"ungovernable" poems
Send forth the high falcon flying after the mind
Till it come toppling down from its cold cloud:
The beak of the falcon to pierce it till it fall
Where the simple heart is bowed.
O in wild innocence it rides
The rare ungovernable element,
But once it sways to terror and descent,
The marches of the wind are its abyss,
No wind staying it upward of the breast—
Let mind be proud for this,
And ignorant from what fabulous cause it dropt,
Or with how learned a gesture the unschooled heart
Shall lull both terror and innocence to rest.
2.7k
I knew you from another time, another country,
watched you flicker between the shrill squeals of children's voices,
trace crystal on reflective faces.
Long forgotten, you followed me here
to dance your brittle death over my body's contours,
startling me into submissive white.
My skin shudders.
Your cold hands surprise me,
long bones flecked with almost-snow
shrivel my seed to a dry husk,
my fruit to rotten pulp.
You are alien here.
Like a thief you fling back my golden quilt,
steal the colour from my cheeks,
reduce my indigenous offspring to a spineless slaver
of translucent gel,
terrified milk running to ground.
After of a night of white terror you sigh over me,
roll your eyes over my corpse
leaving the whole withered,
impartial to my wailing
on account of your ungovernable nature.
copyright © Caroline Grace 2012
Mar 23, 2012
Mar 23, 2012 at 10:10 AM UTC
Therein lies the fur, filled with running wind,
Milkweed in the scruff, the scent of wild-wood,
Some mystery-hearted forest where pulse begins.
Therein lies the Centaur, satyr, and god-disguised swan,
Ageless wonders prowled upon by an age-old Parthenon.
You broke your wolf’s tooth through those haunches of lore.
Therein lies the fur, filled with barking dust and dandelion war,
With a spine that stretched back to the she-wolf and city-birth,
The peeled nerve of a howl once tremored your Aurelian lips.
Therein lies the serf, hunter, fairer hand, and lord,
From wattles and daub, the wandering-sands of Saracen, or Crusader’s moor.
You kept the path beside to remind that instinct shines as the holiest earth.
Therein lies the fur, the warm, ungovernable peasant of sleep,
Ever prophetic in your skies by eyeshut-trace of the hunting moon,
Twitching at the day’s thousand faces, all asleep in themselves.
Therein lies the soldier, nurse, chaplain, and fell-prayer,
Mange-like war is the whimpering season with its flea-bitten welts of stars.
You struck blind but true at the throat of gas-hissing war.
Therein lies the fur, outracing the rain and the spout,
Nested with more birds and Autumn song than rain,
Your sleeping ear pooled like cool eaves of the barn.
I sing once more like a boy into your unfolded ear.
Listen always for my ancient, choral voice and your chores of play,
And race earback to the sun in the belly-grass of your free-eyed fields.
Leave your last paw mark, torn on the red clay of my hand.
You are forever wrapped in human touch, ageless and aged,
And if ever the dark in madder darkness encroaches,
Leave black eternity to my faithful eyes.
Jul 24, 2019
Jul 24, 2019 at 1:23 PM UTC
A white abstract silence falls heavily like phosphorous snow… odd and oblique with nervous intensity of random limitations… sensitive and fragile in its unremitting generosity…A fluency of motion of imaginary realisation in silent turbulence descends in tenebrous shadows of illusion detonating the unconscious… the symmetry and exactitude of silence beyond all compass…. an intricate camouflage… meticulous and consistent.
Disinherited it tries to sanctify the air….. a silence in where stars evaporate vibrational loud and inquisitive…. freezing time by the velocity of its inner momentum of silent adrenalin.
Concealing its true identity isolating me in unknown realisation of what is to occur.. It resonates with constant tension waiting for unpredictability’s of indispensible voices that don’t speak….. This is a realisation of the imagination…. a vibrant insensibility…. density of unravelled thoughts that vaporise within me causing a vibration that fractures the equation of time and space in the burning crucible of my mind.
Intractable proportions of silent thought…. hovering… a constant mirage of irrational calculations….. This silence forces all the tears of consequence to fall upon my face with no avail…..Then in this thunderous silence see graffiti on white walls…abstract and meaningless….Like primitive lives…those with meaning yet possess no meaning… an ungovernable democracy of fruitless endeavour… of non factual fastidiousness… a glimpse of life and its fallacy.
