I feel War as he was:
soothing bloodlust with cunning
of the tricksters, with the calm
of a savage. His heart is windless,
stirring only when a bird shrieks,
when the pitiless sun burns,
harsher than flint.
He is treacherous, travelling
underground, but oh,
lovely to see his labyrinths,
to reach the crown of his fort
and gaze below.
These bricks have known
a bloody sun.
I know him as he is now:
rotting in the high walls of Time,
soundless, stale, secreted away
by piping bats, who echo night
with hands of wings.
These grasses have known
a history gone.
I see him, as he will be:
overrun by dry wilderness
and yellowing jungle, and alone,
a bridge gently folding into a moat
of moss and water.
He will strew stones on the floor,
like snow in summer, lull trees
to sleep in front of the doors,
and close the gates.
These walls have known
a silence of drums.
in his fortress of wrecked stone,
lying above the hill of the gods:
bloodied, but unbowed.
The Dream Song of AnonymousThis is based off The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock by T. S. Eliot. It might help to read Eliot's poem first, if you haven't before.The Dream Song of Anonymous3 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
Shall I stay, then, alone,
When the dawn is straying from the sky
Like a child roaming the sea;
Dare I stay – amidst parades of kings,
The rising revolution
Of tranquil days in silk-spread beds
And colours of mayhem in blacks and reds:
Wind chimes that jingle without judgement
Without affront –
And follow the questioning wind, without answers –
Oh, do answer, "Why not?" and
Let me stay, and dream of a candle you lit.
On the beaches the men wander alone
Driven speechless by siren song.
The house fairies lie beneath the windows.
The sunflowers that house imps hang above the windows
Droop their petals precariously earthward at dusk
And hide from the night sky in cement cracks,
Hinder gravity come dayspring and soar sunwards,
Stir from their pot, rise fr
31:12N, 121:30Emy Dear i just noticed31:12N, 121:30E2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
my balcony is shaped
and the wind is billowing
the moon up, up to-night
in her dusty purple garb
and i think
no Dear i do not want
to leave here: where men
build bridges over oceans
and live inside of mountains
like river dragons
where the sun shines
not at all at noon but gleams
like an orange at sundown
where the moon walks home
surefooted to where my neck
Thirst of a Poetthe bards have bumblebees in their mouths,Thirst of a Poet3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
for language is babbling,
a brook in a bowl, joy brimming;
billowing, rippling, surging
and spilling; sashaying down,
with a swaying sound (oh-so wistful, oh).
language is burbling,
an impish kiss of mouth from mouth;
bewildering, baffling, bemusing
and tricking; tumbling round,
to touch a fellow Fool and his nought (so wistful, oh),
and disturbs a Poet, who slips
into a dream of a vagabond
"where are you calling from?" he murmurs,
in his sleep, and the newspaper flutters
with a snore; then rests on his chin (just so, oh),
and language sidles past him up to me,
and places a river upon my lips,
On Ariadnethe loom of lust:On Ariadne3 years ago in Songs & Lyrics More Like This
In the heart of your ears,
and till your outstretched feet
the spinner of mad red has corrupted,
her fingers like dragonflies threading
bark and twined grass into your hair
around your sure wrists, your angled feet
'this is love, my shining bride-to be,' you whisper,
and disappear with her among billowing black sails.
the abandonment of Ariadne:
He wooed you in a labyrinth of spinners,
and wed you in black sails, beneath jealous skies.
'Sleep and tomorrow you shall be Queen of Athens,'
Ariadne, sleep, tomorrow the sun will shine,
and the sea will ebb sympathetic away from
these deserted sands.
the death, or descent:
Spin, my hanging nymph,
sleep and let the dryad-tree's shadow
ease your descent.
The spinning nymph for our mad lord,
the gentleness for the grapes of wrath
and the delight for the madness,
come. Drink, be it ambrosia or wine,
be it mother and son, or nymph and lord.
Spin, lady, and drink, lord,
and I will breat
CoppersmithI caught a sun gold.Coppersmith2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Trembling old in my cupped palm, quiet copper,
as my rage on our queen, for so crippling me.
And how too did I rail
against you, Cyprian beloved?
Understand: I grow too old
for bows and arrows, Eros.
Summer WomanWoman, you are my burnt sienna sculpture on Sun-days.Summer Woman3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
You are hiding my strength in rufous hair
and I feel you: russet-flushed to the touch,
jagged collarbone curving into neck,
easing into shoulders, into breasts;
woman, you are the warmest stone –
you are summery stone
to my water-drenched hands.
Woman in deepest reverie, you are hiding
my strength in pacific oceans of titian;
in running veins. My grasp
slips from skin slopes of sun and stone,
slips from you.
