"stags" poems
All in green went my love riding
on a great horse of gold
into the silver dawn.
four lean hounds crouched low and smiling
the merry deer ran before.
Fleeter be they than dappled dreams
the swift sweet deer
the red rare deer.
Horn at hip went my love riding
riding the echo down
into the silver dawn.
four lean hounds crouched low and smiling
the level meadows ran before.
Softer be they than slippered sleep
the lean lithe deer
the fleet flown deer.
Four fleet does at a gold valley
the famished arrows sang before.
Bow at belt went my love riding
riding the mountain down into the silver dawn.
four lean hounds crouched low and smiling
the sheer peaks ran before.
Paler be they than daunting death
the sleek slim deer
the tall tense deer.
Four tall stags at a green mountain
the lucky hunter sang before.
All in green went my love riding
on a great horse of gold
into the silver dawn.
four lean hounds crouched low and smiling
my heart fell dead before.
32.5k
XXVII. TO ARTEMIS (22 lines)
(ll. 1-20) I sing of Artemis, whose shafts are of gold, who
cheers on the hounds, the pure maiden, shooter of stags, who
delights in archery, own sister to Apollo with the golden sword.
Over the shadowy hills and windy peaks she draws her golden bow,
rejoicing in the chase, and sends out grievous shafts. The tops
of the high mountains tremble and the tangled wood echoes
awesomely with the outcry of beasts: earthquakes and the sea also
where fishes shoal. But the goddess with a bold heart turns
every way destroying the race of wild beasts: and when she is
satisfied and has cheered her heart, this huntress who delights
in arrows slackens her supple bow and goes to the great house of
her dear brother Phoebus Apollo, to the rich land of Delphi,
there to order the lovely dance of the Muses and Graces. There
she hangs up her curved bow and her arrows, and heads and leads
the dances, gracefully arrayed, while all they utter their
heavenly voice, singing how neat-ankled Leto bare children
supreme among the immortals both in thought and in deed.
(ll. 21-22) Hail to you, children of Zeus and rich-haired Leto!
And now I will remember you and another song also.
21.3k
Little Birds are dining
Warily and well,
Hid in mossy cell:
Hid, I say, by waiters
Gorgeous in their gaiters -
I've a Tale to tell.
Little Birds are feeding
Justices with jam,
Rich in frizzled ham:
Rich, I say, in oysters
Haunting shady cloisters -
That is what I am.
Little Birds are teaching
Tigresses to smile,
Innocent of guile:
Smile, I say, not smirkle -
Mouth a semicircle,
That's the proper style!
Little Birds are sleeping
All among the pins,
Where the loser wins:
Where, I say, he sneezes
When and how he pleases -
So the Tale begins.
Little Birds are writing
Interesting books,
To be read by cooks:
Read, I say, not roasted -
Letterpress, when toasted,
Loses its good looks.
Little Birds are playing
Bagpipes on the shore,
Where the tourists snore:
"Thanks!" they cry. "'Tis thrilling!
Take, oh take this shilling!
Let us have no more!"
Little Birds are bathing
Crocodiles in cream,
Like a happy dream:
Like, but not so lasting -
Crocodiles, when fasting,
Are not all they seem!
Little Birds are choking
Baronets with bun,
Taught to fire a gun:
Taught, I say, to splinter
Salmon in the winter -
Merely for the fun.
Little Birds are hiding
Crimes in carpet-bags,
Blessed by happy stags:
Blessed, I say, though beaten -
Since our friends are eaten
When the memory flags.
Little Birds are tasting
Gratitude and gold,
Pale with sudden cold:
Pale, I say, and wrinkled -
When the bells have tinkled,
And the Tale is told.
14k
Being lonely
He beats the gong again
The guard of kabiya.
* kabiya: cabin in which kabi (fire to frighten noxious animals like stags and wild boars) is made in autumn.