Yet the words were spoken and written… by whom… And for why.. Now the silence punctuates and instructs…. phosphorous extinguishes itself and hides behind another truth…..The noise of the world cascades in torrents deafening… attempting to defeat… subordinate the senses in atavistic cruelty… Prowling searching for the silence… but it has gone…. disappeared in the imagination of my inner self…. an abstraction I call me….. But I know where the silence has gone….
Mar 22, 2012
Mar 22, 2012 at 7:07 PM UTC
Oh! Thou sweet land of the free, 🇱🇷
You paved the way so others could find their ways
Where men of letter fought for a better day,
And find solutions without delay.
Oh! The first daughter of Africa 🇱🇷
Your children lied in a chronic state,
as certain 'negatives' have long assumed the
roles of 'positives' in their internal system,
And the govern has become ungovernable.
Oh! Belove mama Liberia 🇱🇷
Your children are ruled by People who only let their bias egos and emotion speak for them.
People who cannot address their fellow people without reading it from the papers!
Every word they say is what their hearts never possessed nor desire.
Oh! The first star of the white man's grave🇱🇷
Agony has become the crying concern of your children,
Crying for liberation in the hands of the oppressor
Their cruel wicked hands have turned our situation into a desperate one
Oh! Mama, you children can't bear it any longer🇱🇷
They are now surviving instead of living,
Should they die hoping for better days,
Or keep surviving the horrible ways,
Feb 26, 2020
Feb 26, 2020 at 9:25 AM UTC
I SOUGHT a theme and sought for it in vain,
I sought it daily for six weeks or so.
Maybe at last, being but a broken man,
I must be satisfied with my heart, although
Winter and summer till old age began
My circus animals were all on show,
Those stilted boys, that burnished chariot,
Lion and woman and the Lord knows what.
II
What can I but enumerate old themes?
First that sea-rider Oisin led by the nose
Through three enchanted islands, allegorical dreams,
Vain gaiety, vain battle, vain repose,
Themes of the embittered heart, or so it seems,
That might adorn old songs or courtly shows;
But what cared I that set him on to ride,
I, starved for the ***** of his faery bride?
And then a counter-truth filled out its play,
The Countess Cathleen was the name I gave it;
She, pity-crazed, had given her soul away,
But masterful Heaven had intetvened to save it.
I thought my dear must her own soul destroy,
So did fanaticism and hate enslave it,
And this brought forth a dream and soon enough
This dream itself had all my thought and love.
And when the Fool and Blind Man stole the bread
Cuchulain fought the ungovernable sea;
Heart-mysteries there, and yet when all is said
It was the dream itself enchanted me:
Character isolated by a deed
To engross the present and dominate memory.
players and painted stage took all my love,
And not those things that they were emblems of.
III
Those masterful images because complete
Grew in pure mind, but out of what began?
A mound of refuse or the sweepings of a street,
Old kettles, old bottles, and a broken can,
Old iron, old bones, old rags, that raving ****
Who keeps the till. Now that my ladder's gone,
I must lie down where all the ladders start
In the foul rag-and-bone shop of the heart.
1.6k
I
I sought a theme and sought for it in vain,
I sought it daily for six weeks or so.
Maybe at last, being but a broken man,
I must be satisfied with my heart, although
Winter and summer till old age began
My circus animals were all on show,
Those stilted boys, that burnished chariot,
Lion and woman and the Lord knows what.
II
What can I but enumerate old themes?
First that sea-rider Oisin led by the nose
Through three enchanted islands, allegorical dreams,
Vain gaiety, vain battle, vain repose,
Themes of the embittered heart, or so it seems,
That might adorn old songs or courtly shows;
But what cared I that set him on to ride,
I, starved for the ***** of his faery bride?
And then a counter-truth filled out its play,
'The Countess Cathleen' was the name I gave it;
She, pity-crazed, had given her soul away,
But masterful Heaven had intetvened to save it.
I thought my dear must her own soul destroy,
So did fanaticism and hate enslave it,
And this brought forth a dream and soon enough
This dream itself had all my thought and love.
And when the Fool and Blind Man stole the bread
Cuchulain fought the ungovernable sea;
Heart-mysteries there, and yet when all is said
It was the dream itself enchanted me:
Character isolated by a deed
To engross the present and dominate memory.
players and painted stage took all my love,
And not those things that they were emblems of.
III
Those masterful images because complete
Grew in pure mind, but out of what began?
A mound of refuse or the sweepings of a street,
Old kettles, old bottles, and a broken can,
Old iron, old bones, old rags, that raving ****
Who keeps the till. Now that my ladder's gone,
I must lie down where all the ladders start
In the foul rag-and-bone shop of the heart.
