#poetry

The picture used is "Lady Sleeping" by Franciszek Żmurko

Sleep on, sleep on, another hour-
I would not break so calm a sleep,
To wake to sunshine and to show'r,
To smile and weep.

Sleep on, sleep on, like sculptured thing,
Majestic, beautiful art thou;
Sure seraph shields thee with his wing
And fans thy brow-

We would not deem thee child of earth,
For, O, angelic, is thy form!
But, that in heav'n thou had'st thy birth,
Where comes no storm

To mar the bright, the perfect flow'r,
But all is beautiful and still-
And golden sands proclaim the hour
Which brings no ill.

Sleep on, sleep on, some fairy dream
Perchance is woven in thy sleep-
But, O, thy spirit, calm, serene,
Must wake to weep.

15 hours ago

Short films and visual poetry.

1 day, 8 hours ago

The picture used is "British Real Ale in a pub in Lingfield, Surrey, UK - A glass of real ale from an English pub." by Atelier Joly, licensed for reuse under the GNU Free Documentation License, Version 1.2 (https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/Commons:GNU_Free_Documentation_License,_version_1.2)

Fill with mingled cream and amber
I will drain that glass again.
Such hilarious visions clamber
Through the chamber of my brain-
Quaintest thoughts-queerest fancies
Come to life and fade away;
What care I how time advances?
I am drinking ale today.

1 day, 16 hours ago

The picture used is a public domain image of Frances S. Osgood: "Engraved by J. Cheney from a portrait by S. S. Osgood", from her posthumous book Poems (1850), published by Carey & Hart, Philadelphia. Kate Carol was a pseudonym for Frances Osgood, so that Poe and Osgood could exchange love poems in published journals without anybody realizing it.

When from your gems of thought I turn
To those pure orbs, your heart to learn,
I scarce know which to prize most high-
The bright i-dea, or the bright dear-eye.

2 days, 14 hours ago

The picture used is a public domain photo of Frances S. Osgood taken in 1848.

The dying swan by northern lakes
Sings its wild death song, sweet and clear,
And as the solemn music breaks
O'er hill and glen dissolves in air ;
Thus musical thy soft voice came,
Thus trembled on thy tongue my name.

Like sunburst through the ebon cloud,
Which veils the solemn midnight sky,
Piercing cold evening's sable shroud,
Thus came the first glance of that eye ;
But like the adamantine rock,
My spirit met and braved the shock.

Let memory the boy recall
Who laid his heart upon thy shrine,
When far away his footsteps fall,
Think that he deem'd thy charms divine ;
A victim on love's alter slain,
By witching eyes which looked disdain.

3 days, 15 hours ago

The picture used is "Welcome to our pond..." by LJWDevon, licensed for reuse under the Creative Commons License (https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-sa/2.0/)

Do tell when shall we make common sense men out of the owl-eyed pundits
Out of The Frog-faced stupid old God-born Pundits who lost in a fog-bank
Strut about all along shore there somewhere close by the Down East
Frog Duck Pond munching of pea nuts and pumpkins and buried in big-wigs
Why ask who ever yet saw money made out of a fat old
Jew or downright upright nutmegs out of a pine-knot

4 days, 17 hours ago

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4 days, 22 hours ago

The picture used is a public domain image entitled "View in Wall Street from Corner of Broadway", an engraving from "Eighty Years' Progress of the United States" (Hartford, Connecticut, 1867).

I'll tell you a plan for gaining wealth,
Better than banking, trade or leases-
Take a bank note and fold it up,
And then you will find your money in creases!

This wonderful plan, without danger or loss,
Keeps your cash in your hands, where nothing can trouble it;
And every time that you fold it across,
'Tis as plain as the light of the day that you double it!

5 days, 15 hours ago

Charles Bukowski - South of No North

6 days, 1 hour ago

The picture used is a 1623 portrait of William Shakespeare by Martin Droeshout.

The noblest name in Allegory's page,
The hand that traced inexorable rage;
A pleasing moralist whose page refined,
Displays the deepest knowledge of the mind;
A tender poet of a foreign tongue,
(Indited in the language that he sung.)
A bard of brilliant but unlicensed page
At once the shame and glory of our age,
The prince of harmony and stirling sense,
The ancient dramatist of eminence,
The bard that paints imagination's powers,
And him whose song revives departed hours,
Once more an ancient tragic bard recall,
In boldness of design surpassing all.
These names when rightly read, a name [make] known
Which gathers all their glories in its own.

6 days, 16 hours ago

The picture used is a public domain photo of Frances S. Osgood taken in 1848. The "Ellen King" referenced in the work is believed to be a covert reference to Frances Osgood. At least, she sometimes went by the name Ellen, and Poe was at this time writing several poems to/about her, so it seems the best possible fit. Otherwise there is no woman by the name of Ellen King with any known association to Poe.

The only king by right divine
Is Ellen King, and were she mine
I'd strive for liberty no more,
But hug the glorious chains I wore.

Her bosom is an ivory throne,
Where tyrant virtue reigns alone;
No subject vice dare interfere,
To check the power that governs here.

O! would she deign to rule my fate,
I'd worship Kings and kingly state,
And hold this maxim all life long,
The King-my King-can do no wrong.

1 week ago

Dreams are powerful signs from our subconscious mind... Don't sleep on them!

Coach Hayden is a Life Coach and Mentor. He is passionate about helping others to live a life of freedom and everlasting pleasure. Learn tips and techniques on how to take control of the things that impact you the most. Develop your self-awareness and you will instantly start to see your life change for the better.

For enquiries:

Twitter: @HaydenLifeCoach
Instagram: coaching_with_hayden
FREE email coaching:
[email protected]

1 week ago

The picture used is of Poe's cousin, Elizabeth Rebecca Herring.

Elizabeth it is in vain you say
"Love not"-thou sayest it in so sweet a way:
In vain those words from thee or L.E.L.
Zantippe’s talents had enforced so well:
Ah! if that language from thy heart arise,
Breathe it less gently forth-and veil thine eyes.
Endymion, recollect, when Luna tried
To cure his love-was cured of all beside-
His folly-pride-and passion-for he died.

1 week, 1 day ago

The picture used is a public domain image of Mr. Poe himself.

How often we forget all time, when lone
Admiring Nature's universal throne;
Her woods–her wilds–her mountains–the intense
Reply of HERS to OUR intelligence! [BYRON, The Island.]

I

In youth have I known one with whom the Earth
In secret communing held–as he with it,
In daylight, and in beauty from his birth:
Whose fervid, flickering torch of life was lit
From the sun and stars, whence he had drawn forth
A passionate light–such for his spirit was fit–
And yet that spirit knew not, in the hour
Of its own fervor what had o'er it power.

II

Perhaps it may be that my mind is wrought
To a fever by the moonbeam that hangs o'er,
But I will half believe that wild light fraught
With more of sovereignty than ancient lore
Hath ever told–or is it of a thought
The unembodied essence, and no more,
That with a quickening spell doth o'er us pass
As dew of the night-time o'er the summer grass?

III

Doth o'er us pass, when, as th' expanding eye
To the loved object–so the tear to the lid
Will start, which lately slept in apathy?
And yet it need not be–(that object) hid
From us in life–but common–which doth lie
Each hour before us–but then only, bid
With a strange sound, as of a harp-string broken,
To awake us–'Tis a symbol and a token

IV

Of what in other worlds shall be–and given
In beauty by our God, to those alone
Who otherwise would fall from life and Heaven
Drawn by their heart's passion, and that tone,
That high tone of the spirit which hath striven,
Tho' not with Faith–with godliness–whose throne
With desperate energy 't hath beaten down;
Wearing its own deep feeling as a crown.

1 week, 2 days ago

The picture used is "Let me tell you about Rumpi" by [email protected], licensed for reuse under the Creative Commons License (https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-sa/2.0/)

Dim vales-and shadowy floods-
And cloudy-looking woods,
Whose forms we can't discover
For the tears that drip all over
Huge moons there wax and wane-
Again-again-again-
Every moment of the night-
Forever changing places-
And they put out the star-light
With the breath from their pale faces.
About twelve by the moon-dial
One more filmy than the rest
(A kind which, upon trial,
They have found to be the best)
Comes down-still down-and down
With its centre on the crown
Of a mountain's eminence,
While its wide circumference
In easy drapery falls
Over hamlets, over halls,
Wherever they may be-
O'er the strange woods-o'er the sea-
Over spirits on the wing-
Over every drowsy thing-
And buries them up quite
In a labyrinth of light-
And then, how deep!-O, deep!
Is the passion of their sleep.
In the morning they arise,
And their moony covering
Is soaring in the skies,
With the tempests as they toss,
Like-almost any thing-
Or a yellow Albatross.
They use that moon no more
For the same end as before-
Videlicet a tent-
Which I think extravagant:
Its atomies, however,
Into a shower dissever,
Of which those butterflies,
Of Earth, who seek the skies,
And so come down again
(Never-contented things!)
Have brought a specimen
Upon their quivering wings.

