"unsubdued" poems
A desolate shore,
The sinister seduction of the Moon,
The menace of the irreclaimable Sea.
Flaunting, ****** and grim,
From cloud to cloud along her beat,
Leering her battered and inveterate leer,
She signals where he prowls in the dark alone,
Her horrible old man,
Mumbling old oaths and warming
His villainous old bones with villainous talk--
The secrets of their grisly housekeeping
Since they went out upon the pad
In the first twilight of self-conscious Time:
Growling, hideous and hoarse,
Tales of unnumbered Ships,
Goodly and strong, Companions of the Advance,
In some vile alley of the night
Waylaid and bludgeoned--
Dead.
Deep cellared in primeval ooze,
Ruined, dishonoured, spoiled,
They lie where the lean water-worm
Crawls free of their secrets, and their broken sides
Bulge with the slime of life. Thus they abide,
Thus fouled and desecrate,
The summons of the Trumpet, and the while
These Twain, their murderers,
Unravined, imperturbable, unsubdued,
Hang at the heels of their children--She aloft
As in the shining streets,
He as in ambush at some accomplice door.
The stalwart Ships,
The beautiful and bold adventurers!
Stationed out yonder in the isle,
The tall Policeman,
Flashing his bull's-eye, as he peers
About him in the ancient vacancy,
Tells them this way is safety--this way home.
4.2k
The world’s great age begins anew,
The golden years return,
The earth doth like a snake renew
Her winter weeds outworn;
Heaven smiles, and faiths and empires gleam
Like wrecks of a dissolving dream.
A brighter Hellas rears its mountains
From waves serener far;
A new Peneus rolls his fountains
Against the morning star;
Where fairer Tempes bloom, there sleep
Young Cyclads on a sunnier deep.
A loftier Argo cleaves the main,
Fraught with a later prize;
Another Orpheus sings again,
And loves, and weeps, and dies;
A new Ulysses leaves once more
Calypso for his native shore.
O write no more the tale of Troy,
If earth Death’s scroll must be—
Nor mix with Laian rage the joy
Which dawns upon the free,
Although a subtler Sphinx renew
Riddles of death Thebes never knew.
Another Athens shall arise,
And to remoter time
Bequeath, like sunset to the skies,
The splendour of its prime;
And leave, if naught so bright may live,
All earth can take or Heaven can give.
Saturn and Love their long repose
Shall burst, more bright and good
Than all who fell, than One who rose,
Than many unsubdued:
Not gold, not blood, their altar dowers,
But votive tears and symbol flowers.
O cease! must hate and death return?
Cease! must men **** and die?
Cease! drain not to its dregs the urn
Of bitter prophecy!
The world is weary of the past—
O might it die or rest at last!
2.6k
it may be too late to go back and renew,
but t'will ne'er be too late to start anew,
lustful for new horizons, unsubdued!
May 6, 2016
May 6, 2016 at 5:34 PM UTC
☺☻☺☻☺☻
Post-Christian pornstar unsubdued,
My lady—you are too tattooed;
bored, studded, and nearly as cheap
as everyone else tossed on the heap.
You don’t excite, inspire or alarm.
You’re just a big Alterna-Bore. No harm
done to me; baby you’re a pincushion
of piercingly superficial fashion
Neither tribal nor demonic—just silly.
I pity you, pierced like that willy-nilly…
Some conserva-matron with a gun
is edgier, riskier (and way more fun)
Israeli soldiers are hotter than you.
1940’s pinups sexier. It’s true.
That’s why we won. Now they’re losing it.
And so am I… but thanks for choosing it.
(War)
Apr 13, 2016
Apr 13, 2016 at 2:08 PM UTC
Ah! wherefore should my weeping maid suppress
Those gentle signs of undissembled woe?
When from soft love proceeds the deep distress,
Ah, why forbid the willing tears to flow?
Since for my sake each dear translucent drop
Breaks forth, best witness of thy truth sincere,
My lips should drink the precious mixture up,
And, ere it falls, receive the trembling tear.
Trust me, these symptoms of thy faithful heart,
In absence shall my dearest hope sustain;
Delia! since such thy sorrow that we part,
Such when we meet thy joy shall be again.
Hard is that heart, and unsubdued by love,
That feels no pain, nor ever heaves a sigh;
Such hearts the fiercest passions only prove,
Or freeze in cold insensibility.
