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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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OhFortunae

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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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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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PostSubject: Re: Poetry

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Poetry
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