6.2k
As the Thunderbolt God Jupiter
Saturn’s brother
Pursued his loves in disguise
The Goddess Hera sat upon her throne
Irritated and plotting
Gazing with angry jealous eyes
Oh, courageous intelligent Athena
****** Goddess of the hunt
Dare the foolish to cast eyes upon her unclothed
Under the sentence of a tortuous death
Its said by many she was not birthed
But sprang surprisingly from her father’s head
The lovely Aphrodite
Would melt the hearts of many a man
Who would offer up their life
For but a faint touch of her hand
The Light God Apollo admirer of the word, reciting poetry
Pluck the gold lyres delicate strings
While the sea god Poseidon’s twelve daughters
Mermaids
Dressed in dripping seaweed began to sing
Ares of the bold god of war
Feared conqueror and great warrior
Planted flowers
As was his custom in the spring
Artemis in fervent haste strung her magical bow
For it was pursuit that stirred her blood
It flowed through her veins
Aged Roman wine
Running stags through shadowy woods
The gods of the Kings
The Gods of the people
To whom many sacrifices were made
Lived thousands of years beyond the lifespan of man
So, say the storytellers of olden times and past days
All right Reserved. Tammy M. Darby. Jan. 31, 2019
All Material Stored in Author Base
Jan 31, 2019
Jan 31, 2019 at 9:08 PM UTC
You mumblers and raspers
Of resp'rat'ry rattle:
Open your throats!
Forsake ye! the gaspers,
You quoters of cattle
And prattle of goats!
Or lay ye with horses
Whose tongue ne'er divorces
Those ivory choppers,
Those sibilant stoppers;
You lispers: beware,
Whether stallion or mare,
While you nibble your oats!
Stop your speech-stumbling!
Go suckle an udder
You dizzy, damp calfs!
Restrain your talk-tumbling,
And swallow your stutter
Nor utter foul laughs!
You outspoken nags
Mimic bolt-broken stags
As you bleed allegations
Down paths of my patience
And clatter your antlers;
What heavy-hoofed ranters
For no one's behalf!
Apr 1, 2014
Apr 1, 2014 at 5:06 PM UTC
streams of salt and H2O leak
down reddened cheeks and condense
in a golden beard. a war-torn nation,
half-a-world-away, crystallizes clear as dayspring
in an insomniac's screaming and fragile psyche
at half-past-three in the morning.
what strength must a seven-year-old posses
to persevere amidst the perversity of cluster bombs?
munitions bought and paid for with the taxes
we fork over to the United States. will her blood one day
stain our hands with crimson? will her mother's?
a girl who just wanted to read, to escape
the tragedy that inundates our surroundings,
to a magical realm of pure imagination.
where we can summon spectral stags
to save us from the misery of humanity
and learn to disarm those who would harm
us with the charm, Expelliarmus!
the bastion where i found the first seeds that grew
into a rebellion opens its doors to you, Bana.
there's a crater where your house used to be,
rubble strewn in Aleppo, Syria. but know that Hogwarts
will always be there to welcome you home.
Nov 30, 2016
Nov 30, 2016 at 4:05 AM UTC
I chased the first rays
of an autumn morning
but to my sorrow
when I arrived at
the urgent place
the sun had
already
risen
breathing a
crowning glory of a
seasons brilliant
splendor
alighting
the glowing amber
of golden woods
shining like gleaming
constellations of
dazzling morning
stars...
though I
desired to find
ascendent beauty
the ubiquitous glow of
transfigured leaves
immersed me in
a divine chrome...
as I traversed
the woods, my
solitary steps found
companionship
with a sullen
mistress singing
a sad rustle
of dry fallen leaves
and as the drone
of cars faded from the
receding road
I searched myself
for courage and
found resolve
I pondered truth
and discovered
the wisdom
of resolution...
yearning to
realize a
deeper faith
I hiked
further up
the wooded hill,
visiting the gay
playfields
of my youth
and received
an epiphany
of wholesome
closure
opening
new
timeless
doors...
still questing
for more light
a prophetic wren
whirred a pliant
secret into my ear
she bespoke
a symphony
of avian
improvisations
conversing in
a thousand
luminous tongues,
relating a sonorous
elegy teaming with
the brightest
joys of life
raising bold
proclamations
celebrating a
seasons radiance
imploring me
to join the chorus...
