Poetry

[Symbelmyne]

Writing is my whole life. To mention.

http://thedomeofthedoom.blogspot.com --> here you can read my poems.

But I'll give you one here too.. I hope You like it.

Avalon

Once upon a time I singed a roundelay inside the murmuring forest
A roundelay about Fairy Island between the lands of rye
I took a flight in there, hided myself from the world
Hided myself from the pain inside the light of the heart

Between these fields of rye, wind path of happiness
And on my skirt, the earth dust fell
There was the sea, the sea for my soul

I miss the waves, rushing on the glade
Waves swinging against my feet
And the evening warmth of the Fairy Island
Wounded it around me

There the fairy children ran in the ray
And their rapture dozed the twilight
I craved for the plays of hide-and-seek
And to catch swirling butterfly dances

But the shameless joy hided the winding road
Between the fields of rye
And the Avalon under the golden sun
And the sea, sea in my heart
MHK.

 

[derbeder]

Death Fugue

Black milk of daybreak we drink it at sundown
we drink it at noon in the morning we drink it at night
we drink it and drink it
we dig a grave in the breezes there one lies unconfined
A man lives in the house he plays with the serpents
he writes
he writes when dusk falls to Germany your golden
hair Margarete
he writes it ans steps out of doors and the stars are
flashing he whistles his pack out
he whistles his Jews out in earth has them dig for a
grave
he commands us strike up for the dance

Black milk of daybreak we drink you at night
we drink you in the morning at noon we drink you at
sundown
we drink and we drink you
A man lives in the house he plays with the serpents
he writes
he writes when dusk falls to Germany your golden hair
Margarete
your ashen hair Sulamith we dig a grave in the breezes
there one lies unconfined

He calls out jab deeper into the earth you lot you
others sing now and play
he grabs at teh iron in his belt he waves it his
eyes are blue
jab deper you lot with your spades you others play
on for the dance

Black milk of daybreak we drink you at night
we drink you at at noon in the morning we drink you
at sundown
we drink and we drink you
a man lives in the house your golden hair Margarete
your ashen hair Sulamith he plays with the serpents
He calls out more sweetly play death death is a master
from Germany
he calls out more darkly now stroke your strings then
as smoke you will rise into air
then a grave you will have in the clouds there one
lies unconfined

Black milk of daybreak we drink you at night
we drink you at noon death is a master from Germany
we drink you at sundown and in the morning we drink
and we drink you
death is a master from Germany his eyes are blue
he strikes you with leaden bullets his aim is true
a man lives in the house your golden hair Margarete
he sets his pack on to us he grants us a grave in
the air
He plays with the serpents and daydreams death is
a master from Germany

your golden hair Margarete
your ashen hair Shulamith

- Paul Celan
Translated by Michael Hamburger


this is for some of war-loving, jew-hating types here

 

[speed]

Everywhere eternity is stirring
And everything lends toward non-being
In order to participate in being.

Goethe

And as long as you do not possess
This: Die and become
You are but a gloomy guest
On the dark earth

Goethe

This wise madness
This maddened wisdon
The sigh preceding death
Suddenly changed to laughter

Heine

Some old philosophical german lines.

 

[infoterror]

"Howl" is fucking terrible. From the beats all you need is WSB.

Stick to Eliot.

 

[Nile577]

"Howl" is fucking terrible.

May your children develop a penchant for Ayn Rand.

 

[Nile577]

TO AUTUMN.
(John Keats)

1.

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;
To bend with apples the moss’d cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o’er-brimm’d their clammy cells.

2.

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reap’d furrow sound asleep,
Drows’d with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.

3.

Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,—
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

 

[speed]

May your children develop a penchant for Ayn Rand.

Haha! I think he already likes Mary Shelley's Frankenstein, which is almost as bad.

But Im rather indifferent to Howl anyway.

 

[infoterror]

May your children develop a penchant for Ayn Rand.

Now that was low! May your children... join NAMBLA with Allen Ginsberg (now dead LOL dead).

 

[infoterror]

I think he already likes Mary Shelley's Frankenstein, which is almost as bad.

He's kidding; I know it. He can't be dissing on one of the truly great and cynical existential statements, doubly surprising in that a female author approached a proactive subject, triply surprising n that she came from the race of sodomites (UK).

 

[speed]

He's kidding; I know it. He can't be dissing on one of the truly great and cynical existential statements, doubly surprising in that a female author approached a proactive subject, triply surprising n that she came from the race of sodomites (UK).

I abhor, condemn, and laugh at that book. Crap. I'd rather read my own writing, or even yours, than to be subjected to that juvenile piece of overrated trash again. For some reason, only americans think it wonderful.


Excellent article on it, by a leading feminist writer, stating no tonly why its a terrible book, but how american lit departments have been using it for their own feminist and ideological aims: http://books.guardian.co.uk/departments/generalfiction/story/0,,2053061,00.html

 

[infoterror]

That idiots abuse it doesn't make the book bad. Feminist American Marxist Academics (FAMA) abuse everything they touch. I think it's unpopular in England because of the preponderance of heterosexual characters

 

[Øjeblikket]

Take the grey wolf, the child of Saturn,
and throw him the body of the King.
And when he has swallowed him, build
a big fire and throw the Wolf into it,
so that he burns up, and then the King
will be liberated again.

- M. Maier.

