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perpetualburn

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PostSubject: Re: Poetry Fri Jan 22, 2016 2:12 pm

In dreams we aspire the stiff clouds and rest our thoughts
Upon the whims of a refreshing autumn breeze
Which carries us on bright wings to our bosom shop
Where messengers of love greet us then quickly leave.

---

The penetrating fog of the forest
Rolls in like a galleon from the sea
To embrace the old, ancestral timber
And cover the young floor with mystery.

---

Eternity wraps itself around you like a cold fog - mysterious, palpable, and bone penetrating.


Last edited by perpetualburn on Tue May 17, 2016 7:03 pm; edited 12 times in total
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PostSubject: Re: Poetry Mon Feb 01, 2016 10:54 am


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OhFortunae

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PostSubject: Re: Poetry Tue Mar 22, 2016 5:59 am

When hope dies is the gaze into the eyewink of eternal sight
The eternity of love and hatred in you to take on
The sword to clash against giants beyond tides
A flood that devours all what testifies long gone times
The moment you say goodbye to all in thy heart
But feel just the beating in heartless echoing
Lamenting memories in the chest of a lost battle
A silent breath ready to be the last and let go of all life
To return to what lies in death’s layers of forgotten ruins
To step over the footsteps of gods from times bygone
For God is a forsaken Lord living in the dreams
Giving hope and will-less slumber sleepwalking in day
Despair is awakened to have faith in hopeless Strive
For once hope dies is to swing the sword
And make the heads bow their final prayers
To take the odds in own hands
Against all hopes.
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OhFortunae

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PostSubject: Re: Poetry Tue Mar 22, 2016 3:57 pm

To die holy death where blood shall pour
Alike good wine bitter after sweet
Thunder with lightning but after to tremble
Skies blue of clouds to coldly weep
Letting go wholly of life alike ancient honey
Giving taste to bitter death sweet to life’s riddle

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OhFortunae

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PostSubject: Re: Poetry Sun Apr 10, 2016 1:43 pm


Es ist Krieg mein Mädchen
gehen ich muss zu Kämpfen
als Rittern am die Feldern von schlachten
Im ewige Schwerter ist die Loyalität
Hört die Schlagzeuge von donnernde
Trommelns geben die Rhythmus für Herzen und fuße
Die Heilige Liebe ich habt vor ihr mein Mädchen
Ich fühl nicht doch das Blut strömen für unser Land
Wiedersehen wir in die Halle von Gefallene Liebem
Du bist mein Fall im Kämpf, mein Grund
Zu leben und sterben zu bemühen und erwachen
Krieger für ewige Minne und hinter Liebe die Will zu Kämpfen
Ohne dich und leben mit Göttern verfluch –
Mein Kampf ist die ganze Welt in Friede.


It is war my girl
Go I must to fight
As Knight at the fields of slaughter
In Eternal Sword lays the Loyalty
Hear the drumming of thundering
Drums giving the rhythm for hearts and feet
The Holy love I have for you my girl
I feel not but the streaming of blood for our land
See each other again we shall in the Hall of Fallen love
You are my fall in battle, my ground
To live and die to Strive and awaken
Warrior for A-Mor and past the love the Will to fight
Without you and live with gods damn -
My struggle is the whole world in peace.
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OhFortunae

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PostSubject: Re: Poetry Sun Apr 10, 2016 1:44 pm

Venting my yearning for the year we shall be
Eternity alike a statue of the moment to come
Tannhaüser’s Goddess veiled in dignity’s sheet
More the lust to unravel what is behind veil’s scent
Beauty is a rose to soul as to nose but those who hear
Listen the touching winds giving scents to fields beyond
Wanderer from far seen so much you have but your heart
Beauty it has seen from times the heart did not belong as yours’
Knight afar but struggle within leading to Venus’s cave hidden alike night
A star lurking for its Innamorato luring astray any shepherd to another path
To caress forest’s trees with swings of axe warming his woman’s hearth
His light his life longing to belong to be together as one
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OhFortunae

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PostSubject: Re: Poetry Sun Apr 10, 2016 1:49 pm



I can't sleep no more
So I think about you
Do not cry my girl
I have love for you in dance
You do by heart with no count
Do not cry next to me
For if you were mine, my girl
You won't weep for you'll be mine
Your face without tears is my joy

The world I would give to you
But since I am a mere mortal
These flowers should do
In mere seconds let me see
You walking by, kissing your hand
And say goodbye

Till we meet again
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OhFortunae

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PostSubject: Re: Poetry Sun Apr 10, 2016 3:40 pm

