wb :

Have you heard, have you heard, the cry on the wind?
Borne on the backs of the African hind,
Bellowed in the deep by the big blue whale,
And glittered by glow-worms in the swampy stale?
Told by the toads midst the rustling reeds,
Echoed by earthworms amongst the damp seeds,
Kept by the clam on the bed of the sea,
Yet travelling far to the tops of the trees?
Oh, my dear- have you heard, have you heard?
The laughter light on the wings of the birds-
The chirps of house-martins as they take to wing,
And calls of the crickets as they cavort and sing?
The parrots' prating, while in cages they prance,
The daws and doves, o'er the rooftops they dance,
The young yellow hatchlings sound in bed,
Or salamander's spark in his raiment of red?

The dogs in the kennels all bark out in song,
And chained lions roar out all night long,
While long-bitted horses all neigh out in mirth,
And cats in warm laps purr next to the hearth,
The swallow sails swiftly over the lee,
Sings out to a calf, who returns song with glee-
They laugh, for the tamest animal in existence
Is none other than Messr. Homo Sapiens Sapiens!

Labels: poetry

my first attempt ever at dactylic meter. somehow so much easier than iambs. i've had the first line in my notebook for a very long time, but most of the rest of it came in a mad flourish of inspiration two nights ago while i waited for sleep to deign to descend upon my restless soul. enjoy.

The Ghosts of Malingerers
We are the ghosts of malingerers. All of us
Sullen and swollen and fridgid with fright.
Permafrost envelopes ice-glazed eyes; do we
Realise that we can't partake of the light?

Apathy, apathy, rhyme of our time; and it
Grows and it flows and it blows through our minds.
Honour and chivalry where have you fled?
Into a box under six feet of lead.

Watch us walk - faint glimmers, ghouls of the night!
Watch as we try not to fall on our faces.
Stumbling, stuttering, seeing - but sightless,
Our rancorous looks are our stone carapaces.

And then comes our solace in times of despair;
To a cold cup of coffee we quickly repair.

-- 11th and 13th June '06 --

Labels: poetry

They say we're mice, God's playthings; we're ants, chaos in the anthill running running away from His Almighty Magnifying Glass. Running, running through His Divinely Ordained Maze, watching whitewashed walls, waiting, waiting. How do we know what makes her come, and what makes her stay?

It's ten thirty, the town is fabulous, sitting in a dusty date of a dusty life, looking for the toilet, looking for the one thing that we think makes us remotely happy. The toilet doors say 'homme' and 'femme' like they're so made for each other, brazen tired faces caught in each other's exaggerated gender, timeless, and I think this is it, this is the torment that defines us. This is what makes April the cruellest. This is the cheese.

They say we're mice, God's playthings; I say you scorched it all. Screw the cheese; eat the walls, eat the mice, eat the maze, eat the white. And when you get to His Infinite Pomposity, eat Him.

Labels: prose

Iambic nonameter. I thought I'd never manage to write one of these, what with my obsessive rhyming and all... but >< here it is.

I don't think the lines will format properly in blogger. As such, I'll just split every nine-stress line into 4- and 5- stress sub-lines.

-~-

i have loved many faces of mortals,
        but none remain that stand in flesh today;
old Helen, Aphrodite, all
        but statues left of beauty passed away.
i know not if i ever shall
        forget the sculpt of their immortal clay-
but Venus stands in armless pall,
        and Helen's rosy cheeks are granite gray.

i loved a spirit, loved a sprite,
        and danced the dance of love amongst the fey-
i waltzed with her who walked in white,
        and gambolled on the greens with gamines gay-
yet all the songs and tales and sights,
        all disappeared before the newborn day,
for faerie love is born of night,
        but man must walk the luminated way.

i loved the gods as selflessly
        as i could bring my mortal self to love,
yet i had waited endlessly
        for signs of love from they who dwell above;
i am a man, admittedly-
        not virtue's pure and unforsaken dove-
that love is unashamedly
        a love that loves me back; for that i strove.

yet i cannot describe in breath
        the love that draws, like fire to the moth;
so let love, let her, look like Death-
        for i would gladly give my soul to both.

Labels: poetry

number 5... you know the drill.

