"uncomforted" poems
Tell me I'm not this. The blue began to flood
inside a room once painted black. Tell me I don't
see this. The orb of morning peering its start right to
my eyelids that can't even close. Tell me I don't hear
this. Birds chirping for sunrise, playing lightly as my
lullaby. Tell me I'm dreaming. My leg still twitches,
seven in the morning, because I'm afraid I'll lose myself
before dawn. Shedding emotion in fast waves of flight,
tell me I didn't run through time, making stars out
of daylight. Orange in the sky, and not from shy
headlights in insomniac cars. Yellow, making its fellow
opening for my uncomforted sleep, not a nightlight like before,
no. Tell me I'm not this.
Mar 15, 2018
Mar 15, 2018 at 10:19 AM UTC
Two crowned Kings, and One that stood alone
With no green weight of laurels round his head,
But with sad eyes as one uncomforted,
And wearied with man’s never-ceasing moan
For sins no bleating victim can atone,
And sweet long lips with tears and kisses fed.
Girt was he in a garment black and red,
And at his feet I marked a broken stone
Which sent up lilies, dove-like, to his knees.
Now at their sight, my heart being lit with flame,
I cried to Beatrice, ‘Who are these?’
And she made answer, knowing well each name,
‘AEschylos first, the second Sophokles,
And last (wide stream of tears!) Euripides.’
4.4k
I
LEAGUERED in fire
The wild black promontories of the coast extend
Their savage silhouettes;
The sun in universal carnage sets,
And, halting higher,
The motionless storm-clouds mass their sullen threats,
Like an advancing mob in sword-points penned,
That, balked, yet stands at bay.
Mid-zenith hangs the fascinated day
In wind-lustrated hollows crystalline,
A wan valkyrie whose wide pinions shine
Across the ensanguined ruins of the fray,
And in her lifted hand swings high o'erhead,
Above the waste of war,
The silver torch-light of the evening star
Wherewith to search the faces of the dead.
II
Lagooned in gold,
Seem not those jetty promontories rather
The outposts of some ancient land forlorn,
Uncomforted of morn,
Where old oblivions gather,
The melancholy, unconsoling fold
Of all things that go utterly to death
And mix no more, no more
With life's perpetually awakening breath?
Shall Time not ferry me to such a shore,
Over such sailless seas,
To walk with hope's slain importunities
In miserable marriage? Nay, shall not
All things be there forgot,
Save the sea's golden barrier and the black
Closecrouching promontories?
Dead to all shames, forgotten of all glories,
Shall I not wander there, a shadow's shade,
A spectre self-destroyed,
So purged of all remembrance and ****** back
Into the primal void,
That should we on that shore phantasmal meet
I should not know the coming of your feet?
3.7k
1.
Should'st thou, in grip of dread disease,
Foresee the day when thou must die,
With no more hope of life or ease,
But only, lingering, to lie
While torturing hours go slowly by;
Thy brain awake, thy nerves alive
To thine extremest agony,
And all in vain to rave or strive: —
O my beloved, if this should be,
Call me — and I will set thee free.
2.
****** And thou to judgment hurled —
Cut off from some few days of grace —
Thus will it be to that hard world
Which fits one law to every case,
And dooms all rebels to disgrace.
But to us twain, who stand above
Conventioned rules, unbound, unclassed,
A solemn sacrament of love,
More true than kisses in the past —
Love's costliest tribute, and the last.
3.
Thy grateful hand, unclenched, shall seek
The hand that gave thee thy release;
Thy darkening eyes shall dumbly speak
Of scorching pangs that sink and cease —
Of anguish drowned in rest and peace.
And I that terrible farewell,
Despairing but content, shall take,
Knowing that I have served thee well —
I, that would dare the rack and stake,
The flames of hell, for thy dear sake.
4.
The law may hang me for my crime,
Just or unjust, I'll not complain.
'Twere better than to live my time
Bereaved and broken, and to wane,
Slow inch by inch, in useless pain;
Alone, unhelped, uncomforted,
In mine own last extremity;
No faithful lover by my bed
To do what thou would'st do for me.
And I shall want to die with thee.
2.9k
And this place our forefathers made for man!
This is the process of our love and wisdom,
To each poor brother who offends against us—
Most innocent, perhaps—and what if guilty?
Is this the only cure? Merciful God!
Each pore and natural outlet shrivelled up
By Ignorance and parching Poverty,
His energies roll back upon his heart,
And stagnate and corrupt; till changed to poison,
They break out on him, like a loathsome plague-spot;
Then we call in our pampered mountebanks—
And this is their best cure! uncomforted
And friendless solitude, groaning and tears,
And savage faces, at the clanking hour,
Seen through the steam and vapours of his dungeon,
By the lamp’s dismal twilgiht! So he lies
Circled with evil, till his very soul
Unmoulds its essence, hopelessly deformed
By sights of ever more deformity!
With other ministrations thou, O Nature!
Healest thy wandering and distempered child:
Thou pourest on him thy soft influences,
Thy sunny hues, fair forms, and breathing sweets,
Thy melodies of woods, and winds, and waters,
Till he relent, and can no more endure
To be a jarring and a dissonant thing
Amid this general dance and minstrelsy;
But, bursting into tears, wins back his way,
His angry spirit healed and harmonized
By the benignant touch of Love and Beauty.
