
Apr 10, 2012 at 3:14 PM UTC
swimming under lightning,
lighting our submergence flash allure:
smooth bodies, bright to glimpse and shadow-grin intent
collide and mingle folds of pleasure, firmly
bent to tangle, clasp and spurn the world above,
rely on one another's breath, stored for loving
long in bubbles gasping sweet melodics free
as with imagined merfolk passion-songs of lore, prescient
lapping dance of tidal fruits you loved before they came,
moonray columns stage us in our seashift wombs--again--
within a womb--like instant chrysalises blinking luminescent bursts
i am interred within the waves you ripple into me, blind
carnal pressures built from ancient shores become the sea again
the magnitude entrances on its own, that acrophobic thrill
celestial in our interthreaded eyes, open
to a color deeply in the dark of octopodal ink
a curtain phosphorescent armpit pulse,
caressing thumb and lip, billows, sways the dance anew,
to sonar drumbeat, pulmonary height
the spinal scream a surface ripple for the sky,
symphonic deep to barely whisper into air
Feb 17, 2013
Feb 17, 2013 at 9:06 AM UTC
The Night Draws Near,
An Age Of Endless Despair!
Our Toils Would Spurn,
Our Ocular Lids A Drowsy Lot!
The Moon Rekindle's A Shadowed Sky,
Birds Of The Air:
Owl Who Knows, Crane Who Talks,
And Fire-flies,
Their Lights They Shone!
The Night Draws Near,
The Drifting Cloud Spurns Sour Breeze;
Adrift The Lair Of Open Windows,
Caresses Men With Blissful Treats;
Where Milder Soothing's Would Her Morning's Loath!
Jan 12, 2014
Jan 12, 2014 at 8:09 PM UTC
Dawn, o Dawn
Sunlight that spills over a distant hill
Teasing the shadows of wheat and knell
Filling the cracks with a soulful lit
Expose the face, the shining face
The earth that shies from night
Expose the blindness of the earth
Just as blind in the light.
The fury that melts the dew away
Casts me long away from me
I stood outside, the weeping fields
Seeking the escape I need.
Futility, oh misery
It pulled me back, the seed
And forced embrace, to love the day
Despite spurn, implore, or plead.
The coming day, I hate the man
No friend of mine is he
Every day, oh, Dawn, oh Dawn
A disappointment to me.
Ev’ry step of Apollo’s path
Is paved with bitter tears
Each minute, forced to swallow
To see my failure’s leers
Each time the day begins anew
I’m forced into a darker world
One where pieces of the previous day
Are halved, split into
Shreds and shreds Oh, dear, oh, dear
You’d think spirit’d be all but dead
But what kills him more is not his thought
But what my eyes continue to see
When those eyes were drawn to me
The sun shows never was
It existed in the dark
Obscures like barley’s shadow does
And if, of course, it’s fantasy
A book intent with end
I’ll rip and claw the dawn away
And fiction I’ll defend
For if you’ll never grace my field
And reap the fruits that grow
I’ll just raze them, sky and all
The passion the earth will know.
A fictitious world, much more surreal
I love my own creation
The sunlight unveils the bitter truth
They are not food, but cremation.
If I could stop the coming dawn
If even for a moment
Darkness would bathe the far corners
Wasted lives atone it.
But that is bunk, the dawn knows that
Reality is taken in full
Who ever knew a crisp fall morn
Could be so utterly cruel?
Laying here, the sun moves on
Soon we’ll both be dead
To face the face, my misery
Confines me to this bed.
Nov 25, 2013
Nov 25, 2013 at 8:22 AM UTC