This is...my poem. Well, my poems, really. Just a quick intro, and then I'll start showing off my unbelievably terrible poem skills.
I'm a christian. Sorry to throw that sometimes offensive (sometimes debatable) fact at you (I have no idea if you're offended or not, dear reader, but I don't usually assume in the positive, so I apologize if this doesn't speak to you.)
I'm also an ass. A pompous one. I curse, I listen to loud music, I embrace a bizarre mix of cultural influences. My poetic idols are Dickenson, C.S. Lewis, Novelis, and G.K. Chesterton, as well as Rablais and Keats. I am an angry man who yells out against the crowd (Of course, isn't everyone else?). I'm a romantic. I argue and debate. And I am not one to back down, but that may be the irish in me talking.
THIS is MY poetry.
This poem doesn't have a title, because of the very thing it advocates.
never the less, this poem is filled topful with my ideas of love, as well as other things. I sincerely hope you enjoy...I know I loved writing it!
"She is my impersonal angel
She serenades me from worlds away.
Her voice is a thousand different melodies;
every song I've ever heard resonates with the voice of her lips.
She encompasses the width and breadth of life itself
She does not hesitate, but smiles
Though in dreams only am I granted perception
Though in dreams only am I of a right to see.
She is hidden from me
Though I feel her always
She awaits me
In the bower of the Forest
In the cavern of the mountain
She is nature
She sings for me
with the voice of ten thousand angels
Her face is hidden;
The dirt of this world hides it.
Men mock her, decrying her form
She is not the slavering beast they have called for
Yet more passion has she
Than any dumb animal
Or lower beast of burden.
her form is worn at every increment of life
I have seen her aged face
The face that knows so well
Every inch of her is a testament to the survival of the timeless.
I have glimsped her as a child
Brimming to the edge with incipient womanhood
Every step she took was faltering
But bravely she strode on the road of Travel.
I witnessed her passage as a maiden fair
She who steps through the shadows of my mind
Every movement graceful
Every moment divine.
I know her as a woman true
the lady whose smile fills me topful
the knowing in her eyes would drown any sorrow.
She knows not your prideful ramblings
the words of jealousy are not found in her
She knows no equal
for she treats all as better
And none as below.
You tell me, "Love Is A Passing Thing"
It will not withstand the gap of ages
Yet the eternities I have spent with her
Have not aged me
though those eons you call moments
I called all my future.
through cloud and brush I chase her
Through tree and fel I search
Never in haste
but for in only a moment
I will turn
and she will be there
Standing beside me.
You ask, "Does Your Lady Have A Name?"
And I smile
For in your simplicity you suggest
That one names a waterfall
or star shine
or the colors of rain and sky.
I will tell you what her name is: Her name is fire and wind and rock and water.
She is composed of the elements
Though the quick temper of fire is found not in her
The fickleness of wind does not call her home
The inability of rock cannot lay claim
And the chaos of water is still in her.
She is light and she is sunshine
yet she is enclosed in darkened spaces
weaving through the dreary places
The empty spaces of my mind.
And I know that I shall find her
in the apple garden, by thr raging river
By the gentle stream, the quiet rock
which waters break on over
be it mountainside or country-bound
It matters not
for I shall claim her again
and she me
though I have not seen her in great spans of time
She will claim me from her place in History.
For she would tear apart the earth for me
A fire within that quells not at temptation
It fails not at futility
Nor the impossibility of the search.
And though we be struck to two differing sides of the universe
we stall stride through bounds of time
And wander the starry host itself
If only to grasp each other again
And in her Embrace is the birth of a billion suns
and endless lay of light plays upon her face
She who can stand through day and nightfall
Who caresses me through the infinite spaces
Who teaches me the knowledge of the unseen
And who whispers to me of the Unknowing
A secret too lovely to share with another
will become the tie that clasps us together.
And I shall Search and pray the day
which hastens forth through bands of time
Till the secret is revaled
Till the spirit is confounded
by rhasphodies to brilliant for the heart to handle
Till Rapture rains from heaven like the star of Day itself!
Till walls are defeated and foundations broken
till rock is beaten and defense is routed
till all that dwells is the conjoined flesh
And the Spirit Of Love that dwells within
Interesting.
Although I'd tag it as prose, rather than poetry. That's just me, I think.
I like the imagery, although it does go on a bit...
prose? Hmm, I wouldn't know.
It does go on awhile, I'll admit, but I do consider it my best poem to date.
I've been contemplating if I should post one of my "christian" (meaning, a poem related to my life in Christ) poems, then decided, what the hell, I'll throw something up here and see if it sticks.
I now introduce...
"The Burnt Up Man"
The dust co-mingled with the ashes
And to that dust
Came glory and deliverence
For the burnt-up man
How glorious was that humble fire
which with agony and lust consumed
the fragile flesh, he who re-cruxified
Christ Again
Shameful was that spent up man
He who spent the coins of God
On Vanity, Fallacy
And the life of the Prodigal
So Came then that Holy Fire(!)
Which cleansing set that beast aflame
Delivering the Spent Up Man
by Agony Set the path aright
now stepping forth goes that sooty child
Borne from the blood of the burnt-up man
The gift of life from
Christ In Fire
who burnt away
The greed-filled Flesh
And through burning saved(!)
That Spent Up Man.
now Walk aright, Saved-Soul Man!
Speak of Light
You Loved Of God-Man!
LIFE!
DELIVERENCE!
AND THE ETERNITY TO COME!
If it's dancing you would be, their's brisker pipes than poetry...oh, many a peer of england brews a livelier liquor than the muse! And malt does more than Milton can, to justify God's ways to man!
Any man who's a fan of both C.S. Lewis and Keats is alright in my book. Your poetry, as llearch said, is perhaps prosaic in it's scope, although I could see it as spoken verse.
More...poems.
Let me slip easily into the velvet throat of darkness;
Struggle me not against the enveloping shadow
I'll sleep peaceful in the deepening belly of the night
Dissolving my waking fear, releasing my unconscious mind
Stir me not awake from my swallowed state
Make me not lay, straight up, freed of these satin bonds
I shall rest in the arms of the small death
Kiss me, freeing doom, my lich-yard bride!
Let your sweet breath fall upon my shoulders and hands
Envelop me, O Lady Night!
De Luit, "The Romance Of Lady Sleep, Part One."
"Lord, these heavy hands
Cannot be borne by these fragile arms.
Burdened down with so much iniquity
My limp shoulders do but struggle with its weight
But my iron fingers still refuse my command.
Can I flick my broken wrists
To summon the power to move this mountain?
Can these steel-stained hands, wrought of shame
Move the heaviness of the earth?
Let us discover, my Lord, what you would have these hands to do!"
De Luit, "My Hands"
Poisons strike forth into my veins
My rotting frame is lit by light
Every dying cell of me set aflame.
The fire burns away the black crevice
The furrows of black, dug into my skin
For this moment, I live! Show me my foe!
Then the toxins fade like shadows
My vain-glory vaporized by the radiant Sol
And, rotted to the core, I fall asleep again.
De Luit, "In The Wake Of Anger: The Hollow Afterglow
I've never really been one to understand poems in all their undertones and well... poetic meanings.
But... these were beautiful. I especially liked the first and loved the third.