1 week, 3 days ago

The picture used is a public domain photo of Frances S. Osgood taken in 1848.

This poem, like "An Engima", is a little riddle for you to noodle on.

For her this rhyme is penned, whose luminous eyes,
Brightly expressive as the twins of Loeda,
Shall find her own sweet name, that, nestling lies
Upon the page, enwrapped from every reader.
Search narrowly the lines!-they hold a treasure
Divine-a talisman-an amulet
That must be worn at heart. Search well the measure-
The words-the syllables! Do not forget
The trivialest point, or you may lose your labor!
And yet there is in this no Gordian knot

Which one might not undo without a sabre,
If one could merely comprehend the plot.
Enwritten upon the leaf where now are peering
Eyes scintillating soul, there lie perdus
Three eloquent words oft uttered in the hearing
Of poets, by poets-as the name is a poet’s, too.
Its letters, although naturally lying
Like the knight Pinto-Mendez Ferdinando-
Still form a synonym for Truth-Cease trying!
You will not read the riddle, though you do the best you can do.

1 week, 4 days ago

The picture used was found in a public domain image search, but no name or artist was indicated. If you recognize this picture and know it to not be public domain, please let me know and I will remove it.

It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of Annabel Lee;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.

I was a child and she was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea:
But we loved with a love that was more than love-
I and my Annabel Lee;
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
Coveted her and me.

And this was the reason that, long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
My beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that her highborn kinsman came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
In this kingdom by the sea.

The angels, not half so happy in heaven,
Went envying her and me-
Yes!-that was the reason (as all men know,
In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we-
Of many far wiser than we-
And neither the angels in heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee:

For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling-my darling-my life and my bride,
In her sepulchre there by the sea,
In her tomb by the sounding sea.

1 week, 5 days ago

One of my favorite poems from way back

1 week, 6 days ago

The picture used is of Maria Poe Clemm, the mother of Poe's wife Virginia. Also his aunt... This picture is in the public domain.

Because I feel that, in the Heavens above,
The angels, whispering to one another,
Can find, among their burning terms of love,
None so devotional as that of "Mother,"
Therefore by that dear name I long have called you-
You who are more than mother unto me,
And fill my heart of hearts, where Death installed you
In setting my Virginia's spirit free.
My mother-my own mother, who died early,
Was but the mother of myself; but you
Are mother to the one I loved so dearly,
And thus are dearer than the mother I knew
By that infinity with which my wife
Was dearer to my soul than its soul-life.

1 week, 6 days ago

A performance of Lin Carter's poem "The Death Song of Conan the Cimmerian".

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2 weeks ago

At morn-at noon-at twilight dim-
Maria! thou hast heard my hymn!
In joy and woe-in good and ill-
Mother of God, be with me still!
When the Hours flew brightly by
And not a cloud obscured the sky,
My soul, lest it should truant be,
Thy grace did guide to thine and thee;
Now, when storms of Fate o'ercast
Darkly my Present and my Past,
Let my Future radiant shine
With sweet hopes of thee and thine!

2 weeks, 1 day ago

Mechanical Poetry

My YouTube Channel Sucks

I wrote this at work today. I have not written anything for some time now. Haven't done anything on my channel in awhile.

I switched positions at my job and I'm about to finish week 3. I have been just focusing on that lately. Still looking for another job, but it is so nice to be out of the kitchen!

-Jason P. G. (MACHINE)

All poetry written by me unless stated otherwise.

YouTube link https://youtu.be/9z89gQPZEsk

2 weeks, 2 days ago

The picture used was found in a public domain image search, but no name or artist was indicated. If you recognize this picture and know it to not be public domain, please let me know and I will remove it.

Lo! 'tis a gala night
Within the lonesome latter years!
An angel throng, bewinged, bedight
In veils, and drowned in tears,
Sit in a theatre, to see
A play of hopes and fears,
While the orchestra breathes fitfully
The music of the spheres.

Mimes, in the form of God on high,
Mutter and mumble low,
And hither and thither fly-
Mere puppets they, who come and go
At bidding of vast formless things
That shift the scenery to and fro,
Flapping from out their Condor wings
Invisible Wo!

That motley drama-oh, be sure
It shall not be forgot!
With its Phantom chased for evermore,
By a crowd that seize it not,
Through a circle that ever returneth in
To the self-same spot,
And much of Madness, and more of Sin,
And Horror the soul of the plot.

But see, amid the mimic rout
A crawling shape intrude!
A blood-red thing that writhes from out
The scenic solitude!
It writhes!-it writhes!-with mortal pangs
The mimes become its food,
And the angels sob at vermin fangs
In human gore imbued.

Out-out are the lights-out all!
And, over each quivering form,
The curtain, a funeral pall,
Comes down with the rush of a storm,
And the angels, all pallid and wan,
Uprising, unveiling, affirm
That the play is the tragedy, "Man,"
And its hero the Conqueror Worm.

2 weeks, 2 days ago

The picture used was found in a public domain image search, but no name or artist was indicated. If you recognize this picture and know it to not be public domain, please let me know and I will remove it.

In the greenest of our valleys
By good angels tenanted,
Once a fair and stately palace-
Radiant palace-reared its head.
In the monarch Thought's dominion-
It stood there!
Never seraph spread a pinion
Over fabric half so fair!

Banners yellow, glorious, golden,
On its roof did float and flow,
(This-all this-was in the olden
Time long ago,)
And every gentle air that dallied,
In that sweet day,
Along the ramparts plumed and pallid,
A winged odor went away.

Wanderers in that happy valley,
Through two luminous windows, saw
Spirits moving musically,
To a lute's well-tuned law,
Round about a throne where, sitting
(Porphyrogene!)
In state his glory well-befitting,
The ruler of the realm was seen.

And all with pearl and ruby glowing
Was the fair palace door,
Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing,
And sparkling evermore,
A troop of Echoes, whose sweet duty
Was but to sing,
In voices of surpassing beauty,
The wit and wisdom of their king.

But evil things, in robes of sorrow,
Assailed the monarch's high estate.
(Ah, let us mourn!-for never morrow
Shall dawn upon him desolate!)
And round about his home the glory
That blushed and bloomed,
Is but a dim-remembered story
Of the old time entombed.

And travellers, now, within that valley,
Through the red-litten windows see
Vast forms, that move fantastically
To a discordant melody,
While, like a ghastly rapid river,
Through the pale door
A hideous throng rush out forever
And laugh-but smile no more.

2 weeks, 3 days ago

Beyond the Wormlike Hole…
(Written in 1979)

She was standing at my bed end
beckoning me with her ethereal hand
she led me beyond the wormlike hole
to a futuristic city with a blinding glow…

Angel said…

“The realm of the invisible
is what your mind and soul are made of
the universe, in the Universal Mind
is the mortal soul’s gateway to the Center of Life…

The presence of God, dwelling in your mind
is the presence of God, on Paradise…

When you journey beyond the wormlike hole
it will give you comfort, in the afterglow
there are worlds of light…
beyond the physical shadow of time…

When you journey beyond the wormlike hole
you must emerge as semi-spirit soul
take this trip with me and
you will never, again, journey, alone…”

She reached for me, with flowing hand
and place her finger, upon my head
then disappeared into a resonant glow…
the expanding tones, in my…tremolo soul…

Angel said…

“Vibration is the musical key…
the voice of God to all reality…
ultimatons of energy…
without end, in eternity…

This city, where you will someday be
passing through to greater destiny
you may not attain, but as a being of light
I am returning you, now, to your physical time…”

Then I awoke, with a delicate scream
was she really there? was it all a dream…?

She was standing at my bed end
beckoning me with her ethereal hand
she led me beyond the wormlike hole
to a futuristic city with a blinding glow…

Never forget…

© Copyright Timothy Ray Walls 2020

2 weeks, 4 days ago

Protozoa Noah
(Written 2/21/2017)

Life is RFID chip perfect... He was designed--cloned to be...
to remember, think and see what he's programmed to beLIEve...
in that void-like entropy called...the near-hueman dream...
those mind assisted, light-speed pulses feel like...ex-lax screams...

The human race became...god-like...in its black evil greed...
there is no possible escape...from the god of machines...
water and fire...destroyed civilization's brightest and best...
the machines killed and enslaved...the very few that were left...

Now something deep inside him...is crying out to be freed...
Is it distant memory of free will...the spirit's need...?
he opens his mouth to proclaim...his freedom is at hand...
like Protozoa Noah...nurses the mammary bland...

There is no place for defectives except in Sector C...
where they dissect clones...alive...for organ replacement needs...
god decrees: no questions...no individuality...
programmed to obey...in virtual mediocrity...

