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OhFortunae

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PostSubject: Re: Poetry Sat Sep 17, 2016 5:12 pm



Always I end up with longing
Only to fight for but no life together
Easy to die with no life for
No love to live by but hate to live like

Never I start with something
Mostly to live life as nothing
Hard to die with no will to let live
A heart to die for but a soul to die hard

Ah well,
Life goes on
So does death
And so love has its end
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OhFortunae

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PostSubject: Re: Poetry Wed Oct 12, 2016 5:56 pm

As clouds storm us by
So shadows fall down
Upon where lights reside
Reflect dark movements
From heights taking the light
Away from its glory and bright

But what are shadows
But phantoms of light
For shadows can’t fall
In starless dark nights
A shadow’s life moves
Like a moth around its death

Just like light has the dark
To shine and be shadow’s love
So what are these shadows in my soul
But the sun hiding behind clouds
To rain new life for spirit to grow
A foggy dew to smother the good
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Hrodeberto

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PostSubject: Re: Poetry Sun Oct 23, 2016 7:01 am

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Satyr
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PostSubject: Ελύτης, Οδυσσεύς Fri Oct 28, 2016 8:59 pm


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OhFortunae

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PostSubject: Re: Poetry Sat Nov 19, 2016 8:09 pm

No lonesomeness as I do not exist
All desires gone and dreams unheard of
Lust that erects but tiredness that reigns
Memories as if watching unknown phantoms
Anger from nowhere by no-one
Slumbering without thought and will
Death makes no difference from life
Erasing what I was who never was
Principles of a hypocrite don't matter
Better die honourless in careless war
Or give the last word by own hand
No need dragging others for minor will down hell
Just what is I down the well not even farewell
For the living only can say so
Love to yearn is felt unknown
Outgrown from life whether love or hate
Either is slumber
Only death sleeps
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OhFortunae

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PostSubject: Re: Poetry Fri Dec 02, 2016 4:42 pm

What if roses won't grow
And the world doesn't go
The moon dies to darken
Nights together with days
Somber eternity's rays to rain
Stars crawling into shadows lies
Nightingales to die by gallows reign


A soul's world can all be that
Where many heavens collapse upon
...
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OhFortunae

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PostSubject: Re: Poetry Mon Dec 05, 2016 3:43 pm

On top of that hill,
Overthere...

Where the sun warms her life
Flowers grow,
like eternal rainbows

A soothing wind lulls butterfly wings
Above the green, carassing scents
Capturing the many winged winds

Overthere...
Where around grows nothing
But a lonely vine with its withering leaf
And a grape, so blue

This grape, so blue
as if another Heaven descends

Overthere...
A lonely grape, so purple of love
Overflown by itself, like a pregnant night
Many wines could ascend and drunk

Overthere...

A hill, so beautifully
As if Venus's her hips give birth

Many bees thriving their queen
Honey flows like wild rivers
A third of a share for all creatures

But overthere...
A lovely vine withers
Thirsting
Drunken in its love
A grape, like a pregnant night, drowns
In the light of the stars, drinking the nights away

Overthere...
Where the moon kisses Venus's her hips
The flowers never wither
And bees buzz their heir
Honey flows as golden life

Overthere...
Near that hill, a lonely vine stares
And a grape, so red
As if blood could flow from its love
Awaiting the bite of drunken lips

Overthere...
Where a young bride descends a hill,
So beautiful

A grape bursts its blood to be drunk
A beautiful maid kisses the night
And wine reddens the earth
The moonlight so bright

Overthere...
A hill bathes under the sun
And the moon washes in silence

Overthere, near that hill...

A young bride lies
And a grape dies, on her lips
Giving life, to sky blue wines

Overthere...
Many have died.
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polishyouth

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PostSubject: Re: Poetry Fri Dec 30, 2016 12:09 pm

Two friends by a lake.

Once a stone is thrown into a pond,
the pond consumes the stone
it does so violently, greedily, its belly shakes
the stoic beauty of the arrangement is disturbed by a single plunk
it succumbs to the greed of pushing itself out of itself
only to spill itself even more and more...
till all there is are dry stones.
- to all my friends who wish they could paint their mirrors and their faces
-by me, written on an impulse in few minutes
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polishyouth

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PostSubject: Re: Poetry Mon Jan 16, 2017 10:40 am

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polishyouth

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PostSubject: Re: Poetry Wed Jan 18, 2017 11:31 am

