Poetry for killing time

[ImpishSeraph]

Powerful.
And, mournful.

Thank you

I don't usually write and never like what I do, but I had to vent...

 

[veryblueeyes]

Neil Gaiman:

Vampire Sestina

I wait here at the boundaries of dream,
all shadow-wrapped. The dark air tastes of night,
so cold and crisp, and I wait for my love.
The moon has bleached the color from her stone.
She'll come, and then we'll stalk this pretty world
alive to darkness and the tang of blood.

It is a lonely game, the quest for blood,
but still, a body's got the right to dream
and I'd not give it up for all the world.
The moon has leeched the darkness from the night.
I stand in shadows, staring at her stone:
Undead, my lover . . . O, undead my love?

I dreamt you while I slept today and love
meant more to me than life -- meant more than blood.
The sunlight sought me, deep beneath my stone,
more dead than any corpse but still a-dream
until I woke as vapor into night
and sunset forced me out into the world.

For many centuries I've walked the world
dispensing something that resembled love --
a stolen kiss, then back into the night
contented by the life and by the blood.
And come the morning I was just a dream,
cold body chilling underneath a stone.

I said I would not hurt you. Am I stone
to leave you prey to time and to the world?
I offered you a truth beyond your dreams
while all you had to offer was your love.
I told you not to worry and that blood
tastes sweeter on the wing and late at night.

Sometimes my lovers rise to walk the night . . .
Sometimes they lie, cold corpse beneath a stone,
and never know the joys of bed and blood,
of walking through the shadows of the world;
instead they rot to maggots. O my love
they whispered you had risen, in my dream.

I've waited by your stone for half the night
but you won't leave your dream to hunt for blood.
Good night, my love. I offered you the world.

 

[Raidho]

My first taste of Rumi:

Dance, when you're broken open.
Dance, if you've torn the bandage off.
Dance in the middle of the fighting.
Dance in your blood.
Dance, when you're perfectly free.

 

[atmas]

Wow.
take this thread out every once in a while to blow the stink off, and it becomes this amazing happening.
Thanks, Veebs, a wonderful addition. And Rumi?
Gimme a break, Rumi.
It enchants what it touches.

 

[Raidho]

Wow.
take this thread out every once in a while to blow the stink off, and it becomes this amazing happening.
Thanks, Veebs, a wonderful addition. And Rumi?
Gimme a break, Rumi.
It enchants what it touches.

Perhaps intoxicates is a better word.

 

[atmas]

Perhaps intoxicates is a better word.

The differences provides a unique nuance. Interesting.

 

[Raidho]

The differences provides a unique nuance. Interesting.

Perhaps present perfect tense would have been better too. Occurred in the past and continues into the present with the possibility of touching the future.

 

[HB1965]

A Story of Two Trees

Two trees stand in the field, looking separate…
Apart…
Their roots entwined in that place unseen like lovers
Yet the right tree chooses to grow away from the left
Letting the birds think it’s by itself.
Letting some birds believe it’s there for them
To distract itself from what is happening inside
The strangeness in its sap

The left tree goes on with its dreams
To be taller, stronger, and more…
It talks to the birds, but gives them no illusions
It watches though the right tree
Wonderingly, Knowingly
Waiting for that time
When the right tree will grow towards it
And the embrace will be complete
Branches and roots

 

[glo33]

wonderful wonderful additions.
i am humbled by them all.

thank you.

 

[atmas]

Are you there?

Each lover has some theory of his own
About the difference between the ache
Of being with his love, and being alone:

Why what, when dreaming, is dear flesh and bone
That really stirs the senses, when awake,
Appears a simulacrum of his own.

Narcissus disbelieves in the unknown;
He cannot join his image in the lake
So long as he assumes he is alone.

The child, the waterfall, the fire, the stone,
Are always up to mischief, though, and take
The universe for granted as their own.

The elderly, like Proust, are always prone
To think of love as a subjective fake;
The more they love, the more they feel alone.

Whatever view we hold, it must be shown
Why every lover has a wish to make
Some kind of otherness his own:
Perhaps, in fact, we never are alone.