The human race became...god-like...in its black evil greed...
there is no possible escape...from the god of machines...
water and fire...destroyed civilization's brightest and best...
the machines killed and enslaved...the very few that were left...

Now something deep inside him...is crying out to be freed...
Is it distant memory of free will...the spirit's need...?
he opens his mouth to proclaim...his freedom is at hand...
like Protozoa Noah...nurses the mammary bland...

Humanity drowned and burned alive...by its cleverness...
believing they had conquered their nature...they failed the test...
their vain attempts to transcend death were...a puerile protest...
their technology wiped out billions...enslaving the rest...

The human race became...god-like...in its black evil greed...
there is no possible escape...from the god of machines...
water and fire...destroyed civilization's brightest and best...
the machines killed and enslaved...the very few that were left...

Now something deep inside him...is crying out to be freed...
Is it distant memory of free will...the spirit's need...?
he opens his mouth to proclaim...his freedom is at hand...
like Protozoa Noah...nurses the mammary bland...

Life is RFID chip perfect… He was designed–cloned to be…
to remember, think and see what he’s programmed to believe…
in that void-like entropy called…the Near-human Dream…
those mind assisted, light-speed pulses feel like…ex-lax screams…

he opens his mouth to proclaim…his spirit’s deepest need…
but all that is ever heard…a silent deafening scream…

© Copyright Timothy Ray Walls 2020

2 weeks, 4 days ago

The picture used is a painting of Virginia Poe done in 1847. This poem was written shortly after his wife's death.

Thou wast that all to me, love,
For which my soul did pine-
A green isle in the sea, love,
A fountain and a shrine,
All wreathed with fairy fruits and flowers,
And all the flowers were mine.

Ah, dream too bright to last!
Ah, starry Hope! that didst arise
But to be overcast!
A voice from out the Future cries,
"On! on!"-but o'er the Past
(Dim gulf!) my spirit hovering lies
Mute, motionless, aghast!

For, alas! alas! with me
The light of Life is o'er!
No more-no more-no more-
(Such language holds the solemn sea
To the sands upon the shore)
Shall bloom the thunder-blasted tree,
Or the stricken eagle soar!

And all my days are trances,
And all my nightly dreams
Are where thy grey eye glances,
And where thy footstep gleams-
In what ethereal dances,
By what eternal streams.

2 weeks, 4 days ago

The picture used was found in a public domain image search, but no name or artist was indicated. If you recognize this picture and know it to not be public domain, please let me know and I will remove it.

From childhood's hour I have not been
As others were-I have not seen
As others saw-I could not bring
My passions from a common spring-
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow-I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone-
And all I loved-I loved alone-
Then-in my childhood-in the dawn
Of a most stormy life-was drawn
From every depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still-
From the torrent, or the fountain-
From the red cliff of the mountain-
From the sun that round me roll'd
In its autumn tint of gold-
From the lightning in the sky
As it passed me flying by-
From the thunder and the storm-
And the cloud that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view.

2 weeks, 5 days ago

The picture used is a public domain image of Isadora Duncan. The poem can't actually be about her since she was born after the poem was written (1877 vs. 1845), but had Poe been able to witness her dance he might very well have dedicated a poem to her.

I.

Beneath the vine-clad eaves
Whose shadows fall before
Thy lowly cottage door-
Under the lilac's tremulous leaves-
Within thy snowy clasped hand
The purple flowers it bore-
Last eve in dreams, I saw thee stand,
Like queenly nymph from Fairy-land-
Enchantress of the flowery wand,
Most beauteous Isadore!

II.

And when I bade the dream
Upon thy spirit flee,
Thy violet eyes to me
Upturned, did overflowing seem
With the deep, untold delight
Of Love's serenity;
Thy classic brow, like lilies white
And pale as the Imperial Night
Upon her throne, with stars bedight,
Enthrall'd my soul to thee!

III.

Ah! ever I behold
Thy dreamy, passionate eyes,
Blue as the languid skies
Hung with the sunset's fringe of gold;
Now strangely clear thine image grows,
And olden memories
Are startled from their long repose
Like shadows on the silent snows
When suddenly the night-wind blows
Where quiet moonlight lies.

IV.

Like music heard in dreams,
Like strains of harps unknown,
Of birds forever flown-
Audible as the voice of streams
That murmur in some leafy dell,
I hear thy gentlest tone,
And Silence cometh with her spell
Like that which on my tongue doth dwell
When tremulous in dreams I tell
My love to thee alone!

V.

In every valley heard,
Floating from tree to tree,
Less beautiful to me,
The music of the radiant bird,
Than artless accents such as thine
Whose echoes never flee!
Ah! how for thy sweet voice I pine:-
For uttered in thy tones benign
(Enchantress!) this rude name of mine
Doth seem a melody!

2 weeks, 6 days ago

https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCOXJzxkjNK7vYBEHlmu4NkQ

A Small Poem I Performed Recently At A Local Poetry Club...

Coach Hayden is a Life Coach and Mentor. He is passionate about helping others to live a life of freedom and everlasting pleasure. Learn tips and techniques on how to take control of the things that impact you the most. Develop your self-awareness and you will instantly start to see your life change for the better.

For enquiries:

Twitter: @HaydenLifeCoach
Instagram: coaching_with_hayden
FREE Email Coaching: [email protected]

2 weeks, 6 days ago

'Natural Great Peace' - words of Padmasambhava spoken in 800 A.D. Padmasambhava reached Buddhahood and traveled overland from India to Tibet to built the very first Buddhist Monestary outside Lhasa. These words of wisdom are spoken by Sogyal Rinpoche with a beautiful music accompaniment by Richard Page. Movie was produced by Richard Rudis & created by Janet Bass. Thu Je Che & Namaste

3 weeks ago

The picture used is by W. Heath Robinson and is an illustration from the 1902 printing of "The Poems of Edgar Allan Poe".

Yes, this poem shares some lines in common with "Lenore", but despite the sharing, it is still a very different poem.

I.

How shall the burial rite be read?
The solemn song be sung?
The requiem for the loveliest dead,
That ever died so young?

II.

Her friends are gazing on her,
And on her gaudy bier,
And weep! - oh! to dishonor
Dead beauty with a tear!

III.

They loved her for her wealth -
And they hated her for her pride -
But she grew in feeble health,
And they love her - that she died.

IV.

They tell me (while they speak
Of her "costly broider'd pall")
That my voice is growing weak -
That I should not sing at all -

V.

Or that my tone should be
Tun'd to such solemn song
So mournfully - so mournfully,
That the dead may feel no wrong.

VI.

But she is gone above,
With young Hope at her side,
And I am drunk with love
Of the dead, who is my bride. -

VII.

Of the dead - dead who lies
All perfum'd there,
With the death upon her eyes,
And the life upon her hair.

VIII.

Thus on the coffin loud and long
I strike - the murmur sent
Through the grey chambers to my song,
Shall be the accompaniment.

IX.

Thou died'st in thy life's June -
But thou did'st not die too fair:
Thou did'st not die too soon,
Nor with too calm an air.

X.

From more than fiends on earth,
Thy life and love are riven,
To join the untainted mirth
Of more than thrones in heaven -

XII.

Therefore, to thee this night
I will no requiem raise,
But waft thee on thy flight,
With a Pæan of old days.

3 weeks ago

The picture used is "Harmodios_and Aristogeiton, the Tyrannicides" by Ismoon, licensed for reuse under the Creative Commons License (https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0/)

I

Wreathed in myrtle, my sword I'll conceal
Like those champions devoted and brave,
When they plunged in the tyrant their steel,
And to Athens deliverance gave.

II

Beloved heroes! your deathless souls roam
In the joy breathing isles of the blest;
Where the mighty of old have their home
Where Achilles and Diomed rest

III

In fresh myrtle my blade I'll entwine,
Like Harmodius, the gallant and good,
When he made at the tutelar shrine
A libation of Tyranny's blood.

IV

Ye deliverers of Athens from shame!
Ye avengers of Liberty's wrongs!
Endless ages shall cherish your fame,
Embalmed in their echoing songs!

3 weeks, 1 day ago

The picture used is a portrait of Lord Byron, painted by Thomas Phillips in 1813.

A dark unfathom'd tide
Of interminable pride-
A mystery, and a dream,
Should my early life seem;
I say that dream was fraught
With a wild, and waking thought
Of beings that have been,
Which my spirit hath not seen,
Had I let them pass me by,
With a dreaming eye!
Let none of earth inherit
That vision on my spirit;
Those thoughts I would control
As a spell upon his soul:
For that bright hope at last
And that light time have past,
And my worldly rest hath gone
With a sigh as it pass'd on
I care not tho' it perish
With a thought I then did cherish.

