"xxvii" poems
Naked you are simple as one of your hands;
Smooth, earthy, small, transparent, round.
You've moon-lines, apple pathways
Naked you are slender as a naked grain of wheat.
Naked you are blue as a night in Cuba;
You've vines and stars in your hair.
Naked you are spacious and yellow
As summer in a golden church.
Naked you are tiny as one of your nails;
Curved, subtle, rosy, till the day is born
And you withdraw to the underground world.
As if down a long tunnel of clothing and of chores;
Your clear light dims, gets dressed, drops its leaves,
And becomes a naked hand again.
56.2k
XXVII. TO ARTEMIS (22 lines)
(ll. 1-20) I sing of Artemis, whose shafts are of gold, who
cheers on the hounds, the pure maiden, shooter of stags, who
delights in archery, own sister to Apollo with the golden sword.
Over the shadowy hills and windy peaks she draws her golden bow,
rejoicing in the chase, and sends out grievous shafts. The tops
of the high mountains tremble and the tangled wood echoes
awesomely with the outcry of beasts: earthquakes and the sea also
where fishes shoal. But the goddess with a bold heart turns
every way destroying the race of wild beasts: and when she is
satisfied and has cheered her heart, this huntress who delights
in arrows slackens her supple bow and goes to the great house of
her dear brother Phoebus Apollo, to the rich land of Delphi,
there to order the lovely dance of the Muses and Graces. There
she hangs up her curved bow and her arrows, and heads and leads
the dances, gracefully arrayed, while all they utter their
heavenly voice, singing how neat-ankled Leto bare children
supreme among the immortals both in thought and in deed.
(ll. 21-22) Hail to you, children of Zeus and rich-haired Leto!
And now I will remember you and another song also.
21.3k
Naked, you are simple as one of your hands,
smooth, earthy, small, transparent, round:
you have moon-lines, apple-pathways:
naked, you are slender as a naked grain of wheat.
Naked, you are blue as a night in Cuba;
you have vines and stars in your hair;
naked you are spacious and yellow
as summer in a golden church.
Naked, you are tiny as one of your nails -
curved, subtle, rosy, till the day is born
and you withdraw to the underground world,
as if down a long tunnel of clothing and of chores:
your clear light dims, gets dressed - drops its leaves -
and becomes a naked hand again.
12k
"Now when we had discovered Cyprus, we left it on the left hand."--Acts xxi. 3.
"We sailed under Cyprus, because the winds were contrary."--Acts xxvii. 4.
St. Barnabas, with John his sister's son,
Set sail for Cyprus; leaving in their wake
That chosen Vessel, who for Jesus' sake
Proclaimed the Gentiles and the Jews at one.
Divided while united, each must run
His mighty course not hell should overtake;
And pressing toward the mark must own the ache
Of love, and sigh for heaven not yet begun.
For saints in life-long exile yearn to touch
Warm human hands, and commune face to face;
But these we know not ever met again:
Yet once St. Paul at distance overmuch
Just sighted Cyprus; and once more in vain
Neared it and passed;--not there his landing-place.
3.4k
XXVII
My own Beloved, who hast lifted me
From this drear flat of earth where I was thrown,
And, in betwixt the languid ringlets, blown
A life-breath, till the forehead hopefully
Shines out again, as all the angels see,
Before thy saving kiss! My own, my own,
Who camest to me when the world was gone,
And I who looked for only God, found thee!
I find thee; I am safe, and strong, and glad.
As one who stands in dewless asphodel
Looks backward on the tedious time he had
In the upper life,—so I, with bosom-swell,
Make witness, here, between the good and bad,
That Love, as strong as Death, retrieves as well.
2.9k
Re: Ancient Greece: How do you read a sundial, especially if you work on a nightshift at Acme Stonecutters, Inc.? Something for Socrates to ponder.(He was always late for work)
Mar 21, 2015
Mar 21, 2015 at 9:53 PM UTC
the depths of your eyes
are swimming with long lost
affection and your heart
heaves and trudges along
the long mangled railroads; all
gently mapped with my
collarbones and
it is beautiful,
our intertwined souls
are beautiful.
