"wuthering" poems
Anom o ly
Non-named, never imagined much less realized
The left hand can't know what the right is doing,
it's a brain matter, grey area, may be a way to
imagine your unique. task, yours, not doable from here
We can do things as us that we never imagine alone.
Is there a need to negate, wait, think,
must one do any act?
Now, I see, emulating Socrates is thought easier than
emulating Jesus. Christ, you know that ain't easy, eh?
Death is the friend of being. Things change from time to time
but, you know knowledge grows in two directions,
the dark part is not evil.
evil is as evil does. The roots that ever live in the earth,
those roots are required, requirements.
Left brain uses the right hand. Don't tell the left-hand
that nearly all it's skill in serving
and being used right,
is used up by the other side.
Right or wrong, is not a chiral question, nor is good or bad. ******** Phillips's head screws with a butter knife is wrong.
It can be done right, but not if you turn it the wrong way.
Drawing on the right side of my brain has always symbolized a crossroads experience, in my mind.
I mean I draw, realistically, with my right hand, left brain.
Maybe, brains are no easier to analyze than time in an immaterial medium of messaging.
I am certain life wins.
Meaning everything you think life means.
Do you think evil is required as an activity for life to actively be?
I doubt that.
Death fixes everything. Fret not. Wait.
First make room, what was the Bronte word? Penetrium, no, cut n paste
[A]t once it struck me what quality went to form a Man of Achievement, especially in Literature, and which Shakespeare possessed so enormously - I mean Negative Capability, that is, when a man is capable of being in uncertainties, mysteries, doubts, without any irritable reaching after fact and reason - Coleridge, for instance, would let go by a fine isolated verisimilitude caught from the Penetralium of mystery, from being incapable of remaining content with half-knowledge.
From <https://www.etymonline.com/columns/post/cloud-of-uknowing>
Happiness demands an agreement
Joy is in process, I agree, I am happy, haps happen and I notice
Note: Bronte was one to tweak fine puns with the word Penetralia: 1. The innermost parts of a building, especially the sanctuary of a temple. 2. The most private or secret parts; recesses: the penetralia of the soul. See Chapter one, Wuthering Heights.
----- From
bronteblog.blogspot.com/2006/03/emilys-penetralium_03.html
Mar 2, 2018
Mar 2, 2018 at 12:12 AM UTC
When she told me she loved me
I didn't believe her.
So i killed myself instead.
A fairy came to me & whispered enticing secrets in my ear.
He outlined a closet upstairs
where I live alone inside my head.
Tidal waves of white roses grow in & out my of spine.
Suffocating the fishes prancing in a field of raving vines.
Lunar Lullaby plays hopscotch in a cloud of flies.
She licks cherry red ice pops & sings bird hymns to oak trees withering in the wuthering skies.
Swarming dragon-lies fly in lakes upon Monet's canvas.
There he paints a beauty of Thumbelina whose grave resides in the darkest corner of my empty heart.
A red cape looms above & flutters without wings.
My cave is growing vaster
And so I sail amongst its seas.
This Psychosis is no more wearing thin than Rigor Mortis can begin.
I'll live sedentarily as a maid serving rotten apples to men chained as apes.
A lotus will float on by down this bloodstream & into the night.
As a crater on the moon your corpse died suddenly as when fruit bloom.
May 3, 2014
May 3, 2014 at 1:42 PM UTC
The horizons ring me like *******
Tilted and disparate, and always unstable.
Touched by a match, they might warm me,
And their fine lines singe
The air to orange
Before the distances they pin evaporate,
Weighting the pale sky with a soldier color.
But they only dissolve and dissolve
Like a series of promises, as I step forward.
There is no life higher than the grasstops
Or the hearts of sheep, and the wind
Pours by like destiny, bending
Everything in one direction.
I can feel it trying
To funnel my heat away.
If I pay the roots of the heather
Too close attention, they will invite me
To whiten my bones among them.
The sheep know where they are,
Browsing in their ***** wool-clouds,
Gray as the weather.
The black slots of their pupils take me in.
It is like being mailed into space,
A thin, silly message.
They stand about in grandmotherly disguise,
All wig curls and yellow teeth
And hard, marbly baas.