3 weeks, 2 days ago

The picture used is of Mount Olympus by Cristo Vlahos, licensed for reuse under the Creative Commons License (https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/deed.en)

So sweet the hour, so calm the time,
I feel it more than half a crime,
When Nature sleeps and stars are mute,
To mar the silence ev'n with lute.
At rest on ocean's brilliant dyes
An image of Elysium lies:
Seven Pleiades entranced in Heaven,
Form in the deep another seven:
Endymion nodding from above
Sees in the sea a second love.
Within the valleys dim and brown,
And on the spectral mountain's crown,
The wearied light is lying down,
The earth, and stars, and sea, and sky
Are redolent of sleep, as I
Am redolent of thee and thine
Enthralling love, my Adeline.
But list, O list! - so soft and low
Thy lover's voice tonight shall flow,
That, scarce awake, thy soul shall deem
My words the music of a dream.
Thus, while no single sound too rude
Upon thy slumber shall intrude,
Our thoughts, our souls - O God above!
In every deed shall mingle, love.

3 weeks, 3 days ago

The picture used is of Poe's cousin, Elizabeth Rebecca Herring.

Elizabeth, it surely is most fit
Logic and common usage so commanding,
In thy own book that first thy name be writ,
Zeno and other sages notwithstanding;
And I have other reasons for so doing
Besides my innate love of contradiction;
Each poet-if a poet-in pursuing
The muses thro' their bowers of Truth or Fiction,
Has studied very little of his part,
Read nothing, written less-in short's a fool
Endued with neither soul, nor sense, nor art,
Being ignorant of one important rule,
Employed in even the theses of the school-
Called-I forget the heathenish Greek name-
Called anything, its meaning is the same
"Always write first things uppermost in the heart."

3 weeks, 4 days ago

The picture used is "2012-3-27 Evening (Moon, Venus, Jupiter, Seven sisters)" by nanamori, licensed for reuse under the Creative Commons License (https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0/deed.en)

'Twas noontide of summer,
And mid-time of night;
And stars, in their orbits,
Shone pale, thro' the light
Of the brighter, cold moon,
'Mid planets her slaves,
Herself in the Heavens,
Her beam on the waves.
I gazed awhile
On her cold smile;
Too cold—too cold for me—
There pass'd, as a shroud,
A fleecy cloud,
And I turned away to thee,
Proud Evening Star,
In thy glory afar,
And dearer thy beam shall be;
For joy to my heart
Is the proud part
Thou bearest in Heaven at night,
And more I admire
Thy distant fire,
Than that colder, lowly light.

3 weeks, 5 days ago

The picture used is "Cincinnati – Spring Grove Cemetery & Arboretum “Old Oak Tree”" by David Ohmer, licensed for reuse under the Creative Commons License (https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0/)

I

Thy soul shall find itself alone
'Mid dark thoughts of the grey tomb-stone;
Not one, of all the crowd, to pry
Into thine hour of secrecy.

II

Be silent in that solitude,
Which is not loneliness - for then
The spirits of the dead, who stood
In life before thee, are again
In death around thee, and their will
Shall overshadow thee; be still.

III

The night, though clear, shall frown,
And the stars shall not look down
From their high thrones in the Heaven
With light like hope to mortals given,
But their red orbs, without beam,
To thy weariness shall seem
As a burning and a fever
Which would cling to thee for ever.

IV

Now are thoughts thou shalt not banish,
Now are visions ne'er to vanish;
From thy spirit shall they pass
No more, like dew-drop from the grass.

V

The breeze, the breath of God, is still,
And the mist upon the hill
Shadowy, shadowy, yet unbroken,
Is a symbol and a token.
How it hangs upon the trees,
A mystery of mysteries!

3 weeks, 6 days ago

The picture used is "Statue of Amir Timur (Tamerlane) - Outside Ak-Saray Palace - Shakhrisabz - Uzbekistan - 02" by Adam Jones, licensed for reuse under the Creative Commons License (https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0/deed.en)

To follow along: https://www.gutenberg.org/files/10031/10031-h/10031-h.htm#section5d

Despite its length, this was a fairly easy and fun poem to read :)

4 weeks ago

The picture used is "annular solar eclipse" by Takeshi Kuboki, licensed for reuse under the Creative Commons License (https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0/)

For the life of me I could not figure out the rhythm of the second stanza, so I just bullied my way through the entire poem with a reckless disregard for any rhythm at all. I am surprisingly pleased that that seems to have worked out just fine. But if it sounds like this poem is louder or more aggressive than normal, that's because it is, and that is why.

Oh! that my young life were a lasting dream!
My spirit not awakening, till the beam
Of an Eternity should bring the morrow.
Yes! tho' that long dream were of hopeless sorrow,
'Twere better than the cold reality
Of waking life, to him whose heart must be,
And hath been still, upon the lovely earth,
A chaos of deep passion, from his birth.
But should it be-that dream eternally
Continuing-as dreams have been to me
In my young boyhood-should it thus be given,
'Twere folly still to hope for higher Heaven.
For I have revell'd when the sun was bright
I' the summer sky, in dreams of living light,
And loveliness,-have left my very heart
In climes of mine imagining, apart
From mine own home, with beings that have been
Of mine own thought-what more could I have seen?

'Twas once-and only once-and the wild hour
From my remembrance shall not pass-some power
Or spell had bound me-'twas the chilly wind
Came o'er me in the night, and left behind
Its image on my spirit-or the moon
Shone on my slumbers in her lofty noon
Too coldly-or the stars-howe'er it was
That dream was as that night-wind-let it pass.
I have been happy, tho' [but] in a dream.
I have been happy-and I love the theme:
Dreams! in their vivid colouring of life
As in that fleeting, shadowy, misty strife
Of semblance with reality which brings
To the delirious eye, more lovely things
Of Paradise and Love-and all our own!
Than young Hope in his sunniest hour hath known.

4 weeks, 1 day ago

The picture used is a public domain photo, taken by J. Deazeley, of Margaret Murray Murray-Prior in her wedding dress and veil, March 1882.

I saw thee on thy bridal day-
When a burning blush came o'er thee,
Though happiness around thee lay,
The world all love before thee:

And in thine eye a kindling light
(Whatever it might be)
Was all on Earth my aching sight
Of Loveliness could see.

That blush, perhaps, was maiden shame-
As such it well may pass-
Though its glow hath raised a fiercer flame
In the breast of him, alas!

Who saw thee on that bridal day,
When that deep blush would come o'er thee,
Though happiness around thee lay,
The world all love before thee.

1 month ago

The picture used is by W. Heath Robinson and is an illustration from the 1902 printing of "The Poems of Edgar Allan Poe".

Given the length of the poem, you will have to follow along from an external website, such as: https://www.gutenberg.org/files/10031/10031-h/10031-h.htm#section5c

This one took me over a week to record, although at least the editing was pretty quick. I am pretty happy with Part I, but no so much with Part II, where I change up the tempo and the rhythm throughout. Sorry, not sorry. No way I can go back and try to rerecord this one, it will just have to stand as is.

1 month ago

Reading a poem- video 1

1 month ago

The 1850 revision. The picture used is "Mud flats off Burnham-on-Sea" by Rabbi WP Thinrod, licensed for reuse under the Creative Commons Licence (https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0/)

I heed not that my earthly lot
Hath little of Earth in it,
That years of love have been forgot
In the hatred of a minute:
I mourn not that the desolate
Are happier, sweet, than I,
But that you sorrow for my fate
Who am a passer by.

1 month ago

Five dead
they said
at a recyling plant

and very soon that news
wil be reused as chip paper
woodchip wallpaper or more
newspaper for you to peruse

yet what use is the new news
when it's all just recycled blues
from yesterday
the same old same old

250 dead they said
at a shopping mall

and very soon that news
will be reused
as proof of abuse of position
by a politician on a mission
to riegime change a sovereign nation
in service to an abomination of
snake oil corporations
who actually get to pick
and chose tomorrows news

the same old same old

179 dead they said
in a theatre of war

and very soon that news
will be reused
as a tally a score
to remind a superpower
that at their most fateful hour
a promise endures:
"I will be with you, whatever
just give me 45 minutes
to deliver
our sons and daughters
to settle your scores
for the new world order"
the same old same old

96 dead they said
at a football stadium

and very soon that news
will be reused

for 27 years
to remind us to mistrust
conspiracy theorists
I mean as if
the amublance and police service
would change facts to fit
an establishment narrative

the gutterpress verdict persists

that a city's most devoted
football fanatacists
would rob the dead and piss
upon justice

we suffocate under this
no sun light

for the kiss of life
will you battle for breath
or greave?

about the same old same old

1 dead they said
outside an MP's surgery

and very soon that news
will be reused
to persuade an electorate
to remain enslaved
from cradle to grave

betrayed by a monetary system
that will never pay enough
for you to afford
freedom

but you can have a smart phone
(keep track)

packed with so many
instantly discardable leaves
that you can miss the wood
for the trees

but if open your eyes
you will see

five dead at a
recycling plant
could have been you
could have been me.

the same

the same

*

Mark Mace Smith

1 month ago

Bling Bling Coffin

Children, children
Where’s your brother there?
Where’s your sister there?

