mystical poetry thread

[Unseen_Abilities]

THE INDEFINITE FAREWELL
We met not very long ago,
But still she warms my heart and soul.
It's been a rough time, I've had a black life,
But still she warmed my heart and soul.

One of many, one of a kind,
In times so bad you soothed my mind.
To discredit yourself was a mistake,
But still we shared a deep connection.

Never think I'm coming over,
To be a little bitch for you.
And never think your dreams are over,
That's something you should disbelieve.

Don't worry, for all along I had an inkling - this was meant to happen.
Discrediting yourself was a mistake, but still we share a deep connection.

Never think your dreams are over - that's something you should disbelieve.

To discredit yourself was a mistake; We'll always share a deep connection.

Thanks, I love you, goodbye for now.

xENDx

[GrandmasterP]

Yes, Ill marry you, my dear.

And heres the reason why.

So I can push you out of bed

When the baby starts to cry.

And if we hear a knocking

And its creepy and its late,

I hand you the torch you see,

And you investigate.

 

Yes Ill marry you, my dear,

You may not apprehend it,

But when the tumble-drier goes

Its you that has to mend it.

You have to face the neighbour

Should our labrador attack him,

And if a drunkard fondles me

Its you that has to whack him.

 

Yes, Ill marry you,

Youre virile and youre lean,

My house is like a pigsty

You can help to keep it clean.

That sexy little dinner

Which you served by candlelight,

As I do chipolatas,

You can cook it every night!!!

 

Its you who has to work the drill

And put up curtain track,

And when Ive got PMT its you who gets the flak,

I do see great advantages,

But none of them for you,

And so before you see the light,

I DO, I DO, I DO!!

 

( Pam Ayres).

Edited May 15, 2014 by GrandmasterP

[Stosh]

Wow , thats rough Sir

And here I though you were happily hitched for many moons..

Pam's quite funny though

Edited May 15, 2014 by Stosh

[GrandmasterP]

I love Pam Ayres poetry.

She's one of our national treasures.

[Stosh]

One has to see her style in order to get the tone of her poetry though, standing alone Its easy to misread. I think Ill watch some clips at lunch , thanks for bringing her in.

[GrandmasterP]

Pam's very 'zen' in a deeply English and middle class sorta way.

Her auotobiography is tops.

A fascinating life well lived.

She did her National Service out in the far east and that influence comes through in some of the poetry.

She's still writing, touring her one woman show and broadcasting today.

Edited May 15, 2014 by GrandmasterP

[Captain Mar-Vell]

...

I always loved Pam Ayres.

 

Very funny woman.

 

A great English eccentric.

...

[GrandmasterP]

Eccentric or not I wish I had ten bob less in the bank than Pam has.

 

:-)

Edited May 15, 2014 by GrandmasterP

[Unseen_Abilities]

A Song For My Sister (she won't know until down the track a while...)

 

Dear Sister,

 

If you need help and I'm elsewhere,

Just call my name and I'll be there.

 

If we're separate by sea,

Or live in different, distant lands,

Just say my name and I'll be there.

 

Just say my name and I will come.

 

We've misunderstood each other,

Never think I wanted another way to be your brother,

You thought you knew and you were wrong, but now you do.

 

If you need help and I'm elsewhere, my dear sister,

Call my name and I'll be there.

If we walk in different lands just call my name

and I will come, just say my name and I'll be there.

 

Like a window into another time I saw the father,

Say my name and I'll be there.

I stepped into another time, became the father,

Call my name and I'll be there.

Windows into other times,

I came back with knowledge of the father.

 

If you need help and I'm elsewhere,

Just call my name and I will come,

Just say my name and I'll be there.

 

Tom.

Edited May 31, 2014 by Unseen_Abilities

[skydog]

.

Edited June 15, 2014 by skydog

[skydog]

;

Edited June 15, 2014 by skydog

[zerostao]

feeling the crazy
in the crazy of crazy
like dry tears
in a wandering lost
sleep

thoughts ricocheting
in a thunder of
approaching storms
whirlwinds
on the loose

with broken rainbows
in tattered ribbons
falling from the clouds
in the colors of wet

shimmering in the heat
reaching from the sun
surging flash floods
in the rapids of his heart

remembering distant smiles
and times
wandering through from
back in the days
of found

[zerostao]

aleksandr pushkin

 

The flower, very dry and scentless,I see in the forgotten book;And now, with the strangest fancies,Is filled my soul’s every nook.Where and in which spring was it grown?And how long? By whom was cut?By a hand known or unknown?And why was put this page behind?To the recall of the love-talking,Or separation forced by fate,Or quiet and alone walkingIn the fields’ silence and woods’ shade?Is he alive? And his sweet lady?And where is now their little nook?Or maybe they had both faded,Like this strange flower in this book?

