"viol" poems
I
There is a house with ivied walls,
And mullioned windows worn and old,
And the long dwellers in those halls
Have souls that know but sordid calls,
And dote on gold.
II
In a blazing brick and plated show
Not far away a ‘villa’ gleams,
And here a family few may know,
With book and pencil, viol and bow,
Lead inner lives of dreams.
III
The philosophic passers say,
‘See that old mansion mossed and fair,
Poetic souls therein are they:
And O that gaudy box! Away,
You ****** people there.’
6.8k
Freezing dusk is closing
Like a slow trap of steel
On trees and roads and hills and all
That can no longer feel.
But the carp is in its depth
Like a planet in its heaven.
And the badger in its bedding
Like a loaf in the oven.
And the butterfly in its mummy
Like a viol in its case.
And the owl in its feathers
Like a doll in its lace.
Freezing dusk has tightened
Like a nut ******* tight
On the starry aeroplane
Of the soaring night.
But the trout is in its hole
Like a chuckle in a sleeper.
The hare strays down the highway
Like a root going deeper.
The snail is dry in the outhouse
Like a seed in a sunflower.
The owl is pale on the gatepost
Like a clock on its tower.
Moonlight freezes the shaggy world
Like a mammoth of ice -
The past and the future
Are the jaws of a steel vice.
But the cod is in the tide-rip
Like a key in a purse.
The deer are on the bare-blown hill
Like smiles on a nurse.
The flies are behind the plaster
Like the lost score of a jig.
Sparrows are in the ivy-clump
Like money in a pig.
Such a frost
The flimsy moon
Has lost her wits.
A star falls.
The sweating farmers
Turn in their sleep
Like oxen on spits.
6.8k
Lo! Death has reared himself a throne
In a strange city lying alone
Far down within the dim West,
Where the good and the bad and the worst and the best
Have gone to their eternal rest.
There shrines and palaces and towers
(Time-eaten towers and tremble not!)
Resemble nothing that is ours.
Around, by lifting winds forgot,
Resignedly beneath the sky
The melancholy waters lie.
No rays from the holy Heaven come down
On the long night-time of that town;
But light from out the lurid sea
Streams up the turrets silently—
Gleams up the pinnacles far and free—
Up domes—up spires—up kingly halls—
Up fanes—up Babylon-like walls—
Up shadowy long-forgotten bowers
Of sculptured ivy and stone flowers—
Up many and many a marvellous shrine
Whose wreathed friezes intertwine
The viol, the violet, and the vine.
Resignedly beneath the sky
The melancholy waters lie.
So blend the turrets and shadows there
That all seem pendulous in air,
While from a proud tower in the town
Death looks gigantically down.
There open fanes and gaping graves
Yawn level with the luminous waves;
But not the riches there that lie
In each idol’s diamond eye—
Not the gaily-jewelled dead
Tempt the waters from their bed;
For no ripples curl, alas!
Along that wilderness of glass—
No swellings tell that winds may be
Upon some far-off happier sea—
No heavings hint that winds have been
On seas less hideously serene.
But lo, a stir is in the air!
The wave—there is a movement there!
As if the towers had ****** aside,
In slightly sinking, the dull tide—
As if their tops had feebly given
A void within the filmy Heaven.
The waves have now a redder glow—
The hours are breathing faint and low—
And when, amid no earthly moans,
Down, down that town shall settle hence,
Hell, rising from a thousand thrones,
Shall do it reverence.
4.9k
I
Just as my fingers on these keys
Make music, so the self-same sounds
On my spirit make a music, too.
Music is feeling, then, not sound;
And thus it is that what I feel,
Here in this room, desiring you,
Thinking of your blue-shadowed silk,
Is music. It is like the strain
Waked in the elders by Susanna;
Of a green evening, clear and warm,
She bathed in her still garden, while
The red-eyed elders, watching, felt
The basses of their beings throb
In witching chords, and their thin blood
Pulse pizzicati of Hosanna.
II
In the green water, clear and warm,
Susanna lay.
She searched
The touch of springs,
And found
Concealed imaginings.
She sighed,
For so much melody.
Upon the bank, she stood
In the cool
Of spent emotions.
She felt, among the leaves,
The dew
Of old devotions.
She walked upon the grass,
Still quavering.
The winds were like her maids,
On timid feet,
Fetching her woven scarves,
Yet wavering.
A breath upon her hand
Muted the night.
She turned--
A cymbal crashed,
Amid roaring horns.
III
Soon, with a noise like tambourines,
Came her attendant Byzantines.
They wondered why Susanna cried
Against the elders by her side;
And as they whispered, the refrain
Was like a willow swept by rain.
Anon, their lamps' uplifted flame
Revealed Susanna and her shame.
And then, the simpering Byzantines
Fled, with a noise like tambourines.
IV
Beauty is momentary in the mind--
The fitful tracing of a portal;
But in the flesh it is immortal.
The body dies; the body's beauty lives.
So evenings die, in their green going,
A wave, interminably flowing.
So gardens die, their meek breath scenting
The cowl of winter, done repenting.
So maidens die, to the auroral
Celebration of a maiden's choral.
Susanna's music touched the ***** strings
Of those white elders; but, escaping,
Left only Death's ironic scraping.
Now, in its immortality, it plays
On the clear viol of her memory,
And makes a constant sacrament of praise.
3.5k
The darkened street was muffled with the snow,
The falling flakes had made your shoulders white,
And when we found a shelter from the night
Its glamor fell upon us like a blow.
The clash of dishes and the viol and bow
Mingled beneath the fever of the light.
The heat was full of savors, and the bright
Laughter of women lured the wine to flow.
A little child ate nothing while she sat
Watching a woman at a table there
Learn to kiss beneath a drooping hat.
The hour went by, we rose and turned to go,
The somber street received us from the glare,
And once more on your shoulders fell the snow.
3.3k
This is the quiet hour; the theaters
Have gathered in their crowds, and steadily
The million lights blaze on for few to see,
Robbing the sky of stars that should be hers.
A woman waits with bag and shabby furs,
A somber man drifts by, and only we
Pass up the street unwearied, warm and free,
For over us the olden magic stirs.
Beneath the liquid splendor of the lights
We live a little ere the charm is spent;
This night is ours, of all the golden nights,
The pavement an enchanted palace floor,
And Youth the player on the viol, who sent
A strain of music through an open door.
3.2k
The colors, they won't
Bright, bea t ful c l rs
Flash ng, exp nd ng, piercing
Red, green, blue
An ndless
CACOPHONY
Of meaningless
noise
The noise, it won't STOP.
Viol nt, grating w vef rms
Sq e king, screech ng, piercing
SINE, COSINE, TANGENT
Like play ng a ch lkboard on a t rntable
Like playing a KNIFE on a BREATHING RIBCAGE
n ndl ss
p m
Of m n ngl ss
Delete Her
Mar 6, 2019
Mar 6, 2019 at 4:33 PM UTC
XXXII
The first time that the sun rose on thine oath
To love me, I looked forward to the moon
To slacken all those bonds which seemed too soon
And quickly tied to make a lasting troth.
Quick-loving hearts, I thought, may quickly loathe;
And, looking on myself, I seemed not one
For such man’s love!—more like an out-of-tune
Worn viol, a good singer would be wroth
To spoil his song with, and which, snatched in haste,
Is laid down at the first ill-sounding note.
I did not wrong myself so, but I placed
A wrong on thee. For perfect strains may float
’Neath master-hands, from instruments defaced,—
And great souls, at one stroke, may do and doat.
2.6k
don't create distance between us,
like painting oceans between the skies & lands
unreachable,
like,
branches caging you from beneath your deepest
secrets.
and no amount of rain is enough to make the
drought in my eyes leave, like all the people
we said goodbye to
at train stations & graveyards
that soon became as empty & cold as
the bottles she'd drowned her sorrows into;
setting skins on fire & smoking death into the lungs
like snow-kissed bodies whispering love songs to ghosts
oh dear Bukowski, girls like her don’t learn to
walk through fires
they are fire-lungs & burnt skies,
haunted nursery rhymes bleeding out of souls
like volcanoes & violin screams.
Mar 1, 2016
Mar 1, 2016 at 3:07 PM UTC
I am a shell. From me you shall not hear
The splendid tramplings of insistent drums,
The orbed gold of the viol's voice that comes,
Heavy with radiance, languorous and clear.
Yet, if you hold me close against the ear,
A dim, far whisper rises clamorously,
The thunderous beat and passion of the sea,
The slow surge of the tides that drown the mere.
Others with subtle hands may pluck the strings,
Making even Love in music audible,
And earth one glory. I am but a shell
That moves, not of itself, and moving sings;
Leaving a fragrance, faint as wine new-shed,
A tremulous murmur from great days long dead.
1.7k
Places I love come back to me like music,
Hush me and heal me when I am very tired;
I see the oak woods at Saxton’s flaming
In a flare of crimson by the frost newly fired;
And I am thirsty for the spring in the valley
As for a kiss ungiven and long desired.
I know a bright world of snowy hills at Boonton,
A blue and white dazzling light on everything one sees,
The ice-covered branches of the hemlocks sparkle
Bending low and tinkling in the sharp thin breeze,
And iridescent crystals fall and crackle on the snow-crust
With the winter sun drawing cold blue shadows from the trees.
Violet now, in veil on veil of evening
The hills across from Cromwell grow dreamy and far;
A wood-thrush is singing soft as a viol
In the heart of the hollow where the dark pools are;
The primrose has opened her pale yellow flowers
And heaven is lighting star after star.
Places I love come back to me like music —
Mid-ocean, midnight, the waves buzz drowsily;
In the ship’s deep churning the eerie phosphorescence
Is like the souls of people who were drowned at sea,
And I can hear a man’s voice, speaking, hushed, insistent,
At midnight, in mid-ocean, hour on hour to me.
1.3k
Here we broached the Christmas barrel,
Pushed up the charred log-ends;
Here we sang the Christmas carol,
And called in friends.
Time has tired me since we met here
When the folk now dead were young,
And the viands were outset here
And quaint songs sung.
And the worm has bored the viol
That used to lead the tune,
Rust eaten out the dial
That struck night’s noon.
Now no Christmas brings in neighbours,
And the New Year comes unlit;
Where we sang the mole now labours,
And spiders knit.
Yet at midnight if here walking,
When the moon sheets wall and tree,
I see forms of old time talking,
Who smile on me.
1.2k
i.
Reyna, we art, and thus alway's wilt be, king and queen wreathed by unrevealed novel thing's; A reality, no fantasy nor dream, as ourn amour' steam's and ring's like bell's in chapel holiness.
ii.
Ourn d.n.a is a map of all creational construction, showing God's hand's whom hast created ourn function's; We yearneth for another from afar, mine Jane, mine pet, we shalt soon together maketh ourn children on star's.
iii.
O' from the empyrean, O' from the empyrean we shalt glanceth Mars. Ourn heart's large, as ourn eye's pierce through another; wayfarer's we shalt be in the angelic city. With golden street's below ourn feet, none demonic fearing's nor pity, vesture of the trace of ourn creator's trinity. Viol and harp symphonies, high class and richy shalt we dance, None currency needed. The poor here shalt be standing first, as the greed-seeker's last, no tear drained pain's nor stab's, no mishap's. Just rainbow's that reflecteth garment's and robe's from the heavenly host's that carry sword's to keepeth the fallen fiend's out.
iv.
The entryway covered by rock's that sparkled back on earth in the opulent man's view, though here this scene is for me and thou; for the homeless to, as tis we shalt be renewed in ourn kiss of eternal life, all day here, no night. For God here is the light that the earthling's hath forgotten.