1.5k
I dream of living to see the next revolution,
And of the men who will not live through that revolution,
Of the air humming electric static heat in anticipation of the inevitable riot,
Of the holy barricades standing in defiance of Heaven,
Of the enlightened kicking down the doors with guns and masks, asking;
"ARE YOU GONNA BE A PART OF THE PROBLEM OR ARE YOU GONNA BE A PART OF THE SOLUTION?"
Of gallows for the dogs of war,
Of guillotines for the capitalist pigs,
Of a firing squad for every reactionary content to oppose the wheel of history even as it crushes their bones down to nothing,
Of the end which justifies the blood staining the cities red as the hammer and sickle cells that divide and multiply fevered in the streets,
Of the ghosts of iron men long dead still insisting that we take not one step back,
Because men get arrested, animals get put down
And God,
God made them as stubble to our swords, boys
And with blades clenched between their teeth so climb the dregs of the Earth to the surface to taste the apples they shook from the trees,
In 24 hour news cycles the slogans repeat to infinity:
"NOT RESISTING ARREST"
"NOT COMMITTING A CRIME"
"I WAS NOT A THREAT, WHY DID YOU TRY TO **** ME"
You can only force people to paint the smallest target possible on their own backs for so long before you end up in the crosshairs
I have seen the faces of my saints painted on the walls of eternity -
Of Trotsky, million headed proletariat staring daggers through the hearts of the tsars,
Of Cromwell, crusader for the ungovernable force of will,
Of Robespierre, headsman of divine terror riding on the wings of the Angel of Death,
I have seen the end and the means played out in countless dramas across millennia,
And the only question that remains unanswered is this:
Are you gonna be a part of the problem or are you gonna be a part of the solution?
Nov 28, 2015
Nov 28, 2015 at 12:30 AM UTC
Strange ineluctable rhythms have gradually and patiently entered my thoughts
Like a gradual orchestral cadence of soft melody subtly wisping around my whole being
They scamper in my blood become inseparable and live in me
Flocks of hallucinated concepts
I become possessed of ever changing moods
The catatonic calm
The delirious frenzy
The ungovernable mania
My pleas, my questions, are ignored
I live
In wondrous chaos
In disturbed turbulence
In manic colors
In the the Darwinianism of shapes
I experience a feeling of high elation
A complicity in my adopted position
Intoxicated by the prospect of my duality.
Mar 4, 2012
Mar 4, 2012 at 1:31 PM UTC
Insufferable comfort
Ungovernable love
Vulnerable heart
Unutterable desire
Unspoken need.
Jul 15, 2014
Jul 15, 2014 at 7:08 PM UTC
the proof of the soul is evident with a continuation of the Einstein particle, from theory into practice - the proof is short-lived, the indestructible attache of man lingers on, his the soul, democratically a medium of revision and certainty - improved instruments of investigation, the purity of reasoning later meddling with the senses of other's being given certainty: σ (total) - ¼ = σ (¾, i.e. remnant and electron cloud symbiosis of partaking in Gemini simultaneous coordination) - the thunder and lightning, a 747 and the delay vacuum cleaner "echo" - on a less grander scale plumber's apprenticeships - perhaps less grand, but therefore all the more necessary, zenith of self-worth, rather than god-worth, audacity on the dance-floor and no prim-cut hopes kneeling in a church for added fancy to desire clemency.
i do believe the Hindu polytheistic theory of reincarnation exists -
but in no way related to the resurrection of σ -
a totality of a person - whatever given characteristics in total,
i mean replicating mannerisms
as a form of adaptability will only make
a clone a clone on paper (in theory),
but the original experienced whatever
environment was to be experienced -
to have a true clone would also mean
replicating the environment,
and that's impossible - in science as in
nature we're susceptible to ungovernable
forces - a tornado uproots a mid-western
house and juggles it about like a boxer -
a tsunami and the sun with its 5,000 starving
Sudanese children - whatever -
but reincarnation does exist in a different
psychological medium, in the id - the shortened
version / unit of ideas - it it it or that that that -
ideas are resurrected or reincarnated (passed on)
all the time - i can understand a Hindu
in only this reality - not in the reality of an
entirety of the individual and the environment
for the individual's individuation -
an idea can be resurrected - there's always
continuity in philosophy, whereas history sees
disconnected events due to it's prime tool as a hope
for averting them (hindsight), philosophy in historical
terms is always a seance of connectivity - lubrication,
evolution, adding to, saving up, discharge, mid-life crisis.
i can't understand the Hindu concept of reincarnation
when it comes to people - each adapted and each
an ongoing process - ideas can be reincarnated -
by egos? not really.