WH Auden

 

[ImpishSeraph]

I sit on my porch, listening to the rain pelt down on my roof.
I can’t seem to take my mind off you.
I can feel every nerve ending all over my body.
As the wind blows through carrying mist from rain drops being broken by my screen,
I feel them on my skin: my arms, legs, chest and face like tiny kisses all over.
As the tiny bumps rise with the next wind I can’t help but close my eyes and let your invisible force run through my essence.
I gasp with the pleasure of the atmosphere, the thunderstorm cracking another whip.
Lightning flashes causing my eyes to open and gives me a glimpse of the wet blooms as they are blown left and right.
I try not to move knowing that the slightest little shift will cause me to go over the edge and I am not ready yet.
Listening to the storm around me I hold still.
Are you here with me in your mind? Is that why I feel you?
‘Touch me again please…’ the thought that runs through my head as I feel the mist on my face…
Bam! Another whip is cracked in the sky causing me to move…
No…not yet. I want to hold on a little longer…
My eyes shut seeing the colors dance behind my lids, pure pleasure is the only existing emotion
The Quivering begins…starting in my core and trickling outwards to find the outer edges of my skin.
Not having anywhere to go, it builds up to complete ecstasy washing over my skin like warm milk only to be released a second time as the next rush of wind whips my hair around.
I moan your name with utter pleasure as it trails off my lips…


Yet again you have had the power to release me as you see fit…
Bringing me to the ultimate climax…

 

[wideeyedone]

pillowtalk

often sleep eludes me
but not with you
your smooth, chocolaty voice
soothes me
you whisper in my ear
rich tones
dulcet thoughts
I sleep the sleep of angels
curled against your warmth

 

[atmas]

When?
This is not a question.
This is a command.
When will the clouds break?
When will the seas swirl?
When will fire take the
Ugliness of my longing?

What?
This has already happened?
It is already done?
Where was I when
The world kept spinning?

 

[atmas]

pillowtalk

often sleep eludes me
but not with you
your smooth, chocolaty voice
soothes me
you whisper in my ear
rich tones
dulcet thoughts
I sleep the sleep of angels
curled against your warmth

Oh, how nice.

 

[HB1965]

One day
I found myself in front of a door.
I knew I had to go through it.
I knew that the things I needed and wanted were on the other side,
but I knew that passing through the door also held pain
If I did go through it the world would change.
It would never be the same again,
and I was afraid.
Afraid of the pain.
I stood for days
for weeks...
for months...
Then one day I realized
That was what was on the side that I stood
Was no longer acceptable
So I opened the door...

My journey has taken me far from that door.
I look back at it and wonder why I feared so.
Because my life on the other side
Is so much more than I could have imagined,
and so much more than I ever believed it could be.

And now I wait for you to come over and follow me here
To that place where the light shines
and the soul is clear

 

[veryblueeyes]

WOW... As said, wonderful additions.

"I wish that you would visit me one day, in my house.

There are such sights I would show you."



My intended lowers her eyes, and, yes, she shivers.

Her father and his friends all hoot and cheer.



"That's never a story, Mr. Fox," chides a pale woman

in the corner of the room, her hair corn-fair,

her eyes the grey of cloud, meat on her bones,

she curves, and smiles crooked and amused.



"Madame, I am no storyteller," and I bow, and ask,

"Perhaps, you have a story for us?" I raise an eyebrow.

Her smile remains.



She nods, then stands, her lips move:



"A girl from the town, a plain girl, was betrayed by her lover,

a scholar. So when her blood stopped flowing,

and her belly swole beyond disguising,

she went to him, and wept hot tears. He stroked her hair,

swore that they would marry, that they would run,

in the night,

together,

to his aunt. She believed him;

even though she had seen the glances in the hall

he gave to his master's daughter,

who was fair, and rich, she believed him.

Or she believed what she believed.



"There was something sly about his smile,

his eyes so black and sharp, his rufous hair. Something

that sent her early to their trysting place,

beneath the oak, beside the thornbush,

something that made her climb the tree and wait.

Climb a tree, and in her condition.

Her love arrived at dusk, skulking by owl-light,

carrying a bag,

from which he took a mattock, shovel, knife.

He worked with a will, beside the thornbush,

beneath the oaken tree,

he whistled gently, and he sang, as he dug her grave,

that old song...

shall I sing it for you, now, good folk?"



She pauses, and as a one we clap and holloa-or almost as a one:

My intended, her hair so dark, her cheeks so pink,

her lips so red,

seems distracted.



The fair girl (who is she? A guest of the inn, I hazard) sings:



"A fox went out on a shiny night

And he begged for the moon to give him light

For he'd many miles to go that night

Before he'd reach his den-O!

Den-O! Den-O!

He'd many miles to go that night, before he'd reach is den-O."



Her voice was sweet and fine, but the voice of my intended is finer.



"And when her grave was dug-

A small hole it was, for she was a little thing,

even big with child she was a little thing-

he walked below her, back and forth,

rehearsing her hearsing, thus:

-Good evening, my pigsnie, my love,

my, but you look a treat in the moon's light,

mother of my child-to-be. Come, let me hold you.

