1

When lilacs last in the door-yard bloom’d,
And the great star early droop’d in the western sky in the night,
I mourn’d—and yet shall mourn with ever-returning spring.

O ever-returning spring! trinity sure to me you bring;
Lilac blooming perennial, and drooping star in the west,
And thought of him I love.

2

O powerful, western, fallen star!
O shades of night! O moody, tearful night!
O great star disappear’d! O the black murk that hides the star!
O cruel hands that hold me powerless! O helpless soul of me!
O harsh surrounding cloud, that will not free my soul!

3

In the door-yard fronting an old farm-house, near the white-wash’d palings,
Stands the lilac bush, tall-growing, with heart-shaped leaves of rich green,
With many a pointed blossom, rising, delicate, with the perfume strong I love,
With every leaf a miracle……and from this bush in the door-yard,
With delicate-color’d blossoms, and heart-shaped leaves of rich green,
A sprig, with its flower, I break.

4

In the swamp, in secluded recesses,
A shy and hidden bird is warbling a song.

Solitary, the thrush,
The hermit, withdrawn to himself, avoiding the settlements,
Sings by himself a song.

Song of the bleeding throat!
Death’s outlet song of life—(for well, dear brother, I know
If thou wast not gifted to sing, thou would’st surely die.)

5

Over the breast of the spring, the land, amid cities,
Amid lanes, and through old woods, (where lately the violets peep’d from the ground, spotting the gray debris;)
Amid the grass in the fields each side of the lanes—passing the endless grass;
Passing the yellow-spear’d wheat, every grain from its shroud in the dark-brown fields uprising;
Passing the apple-tree blows of white and pink in the orchards;
Carrying a corpse to where it shall rest in the grave,
Night and day journeys a coffin.

6

Coffin that passes through lanes and streets,
Through day and night, with the great cloud darkening the land,
With the pomp of the inloop’d flags, with the cities draped in black,
With the show of the States themselves, as of crape-veil’d women, standing,
With processions long and winding, and the flambeaus of the night,
With the countless torches lit—with the silent sea of faces, and the unbared heads,
With the waiting depot, the arriving coffin, and the sombre faces,
With dirges through the night, with the thousand voices rising strong and solemn;
With all the mournful voices of the dirges, pour’d around the coffin,
The dim-lit churches and the shuddering organs—Where amid these you journey,
With the tolling, tolling bells’ perpetual clang;
Here! coffin that slowly passes,
I give you my sprig of lilac.

7

(Nor for you, for one, alone;
Blossoms and branches green to coffins all I bring:
For fresh as the morning—thus would I carol a song for you, O sane and sacred death.

All over bouquets of roses,
O death! I cover you over with roses and early lilies;
But mostly and now the lilac that blooms the first,
Copious, I break, I break the sprigs from the bushes;
With loaded arms I come, pouring for you,
For you, and the coffins all of you, O death.)

8

O western orb, sailing the heaven!
Now I know what you must have meant, as a month since we walk’d,
As we walk’d up and down in the dark blue so mystic,
As we walk’d in silence the transparent shadowy night,
As I saw you had something to tell, as you bent to me night after night,
As you droop’d from the sky low down, as if to my side, (while the other stars all look’d on;)
As we wander’d together the solemn night, (for something, I know not what, kept me from sleep;)
As the night advanced, and I saw on the rim of the west, ere you went, how full you were of woe;
As I stood on the rising ground in the breeze, in the cold transparent night,
As I watch’d where you pass’d and was lost in the netherward black of the night,
As my soul, in its trouble, dissatisfied, sank, as where you, sad orb,
Concluded, dropt in the night, and was gone.

9

Sing on, there in the swamp!
O singer bashful and tender! I hear your notes—I hear your call;
I hear—I come presently—I understand you;
But a moment I linger—for the lustrous star has detain’d me;
The star, my departing comrade, holds and detains me.

10

O how shall I warble myself for the dead one there I loved?
And how shall I deck my song for the large sweet soul that has gone?
And what shall my perfume be, for the grave of him I love?

Sea-winds, blown from east and west,
Blown from the eastern sea, and blown from the western sea, till there on the prairies meeting:
These, and with these, and the breath of my chant,
I perfume the grave of him I love.

11

O what shall I hang on the chamber walls?
And what shall the pictures be that I hang on the walls,
To adorn the burial-house of him I love?

Pictures of growing spring, and farms, and homes,
With the Fourth-month eve at sundown, and the gray smoke lucid and bright,
With floods of the yellow gold of the gorgeous, indolent, sinking sun, burning, expanding the air;
With the fresh sweet herbage under foot, and the pale green leaves of the trees prolific;
In the distance the flowing glaze, the breast of the river, with a wind-dapple here and there;
With ranging hills on the banks, with many a line against the sky, and shadows;
And the city at hand, with dwellings so dense, and stacks of chimneys,
And all the scenes of life, and the workshops, and the workmen homeward returning.

12

Lo! body and soul! this land!
Mighty Manhattan, with spires, and the sparkling and hurrying tides, and the ships;
The varied and ample land—the South and the North in the light—Ohio’s shores, and flashing Missouri,
And ever the far-spreading prairies, cover’d with grass and corn.

Lo! the most excellent sun, so calm and haughty;
The violet and purple morn, with just-felt breezes;
The gentle, soft-born, measureless light;
The miracle, spreading, bathing all—the fulfill’d noon;
The coming eve, delicious—the welcome night, and the stars,
Over my cities shining all, enveloping man and land.

13

Sing on! sing on, you gray-brown bird!
Sing from the swamps, the recesses—pour your chant from the bushes;
Limitless out of the dusk, out of the cedars and pines.

Sing on, dearest brother—warble your reedy song;
Loud human song, with voice of uttermost woe.

O liquid, and free, and tender!
O wild and loose to my soul! O wondrous singer!
You only I hear……yet the star holds me, (but will soon depart;)
Yet the lilac, with mastering odor, holds me.