Mar 19, 2014
Mar 19, 2014 at 11:22 AM UTC
I woke up to her silence screaming at my heart
It was a quick punch in the chest, lasting for minutes
Funny, that didn't hurt at all
I didn't stumble, looking for your last words
I didn't have to fight the whispers telling me to keep going
I have grown used to the pain I felt nothing at all
That particular night made me feel hollow
I've always believed it's better to feel something than nothing at all
It didn't bother me anymore
I tried remembering
Remember the first night you had a nightmare and told me it was you being happy with someone else
Remember walking down the street with no one beside you because I walked really slow
Remember going out and not feeling a tiny bit of happy inside
Remember how we fell apart, how we fell apart
Remember how my silence was your music, your lullaby
and how yours was an arrow stabbing me over and over
Remember how you fell asleep crying, asking me to never cross the line
Remember when you had a dream about being with someone else and didn't even flinch about it
Remember how I stayed up all night, on your bed side, trying to pick up all your broken pieces and putting them back together
Remember how I tried to put you back together, blood in my hands, for you to wake up whole again
Remember how I saw you whole, complete, again but I knew then it wasn't for me
Remember how desperately I tried to keep up with your busy life, whatever it took, I did
Remember how the words slipping out of your tongue were all out of routine, all the I love you's and the apologies
Even the silences were not genuine
Remember how all the butterflies went back to being just stupid caterpillars
Remember how you pushed me away and told me to leave you alone, I stood there out in the cold, waiting for you to take it back
Remember how you eventually fell in love with someone else and never told me about it
Remember how the flowers I gave you didn't look pretty on your table anymore, but somewhere hidden, maybe at the back of the closet
Remember all those times you kept me as a secret, I sat there in awe of how capable you are of killing me
Remember when I asked why, and you hesitated
Remember how I emptied myself for you just to make you feel like you have something inside
Remember how I poured myself, everything that I am, to you, but you still chose to be empty
I still remember how you forgot.
Feb 28, 2015
Feb 28, 2015 at 7:22 AM UTC
Desnuda eres tan simple como una de tus manos,
lisa, terrestre, mínima, redonda, transparente,
tienes líneas de luna, caminos de manzana,
desnuda eres delgada como el trigo desnudo.
Desnuda eres azul como la noche en Cuba,
tienes enredaderas y estrellas en el pelo,
desnuda eres enorme y amarilla
como el verano en una iglesia de oro.
Desnuda eres pequeña como una de tus uñas,
curva, sutil, rosada hasta que nace el día
y te metes en el subterráneo del mundo
como en un largo túnel de trajes y trabajos:
tu claridad se apaga, se viste, se deshoja
y otra vez vuelve a ser una mano desnuda.
905
IN MOMENTNESS OF BREATHLESS PURE PASSION,
SLIDING ON KNIFE EDGE OF MASCULINE FAILURE,
YE MADE ALL DISSAPPEAR ,
WITH SIMPLE SPOKEN RESTFULNESS,
ALL THE TIME IN THE WORLD TO WAIT,
WILL YOU BE THERE???,
ALL FROM A SOLITARY SITUATION,
WITHIN MINDS FEARFUL EYE,
WORDS RIGHTLY DISPENSE FEAR OF FEAR,
UNTIL NOW ALWAYS WORDS FROM ME,
NOW SHOWN WORDS FROM YE HAVE POWER OVER ME,
ALL WHILE RESTING ON SWEET BREAST,
BROW SOAKED IN SWEAT,
REASSURANCE IN EVERY BREATH.
Mar 8, 2010
Mar 8, 2010 at 6:32 AM UTC
Despierta, tiemblo al mirarte;
dormida, me atrevo a verte;
por eso, alma de mi alma,
yo velo mientras tú duermes. Despierta, ríes, y al reír tus labios
inquietos me parecen
relámpagos de grana que serpean
sobre un cielo de nieve. Dormida, los extremos de tu boca
pliega sonrisa leve,
suave como el rastro luminoso
que deja un sol que muere.
¡Duerme! Despierta, miras y al mirar tus ojos
húmedos resplandecen
como la onda azul en cuya cresta
chispeando el sol hiere. Al través de tus párpados, dormida,
tranquilo fulgor vierten,
cual derrama de luz, templado rayo,
lámpara transparente.
¡Duerme! Despierta, hablas y al hablar vibrantes
tus palabras parecen
lluvia de perlas que en dorada copa
se derrama a torrentes. Dormida, en el murmullo de tu aliento
acompasado y tenue,
escucho yo un poema que mi alma
enamorada entiende.
¡Duerme! Sobre el corazón la mano
me he puesto porque no suene
su latido y de la noche
turbe la calma solemne. De tu balcón las persianas
cerré ya porque no entre
el resplandor enojoso
de la aurora y te despierte.
¡Duerme!
806
‘Unclothed, you are true, like one of your hands’
XXVII From: ‘Cien sonetos de amor’
Unclothed, you are true, like one of your hands,
lissome, terrestrial, slight, complete, translucent,
with curves of moon, and paths of apple-wood:
Unclothed you are as slender as a **** ear of corn.
Undressed you are blue as Cuban nights,
with tendrils and stars in your hair,
undressed you are wide and amber,
like summer in its chapel of gold.