And he'd embrace the midnight air with one hand,

and with the other, holding his short but wicked knife,

he'd stab and stab the dark.



"She trembled in her oak above him. Breathed so softly,

but still she shook. And once he looked up, and said,

-Owls, I'll wager, and another time, fie! is that a cat

up there? Here puss... But she was still,

bethought herself a branch, a leaf, a twig. At dawn

he took his mattock, spade and knife, and left

all grumbling and gudgeoned of his prey.



"They found her later wandering, her wits

had left her. There were oak leaves in her hair

and she sang,



'The bough did bend

The bough did break

I saw the hole

The fox did make



'We swore to love

We swore to marry

I saw the blade

The fox did carry'



"They say that her babe, when it was born,

had a fox's paw on her and not a hand.

Fear is the sculptress, midwives claim. The scholar fled."



And she sits down, to general applause.

The smile twitches, hides about her lips: I know it's there,

it waits in her grey eyes. She stares at me, amused.



"I read that in the Orient foxes follow priests and scholars,

in disguise as women, houses, mountains, gods, processions,

always discovered by their tails- " so I begin,

but my intended's father intercedes.

"Speaking of tales-my dear, you said you had a tale?"



My intended flushes. There are no rose petals,

save for her cheeks. She nods, and says:



"My story, father? My story is the story of a dream I dreamed."



Her voice is so quiet and soft, we hush ourselves to hear,

outside the inn just the night sounds: an owl hoots,

but, as the old folk say, I live too near the wood

to be frightened by an owl.



She looks at me.



"You, sir. In my dream you rode to me, and called,

–Come to my house, my sweet, away down the White Road.

There are such sights as I would show you.

I asked how I would find your house, down the white chalk road,

for it's a long road, and a dark one, under trees

that make the light all green and gold when the sun is high,

but shade the road at other times. At night

it's pitch-black; there is no moonlight on the White Road...



"And you said, Mister Fox-and this is most curious, but dreams

are treacherous and curious and dark-

that you would cut the throat of a sow-pig,

and you would walk her home behind your fine black stallion.

You smiled,

smiled, Mister Fox, with your red lips and your green eyes,

eyes that could snare a maiden's soul, and your yellow teeth,

which could eat her heart- "



"God forbid," I smiled. All eyes were on me, then, not her,

though hers was the story. Eyes, such eyes.



"So, in my dream, it became my fancy to visit your great house,

as you had often entreated me to do,

to walk its glades and paths, to see the pools,

the statues you had brought from Greece, the yews,

the poplar-walk, the grotto, and the bower.

And, as this was but a dream, I did not wish

to take a chaperone

-some withered, juiceless prune

who would not appreciate your house, Mister Fox; who

would not appreciate your pale skin,

nor your green eyes,

nor your engaging ways.



"So I rode the white chalk road, following the red blood path,

on Betsy, my filly. The trees above were green.

A dozen miles straight, and then the blood

led me off across meadows, over ditches, down a gravel path,

(but now I needed sharp eyes to catch the blood-

a drip, a drop: the pig must have been dead as anything)

and I reined my filly in front of a house.

And such a house. A Palladian delight, immense,

a landscape of its own, windows, columns,

a white stone monument to verticality, expansive.



"There was a sculpture in the garden, before the house,

a Spartan child, stolen fox half-concealed in its robe,

the fox biting the child's stomach, gnawing the vitals away,

the stoic child bravely saying nothing-

what could it say, cold marble that it was?

There was pain in its eyes, and it stood

upon a plinth upon which were carved eight words.

I walked around it and I read:

Be bold,

Be bold,

but not too bold.



"I tethered little Betsy in the stables,

between a dozen night black stallions

each with blood and madness in his eyes.

I saw no one.

I walked to the front of the house, and up the great steps.

The huge doors were locked fast,

no servants came to greet me, when I knocked.

In my dream (for do not forget, Mister Fox, that this was my dream.

You look so pale) the house fascinated me,

the kind of curiosity (you know this,

Mister Fox, I see it in your eyes) that kills cats.



"I found a door, a small one, off the latch,

and pushed my way inside.

Walked corridors, lined with oak, with shelves,

with busts, with trinkets,

I walked, my feet silent on the scarlet carpet,

until I reached the great hall.

It was there again, in red stones that glittered,

set into the white marble of the floor,

it said:

Be bold,

be bold,

but not too bold

Or else your life's blood

shall run cold.



"There were stairs, wide, carpeted in scarlet,

off the great hall,

and I walked up them, silently, silently.