14

Now while I sat in the day, and look’d forth,
In the close of the day, with its light, and the fields of spring, and the farmer preparing his crops,
In the large unconscious scenery of my land, with its lakes and forests,
In the heavenly aerial beauty, (after the perturb’d winds, and the storms;)
Under the arching heavens of the afternoon swift passing, and the voices of children and women,
The many-moving sea-tides,—and I saw the ships how they sail’d,
And the summer approaching with richness, and the fields all busy with labor,
And the infinite separate houses, how they all went on, each with its meals and minutia of daily usages;
And the streets, how their throbbings throbb’d, and the cities pent—lo! then and there,
Falling upon them all, and among them all, enveloping me with the rest,
Appear’d the cloud, appear’d the long black trail;
And I knew Death, its thought, and the sacred knowledge of death.

15

Then with the knowledge of death as walking one side of me,
And the thought of death close-walking the other side of me,
And I in the middle, as with companions, and as holding the hands of companions,
I fled forth to the hiding receiving night, that talks not,
Down to the shores of the water, the path by the swamp in the dimness,
To the solemn shadowy cedars, and ghostly pines so still.

And the singer so shy to the rest receiv’d me;
The gray-brown bird I know, receiv’d us comrades three;
And he sang what seem’d the carol of death, and a verse for him I love.

From deep secluded recesses,
From the fragrant cedars, and the ghostly pines so still,
Came the carol of the bird.

And the charm of the carol rapt me,
As I held, as if by their hands, my comrades in the night;
And the voice of my spirit tallied the song of the bird.

DEATH CAROL.

16

Come, lovely and soothing Death,
Undulate round the world, serenely arriving, arriving,
In the day, in the night, to all, to each,
Sooner or later, delicate Death.

Prais’d be the fathomless universe,
For life and joy, and for objects and knowledge curious;
And for love, sweet love—But praise! praise! praise!
For the sure-enwinding arms of cool-enfolding Death.

Dark Mother, always gliding near, with soft feet,
Have none chanted for thee a chant of fullest welcome?

Then I chant it for thee—I glorify thee above all;
I bring thee a song that when thou must indeed come, come unfalteringly.

Approach, strong Deliveress!
When it is so—when thou hast taken them, I joyously sing the dead,
Lost in the loving, floating ocean of thee,
Laved in the flood of thy bliss, O Death.

From me to thee glad serenades,
Dances for thee I propose, saluting thee—adornments and feastings for thee;
And the sights of the open landscape, and the high-spread sky, are fitting,
And life and the fields, and the huge and thoughtful night.

The night, in silence, under many a star;
The ocean shore, and the husky whispering wave, whose voice I know;
And the soul turning to thee, O vast and well-veil’d Death,
And the body gratefully nestling close to thee.

Over the tree-tops I float thee a song!
Over the rising and sinking waves—over the myriad fields, and the prairies wide;
Over the dense-pack’d cities all, and the teeming wharves and ways,
I float this carol with joy, with joy to thee, O Death!

17

To the tally of my soul,
Loud and strong kept up the gray-brown bird,
With pure, deliberate notes, spreading, filling the night.

Loud in the pines and cedars dim,
Clear in the freshness moist, and the swamp-perfume;
And I with my comrades there in the night.

While my sight that was bound in my eyes unclosed,
As to long panoramas of visions.

18

I saw askant the armies;
And I saw, as in noiseless dreams, hundreds of battle-flags;
Borne through the smoke of the battles, and pierc’d with missiles, I saw them,
And carried hither and yon through the smoke, and torn and ******;
And at last but a few shreds left on the staffs, (and all in silence,)
And the staffs all splinter’d and broken.

I saw battle-corpses, myriads of them,
And the white skeletons of young men—I saw them;
I saw the debris and debris of all the dead soldiers of the war;
But I saw they were not as was thought;
They themselves were fully at rest—they suffer’d not;
The living remain’d and suffer’d—the mother suffer’d,
And the wife and the child, and the musing comrade suffer’d,
And the armies that remain’d suffer’d.

19

Passing the visions, passing the night;
Passing, unloosing the hold of my comrades’ hands;
Passing the song of the hermit bird, and the tallying song of my soul,
(Victorious song, death’s outlet song, yet varying, ever-altering song,
As low and wailing, yet clear the notes, rising and falling, flooding the night,
Sadly sinking and fainting, as warning and warning, and yet again bursting with joy,
Covering the earth, and filling the spread of the heaven,
As that powerful psalm in the night I heard from recesses,)
Passing, I leave thee, lilac with heart-shaped leaves;
I leave thee there in the door-yard, blooming, returning with spring,
I cease from my song for thee;
From my gaze on thee in the west, fronting the west, communing with thee,
O comrade lustrous, with silver face in the night.

20

Yet each I keep, and all, retrievements out of the night;
The song, the wondrous chant of the gray-brown bird,
And the tallying chant, the echo arous’d in my soul,
With the lustrous and drooping star, with the countenance full of woe,
With the lilac tall, and its blossoms of mastering odor;
With the holders holding my hand, nearing the call of the bird,
Comrades mine, and I in the midst, and their memory ever I keep—for the dead I loved so well;
For the sweetest, wisest soul of all my days and lands…and this for his dear sake;
Lilac and star and bird, twined with the chant of my soul,
There in the fragrant pines, and the cedars dusk and dim.

Born into a world,

lavish with wonder,

brimming with dread.

Innocent eyes unclosed,

for the first time,

lights and color,

consume their mind.



When do those eyes,

lose their innocence,

become eyes of anger,

eyes of hate,

eyes that see too much?

They soon lose interest,

everything eventually goes

unseen.



Eyes of sorrow,

unfolding the past,

displaying the hurt.

Show me those innocent eyes,

that now seeming so distant,

I have only memory,

of those innocent eyes.

