My Blue Truck
Yes, it's true, the patient thorns of virtue,
Sting in subtle waves, the innocent dreams,
the stingy waiting rooms of childhood,
I never learned to still my anxious panic,
Heckling the furniture and cursing the floors,
When the worry grew loud I couldnt bear it,
And finally, like the end of a painful shot,
The screeching rubber of the blue truck heard,
My Dad, my hero, my everything rode down,
Away went the grieving sad grunts
And my tremoring fears,
Dad, the Shaman Warrior, swept up my tears.
Showing posts with label Poetry. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Poetry. Show all posts
Monday, December 19, 2011
Sunday, March 14, 2010
past perfect scene
past perfect
Opening scene
used bookstore - a writer's hangout. Derek reads his essay.
the scene initially has only derek's voice as the camera begins to move from outside to inside of the bookstore
finally, as derek is saying his last line, the camera shows derek speaking to an audience of 10, as they sit below the
stage of the reader.
D: I am the writer. I think in the present perfect. It is my allegory; it is my voice. I am the audience, an observer, not the performer;
i am no longer the tragic figure doom; scripted metaphors full of twisting ironies. I am not scratch on scorecard, I will not tilt and lose anymore lives. I am the write now, no strings attached, no puppet master, no more fireless; i will not allow my persona to step onto the stage. i have found the crack of dawn aint so bad, only if you choose to be there. i have come to take this time. i found it
easier to be the one listening to, not being listened to; I have detached and retached my configurations.
Derek, 41,high school english teacher, begins a new life after several tragedies in his past had given him wisdom to change.
He begins to write and eventually attends poetry readings, trying to carve meaning while keeping his past in the rearview mirror.
carla, 23, young, vibrant, energetic, meets derek at a poetry reading. Coincidentally, both have incredbly similar reading, which
fascinates carla, gaining courage to meet derek. They immediately bond, share their poetry, begin to discover each other.
carla, never really felt love; derek being her first. Whereas derek, just broken up with his girlfriend of three years; a former student and young,
this time with carls, didnt let his inhibitions stop him fro pursuing carla as well. Derek jaded yet finding a new life through poetry and writing.
carla, innocent, not having been through too much, moves in with derek. As they live together, they find out the tureness of each other's souls.
derek writes a biography of his past for carls, as she weeps and is saddened of his past. Derek tells carla, when you write, you see the past
so clear, no strings attached. You become the audience, rather the performer.
Derek talks of thureau, and questions whether farheneit 451 was prophetic. he questions hamlet intentions. H cries when he reads all quiet on the
western front to his class. as the whole class weeps, class is dismissed and derek begins to notice his affection to literature.
he says, " i finally have become the teacher i dreamed of."
happy and with an air confidence, he is shocked to hear carla has terminal cancer. his life turns tragic
carla dies; he reads poetry everyday at her grave. The situation turns ugly as derek begins to smoke crystal and gamble his life into
oblivion. he takes off in his car, goes to the place carla loved to be; huntington garden; he breaks into the library and passes out. He
is found in the morning, finally goes to therapy, and must reinvent himself again, testing wisdom and will once more.
i can look into my past and see beyond it. I dont have to feel pain no more. I am just a face in the audience, wetting
my melancholic fetish. i try to find the balance now. i try to live in the present perfect. I perform without an identity. I am
a blank slate. fate has been absent for awhile now. No longer does he lurk hideously behind the smoking mirror.
he has been fired; his place has no place. my script is left to the wind;
unwritten; my freewill prevails. I retired from acting. I walked away from tragedy. Time to time, i visit its ugly visage, his ghost
ever present, hovering around, not giving, not showing, not real anymore.
my tears; they do deceive me; they real yet empty of ego. . It is all too real. I am happy now
Opening scene
used bookstore - a writer's hangout. Derek reads his essay.
the scene initially has only derek's voice as the camera begins to move from outside to inside of the bookstore
finally, as derek is saying his last line, the camera shows derek speaking to an audience of 10, as they sit below the
stage of the reader.
D: I am the writer. I think in the present perfect. It is my allegory; it is my voice. I am the audience, an observer, not the performer;
i am no longer the tragic figure doom; scripted metaphors full of twisting ironies. I am not scratch on scorecard, I will not tilt and lose anymore lives. I am the write now, no strings attached, no puppet master, no more fireless; i will not allow my persona to step onto the stage. i have found the crack of dawn aint so bad, only if you choose to be there. i have come to take this time. i found it
easier to be the one listening to, not being listened to; I have detached and retached my configurations.
Derek, 41,high school english teacher, begins a new life after several tragedies in his past had given him wisdom to change.
He begins to write and eventually attends poetry readings, trying to carve meaning while keeping his past in the rearview mirror.
carla, 23, young, vibrant, energetic, meets derek at a poetry reading. Coincidentally, both have incredbly similar reading, which
fascinates carla, gaining courage to meet derek. They immediately bond, share their poetry, begin to discover each other.
carla, never really felt love; derek being her first. Whereas derek, just broken up with his girlfriend of three years; a former student and young,
this time with carls, didnt let his inhibitions stop him fro pursuing carla as well. Derek jaded yet finding a new life through poetry and writing.
carla, innocent, not having been through too much, moves in with derek. As they live together, they find out the tureness of each other's souls.
derek writes a biography of his past for carls, as she weeps and is saddened of his past. Derek tells carla, when you write, you see the past
so clear, no strings attached. You become the audience, rather the performer.
Derek talks of thureau, and questions whether farheneit 451 was prophetic. he questions hamlet intentions. H cries when he reads all quiet on the
western front to his class. as the whole class weeps, class is dismissed and derek begins to notice his affection to literature.
he says, " i finally have become the teacher i dreamed of."
happy and with an air confidence, he is shocked to hear carla has terminal cancer. his life turns tragic
carla dies; he reads poetry everyday at her grave. The situation turns ugly as derek begins to smoke crystal and gamble his life into
oblivion. he takes off in his car, goes to the place carla loved to be; huntington garden; he breaks into the library and passes out. He
is found in the morning, finally goes to therapy, and must reinvent himself again, testing wisdom and will once more.
i can look into my past and see beyond it. I dont have to feel pain no more. I am just a face in the audience, wetting
my melancholic fetish. i try to find the balance now. i try to live in the present perfect. I perform without an identity. I am
a blank slate. fate has been absent for awhile now. No longer does he lurk hideously behind the smoking mirror.
he has been fired; his place has no place. my script is left to the wind;
unwritten; my freewill prevails. I retired from acting. I walked away from tragedy. Time to time, i visit its ugly visage, his ghost
ever present, hovering around, not giving, not showing, not real anymore.
my tears; they do deceive me; they real yet empty of ego. . It is all too real. I am happy now
Monday, December 22, 2008
Terrapin Station
Memories wet and dancing metaphors,
Color my eyes a token rhyme,
That only whispers harmony,
In wisk wonder
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
Beelzebub's Tales to his Grandson
I was pleased to be introduced to a spiritualist writer, orator, mystic; GI Gurdjieff. I'm currently doing research on his works, reading his critics, and attempting to tie in a contemporary equivalent to our ownselves. Things I question when reading about new artists; Why are they powerful to many and an inspiration to as a world ambassador to knowledge? WHere was the artist born and where has he travelled? Has his understanding, wisdom changed over the course of his lifes works? What were his greatest works within his stages of work?
Here's a poem I pasted; from Gurdjieff's "Beelzebub's Tales to his Grandson:
Faith of consciousness is freedom
Faith of feeling is weakness
Faith of body is stupidity.
Love of consciousness evokes the same in response
Love of feeling evokes the opposite
Love of body depends only on type and polarity.
Hope of consciousness is strength
Hope of feeling is slavery
Hope of body is disease.
Here's a poem I pasted; from Gurdjieff's "Beelzebub's Tales to his Grandson:
Faith of consciousness is freedom
Faith of feeling is weakness
Faith of body is stupidity.
Love of consciousness evokes the same in response
Love of feeling evokes the opposite
Love of body depends only on type and polarity.
Hope of consciousness is strength
Hope of feeling is slavery
Hope of body is disease.
Monday, December 15, 2008
Vampire Poetry
1) I Miss I miss the shineOf your ruby red eyesThe leathery feel of your faceYour breath on my neckAnd the points of your teethAs you come unto me for a taste.
2) Vampires
The night was day,The day was night,The world was dark and empty,The caves were dark 'er the light shall ne'er touch,Thy light be scorned,Else thee be burned,By it's purifying touch,We are the dark ones,Scorned by those of light,We are the darkness,That touches yonder heart,We be Deaths' carriers,Who watches those above,We be the shadows,Seen on full-moon's light,Flying above yonder head,Waiting for a mistake,To be made by thee mortals,We be the ghosts of history,Haunting All-Hallow's eve,The monsters under a child's bed,We be the nightmares,We be the sins,We be the wraiths of natural destruction,We be the Vampires.
3) Wingbeats from a High Balcony
A tale or a dreamHis other life seemed As he slunk through the shadows of night. Barely remembered,That fateful November,When dark swallowed all of the light.The bite.The pain spreading through him,The poisonous fangs dripping red. As twilight consumed him, He looked at what doomed him,And these are the words that it said:
Creature of night, Take heart, Take flight. You’re free now to do what you will. No morals, no life, To live out in strife, Your pleasure will come from the kill.
As he had been fated,He gorged and he satedHis thirst on the blood of the living.Warm, dark and red,The innocent bled,Unaware of the curse they were giving. Unliving.He longed for the killing, And in each waking moment it grew. The feeling of spiteFor all that was rightAs his soul frosted over anew.
So now in the darkHe waits for the sparkOf a life that is ripe for the taking. He longs for the dayAnd he can’t get awayFrom a trance that’s not sleeping or waking. Lonely,He wonders if onlyThe kiss of the sun would bring peace.And so, come the morningDespite instinct’s warning,He’ll lie down and hope for release.
4) Embrace
You Embrace the lustYou Embrace the painYou Embrace it until tears fall like rainYou sit and wait for a calm in your brainWait so patient and still the silence drives you insaneYou Embrace the painYou Embrace the lustYou run toward the very thing that turns your heart to dustWhy do you set yourself up for a fallGo so deep your skin starts to crawlStart to run but never get anywhereThe thought of going nowhere is too much to bearSo embrace it with every drop of tearsEmbrace it.....You still have so many more years.
5) Under the cloak of happiness
Every time you cry your crimson tears,My heart breaks, sending itCrashing among the shattered Glasses that had yet to be Filled by your Love and Beauty.