Jul 14, 2016
Jul 14, 2016 at 8:19 PM UTC
He would think of her
and be tempted,
tempted to pick up the mobile
from his ungovernable desk.
Navigating the backlit screens
he would find her name
and press to see her photo
that dialled the number,
and then that wait
for the ringing tone, that
wait while her phone rang
. . . and with a connection
she would say Hello you
And he’d know from
her voice if the time was
right or wrong;
she was busy,
preoccupied or
(and always wonderful
this) happy to hear him . . .
. . . and he would falter.
He really had nothing
to say he could say, so
much to say that he couldn’t,
and so he would witter:
*chatter or babble pointlessly
or at unnecessary length.*
So the dictionary said.
Such a sad business this.
Better by far to stick
to a letter than witter,
than witter, than witter.
Sep 18, 2013
Sep 18, 2013 at 10:35 AM UTC
There is a madness about me
With ungovernable impluses
That borrow my tormented mind
It is aflame a conflagration
Burning more intensely than the sun
Consumed by unlimited time and space
An imposed barrier of perception vanishes
Gives way, gives way, my god gives way
To the cause of violating the imagination
One that does not recede but flows, flows
more powerful due to such defiable infringement
Flames of excitement entice me toward
A trajectory that swings out over the void
My god I see him, see him, see him
Sitting smiling, smoking a pipe
Jean-Nicolas-Arthur Rimbaud
Vanish, vanish, now all is gone, disappeared
Perhaps later, yes later, perhaps
Sep 19, 2012
Sep 19, 2012 at 5:01 PM UTC
I have surrendered to ungovernable impulses
That within my very existence invokes a great addiction
Oppresses noise and forms an intoxication of contradictions
They caress me with impetuous charms of dazzling vision
With vast silences that mitigate in sonorous symbolism
Exiled in my own reality, I see what I have never seen
Or only thought I saw I am now condemned
To see what has never been seen
A shimmering like the painting of a whisper
Jul 28, 2012
Jul 28, 2012 at 1:21 PM UTC
wear the badge, suitor, bristling poet,
chloroform content on a surge of the old heroism,
but you could do nothing to save her back in the then
your benevolent shock impotent in hindsight
and what ungovernable intent holds sway at this time?
can the intellectual blast paint a way for a homecoming
where accused dignity might finally sleep without
the within of a star shaped wound
to emerge from behind the deep cover of an aging photograph
whence your soul's shadow smiled like a lazy fern
and the energetic child out braved the shocked Adonis
there is an undeniable whereto as your fingers blow bubbles
washed by the whether or not to further
a gentleman shall always keep his secrets passed the obituary relish
forever a disciple to his pondered heart while
the narrow prophet can only bridle at an opened conscience
while keeping the adultery at arms-length,
a good four thousand miles hence, but leaving so little space
that science cannot detect a gap,
hope is stretched across a salty segregation
whose surface offers mirror to us each
and furnishes a briny indulgence
once the barriers of taste end at our fingertips
yet, still, every morning, my **** will stink of yesterday’s bad decisions
May 8, 2015
May 8, 2015 at 3:19 PM UTC
I don't wear the mask anymore
But on occasion the demons come out to play
And paint my mind red
with embarrassment and whole hearted regret
The most ungovernable of emotions in your eyes
Watching the fall leaves drop in golden catastrophe over a river lost in the woods
Leftovers from the one time you were actually alive
How could I forgive myself for all the time wasted in the sad shadowy flickering light over my entire life
This beauty and this unimaginable music skipping time in my heart
The only part of the song you know forever repeating itself
whispering in your ear
until the words fall apart and you are left with ashes and pure jaw dropping love for the art of life
All I could do it stare at the sky and laugh
While the demons painted away into the long night
Wearing my mask for me, pulling my strings for me, Looking like me, talking like me and fooling everyone beyond all question
Including myself.
Jan 12, 2019
Jan 12, 2019 at 3:34 AM UTC
The midwest tundra
swallows super-bowl trophies
and
replaces them
with
black-bottomed **** bubbles.
It dares most of us to do better,
while laughing in our faces,
forcing us to watch
as the kid we’re cheering for
cashes checks
for more money
than we’ll likely ever see,
but we cheer anyway,
as the offensive line crumbles,
the ground game is static,
and the receivers have fingers
glazed with margarine.