I,ve unclosed
                      (and
                             ­   i
                                  will speak
                                                      slowl­y
                                                               ­    trees

steeply uncrooked breathing 'gainst
the racing moon over the valley bending
swiftly thoughts of ungiant sprigs puckish
in the frailing summers wings

a wig of tender incandescent drops cavort
in silent wetness on petals the)

a cadence of caving murdered light
seamless fluid winsome dusting upon
the unserious lips of night flexing effortlessly
by their touch, and flaccid, upon mine
i am drugged
   of lilywhite tubes; crumbs of hushed love
a draught of limpid steam.    i

laced and foamy the jaw distends

of this wilting wall the colour drub
souring sunbeams,of a foetal fragrance
to rickety unclosed blinds inslants
peregrinate,a cigar-stub
disintegrates,above,underdrawers club
the faintly sweating air with pinkness,
one pale dog behind a slopcaked shrub
painstakingly utters a slippery mess,
a star sleepily,feebly,scratches the sore
of morning.  But i am interested more
intricately in the delicate scorn
with which in a putrid window every day
almost leans a lady whose still-born
smile involves the comedy of decay,

By a route obscure and lonely,
Haunted by ill angels only,
Where an Eidolon, named NIGHT,
On a black throne reigns upright,
I have reached these lands but newly
From an ultimate dim Thule—
From a wild weird clime that lieth, sublime,
  Out of SPACE—out of TIME.

Bottomless vales and boundless floods,
And chasms, and caves, and Titan woods,
With forms that no man can discover
For the dews that drip all over;
Mountains toppling evermore
Into seas without a shore;
Seas that restlessly aspire,
Surging, unto skies of fire;
Lakes that endlessly outspread
Their lone waters—lone and dead,
Their still waters—still and chilly
With the snows of the lolling lily.

By the lakes that thus outspread
Their lone waters, lone and dead,—
Their sad waters, sad and chilly
With the snows of the lolling lily,—

By the mountains—near the river
Murmuring lowly, murmuring ever,—
By the gray woods,—by the swamp
Where the toad and the newt encamp,—
By the dismal tarns and pools
  Where dwell the Ghouls,—
By each spot the most unholy—
In each nook most melancholy,—

There the traveller meets aghast
Sheeted Memories of the past—
Shrouded forms that start and sigh
As they pass the wanderer by—
White-robed forms of friends long given,
In agony, to the Earth—and Heaven.

For the heart whose woes are legion
’Tis a peaceful, soothing region—
For the spirit that walks in shadow
’Tis—oh, ’tis an Eldorado!
But the traveller, travelling through it,
May not—dare not openly view it;
Never its mysteries are exposed
To the weak human eye unclosed;
So wills its King, who hath forbid
The uplifting of the fringed lid;
And thus the sad Soul that here passes
Beholds it but through darkened glasses.

By a route obscure and lonely,
Haunted by ill angels only.

Where an Eidolon, named NIGHT,
On a black throne reigns upright,
I have wandered home but newly
From this ultimate dim Thule.

dancing with the devil , baby , tip toe across the spiral staircase floor
iron wrought with passionflowers flowing up the sides
door -
the only one
right at the top - by the clouds
duck egg blue
number 7, the key is under the mat.

don't hesitate

merge with the simplistic
desires

no shame in your shame
no shame is all ours

take , the coats on the wall wash your feet and face if you are weary and clean

and then -

the atrium
with soft lighting

- window left hand side -
view changes - daily

doors

7 more ,

each intricate to lead - the traveler away onwards

to lovers arms.

The Frost performs its secret ministry,
Unhelped by any wind. The owlet’s cry
Came loud, -and hark, again! loud as before.
The inmates of my cottage, all at rest,
Have left me to that solitude, which suits
Abstruser musings: save that at my side
My cradled infant slumbers peacefully.
’Tis calm indeed! so calm, that it disturbs
And vexes meditation with its strange
And extreme silentness. Sea, hill, and wood,
With all the numberless goings-on of life,
Inaudible as dreams! the thin blue flame
Lies on my low-burnt fire, and quivers not;
Only that film, which fluttered on the grate,
Still flutters there, the sole unquiet thing.
Methinks its motion in this hush of nature
Gives it dim sympathies with me who live,
Making it a companionable form,
Whose puny ***** and freaks the idling Spirit
By its own moods interprets, every where
Echo or mirror seeking of itself,
And makes a toy of Thought.

But O! how oft,
How oft, at school, with most believing mind,
Presageful, have I gazed upon the bars,
To watch that fluttering stranger! and as oft
With unclosed lids, already had I dreamt
Of my sweet birthplace, and the old church-tower,
Whose bells, the poor man’s only music, rang
From morn to evening, all the hot Fair-day,
So sweetly, that they stirred and haunted me
With a wild pleasure, falling on mine ear
Most like articulate sounds of things to come!
So gazed I, till the soothing things, I dreamt,
Lulled me to sleep, and sleep prolonged my dreams!
And so I brooded all the following morn,
Awed by the stern preceptor’s face, mine eye
Fixed with mock study on my swimming book:
Save if the door half opened, and I snatched
A hasty glance, and still my heart leaped up,
For still I hoped to see the stranger’s face,
Townsman, or aunt, or sister more beloved,
My playmate when we both were clothed alike!

Dear Babe, that sleepest cradled by my side,
Whose gentle breathings, heard in this deep calm,
Fill up the interspersed vacancies
And momentary pauses of the thought!
My babe so beautiful! it thrills my heart
With tender gladness, thus to look at thee,
And think that thou shalt learn far other lore,
And in far other scenes! For I was reared
In the great city, pent mid cloisters dim,
And saw nought lovely but the sky and stars.
But thou, my babe! shalt wander like a breeze
By lakes and sandy shores, beneath the crags
Of ancient mountain, and beneath the clouds,
Which image in their bulk both lakes and shores
And mountain crags: so shalt thou see and hear
The lovely shapes and sounds intelligible
Of that eternal language, which thy God
Utters, who from eternity doth teach
Himself in all, and all things in himself.
Great universal Teacher! he shall mould
Thy spirit, and by giving make it ask.

