"whereof" poems
my love
thy hair is one kingdom
the king whereof is darkness
thy forehead is a flight of flowers
thy head is a quick forest
filled with sleeping birds
thy ******* are swarms of white bees
upon the bough of thy body
thy body to me is April
in whose armpits is the approach of spring
thy thighs are white horses yoked to a chariot
of kings
they are the striking of a good minstrel
between them is always a pleasant song
my love
thy head is a casket
of the cool jewel of thy mind
the hair of thy head is one warrior
innocent of defeat
thy hair upon thy shoulders is an army
with victory and with trumpets
thy legs are the trees of dreaming
whose fruit is the very eatage of forgetfulness
thy lips are satraps in scarlet
in whose kiss is the combinings of kings
thy wrists
are holy
which are the keepers of the keys of thy blood
thy feet upon thy ankles are flowers in vases
of silver
in thy beauty is the dilemma of flutes
thy eyes are the betrayal
of bells comprehended through incense
160.2k
How do you know that the pilgrim track
Along the belting zodiac
Swept by the sun in his seeming rounds
Is traced by now to the Fishes’ bounds
And into the Ram, when weeks of cloud
Have wrapt the sky in a clammy shroud,
And never as yet a tinct of spring
Has shown in the Earth’s apparelling;
O vespering bird, how do you know,
How do you know?
How do you know, deep underground,
Hid in your bed from sight and sound,
Without a turn in temperature,
With weather life can scarce endure,
That light has won a fraction’s strength,
And day put on some moments’ length,
Whereof in merest rote will come,
Weeks hence, mild airs that do not numb;
O crocus root, how do you know,
How do you know?
15.9k
Warmed by her hand and shadowed by her hair
As close she leaned and poured her heart through thee,
Whereof the articulate throbs accompany
The smooth black stream that makes thy whiteness fair,—
Sweet fluttering sheet, even of her breath aware,—
Oh let thy silent song disclose to me
That soul wherewith her lips and eyes agree
Like married music in Love’s answering air.
Fain had I watched her when, at some fond thought,
Her ***** to the writing closelier press’d,
And her ******* secrets peered into her breast;
When, through eyes raised an instant, her soul sought
My soul, and from the sudden confluence caught
The words that made her love the loveliest.
13k
The hour which might have been yet might not be,
Which man’s and woman’s heart conceived and bore
Yet whereof life was barren,—on what shore
Bides it the breaking of Time’s weary sea?
Bondchild of all consummate joys set free,
It somewhere sighs and serves, and mute before
The house of Love, hears through the echoing door
His hours elect in choral consonancy.
But lo! what wedded souls now hand in hand
Together tread at last the immortal strand
With eyes where burning memory lights love home?
Lo! how the little outcast hour has turned
And leaped to them and in their faces yearned: —
‘I am your child: O parents, ye have come!’
4k
in a land where four languages are official
a church was named only in three; for the fourth
is the language of a weak and fragile faith
whose edicts are above the law of the land,
and whereof knowing a church's name is temptation
and the tempter the sinner and the tempted sinless;
a rock is evil for stumbling the weak,
and if truth offends the truthsayer dies,
and the thief blameless for the rich flaunts his gold;
thus protected by an unsheathed ****** sword
a faith strengthened with every tempter's death
Mar 28, 2022
Mar 28, 2022 at 11:17 PM UTC
Are you that Stone-Edged as to penetrate
Which even Donkey's Ears refuse to sound?
And on that Bed, that White Sheet's Cry debate
Useless Tears as your Ring boasts your Account
Which of these Ways, Sir, must you Stark-Rebel
And addle yourself carelessly to Sin?
Your Canaan - burnt - to Red District's Level
Selling yourself in Circles for a Fin
Unthinkable, your Role upturned thereof
Though many Blinded Eyes considered Cool
All to solicit Pink Ducklings whereof
Plucking Wily Snails their Poison to Fool.
No-One has asked you for this Flipped Request
Save to drink this Tonic and do your Best.
