Quotes about elephantine, page 2
Your Chamber of Memory
A house for the dead who are not dead.
A cage, a prison where you hold your abusers.
Beautiful on the outside. Inviting.
Like a mansion, welcoming and decorated.
But if I were to take a peak inside,
even if only for a moment,
I would spot the trap, yet never
would I be able to escape it.
You'd pull me in with a firm grasp,
for you never forget the insult.
All these people here, all these moments.
What have they done to be forever damned,
to be reduced to heartless corpses
and shredded canvases, abandonned
and forgotten by all but you.
All of your experiences, all of your life's flawed
occurrences, rotting away, then being blown away
with all the other dust
in you elephantine memory.
poem by Zoe Guillory
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Desire To Live
Quaint mellow all around me spreads..
Think ye elements love thee more and I less..
As the stars streak the twinkle of torquoise..
I wonder,
Was it a vision or a walking dream?
Fled has that illusion..
Do i wake or sleep?
To my elephantine memory, owing;
All the gruesome thoughts keep flashing..
Reduced am I,
To this wrinkled snaggle tooth human..
I long for an emotion..
It matters not if I collapse..
It matters not if I fall
And kiss the ground.
Even if I wince a bit..
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poem by Nivea Antony
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Elephant's Graveyard II
But then, almost imperceptibly, the boulders shift,
slowly at first, then increasing speed:
here a bit, there a hit
the eye perceives. Uncannily, they march through trees,
Till what you thought a wall of mere marl
proves an elephant's crinkled back-to be;
what you thought an un-tenanted grotte,
pretty enough, if bare,
is really the dark between an elephant's thighs-
between it's belly and the grass,
and you realize you have discovered a plot
piped by motherly trunks into pachyderm ears
assuring them there's a place they will go
if steadfast, in spite of crocodiles and bogs-
though one must be mindful to avoid both.
And suddenly, in the quiet of a grove
generations on generations of elephantine shapes
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poem by Morgan Michaels
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In The Pursuit Of Art Every Morning...
on aching eyes
and osteopathic backbone
one must keep the
art of
writing, because that is what is art all about,
talking about
self-denial, the mastery of the
perfect art of
restraints, how to place your hands on
your chest and feel
the rhythms of that
isolated and well protected
flesh and bone
covered
heart, everything is there anyway
like bread and butter and
rice and fish
on that white painted breakfast
table, with the matching hot cup of
coffee and
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poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Common Cold
Go hang yourself, you old M.D.!
You shall not sneer at me.
Pick up your hat and stethoscope,
Go wash your mouth with laundry soap;
I contemplate a joy exquisite
I'm not paying you for your visit.
I did not call you to be told
My malady is a common cold.
By pounding brow and swollen lip;
By fever's hot and scaly grip;
By those two red redundant eyes
That weep like woeful April skies;
By racking snuffle, snort, and sniff;
By handkerchief after handkerchief;
This cold you wave away as naught
Is the damnedest cold man ever caught!
Give ear, you scientific fossil!
Here is the genuine Cold Colossal;
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poem by Ogden Nash
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Flip-Flop! Clip-Clap! Boo-Boo Cried SOLO BOBBY – Trapped in a BOOBY-TRAP!
In lonely woods, I met Cyclops with solo eye and single mouth with fire
Goofing around in a city by varying names – hobo, hog are names few;
Anchorite, Hieronymite, troglodyte, , stylite, road hog are names new -
Solo Cyclops is a 16th century’s leviathan & 21st century’s plastic gyre.
Flip-flop! Clip-clap! Boo-boo cried solo Bobby – trapped in the Booby-trap!
Clip-clop went the horse's hop – lonely Johny weeps in the lonely shop!
Aloneness greets me seventy times seven and 24/7 with a mess!
Aloneness is a burning hole inside me with a hallow emptiness....
Aloneness is tearing me apart and pulling my only heart apart!
Aloneness is perfect but hopelessness and darkness in your heart.
Flip-flop! Clip-clap! Boo-boo cried solo Bobby – trapped in the Booby-trap!
Clip-clop went the horse's hop – lonely Johny weeps in the lonely shop!
Aloneness is a feeling of wontedness yet remains unwonted,
Aloofness isn't a simple word anymore - a nerve rattling terror;
It has undergone a surgery, turned out to be chameleons’ avatar!
So it puts every Jack, Tom and Jerry on the butcher’s altar.
Flip-flop! Clip-clap! Boo-boo cried solo Bobby – trapped in the Booby-trap!
Clip-clop went the horse's hop – lonely Johny weeps in the lonely shop!
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poem by Harindhar Reddy
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Good Mother
What will make no sense to one man holds revelation for the next.
Bless the muse her word's of wisdom.
Bless Boon for a guiding hand.
Bless the Ice Queen Virgins of the valley
Whom pacified this land.
My religion my own, opinion my own
Grounded isolation, home sweet home.
Guard your secret well my son, remember as the Oboe done,
the way to flow, to call upon Pan, to know the giant's dance
Good mother adorns her child in spirit, maiden, mother, crone
Spin to measure to cut the thread of crowns hewn out of bone.
He may have no name, no distinct aroma
Just a song he whistles as he walks,
Vervain carried for protection, in honour of Venus turn your coat
To lift the mood.