Therefore all seasons shall be sweet to thee,
Whether the summer clothe the general earth
With greenness, or the redbreast sit and sing
Betwixt the tufts of snow on the bare branch
Of mossy apple-tree, while the nigh thatch
Smokes in the sun-thaw; whether the eave-drops fall
Heard only in the trances of the blast,
Or if the secret ministry of frost
Shall hang them up in silent icicles,
Quietly shining to the quiet Moon.

An Imitation Of Macpherson’s “Ossian”.


Dear are the days of youth! Age dwells on their remembrance
through the mist of time. In the twilight he recalls the
sunny hours of morn. He lifts his spear with trembling hand.
“Not thus feebly did I raise the steel before my fathers!”
Past is the race of heroes! But their fame rises on the
harp; their souls ride on the wings of the wind; they hear
the sound through the sighs of the storm, and rejoice in
their hall of clouds. Such is Calmar. The grey stone marks
his narrow house. He looks down from eddying tempests: he
rolls his form in the whirlwind, and hovers on the blast of
the mountain.

In Morven dwelt the Chief; a beam of war to Fingal. His
steps in the field were marked in blood. Lochlin’s sons had
fled before his angry spear; but mild was the eye of Calmar;
soft was the flow of his yellow locks: they streamed like
the meteor of the night. No maid was the sigh of his soul:
his thoughts were given to friendship,—to dark-haired
Orla, destroyer of heroes! Equal were their swords in
battle; but fierce was the pride of Orla:—gentle alone
to Calmar. Together they dwelt in the cave of Oithona.

From Lochlin, Swaran bounded o’er the blue waves. Erin’s
sons fell beneath his might. Fingal roused his chiefs to
combat. Their ships cover the ocean! Their hosts throng on
the green hills. They come to the aid of Erin.

Night rose in clouds. Darkness veils the armies. But the
blazing oaks gleam through the valley. The sons of Lochlin
slept: their dreams were of blood. They lift the spear in
thought, and Fingal flies. Not so the Host of Morven. To
watch was the post of Orla. Calmar stood by his side. Their
spears were in their hands. Fingal called his chiefs: they
stood around. The king was in the midst. Grey were his
locks, but strong was the arm of the king. Age withered not
his powers. “Sons of Morven,” said the hero, “to-morrow we
meet the foe. But where is Cuthullin, the shield of Erin? He
rests in the halls of Tura; he knows not of our coming. Who
will speed through Lochlin, to the hero, and call the chief
to arms? The path is by the swords of foes; but many are my
heroes. They are thunderbolts of war. Speak, ye chiefs! Who
will arise?”

“Son of Trenmor! mine be the deed,” said dark-haired Orla,
“and mine alone. What is death to me? I love the sleep of
the mighty, but little is the danger. The sons of Lochlin
dream. I will seek car-borne Cuthullin. If I fall, raise the
song of bards; and lay me by the stream of Lubar.”—
“And shalt thou fall alone?” said fair-haired Calmar. “Wilt
thou leave thy friend afar? Chief of Oithona! not feeble is
my arm in fight. Could I see thee die, and not lift the
spear? No, Orla! ours has been the chase of the roebuck, and
the feast of shells; ours be the path of danger: ours has
been the cave of Oithona; ours be the narrow dwelling on the
banks of Lubar.”—”Calmar,” said the chief of Oithona,
“why should thy yellow locks be darkened in the dust of
Erin? Let me fall alone. My father dwells in his hall of
air: he will rejoice in his boy; but the blue-eyed Mora
spreads the feast for her Son in Morven. She listens to the
steps of the hunter on the heath, and thinks it is the tread
of Calmar. Let her not say, ‘Calmar has fallen by the steel
of Lochlin: he died with gloomy Orla, the chief of the dark
brow.’ Why should tears dim the azure eye of Mora? Why
should her voice curse Orla, the destroyer of Calmar? Live
Calmar! Live to raise my stone of moss; live to revenge me
in the blood of Lochlin. Join the song of bards above my
grave. Sweet will be the song of Death to Orla, from the
voice of Calmar. My ghost shall smile on the notes of
Praise.” “Orla,” said the son of Mora, “could I raise the
song of Death to my friend? Could I give his fame to the
winds? No, my heart would speak in sighs: faint and broken
are the sounds of sorrow. Orla! our souls shall hear the
song together. One cloud shall be ours on high: the bards
will mingle the names of Orla and Calmar.”

They quit the circle of the Chiefs. Their steps are to the
Host of Lochlin. The dying blaze of oak dim-twinkles through
the night. The northern star points the path to Tura.
Swaran, the King, rests on his lonely hill. Here the troops
are mixed: they frown in sleep; their shields beneath their
heads. Their swords gleam, at distance in heaps. The fires
are faint; their embers fail in smoke. All is hushed; but
the gale sighs on the rocks above. Lightly wheel the Heroes
through the slumbering band. Half the journey is past, when
Mathon, resting on his shield, meets the eye of Orla. It
rolls in flame, and glistens through the shade. His spear is
raised on high. “Why dost thou bend thy brow, chief of
Oithona?” said fair-haired Calmar: “we are in the midst of
foes. Is this a time for delay?” “It is a time for
vengeance,” said Orla of the gloomy brow. “Mathon of Lochlin
sleeps: seest thou his spear? Its point is dim with the gore
of my father. The blood of Mathon shall reek on mine: but
shall I slay him sleeping, Son of Mora? No! he shall feel
his wound: my fame shall not soar on the blood of slumber.
Rise, Mathon, rise! The Son of Conna calls; thy life is his;
rise to combat.” Mathon starts from sleep: but did he rise
alone? No: the gathering Chiefs bound on the plain. “Fly!
Calmar, fly!” said dark-haired Orla. “Mathon is mine. I
shall die in joy: but Lochlin crowds around. Fly through the
shade of night.” Orla turns. The helm of Mathon is cleft;
his shield falls from his arm: he shudders in his blood. He
rolls by the side of the blazing oak. Strumon sees him fall:
his wrath rises: his weapon glitters on the head of Orla:
but a spear pierced his eye. His brain gushes through the
wound, and foams on the spear of Calmar. As roll the waves
of the Ocean on two mighty barks of the North, so pour the
men of Lochlin on the Chiefs. As, breaking the surge in
foam, proudly steer the barks of the North, so rise the
Chiefs of Morven on the scattered crests of Lochlin. The din
of arms came to the ear of Fingal. He strikes his shield;
his sons throng around; the people pour along the heath.
Ryno bounds in joy. Ossian stalks in his arms. Oscar shakes
the spear. The eagle wing of Fillan floats on the wind.
Dreadful is the clang of death! many are the Widows of
Lochlin. Morven prevails in its strength.

