"urn" poems
(To Sarah Bernhardt)
How vain and dull this common world must seem
To such a One as thou, who should’st have talked
At Florence with Mirandola, or walked
Through the cool olives of the Academe:
Thou should’st have gathered reeds from a green stream
For Goat-foot Pan’s shrill piping, and have played
With the white girls in that Phaeacian glade
Where grave Odysseus wakened from his dream.
Ah! surely once some urn of Attic clay
Held thy wan dust, and thou hast come again
Back to this common world so dull and vain,
For thou wert weary of the sunless day,
The heavy fields of scentless asphodel,
The loveless lips with which men kiss in Hell.
8k
Let the bird of loudest lay
On the sole Arabian tree,
Herald sad and trumpet be,
To whose sound chaste wings obey.
But thou shrieking harbinger,
Foul precurrer of the fiend,
Augur of the fever’s end,
To this troop come thou not near.
From this session interdict
Every fowl of tyrant wing
Save the eagle, feather’d king:
Keep the obsequy so strict.
Let the priest in surplice white
That defunctive music can,
Be the death-divining swan,
Lest the requiem lack his right.
And thou, treble-dated crow,
That thy sable gender mak’st
With the breath thou giv’st and tak’st,
‘Mongst our mourners shalt thou go.
Here the anthem doth commence:—
Love and constancy is dead;
Phoenix and the turtle fled
In a mutual flame from hence.
So they loved, as love in twain
Had the essence but in one;
Two distincts, division none;
Number there in love was slain.
Hearts remote, yet not asunder;
Distance, and no space was seen
‘Twixt the turtle and his queen:
But in them it were a wonder.
So between them love did shine,
That the turtle saw his right
Flaming in the phoenix’ sight;
Either was the other’s mine.
Property was thus appall’d,
That the self was not the same;
Single nature’s double name
Neither two nor one was call’d.
Reason, in itself confounded,
Saw division grow together;
To themselves yet either neither;
Simple were so well compounded,
That it cried, ‘How true a twain
Seemeth this concordant one!
Love hath reason, reason none
If what parts can so remain.’
Whereupon it made this threne
To the phoenix and the dove,
Co-supremes and stars of love,
As chorus to their tragic scene.
THRENOS
Beauty, truth, and rarity,
Grace in all simplicity,
Here enclosed in cinders lie.
Death is now the phoenix’ nest;
And the turtle’s loyal breast
To eternity doth rest,
Leaving no posterity:
’Twas not their infirmity,
It was married chastity.
Truth may seem, but cannot be;
Beauty brag, but ’tis not she;
Truth and beauty buried be.
To this urn let those repair
That are either true or fair;
For these dead birds sigh a prayer.
7.1k
She looks out in the blue morning
and sees a whole wonderful world
she looks out in the morning
and sees a whole world
she leans out of the window
and this is what she sees
a wet rose singing to the sun
with a chorus of red bees
she leans out of the window
and laughs for the window is high
she is in it like a bird on a perch
and they scoop the blue sky
she and the window scooping
the morning as if it were air
scooping a green wave of leaves
above a stone stair
and an urn hung with leaden garlands
and girls holding hands in a ring
and raindrops on an iron railing
shining like a harp string
an old man draws with his ferrule
in wet sand a map of Spain
the marble soldier on his pedestal
draws a stiff diagram of pain
but the walls around her tremble
with the speed of the earth the floor
curves to the terrestrial center
and behind her the door
opens darkly down to the beginning
far down to the first simple cry
and the animal waking in water
and the opening of the eye
she looks out in the blue morning
and sees a whole wonderful world
she looks out in the morning
and sees a whole world.
6.5k
Freedom At Kannyakumari
“The destiny of India is molded in her class-rooms”
Kothari had no confusion; no vision on the fusion-
of the East and the West, as Swami Vivekananda’s vision,
“The comingling of the East and the West will dawn a new Era”.
