"stoics" poems
Underneath this myrtle shade,
On flowerly beds supinely laid,
With odorous oils my head o’erflowing,
And around it roses growing,
What should I do but drink away
The heat and troubles of the day?
In this more than kingly state
Love himself on me shall wait.
Fill to me, Love! nay, fill it up!
And mingled cast into the cup
Wit and mirth and noble fires,
Vigorous health and gay desires.
The wheel of life no less will stay
In a smooth than rugged way:
Since it equally doth flee,
Let the motion pleasant be.
Why do we precious ointments shower?—
Nobler wines why do we pour?—
Beauteous flowers why do we spread
Upon the monuments of the dead?
Nothing they but dust can show,
Or bones that hasten to be so.
Crown me with roses while I live,
Now your wines and ointments give:
After death I nothing crave,
Let me alive my pleasures have:
All are Stoics in the grave.
4.6k
A person who can endure pain or hardship
Without showing their feelings or complaining,
Yep
That is me,
Stiff upper lip and a face of stone,
I will not betray the pain inside,
But what no one seems to remember,
Not even the stoics themselves,
Is that not showing and not feeling
Are not the same,
Not the same at all,
And although my face and tone
Deny the truth
The fact is I ****** HURT!
My heart and my soul
Are curled in a bleeding
Ball in an obscure corner,
Out of sight of the world,
If only they were out of my ****** mind!
Jan 5, 2021
Jan 5, 2021 at 5:22 PM UTC
I **** on your grave for I have had too much to drink!
A glass 'o ginger beer and shrimp crackers I ate today.
Thou art not to fall! To tartuffery for a drink is as good as the last.
But alas, I am not to drink.
For my heart is heavy with woe.
Those stoics! They bring me much misery.
Oh the stoics, with their logically given truths that are naught but prejudice! Prejudice in truth they claim, liars.
Oh the stoics, with their ****** analogies of nature and so fourth.
To be! Like nature, is to be indifferent and prodigal.
That's probably why we love the intelligent uncaring character. He is nature.
She too! O' who's heart is full of love! She brings me roses and kisses upon my lips. She too, is nature. Stupid also, unbelievably crass.
Is crassness then, what we call nature? Then it is he! He! Who bring us our daily news who is unnatural. But then who is the preacher?
No, nature is to live. To live! Hah! A joke! To live is not a command for you cannot conceptualize living without living.
You'd do better as a pretty little scarab, but he doesn't drink ginger beer.
So too, our conclusion is to be natural. But not the scarab. To live, obviously. To be correct! by our own prejudice. And to reject divinely given truths. I do not know how I would feel about children of my own, we'll see when I have one.
Nov 9, 2016
Nov 9, 2016 at 5:21 AM UTC
hey God!
how ya doin' up there?
perhaps You are tired
and might use a chair?
to sit, relax and maybe think it over
you know, time flies and You are getting older...
You're Time itself
You are the Music and You are the Lyrics
I know: You are my inner self
I care not for stoics or for cynics
there are no sinners as there are no saints
we all but little misbehaving children
the Love bestowed on us from high above
is mirky Evil's deadly foe - the Lantern
I fear not what future holds
for all I know there is no future
if we go on like this - forlorn -
our selfish thoughts are Devil's fav'rite nurture
they said You don't exist
they said You're dead and buried
they kicked and crucified Your Son
their arrogance was their only merit
but You forgave 'em all -
knaves, foolish in their pride...
I thank You for the caring guidance
of those who do believe and those who don't
and if You're gone forever... well, good riddance
the image of my sword will haughty haters haunt
23.5.2012
Jun 17, 2012
Jun 17, 2012 at 8:16 AM UTC
knuckles ache
peel back the page:
Aurelius, Seneca, Epictetus
cluck the tongue
boys outside throw jabs
over a cracked
cricket bat
a father frets over
investments and client work,
simple things.
I read on
wondering how so many words
committed to tranquility
could be attributed to so many men
when women
trained stoics since the womb
would pen epics -
if only they were not plucking stones from rice.