Morn glimmers on the hills: no living foe is seen; but the
sleepers are many; grim they lie on Erin. The breeze of
Ocean lifts their locks; yet they do not awake. The hawks
scream above their prey.

Whose yellow locks wave o’er the breast of a chief? Bright
as the gold of the stranger, they mingle with the dark hair
of his friend. ’Tis Calmar: he lies on the ***** of Orla.
Theirs is one stream of blood. Fierce is the look of the
gloomy Orla. He breathes not; but his eye is still a flame.
It glares in death unclosed. His hand is grasped in
Calmar’s; but Calmar lives! he lives, though low. “Rise,”
said the king, “rise, son of Mora: ’tis mine to heal the
wounds of Heroes. Calmar may yet bound on the hills of
Morven.”

“Never more shall Calmar chase the deer of Morven with
Orla,” said the Hero. “What were the chase to me alone? Who
would share the spoils of battle with Calmar? Orla is at
rest! Rough was thy soul, Orla! yet soft to me as the dew of
morn. It glared on others in lightning: to me a silver beam
of night. Bear my sword to blue-eyed Mora; let it hang in my
empty hall. It is not pure from blood: but it could not save
Orla. Lay me with my friend: raise the song when I am dark!”

They are laid by the stream of Lubar. Four grey stones mark
the dwelling of Orla and Calmar. When Swaran was bound, our
sails rose on the blue waves. The winds gave our barks to
Morven:—the bards raised the song.

“What Form rises on the roar of clouds? Whose dark Ghost
gleams on the red streams of tempests? His voice rolls on
the thunder. ’Tis Orla, the brown Chief of Oithona. He was
unmatched in war. Peace to thy soul, Orla! thy fame will not
perish. Nor thine, Calmar! Lovely wast thou, son of blue-
eyed Mora; but not harmless was thy sword. It hangs in thy
cave. The Ghosts of Lochlin shriek around its steel. Hear
thy praise, Calmar! It dwells on the voice of the mighty.
Thy name shakes on the echoes of Morven. Then raise thy fair
locks, son of Mora. Spread them on the arch of the rainbow,
and smile through the tears of the storm.

I tried not to look at it,
But I couldn't help myself,
The blue sky burying me completely,
The sun shedding visibility
On the edible chanterelles--
Little fungi, little mold spores
Treated as food, soft and porous
Sponges, fragile like egg shells.
We hunt for the orange gleam
Showing through the duff
As if we are savages,
Lost in our search,
Forgetting our state.

I'd forgotten what a sight they were:
Unfunny clowns always having
Arguments over who gets what space--
Quality family time.
Every home is a miniature dictatorship.

Now, savages rule our thoughts
And actions; they fight
For control;  they
Pump Estrogen into our
System so that we
Will not fight back.
The dream is not a dream.
The Police are a privilege
For those who can buy it.

All this was a week after
The dust settled. There was no music.
Even the chants of Buddhists
Were silenced, the replacing hum
One of screams
And gunshots.
The sound of
Your enemies being sautéed
Is what loss truly is:
Accounts holding our Humanity
Have been depleted.
The only unclosed door
Leads to Egypt.

When I think of it now,
What I remember is
Debt. Once, I saw
A college student
Buying cheap ramen
With a grin.

And, in a dream once,
There was no sound,
No color. Everything
Was the same—taste,
Touch, smell. Red lipstick marks
On a shirt would not
Remain. And hippies,
With their tie-dye clothes
Were just working stiffs,
Looking out a window
To see
Brick and mortar.

They say,
“This is your police state.
This is your Haunted House,
Your personal Winchester House
With no exits. This is
Your nightmare,
Your stench.
These are your maggots in your eyes.
This is what you want.”
We listen.

I do not want to be
The kind of person
Who makes it okay
To want to die.

Alone in a blank meadow
even that night hadn't grown any shadow

Certainly I had seen
the mystic moonlight was falling on the purples of the valleys, dancing  with the sweet summer breeze


Certainly I had seen,
Her smile on the dark side of the moon,
how did she unclosed herself in an unclogged sky!
how did her glimmer attract the arbitary!
did you see her streaming  beauty anytime?

I am not a poet at all,
So I could not write an ode about her beauty,
Yeah, finally dreams were coming slowly from the wide open sky_

Slowly and Slowly,
I was mingling with her shimmering
even I could not bear her long
wild and mad looks,
such a heavy unfolded glee,
Oh! very smashing shines spreading beyond  the valley,
That only be vented by the poetess Shelley....