As tissue culture, transplantation or cloning
we Indians imbibe the Western Culture;
or as G.M cotton or brinjals,or tomato
Indians are produced, transmuted
destroying the very indigenous genus for material growth.
Ayurveda is preserved not in Sanskrit but in English letters, now !
Followers of Lord Maccaulay as obedient servants,
by experiments,bring up Indians only in blood and colour-
in every other respects-Europeans
(using imperialist - capitalist media);
poor sycophants ,for a visa,
the Indians: now , turn to the West for light,
leaving the bright light under the Urn;
cry for a way of progress, safety and food;
and beg:once self reliant nations as cells of a body
No retrospection or introspection,
only putrefaction, hence , no resurrection.
On August 15th ,at Kannyakumari beach , beside me,
a bare body of a woman(my sister?) lay asleep;
I witnessed at the starry cold mid-night:
the surging sea spitting frothing snow
upon the black rocky *******
protruded, greasy, mossy. bare but fair ,
ever young at the feet of Bharat-matha.
Wet in the salty breeze , from the foul smell of death,
I walked and walked searching shelter,
but no room for a single son with meagre wealth.
The tourism net -workers with the thirst of mosquitoes
hummed around me with highly rented room offer-
source of tourism exploitation- I bargained,
till, morning red balloon rose up in the Eastern horizon
cleaving the vapours of the sea,
when , thousand tongues chanted Gayathri;
then , the locals thronged around the woman on the shore;
somebody among them, staring blear eyed
as the police jeep and the ambulance arrived , bewailed
“O! Gayathri, my darling, O! Gayathri…” Unsoothed.
The chanting and the yelling dissolved in the breeze
that passed by the Vivekananda rock, afar, south
Sep 12, 2012
Sep 12, 2012 at 3:50 AM UTC
I Am Waiting
I am waiting for my case to come up
and I am waiting
for a rebirth of wonder
and I am waiting for someone
to really discover America
and wail
and I am waiting
for the discovery
of a new symbolic western frontier
and I am waiting
for the American Eagle
to really spread its wings
and straighten up and fly right
and I am waiting
for the Age of Anxiety
to drop dead
and I am waiting
for the war to be fought
which will make the world safe
for anarchy
and I am waiting
for the final withering away
of all governments
and I am perpetually awaiting
a rebirth of wonder
I am waiting for the Second Coming
and I am waiting
for a religious revival
to sweep thru the state of Arizona
and I am waiting
for the Grapes of Wrath to be stored
and I am waiting
for them to prove
that God is really American
and I am waiting
to see God on television
piped onto church altars
if only they can find
the right channel
to tune in on
and I am waiting
for the Last Supper to be served again
with a strange new appetizer
and I am perpetually awaiting
a rebirth of wonder
I am waiting for my number to be called
and I am waiting
for the Salvation Army to take over
and I am waiting
for the meek to be blessed
and inherit the earth
without taxes
and I am waiting
for forests and animals
to reclaim the earth as theirs
and I am waiting
for a way to be devised
to destroy all nationalisms
without killing anybody
and I am waiting
for linnets and planets to fall like rain
and I am waiting for lovers and weepers
to lie down together again
in a new rebirth of wonder
I am waiting for the Great Divide to be crossed
and I am anxiously waiting
for the secret of eternal life to be discovered
by an obscure general practitioner
and I am waiting
for the storms of life
to be over
and I am waiting
to set sail for happiness
and I am waiting
for a reconstructed Mayflower
to reach America
with its picture story and tv rights
sold in advance to the natives
and I am waiting
for the lost music to sound again
in the Lost Continent
in a new rebirth of wonder
I am waiting for the day
that maketh all things clear
and I am awaiting retribution
for what America did
to Tom Sawyer
and I am waiting
for Alice in Wonderland
to retransmit to me
her total dream of innocence
and I am waiting
for Childe Roland to come
to the final darkest tower
and I am waiting
for Aphrodite
to grow live arms
at a final disarmament conference
in a new rebirth of wonder
I am waiting
to get some intimations
of immortality
by recollecting my early childhood
and I am waiting
for the green mornings to come again
youth’s dumb green fields come back again
and I am waiting
for some strains of unpremeditated art
to shake my typewriter
and I am waiting to write
the great indelible poem
and I am waiting
for the last long careless rapture
and I am perpetually waiting
for the fleeing lovers on the Grecian Urn
to catch each other up at last
and embrace
and I am awaiting
perpetually and forever
a renaissance of wonder
May 9, 2015
May 9, 2015 at 12:55 PM UTC
****
***A fine play
of the
clay
soft
and sift
moistened
turns malleable
gathered and made
to spin on a slow wheel
formed with shaping hands
baked at a high temperature
comes out a beautiful craft
and both of 'em are ready
an urn from the pottery
and the poetry!!***
****
Aug 14, 2018
Aug 14, 2018 at 9:24 PM UTC
It's not OCD
I'm just anal-rententive.
