[u]Ode to Little Dom[/u]

He knew so much the world could be
Man opens his eyes and we all see
God in the world and peace that be
Holy, holy, good be free.

Very concise and thought provoking. A longing for goodness speaks through its subject matter.

[i carry your heart with me(i carry it in]

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart)i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go,my dear;and whatever is done
by only me is your doing,my darling)
i fear
no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want
no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)
and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that’s keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)

( ^^^ Play this as you read )

"Poor son of Earth, how couldst thou thus alone
Have led thy life, bereft of me?
I, for a time, at least, have worked thy cure;
Thy fancy’s rickets plague thee not at all:
Had I not been, so hadst thou, sure,
Walked thyself off this earthly ball.
Why here to caverns, rocky hollows slinking,
Sit’st thou, as ‘twere an owl a-blinking?
Why suck’st, from sodden moss and dripping stone,
Toad-like, thy nourishment alone?
A fine way, this, thy time to fill!
A blessing drawn from supernatural fountains!
In night and dew to lie upon the mountains;
All Heaven and Earth in rapture penetrating;
Thyself to Godhood haughtily inflating;
To grub with yearning force through Earth’s dark marrow,
Compress the six days’ work within thy bosom narrow,–
To taste, I know not what, in haughty power,
Thine own ecstatic life on all things shower,
Thine earthly self behind thee cast,
And then the lofty instinct, thus-- [With a gesture:] at last,–
I daren’t say how – to pluck the final flower!

Yes, thou findest that unpleasant!
Thou hast the moral right to cry me “shame!” at present.
One dares not that before chaste ears declare,
Which chaste hearts, notwithstanding, cannot spare;
And, once for all, I grudge thee not the pleasure
Of lying to thyself in moderate measure.
But such a course thou wilt not long endure;
Already art thou o’er-excited,
And, if it last, wilt soon be plighted
To madness and to horror, sure.
Enough of that! Thy love sits lonely yonder,
By all things saddened and oppressed;
Her thoughts and yearning seek thee, tenderer, fonder,–
A mighty love is in her breast.
First came thy passion’s flood and poured around her
As when from melted snow a streamlet overflows;
Thou hast therewith so filled and drowned her,
That now thy stream all shallow shows.
Methinks, instead of in the forests lording,
The noble Sir should find it good,
The love of this young silly blood
At once to set about rewarding.
Her time is miserably long;
She haunts her window, watching clouds that stray
O’er the old city-wall, and far away.
“Were I a little bird!” so runs her song,
Day long, and half night long.
Now she is lively, mostly sad,
Now, wept beyond her tears;
Then again quiet she appears,–
Always love-mad!

Thou fool, go in and comfort her!
When such a head as thine no outlet knows,
It thinks the end must soon occur.
Hail him, who keeps a steadfast mind!
Thou, else, dost well the devil-nature wear:
Naught so insipid in the world I find
As is a devil in despair."

  • Monologue from Faust

D-Devils - “6th Gate” (2000).

Please, compare it with this:

Cozy Powell - “Dance With The Devil” (1973).

Or do you mean “Instant Poetry”?

Golen Earring - “Instant Poetry” (1974).

Is that poetry or just “instant poetry”?

English ok
rhyming ok
now it’s time to write which involves maturity and content.
sacrifice english and rhyming if necessary to maintian content and maturity.
English and rhyming in english can’t offer maturity at that level.

When chill November’s surly blast
Made fields and forests bare,
One ev’ning, as I wander’d forth
Along the banks of Ayr,
I spied a man, whose aged step
Seem’d weary, worn with care;
His face furrow’d o’er with years,
And hoary was his hair.

“Young stranger, whither wand’rest thou?”
Began the rev’rend sage;
"Does thirst of wealth thy step constrain,
Or youthful pleasure’s rage?
Or haply, prest with cares and woes,
Too soon thou hast began
To wander forth, with me to mourn
The miseries of man.

"The sun that overhangs yon moors,
Out-spreading far and wide,
Where hundreds labour to support
A haughty lordling’s pride;-
I’ve seen yon weary winter-sun
Twice forty times return;
And ev’ry time has added proofs,
That man was made to mourn.

"O man! while in thy early years,
How prodigal of time!
Mis-spending all thy precious hours-
Thy glorious, youthful prime!
Alternate follies take the sway;
Licentious passions burn;
Which tenfold force gives Nature’s law.
That man was made to mourn.