Betray me, whatever
A poet is the greatest liar;
Though it are not my words that lied
It are my feelings misjudged and expressed
Betrayed by others, deceived and misused
The poet expressing his illusions
Knowing better than god what is next
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OhFortunae

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PostSubject: Re: Poetry Sun Apr 10, 2016 3:58 pm

When a man kneels before struggle to come
And say goodbye to sweet dirt the land he never had
Having worth weighing in his heart
But yet for the blood to stream he seeks
To not pour out on the dirt as wine
Another to sit at a hearth to warm
He will not find, but after or grieved by
Not even god I'll be damned
I believe in neither curse nor blessing
The good sinner I am
For I am neither sinner nor good
So the poet speaks truth for once
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OhFortunae

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PostSubject: Re: Poetry Sun Apr 10, 2016 4:40 pm

Hell is too self-righteous to me, but at least they know their good and bad better than Saints who know neither (he does not know good because he does not know evil); Purgatory is an excess to get rid of too much hell - Heaven is not to my taste at all, I rather dance with the devil and slander him off his throne.

I am my own devil, the saint to my conscience.
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OhFortunae

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PostSubject: Re: Poetry Sun Apr 10, 2016 5:41 pm

I shall kneel for thou, oh God
For I shall fight for my beloved
Against any thee even my own
And thou will strike me down
Make me crawl the dirt
Be spit into the depths
My hearth with her
In my heart where she is not alongside me
For she never never be or ever been
I fight you for I am lord of my own will
I bend my knees merely to die
After I can't stand no more
And strike you all from below
Reaching Olympus' height
In humble struggle for my pride

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OhFortunae

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PostSubject: Re: Poetry Mon Apr 11, 2016 11:37 am

A flower to pick and to wither
So is love to feel it vanish
Alas, the trees sing joyfully in spring
Blossom comes with birds nesting
Silent winds bring spoken scents
Of fields in greening and burning
Screaming voices unheard
To echo till silence is once more
Neither been heard from afar
Bodies earthed under the dirt
So life goes on to testify
We will never be birthed
But already were to die

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OhFortunae

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PostSubject: Re: Poetry Tue Apr 12, 2016 3:52 pm



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PostSubject: Re: Poetry Wed Apr 13, 2016 4:45 pm

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OhFortunae

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PostSubject: Re: Poetry Sat Apr 16, 2016 3:55 pm

Love you all do I to posses The soul of woman mortal it is Whether I pursue you or another Leave you behind I shall There are greater persuasions To pursue the arts of warfare Whether she be my soul Alike my land in touch Or from another God The hereafter cares less For the soul of woman withers With her beauty she slanders And her death is my dawn Once I die to resurrect without Her eyes to remember My heart to long for breath Of a forgotten mortal Forgetfulness is my remembrance
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PostSubject: Re: Poetry Sat Apr 16, 2016 5:07 pm

The face to behold everytime the sun's dawn is upon me, to make me blush as if the sun is too much; coolness alike the star of evening about to show herself as the after-sun shines as bright in another time.
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Lyssa
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PostSubject: Re: Poetry Wed Apr 27, 2016 1:21 pm

Bertram wrote:
"Nietzsche’s rhymes strangely similar to certain verses of Conrad Ferdinand Meyer’s antithetical poetry:

". . . His superhappiness became uncomfortable for him,
His superlight pursues your darkness."

". . . I cannot be my own interpreter.
Yet whoever climbs on his own path
Also carries my image up to a brighter light."

"Predetermined to a starry path
What do you, star, care about the dark?
Roll blissfully on through this time!
Its misery is foreign to you and far! . . . "

"No retreat? And no advance?
And no path even for the chamois?
. . . Ground five feet wide, a red dawn,
And below me—world, man, and death!"

"Whoever will have much to proclaim one day,
Must long remain silent unto himself . . . "

There is the predilection for playing with sound associations,

“I rolled myself, round rolling barrel,” “Minerva’s Darling Ow—ow—owl.”

“The A and O of my wisdom . . . only the eternal Hey! and Oh! . . .”

All of these elements of a colorfully iridescent decomposition visibly enter into his more serious poetry; the two separated species in Nietzsche’s “motto”: “A song is ‘words as music’ . . . an aphorism is ‘sense without song’—may I bring to you something of both?”—fuse together to form that dangerous Perhaps, the philosopher of which Nietzsche proclaims himself to be and which he loved so well even as a poet (“What a pity that I did not dare to say what I had to say at the time as a poet—I might have been able to do it”).

