The copy like is not a copy
Chances are there that two souls
Encountering similar situations
Are induced with similar thoughts,
Which, when spelt, aren’t copies.
03.07.2004
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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[...] Read more
poem by Caasder Fronds
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Fitration Bags
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[...] Read more
poem by Rwetewrt Erwtwer
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Trash Bag
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[...] Read more
poem by Rwetewrt Erwtwer
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Un-believable Situations
Un-believable situations,
Leave a lump in a throat.
And those,
Un-believable situations...
Can leave a weight on shoulders,
Whether one is young on older.
No matter who's brave or bold.
Stricken with heat or fever,
No matter who's brave or bold.
Those un-believable situations,
Can warm a heart...
Or turn it cold.
Few are prepared for what they can not see.
When surprised by situations.
Many choke up and can not breathe,
When confronted by situations...
Shocking and unbelieved.
Stricken with heat or fever,
No matter who's brave or bold.
Those un-believable situations,
Can warm a heart...
Or turn it cold.
Those un-believable situations,
Always stun the ones who disbelieve.
Those un-believable situations,
Come to bring some to their knees.
Those un-believable situations,
Always stun the ones who disbelieve.
Those un-believable situations,
Come to bring some to their knees.
Those un-believable situations,
Always stun the ones who disbelieve.
Those un-believable situations,
Come to bring some to their knees.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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The Poet
The riches of the poet are equal to his poetry
His power is his left hand
It is idle weak and precious
His poverty is his wealth, a wealth which may destroy him
like Midas Because it is that laziness which is a form of impatience
And this he may be destroyed by the gold of the light
which never was
On land or sea.
He may be drunken to death, draining the casks of excess
That extreme form of success.
He may suffer Narcissus' destiny
Unable to live except with the image which is infatuation
Love, blind, adoring, overflowing
Unable to respond to anything which does not bring love
quickly or immediately.
...The poet must be innocent and ignorant
But he cannot be innocent since stupidity is not his strong
point
Therefore Cocteau said, "What would I not give
To have the poems of my youth withdrawn from
existence?
I would give to Satan my immortal soul."
This metaphor is wrong, for it is his immortal soul which
he wished to redeem,
Lifting it and sifting it, free and white, from the actuality of
youth's banality, vulgarity,
pomp and affectation of his early
works of poetry.
So too in the same way a Famous American Poet
When fame at last had come to him sought out the fifty copies
of his first book of poems which had been privately printed
by himself at his own expense.
He succeeded in securing 48 of the 50 copies, burned them
And learned then how the last copies were extant,
As the law of the land required, stashed away in the national capital,
at the Library of Congress.
Therefore he went to Washington, therefore he took out the last two
copies
Placed them in his pocket, planned to depart
Only to be halted and apprehended. Since he was the author,
Since they were his books and his property he was reproached
But forgiven. But the two copies were taken away from him
Thus setting a national precedent.
For neither amnesty nor forgiveness is bestowed upon poets, poetry and poems,
For William James, the lovable genius of Harvard
spoke the terrifying truth: "Your friends may forget, God
may forgive you, But the brain cells record
[...] Read more
poem by Delmore Schwartz
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Chances Are
Chances are if we'd meet again,
You won't know who I am,
Though you might remember the smile
Or you might recall the walk,
But chances are, you will not.
And if we did meet on the road again,
Would you smile and call my name
Or would you forget who I was,
Because now, we are not the same.
Chances are, you would walk away,
And you would forget what you saw
Even though you knew me then,
But now my face, you couldn't recall.
And if we were in trouble in the sea of life,
Would you be there to toss me a line
I know I'd be there if but for you,
But alas, that was a different time.
And chances are, if we were alone
You would then smile and talk to me,
You would be my friend, and remember again,
But chances are; that will never be.
Chances are, that I will never change
And that I will stay the way I am,
And you will stay the way, that you must be,
But I don't care, in this world of man.
I will act the way that I want to act
And I will do the things that I must do,
And I am not ashamed of anything or anyone,
But chances are, the hypocrite is you.
And as life is full of chances of her own,
She has her own steps and stairs,
And could I see you on your way down,
Chances are, I will be there.
Randy L. McClave
poem by Randy McClave
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My Lost Youth
Often I think of the beautiful town
That is seated by the sea;
Often in thought go up and down
The pleasant streets of that dear old town,
And my youth comes back to me.