Every time I watch you Slip into the silent ebony night, I remember that we can never Be together.
Every time I feel your silk-smooth lipsPress against mine,Or feel your pearl white fangs sink into my skin Taking out rushes of blood,My heart soars into the abyss of happiness That fills my soul.
Every time I see you embrace the One that claimed your love,My blood runs cold at the realization that You don’t feel the same way
And every, every single moment That I spend away from you,I die justA littleBit More.
6) To Thou Who Lingerest In The Wilderness
Before the place existed and the time was,She made her first cry to make us hear her call,But there was not a place to dwell in.
As the light departed from the shattered sun,Then carried gloom to the landscape of that yard,She was asleep in the land where there was no one.
Her throat had embraced the dark nails of cruelty,But she tried to leave from the edge of that chaos.Evacuated her grave, she dwells in the night, lingers in infinity.
She arose like a ghost from her old gray tomb,Approached their soul with a devilish touchAnd suddenly sparkled to become our new host.
As an undead she is, she feels a strong blood desire Wandering in the night, through the woods,Through the land, in the woods, in an eternal fire.
7) De mentoring
When I bite for the taste,All I see is blood to waste,For I bite into the flesh and the energy I put to the test,But when the blood touches my lips, my mind just utterly flips,Spins into eradication. It spins fast.How long I'm wondering will this rush last?I did it once. I did it twice. I tasted blood many times and thought it nice.Hunted the energies down like mice, mice without a purpose, mice without plan,I hunt them down and strip there energy and place it in my hand!
8) It seemed like a good idea at the time
It seemed like a good idea at the time,the immortality, the eternal youth.My mentor reassured me with her crimson lips,her caresses, her murmured endearments,all the while stroking my beardless cheekwith her blood-red nails,nuzzling my pulsating throat,‘You will be mine, forever.’And then she sank her ivory fangs into my neck,and drank deep, deeply, deepest,drawing out my very soul.
That night I died, only to be born againby the light of the next rising moon.No Christ figure I, never again would I set footin a house of worship or defile a temple of faith.The daily company of men was forbidden me;I sought nightly those of my own kindand those foolish enough to venture forth,becoming appeasement for my unceasing hunger,my insatiable lust for life.
Time passes, the world changes,mountains crumble, oceans rise;I remain the same.I do not change, I cannot die;my mentor’s words were spoken in truth:forever young, forever untouched by the passage of time.Everyone I know, everyone I ever loved is dead.No one loves such a one as myself.
You cannot see me, as I stand behind you while you brush your golden hair,paint your perfect lips,not reflected in any mirror, unfelt by your beglamoured senses.Your beauty, your innocence, are all that I crave,yet what I desire most is your death,to drink in your essence, your soul,to feel the life pour out of you,to hold you tenderly as your veins empty into mine,to watch fondly as your rosy glow is replaced by an icy pallor.
And yet with your death I am deprived of your life.The warmth I would swallow, the blood filling me with your essence, your very soul,will in turn guarantee that I shall never have you again.I wait for you to unclasp the heavy silver chain,the one that encircles the throat I yearn for,that keeps me from reaching out and touchingthe very thing that I desire most,and pray that you do not.
Yes, it seemed like a good idea at the time.But now, as I cannot have your death,I desire my own; and yet, I cannot die.I cannot die.
9) Vampire Motel
A rather stretched line of people is waitingFacing the rusty door of a crypt-like buildingEach of them worriedly watching the horizonGuessing impatiently when the sun starts risin’
In a few minutes time the door opens slowlyAnd a short guy appears, who’s truly unholy“Please sign this paper and then hand it back to me”He says in a dull voice, “Oh, and prepare the fee!”
They do as the man says without hesitationThis place can save them from eternal damnationEach of them's shown a spot where they can ‘spend the day’Waiting for the dark night when they meet their next prey…
And the sun starts shining, but they are safe by nowLying in their coffins 3 meters undergroundAnd a wind blows through and dissolves the awful smellThis cemetery is a vampire motel.
10) have mercy
run, run fasterkeep on runninghe is after youand he wants your bloodhe has no mercy
everyone screamsthere is no way out she is after youand she wants your bloodshe has no mercy
hiding behind a housethey'll find you anywaythey are after youand they want your bloodthey have no mercy
come out, come out where ever you areyou can run, but you can not findfor I am after youand I want your bloodand I have no mercy
soon the world is all the samesoon no one has to run or hidesoon no one is after yousoon no one wants your bloodsoon no one has mercysoon you are alsoa vampire
11) Quick Guide to Vampires
If you come upon a vampire,Better not poke him.If you can’t help it,Don’t further provoke him.And if you do,There’s no hope for you,Because when they’re mad as heck,They’ll bite your neck.
12) Real Vampires From A Reliable Source
Vampires come in all shapes and sizes.They look normal, like you or me,But I will now tell you the biggest surprises,The have types, numbering three.
Sanguinarian (that’s Latin for blood drinker),Now guess how THEY loose their thirst,But they can still get blood-born diseases,So Donors must be blood checked first.
Then there are Psi’s,Now THEY need to feed from emotions,And prana, now there’s a surprise.They don’t feed off blood? What a peculiar notion.
Then there would be the Hybrids,They feed like both Sangs and Psi’s.The choice is theirs, how they want to feed.Oh boy, would that not be nice?
They aren’t evil and don’t live forever.They can’t “change” you or give you their powers.They just have superior senses,And prefer to sleep daytime hours.
I hope that this poem I’ve written,Has taught you this subject well,‘Cause Vamps can be real good friends,And not ALL of them come out of hell.
13) Child of the Night
“Fear is power,” the eldest did confide,“Mortal minds with thoughts can bend;Home is darkness, where I hide,Every beginning must start with an end.Touch not the sun, oh poisoned light,But embrace the silver temptress moon;Make your sanctuary the velvet night,The wolf’s howl is your mother’s croon.Blood is wine, flesh divine,Nary a prayer will halt your will;Garlic, silver, nor holy sign, --Only the sun makes your blood stop still.So be wary, child of the night,Let no mortal know of your bloody endeavor;Sleep with the rising of the sun, tainted light,Safe with the thought that you’ll live forever.”
14) She Waits
The sun it fades, by the window she waitsHer lovers bite, will ignite her flameHe came on the wind, one cold winters nightHis smile radiant.... so bright, He showed her the light,His fangs he hid well....Her blood he did lust,He bathed her with love,From the very first startHer moans were soft, as his fangs they sank deepThe pulse of her jugular, Against his pale lips it beat fastHe drank not with greed, for his love it was deepThe heat of her blood, seeping warmth past his lipsBrings him to life, till the early morning lightLike the darkness of night, he fades fast awayAs dawn fills her room, alone she will waitTill he comes once again, like a mist in the darkTo fill her with love, from his gentle cold touchHer blood he will drink, to bring him new lifeTo fill him with warmth, each and every cold nightBy the window she'll wait, till the sun it does fadeFor her lover's return,She lives each and every dayBy the window she waits, day after dayHer undying love for him, it will never fade.
15) The Final Day and Stand
it's the end of the day,the end of the worldas the sun burns upmere mortals do staythey each fear their deathbut they do starethe immortals amongdiscover their death.
as they stare at the sun the vampire strikesas the vampire bitestheir death has begun.
lycans stand still to see their preybut they are in weak mere mortal formlet the moon coincide with the sunso that they become their true form
mortals do panic to see the true sightthe appearance of myth among that last daythey have no faith to believe what they seethe ideology of myth is swept awaythe battle between immortals does standbut on the last day, they join as a clanthe battle still rages between master and slavebut today, they together do stand.
16) Blood (The complaints of a vampire)
It makes me feel goodIt makes me feel greatIt makes me feel satisfiedIt makes me what I am
I have mineBut yet I prefer yoursI have more than enough Running through my veinsYet I can't live without yours
Why was I made this way?With sharp piercing teethFor piercing and suckingI wonder what I amBeast or man
Blood! Blood!! Blood!!!I wonder why I like itIt makes me feel real GoodIt makes me what I am
17) A Vampires Love
A soul found sought within the sweet taste of ecstasythe journey begins symphony resonates in her heartbeating flames cant tear them apart. Feelings ofdesire whispers in the wind creeping upon the shadows desperation descends. Hypnotic concentrationhe gives with a stare and takes her to a place shenever knew was there. Beneath thee angelic statue thereis a sacred place he whispers to her heart in atelepathic way. For you my love a gift for eternityyou'll see a life of indescribable love with a Vampiresuch as me. She accepts his gift as he takes her bloodwithin he lessens his grip upon her fragile skin. Shelooks within his eyes gleaming tints of gold kisses herupon the lips as in the days of old. For we are bound byblood forever we shall be I give my love to you for all eternity.
2) Vampires
The night was day,The day was night,The world was dark and empty,The caves were dark 'er the light shall ne'er touch,Thy light be scorned,Else thee be burned,By it's purifying touch,We are the dark ones,Scorned by those of light,We are the darkness,That touches yonder heart,We be Deaths' carriers,Who watches those above,We be the shadows,Seen on full-moon's light,Flying above yonder head,Waiting for a mistake,To be made by thee mortals,We be the ghosts of history,Haunting All-Hallow's eve,The monsters under a child's bed,We be the nightmares,We be the sins,We be the wraiths of natural destruction,We be the Vampires.
3) Wingbeats from a High Balcony
A tale or a dreamHis other life seemed As he slunk through the shadows of night. Barely remembered,That fateful November,When dark swallowed all of the light.The bite.The pain spreading through him,The poisonous fangs dripping red. As twilight consumed him, He looked at what doomed him,And these are the words that it said:
Creature of night, Take heart, Take flight. You’re free now to do what you will. No morals, no life, To live out in strife, Your pleasure will come from the kill.
As he had been fated,He gorged and he satedHis thirst on the blood of the living.Warm, dark and red,The innocent bled,Unaware of the curse they were giving. Unliving.He longed for the killing, And in each waking moment it grew. The feeling of spiteFor all that was rightAs his soul frosted over anew.
So now in the darkHe waits for the sparkOf a life that is ripe for the taking. He longs for the dayAnd he can’t get awayFrom a trance that’s not sleeping or waking. Lonely,He wonders if onlyThe kiss of the sun would bring peace.And so, come the morningDespite instinct’s warning,He’ll lie down and hope for release.
