Trunkless poems on Hello Poetry

Percy Bysshe Shelley

I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: “Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert… Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed:
And on the pedestal these words appear:
‘My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!’
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.”

Jedd Ong Mar 2016

Iron Giant

"Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.”
-Ozymandias

I.
O wait for us, Colossus

as we wait - and throw you
to earth: from heaven’s gates judge you
unworthy - to hades’ lands assign,
where your iron limbs make mincemeat out
of anguished homes - by tyrants
you were thrown but floated aimless past

the drifting realms where once lay hell,
and fired you your rocket boosters - apollo’s gift

blinding still your eyes -

II.
next, awake: the visage of the Child
in your face - languishing, affronted:
two vast and trunkless legs of iron glare, only to grow
rigid still - slumping at His feet: with heart-engine smoking,

eyes hollowed-black,
lying in slumber with giant's knees bent,
in grasslands rest and where hearkens the plain - He cries out:
’tis you!

though dwarf, He is - he kneads your iron
by grass, and your wounded legs the earth
now christens, snd blesses still your sleep.

III.
He moves forth with grass blades and twigs,
crown you a nest; and bear stones unrolled to where

your feet first kisses ground.

-2.17.16

An attempt at "sketching" a cartoon. Originally a photo piece.

Sally A Bayan Mar 2023

Awakenings

It’s Springtime.
The hours, the days pass quicker,
especially to folks already in their
late seventies, or eighties…
a cool breeze blowing easily brings
back good times, bringing smiles
to their wrinkled faces...to some,
rage and sorrow are resurrected,
recalling, how they lost loved ones,
all that they've had, through ways
unlawful, how they pined for truth,
justice, and freedom...time is too
slow for for them...some choose
to forget, but couldn't...
malfeasance is a habit, a way of life.

The privileged ones bask in the
brightest of comforts…impregnable
walls of their fortresses have made
them blind and deaf to the woes
and the doldrums outside.

The "unsolved" remain unsolved,
the "miserable" are now despondent,
the needy, the hungry, in greater
need...are even hungrier...drifting,
wherever their needs take them,
some minds have gotten used to
distorted versions of democracy,
existing on uncertain airs and waters.

Being bereft.......takes its toll.

Past awakenings were wasted.
eyes...minds opened, and closed.
those outside the walls, patiently
await...nothing is ever permanent.

sally b
© Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
February 18, 2023

-<O>-

OZYMANDIAS
(Percy Bysshe Shelley)

I met a traveller from an antique land,
2Who said—“Two vast and trunkless legs of stone

3Stand in the desert. . . . Near them, on the sand,

4Half sunk a shattered visage lies, whose frown,

5And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,

6Tell that its sculptor well those passions read

7Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,

8The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed;

9And on the pedestal, these words appear:

10My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings;

11Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair!

12Nothing beside remains. Round the decay

13Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare

14The lone and level sands stretch far away.”

Vivian May 2014

Kevin Hugh

you *******, with your
smirk and your bow tying fingers and your
****** classic fu-cking rock music:
who let you in here, to lumber
about the lambs like
Putin and Crimea ??
why do you bother
introducing sophomores to
Oedipus and pronouncing the
center O (like it
******* matters; linguistics are
more organic than
carbon-based chemistry) or
teaching seniors of
Two Vast & Trunkless Legs of Stone
standing alone in the desert,
artifice of arrogance just as
graduation and self-congratulatory
partying and revelry and diploma-framing.

I think I know:
masochism is your middle name, and
maybe, after all, it is worth it,
when a collegiate who barely remembers
your face and never remembered
the color of your eyes, or his homework,
name drops Hemingway and Faulkner
to a college professor, blossoming an
argument, and later, a companionship.

maybe, after all, it is worth it.

Brixter Artan Quiel Oliveros Mar 2016

Provincial

It should be dark.

Ethereality is brought upon by shadows
Comforting shades that beautifully waylay prancing lights
permeating mysticism to arouse the blandest of hearts.
Clustered crowns of effervescent greens scraped the sky
Their lithe fingers clasped, uneasy to divulge light
yet they do so for their trunkless kin at their feet

There should be music.