And a verse of a Lapland song
Is haunting my memory still:
"A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."
I can see the shadowy lines of its trees,
And catch, in sudden gleams,
The sheen of the far-surrounding seas,
And islands that were the Hesperides
Of all my boyish dreams.
And the burden of that old song,
It murmurs and whispers still:
"A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."
I remember the black wharves and the ships,
And the sea-tides tossing free;
And Spanish sailors with bearded lips,
And the beauty and mystery of the ships,
And the magic of the sea.
And the voice of that wayward song
Is singing and saying still:
"A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."
I remember the bulwarks by the shore,
And the fort upon the hill;
The sunrise gun, with its hollow roar,
The drum-beat repeated o'er and o'er,
And the bugle wild and shrill.
And the music of that old song
Throbs in my memory still:
"A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."
I remember the sea-fight far away,
How it thundered o'er the tide!
And the dead captains, as they lay
In their graves, o'erlooking the tranquil bay
Where they in battle died.
And the sound of that mournful song
Goes through me with a thrill:
"A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."
[...] Read more
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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My Thoughts
Thought in the eyes,
The ears.
Thought in mind,
The brain,
Thought in heart,
The soul.
Great thought is great
when it becomes great deeds.
With my thoughts within
Building my world within
Learning with thought;
Is great learning wisdom.
Learning without thought,
Is opportunity lost.
Thought for others
Thought for God
Thought for good
Thought for God’s blessing
Thoughts teach me,
Thoughts educate me,
Thoughts clarify me,
Thoughts enlighten me.
Thoughts make me wise
Thoughts make me patience
Thoughts make me trust others
Thoughts make me clam.
Thoughts before act
Is smart and wise
Act before thoughts
Is stupid and foolish
That’s my thoughts
They make thinking clear
They make belief deepen
They make confidence high.
In thoughts, my world
In my world, make my thoughts.
In thoughts, my words
In my words, make my speech
It’s my thoughts count
Counting my thoughts
To endless counting thoughts
[...] Read more
poem by Lawrence Hiung
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I Don't Have The Map
When it happens
Youll feel like an islander
Youll see ships and theyll be reminders
That youre on an island
Im on an island
The chances are theres a reason weve been left here
But Im not disappointed
The chances are theres a reason weve been left
The chances are, the chances are
You cant contact, you cant contact
You cant cope without the contact
As it happens
Theres a city in sight
Youre getting confused by local lamplight
By local lamplight
Dont buy local lamplights
The chances are theres a reason weve been left here
But Im not disappointed
The chances are theres a reason weve been left here
The chances are, the chances are
You cant contact, you cant contact
You cant cope without the contact
But what a situation to be in
You and me are keeping in time with my ideas
Keeping in time with my ideas
You cant stop keeping in time
You cant contact, you cant contact
You cant cope without the contact
song performed by Idlewild
Added by Lucian Velea
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Heather's Lesson
Survive, thrive in difficult situations.
Glow like heather and smile with glory.
Serving deserving, deserve admiration
Survive, thrive in difficult situations.
Exist to help others in habitation
and be protective like heather's story,
Survive, thrive in difficult situations.
Glow your face and smile with glory.
***
Survive, thrive in difficult situations,
Dare to take care of the creatures.
Being selfless give help to everyone;
Survive, thrive in difficult situations.
Tells Heather: serving get admiration.
Smile, while spreading color and flavor;
Survive, thrive in difficult situations,
Dare to take care of the creatures
poem by S.D. Tiwari
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On The Death Of Damon. (Translated From Milton)
Ye Nymphs of Himera (for ye have shed
Erewhile for Daphnis and for Hylas dead,
And over Bion's long-lamented bier,
The fruitless meed of many a sacred tear)
Now, through the villas laved by Thames rehearse
The woes of Thyrsis in Sicilian verse,
What sighs he heav'd, and how with groans profound
He made the woods and hollow rocks resound
Young Damon dead; nor even ceased to pour
His lonely sorrows at the midnight hour.