4) Embrace
You Embrace the lustYou Embrace the painYou Embrace it until tears fall like rainYou sit and wait for a calm in your brainWait so patient and still the silence drives you insaneYou Embrace the painYou Embrace the lustYou run toward the very thing that turns your heart to dustWhy do you set yourself up for a fallGo so deep your skin starts to crawlStart to run but never get anywhereThe thought of going nowhere is too much to bearSo embrace it with every drop of tearsEmbrace it.....You still have so many more years.
5) Under the cloak of happiness
Every time you cry your crimson tears,My heart breaks, sending itCrashing among the shattered Glasses that had yet to be Filled by your Love and Beauty.
Every time I watch you Slip into the silent ebony night, I remember that we can never Be together.
Every time I feel your silk-smooth lipsPress against mine,Or feel your pearl white fangs sink into my skin Taking out rushes of blood,My heart soars into the abyss of happiness That fills my soul.
Every time I see you embrace the One that claimed your love,My blood runs cold at the realization that You don’t feel the same way
And every, every single moment That I spend away from you,I die justA littleBit More.
6) To Thou Who Lingerest In The Wilderness
Before the place existed and the time was,She made her first cry to make us hear her call,But there was not a place to dwell in.
As the light departed from the shattered sun,Then carried gloom to the landscape of that yard,She was asleep in the land where there was no one.
Her throat had embraced the dark nails of cruelty,But she tried to leave from the edge of that chaos.Evacuated her grave, she dwells in the night, lingers in infinity.
She arose like a ghost from her old gray tomb,Approached their soul with a devilish touchAnd suddenly sparkled to become our new host.
As an undead she is, she feels a strong blood desire Wandering in the night, through the woods,Through the land, in the woods, in an eternal fire.
7) De mentoring
When I bite for the taste,All I see is blood to waste,For I bite into the flesh and the energy I put to the test,But when the blood touches my lips, my mind just utterly flips,Spins into eradication. It spins fast.How long I'm wondering will this rush last?I did it once. I did it twice. I tasted blood many times and thought it nice.Hunted the energies down like mice, mice without a purpose, mice without plan,I hunt them down and strip there energy and place it in my hand!
8) It seemed like a good idea at the time
It seemed like a good idea at the time,the immortality, the eternal youth.My mentor reassured me with her crimson lips,her caresses, her murmured endearments,all the while stroking my beardless cheekwith her blood-red nails,nuzzling my pulsating throat,‘You will be mine, forever.’And then she sank her ivory fangs into my neck,and drank deep, deeply, deepest,drawing out my very soul.
That night I died, only to be born againby the light of the next rising moon.No Christ figure I, never again would I set footin a house of worship or defile a temple of faith.The daily company of men was forbidden me;I sought nightly those of my own kindand those foolish enough to venture forth,becoming appeasement for my unceasing hunger,my insatiable lust for life.
Time passes, the world changes,mountains crumble, oceans rise;I remain the same.I do not change, I cannot die;my mentor’s words were spoken in truth:forever young, forever untouched by the passage of time.Everyone I know, everyone I ever loved is dead.No one loves such a one as myself.
You cannot see me, as I stand behind you while you brush your golden hair,paint your perfect lips,not reflected in any mirror, unfelt by your beglamoured senses.Your beauty, your innocence, are all that I crave,yet what I desire most is your death,to drink in your essence, your soul,to feel the life pour out of you,to hold you tenderly as your veins empty into mine,to watch fondly as your rosy glow is replaced by an icy pallor.
And yet with your death I am deprived of your life.The warmth I would swallow, the blood filling me with your essence, your very soul,will in turn guarantee that I shall never have you again.I wait for you to unclasp the heavy silver chain,the one that encircles the throat I yearn for,that keeps me from reaching out and touchingthe very thing that I desire most,and pray that you do not.
Yes, it seemed like a good idea at the time.But now, as I cannot have your death,I desire my own; and yet, I cannot die.I cannot die.
9) Vampire Motel
A rather stretched line of people is waitingFacing the rusty door of a crypt-like buildingEach of them worriedly watching the horizonGuessing impatiently when the sun starts risin’
In a few minutes time the door opens slowlyAnd a short guy appears, who’s truly unholy“Please sign this paper and then hand it back to me”He says in a dull voice, “Oh, and prepare the fee!”
They do as the man says without hesitationThis place can save them from eternal damnationEach of them's shown a spot where they can ‘spend the day’Waiting for the dark night when they meet their next prey…
And the sun starts shining, but they are safe by nowLying in their coffins 3 meters undergroundAnd a wind blows through and dissolves the awful smellThis cemetery is a vampire motel.
10) have mercy
run, run fasterkeep on runninghe is after youand he wants your bloodhe has no mercy
everyone screamsthere is no way out she is after youand she wants your bloodshe has no mercy
hiding behind a housethey'll find you anywaythey are after youand they want your bloodthey have no mercy
come out, come out where ever you areyou can run, but you can not findfor I am after youand I want your bloodand I have no mercy
soon the world is all the samesoon no one has to run or hidesoon no one is after yousoon no one wants your bloodsoon no one has mercysoon you are alsoa vampire
11) Quick Guide to Vampires
If you come upon a vampire,Better not poke him.If you can’t help it,Don’t further provoke him.And if you do,There’s no hope for you,Because when they’re mad as heck,They’ll bite your neck.
12) Real Vampires From A Reliable Source
Vampires come in all shapes and sizes.They look normal, like you or me,But I will now tell you the biggest surprises,The have types, numbering three.
Sanguinarian (that’s Latin for blood drinker),Now guess how THEY loose their thirst,But they can still get blood-born diseases,So Donors must be blood checked first.
Then there are Psi’s,Now THEY need to feed from emotions,And prana, now there’s a surprise.They don’t feed off blood? What a peculiar notion.
Then there would be the Hybrids,They feed like both Sangs and Psi’s.The choice is theirs, how they want to feed.Oh boy, would that not be nice?
They aren’t evil and don’t live forever.They can’t “change” you or give you their powers.They just have superior senses,And prefer to sleep daytime hours.
I hope that this poem I’ve written,Has taught you this subject well,‘Cause Vamps can be real good friends,And not ALL of them come out of hell.
13) Child of the Night
“Fear is power,” the eldest did confide,“Mortal minds with thoughts can bend;Home is darkness, where I hide,Every beginning must start with an end.Touch not the sun, oh poisoned light,But embrace the silver temptress moon;Make your sanctuary the velvet night,The wolf’s howl is your mother’s croon.Blood is wine, flesh divine,Nary a prayer will halt your will;Garlic, silver, nor holy sign, --Only the sun makes your blood stop still.So be wary, child of the night,Let no mortal know of your bloody endeavor;Sleep with the rising of the sun, tainted light,Safe with the thought that you’ll live forever.”
14) She Waits
The sun it fades, by the window she waitsHer lovers bite, will ignite her flameHe came on the wind, one cold winters nightHis smile radiant.... so bright, He showed her the light,His fangs he hid well....Her blood he did lust,He bathed her with love,From the very first startHer moans were soft, as his fangs they sank deepThe pulse of her jugular, Against his pale lips it beat fastHe drank not with greed, for his love it was deepThe heat of her blood, seeping warmth past his lipsBrings him to life, till the early morning lightLike the darkness of night, he fades fast awayAs dawn fills her room, alone she will waitTill he comes once again, like a mist in the darkTo fill her with love, from his gentle cold touchHer blood he will drink, to bring him new lifeTo fill him with warmth, each and every cold nightBy the window she'll wait, till the sun it does fadeFor her lover's return,She lives each and every dayBy the window she waits, day after dayHer undying love for him, it will never fade.
15) The Final Day and Stand
it's the end of the day,the end of the worldas the sun burns upmere mortals do staythey each fear their deathbut they do starethe immortals amongdiscover their death.
as they stare at the sun the vampire strikesas the vampire bitestheir death has begun.
lycans stand still to see their preybut they are in weak mere mortal formlet the moon coincide with the sunso that they become their true form
mortals do panic to see the true sightthe appearance of myth among that last daythey have no faith to believe what they seethe ideology of myth is swept awaythe battle between immortals does standbut on the last day, they join as a clanthe battle still rages between master and slavebut today, they together do stand.
16) Blood (The complaints of a vampire)
It makes me feel goodIt makes me feel greatIt makes me feel satisfiedIt makes me what I am
I have mineBut yet I prefer yoursI have more than enough Running through my veinsYet I can't live without yours
Why was I made this way?With sharp piercing teethFor piercing and suckingI wonder what I amBeast or man
Blood! Blood!! Blood!!!I wonder why I like itIt makes me feel real GoodIt makes me what I am
17) A Vampires Love
A soul found sought within the sweet taste of ecstasythe journey begins symphony resonates in her heartbeating flames cant tear them apart. Feelings ofdesire whispers in the wind creeping upon the shadows desperation descends. Hypnotic concentrationhe gives with a stare and takes her to a place shenever knew was there. Beneath thee angelic statue thereis a sacred place he whispers to her heart in atelepathic way. For you my love a gift for eternityyou'll see a life of indescribable love with a Vampiresuch as me. She accepts his gift as he takes her bloodwithin he lessens his grip upon her fragile skin. Shelooks within his eyes gleaming tints of gold kisses herupon the lips as in the days of old. For we are bound byblood forever we shall be I give my love to you for all eternity.
more poetic themes (4)
Themes Of Poetry
Themes Of Poetry are collections of poems with related subject matter. The intention is to provide a bridge between your reading interests and actual titles or authors when those particulars are unknown. We hope you will find this feature useful and enjoyable. Your feedback is important to us. Please send us your suggestions for other themes or improvements you would like to see included in Litscape.com.
Holiday Poetry
Christmas With The Poets - December 25New Year Poetry From Yesteryear - January 1Robert Burns Day - January 25Valentines Day - February 14
Poetry Of The Seasons
Spring PoemsSummer PoemsAutumn PoemsWinter Poems
Poetry Of Love
The Body Language of LoveThe Look Of LovePoetry for Courtship and WooingPassion PoemsThe Nature Of LoveThe Philosophy Of LoveFaded Love Poems
Poetry Of Life and Death
Poetry for Pregnancy and ChildbirthDeath in poetryPoems about the death of a child.Angels and death in poetry.
Poetry Of Nature
Poetry of FlowersPoetry of the Sea
Motivational Poetry
Poetry of ChangePoems about Creativity
Themes Of Poetry are collections of poems with related subject matter. The intention is to provide a bridge between your reading interests and actual titles or authors when those particulars are unknown. We hope you will find this feature useful and enjoyable. Your feedback is important to us. Please send us your suggestions for other themes or improvements you would like to see included in Litscape.com.