[Taomeow]

R

 

I grew up in the city of a million tigers.

No... wait... got confused for a moment.

I grew up in the city of a million roses.

That's right.

There's a war on the roses.

 

Still, whoever believed, the fool that he was,

that by any which name a rose is a rose

never lived in the city

of a million tigers.

 

When you smile at the rose, she blushes.

She lifts up her flushed, eager face.

 

If you meant her no harm, you would never discover the thorns.

 

But try grabbing her, bending her, breaking her,

try making her yours by force

or murdering her -- just tighten your grip! --

and that's when you learn the true name of the rose.

 

The "R" in her name means

"resistance."

It warns you of grave

"repercussions."

It rumbles

"revenge,"

it rings out your

"ruin,"

It rolls out the score of your

"requiem."

 

So this is the name of the rose,

the RRRRRROSE,

the roar of the tigress,

her teeth and her claws, her unbreakable thorns --

 

-- feel them rip out your slippery life.

 

The "R" stands for...

I could tell you her name but you wouldn't listen...

I grew up in the city of a million tigers...

Edited August 7, 2014 by Taomeow

[zerostao]

I, too, dislike it: there are things that are important beyond      all this fiddle.   Reading it, however, with a perfect contempt for it, one      discovers in   it after all, a place for the genuine.      Hands that can grasp, eyes      that can dilate, hair that can rise         if it must, these things are important not because ahigh-sounding interpretation can be put upon them but because      they are   useful. When they become so derivative as to become      unintelligible,   the same thing may be said for all of us, that we      do not admire what      we cannot understand: the bat         holding on upside down or in quest of something to eat, elephants pushing, a wild horse taking a roll, a tireless      wolf under   a tree, the immovable critic twitching his skin like a horse      that feels a flea, the base-   ball fan, the statistician--      nor is it valid         to discriminate against “business documents andschool-books”; all these phenomena are important. One must make      a distinction   however: when dragged into prominence by half poets, the    result is not poetry,

   nor till the poets among us can be     “literalists of      the imagination”--above         insolence and triviality and can presentfor inspection, “imaginary gardens with real toads in them,"      shall we have   it. In the meantime, if you demand on the one hand,   the raw material of poetry in      all its rawness and      that which is on the other hand         genuine, you are interested in poetry.

 

marianne moore

[deci belle]

I found this in the frontispiece of my copy of Dogen's Shobogenzo. Don't know when I wrote this…

 

 

FLOWERS FALL

 

What is manifest

Is itself absolute reality

What lies at one's feet

Is this complete reality in one foot.

 

One's whole mind and body of creation

Has never once suffered existence:

Shining all along~

Following the heart's desire

without ever once

stepping outside the singular rhythm.

[Taomeow]

When the day's been thrown into the ocean like a stone,

the wind confessed its sins to the forgiving field of rye,

the fire-and-brimstone beast has had its feast of flesh and bone,

the wounded sun has spilled all of his blood across the sky,

 

we'll meet again.

 

Holding empty promises in clammy, shaking hands,

wearing hand-me-downs from all those ghoulish masquerades,

march between the street signs "Bright Beginnings"--"Bitter Ends"

while you wait for us to come like rain on your parades --

 

we'll meet again.

Edited September 2, 2014 by Taomeow

[Phenomniverse]

The Psuedoneuropocalyptic Symbiognostic Phenomniverse

A bubble, a world of thought, a thought of myriad worlds, kaleidoscopically refracting, oscillating endlessly, inverting, reverting, converting, conversing, converging, self-perpetuating, self-recipricating. Fractral cloud-forms, ghost-shapes of meaning, imputing import; word-games shaping a reality of sorts to sort for real; and rhythm and colour and texture to feel, wounds to heal like hidden doorways waiting to be explored, worlds within worlds within worlds, mirrors reflecting mirrors, reflecting.

Exercises in word-smithery, the craft of articulation, that is to say of bending and flexing, shaping and reshaping neuronal nexuses mirroring events, conspiring (with mutual meetings of spirit) with breath given sound given shape and flow, spirit made audible, and visible, and motile, and lingual. And with rhythm, a pulse, and fluctuations of pitch: music; and again movement makes dance: the all-singing, all-dancing spirit transmission, meeting as one.... the universe.