It is no coincidence, but rather the most vital expression of his nature, which was born under the sign of Libra, that Nietzsche’s most perfect poems are precisely those that incorporated the aphoristic element of “Jest, Cunning and Revenge”—in which irony, the pleasure in masks, and a self-hating, self-overcoming didactically break or threaten to burst their lyricism; and the most perfect of his proverbs are those that, like the hermaphroditic constructions of the highest sphere of the Divan, seem to approach the lyricism of a mystical secret doctrine. “Whenever I have a few minutes to think about whatever I want,” he wrote to his mother and sister during his last year at Pforta, “I look for words to a melody I have and a melody to words I have, and what I have in both together is not right, even though they came from one soul. But that is my lot!”

Nietzsche never expressed anything more intuitively definitive about himself in his late, probing self-analyses than what the pupil here revealed, almost presciently, about the lot of a “new soul.” Nietzsche’s most genuine constructions hover between word and melody, be- tween singing and speaking, between sense without song and words as music, suspended in a sphere of supreme, unending tension and an eternal balance of illusion, remaining all the while conscious of this, their fate, their “Centaur” fate (as he put it himself ). The form of Nietzsche’s aphorisms, his entirely individual development of the Knittelvers tradition from the Reformation through Goethe, is only one reflection of this constant search for the Other that is Nietzsche’s inner fate, the search for a melody to words, for words to a melody." [Nietzsche: Attempt at a Mythology]


Conrad Meyer

Wiki links to only one poem of his right away, but I can see what the author meant;

Roman Fountain
By Conrad Ferdinand Meyer
Translated by A.Z. Foreman

"The jet ascends and, falling, fills
The rounded marble basin up,
Which shrouds itself before it spills
Into a second basin’s cup;
Growing too full, the second runs
Its surging billows to the next,
And all three give and get at once,
And run and rest."


The Original:

Der Römische Brunnen

"Auf steigt der Strahl, und fallend gießt
Er voll der Marmorschale Rund,
Die, sich verschleiernd, überfließt
In einer zweiten Schale Grund;
Die zweite gibt, sie wird zu reich,
Der dritten wallend ihre Flut,
Und jede nimmt und gibt zugleich
Und strömt und ruht."

_________________


"ἐδιζησάμην ἐμεωυτόν." [Heraclitus]

"All that exists is just and unjust and equally justified in both." [Aeschylus, Prometheus]

"The history of everyday is constituted by our habits. ... How have you lived today?" [N.]

*Become clean, my friends.*
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Lyssa
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PostSubject: Re: Poetry Wed Apr 27, 2016 1:40 pm


_________________


"ἐδιζησάμην ἐμεωυτόν." [Heraclitus]

"All that exists is just and unjust and equally justified in both." [Aeschylus, Prometheus]

"The history of everyday is constituted by our habits. ... How have you lived today?" [N.]

*Become clean, my friends.*
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Ethos

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PostSubject: Re: Poetry Fri Apr 29, 2016 7:57 am

Keats wrote:
La Belle Dame sans Merci: A Ballad

O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
      Alone and palely loitering?
The sedge has withered from the lake,
      And no birds sing.

O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
      So haggard and so woe-begone?
The squirrel’s granary is full,
      And the harvest’s done.

I see a lily on thy brow,
      With anguish moist and fever-dew,
And on thy cheeks a fading rose
      Fast withereth too.

I met a lady in the meads,
      Full beautiful—a faery’s child,
Her hair was long, her foot was light,
      And her eyes were wild.

I made a garland for her head,
      And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;
She looked at me as she did love,
      And made sweet moan

I set her on my pacing steed,
      And nothing else saw all day long,
For sidelong would she bend, and sing
      A faery’s song.

She found me roots of relish sweet,
      And honey wild, and manna-dew,
And sure in language strange she said—
      ‘I love thee true’.

She took me to her Elfin grot,
      And there she wept and sighed full sore,
And there I shut her wild wild eyes
      With kisses four.

And there she lullèd me asleep,
      And there I dreamed—Ah! woe betide!—
The latest dream I ever dreamt
      On the cold hill side.

I saw pale kings and princes too,
      Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;
They cried—‘La Belle Dame sans Merci
      Thee hath in thrall!’

I saw their starved lips in the gloam,
      With horrid warning gapèd wide,
And I awoke and found me here,
      On the cold hill’s side.

And this is why I sojourn here,
      Alone and palely loitering,
Though the sedge is withered from the lake,
      And no birds sing.
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OhFortunae

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PostSubject: Re: Poetry Fri May 06, 2016 5:17 am

My first English book I ever read, by Colin Mackay.