Mar 13, 2013
Mar 13, 2013 at 2:35 AM UTC
I leant upon a coppice gate
When Frost was spectre-gray,
And Winter’s dregs made desolate
The weakening eye of day.
The tangled bine-stems scored the sky
Like strings of broken lyres,
And all mankind that haunted nigh
Had sought their household fires.
The land’s sharp features seemed to be
The Century’s corpse outleant,
His crypt the cloudy canopy,
The wind his death-lament.
The ancient pulse of germ and birth
Was shrunken hard and dry,
And every spirit upon earth
Seemed fervourless as I.
At once a voice arose among
The bleak twigs overhead
In a full-hearted evensong
Of joy illimited;
An aged thrush, frail, gaunt, and small,
In blast-beruffled plume,
Had chosen thus to fling his soul
Upon the growing gloom.
So little cause for carolings
Of such ecstatic sound
Was written on terrestrial things
Afar or nigh around,
That I could think there trembled through
His happy good-night air
Some blessed Hope, whereof he knew
And I was unaware.
2.9k
She’s dead; and all which die
To their first elements resolve;
And we were mutual elements to us,
And made of one another.
My body then doth hers involve,
And those things whereof I consist hereby
In me abundant grow, and burdenous,
And nourish not, but smother.
My fire of passion, sighs of air,
Water of tears, and earthly sad despair,
Which my materials be,
But near worn out by love’s security,
She, to my loss, doth by her death repair,
And I might live long wretched so
But that my fire doth with my fuel grow.
Now as those Active Kings
Whose foreign conquest treasure brings,
Receive more, and spend more, and soonest break:
This (which I am amazed that I can speak)
This death hath with my store
My use increased.
And so my soul more earnestly released
Will outstrip hers; as bullets flown before
A latter bullet may o’ertake, the powder being more.
2.5k
Red Rose, proud Rose, sad Rose of all my days!
Come near me, while I sing the ancient ways:
Cuchulain battling with the bitter tide;
The Druid, grey, wood-nurtured, quiet-eyed,
Who cast round Fergus dreams, and ruin untold;
And thine own sadness, whereof stars, grown old
In dancing silver-sandalled on the sea,
Sing in their high and lonely melody.
Come near, that no more blinded by man's fate,
I find under the boughs of love and hate,
In all poor foolish things that live a day,
Eternal beauty wandering on her way.
Come near, come near, come near-Ah, leave me still
A little space for the rose-breath to fill!
Lest I no more hear common things that crave;
The weak worm hiding down in its small cave,
The field-mouse running by me in the grass,
And heavy mortal hopes that toil and pass;
But seek alone to hear the strange things said
By God to the bright hearts of those long dead,
And learn to chaunt a tongue men do not know.
Come near; I would, before my time to go,
Sing of old Eire and the ancient ways:
Red Rose, proud Rose, sad Rose of all my days.
1.6k
What is your substance, whereof are you made,
That millions of strange shadows on you tend?
Since everyone hath, every one, one shade,
And you, but one, can every shadow lend.
Describe Adonis, and the counterfeit
Is poorly imitated after you;
On Helen’s cheek all art of beauty set,
And you in Grecian tires are painted new.
Speak of the spring, and foison of the year;
The one doth shadow of your beauty show,
The other as your bounty doth appear,
And you in every blessèd shape we know.
In all external grace you have some part,
But you like none, none you, for constant heart.
1.4k
drink pour drink
lacking love I sink
swimming in the pink
my soul is stretching for the leek
the thing I want I'm doomed to want
if ever id had it, id have at least lost
but never at all not for lack of trying
meany a time offered out to be cried in
any time other its *** or its sin
unlovable or am I looked down upon
some god picked me to frown upon
some life randomly to be shat upon
unneeded my outdated satyricon
Faust verily howbeit parfay
whilom methinks maugre swoopstake
twixt speed and sweven, swink eke teen
mayhap afore alack fore fie
clepe gardyloo thole
whosoever sith wist whereof speed
Jan 25, 2013
Jan 25, 2013 at 12:00 AM UTC
The rotten fruit shall be shaken --- W. H. Auden
Do they somehow envision sainthood in the homeless
or extol the virtue of the millions toiling for minimum wage;
see themselves as the feudal overlords of trickle-down,
their enormous profits banquet omelets for the common good?