I come to wheel ruts, and water
Limpid as the solitudes
That flee through my fingers.
Hollow doorsteps go from grass to grass;
Lintel and sill have unhinged themselves.
Of people and the air only
Remembers a few odd syllables.
It rehearses them moaningly:
Black stone, black stone.
The sky leans on me, me, the one upright
Among all horizontals.
The grass is beating its head distractedly.
It is too delicate
For a life in such company;
Darkness terrifies it.
Now, in valleys narrow
And black as purses, the house lights
Gleam like small change.
3.3k
The horizons ring me like *******
Tilted and disparate, and always unstable.
Touched by a match, they might warm me,
And their fine lines singe
The air to orange
Before the distances they pin evaporate,
Weighting the pale sky with a soldier color.
But they only dissolve and dissolve
Like a series of promises, as I step forward.
There is no life higher than the grasstops
Or the hearts of sheep, and the wind
Pours by like destiny, bending
Everything in one direction.
I can feel it trying
To funnel my heat away.
If I pay the roots of the heather
Too close attention, they will invite me
To whiten my bones among them.
The sheep know where they are,
Browsing in their ***** wool-clouds,
Gray as the weather.
The black slots of their pupils take me in.
It is like being mailed into space,
A thin, silly message.
They stand about in grandmotherly disguise,
All wig curls and yellow teeth
And hard, marbly baas.
I come to wheel ruts, and water
Limpid as the solitudes
That flee through my fingers.
Hollow doorsteps go from grass to grass;
Lintel and sill have unhinged themselves.
Of people and the air only
Remembers a few odd syllables.
It rehearses them moaningly:
Black stone, black stone.
The sky leans on me, me, the one upright
Among all horizontals.
The grass is beating its head distractedly.
It is too delicate
For a life in such company;
Darkness terrifies it.
Now, in valleys narrow
And black as purses, the house lights
Gleam like small change.
2.9k
At the heights of a Surrey valley
is where I stand alone.
The clouds roll in with attempted suppression,
wuthering, as one may say.
Yet they succeed and I do not.
All this vacantness on the moors,
in turn: suffocation.
All this gale of violence and madness,
not a single shiver,
but a private, intense burning sensation.
Would it set fire to the moors, the libraries,
and the red curtain theatre?
Or would it melt the defendant themselves?
I wish for the former,
yet I am already melting.
I put my hand on the gnomon-less sundial,
and still I stand alone
drunk on the all-consuming emotions
inflicted by these brick walls
or rather the crowds of unpredictability within them.
Apr 20, 2022
Apr 20, 2022 at 7:42 PM UTC
"No!" - He protested
Yes, he had said that she was like lightning,
but he meant that she startled him
with her randomness
and thunder,
and not that she pulsated
writing a spiderweb
into the nights sky;
it was that she filled him with a certain
nervousness...
and no, that nervousness was not
like an electricity.
And while the argument continued
it was brought up that he had also compared her to a storm.
It wasn't because she climbed with a certain
inexorable quality
like the tides
or that she was the perfect mix
of calm pretense
and wuthering looks.
It was more because she reminded him of the rains
lightly dancing on his bedroom window
making him dream.
Mar 24, 2017
Mar 24, 2017 at 4:46 PM UTC
"If all else perished, and he remained, I should still continue to be." - Wuthering Heights.
beauty, is in love's eyes,
i once read that if he still makes your heart
anchor itself to your abdomen,
after three months, it's love.
well, my metaphors are wasted on you,
my words are a fancy way of
expressing myself and they contain
too much of you.
you've got a temper,
enough to rumble under these streets,
and collapse what i've been building.
i get sick of building blocks,
love is child's play, and i just want
us to be adults.
i promised to love you, and i do in
my own odd ways,
you broke my heart, i broke yours.
i still want you to know,
a mosaic wouldn't be so beautiful,
without all the cracks.