©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©Earl jane Nagley dedication-Filipino rose
Nov 13, 2015
Nov 13, 2015 at 10:05 PM UTC
Beneath the arch,
among the branches,
the maunder of her eyes
finds noir in an afterimage,
every reflection is unique,
explicit and indivisible,
every reflection is her,
there she looks close
for gracefulness,
in the essays of her skin
and their brazen transparencies,
she enters into her body fable,
the shape of her resembles
the tenor viol: where it widens,
where it narrows,
where it digresses
and monochromes,
she reflects a fragile geography,
a soft cargo, but
an inkling of hurricane,
rendering the fault lines
beautiful and strong,
in supplication tomorrow's explorer
will disturb the patterns
until she's become her own lullaby
Mar 2, 2025
Mar 2, 2025 at 1:16 PM UTC
On a quiet morn she whispers
Her voice a vibrant viol
Golden sunlight upon her breast
Gleaming with dreamy themes
Of serene scenes, my eyes smile
Rejuvenated in vitality afresh in purpose
She leaves the room yet she's still with me
My abandon knows no worry
My morning has no hurry
She returns with coffee in hand
Her radiant intoxication engulfs me once again ...
What is this that I belong
As strong as rage a soothing calm
A lucid daydream that needs no lie
A wind of wonder fills my mind
A day so very enchanted, two hearts beat as one
We drive off like heroes into the rising sun
The daydream of love has now begun
Jun 9, 2013
Jun 9, 2013 at 9:24 AM UTC
she has played many instruments in her lifetime
first was piano
then the viol
then viola
then cello
then guitar
guitar was eye opening
each string was a strong reassurance
every chord was a kiss on the cheek
guitar was the quiet embrace
of two long lost friends
finally finding each other again
Jan 19, 2021
Jan 19, 2021 at 5:40 PM UTC
Yet
Ere th' season dies a-cold
And cold winds return to howl,
I shall rise through th' violette sky,
Telling t'at my love for thee has died.
May Lawes and Jenkyns shield its rest,
In green skies' bosoms, on dribbling rains' chest,
With a solid poem t'at as ever be my guest,
Back, back my dead love is, in whose nest.
And my heart, once its merited soliloquy,
Cursest thee like a fetished beast,
Bearing all onto the zephyr's shoulder,
Hopping through all past enigmas.
Hath it tampered with my viol's wood,
Hath it grinned over through my sins,
Throwing the grievous and the acute,
Breaking my febrile Eolian lute,
Hast it fashioned so airy a mood,
Hast it carved so spacious a fire,
Hast it drawn stealth leaves from my roots,
Hast it seemed neither mist nor shades,
Then release me, fly me outrite,
To new freedom t'is benevolent night,
With thy grim anew bride and suit,
Wed her away with thy colourless love,
My love is dead, dead, dead, and grim,
A stranger to me and my volatile dreams,
Unlike a cloud t'at once seemed so light,
Casting a shade beyond one's porous fright,
My love's as dead, dead, dead, as it may seem,
The subtlety of my eyes hath drifted,
The congested breath of mine hath lifted,
And I hath now seen what t'is world means.
My love is dead, dead, dead, as t'at of thine,
Thou art a dead soul to my lonely wine,
I'd watch thee bleed profusely on the floor,
I'd close the windows and smile over the door.
I want thee dead, dead, dead, and hastily step away,
I hath no other words for thee, I hath no more t' say,
I'd stop by as thy heartbeat grew weak,
And hear the last words thou wouldst speak.
Jul 22, 2014
Jul 22, 2014 at 3:34 PM UTC
[Pour Marie C.]
Tu te souviens de cette fois
Quand tu m’as demandé
Si j’ai jamais pleuré de la douleur ?
Car je te réponds
profondément et tendrement
que oui.
« Oui » vrai de nouveau chaque jour.
De supporter un nom
Un sexe
Un âge
Des vêtements qui me donnent
des descriptions
et m’emprisonnent en plus.
De la longueur de ma maison.
Et ça fait mal comme un pur viol.
Voir, sur les genoux parmi des bêtes,
devant soi-même tout ce qui t’admire,
ce qui te laisse respirer,
t’aime,
te donne l’identité
et vit en tes soupirs des yeux
et des larmes,
juste à la distance de la main
pour ne pas être jamais rendu à toi
en publique
et te tuant ainsi dans un pays étrange.