You know the politics whereof I speak,
the Me, Myself and I of anachronistic yesterdays,
the concave years of soup-kitchens supporting high-rise condos
and batshit crazy presidential candidates admiring selfies.
I wonder if it's all because they can't reach ******
impotence and pharmaceuticals which fuel our economy?
A nation moans from the exhaustion of despair with
forgotten cityscapes of odorous blacks and blues.
Oct 17, 2015
Oct 17, 2015 at 6:22 AM UTC
Against my love shall be, as I am now,
With Time’s injurious hand crushed and o’erworn;
When hours have drained his blood and filled his brow
With lines and wrinkles; when his youthful morn
Hath travelled on to age’s steepy night,
And all those beauties whereof now he’s king
Are vanishing, or vanished out of sight,
Stealing away the treasure of his spring;
For such a time do I now fortify
Against confounding age’s cruel knife,
That he shall never cut from memory
My sweet love’s beauty, though my lover’s life.
His beauty shall in these black lines be seen,
And they shall live, and he in them still green.
846
*My brothers were remarking I've had more beaus than most...
(sonnet #MMMMMMCCCCLXXXVIII)
La, how Vivaldi trills and capers thence
When I am on the run, like to avail
Me is a chancy thing for all he'd hail
In, erm, my absence. And oh! these skies wear hence
Long faces since rain swore off dawn, a sense
Of sheer foreboding in racks' blue detail,
The scanner crackling with a weary tale
My brother knew would be, and "jail" fr'intents.
Dad swears I am "subjective" as it were,
That list of boyfriends I once tripped on through
(Whereof I say "I don't know how to stir
Aught man, but I kin sure ditch lovers") to
A fault against my dearest hopes, a poor
Reminder of I can't say what. Why, too?
10Jul17b
Jul 12, 2017
Jul 12, 2017 at 8:34 PM UTC
My springtime's never ending suns
I carry sunglow from window to bed,
planning, when the next day has come,
just as soon as the pets are fed,
and I've tidied up my empty head,
walked the dog, give cat the cream,
to run and jump and skip and play
not laze around and sleep and dream...
Too late! my pet's wet chomping jaws
send my dreams to damp moist earthy days
of screaming pterodactyls & dinosaurs...
My summer sun's they always shone
so brightly that they hurt my eyes,
and I hid and wished it, Begone!
with my false exasperated sighs...
I lazed around and fantasied,
conjured darkness for my needs,
and willed self toy for troglodytes
so dreamily these beasts use my hands on me
on dark cave floor's breed in me, such dreams...
Of Hekate's hounds entering... in my mind
behind the private door's of my eyes.
Now my Autumn comes crashing down
there's earlier settings of darker suns,
troglodytes and hell's hounds keep me bound
on stiff stalking legs ***** one-eyed proud
as creeping winters begin to run...
My pale face mirrored as I count my sum,
of my omniverse to find it finally means,
of my dreams this whole world wide,
dream leads to this... Whereof? I cannot dream...
Nov 11, 2022
Nov 11, 2022 at 7:05 AM UTC
Forever: it is not a word I know,
Its bounding aches, its tugging groans,
Whereof I speak, thou knowest not,
My mem’ry fleeting, forlorn and rot,
Because this is of tales of my naught,
I live on only to be here, forgot.
-
-
I have saved the life of a child who shall never know my name,
The love I had for my Love, doth she not want to feel again,
I’ve fought for allies, only to now be believed of conspiracy
I’ve liberated my beliefs, only to now be under new tyranny.
I may die any day here, perhaps with the coming sunset,
But in my name and mem’ry, a candle forgotten to be lit.