Oct 22, 2016
Oct 22, 2016 at 4:00 PM UTC
i love the fact that most people
rather enter the concept
of karma rather dialectics
to argue their point - makes
emily austen seem like a nutcracker
of ideas to come from
ikea as the self-assembled semi-detached
heights, otherwise known as wuthering, heights
or the disco-ball done in mahoganny eyed splinter
shine - sheens the spot!
it's just so ****** blocked nose rotten,
the opposite of polite society,
a bit like the middle-ages... reigning
paranoia imported from a lost colony,
library cards of blue indian peasants
turned into pheasants that did the cancan dance
all of a sudden... miracles christ couldn't even forsee!
i'm free every saturday if you're hashtag up-for-it...
never mind... i'll leave my quote and oil my phone-number
for a missing mobile telepathic nuance on
when differentiating blue indians with garam masala
and red indians with mohawks - easiest game of all:
snakes & ladders, noughts & crosses... garam masala & mohawks.
Dec 5, 2015
Dec 5, 2015 at 8:26 PM UTC
I heard a whisper in the darkness
from deep within
the blossoming of a dream
and as it bloomed I was falling
falling
into a voracious summer stream.
Fading away from the world
I found myself learning
that bliss
was a desperate yearning
from within a wuthering abyss.
The whisper faded into the night
as a form emerged
from a place within the mist,
and I heard an echo without a sound
as I stood immobile,
transfixed.
Jan 14, 2015
Jan 14, 2015 at 1:35 PM UTC
I carry a backpack full of note books and my violin everyday to school
I carry a softball glove and a bat and the fear that I’ll have to use them again
I carry a flannel and apple scented lotion because it reminds me of her grace
and how I’ll never get to see her
I carry a cameo about my neck and they story I’ll never know behind it.
I carry sheet music and my drama script because I’ve yet to see those change.
I carry a friend who loves me and a friend who hates me and sometimes I don’t know which one I’m talking to
I carry two silver cups which are the only honour to my name
I carry the name of a boy who loved me, but I didn’t love him back
I carry old Latin books and the love I threw away
I carry music that I want to learn but will never have the time to
I carry audition results that made me lock myself in my room
I carry the lies upon lies that I told so I wouldn’t be disappointment
I carry my grades and the B that cast me from my parent’s grace
I carry a vase that I dropped and didn’t mind when the glass cut my feet
I carry scars from softball and how I was used as a punching bag and a pawn because I wouldn’t cry
I carry the love of a friend that I only knew for a week and the friendship that I wish I could still show her.I hope she sees this and I hope she knows that I could never hate her and was just too much of a coward to answer that message.
I carry the thought that she hates me now
I carry tears cried in my closet after I couldn’t figure out how to format a chemistry paper and wishing I would just die
I carry the humiliation I felt when all my friends got A’s on that paper and I barely managed a C
I carry the knowledge that one of my favorite teachers thinks I lied on a vocab quiz to gain half a point.
I carry the Wuthering Heights paper and how I worked so ******* hard to be .6 points away from an A.
I carry Linton’s fear and the knowledge that I was .6 points away from getting people to believe that our pain mattered.
I carry the fear that my best friend, the girl I love, is going to **** herself
and I’ll be left with old texts, a letter, and scars that will never heal
Aug 23, 2015
Aug 23, 2015 at 1:10 AM UTC
I was the one who received the faithful letter from Mr. Darcy
I was the one who held Holden when he cried
I was the one who Guy Montague thought was beautiful
I was the one who Heathcliff came back to the Wuthering Heights for
I was the one who Mr. Rochester tried to illegally marry
I was the one who D'Artagnan grieved over after the abduction
I was the one who Captain Wentworth fell back in love with
I was the one who Dorian Gray actually cared for
I was the one who Candide brought the gold for in El Dorado
I was the one who Winston Smith kissed in that attic
I was the one who cried when they all left me with a silent flipping of a page
Aug 7, 2013
Aug 7, 2013 at 2:50 PM UTC
You remind me of myself
I’ve always wanted someone to share my soul
like Catharine and Heathcliff
no matter where we came from,
our senses magnify when we’re together
and when apart, may you always haunt me
Oct 14, 2012
Oct 14, 2012 at 2:01 PM UTC
Think I'm gonna stay here right?