@Musfiq us shaleheen

**** you stupid boy
For making me queasy and shy
I've got butterflies in my tummy
And stars in my eyes

**** you stupid boy
I've got this stupid grin
I cant wipe off my stupid face
And now I've got goosebumps on my skin

My head is up in the clouds
And my heart has bounded to space
Today I put on my t-shirt in reverse
And set my pancakes ablaze

Today I walked into a wall
From giggling at my phone
I got hit by a bus
Instead of walking straight home

When the bus hit me
I was still smiling and did not move my feet
Now I have to explain to my terrified parents
How I broke all my teeth

The puzzled doctor was astonished
He said I’m sorry there’s no prescription I can give
That can cure your chronic state of love-sickness
And hopefully let you live

**** you stupid boy
You’ve got me on a thrill
My hearts on a roller coaster ride
And quickly going downhill

**** you stupid boy
you make my face go red
when I read your stupid messages
when im supposed to be in bed

**** you stupid boy
You've got me in complete reverse
I mopped the dog and walked the mop
Please break this silly curse

The other day I was walking
and suddenly the lights went low
then I realized I had walked into an open sewer
that was left unclosed on the floor

I’m wrapped around your finger
And there's not a single trace
Of a sense of focus
On my absent minded lovesick face

**** you stupid boy
You’ll be the death of me
Next time the bus won’t break my teeth
I’ll just be history.

there is this certain house
call it the beach house
once a well-worn respite,
it's quaint disrepair no longer charms

sands that once barely dared  
brush against the steps
victory dance over the porch
and through the warped, unclosed door
as it hangs nearly unhinged

passersby notice
much as hazy eyed prostitutes
stare thru effete johns
from that absent mind place
where it wouldn't occur
to look inside

Facing
catching breath
with sudden skin  
hands pull in
never close enough
with lips unclosed
not unclothed
we shouldn't
but we could
oh how we would
and why?
for who we were
there
see that foggy window
long gone now
where behind
our shut eyes
we warm belied
the leather cold

amid love's needy hour
on tiring eyes unclosed
fills as sight of flowers
this night silent and lone

this one beast of moon
which peeks into her being
with its swerve-less tune
through sky twirling be seen

blossoms her soul of life
do sing her lips such song
be melt into twilight
and be forever gone

yet know in heart does she
hears drama of a sky
in arms of cypress trees
her love will never die

this tranquil town hillside
on bluish giddy slopes
on this cold starry night
she wraps herself with hope

i.

one ground to another runs itself rock and rock in the unclosed pebbles of dirt open to aching at the wire your father fixes for free in the canceled warning of crow made gauze for blacktops poured not wholly over a woman-

she a belt buckle drunk pocked full the called back joy of a pop gun.

ii.

over glass I go with my milk bottle feet to church after church past mirrors sick and doctored.

iii.

needs hisself a dog he does the speechless boy drawn mother to his own mute breast -

so he clicks the roach of his tongue

makes a hole with the hole in his sock

makes tunnel sounds.

iv.

my aunt’s ear like a deformed thumb.
my aunt dreaming she says for two.
my aunt changing her mind, her mind
a mid-bread knife.

v.

soldiers able to turn in the throat a chicken bone straight.

vi.

for muscles: jaw down nightly the door of a stove,

jaw it up,

and salute.

vii.

tiny cups cured with sugar cubes and stilled with steam taken

from a skinned
train-born
pig, a train

of blackest
fur.

viii.

about ladders and war, about the devil-

a man stands on his hands in three feet of water. about god-

marco. marco.

ix.

the blue dolls and the gray dolls and the care with which the chosen choose cloth and after
all of it

some meat colored cloth.

x.

water knows your lips, and mine; takes our mouths

on faith.

xi.

*top teeth on the skin of an apple. top teeth mine. a test of joy, joy’s age. mama stepping on a scale holding my brother. mama putting him down, cocking her head, picking him up. asking for a towel. asking nicely be a good brother. the towel, hot from bread, sick with ants. heavy my mouth with sorry sorry. my slapped mouth, my loved love. mama’s hands back from hell. dish soap mama hands

uncut by the hair long had by my head.

summer is life's perhaps

it has a colour like the

taste between girl's thighs:

dark with thin salt and thick is sweet bright

unclosed roughlysupple

it feels soft around my cheeks
(and the slight down that enamors
it like velvet is)

and like between girl's thighs
my lips muscles and shoulders
want to

because

summer is life's perhaps

the lights on the dingy carnival rides glistened with a new kind of hope I still can't explain. the last thief's kiss still lingered on my lips and I felt well off. content with where I was standing in line and in life, you stepped in right then and intervened.
taken back by the small talk at first, I took quickly to what you had to say. felt a spark, but I was too afraid of having my fiery feelings extinguished.  Accustomed to being burned I was hesitant to let you in. There were so many unclosed doors I still can't help but to think about. Falling for you, falling for you of course it didn't take long. This time though was different- you caught me. Perhaps this is why when "Hey howdy hey" from an ex-flame came up across my phone screen, I felt super perplexed. Funny how just when you're happy and comfortable and ready to move on, a text from someone you were so sure lived in your past can trigger a thousand different emotions. Those icy blues I wondered so much about these past 8 months just had to peek in to throw me off. Sometimes though  it's way too late for sorry. Trying so hard not to think about the past, I remember the way that the lights reflected in your eyes that breezy August carnival night and kiss you harder. I want you to stick around.

Exposed. Unclosed
Unused and disposed.
In an attempt to be attached,
I was detached and let go.
In search for affection
It became an infection.
Made the choice to walk my own path
With no sense of direction.
A woman of progression.
A girl of aggression.
Constant presence of a hole, never quit whole.
House was never home.
Never felt "with company"
But never left alone.
Refutation of becoming a clone.
Reputation of being a *****.
But what's the perfect woman?
Without an imperfect glitch?
Torn, never stitched.
Never fixed.
But never cry.
Not too many hellos.
Way too many goodbyes.
Once I filled myself with pride. .
Never felt more alive.
To begin the life I wanted to live,
I first had to die.
Try to understand, interpret just who I am.
All the places which I have fallen
Have led me to where I stand.