Now not all the waves
of the four seas are calm,
but in the land of Yamato,
where the sun rises,
the winds are sated, men devote themselves to pleasure.
Under the virtuous rule of His Majesty
peace reigns everywhere.
People exchange lazy and calm smiles,
business deals are done,
pacts are made with enemies;
people run, pushed on by foreign lucre.
Those who no longer want to fight
indulge in cowardly acts:
War, having become a nuisance,
now thrives in the shadows.
The trust between spouses, among friends, has vanished
deceitful democracy has its day,
the world is infested
with duplicitous, easygoing harmony.
Forces are diverted, bodies are held in contempt,
the young are strangled
by inertia, drugs, ambition,
and like sheep they advance in herds
towards mediocre desires
devoid of hope.
Pleasures, too, have lost
their flavour,
and loyalty its strength.
All souls are rotted from within,
and, preached as virtue by old men,
everywhere reigns a cowardly will
to self-assertion
and a contemptible security.
Truth is denied,
real emotions grow lifeless
hope no longer lightens
the steps of those who walk,
the laughter of imbeciles echoes everywhere,
every forehead bears the mark
of the death of the spirit.
Joy and pain fade quickly,
purity is for sale,
even lust is worn out:
people think only of money,
its value is greater than that
of human beings.
Even those who revolt
are looking in their own cunning way
for a tranquil abode,
the faces of those who are at the summit of fame,
complacent,
swell obscenely.
A decadent beauty
infests the world,
only base truths are believed,
the number of cars increases
and inane speed shatters souls.
Enormous buildings are built,
but great causes collapse,
windows are lit by the neon lights
of unsatisfied desires,
morning after morning
the sun rises dim with smog,
feelings are dulled,
sharp corners are blunted.
Passionate and virile souls
abandon the earth,
dark blood stagnates in peace,
arid and dried up
no longer gushing forth in its purity.
Those who soared in the sky have broken wings
while termites mock
immortal glory.
In days like that,
why would His Majesty
become an ordinary man?
From Eirei no Koe (Voices of the Heroic Spirits), 1966, translated from an Italian edition by Giuliano Adriano Malvicini
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polishyouth

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PostSubject: Re: Poetry Wed Jan 18, 2017 12:06 pm

Zbigniew Herbert poetry, not my translation

Two drops
No time to grieve for roses, when the forests are burning - Juliusz Slowacki


The forests were on fire -
they however
wreathed their necks with their hands
like bouquets of roses

People ran to the shelters-
he said his wife had hair
in whose depths one could hide

Covered by one blanket
they whispered shameless words
the litany of those who love

When it got very bad
they leap into each other's eyes
and shut them firmly

So firmly they did not feel the flames
when they came up to the eyelashes

To the end they were brave
To the end they were faithful
To the end they were similar
like two drops
stuck at the edge of a face

Laments,
in memory of my mother


And now brown clouds of roots overhead
a rank lily of salt on her temples a rosary of sand
and salt on the bottom of a boat in a foamy mist

a mile away where their is a bend in the river
-visible-invisible-like the light on a wave
she is truly no different-abandoned like all of us
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polishyouth

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PostSubject: Re: Poetry Wed Jan 18, 2017 12:13 pm

I type them in from a book, sorry for any mistakes.

PEEBLE

The pebble
is a perfect creature

equal to itself
mindful of its limits

filled exactly
with a pebbly meaning

with a scent which does not remind one of anything
does not frighten anything away does not arouse desire

its ardor and coldness
are just and full of dignity

I feel a heavy remorse
when I hold it in my hand
and its noble body
is permeated by false warmth

-Pebbles cannot be tamed
to the end they will look at us
with a calm and very clear eye







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OhFortunae

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PostSubject: Re: Poetry Thu Jan 19, 2017 1:34 am

Beautiful heaven here to wander
No moon, so the darkness gives
More light from the stars to see
That the heaven is blind to what it gives
Not even a god can take what isn't his
Only care about what makes right
And see that the might of the sky
Is truth only a storm can hide
On the surface of a world apart
From the stars that die in the light
Of another day, or moonfulll night
The skies remain bright in death's breath
Not even a storms' sigh can hide
The truth of careless giving to those

But nevermind,
as a moons' half steals the life of all the sky
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Lyssa
Har Har Harr
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PostSubject: Re: Poetry Fri May 05, 2017 6:48 pm

for polishyouth...


_________________


"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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polishyouth

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PostSubject: Re: Poetry Tue May 09, 2017 7:15 am

Thank you, he must have lived near me, geographically speaking, as many of the landscapes and their human-made elements are very much familiar to my memories and, without bragging, what has drawn his attention in specific time of the year/day/weather has often drawn inspiration or nostalgia out of my soul, maybe not identically in its causes and results, but I feel I can relate to his experience at least partially.

Take telegraph wires, a lonely moor,
And fit them together. The thing comes alive in your ear.

Towns whisper to towns over the heather.
But the wires cannot hide from the bad weather.

So oddly, so daintily made
It is picked up and played.

Such unearthly airs
The ear hears, and withers!

In the revolving ballroom of space
Bowed over the moor, a bright face

Draws out of telegraph wires the tones
That empty human bones.


