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.
On Ariadnethe loom of lust:On Ariadne4 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
The Old God, Savitrॐ भूर्भुव: स्व: तत्सवितुर्वरेण्यं ।The Old God, Savitr4 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
31:12N, 121:30Emy Dear i just noticed31:12N, 121:30E4 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 Poet4 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,
CoppersmithI caught a sun gold.Coppersmith4 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.
today sky and grasstoday sky and grasstoday sky and grass4 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
Summer WomanWoman, you are my burnt sienna sculpture on Sun-days.Summer Woman4 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.
Beastmy daddy is a clockwork beastBeast4 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
VaingloryI watched Daedalus cradle his ivory child,Vainglory4 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.
Me Men o' th' Land and SeaMe man o' th' landMe Men o' th' Land and Sea4 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.
Breaking in to Lit!IntroductionBreaking in to Lit!3 years ago in Personal More Like This
Literature has long been considered one of the closest knit communities on deviantART. As a result, some people find it difficult to "break in" to the Lit crowd. There are rumors of elitism, difficulty in getting exposure, and lack-luster appreciation for the incredible work that goes into writing a good piece of prose or a well structured poem.
If you look at a painting you can see amazing detail, great use of color, and the importance of the subject immediately. You know it came from the artist's imagination and that he or she had to spend hours translating that to a canvas. The tangibility of the work is right in front of you. With writing, it is not quite the same. The effort the author puts into the work can only be appreciated if readers put in their own effort to read the work. The gratification is not instant, which is one reason the lit community is so close knit.
Those who do have large followings often also comment and read quite a lot of work h
to Yellow Plumto Yellow Plum (in blueto Yellow Plum4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
afternoon's slit of sun slips
between thick curtains
& woos you to ripeness.
it chooses you
not for flecks of honey-russet
held low in your seam of shadows,
nor your symmetry & swell;
you slink in shade, sink
behind green pear & clementine
& cannot hide
from each spear of light
against these lips
a tea-stain stone
the trashbin floor.
Of Half-Filled WordsShe is not a flutterbird.Of Half-Filled Words4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Her fingers are skittish,
her smile is not.
Do not fear that you will
drive it away.
Sadness is her fumbling limb.
It is unwanted, yet
When it is January
she will tell you,
"I am still struggling.
And I am becoming so many people
all at once.
A conglomeration of beauty that
I have managed to mangle.
Please, do not be sad for me."
Sometimes her sorrow is
meant for you. But mostly her.
Those specks and spots
of ocean storm lulls
reveal her truths:
ones she does not want
to extract from herself.
Her heart is not a rabbit.
When it beats
faster, faster, faster,
you need not
run harder to catch it.