"unaging" poems
Thou art not the one I want to write about;
but it appears that I have no brighter choice.
The only one that seems to bear no fault;
and lives a life full of merriment and bliss.
And thy, thy name! So delicate as a summer laughter
With hands so imbued with clarity and brave power.
I believe thou art such an ingenious lover;
but frail as thou hath always been; weak and fragile
under thy harmonious cover.
And shall I be treading these paths, tomorrow noon;
whenst I'll come across a dainty flower by the lagoon.
Amongst those ripe cherries-there is one too like thee,
so mysterious and sometimes gazes awkwardly at me.
Thy young bud is that of rose and berry,
a symbol of thy soul so embraced by words and poetry.
Ah! And so deserving it is of graceful flattery;
as thou move along these paths, thy young heart shines
and gleams afar-just like the dribbling snow,
how childish, yet altogether refined and free.
Thy stare-o, thy stare, querida, is deep and anxiously unbending;
like those gracious arts and their prudential stone carving
or pools with swarms of red starfish so enchanting
as my little boat swims along feverishly, unnoticing.
And ah! Unaging as thou always art,
growth is but futile to thy slippery soul
With this world thou shalt never part,
and foreverness becomes thy frost-like hall.
Youthness of thine that shall never fade,
and handsome face that shall never wane.
O, how thy delicacy is to me like that cruel fate-
o my dearest, humble immortal man!
Timelessness shall then become our lasting key;
to a love sweeter and even more precious than destiny.
And live, live in utter happiness shall forever we,
as long as these muscles can breath, and as far as
these eyes can see.
Feb 26, 2013
Feb 26, 2013 at 7:36 PM UTC
That is no country for old men. The young
In one another's arms, birds in the trees
---Those dying generations---at their song,
The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas,
Fish, flesh, or fowl commend all summer long
Whatever is begotten, born, and dies.
Caught in that sensual music all neglect
Monuments of unaging intellect.
II
**An aged man is but a paltry thing,
A tattered coat upon a stick, unless
Soul clap its hands and sing**, and louder sing
For every tatter in its mortal dress,
Nor is there singing school but studying
Monuments of its own magnificence;
And therefore I have sailed the seas and come
To the holy city of Byzantium.
III
O sages standing in God's holy fire
As in the gold mosaic of a wall,
Come from the holy fire, perne in a gyre,
And be the singing-masters of my soul.
**Consume my heart away; sick with desire
And fastened to a dying animal
It knows not what it is; and gather me
Into the artifice of eternity**.
IV
Once out of nature I shall never take
My ****** form from any natural thing,
But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make
Of hammered gold and gold enamelling
To keep a drowsy Emperor awake;
Or set upon a golden bough to sing
To lords and ladies of Byzantium
Of what is past, or passing, or to come.
Apr 11, 2015
Apr 11, 2015 at 7:06 PM UTC
i.
Mine ecclesiastical adamant, amiss I am
With thou not close, I stareth from mine
Window, as an old lost ghost; needing
Thine hand on mine.
ii.
Agin, I needeth thee, next to me,
Warmth of the age's, an unaging
Recipe; for a king and queen,
acceptably.
iii.
I feeleth as a man
Locked in a cage,
The steel to heavy
To breaketh through
To thy face, though
Stuck through this
Glass, beyond the
Other side, I canst
Only hopeth, for
Ourn day, ourn
Time, I knoweth
We'll meeteth.
One day we wilt
Shine, one day
I'll connect to
Thine glim, one
Day thou shalt;
In mine arm's
Be mine.
©Brandon Nagley
©Lonesome poets poetry
©Earl Jane Nagley ( Filipino rose dedicated)
Jan 19, 2016
Jan 19, 2016 at 9:36 AM UTC
I used to believe
People lived forever
Unaging
Ungrowing
I had no clue
I was young
Frightened by death
Suddenly
I'm glad
There's an end
Apr 3, 2014
Apr 3, 2014 at 11:33 PM UTC
I.
Quid Nomen Est?
Thus spake skeleton eyes to we upon the forest path,
the long woe of you and me and we upon that gravel path
with those tired trees baring their naked selves to us
in dead questions all the crooked way.
Lo the **** shall crow thrice indeed on the morrow morn
but for now we who have not yet forgotten
must needs cleave to the bidding at hand,
must make do with cobwebs in our eyes
and the ashes of the Archbishop in our mouths.
II.
"Torches, torches! Have we none, for long
grows the hallowed eve and our task not yet done?"
Indeed no light have we, and our destination lying
still somewhat far off among the ancient oaks.
Haven't forgotten have you, those skittering stories
from bedtimes long ago, warnings to travelers by night
through ragged copse and brooding glen?
Yes, those whispers old of those gone further into
twilight never to be seen again by mortal eyes.
Quid Nomen Est?
III.
Up sprung the pale lights all about us,
yes the torches of those unaging.
"My name, my name, you shall not have it
for given by others to me it was!"
Silence greeted us with open arms and a
light snowfall as we, trembling and withered
continued toward our loathsome errand.
They did not try and delay us nor lead us into sorrow,
merely followed with us unto an open hollow.
IV
There the stones, the faery ring standing older
than the memory of a time when the world
was young and beast and man lived as one.
Not a dead leaf stirring, nor cold wind blowing
as we and our silent companions tread upon the sacred earth.
At last our destination reached, though the journey not yet done.
One thing left to us before the peace of sleep.
No longer cold, no longer withered and old
but become again the man who loved you once.
We lie down together there between the sky and the earth,
with none to bear witness save the standing stones,
the silent torches and always the naked questioning trees.
V
To the din of Thunder and Battle I awoke,
still within the ring of iron grey stones.
There above the wailing trees the Huntsmen and
Hounds rode reckless, beckoning me as expected
to join the Wild Hunt forever away from Love.
I held up my hand and at once they stormed toward we,
a curse riding forth, fierce and fell till the end of time.
Lo before they caught my upturned hand for me to join forevermore,
I searched one last time for your face among the faery mound,
and found no memory of you in the bones scattered upon the ground.
Jan 15, 2015
Jan 15, 2015 at 10:28 PM UTC