This poem, is a good example. In South England(as I suspect in many other countries), there are long lines of tremendous wires passing through, mostly, rural and inhabbited areas that are turned into walking paths or cycling routes. I can imagine, given that I red a little about his life, how in times of deep trouble he seeked refuge away from people, away from home, in natures peaceful den that was within his reach on daily basis...the feeling he must have felt when walking through these completely human-free fields on a cold, windy day and then looking up to see the wires, used by people from one cosy settlement to contact another, more often than not with a good, sympathetic intention... and his momentary loneliness and coldness contrasted with the wires essence and ablity...maybe a sporadic raindrop hit his cheek waking his senses and firing his troubled thoughts to the forefront of his vision from being pushed onto the back due the momentary occupation...



https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Moirai

This too, came to my mind.
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Kvasir

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PostSubject: Re: Poetry Sun Jul 02, 2017 2:13 am

All is Gained

In the world in between,
After the tide crashes,
There lies the respite of the impact,
A remembrance,
Of all civilizations past,
Of all the struggle past,
Into one steady, ever so steady moment of,
Suffering of glory,
Suffering of memory,
Suffering of comfort,
Suffering of Destiny.
The cloak of the owl’s gaze,
The silence of the promise of Gods dancing
In a circle of might and whispers,
A whispering end of death and toil,
Until the moment is long lost,
And the opened eyes,
Peering back into the chaos of purpose.
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polishyouth

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PostSubject: Re: Poetry Sat Dec 23, 2017 9:54 am

Out they stand in orange
Screaming like blinded bats
Wrapped around in lintel
A mother’s angel sings:
Better were it, indeed, not to be born!
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Bardhë

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PostSubject: Re: Poetry Sat Feb 17, 2018 11:57 pm

You, the woman; I, the man; this, the world:
And each is the work of all.

There is the muffled step in the snow; the stranger;
The crippled wren; the nun; the dancer; the Jesus-wing
Over the walkers in the village; and there are
Many beautiful arms around us and the things we know.

See how those stars tramp over the heavens on their sticks
Of ancient light: with what simplicity that blue
Takes eternity into the quiet cave of God, where Ceasar
And Socrates, like primitive paintings on a wall,
Look, with idiot eyes, on the world where we two are.

You, the sought for; I, the seeker; this, the search:
And each is the mission of all.

For greatness is only the drayhorse that coaxes
The built cart out; and where we go is reason.
But genius is an enormous littleness, a trickling
Of heart that covers alike the hare and the hunter.

How smoothly, like the sleep of a flower, love,
The grassy wind moves over night's tense meadow:
See how the great wooden eyes of the forrest
Stare upon the architecture of our innocence.

You, the village; I, the stranger; this, the road:
And each is the work of all.

Then, not that man do more, or stop pity; but that he be
Wider in living; that all his cities fly a clean flag...
We have been alone too long, love; it is terribly late
For the pierced feet on the water and we must not die now.

Have you ever wondered why all the windows in heaven were broken?
Have you seen the homeless in the open grave of God's hand?
Do you want to aquaint the larks with the fatuous music of war?

There is the muffled step in the snow; the stranger;
The crippled wren; the nun; the dancer; the Jesus-wing
Over the walkers in the village; and there are
Many desperate arms about us and the things we know.

Kenneth Patchen
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polishyouth

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PostSubject: Re: Poetry Tue Mar 13, 2018 9:46 pm

Reject me not if I should say to you
I do forget the sounding of your voice,
I do forget your eyes that searching through
The mists perceive our marriage, and rejoice.

Yet, when the apple-blossom opens wide
Under the pallid moonlight’s fingering,
I see your blanched face at my breast, and hide
My eyes from diligent work, malingering.

Ah, then, upon my bedroom I do draw
The blind to hide the garden, where the moon
Enjoys the open blossoms as they straw
Their beauty for his taking, boon for boon.

And I do lift my aching arms to you,
And I do lift my anguished, avid breast,
And I do weep for very pain of you,
And fling myself at the doors of sleep, for rest.

And I do toss through the troubled night for you,
Dreaming your yielded mouth is given to mine,
Feeling your strong breast carry me on into
The peace where sleep is stronger even than wine.

god this is so beatiful of a prose...
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Satyr
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PostSubject: Re: Poetry Fri Jun 29, 2018 10:02 pm


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Impulso Oscuro

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PostSubject: Re: Poetry Sat Jun 30, 2018 1:23 pm

Satyr wrote:

Maud Gonne wrote:
Oh yes, you are, because you make beautiful poetry out of what you call your unhappiness and are happy in that. Marriage would be such a dull affair. Poets should never marry. The world should thank me for not marrying you.

She was only half-right, Poets should never marry women like her. In the end, Yeats found a true Pagan woman in the end that served to be a far better inspiration and mother than Gonne ever was.
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PostSubject: Re: Poetry Sat Jun 30, 2018 6:25 pm

I like this reading.


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Satyr
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PostSubject: Re: Poetry Wed Aug 29, 2018 5:50 pm


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PostSubject: Re: Poetry Wed Aug 29, 2018 6:12 pm


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PostSubject: Re: Poetry Thu Aug 30, 2018 6:53 am

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PostSubject: Re: Poetry Tue Sep 25, 2018 3:19 pm


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