There are two
coffee urns
in my office kitchenette.
Each urn has
a spot to place your mug
beneath the spigot.
Each of these spots has
a circular insert
of gridded plastic
to mark the mug-placement area
and allow spilled coffee to flow through
so this spot
doesn't become
just a puddle of coffee
soaking the bottom of everyone's mugs.
Each of these inserts has
three indentations:
one on each side
at nine and three o'clock
small, arcing parabolas
like reversed parentheses
there to allow someone to
get their fingers into the
coffee mug spot
and under the insert
to remove it
and, presumably
clean it
and then another indentation
more like a groove
or a notch
much smaller, thinner, and deeper
at the top
that fits perfectly with
a matching
small plastic protuberance
jutting from the coffee mug spot
where the insert goes.
In an almost ****** fashion
this protuberance fits into
this last indentation
this notch
this groove
to secure the insert in place.
For some reason
I've never known
perhaps laziness
perhaps inattentiveness
more likely simple
couldn't-care-less-ness
this insert never seems to be
placed into the mug spot
properly.
It is always placed sideways
rotated a quarter-turn
so that the larger indentations
on the side
meant as finger holes
are placed top-to-bottom
noon and six
the small plastic protuberance at the top
being swallowed whole
by the too-large indentation
and its mate
the groove
meant to hold the plastic piece
so tightly
is left alone
to one side
empty
and useless.
This has always bothered me.
Bothered me more than I would like to admit.
It's such a simple little thing to get right
it would take almost no effort at all
and yet, day-after-day
someone
I don't know who
whoever is in charge of these things
insists
on doing it wrong.
And I cannot abide it.
So, day-after-day
when I go to get my morning coffee
I fix it
I twist the insert ninety-degrees
and secure it in the correct position.
Lately
I have noticed something.
Sometimes
when I go to get my coffee
one of the inserts
will already be
fixed.
Someone else has seen
what I have seen
and felt the same
had the same response
took the same corrective action.
This feels like winning something.
I don't know what
but it definitely smells like Victory.
And Conspiracy.
And it makes me happy.
Happier than I'd like to admit.
Feb 6, 2013
Feb 6, 2013 at 10:32 AM UTC
When some proud son of man returns to earth,
Unknown to glory, but upheld by birth,
The sculptor’s art exhausts the pomp of woe
And storied urns record who rest below:
When all is done, upon the tomb is seen,
Not what he was, but what he should have been:
But the poor dog, in life the firmest friend,
The first to welcome, foremost to defend,
Whose honest heart is still his master’s own,
Who labours, fights, lives, breathes for him alone,
Unhonour’d falls, unnoticed all his worth—
Denied in heaven the soul he held on earth:
While Man, vain insect! hopes to be forgiven,
And claims himself a sole exclusive Heaven.
Oh Man! thou feeble tenant of an hour,
Debased by slavery, or corrupt by power,
Who knows thee well must quit thee with disgust,
Degraded mass of animated dust!
Thy love is lust, thy friendship all a cheat,
Thy smiles hypocrisy, thy words deceit!
By nature vile, ennobled but by name,
Each kindred brute might bid thee blush for shame.