Holiday Poetry
Christmas With The Poets - December 25New Year Poetry From Yesteryear - January 1Robert Burns Day - January 25Valentines Day - February 14
Poetry Of The Seasons
Spring PoemsSummer PoemsAutumn PoemsWinter Poems
Poetry Of Love
The Body Language of LoveThe Look Of LovePoetry for Courtship and WooingPassion PoemsThe Nature Of LoveThe Philosophy Of LoveFaded Love Poems
Poetry Of Life and Death
Poetry for Pregnancy and ChildbirthDeath in poetryPoems about the death of a child.Angels and death in poetry.
Poetry Of Nature
Poetry of FlowersPoetry of the Sea
Motivational Poetry
Poetry of ChangePoems about Creativity
Sunday, December 14, 2008
Breathe
Breathe
Places I remember come alive,
Like frozen pantomimes that pierce,
The flowing stream that flash so fast,
mute.
Trumbo tells of War,
Hemingway of death,
And Joyce invents what makes his sense,
Once young, your moves quite quick,
Rip-battering twilight dreams,
That childlishly conduct runaway trains,
As the world stands still,
mute,
Breathe,
Our Don Juan in agony,
As Milton and Eliot stare,
The air dribbles and trickles,
Under lips so cracked so cold,
And turbulent eyes keep twitching,
Below the blue sky far gone and sunk deep,
Words are spoken from the eye,
Witness want and wonder,
Some, often how I marvel,
Of the primal dream which was once,
Never was and never will be-
Because our lives are just a moment from memory.
End
Places I remember come alive,
Like frozen pantomimes that pierce,
The flowing stream that flash so fast,
mute.
Trumbo tells of War,
Hemingway of death,
And Joyce invents what makes his sense,
Once young, your moves quite quick,
Rip-battering twilight dreams,
That childlishly conduct runaway trains,
As the world stands still,
mute,
Breathe,
Our Don Juan in agony,
As Milton and Eliot stare,
The air dribbles and trickles,
Under lips so cracked so cold,
And turbulent eyes keep twitching,
Below the blue sky far gone and sunk deep,
Words are spoken from the eye,
Witness want and wonder,
Some, often how I marvel,
Of the primal dream which was once,
Never was and never will be-
Because our lives are just a moment from memory.
End
A Scene
His condemned expression floats down the polluted river,
In defiance, it chains him tight to an object of nature,
Growing weary of contemplation in diluted agony pushed,
A radical aspect of a single word, a squirmish pain weary,
Attempting to relieve threads enmeshed to tree bark,
The beauteous glide of tearing clothes and blatant intent,
Could not end the many years of free servitudein luxury,
The politicking of enterprise in irony pushed powerfully,
To a bleak fire puffing black smoke silently above,
Punishment of human institution would be powerful enough,
To lay down his conscience by a gravdiggers hands.
In defiance, it chains him tight to an object of nature,
Growing weary of contemplation in diluted agony pushed,
A radical aspect of a single word, a squirmish pain weary,
Attempting to relieve threads enmeshed to tree bark,
The beauteous glide of tearing clothes and blatant intent,
Could not end the many years of free servitudein luxury,
The politicking of enterprise in irony pushed powerfully,
To a bleak fire puffing black smoke silently above,
Punishment of human institution would be powerful enough,
To lay down his conscience by a gravdiggers hands.
Fragment; A Poem
Fragment
Oh fragment! Grow on me. Trap the blip,
Awaken the light; breathe in color,
Construct pieces of tone and contrast,
Compose the mind’s chorus; untangle loose wounds,
Blend boyhood memories with current trends,
Stir the innards, instruct intermingled recollection,
Fulfill the gap; fixate it upon a the fortress stealth,
Recapture running receptors,
That seems lost and longing to breathe. Awaken.
Franklin; birth; 69-latter Nam,
Post bullet paranoia;
Oswald –Ruby civil rights and King,
Mythical, ethical, sublime, allusive.
Tennessee and Davey, come ride with me,
You were so dear; melody and the metaphysical moment,
Bop tossing; singing comfort;
Preserving fragments held with dear life,
As time slips, sudden saturation of a life surreal,
Simulates what was then; illustrates what is now.
Mom locking; Dad wanting; embracing acts of need,
Motionless memoir hidden in my sleep,
Texan toughness and Vera-Cruz,
John Hancock ; bowling alley blues,
Augusta to Rome and New York to home,
Poly 59-cruising 57’s,
Blind girl, drive-ins and the missing sense of self,
Seven jumped, gas station pumped,
Blue trucks and implalas
Belaire rides to Hollywood,
Radio plays - KTLA,
Jump; Kirkton and Kenneth,
Ballina and Balcom,
Mixing, Stirring,
Mom and Dal….silver watch and pretty Gal,
Old pictures; one party –departure unkown,
From scrambled fear the Del Rey pier,
Rocky 25, and Walter’s Payton’s deathly dive,
Purple coats and Sunday floats; Paulette; the perfect pride of the Panosi pension,
Iran..iran? how did that come to be?
Previewed perpetually pre-Khomenei,
Mom; 61 and a tour with uncle Ashot,
Deep desire; unconditioned affection,
The love so strong, as well to their children,
Panos, strolling JC Penney, hanging on,
To dear life from a view beyond anyone’s wildest…
The color, her dress, my mother-a beauty unblemished,
As I walk in the valley of shadow of terror,
Mother; constant healer; taught with no error,
The blueness of youth-how Mom craved the other,
Paradox and gender; no matter; our comforting cover,
The pony; the ride;the embroidered brown vest,
natured and nurtured; the meadowlark’s nest,
How now do loved ones rest?
Granpa and me whistling to Dixie,
Passing signs that make him stop. No way does he stay! Granpa and rules;
metzpap- eternal flame always glows,
Dad’s hand and metzbop’s hair; a gloomy foreshadowing of what to prepare,
Understand..understand..the way of the soul-as what they say told.
Many times been in a state of sin,
Hoping to find just a bit of my mind,
Using mixed thoughts of my dreams; Killing me softly-what’s new?
Manini; light; essence of fragment; seeker of truth, teacher of class; holy, divine, and unreal,
I visit; she cries- within the heart to mine eyes,
Beloved grandmother, keeper of past,
Completion at last! I LOVE YOU SO MUCH,
Strollers, cigarettes, balloons and boys,
Loving and caring with all our noise!
So much has been, so little time told,
Myriad infinite; trailers filled rich,
Moving along, nothing to hitch,
The ride has been smooth but bumpy to balance.
The hills sometimes soft, the plains plenty,
Often times; harsh like the medicine of reality,
Forbid to forget, bending books for memory,
Making way; washing down the innocence of worry,
So much to say; maybe plenty time-
But must start now and invent mine own mime! Andre
Oh fragment! Grow on me. Trap the blip,
Awaken the light; breathe in color,
Construct pieces of tone and contrast,
Compose the mind’s chorus; untangle loose wounds,
Blend boyhood memories with current trends,
Stir the innards, instruct intermingled recollection,
Fulfill the gap; fixate it upon a the fortress stealth,
Recapture running receptors,
That seems lost and longing to breathe. Awaken.
Franklin; birth; 69-latter Nam,
Post bullet paranoia;
Oswald –Ruby civil rights and King,
Mythical, ethical, sublime, allusive.
Tennessee and Davey, come ride with me,
You were so dear; melody and the metaphysical moment,
Bop tossing; singing comfort;
Preserving fragments held with dear life,
As time slips, sudden saturation of a life surreal,
Simulates what was then; illustrates what is now.
Mom locking; Dad wanting; embracing acts of need,
Motionless memoir hidden in my sleep,
Texan toughness and Vera-Cruz,
John Hancock ; bowling alley blues,
Augusta to Rome and New York to home,
Poly 59-cruising 57’s,
Blind girl, drive-ins and the missing sense of self,
Seven jumped, gas station pumped,
Blue trucks and implalas
Belaire rides to Hollywood,
Radio plays - KTLA,
Jump; Kirkton and Kenneth,
Ballina and Balcom,
Mixing, Stirring,
Mom and Dal….silver watch and pretty Gal,
Old pictures; one party –departure unkown,
From scrambled fear the Del Rey pier,
Rocky 25, and Walter’s Payton’s deathly dive,
Purple coats and Sunday floats; Paulette; the perfect pride of the Panosi pension,
Iran..iran? how did that come to be?
Previewed perpetually pre-Khomenei,
Mom; 61 and a tour with uncle Ashot,
Deep desire; unconditioned affection,
The love so strong, as well to their children,
Panos, strolling JC Penney, hanging on,
To dear life from a view beyond anyone’s wildest…
The color, her dress, my mother-a beauty unblemished,
As I walk in the valley of shadow of terror,
Mother; constant healer; taught with no error,
The blueness of youth-how Mom craved the other,
Paradox and gender; no matter; our comforting cover,
The pony; the ride;the embroidered brown vest,
natured and nurtured; the meadowlark’s nest,
How now do loved ones rest?
Granpa and me whistling to Dixie,
Passing signs that make him stop. No way does he stay! Granpa and rules;
metzpap- eternal flame always glows,
Dad’s hand and metzbop’s hair; a gloomy foreshadowing of what to prepare,
Understand..understand..the way of the soul-as what they say told.
Many times been in a state of sin,
Hoping to find just a bit of my mind,
Using mixed thoughts of my dreams; Killing me softly-what’s new?
Manini; light; essence of fragment; seeker of truth, teacher of class; holy, divine, and unreal,
I visit; she cries- within the heart to mine eyes,
Beloved grandmother, keeper of past,
Completion at last! I LOVE YOU SO MUCH,
Strollers, cigarettes, balloons and boys,
Loving and caring with all our noise!
So much has been, so little time told,
Myriad infinite; trailers filled rich,
Moving along, nothing to hitch,
The ride has been smooth but bumpy to balance.
The hills sometimes soft, the plains plenty,
Often times; harsh like the medicine of reality,
Forbid to forget, bending books for memory,
Making way; washing down the innocence of worry,
So much to say; maybe plenty time-
But must start now and invent mine own mime! Andre
Early Wake
It was simple then an early wake,
A pulling pushing morning mayhem,
The sleep kill my sudden urge to drop,
To steer into the dream I owned a few ago,
Thrown into a new world nested and nailed down,
And stories which whistle silence send shiverings,
Like stripping blankets no security but a sudden turn,
From the warm womb now uncovered the exposed flesh,
I uncover my disorder unclear where it goes or plumes,
Yet what will be may cast that ever present day,
In which the Goddess Myth will not hear my echoing call,
The call which for absent friends will fire the first round of life.