Go on with your life
I'm fine
I'll just take it out with this knife
With your initials to fight with
Take the knife and I'll bite it
It's more dull than the words I write with
Sharpen my words with a blacksmith
Words are my blacksmith
I hope my words are worth it
Worthless words withering
Oh god I think I'm shivering
Emily Bronte's heights, Wuthering
You say I'm
Insane
Wait up
I'm in the rain
Hold up
I'm in pain
Shattered window pane
Listen to what I'm saying
I'm waiting
For you to notice me
Woe is me
Tonight
You'll believe me tonight
Tonight
I'll fight with me
Darling
My baby girl
My starling
Don't try leaving
I'm be-lieving
I'll be leaving
Love...
Love....
Love..... Please
Love me deeply
Give me your love
Before I start weeping
Dec 14, 2014
Dec 14, 2014 at 1:27 PM UTC
there is principle, there is mad luck on the streets
but then again, i have neither one.
i assume the idleness of poles underneath the roof of a cafe in Poblacion
and wonder where all my poems go,
the value they impose -- only there's implosion and not so much sense
so i go out to seek tenderly in the night,
a cheap moon trapped underneath the bottle of a pilsner
as i hear one of the patrons call out
my solitude like a ********** on all fours;
one afternoon pursues a following.
i have wasted my time writing and stopping
to watch stray hounds pant and
**** on the hot asphalt of Plaridel.
the papers retch at tyrannies.
hands for mechanisms configured to
a heady bias of probabilities.
the house next to me is being
overhauled and i imagine the incredulity
of things not their own meanings.
a pair of old Chuck Taylors on the bedspread, a decrepit bed for making love
or passing time or wasting the night away.
somewhere, someone is reading my poems and weeping at the cadence.
most do not notice -- it was the caprice of things not mine to commandeer.
the sound of stone masons hammering
boulders double the melancholia.
the deliberate sieving of sand and stone
felt like sandpaper air.
the matutinal sky split into dire condition
much like mine: becoming and unbecoming.
all the ******** are out in the streets
with ladies wuthering in high strides.
all the priests are in their rendezvous,
killing buddha heads.
the police have silenced the sirens
and behind pairs of old navy blue slacks
and mobiles covered with dust,
the captives scream mercy.
all the ATMs drone the pither of metal mouths.
a widow in Bocaue holding a picture
of the departed.
i look up and see my face in the sky:
if only i could **** the man and be the man,
fill his shoes with flesh, his movements my emulation, his enigmas my clarity, his day old denims my best dress.
more than beer and cigarettes have done me in and more to myself much no less
than a cat hit by a speeding bicycle
somewhere in Padre Faura.
madness hurries like a lover and hands me
a picture of the moon.
i've got something and that's good enough
as the police leave the grime of times
and evict drunks off the streets of Malolos,
as the priests step into the showers, naked
and bloodied just like the ordinary man,
as the cat that was hit
by a bicycle
goes back to the dark
licking the salt off the wound,
bone fractured, still alive on the hot roof.
Feb 27, 2016
Feb 27, 2016 at 5:39 AM UTC
Non-plagiarized
success, Catholic
is! ecumenical
unity writhe:
eternal rock
beneath, my
Love is
“LOVE”
Wuthering heights,
Jane Eyre,
Charlotte Bronte,
Connotation, religion
Connotation?
motions of humane spirit guile not, vile not. Agile is
Catholic acumen unity acumen? Salvation of human
hearts heights
and hearth.
“Love one
another” An
angel begat
the scepter
of Lords.
Heavens Love!
Love…behold
acumen! Catholics,
the Holy Lord
is our shepherd.
Muhumuza Kenneth Ezra (Inspired by Stephern Tweheyo)
May 25, 2010
May 25, 2010 at 3:44 AM UTC
Across the room I watch you from afar
So much to see, so much to admire
I can only gawk in awe:
Shimmering softly beneath the party
lights
Delicate as fine porcelain, elegant just
like a China doll
Little Perky ! diminutive little button
of a nose
A sublime protuberance, with a
wonderful angular symmetry;
Like a beautiful ballerina in the centre
of the face
One lonely Cinderella, forever
overlooked and unsung
Neglected, passed over, the great
unmentioned one;
So still and so quiet, mysterious like a
question mark -
"Little Perky, don't you fret, I! Me!