« Oui » de souffrance inédite.
Quand j’t’entends,
te vois en mon esprit,
Je nous demande
Combien de nuits sourdes,
trop silencieuses,
du goût du sang et du métal
as-tu passé séparé, tout en eau,
Sans air, les mélodies
comme la seule compagnie ?
Combien des choses y a-t-il
auxquels tu ne donne jamais la voix ?
Combien de masques as-tu créés
et détruits ?
Combien des portes as-tu claqué
devant les personnes
qui s’appelaient ta famille ?
Combien d’êtres as-tu blessé
pour te protéger ?
La masque de pierre n’endurcira
plus un jour
Et la pierre se cassera en porcelaine sanglante.
Je désire te voir te romper,
Toucher une corde sensible de ton piano,
Pour que tu meurtes et naisses de nouveau.
Pour que tu puisses authentiquement respirer.
Pour que tu te laisse pleurer sans cesse.
Pour que je puisse te tenir dans mes bras.
Comme si tu étais la chose plus valeureuse
et fragile du monde,
Et pour qu’on puisse se regarder
dans nos yeux pour des heures,
Sans mots ni pensées se retrouver,
Devenir fragiles tous les deux.
« T’es trop lumineux », tu dis,
« pour moi »,
Eh ben, t’es pas trop sombre
pour moi.
Tu t’emportes des écouteurs,
Ta barrière et ta rédemption.
Seule distraction et chemin au ciel.
On se rend tous les deux aux étoiles,
On peut s’y rencontrer un jour
et entrelacer les mains.
Peut-être même s’appeler
de derrière de nos miroirs étroits
Avec des nouveaux sons pour nos noms.
Je t’embrasse, observe
Et écris de là,
Marie.
Jun 23, 2020
Jun 23, 2020 at 6:55 AM UTC
Aux petits incidents il faut s'habituer.
Hier on est venu chez moi pour me tuer.
Mon tort dans ce pays c'est de croire aux asiles.
On ne sait quel ramas de pauvres imbéciles
S'est rué tout à coup la nuit sur ma maison.
Les arbres de la place en eurent le frisson,
Mais pas un habitant ne bougea. L'escalade
Fut longue, ardente, horrible, et Jeanne était malade.
Je conviens que j'avais pour elle un peu d'effroi.
Mes deux petits-enfants, quatre femmes et moi,
C'était la garnison de cette forteresse.
Rien ne vint secourir la maison en détresse.
La police fut sourde ayant affaire ailleurs.
Un dur caillou tranchant effleura Jeanne en pleurs.
Attaque de chauffeurs en pleine Forêt-Noire.
Ils criaient : Une échelle ! une poutre ! victoire !
Fracas où se perdaient nos appels sans écho.
Deux hommes apportaient du quartier Pachéco
Une poutre enlevée à quelque échafaudage.
Le jour naissant gênait la bande. L'abordage
Cessait, puis reprenait. Ils hurlaient haletants.
La poutre par bonheur n'arriva pas à temps.
" Assassin ! - C'était moi. - Nous voulons que tu meures !
Brigand ! Bandit ! " Ceci dura deux bonnes heures.
George avait calmé Jeanne en lui prenant la main.
Noir tumulte. Les voix n'avaient plus rien d'humain ;
Pensif, je rassurais les femmes en prières,
Et ma fenêtre était trouée à coups de pierres.
Il manquait là des cris de vive l'empereur !
La porte résista battue avec fureur.
Cinquante hommes armés montrèrent ce courage.
Et mon nom revenait dans des clameurs de rage :
A la lanterne ! à mort ! qu'il meure ! il nous le faut !
Par moments, méditant quelque nouvel assaut,
Tout ce tas furieux semblait reprendre haleine ;
Court répit ; un silence obscur et plein de haine
Se faisait au milieu de ce sombre viol ;
Et j'entendais au **** chanter un rossignol.