A pulling pushing morning mayhem,
The sleep kill my sudden urge to drop,
To steer into the dream I owned a few ago,
Thrown into a new world nested and nailed down,
And stories which whistle silence send shiverings,
Like stripping blankets no security but a sudden turn,
From the warm womb now uncovered the exposed flesh,
I uncover my disorder unclear where it goes or plumes,
Yet what will be may cast that ever present day,
In which the Goddess Myth will not hear my echoing call,
The call which for absent friends will fire the first round of life.
Saturday, December 13, 2008
Kennedy
Kennedy
Blood stains slowly down wind,
The calm parade lazy with joy,
Stands tall a man seated side by side,
A woman her hair hovering gently east,
Shoulder to shoulder the crowd caressed,
Gazing glowingly upon the piercing rush of cars,
Stained she stands merciless in mourning,
Her pain our panic of a shot heard internal,
The storm clear to all,
Where a new leader awaits in tears,
To press on in a shoew that must go on...
Blood stains slowly down wind,
The calm parade lazy with joy,
Stands tall a man seated side by side,
A woman her hair hovering gently east,
Shoulder to shoulder the crowd caressed,
Gazing glowingly upon the piercing rush of cars,
Stained she stands merciless in mourning,
Her pain our panic of a shot heard internal,
The storm clear to all,
Where a new leader awaits in tears,
To press on in a shoew that must go on...
Genesis the Lamb
The Lamb
The scent grows richer, he knows he must be near,He finds a long passageway lit by chandelier.Each step he takes, the perfumes changeFrom familiar fragrance to flavours strange.A magnificent chamber meets his eye.Inside, a long rose-water pool is shrouded by fine mist.Stepping in the moist silence, with a warm breeze hes gently kissed.Thinking he is quite alone,He enters the room, as if it were his own,But ripples on the sweet pink waterReveal some company unthought of-Rael stands astonished doubting his sight,Struck by beauty, gripped in fright;Three vermilion snakes of female face,The smallest motion, filled with grace.Muted melodies fill the echoing hall,But there is no sign of warning in the sirens call:Rael welcome, we are the Lamia of the pool.We have been waiting for our waters to bring you cool.Putting fear beside him, he trusts in beauty blind,He slips into the nectar, leaving his shredded clothes behind.With their tongues, they test, taste and judge all that is mine.They move in a series of caressesThat glide up and down my spine.As they nibble the fruit of my flesh, I feel no pain,Only a magic that a name would stain.With the first drop of my blood in their veinsTheir faces are convulsed in mortal pains.The fairest cries, We all have loved you Rael.Each empty snakelike body floats,Silent sorrow in empty boats.A sickly sourness fills the room,The bitter harvest of a dying bloom.Looking for motion I know I will not find,I stroke the curls now turning pale, in which Id lain entwinedO Lamia, your flesh that remains I will take as my foodIt is the scent of garlic that lingers on my choclate fingers.Looking behind me, the water turns icy blue,The lights are dimmed and
The scent grows richer, he knows he must be near,He finds a long passageway lit by chandelier.Each step he takes, the perfumes changeFrom familiar fragrance to flavours strange.A magnificent chamber meets his eye.Inside, a long rose-water pool is shrouded by fine mist.Stepping in the moist silence, with a warm breeze hes gently kissed.Thinking he is quite alone,He enters the room, as if it were his own,But ripples on the sweet pink waterReveal some company unthought of-Rael stands astonished doubting his sight,Struck by beauty, gripped in fright;Three vermilion snakes of female face,The smallest motion, filled with grace.Muted melodies fill the echoing hall,But there is no sign of warning in the sirens call:Rael welcome, we are the Lamia of the pool.We have been waiting for our waters to bring you cool.Putting fear beside him, he trusts in beauty blind,He slips into the nectar, leaving his shredded clothes behind.With their tongues, they test, taste and judge all that is mine.They move in a series of caressesThat glide up and down my spine.As they nibble the fruit of my flesh, I feel no pain,Only a magic that a name would stain.With the first drop of my blood in their veinsTheir faces are convulsed in mortal pains.The fairest cries, We all have loved you Rael.Each empty snakelike body floats,Silent sorrow in empty boats.A sickly sourness fills the room,The bitter harvest of a dying bloom.Looking for motion I know I will not find,I stroke the curls now turning pale, in which Id lain entwinedO Lamia, your flesh that remains I will take as my foodIt is the scent of garlic that lingers on my choclate fingers.Looking behind me, the water turns icy blue,The lights are dimmed and
To a Friend
To an Old Fellar of Wisdom
A brilliant mind meddles through life,
Vast emptiness in void
Inquisitive poise protruding in angst.
Desire sunk flawless deeply divine,
Nabati-
The metaphor; savior, comfort,
Seeking Truth regardless,
The life which follows the heart,
Loyal attributes will always lurk within,
Old friendship, Camouflaging indifference,
Is the brew pouring painstakingly passionate,
Thanks Old Friend-Just Because…..
A brilliant mind meddles through life,
Vast emptiness in void
Inquisitive poise protruding in angst.
Desire sunk flawless deeply divine,
Nabati-
The metaphor; savior, comfort,
Seeking Truth regardless,
The life which follows the heart,
Loyal attributes will always lurk within,
Old friendship, Camouflaging indifference,
Is the brew pouring painstakingly passionate,
Thanks Old Friend-Just Because…..
Vision
Vision
The eyes so cold and caught glimpse,
Shadows fallen sullen leaves blown,
Through hazy fairs and forgoing heirs.
A salute to a kind demi-god, glorious,
In nature, historically bound by beauty,
Lost remembered in recollection.
Found for future generations,
Adams, Jefferson, powers of democracy,
May they rest in peace, restoring poise.
Perseverance without penalty or perjury,
Pestilence without persona inferred..
The eyes so cold and caught glimpse,
Shadows fallen sullen leaves blown,
Through hazy fairs and forgoing heirs.
A salute to a kind demi-god, glorious,
In nature, historically bound by beauty,
Lost remembered in recollection.
Found for future generations,
Adams, Jefferson, powers of democracy,
May they rest in peace, restoring poise.
Perseverance without penalty or perjury,
Pestilence without persona inferred..
several poems
Balance
My mind is a journey full of chaotic combustions,
Echoing unstructured memories.
Muting morning nuances of childhood,
Basking beauty in a cluttered fancy,
Building boyhood dreams; unmanaged by treachery,
Left rotting somewhere; a lost parameter,
Tangled and beaten, thrown away and shuddered,
Toddling, dangling, suspended, and unsettled,
The fiery demon dives driven with intention,
Arouses by slaughtering; plucks, pricks, and prowls,
Leaving soul, spirit, and sanity; unrevisited, unattainable, and misunderstood.
Yet, (regarding the soul)
Does it not exist still?
My
Mind desires vision, longing to undistort,
Untangle, unwind,
And recreate,
The boyhood dream; never blemished, tainted or toiled,
Humbled in humility, exposing and reflecting,
Shelving fanciful desire,
Forcing balance, tuning the sense,
Deconstructing random acts of guilt,
Decomposing……..
Demoting uselessness,
Deepening spiritual desire,
Untangling the violence; the need of….Being Invisible,
Withdrawing from my reality,
And driving the demons between the cracks of their fruitless despair.
Arise light! Prick my inners,
Awaken! Submerge the visual and the figurative,
Blend within,
the echoing nuances of childhood-
Now sleep,
Dream of Miranda, the train vs. Playboy vs. the red fence
Hollowed by weather and cracks , Bo Derek,
Galveston and the fountain,
Swat the lamp but don’t kill the fly,
Wear the wife-beaters; and watch carl sagan on stage.
Become the abstract of the Vardanians,
Of 5 south and Fullerton,
Of El Segundo and Elena,
Fascinate, expose and untangle all that is good,
Withdraw from fear and wreak havoc to that which pulls you,
Elevate;
tickle and dabble every fraction of time,
And hold back that which holds you back,
So sleep the dream which consumes 1/3,
un-third the other thirds,
Rip the crave, the kick, the sweet-tooth,
That has consumed your bent mind,
Seek balance;
Dialogue your imagination,
Intermingle, diffuse collectively,
with myspiritanbody,
never fear your tireless tear as it sacrifices itself with much abuse,
Your skin, your hair,
Nail them juxtaposed,
Creatively collecting allusion,
Anticipating the next virgin,
As long as the voice of love prevails,
It will therapeutically heal,
Systematically allure,
It will Take away from that which will steal,
Securing permanence; Invalidating a grand illusion,
And the endless street frolic….
Help me fight those demons that keep me from all that is wrong about me.
Andre Janian
My mind is a journey full of chaotic combustions,
Echoing unstructured memories.
Muting morning nuances of childhood,
Basking beauty in a cluttered fancy,
Building boyhood dreams; unmanaged by treachery,
Left rotting somewhere; a lost parameter,
Tangled and beaten, thrown away and shuddered,
Toddling, dangling, suspended, and unsettled,
The fiery demon dives driven with intention,
Arouses by slaughtering; plucks, pricks, and prowls,
Leaving soul, spirit, and sanity; unrevisited, unattainable, and misunderstood.
Yet, (regarding the soul)
Does it not exist still?
My
Mind desires vision, longing to undistort,
Untangle, unwind,
And recreate,
The boyhood dream; never blemished, tainted or toiled,
Humbled in humility, exposing and reflecting,
Shelving fanciful desire,
Forcing balance, tuning the sense,
Deconstructing random acts of guilt,
Decomposing……..
Demoting uselessness,
Deepening spiritual desire,
Untangling the violence; the need of….Being Invisible,
Withdrawing from my reality,
And driving the demons between the cracks of their fruitless despair.
Arise light! Prick my inners,
Awaken! Submerge the visual and the figurative,
Blend within,
the echoing nuances of childhood-
Now sleep,
Dream of Miranda, the train vs. Playboy vs. the red fence
Hollowed by weather and cracks , Bo Derek,
Galveston and the fountain,
Swat the lamp but don’t kill the fly,
Wear the wife-beaters; and watch carl sagan on stage.