The green wheat twice had nodded in the ear,
And golden harvest twice enrich'd the year,
Since Damon's lips had gasp'd for vital air
The last, last time, nor Thyrsis yet was there;
For he, enamour'd of the Muse, remain'd
In Tuscan Fiorenza long detain'd,
But, stored at length with all he wish'd to learn,
For his flock's sake now hasted to return,
And when the shepherd had resumed his seat
At the elm's root within his old retreat,
Then 'twas his lot, then, all his loss to know,
And, from his burthen'd heart, he vented thus his woe.
Go, seek your home, my lambs; my thoughts are due
To other cares than those of feeding you.
Alas! what Deities shall I suppose
In heav'n or earth concern'd for human woes,
Since, Oh my Damon! their severe decree
So soon condemns me to regret of Thee!
Depart'st thou thus, thy virtues unrepaid
With fame and honour, like a vulgar shade?
Let him forbid it, whose bright rod controls,
And sep'rates sordid from illustrious souls,
Drive far the rabble, and to Thee assign
A happier lot with spirits worthy thine!
Go, seek your home, my lambs; my thoughts are due
To other cares than those of feeding you.
Whate'er befall, unless by cruel chance
The wolf first give me a forbidding glance,
Thou shalt not moulder undeplor'd, but long
Thy praise shall dwell on ev'ry shepherd's tongue;
To Daphnis first they shall delight to pay,
And, after Him, to thee the votive lay,
While Pales shall the flocks and pastures love,
Or Faunus to frequent the field or grove,
At least if antient piety and truth
With all the learned labours of thy youth
May serve thee aught, or to have left behind
A sorrowing friend, and of the tuneful kind.
Go, seek your home, my lambs, my thoughts are due
To other cares than those of feeding you.
[...] Read more
poem by William Cowper
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The Child Of The Islands - Winter
I.
ERE the Night cometh! On how many graves
Rests, at this hour, their first cold winter's snow!
Wild o'er the earth the sleety tempest raves;
Silent, our Lost Ones slumber on below;
Never to share again the genial glow
Of Christmas gladness round the circled hearth;
Never returning festivals to know,
Or holidays that mark some loved one's birth,
Or children's joyous songs, and loud delighted mirth.
II.
The frozen tombs are sheeted with one pall,--
One shroud for every churchyard, crisp and bright,--
One foldless mantle, softly covering all
With its unwrinkled width of spotless white.
There, through the grey dim day and starlit night,
It rests, on rich and poor, and young and old,--
Veiling dear eyes,--whose warm homne-cheering light
Our pining hearts can never more behold,--
With an unlifting veil,--that falleth blank and cold.
III.
The Spring shall melt that snow,--but kindly eyes
Return not with the Sun's returning powers,--
Nor to the clay-cold cheek, that buried lies,
The living blooms that flush perennial flowers,--
Nor, with the song-birds, vocal in the bowers,
The sweet familiar tones! In silence drear
We pass our days,--and oft in midnight hours
Call madly on their names who cannot hear,--
Names graven on the tombs of the departed year!
IV.
There lies the tender Mother, in whose heart
So many claimed an interest and a share!
Humbly and piously she did her part
In every task of love and household care:
And mournfully, with sad abstracted air,
The Father-Widower, on his Christmas Eve,
Strokes down his youngest child's long silken hair,
And, as the gathering sobs his bosom heave,
Goes from that orphaned group, unseen to weep and grieve.
V.
Feeling his loneliness the more this day
Because SHE kept it with such gentle joy,
Scarce can he brook to see his children play,
Remembering how her love it did employ
[...] Read more
poem by Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton
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Last Living Souls
Are we the last living souls?
Are we the last living souls?
Are we the last living souls?
Are we the last living souls?
Take a gun
Or how you say
That's no way you behave
Just a law, a new begin
Sing a song that doesn't sin
And it grows
Hey, you know
Are we the last living souls?
Are we the last living souls?
Are we the last to get away to some another day?
Do we know
Well, we know
Doesn't seem to be complete
Are we, are we the last living souls?
Are we the last living souls?
Are we the last living souls?
Are we the last living souls?
Get up, get up, get up, get up...
What you say?
Cause all I was on
I got it down wrong
I see myself to get
And the Lord, seeing all now
Can you take us in
The part that comin' on
The coldest man doesn't see it's all
We go to the car
I see you walk to the far
And when you get there do you see
You fit the last you need on me
Cause we're the last living souls
We're the last living souls
Yeah, we're the last living souls
We're the last living souls
song performed by Gorillaz
Added by Lucian Velea
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Custer
BOOK FIRST.