"... And the one who was to have been my wife,
Whom I loved more than Jesus and my own soul,
Had a butcher's knife driven hilt-deep into her crotch,
And her pussy was black clotted with blood
Beneath a bright blue sky that shrieked
Mindless hymns to the beauty of your creation.
And I hated myself for believing you,
Hated myself for trusting in your goodness. ..."








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PostSubject: Re: Poetry Tue May 10, 2016 6:36 am

Vin Ylion wrote:
Kikeman came across the sea
he smelled of gain and treasury
we've killed our vibes, we've lost our greed
he took our veins for his own need
we thought him good, we thought him wise
we gave him home, food, wine, all nice
then many came and raised their god
we've turned to dust, they've snatched the gold

Trespassing the warzones and oil-field wastes
sandninjas invade in EU plains
twerking our asses we haven't seen the flood
now time has run out, we sink in dream mood
profits for Schlomo and saddles for your back
pay tax for each breathing to be safe and have luck

Soldier Rass has warned you about, but it seems that
you didn't give a shit
now Kike smells like honey and you're old bones on the pit.
Goy pay your bills, secure your life
Goy pay your bills, secure your life.
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Mr.Monk

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PostSubject: Re: Poetry Mon May 16, 2016 10:43 am

To the as-yet unborn, to all innocent wisps of undifferentiated nothingness: Watch out for life.  

I have caught life. I have come down with life.   I was a wisp of undifferentiated nothingness, and then a little peephole opened quite suddenly. Light and sound poured in. Voices began to describe me and my surroundings. Nothing they said could be appealed. They said I was a boy named Christopher Webster, and that was that. They said the year was 1968, and that was that. They said I was in Leeds, England, and that was that.  

They never shut up. Year after year they piled detail upon detail. They do it still. You know what they say now? They say the year is 1982, and that I am fifty years old.

Blah blah blah.
Kurt Vonnegut
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PostSubject: Re: Poetry Sat May 21, 2016 8:36 am

Rudyard Kipling

The Beginnings
1914-18
"Mary Postgate"-- A Diversity of Creatures

  It was not part of their blood,
    It came to them very late
  With long arrears to make  good,
    When the English began to hate.

  They were not easily moved,
     They were  icy-willing  to  wait
  Till  every  count  should  be  proved,
    Ere  the  English  began  to  hate.

  Their voices  were  even  and  low,
    Their  eyes  were  level  and  straight.
  There was neither sign nor show,
    When  the  English  began  to  hate.

  It was not preached to  the  crowd,
    It was not taught by the State.
  No man spoke it aloud,  
    When  the English began to hate.

  It  was  not  suddenly  bred,
    It  will  not  swiftly abate,
  Through  the  chill  years  ahead,
    When Time  shall  count from  the date
    That the English  began  to  hate.

http://www.poetryloverspage.com/poets/kipling/beginning.html
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PostSubject: Re: Poetry Sun Jun 26, 2016 10:38 am


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PostSubject: Re: Poetry Sat Jul 09, 2016 11:36 am

Yeats wrote:
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.

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PostSubject: Re: Poetry Wed Jul 13, 2016 6:30 pm


_________________


"ἐδιζησάμην ἐμεωυτόν." [Heraclitus]

"All that exists is just and unjust and equally justified in both." [Aeschylus, Prometheus]

"The history of everyday is constituted by our habits. ... How have you lived today?" [N.]

*Become clean, my friends.*
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PostSubject: Re: Poetry Wed Jul 13, 2016 6:31 pm






_________________


"ἐδιζησάμην ἐμεωυτόν." [Heraclitus]

"All that exists is just and unjust and equally justified in both." [Aeschylus, Prometheus]

"The history of everyday is constituted by our habits. ... How have you lived today?" [N.]

*Become clean, my friends.*
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PostSubject: Re: Poetry Wed Jul 13, 2016 6:31 pm


_________________


"ἐδιζησάμην ἐμεωυτόν." [Heraclitus]

"All that exists is just and unjust and equally justified in both." [Aeschylus, Prometheus]

"The history of everyday is constituted by our habits. ... How have you lived today?" [N.]