though the canopy
of the woods still
boasted boughs
of green
the
infant hues
of spring had
run its course
the glory of an
expiring season
strewn on the
forest floor
covering the
mouldering stags
inching back into
the compost of life
breeding blankets
of furry moss
feeding on the
primal organica
of seemingly
expired flora
here, in this
darkened moment
I realized
the transcendent
miracle
the loam of life
incubating
churning
in concert with
the turn of
seasons...
to my sorrow
I missed the first
rays of the morning
the first
peeks of light
a breaking day
gracefully bespeaks
upon a sleeping earth
awoken in new light
yet I am filled
I am transcendent
I am the first ray
of an eternal light
I am the first ray
of my earthen
gloaming...
on the morrow
the best of me
is in the marrow
of all who loved me
and all whom I loved
these rays of me
will forever rise
in an eternity
of dawnings
For Joey
Godspeed Beloved
Vaughan Williams:
Lark Ascending
Oakland
101313
jbm
Oct 14, 2013
Oct 14, 2013 at 12:13 AM UTC
Sailing through purple skies unhindered
And breathe crystal snowflake frosted air
Floated past the mysterious Weeping Mountains
And yellow forests called Warlocks Fair
Trembling
Wandered the underworld
Drunk with false courage from Cretan wine
Leapt bravely from star to star
Journeyed through red starred scattered galaxies
Witnessing the birth and death of time
The finality of the forever feared tolling
The ringing of deaths solemn bell
Conjured this was in my mind quite carefully
For I am she who tells the tale
Commanding the heavens and the earth with my pen
To me the four winds bow low and kneel
The water robed river nymphs pirouette
Wild horned stags vault high to my music
You must admit the scene quite captivating and surreal
The moon kiss my cheek with shy affection
Apollo grace me with a sunburst arrow of gold
Syrian lotus seed the door to the universe
Held tightly in small clutching hands
Where lies stories soon to be told
She who tells the tale
Sprung from blood of ancient lands
Portraying in ink and script
The dark images of man.
@ Copyright Tammy M. Darby Dec. 12, 2018.
Dec 10, 2018
Dec 10, 2018 at 9:07 PM UTC
Our father liked to play a game.
He would count each hawk
preying, circling above veiny tree lines
graying like shadows of industry.
There’s a redtail, he would say, look
at its proud chest and talons of mastery. Our
eyes searched for the creature, noses
pressed to cool glass and 65MPH speed.
Sometimes we’d catch the bird with two eyes, one eye
or none. Meanwhile, our father never took his eyes
off the road, fixed on painted yellow lines stretching
to heartlands down New York’s I-90 West.
With age my eyes became engaged, detecting
the slightest movement peripherally. Rods
in retinas distinguished plump plumes from leaflet
tufts, razor beaks from thorny stags, white breast from
billowing plastic bags. My sideways scan
of leafy fringe is an artifact of habit
when traveling down state roads of this infra-structured
nation. I search for evidence of its natural relation,
beyond all that is manufactured by the jelly-
spine of convenience, beyond wheels spinning
at deafening speed, beyond the grubby hands of greed.
Still, our connection to place is still here and Earthly,
coexisting in delicacy, like the hawk’s nested-blend
of twig and trash. I trust there is a chance for us yet,
despite cloudy puddles of progress, despite integrity
lost in capital gain, despite a forgotten native name.
Feb 23, 2013
Feb 23, 2013 at 4:44 PM UTC
I had forgotten the way to the hut that I had traveled to so many times,
so many days. So many moons, I would say. But no one marks moons anymore, except hunters. And I am not one of them. Nor a gatherer.
I listen to old men tell how they felled the stags. I do not believe them.
I am a wayfarer, to use the archaic words I used to love, the words
I had forgotten, the words of time in eternity, the words of orange leaves
on towering pin oaks, the words of circles of shadows settling on Gavarnie, of snowfall in the Pyrénées. Sever Spain from the Continent.
I had lost the language of the ***** spray-painted sheep scampering
over gray-bouldered cirques on mountaintops, boulders turning into mountains in the shadows, in the fog, in drifts of snow. There are no words for this now. Bleating sheep drown them out, and yapping dogs.
