"sylphs" poems
How dull the wretch, whose philosophic mind
Disdains the pleasures of fantastic kind;
Whose prosy thoughts the joys of life exclude,
And wreck the solace of the poet's mood!
Young Zeno, practis'd in the Stoic's art,
Rejects the language of the glowing heart;
Dissolves sweet Nature to a mess of laws;
Condemns th' effect whilst looking for the cause;
Freezes poor Ovid in an iced review,
And sneers because his fables are untrue!
In search of hope the hopeful zealot goes,
But all the sadder tums, the more he knows!
Stay! Vandal sophist, whose deep lore would blast
The grateful legends of the storied past;
Whose tongue in censure flays th' embellish'd page,
And scorns the comforts of a dreary age:
Wouldst strip the foliage from the vital bough
Till all men grow as wisely dull as thou?
Happy the man whose fresh, untainted eye
Discerns a Pantheon in the spangled sky;
Finds sylphs and dryads in the waving trees,
And spies soft Notus in the southern breeze
For whom the stream a cheering carol sings,
While reedy music by the fountain rings;
To whom the waves a Nereid tale confide
Till friendly presence fills the rising tide.
Happy is he, who void of learning's woes,
Th' ethereal life of bodied Nature knows;
I scorn the sage that tells me it but seems,
And flout his gravity in sunlight dreams!
7.9k
The Mockery of Fairyland
In silence watching, as fellow, fallow fairies dance,
Sylphs float above while gnomes furrow,
Donating water brothers.
Undine.
Spiritual creatures, unseen.
Creation of nature from nature.
Mankind evading.
Those fairies will still catch your eye,
In form of genus butterfly.
God forbid you meet them.
Stumble on their fairy rings.
You should never ever tell a fairy your name.
For in fairyland you may remain.
For safety's sake.
While you're out walking in the woods.
Inside out, you must wear your shirt,
Wear a ring of of iron!
So you can breach the fairies curse.
For in seven year cycles.
Fairies must donate to hell.
A good soul,Tam Hin.
Because he tricked the fairy queen.
She had to set him free.
Ti's said.
As man folk mate.
Fairies do true procreate.
In a way akin to ours!
Hybrid fairies once existed.
They were such melancholy souls.
Far too sad to live in fairyland.
Too fairy like to live on earth!
Titania she still sits waiting patiently.
For her Oberon to arrive.
King and queen of fairyland, in literacy.
Supreme?
No Fallacy!
By ladylivvi1
May 24, 2013
May 24, 2013 at 4:56 AM UTC
To still the aching
from my ***** breaking
In each grisly leaf it wither, --
by the cage the heron tether --
I mistook the form of a mien of lady
in an oracle dream to fade he,
To fade -- to merely fade --
onto the winged-sylphs they grayed --
So, to deepen the burning spirit
lent it soar with a soul inherit
From the clasping
Cherubim heart in grasping --
Grasping despite
that heaven I respite, --
Respite the beaming of the orb
the angels may absorb
And decorum, of a single token
hung afar in the sky that's broken
So to be still in the evil,
binds only onto that mortal devil
In a sepulcher enraptured
as all my hopes within me captured
Within some dim Acheronian shore
in the depth sea the Acheronian store --
Store a most beautiful belle
I've ever kept in me ***** swell,
To palpitate my heart faster
into some unfortunate disaster
In keeping, the shadow of fire,
irradiating an ominous choir, --
A nightly lurking swan
whom the waking angels wan
Their fiery plumes parching
above the misted nimbus arching
The dim ray lighting down
from the heaven whom now frown, --
Yet, to still the aching
from my ***** breaking
For the most beautiful belle
I've ever felt me ***** swell
To be still in the evil
binds onto that mortal devil.
Dec 1, 2011
Dec 1, 2011 at 10:33 PM UTC
My poetry is thought unbridled.
It exists to exist and is simply nothing more.
I, the speaker rare, write thoughts when I dare,
before they, streaking by, are never to be reminisced.
The gods of my words strike as lightning, quick and strong,
leaving me stunned, thunderous resound within my mind,
but these titans of colossus thought are too strong to be snared and restrained
Then fate would have it, with grace they do appear but...
the sylphs are marred by the scars of these glyphs.
