Poems of any size

[theblackalchemist]

THE ABOVE POEM,

best loved of s.t.coleridge.

it was big enough

so i took the liberty of breaking it

happy reading!

TBA

[Jon13]

eh, i have been published, but i'll put a few up on here later

[Ahmabeliever]

Narcissus.

 

The flower that weeps, a shimmering image

Bent down in grief, an untouchable face

Unable to speak, pined until madness

Unheeded echo, gone without trace

 

Oh Narcissus, true holder of beauty

indulgence has wasted your beauty away

The poet is lineless, the water is broken

Words falling silent, echoing pain

 

It rose when the rains fell, bloomed in the Winter

Something so wondrous, born out of dirt

A myth and a maiden, words held and hindered

Out of reach beauty, the flower of hurt

 

I speak to a still pool, this well of desires

A face that is calling, but I hear no sound

I cry to my lover, so consumed in fire

Words that are wasted, falling to ground

 

Narcissus, Narcissus

Silently, back to me

Narcissus, Poeticus

Out of reach, eternity

 

I reached to touch the silent waters

To hold the image there

It broke apart, I grasped for pieces

They fell, a thousand tears

 

Narcissus man, rapt in his love

Narcissus missing, too much to bear

Drunk in the pool, drowned by the beauty

Too much to carry, so much to share

 

Pans flute has sounded! Seek the echo!

Mad shepherds sent, to tear her down

The temptress running, hid in the highlands

True love has died now, and pain is found

 

Faced in pools of self reflection

Clothed in sweat of self indulgence

Belladonna of my fate

Flower of my love

it is done

 

A voice in love but only that

A heart that slowly fades away

barer than my bones

it is done.

 

 

 

Bah, I was young once too :) Narcissus poeticus is a flower. Then the myth and of course a healthy dose of narcissism.

 

Now on a darker note :eek: .... :lol::);)

 

 

Solstice.

 

 

Hark the calling, footsteps inbound

With the fixated need, with a wish, with a spell

Through the hell ridden streets, to engorge, to devour

In the beat of the blackness

In the heat of my lust

Into the dust

I ran:

 

To explode as a man, to be what I am

I tear and I bleed and I need as I stand

In the evil of loving, the fool and his plan

I ran:

 

To the mountains of Eros to the greed of the mount

And the maddening calling, the heeding of doubt

To be without,

I tremble...

 

In the wake of resistance, in the pit of my soul

I must be whole

With the glimpse of an eye, of a cleft, of a thigh

I am possessed

Oh so willing enslaved, to the wages of sin

I am unblessed

to be dressed

in desire,

 

I am on fire.

 

Through the bowels of shame, purged of all right

To the cautionary windsong, the perilous flight

To the temple of instinct, the alter of blood

I flood:

 

And I spill and I slip and I spatter and I bleed

In the might of my need

And I cry and I bellow and I scream and I'm dumb

I run:

 

In the vessel of fetish, the horn studded jewel

By the eyes of the wicked, the ears of the cruel

In the laughter of thousands, the Gomhorrite duel

I thrust my tool

And I ran

 

With a bare whetted palate, by devilish creed

To be wholly slaked, I feast and I feed

On the Aryan offspring, the Gentiles gold

I have been sold:

 

In the bedrooms of Hades, the courts of the Gods

I place my long:

 

To be beaten and tortured and rendered unfit

Into the pit

I ran.

 

 

Looking at this it would be impossible for me to write such stuff today or at least a lot harder as i don't believe in religions or god.

[Michaelangelica]

RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER

-S.T.COLERIDGE

PART I

 

An ancient Mariner meeteth three Gallants bidden to a wedding-feast, and detaineth one.

It is an ancient Mariner,

And he stoppeth one of three.

`By thy long beard and glittering eye,

Now wherefore stopp'st thou me ? .

BLOODY HELL

THAT POEM

When I was 12-13 I had to learn 5 verses a night, every night, or get 6 cuts of the strap.

I have a terrible memory for rote things. I have to "see" to understand

I tend to have a visual memory-- although becoming more wordy by necessity as I get older

I remember that verse and

Water, water everywhere and not a drop to drink

Water, water everywhere and all the boards did shrink

That's ALL!

Possibly because the water evokes a strong visual image for me.

I do also have a vague image of a skinny,white-long-bearded, old sailor-guy with a big, rotting white bird tied around his neck- but no words to connect with it.

Same as Frost's 'Stopping by the Woods on a Snowy Evening' ( my horse must think it strange) and two paths diverged in a wood?? and I took the road less travelled and that has made all the difference.??

You can see how accurate my memory is!

Frost is a maudlin, self indulgent poet . A teenage angst memory perhaps.

 

To be, or not to be,

That is the question

Wether 'tis nobler in the mind to bear arms against a sea of troubles

and so by opposing end them

I always related to that when ever I felt like topping myself (frequently, as an angst- ridden, "different" teenager).

Ask not for whom the bell tolls

it tolls for three

. . .

no man is an Island

 

What apiece of work is man

How noble in reason

In form how like a god

the quinessence of dust ( Hair helps here)

that's it

My wife can recite dozens of poems-from kindergraden on. One of her favourites is "Pied Beauty" by G.M. Hopkins, so, one day, I downloaded a copy for her from the net. She, read it, then picked up an error in it!!!!

The language and rhythm of the poem IS astounding.You have to read it aloud.

Some Christians put it to ""music"" and destroyed it. i hope they get their Karma --returning as an electric guitar--in the next life.

 

I do like the war poets, Sassoon, etc

Dulce et decorum est the old lie still gives me goose bumps

There was a piece of war-prose that I remember reading in a poetry group (what a geek I was) when a pimply gawky teenager. The piece compared the WW1 soldiers' march, to Christ's walk to Calvary.

I have searched the WWweb high and low but have never been able to find it again. Although it was prose it was poetic, moving and powerful.

 

Some-wiser than me in things poetical- say the ONLY thing that makes a poem, a poem, is the way it is set out on the page!

 

Some modern Australian Poetry.

Let me know if it is any good

Les Murray is supposed to be very good

ABC Radio National - Poetica - A pod of poets