Quotes about slayer, page 4
Despite my love I seem to flicker in and out of your life
Like now you're wiser
With bitter knowledge and
Romantic dreams
At your loving best you
Love me like you're loving a god
You tantalize me and you make
Me feel wanted and desired
Ah...Mabel! Mabel!
The shadow of you looms
Large over my feeble self
At your worst you're
The soundless slayer of my heart
You give me the bits and the
Pieces of your heart that I want
You give me the morsels
Of the numerous that the world
Cannot offer me
You break my heart and you make me
Your little plaything
Despite my love I seem to flicker
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poem by Ngaka Motaung
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Devi Durga
Thou art the oneness of the infinite
Set apart open in splits of every finite
Thou art the prime matter of the cosmos
Goddess of the gods in multiplex forms
Thou art the fluorescnce of the cosmos
Candent to be livid to undo chasing darkness
Thou art the slayer of Madhu and Kaitabha
And Sumba and Nisumba and Mahisha
Thou art the multi-handed guard
Weaponed for evil to retard
Thou art the valour and hope
For Thou merciful support we scope
Thou art Devi Durga incomprehensible
Destroyer of miseries unbeatable
Thou art Durgama invincible
Saver-sailor of samsara unchallengeable
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poem by Indira Renganathan
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Second-Best
A Celtic spearman forcing the cromlech-builder's brown
daughter;
A blond Saxon, a slayer of Britons,
Building his farm outside the village he'd burned; a Norse
Voyager, wielder of oars and a sword,
Thridding the rocks at the fjord sea-end, hungry as a hawk;
A hungry Gaelic chiefling in Ulster,
Whose blood with the Norseman's rotted in the rain on a heather
hill:
These by the world's time were very recent
Forefathers of yours. And you are a maker of verses. The pallid
Pursuit of the world's beauty on paper,
Unless a tall angel comes to require it, is a pitiful pastime.
If, burnished new from God's eyes, an angel:
And the ardors of the simple blood showing clearly a little
ridiculous
In this changed world: write and be quiet.
poem by Robinson Jeffers
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Dares The Storm
The pain out-thinks every moment,
all over the body
I wander in a solitary walkway.
There is nothing between mind
and brain. Whole prosperity of thoughts
curves easily. The body
spends all the internal wealth
to gain a humble peace.
The rambling melancholia
pales into white lava.
The fatal fear follows you
like a hot light. The pursuit
of incense, the chase of
beautiful icon’s cleavage brings
the charm. Speaking about the ecstasy,
about the shapeless pleasure,
the ultimate opposite of
sacredness becomes instant
liberation, from any symbol.
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poem by Satish Verma
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The Widening Compass Of Pain
ations.
At war with the world and yourself
like two halves of the same unbroken wishbone,
teach the children how to approach their crossroads
in peace, and speak of the sword of the slayer
like a sacred syllable in the mouth of the slain
that cut through your umbilical cord
like a link in a golden chain that held you back
from the liberation of a lyrically unbounded life.
Mollify the poison of the thorn with the cure
in the medicine bag of the other fang.
When the wedding gown of the Japanese plum tree
is ruined in the rain and the dust like blossoms
blowing down the road like the happiness you hoped for,
be the nude in the doorway of a darker bliss
that roots its revelation like lightning in the soil
of your flesh, like deltas of insight greeting
an ocean of awareness at the end of a long pilgrimage,
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poem by Patrick White
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March
Slayer of the winter, art thou here again?
O welcome, thou that's bring'st the summer nigh!
The bitter wind makes not thy victory vain,
Nor will we mock thee for thy faint blue sky.
Welcome, O March! whose kindly days and dry
Make April ready for the throstle's song,
Thou first redresser of the winter's wrong!
Yea, welcome March! and though I die ere June,
Yet for the hope of life I give thee praise,
Striving to swell the burden of the tune
That even now I hear thy brown birds raise,
Unmindful of the past or coming days;
Who sing: 'Oh joy! a new year is begun:
What happiness to look upon the sun!'
Ah, what begetteth all this storm of bliss
But death himself, who crying solemnly,
E'en from the heart of sweet Forgetfulness,
Bids us 'Rejoice, lest pleasureless ye die,
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poem by William Morris
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New Beginning
kidnapped into hell, i fought to come back
tied up by pain tenfold and enveloped by wrath
stumbling blindly through darkness
flesh putrid from curdled memories i pass
voiceless echoes of terrors and dreams
my longing for life touched every bittersweet gash
fixated on the battles I lost
my expired heart fed snakes in the grass
became the walking dead
bad bitch punisher to whoever stepped in my path
manifested to a slayer
filled with corrosion i had to find myself fast
tainted memories I had to wipe away
twisting the rag to drain them fast
No longer clinging on to bloody wars
silent screams
Broken bones
hollow nights of my hollow past
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poem by Adrienne Sharpe
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The League Of Youth
There was never a hint, when I was a boy,
That the joy of the wilds might bring man joy;
Never a thought that a wild thing slain
Might wake in the slayer pain for pain.
We were savages all, with the hunter's thrill
In the lure of the chase and the lust of the kill;
And the bud on the bough, and the bird in the nest
Were beautiful things to be possessed.
But a worthier thing comes now to the earth,
Since pity in minds of the young has birth.
'Tis the glorious gift, that wisdom brings,
Of knowing and loving all lovely things:
Of loving and sharing with all the boon
Of the glad free things that may teach us soon
The gift of living, as glad and free,
As bird and blossom in Arcady.
'Oh, youth is heedless,' the elders say,
'Youth is callous and cruel in play,'
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Taoist
THOSE friends of Lao-Tzu, those wise old men
Dozing all day in lemon-silken robes,
With tomes of beaten jade spread knee to knee,
And pipe-stem, shining cold with silver, poised
In steaming play, and still a finger free
To dog the path of some forgotten pen;
Almost their bee-sweet ancient words incline
My mind to those old pagan ways, beloved
By mandarins and mages, now but dust
In drowsy pyramids. What creed is this,
Save that which those philosophers discussed
In gold pavilions, over musky wine?
'Repenting always of forgotten wrongs
Will never bring thy heart to rest, for thought
Repairs no whit of evil; rather cast
Thy meditations in that utter void
To which all human deeds resolve at last . . . .'
So runs the burden of their thousand songs.
Here, in this dark Star-Chamber of the soul,
You stand arraigned, O slayer of my heart . . .
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poem by Kenneth Slessor
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Anthology Prepared
His wish was wit with wisdom well to wed
within an epigram, - he found instead
some thought slight wit was there and that was slight,
he witless seemed to others, lacked insight.
He kept in sight their criticism there,
and kept from sight verse, parodies hors pair,
for some insipid seemed, rose-water, trite, -
but then began to fly another kite.
He pruned, he tuned, communed, was often led
to pulp the offspring fond that Time had bled,
until the flow could sew in framwork tight
both harmony and sense, in fancy’s flight.
For the first time he’s spurred to offer fare, -
incisive works beyond the critics’ care,
will cast no anxious glance to who’d indict
with bark or bite the verses seen tonight.
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poem by Jonathan Robin
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