"withal" poems
-This is Nigeria,
Where Cattle’s fly their terrorism flag,
Stumping on humtydumpty green white green.
-This is Nigeria
Where corrupt QWERTY and busy ******
Puts food on the table of unemployed youths.
-This is Nigeria
Where clerics find paradise on earth
Lo! followers live as church rats withal.
-This is Nigeria
Where Eve plotted against a serpent
Hm! Mrs Philomena and her fairytale animal.
-This is Nigeria
Where Sundays are full of bibles and Qurans,
Yet her body stinks in poo of immorality.
-This is Nigeria
Where the mace is a mess in her house
As senators sleeps and vacate seats in a hearing.
-This is Nigeria
Where in Nigeria
We are looking for Nigeria.
May 27, 2018
May 27, 2018 at 10:46 AM UTC
Over on the crescent wing
The bitter gales bring waves of rain:
Listen. Frozen windows sing.
Enraptured by the searing pain
Like pestilence in hurricane.
Buildings rise up to the halls
Impenetrable planet-bane
As summer lost, and spring withal.
Then the writhing storm-clouds bring
A storm of ice and wind again:
The sun rears up, but sets during.
And past the steel-laden plane
Silver orbs first wax, then wane
Then plaster to the mighty wall
Midnight buses, lane-by-lane,
Of nature not, but city fool.
Ascended like a spiteful King
The whispers rise, then sink in shame
No sound is here, no, not a thing.
Soaking in like liquor-stains
The buildings survey their domain
Not city-life, nor life at all;
They wander in the pouring rain
Where love is lost beneath the sprawl.
Tears and laughter, much the same
All are whispers, doomed to fall.
Dystopia without a name:
Not so distant after all.
Nov 14, 2018
Nov 14, 2018 at 5:19 PM UTC
XXIV. TO HESTIA (5 lines)
(ll. 1-5) Hestia, you who tend the holy house of the lord Apollo,
the Far-shooter at goodly Pytho, with soft oil dripping ever from
your locks, come now into this house, come, having one mind with
Zeus the all-wise -- draw near, and withal bestow grace upon my
song.
4.6k
O sing a new song, to our God above,
Avoid profane ones, 'tis for holy choir:
Let Israel sing song of holy love
To him that made them, with their hearts on fire:
Let Zion's
sons life up their voice, and sing
Carols and anthems to their heavenly king.
Let not your voice alone his praise forth tell,
But move withal, and praise him in the dance;
Cymbals and harps
, let them be tuned well,
'Tis he that doth the poor's estate advance:
Do this not only on the solemn days,
But on your secret beds you spirits raise.
O let the saints bear in their mouth his praise,
And a two-edged sword drawn in their hand,
Therewith for to revenge the former days,
Upon all nations, that their zeal withstand;
To bind their kings in chains of iron strong,
And manacle their nobles for their wrong.
Expect the time, for 'tis decreed in heaven,
Such honor shall unto his saints be given.
4.2k
Was it not yesterday when we fell in love?
Was it not that night in summer just me and you?
Oh dear, have I reclaim'd my lost lover-bug?
Another poem for my dear sweet you:
Miss Lover Lady, where travels you now?
And what woman or man have you embold'?
And brown hair, so beautifully brown,
A brown that seeps into parts of my soul:
Ah, everything! Everything that is there
In the world will match not up with your eyes:
And Lady, when great universes stare
They too would get lost where the green flares lie.
But gone Lady is, by morrows of time;
And falls lover's truth withal lover's rhyme.
Mar 10, 2021
Mar 10, 2021 at 12:31 AM UTC
Freres humains qui apres nous vivez,
N'ayez les coeurs contre nous endurcis ...
Men, brother men, that after us yet live,
Let not your hearts too hard against us be;
For if some pity of us poor men ye give,
The sooner God shall take of you pity.
Here are we five or six strung up, you see,
And here the flesh that all too well we fed
Bit by bit eaten and rotten, rent and shred,
And we the bones grow dust and ash withal;
Let no man laugh at us discomforted,
But pray to God that he forgive us all.
If we call on you, brothers, to forgive,
Ye should not hold our prayer in scorn, though we
Were slain by law; ye know that all alive
Have not wit always to walk righteously;
Make therefore intercession heartily
With him that of a virgin's womb was bred,
That his grace be not as a dr-y well-head
For us, nor let hell's thunder on us fall;
We are dead, let no man harry or vex us dead,
But pray to God that he forgive us all.
