"xxvi" poems
XXVI. TO DIONYSUS (13 lines)
(ll. 1-9) I begin to sing of ivy-crowned Dionysus, the loud-
crying god, splendid son of Zeus and glorious Semele. The rich-
haired Nymphs received him in their bosoms from the lord his
father and fostered and nurtured him carefully in the dells of
Nysa, where by the will of his father he grew up in a sweet-
smelling cave, being reckoned among the immortals. But when the
goddesses had brought him up, a god oft hymned, then began he to
wander continually through the woody coombes, thickly wreathed
with ivy and laurel. And the Nymphs followed in his train with
him for their leader; and the boundless forest was filled with
their outcry.
(ll. 10-13) And so hail to you, Dionysus, god of abundant
clusters! Grant that we may come again rejoicing to this season,
and from that season onwards for many a year.
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Along the field as we came by
A year ago, my love and I,
The aspen over stile and stone
Was talking to itself alone.
"Oh who are these that kiss and pass?
A country lover and his lass;
Two lovers looking to be wed;
And time shall put them both to bed,
And he beside another love."
And sure enough beneath the tree
There walks another love with me,
And overhead the aspen heaves
Its rainy-sounding silver leaves;
And I spell nothing in their stir,
But now perhaps they speak to her,
And plain for her to understand
They talk about a time at hand
When I shall sleep with clover clad,
And she beside another lad.
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XXVI
The crowd at the ball game
is moved uniformly
by a spirit of uselessness
which delights them—
all the exciting detail
of the chase
and the escape, the error
the flash of genius—
all to no end save beauty
the eternal—
So in detail they, the crowd,
are beautiful
for this
to be warned against
saluted and defied—
It is alive, venomous
it smiles grimly
its words cut—
The flashy female with her
mother, gets it—
The Jew gets it straight—it
is deadly, terrifying—
It is the Inquisition, the
Revolution
It is beauty itself
that lives
day by day in them
idly—
This is
the power of their faces
It is summer, it is the solstice
the crowd is
cheering, the crowd is laughing
in detail
permanently, seriously
without thought
1.6k
dear quinn,
goodbyes are hard
but staying will be harder
just let go
it's okay
love,
atlas
Jul 5, 2020
Jul 5, 2020 at 9:39 PM UTC
XXVI
I lived with visions for my company
Instead of men and women, years ago,
And found them gentle mates, nor thought to know
A sweeter music than they played to me.
But soon their trailing purple was not free
Of this world’s dust, their lutes did silent grow,
And I myself grew faint and blind below
Their vanishing eyes. Then THOU didst come—to be,
Beloved, what they seemed. Their shining fronts,
Their songs, their splendors (better, yet the same,
As river-water hallowed into fonts),
Met in thee, and from out thee overcame
My soul with satisfaction of all wants:
Because God’s gifts put man’s best dreams to shame.
1.1k
smoke is within me,
inside my rusting lungs,
seeping through the
puckered lips of my rib cage
kissing the fragile walls
and leaving charcoal markings
in shapes of fingerprints.
please stop leaving
traces
all over my body.
Mar 17, 2014
Mar 17, 2014 at 11:38 AM UTC
unexpected, although assuming
breathe, self -- he’s two feet away
and gazing at you
don’t look, don’t look, don’t look
heart pounding, walk past, stride gracefully
great job -- so far, so good
pretend you’re busy, smile
laugh if you must, do not look
i failed, he looked back
we caught each other
fixed eyes at one another
what is he thinking? should i smile?
tick tock tick -- the end
Jan 29, 2016
Jan 29, 2016 at 11:32 AM UTC
Ode XXVI.
En vous donnant ce pourtraict mien
Dame, je ne vous donne rien
Car tout le bien qui estoit nostre
Amour dès le jour le fit vostre
Que vous me fistes prisonnier,
Mais tout ainsi qu'un jardinier
Envoye des presens au maistre
De son jardin loüé, pour estre
Toujours la grace desservant
De l'heritier, qu'il va servant
Ainsi tous mes presens j'adresse
A vous Cassandre ma maistresse,
Corne à mon tout, et maintenant
Mon portrait je vous vois donnant :
Car la chose est bien raisonnable
Que la peinture ressemblable,
Au cors qui languist en souci
Pour vostre amour, soit vostre aussi.