Time is mortally timeless in this solipsistic reign,
I write my tragedies knowing not a person will feel the same.
-
The ghosts of faces taunt me in my regretful sleep,
Begrudging me to hide my face from all distaste and weep,
Although this feeling flourishes in this daunting midnight air,
The daylight only brings me knowledge of my true despair.
For even my children, even if I were to have them now,
Would forget my name also, I’d be but a whisper upon a cloud.
-
I could go about this life living in the best way that I could,
If all was start over, the same mistakes I made, I would,
But it does not change the fact that no one ever my name will know,
Or remember it with time if even fondness were to grow.
For it is a curse that deaf is eternity,
To my name and quill, knowledge that this woe is me.
-
My love will be forgotten,
For woman, for warmth, for longing,
My words will be forgotten,
In ink, in music, in harmony,
My breath will be forgotten,
For I leave nothing, and nothing again,
My name will be forgotten,
Knowing this makes me insane.
-
Forever: it is a word I will never know.
Love has left and died, and it seems it always will,
I don’t deserve the music I process in my head every hour of the moon and sun.
I don’t possess the strength or skill to properly put what feelings lie in my breast on to parchment.
I cannot scribe a good enough requiem, and I certainly leave no worthy revelation.
Forget my name, and remember those worthy. Forget my work, and remember the ones that fill your heart with happiness and inspiration, for no one need look upon mine and see the struggles of someone that ne’er need complain, or deserve to.
-
It is what I hear all the hours of any of my wretched days;
The cacophony that is the choir singing hymns of me being forgotten.
Jan 20, 2013
Jan 20, 2013 at 12:12 AM UTC
Wherefore
what we believe is what we become,
and what we Are is what we have Forgotten:
Whereas,
as Begat gives way to Self-begetting,
even Logic must be subjected to the Will:
Whereby
thoughts are things and things are waves
beyond the Father-machine's comprehension:
Wherein
faith in science and progress yield a sickly life
devoid of personal meaning, a suckling of experts:
Whereof
prevailing views are reinforced by shame,
ridicule a guillotine to stitch the countering lips:
No Reason is Pure;
Truth escapes the clutches of thought.
Every head has a mouth - and words to lie with.
Nov 17, 2013
Nov 17, 2013 at 3:24 PM UTC
I despair as a writer
when I think
that conversation,
the spark of humanity,
our golden embroidery
on life,
is unremarkable.
these days,
voices are
shallow melodies
with accents
on repeat:
I want you to listen
and believe,
but who really knows?
or is distinguishing
the repackaged
plagues of similar beliefs.
The differences
are basically the same
and it's time consuming
to critically think.
So exhausting
to feel
like I must hurry
to get a point across
before the nodding
glance to the black screen,
relieved of wondering:
Have you been listening
at ALL to my word
drawings and logic trees
derived from headlines,
videos, and abstract
malcontent?
I'm learning to be quiet,
or dramatic.
Nothing in between
but revising
a philosopher's tractatus:
Whereof one cannot speak,
One should remain silen..salient.
Jul 28, 2017
Jul 28, 2017 at 9:50 PM UTC
Eye hospital facing sun
What words write in the history of sight
Who writes the nick name of fall, on the body
when it seems like water?
Blind date of wall
Hide the target mark too.
Dartboard, bring up the hidden strap.
See, the mirror and whereof ammunition in the sleeping room.
The wrong key but three note of time in the moneybag.
Turned lips-watch
Yours
Visibly disease of eye.
Nov 22, 2015
Nov 22, 2015 at 11:36 PM UTC
The Darkling Thrush.
I leant upon a coppice gate,
When Frost was spectre-gray,
And Winter's dregs made desolate The weakening eye of day.
The tangled bine-stems scored the sky Like strings of broken lyres,
And all mankind that haunted nigh Had sought their household fires.
The land's sharp features seemed to me The Century's corpse outleant,
Its crypt the cloudy canopy, *
The wind its death-lament.