I.
ALL valor died not on the plains of Troy.
Awake, my Muse, awake! be thine the joy
To sing of deeds as dauntless and as brave
As e'er lent luster to a warrior's grave.
Sing of that noble soldier, nobler man,
Dear to the heart of each American.
Sound forth his praise from sea to listening sea-
Greece her Achilles claimed, immortal Custer, we.
II.
Intrepid are earth's heroes now as when
The gods came down to measure strength with men.
Let danger threaten or let duty call,
And self surrenders to the needs of all;
Incurs vast perils, or, to save those dear,
Embraces death without one sigh or tear.
Life's martyrs still the endless drama play
Though no great Homer lives to chant their worth to-day.
III.
And if he chanted, who would list his songs,
So hurried now the world's gold-seeking throngs?
And yet shall silence mantle mighty deeds?
Awake, dear Muse, and sing though no ear heeds!
Extol the triumphs, and bemoan the end
Of that true hero, lover, son and friend
Whose faithful heart in his last choice was shown-
Death with the comrades dear, refusing flight alone.
IV.
He who was born for battle and for strife
Like some caged eagle frets in peaceful life;
So Custer fretted when detained afar
From scenes of stirring action and of war.
And as the captive eagle in delight,
When freedom offers, plumes himself for flight
And soars away to thunder clouds on high,
With palpitating wings and wild exultant cry,
V.
So lion-hearted Custer sprang to arms,
And gloried in the conflict's loud alarms.
[...] Read more
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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Book III - Part 03 - The Soul is Mortal
Now come: that thou mayst able be to know
That minds and the light souls of all that live
Have mortal birth and death, I will go on
Verses to build meet for thy rule of life,
Sought after long, discovered with sweet toil.
But under one name I'd have thee yoke them both;
And when, for instance, I shall speak of soul,
Teaching the same to be but mortal, think
Thereby I'm speaking also of the mind-
Since both are one, a substance interjoined.
First, then, since I have taught how soul exists
A subtle fabric, of particles minute,
Made up from atoms smaller much than those
Of water's liquid damp, or fog, or smoke,
So in mobility it far excels,
More prone to move, though strook by lighter cause
Even moved by images of smoke or fog-
As where we view, when in our sleeps we're lulled,
The altars exhaling steam and smoke aloft-
For, beyond doubt, these apparitions come
To us from outward. Now, then, since thou seest,
Their liquids depart, their waters flow away,
When jars are shivered, and since fog and smoke
Depart into the winds away, believe
The soul no less is shed abroad and dies
More quickly far, more quickly is dissolved
Back to its primal bodies, when withdrawn
From out man's members it has gone away.
For, sure, if body (container of the same
Like as a jar), when shivered from some cause,
And rarefied by loss of blood from veins,
Cannot for longer hold the soul, how then
Thinkst thou it can be held by any air-
A stuff much rarer than our bodies be?
Besides we feel that mind to being comes
Along with body, with body grows and ages.
For just as children totter round about
With frames infirm and tender, so there follows
A weakling wisdom in their minds; and then,
Where years have ripened into robust powers,
Counsel is also greater, more increased
The power of mind; thereafter, where already
The body's shattered by master-powers of eld,
And fallen the frame with its enfeebled powers,
Thought hobbles, tongue wanders, and the mind gives way;
All fails, all's lacking at the selfsame time.
Therefore it suits that even the soul's dissolved,
Like smoke, into the lofty winds of air;
[...] Read more
poem by Lucretius
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Lonely Soul
Richard ashcroft :
God knows youre lonely souls
God knows youre lonely souls
God knows youre lonely souls
Yeah, yeah
I believe theres a time and a place
To let your mind drift and get out of this place
I believe theres a day and a place
That we will go to, and I know you wanna share.
Theres no secret to living (theres no secret to living)
Just keep on walking
Theres no secret to dying (theres no secret to dying)
Just keep on flying.
Im gonna die in a place that dont know my name
Im gonna die in a space that dont hold my fame.
God knows youre lonely souls
God knows youre lonely souls.
I believe theres a time when the cord of life
Should be cut, my friends (cut the cord, my friend)
I believe theres a time when the cord can be cut
And this vision ends (let this vision end).
But Im gonna die in a place that dont know my name
And Im gonna cry in a space that dont hold my fame.