"Look not alone on youthful prime,
Or manhood’s active might;
Man then is useful to his kind,
Supported in his right:
But see him on the edge of life,
With cares and sorrows worn;
Then Age and Want-oh! ill-match’d pair-
Shew man was made to mourn.

"A few seem favourites of fate,
In pleasure’s lap carest;
Yet, think not all the rich and great
Are likewise truly blest:
But oh! what crowds in ev’ry land,
All wretched and forlorn,
Thro’ weary life this lesson learn,
That man was made to mourn.

"Many and sharp the num’rous ills
Inwoven with our frame!
More pointed still we make ourselves,
Regret, remorse, and shame!
And man, whose heav’n-erected face
The smiles of love adorn, -
Man’s inhumanity to man
Makes countless thousands mourn!

"See yonder poor, o’erlabour’d wight,
So abject, mean, and vile,
Who begs a brother of the earth
To give him leave to toil;
And see his lordly fellow-worm
The poor petition spurn,
Unmindful, tho’ a weeping wife
And helpless offspring mourn.

"If I’m design’d yon lordling’s slave,
By Nature’s law design’d,
Why was an independent wish
E’er planted in my mind?
If not, why am I subject to
His cruelty, or scorn?
Or why has man the will and pow’r
To make his fellow mourn?

"Yet, let not this too much, my son,
Disturb thy youthful breast:
This partial view of human-kind
Is surely not the last!
The poor, oppressed, honest man
Had never, sure, been born,
Had there not been some recompense
To comfort those that mourn!

“O Death! the poor man’s dearest friend,
The kindest and the best!
Welcome the hour my aged limbs
Are laid with thee at rest!
The great, the wealthy fear thy blow
From pomp and pleasure torn;
But, oh! a blest relief for those
That weary-laden mourn!”

See Emily Dickenson’s definition of poetry.

i have heard that irrelious is good in writing such look

r u capable of writing it on spot
if yes , let it happen one fine day
all who are interested and like , join in

Good poetry is the language of the soul. Poetry is not a trained monkey. Sometimes the muse is silent.
I’m just another I (eye)
Watching the world go by (bye)
Watching as my soul (sole)
Keeps on asking why.


hope that was the worst one.

the guy won without even replying !!

Sorry to disappoint. See disclaimer. One cannot always produce instant freeze dried poetry.
My name is Ierrellus.

sorry ileroious.
i din’t meant to hurt you.
i have read good work of yours.
this one wasn’t of that bar.

Name ,
just for sake of name ,
to rule minds and brood thoughts.

Face ,
just for sake ,
that sake meant not to embrace.

What’s left as identity is,
just you.
you to come and whisper the thought of friendship,
you to come and whisper the next line of friendship.

My bit of doggerel was proof that not all instant poetry is good. No harm done. I don’t know if I’m allowed to post published poems here.

why should you estimate each and everything about litrature in terms of english language

English language might not be good .
it’s contribution to the world of litreture is not that impressive.
still . i don’t ignnore english.
again , asesing each thing with english litreture as bar !!!

just low matured guys in world of litreture admire english, like those one from american universities .
any where else , still other style of litreture exist .

same style with no mockery and joke.

The only evolution in world of english litreture is in play writing : soliloquy
And you surely know who used it more and efficiently.
After that evolution,never anything happened in that languege at all !!!

just becaause you follow table manners , not enough:
should know what brahmin class reciepe means.

just having nonsense grammer syntax, not enough:
should know what perception and existence mean.

that’s what language english and english litreture is all about.

Theist being egoistic and against creator,
atheist becoming spiritual while falling in love with nature existence.

Can you make , something on these.
I’ll accept it even if it is soliloquy.

Relate to litreture ,Why english always become big joke ,outside england .
Rest of the world is not french ,darling.
still, they do think of english in this fashion.

Poetry is–blood, sweat and tears,
Fondest hopes and deepest fears,
Infinity compressed to time,
Eternity caught in the rhyme
Of what we feel with what’s outside.
It will reveal; it will not hide.
It is divine insanity,
The curse and cure of humanity.

Who is/was little Dom, the boy in the image? Was/is he a street kid?
Something kind of sad about it.
I may be wrong here but you seem to be saying one thing and meaning its direct opposite…antithesis?

The Songs of a Sentimental Bloke/XIII. The Kid

MY son!… Them words, jist like a blessed song,
Is singin’ in me 'eart the ‘ole day long;
Over an’ over; while I’m scared I’ll wake
Out of a dream, to find it all a fake.

