Welcome.inevitablewilliam wrote:Well i am not posting any poem over here but can't stop myself for commenting over it. You people have written nice poems and i must appreciate the creativity of all of you.
jonquil wrote:From A Shropshire Lad, by AE Housman:
There pass the careless people
That call their souls their own;
Here by the road I loiter,
How idle and alone.
Ah, past the plunge of plummet,
In seas I cannot sound,
My heart and soul and senses,
World without end, are drowned.
His folly has not fellow
Beneath the blue of day
That gives to man or woman
His heart and soul away.
There flowers no balm to sain him
From east of earth to west
That's lost for everlasting
The heart out of his breast.
Here by the labouring highway
With empty hands I stroll:
Sea-deep, till doomsday morning,
Lie lost my heart and soul.
Hi, how are you today, a/k/a Vanitas? That poem sort of reminds me of this picture:Ascolo Parodites wrote:Pasolini.
I am a force of the Past.
My love lies only in tradition.
I come from the ruins, the churches,
the altarpieces, the villages
abandoned in the Appennines or foothills
of the Alps where my brothers once lived.
I wander like a madman down the Tuscolana,
down the Appia like a dog without a master.
Or I see the twilights, the mornings
over Rome, the Ciociaria, the world,
as the first acts of Posthistory
to which I bear witness, for the privilege
of recording them from the outer edge
of some buried age. Monstrous is the man
born of a dead woman’s womb.
And I, a fetus now grown, roam about
more modern than any modern man,
in search of brothers no longer alive.
Ah, yes, of course. Your writing. You're not out yet? Is that why you left all that space there? I didn't want to take away that space, especially if you make it out in a matter of minutes, you need somewhere you can 'be'. And you see, women really are not the only ones enslaved. We are all capable of being, or becoming enslaved...we just all choose our own form of manacles. It is an individual thing. I know for myself that if I truly want to be free, there is that suffering that must come first and then I know that I must give up that suffering in order to be free. That alone can be a monumental task. But sometimes, we simply do not want to be free. There is something that holds more meaning than freedom obviously. Or perhaps it is because nothing holds meaning at times that we shackle ourselves. And truth to tell, freedom is not really the most important thing...sometimes suffering to become is....but that also needs to be tendered with love and mercy...and it goes on. I think I need coffee.Ascolo Parodites wrote:I can do more than imagine it.
And how is it going? I'm still addicted to pain killers.
And I am not out yet, so good.
arcturus rising wrote:A Dying Brain
Do you recall how I was once your fire –?
And we, a regal cloud of unity
Meandering through the closing blues of night,
Commanding stars to glitter;
Dawn to blush?
Your answer comes in ever-blanking stares:
A wall that blocks the know,
Damping down the glow that used to emanate
From clear and lucid eyes.
They've lost the will to recognise.
But hear! We are fifty years together –
And once we writhed in pleasure –
Drowning in emotion,
That which was our prime.
You don't recall.
You only lie as vegetation
Scattered on the ground:
A living mound of flesh,
Devoid of any neural mesh
To let you say 'I'm sound.'
Don't worry Dear,
For I'm aware with memory!
I'll tell you how we were.
We have our right of history!
If you could just concur.
Mark R Slaughter 2009
All one ever has is the Now.
Yes, this guy's imagery is beautiful...and it's so haunting. He can really write poetry.Three Times Great wrote:Her Bliss
Death is in the flower's heart –
Why to cry for life of any petal?
Death in purple ink of weary pens
Betrays the written yearnings
On her scented paper.
Death is laughing in her cry;
Her broken heart forlorn upon the sleeve.
Death ignores the plight of any purity –
He doesn’t care or seem to be aware of
What her dewy eye desires,
For Death beckoned:
'Embrace the jar! '
And yes, she did –
For Death, of course.
After all, no other man would
Open up her hand and bid her with a kiss,
So Death became her bliss.
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