Naked you are tiny as one of your fingertips,
shaped, subtle, reddening till light is born,
and you leave for the subterranean worlds,
as if down a deep tunnel of clothes and chores:
your brightness quells itself, quenches itself, strips itself down
turning, again, to being a naked hand.
Apr 21, 2015
Apr 21, 2015 at 9:08 PM UTC
XXVII
A three of clubs.
A clarinet missing seven keys.
A left shoe, untied.
A cross on a fine gold chain.
Hot and cold bath knobs.
Three rubies, twelve emerald earrings
And seven diamond necklaces.
A baby doll.
A broken pocket watch.
Gold coins.
The teardrops of every man to lose
a lover
The hurt of every child to have lost
a mother
For every girl to have lost a boy
For every hand to have lost a hand
to hold
A friend to lose a friend
One thousand, five hundred
and seventeen souls.
Jun 17, 2017
Jun 17, 2017 at 6:44 PM UTC
Strange how I wait
Just waiting for your call
Just to hear your voice
Just to hear you say you love me
The empty silence says it all
You're gone and won't come back
No one could take your place
No one could replace your tenderness
Mar 1, 2010
Mar 1, 2010 at 5:34 PM UTC
dear atlas,
it's okay to text
twice in a row.
just thought
you should know.
love,
atlas
Jul 5, 2020
Jul 5, 2020 at 9:43 PM UTC
The crickets,
sing of nothing.
While,
the stars watch,
in equitable silence.
I,
think of screaming,
my rejection,
to the sparkling void.
Cigarette smoke,
pirouettes,
in the wind.
Grace.
It all means nothing.
Clouds consume,
the scenery.
Rain,
drowns the music.
So it goes.
Apr 16, 2015
Apr 16, 2015 at 11:13 PM UTC
"Sonnets From a Conversation With a Friend XXVII "
Voluntary imagination at
Work hard sculpting reasoned movements
Fromout conditioned reflexed brain twitches
Happening right before our very eyes
We excrete whys that prove us right no matter
What no matter what the i sees i as i has
To see i to be the i approved of
Ninety percent habit don't fit the worn
Image ninety percent habit not seen !!!
Astonishingly the rotting elephant
Carcass is overlooked isn't there dropped
Through the hole in the universe in mind
Psychically taking consciousness with it
Leaving us with mystic questions hard pressed
Apr 7, 2018
Apr 7, 2018 at 1:55 AM UTC
my coffee was
bitter, but the
sky was giving
me the jitters
(mer)
Jun 30, 2014
Jun 30, 2014 at 6:34 AM UTC
☯
so, who you gonna
love—when the sun ***** the moon
and replaces you?
Mar 3, 2020
Mar 3, 2020 at 4:39 AM UTC
Ode XXVII.
Le boyteus mari de Vénus
Aveques ses Cyclopes nus
R'alumoir un jour les flammeches
De sa forge, à fin d'echaufer
Une grande masse de fer
Pour en faire à l'Amour des fleches.
Venus les trampoit dans du miel,
Amour les trampoit dans du fiel,
Quand Mars, retourné des alarmes,
En se moquant, les meprisoit
Et branlant son dard, lui disoit :
Voicy bien de plus fortes armes.
Tu t'en ris donq, lui dist Amour,
Vrayment tu sentiras un jour
Combien leur pointure est amere.
Quand d'elles blessé dans le coeur,
(Toi qui fais tant du belliqueur)
Languiras au sein de ma mere.
304
"There’s a beautiful Buddhist temple in West Lake, which is an entire fresco of greens. I’m still trying to figure out if I’m trying to write quiet colourless poems or thick, heavy raps so sometimes I sit still, say nothing and write a few sweet nonsensicals, and sometimes I tap my feet, bop my head up and down, and convert my whispers into scratchy line breaks. This is a false dichotomy. I know. I can do both. Somehow. We wander into a room filled with hundreds of heavy-bellied figures, stony-faced, in a criss-cross maze. Another room has warriors towering thick as trees-- some are dark-skinned, fearsome; I look at my hands to see if the colours match-- and they snarl and smile with swords and spears in hand. And then there’s an entire wall carved and filled with hundreds of dancing bodies that I cannot name, coloured in endless golds and browns stacked up in a massive Creation. I try not to think of the Sistine Chapel ceiling painting, which I have not seen, but for once the West cannot compare, and in this room, finally, I don’t even bother looking to see if my fingers match the statues’ colours."
Nov 29, 2017
Nov 29, 2017 at 4:28 PM UTC
¿Dónde está la utilidad
de nuestras utilidades?
Volvamos a la verdad:
vanidad de vanidades.
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