"visitant" poems
O Venus, beauty of the skies,
To whom a thousand temples rise,
Gaily false in gentle smiles,
Full of love-perplexing wiles;
O goddess, from my heart remove
The wasting cares and pains of love.
If ever thou hast kindly heard
A song in soft distress preferred,
Propitious to my tuneful vow,
A gentle goddess, hear me now.
Descend, thou bright immortal guest,
In all thy radiant charms confessed.
Thou once didst leave almighty Jove
And all the golden roofs above:
The car thy wanton sparrows drew,
Hovering in air they lightly flew;
As to my bower they winged their way
I saw their quivering pinions play.
The birds dismissed (while you remain)
Bore back their empty car again:
Then you, with looks divinely mild,
In every heavenly feature smiled,
And asked what new complaints I made,
And why I called you to my aid?
What frenzy in my ***** raged,
And by what cure to be assuaged?
What gentle youth I would allure,
Whom in my artful toils secure?
Who does thy tender heart subdue,
Tell me, my Sappho, tell me who?
Though now he shuns thy longing arms,
He soon shall court thy slighted charms;
Though now thy offerings he despise,
He soon to thee shall sacrifice;
Though now he freezes, he soon shall burn,
And be thy victim in his turn.
Celestial visitant, once more
Thy needful presence I implore.
In pity come, and ease my grief,
Bring my distempered soul relief,
Favour thy suppliant's hidden fires,
And give me all my heart desires.
2.7k
i.
Certes, where wouldst I be, without the visitant who visited me, hallow and calefacient is mine sweet. Her camaca flaxen brown far east bisayan covering, like the wind upon her bones; Cling's on to wing's crystalline, hovering.
ii.
Many callisteias doth she hath, even in her most burdened of day's, light echoes the wall's of her laugh. Her nacre eyne, as a naos doth garnish the sign; spelling "ángelos mou".
iii.
I phlebotomized pond's of despair's tether's, I implored God for the mate of mine soul; even pictured this vasílissa in mine pounding blood's fetters. Thus one moment, in death's valley, undeservingly the Trinity whom always was and is; gifted me mine other-half, the woman from Asia's tribal secrets, the one with a aureole surrounding her chest.
iv.
Now, after generation's of awaiting, just to touch her luminescence I won't tire, nor debate the timing; for all
Cometh in good time, I just thanketh mine Yahweh.
For its his daughter he didst send, thus me didst he
Openeth mine eyen. O' blest divine, O' blest divine.
©Brandon Nagley
©Lonesome poets poetry
©Earl Jane Nagley ( àgapi mou) Dedication
Apr 12, 2016
Apr 12, 2016 at 7:06 PM UTC
'Dockery was junior to you,
Wasn't he?' said the Dean. 'His son's here now.'
Death-suited, visitant, I nod. 'And do
You keep in touch with-' Or remember how
Black-gowned, unbreakfasted, and still half-tight
We used to stand before that desk, to give
'Our version' of 'these incidents last night'?
I try the door of where I used to live:
Locked. The lawn spreads dazzlingly wide.
A known bell chimes. I catch my train, ignored.
Canal and clouds and colleges subside
Slowly from view. But Dockery, good Lord,
Anyone up today must have been born
In '43, when I was twenty-one.
If he was younger, did he get this son
At nineteen, twenty? Was he that withdrawn
High-collared public-schoolboy, sharing rooms
With Cartwright who was killed? Well, it just shows
How much . . . How little . . . Yawning, I suppose
I fell asleep, waking at the fumes
And furnace-glares of Sheffield, where I changed,
And ate an awful pie, and walked along
The platform to its end to see the ranged
Joining and parting lines reflect a strong
Unhindered moon. To have no son, no wife,
No house or land still seemed quite natural.
Only a numbness registered the shock
Of finding out how much had gone of life,
How widely from the others. Dockery, now:
Only nineteen, he must have taken stock
Of what he wanted, and been capable
Of . . . No, that's not the difference: rather, how
Convinced he was he should be added to!
Why did he think adding meant increase?
To me it was dilution. Where do these
Innate assumptions come from? Not from what
We think truest, or most want to do:
Those warp tight-shut, like doors. They're more a style
Our lives bring with them: habit for a while,
Suddenly they harden into all we've got
And how we got it; looked back on, they rear
Like sand-clouds, thick and close, embodying
For Dockery a son, for me nothing,
Nothing with all a son's harsh patronage.
Life is first boredom, then fear.
Whether or not we use it, it goes,
And leaves what something hidden from us chose,
And age, and then the only end of age.
2.5k
When the shy star goes forth in heaven
All maidenly, disconsolate,
Hear you amid the drowsy even
One who is singing by your gate.
His song is softer than the dew
And he is come to visit you.
O bend no more in revery
When he at eventide is calling.
Nor muse: Who may this singer be
Whose song about my heart is falling?
Know you by this, the lover's chant,
'Tis I that am your visitant.
2.3k
The visitant frequenting
The dreams of my slumber
In the hours of darkness
Appeared yet again
His face was obscured
By dazzling luminous colours
His aura bled
Deep in the trenches of my viscera
I feel as though
I have been breathless
For a thousand lifetimes
Awaiting his arrival
Hypnotised by the mystique
I felt his soul converge with mine
The phantasma I adore
The skeleton key opening me.
Jan 18, 2014
Jan 18, 2014 at 2:37 PM UTC
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Jun 6, 2014
Jun 6, 2014 at 9:53 PM UTC
My terror grows with each passing night,
As slow, steady darkness steals away sight.
Footsteps and whispers add to my fright —
Is there an end to such desperate plight?
How long, too long, till dawn’s early light!
I clutch my candle in trembling hand,
And watch the shadows dance to understand
What I envision as its light expands
Through the room and down the hall’s span.
There lingers a vision, diaphanous and pale,
Shifting and shuddering, as though it were frail,
Whispering softly a most horrible wail.
Eyes no more than twin black abysses,
The vision approaches to beg final kisses.
Heavy, so heavy, my heart thuds in my chest.
From hall to room the visitant creeps,
Upon my mortal form it silently seeps.
Gliding in silence, not walking — not quite —
Closer it comes with its sulfurous blight.
My eyes are held tight — can’t even blink right.
Lips part, jaw drops, revealing a black maw;
The specter extends one moon-gray claw,
Caressing my cheek with a grave-cold paw.
My throat constricts — no breath do I draw.
It locks my eyes with hell’s black gaze,
Until moonlight strikes in golden rays.
The phantasm shudders and starts to blaze,
Struggles again its arm to raise —
But from the light it reels in malaise.
And heavy, so heavy, my heart thuds in my chest.
The hallucination retreats, as though pressed,
Back to the doorway — its intent suppressed —
Shrinking into the dark hall, a lost contest,
Driven by a moonbeam so blessed,
Whose gentle light coursed to my relief
And unmasked the fear beneath belief —
The frightful soul-stealing thief
That stalked and grieved me, if only brief.
Now I breathe, and calm my soul:
“Twas nothing but a myth… a troll.”
Then thunder pealed a mighty toll.
Wind brought rain and a thundercloud —
Again that wail, this time loud.
Oh heavy, so heavy, my heart… no more…
Sep 9, 2025
Sep 9, 2025 at 3:20 PM UTC
The Lady Mary took to her bed
On the last of the mad March days,
She’d strained her constitution, she said
At that upstart, Shakespeare’s plays,
The ruffians at the Globe were known
To be often rotten with fleas,
‘I must have been bitten,’ Milady said
With her skirt drawn up to her knees.
The footman fastened a painted sign
‘No Visitors’ up at the door,
While one of the maids got down on her knees
And scrubbed at the parquet floor,
Milady took to her poster bed
By a window out to the square,
‘You’d best get down to the Fleet,’ she said,
‘Lord Orton is working there.’
The doctor came with his physic
Carried a nosegay close to his face,
The cane that he prodded Milady with
Would leave her with little grace,
‘The swellings down in Milady’s groin
Will have to be truly bled,
A mixture of clay and violets then
Applied to the sores,’ he said.
The mist swept in and the night came down
As the fever grew apace,
And dark black pustules grew and swarmed
At the Lady Mary’s face,
A shadow fell on the window pane
Of a man stood out in the square,
‘Who is that nightly visitant,
And what is he doing there?’
She couldn’t make out his features for
His hat was broad of brim,
Shading his face and hawk-like nose
Though he kept on looking in,
‘I have a terrible feeling that
I’ve seen that man before,
He’s come from the coffin-maker, and
He waits outside my door.’