Oh! then indulge thy grief, nor fear to tell
The gentle source from whence thy sorrows flow,
Nor think it weakness when we love to feel,
Nor think it weakness what we feel to show.
967
give me this and no other,
slender golden instants of splendid earth's living,
i shall return,
not to take the mystery out of loving,
nor the mastery of perfection,
but to bask in their
Unsubdued.
May 16, 2012
May 16, 2012 at 3:31 PM UTC
Something black somewhere in the vistas of his heart.
Tulips from Tates teazed Henry in the mood
to be a tulip and desire no more
but water, but light, but air.
Yet his nerves rattled blackly, unsubdued,
&suffocation; called, dream-whiskey'd pour
sirening. Rosy there
too fly my Phil&Ellen; roses, pal.
Flesh-coloured men&women; come&punt;
under my windows. I rave
or grunt against it, from a flowerless land.
For timeless hours wind most, or not at all. I wind
my clock before I shave.
Soon it will fall dark. Soon you'll see stars
you fevered after, child, man, & did nothing -
compass love to the pencil-torch!
As still as his cadaver, Henry mars
this surface of an earth or other, feet south
eyes bleared west, waking to march.
from The Dream Songs
Jun 14, 2014
Jun 14, 2014 at 1:25 PM UTC
Lo! Look soft, the nihilist
wakes in his meek abode.
Lo! Be wise, for he is not,
yet he perceives himself so.
He commands his person: "Rise!"
The spirit is his foe.
The spirit questions him: "Why?"
Yet his conscious does not know
The nihilist starts to brood:
"Why? Why can I not rise?"
The spirit laughs, unsubdued,
"I am not of your allies."
The nihilist waits awhile;
Paralyzed and juvenile.
Nov 8, 2018
Nov 8, 2018 at 1:42 PM UTC
What does being broken mean?
What does being lost mean?
She woke up to moments of unsubdued
She woke up clueless as to what she ought to do.
She walked outside but regrets became obvious.
She walked outside unsure of one's purpose.
She kept listening to bottomless music.
She kept dancing to relentless music.
No amount of books can protect her from what she feels.
No amount of films can conceal the pain for her heal.
She is broken.
She is lost.
She kept it all.
Kept it, and found nothing but cold under the sun.
Kept it, and found pain during rain.
Kept it, and found loneliness under the moon rays.
Kept it, and found no constellation to the twinkling of the stars.
She was broken.
She was lost.
She kept it.
She prayed for peace and had it.
She wakes up to moments of deep breaths.
She wakes up to pursue purpose.
She walks thorougly for she was indeed uncrippled.
She walks unswervingly for she was blind no more.
She listens as profoundess is found in the songs that her soul sings.
She dances to the beat of her finally, unwavering heart.
Such amount books gave new chapters of life filled with twists and things she didn't thought she'd look forward to,
Such amount of films opened hope in the way her eyes was filled with spark and curiosity,
At last, her strings gave in to ease
She knew she always had Him.
Hence, the warmth of the sun filled her back with support.
Hence, the unending pour of rain to her hands and arms as she extends it remind her that Someone's got her and she'll not be the fallen, not anymore.
Hence, moonlight reminded her of her faith and optimism to life.
The stars, o the night's brightest of the most brightest one's appear a memoir of her infinite thoughts gave her beauty and enchanting passion to all things that she does.
Slowly, looking up at the sky.
She squints her eyes as wrinkles at the sides of her face show up.
She feels all at once.
And there she was finally free.
Jun 10, 2019
Jun 10, 2019 at 1:35 AM UTC
With the pen, we linger.
Our heart, we pored out.
Our feelings, the clearer.
Finding words; when we are, it's like a bout.
Very spiritual, ask the real ones.
Pain-free, when it's coming easily.
Pain-ful, the writer's block forms.
Sigh! Finding motivation for our gree.
Blissful, it's our hope.
Unsubdued, a talent that brets.
In a globe full of glope.
We've found our own trait.
Having fun with intelligence, we often let out.
Ideas, muchly underrated.
Flashed stuffs, the world's missing out.
Desole poets, I know I've understated.
Peter Oyebanji (PIRO)
Jul 29, 2018
Jul 29, 2018 at 3:54 PM UTC