Jun 11, 2020
Jun 11, 2020 at 10:17 AM UTC
these are but sagas for lovers and haters in love
who love to hate but are in hate with love
these poems
of couples who exist to exist
and to redefine Is
these are but stories for the sons of bleary eyed fathers
who tread the same threads across dilated garters
and heroic stoics be proud!
these are but fables of folly
and of transparent whim
of hunters’ beguilement
of huntresses’ ****
of mechanical males who practise old tricks
these are but tales of maidens and heads
of neverending aims nevertheless transfixed
these are but poems
of Envy and Trust
poems that unbe the unfair
for the sake of unlove
and while mechanical feelers probe seas of flesh dealers
and reels of film cast doubts of Enough
these are still
but poems of Trust
Nov 23, 2012
Nov 23, 2012 at 8:11 PM UTC
The loneliness of stoics
Rocks, ancient rivers
Streaming only through
Blue hills, shadowed banks
The shade that makes
All bare boys shiver
Beneath the leaves.
The lake glistens
Such golden boughs
Hanging overhead
Lanky limbs
Wrestling
Sharp elbows
Digging
Into ribs
Upon damp grass.
This was the time
Before women
Before black hair
Swung lightly over
Our shuddering shoulders
Before dark eyes
Consumed
Fiery tongues
Before we could imagine
Such soft perfumed skin
Existed
Only in dreams
Only in books
And then…our life.
Mar 5, 2015
Mar 5, 2015 at 9:27 PM UTC
“Lucratively tedious” is what I called him.
That odd-ball collector of street-wise poets
Bulking up the lost devil anthologies while
Drowning black coffee with wordsmith stoics
Ready to deal a winning hand
at a moment’s notice.
The carnal majesty of fever blizzard erotica,
Stories penned with the sweat on oily skins.
The curtains of neon phantasmagoria
showcase psychosexual fiends and harlequins
Sing away raw vocal cord fire while I’m
dancing with Queens of glamorous sins.
He had that red tail swinging in the rain
She watched, the emissary of jaded seduction
With pale skin and leather lips abundant
Stroking hair full of snakes and destruction
With a wardrobe fit for 1980s metal scenes
As he in turn supplemented instruction.
It’s those bedlam vices creeping through the creases
Playing in our heads like a thousand movie reels
Desired fantasies mutated into corrupted realities
Shameful like the artificial chemicals we call meals
Some things need to be ruined to be appreciated
Just Like ol’ Lucy in her stiletto heels.
Nov 16, 2014
Nov 16, 2014 at 3:13 AM UTC
1.
Once you've had it,
Once it's gone,
The true potency remains,
Stagnant,
Dormant,
Diluted in silent frames,
The thought of suicide,
Cold death,
Relinquish breath,
The archer's arrow steers to manifest.
2.
Lost for words,
Vocabulary gone,
The moon chants the wolf's song,
Beckoning the locked doors of the night,
Inside the fright,
inside the mind,
Locate the keys to a genius find,
Let's create new gardens,
Let's create new beliefs,
Let's storm the stoics,
Run naked through the streets,
**** on the values,
Invent the insane,
Torture and ridicule,
The ******* moralists who lay the blame.
Feb 25, 2010
Feb 25, 2010 at 4:38 PM UTC
We were supposed to be stoics
Standing tall and stiff as boards
Working hard till the shift is done
And don’t let anyone
See us weak
See the tremor when we speak
See the droplet form
See the weight of life
Shake us till we cry
We were supposed to be tough
But when friends die
When our children cry
When loved ones leave
We cannot always be
That ******* macho
A man could use a hug
A man could use a kind word
Sometimes we need a tissue
For each issue that makes you break
Takes a stake to your heart
Crushes us, crashing through to
The fragile being inside
The macho man can break
Just as easy as any mother
Baby brother, little sister, or other
After all we are only human
Sep 30, 2015
Sep 30, 2015 at 3:04 PM UTC
born contrary to common man
turned internal forevermore
no deviation from the stoics plan
each day is the same as before
no highs no lows ever shone
temperate consistent with mean
mind is numb body is drone
no hint joy has ever been seen
also no sadness just infinite plain
thoughts discussed only inside
no elation and yet no pain
nothing to show hence nothing to hide
surrounded by unaltering vision
sight is flat and color free
precise with no need of precision
only methodical rigidity
hope knows not of what to entreat
soul knows not of what to contain
already within no place to retreat
removed disconnected insane
Jul 25, 2010
Jul 25, 2010 at 2:58 PM UTC
Though the sage would never be transported with delight
He would still feel an abiding joy
In the presence of the true and only good
He would never indeed would be agitated by desire
But still he would be animated by wish
For that was directed only to the good
And though he would never feel fear
Still he would be actuated in danger by a proper caution
There was therefore something rational
Corresponding to three out of four primary passions
Against delight was to be set joy
Against grief there was nothing to be set
For that arose from the presence of ill
Which would rather never attach to the sage
Grief was the irrational conviction
That one ought to afflict oneself
Where there was no occasion for it
The ideal of the stoics was the unclouded serenity of socrates
Jan 24, 2015
Jan 24, 2015 at 3:52 PM UTC
The will to be somewhere, right when you feel you are at your most joyous moments, dissipates because you want to preserve your moments of comforts. The message is good, should get more messages. This coffee is nice, could use more cream. Taste is tantalizing, comfort works in tandem with fear. victim, silenced refugee living out his last days, whatever you want to call it, abstraction, necessity driving behaviors
behaviors fascinate me, probably because fears fascinate me. I am very interested in the relationship between passion and reason, I have a few ideas, and I wrote a paper called Halloween Logic, in which I explored the relationship, but to philosophize is **** its useless, but stoics do because their presence demands it. Take my word for it
Do you go to get a coffee because your body and mind craves coffee, or do you go to get coffee because you want to stay awake? do you go to get coffee because coffee tastes good? do you go to get coffee to relax in a cafe? Do you need coffee to read the news? Do you like it with cream? sugar? brown or regular? splenda?