-~-

let him who is filled with devouring rage
who walks with the world-conqueror's visage
and burns all living in his footstep's wake
whose purpose is to destroy, to unmake;
let that man, the avatar of blood and brass
be throned upon the Madness of Flesh.

let him whose vision floods with despair
who searched his life, but found nothing nowhere
yet still searches for darkness in a sea of nothing
and finds not light in the blaze of blinding
let him, who seeks for answers to find
be throned upon the Madness of Mind.

let him whose heart is consumed by envy
whose thirst for more grows never weary
who looked on the gods and praised, cursed, and moaned,
that one day he might be a god alone;
let him, who yearns for power, control,
be throned upon the Madness of Soul.

but he who rages against the world
and writhes, entrapped within its folds;
and who despairs at every endeavour
seeks salvation still with a dying fervor;
and who envies above all, the gods
who walked with them in the pathways of thoughts,
in flesh, mind, and soul, he is not mad;
he is rampant, and from death he has fled.

Labels: poetry

I actually dared to start on an epic poem one day. The first two bits are here, presented for you viewing pleasure. Number four from the backlog bore!

-~-

1.

If one were to look upon the plains
Of ancient, scarce and barren gains
Upon the very road to Rome,
One might find a man far from home
Who left his life long far behind
And wandered as a wanderer blind-

Our Traveller (we shall name him not)
Had long the fount of wisdom sought;
From Life to Death, all puzzled him
And Good was but a vague form, dim
While Evil intrigued not his tired soul
He, who had travelled to the worldly poles

Had seen enough of mice and men
That he preferred to abhor those damned
And seek instead on the nomad's path
Perhaps some Light that had eluded Wrath
And clung to the world, still weakly shining
A fleeting stormcloud's quicksilver lining,

But still that poor man found Wisdom eluded,
By all of the wise, and all the deluded-
No mortal he met knew the secrets of Life,
Nor answered the mysteries of Death and of Strife;
They heard but the call of the end of their days,
Those false pretenders to Gods scorched of clay.

In the beginning, he thought they were true-
But that belief he soon began to rue,
For in all of humanity's fleeting empires
For all their stone walls and towering spires
None lasted long enough in endeavour
To convince that their Truth was a Truth of Forever.

Great cities, old ports, vast armies in line
All wasted away before scything Time;
So he left mankind's world of Temporal defeat,
And sought out the castle of Wisdom's high seat.

2.

So he journeyed forth from his brethren fools,
Cut from the World Tree's strangling noose
He blinded one eye, but now saw with the other
A nightness so black that his soul would have faltered,
If not for a moment of faint, fleeting light
He would have believed that cursed was the Sight.

With wounded of spirit and weakened of step,
That glimmer of light he treasured and kept,
And sought out a path in the cloak-covered dark;
The stones of damnation were never so stark
For he in false blindness could but feel the path,
Which, certain, was uncertainty enough.

At length, the stones grew jagged and sharp,
And hellish fires raged ahead in the Warp;
Before him, enveloped in crimson for blood
Stood the Gates of Hell, forsaken by God,
And upon the harsh steel, on a plague hung up high
Read the words of the Love which desired to Die;

"To Chaos! To Chaos! 'tis a downward slope
That offers no soul a redeeming hope;
E'en if one were to claw his way
Toward the sanguine spills of day,
The pit from which every Man is born
Renders all desperate light forlorn.

To Chaos! To Chaos! None can resist it!
The first step off the precipice steep;
And ever and ever into deepening gloom
Where only Fates and Furies loom,
Thus behold! The fall of Man
To be born and to die in darkness' land."

As the fires raged ever higher and higher,
And Demons whispered of cursed desire,
That wretched counterfeit of the Light so divine
So twisted in form, appearing as such malign
Could claim not his soul- he knew them for damned
And knew that the Fallen false burned in this land;

Nay; light such as this was no angel's kiss,
Would grant our Traveller no aeternal bliss;
So left him in horror the Hell of the Shade
To search for a blessed, benedicted glade.

Labels: poetry

Number three from the old BB! Sorry for pushing your post down, Adam, but eh I've got to clear this backlog. Around 4 more to go, if I actually can bear to put up my prose ><

but enjoy! "some structureless stuff", sanity speaks.

-~-

i detest that falseness of the night.
where i sought sanctuary from the light of day,
i found pale imitate, futile escape.
that i would seek respite from clarity,
ask for the age-old bliss of ignorance
perhaps reflects in the night
some incomprehensible plight
i could never see in plainest light.

when too long the eye of heaven shines upon us men,
he turns as scorching as the very flames of hell
but there are those who welcome that illumination.
they who insist that man deserves a day
without rest or respite, or any pause
they are the priests of false shrines to light,
they are those who killed the lady night.

i now cannot find in any place her scent,
cannot trace her footsteps down any path,
except where she kissed the nightshades.
i lost her in the city of men,
she fled the pitch-black tarred roads
into the moon-lit wilderness.
i thought i found her in the fields
as i lay beneath her twinkling children,
but even there
in the middle of nowhere
the lights found us, and we had to part.

the one place where she could find solace
perhaps, a home too tragic for one as her,
was between the homes of the passed.
there was sacred ground,
and there she gladly made her home.
to the world, she belonged nowhere else.
somewhere nowhere nobody would disturb.

but that meant for me who sought her so dearly
that only in death would i truly find her peace.
so banished from the world of man,
alone, amongst those long past living,
night died giving birth to day.

so only in the counterfeit of death
can i be held in night's embrace.