 

[MURAI]

Babylon's Pride

Senses, flower of existence- bow to Babylon
Pain, father of creation- bow to Babylon
Look- you're the creator of your own creator
Your beginning overthrows your myth
Parody of perfection feeding on mere mortal
Perfect being can only exist in itself
Let him die at last.
I will never worship reflection of imperfection
Questions: I carry my own cross to be
Flesh, blood, mind- see the flower of Babylon
Stigma of earth will never disappear
Aiming to zero is the testimony of existence
I'm here to be, to watch and to fade
All world focused on one single entity
I kiss my reflection in the universe
Alone in dying Babylon: proud

 

[Scourge of God]

Aphorisms and Fragments
(By Scourge of God)

Dirge before the dawn

Whence the death of music?
Where is the poet’s pen?
In a world where golden dreams
Still the silver tongues of men

The beauty and the laughter
Are lost behind the rage
For who can utter soft words
Unto an Iron Age?

Our Fearless Leader

Today a monkey danced across my screen
In the Land of the Retarded, the Average Man is king!

The Mirror Never Lies

I once fancied myself a suffering Poet
Drowning in a Sea of Guilt
But the mirror said:
"You're just a kid, adrift in Sea of Filth"

I once fancied myself a Warrior
In a battle I could never win
But the mirror said:
"Lose some weight, you're not quite in fighting trim!"

I once fancied myself a Leader
Misunderstood by his own
But the mirror said:
"You're a fucking slob, sitting there alone."

I once fancied myself a Destroyer
Hammer in my left hand and a sword clutched in my right
But the mirror said:
"You've got a hammer, today I guess you're right!"

 

[Øjeblikket]

the coyote's song

I'm the voice of all the Wildest West, the Patti of the Plains;
I'm a wild Wagnerian opera of diabolic strains;
I'm a roaring, ranting orchestra with lunatics becrammed;
I'm a vocalized tornado -- I'm the shrieking of the damned.
- Ernest Thompson Seton

http://www.geocities.com/RainForest/4076/sound/coyote.ram

 

[CatwomanEarache]

I wont reply with quote or it will make pages to scroll down, but I thought Howl was great, thought provoking.On a slightly different note I like Keats also Wordsworth, and also if you look at some of the poets work from that era or even look a little at Edgar Allen Poe can you not see some eerie likeness in some lyrics from bands such as Cradle Of Filth?

 

[Øjeblikket]

I wont reply with quote or it will make pages to scroll down, but I thought Howl was great, thought provoking.On a slightly different note I like Keats also Wordsworth, and also if you look at some of the poets work from that era or even look a little at Edgar Allen Poe can you not see some eerie likeness in some lyrics from bands such as Cradle Of Filth?

I think a lot of bands found influence in Poe's work. Arcturus set Poe's poem Alone to music, as you may know.

I personally would prefer it if you and others would not shy from posting SMALL poems here, rather than just naming authors you like, so please, post us something to numb over! How about something by Howl?

Please, though, I beg of you, do not post anything by Cradle Of Filth.

 

[Nile577]

Extact from 'Epipsychidion'
(Percy Bysshe Shelley)

Thy wisdom speaks in me, and bids me dare
Beacon the rocks on which high hearts are wreckt.
I never was attached to that great sect,
Whose doctrine is, that each one should select
Out of the crowd a mistress or a friend,
And all the rest, though fair and wise, commend
To cold oblivion, though it is in the code
Of modern morals, and the beaten road
Which those poor slaves with weary footsteps tread,
Who travel to their home among the dead
By the broad highway of the world, and so
With one chained friend, perhaps a jealous foe,
The dreariest and the longest journey go.

(something cheery to read before marriage, no?)

 

[Nile577]

(I think these two poems belong together somehow)

XXXI On Wenlock Edge the wood’s in trouble
(A.E. Housman)


On Wenlock Edge the wood's in trouble;
His forest fleece the Wrekin heaves;
The gale, it plies the saplings double,
And thick on Severn snow the leaves.

'Twould blow like this through holt and hanger
When Uricon the city stood:
'Tis the old wind in the old anger,
But then it threshed another wood.

Then, 'twas before my time, the Roman
At yonder heaving hill would stare:
The blood that warms an English yeoman,
The thoughts that hurt him, they were there.

There, like the wind through woods in riot,
Through him the gale of life blew high;
The tree of man was never quiet:
Then 'twas the Roman, now 'tis I.

The gale, it plies the saplings double,
It blows so hard, 'twill soon be gone:
To-day the Roman and his trouble
Are ashes under Uricon.


Drummer Hodge
(Thomas Hardy)

They throw in Drummer Hodge, to rest uncoffined - just as found:
His landmark is a kopje-crest that breaks the veldt around;
And foreign constellations west each night above his mound.


Young Hodge the Drummer never knew - fresh from his Wessex home -
The meaning of the broad Karoo, the bush the dusty loam,
And why uprose to nightly view strange stars amid the gloam.

Yet portion of that unknown plain will Hodge for ever be;
His homely Northern breast and brain grow to some Southern tree,
And strange-eyed constellations reign his stars eternally

 

[Scourge of God]

Perhaps the most famous poetic passage in history, but worth revisiting nonetheless:

Rage -- Goddess, sing the rage of Peleus' son Achilles,
murderous, doomed, that cost the Achaeans contless losses,
hurling down to the House of Death so many sturdy souls,
great fighters' souls, but made their bodies carrion,
feasts for the dogs and birds,
and the will of Zeus was moving toward its end.
Begin, Muse, when the two first broke and clashed,
Agamemnon lord of men and brilliant Achilles.

(Iliad, Book One - Fagles' translation)