The rain has washed and laundered us all five,
And the sun dried and blackened; yea, perdie,
Ravens and pies with beaks that rend and rive
Have dug our eyes out, and plucked off for fee
Our beards and eyebrows; never we are free,
Not once, to rest; but here and there still sped,
Driven at its wild will by the wind's change led,
More pecked of birds than fruits on garden-wall;
Men, for God's love, let no gibe here be said,
But pray to God that he forgive us all.
Prince Jesus, that of all art lord and head,
Keep us, that hell be not our bitter bed;
We have nought to do in such a master's hall.
Be not ye therefore of our fellowhead,
But pray to God that he forgive us all.
Algernon Charles Swinburne, trans.
3.1k
In summer's heat and mid-time of the day
To rest my limbs upon a bed I lay,
One window shut, the other open stood,
Which gave such light, as twinkles in a wood,
Like twilight glimpse at setting of the sun,
Or night being past, and yet not day begun.
Such light to shamefast maidens must be shown,
Where they must sport, and seem to be unknown.
Then came Corinna in a long loose gown,
Her white neck hid with tresses hanging down:
Resembling fair Semiramis going to bed
Or Layis of a thousand wooers sped.
I snatched her gown, being thin, the harm was small,
Yet strived she to be covered there withal.
And striving thus as one that would be chaste,
Betrayed herself, and yeilded at the last.
Stark naked as she stood before mine eye,
Not one wen in her body could I spy.
What arms and shoulders did I touch and see,
How apt her ******* were to be pressed by me.
How smooth a belly under her waist saw I?
How large a leg, and what a ***** thigh?
To leave the rest, all liked me passing well,
I clinged her naked body, down she fell,
Judge you the rest, being tired she bade me kiss,
Jove sent me more such afternoons as this.
2.9k
Some man unworthy to be possessor
Of old or new love, himself being false or weak,
Thought his pain and shame would be lesser
If on womankind he might his anger wreak,
And thence a law did grow,
One might but one man know;
But are other creatures so?
Are Sun, Moon, or Stars by law forbidden
To smile where they list, or lend away their light?
Are birds divorced, or are they chidden
If they leave their mate, or lie abroad a-night?
Beasts do no jointures lose
Though they new lovers choose,
But we are made worse than those.
Who e’er rigged fair ship to lie in harbours
And not to seek new lands, or not to deal withal?
Or built fair houses, set trees, and arbors,
Only to lock up, or else to let them fall?
Good is not good unless
A thousand it possess,
But dost waste with greediness.
2.8k
XII
Indeed this very love which is my boast,
And which, when rising up from breast to brow,
Doth crown me with a ruby large enow
To draw men’s eyes and prove the inner cost,—
This love even, all my worth, to the uttermost,
I should not love withal, unless that thou
Hadst set me an example, shown me how,
When first thine earnest eyes with mine were crossed,
And love called love. And thus, I cannot speak
Of love even, as a good thing of my own:
Thy soul hath snatched up mine all faint and weak,
And placed it by thee on a golden throne,—
And that I love (O soul, we must be meek!)
Is by thee only, whom I love alone.
2.6k
It was Winter 1st
not long ago,
the longest night
lay bare next to me
like a dream
that passes
silently,
then recurs —
hearing the silence
whisper softly
as a colorless echo
Withal —
the shortest
yesterdays,
half light minutes,
grey wintry mood
moments,
without hope
of blue sky
impending lightly:
Alone,..
even a glass
half full
under a solstice
full moon,
is only a glass
partly full
of moonlight
Twice as much
silence
still leaves you
half empty;
and every tear
tastes the same
in winter
Jesse stillwater — winter 2018
Dec 23, 2018
Dec 23, 2018 at 10:34 AM UTC
Behind a person's success is a sacrifice;
Would you love to know the tale behind?
Actors and actresses preparing their act,
But behind the curtains there's a hidden fact.
Heels and shoes are filled with shards of glass;
Behind dress and tuxedo's there's a hidden blast
— Withal on the lights, they genuinely smile.
Let's move on and see the richest person alive:
They lurk abaft the gallanting suits and tie;
No day their feet cannot step on bars of silvers and gold,
Constantly crediting the humanity's sliver of hope
— Supported by government for the economy's growth.
Do you know someone born to be Einstein's child?
—A person whose thought process is unbelievably wide,
“What are emotions?” They frequently asked;
“Are those things related to a logical fact?”
Feelings are hindrance towards a brighter side.
We all know the people whom we proclaimed as leaders—
Behind the tall, wide walls they silently titters:
“Citizens are corrupted with money and blind rights;
This nation will never survive in a war nor in childish fights.”
Some politicians bought their roles, drinking leisure on their seats.
And there's someone like me— a bit higher, on the top—
Words are magical, making an astonishing plot;
Thy pen bleeds thread, weaving a wondrous craft—
Who knows they withhold theirs and other people's life art,
They'll keep going as long as the threadmill continues to spin.