Like the zebras,
we throw the flag,
assess and accept the penalties,
and
acquit the insurrectionists
regardless of their guilt or innocence.
The previous commander-in-chief
wrote all those ********
a bison-horned,
organic jailhouse chow-hall
type hall pass,
so why the hell shouldn’t we riot
in the ********* streets,
or the halls of the executive branch
of the local,
state,
and
federal, feral governments
of the ungovernable?
Leave well enough alone
and
Elon Musk,
Jeff Bezos,
and
Bill “Microchip Vaccine” Gates
will figure it all out for us anyway.
Whatever happens,
************ Mark “Lieutenant Data” Zuckerberg
will keep us
all placated and engaged online
while the drone-strikes commence.
Social media keeps us
unaware of our socio-political/socio-economic saboteurs.
Who cares?
Aren’t there some cat-vids
on
Tic-Tacky
or whatever it’s called?
How much longer
do you think it’ll be
before we can live-stream
a state-sanctioned execution?
Phillip K. **** called
and
left a message for George Orwell.
He said something about
wanting his electric sheep returned
before Big Brother and The Holding Company
found out it’d gone missing.
Neither the electric sheep itself
nor
Janis Joplin were available for comment,
or hadn’t you herd?
Diplomatic Immunity?
Mutiny?
Mutations?
Economic,
ergonomic,
erogenous stimulation package?
Where do I sign up?
***
-JBClaywell
©P&ZPublications 2021
Feb 14, 2021
Feb 14, 2021 at 8:48 PM UTC
And!
Yes, I am imposing,
I move accordingly and as I please.
I will change the path, if it persists on imposing itself on me.
And!
Yes, I'm haughty,
Contemptuous at times,
arrogant and unconquerable,
I am a warrior,
I am untamed,
I am fierce,
I am wild flower,
I am ungovernable.
I am the gleam in gold,
I am of earth its smell,
of water and earth, I am its clay,
I belong to my dreams,
and
yes, it is true that,
I belong to no one.
And!
With my hands on the waist,
I enthrall all the power from antiquity.
I do not fold my eyes, I always look ahead.
I will look straight at you, I will read you, unnerving your manhood.
I put back my shoulders and shake the dust of impotence,
and stay in the fight with hunger and cunning.
And!
Yes, I am wholesome although I am missing all of me.
I carry a sword in the hips,
a knife between the legs to expurgated whoever covets..taming me.
And!
Yes, I am more complicated than math,
I am as simple as art,
I like the tongues
I like tongues that serves to communicate.
And!
I love everything and nothing at all without variants.
I am of the world-its insistence,
the energy, the dilapidation,
survival and perseverance.
I am brave,
I am wild flower,
I am Warrior.
And!
____________________________________________________________
¡Y!
Si soy imponente
me pongo y me quito a mi gusto.
El camino lo cambio si persiste en imponerse.
¡Y!
Sí, soy altiva,
desdeñosa, soberbia,
guerrera indomable,
soy indómita,
soy fiera,
soy flor silvestre,
soy ingobernable.
Soy del oro su brillo,
de la tierra el olor,
del agua y la tierra su barro,
de los pies el trayecto,
y le pertenezco a mis sueños,
y sí, es cierto que no soy de nadie.
¡Y!
Con las manos en la cintura, absorbo todo el poder de la antigüedad.
Miro de frente y no doblego la mirada.
Te miro, te leo, y te espanto la hombría.
Alzo los hombros y me sacudo el polvo de la impotencia,
y sigo en la lucha, con hambre, con astucia y picardía.
¡Y!
Sí, soy entera, aunque todo me falte.
Llevo una espada en las caderas,
un cuchillo entre las piernas, que cortan las ansias de quien pretenda domarme.
¡Y!
Sí, soy más complicada que la matemática,
soy tan simple como el arte,
me gusta la lengua,
me gustan las lenguas y todo lo que sirva para comunicarse.
¡Y!
Amo todo y sin variantes.
Soy del mundo la insistencia,
la energía, y el desgaste,
la sobrevivencia y la perseverancia.
Soy mujer valiente,
soy flor silvestre,
soy guerrera.
¡Y!
LeydisProse
6/22/2017
https://www.facebook.com/LeydisProse/about/
Jun 22, 2017
Jun 22, 2017 at 11:47 AM UTC
We're like werewolves
In that when the moon rises
It awakens something within us
Something frightening
But comforting
Wild and ungovernable
Yet familiar
You're human in the day
But at night you're just a wolf like me
Jul 3, 2014
Jul 3, 2014 at 1:40 AM UTC