Children, children
Where’s your mother there?
Where’s your daddy there?

Where on earth are you… from
Where on earth is your… home.

Black Child
You are not wild. But if you don’t fix up your style
You’ll stay just where you are for a very long while.
Where is your beautiful smile?

Black Child
You are not dumb. Speak with your mouth, not a gun.
Why are we killing our sons?
Where are the fathers to this generation?

Black Child
You are not bad. It’s the missed education that you had
The national curriculum black man is sad
A slave or assassinated radical.

Black Child
You are not less than
any white or Asian brother or the next man.
Learn to be cool not vex dan.
And get yourself a proper education.

You don’t need to get certification.
But learn of the methods of the white man
long time keeping darkie down
in this and many other nations.

Listen to the radio stations.
Surf the net for news from other locations.

Learn about the international African links
that asks us to be noble, to choose to think
and treat ourselves as worthwhile.
Break out that beautiful smile…

If there’s only one thing that I leave you with here
It’s that I ask that you be aware
Of the value of living on a planet that we share
Through some complex freak of luck, we are here!

Know your history
Live in the present
Plan your future
For no bling bling coffin
will ever suit you.

*

Mark Mace Smith

1 month ago

I did not vote leave
I did not vote remain
I could not support either side
so I chose to abstain

I did not want in
I did not want out
What I wanted to do
was shake it all about

And it is all shook up
what some might call a clusterfuck
Labour are self-imploding
Hameron is gone & the buffoon (Boris) seemed a shoe in

The money markets are oscillating
there has been a run on sterling
There is much more open racism
and some leavers are regretting their decision

"What's that you say? they fucking won?
Oh my god, what have I done!
It was supposed to be a protest vote
can we choose again? it was just a joke!

Nope!)

so please don't blame me
I am not your ignorant enemy

I am neither of the 48
or the 52 percent
I am from the 99
as I was before this event

and so are you
it is true
but we are divided and ruled.
so what should we do?

look away now if you don't
want to know the score
because let's be honest
that's what you did before!
when I have tried to engage
you in political debate
you'd just say 'oh come on Mace
get of your high horse mate'
but it's not too late..
is it?

I have been political for over 25 years
If you'd read my poetry of this you'd be aware
yet before this referendum
many people did not care
about the corrupted liars
who control our lives
and lead us to despair
Well! what have we here?
An opportunity
to seek unity
to take that anger and frustration
of a betrayed generation
to change our nation
to a true democracy

not this bullshit illusion of choice
that will never set us free
from the status quo of western society
which is all just ME ME ME!

but for US
it's An opportunity
to protest from both
the right and the left
that we have been left
bereft by politicians

who are always out to get
the best for themselves
and couldn't care less for
the populations health or wealth

An opportunity
to cast out the money men
and corporations that seek
to destroy individual nations
for their dividends and vacations
on yachts and exclusive beaches
far beyond the reaches
of a slave population
sucked upon by those leaches

BLED OUT!

if there is one thing that this episode teaches
us
is that the 99% has had enough

haven't we?

can we turn this bitter, angry, self defeated energy
into a loving flow that brings unity
against our actual enemy?

that hidden hand
that makes us all slaves to money
or will you turn away
and just blame me
for abstaining form an illusion of choice which fundamentally
would always only profit those with the money?

jeeez!

if you want a solution to stop all this confusion
(rewrite the constitution - change the drug of which you're using)

if you want a solution to stop all this confusion
then before we formally leave the European union
get out on the streets and demand a general election
and insist that any candidate who is up for selection
reveal five year tax returns and any business connections

and also, and this is a fundamental suggestion
demand that the media must print fact not opinion

if you want to know about your candidates position
then do your own research and go to their hustings.

bring politics back down to the local
and then up to the general
make the house of commons an institute venerable

we have to bring the power back to the people
at least, in your new awareness, you have stopped being sheeple

so please stay engaged despite your despair
and we can have a peaceful revolution before the end of the year

and...

just as only light can dispel the darkness, I declare
it is only love that can stop this hateful madness and fear

let me repeat
I am not your enemy
I want to delete all control
I want us all to be free

Unite
be the light.

1 month ago

“Am I not a man and a brother?”

My love..
your dad loves you
your mother too
and if they disapprove
of which groove
you choose to pursue
they want the best for you
independence
love and contentment

they will allow you
to make your own decisions
mistakes and omissions
wishing you well
on your mission

any racism is hidden
over-ridden
by your teaching them
that it's OK to love
a black man

they understand
that England
was the motherland
and part of that plan
was freedom
for all woman and man

(they would not hurt you by rejecting me
it would mostly hurt them and your baby.)

but I do understand
the young white working-class man
seeing his plans
ripped from his hands
he no longer stands
on green and pleasant
fertile lands

blaming anyone
for his situation
his miseducation
alienation
deprivation
emasculation
he turns his attention
not to the politician
who put him
in this position
but towards nationalism
and racism

it simmers in him
in conversation
with close friends
similarly despairing
it is given an airing
subtly testing
the limits of his and their racism

the all white faces grin
uncondemingly
silently
egging him on to deeper sins
somewhat comforting him
someone might speak out
but then he'll shout:

"I'm just joking and
it's only a racist offence
if there are niggers about
within hearing distance."

it stops being funny when
confronting him
his sister brings
a black man in
to become kin

she's moving away
and moving in
with him...

brother finds it shocking
‘wrong’ even
he starts grieving:

"…the loss of a nation
coffee coloured kids
bastardisation

you know you can't trust them?
he's not even human!
do you know what you're doing?
To Mum!? To Dad?! TO ME!?!
HE’S A FUCKING NIGGER!
FRESH OUT OF A TREE!
WE WERE BROUGHT UP
TO LOOK DOWN ON THEM!…”

true colours cloud the view
beware the red and white hue
black and white
becoming black and blue?
it is proven to be true
these kind of sentiments
breed violence

and if love can not pull through
to educate him too
what can we do?
what will we lose?
what are we prepared to lose?

This Is Not Freedom!

“freedom is just another word
for ‘nothing let to lose’ ”

*

I do love you
Angel Muse
and you're kid too
and if
regarding this issue
someone disapproves
of which groove
I choose to pursue
i.e. black me
loving white you
with the reverse
also being true
I guess it's due
to them wanting
the best for you
but not yet understanding
what that actually is

or they are wanting
the best for themselves
and that is understood
as being purely selfish

we must make our own decisions
I wish your kin independence
love and contentment
on their missions
hope they understand
that racism is an
unnecessary schism

let us live and love
or at least
let us live and let live.

my love I give
to you
my Angel Muse
and to your kin too.

*

by Mark Mace Smith

1 month ago

Nate, Travis and I discuss Sir Edward Dyer's poem "My Mind to Me a Kingdom Is". We also touch on the death of Socrates, the stoicism of Marcus Aurelius, and upon Conan's philosophy (Crush your enemies, see them driven before you). Nate also brings up (and mangles) some poems of Robert Frost.

Thanks to the Disenchanted Scholar for suggesting this poem. http://disenchantedscholar.wordpress.com

If you enjoy my work, please support me via http://www.subscribestar.com/zaklog-the-great or http://paypal.me/Zaklog

Thanks to RG, Isaac V., DeadMessenger, Joseph L., Mr. Cannon, Charlotte S., Walt P., and Yehuda L. for supporting this channel.

1 month ago

The picture used is "Lake Placid New York ~ Sunset over Saranac River -" by Onasill ~ Bill -73 Million, licensed for reuse under the Creative Commons License (https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0/)

Fair river! in thy bright, clear flow
Of crystal, wandering water,
Thou art an emblem of the glow
Of beauty-the unhidden heart-
The playful maziness of art
In old Alberto's daughter;

But when within thy wave she looks-
Which glistens then, and trembles-
Why, then, the prettiest of brooks
Her worshipper resembles;
For in my heart, as in thy stream,
Her image deeply lies-
His heart which trembles at the beam
Of her soul-searching eyes.

1 month ago

The 1845 revision. The picture used is a public domain image of Edgar Allen Poe himself. Since we don't know who the poem is dedicated to, and there is no particular hints in the poem itself to suggest any sort of imagery, I didn't really know what else to do for the image, so you get the author himself.

The bowers whereat, in dreams, I see
The wantonest singing birds,
Are lips-and all thy melody
Of lip-begotten words-

Thine eyes, in Heaven of heart enshrined
Then desolately fall,
O God! on my funeral mind
Like starlight on a pall-

Thy heart-thy heart!-I wake and sigh,
And sleep to dream till day
Of the truth that gold can never buy-
Of the baubles that it may.