My son! Two little words, that, yesterdee,
Wus jist two simple, senseless words to me;
An’ now—no man, not since the world begun,
Made any better pray’r than that.… My son!

My son an’ bloomin’ ‘eir… Ours!… ‘Ers an’ mine!
The finest kid in—Aw, the sun don’t shine—
Ther’ ain’t no joy fer me beneath the blue
Unless I’m gazin’ lovin’ at them two.

A little while ago it was jist “me”—
A lonely, longin’ streak o’ misery.
An’ then ‘twas “‘er an’ me”—Doreen, my wife!
An’ now it’s “‘im an’ us” an’—sich is life.

But 'Struth! 'E is king-pin! The 'ead serang!
I mustn’t tramp about, or talk no slang;
I mustn’t pinch 'is nose, or make a face,
I mustn’t—Strike! 'E seems to own the place!

Cunnin’? Yeh’d think, to look into 'is eyes,
‘E knoo the game clean thro’; ‘e seems that wise,
Wiv ‘er an’ nurse ‘e is the leadin’ man,
An’ poor ole dad’s amongst the “also ran.”

“Goog, goo,” ‘e sez, an’ curls ‘is cunnin’ toes.
Yeh’d be su’prised the ‘eaps o’ things 'e knows.
I’ll swear 'e tumbles I’m 'is father, too;
The way ‘e squints at me, an’ sez, “Goog, goo.”

Why! ‘smornin’, 'ere ‘is lordship gits a grip
Fair on me finger—give it quite a nip!
An’ when I tugs, 'e won’t let go 'is hold!
‘Angs on like that! An’ 'im not three weeks old!

“Goog, goo,” ‘e sez. I’ll swear yeh never did
In all yer natcheril, see sich a kid.
The cunnin’ ways ‘e’s got; the knowin’ stare—
Ther’ ain’t a youngster like 'im anywhere!

An’, when he gets a little pain inside,
'Is dead straight griffin ain’t to be denied.
I’m sent to talk sweet nuffin’s to the fowls;
While nurse turns 'and-springs ev’ry time 'e 'owls.

But say, I tell yeh straight… I been thro’ ‘ell!
The things I thort I wouldn’t dare to tell
Lest, in the tellin’, I might feel again
One little part of all that fear an’ pain.

It came so sudden that I lorst me block.
First, it was, 'Ell-fer-leather to the doc.,
'Oo took it all so calm ‘e made me curse—
An’ then I sprints like mad to get the nurse.

By gum; that woman! But she beat me flat!
A man’s jist putty in a game like that.
She owned me 'appy 'ome almost before
She fairly got 'er nose inside the door.

Sweatin’ I was; but cold wiv fear inside—
An’ then, to think a man could be denied
‘Is wife an’ ‘ome an’ told to fade away
By jist one fat ole nurse 'oo’s in 'is pay!

I wus too weak wiv funk to start an’ rouse.
'Struth! Ain’t a man the boss in ‘is own ‘ouse?
"You go an’ chase yerself!" she tips me straight.
"Ther’s nothin’ now fer you to do but—wait."

Wait?… Gawd!… I never knoo wot waitin’ meant
In all me life, till that day I was sent
To loaf around, while there inside—Aw, strike!
I couldn’t tell yeh wot that hour was like!

Three times I comes to listen at the door;
Three times I drag meself away once more;
‘Arf dead wiv fear; ‘arf filled wiv tremblin’ joy…
An’ then she beckons me, an’ sez—“A boy!”

“A boy!” she sez. “An’ bofe is doin’ well!”
I drops into a chair, an’ jist sez—“'Ell!”
It was a pray’r. I feels bofe crook an’ glad…
An’ that’s the strength uv bein’ made a dad.

I thinks uv church, when in that room I goes,
‘Oldin’ me breaf an’ walkin’ on me toes,
Fer ‘arf a mo’ I feared me nerve 'ud fail
To see ‘er lying there so still an’ pale.

She looks so frail, at first, I dursn’t stir.
An’ then, I leans acrost an’ kisses ‘er;
An’ all the room gits sort o’ blurred an’ dim…
She smiles, an’ moves 'er 'ead. “Dear lad! Kiss 'im.”