There he is!
Again today
Playing the banjo
In every way
A skip to his feat
A song to his beat
People will follow him till the end of the street
His lips didn't move
But, boy, did his hands!
Even the busymen danced at their shops and their stands
But the boy was not seen at the end of the day
No one would dream to follow his way

They said he was gods gift to the people of maine
They said he was a boy who just wanted the fame
But he never spoke a word, didnt even look like he breathed
And everyday,  without a word, he took his leave

But there was a reason none followed the boy
You think that they would with all of their joy
But no one came back from the forest I fear
They all end up gone, they all disappear

They say they leave to heaven with the little musician
I say thats all a superstition
I say its his banjo that traps its prey
Luers them into an unclosed space
Where they are forgetten by their father and mother
Their friends, their family, their sister and brother

They say that those strings on the banjo he plays
Are strings from the heavens that lightens our day
But the strings are black metal cords
That cuts the fingers and makes blood pour
Banjo uses the boys blood to play another toon
The boy is enclosed and trapped like the few
That followed its toon and was taken away
By the banjo, the banjo's tune will luer its prey

Empty dreams
Empty hopes
a piece of courtship
unclosed
yes, I love you
said the lady
Yes, I still
Said he
he was married
she knew it
she was about to
he knew it
will it last?(our love he meant)
Forever
She replied
" But you leave me"
"Forever "
you loved my letters
said he
I still do
Said she
"You are shivering"
"No touches"
"But you clinch"
"Not forever"
"Coldness will come"
" I'm not a home –breaker"
"Will you love him?"
"I will try"
"Does he call your name like I do?"
"No one does"
"Dose he call you my Tinkerbell?"
"No one dose"
"I should leave now"
"Let me get dressed"
"Will it last?"
"I guess so"
"I changed my mind let's spend a night"
"No touches"
"I promise"

As the waves come crashing in,
My skin hits the rough sandy shores,
And I could not stop thinking
Of all the many doors
I have left unclosed,
The keys of which I locked up
Deep in the walls of my soul.

Although my heart longs for
Nothing but the home I left behind,
I stand amidst the cold, hard wind
Without a flinch or doubt in mind.
And without knowing, my feet carry
On into the heart of the valley.

asleep, he was loved.  loved, also, in the margins of waking.  a hand on the head, or breakfast after payday.  he would try to keep quiet the unclosed wound of his voice; a darkened bandage, like bacon, held to his mouth.  but the morning, each morning, would leave, more so clothed than it had come.  if ever you’ve looked, at noon, for your mother, she would’ve been with his.  two sets of thumbprints, two glasses.  he would put his thumb to one, then the other.  days your mother stayed with you, his own would give him crayons.  once, that he can remember, he put the white in her cigarette box and heard about it.  it’s the kind of kid he was fully awake: bad.  his cheeks often burned.  their redness would unhinge his mother so that she would slap at the pale inquiry of his neck.  seven years old, and still drawing stick figures.  he could not keep himself from it.  three legged figures, one armed.  torsos were a problem for him, and crotches.  but there they would be, middle on middle, three lines to indicate ******, or wind.  his mother wouldn’t get sick but would say that she was.  before dinner, she would give him ice cream.  he would fall asleep without dinner and his father would come home, shower, and leave.  it made him stronger, not seeing his father eat.

     the stick figures, when he met them, were not like his drawings, but they wanted to be.  they would contort  and untangle from each other and giggle.  his mother once came upon them and they broke into many sticks at his feet.  she did not know what he was laughing at and tried to lift him but he was fat for his age and she pulled a muscle in her stomach.  he put her on his back.  she would not unstiffen.  at home, in front of the fire, she was angry.  her arm was crooked, aimed at him, and one of her eyes was trying to watch him.  he shut the door to his room and practiced becoming many.  his parts would not let.  he gave up; the fire lowered.  the noise his mother made sounded set aside; some special box opened in the house of a demon.  he had to cut her clothes from her so she could breathe.  she rose, simply; not like the dead.  something, in the second box, skittered from it.  the boy crumpled.  his head did not roll like he thought it would, but he smiled anyway.  if his mother was screaming, only his ears could hear it.

Seasons have weathered
left footprints passing age
yet something is spared
to draw her in my gaze!

It's not as pink as first crush
nor red as primal yore
but white residue of dried brush
that makes me want not more!

I wonder if she knows it
when hold her in my gaze
not slowed a bit this heartbeat
my eyes don't see her age!

She wonders if I know it
when steals on me her look
the pages left are still sweet
love stays an unclosed book!

1 word coiled warmly
your nape about swarms
it exactly spoken from
mouths strangely perfect
ly unclosed and jointed

                                          (your body
                                                             sort of is a
                                         crumbling feverish
                                                hot sound
                                                                   (
                                      
ocean your body sort of is an
depthless puddling skin right
down into i swim courageously
fleshy pinkness strutting gorgeously
your thighs do thatness charmingly
scrambling against my cheeks
(and your nails are sharpness
beautifully grinding lovely
in my scalp trenches) O'                you                     are                                               pain




                                                                         deliciously,

Today I woke at 5 again to the hooting of the owl
the window left unclosed each night so I can hear the stream
The rain was heavy beautiful to wash away the tears
The rain are the tears I cried for you for the last 40 years
The cool November air is here
It's soft and gentle chill  
Makes me feel so warm inside to know
I'm close to you
No matter how cold my feet when barefoot I walk through
the cold and deep and earthy path the forest calls to me
The mushrooms are so plenty now the berries are so many
To see the little birds through the winters silence heavy.
The badger now has gone to sleep the deer close behind
But the wolf he's stays so strong and ready and the hare she still goes on
Still gazes at the moon at night wishes your return
Yet pushed away the badgers hopes to be a new discover
Now it's too late to try
To mend her broken heart
I'm sorry I didn't let you try for grief of losing you took my heart with you  took my life with you and I search so far to find you but I couldn't see the tears stopped me from seeing
the pain stopped me from feeling and the
Being unwanted stopped me from believing that anyone would ever want me again so I made sure they couldn't see me to never let them in so they could not hold me and you could not leave again

i remember
(a pluchritudinal memory)
when almost so effortlessly
our lives lied to us most indefinitely
in the hours that return with
lashes and chains—

as in clothes heavy soldered
to washlines, the waft in the air is as familiar as the rain cooling
the blades of grass you speak of,
something the dark only conjures
waiting at the brink of my unclosed retina.
i know all of these well-placed memories
like furniture you have arranged
under the hollow hands of the home.
yet barely even so, a fond memory of—
the daedalus outside or the cut
gladiolus, plucked out of the moseying hour's vicious wingtip.