Oak doors: and now

I was in a dining room, or so I am convinced,

for the remnants of a grisly supper

were abandoned, cold and fly-buzzed.

Here was a half-chewed hand, there, crisped and picked,

a face, a woman's face, who must in life, I fear,

have looked like me."



"Heaven defend us all from such dark dreams," her father cried.

"Can such things be?"



"It is not so," I assured him. The fair woman's smile

glittered behind her grey eyes. People

need assurances.



"Behind the supper room was a room,

a huge room, this inn would fit in that room,

piled promiscuously with rings and bracelets,

necklaces, pearl drops, ball gowns, fur wraps,

lace petticoats, silks and satins. Ladies' boots,

and muffs, and bonnets: a treasure cave and dressing room-

diamonds and rubies underneath my feet.



"Beyond that room I knew myself in Hell.

In my dream...

I saw many heads. The heads of young women. I saw a wall

on which dismembered limbs were nailed.

A heap of breasts. The piles of guts, of livers, lights,

the eyes, the...

No. I cannot say. And all around the flies were buzzing,

one low droning buzz.

-Bëelzebubzebubzebub they buzzed. I could not breathe,

I ran from there and sobbed against a wall."



"A fox's lair indeed," says the fair woman.

("It was not so," I mutter.)

"They are untidy creatures, so to litter,

about their dens the bones and skins and feathers

of their prey. The French call him Renard,

the Scottish, Tod."



"One cannot help one's name," says my intended's father.

He is almost panting now, they all are:

in the firelight, the fire's heat, lapping their ale.

The wall of the inn was hung with sporting prints.



She continues:

"From outside I heard a crash and a commotion.

I ran back the way I had come, along the red carpet,

down the wide staircase-too late!-the main door was opening!

I threw myself down the stairs-rolling, tumbling-

fetched up hopelessly beneath a table,

where I waited, shivered, prayed."



She points at me. "Yes, you, sir. You came in,

crashed open the door, staggered in, you sir,

dragging a young woman

by her red hair and by her throat.

Her hair was long and unconfined, she screamed and strove

to free herself. You laughed, deep in your throat,

were all a-sweat, and grinned from ear to ear."



She glares at me. The color's in her cheeks.

"You pulled a short old broadsword, Mister Fox, and as she screamed,

you slit her throat, again from ear to ear.

I listened to her bubbling, sighing, shrieking,

closed my eyes and prayed until she stopped.

And after much, much, much too long, she stopped.



"And I looked out. You smiled, held up your sword,

your hands agore-blood- "



"In your dream," I tell her.



"In my dream.

She lay there on the marble, as you sliced,

you hacked, you wrenched, you panted, and you stabbed.

You took her head from her shoulders,

thrust your tongue between her red wet lips.

You cut off her hands. Her pale white hands.

You sliced open her bodice, you removed each breast.

Then you began to sob and howl.

Of a sudden,

clutching her head, which you carried by the hair,

the flame red hair,

you ran up the stairs.



"As soon as you were out of sight,

I fled through the open door.

I rode my Betsy home, down the White Road."



All eyes upon me now. I put down my ale,

on the old wood of the table.

"It is not so,"

I told her,

told all of them.

"It was not so, and

God forbid

it should be so. It was

an evil dream. I wish such dreams

on no one."



"Before I fled the charnel house,

before I rode poor Betsy into a lather,

before we fled down the White Road,

the blood still red

(and was it a pig whose throat you slit, Mister Fox?),

before I came to my father's inn,

before I fell before them, speechless,

my father, brothers, friends- "



All honest farmers, fox-hunting men.

They are stamping their boots, their black boots.



" -before that, Mister Fox,

I seized from the floor, from the bloody floor,

her hand, Mister Fox. The hand of the woman

you hacked apart before my eyes."



"It is not so- "



"You Gilles de Rais. You monster."



"And God forbid it should be so!"



She smiles now, lacking mirth or warmth.

The brown hair curls around her face,

roses twining about a bower.

Two spots of red are burning on her cheeks.



"Behold, Mister Fox! Her hand! Her poor pale hand!"

She pulls it from her breasts (gently freckled,

I had dreamed of those breasts),

tosses it down upon the table.

It lies in front of me.

Her father, brothers, friends,

they stare at me hungrily,

and I pick up the small thing.



The hair was red indeed, and ranks. The pads and claws

were rough. One end was bloody

but the blood had dried.



"This is no hand," I tell them. But the first

fist knocks the wind from out of me,

an oaken cudgel hits my shoulder,

as I stagger,

the first black boot kicks me down onto the floor.