Become the abstract of the Vardanians,
Of 5 south and Fullerton,
Of El Segundo and Elena,
Fascinate, expose and untangle all that is good,
Withdraw from fear and wreak havoc to that which pulls you,
Elevate;
tickle and dabble every fraction of time,
And hold back that which holds you back,
So sleep the dream which consumes 1/3,
un-third the other thirds,
Rip the crave, the kick, the sweet-tooth,
That has consumed your bent mind,
Seek balance;
Dialogue your imagination,
Intermingle, diffuse collectively,
with myspiritanbody,
never fear your tireless tear as it sacrifices itself with much abuse,
Your skin, your hair,
Nail them juxtaposed,
Creatively collecting allusion,
Anticipating the next virgin,
As long as the voice of love prevails,
It will therapeutically heal,
Systematically allure,
It will Take away from that which will steal,
Securing permanence; Invalidating a grand illusion,
And the endless street frolic….
Help me fight those demons that keep me from all that is wrong about me.
Andre Janian
Tips for writing Poetry
Tips for Writing Poetry
Writing poetry has always been about emotion; thrilling, bitterness and even humorous. Although it sounds simple enough, it isn't always. Poetry can be as complicated or as frivolous possible, it's all up to the author.
Poetry is food for thought and all food has its ingredients.
Writing poetry techniques
Show all senses. A genuine poem offers its readers a variety of senses to endure while reading.
· Smell. Give the readers a mental smell of the scene. Create a situation where the reader can distinguish between a 'good' or 'bad' scent.
· Touch. Is it rough, smooth, pleasurable? Give the reader a way to 'touch' the scenery.
· Sight. What does it look like? Describe the scenery, describe the situation. Use words which will describe it easily without going too far into detail.
· Hearing. Does it screech? Does it yelp? Or is it smoothing and sensual? Again, let the situation give a sense of what the surroundings sound like.
· Taste. Is it salty or bitter? It doesn't always have to be food that has a taste. It could be a situation which leaves a 'bad taste in your mouth' or even a good taste.
Have a point. Why are you writing? What is it about? Although not always directly, show your readers the path to the meaning of the poem. Say what you want to say, but still let your readers decide on what the true meaning is.
Have rhythm. To be considered a poem, a writing must have rhythm. Let the meters flow smoothly off the tongue. This doesn't mean the poem has to have the same number of syllables every line or even every other. It means to allow the reader not to get tongue twisted while going line to line. Give it flow.
Don't rhyme unless it fits. Not all poems rhyme, in fact the majority do not. Many amateur writers tend to force rhymes where it doesn't need to be. Only use it when it fits the overall poem and helps bring the emotion to the reader.
Give the poem characteristics. A poem doesn't always have to fit inside a genre. Make it your own style. Use as much voice as possible. Show that there is a person behind the poem.
Help with Writing Poetry
To help with writing, I have composed a list of helpful tips and tricks to aid with writer's block and to improve your writing.
· Try a different point of view. Write a poem which is the exact opposite of what you believe in, while not using irony.
· Write in different places. Try bringing a notebook with you when you go to the park, or sitting on the train to work. Just use the influence of your surrounding to help your inspiration.
· When you are reading a poem that you dislike, find out why. This could help better your own writing by improving on those aspects.
· If you are having writer's block, try "flushing". This is when you write anything that comes into your mind as fast as you can for a minute, any word, phrase or sentence. After the time is up, go back through your work and see if anything pops out that you want to write about, if not, that's up to you. The point of flushing is to get rid of the garbage which is holding your mind back.
· Create a dream journal. Often, dreams lead to thoughts which never would have been uncovered during consciousness. Write what the dream was about, then at a later date, come back to the dream and read what happened, it might just be this is the inspiration you need for your next best writing.
· If you write a bad poem, don't give up. Even great poets have written hundreds, if not thousands, badly. Just keep writing.
· Learn from your criticism. Don't necessarily live by it, but learn from it. Everyone has a different perspective on a poem, one person may like it and the next hate it.
· If you create a poem you really like, write another. Maybe your creative juices are flowing, or maybe you were at your peak. There's only one way to find out.
· Don't hold back your fears. If something has happened or you're afraid of happening, write about it.
· If you ever wish to have your poem published, submit them now. Because sooner or later it must be done. Most people who don't get published during their life never will be, it's not unheard of, but the Emily Dickinson's of the world are rare and far between.
· Go to poetry readings (or host your own). This is a great chance to enhance your knowledge of current poetry and learn what others enjoy. It's also a great place to meet fellow poets.
· To help with criticism, try joining a poetry group or creating your own. To help get started, list your group in a local arts publication, many are free to do so.
· Publish a poetry journal. Not only will it get the word out about your writing, but it will help you improve by encouraging you to write.
Writing poetry has always been about emotion; thrilling, bitterness and even humorous. Although it sounds simple enough, it isn't always. Poetry can be as complicated or as frivolous possible, it's all up to the author.
Poetry is food for thought and all food has its ingredients.
Writing poetry techniques
Show all senses. A genuine poem offers its readers a variety of senses to endure while reading.
· Smell. Give the readers a mental smell of the scene. Create a situation where the reader can distinguish between a 'good' or 'bad' scent.
· Touch. Is it rough, smooth, pleasurable? Give the reader a way to 'touch' the scenery.
· Sight. What does it look like? Describe the scenery, describe the situation. Use words which will describe it easily without going too far into detail.
· Hearing. Does it screech? Does it yelp? Or is it smoothing and sensual? Again, let the situation give a sense of what the surroundings sound like.
· Taste. Is it salty or bitter? It doesn't always have to be food that has a taste. It could be a situation which leaves a 'bad taste in your mouth' or even a good taste.
Have a point. Why are you writing? What is it about? Although not always directly, show your readers the path to the meaning of the poem. Say what you want to say, but still let your readers decide on what the true meaning is.
Have rhythm. To be considered a poem, a writing must have rhythm. Let the meters flow smoothly off the tongue. This doesn't mean the poem has to have the same number of syllables every line or even every other. It means to allow the reader not to get tongue twisted while going line to line. Give it flow.
Don't rhyme unless it fits. Not all poems rhyme, in fact the majority do not. Many amateur writers tend to force rhymes where it doesn't need to be. Only use it when it fits the overall poem and helps bring the emotion to the reader.
Give the poem characteristics. A poem doesn't always have to fit inside a genre. Make it your own style. Use as much voice as possible. Show that there is a person behind the poem.
Help with Writing Poetry
To help with writing, I have composed a list of helpful tips and tricks to aid with writer's block and to improve your writing.
· Try a different point of view. Write a poem which is the exact opposite of what you believe in, while not using irony.
· Write in different places. Try bringing a notebook with you when you go to the park, or sitting on the train to work. Just use the influence of your surrounding to help your inspiration.
· When you are reading a poem that you dislike, find out why. This could help better your own writing by improving on those aspects.
· If you are having writer's block, try "flushing". This is when you write anything that comes into your mind as fast as you can for a minute, any word, phrase or sentence. After the time is up, go back through your work and see if anything pops out that you want to write about, if not, that's up to you. The point of flushing is to get rid of the garbage which is holding your mind back.
· Create a dream journal. Often, dreams lead to thoughts which never would have been uncovered during consciousness. Write what the dream was about, then at a later date, come back to the dream and read what happened, it might just be this is the inspiration you need for your next best writing.
· If you write a bad poem, don't give up. Even great poets have written hundreds, if not thousands, badly. Just keep writing.
· Learn from your criticism. Don't necessarily live by it, but learn from it. Everyone has a different perspective on a poem, one person may like it and the next hate it.
· If you create a poem you really like, write another. Maybe your creative juices are flowing, or maybe you were at your peak. There's only one way to find out.
· Don't hold back your fears. If something has happened or you're afraid of happening, write about it.
· If you ever wish to have your poem published, submit them now. Because sooner or later it must be done. Most people who don't get published during their life never will be, it's not unheard of, but the Emily Dickinson's of the world are rare and far between.
· Go to poetry readings (or host your own). This is a great chance to enhance your knowledge of current poetry and learn what others enjoy. It's also a great place to meet fellow poets.
· To help with criticism, try joining a poetry group or creating your own. To help get started, list your group in a local arts publication, many are free to do so.
· Publish a poetry journal. Not only will it get the word out about your writing, but it will help you improve by encouraging you to write.
sober beast
The crack of light raised my brows,
It stood, attention to the surreal sun,
Horizontal, I lay languished in a dream..
Sober Beast
Childhood captions carrying my thoughts abroad,
Walking along an awoken giant,
pelt smeared snow,I travel alone,
carefully observing the beauty of a calm inspiring tune,
My mountain! Oh my mountain!
Tears burning incense white,Feet fumbling over one another,
knees numbing, hands harnessing,
The tender sublime of an amazing sight!
How I cry for her to shed her light,
My heart beats beyond the body,
into the soul of sacred pleasures and pains…
Paradox; you come early,
you come to chain me to the awful reaper,
The rose which befell my eyes,
now has returned with its eternal scars,
Bleeding cries of those in silence now;
bloody, beaten, into the next life,
How my mountain weeps and how I weep.
Why? I ask. Why couldn’t I ..I,
Why couldn’t I lose this memory,
of every morning, from the child-like sun,
Forget the zenith of my pain;
how much longer will it last? Yet what I know,
From my tranquil journey, on the edge of this glorious being; I share her pain,
And how it heals; just one more drop-less, And with it soon shall my mountain,
Never feel the fierce fire which it has felt for many civilizations, This enveloping land,
My healer and savior.
It stood, attention to the surreal sun,
Horizontal, I lay languished in a dream..
Sober Beast
Childhood captions carrying my thoughts abroad,
Walking along an awoken giant,
pelt smeared snow,I travel alone,
carefully observing the beauty of a calm inspiring tune,
My mountain! Oh my mountain!
Tears burning incense white,Feet fumbling over one another,
knees numbing, hands harnessing,
The tender sublime of an amazing sight!
How I cry for her to shed her light,
My heart beats beyond the body,
into the soul of sacred pleasures and pains…
Paradox; you come early,
you come to chain me to the awful reaper,
The rose which befell my eyes,
now has returned with its eternal scars,
Bleeding cries of those in silence now;
bloody, beaten, into the next life,
How my mountain weeps and how I weep.