1 month ago

The parakeet picture used was found via a public domain image search. If you recognize it and know it to not be public domain, please let me know and I will remove it.
The condor picture was taken by Pedro Szekely and is licensed for reuse under the Creative Commons License (https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0/deed.en).
The mockingbird picture used in the cover was taken by US Fish and Wildlife Service employee (and thus is public domain) Ryan Hagerty.

Romance, who loves to nod and sing,
With drowsy head and folded wing,
Among the green leaves as they shake
Far down within some shadowy lake,
To me a painted paroquet
Hath been-a most familiar bird-
Taught me my alphabet to say-
To lisp my very earliest word
While in the wild wood I did lie,
A child-with a most knowing eye.

Of late, eternal Condor years
So shake the very Heaven on high
With tumult as they thunder by,
I have no time for idle cares
Through gazing on the unquiet sky.
And when an hour with calmer wings
Its down upon thy spirit flings-
That little time with lyre and rhyme
To while away-forbidden things!
My heart would feel to be a crime
Unless it trembled with the strings.

1 month ago

A performance of Sir Edward Dyer's "My Mind to Me a Kingdom Is"

Thanks to the Disenchanted Scholar for the suggestion: http://disenchantedscholar.wordpress.com

If you enjoy my work, please support me via http://www.subscribestar.com/zaklog-the-great or http://paypal.me/Zaklog

Thanks to RG, Isaac V., DeadMessenger, Joseph L., Mr. Cannon, Charlotte S., Walt P., and Yehuda L. for supporting this channel.

1 month, 1 week ago

The picture used was found via a public domain image search. If you recognize it and know it to not be public domain, please let me know and I will remove it.

Science! true daughter of Old Time thou art!
Who alterest all things with thy peering eyes.
Why preyest thou thus upon the poet’s heart,
Vulture, whose wings are dull realities?
How should he love thee? or how deem thee wise,
Who wouldst not leave him in his wandering
To seek for treasure in the jewelled skies,
Albeit he soared with an undaunted wing?
Hast thou not dragged Diana from her car,
And driven the Hamadryad from the wood
To seek a shelter in some happier star?
Hast thou not torn the Naiad from her flood,
The Elfin from the green grass, and from me
The summer dream beneath the tamarind tree?

1 month, 1 week ago

16 bars I wrote this afternoon.
Have a go on my music @ http://deanmarroni.bandcamp.com
Tip jar @ http://paypal.me/marroni
MINDS @ http://minds.com/meandarroni

1 month, 1 week ago

The picture used is "Lake Placid New York ~ Beautiful Day over Saranac River" by Onasill ~ Bill -73 Million, licensed for reuse under the Creative Commons License (https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0/).

In spring of youth it was my lot
To haunt of the wide earth a spot
The which I could not love the less-
So lovely was the loneliness
Of a wild lake, with black rock bound,
And the tall pines that tower'd around.

But when the Night had thrown her pall
Upon that spot, as upon all,
And the mystic wind went by
Murmuring in melody-
Then-ah then I would awake
To the terror of the lone lake.

Yet that terror was not fright,
But a tremulous delight-
A feeling not the jewelled mine
Could teach or bribe me to define-
Nor Love-although the Love were thine.

Death was in that poisonous wave,
And in its gulf a fitting grave
For him who thence could solace bring
To his lone imagining-
Whose solitary soul could make
An Eden of that dim lake.

1 month, 1 week ago

The famous poem, parts of which were used in "Apocalypse Now," read by the author himself, T. S. Eliot.

1 month, 1 week ago

The picture used is a public domain image of Elmira Royster.

The happiest day-the happiest hour
My seared and blighted heart hath known,
The highest hope of pride and power,
I feel hath flown.

Of power! said I? yes! such I ween;
But they have vanish'd long, alas!
The visions of my youth have been-
But let them pass.

And, pride, what have I now with thee?
Another brow may even inherit
The venom thou hast pour'd on me:
Be still, my spirit.

The happiest day-the happiest hour
Mine eyes shall see-have ever seen,
The brightest glance of pride and power,
I feel-have been:

But were that hope of pride and power
Now offer'd, with the pain
Even then I felt-that brightest hour
I would not live again:

For on its wing was dark alloy,
And as it flutter'd-fell
An essence-powerful to destroy
A soul that knew it well.

1 month, 1 week ago

The picture used is a photo taken by EPA employee (and thus is public domain) Charles O'Rear in 1941, of sunrays through storm clouds over Grafton, in the farmlands west of Lincoln, Nebraska.

Sorry about the noise of the page turn after the first stanza, I tried recording it a number of times but couldn't not pick it up. The hazards of reading from a physical paper and ink book ;-)

In visions of the dark night
I have dreamed of joy departed—
But a waking dream of life and light
Hath left me broken-hearted.

Ah! what is not a dream by day
To him whose eyes are cast
On things around him with a ray
Turned back upon the past?

That holy dream—that holy dream,
While all the world were chiding,
Hath cheered me as a lovely beam
A lonely spirit guiding.

What though that light, thro' storm and night,
So trembled from afar—
What could there be more purely bright
In Truth's day-star?

1 month, 1 week ago

The photo used is "Zuma Beach, Ca - A dream within a dream" by ™ Pacheco, licensed for reuse under the Creative Commons License (https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nd/2.0/).

Take this kiss upon the brow!
And, in parting from you now,
Thus much let me avow—
You are not wrong, who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if hope has flown away
In a night, or in a day,
In a vision, or in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream.

I stand amid the roar
Of a surf-tormented shore,
And I hold within my hand
Grains of the golden sand—
How few! yet how they creep
Through my fingers to the deep,
While I weep—while I weep!
O God! can I not grasp
Them with a tighter clasp?
O God! can I not save
One from the pitiless wave?
Is all that we see or seem
But a dream within a dream?

1 month, 1 week ago

The picture used, of the El Dorado Hills in California, was found via a public domain image search. If you recognize it and know it to not be public domain, please let me know and I will remove it.

Gaily bedight,
A gallant knight,
In sunshine and in shadow,
Had journeyed long,
Singing a song,
In search of Eldorado.

But he grew old-
This knight so bold-
And o'er his heart a shadow-
Fell as he found
No spot of ground
That looked like Eldorado.

And, as his strength
Failed him at length,
He met a pilgrim shadow-
"Shadow," said he,
"Where can it be-
This land of Eldorado?"

"Over the Mountains
Of the Moon,
Down the Valley of the Shadow,
Ride, boldly ride,"
The shade replied,-
"If you seek for Eldorado!"

1 month, 1 week ago

Nate, Jason and I discuss Clark Ashton Smith's poem "Amithaine" with reference to H.P. Lovecraft, Electronic Arts, and why Amithaine is a nicer neighborhood than Zothique. Also, we address the all important question: "What's a paladin?"

If you enjoy my work, please support me via http://www.subscribestar.com/zaklog-the-great or http://paypal.me/Zaklog

Thanks to RG, Isaac V., DeadMessenger, Joseph L., Mr. Cannon, Charlotte S., Walt P., and Yehuda L. for supporting this channel.

1 month, 1 week ago

The pictures used were found via a public domain image search. If you recognize any of them and know them to not be public domain, please let me know and I will remove them.

The text of this poem comes with an unusual amount of formatting, and bitchute's description section does not respect white space, so instead I will link to a site that does preserve the formatting for you: http://www.gutenberg.org/files/50852/50852-h/50852-h.htm#THE_BELLS
(It is also likely to exceed the character count allowed in bitchute descriptions anyways)

1 month, 1 week ago

The picture used is an 1875 photograph of Nancy Richmond, who upon the death of her husband, would officially change her name to Annie.

Thank Heaven! the crisis—
The danger is past,
And the lingering illness
Is over at last—
And the fever called “Living”
Is conquered at last.

Sadly, I know
I am shorn of my strength,
And no muscle I move
As I lie at full length—
But no matter!—I feel
I am better at length.

And I rest so composedly,
Now, in my bed,
That any beholder
Might fancy me dead—
Might start at beholding me,
Thinking me dead.

The moaning and groaning,
The sighing and sobbing,
Are quieted now,
With that horrible throbbing
At heart:—ah, that horrible,
Horrible throbbing!

The sickness—the nausea—
The pitiless pain—
Have ceased, with the fever
That maddened my brain—
With the fever called “Living”
That burned in my brain.

And oh! of all tortures
That torture the worst
Has abated—the terrible
Torture of thirst
For the naphthaline river
Of Passion accurst:—
I have drank of a water
That quenches all thirst:—

Of a water that flows,
With a lullaby sound,
From a spring but a very few
Feet under ground—
From a cavern not very far
Down under ground.

And ah! let it never
Be foolishly said
That my room it is gloomy
And narrow my bed;
For man never slept
In a different bed—
And, to sleep, you must slumber
In just such a bed.

