"xxxvi" poems
(Ezekiel, xxxvi. 25-28)
The Lord proclaims His grace abroad!
"Behold, I change your hearts of stone;
Each shall renounce his idol-god,
And serve, henceforth, the Lord alone.
"My grace, a flowing stream, proceeds
To wash your filthiness away;
Ye shall abhor your former deeds,
And learn my statutes to obey.
"My truth the great design ensures,
I give myself away to you;
You shall be mine, I will be yours,
Your God unalterably true.
"Yet not unsought or unimplored,
The plenteous grace I shall confer;
No -- your whole hearts shall seek the Lord,
I'll put a praying spirit there.
"From the first breath of life divine
Down to the last expiring hour,
The gracious work shall all be mine,
Begun and ended in my power."
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XXXVI
When we met first and loved, I did not build
Upon the event with marble. Could it mean
To last, a love set pendulous between
Sorrow and sorrow? Nay, I rather thrilled,
Distrusting every light that seemed to gild
The onward path, and feared to overlean
A finger even. And, though I have grown serene
And strong since then, I think that God has willed
A still renewable fear . . . O love, O troth . . .
Lest these enclasped hands should never hold,
This mutual kiss drop down between us both
As an unowned thing, once the lips being cold.
And Love, be false! if he, to keep one oath,
Must lose one joy, by his life’s star foretold.
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White in the moon the long road lies,
The moon stands blank above;
White in the moon the long road lies
That leads me from my love.
Still hangs the hedge without a gust,
Still, still the shadows stay:
My feet upon the moonlit dust
Pursue the ceaseless way.
The world is round, so travellers tell,
And straight though reach the track,
Trudge on, trudge on, 'twill all be well,
The way will guide one back.
But ere the circle homeward hies
Far, far must it remove:
White in the moon the long road lies
That leads me from my love.
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Emily Dickinson (1830–86). Complete Poems. 1924.
Part Three: Love
XXXVI
MY worthiness is all my doubt,
His merit all my fear,
Contrasting which, my qualities
Do lowlier appear;
Lest I should insufficient prove
For his beloved need,
The chiefest apprehension
Within my loving creed.
So I, the undivine abode
Of his elect content,
Conform my soul as ’t were a church
Unto her sacrament.
Apr 20, 2015
Apr 20, 2015 at 1:49 PM UTC
dear basil,
you don't have to be in pain
to talk to me </3
i want to hear about your
good days
too
love,
basil
Apr 4, 2021
Apr 4, 2021 at 3:47 AM UTC
I have always wondered what it would feel like to have someone who chooses to see the good and bad, see them as complementary, eventually making you the greatest person anyone can ever see.
Someone who will see the hidden secrets on your skin and turn them into answers; the life long questions you begged for answers when you were still young and free. Someone who never gets tired of your random thoughts, loves them, and keeps them safe. Someone who will cradle your mind as if it was her own, your demons are her comfort, hers are your partners-in-crime.
Someone who will see your passion as her own, and will always see to it that she supports you every step of the way - every open mic night, every art gallery, every indie band, every book you read, every dream, every heartbreak, every moment of silence.
Someone who will see past your weaknesses, draw on them with purple and teal pens so they turn from your fears to breathtaking laughters. Someone who is not afraid to step on your toes, guides you through surviving, and lets you be your own galaxy of perfection.
Someone who will eagerly find a way back to you, even when it's raining, even when it's way past your bedtime, even when you just got out of bed, even when you are all messed up, even when you're just thinking you **** things up every time you get a chance to, even when you're empty and numb inside. Someone who will make you feel something.
Someone who will make you see the calm, the pure, the truth, the reality in all the things her hands touched. Someone who will leave you with bruises from her poetry, the pain piercing through every vein you thought stopped pumping.
Someone who will be there during the drowning, the claustrophobia, the bubble of your self-destruction. Someone who will hold your shaking hands, kiss them, and let them do what they do best: turn everything into art, including yourself.
With all your flaws, you need someone who will remind you that they are her puzzle, her late-at-night-how-do-I-understand-this puzzle. Someone who will spend nights trying to come up with answers, and tells you honestly when she can't. Someone who will burn your hands when you hold them, and treat them with utmost care.
You deserve someone who will always see you in your best form, even if you are raining on her parade every day of your lives together. You deserve home-cooked meals, couch-cuddling, late night walks and conversations on places you would think as weird, constant reminders and the genuine reassurance that you are worth it.
Mar 22, 2015
Mar 22, 2015 at 10:29 AM UTC
Now to put it plainly,
I don't believe in reincarnation.
Nor any other form of after life.
I will be dirt.
You will be dirt.
We're all just ******* dirt.
However,
this leaves me vexed.
