Quotes about feign, page 15
She and Drugs
Freshly spawned,
Brain dumps
Bleeding grey:
Reflections of a mind
That wavers thin
Along the line
That savours pain -
A pond of skin
Devoid of breast -
The pad a feign:
The nothing
Underneath your bra
At best
Is your imagination
Spread across a narcoleptic world
Suchlike survival
In and out
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poem by Mark R Slaughter
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Pain - II
If we couldn't be partners in pleasure,
Let us be partners in pain.
Let's stop pleasing each other,
And become a source of
Perpetual pain...
For in this loss of
Our mutual pleasure,
None of us have anything to gain.
We went in search of sanity
In a complaisant relationship
But now our animosity
Is driving us Insane.
We thought that the Sun
Would always shine -
Whatever be the weather,
We'll wait for the sunshine.
But now it seems,
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poem by Aparna Chatterjee
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To The Honourable Mrs. Percival.
And will your Goodness never have an End?
And will you still persist to be my Friend?
To meet me still with that engaging Air,
Still open, ardent, gen'rous, and sincere;
Still to advise, to aid, to cheer, to bless;
Still to prevent, or to dispel, Distress;
Sollicit for me with unweary'd Zeal,
Pleas'd to succeed, nor slacken'd when you fail;
Point out each Path to good Success from far;
And guide me by thy Light, my happier Star!
When of ungen'rous Minds I Favours ask,
And sink, oppress'd beneath the grievous Task;
Hear the false Promise, or the feign'd Excuse,
In Words that mean but more refin'd Abuse;
Full in my View thy nobler Soul appears,
And swells my Heart, and fills my Eyes with Tears;
Whilst, to prevent my Wish, your Goodness flies,
Nor one kind Look deceives me, from your Eyes.
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poem by Mary Barber
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Harvest
So there's my year, the twelvemonth duly told
Since last I climbed this brow and gloated round
Upon the lands heaped with their wheaten gold,
And now again they spread with wealth imbrowned -
And thriftless I meanwhile,
What honeycombs have I to take, what sheaves to pile?
I see some shrivelled fruits upon my tree,
And gladly would self-kindness feign them sweet;
The bloom smelled heavenly, can these stragglers be
The fruit of that bright birth and this wry wheat,
Can this be from those spires
Which I, or fancy, saw leap to the spring sun's fires?
I peer, I count, but anxious is not rich,
My harvest is not come, the weeds run high;
Even poison-berries, ramping from the ditch
Have stormed the undefended ridges by;
What Michaelmas is mine!
The fields I sought to serve, for sturdier tilage pine.
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poem by Edmund Blunden
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From the Hymn of Empedocles
IS it so small a thing
To have enjoy'd the sun,
To have lived light in the spring,
To have loved, to have thought, to have done;
To have advanced true friends, and beat down baffling foes;
That we must feign a bliss
Of doubtful future date,
And while we dream on this
Lose all our present state,
And relegate to worlds yet distant our repose?
Not much, I know, you prize
What pleasures may be had,
Who look on life with eyes
Estranged, like mine, and sad:
And yet the village churl feels the truth more than you;
Who 's loth to leave this life
Which to him little yields:
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poem by Matthew Arnold
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Song
Sweetest love, I do not go,
For weariness of thee,
Nor in hope the world can show
A fitter love for me;
But since that I
Must die at last, 'tis best
To use myself in jest
Thus by feign'd deaths to die.
Yesternight the sun went hence,
And yet is here today;
He hath no desire nor sense,
Nor half so short a way:
Then fear not me,
But believe that I shall make
Speedier journeys, since I take
More wings and spurs than he.
O how feeble is man's power,
That if good fortune fall,
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poem by John Donne
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Sweetest Love, I do not go
Sweetest love, I do not go,
For weariness of thee,
Nor in hope the world can show
A fitter love for me;
But since that I
Must die at last, 'tis best
To use myself in jest
Thus by feign'd deaths to die.
Yesternight the sun went hence,
And yet is here today;
He hath no desire nor sense,
Nor half so short a way:
Then fear not me,
But believe that I shall make
Speedier journeys, since I take
More wings and spurs than he.
O how feeble is man's power,
That if good fortune fall,
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poem by John Donne
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Death Tolls Imperceptibly
I could feign a brazen smile contorted from corruption
Or paint my face with a grotesque façade so you envisage
A one man band of harlequinade unstained of demarcation
Better yet, I will reduce into a glassine veneer and divulge
The eczemas sweltering inside the mechanism of affectation
But what good will it be when the heart is an autumn garage?
I, in solitude, could vie for vindication in blithe and blinded hope
And sublimate this loneliness to become my woebegone impetus
But in between the torsion of times of my harried sleep, a slope
Of pervading veracity swoons for my capitulation and unloose
The wisp of the evanescence of my feint of blasé and mope
Whilst, loneliness itself remained immortally acrimonious
Farcically, I veer to shun the promenading circus and impose
Satisfaction and wrangle to outrun the pawned pangs of solitude
Shorn between two opposing pillars I have lost my sole repose
In my silence, I holler and wail in unfathomable magnitude
To stranger's bolted ears and to haul me out and keep me close
Before I thaw in this havoc amidst despondence and incertitude
poem by Norman Santos
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The Fool's Epilogue
MANY good works I've done and ended,
Ye take the praise--I'm not offended;
For in the world, I've always thought
Each thing its true position hath sought.
When praised for foolish deeds am I,
I set off laughing heartily;
When blamed for doing something good,
I take it in an easy mood.
If some one stronger gives me hard blows,
That it's a jest, I feign to suppose:
But if 'tis one that's but my own like,
I know the way such folks to strike.
When Fortune smiles, I merry grow,
And sing in dulci jubilo;
When sinks her wheel, and tumbles me o'er,
I think 'tis sure to rise once more.
In the sunshine of summer I ne'er lament,
Because the winter it cannot prevent;
And when the white snow-flakes fall around,
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poem by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
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Passing Trains In Winter Rain
Adrift within a dismal night,
While trudging down deserted track,
Beyond the bend, a peering light,
Illumed alone through vacant black.
Such are the tricks that fate will feign,
With passing trains in winter rain.
The darkling sky, sighed, dripping dew,
Beguiling to the trek anew.
In diamond dusk the demons came,
There was no dread, there was no claim,
But distant thoughts will entertain
On passing trains in winter rain.
Through shadow's fog a form appeared,
Which slowed its pace as though it feared,
A lonesome, meek and wistful thing,
A fallen bird with broken wing.
Such are the shapes and weary strain
Of passing trains in winter rain.
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poem by Terry O'Leary
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