At dusk the chiming of army throats moan
the deep humming legato of elastic croak to their content
rich baritones with an orchestral blend of alluring notes.
Exoskeletal feet, an angels' choir too quick to play
Their voices, violins in concerto with hissing air
that slither in between the crevices of trees for beauty to play

I should be afraid.

A tiny mouse that shifts beneath dry leaves should scare
Rustling grass dimmed by jet skies fill you with dread
The tapping of leafless hands on rusted roof puts you under duress
Flash lightning mimics the morning in negative filter
The heavy blows of drizzling rain harmoniously mix with discordant wind
Then when it all settles, the beating of your own cardinal is unnerving.

Then I realize, all of which I stated are now in memory

That the stone road that always greeted me is now but dry and dirt
That the music I once heard met a sharp end that made everything else flat
That the movement in the brush no longer shivered my spine
That the birds and beasts will never again come to cheer
That the storms that ravaged my midsummer's night dream
is the same storm that ravaged my youth

And without these childhood memories
I am left unsophisticated, rural
Bare.

Read more of my works on Tumblr: brixartanart.tumblr.com

#poem #poetry #tula #province

Lawrence Hall Dec 2017

Why do We Write?

Why do We Write?

“Beauty will save the world.”1

-Dostoyevsky

If we accept that art helps us reveal
The hidden structures of the universe
As beauty transcendent in color and form
Harmonious truth in music, word, and dance

Then choosing sides in old men’s deadly games
Is merely empire-building, trunkless legs2,
And focusing upon our hurts and harms
Is but a dark Endorian3 conceit

If we build art in love, not for ourselves,
But for all others, we live beyond all time

1 Prince Myshkin in The Idiot
2 Shelley, “Ozymandias”
3 1 Samuel 28

Lawrence Hall Apr 2018

A Small Man Orders His War

A Small Man Orders His War

Proud carrier fleets roam the murmuring world
As Hannibal’s elephants trod Italy –
Grey monsters in search of an enemy
Not yet declared, but with hubris unfurled

In decadence, ruled by smooth ganymedes,
Courtier-generals in their airy cars
Wage resumes’ high above their wars –
So strong in single-malt, so weak in deeds

In his softly-lit bunker the war-god smiles;
His bony hand upon a plastic screen
Commands strange engines, obscure and obscene,
To make a peace through smoking, ashy piles

But empires in the end must die, atone
Their sins, perhaps as trunkless legs of stone.

(Allusions to T. S. Eliot, the Punic Wars, and Shelley)

Rory Barclay Nov 2019

Sand Of Time

A traveller once gave to me
Some ancient sands of Galilee
"Go place this in a glass of time,
Your heart, its soul will intertwine."

Around my neck I tied with cord,
And carried on the fruitless thought-
Cruel life it is to all uneven,
But sorrow in me only deepened.

"How are we bound this sand and I?"
Though in his place now only sky.
"Who touched this sand that made it dread?
Whose dust is this that now is dead?"

My soul and it were surely bound,
Not as I hoped nor as I found.
Enslaving me in walls of time,
Each passing grain, strengthening bind.

The sands they spoke of ancient truth
Known to all hearts without need proof.
I ceased believing I was wronged,
The sand they sang with rhythmic throng.

I saw the trunkless legs of stone
Then to to the East the sands were blown
Washed down from the King's own feet,
Dormant it lay in desert heat.

A wanderer since had encased
This desert soul, and ancient race.
Its story known its message clear
Its timely rhythm bringing fear.

Upon a rock I broke its cage
A sudden shock, a fit of rage.
The whirlwind set my old heart free
I'd touched the start of History.

Heart, soul and sand together one
Consumed by fiery desert sun.
Though does not turn to ashes but
Brings forth new life from ancient dust.

CM Burgess Nov 2019

What's in Fashion in the Middle of the Fire

swimming pools filled by trunkless elephants
plastic plates cleared of crumbs of witches
dead eyes soldered to stapled bellies

following a memorized sun
in plush toy boats
shaded with logos veneers as anchors

every smile is the smear of a dead wingspan
every petal now smelt on the emperor's robe
where is the kind and how is the encore?

— The End —