How with an air of quiet grace she’s come into my life so like the way the moon slides silently behind a cloud. And only yesterday I thought myself too old to be an object of desire, too winter-waned without, within, ice greyed and blurred to have once more the heart inside me stirred.
There’s wrath behind her smile. Her jaw is set in thunder. A coil of hard contempt lies deep inside her limbs and if she comes determined to caress it’s only then to see how easily she’s able to draw blood There’s nothing I can do or say to soften her away from all the miseries she’s known from other men that thoughtless words of mine have brought back to her memory, reminding her of just how much their hold on her survives.
I was a witness to his bloody death. It was a thing of torment and distress for him, this would-be Jewish King. He could not breathe unless he forced his legs to biting pain upon the nails that spiked his heels against the knot within the planted upright he, exhausted, sweat streaked, dangled from. And yet not once was he then heard to voice disdain upon his murderers or cry out curses on the hungry dogs that snarled and bared their teeth beneath him there, waiting and aprowl within a death-watch vigiling to...
I want to know of all the thoughts I pray to thee, no matter if they play upon my tongue, become articulate and are voiced aloud, or stay within my heart as wordless groans and whisperings oh which, if any. of them are the ones you’ll want to hear and which are those you might forbid to ever touch your ear.
Please tell me, God.
I want your promised rest, but do not know just what to say to have it now bestowed on me.
Perhaps if I address you as my Pater, Lord, and act as if you...
Because I know that fame’s a thing that can’t be carried with me when I, as dust to dust, go down into the grave, and cannot serve as light or warmth beneath the earth, I hope now that my name will be passed on with love in an unsullied state in others’ memory and will remain marked out on living tongues at least a while as if a flame that brightens darkness at the end of day. That is, I think, as much as one can ask for of the ever-turning world.
I’ve heard it claimed that when we’re young we know a happiness that will not be surpassed in any of our later days. In fact, it’s said, life’s destiny’s at thing that cannot help but dim and make unreachable the memory of how content we were at play within the lilting years just after infancy
For time’s cruel hand will all too soon immerse us in a growing consciousness of how much life is really nothing but a vale of tears.
Oh, yes. There’s something to be said in favour of the Edening of youth’s naivete. ...
What was it like when I met God? I tell you now I was gob stopped and quite surprised (and not in any heedless way) to see with dazzled eyes a vision quite the opposite of what my expectations were: that he in all his majesty’s a she.
A Challenge to J-Z -- and anyone else here who might find it fun to imitate Byron, Yeats, et. al.
I challenge you, J-Z, to write some verse that has a filled capacity to make a woman swoon and fires desire in her to run headlong into your arms, all breathless, sighing with her love for you .
Now this would mean you’d have to fill your measured lines for once with true erotic charm, avoid cliches, and also then eschew the awkward phrasings and the rhymes predictable and dull you’re wont to place inside the dreary lines you set upon the page.
Now given that you’ve claimed to be a writer who has mastered every grace that gilded...
I wonder now if what you claim is true: that all the versifiers of the golden age of poetry, when reigned Will Shakespeare and his ilk (Rossetti, Marlowe, Milton, Donne, Traherne, Carew) and those who wrote before free verse became the rage, like Browning, Byron, Shelly, Keats and Pope, Thoreau, and Hardy, too, felt free, if not obliged, to give all leave unto themselves to think it so that they, to get a cunning verse or two, had liberty, indeed a mandate then, to throw good grammar to the wind, and felt that it was never...