Woman of ragged flint and oil,
in sleep, your wind-kissed stone-neck drifts,
surges into a soft arch in air –
and does not meet ground;
and does not bow.
loose lips sink shipsan ocean has been thrown wide open over your head,loose lips sink ships1 year ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
and remarkably you, too, are sinkable–
every verbal, every vocal, is dogged by the epiphany:
an ocean has been thrown wide open over your head
and all bodies wreck, ships and submarines.
and remarkably you, too, are sinkable.
honest livingold friend I heard you turnedhonest living6 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
into a waterfall and today it became less
strange, how heavy water is
how you follow your wild
circle– going from water to
are you running, freed
of bones and burdens, or are you returning
as a light
in our fine, high, sunlit rooms
what a near and close god
Beastmy daddy is a clockwork beastBeast3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
he is tinkering and fiddling with
steamy things and like my grand-
-father riding with iron horses,
he rides regal with sea horses.
he is a crafted daedalus figurine
making sails of albatross feathers,
he lives for ship, breathes in sea,
in requite: the defected things steer 'im
windbound with love, and bitter salt.
for all the lexicons in the world
i cannot decipher his delphic heart
for all the frost and the ghosts
my daddy is a clockwork beast
and for all my hesitant fears
i love his faltering thundering gears
The Old God, Savitrॐ भूर्भुव: स्व: तत्सवितुर्वरेण्यं ।The Old God, Savitr3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
भर्गो देवस्य धीमहि, धीयो यो न: प्रचोदयात् ।।
The wind blew sand into your nonchalant soul,
and your heart coughed. I entered the circle
at night, and I was consumed by fire. I did not
know of you then. I have fractured myself into
a thousand souls: but they are all whole, for I did
see you in my absence. Yet you? - you
were sailing, and your head was
full of water light.
I was significant when your mother poured out water
in a copper pot from a balcony; water, which
caught and held the moon, and then spilled over
with a quiet radiance. You wondered whether
the moon l
VaingloryI watched Daedalus cradle his ivory child,Vainglory3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
melted, winged bronze crowned in seaweed:
he released his reckless child,
threw him to the winds in hopeless abandon
watched as the sea ruined him.
Decadent in ripped seashells,
he escapes into obscurity,
exalts the lamented to the point of notoriety -
Tell him I saw his face again
...in Picasso in art in war in despair,
he hid his face, a disgraced Eros
(still winged, still winged,
these wings bind flesh from stone,
from sea-besieged rock)
but still so naked in his shame.
"So desolate, o desolate,
O, so desolate, Daedalus?"
croons the wicked wind,
and the crooked man's back hunches
with weighty wings.
Tell him I read his story in fiction:
in vainglorious masks and molten men,
and in spiral seashells dipped in honey,
molten gold; I open these gates of frozen gold,
hail Apollo, hail lord, hail glory,
and my burden is: my offering I hang
for you to see flight, thy mortal's wings.
today sky and grasstoday sky and grasstoday sky and grass2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
are the same :-
, and the sea is dreaming,
, and the field
is courting the wind
simply, with dandy lions.
let the women work
the sun's world
, for many-then tell me
over a cup of smoke and tree:
"it is a time to find love in palmistry"
"I have found a
time to harness the sky
with love clasped in my arms"
bird sigh sun drown heart dance
, looking for
hooray, my sweet heart
- to a greeneyed lad muse as joyful
as eros in silence
dialogue of the tidesI.dialogue of the tides8 months ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
in seashells, expanses.
oceans underfoot – everywhere.
architect of thirst
windblown light, steeped.
savage – albatross –
crag of solace
looking glass– jungle.
beloved unkempt unknown
no pearl: oyster?
whales, stones –
seeking, you exist.
tongue of travellers
soloist: lucid babel.
skin over bone over wingif it is true that my back will fit inskin over bone over wing2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
with someone else's solid back,
then that is good.) until then, until
that pressing of bone to shoulder blade,
my mind is content to rest and think:
where the river trails off into warmth,
surely there must be a place for all our
imaginary lovers and all their virtues,
and a pocket of their vices to love, too.
for there is a place in between our collarbones
where someone has pressed skin above wings,
because we must be firmer than star dust
to ( love,
Me Men o' th' Land and SeaMe man o' th' landMe Men o' th' Land and Sea3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
is a fair and true lad,
but I love better me man o' the sea.
Me man o' th' land
has hair o' gauld like th' sun,
but me man o' th' sea loved me lang.
Me man o' th' land
has een o' bauld blue,
but me man o' th' sea has een o' bonnie, bonnie green.
But oh, but oh, me man o' th' land,
if yer heart brak', lit it nae be for me,
lit it nae be for th' weary wurld.