*Become clean, my friends.*
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PostSubject: Re: Poetry Thu Jul 21, 2016 7:01 pm

A swan her neck was that
Her face the cold moons’ calm
The breasts were hills of grapes
Hips and in between the legs
Sweet wine made you sober instead
Fiery eyes blinded strong wills’ strive
Lips to drink yourself to drown
Skin as snow melting near fire
Hair as petals of rare flower
A knight won’t kneel but devour
On horse with sword to kill
Maiden’s beauty be served for war
Her smile rots hearts of many
A spring of desire turns winter
Alas, beauty underneath ice you stare
Into death from above you plunge
Banner of war serves beauty’s head
No sweet maid without bitter strive
Take on sword’s careless fight instead

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PostSubject: Re: Poetry Fri Jul 29, 2016 6:13 pm

When Napoleon went with his army to cross the sea and conquer Egypt, to pass the time on his ship, next to planning military tacticts, he took this particular book with him to read on his way; by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe.

''Oftentimes I say to myself, "Thou alone art wretched: all other mortals are happy, none are distressed like thee!" Then I read a passage in an ancient poet, and I seem to understand my own heart. I have so much to endure! Have men before me ever been so wretched?''

http://www.macobo.com/essays/epdf/Goethe%20-%20The%20Sorrows%20of%20Young%20Werther.pdf
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OhFortunae

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PostSubject: Re: Poetry Fri Jul 29, 2016 6:19 pm

I came to know this poet through the work of Goethe in which he was quoted; the most beautiful poetry - I surely will buy the actual book.

''Ossian is the narrator and purported author of a cycle of epic poems published by the Scottish poet James Macpherson from 1760. Macpherson claimed to have collected word-of-mouth material in Gaelic, said to be from ancient sources, and that the work was his translation of that material.''
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ossian

Here a 22 pages long article about the oral tradition in ancient Gaellic times, in particular about the Ossian poems: http://journal.oraltradition.org/files/articles/24ii/08_24.2.pdf


The Ossian poetry itself:


Quote :
''The Songs of Selma

STAR of descending night! fair is thy light in the west! thou that liftest thy unshorn head from thy cloud: thy steps are stately on thy hill. What dost thou behold in the plain? The stormy winds are laid. The murmur of the torrent comes from afar.
Roaring waves climb the distant rock. The flies of evening are on their feeble wings: the hum of their course is in the field. What dost thou behold, fair light? But thou dost smile and depart. The waves come with joy around thee: they bathe thy lovely hair.
Farewell, thou silent beam! Let the light of Ossian's soul arise!

And it does arise in its strength! I behold my departed friends. Their gathering is on Lora, as in the days of other years. Fingal comes like a watery column of mist! his heroes are around: and see the bards of song, gray-haired Ullin! Stately Ryno! Alpin with the tuneful voice! the soft complaint of Minona! How are ye changed, my friends, since the days of Selma's feast! when we contended, like gales of spring, as they fly along the hill, and bend by turns the feebly whistling grass.

Minona came forth in her beauty: with downcast look and tearful eye. Her hair flew slowly on the blast, that rushed unfrequent from the hill. The souls of the heroes were sad when she raised the tuneful voice. Often had they seen the grave of Salgar, the dark dwelling of white-bosomed Colma. Colma left alone on the hill, with all her voice of song! Salgar promised to come: but the night descended around. Hear the voice of Colma, when she sat alone on the hill.

Colma. It is night, I am alone, forlorn on the hill of storms. The wind is heard on the mountain. The torrent pours down the rock. No hut receives me from the rain; forlorn on the hill of winds!

Rise, moon! from behind thy clouds. Stars of the night, arise! Lead me, some light, to the place where my love rests from the chase alone! his bow near him, unstrung: his dogs panting around him. But here I must sit alone, by the rock of the mossy stream. The stream and the wind roar aloud. I hear not the voice of my love!
Why delays my Salgar, why the chief of the hill, his promise? here is the rock, and here the tree! here is the roaring stream! Thou didst promise with night to be here. Ah! whither is my Salgar gone? With thee, I would fly from my father; with thee, from my brother of pride. Our race have long been foes; we are not foes, O Salgar!

Cease a little while, O wind! stream, be thou silent awhile! let my voice be heard around. Let my wanderer hear me! Salgar! it is Colma who calls. Here is the tree, and the rock. Salgar, my love! I am here. Why delayest thou thy coming? Lo! the calm moon comes forth. The flood is bright in the vale. The rocks are gray on the steep, I see him not on the brow. His dogs come not before him, with tidings of his near approach. Here I must sit alone!