Ye! who perchance behold this simple urn,
Pass on—it honours none you wish to mourn:
To mark a Friend’s remains these stones arise;
I never knew but one,—and here he lies.
4.4k
Coffee on my breath,
wearing a frown.
Sunshine, my sweater,
my soul turns brown.
Lips slick with chapstick,
chics' licking sack n' ****
drag off a ******* *** n' lean,
obscene in the sense,
the ******* fags' a drag queen.
Rival the bible,
hell to sell any,
whats worse, church
bells smell ugly
under my nose.
I chose the shallow dirt
road to death, even the
tallest tales hail the same frail fate.
Fill my urn to earn my fill,
**** it.
There is no still
frame to capture the moment,
fracture the film and leave it alone.
Yellow toned, below me,
sallow, cornered in color coordinates.
Drenched cover but dry at the core of it;
dazzled by **** dazzled by diction,
you write the dirtiest fiction
and I'm the ******* ***** in it.
Leather bound, cable wound,
leather bound. Black.
Leather.
Sep 18, 2010
Sep 18, 2010 at 7:30 PM UTC
The back up with
A crooked neck bent
Towards Hell
While his lips tightened sternly
as a Victorian urn.
His face barely recognizeable
ever since the penny-doppler showered
A wandering click
that skipped
no birds on his fence.
In a glass paned massacre, forever fossilized
between childhood bullies and prom-night feel-ups,
there was a consciousness that feigned
once a week, cockled in creationism and the Eucharist.
His passions -- clam shells flanked by the ripping tide.
His intellect -- a solitary warble amid ***** blue notes.
Sep 23, 2011
Sep 23, 2011 at 11:47 PM UTC
My grandmother's bones
Provide the support
To my empty rib cage
Evening the structure;
Her disappointment
Would be something great.
Taciturn tea leaves
In a ceramic urn
Allow some comfort
From their steam
While the lines
On my palm lie-
My bracelets of fortune
Can't be that short.
Apr 6, 2013
Apr 6, 2013 at 6:29 PM UTC
I sealed myself inside a vase
to keep the world outside
to let me live my life
in happiness and peace
I cemented with my brain
this urn I built from all my pain
To keep my love form leaking out
I sealed in it my broken heart
but now I try to break the clay
show you myself as a whole
and as the pieces fall down
the pain shows back
and I'm afraid
that in the dust
I have lost your trust
when I needed it the most
Now the vase is gone
and I am left
alone
Apr 1, 2014
Apr 1, 2014 at 11:10 PM UTC
¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯
perched atop a muddy graze
amongst the reefing centipede
does lady jade a’ponder days
from whence the eldest had decreed.
*"what's this a'fuss upon the breeze
that sings a song of fallen trees?"
**a burnin' Birgham urn, aburn!
a'crack—a'whack—a'wish..***
was broadening—a shiver, swift—
bespoken of her crown to rest?
what way whereby these spirits lift
that hide should (of the head) contest?
*"what, unbeknownst, should overwhelm
this silv'ry shoat, what's felling elm?"
**a burnin' Birgham urn, aburn!
a'crack—a'whack—a'wish..***
amidst a cruel cacophony,
the lady seed, she must concede
the razing of her progeny
beholden to appease a need.
*"what's this in want of dire good
that preys upon upholding wood?"
**a burnin' Birgham urn, aburn!
a'crack—a'whack—a'wish..***
on arbor brawn does ardor dine
does earthen daughter march to meet
as tireless as the vile design
divesting mother's gen'rous teat.
*"what subtleties uproot the heart
as bodies from their souls depart?"