And so, I'm left with the mortal drabble,
the fragments of a various whole.
They exist as I exist and are simply nothing more.
Jan 24, 2012
Jan 24, 2012 at 8:41 AM UTC
falling asleep
under a soft blanket
of nightmares,
stitched together
by pale fairies
with black wings…
tuck me in
you sweet, skinny
sylphs…
you weavers of my screams
that only come
stitched in the seems
of these cold, twisted dreams
that you cover me with
Jun 11, 2013
Jun 11, 2013 at 3:53 PM UTC
I wish there was a magical ground
where centaurs would heal
and to protect the land
some giants to surround
Thestrals as a traveling mean
Golems to follow my command
sphinxes to fulfill my demand
some sylphs gatherings
and mermaids to fill the air
with their melodious voice
unicorns with their freedoms
to bring the brightness to this world
Dec 31, 2018
Dec 31, 2018 at 11:52 AM UTC
The w i l d one left the Eden of lies
For she was the painted women
The unapologetic creature of the night
She shackled the spirit
And tore it apart
No trips planned ahead
Nor any reason to return'
So the seed must grow
Regardless the fact that it was planted in stone'
She can hear it's melancholy - l o n g - withdrawing crack
Retreating,
to the breath'
Her first footstep touched a verdant hill
Outvieing all the buds in Flora's diadem
Above the ingrate world and human fears
She nests her abode with the ravens'
Dangling from the edge of skyscrapers
Responsive to sylphs, in the moon beamy air
Past each horizon of fine poesy;
And there; the willing slaves are milling
to and fro
In search of treasure' and gold
And the creation mythmakers float in fabled vessels
laughing and drinking
They seize, and cease and begins' again
And when they were all together
They almost killed each other
Fighting over rights and prides and control'
In the dwellings of this war-surrounded isle;
It's easy to be lethal
But not resting along abandoned at the shorelines
But she did-
She sighed out songs that filled the air'
Past each horizon of fine poesy;
Jan 24, 2018
Jan 24, 2018 at 2:51 AM UTC
In the heat of the afternoon,
I sat in silence on the shore
and listened to the lapping
waves come rapping at my door.
You said soon you'd be along,
surely nothing more than a day
but now the afternoon is sinking
and the dragonflies come out to say
"What keeps you distant dreaming?
Son, you should head out on your way."
Into a bowl I place the herbs
I've gathered on the hike:
mugwort, sage, peppermint,
and pine needles with their pollen.
I fill two cups, with some left over.
One for you, should you come along.
The second for the travelers,
with no other place to belong.
The rest I give back to the waters,
offered to the sprites and sylphs.
The valley'd lake is getting dark
and the sun hides behind the peaks.
I'm skipping stones across the waters,
watching ripples flux and cease.
And the moon casts gentle radiance,
a silken envelope of thought.
She guides my mind to contemplate
what is really going on:
I hope that you've been stalled
by a love more bold than me.
I hope it takes your hand and
shows you what I could never see.
If you're sitting home alone,
afraid of what may not ever be.
Imagine someone strumming slow
to your whirling symphony.
Aug 3, 2015
Aug 3, 2015 at 4:22 PM UTC
I like to imagine the sky above me, a canvas,
floating in the sea of the sylphs, and I,
a paintbrush, white and orange on blue, and green
when I steal from the fields and farms of unsuspecting families,
and red, too, like the dirt under unsuspecting families,
—like on the hill to the pond when I first met you,
a blank canvas colored the colors of the rainbow, like
your voice, your eyes, your dress of feathers, flowing,
a crayon of light on the asphalt of life,
dyeing, dying, the color of Orion's bow-hand
as he slings your legs, one meat crayon after another,
one color after another, and finally you, my most beautiful,
—and as you looked toward me with eyes of dusk,
I looked across from my triangular wings of summer,
and saw that the night sky is black,
just as the asphalt is but a grave for crayons of the rainbow
because too many humans are artists.
Jun 12, 2020
Jun 12, 2020 at 4:03 AM UTC