Their tales are narrated a bit later, a bit little;
But that was a telltale with lots of missing details,
Are you willing to share the secrets found in the middle?
Dec 21, 2020
Dec 21, 2020 at 5:41 PM UTC
Day by day I turned the page,
day by day I read your words;
Gradually, heavily, leisurely-not,
I leave my body, unconsciously.
Covered with long white sleeves,
muttering and uttering,
"Change does not exist,
one simply takes one step closer to their true self."
Natheless, drifting was I,
and you say true self;
Withal, nameless was mine,
yet you blabber true self.
Unknown and unseen,
haunting me dawn and dusk;
So there it lies,
my stranger,
my true self.
Apr 13, 2015
Apr 13, 2015 at 11:31 AM UTC
VIII
What can I give thee back, O liberal
And princely giver, who hast brought the gold
And purple of thine heart, unstained, untold,
And laid them on the outside of the-wall
For such as I to take or leave withal,
In unexpected largesse? am I cold,
Ungrateful, that for these most manifold
High gifts, I render nothing back at all?
Not so; not cold,—but very poor instead.
Ask God who knows. For frequent tears have run
The colors from my life, and left so dead
And pale a stuff, it were not fitly done
To give the same as pillow to thy head.
Go farther! let it serve to trample on.
1.8k
Cupid laid by his brand and fell asleep,
A maid of Dian’s this advantage found,
And his love-kindling fire did quickly steep
In a cold valley-fountain of that ground;
Which borrowed from this holy fire of Love
A dateless lively heat still to endure,
And grew a seeting bath, which yet men prove
Against strange maladies a sovereign cure.
But at my mistress’ eye Love’s brand new-fired,
The boy for trial needs would touch my breast;
I, sick withal, the help of bath desired,
And thither hied a sad distempered guest,
But found no cure. The bath for my help lies
Where Cupid got new fire—my mistress’ eyes.
1.8k
*Women bursting crackers of laughter
Different entertaining crackers of different colours
Gossips and rumours releasing the highest sound effect
Children running amidst alike an engine train
Men bursting crackers of laughter
Two different kinds of different colours
Boasting giving the highest sound
While criticising wives coming adjacent
Train of children goes through that track withal
Nix distracted by any means
Enjoying in their small innocent world*
Oct 29, 2016
Oct 29, 2016 at 12:17 PM UTC
At yon boundaries are shrubs,
Waiting like unlit chapel bulbs,
Under are flowers also plugged,
Within wet soil, grabbing waters,
Rains once pelted withal seeds,
Into the skies they both breathe,
Under earth, worms wriggle up,
Graduating in swirls to the sun,
On blankets of grass are daisies,
Wildly napping a dreamy breeze,
Thrushes in rushes joyfully sing,
Lilt of lullabies from skies begin,
Songbirds dropping windy hues,
The giddy butterflies justly knew,
What bees do bounces, busy for,
Such patchwork paradise galore.
Apr 30, 2016
Apr 30, 2016 at 1:45 AM UTC
My soul would one day go and seek
For roses, and in Julia’s cheek
A richesse of those sweets she found,
As in another Rosamond.
But gathering roses as she was,
Not knowing what would come to pass,
It chanc’d a ringlet of her hair
Caught my poor soul, as in a snare:
Which ever since has been in thrall;
Yet freedom, she enjoys withal.
1.5k
If, dear Anthea, my hard fate it be
To live some few sad hours after thee,
Thy sacred corse with odours I will burn
And with my laurel crown thy golden urn.
Then holding up there such religious things
As were time past, thy holy filletings,
Near to thy reverend pitcher I will fall
Down dead for grief, and end my woes withal:
So three in one small plot of ground shall lie—
Anthea, Herrick, and his poetry.
1.4k
Julia was careless, and withal
She rather took than got a fall;
The wanton ambler chanc’d to see
Part of her legs’ sincerity:
And ravish’d thus, it came to pass,
The nag (like to the prophet’s ***
Began to speak, and would have been
A-telling what rare sights he’d seen
And had told all; but did refrain
Because his tongue was tied again.
1.3k
*Seen him begging subsequent years
Speaks in his mother tongue
Which was different from mine
Kids scared hearing his voice
Telling them apropos being good
Enduringly with a smiling face
Was sheer polite with the owners
In my contemplation he was a respectful beggar
Age turned his smile getting weak
No withal seen couple of days
It has been months he nevermore came
Disappeared from our memories
However was in our subconscious mind
Visiting an orphanage to offer food
Found him sitting with his old age friends
Remembering me with my mother
Asking us how do we do
With that old smiling face
Happy to see him again unscathed
Without any loss of memory
Expressed our words remembering him
Let it be a beggar, humanity matters!*
Sep 17, 2016
Sep 17, 2016 at 8:47 PM UTC
(A missive to the "Thursday Guy")
Pause, I tight my eyelid,
there your face again,
Lovely and winning.