The ancient pulse of germ and birth Was shrunken hard and dry,
And every spirit upon earth Seemed fervourless as I.
At once a voice arose among
The bleak twigs overhead,
In a full-hearted evensong Of joy illimited.
An aged thrush, frail, gaunt and small, With blast-beruffled plume,
Had chosen thus to fling his soul Upon the growing gloom.
So little cause for carolings Of such ecstatic sound
Was written on terrestrial things Afar or nigh around,
That I could think there trembled through His happy good-night air
Some blessed Hope, whereof he knew, And I was unaware.
31 December 1900
By Thomas Hardy
Dec 21, 2018
Dec 21, 2018 at 11:47 AM UTC
Only ever a British tea time tale to confess,
With legs propped up quite near the chimney fire,
Our only source of tangible heat; that little burning pyre,
My preceding statement a hint to this tale whereof I speak,
Of warm sunny days that never came,
But never worry, oh boy, oh bother, winters here again.
Jul 30, 2013
Jul 30, 2013 at 10:22 PM UTC
Where shall I roam in search of mine most desire
To rove distances till all of Earth I have dolven
Deep ravines, summits, seas, caverns...
Wilt I then obtain mine desire
For if to see in whole existence, how sooth canst any covet proclaim
It is holo, I myself so too hollow
Whereof dost I live for - to request for not life and so life to not request me
Of whom hath left me here to crave, to lust
I am fainéant...
Yet I wander, in vitality
...in appetency.
Sep 26, 2017
Sep 26, 2017 at 7:09 AM UTC
E. E. Cummings (1894 - 1962)
my love
thy hair is one kingdom
the king whereof is darkness
thy forehead is a flight of flowers
thy head is a quick forest
filled with sleeping birds
thy ******* are swarms of white bees
upon the bough of thy body
thy body to me is April
in whose armpits is the approach of spring
thy thighs are white horses yoked to a chariot
of kings
they are the striking of a good minstrel
between them is always a pleasant song
my love
thy head is a casket
of the cool jewel of thy mind
the hair of thy head is one warrior
innocent of defeat
thy hair upon thy shoulders is an army
with victory and with trumpets
thy legs are the trees of dreaming
whose fruit is the very eatage of forgetfulness
thy lips are satraps in scarlet
in whose kiss is the combinings of kings
thy wrists
are holy
which are the keepers of the keys of thy blood
thy feet upon thy ankles are flowers in vases
of silver
in thy beauty is the dilemma of flutes
thy eyes are the betrayal
of bells comprehended through incense
E. E. Cummings (1894 - 1962)
Mar 18, 2015
Mar 18, 2015 at 12:14 PM UTC
“Whereof one cannot speak…
She searches oceans of soft summer;
time’s broken shards (smothering) fall.
The kindle of creation lingers heavy
in a room of euthanised potential;
a dichotomy of lies and being steady
in the heart of loss and love essential
The spirit’s eyes run down hills of green
to valleys deep of squalid pride
to spectate ****** crying eyes seen
regorging lifetime’s soulless glitter magnified.
And, now: grace and smoke pitilessly drown
the sullen, unrestrained flight of winter birds.
She moves like diamond gusts of wind
cracking cordial waves. Therein, wistfully:
a chaos reflecting mirror that is pinned
to a crystalline mask etched ‘Corpus Christi’.
The models of mankind will then find solace
upon crumbling, depraved ruins of punishment;
locking natures and propensities in flawless
shrouds. She is screaming noise and banishment.
The sixth day’s seventh sun rises
And she drops like flies buzzing
in bottled and beguiled life.
It hits granite.
Sweet shards spread through time.
A putrid stench laminates innocence
as Fall’s bleeding leaves flood
the ensnared luminosity and
velvet, supple breeze of Summer’s
soft, scintillating breath.
…thereof one must be silent.”
- Ludwig Wittgenstein
Apr 23, 2017
Apr 23, 2017 at 10:50 PM UTC