Walking in the cold
Just keep on flying
Therell be a searchlight
On the mountain high
God knows youre lonely souls
God knows youre lonely souls
God knows youre lonely souls
God knows youre lonely souls
Yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah
Im a lonely soul.
Im gonna die in a place that dont know my name
Im gonna die in a place that dont know my name.
God knows you are lonely souls
Lonely souls
Lonely souls
Lonely souls
Im a lonely soul.
So long, little chapel
? ? ?
Pack up your light
Pack up your light
Say goodbye to the holy water life
Ohhh.....? ? ?
? ? ?
Ahhh.....
song performed by Unkle
Added by Lucian Velea
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Ninth Book
EVEN thus. I pause to write it out at length,
The letter of the Lady Waldemar.–
'I prayed your cousin Leigh to take you this,
He says he'll do it. After years of love,
Or what is called so,–when a woman frets
And fools upon one string of a man's name,
And fingers it for ever till it breaks,–
He may perhaps do for her such thing,
And she accept it without detriment
Although she should not love him any more
And I, who do not love him, nor love you,
Nor you, Aurora,–choose you shall repent
Your most ungracious letter, and confess,
Constrained by his convictions, (he's convinced)
You've wronged me foully. Are you made so ill,
You woman–to impute such ill to me?
We both had mothers,–lay in their bosom once.
Why, after all, I thank you, Aurora Leigh,
For proving to myself that there are things
I would not do, . . not for my life . . nor him . .
Though something I have somewhat overdone,–
For instance, when I went to see the gods
One morning, on Olympus, with a step
That shook the thunder in a certain cloud,
Committing myself vilely. Could I think,
The Muse I pulled my heart out from my breast
To soften, had herself a sort of heart,
And loved my mortal? He, at least, loved her;
I heard him say so; 'twas my recompence,
When, watching at his bedside fourteen days,
He broke out ever like a flame at whiles
Between the heats of fever . . . 'Is it thou?
'Breathe closer, sweetest mouth!' and when at last
The fever gone, the wasted face extinct
As if it irked him much to know me there,
He said, Twas kind, 'twas good, 'twas womanly,'
(And fifty praises to excuse one love)
'But was the picture safe he had ventured for?'
And then, half wandering . . 'I have loved her well,
Although she could not love me.'–'Say instead,'
I answered, 'that she loves you.'–'Twas my turn
To rave: (I would have married him so changed,
Although the world had jeered me properly
For taking up with Cupid at his worst,
The silver quiver worn off on his hair.)
'No, no,' he murmured, 'no, she loves me not;
'Aurora Leigh does better: bring her book
'And read it softly, Lady Waldemar,
'Until I thank your friendship more for that,
[...] Read more
poem by Elizabeth Barrett Browning from Aurora Leigh (1856)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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First Book
OF writing many books there is no end;
And I who have written much in prose and verse
For others' uses, will write now for mine,–
Will write my story for my better self,
As when you paint your portrait for a friend,
Who keeps it in a drawer and looks at it
Long after he has ceased to love you, just
To hold together what he was and is.
I, writing thus, am still what men call young;
I have not so far left the coasts of life
To travel inland, that I cannot hear
That murmur of the outer Infinite
Which unweaned babies smile at in their sleep
When wondered at for smiling; not so far,
But still I catch my mother at her post
Beside the nursery-door, with finger up,
'Hush, hush–here's too much noise!' while her sweet eyes
Leap forward, taking part against her word
In the child's riot. Still I sit and feel
My father's slow hand, when she had left us both,
Stroke out my childish curls across his knee;
And hear Assunta's daily jest (she knew
He liked it better than a better jest)
Inquire how many golden scudi went
To make such ringlets. O my father's hand,
Stroke the poor hair down, stroke it heavily,–
Draw, press the child's head closer to thy knee!
I'm still too young, too young to sit alone.