Mais voyez come elle me semble
Pensive, triste et pasle ensemble,
Portraite de mesme couleur
Qu'amour a portrait son seigneur.
Que pleust à Dieu que la Nature
M'eust fait au coeur une ouverture,
Afin que vous eussiez pouvoir
De me cognoistre et de me voir !
Car ce n'est rien de voir, Maistresse,
La face qui est tromperesse,
Et le front bien souvent moqueur,
C'est le tout que de voir le coeur.
Vous voyriés du mien la constance,
La foi, l'amour, l'obeissance,
Et les voyant, peut estre aussi
Qu'auriés de lui quelque merci,
Et des angoisses qu'il endure :
Voire quand vous seriés plus dure
Que les rochers Caucaseans
Ou les cruels flos Aegeans
Qui sourds n'entendent les prieres
Des pauvres barques marinieres.
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I’ve always found it odd when people avoid eye contact
What exactly is it that they are hiding?
Or is it fear?
The all-consuming Mr. Walker going around breaking through windows and damning souls!
There are numerous platforms for people to interact with one another
But somewhere down the line the connection was lost, forgotten
I sometimes wonder how our species will continue to flourish
The young men of tomorrow
will rather rub one out to a hologram e-slut on their iPhone XXVI than pursue a ripe Jenny up the street
Her organs must be aching to be rearranged
The poor ********
Yeah, sometimes I wonder
Then I swipe right
Right
Left and
Right
I’m going to find someone in my area to get my **** wet
Aug 20, 2018
Aug 20, 2018 at 9:11 AM UTC
Holding on a thin thread
I see myself walking back
Back to your eyes
How empty, how heartfelt
Pulling back now
The past is terrifying
Our past is beautiful
Too beautiful to put into words
I try to write your hands back on my skin
I beg for the air to sink in my lungs
You robbed me of the last piece of my puzzle
Give me back the good parts of me
Leave with all the doubts
you plan on leaving me with
Pack all the promises
you decided to give to someone else
Shut your mouth
Your hum still ringing in my ears
I want to draw, sketch your face on my mind
Then erase it with all our fights and silences
The aftermath of today's roller coaster feelings
Your name on my tongue,
Your words still seared in my memory
Standing here
holding your almost-gone fingertips
Letting out my last sigh
Hesitating
"You can go now."
Feb 25, 2015
Feb 25, 2015 at 5:54 AM UTC
NO MATTER WHAT I SAY,
YOU TURN THE OTHER WAY SAYING "YEAH",
WHATEVER YOU THINK,
SOMETIMES I WISH YOU WERE INK ,
THEN YOU'D KNOW HOW I THINK,
TIMES I TURN TO DRINK,
TIMES I TURN TO DRUGS,
BECAUSE OF THE WAY YOU BUG,
AT TIMES ALL THATS NEEDED IS A HUG,
BUT YOU CAN'T EVEN DO THAT,
FOR TO DO THAT WOULD MEAN ,
YOU TOLD THE TRUTH WHEN YOU SAID "LOVE",
YOU, I DON'T THINK SO.
Mar 8, 2010
Mar 8, 2010 at 6:17 AM UTC
Voy contra mi interés al confesarlo;
no obstante, amada mía,
pienso, cual tú, que una oda sólo es buena
de un billete del Banco al dorso escrita.
No faltará algún necio que al oírlo
se haga cruces y diga:
-Mujer al fin del siglo diecinueve,
material y prosaica... ¡Boberías!
Voces que hacen correr cuatro poetas
que en invierno se embozan con la lira;
¡Ladridos de los perros a la luna!
Tú sabes y yo sé que en esta vida
con genio es muy contado el que la escribe,
y con oro cualquiera hace poesía.
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I stare at the stars on my ceiling
and still, look at you
Like you put the moon
in the sky
May 30, 2017
May 30, 2017 at 1:40 PM UTC
XXII.
because you spent years discovering different agonies and you've decided the worst is the constant the unchanging the one that has no end and no result because you can't escape
XXIII.
because deep down you know this is self care this sleeping this hiding this crying this writing because even if it hurts it's a change
XXIV.
because you thought you were invalid for even at your worst you couldn't help but think about getting better so maybe that wasn't the worst but you know now you always just thought of change be it good or bad
XXV.
because you really honestly truly and surely don't believe you can make the right decision about getting better or worse without help
XXVI.
because you haven't gotten better yet and that would be a change but you also haven't gotten to rock bottom yet and that would be a change
XXVI.
because you have to make a decision now
Dec 29, 2015
Dec 29, 2015 at 8:52 PM UTC
The air in me has disappeared
I can't breathe
Lungs out of air
Feels like I've been punched
Just without the hurt
The pain you cause is unbearable
Blood rushes to my head
And the world begins to fade
Mar 1, 2010
Mar 1, 2010 at 5:32 PM UTC
All the trees I see are dead.