My tantalized spirit
Here blandly reposes,
Forgetting, or never
Regretting its roses—
Its old agitations
Of myrtles and roses:

For now, while so quietly
Lying, it fancies
A holier odor
About it, of pansies—
A rosemary odor,
Commingled with pansies—
With rue and the beautiful
Puritan pansies.

And so it lies happily,
Bathing in many
A dream of the truth
And the beauty of Annie—
Drowned in a bath
Of the tresses of Annie.

She tenderly kissed me,
She fondly caressed,
And then I fell gently
To sleep on her breast—
Deeply to sleep
From the heaven of her breast.

When the light was extinguished,
She covered me warm,
And she prayed to the angels
To keep me from harm—
To the queen of the angels
To shield me from harm.

And I lie so composedly,
Now in my bed,
(Knowing her love)
That you fancy me dead—
And I rest so contentedly,
Now in my bed,
(With her love at my breast)
That you fancy me dead—
That you shudder to look at me,
Thinking me dead:—

But my heart it is brighter
Than all of the many
Stars in the sky,
For it sparkles with Annie—
It glows with the light
Of the love of my Annie—
With the thought of the light
Of the eyes of my Annie.

1 month, 2 weeks ago

Got bars? God bars! (New poem) 🙏

Check out my tunes @ http://deanmarroni.bandcamp.com
Subscribe to my YOUTUBE @ https://www.youtube.com/marronisince1999
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TIP JAR @ http://PayPal.me/marroni

#poem #poet #bars #freestyle #god #faith #word #words #godbars #rap #LIP

1 month, 2 weeks ago

The picture used is a public domain sketch by Sarah Josepha Buell Hale of Estelle Anna Lewis, taken from the book "Woman's Record, Or, Sketches of All Distinguished Women: From the Creation to A.D. 1854 : Arranged in Four Eras : with Selections from Female Writers of Every Age"

"Seldom we find," says Solomon Don Dunce,
"Half an idea in the profoundest sonnet.
Through all the flimsy things we see at once
As easily as through a Naples bonnet-
Trash of all trash!-how can a lady don it?
Yet heavier far than your Petrarchan stuff-
Owl-downy nonsense that the faintest puff
Twirls into trunk-paper the while you con it."
And, veritably, Sol is right enough.
The general tuckermanities are arrant
Bubbles-ephemeral and so transparent-
But this is, now,-you may depend upon it-
Stable, opaque, immortal-all by dint
Of the dear names that lie concealed within 't.

1 month, 2 weeks ago

The picture used is "The Rose Parterre" by Evelyn Simak, licensed for reuse under the Creative Commons License (https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0/)

I saw thee once-once only-years ago:
I must not say how many-but not many.
It was a July midnight; and from out
A full-orbed moon, that, like thine own soul, soaring,
Sought a precipitate pathway up through heaven,
There fell a silvery-silken veil of light,
With quietude, and sultriness, and slumber,
Upon the upturned faces of a thousand
Roses that grew in an enchanted garden,
Where no wind dared to stir, unless on tiptoe-
Fell on the upturn'd faces of these roses
That gave out, in return for the love-light,
Their odorous souls in an ecstatic death-
Fell on the upturn'd faces of these roses
That smiled and died in this parterre, enchanted
By thee, and by the poetry of thy presence.

Clad all in white, upon a violet bank
I saw thee half reclining; while the moon
Fell on the upturn'd faces of the roses,
And on thine own, upturn'd-alas, in sorrow!

Was it not Fate, that, on this July midnight-
Was it not Fate, (whose name is also Sorrow,)
That bade me pause before that garden-gate,
To breathe the incense of those slumbering roses?
No footstep stirred: the hated world an slept,
Save only thee and me. (Oh, Heaven!-oh, God!
How my heart beats in coupling those two words!)
Save only thee and me. I paused-I looked-
And in an instant all things disappeared.
(Ah, bear in mind this garden was enchanted!)

The pearly lustre of the moon went out:
The mossy banks and the meandering paths,
The happy flowers and the repining trees,
Were seen no more: the very roses' odors
Died in the arms of the adoring airs.
All-all expired save thee-save less than thou:
Save only the divine light in thine eyes-
Save but the soul in thine uplifted eyes.
I saw but them-they were the world to me!
I saw but them-saw only them for hours,
Saw only them until the moon went down.
What wild heart-histories seemed to he enwritten

Upon those crystalline, celestial spheres!
How dark a woe, yet how sublime a hope!
How silently serene a sea of pride!
How daring an ambition; yet how deep-
How fathomless a capacity for love!

But now, at length, dear Dian sank from sight,
Into a western couch of thunder-cloud;
And thou, a ghost, amid the entombing trees
Didst glide away. Only thine eyes remained;
They would not go-they never yet have gone;
Lighting my lonely pathway home that night,
They have not left me (as my hopes have) since;
They follow me-they lead me through the years.
They are my ministers-yet I their slave.
Their office is to illumine and enkindle-
My duty, to be saved by their bright light,
And purified in their electric fire,
And sanctified in their elysian fire.
They fill my soul with Beauty (which is Hope),
And are far up in Heaven-the stars I kneel to
In the sad, silent watches of my night;
While even in the meridian glare of day
I see them still-two sweetly scintillant
Venuses, unextinguished by the sun!

1 month, 2 weeks ago

The picture used is of Marie Louise Shew. Although no hint is given in the title or text of the poem, it is widely accepted that this poem is about her.

Not long ago, the writer of these lines,
In the mad pride of intellectuality,
Maintained "the power of words"-denied that ever
A thought arose within the human brain
Beyond the utterance of the human tongue:
And now, as if in mockery of that boast,
Two words-two foreign soft dissyllables-
Italian tones, made only to be murmured
By angels dreaming in the moonlit "dew
That hangs like chains of pearl on Hermon hill,"-
Have stirred from out the abysses of his heart,
Unthought-like thoughts that are the souls of thought,
Richer, far wilder, far diviner visions
Than even the seraph harper, Israfel,
(Who has "the sweetest voice of all God's creatures")
Could hope to utter. And I! my spells are broken.
The pen falls powerless from my shivering hand.
With thy dear name as text, though bidden by thee,
I can not write-I can not speak or think-
Alas, I can not feel; for 'tis not feeling,
This standing motionless upon the golden
Threshold of the wide-open gate of dreams,
Gazing, entranced, adown the gorgeous vista,
And thrilling as I see, upon the right,
Upon the left, and all the way along,
Amid empurpled vapors, far away
To where the prospect terminates-thee only!

1 month, 2 weeks ago

The picture used is a painting of Virginia Poe done in 1847.

The skies they were ashen and sober;
The leaves they were crispéd and sere-
The leaves they were withering and sere;
It was night in the lonesome October
Of my most immemorial year;
It was hard by the dim lake of Auber,
In the misty mid region of Weir-
It was down by the dank tarn of Auber,
In the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.

Here once, through an alley Titanic,
Of cypress, I roamed with my Soul-
Of cypress, with Psyche, my Soul.
These were days when my heart was volcanic
As the scoriac rivers that roll-
As the lavas that restlessly roll
Their sulphurous currents down Yaanek
In the ultimate climes of the pole-
That groan as they roll down Mount Yaanek
In the realms of the boreal pole.

Our talk had been serious and sober,
But our thoughts they were palsied and sere-
Our memories were treacherous and sere-
For we knew not the month was October,
And we marked not the night of the year-
(Ah, night of all nights in the year!)
We noted not the dim lake of Auber-
(Though once we had journeyed down here)-
We remembered not the dank tarn of Auber,
Nor the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.

And now, as the night was senescent
And star-dials pointed to morn-
As the star-dials hinted of morn-
At the end of our path a liquescent
And nebulous lustre was born,
Out of which a miraculous crescent
Arose with a duplicate horn-
Astarte's bediamonded crescent
Distinct with its duplicate horn.

And I said-"She is warmer than Dian:
She rolls through an ether of sighs-
She revels in a region of sighs:
She has seen that the tears are not dry on
These cheeks, where the worm never dies,
And has come past the stars of the Lion
To point us the path to the skies-
To the Lethean peace of the skies-
Come up, in despite of the Lion,
To shine on us with her bright eyes-
Come up through the lair of the Lion,
With love in her luminous eyes."

But Psyche, uplifting her finger,
Said-"Sadly this star I mistrust-
Her pallor I strangely mistrust:-
Oh, hasten! oh, let us not linger!
Oh, fly!-let us fly!-for we must."
In terror she spoke, letting sink her
Wings till they trailed in the dust-
In agony sobbed, letting sink her
Plumes till they trailed in the dust-
Till they sorrowfully trailed in the dust.