I'll be your poet though a poor poet I
be
I'll hold up your charms for the whole
wide world to see,
I'll be your dashing Prince too, if you
let me".
Finely chiselled, exquisitely sculpted
Better than any Michaelangelo
And I love the little wiggle;
How silently you sit there and how
patient, enduring all
Stuck between the two drama Queens
Eyes all painted up, that flit and dart
Twinkling and fluttering outrageously
like their a class apart,
And a rouged up Mouth's sulky lips,
burning rubber
Busy gabbing away, running off like a
wild piano;
But then there's you Little Perky,
simplicity itself
Shy bulbous beauty, a throwback to
childhoods innocent days:
Like the others, you play the game
You go along but it's not the same,
See you sniff into your little hankie
And know that beneath, you're
probably not all that happy,
You seem to say (to me at least)
" I hoped for more, I dreamt - I dreamt
of other things
And other nights than these".
I see you Little Perky, I see you all
alone in your lonely prison cell
I hear your sniffles, your silent sobs
and sighs.
When pinned in the corner and
assailed from all sides
My eyes, they secretly run to your
quiet hill, that lonely mountain,
Like Heathcliff in Wuthering Heights
I'll wait for you Little One
I'll wait for you there..... my Cathy
(O! lovely wild and spirited Cathy)
I'll wait for you through the wind, the
rain and the snow
I'll wait for you to come
I'll wait for the real 'You' to show,
Beyond all the bravado and the big
bluster notes
Beyond the crowds constraining looks
I'll wait for you, my Love,
We'll laugh again, and dance beneath
the stars
We'll live the dreams that once we had.
Little Perky, sweet alarm bell of the
soul, shiny little bugle that gleams
Go on now, give it one more blow
One huge giant elephantine blast
That'll sweep them all away
And leave only you and me here,
alone at last
Facing each other across this floor
O! Little Perky, my Cinderella, my
Cathy.......my Heart!
May 1, 2018
May 1, 2018 at 6:27 PM UTC
Each brush stroke,
paints color back,
into her wuthering heart.
Jun 17, 2023
Jun 17, 2023 at 9:02 AM UTC
A wuthering dew drop in her eye,
Cast from a dark dawn that long since has died.
Hopelessness lost and a hope now regained,
This future of ours now has a new name.
Feb 6, 2013
Feb 6, 2013 at 9:46 PM UTC
Quietly she mutters
Skipping on the retreating froth,
Like a butterfly flutters
After a moth.
Give her the sea,
And she will return with the storm
Spreading terror and beauty
Since the day she was born.
How far she treaded,
No-one knew
With little ornaments embedded,
Some old and some new.
With each breath, she is restored
Gently swaying past the damp shore.
Wuthering in agony
She destroys the boat
With seawater being her friend,
brings all life to an end.
She touches the face
Of the girl on the beach
She fills her arms with an embrace,
It was her she had to reach.
Jasmine Dar
Aug 23, 2016
Aug 23, 2016 at 6:25 AM UTC
I met Jethro by a stile Howarth way
Knee deep in snow and soon talking.
He was old but not very and his eyes
Were full of reflected glared light.
He called me young lady at first
Then lass...I called him master then
Mister as we stood on his ground measuring.
His farm was breaking even but his
Beasts and sheep had to eat his money now
Which is the nature of things he supposed and
As we looked down the moor we saw his wife
Unplucking his frozen shirts from a line and waving
Us to tea which I wasn't going to ignore...
We talked about the Brontes and he showed
Me his copy of "Wuthering Heights" that was given
To his family all those years ago...
The kitchen danced warmly with age then...
I asked him if he thought he was rich...
He said take a good look around...
Rich or poor has no meaning if you
Are as mad as a hatter with greed or despair
Nov 25, 2012
Nov 25, 2012 at 12:54 PM UTC
I don't want babies.
These are Victorian days
I reckon I'd die.
Jan 7, 2020
Jan 7, 2020 at 5:19 PM UTC
Some people are into strange, really into it.
So I had my fair share of spikers, the kind that are into strange.
They thought of Me as a tool, a new territory, waiting to be harnessed.
The go to guy for weirdly scrambling.
I longed for someone, someone to touch and to call my own; someone who won't leave me.
