Submissions by Baldwin
POEMS AND SHORT STORIES
Ekphrasis
Sad inverted siren thing,
beached
and lying helpless on
deserted sand,
wave lorn,
and gulping bootless air,
the scalloped triangle there
above your legs
now smelling
monthly womanish,
what man would swim to you?
You cannot be
one of the three
the harried wanderer
Odysseus
once lashed himself to hear.
He would not ever wish
to set his gaze on you
And you,
half fish
with gaping mouth of bone,
have no lips to shape around
a song.
beached
and lying helpless on
deserted sand,
wave lorn,
and gulping bootless air,
the scalloped triangle there
above your legs
now smelling
monthly womanish,
what man would swim to you?
You cannot be
one of the three
the harried wanderer
Odysseus
once lashed himself to hear.
He would not ever wish
to set his gaze on you
And you,
half fish
with gaping mouth of bone,
have no lips to shape around
a song.
#WritingPoetry
254 reads
3 Comments
Derbyed Men
For derbyed men
it seems a kind of Pentecost again ---
instead of tongues of fire.
moon slices have
descended on the heads
One wonders
in what shadowed languages
they’re aimed to speak,
one sideways, one direct,
and one oblique,
unto their hedged horizon and its trees
the blue above,
the greying empty plane,
they stand upon.
it seems a kind of Pentecost again ---
instead of tongues of fire.
moon slices have
descended on the heads
One wonders
in what shadowed languages
they’re aimed to speak,
one sideways, one direct,
and one oblique,
unto their hedged horizon and its trees
the blue above,
the greying empty plane,
they stand upon.
#mystery
285 reads
3 Comments
Eliot
I have seen tall men in Rome
walking the piazzas late at night
dressed in their suits of ice cream white
with broad brimmed hats to match,
their arms around each other casually
like cords in loosening knots
and singing snatches of some
half remembered arias.
I have seen them lay themselves
like snow
upon Bernini’ s rivered rim
and tossing wishing coins
in whims
into the water there
in hopes a Beatrice – dark or fair –
will come their way, and show her face,
and muse them to immortal poetry.
Ah...
walking the piazzas late at night
dressed in their suits of ice cream white
with broad brimmed hats to match,
their arms around each other casually
like cords in loosening knots
and singing snatches of some
half remembered arias.
I have seen them lay themselves
like snow
upon Bernini’ s rivered rim
and tossing wishing coins
in whims
into the water there
in hopes a Beatrice – dark or fair –
will come their way, and show her face,
and muse them to immortal poetry.
Ah...
#WritingPoetry
443 reads
3 Comments
Giotto's Angel
I watched you take it in,
this ceilinged fresco
of the soaring angel with kohl eyes
and wind chaffed cheek.
I watched then how a broadened smile
so sly, began to trace itself upon your lips
just as I hoped it would,
when you were overcome
within a feathered sigh
by all the heavened sight of him,
and how you soft began to raise your hand
unconsciously
towards his outstretched arm
as if it might be possible
to touch the blessing,
his white fingers offered you;
Oh, how your gaze,
drawn to...
this ceilinged fresco
of the soaring angel with kohl eyes
and wind chaffed cheek.
I watched then how a broadened smile
so sly, began to trace itself upon your lips
just as I hoped it would,
when you were overcome
within a feathered sigh
by all the heavened sight of him,
and how you soft began to raise your hand
unconsciously
towards his outstretched arm
as if it might be possible
to touch the blessing,
his white fingers offered you;
Oh, how your gaze,
drawn to...
#heaven
446 reads
5 Comments
What I'd give
What I’d give to kiss once more
your shoulders and your mouth,
your white breasts and your fingertips.
What I’d give to feel you wild again
beneath my hand,
my tongue --
to hear you moaning in the heavy language of the earth --
in shaping speech, then music, in your throat
that tells me how,
as you, in latter days, once said
you’re only mine.
your shoulders and your mouth,
your white breasts and your fingertips.
What I’d give to feel you wild again
beneath my hand,
my tongue --
to hear you moaning in the heavy language of the earth --
in shaping speech, then music, in your throat
that tells me how,
as you, in latter days, once said
you’re only mine.
#lust
325 reads
3 Comments
Tintagel
In yet another pilgrimage
to Arthur’s siring place
I see again the headland and the cove
and I remember then
how you
wide eyed,
upon a blue swirled, cloudless
late September afternoon,
when we had climbed
the castel’s ruined parapet,
the air on fire,
the sea a Cornish cliff-side shattering,
pulled down my face
to yours
to meet your open urgent mouth
and honeyed me
with your desire.
And I remember, too,
how then
time slowed
and all but stopped
as I surrendered...
to Arthur’s siring place
I see again the headland and the cove
and I remember then
how you
wide eyed,
upon a blue swirled, cloudless
late September afternoon,
when we had climbed
the castel’s ruined parapet,
the air on fire,
the sea a Cornish cliff-side shattering,
pulled down my face
to yours
to meet your open urgent mouth
and honeyed me
with your desire.