Or do you get coffee because you are afraid of being uncomfortable. comfort fascinates me, because we are a culture obsessed with it, comfort comfort comfort, what does it truly mean to be comfortable? to have the right set of circumstances in a particular moment in order to get the most out of enjoyment? is comfort a habit, a function of the brain which we do not entirely understand?
To a philosopher, behaviors are driven by fear, I go to get the coffee because I am afraid of the consequences of not getting a coffee; I am afraid of being uncomfortable. because comfort is...everything...to a human, to a human who knows surplus, who knows taste, who believes one cup of espresso is better than a standard cup of black, taste drives the desire for comfort, and we behave to be more comfortable, and we behave because we are fearful of the consequences of not behaving
So would you like room for cream?
Feb 13, 2015
Feb 13, 2015 at 8:31 PM UTC
My shoulders are not even
One is larger than the other
I hope this is not obvious
Why this male body?
Seems strange
I am prisoner in this body
Not much fun
At least it is functioning body
Oh well
I learned from the Stoics
I have learned not to let this life bother me
We are only here for a brief time
I just want to be good person
And enjoy my fruit smoothies
Sep 30, 2014
Sep 30, 2014 at 5:47 PM UTC
The muse of poetry gazed into the eyes of Athena, Goddess of Wisdom,
Walking through the books for inspiration or simply to **** the time.
I found myself happily at ease knowing I had love in my heart,
Love among the words of dead poets and dead Roman Emperors who dared to dream of philosophy,
But it was thoughts of treason stirring beneath the planks which built the staircase,
Winding five stories up and you in your feminine near mythical beauty.
I spent a short time in the library where I thought back only a minute on Allen Ginsberg's infatuation with the human construct of language,
How I would yell my lung's capacity of air out and scream at the stoics for their wasting of their one chance at emotion.
Will it ever be helpful to better learn the placement of the Swiss Alps, mountain line of scars on every globe, when I'd rather trace the placement of your spine, holding you in place, keeping you sound in your structure...
Walk with me through the centuries of words.
Don't just lay above me wasting your day as I'm sitting here wasting mine,
Wasting money that neither of us have to spend.
What time do we have between here and England, to return all this art to London?
Morning Glory has come to nightlife Kentucky.
Calliope, you've matched my curiosity.
Aug 12, 2016
Aug 12, 2016 at 6:46 PM UTC
When poetry
Sowed its seed
The flow is free
To grow as a tree
But woe is me
If I don't see
The potency
Spoken openly
Some have the rhyme heroically
Yet only spit inside so stoically
Selfdoubt absorbed totally
Yet you know they'd be renowned notably
Jan 22, 2016
Jan 22, 2016 at 8:36 AM UTC
Full moon tides pull us tonight.
Our twins, sent away on a rocket ship.
We’re of an age now
where the winters grow longer,
the storms darker, the rains harder,
the summers shorter.
The academy is split—
the stoics, the skeptics,
the purists, the academics,
the existentialists—
what is and what isn’t.
While we wait for the day
crows fall from the sky;
but there’s one thing you can count on,
we’ll be clutching one another
beneath the rubble.
The fisherman’s wife sews his nets at night;
the whiskey sea, the gentle tide—
human driftwood floating home.
Remember the train we road to Salem;
we game up our seats
so the old women could sleep,
and we felt good.
