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    poetry


    dotsJournal: dots
    -------------------------------------------
    Mood: The Usual

    Into the living sea of waking dreams

    ...Created 2014-03-18 17:32:55

    dotsJournal: dots
    -------------------------------------------
    Mood: The Usual

    Fantasies have now come of age
    Broke into some romantic ideal
    Where love isnít some throwaway farce
    Readily strung for cards and cash
    Where any art can be realised
    And all the world obeys me gladly
    Or words obey call
    All lives can strike out
    Nobody gets away with anything
    No one deserves to live a life they donít deserve
    Life becomes a unit
    And we can move together
    And I remember all my old tricks
    That made it easier
    And everyone loves me but no one needs to
    Where I have a soul that speaks
    And a pen that works
    And my name could spread the years beyond me
    Or my vanity could disappear
    And I could live without the tears
    And I could die without the pain
    And nothing will out shadow me
    Dance me out, dare entrance me
    Into a hole
    No one can speak behind me
    Punch or bruise me
    Frighten or fear me
    No big job will earn what I can always get
    No one will despise me
    Eye me up or leave me out
    No one need advise me
    Counsel or oppose
    Once all is written
    All will know

    ...Created 2012-09-16 15:46:37

    dotsJournal: dots
    -------------------------------------------
    Mood: The Usual

    The smell of burning weed
    Airy gaily comes on me
    The big blue eye of the sky
    Is turning tailing closing neigh
    Let us be thankful
    For my body is propped half off the bed
    The feeling of completion of some great task
    Is on me too
    I cannot move
    Blissful paralysis
    At the coming of a soft night
    That will embalm me in all new confidences
    And all new futures I never knew.
    Sing, dusk, a harmonious tune

    ...Created 2012-05-17 14:30:15

    dotsJournal: dots
    -------------------------------------------
    Mood: The Usual

    The Enemy

    My youth was a dark storm
    Crossed here and there by brilliant suns;
    Thunder and rain have caused such quick ravage
    That there remain in my garden very few red fruits.

    Now I have touched the Autumn of my mind,
    And I must use the spade and rakes
    To assemble again the drenched lands,
    Where the water digs holes as large as graves.

    And who knows whether the new flowers I dream of
    Will find in this soil washed like a shore
    The mystic food which would create their strength?

    -O grief! O grief! Time eats away life,
    And the dark Enemy who gnaws the heart
    Gnaws and thrives on the blood we lose.

    Charles Baudelaire
    Translated by Wallace Fowlie

    ...Created 2011-09-13 18:10:58

    dotsJournal: dots
    -------------------------------------------
    Mood: The Usual

    Encounter
    By Czeslaw Milosz

    Translated By Czeslaw Milosz and Lillian Vallee

    We were riding through frozen fields in a wagon at dawn.
    A red wing rose in the darkness.

    And suddenly a hare ran across the road.
    One of us pointed to it with his hand.

    That was long ago. Today neither of them is alive,
    Not the hare, nor the man who made the gesture.

    O my love, where are they, where are they going
    The flash of a hand, streak of movement, rustle of pebbles.
    I ask not out of sorrow, but in wonder.

    ...Created 2011-05-12 07:16:46

    dotsJournal: dots
    -------------------------------------------
    Mood: The Usual

    Never give all the Heart
    W.B. Yeats
    Never give all the heart, for love
    Will hardly seem worth thinking of
    To passionate women if it seem
    Certain, and they never dream
    That it fades out from kiss to kiss;
    For everything that's lovely is
    But a brief, dreamy, kind delight.
    O never give the heart outright,
    For they, for all smooth lips can say,
    Have given their hearts up to the play.
    And who could play it well enough
    If deaf and dumb and blind with love?
    He that made this knows all the cost,
    For he gave all his heart and lost.

    ...Created 2011-05-04 19:45:58

    dotsJournal: Helendots
    -------------------------------------------
    Mood: Shit buzz

    WHY should I blame her that she filled my days
    With misery, or that she would of late
    Have taught to ignorant men most violent ways,
    Or hurled the little streets upon the great.
    Had they but courage equal to desire?
    What could have made her peaceful with a mind
    That nobleness made simple as a fire,
    With beauty like a tightened bow, a kind
    That is not natural in an age like this,
    Being high and solitary and most stern?
    Why, what could she have done, being what she is?
    Was there another Troy for her to burn?

    ...Created 2011-05-04 19:37:25

    dotsJournal: dots
    -------------------------------------------
    Mood: The Usual

    The last stroke of midnight dies.
    All day in the one chair
    From dream to dream and rhyme to rhyme I have
    ranged
    In rambling talk with an image of air:
    Vague memories, nothing but memories.

    W.B Yeats

    ...Created 2011-02-10 07:30:05

    dotsJournal: Novemberdots
    -------------------------------------------
    Mood: Relaxing

    Mirror in February

    The day dawns, with scent of must and rain,
    Of opened soil, dark trees, dry bedroom air.
    Under the fading lamp, half dressed -- my brain
    Idling on some compulsive fantasy --
    I towel my shaven jaw and stop, and stare,
    Riveted by a dark exhausted eye,
    A dry downturning mouth.

    It seems again that it is time to learn,
    In this untiring, crumbling place of growth
    To which, for the time being, I return.
    Now plainly in the mirror of my soul
    I read that I have looked my last on youth
    And little more; for they are not made whole
    That reach the age of Christ.

    Below my window the wakening trees,
    Hacked clean for better bearing, stand defaced
    Suffering their brute necessities;
    And how should the flesh not quail, that span for span
    Is mutilated more? In slow distaste
    I fold my towel with what grace I can,
    Not young, and not renewable, but man.

    Thomas Kinsella

    ...Created 2010-10-29 11:57:04

    dotsJournal: Futilitydots
    -------------------------------------------
    Mood: The Usual

    Move him into the sun -
    Gently its touch awoke him once,
    At home, whispering of fields unsown.
    Always it woke him, even in France,
    Until this morning and this snow.
    If anything might rouse him now
    The kind old sun will know.

    Think how it wakes the seeds -
    Woke, once, the clays of a cold star.
    Are limbs so dear-achieved, are sides
    Full-nerved, - still warm, - too hard to stir?
    Was it for this the clay grew tall?
    - O what made fatuous sunbeams toil
    To break earth's sleep at all?

    Wilfred Owen

    ...Created 2010-10-24 17:24:43

    Be kind, take a few minutes to review the hard work of others <3
    It means a lot to them, as it does to you.

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    January 10 07
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