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Snow QueenShall I find thee all in ice ensnared,the tree boughs stripped, the blossoms bared,trapped in a wet and wintry grave -the blight of snow and hoarfrost shared?They brought you here, their souls enslaved.The altar where your minions prayed -a brilliant diadem of ice,the offering that your cold heart craved.They linger here whilst you enticetheir frozen limbs as sacrifice.Their wizened hands by you declaredthe chosen few who paid your price
PianistHis fingertips splashed through the ivory keysWith ripples that scattered in rowsWhile windows bloomed petals of watery pinksEach kissing his cheeks with a glowReleasing his notes like a bird caged in springHe untangled the keys from their dinMaking sense of a sequence not meant to be seenHe etches them deep in his skin.He performs for the windows and plays for the hallsThe curtains will sway in his songThe picture frames quiver and jump from the wallsBeneath the great rush of his palms.So I open my window, before I lay restJust to capture a trace of his spawnIt's been years since I've heard it, but still I awaitfor the chime of the Pianist's song.
The Defense of Gawain (Fragment 1)He brushed his wavy hair from his pale faceJust like his horse was shaking off the fliesWhile following behind. Their limping paceWas slow, although the city rang with criesSurprised from friends who thought that he was dead--But still his head slumped down, and still his eyesAnd clammy cheeks were flushed with streaking red,Though they were running, dashing to his side.And then his young brother, half-laughing, said,"Oh god, I thought--you know we thought you died?That awful task--you left, you rode away--And then did not come back. Oh, how I cried!I thought you died. On last year's new-year's dayA year since you had left, they all agreedYou must have failed your quest, but I said nay--I knew my brother Gawain would succeedAlthough it seemed to all impossible.But you did not come back, and I concedeI thought you died." And then his voice sunk lowFrom where it had been shouting in delight,And then he said: "But brother, may I know--Your hair is snarled, unkempt--yo
EurydiceHis voice enveloped me, and I becameMyself again--I heard it in the song:A mordent on a note he held too long;A stutter in his voice. I heard my nameIn these and felt a happiness the sameAs when I saw him first. Oh, I had longedTo hear him sing again, but this last song--It was so beautiful. And it remainsThe best of human works, though none shall hearIts sorrowed notes; the lyre's meand'ring tuneThrough vast arpeggios and Death's expanseExcept the dead. It will not disappear'Till all the world's destroyed, and hell's exhumed--Such music must be worth a backwards glance.
OrpheusDarkness encompassed me; high-vaulting fireLeapt and burnt the vision from my gazeBut though I could not see, I strummed my lyreUntil the music swept away the hazeAnd I could stumble onwards through the mire.Now I strum no more. What use are lays?Save to remind me of my lost desireThat I betrayed--let silence fill my days!For I, whose song once moved the gods to weepNo longer can make melodies from woe--No dissonance expresses pain so deepAnd no music can be as beautifulAs that which I have lost. Let others comeAnd fill the void with noise--I will not strum.
Losswhatshe askednot smilingshould I do nowliving with the memory of your losses?
You're Not A PoetYou’re not a poet because of strung wordsTogether on row upon row againOf blank verse or perhaps liberal rhyme.‘Slam’ all you want, other poets wonder;Your ignorance of couplets a blunder?Yes! I speak harshly, but it’s no gross crime,To point with honesty failed verse of thine.No real poet discards upper case words;Lets prose crawl on paper like listless worms.You seek to free verse of those stern letters,Sever away bleak capital fetters,But it doesn’t sing of great speech sublime,Rather, it sneaks of writing in spare time.Wait! before you throw me in the icy Rhine;It’s hard to put verse together in rhyme,To make our dull words sound great all the time,Hear them ring out loud, like a clear clock’s chime,Heralding a poet’s summer prime.Yet the sacred muses weep at your crime;Your pentameter mangled thick like slime,The subject not gilded in raiment fine;Your bold ink font, crystal waters divineTastes bitter to the ton
ShameHere's the bloody stain,burden of my shame.I breathe.Let me bear the strain,savior of my name.You leave.We have born the pain -righteous, strong and plain,we grieve.There is naught to gainin blessing or in bane.We seethe.I have known the blame,felt my senses fein.Believebleeding in the rain,praying oer the slain,I cleaveAnd know that I've laintwixt madness and sane.
A Sad DayPlease don't let him bring you downI don't want to watch you waste awayI wish I could run to your armsAnd promise you a better dayI want you to surrenderThe awful games you playJust for once in your lifeI wish you'd ask me to stayI watch you from my windowAs you give into his demandI know you just want to be "cool"And you think I don't understandBut as the days fly pastAnd I wait for your callI start to think you don't careBecause I'm nothing at allThen I get depressedAnd slowly wither awayI can think of nothing elseExcept that one dayWhen you told me I was yoursAnd you loved me trueNow I look in the mirrorAnd know I'm nothing to you