Aug 15, 2015
Aug 15, 2015 at 8:22 PM UTC
Who will care for the strong
Who will be brave for the stoic
Who cries the tears for those who forsake them?
Notions of love are the nebulous apex where time ceases to exist
What has material value or when finite definition escapes possibility
Everything is nothing and nothing is everything
A cruel duality where what matters, does not matter
Metaphors of forevermore matter not to forever-now
A reckless abandon for fear
A zeal for fulfillment
Beauty in the essence of intimate connectivity
An aspiration of duty and honor beyond fear
A requiem for the strong of heart & mind
A sonnet for their valor
Where their souls exist few may know
Void of comparison, unequaled
Vows of rarity, fragile tapestries of threads that bind
None the less, more or less
Soliloquies of timeless persistence
Resounding macabre apparitions
Silhouettes of cascading stars
Forever a labyrinth abyss of solitude
Who will care for the strong
Who will be brave for the stoic
Who knows their frailty and loves…
Their heartache untold, never truly expressed
What more can you ask of them when they have and will give everything
What more can the somber stoics give…
What do they need, what have we given them?
Will you provide them tears, will you wipe their magnitude
Aug 31, 2016
Aug 31, 2016 at 11:54 PM UTC
**** me... what a long title...
anways...
i'm sitting on my windowsill, thinking: **** knows what...
then it starts raining...
i mean, its the springtime piss-down moment...
akin to an operatic crescendo!
i swear the nights were warmer in april...
anyway... i'm downing my third bottle of czech beer...
outstreching my hand to catch the raindrops...
looking at the sky, saying: bruised, like the colour
of plums... and i'm catching these raindrops
with my outstretched hand...
reminding myself regarding what i said...
ah... yes... sunny...
that's what english humour does to you,
you become satirical... or just plain obnoxious...
ridicule prone... yeah....
"sunny";
what a load of dangling ******** to muster,
akin to the bells of st. paul's, dangling with their
ding-dongs like uvulas in the ****** throat of man...
where's the choir of tonsils?
and third parties, regarding the said "utensil"?
it's ******* down, equivalent to an indian monsoon...
and all i can come up with it: oh look... it's "sunny".
ugh;
the english are certainly stoics...
with such miserable weather, in spring,
who can blame them, not being pessimists.
how else do "write" it?
oh, **** me, imagine existential books
written by the french, "borrowing" the spanish:
inverted question mark:
¿ego?
no, seriously, how to they speel.... spell it?
cheque? checkmate? just checking?
right, inverted commas... you need two?
so it's not a case of ditto?
chequers?
qua sirs?
checkers?
it's still a mystery to me...
it's ******* down, and it's late spring... and all i have
is the very english "optimism" of a one word answer:
sunny!
yep... that's how it goes around here...
it's raining... but all you end up saying:
oh look! it's sunny!
god, this is becoming really abysmal;
i'm starting to think that, slitting your own throat...
isn't really that much of a bad option... it's the only option.
then again, the heat oozing from a place like texas
or, nevada... i'd be mad enough to cut my testicles
off, and start bashing my head with them, from the heat.
May 19, 2017
May 19, 2017 at 2:44 PM UTC
gently she pushes
in that shy way
"everything you had
has been taken
today"
pain is absent
in this flow
somethings 'tis
just to be let
go
patiently the
touched rested
stoics to be
truly tested
holding dear
to abate fear
faith
that wreaths
return
on
Styxs tidal water.
Jul 1, 2016
Jul 1, 2016 at 1:28 PM UTC
A poet loves to question
love and praise the beauty of anguish,
he drinks the strength
of justice
like Mr. Hyde to Jekyll's buried famished
thirst
a poet needs hidden
Treasures true in the pond, the search,
the meanings, symbols and riddled
rambling - man of petals of roses
he angers at stoics
and weeps when he sees love between
enemies - finding peace
in rhetoric
the harmony of overwhelming feelings
he is privy to the silence, congealing, and understands
why and how
the ways of things, work,
the violence of truth, berths
moving revelations in compromising
and yet the importance of
where and when
the sun is surely rising
a poet may love to hurt at times
the moon waxes full and blue with brine,
but it is the passion a poet finds
when he stays true
The
Rhyme’s own journals /written
Days,
nights.
pain. songs.
sublime.
rain, love, or come shine.
deign to cry.
dream.
breathe.
die.
Dec 6, 2017
Dec 6, 2017 at 7:38 PM UTC