Labels: poetry

Recent composition. I think i need to get back into prose, haha.

Ah!


this is the sound
this is the sound
this is the sound the raindrops go

pitter patter
spitter spatter
on my window a bitter blatter

a scritch, a scratch
a rhyme that won't match
between the spaces that raindrops flow.

------------------------------------------

would like comments, please.

adam

Labels: poetry

A blast from the backlog! This one's nothing much new, actually. Just fiddling with the number of stresses. And general mucking about. But anyway enjoy!

-~-

just think of me whenever you see a sigh to the sun and sky,
whenever a newborn morning's dawn takes up its wings to fly;
forget me not with every thought, and never let me die,
for morning is worth naught to me, if i am naught in your eyes.

just hold me near whenever you hear the heavens start to cry,
and if i am away, the lonesome day shall bid the rains goodbye;
until i return, let your heart's fire burn, and keep your soft eyes dry,
for raining is worth naught to me, if i am naught in your eyes.

just recall my face when the night's embrace engulfs a darkened sky,
let not night's old art strike fear in your heart, though she will surely try;
and never allow on your face a frown, and never heave a sigh,
for darkening is worth naught to me, if i am naught in your eyes.

take the sun and the rains, the night and the pains, as roads to remember me by
but never, ever, let your heart wander, and never let our love die.

Labels: poetry

Second in the backlog bag! enjoy.

-~-

// love is a poison

oh, fairest love! men long have sung your name,
and laud it greater than each man before-
the beauty in the winter's hellebore,
you surely do deserve eternal fame.
oh, lily-of-the-valley, poisoned white-
you have enthralled no end of worthy men
all slaves to you, still now as it was then,
so willingly, they take your aconite.
oh, passion's stem! as bloodroot wracks the soul
you plant on sufferers a nightshade's kiss-
those drown in you, who then seek hemlock's bliss;
you, meadow saffron, many lives have stole.

ah, you false sin!- pray trouble not this heart;
yet, I beseech you- never from me part.

Labels: poetry

my goodness, it's been a while. and i have this huge backlog i never got around to posting -_-;;;

but here's sonnet 20, for starters. i'll hopefully be posting one new one everyday until i clear the list.

-~-

they say that i have wondrous skill with words,
but i say they are wrong who think it so;
for lyric from a writer's pen should flow
but i, with rough axe hew mine out of stone.
for rhymes and meters, all cannot express
the fount of feeling in its flown excess,
but faintly on the readers' hearts impress
the origin of love the writer heard.

as when i sing, i do but imitate
so when i write, my words are only shades
of that which in my heart is luminate,
and all these penned are but stone statues made;

for soul is living, but my words are dead;
while words endure, such passion someday fades.

Labels: poetry

I didn't write this. I saw it in a book sometime back and it hit me like a surprise grapple check with a size penalty. I wouldn't even call it a poem i guess, but that's all there was on the page.

Who follows with the swallows in the hollows of the sky?
It is I, it is I, it is I, it is I.

Labels: other

Labels: poetry

he sat, watching the children play
-long gone was the dolent day
on wings of wax, aflight in flames,
then smashed on a shoal of shames;
left night and wind, silent sisters,
where they walked but wisps and whispers-

alone and dimmed, without a ray
upon his seat of steel, he wrote
upon his paper, his pen he smote
he sat, watching the children play

he hesitated, in silence to pray
perhaps a song to sin and plight
perhaps a dirge to dark and night
-long gone was the dolent day

his honour but a roll of names
its flight a whim of wind and whiff
its flight a step off a cliff
on wings of wax, aflight in flames,

his dreams bedight and veiled in blames
besought a storm, which wept a well
besought a star, which shook and fell
then smashed on a shoal of shames;

and heart and soul two lonesome drifters
knew not where the river sped
knew not where the moonlight led
left night and wind, silent sisters,

in his house a hall of weepers
shades of love now pale and dim
shades of friends that stood with him
where they walked but wisps and whispers-

while he dreamed of death, despair, deceit-
the children played, and watched him sit.