**a burnin' Birgham urn, aburn!
a'crack—a'whack—a'wish..***
Aug 27, 2015
Aug 27, 2015 at 8:19 AM UTC
absence is only temporary, they told me. there is a
difference between a full glass and an empty glass,
but what does it mean if i spilled out all my happiness
and it washed upon absence’s shore? does it still count
as something to rely on, that being let down is given.
love is not a renewable resource in certain situations,
i understand, it is as valuable as helium but we use it
without a second thought. buried deep underground,
somewhere remote, is where you left your thoughts
of me. my thoughts of you are kept in an urn around
my neck, where everyone can see them. i have
considered throwing you to the ocean, where the
ocean will swallow you and i will be rid of you, but
i won’t want to visit the ocean anymore or touch the
shores. you will corrupt the ocean like you done me.
Jul 10, 2014
Jul 10, 2014 at 1:38 AM UTC
Into the sunlight burning my pale tainted skin I fall;
Out from the darkness I lived where I walk before I crawl
I'm a being no man can describe yet I am marked as a horror;
I meant no harm but this is how I live a cycle causing' terror
Understanding my nature is like a puzzle picture a piece is always missing;
Dig deeper and you will find the answers right before your neck, blood will start gashing
Never will I myself will ever understand why am I brought to this world and for what purpose?;
For the balance perhaps? That we all must accept that light and darkness never coexist and that what truth has exposed...
Sacrifice what a noble suffering one can offer for love and devotion;
What I do now, will it set the order for safety and to create a new world in motion?
I doubt one can even notice or even give credit to my self righteous suicide;
I'm a fool to even care so much that I am ready to give my life for violence to subside...
Maybe I am just tired living in the shadows creeping in the night to feed;
I envy men for their freedom that I even often ask what's the difference they also live in greed
Why must I care so much for their safety?I am living the life I am offered so are they;
But why am I feared the most for their violence is worst yet I am the only one known as a monster...
Too late to ponder more, I made my choice so long and goodbye I bid farewell;
It is a good day to die funny it's the first time I see the sunlight and touched my skin burning them well;
Blood is boiling like acid tearing my bones melting as I feel pain as I scream;
Freedom it is this the end of me to the earth I return as ashes filling an urn to the brim.
Jan 15, 2014
Jan 15, 2014 at 5:29 AM UTC
1193
All men for Honor hardest work
But are not known to earn—
Paid after they have ceased to work
In Infamy or Urn—
3.2k
Nay, why reproach each other, be unkind,
For there's no plane on which we two may meet?
Let's both forgive, forget, for both were blind,
And life is of a day, and time is fleet.
And I am fire, swift to flame and burn,
Melting with elements high overhead,
While you are water in an earthly urn,
All pure, but heavy, and of hue like lead.
3.1k
Before sleeves fight off chills, leaves begin to pour
Onto the raw ground, outside the window, as if they were tears
That belonged to the trees. Inside the glum house, their star
Is placed on the fridge with a glitter border to catch every eye,
But their own. They try turning away from her making the winning shot
At the basketball game, last season. Below the urn, the firewood burns
To thaw the bitter home, as the light providing candles burn
Out from exhaustion. The mother tip-toes to the kitchen to pour
Away her independence—maybe she’ll come back after the next shot,
Then I’ll stop—into a glass. Since the disaster last winter, silent tears
Can be heard only within oneself, but can be seen in their eyes
By those throughout the town. Not even a wish on a shooting star
Can bring her back now. The father only peeks up at the stars
When he goes for his evening strolls, his faithfulness has burnt
Away since she’s been gone, and everyday gets harder for his eyes
To process his vacant house. The town looks on and prays for the poor
Family, as they drag their feet to church; their son permanently in tears;
Forcing his memory to destroy the images. He ignores everything, but the shot
Echoing in his ears. He saw the blood embracing her after the shot;
Her body sprawled out on the red snow. Their basketball star,
Gone in an instant. This is all he sees—he tries to save her, but the tears
In his mother’s eyes tell him she’s already gone—as he stares into the burning
Fire. He hears his mother clink the bottle to the glass as she pours
Herself another round. He can hear her ask herself, “Why wasn’t it I
Who got struck by that bullet? Why would God even consider the i-
Dea that is was her turn? God, why didn’t you give her another shot?”
The mother takes the last gulp; she reaches for the bottle to pour
Another, but her eyes land on the photo of her fallen star.
