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A Failed Blason To A HussyYour gentle curves and ravishing beautyA Failed Blason To A Hussy
Reminds of the Sphinx, pretty, treacherous,
Open to whim and elemental fancy,
A patterned randomness that sings to me, Plays for me instruments, pleasure in duty. But your appetite is more lecherous: For your other lovers, no clemency. Such rape and thievery is not for me -
The caresses of others on your skin,
On the brilliant whiteness of your skin; The pulse of your various lyre-toned voice Summoned at the touch of your lover's choice.
Jealousy is the essence of my song,
Take those hands off my iPod and be
by ~AMaskedMan
Kentish LanesWhat would you see, Frost, if you walked down Kent'sKentish Lanes
Sheltered lanes and winding B-roads, vein-blue As if sucked of life?
Inscrutable piles, Indefinite archaeologies, that
Spurt green hedgerows and quiet green-veined orchids With plastic, atonal flashes of Pinks,
Chrysanthemums, Violets, of small and
Crushed and newsprint roses that dissolve in Spring rain, unnourished and unnourishing.
Nature never dreamed of variety
So variant and deviant as this.
Flowers that kill flowers and yet remain Unmoved by wind and weather. So they
by ~AMaskedMan
Rain After AudenAs I walked out one morning, down the Cambridge street,Rain After Auden
The rain upon the pavement was music as sweet
As any I have ever heard – a unifying Intimate music as old as old mother Earth Who tightens the strings of her blue plastic rain mac.
Hats and helmets, umbrellas and shields pull people Together in droplets, running rivulets down
The dry-side of the street, where the slanted rain falls Less equally on the just and the unjust men
(Or Old Testament Jews, as I ought to have said).
And here, indeed, are the descendants of Isaac,
Rounding that corner withou
by ~AMaskedMan
Tarot Sequence - IntroductionMarseilles (or tarot) cards are a bit kitsch;Tarot Sequence - Introduction
Swirling red robes, crossing palms with silver,
Surely no one falls for that quaint old pitch?
What you need's a good stiff drink, a lover Or some other distraction: buy a book.
But past, present, fate, don't try that hook! However, as to archaeologist And to pig, buried finds are ripest - And in most unexpected places.
So, Muse, turn that precious snout to the ground,
Delve through New Age junk that's lying around, And uncover some unstuffy stanzas To make old Orpheus' lyre resound: A modern riff on a tune that's
by ~AMaskedMan
Favourites
The Wondering HermitI walked between sand and sea. I heard waves pound the sand, felt the world crumbling, crumbling, gone and I walked on what world was left.The Wondering Hermit
I walked among humanity, young and old
breathing the sea and the shaky world on which I made my home. My only companion was an empty, thorn-brazen conch.
I contemplated its weathered edges,
Old, beautiful, and wise. It whispered how it used to be a home. The waves crashed over my feet, into this mystery.
The shell breathed "ripped away," Sand collapsed through my toes--- The world gone. First the mol
by ~SirNaelyan
When You DanceShe said, "One day, I'll dance at your wedding," I couldn't meet her eyes, knowing it false.When You Dance
I lied for fear her tears would be shedding If she knew that I want no wedding waltz.
"Yes, Grandma," One day you will find movement, I say inside, while you lay paralyzed. Your feet will tense, you'll jump with knees bent,
Your M.S. a thing of the past despised.
Your brush will paint again, your muscles flex, Your soul a youthful and vital being.
I'll paint you, I'll be a mirror that reflects The thing that to it is most worth seeing.
But when you dance,
by ~SirNaelyan
Daffodilsi wanted to write about me writing about deathDaffodils
and resurrection and new ideas as
strangling figs, and old ones as innocent trees:
i became a strangling fig upon my poetry:
would not let it see death and resurrection
until i walked into winter's death-wheezes and died:
revealing spring burning smells and new daffodils
busting old earth, and pubescent daffodils
shooting off pollen, proliferating winter's yellow blemishes:
and old daffodils were burning:
the
by ~SirNaelyan
Learning to Fly Memories flow through my veins and drip from the tips of my fingers like water from a faucet. My mother is huddled in the corner of the room swinging a stopwatch back and forth. She pulls her eyes up to look around the room through her cracked glasses that she formed to look like spider webs.Learning to Fly
“You used to cry diamonds and bleed rubies. That's how it used to be.”
The words dance through the air and steal breath away from my lungs. She smiles wide and clicks her tongue to show her disappointment. Pieces of glass and porc
by *SeptemberBreeze
Watchers
Devious Info
- Current Residence: Cambridge
- Interests: Poetry, Prose, Literature in general
- Favourite movie: Kind Hearts and Coronets
- Favourite band or musician: Regina Spektor
- Favourite genre of music: Music-whore
- Favourite artist: Gormley
- Favourite poet or writer: Larkin, Clare
- Operating System: Ubuntu - Jaunty Jackalope
- MP3 player of choice: iPod Classic (120Gb)
- Favourite game: Decent RTSs & RPGs
- Favourite gaming platform: PC
- Favourite cartoon character: Professor Hubert Farnsworth
- Tools of the Trade: Laptop; Cannon
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“For Gamlon!”
“For pony!”
“What? You can’t use that as your battle cry.”
“Why not? You have one”
“Mine is for nobility, honour, and a deceased but not yet forgotten people”
“Mine is for ponies”
“That’s not..”
“FOR PONY!”
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