Leaves visions swimming in my head.
The wind roars strong I think it said,
"Son make your peace and break your bread."
Collect on all the love you've lent.
You'll need it for what's coming next.
Don't allow yourself to be misled.
Careful now with where you tread.
No going home once you have left.
You know life hangs by slender thread.
Apr 15, 2015
Apr 15, 2015 at 12:36 AM UTC
XXVI
Some say I’ll see the edge of nowhere
When I get there;
Trees will grow their roots up,
Streams will run backwards,
The grass will be bright blue-
and my unborn son, born
to the grave.
My wife has nightmares
about crying children and
screaming and waves
and I hush, hush, there
my dear wife of Halifax
and tell her the end is nowhere
in sight
In the dead of night I stand on
the boat deck
and wonder what’s really out
there
in the grand, decent world
Because Lord, if there’s no
plan for me
no place, no job, no
family
then I’ll just go
Just please, Lord-
let my baby live
and make it home
Jun 3, 2017
Jun 3, 2017 at 8:47 AM UTC
En realidad lo que me duele es la derrota.
Los exiliados son inquilinos de la soledad. Pueden corregir su memoria, traicionar, descreer, conciliar, morir, triunfar. En este último caso, se miraron la cara como si fuese suya: estaba llena de traidores, descreídos, conciliadores, muertos, y también de compañeros que murieron con fe y arden bajo la noche y repiten sus nombres y no dejan dormir.
Nadie te deja dormir para que veas las distancias.
Crujís de huesos, vos.
Así sea.
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"When one of my students asked me why rap and hip-hop developed among black people, I speculated that rhythm is threaded within African ancestry in a strangely existential way. Where Western music seems to be far more reliant on chord progression and tonal development, in black and African music, the focus isn't so much on how the music sounds as notes go higher and lower, but with how long or short a note is, and with how you can manipulate those lengths into patterns. With rap, you’re hitting all those short beats and long beats and letting the words hit you in a way that feels more primal, more linguistic than either song or casual speech. The student seemed more or less satisfied with this answer. I went on to confess how I often feel useless at rhythm. Hip-hop and rap demand you to be in the moment of the rhythm itself and want to stay there; often there’s no melodic movement. But I always feel like I want to go somewhere. And all these longs and shorts confuse me and my mouth gets filled with things I can't understand, cannot taste properly."
Nov 29, 2017
Nov 29, 2017 at 1:37 AM UTC
The lights seem to fade
A little day by day
I'm wide awake tonight
Listen to what i have to say
"The balance is broken
I'm tired of holding on
Your trauma isn't an excuse
I deserve to be treated right
The thread is going loose
It's time to grab on tight
I'm going numb
For i may let go,
If i ever do so
Would you take turns
or let go too?"
Sep 25, 2020
Sep 25, 2020 at 10:04 AM UTC
you were temporary,
always going to leave.
but you left a mark
so permanent.
i could scream &
no one would hear it.
you wouldn't have
flinches at my piercing
cry, even if i was in front
of your eyes.
(mer)
Mar 3, 2014
Mar 3, 2014 at 10:38 PM UTC
Ni el color de las dunas terribles en Iquique,
ni el estuario del Río Dulce de Guatemala,
cambiaron tu perfil conquistado en el trigo,
tu estilo de uva grande, tu boca de guitarra.
Oh corazón, oh mía desde todo el silencio,
desde las cumbres donde reinó la enredadera
hasta las desoladas planicies del platino,
en toda patria pura te repitió la tierra.
Pero ni huraña mano de montes minerales,
ni nieve tibetana, ni piedra de Polonia,
nada alteró tu forma de cereal viajero,
como si greda o trigo, guitarras o racimos
de Chillán defendieran en ti su territorio
imponiendo el mandato de la luna silvestre.
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