601
La sottise, l'erreur, le péché, la lésine,
Occupent nos esprits et travaillent nos corps,
Et nous alimentons nos aimables remords,
Comme les mendiants nourrissent leur vermine.
Nos péchés sont têtus, nos repentirs sont lâches ;
Nous nous faisons payer grassement nos aveux,
Et nous rentrons gaiement dans le chemin bourbeux,
Croyant par de vils pleurs laver toutes nos taches.
Sur l'oreiller du mal c'est Satan Trismégiste
Qui berce longuement notre esprit enchanté,
Et le riche métal de notre volonté
Est tout vaporisé par ce savant chimiste.
C'est le Diable qui tient les fils qui nous remuent !
Aux objets répugnants nous trouvons des appas ;
Chaque jour vers l'Enfer nous descendons d'un pas,
Sans horreur, à travers des ténèbres qui puent.
Ainsi qu'un débauché pauvre qui baise et mange
Le sein martyrisé d'une antique catin,
Nous volons au passage un plaisir clandestin
Que nous pressons bien fort comme une vieille orange.
Serré, fourmillant, comme un million d'helminthes,
Dans nos cerveaux ribote un peuple de Démons,
Et, quand nous respirons, la Mort dans nos poumons
Descend, fleuve invisible, avec de sourdes plaintes.
Si le viol, le poison, le poignard, l'incendie,
N'ont pas encor brodé de leurs plaisants dessins
Le canevas banal de nos piteux destins,
C'est que notre âme, hélas ! n'est pas assez hardie.
Mais parmi les chacals, les panthères, les lices,
Les singes, les scorpions, les vautours, les serpents,
Les monstres glapissants, hurlants, grognants, rampants,
Dans la ménagerie infâme de nos vices,
Il en est un plus laid, plus méchant, plus immonde !
Quoiqu'il ne pousse ni grands gestes ni grands cris,
Il ferait volontiers de la terre un débris
Et dans un bâillement avalerait le monde ;
C'est l'Ennui ! - l'oeil chargé d'un pleur involontaire,
Il rêve d'échafauds en fumant son houka.
Tu le connais, lecteur, ce monstre délicat,
- Hypocrite lecteur, - mon semblable, - mon frère !
606
LO! Death has reared himself a throne
In a strange city lying alone
Far down within the dim West,
Where the good and the bad and the worst and the best
Have gone to their eternal rest.
There shrines and palaces and towers
(Time-eaten towers that tremble not!)
Resemble nothing that is ours.
Around, by lifting winds forgot,
Resignedly beneath the sky
The melancholy waters lie.
No rays from the holy heaven come down
On the long night-time of that town;
But light from out the lurid sea
Streams up the turrets silently —
Gleams up the pinnacles far and free —
Up domes — up spires — up kingly halls —
Up fanes — up Babylon-like walls —
Up shadowy long-forgotten bowers
Of scultured ivy and stone flowers —
Up many and many a marvellous shrine
Whose wreathed friezes intertwine
The viol, the violet, and the vine.
Resignedly beneath the sky
The melancholy waters lie.
So blend the turrets and shadows there
That all seem pendulous in air,
While from a proud tower in the town
Death looks gigantically down.
There open fanes and gaping graves
Yawn level with the luminous waves;
But not the riches there that lie
In each idol’s diamond eye —
Not the gaily-jewelled dead
Tempt the waters from their bed;
For no ripples curl, alas!
Along that wilderness of glass —
No swellings tell that winds may be
Upon some far-off happier sea —
No heavings hint that winds have been
On seas less hideously serene.
But lo, a stir is in the air!
The wave — there is a movement there!
As if the towers had thrown aside,
In slightly sinking, the dull tide —
As if their tops had feebly given
A void within the filmy Heaven.
The waves have now a redder glow —
The hours are breathing faint and low —
And when, amid no earthly moans,
Down, down that town shall settle hence.
Hell, rising from a thousand thrones,
Shall do it reverence.
Nov 16, 2017
Nov 16, 2017 at 2:32 PM UTC