She slipped off into unconsciousness
So the footman let him in,
To measure her with a piece of twine
From her head to below her shin,
They waited then for an hour or two
While the doctor had her bled,
She cried aloud at a fancied shroud
And she shrank from it, in dread.
Late on the second day she woke
Lord Orton at her side,
Holding a faded nosegay to
Protect him from his bride,
She heard the clatter of wheels pull up
Outside in the darkened court,
And cried, ‘My Lord, will you leave me now
That my time is running short?’
She lapsed back into a coma, but
She could feel the tremors start,
And something strange had begun to change
In the beating of her heart,
A rattle deep in her throat began
And resounded through her head,
Just as a voice, it seemed to her,
Called out, ‘Bring out your dead!’
David Lewis Paget
Jul 28, 2013
Jul 28, 2013 at 9:32 PM UTC
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Emma portait une robe élégante de mariage Jenny Packham .Les décorations étaient un mélange de bouteilles en verre de couleur et de belles roses anglaises .
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Jun 12, 2014
Jun 12, 2014 at 9:59 PM UTC
Inside a grand house in an isolated
Place, hearing in Summer a visitant
From a distance long playing discordant
Notes upon a rooftop--it was a goblin
Nightly strumming guitar and violin,
Creating in my ears sounds demented!
Apr 15, 2012
Apr 15, 2012 at 3:06 PM UTC
golden tints in a darkened room
a deceased flower, wilting after bloom
ears sheltered from a visitant
separation from a lust abandoned
desperation for a calm awakened
weakened by a loose grip
frowns permanent on a year
a tear fallen down
a love all the same
a world under construction
consoled by illusions
of a desire you had proven
to have faded from the strain
Sep 23, 2012
Sep 23, 2012 at 2:49 AM UTC
calls me by cupping his hands and hollering. is convinced he needs delayed attention. senses my immediacy and waves me off. his hands go into remission. his hair darkens. darkens as grass dryly chosen by a nearby frisbee. we are here to celebrate. three years without driving. three years backing over a bicycle his daughter could not abandon. bookmarks and powder. brain a busy insect. seasons placed on torpor’s waiting list. the recent wars have been a clarity. people want what we have.
May 8, 2013
May 8, 2013 at 2:32 PM UTC
I remember being young
and not feeling much
like a person,
but more like a shapeless,
formless, amalgamation
of emotion and thought
that barely made sense to
myself,
couldn’t possibly make sense
to anyone else.
I remember that very odd,
stilted,
self-awareness lasting the
whole school-day,
the whole school-year.
Sometimes,
at home,
while the record player
hissed and crackled its way through
a stack of 45s,
I’d feel a “pop” and become
something more akin
to human,
less apparition or automaton.
I’m more or less the same
now as I was then.
My arms and legs are held
in place by the pages of
beloved books, photographs
of my children,
the feel of my wife’s fingers
pressed into the small
of my spine.
I still go ghost now and again,
sitting in a room,
in the back of the house,
the albums on their shelves,
or spinning faithfully,
the texts that surround.
“Pop”
Really, I can almost hear
the realness of myself as I expand
into a more artful being.
I’ve learned something.
I’ve become something.
I’ve attained something.
I’d rather, for the most part,
be in front of people,
than with people.
When I am with people,
I don’t know how to behave,
I become anxious,
a visitant version of
myself.
In front of people,
I am comfortable,
content,
contained inside
of my own
art.
None the worse
for preternatural wear,
I’m allowed
to
pop.
***
-JBClaywell
© P&ZPublications 2018
Aug 15, 2018
Aug 15, 2018 at 4:21 PM UTC
Morning meditation.... eyes closed,
Impetuously, it connects with me.
Geometric spinning images
Smiling faces drone closer
And then, a large "A" strobes,
Followed by a large "M".
I immediately think of Alan.
"Is this a message from you" I ask?
Faces begin to move into focus,
A tear runs down my cheek.
I question "Is this really you or do my closed eyes deceive me"?
This is answered with my name spelled out letter......by......letter.
My breath goes cold, I can't feel myself
What in Gods name!!
Orbiting motion, whirling faster as it surrounds me
It's as if it lifts me up defying gravity.
"Enough", I scream out
At once ...the visitant departs
And I open my eyes.
Sep 22, 2018
Sep 22, 2018 at 3:19 PM UTC