I want to make shapes with words: texture and rhythm... it needs to be music; a sound and light show of language... magic spells: experiences woven from syllables.

A carnival, a parade, a funeral procession... In the tangle and the turmoil and even the pain, is the intensity and poignance that is the very brightness and juice of life, the dance of light, and bliss, and anguish. At play in the carnival of lights, with senses open to just delights.

Letting my body and mind dissolve in the sound of wind blowing through bamboo groves, and the play of light on water, and sunshine on an open grassy hill-side.

Stealing moments of intimacy from unsuspecting strangers, the contours of their inner lives laid bare in the subtleties of their movement and gait and expression. Hidden tensions and reservations, opinions given shape in the loosenings and tightenings of connective tissues, structural matrices forming and reforming in patterns of reverbration mirroring their minds and worlds; patterns of reverbration giving rise to harmonic nodes: objects and identities in the semblance of discretion, dancing in time to a timeless music, in harmony with whirling, tumbling unborn chaos. The beautiful order, cosmetic, superficial, yet the very life and pulse and form of formlessness.

And in the movement of strangers, through sensual apprehension, a tactile intuition mediated by vision, I find that there are no strangers, no others, just glimpses beyond my accustomed horizons of being, doorways to unexplored yet strangely familiar regions of my own inner world; doorways and doorways and doorways, opening from and into everywhere.

[beyonder]

"Music and poetry are alike entertainment

I am alone but not lonely,

needing nothing from others

My imagination,

if not soaring above mountains,

I guard carefully inside,

Where it rests."

-Yi Kang

[zerostao]

A narrow Fellow in the GrassOccasionally rides --You may have met Him -- did you notHis notice sudden is --The Grass divides as with a Comb --A spotted shaft is seen --And then it closes at your feetAnd opens further on --He likes a Boggy AcreA Floor too cool for Corn --Yet when a Boy, and Barefoot --I more than once at NoonHave passed, I thought, a Whip lashUnbraiding in the SunWhen stooping to secure itIt wrinkled, and was gone --Several of Nature's PeopleI know, and they know me --I feel for them a transportOf cordiality --But never met this FellowAttended, or aloneWithout a tighter breathingAnd Zero at the Bone --

Emily

[mYTHmAKER]

The moon

can be seen

in light of day;

the sun,

never

at night.

 

I can’t recall

the first time

I saw

the sun set,

it’s light

reflected

in the moon

of night,

or

the moon

vanish,

with stars fading

light into light.

 

As the wind,

I could

follow the sun,

and never

let it set,

or

choose

to live in

reflected light,

by chasing

the moon.

 

The

mountains

tell me

be still;

have it all.

 

My friends,

the clouds,

gather

in celebration,

to keep

me company

[Taomeow]

A boy and a girl

didn't call it a day

didn't call it a date

didn't call it -- it came

 

they sat on a bench

the night climbing down

their acacia tree

like a monkey in search of

its edible flowers

 

the girl and the boy

had no words for what came

so they spoke of

technology

 

then over the mountain

a man-made mountain

called terricone

a flash of red light

 

the boy didn't see it

the girl didn't stop it

she sprang to her feet

she silently screamed

farewell oh farewell

so soon oh so soon

I knew it would come

I should have --

 

too late

 

I thought not tonight

farewell oh farewell

they did -- they -- they did --

they did this to us

they did -- after all --

before everything --

they dropped it

they did

 

they

 

then

 

she woke up

her darkness in check

her dress white with dread

she never looked back --

farewell, oh, farewell...

Edited September 8, 2014 by Taomeow

[zanshin]

Publish or perish

Edited April 19, 2020 by zanshin

[mYTHmAKER]

We traveled west,

translucent,

in a white wagon,

painting the clouds

on our way,

unknowingly

mooed by cows

with Martian green eyes

in the valleys

of the dark night,

while

climbing hills

and

scattering

our youth

in the dusk.

 

When we arrived,

it was time to leave,

and riding a rainbow

into luminescence

we departed.

 

Never to be seen again.

Never to be seen.

Never to be.

Never.

[zerostao]

When I have fears that I may cease to be

Before my pen has gleaned my teeming brain,

Before high-pilèd books, in charactery,

Hold like rich garners the full ripened grain;

When I behold, upon the night’s starred face,

Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance,

And think that I may never live to trace

Their shadows with the magic hand of chance;

And when I feel, fair creature of an hour,

That I shall never look upon thee more,

Never have relish in the faery power

Of unreflecting love—then on the shore

Of the wide world I stand alone, and think

Till love and fame to nothingness do sink.

keats