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Hymn Of Throe

It's easy to try,
There's no use to cry
It's time to wipe the
Tears till dry

From fire to ashes
Gust of wind blow with howl
Wings of flame brings me fame
All I have are satchel of blames

Blow me cold,
Hold me still
Pills I have will make me ill
All I need is stains of grieve

Hymn of throe
Scud with thorns
Lift me up with
Rueful of hate

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poem by Amir Amzah
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The Broken Gate

Torn paint dressed the fence that hung the broken gate
The broken gate witnessed the death-throe plants
The death-throe plants kept company with nicotine dregs
Nicotine dregs grew from hands above pitted concrete
Pitted concrete bore memories of lost revellers
Lost revellers were lost in a day’s pain and liquor
A day’s pain and liquor were birthed in a dirty tummy
A dirty tummy reminded of nocturnal, loving sperm
Nocturnal, loving sperm screamed from needful things
Needful things lived in the home with the broken gate.

poem by Wicked Mike
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Weathers

This is the weather the cuckoo likes,
And so do I;
When showers betumble the chestnut spikes,
And nestlings fly;
And the little brown nightingale bills his best,
And they sit outside at 'The Traveller's Rest,'
And maids come forth sprig-muslin drest,
And citizens dream of the south and west,
And so do I.

This is the weather the shepherd shuns,
And so do I;
When beeches drip in browns and duns,
And thresh and ply;
And hill-hid tides throb, throe on throe,
And meadow rivulets overflow,
And drops on gate bars hang in a row,
And rooks in families homeward go,
And so do I.

poem by Thomas Hardy
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The Complaint Of Prometheus

PROMETHEUS (alone)

O holy Aether, and swift-winged Winds,
And River-wells, and laughter innumerous
Of yon Sea-waves! Earth, mother of us all,
And all-viewing cyclic Sun, I cry on you,--
Behold me a god, what I endure from gods!
Behold, with throe on throe,
How, wasted by this woe,
I wrestle down the myriad years of Time!
Behold, how fast around me
The new King of the happy ones sublime
Has flung the chain he forged, has shamed and bound me!
Woe, woe! to-day's woe and the coming morrow's
I cover with one groan. And where is found me
A limit to these sorrows?
And yet what word do I say? I have foreknown
Clearly all things that should be; nothing done
Comes sudden to my soul--and I must bear
What is ordained with patience, being aware

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poem by Aeschylus
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VI. Giuseppe Caponsacchi

Answer you, Sirs? Do I understand aright?
Have patience! In this sudden smoke from hell,—
So things disguise themselves,—I cannot see
My own hand held thus broad before my face
And know it again. Answer you? Then that means
Tell over twice what I, the first time, told
Six months ago: 't was here, I do believe,
Fronting you same three in this very room,
I stood and told you: yet now no one laughs,
Who then … nay, dear my lords, but laugh you did,
As good as laugh, what in a judge we style
Laughter—no levity, nothing indecorous, lords!
Only,—I think I apprehend the mood:
There was the blameless shrug, permissible smirk,
The pen's pretence at play with the pursed mouth,
The titter stifled in the hollow palm
Which rubbed the eyebrow and caressed the nose,
When I first told my tale: they meant, you know,
"The sly one, all this we are bound believe!
"Well, he can say no other than what he says.

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poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
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At the river (englyn lleddfbroest)

The fish was spilling its roe
while in a kind of birth throe,
while at the river a doe
trampled a hyena’s toe

poem by Gert Strydom
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Water, is taught by thirst

135

Water, is taught by thirst.
Land—by the Oceans passed.
Transport—by throe—
Peace—by its battles told—
Love, by Memorial Mold—
Birds, by the Snow.

poem by Emily Dickinson
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To my sister on her wedding day

To my sister on her wedding day
I am happy to say,
You're love is peur for this man hear,
And he wont throe her love away.
They will be happy,
I know
So i am happy to say it is her wedding day.

poem by Nicole Arishenkoff
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A throe upon the features

71

A throe upon the features—
A hurry in the breath—
An ecstasy of parting
Denominated "Death"—

An anguish at the mention
Which when to patience grown,
I've known permission given
To rejoin its own.

poem by Emily Dickinson
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I like a look of Agony

241

I like a look of Agony,
Because I know it's true—
Men do not sham Convulsion,
Nor simulate, a Throe—

The Eyes glaze once—and that is Death—
Impossible to feign
The Beads upon the Forehead
By homely Anguish strung.

poem by Emily Dickinson
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