Who lie on the heath beside me? Are they my love and my brother? Speak to me, O my friends! To Colma they give no reply. Speak to me; I am alone! My soul is tormented with fears! Ah! they are dead! Their swords are red from the fight. O my brother! my brother! why hast thou slain my Salgar? why, O Salgar! hast thou slain my brother? Dear were ye both to me! what shalt I say in your praise? Thou wert fair on the hill among thousands! he was terrible in fight. Speak to me; hear my voice; hear me, song of my love! They are silent; silent for ever! Cold, cold, are their breasts of clay! Oh! from the rock on the hill, from the top of the windy steep, speak, ye ghosts of the dead! speak, I will not be afraid! Whither are ye gone to rest? In what cave of the hill shall I find the departed? No feeble voice is on the gale: no answer half-drowned in the storm!

I sit in my grief; I wait for morning in my tears! Rear the tomb, ye friends of the dead. Close it not till Colma come. My life flies away like a dream: why should I stay behind? Here shall I rest with my friends, by the stream of the sounding rock.
When night comes on the hilt; when the loud winds arise; my ghost shall stand in the blast, and mourn the death of my friends. The hunter shall hear from his booth. he shall fear but love my voice! For sweet shall my voice be for my friends: pleasant were her friends to Colma!

Such was thy song, Minona, softly-blushing daughter of Torman. Our tears descended for Colma, and our souls were sad! Ullin came with his harp! he gave the song of Alpin. The voice of Alpin was pleasant: the soul of Ryno was a beam of fire!
But they had rested in the narrow house: their voice had ceased in Selma. Ullin had returned, one day, from the chase, before the heroes fell. He heard their strife on the hilt; their song was soft but sad! They mourned the fall of Morar, first of mortal men!
His soul was like the soul of Fingal: his sword like the sword of Oscar. But he fell, and his father mourned: his sister's eyes were full of tears. Minona's eyes were full of tears, the sister of car-borne Morar. She retired from the song of Ullin, like the moon in the west, when she foresees the shower, and hides her fair head in a cloud. I touched the harp with Ullin; the song of mourning rose!

Ryno. The wind and the rain are past; calm is the noon of day. The clouds are divided in heaven. Over the green hills flies the inconstant sun. Red through the stony vale comes down the stream of the hill. Sweet are thy murmurs, O stream! but more sweet is the voice I hear. It is the voice of Alpin, the son of song, mourning for the dead! Bent is his head of age; red his tearful eye. Alpin, thou son of song, why alone on the silent hill? why complainest thou, as a blast in the wood; as a wave on the lonely shore?

Alpin. My tears, O Ryno! are for the dead; my voice for those that have passed away. Tall thou art on the hill; fair among the sons of the vale. But thou shalt fall like Morar; the mourner shall sit on thy tomb. The hills shall know thee no more; thy bow shall in thy hall unstrung.

Thou wert swift, O Morar! as a roe on the desert; terrible as a meteor of fire. Thy wrath was as the storm. Thy sword in battle, as lightning in the field. Thy voice was a stream after rain; like thunder on distant hills. Many fell by thy arm; they were consumed in the flames of thy wrath. But when thou didst return from war, how peaceful was thy brow! Thy face was like the sun after rain; like the moon in the silence of night; calm as the breast of the lake when the loud wind is laid.

Narrow is thy dwelling now! Dark the place of thine abode! With three steps I compass thy grave. O thou who wast so great before! Four stones, with their heads of moss, are the only memorial of thee. A tree with scarce a leaf, long grass, which whistles in the wind, mark to the hunter's eye the grave of the mighty Morar. Morar! thou art low indeed. Thou hast no mother to mourn thee; no maid with her tears of love. Dead is she that brought thee forth. Fallen is the daughter of Morglan.

Who on his staff is this? who is this whose head is white with age; whose eyes are red with tears? who quakes at every step? It is thy father, O Morar! the father of no son but thee. He heard of thy fame in war; he heard of foes dispersed. He heard of Morar's renown; why did he not hear of his wound? Weep, thou father of Morar! weep; but thy son heareth thee not. Deep is the sleep of the dead; low their pillow of dust. No more shall he hear thy voice; no more awake at thy call. When shall it be morn in the grave, to bid the slumberer awake Farewell, thou bravest of men! thou conqueror in the field! but the field shall see thee no more; nor the dark wood be lightened with the splendor of thy steel. Thou hast left no son. The song shall preserve thy name. Future times shall hear of thee; they shall hear of the fallen Morar.

The grief of all arose, but most the bursting sigh of Armin. He remembers the death of his son, who fell in the days of his youth. Carmor was near the hero, the chief of the echoing Galmal. Why burst the sigh of Armin? he said. Is there a cause to mourn? The song comes, with its music, to melt and please the soul. It is like soft mist, that, rising from a lake, pours on the silent vale; the green flowers are filled with dew, but the sun returns in his strength, and the mist is gone. Why art thou sad, O Armin, chief of sea-surrounded Gorma?