Why? I ask. Why couldn’t I ..I,
Why couldn’t I lose this memory,
of every morning, from the child-like sun,
Forget the zenith of my pain;
how much longer will it last? Yet what I know,
From my tranquil journey, on the edge of this glorious being; I share her pain,
And how it heals; just one more drop-less, And with it soon shall my mountain,
Never feel the fierce fire which it has felt for many civilizations, This enveloping land,
My healer and savior.
irresistable choice of words
The irresistible Choice of Words
The irresistible choice of words,
Spring to mind meticulously still,
Some cultured, some cured, some careless,
Without thought, wandering in scene,
Displayed casually of rare domain,
Naïve to its nativity; tongue silent,
Out of tune, tinkering with a tenacious innocence,
Blurts and babbles discord-shames metaphor,
Silences similes, ignores inspiration,
Lethargic- without notice of sense,
Boundless in pursuit of its bias,
The crowd, weary to cast,
The fool cannot fake its fickle charm.
The other, far from the former,
A Hemisphere bound by loose dominion,
Sits half-heartedly, wisdom untapped,
Careful not to wrinkle words,
Exposing envious forays of fantasy,
Enlightening masses in illusive magic,
Pretends precepts proposing comical convention,
Genius perceived genuine, pseudo stairs from mystics,
The crowd, busy to cast,
Fabricated by contrasts of dual deception.
Wise men, witness those who entangle truth,
Fight and claw; clutching onto the fury that lies within,
The nest that nurtures the sacred bosom,
Breast blushing walking naked,
In the garden, the greenness of grass,
Pure, void from vulgar attraction,
Seeks solitude; the seed lies ever still,
Desire; a martyresque-speaker of gospel,
Never asks, hides nowhere-seeks truth,
Yet the crowd, diffused from instruction,
Pardon the destruction; graze like fat "moos,"
Only to revisit the latter later,
In a wrinkled text from History class,
Rippling like rock water,
Across our cultural horizon.
The irresistible choice of words,
Spring to mind meticulously still,
Some cultured, some cured, some careless,
Without thought, wandering in scene,
Displayed casually of rare domain,
Naïve to its nativity; tongue silent,
Out of tune, tinkering with a tenacious innocence,
Blurts and babbles discord-shames metaphor,
Silences similes, ignores inspiration,
Lethargic- without notice of sense,
Boundless in pursuit of its bias,
The crowd, weary to cast,
The fool cannot fake its fickle charm.
The other, far from the former,
A Hemisphere bound by loose dominion,
Sits half-heartedly, wisdom untapped,
Careful not to wrinkle words,
Exposing envious forays of fantasy,
Enlightening masses in illusive magic,
Pretends precepts proposing comical convention,
Genius perceived genuine, pseudo stairs from mystics,
The crowd, busy to cast,
Fabricated by contrasts of dual deception.
Wise men, witness those who entangle truth,
Fight and claw; clutching onto the fury that lies within,
The nest that nurtures the sacred bosom,
Breast blushing walking naked,
In the garden, the greenness of grass,
Pure, void from vulgar attraction,
Seeks solitude; the seed lies ever still,
Desire; a martyresque-speaker of gospel,
Never asks, hides nowhere-seeks truth,
Yet the crowd, diffused from instruction,
Pardon the destruction; graze like fat "moos,"
Only to revisit the latter later,
In a wrinkled text from History class,
Rippling like rock water,
Across our cultural horizon.
deep history
Soil sunk deep in history,
Snow melted frost on caps,
Running its dream down drunken,
Like myths an’ old tales merry,
Broth of wine bubbling heavy,
Sing-songs of sorrow and sadness,
Of tales great Van; great mountain,
Language held knit-knotting, falling,
As streams string from sullen skies..
Snow melted frost on caps,
Running its dream down drunken,
Like myths an’ old tales merry,
Broth of wine bubbling heavy,
Sing-songs of sorrow and sadness,
Of tales great Van; great mountain,
Language held knit-knotting, falling,
As streams string from sullen skies..
Armenian mystic poets
Sayat Nova (1712-1795)
Down from yon distant mountain
The streamlet finds its way,
And through the quiet village
It flows in eddying play.
A dark youth left his doorway,
And sought the water-side,
And, laving there his hands and brow,
"O streamlet sweet!" he cried,
"Say, from what mountain com'st thou?"
"From yonder mountain cold
Where snow on snow lies sleeping,
The new snow on the old."
"Unto what river, tell me,
Fair streamlet, dost thou flow?"
"I flow unto that river
Where clustering violets grow."
"Sweet streamlet, to what vineyard,
Say, dost thou take thy way?"
"The vineyard where the vine-dresser
Is at his work to-day."
"What plant where wilt thou water?"
"The plant upon whose roots
The lambs feed, where the wind-flower blooms,
And orchards bear sweet fruits."
"What garden wilt thou visit,
O water cool and fleet?"
"The garden where the nightingale
Sings tenderly and sweet."
"Into what fountain flow'st thou?"
"The fountain to whose brink
Thy love comes down at morn and eve,
And bends her face to drink.
"There shall I meet the maiden
Who is to be thy bride,
And kiss her chin, and with her love
My soul be satisfied."
The Nightingale of Avarayr
Whence dost thou come, O moon, so calmly and softly,
Spreading o'er mountain, valley, and plain thy light,
And over me the Patriarch, wandering sadly,
With wandering thoughts, in Avarayr to-night?
Here where our matchless, brave Armenian fathers
Fell as giants, as angels rise anew,
Com'st thou to spread o'er the bones of the saints a cover
Of golden thread, from thy cloud of snowy hue?
O dost thou think, though thy brow be bright already,
Adornment of heroes' blood would become it well?
Or dost thou still, in silence and secret, wonder
To think how the great and terrible Vartan fell,
Giving his enemies' lives to the shades of darkness,
And giving his spirit into the hands of God?
And thou, O River Dghmood, thou flowest lamenting
Amid thy reeds, sad river bestained with blood.
And thou, O wind from Mankuran's upland blowing,
Or Ararat's sacred summit, gray-haired and hoar,
Thou, too, like me, uncertain and trembling movest,
On faint wings passing the mountains and valleys o'er.
From forest to forest, from leaf to leaf, lamenting,
Thou comest upon the plains, in pale moonshine,
To carry unto Armenian hearts the echo
Of the last sighs of this worn heart of mine.
Nightingale, voice of the night, little soul of the roses,
Friend of all mournful hearts that with sorrow are sighing!
Sing, little nightingale, sing me a song from that hillock,
Sing with my soul of Armenia's heroes undying!
Thy voice in the cloister of Thaddeus reached me and thrilled me;
My heart, that was close to the cross, in a reverie grave,
Suddenly bounded and throbbed; from the cross I hastened to seek thee -
Came forth and found thee here, on the field of Vartan the brave.
Nightingale, this is the tale that of thee our fathers have told us:
That Avarayr's nightingale, singing so sweetly at daylight's dim close,
Is not a bird, but a soul, - it is Yeghishe's sweet-voiced spirit,
That sees the image of Vartan for aye in the red-blooming rose.
In winter he walks alone, and mourns in the midst of the desert;
In spring comes to Avarayr, to the bush with roses aflame,
To sing and call aloud, with Yeghishe's voice, upon Vartan,
To see whether Vartan perchance will answer when called by his name.
If like the voice of a nightingale faint and weary,
Songs of Togarmah, my voice shall reach your ears,-
Sons of the great, whose valiant and virtuous fathers
Filled plains, books, and the heavens, in former years,-
If one small drop of blood from Armenia's fountain,
The fount of Bahlav, flow into your bosoms' sea,-
If you would that your country's glories for you be written,
Come forth to Ardaz with your Patriarch, come with me!
NB. Yeghishe was an Armenian historian of the fifth century AD, a contemporary of Vartan, who died in the battle of Avarayr in 451. In his history of the Persian invasion he compares Vartan drenched in blood, to the red rose. Hence the allusions in the poem. Fr. Alishan actually wrote the poem in ancient Armenian of roughly the same period. This poem (from the seventh stanza onwards) is also a famous and rather beautiful song - there are at least two different musical versions of it. In fact Vartan, and the other Leontines, as they are known, are now saints!
Moon in the Armenian Cemetery
O moon, fair lamp divinely lit!
God set you in the sky
To lead night's hosts, for darkness blind
And for my heart an eye.
When o'er my head you swing, your lamp
A glittering chain doth hold;
Your string of heavenly silver is,
Your wick of burning gold;
And, as a diamond flashes light,
You shed your rays abroad.
How bright you were, that second night,
Fresh from the hand of God!
How bright you were when first was heard
The heavenly nightingale!
The wind, that seemed like you alive,
Played soft from vale to vale;
With that calm breeze, the limpid brook
Plashed in an undertone;
There was no human ear to hear,
The angels heard alone.
The angels swung you in their hands,
And silently and slow
You traversed heaven's cloudless arch,
And sank the waves below,
What time the sun with feet of fire
Was soon to mount the blue,
While o'er the silent world were spread
Twilight and hoary dew.
Stay, stay, O sun! awile delay;
Rise not in the blue sky,
But let the little moon still walk
The cloudless realm on high!
Stay, little moon! Oh, linger yet
Upon the heights and hills;
Pass slowly, calmly, where your light
The sleeping valleys fills!
For I have words to utter yet,
To you I would complain.
Oh, many are my bitter griefs,
My heart is cleft in twain.
Bright moon, haste not away because
You hear a mourner's cry!
As comforter of broken hearts
You shine there in the sky.
You come to Eden's land, but not
As on that far first night,
When man was happy, knowing naught
Save life and love's delight.
Then your white radiance was warm
To waves and flowerets fair,
And wheresoe'er your soft light fell,
Immortal life bloomed there.
Turn and look down on me, O moon!
Gaze at our mountains' foot,
And see the ruined temples there,
And tombs so sad and mute, -
Tombs of Armenians who long since
From earth have passed away.
There sleep the ashes of our sires,
In darkness and decay.
Armenians they, the earliest born
Of all the human race,
Who had their home within the land
Once Adam's dwelling-place.
[Here follows a long list of Armenian kings.]
But you are setting fast, O moon!
Your lustre fades away,
And like a silver plate you sink
In cloud-banks dense and gray.
Stay yet a moment's space, O moon,
Stay for the love of me!
There in the valley is one stone
Unknown to history.
Go, let your last light linger there,
And lift it out of gloom,
For that obscure and nameless stone
Will mark the poet's tomb!
Siamanto (1878-1915)
I was alone with my pure-winged dream in the valleys my sires had trod;
My steps were light as the fair gazelle's, and my heart with joy was thrilled;
I ran, all drunk with the deep blue sky, with the light of the glorious days;
Mine eyes were filled with gold and hopes, my soul with the gods was filled.