There are no words for the radiance of transcendence. “Climb higher,”
I hear them say. Higher into the haze of clouds. Cirque: circle, circus. Acrobatics on hillsides, balancing acts on rockslides, skimming streams in hard-toed boots. I had forgotten the way to the words, far behind me.
I have come to a gate, a steep stile in shadow. No sheep can pass. Nothing looks familiar; nothing looks strange. I saunter in a cloud
of unknowing. I had known the words: worn, smooth as stone unscuffed by hard-toed boots, slick as snowmelt. Slide from France into Spain.
This is the path of Santiago de Compostela, the route of St. James, who said, “Do not be double-minded, brethren.” I cannot remember if I have been double-minded in my travels. I had forgotten the way. If the words do not come, which mind sees the threshold; which mind circles the fog?
What passes, what begins when we travel? I do not look backward.
The way lies ahead, waiting, wandering away from the words. Splotches
of lichen sprout orange and green. “Go no higher for safety.” No higher.
They do not mention exile or ecstasy or the straight path of radiance.
The cirque circles my words in mountain shadows. I must unlearn
the art of travel, adrift in broken fields of stone. I had forgotten the way to the hut. Rocks obscure the path. Light ensures the path leads upward. Nothing is lost. Words hold their weight. Stags dance above me in fog.
Aug 14, 2018
Aug 14, 2018 at 3:19 PM UTC
Once I dreamt
The sky was blue and deep
And dragonflies circle
I saw you lie back on a
Green patch of grass
I mean/ there was so much light about you
a circle around you of unbroken golden light
Your features were hand drawn
Shadows vignette And the sun looked +
On your skin
Laughter
Thick white clouds of your laughter
Leak from the sides of your lips
You clap your hands along with the thunder
Imitating the lightning upon my heart
Leap
words of fire burnt into my skin
You stand in the middle of the river
7
Stags drink from your eyes
Lighting bugs and bees circle your marble fingertips
……………………………………………………………………………..............
I invite you to the garden
To see the statues
Swallowed by grasping hands of ivy that glow golden in the morning dew
Ask me to carry your sorrow.
Mingle blood with me beneath the full moon
The Golden circlet of your soul
The ecstasy of birdsong at first kiss
We dream as one
She and I
Suns and moons twist about us
The stars gentle culling us to join
In dance and song
We dream as one she and I
The sun
The River
The Grass
The Sky
Our son she holds upon her hip
A sweet song falling
From her lips
Summer June
A garden swing
My heart soars
On golden wing
‘Til autumn sigh
We dream as one she and I
Mar 9, 2013
Mar 9, 2013 at 11:28 AM UTC
Kinesiology is the new brain surgery
Preferential treatment
A Martyr for your sugar gene
Cat fights
Bud lights
Hookups and straightened hair
This is the new Jesus
Wouldn't you know
It's the jocks and the nerds again
Over and over until
you've lost all your friends
To a horrible incident
where you decided to be free
This is why you will always
Be better than me
Projectile *****
Thesis on emesis
I am so green
I am peridot and coriander
Caring about what they think
Watching all the popular shows
Does and stags
Waving flags
Pre-packaged beliefs
Artificial older sister
Looking down your nose
You are so humble
You are so polite
It's the other person's fault
When you get in a fight
But most of all
You aren't racist
You aren't racist
There's no way you're a racist
Mar 29, 2012
Mar 29, 2012 at 4:34 PM UTC
*what a love you speak of in sonnet
and in the battle of the Somme!
no wonder Shakespeare is disputed!
only among actor and not poet the two should care.*
free floating lizard akin to the pickle
serpent worth of spine,
she's there, attired in the sun, a biblical
woman hardly a name worth remembering,
why? because she's all *****
and you're all... well... ending up laughing
long after the F.A. cup result is in
and she's lost her daydream...
ooh... 2 nil... i too was into the Faroe Islands
rather than into Craggy Island of: *'drink! drink!
dingy Titanic twin tuck 'n' sunk lucky bet!*
no, really, i was reading an article and started
to laugh... some ***** with a Stephen Hawking
jpeg., i goo my hashish high with porridge...
she said Ibiza was fine with hens but not stags...
she mentions shaggy **** with dispensation
& carrier pigeons of philanthropy or abuse that
fostering advice involves... well, cheap jokes
elsewhere, crucifix over here? what fun to suit
comedy!