Suddenly Interfered my mind,
Thereupon rested and died.
I can no longer pick you up,
In an opening w/c is abounding
Abounded by the thoughts of you
My mind, I was speaking (of).
On the Ascension Day, Maundy and Holy alike,
I am smiling deepest and ceasing the time.
I held on for you, I stared then,
(though your eyes are daft),
Foolish, Crazy, even though I was,
every hour.
Oldness has gone, I flew.
Withal,
You are still a beauty even in fancy
In truth,
I cleave solely in your memory.
Your hair, dawning from your eyes
Succored the threshold of my fantasy.
I intend to whisper a truth
Some words that will embody my longing
I don't want you to, all but dwell on my fancy
But to breathe with me in solidity.
Please, once again, I want to gain a stare.
-C.
Sep 4, 2010
Sep 4, 2010 at 10:55 AM UTC
The leaves are changing, can't you see?
Each new shade turns my heart
And brings me back to the me I used to be
I miss the trees' leaves of green
Effervescent colors of life around me
The tousle of falling emerald locks
In the brief and gentle passing breeze
Evergreens and pines flourish in the chill
Beauty, I find, gives little piece of mind
When needles fall, just dreams withal
I miss the northern mountains' touch
The way the streets climb close behind
Mystery and mischief just a break-away
Yet never revealing the secret of youth's fall
Scarlett trees remind me of pain gained
From joyous memories distorted by pain
But love remains, in hues of pinkish stains
Jan 11, 2012
Jan 11, 2012 at 6:54 PM UTC
Never ending golden thoughts
Our mind travels with it
Strange but bonafide truth
Time withal can nix erase
And create a new one
Like those precious moments
Giving our soul an inspiration
Impact of memorable moments
Accredited to move forward
Mar 25, 2017
Mar 25, 2017 at 4:19 AM UTC
Many moons ago
I hath locked aroint my love and emotions,
in the depth of my being.
Perchance on the morrow there would dawn a solution,
a solution to this heavy some woe I hold.
Alas,
to no prevail,
I was lost.
My will doth decide to become my foe.
Until thee came wither withal the answer.
Thou held the key,
the key to my heart
Oct 2, 2014
Oct 2, 2014 at 5:56 AM UTC
I miss seeing you smile.
To me it seemed that you laughed and kissed me for everything, but it was probably a mistaken impression, a
result of shock!
wonder!
Could you imagine my surprise,
how it could be unexpected?
How often is the soul’s desire met?
I can recall not ever, ne’er, near naught
save in amniotic baptism, had every
object subject—every ancient tissue
attended by an enzyme—every ray of
sun snuck between the blouse’s buttons,
around my mother’s ******* and
divined upon me was let there been.
I cut myself following consciousness
with my longest fingernail, did laugh
too convulsed, tickled by light did induce my birth;
I cried (they’ll confirm this), I
wept to rob my mother herself, so it seemed,
inhaled the endless time and limitless space.
You can imagine my surprise then
with your covered mouth at my joke.
To me it seemed as if I had body again, hadn’t had a hand to grasp, hadn’t a hand with to grasp; then,
like had putty-gilded muscles earthed
unearthed, did.
Have you ever seen creation?—
well, yes, of course, it did not except you.
As close to ex nihilo as your patience can manage
you would have seen the time and space
repel each other in a nail’s length
of chaos, Fiat Vita, about which there’s little to be said.
My patience breaks in breath, Fiat Lux: when
time and space colors the light and refracts
the matrix and gives fire to my soul for a body.
Rilke writes, “Every Angel is terror,” which we
love, “because it calmly disdains to destroy us.”
I know! I know! I bite my nails penitent still.
And my patience does extend yet further, still within;
before my birth following it:
Look! I can open you this door,
give you that,
carry you thus far,
lead you here,
can reach your smiling mouth
with a terrorized will to kiss withal!
I can endure as the “arrow endures the bow”;
as all matter collapses upon itself in effort to grasp itself,
so it does to grasp all itself in one grand handful;
as atrophy takes me from you as quickly as I give you it,
I am surprised to find that I have retained all of you;
not expecting that you might have hid me, too, where
I would overlook, where only you could go, where
the light silhouettes, for me can just stop breathing.
I can see without patience—as much as light allows
and just as long.
Mar 21, 2012
Mar 21, 2012 at 8:57 AM UTC