we do not always die like this.
when all our dying whispers are thrusted
underneath mouths of stone,
when all of our wishes hold a flame
paler than a vague rekindling of the dead.

sometimes promised something an ellipsis would half-ponder and postpone
in word's mid-birth.

the raging moon had waned.
all the windows shunned — hermetic,
air outside potent, leaving all books
half-read yet fully opened.
the children hide behind thin shades
of roses,
i can hear the steely grit of the flesh
pared from the bone as my mother
guillotines with kitchenware

we do not always die instantaneously.
most of our ways to go leave
demarcations on soul — something so easily displaced, doubled array of its arrival into half-wakefulness.

something only a last prayer thumbed
down to the last bead
and we cannot cry anymore.

night's flumine seeks to rebuild the wound undone delicately
leaving my breath and betraying my body.

we somehow always die like this.

in so was i) a clean frost winter
a tight bud unopened in the
frozen fragrant fingers of the cold season

              but

came the spring of heavy light woman
feather loved lady whisper me a kiss
and

                                              BLOOM

my petals to her new sun. a

when the shift of warm came bubbling wet
i had never been so unclosed
open every
with
make me naked

Now’s exactly 07:33 in the evening of May 03, 2011:

Time is ticking round the clock
hanged on my bedroom wall
just above the upper right corner
of my room’s door.  
As I watched the secondhand
tics-and-tocs over again for several times,
completing a day, I have come to reflect
how did I spend every second of my life
since the day my heart had fallen over him.

I came to think of this question
I am now asking myself while writing,
“Does each second of my time,
of how my life had been
is really worth counting for??”.

I closed my eyes, a tear dropped slowly
one after the other as I clicked every letter
on the keyboard of this very laptop
I am using now.
I hate to admit of how I truly feel
at this moment of my life,
in the middle or perhaps
I am now heading to the END
of these events about him and me,
what hurts even more
is having my confusion or
if it is a mistake that I have said
“him and me” in this statement.

Was there really been “US”?
the “him and me” I used to know,
to believed in, to loved, and to fought for.

A moment of silence.
I looked at my hand, my left hand
which he first held on the first time we met.
I can still feel his warmth,
his touch which happened
to have touched my heart too.
His touch has had me wishing
I could feel it again,
feel HIM again.

Nobody knows of how I exactly feels now,
not any person in this world knows
how much I am hurting and
that I am hurting still.
I always seem to be okay, fine,
happy and cheerful in front of other people’s eyes.
I have been a great pretender,
I have been wearing a mask
to hide myself from the reality
which I never dreamt of happening.

These scars he had left upon me
has not healed yet, I even wonder
would they ever heal on their own.
I believe they will,
I just don’t know how long
will it take them to, or how will they heal.
They are all still open, or worst,
still bleeding.
Bleeding invisibly, and painfully.

I ran out of words to type now,
but I am actually reflecting and
feeling my emotions, at least for now
I tried to become honest with myself
that I don’t have to hide nor
to pretend of my heart’s condition
when it comes to matter of Love,
matter of him and me
that was left unclosed.

Speak to me of the wave of longing
That broke against you,
Pressuring your forehead,
Narrowing your narrow street,
Beating on your palms,
                                         America.

Your eyes remain unclosed,
Looking-glass and sea,
For the dream with claws.

Fairy bird,
arching bird,
Sweet enchantress,
Envied by throngs.

"And you who ask about me everywhere,
By now don't you know that I am death?"

Flavia Cosma from Wormwood Wine
translated by Don Wilson with the author

her hand will be moonlight
by him: quietly

have we become beautiful
sound? movement of dancers

and fangs of music— birds
stirring elsewhere,

abandoning trees, you
and trilling waywardly across sound, me

all is disquiet in days your lips
have sung honeyed softness

i could hear it like a flower
whose petals are blue

deepening in silence.
her smile will be harlequinade

by him and an adagio of scherzo
by her will make feet trample

the accident of water: pond-strove
of love's bend asks

have we become rivers
leaping in temporal splendors

as when it will never
give sleep its ****** whiteness again

i sing through morning's trek
and we, deeper then rain-washed stone,

will be all but moon and dark,
oh, you, me — unclosed without protest

pressed against the wall
of love's domain.

fall i into perhaps september

              maybe autumn

                                        might

arrive in hot flowers from
the summer unclosed windows
inviting crisply

                              the wind

into a general elegance
ruffling the attenuating
hour of heatish bruting
summer

                        shall collapse

into a million colours that,
etched in trees, shall say

                 to us dying:

                     is also beautiful

Eyes unclosed, restless thoughts.
Here today, yet gone tomorrow.
Brain so crumbled, thoroughly longing.
Unwanted, and feel no belonging.


Crisp cool air, traveling tears.
Unknowingly facing all of my fears.
Wrapped up in a woolen coat,
gentle silence, fogged up throat.

Turned out
Burned out
His mind a vacant lot
Debris and weeds, grown up
"Stay Out" sign, thrown up
No one to own up
To the mess on the block

Hard to restore
Trying to ignore
The broken concrete
Like wounds unclosed
Crumbling and overdosed
Garbage in the street

A hope at best
To find some rest
In a seamless mind
Like newspapers tossed
In deserted lots
Where no one walks
Without a glance behind