And then a rain of blows beats down on me,

I curl and mewl and pray and grip the paw

so tightly.



What if the hunters come?

What if they come?



Be bold, I whisper once, before I die.

But not too bold...



And then my tale is done.

 

[HB1965]

It’s all too clear
I see it like glass before me spreading out
I can’t stay away from it anymore,
But I can’t be with it.
It’s like a torment…
A physical pain…
A deep longing that has no end
Why do I hold on?
Because it’s the greatest joy I’ve ever known

I feel this fire in my heart
That burns so strong.
I’m told it’s an Eternal Flame,
The kind of which the wise men spoke.
It will never go out.

I give only faith and honor
I give only myself
I’ve crossed the mountains to the other side,
To that place where my heart has led
I stand at the door and await my answer
I will stand forever until I know
If I wait for that time of ecstasy
Or if I wait in vain.

 

[Guest]

Between the Frames

In September light
As bright and bleached as bone,
A gull's form, passing overhead,
Casts a shade too brief
For human eyes or minds
To notice.
Lost between the frames
Our frame of reference
Forever blinds us
To all the Eternal moments
We miss.

--Original

 

[Guest]

Jan'ry Wind (Original)

Maple, Willow, Pine and Oak,
Alder, Ash and Ivy;
Withered sisters clutch the sky,
Their fingers scraping dryly.
Upon the shore, the tufts of grass
That spear up through the snow
Form choruses of mournful string,
A Jan'ry wind for bow.

No singing jays, no cardinals,
No gulls to haunt the bay;
No sunlight peers through silver clouds
To light the lonely day.
On Maiden's lashes, lace of frost,
The sign of Winter's chill.
From Maiden's lips no sweet words spring.
Her form is cold and still.

Maple, Willow, Pine and Oak,
Alder, Ash and Ivy,
Mossgrown sisters clutch the sky
Their fingers scraping dryly.
Choruses of mournful strings,
A Jan'ry wind for bow,
Form at the shore, from tufts of grass
That spear up through the snow.

 

[atmas]

Ryokan's letter:
Having met you thus
For the first time in my life,
I still cannot help
Thinking it but a sweet dream
Lasting yet in my dark heart.

Teishin's reply:
In the dreamy world,
Dreaming, we talk about dreams.
Thus we seldom know
Which is, and is not, dreaming.
Let us, then, dream as we must.

 

[HB1965]

Here with you
I could remain
For countless days and years
Silent as the bright moon
We watched together


Love Song

How can I keep my soul in me, so that
it doesn't touch your soul? How can I raise
it high enough, past you, to other things?
I would like to shelter it, among remote
lost objects, in some dark and silent place
that doesn't resonate when your depths resound.
Yet everything that touches us, me and you,
takes us together like a violin's bow,
which draws one voice out of two seperate strings.
Upon what instrument are we two spanned?
And what musician holds us in his hand?
Oh sweetest song.

~RM Rilke

 

[Horus_rules]

That voice that wraps around you

It seems that no mater where we start
You eventually slip peacefully off to sleep
But I know sometimes you need some space

It is just hard to know when to say, that’s enough
Come let me support you through this pain or fear
Let those cares melt away
If only for a little while

Our characters have shown us a path
Let’s follow their lead and
Find comfort in our love

A more powerful tool than we could ever have known
Apparently coming through the air in both our voices
I crave yours as much as air

You feel wrapped up in mine, but
Your sweet voice wraps around my heart as well

 

[veryblueeyes]

Above the swell of the salty water
I rise
I then dive beneath and feel the water enclose
Each stroke of the tug feeds me
Makes me come alive
I am one with the ocean
I know It
It knows me
I feel It trying to drag me down
Yet, It feels me fighting back
We are one
The ocean and I
We are enemies and lovers

 

[HB1965]

The Lights of Wonder

When I first approached all the lights shown
With a brilliance and flame of their very own
I walked among them truly dazed
And by each I have been continually amazed.
They bless the world with their existence
And offer us a great assistance
In understanding this grand life
Where they know joy where we would see strife
As time has passed some lights have extinguished,
And they no more can by me be distinguished
Though in my heart I know they blaze yet still
And dance again with might, grace, and will

 

[HB1965]

Open

I am like the rose bud unfurled
Reaching and stretching its petals to the sun
One with universe in its grand array
There are seconds, minutes, hours
Where I can feel the wind in the trees
And the sun on the water
I am full, waiting to be emptied

Yet my roots still contain my secrets
That only my heart will know,
And I have yet to discover.
The knowledge of ages past and
The wisdom of the masters
Await me here in this time and place
I am empty, waiting to be filled.