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Prince Hohenstiel-Schwangau, Saviour of Society

Epigraph

Υδραν φονεύσας, μυρίων τ᾽ ἄλλων πόνων
διῆλθον ἀγέλας . . .
τὸ λοίσθιον δὲ τόνδ᾽ ἔτλην τάλας πόνον,
. . . δῶμα θριγκῶσαι κακοῖς.

I slew the Hydra, and from labour pass'd
To labour — tribes of labours! Till, at last,
Attempting one more labour, in a trice,
Alack, with ills I crowned the edifice.

You have seen better days, dear? So have I —
And worse too, for they brought no such bud-mouth
As yours to lisp "You wish you knew me!" Well,
Wise men, 't is said, have sometimes wished the same,
And wished and had their trouble for their pains.
Suppose my Œdipus should lurk at last
Under a pork-pie hat and crinoline,
And, latish, pounce on Sphynx in Leicester Square?

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poem by Robert Browning (1871)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Poetic Standard

Poetic Standard

Poetic inspiration must supply
Open sourced resourcefulness, may not
Exist in half-light, cuts the gordian knot
That holds back harmony from inner eye.
Insidious compromise can't satisfy
Creative impulse that rejects as blot
Secondary lot where, half forgot,
Tired lines block, lock life's vista, dreams deny.
All hesitation acts out living lie
None should accept to temper daily rot,
Dread time-trap snapped shut once one bolt is shot.
Aloft soar, draw from intuitions, fly!
Read much, hunch heed, rise from rant's rubbish vent,
Dare to revise, creative dance invent.

Skein poetic weaves life's leaves. Flash wink
Turns think through ink to stage fulfilling page
As insight mixes music, words wild, sage.

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poem by Jonathan Robin
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Clot It Off

Slot it in!
Blot it out! !
Clot it off;
Slot, blot, clot, allot, balklot, lot, plot!
But, with the sweet muse of love.
Slot it in and,
Start to draw now!
Blot it out and,
Find a way through!
Clot it off and,
Be free with your mind;
But, with the sweet muse of love.

poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Avon's Harvest

Fear, like a living fire that only death
Might one day cool, had now in Avon’s eyes
Been witness for so long of an invasion
That made of a gay friend whom we had known
Almost a memory, wore no other name
As yet for us than fear. Another man
Than Avon might have given to us at least
A futile opportunity for words
We might regret. But Avon, since it happened,
Fed with his unrevealing reticence
The fire of death we saw that horribly
Consumed him while he crumbled and said nothing.

So many a time had I been on the edge,
And off again, of a foremeasured fall
Into the darkness and discomfiture
Of his oblique rebuff, that finally
My silence honored his, holding itself
Away from a gratuitous intrusion
That likely would have widened a new distance

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poem by Edwin Arlington Robinson
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Pearl

Pearl of delight that a prince doth please
To grace in gold enclosed so clear,
I vow that from over orient seas
Never proved I any in price her peer.
So round, so radiant ranged by these,
So fine, so smooth did her sides appear
That ever in judging gems that please
Her only alone I deemed as dear.
Alas! I lost her in garden near:
Through grass to the ground from me it shot;
I pine now oppressed by love-wound drear
For that pearl, mine own, without a spot.

2
Since in that spot it sped from me,
I have looked and longed for that precious thing
That me once was wont from woe to free,
To uplift my lot and healing bring,
But my heart doth hurt now cruelly,
My breast with burning torment sting.

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poem by Anonymous Olde English
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Will not a tiny speck very close to our vision blot out the glory of the world, and leave only a margin by which we see the blot? I know no speck so troublesome as self.

quote by George Eliot
Added by Lucian Velea
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Upon A Sheet Of White Paper

This subject is unto the foulest pen,
Or fairest handled by the sons of men.
'Twill also show what is upon it writ,
Be it wisely, or nonsense for want of wit,
Each blot and blur it also will expose
To thy next readers, be they friends or foes.

Comparison.

Some souls are like unto this blank or sheet,
Though not in whiteness. The next man they meet,
If wise or fool, debauched or deluder,
Or what you will, the dangerous intruder
May write thereon, to cause that man to err
In doctrine or in life, with blot and blur.
Nor will that soul conceal from who observes,
But show how foul it is, wherein it swerves.
A reading man may know who was the writer,
And, by the hellish nonsense, the inditer.

poem by John Bunyan
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Pride Aside on Love

Innocence and pride make two
as pride and love - forget-me-not -
from fever cools as through and through
fond memories few keep. Fools blot
their copy books, mock Cupid's coo
as selfishness unravels knot,
hands tied dis paired, what should be true.
When once fidelity's bolt's shot
some lock out souvenirs, fond cue
forget - from pseudo sage to sot -
invent excuses spent, unglue.
False feelings [b]ring crime Time will rot.

Yet Cupid's dart should hearts entwine
in happiness come rain or shine.

for previous version 31 July 2007 see below
Innocence and pride make two
as pride and love, - forget-me-not

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poem by Jonathan Robin
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Timely Open Book

An attractive pair of eyes
of almond aspect, startling size,
sparkle with suggestive look
to signal “I’m an open book”
to which all welcome are who, wise,
rise, meet sweet challenge, find replies
the overhasty overlook.
Moreover, who their minds mistook
face value take where their own lies
make mirror image, dark disguise,
soon blot their ego's copybook -
self image wage, page books may cook.

From downturned mouth to upturned nose
verse flows until this tale we close.

22 June 2005 revised 5 December 2008

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poem by Jonathan Robin
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Stop Abortions, Now!

A billion killed within the womb each year!
Must people kill their kith and kin and dear?
The spattered blood pleads for revenge to God;
Such cruel deaths will invoke God’s just rod!

No excuses can cover up the blot;
Women, beware of this insane a plot;
The distress cries of unborn babes will ring
Throughout your life and woes galore could bring!

Guilty are makers of this policy!
The procurers can’t mask their idiocy!
The leaders can’t escape their major role
Of murders in the womb, loss of each soul!

Condemn the barbaric methods in vogue;
Such killers aren’t better than any rogue;
If taking lives is part of ‘good health care’,
Then deaths from Nature’s furies are but fair!

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poem by John Celes
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