She looks away and begins to cry. The fire continues to burn,
Keeping the house warm, as the son stares into the flames and tears
Continue to roll off his warm cheeks. The mother stands there, tears
Run down her face, her husband begins to hug her. In the corner of his eye,
The son sees his parents embracing, as the fire slowly stops burning;
He joins them. They all embrace each other and the echoing shot
Diminishes in the son’s ears. The struggle is not over, and her star
Is not forgotten, but that midnight drink was the last that she would pour.
Years go by, but that night stays burnt in their memories. Not so many tears
Are falling from the trees or eyes, this time of year; only the rain pours,
And at night all that can be spotted is the shot of a shooting star.
Aug 27, 2012
Aug 27, 2012 at 1:25 PM UTC
She walked out of the watercolor storm of a fresco
Like a cowl-bound form in a light drizzle of rain,
Her mosaic tiles of ancient lovers’ eyes, ceramic-borne,
Just as her hips held the curves of the urn, kiln-fired,
The coiled heat of Greece still stinging through her flesh.
For her, the treetops had been the summoners of storm,
In kind, she poured down the wet grove of her hair, electral,
Pantheress of humid breath and fanged flair of lightning,
Tamed once in the cloudy cage of Pentelic marble of the Parthenon.
But the world piled dust before her, baiting with its groveled roads,
For her black mullings, much-tasted rain, and heaven’s leaves to fall.
If only the Michelango-to-come had carved the clouds of her
For the light to remain, shining its centuries,
Then maybe the thunder would have been left undone.
Sep 5, 2019
Sep 5, 2019 at 2:17 PM UTC
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egoing
Enumerator.
Constabulary District.
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Registrar-General,
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2 lst December, 1900.
##### Castle,
Apr 6, 2012
Apr 6, 2012 at 9:50 AM UTC
A man may usually be known by the books he reads as well as by the company he keeps; for there is a companionship of books as well as of men; and one should always live in the best company, whether it be of books or of men.
A good book may be among the best of friends. It is the same today that it always was, and it will never change. It is the most patient and cheerful of companions. It does not turn its back upon us in times of adversity or distress. It always receives us with the same kindness; amusing and instructing us in youth, and comforting and consoling us in age.
Men often discover their affinity to each other by the mutual love they have for a book just as two persons sometimes discover a friend by the admiration which both entertain for a third. There is an old proverb, ‘Love me, love my dog.” But there is more wisdom in this:” Love me, love my book.” The book is a truer and higher bond of union. Men can think, feel, and sympathize with each other through their favorite author. They live in him together, and he in them.
A good book is often the best urn of a life enshrining the best that life could think out; for the world of a man’s life is, for the most part, but the world of his thoughts. Thus the best books are treasuries of good words, the golden thoughts, which, remembered and cherished, become our constant companions and comforters.
Books possess an essence of immortality. They are by far the most lasting products of human effort. Temples and statues decay, but books survive. Time is of no account with great thoughts, which are as fresh today as when they first passed through their author’s minds, ages ago. What was then said and thought still speaks to us as vividly as ever from the printed page. The only effect of time have been to sift out the bad products; for nothing in literature can long survive e but what is really good.
Books introduce us into the best society; they bring us into the presence of the greatest minds that have ever lived. We hear what they said and did; we see the as if they were really alive; we sympathize with them, enjoy with them, grieve with them; their experience becomes ours, and we feel as if we were in a measure actors with them in the scenes which they describe.
The great and good do not die, even in this world. Embalmed in books, their spirits walk abroad. The book is a living voice. It is an intellect to which on still listens.
Aug 20, 2013
Aug 20, 2013 at 2:20 AM UTC
I felt it all burn inside this space
Pompeii wreaked havoc all over the place
Watch it burn my ashes in this urn solitude my main concern
As any heart broken lover can attest
It's not easy cleaning up your own mess
Nov 23, 2014
Nov 23, 2014 at 5:28 PM UTC