Basket on basket, the Summer rich presented her fruit to me
From my garden's trees - each kind of fruit that to our clime belongs;
And then from a willow's body slim, melodious, beautiful,
A branch for my magic flute I cut in silence, to make my songs.
I sang; and the brook all diamond bright, and the birds of my ancient home,
And the music pure from heavenly wells that fills the nights and days,
And the gentle breezes and airs of dawn, like my sister's soft embrace,
United their voices sweet with mine, and joined in my joyous lays.
To-night in a dream, sweet flute, once more I took you in my hand;
You felt to my lips like a kiss - a kiss from the days of long ago.
But when those memories of old revived, then straightway failed my breath,
And instead of songs, my tears began drop after drop to flow.
The swans, in discouragement, have migrated from the poisonous lakes this evening,
And sad sisters dream of brothers under the prison walls.
Battles have ended on the blossoming fields of lilies,
And fair women follow coffins from underground passages,
And sing, with heads bowed down towards the ground.
Oh, make haste! Our aching bodies are frozen in these pitiless glooms.
Make haste towards the chapel, where life will be more merciful,
The chapel of the graveyard where our brother sleeps!
An orphan swan is suffering within my soul,
And there, over newly-buried bodies,
It rains blood - it pours from mine eyes.
A crowd of cripples pass along the paths of my heart,
And with them pass barefooted blind men,
In the divine hope of meeting some one in prayer.
And the red dogs of the desert howled all one night,
After hopelessly moaning over the sands
For some unknown, incomprehensible grief.
And the storm of my thoughts ceased with the rain;
The waves were cruelly imprisoned under the frozen waters;
The leaves of huge oaks, like wounded birds,
Dropped with cries of anguish.
And the dark night was deserted, like the vast infinite;
And, with the lonely and bloody moon,
Like a myriad motionless marble statues,
All the dead bodies of our earth arose to pray for one another.
Down from yon distant mountain
The streamlet finds its way,
And through the quiet village
It flows in eddying play.
A dark youth left his doorway,
And sought the water-side,
And, laving there his hands and brow,
"O streamlet sweet!" he cried,
"Say, from what mountain com'st thou?"
"From yonder mountain cold
Where snow on snow lies sleeping,
The new snow on the old."
"Unto what river, tell me,
Fair streamlet, dost thou flow?"
"I flow unto that river
Where clustering violets grow."
"Sweet streamlet, to what vineyard,
Say, dost thou take thy way?"
"The vineyard where the vine-dresser
Is at his work to-day."
"What plant where wilt thou water?"
"The plant upon whose roots
The lambs feed, where the wind-flower blooms,
And orchards bear sweet fruits."
"What garden wilt thou visit,
O water cool and fleet?"
"The garden where the nightingale
Sings tenderly and sweet."
"Into what fountain flow'st thou?"
"The fountain to whose brink
Thy love comes down at morn and eve,
And bends her face to drink.
"There shall I meet the maiden
Who is to be thy bride,
And kiss her chin, and with her love
My soul be satisfied."
The Nightingale of Avarayr
Whence dost thou come, O moon, so calmly and softly,
Spreading o'er mountain, valley, and plain thy light,
And over me the Patriarch, wandering sadly,
With wandering thoughts, in Avarayr to-night?
Here where our matchless, brave Armenian fathers
Fell as giants, as angels rise anew,
Com'st thou to spread o'er the bones of the saints a cover
Of golden thread, from thy cloud of snowy hue?
O dost thou think, though thy brow be bright already,
Adornment of heroes' blood would become it well?
Or dost thou still, in silence and secret, wonder
To think how the great and terrible Vartan fell,
Giving his enemies' lives to the shades of darkness,
And giving his spirit into the hands of God?
And thou, O River Dghmood, thou flowest lamenting
Amid thy reeds, sad river bestained with blood.
And thou, O wind from Mankuran's upland blowing,
Or Ararat's sacred summit, gray-haired and hoar,
Thou, too, like me, uncertain and trembling movest,
On faint wings passing the mountains and valleys o'er.
From forest to forest, from leaf to leaf, lamenting,
Thou comest upon the plains, in pale moonshine,
To carry unto Armenian hearts the echo
Of the last sighs of this worn heart of mine.
Nightingale, voice of the night, little soul of the roses,
Friend of all mournful hearts that with sorrow are sighing!
Sing, little nightingale, sing me a song from that hillock,
Sing with my soul of Armenia's heroes undying!
Thy voice in the cloister of Thaddeus reached me and thrilled me;
My heart, that was close to the cross, in a reverie grave,
Suddenly bounded and throbbed; from the cross I hastened to seek thee -
Came forth and found thee here, on the field of Vartan the brave.
Nightingale, this is the tale that of thee our fathers have told us:
That Avarayr's nightingale, singing so sweetly at daylight's dim close,
Is not a bird, but a soul, - it is Yeghishe's sweet-voiced spirit,
That sees the image of Vartan for aye in the red-blooming rose.
In winter he walks alone, and mourns in the midst of the desert;
In spring comes to Avarayr, to the bush with roses aflame,
To sing and call aloud, with Yeghishe's voice, upon Vartan,
To see whether Vartan perchance will answer when called by his name.
If like the voice of a nightingale faint and weary,
Songs of Togarmah, my voice shall reach your ears,-
Sons of the great, whose valiant and virtuous fathers
Filled plains, books, and the heavens, in former years,-
If one small drop of blood from Armenia's fountain,
The fount of Bahlav, flow into your bosoms' sea,-
If you would that your country's glories for you be written,
Come forth to Ardaz with your Patriarch, come with me!
NB. Yeghishe was an Armenian historian of the fifth century AD, a contemporary of Vartan, who died in the battle of Avarayr in 451. In his history of the Persian invasion he compares Vartan drenched in blood, to the red rose. Hence the allusions in the poem. Fr. Alishan actually wrote the poem in ancient Armenian of roughly the same period. This poem (from the seventh stanza onwards) is also a famous and rather beautiful song - there are at least two different musical versions of it. In fact Vartan, and the other Leontines, as they are known, are now saints!
Moon in the Armenian Cemetery
O moon, fair lamp divinely lit!
God set you in the sky
To lead night's hosts, for darkness blind
And for my heart an eye.
When o'er my head you swing, your lamp
A glittering chain doth hold;
Your string of heavenly silver is,
Your wick of burning gold;
And, as a diamond flashes light,
You shed your rays abroad.
How bright you were, that second night,
Fresh from the hand of God!
How bright you were when first was heard
The heavenly nightingale!
The wind, that seemed like you alive,
Played soft from vale to vale;
With that calm breeze, the limpid brook
Plashed in an undertone;
There was no human ear to hear,
The angels heard alone.
The angels swung you in their hands,
And silently and slow
You traversed heaven's cloudless arch,
And sank the waves below,
What time the sun with feet of fire
Was soon to mount the blue,
While o'er the silent world were spread
Twilight and hoary dew.
Stay, stay, O sun! awile delay;
Rise not in the blue sky,
But let the little moon still walk
The cloudless realm on high!
Stay, little moon! Oh, linger yet
Upon the heights and hills;
Pass slowly, calmly, where your light
The sleeping valleys fills!
For I have words to utter yet,
To you I would complain.
Oh, many are my bitter griefs,
My heart is cleft in twain.
Bright moon, haste not away because
You hear a mourner's cry!
As comforter of broken hearts
You shine there in the sky.
You come to Eden's land, but not
As on that far first night,
When man was happy, knowing naught
Save life and love's delight.
Then your white radiance was warm
To waves and flowerets fair,
And wheresoe'er your soft light fell,
Immortal life bloomed there.
Turn and look down on me, O moon!
Gaze at our mountains' foot,
And see the ruined temples there,
And tombs so sad and mute, -
Tombs of Armenians who long since
From earth have passed away.
There sleep the ashes of our sires,
In darkness and decay.
Armenians they, the earliest born
Of all the human race,
Who had their home within the land
Once Adam's dwelling-place.
[Here follows a long list of Armenian kings.]
But you are setting fast, O moon!
Your lustre fades away,
And like a silver plate you sink
In cloud-banks dense and gray.
Stay yet a moment's space, O moon,
Stay for the love of me!
There in the valley is one stone
Unknown to history.
Go, let your last light linger there,
And lift it out of gloom,
For that obscure and nameless stone
Will mark the poet's tomb!
Siamanto (1878-1915)
I was alone with my pure-winged dream in the valleys my sires had trod;
My steps were light as the fair gazelle's, and my heart with joy was thrilled;
I ran, all drunk with the deep blue sky, with the light of the glorious days;
Mine eyes were filled with gold and hopes, my soul with the gods was filled.
Basket on basket, the Summer rich presented her fruit to me
From my garden's trees - each kind of fruit that to our clime belongs;
And then from a willow's body slim, melodious, beautiful,
A branch for my magic flute I cut in silence, to make my songs.
I sang; and the brook all diamond bright, and the birds of my ancient home,
And the music pure from heavenly wells that fills the nights and days,
And the gentle breezes and airs of dawn, like my sister's soft embrace,
United their voices sweet with mine, and joined in my joyous lays.
To-night in a dream, sweet flute, once more I took you in my hand;
You felt to my lips like a kiss - a kiss from the days of long ago.
But when those memories of old revived, then straightway failed my breath,
And instead of songs, my tears began drop after drop to flow.
The swans, in discouragement, have migrated from the poisonous lakes this evening,
And sad sisters dream of brothers under the prison walls.
Battles have ended on the blossoming fields of lilies,
And fair women follow coffins from underground passages,
And sing, with heads bowed down towards the ground.
Oh, make haste! Our aching bodies are frozen in these pitiless glooms.
Make haste towards the chapel, where life will be more merciful,
The chapel of the graveyard where our brother sleeps!
An orphan swan is suffering within my soul,
And there, over newly-buried bodies,
It rains blood - it pours from mine eyes.
A crowd of cripples pass along the paths of my heart,
And with them pass barefooted blind men,
In the divine hope of meeting some one in prayer.
And the red dogs of the desert howled all one night,
After hopelessly moaning over the sands
For some unknown, incomprehensible grief.
And the storm of my thoughts ceased with the rain;
The waves were cruelly imprisoned under the frozen waters;
The leaves of huge oaks, like wounded birds,
Dropped with cries of anguish.
And the dark night was deserted, like the vast infinite;
And, with the lonely and bloody moon,
Like a myriad motionless marble statues,
All the dead bodies of our earth arose to pray for one another.
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