Labels: poetry

They condescend to me, arrogant glares never meeting my eyes,
Glancing at the wares decorating tables, and they do not come
To buy any but whisper behind, relieving not my solitude
Hopeful, but still in an infinite wait
Waiting for shadows of those already past
And unmoving, the fading colours marking the story's end.

But ever so often, the young ones come
Budding bourgeosie smiles that disperse, somewhat, the solitude
Stemming from a fruitless knowing in a fruitless wait
The colour, laughter, fleeting moments go past
The monotony returns, perhaps never to end
And they know this, they do, it is reflected in our eyes

To sit day after day in a multicoloured solitude
A solemn stone in the crowd in a vauntless wait
Reminiscient, still living, forlorn images harvested from the past
And when the neon lights spark the sky, their dances end
So will mine, dancing and dying for the strobes that light my eyes
Glistening dully, like dead milk fish, a day that does not come

Preserved fruit, I am a window shopper, sitting down to my daily wait
Watching candy-coloured people walk past
Vibrant in their sugar-spun castles, meeting a dull, dull end
I know this, yet I devour, envy in my eyes
For mine is gone, behind the requiem that will always come
To sing upon a statue, the colours of my wares to theirs, impress upon this solitude

And yet again where and what past
Past present future tense it is all the same for the purgatory without end
In rainbows that fade to red, sun streaking eyelids and covered eyes
No relief, like Lazarus alive, it does not come
Upon a table, reclining in solitude
A statuette, never statuesque, in a never-ending wait

Who would bid me goodbye if this story should end
Walking past unnoticed, if I should no longer open my eyes
Would they break away, to reach and come from
Whence, to undo the shackles of a distant solitude
Wrenching free the years of rough plastic, this wait
Wholly new, leaving me a fragment, facets left of a long bygone past

No longer will I wait for those who do not come
Never again closing my eyes to leave me blind
To the end and beginnings I created of a past that is left behind.


Cheers!
-Bern

I wrote this two years ago, as part of my mentorship portfolio. It's about a pedlar, in Orchard, selling her wares but never buying them for herself.

Labels: poetry

a quiet one, she -
sitting by the back shade
dancing on a daydream.

-------------------------
I said of this - awaken, miss
she rose; a serpent on her breath
that thrilled through th'air on syllables
that between us died a dreamer's death

she loved the dance; the step, the gyre
she lived only to smoulder and spin
wouldst look at me I said, I said
ere she consume herself therein -
-------------------------

to't, no response
but a hint of song that
whistled by

her gaze on the ceiling
she spent her life
dancing on a candle wick

Labels: poetry

The wind comes to me, caresses me, ruffles my hair, soothes my restless heart.

tonight, he rides not with Norse fury, scremaing battle.
tonight, he wails not with the Banshees, lamenting loss.

No, tonight, he walks with me, with memory, down the old garden path.
Now he raises his voice, gusts over me, rakes my teary eyes.
harsh, sweet, gusts of memory.
Now he sweeps across me with a cleansing no sleep nor shower could give.

He slows, no longer blasts across my thirsting skin.
no, he breathes now with a resigned laughter, laughs and loves.
he dances, whirls about my body,
playfully drops a dead leaf at my feet.

The sun has long since gone down, leaving me with the false glow of man-made lights; but the wind has stayed with me all this while.

No longer is he the hot air of the sin high in the sky; now, he is the breath of warm dusk, old glow spilling across that parched plain of my skin.

Old wind, he carries on him a million songs,
all I know;
I sung them with him once,
and he, tonight, finds me again with memory.

I swung with him in the heat of the morning,
I lashed with him in the gale of the storming,
And now I laugh with him at the summer's mourning.

He rustles the boughs of rememberance,
plays with a leaf as it falls.

but he, has to go soon.
And so must I;

long will I long to waltz with him again,
though each new night, the dance is ne'er the same.

Labels: poetry

alas, you loved too little, loved too late
when you in youth decided to grow old
and let your books to you your life dictate

regret it now! regretfully behold
no passion's roots, no roses' blooms; instead
gaunt spines of autumn, plumed in red and gold

and winter's angry gale of cold and dead;
your studious slavish sacrific intent
to sell your heart, so you might raise your head

too late to rage for years now gone and went
too late to rue, oh you disconsolate
who spent his youth, and now with spirit spent

lament then not, who rode with pride and hate-
alas, you loved too little, loved too late.

Labels: poetry

i hear whistling -
a bird sits high and warbles.
Happiness?

-Terence.

P.s. D, your poem has a last line that seems an afterthought, a tack-on, when i think the idea was for emphasis. Perhaps you could try changing the last stanza to reflect this?

Labels: poetry