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The Sigh

I.
When youth his fairy reign began,
Ere sorrow had proclaimed me man;
While peace the present hour beguiled,
And all the lovely prospect smiled;
Then, Mary! 'mid my lightsome glee
I heaved the painless sigh for thee.

II.
And when, as tossed on waves of woe,
My harassed heart was doomed to know
The frantic burst, the outrage keen,
And the slow pang that gnaws unseen;
Then shipwrecked on life's stormy sea,
I heaved an anguish'd sigh for thee!

III.
But soon reflection's power imprest
A stiller sadness on my breast;
And sickly hope with waning eye

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poem by Samuel Taylor Coleridge
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Principalities, Dominions and Thrones

Cathedral, how many times now
Have your windows been washed
By the tears of lovers, broken by the rack

How many times has the blood of martyrs
Flowed unchecked, across your cracked floors

How many vile plagues seeped in
Through the stained glass eye
Leering upward into the face
Of heaven's disappointment

How many effigies of the saints
Witnessed you turning on your own edicts
When other tides had turned against you

And how many statues were destroyed
In the raging quakes of anger
Inside the hearts of the downtrodden

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poem by Patti Masterman
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Insatiablement

Le soir, plein des dégoûts du journalier mirage,
Avec des dents, brutal, de folie et de feu,
Je mords en moi mon propre coeur et je l'outrage
Et ricane, s'il tord son martyre vers Dieu.

Là-bas, un ciel brûlé d'apothéoses vertes
Domine un coin de mer - et des flammes de flots
Entrent, comme parmi des blessures ouvertes,
En des écueils troués de cris et de sanglots.

Et mon coeur se reflète en ce soir de torture,
Quand la vague se ronge et se déchire aux rocs
Et s'acharne contre elle et que son armature
D'or et d'argent éclate et s'émiette, par chocs.

La joie, enfin, me vient de souffrir par moi-même,
Parce que je le veux, et je m'enivre aux pleurs
Que je répands, et mon orgueil tait son blasphème
Et s'exalte, sous les abois de mes douleurs.

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poem by Emile Verhaeren
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To Protect Their Well Being and National Interests

Even though everyone has seen this,
As a boulder falling upon their heads.
It has been requested that we describe it...
As a brief interruption of communicated ideas!

And those unfortunately crushed by the boulder...
Are to be referred to as being deep in interpretive expression!
Thereby,
Using the press releases as a means to avoid public outrage.
That could escalate into a misunderstanding of our journalistic pride...
Interferring with our corporate sponsors decisions,
To further use our 'medium' with added financial backing.
In support of their candidates in the upcoming elections!

We must not lose the confidence of the people,
However.
And they must embrace this as a means,
In our efforts...
To protect their well being and national interests.
This they must accept,

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poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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You couldn't make it up...

Morning newspapers exist
to bring us spluttering outrage
at the breakfast table, Soggies
splattered over our office gear...

but sometimes they have it
handed to them on a plate...

our finest universities,
concerned at the drop-out rate
of students who just can't cut it
(or perhaps, cut it just too much...)

are considering in their donnish wisdom
whether to postpone essential lectures
to the afternoon... and this
will dropp the drop-out rate? ...

the afternoons - when healthy students
take their exercise outdoors,

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poem by Michael Shepherd
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Drowned Out.

Liverpool corporation, water they sought,
community, by surprise they were caught.
Not really consulted,
outrage and protest resulted.

Voices and banners went to the ‘foreign' council,
however, project goes ahead through ' private members bill '
Worries fall on deaf ears,
only to confirm worst fears.

Workers came to start their plan,
nothing could stop the dam.
Water is ‘required'
not true it transpired.
Not strong enough voice in their land,
their village was dammed.
Told to 'leave their dead, or exhume,
the water will be coming soon '
Open the graves,
or lose to the waves.

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poem by Guy Lipmore
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Tatay

[To my Father, I Love You]

Under the heat of the sun or heavy rain,
I watched you plow and toil the ground,
That seems to me like it was yesterday,
Of those years we have nothing but agony;

With eight children, from twenty to five,
A widower at forty-five, you kept us alive,
But your dreams and high hopes you didn’t meet,
When the eldest began to separate;

For once in your life, it didn’t cross in your mind,
Until your youngest ones left you one by one,
And supported you with nothing but their outrage,
When you married someone, too young for your age;

But I learned to let go of my selfishness, my anger,
And admitted the fact that you’ve now grown older,
You need more help as you walk slower and slower,

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poem by Efren Petalver Carranza
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Caught who Court Death

Without the blessing of the Gods
with Death you wed.
Yet suicide remains at odds
with those who fear to greet the sods,
who Heaven's gates slam on the dead.

The dead anticipated not,
wait, arms outspread.
Fell leaves their souls which, half-forgot,
skirl, skittles in windy melting pot.

Paradise keeps tabs on age.
Narcissus, dead,
must wait in turn Who turns the page.
No joys, except that in his rage
he'll [s]wallow, outrage his own cage.

If of his face he took much heed,
unless he fed
in fount of Youth, to drown, what need?

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poem by Raymond Radiguet, translated by Jonathan Robin
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The Eye Of The Storm

The eye of the storm is quiet and still.
Don't be afraid of that.
The rage that encircles the stillness within
is unrestricted combat
that is being fought by mindless zombies
marching off to war,
that can never be won by an animated corpse
dying again and what for?

To protect the homeland is what they're told,
a story that they believe.
And so their heads are shaved and they're taught to kill
for the young are so naive.
They believe their leaders and never question
the words, 'Thou shalt not kill.'
And so our youth are once again
caught marching downhill.

Where are the preachers that taught these young men
the commandments, words of God.

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poem by Edwina Reizer
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The Art of Poetry

To gaze at a river made of time and water
and remember Time is another river.
To know we stray like a river
and our faces vanish like water.

To feel that waking is another dream
that dreams of not dreaming and that the death
we fear in our bones is the death
that every night we call a dream.

To see in every day and year a symbol
of all the days of man and his years,
and convert the outrage of the years
into a music, a sound, and a symbol.

To see in death a dream, in the sunset
a golden sadnesssuch is poetry,
humble and immortal, poetry,
returning, like dawn and the sunset.

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poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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