Sad I am! nor small is my cause of wo. Carmor, thou hast lost no son; thou hast lost no daughter of beauty. Colgar the valiant lives; and Annira, fairest maid. The boughs of thy house ascend, O Carmor! but Armin is the last of his race. Dark is thy bed, O Daura! deep thy sleep in the tomb! When shalt thou awake with thy songs with all thy voice of music?

Arise, winds of autumn, arise; blow along the heath! streams of the mountains, roar! roar, tempests, in the groves of my oaks! walk through broken clouds, O moon! show thy pale face, at intervals! bring to my mind the night, when all my children fell; when Arindal the mighty fell! when Daura the lovely failed! Daura, my daughter!
thou wert fair; fair as the moon on Fura , white as the driven snow; sweet as the breathing gale. Arindal, thy bow was strong. Thy spear was swift on the field. Thy look was like mist on the wave: thy shield, a red cloud in a storm. Armar, renowned in war, came, and sought Daura's love. He was not long refused: fair was the hope of
their friends.

Erath, son of Odgal, repined: his brother had been slain by Armar. He came disguised like a son of the sea: fair was his skiff on the wave; white his locks of age; calm his serious brow. Fairest of women, he said, lovely daughter of Armin! a rock not distant in the sea bears a tree on its side: red shines the fruit afar! There Armar waits for Daura. I come to carry his love! She went; she called on Armar. Nought answered, but the son of the rock. <1> Armar, my love! my love! why tormentest thou me with fear! hear, son of Arnart, hear: it is Daura who calleth thee! Erath the traitor fled laughing to the land. She lifted up her voice; she called for her brother and for her father. Arindal! Armin! none to relieve your Daura!

Her voice came over the sea. Arindal my son descended from the hill; rough in the spoils of the chase. His arrows rattled by his side; his bow was in his hand; five dark-gray dogs attended his steps. He saw fierce Erath on the shore: he seized and bound him to an oak. Thick wind the thongs of the hide around his limbs: he loads the winds with his groans. Arindal ascends the deep in his boat, to bring Daura to land. Armar came in his wrath, and let fly the gray-feathered shaft. It sunk, it sunk in thy heart, O Arindal, my son! for Erath the traitor thou diest. The oar is stopped at once; he panted on the rock and expired. What is thy grief, O Daura, when round thy feet is poured thy brother's blood! The boat is broke in twain. Armar plunges into the sea, to rescue his Daura, or die. Sudden a blast from a hill came over the waves. He sunk, and he rose no more.

Alone on the sea-beat rock, my daughter was heard to complain. Frequent and loud were her cries. What could her father do? All night I stood on the shore. I saw her by the faint beam of the moon. All night I heard her cries. Loud was the wind; the rain beat hard on the hill. Before morning appeared her voice was weak. it died away, like the evening breeze among the grass of the rocks. Spent with grief, she expired; and left thee, Armin, alone. Gone is my strength in war! fallen my pride among women! When the storms aloft arise; when the north lifts the wave on high! I sit by the sounding shore, and look on the fatal rock. Often by the setting moon, I see the ghosts of my children. Half viewless, they walk in mournful conference together. Will none of you speak in pity. They do not regard their father. I am sad, O Carmor, nor small is my cause of wo.

Such were the words of the bards in the days of song: when the king heard the music of harps, the tales of other times! The chiefs gathered from all their hills, and heard the lovely sound. They praised the voice of Cona; <2> the first among a thousand bards! But age is now on my tongue; my soul has failed: I hear, at times, the ghosts of bards, and learn their pleasant Song. But memory fails on my mind. I hear the call of years; they say, as they pass along, Why does Ossian sing? Soon shall he lie in the narrow house, and no bard shall raise his fame! Roll on, ye dark-brown years; ye bring no joy on your course! Let the tomb open to Ossian, for his strength has failed. The sons of song are gone to rest. My voice remains, like a blast, that roars, lonely, on a sea-surrounded rock, after the winds are laid. The dark moss whistles there; the distant mariner sees the waving trees!''