To pull straight through.
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poem by David Lacey
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Waiting For A Thunderstorm
Waiting for a thunderstorm
just me and the moon
and these deserted streets with their heritage lamps
and tungsten suns
swarming with frenzied insects
like the brain of the occasional crackhead
who's made a hoody of the night
and pulls it down tighter as he passes
wondering whether he should have asked me for a cigarette.
Lines from sad songs like lingering smoke
from distant fires
curl through my head
like the ghosts of roads I once walked
then break off like old shoelaces.
O and the faces
like blossoms from a tree
hidden deep in the night
suddenly crossing the moon
like birds with messages and destinations
not meant for me anymore.
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poem by Patrick White
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Look At The Animals
The tiny ant leaves his tiny ant drops in the sand,
And makes his home inside a rusty watering can,
Occasionally going out to look for bread and jam.
He runs into a sparrow who hasnt eaten for a week,
And later, quite contented, the sparrow cleans his beak,
Failing to notice pussy cat has come out to take a leak.
Our cat partakes of dinner when a sodden kangaroo
Emerges from the undergrowth and asks to use the loo.
Kangaroos arent usually dangerous, for that would never do.
My goodness, will you look at all the animals queuing on the stairs!
Look at the animals in the zoo; how would you like to be one?
Theyre waiting to use the lavatory and putting chewing gum in each
Others hair.
Look at the animals, look at you; well how would you like to free one?
Good gracious, will you look at all the animals playing with their tools!
Look at the animals, look at you; well how would you like to queer one?
Flying from the chandeliers and treading in their elephantine stools.
Look at the animals, two by two; arent you glad to be one?
This kangaroos a lunatic and his pouch is very full
Of pussy cats and penguins who cant fly as a rule,
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song performed by Jethro Tull
Added by Lucian Velea
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Seasonal Cycle - Chapter 01 - Summer
"Oh, dear, this utterly sweltering season of the highly rampant sun is drawing nigh, and it will always be good enough to go on taking daytime baths, as the lakes and rivers will still be with plenteous waters, and at the end of the day, nightfall will be pleasant with fascinating moon, and in such nights Love-god can somehow be almost mollified...[who tortured us in the previous vernal season... but now without His sweltering us, we can happily enjoy the nights devouring cool soft drinks and dancing and merrymaking in outfields...]
"Oh, beloved one, somewhere the moon shoved the blackish columns of night aside, somewhere else the palace-chambers with water [showering, sprinkling and splashing] machines are highly exciting, and else where the matrices of gems, [like coolant pearls and moon-stone, etc.,] are there, and even the pure sandalwood is liquefied [besides other coolant scents,] thus this season gets an adoration from all the people...
"The beloved ones will enjoy the summer's clear late nights while they are atop the rooftops of buildings that are delightful and fragranced well, while they savour the passion intensifiers like strong drinks and while the ladylove's face suspires the bouquets of those drinks together with melodious instrumental and vocal music...
"The women are ameliorating the heat of their lovers with their chicly silken coolant fineries gliding onto their rotund fundaments, for they are knotted loosely, and on those silks glissading are their golden cinctures with their dangling tassels that are unfastened on and off, and with their buxom bosoms that are bedaubed with sandal-paste and semi-covered with pearly strings and golden lavalieres, and with their locks of hair that are sliding onto their faces, which locks are fragrant with bath-time emulsions, which are just applied before their oil bath...
"Brightly coloured with the reddish foot-paint that is akin to the colour of lac's reddish resin, adorned with anklets that are festooned with jingling bells, whose tintinnabulations on their stepping after stepping mimic the clucks of swans, with such feet those women with bumpy behinds are rendering the hearts of people impassioned, in these days of pre-summer...
"These days the bosoms of womenfolk are bedaubed with scents and sandal-paste, and they are given out to snowily and whitely pearly pendants that are sported on those bosoms, and even their hiplines are with the dangling golden griddle-strings, with such a lovely ostentation whose heart is it, that does not fill with raptures...
"The seams of limbs of ladies of age are conquered by the often emerging sweat, thus those peaky bosomed lustful ladies are presently banding their bosoms with softish fineries, casting aside their roughish apparels ...
"The rustles of air comprising the aroma of watered sandal-paste, blown off by the fans with peacocks' plumage, and the rustle of strings of pearls when the roundish bosoms of loves are hugged, together with the subtle melody of string instruments, and subtly sung intonations of singers, now appear to awaken Love-god, Manmatha, who is as though asleep after his manoeuvres in the last spring season...
"On leisurely seeing the faces of the maids that are comfortably sleeping well on the tops of whitish edifices, the moon of these nights is highly ecstasized, for he is unpossessed with any such flawless face, as his own face is flawed with rabbit-like, deer-like foibles, and when the night dwindles, he doubtlessly goes into state of pallidity, as though ashamed to show his face to the flawless sun...
"The intolerable westerly wind of the summer is up-heaving the clouds of dust, even the earth is ablaze, set by the blazing sun, and the itinerants whose hearts are already put to blaze by the blazing called the detachment from their ladyloves, and now it has become impossible for them even to look at the blazing earth, to tread further...
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poem by Kalidasa
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