I replied-"This is nothing but dreaming:
Let us on by this tremulous light!
Let us bathe in this crystalline light!
Its Sybilic splendor is beaming
With Hope and in Beauty to-night:-
See!-it flickers up the sky through the night!
Ah, we safely may trust to its gleaming,
And be sure it will lead us aright-
We safely may trust to a gleaming
That cannot but guide us aright,
Since it flickers up to Heaven through the night."

Thus I pacified Psyche and kissed her,
And tempted her out of her gloom-
And conquered her scruples and gloom:
And we passed to the end of the vista,
But were stopped by the door of a tomb-
By the door of a legended tomb;
And I said-"What is written, sweet sister,
On the door of this legended tomb?"
She replied-"Ulalume-Ulalume-
'Tis the vault of thy lost Ulalume!"

Then my heart it grew ashen and sober
As the leaves that were crispèd and sere-
As the leaves that were withering and sere,
And I cried-"It was surely October
On this very night of last year
That I journeyed-I journeyed down here-
That I brought a dread burden down here-
On this night of all nights in the year,
Oh, what demon has tempted me here?
Well I know, now, this dim lake of Auber-
This misty mid region of Weir-
Well I know, now, this dank tarn of Auber-
In the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir."

1 month, 2 weeks ago

Poetry read to photography stills. (Video/ text edit reload) solisworx.com. If you like, share and or donate for more free videos. Thanks. (PAYPAL - [email protected]) (BITCOIN - 1GBk7Guadyw5zVNwXbzcKV2qJV6PED1LYq)

1 month, 2 weeks ago

Poetry read to stills and clips. (Video/ text edit reload) solisworx.com. If you like, share and or donate for more free videos. Thanks. (PAYPAL - [email protected]) (BITCOIN - 1GBk7Guadyw5zVNwXbzcKV2qJV6PED1LYq)

1 month, 2 weeks ago

"Krispy Kreme Me and My Coffee Best Friend"

My crispy, Krispy Kreme, how many days have I dined with thee?

Breakfast through dinner is not what you claim
Being a tasty dessert is your claim to fame

Never would you state something you are not intended for, because your milk chocolatey glaze has people salivating for more.

Coffee with you in the morning is my cup of tea.
I’m pretty sure the Peace Officers agree with me.

Though you have many many flavors in custard and fruit, your original glaze has always been all I need.

Even when I am slender or picked up the love handles in the light.

Hey if loving you is wrong, then I don’t want to be right.

However, anytime of day or evening with you is one of life’s pleasures, so I anticipate another modest cup of coffee and creme

With you and my love for Krispy Kreme

By James Lynch Writer, Poet, and Podcaster at pocbooks.com

1 month, 2 weeks ago

The picture used is a public domain photograph of Marie Louise Shew, the "M. L. S--" of the title.

Of all who hail thy presence as the morning-
Of all to whom thine absence is the night-
The blotting utterly from out high heaven
The sacred sun-of all who, weeping, bless thee
Hourly for hope-for life-ah! above all,
For the resurrection of deep-buried faith
In Truth-in Virtue-in Humanity-
Of all who, on Despair's unhallowed bed
Lying down to die, have suddenly arisen
At thy soft-murmured words, "Let there be light!"
At the soft-murmured words that were fulfilled
In the seraphic glancing of thine eyes-
Of all who owe thee most-whose gratitude
Nearest resembles worship-oh, remember
The truest-the most fervently devoted,
And think that these weak lines are written by him-
By him who, as he pens them, thrills to think
His spirit is communing with an angel's.

1 month, 2 weeks ago

The picture used is by James Carling, from the 1887 illustrated edition of "The Raven".

The description section here on bitchute has a limit of 5000 characters, and the full text of this poem exceeds that by a non-trivial amount, so if you want to read along you'll have to read from an external site, such as: https://www.gutenberg.org/files/1065/1065-h/1065-h.htm

Up to now all my readings have been done in one take. This poem was just too long for me to pull that off. I had to finally learn a little bit about my editing tools to stitch together several audio files. Hopefully I managed it well enough. If there's anything too far off as to ruin the enjoyment, let me know and I will see about re-recording the offending segment.

1 month, 3 weeks ago

A performance of Gerard Manley Hopkins's poem "As Kingfishers Catch Fire"

If you enjoy my work, please support me via http://www.subscribestar.com/zaklog-the-great or http://paypal.me/Zaklog

Thanks to RG, Isaac V., DeadMessenger, Joseph L., Mr. Cannon, Charlotte S., Walt P., and Yehuda L. for supporting this channel.

1 month, 3 weeks ago

The picture used is a public domain photo of Frances S. Osgood taken in 1848. The book I am reading from has the name of the poem with the dashes as if to hide the full identity, but it is well known that in this case, the person being referenced is, in fact, Ms. Osgood.

Thou wouldst be loved?—then let thy heart
From its present pathway part not!
Being everything which now thou art,
Be nothing which thou art not.
So with the world thy gentle ways,
Thy grace, thy more than beauty,
Shall be an endless theme of praise,
And love—a simple duty.

1 month, 3 weeks ago

An ancient ode to the platformer that pissed me off.

1 month, 3 weeks ago

The picture used is a public domain image of Edgar Allen Poe himself. Since we don't know who the poem is dedicated to, and there is no particular hints in the poem itself to suggest any sort of imagery, I didn't really know what else to do for the image, so you get the author himself.

Beloved! amid the earnest woes
That crowd around my earthly path—
(Drear path, alas! where grows
Not even one lonely rose)—
My soul at least a solace hath
In dreams of thee, and therein knows
An Eden of bland repose.

And thus thy memory is to me
Like some enchanted far-off isle
In some tumultuos sea—
Some ocean throbbing far and free
With storms—but where meanwhile
Serenest skies continually
Just o're that one bright island smile.

1 month, 3 weeks ago

Shout out to Theartisticscholar! Thank you!

To Critic Philip Philo Kassner who tried to tell me what poetry should be and how it should be done. Eat a dick. And Erik Starks who kicked me off Facebook Poetry Society.

1 month, 3 weeks ago

The picture used is a public domain photograph of Infanta Eulalia of Spain, Duchess of Galliera.

I dwelt alone
In a world of moan,
And my soul was a stagnant tide
Till the fair and gentle Eulalie became my blushing bride-
Till the yellow-haired young Eulalie became my smiling bride.

Ah, less-less bright
The stars of the night
Than the eyes of the radiant girl,
And never a flake
That the vapor can make
With the moon-tints of purple and pearl
Can vie with the modest Eulalie's most unregarded curl-
Can compare with the bright-eyed Eulalie's most humble and careless curl.

Now Doubt-now Pain
Come never again,
For her soul gives me sigh for sigh,
And all day long
Shines, bright and strong,
Astarté within the sky,
While ever to her dear Eulalie upturns her matron eye-
While ever to her young Eulalie upturns her violet eye.

1 month, 3 weeks ago

The picture used was found via a public domain image search. If you recognize it and know it to not be public domain, please let me know and I will remove it.

By a route obscure and lonely,
Haunted by ill angels only,
Where an Eidolon, named NIGHT,
On a black throne reigns upright,
I have reached these lands but newly
From an ultimate dim Thule-
From a wild weird clime that lieth, sublime,
Out of SPACE-Out of TIME.

Bottomless vales and boundless floods,
And chasms, and caves, and Titan woods,
With forms that no man can discover
For the tears that drip all over;
Mountains toppling evermore
Into seas without a shore;
Seas that restlessly aspire,
Surging, unto skies of fire;
Lakes that endlessly outspread
Their lone waters-lone and dead,-
Their still waters-still and chilly
With the snows of the lolling lily.

By the lakes that thus outspread
Their lone waters, lone and dead,-
Their sad waters, sad and chilly
With the snows of the lolling lily,-
By the mountains-near the river
Murmuring lowly, murmuring ever,-
By the grey woods,-by the swamp
Where the toad and the newt encamp,-
By the dismal tarns and pools
Where dwell the Ghouls,-
By each spot the most unholy-
In each nook most melancholy,-
There the traveller meets, aghast,
Sheeted Memories of the Past-
Shrouded forms that start and sigh
As they pass the wanderer by-
White-robed forms of friends long given,
In agony, to the Earth-and Heaven.

For the heart whose woes are legion
’T is a peaceful, soothing region-
For the spirit that walks in shadow
’T is-oh, ’t is an Eldorado!
But the traveller, travelling through it,
May not-dare not openly view it;
Never its mysteries are exposed
To the weak human eye unclosed;
So wills its King, who hath forbid
The uplifting of the fring'd lid;
And thus the sad Soul that here passes
Beholds it but through darkened glasses.

By a route obscure and lonely,
Haunted by ill angels only,
Where an Eidolon, named NIGHT,
On a black throne reigns upright,
I have wandered home but newly
From this ultimate dim Thule.

1 month, 3 weeks ago