NONMONOGAMOUS... ? hey! why not try
a zygote relationship! if trans or bi or hetero
or **** doesn't work? all men around seem
to say the same: i'm not ready for this arson of talk
with a woman tongue replacing both bullet and rifle,
tank, cannon and an arab ******* on holiday...
give me extinction... i'd listen to the lizard man
that hear of mammalian love, that's as much cold
blood with the lizards as i had to learn with keeping
things i worked for being jealous:
it seems it was easier to keep a thief that way than a dog.
May 21, 2016
May 21, 2016 at 9:06 PM UTC
THE BEST DAY OF MY LIFE.
The best day of my life,
the day my son he took a wife.
The bride,
she wore ivory and lace,
there were no elephants involved.
As she brimmed with natural beauty.
She was shining like a holy diamond.
My daughter's they were beautiful creatures,
dressed in pink, as goddesses came,
Goddess bridesmaids.
My son developed a tail for the day,
it was attached to his jacket.
He wore no hat,
for,
it would have spoiled his hair.
The registrar spoke tales of legends
of wedding rings and other things,
My goodness what a day we had.
As she pronounced them man and wife,
God willing, for eternal life.
The bridegroom,
In his speech,
he spoke of family values,
and then we had a laugh,
with tales of swapping shoes with homeless chaps,
in the land of regency.
upon his night of stags and bucks.
The best man,
well, he obviously delved deep into Mark's little black book.
We had fountains full of chocolate,
with strawberries and fudge,
we had roast beef and Yorkshire pud,
Goodness me,
it was so good.
A great big day was had by all,
The music played we had a ball.
Congratulations to you both.
(C) Livvi
Aug 24, 2014
Aug 24, 2014 at 9:57 AM UTC
cold today
wind from the North
sit by the fire
read a bit
then fix the door
dog walk, pull my coat tighter
carry a notebook
pretend I'm a writer
stare at the wall
the wall of the cave at Lascaux
Swimming Stags
see what the cave man saw
Dec 2, 2015
Dec 2, 2015 at 1:01 PM UTC
My foggy breath crawls up the inside of my throat
And lunges past my teeth
With a happy turbulence.
Spreading over the crest of the hill,
It graces the treeline with joy
And disappears deep into the forest.
Stags wander through it's remains,
In an absolute nobility
And earthly humility,
As they catch the sound of icy grass beneath my boots
Bounding far, like children who
Imagine creepy-crawlers biting at their feet.
My appearance scatters the sleepy branches
Of somber firs,
And new-born scotch;
Leaving them to dance and flirt
With the timeless frost, suspended in air
Lifted and churned by my foggy breath.
Resting against the mossy logs
Just beyond the treeline,
I watch brittle flakes fall
And blanket a gently robust field with crystal
That comes to a final rest and conclusion.
My day has gone to waste.
Aug 15, 2014
Aug 15, 2014 at 12:22 AM UTC
Under dusty cushions on a couch,
She keeps none but a lighter;
Lingers avid flash in dusk
And a smiley ray of photons
On her slender arms.
Under drops of southern after-rainbow arcs,
Upper limbs resemble straws
Posed between the lamp and me.
Stags of pure and yellow rows
Brush their antlers on my lids;
Draw a slit between her lips.
May 13, 2017
May 13, 2017 at 3:07 PM UTC
In a clearing in the woods, two brothers fight.
They ram each other, wrestle with their pointed crowns.
The winner gains the power and the right
To rule their father's ancient, sylvan grounds
And will have the favor of the fairest doe.
So they lock their antlers, tearing from the start.
The loser has to face the snows alone.
A solitary creature is the hart.
But come the winter, brothers lose their crowns
And in the spring the hope for better years abounds.
Nov 6, 2011
Nov 6, 2011 at 9:28 PM UTC
I sit upon the rock of silent ages clothed with robes of scarlet white. There are golden salamanders that play at my feet while I place my true hearts intent before my master.
I have seen the bowl of reverberation where the follower’s immersed their self in the tone amplified and purified by the oneness of water.
