#ooetry

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

Crescent Moon above the Sea :: Emil Nolde :: circa 1945

Private collection :: Painting - watercolor Height: 19.8 cm (7.8 in.), Width: 26.5 cm (10.43 in.)

[Guillaume Gris]

* * * *

"This like a dream Keeps other time And daytime is The loss of this, For time is inches And the heart’s changes Where ghost has haunted Lost and wanted." This Lunar Beauty (excerpt)  by W.H. Auden

[alive on all channels]

[poisoned-dagger]

“maybe in death he’ll want me,”

I said as I plunged the dagger into his chest,

for how could I let that heart beat,

if it wasn’t for me?

Maybe now, as his chiselled face starts to rot,

he’ll let his ego down,

and welcome me into his heart,

the very one I ruined.

Don’t misunderstand,

this is a tale of love,

every word written with the pool of blood,

that rests beneath his hand.

Muffling his dying screams with my hand,

I let a single tear drop,

“soon, my love, I’ll be with you,”

the last words he’ll ever hear.

The kerosene engulfed every inch of my body,

a maniacal grin coming to my face,

as I lit up the lighter in my hand,

“together now and forevermore,” I whispered.

[whispy-baby]

I want to write a poem for you

I want to write a poem for you. About how no, I’m not in love with you, but I do love you. About how we haven’t known eachother for our whole lives, or years, or even months, but I’m so comfortable with you. About how you’re my first romance that feels real, that feels mature. There’s no childish games at play, there’s just me and you. About how I’m so nervous to introduce you to my family because I’m scared they’ll fuck it up, but I find comfort in knowing your family is just as fucked up. This isn’t my poem to you, it’s not careful or thought out as I wish my poem dedicated to you should be. But perhaps it can be in an introduction to my poem for you, for you to maybe read one day, when I’m in love with you.

[ukdamo]

Granada

Nizar Qabbbani

At the entrance of Alhambra was our meeting,

How sweet is a rendezvous not thought of before.

Two soft black eyes in perfect frames enticing,

Generating after-effects from the past ages afore.

Are you a Spaniard? I asked her enquiring,

She said: Granada is the city where I was bore.

Granada! Seven centuries awoke from slumbering,

In her eyes, after the clothing of sleep they wore.

And Umayyad, with flags lifted high, flying,

Their horses streaming by, unnumbered they pour.

How strange is history, how is it to me returning?

A beautiful granddaughter, from my pedigree of yore.

With a Damascene face, through it I was seeing,

The eyelids of Sheba and the neck of Sucad once more.

I saw a room in our old house with a clearing,

Where mother used to spread my cushions on the floor.

And the Jasmine inlaid in its stars were shining,

With the golden singing pool, a picture of splendour.

Damascus, where is it? I said: you will be seeing

It in your flowing hair, a river of golden black ore.

In your Arab face, in your mouth still storing

The suns of my country from the days of Arab lore.

In the perfume of Generalife with waters gleaming,

Its Arabian Jasmine, its sweet basil and citron odour.

She came with me and her hair behind her flowing,

Like luscious ears of grain in an unharvested meadow.

The long earrings on her neck were glittering,

Like Christmas Eve candles that sparkle and glow.

Behind her like a child I walked, she was guiding,

And behind me, history, piles of ashes row after row.

The decoration of Alhambra I almost hear pulsing,

And the ornaments on the roof, I hear their call grow.

She said: Alhambra! Pride of my ancestors glowing,

Read on its walls my glories that shine and show.

Her glory! I anointed an open wound festering,

And in my heart anointed another that refused to go.

If only my lovely granddaughter had a way of knowing,

The ones she meant were my ancestors of long, long ago.

When I bid her adieu, when I knew I was going,

I embraced in her Ṭāriq ibn Ziyād, that Arab hero.

[ministerpeacefulpoetwordwitch]

When The Day Is Through

When The Day Is Through Judge me Judge you Judge all day Until the day is through and who are you You think you know You think you knew But I’m telling you When the judgment day comes Its going to hurt you When they ask Who are you What will you say What will you do When they hand you the broom and mop Tell you to clean up the mess For all you caused to flop Then maybe you’ll confess You didn’t know Feelings you did not show Just wanted pain to go But you didn’t know The hurt you did too All day long Until the day was through By: Minister Peacefulpoet (word witch) 2/12/22

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

drift of the world

“I thought that you were an anchor in the drift of the world; but no: there isn’t an anchor anywhere. There isn’t an anchor in the drift of the world. Oh no. I thought you were. Oh no. The drift of the world.”

— William Bronk, “The World,” Selected Poems (New Directions, 1995)

[rasmasandra]

The Wonder of Life

The Wonder of Life

This life is full of wonder,so many things to do and see,every day there is some joy,that can make me smile.I never ever want to feel,that the days,will bring me downand make me feel blue.So when the skies are dark and gray,I close my eyesand travel to a sunny place,that exists just in my mind,but it makes me feel so very fine,adventures round every bend,new things to explore,nature walks bring…

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[msmarymillspaulos]

Hanging Out

Burton Silverman 1928

“The heart, like the mind, has a memory.

And in it are kept the most precious keepsakes.”

- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow