Amused one,
I look for you through windows
In faraway paths assaulted by the wind.
I spot, a tall figure pacing toward me
With familiar hesitance, like
Sacred breath shared in closets
During wartime.
Don't you know I've felt with you
Like children hiding from some fear?
Just yesterday we were reaching out
Of windows as being, for us, could
Never be contained by walls,
And tomorrow, may never hither to.
But listen, in this maniacal embrace
I am weeping with desire.
What is to become of our cherished
Existence that has behaved like
Water on glass?
Tis' but a romance everlasting?
I begin to feel as if it is a romance
Of its own right,
As if we have written a novel
With our hands loyally anchored.
I lay still and time possesses
My surroundings in ribald cups
Of coffee,and in little molds of my
Feet resting in piles of boots, and
In the tresses of my hair reaching
To my hips like a distant hint
From your hands...
The clouds are filling with
Frigid wishes.
Soon, another winter will
Bury our prayers and I shall
Lay here, still, possessed.
I think of you in a carmine coat,
Undressing.
I think of you out of a carmine coat,
Of all that remains.
You, who roams with a joy only
The modern world could encumber-
You, who comes and comes again
With tireless entrance- You,
Who finds a foreign father in my skin.
O' Fickle brother, literary lover, I have
A soft, dark place for you to rest in.
You, you, amused.
Let the prudence of condemned
Lips unfold without delay.
Let the ideas of solitary nights
Become something finite and forgiven!
Amused one,
If you will recall;
I know you then,
I know you now,
I will know you all my life.
15 comments:
Votre âme est un paysage choisi
Que vont charmants masques et bergamasques,
Jouant du luth et dansant et quasi
Tristes sous leurs déguisements fantasques.
Tout en chantant sur le mode mineur
L’amour vainqueur et la vie opportune,
Ils n’ont pas l’air de croire à leur bonheur
Et leur chanson se mêle au clair de lune,
Au calme clair de lune triste et beau,
Qui fait rêver les oiseaux dans les arbres
Et sangloter d’extase les jets d’eau,
Les grands jets d’eau sveltes parmi les marbres.
Your soul is as a moonlit landscape fair,
Peopled with maskers delicate and dim,
That play on lutes and dance and have an air
Of being sad in their fantastic trim.
The while they celebrate in minor strain
Triumphant love, effective enterprise,
They have an air of knowing all is vain,—
And through the quiet moonlight their songs rise,
The melancholy moonlight, sweet and lone,
That makes to dream the birds upon the tree,
And in their polished basins of white stone
The fountains tall to sob with ecstasy.
I memed this on my blog, lemme know if you wan't me to take it down
I am in your debt. Thank you.
hi, love. this is beautiful. xo ice princess
Do I remember you from another dream,
The first I dreamt while swinging from metal bars
And breathing deep the innocent air of playful
Love ?
You look across a scattered floor with pieces
Of your life, waking slowly to the rhythmic intimations of
A terpsichorean trance that throws forth a pastoral symphony.
Screaming into the mirrored surface of her brew
A stygian witch sinks to the ground with a sickening groan
While your defiant mind
weaves this fabric of words, jeweled casements
Annealed in the glittering gold of sartorial fire.
You become as you are becoming.
Passing through an inner tremendum where I gaze in a hidden corner at
A nimbus that radiates a cool silver light and I swoon
Even as I know this appetition,
This quiescent love might naught to become florid and
Flush with the blood that rushes
To meet a hand upon your skin.
What kind of caress then is this?
That I could hold you in my arms and
Feel a human warmth as it stretches across
A mantic phantasy.
Do I remember you from another dream,
The one I dreamt while gentle breezes kissed our young cheeks
As we ducked into bushes and sampled the sweet nectar of a yellow honeysuckle ?
As evening came we were forced to flee, and from Cythera we ran
Back to the droll countenance of our passing days.
A cold December sky is bone white
And I look for you from my window.
Listening for the familiar footsteps
Your soft voice and gentle kisses
Immure me in a diaphanous veil.
What was the purpose of our time in Cythera; but to honor the Goddess of beauty and love. What was the purpose of our time after Cythera; but to honor her temple, a euphonious sanctum cast at the accord of our hands.
drunk with rage
the box gets beaten
wires entangle the domesticated pony
who would rather run free with centaurs intoxicated
http://vids.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=vids.individual&videoid=38316237&searchid=b97070b8-1616-43fa-b44a-e04cbaf6648f
If I am given a knife, I am given a purpose.
Who posted under the name "me"? I thought I knew for sure, now I am stricken.
same guy who always posts stuff
don't be stricken
"Me" who are you?
I am an artist in Los Angeles who want's to start a Romantic Revival and become a Cultural Revolutionary. This might involve leaving this city and forming some kind of artistic and political movement in the woods of Minnesota. If not the woods maybe a hip St. Paul neighborhood. I have been inspired by your poetry and the works of British Romantic poets as well as the French Decadents. I have a white cat. I drive a black car. I am for a sustainable future and the dismantling or re-organizing of modern-industrial civilization into a more localized model. William Morris and the Pre-Raphaelites had similar ideas. This ideas need to return.
Do not be stricken by my admiration for you. I am a courtly gentleman who abides in codes of chivalry and noblesse.
I bid you good day.
Well then Jacques, you took me for a spin. I didn't know you were posting under the name "me"...well done poem whether you wrote it or not. Did you write it? Do you read Milosz?
that one I wrote myself which is why I posted as me.
don't know milosz, will investigate
and maybe write some more
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