I write. My mother was a Florentine,
Whose rare blue eyes were shut from seeing me
When scarcely I was four years old; my life,
A poor spark snatched up from a failing lamp
Which went out therefore. She was weak and frail;
She could not bear the joy of giving life–
The mother's rapture slew her. If her kiss
Had left a longer weight upon my lips,
It might have steadied the uneasy breath,
And reconciled and fraternised my soul
With the new order. As it was, indeed,
I felt a mother-want about the world,
And still went seeking, like a bleating lamb
Left out at night, in shutting up the fold,–
As restless as a nest-deserted bird
Grown chill through something being away, though what
It knows not. I, Aurora Leigh, was born
To make my father sadder, and myself
Not overjoyous, truly. Women know
The way to rear up children, (to be just,)
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poem by Elizabeth Barrett Browning from Aurora Leigh (1856)
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Tale XXI
The Learned Boy
An honest man was Farmer Jones, and true;
He did by all as all by him should do;
Grave, cautious, careful, fond of gain was he,
Yet famed for rustic hospitality:
Left with his children in a widow'd state,
The quiet man submitted to his fate;
Though prudent matrons waited for his call,
With cool forbearance he avoided all;
Though each profess'd a pure maternal joy,
By kind attention to his feeble boy;
And though a friendly Widow knew no rest,
Whilst neighbour Jones was lonely and distress'd;
Nay, though the maidens spoke in tender tone
Their hearts' concern to see him left alone,
Jones still persisted in that cheerless life,
As if 'twere sin to take a second wife.
Oh! 'tis a precious thing, when wives are dead,
To find such numbers who will serve instead;
And in whatever state a man be thrown,
'Tis that precisely they would wish their own;
Left the departed infants--then their joy
Is to sustain each lovely girl and boy:
Whatever calling his, whatever trade,
To that their chief attention has been paid;
His happy taste in all things they approve,
His friends they honour, and his food they love;
His wish for order, prudence in affairs,
An equal temper (thank their stars!), are theirs;
In fact, it seem'd to be a thing decreed,
And fix'd as fate, that marriage must succeed:
Yet some, like Jones, with stubborn hearts and
hard,
Can hear such claims and show them no regard.
Soon as our Farmer, like a general, found
By what strong foes he was encompass'd round,
Engage he dared not, and he could not fly,
But saw his hope in gentle parley lie;
With looks of kindness then, and trembling heart,
He met the foe, and art opposed to art.
Now spoke that foe insidious--gentle tones,
And gentle looks, assumed for Farmer Jones:
'Three girls,' the Widow cried, 'a lively three
To govern well--indeed it cannot be.'
'Yes,' he replied, 'it calls for pains and care:
But I must bear it.'--'Sir, you cannot bear;
Your son is weak, and asks a mother's eye:'
'That, my kind friend, a father's may supply.'
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poem by George Crabbe
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Hieroglyphic Beguile Meant
HIEROGLYPHIC BEGUILE...MEANT
I sought inspiring way to play “beguile”
blood's flood rush-blushing flush, then hibernate,
lush, hid ‘mid hieroglyphics of soft smile.
It dawned that very few can reconcile
emotions' brakes while breaking conscious state,
to draw more definitions for “beguile”.
Most, blind behind closed minds, can’t conjugate
dimensions manifold, unfold, translate,
decypher hieroglyphics of soft smile.
It takes so many lifetimes to compile
right signals light, bright eyes communicate
decoding definitions for “beguile”
into word worlds both varied, versatile,
deep, difficult to truly contemplate -
expanding hieroglyphics of soft smile.
Content observing content, context, style,
expressive inner eyes deliberate,
a worthwhile definition for “beguile”,
hidden in hieroglyphics of soft smile.
There are two definitions for “beguile”
one shares, one snares love, fair disguising hate -
what’s truth mid hieroglyphics of Your smile?
What if snare scare replaced rare care to dial
confusion more than loving fusion’s state,
refusal, ersatz aura ringed by rile?
What if those hieroglyphics hid heart vile,
whose slyness surface smiles would compensate
with blushing rushes should “beguile” prove guile.
What would remain of love’s fair sceptered isle?
Who could clear conscience e’er exonerate
from name of blame whose fame would flame defile,
mark Lethe dark, where no stark hopes beguile
lost soul, shade forfeit, damned, banned, intestate
parody pornographic, mercantile.
True torment, false beguilement takes to trial,
ensures despair, bare cell disconsolate,
Cupid's gilt arrows dipped in venom vile -
envy, greed, to feed perversions' weight
with appetites that needs exaggerate,
deform, intentions turned from narrow, straight,
to swift descent from paradise exile,
sharp fall before dupe hieroglyphic smile! ...
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poem by Jonathan Robin
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