For I feel the most nostalgia,
towards things I have never experienced.
Music from the 1920's
to the 1950's,
makes me yearn for days,
I never had.
I only feel empathy for war veterans,
some part of me feels the pain.
Maybe I'm wrong,
or perhaps just strange;
who knows?
May 22, 2015
May 22, 2015 at 11:39 PM UTC
Bedsheets. A distant memory that is all but forgotten- fading flesh and neurons straining to recapture the scent of a long-ignited, distant flame...
Jul 3, 2016
Jul 3, 2016 at 9:38 PM UTC
I shimmer for you
Catch on, catch on.
Oh, the very thrill of it,
Doing this to raise your eyebrows.
Makes you wonder
Who is invisible?
Blocked by your barriers
I know the way to your heart
The core of all that is pure
And evil
A being that is flawed
And perfect
Jul 18, 2010
Jul 18, 2010 at 9:23 PM UTC
Corazón mío, reina del apio y de la artesa:
pequeña leoparda del hilo y la cebolla:
me gusta ver brillar tu imperio diminuto,
las armas de la cera, del vino, del aceite,
del ajo, de la tierra por tus manos abierta
de la sustancia azul encendida en tus manos,
de la transmigración del sueño a la ensalada,
del reptil enrollado en la manguera.
Tú con tu podadora levantando el perfume,
tú, con la dirección del jabón en la espuma,
tú, subiendo mis locas escalas y escaleras,
tú, manejando el síntoma de mi caligrafía
y encontrando en la arena del cuaderno
las letras extraviadas que buscaban tu boca.
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XXXVI.
because you really don't want to hurt them you just still cant believe that anyone cares enough to be hurt when you hurt yourself
XXXVII.
because every new year you say you'll get better and you don't you still don't know if you should be independent of arbitrary dates that you trust so much even if they've never helped you
XXXIII.
because it hurts so much either way
XXXIV.
you'll just have to decide which you prefer
XXXV.
because you really gotta put more faith in rough drafts
XXXVI.
because you always want everything to be perfect but you know by now it won't be
XXXVII.
because these thoughts don't even really scare you anymore or maybe you're used to being afraid, but you know you'll stay, even if this place is unchanging
XXXVIII.
because that's only half the battle sometimes,
this times its not even that
XXXIX.
because you've never been this close to both life and death at the same time
XL.
because you're not afraid anymore to make rash decision you think you should fear what might happen because of that
XLI.
because, for now, the solution- the next step, is changing everything
XLII.
because until now changing has only meant covering up better
XLIII.
because maybe you can get better on your own, and maybe you can't
XLIV.
but the point is if you reach out you will never know if you could have done this independently, but if you cant do it on your own and you still try,
XLV.
because I know,
it's okay to reach out for help but,
is it okay to hold on?
Dec 29, 2015
Dec 29, 2015 at 9:03 PM UTC
Sometimes it all feels like I'm listening to a foreigner talk in an unrecognizable language.
Every sentence seems like an entirely too long word, syllables merging together and making me unable to tell where each one begins and ends. I can only make out the bigger picture, the anger behind their tone or the eagerness in their face, but it still means listening intently to what might as well be nonsense.
It’s talking and not being understood. It’s trying to make sense of something I can’t wrap my head around. It’s being a foreigner in my own house.
Apr 28, 2018
Apr 28, 2018 at 3:48 PM UTC
Am my own measure; and...
Will not compete against ghosts.
Mar 27, 2014
Mar 27, 2014 at 10:31 PM UTC
¡No corras, ve despacio,
que adonde tienes que ir es a ti solo!
¡Ve despacio, no corras,
que el niño de tu yo, recienacido
eterno,
no te puede seguir!
333
I love you folks, I really do!
I don't see any reason to copyright this one.
May 16, 2015
May 16, 2015 at 4:15 AM UTC
Fe empirista. Ni somos ni seremos.
Todo nuestro vivir es emprestado.
Nada trajimos; nada llevaremos.
296
Si de nuestros agravios en un libro
se escribiese la historia,
y se borrase en nuestras almas cuanto
se borrase en sus hojas. ¡Te quiero tanto aún! ¡Dejó en mi pecho
tu amor huellas tan hondas,
que sólo con que tú borrases una,
las borraba yo todas!
273
I.
You know
some days
I am that person
gasping
begging
pleading
II.
And others
I am the one
to hold them tight
and say
"Stuff is going to be okay."
Jul 30, 2014
Jul 30, 2014 at 2:25 AM UTC
No será la muerte por fin
una cocina interminable?
Qué harán tus huesos disgregados,
buscarán otra vez tu forma?
Se fundirá tu destrucción
en otra voz y en otra luz?
Formarán parte tus gusanos
de perros o de mariposas?
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