And I remember, too,
how then
time slowed
and all but stopped
as I surrendered...
#nostalgia
218 reads
0 Comments
The Cygnet
I am breathless now
for I today,
alone,
was witness to
the way a cygnet's layered white
unfolding wings
drew in beneath themselves
the air
and slowly gathered from it
lofting power
to conquer gravity
and render then
for him
the somber pull of earth
with which I'm bound
a small forgotten thing.
for I today,
alone,
was witness to
the way a cygnet's layered white
unfolding wings
drew in beneath themselves
the air
and slowly gathered from it
lofting power
to conquer gravity
and render then
for him
the somber pull of earth
with which I'm bound
a small forgotten thing.
#nature
219 reads
2 Comments
There is a Saxon Church
There is a Saxon Church,
rough doored, set low,,
upon a rolling hill
in Oxfordshire,
abiding still,
and weathering the wheeling years,
the tides of time.
The rounded Roman arches
just beneath
its leached, eroding tympanum
still testify the triumph
over sin and death
wrought by the Lamb;
inside, where vaulted heaven
touches earth,
I see a carved remembrance of a birth
the angels choired,
and, yes, the throne room
of the King of Kings.
I have often knelt there
and been sainted,
graced, ...
rough doored, set low,,
upon a rolling hill
in Oxfordshire,
abiding still,
and weathering the wheeling years,
the tides of time.
The rounded Roman arches
just beneath
its leached, eroding tympanum
still testify the triumph
over sin and death
wrought by the Lamb;
inside, where vaulted heaven
touches earth,
I see a carved remembrance of a birth
the angels choired,
and, yes, the throne room
of the King of Kings.
I have often knelt there
and been sainted,
graced, ...
#memories
241 reads
5 Comments
Autumn in Sherwood
We watched them fall -
the late October leaves
from silver birch and ancient oak -
and, whimsied,
called,
as children come into this forest
often do,
to Robin and his men,
long dead, ghosts all.
But still
we heard from far away
the echo
of a warning call from hunting horns
and then
within the gentle lacey hiss
of all those downward
blood red spiralings,
the whispers, fierce, intent,
of arcing arrows piercing air.
the late October leaves
from silver birch and ancient oak -
and, whimsied,
called,
as children come into this forest
often do,
to Robin and his men,
long dead, ghosts all.
But still
we heard from far away
the echo
of a warning call from hunting horns
and then
within the gentle lacey hiss
of all those downward
blood red spiralings,
the whispers, fierce, intent,
of arcing arrows piercing air.
#heroic
265 reads
15 Comments
Stage Fright
I stood upon the stage disgraced,
my lines forgotten, disassembled;
so awash in unexpected
thespianic fright
with flop sweat running down my face
until I fast remembered
why it was I trod the boards:
To have small hoards of ladies sigh
to see my legs in tights
And seeing, die then in delight.
my lines forgotten, disassembled;
so awash in unexpected
thespianic fright
with flop sweat running down my face
until I fast remembered
why it was I trod the boards:
To have small hoards of ladies sigh
to see my legs in tights
And seeing, die then in delight.
#anxiety
276 reads
0 Comments
Another about Gilly
I wonder now as I grow grey
how long that it will be
before the image of her fetching face,
the impress of her voice
and kindling kiss
that have always shadowed me
since Oxford days
will fade, like mist dissolving
in new morning’s light,
out of my memory.
Will this bring some relief to me
if it should come to pass?
Or will it stay within my heart
a subtle misery?
What good’s, I often ask myself,
remembrance and its sway
when if, as is its wont,
and...
how long that it will be
before the image of her fetching face,
the impress of her voice
and kindling kiss
that have always shadowed me
since Oxford days
will fade, like mist dissolving
in new morning’s light,
out of my memory.
Will this bring some relief to me
if it should come to pass?
Or will it stay within my heart
a subtle misery?
What good’s, I often ask myself,
remembrance and its sway
when if, as is its wont,
and...
#heartbroken
222 reads
4 Comments
In Emulation of Ovid
What a dog you are
to think that you are clever flesh,
incarnate lust,
seduction on a stick,
and so will have your way with me as easily
as babies can be lulled to sleep
with soothing lullabies.
Ha! You fool! For I know something
that you think you’ve kept from me,
snake sly and secreted away.
I know just where
you’ve laid the traps,
the lures, the cunning snares,
you’ve set, intent to thieve
my will, my strength to choose
another love,
and make me...
to think that you are clever flesh,
incarnate lust,
seduction on a stick,
and so will have your way with me as easily
as babies can be lulled to sleep
with soothing lullabies.
Ha! You fool! For I know something
that you think you’ve kept from me,
snake sly and secreted away.
I know just where
you’ve laid the traps,
the lures, the cunning snares,
you’ve set, intent to thieve
my will, my strength to choose
another love,
and make me...
#lover
273 reads
4 Comments
DU Poetry : Submissions by Baldwin