Quotes about heave, page 15
The Kiteflier
And as I heave these strings
closer into my stagnancy
the more they break away
and set off farther from
my cold and distant musing
I watched their ponderous flight
as I mar my fingers in trying
to hold their vestiges together
but all is sullen into futility
As they drive past the clouds -
leave the fringes of my horizon
and unyeild to all my veerings
I am enthused to take flight
and let go of all reveries
But now that I lost them,
these mangled hand is empty
I am taxxed with derision
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poem by Norman Santos
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Hamlet soliliquy insomnia
'To sleep, or, not to sleep?
That is the question
Whether it is nobler in the mind
To heave the leaded unslept eyes of sleep
Adrift in that uncertain hour
Between the hem of dawn
And sombre headed night
Or drink the hemlock of dispair
And sleep herewith eternally
In some far distant land?
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poem by Yvette Smith
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Story of Or
To pose nakedness is
To refute it. A pose
Is a clothes. Like
Stanzaic arrangements of
The word which should
Ideally, be in pain against
Its w and its d. No slack
Is why such heaves of or
To denude itself could
Make us exude gold, yet when
Was that ever opposite enough
What scream or epigram
This sperm has come
To measure our mouths for.
Note: For 'or' to free itself from 'word,' it must strain ('heave') against the 'w' and the 'd' that enclose it. If, via this strenuous (perhaps squeamish) process, the meaning of 'or' is transmuted from the English into the French as a sort of homage to the pseudonymous author of 'Story of O' (Histoire d'O), then, alchemically speaking, (or so an Aurealist might suggest) it will have risen from the pose of its measures to or-emerge as an else-gasm.
poem by Bill Knott
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Chinglish ai
I have left my heart
In the high, high sky
That you might still see
When I’m gone, close by;
And I took your love
When you slept, sound, deep
And carried love away
Like a robber in your sleep.
I wrapped it in feathers
And put it in a sack,
Hid it in a forest, then
Carried on my back,
Took a peek at nightshine
Saw the feathers heave,
Heard a little sigh then:
‘Why did you leave? ’
And my tears flew wide
To the river, so long
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poem by David Lewis Paget
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Butch Weldy
After I got religion and steadied down
They gave me a job in the canning works,
And every morning I had to fill
The tank in the yard with gasoline,
That fed the blow-fires in the sheds
To heat the soldering irons.
And I mounted a rickety ladder to do it,
Carrying buckets full of the stuff.
One morning, as I stood there pouring,
The air grew still and seemed to heave,
And I shot up as the tank exploded,
And down I came with both legs broken,
And my eyes burned crisp as a couple of eggs.
For someone left a blow-fire going,
And something sucked the flame in the tank.
The Circuit Judge said whoever did it
Was a fellow-servant of mine, and so
Old Rhodes' son didn't have to pay me.
And I sat on the witness stand as blind
As Jack the Fiddler, saying over and over,
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poem by Edgar Lee Masters
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3 O'clock In The Morning
the rain stopped
and i have just awakened from a deep sleep
it was earlier than usual
and what i heard are the raindrops leaving the last words of their lives
a tapping of the roof
a heave of a sigh
some monotonous sounds of the waves of the shore
not far from where i am writing
the last whispers of the winds from the trees about to shed their last leaves
the sounds of wild ducks leaving knowing that another storm is coming
i think of you
i think of your search of yourself
i think of myself
how i was once broken and destroyed by the changes of the winds
how i picked up the pieces like some leaves scattered in the forest
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poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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My Last Time
Last time, I didnt say anything
Last time, I always heard the phones ring.
Last time, it was the 36th time,
And last time, I couldnt make a rhyme
This time, Im gunna let it all out
This time, Im gunna stand up and shout
This time, Im at my breaking point
This time, when Im done, I'll go roll a joint
Next time, it wont be different from now
Next time, it will be the same if I say 'Ow! '
Next time, it will be the last for me
Next time, you will be crying 'How could this be? '
Because next time, I will over do it
Next time, wont be an accident one bit
Next time, wont be like the first time
Next time, will be my time
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poem by Tayler Bailey
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Ah, how sweet it is to love!
AH, how sweet it is to love!
Ah, how gay is young Desire!
And what pleasing pains we prove
When we first approach Love's fire!
Pains of love be sweeter far
Than all other pleasures are.
Sighs which are from lovers blown
Do but gently heave the heart:
Ev'n the tears they shed alone
Cure, like trickling balm, their smart:
Lovers, when they lose their breath,
Bleed away in easy death.
Love and Time with reverence use,
Treat them like a parting friend;
Nor the golden gifts refuse
Which in youth sincere they send:
For each year their price is more,
And they less simple than before.
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poem by John Dryden
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Inspiration.
There's a wind that sweeps through the day and night,
And like the lightning goes,
But none have heard the sound of its wings,
And none know whither it blows;
But where'er it comes the thoughts of men
Are like clouds together hurled,
As they are carried with mystic speed
Over the crazy world.
We see no waving of leafy boughs,
Nor heave of the purple sea;
When this wind its fiercest blows, the Earth
May be still as the dead men be;
But the spirit feels its fiery breath
And the souls of men are stirr'd,
As o'er the mesmeric lines of life
Is flashed the magic word.
The gale from the Spirit-land blows in,
And they who feel it glow
With an ecstasy and ardour like
The seers of long ago —
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poem by Robert Crawford
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Low tide at st. andrews
(NEW BRUNSWICK)
The long red flats stretch open to the sky,
Breathing their moisture on the August air.
The seaweeds cling with flesh-like fingers where
The rocks give shelter that the sands deny;
And wrapped in all her summer harmonies
St. Andrews sleeps beside her sleeping seas.
The far-off shores swim blue and indistinct,
Like half-lost memories of some old dream.
The listless waves that catch each sunny gleam
Are idling up the waterways land-linked,
And, yellowing along the harbour's breast,
The light is leaping shoreward from the west.
And naked-footed children, tripping down,
Light with young laughter, daily come at eve
To gather dulse and sea clams and then heave
Their loads, returning laden to the town,
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poem by Emily Pauline Johnson
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