<1> By "the son of the rock," the poet means the echoing back of the human voice from a rock.
<2> Ossian is sometimes poetically called "the voice of Cona".

http://www.exclassics.com/ossian/ossian.pdf
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PostSubject: Re: Poetry Fri Jul 29, 2016 6:31 pm




When the moon speaks to us by it absence
The clouds are below your feet and the world gone
The sun glistering somewhere from a time bygone its fury
The gold of the fields of grain have become grey in fire's sorrow
As ashes all seem to be devoured by fireless passion

When the flowers are silent from bees and trees without scent
Your home surrounded with the noise of grey silence
The heart does not speak no more to the birds that are no more
That the beauty of a lass touches the lad's ghost as much
As a bullet through the head gives awe, not at all it speaks

Then you know the world is gone already without anyone seeing
The signs yet of what has already been done and gone
The world asks for rebirth which only can be done
Through the sword that is stuck in your heart
To understand nothing is to be saved

But yourself.




[Mourne Mountains]
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PostSubject: Re: Poetry Fri Jul 29, 2016 6:44 pm



Roses are pink and blue
Violets are strange but cool
I'd kill any jigaboo
Just for me and you
I'll burn down the Eiffel tower too
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PostSubject: Re: Poetry Tue Aug 02, 2016 7:56 pm

Sea's waves of cold darkness
Rocks swallowing in flood
Cliffs marking the end of care
Walking the rocky road
As a lass smiles me bye
Passing her by gone to where
Angry clouds are hunting from the skies
Haunting from heavens knows where
These spirits counting a man's end
With the last thought of a forgotten smile
As life passes me by from whence I came
From where we come the gods know either
While the sea thunder's to disappear
To see no more but what's life is what's death
And the sun is nothing but a candle
Eaten by the rising of the storm
In night's calm to behold how life eats away
Your love begone and dreams forged
To be forgotten as soon you slumber awake
As the moon gives way in darkness only
The sea is to be heard in silence's call
Alas, so I will disappear in careless hearts
That care but so they care so they die
And so I lie to myself to be fooled by pretty eyes
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PostSubject: Re: Poetry Tue Aug 09, 2016 5:36 pm

When the birds sing
I shall take your hand
When storm takes strength
I dance with you to the end
When love has its dread...
I will make sure to laugh
When autumn leaves to die
I surely see you colour jolly
When the moon sets bright
I can't see but your tide
When June is all green hills
I have no other summer's kind
When the skies are eternal frozen
I have you as hearth near in like
When spring lives again in night
I make sure the stars won't thrive
When birds die hither and there
I shall take you with me
To there where wings never tire
But when..
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Lyssa
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PostSubject: Re: Poetry Wed Aug 31, 2016 7:41 pm

In the Desert

"In the desert
I saw a creature, naked, bestial,
Who, squatting upon the ground,
Held his heart in his hands,
And ate of it.
I said, “Is it good, friend?”
“It is bitter—bitter,” he answered;

“But I like it
“Because it is bitter,
“And because it is my heart.”" [Stephen Crane]

_________________


"ἐδιζησάμην ἐμεωυτόν." [Heraclitus]

"All that exists is just and unjust and equally justified in both." [Aeschylus, Prometheus]

"The history of everyday is constituted by our habits. ... How have you lived today?" [N.]

*Become clean, my friends.*
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Lyssa
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PostSubject: Re: Poetry Wed Aug 31, 2016 7:42 pm

In heaven

"In Heaven,
Some little blades of grass
Stood before God.
“What did you do?”
Then all save one of the little blades
Began eagerly to relate
The merits of their lives.
This one stayed a small way behind
Ashamed.
Presently God said:
“And what did you do?”
The little blade answered: “Oh, my lord,
“Memory is bitter to me
“For if I did good deeds
“I know not of them.”
Then God in all His splendor
Arose from His throne.
“Oh, best little blade of grass,” He said." [Stephen Crane]

_________________


"ἐδιζησάμην ἐμεωυτόν." [Heraclitus]

"All that exists is just and unjust and equally justified in both." [Aeschylus, Prometheus]

"The history of everyday is constituted by our habits. ... How have you lived today?" [N.]

*Become clean, my friends.*
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OhFortunae

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PostSubject: Re: Poetry Fri Sep 02, 2016 7:32 am

Sweet death, how I long to your breasts of wine
Bitter life, how much do I love none in any Fate
Black clouds, how much you mock my blue heart
Furious sun, how blind I am to love and moon
Seasons of re-birth, how you die eternal in my breath
Over and over, from autumn to spring, I die in you
How all the colours die away in my eyes and smile
Over and over, how do I love none and the moon
How the howling of my soul is nothing but hollow laughter
How I live, how I die, how the wind is and gone, so am I
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PostSubject: Re: Poetry Sat Sep 03, 2016 9:16 am

One of the greatest personalities of the 20th century.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ezra_Pound
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PostSubject: Re: Poetry Mon Sep 12, 2016 3:30 pm

.


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PostSubject: Re: Poetry

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