While deep in the scarlet satin there are offerings for food and drink as well as prayer placed before the master’s feet.
Inside the rings of antiquity of a stags skill and grace was found a flower blooming as an angel’s face. Beauties abounding within wildlife and nature as the butterflies mark the spot of the song of the earthly point of entry deep in our virtues unseen.
Nov 13, 2010
Nov 13, 2010 at 4:06 AM UTC
Typically British, rather insane.
English men do walk on water.
Ha ha, jolly hockey sticks, snooty noses up in the air.
A game of jolly cricket, in the middle of the sea.
Just an annual event; as tide resides and holds up a bank.
Supporting stumps and a scoreboard.
The water got scared and bailed out.
A gang of weird cricketers stroll across the Solent.
In between the smiling waves.
A quick match indeed, for after the sea recedes, the tide creeps in, the pitch is gone.
Jolly funny posh folk, trot home for a scone and a bubbly fizz as stags and hens, they head off to the shore.
In their cruisers of pleasure, hey ** off they go!
As when the tide is in they cannot walk on water.
To hold posh debate on the final score.
To muse of experience just left at sea.
Guess no groundsman needed and pitch never weeded.
(c) Livvi
Mar 23, 2014
Mar 23, 2014 at 1:05 PM UTC
The west rests alone at moments of rise,
while holeproof hosiery and midnight rhymes
were built in these momentous afternoons.
we won’t look to the west when the sun comes to rise,
instead we’ll stand staring at white lined horizons,
with hands and breath held
as if this moment would transcend time,
leaving us there, on the roof top, forever.
And all too often
In the dark we’ll dance
too blinded by
pollution of light
to notice
the stags in the corner.
No one ever looks to the west during a sunrise.
We won’t look to the west when the city stirs,
no, not when the dust rolls in
covering our lives like
Father Hooper’s veil;
separation from the world,
but drawing closer to its ways and evils.
We’ll talk about change,
hopes
and dreams,
And feed our kids the same ****
they’ll know right from wrong,
but no one looks west when the city stirs.
We won’t look to the west ‘til the sun fades,
And all existence is demanded its notice.
Our cities in darkened silence
forgotten, as brilliant
flashes of red fill the sky.
These aren’t the songs
for future generations
To sing, or sing about.
These are songs that begin,
the time we turn to the west to watch the sun fade.
Nov 4, 2011
Nov 4, 2011 at 5:28 PM UTC
and everyone I know.
what air-conditioned heart is this
here where mothers meet and ports sing crusted sugarsongs
where I remember the synthesized forget-me-nots kissed by lemons
in chemical yellow
and blasphemous portraits seem to cry
with tears light as baby's breath against the heavy frescos
in the matchstick cathedrals lined with crumbling gouda
and bitter wine?
stags wear ruined antlers and crown the hillside
above the gilded city as it slides into the sea
to the echo of violins in a sprightly sigh
and then your laugh
(plaster-of-Paris is as beautiful as blood diamonds)
Jun 15, 2014
Jun 15, 2014 at 3:26 PM UTC
I wade in milky bathwater of half-truths and falsities
until my fingers prune with spite toward the pale truth:
It's not me, it's you.
I'd like a thousand stags to trample on your vanity, crushing every ounce of you to dust.
I anticipate the anguish, sweeter than the vanilla-whites of your ugly eyes.
To say I thrive on your unhappiness is cold, but you're so pretty when you cry.
Oct 12, 2011
Oct 12, 2011 at 2:21 PM UTC
The day we rolled together-
Rolled and rolled down the alley,
Bended the vertical bushes horizontal,
Our laughter echoed up to the sun,
We baked our souls flesh in hot and warmth,
Whistling together and bruising each other,
With our passion filled ignited feelings,
When the stags turned back to our privacy,
Has come to an end-
With the sun setting off the wounded bushes,
Without returning the glory offered by us,
And absorbing our pleasures for its radiance,
That will dissipate the heat next day,
Exposing our bare protrusions uncontrolled,
For another few hours burning,
Like a corpse turning into ashes,
Where a rickety dog wears soot in abundance.
Oct 13, 2010
Oct 13, 2010 at 2:05 AM UTC