I didn't realize I was conjuring up exactly what I wanted,
a disaster, a high magnitude tsunami waiting to sweep through my life.
Waiting to wash away all that remained (all that I held) dear.
A tsunami that would ruin us all.
It certainly occurs,
taking with it, souls uncountable.
Insignificant to the whole, irreplaceable and heart wrenching to the few.
The result of my wistful wishing,
a dead black cloud hangs above, heavy and misty.
A waiting jar about to pour out its contents, be they bitter or sweet it knows not.
Funny, as the hearse walks me to my resting place, all I see is black, bleak and dark.
I tarry by the corner, listening to the waves splash with a whiplash against the rocks,
I look down to see how the people I knew are faring without me.
There are tea parties and a lot of ambience.
As my flesh lays there, clothed but bare to the coffin's hard-feel;
too cold to feel these things I felt,
too dead to even take notice of the crickets squeaking just above my grave,
the incessant annoying whispers of the nocturnal dwellers, shallow and loud,
alive in the moonlight,
I wonder how anyone could ever rest in peace.
Mar 15, 2016
Mar 15, 2016 at 8:29 PM UTC
"i'm tired and god
**** it i just want this day to be done.
that girl in the blue sweater makes too much noise
and i'm tired, okay? i'm tired."
"she is beautiful, just beautiful, and you can tell she doesn't
know it. i'm glad she can't see me staring and god, the way
her curls fall down her back like she dropped them there by accident.
she probably did."
"the great depression was a real *****
"'thank god she's talking to me again. does this shirt make me
look fat? would she be ****** if i distracted her?
i don't think she even likes wuthering heights, anyway."
"i miss dancing so much. i love this book but not enough
to make up for the pain that's not in my feet anymore."
"i lingered round them, under that benign sky; watched the moths fluttering
among the heath and hare-bells;
listened to the soft wind breathing through the grass; and wondered how anyone could ever imagine unquiet
slumbers for the sleepers in that quiet earth."
Mar 17, 2013
Mar 17, 2013 at 7:19 PM UTC
I have seen roses bloomed,
red and white,
but no such roses see I her in her eyes
and in some perfumes is there more delight
If snow be white
yellow neon lights grow on her
If the moon smiled the horizon sits on me
like wuthering heights,
titled and shifted,
a series of promises steps forward
Weighing the pale sky with a transparent colour
I've found myself with my head
possessed by an inhuman hunger
to a girl with the enigmatic mind,
affixed to mine
I can feel it trying
to funnel my heart thro'
bending back and forth
only to make a space,
a sense of solitary absence,
unwarmed by the sweet air drove by her o'mouth
and it keeps swinging around
It fled through my fingers the hollow leans on me
wi' thy gone.
Apr 22, 2015
Apr 22, 2015 at 8:40 PM UTC
You are
worshipped
like a regal gilded thing,
charismatic and proud
you are
A people pleaser
with a stern strength
like stone
a face
within a smile
which outshines and belies
the mysteries beneathe
kept well away
those closest
have the faintest of clues
the best of you
learned & removed
A people pleaser
And still
they run to you
in babbles
in gaggles
in herds
to catch you speak
songs of birds
nightingale
hyperkind words
that lift
hope and fallacies
your friends far from plenty
a people pleaser
And still
They covet the time
when you christen the dusk
full of stars and its dust
in their weeping eyes
shower you with adolation
gifts of virgins
virtues
or savage relations
They covet the time.
You are
their lord of lush
their harbinger of pleasures'
promise
a great septre
to baptise them
of sin
release
You are
A man
in a crowd,
pulled in all directions
loud in your reflections
fair to those you meet
shelter them
those heavy
with concrete
streets
A man
And how a man becomes king
your passion and touch
which outshines and belies
lost lust
and a wuthering
heart
of lions
if only they knew
of what I know
of you
with me
we start anew
I am the evidence
another apostle
disassembled
apart I'd
die
unknown
how change is noticed
like a shadow
underfoot
or a deed behind a grin
a footnote
of your transformation
a light
within.
Eye am the evidence
How a man becomes
King...
*(Love is the crown
and you are chosen...)*
Apr 12, 2016
Apr 12, 2016 at 8:33 PM UTC