But oh, but oh, me man o' th' land,
I love ye sae, but I love me man o' th' sea mair,
for auld lang syne, I will min' ye,
me man o' th' land, but oh,
but oh, there my true love bides,
an' I love better me man o' th' sea.
Dae tell, my bairn, dae tell ye Father,
say I say, Farewell tae thee weel,
but I loved better me man o' the sea.
Copperwater: with your face bent to a book. Your fingers have shingled around it, forming a steeple. Sometimes you find we turn into copperwater when we are not looking for it, our bones shiver down to water and russet, and a clamour of ripples travel on ourselves: are you unruffled underneath? Already, we are clumsy, for again, the ripples rush faraway to another set of bones, something rasps, and your bones creak in response, rattling with a sad firm sound. Our eyes are made of the deepest dreams that cause our eyelashes to sweep down. You find, you fear that there is a river in books, with sirens; there is a river goddess who shares her name with the goddess of thought because she is mercurial and she is moored, and their palms are full of pools, and with them comes a smell of trees. This was once etched on beech trees, overseas, and ash at home, and on your hands and feet in dark copper, running over skin. And again, you forget to fret about your eyesight until you become small-eyed: you turnCopperwater2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
100 Nonfiction Books (by Genre)Autobiographies & Memoirs 100 Nonfiction Books (by Genre)2 years ago in Reviews & Guides More Like This
• The 8.55 to Baghdad
A travel through the Middle East and its history through Agatha Christie’s life, thirty years after her death, curious and interesting.
• Tuesdays With Morrie
Morrie, a professor of Albom’s, has a disease that causes him to die slowly. They meet, and this is a reflection on the events that followed. Albom knows nothing about Morrie, so why he appears to be telling the tale instead of someone else closer to Morrie is a mystery, but what he tells of Morrie is touching and hopeful.
• Scenes from a Writer’s Life
Ruskin Bond writes his biography in the style that is so wonderfully distinctive of his, a style that makes all his books worth reading.
• Agatha Christie: an Autobiography
(See also: The 8.55 to Baghdad by Andrew Eames).
exoskeletonsThe wind lilts a sound through the bonesexoskeletons1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
of the ocean's skeletons when they sweep up
and there is no translation for that timbre,
forged sure in the seashells on the seashore. Still,
those who have never swum assure me, "she will
never kiss you; stop running to the sea."
misericordia that man is kingmisericordia1 year ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
and penniless pauper,
who begs the rivers
and owns the earth.
Midas begged –
Midas was bestowed –
carelessly he held,
and lost as endlessly
a delicate deep
became hollow gold.
need is easy. the
albatross of compassion runs
backwards, a river mercurial;
wade ever on, unwavering.
LetheA memory being floats and is assaulted by asphodel scent,Lethe3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
and flickers firelight before returning to its hemlock outline.
Peace is quiet, so quiet, and the river flows addicting thoughts,
hemlock and mercury bled out a shape into Lethe,
silver peace dissolving memory.
On the riverside, rosemary blooms.
Elegy Of A Lost SeasonI am the fall.Elegy Of A Lost Season3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Broken in June, buried in August -
haunting September from the boughs of hazel,
where not even the rain could reach me.
How my limbs ached to feel its soothing caress;
but my limbs felt nothing, and I felt nothing.
And the season moved on, without me.
Once, long ago, I was spring,
delicate and pure; fragile as willow seedlings,
believing themselves strong, as they stretch toward the sun -
before the wind breaks their stalks, and they fall
defeated, drained, limp upon the ground;
crushed and forgotten as tears.
But no, I was summer -
when I looked into your eyes for the first time
and forgot to curse the sun.
Tiny beads running down my neck;
hateful, so hateful - ignored, as you ensnared my senses.
You were summer, too
cradled in the branches of oak,
bright enough to burn my eyes and scorch my skin,
but never close enough to touch.
Until in your arms, I became summer,
and the sun could not outshine us.
But now I am winter -
numb and cold, faded, stripped and desolate;
Anthropomorphism for BeginnersThe sun is subdued velvet,Anthropomorphism for Beginners3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
and the sea is dressed in
tumbling crow feathers:
the birth of a pearl is like a god.
slow, unfurling like snow,
inhuman in a sea of mud.
Lend him hands and a home,
build him bone and shape him,
something smooth like silk,
like wispy wool.
The divers are burrowing
under liquid glass,
untwining soggy weed
to search for shells
for pearls, the pearls!
with hands that scrabble
for god, who is worth too much.
for the burnished bubbles
of milk are cherished
above and beyond
from the doves in flight
with feathers of silk
the divers, like doves,
are free but
but not the pearls,
for the sea is a raven, ugly in love.