Near smothered in a ton of snowy clothes,
First thing, I sees a bunch o’ stubby toes,
Bald ‘ead, termater face, an’ two big eyes.
“Look, Kid,” she smiles at me. “Ain’t 'e a size?”

‘E didn’t seem no sort o’ size to me;
But yet, I speak no lie when I agree;
“'E is,” I sez, an’ smiles back at Doreen,
“The biggest nipper fer 'is age I’ve seen.”

She turns away; ‘er eyes is brimmin’ wet.
“Our little son!” she sez. “Our precious pet!”
An’ then, I seen a great big drop roll down
An’ fall—kersplosh!—fair on 'is nibs’s crown.

An’ still she smiles. “A lucky sign,” she said.
“Somewhere, in some ole book, one time I read,
‘The child will sure be blest all thro’ the years
Who’s christened wiv 'is mother’s ‘appy tears.’”

“Kiss 'im,” she sez. I was afraid to take
Too big a mouthful of 'im, fear ‘e’d break.
An’ when 'e gits a fair look at me phiz
'E puckers up ‘is nose, an’ then—Geewhizz!

'Ow did 'e 'owl! In 'arf a second more
Nurse ‘ad me ‘ustled clean outside the door.
Scarce knowin’ ‘ow, I gits out in the yard,
An’ leans agin the fence an’ thinks real 'ard.

A long, long time I looks at my two 'ands.
“They’re all I got,” I thinks, “they’re all that stands
‘Twixt this ‘ard world an’ them I calls me own.
An’ fer their sakes I’ll work 'em to the bone.”

Them vows an’ things sounds like a lot o’ guff.
Maybe it’s foolish thinkin’ all this stuff—
Maybe it’s childish-like to scheme an’ plan;
But—I dunno—it’s that way wiv a man.

I only know that kid belongs to me!
We ain’t decided yet wot 'e’s to be.
Doreen, she sez 'e’s got a poit’s eyes;
But I ain’t got much use fer them soft guys.

I think we ought to make 'im something great—
A bookie, or a champeen ‘eavy-weight:
Some callin’ that’ll give 'im room to spread.
A fool could see 'e’s got a clever 'ead.

I know ‘e’s good an’ honest; fer ‘is eyes
Is jist like ‘ers; so big an’ lovin’-wise;
They carries peace an’ trust where e’er they goes.
An’, say, the nurse she sez 'e’s got my nose!

Dead ring fer me ole conk, she sez it is.
More like a blob of putty on 'is phiz,
I think. But 'e’s a fair 'ard case, all right.
I’ll swear I thort 'e wunk at me larst night!

My wife an’ fam’ly! Don’t it sound all right!
That’s wot I whispers to meself at night.
Some day, I s’pose, I’ll learn to say it loud
An’ careless; kiddin’ that I don’t feel proud.

My son!… If ther’s a Gawd ‘Oo’s leanin’ near
To watch our dilly little lives down 'ere,
'E smiles, I guess, if ‘E’s a lovin’ one—
Smiles, friendly-like, to 'ear them words—My son.

Always For The First Time
~~ by Andre Breton

Always for the first time
Hardly do I know you by sight
You return at some hour of the night to a house at an angle to my window
A wholly imaginary house
It is there that from one second to the next
In the inviolate darkness
I anticipate once more the fascinating rift occurring
The one and only rift
In the facade and in my heart
The closer I come to you
In reality
The more the key sings at the door of the unknown room
Where you appear alone before me
At first you coalesce entirely with the brightness
The elusive angle of a curtain
It’s a field of jasmine I gazed upon at dawn on a road in the vicinity of Grasse
With the diagonal slant of its girls picking
Behind them the dark falling wing of the plants stripped bare
Before them a T-square of dazzling light
The curtain invisibly raised
In a frenzy all the flowers swarm back in
It is you at grips with that too long hour never dim enough until sleep
You as though you could be
The same except that I shall perhaps never meet you
You pretend not to know I am watching you
Marvelously I am no longer sure you know
You idleness brings tears to my eyes
A swarm of interpretations surrounds each of your gestures
It’s a honeydew hunt
There are rocking chairs on a deck there are branches that may well scratch you in the
There are in a shop window in the rue Notre-Dame-de-Lorette
Two lovely crossed legs caught in long stockings
Flaring out in the center of a great white clover
There is a silken ladder rolled out over the ivy
There is
By my leaning over the precipice
Of your presence and your absence in hopeless fusion
My finding the secret
Of loving you
Always for the first time.