2.5k
Beyond the pale of memory,
In some mysterious dusky grove;
A place of shadows utterly,
Where never coos the turtle-dove,
A world forgotten of the sun:
I dreamed we met when day was done,
And marvelled at our ancient love.
Met there by chance, long kept apart,
We wandered through the darkling glades;
And that old language of the heart
We sought to speak: alas! poor shades!
Over our pallid lips had run
The waters of oblivion,
Which crown all loves of men or maids.
In vain we stammered: from afar
Our old desire shone cold and dead:
That time was distant as a star,
When eyes were bright and lips were red.
And still we went with downcast eye
And no delight in being nigh,
Poor shadows most uncomforted.
Ah, Lalage! while life is ours,
Hoard not thy beauty rose and white,
But pluck the pretty fleeing flowers
That deck our little path of light:
For all too soon we twain shall tread
The bitter pastures of the dead:
Estranged, sad spectres of the night.
1.5k
Slowly unplugging dreams
Holding my breath
Uncomforted contentment beams
Calmed by screams
Cords of love and lust
I light the past to déjà vu
Cords of hatred and trust
I light the future for you
My fingertips burn with jealousy
Living celestial reverie
Success enveloped by a fallacy
I was suffocated at birth.
Dragged by the liberation
I was suffocated at birth.
Decorated with colorful lacerations
I was suffocated at birth.
With hard cored freedom and insulation
I was suffocated at birth.
Killed by supersonic maturation…
Jan 24, 2010
Jan 24, 2010 at 3:51 PM UTC
‘Cast Your Fate,’ so where has that led us?
A painting with holographic colours
A way of life put into words
Comfort searched for by the uncomforted; we all know this is every single one of us
Cast your fate etched into every notebook, postcard, skin cell
Every syllable that escapes your throat
The race to be the one to do it first and do it best
Gain some and lose some so we all remain equal
Every dream, every verse, every prayer, repeated over and over until it’s all just sounds dripping out of your mouth
Cast your fate and be the ones that live to see their kids have kids
With their lips and hearts touched by those they love
Not the ones who wait for a saviour to come save them while they sit there waiting for that letter from the Lieutenant saying that their son is dead because that’s where his dream led him
Cast your fate so the lazy are stuck and so the motivated can fly
So that we as a population are no longer stuck between yes, no, start stop, right, wrong
So that every word of ambivalence will stop scratching the blood off our hearts and souls, attempting to fill the empty gap inside us with something we believe is real but is not
Cast your fate so you can go where you want and breathe what you believe
Because who knows, maybe in one day, two days, a month from now, you’ll be in a better place and no one can pull you back down
Do it for the ones who can’t
Do it for the ones who aren’t in the spotlight
Do it for the ones who are beaten up every day at school and don’t report it
Do it for the ones who work hard all day and night and are stamped on until their faces are as ***** as the ground beneath their feet
Do it so you can shine brighter than everyone else because that’s what you deserve
Cast your fate so that the painting maintains its meaning
So that next time you’re faced with Jehovah’s Witnesses knocking on your door, maybe it will start to mean something
Maybe, at the bottom of our hearts, we will start to uncover some growing sense of belief
So equality means being equal and the gap between black and white is closed and remains closed
Cast your fate so you become the mothers, the fathers, the grandparents, the future
So that every single eye that blinks and sparkles in the night has the privilege to see good and not bad
So that our generation is no longer looked down upon and so we become idols and not criminals
Cast your fate
Jul 26, 2014
Jul 26, 2014 at 4:08 PM UTC
I'm sick of bringing welcoming baskets to my brain-dead neighbors;
They reek of reoccurring favors and fading candle labor;
I mean...
It's to a point I fell asleep by the wishing well;
And woke up counting sheep frolicking piggies playing kiss and tell;
Debunking trumpets of cachet telekinesis;
I'm a hidden sinning villain with chewable junk as his personal Jesus;
Evade gratuitously from all kinds of communication;
Never wanted the attention, but I caught it's contamination;
And my face melted;
But kept a defunct smile just in case;
I need to worm through the dross and cut myself into the chase;
I'm a motley of misinterpreted mayhem;
A clothing shop for a wandering vagrant's cloudy stray phlegm;
Trying to comfort the uncomforted;
My life is just a Death Row inmate's last words with unwanted conjunctions;
But somehow through misery
I pride myself imageless and infinite;
Reeling in the years to blow that last smoke before the finish;
Sep 2, 2016
Sep 2, 2016 at 7:06 PM UTC
Placid countenance, your eyes fall
Upon my prostrate form.
Unchanging countenance-
Plaster and paint-
Assume the visage of holiness
Before my worthy soul
Worthy of comfort.
Affection given in unstinted measure
How you,
Plaster goddess
Serve the uncomforted.
copyright/all rights reserved Audrey Howitt 2011
Oct 28, 2011
Oct 28, 2011 at 6:36 PM UTC
My soul is restless, uncomforted.
My mind is troubled, agitated.
My body is weary, fatigued.
I am overwhelmed by reality, its stresses excruciating.
Yet, as I cringe at life, there you are.
Lying with me, in my arms.
My soul is invigorated, my mind calmed, my body revived.
Your very presence alleviates my troubles, bringing happiness to my heart.
You have transformed my life into something amazing.
Something...
...truly worth living.
Jul 18, 2011
Jul 18, 2011 at 2:01 PM UTC