Quotes about relics, page 2
A Calmer (Process Of) You
III.
drifting (still) just beneath
what horror awaits (in roaming waters)
in present day (the calmer you)
the meek hopeful (pretends)
twitches (as if the world is not teetering)
on (its axis) daily (& evolution has)
(provided) swimming avec requins
(a numbness that) holding onto relics (kicks in)
(which allows) arms flailing recklessly (for the absolute tragic)
(to pass) tattooed (before your eyes) , stained within
all the while (without a moment's pause)
(to panic) walking the tightrope (&)
(vomit up) above (the) exploding coals
with (spaghetti) conflagrative skin
with (that) heart (you had) palpitating
a (last) woven mess
of (evening) veins screaming.
[...] Read more
poem by Andrew Delapruch
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Welsh Landscape
To live in Wales is to be conscious
At dusk of the spilled blood
That went into the making of the wild sky,
Dyeing the immaculate rivers
In all their courses.
It is to be aware,
Above the noisy tractor
And hum of the machine
Of strife in the strung woods,
Vibrant with sped arrows.
You cannot live in the present,
At least not in Wales.
There is the language for instance,
The soft consonants
Strange to the ear.
There are cries in the dark at night
As owls answer the moon,
And thick ambush of shadows,
Hushed at the fields' corners.
There is no present in Wales,
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poem by Ronald Stuart Thomas
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The Forest Vine
It grew in the old wilderness—The vine
Is linked with thoughts of sunny Italy,
Or the fair hills of France, or the sweet vales
Where flows the Guadalquivir. But this grew
Where, as the sunlight look'd through lacing boughs,
The shadows of the stern, tall, primal wood
Fell round us, and across the silent flood,
That wash'd the deep ravine. The pauseless lapse
Of ages had beheld no change in all
The aspect of that scene; or but such change,
As Time himself had made; the slow decay
Of the old patriarch oaks, and as they fell
And moulder'd on the earth, the silent growth
Of the young sturdy stem, that rear'd itself
To stretch its branches in their former place.
The wild flower stretch'd its tender petals out,
Lending strange brightness to the forest gloom;
The fleet deer toss'd his antlers to the breeze,
Graceful and shy; and when the sun went down,
The tangled thicket rustled to the tread
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poem by Elizabeth Margaret Chandler from Poetical Works (1836)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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The Stag and the Purple Rose
She’s trying to speak; failing as she is trailing her words
Throughout the mists of obscurity’s blanket.
Metallic monstrosities fly on by the window pane
Of my new and unholy asylum from the world outside.
I can hear a confusion of conversations held by some
Deranged Gentleman of staggering stature, he dwells
Amongst the swelling guts of bar fly liquid mongers.
They mock interest in the whale, they mock interest with
Curses beyond the reach of jest. Oh what savages are these?
Oh what a notion of civilization it is that we hold for it seems as though
The further away you are from our world the safer you become,
Numbed are the sensibilities of man, numb is his love for his brother.
An aroma of stale cigarettes emits from every corner of the place
My glass is cool to touch, the condensation wetting the palms of my hand.
A familiar face stands beyond the boundaries of unknowing.
Looking around I feel nostalgia plunge my heart beneath a reflection blue.
Flat capped gentlemen drift on by the screen of my realities vision.
Her breasts are buxom monsters inciting me to cry.
These lustful eyes are the demise of youth for no clarity is there to be found
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poem by David Lacey
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Elegy XXII. Written in the Year ----, When the Rights of Sepulture Were So Frequently Violated
Say, gentle Sleep! that lov'st the gloom of night,
Parent of dreams! thou great Magician! say,
Whence my late vision thus endures the light,
Thus haunts my fancy through the glare of day?
The silent moon had scaled the vaulted skies,
And anxious Care resign'd my limbs to rest;
A sudden lustre struck my wondering eyes,
And Silvia stood before my couch confest.
Ah! not the nymph so blooming and so gay,
That led the dance beneath the festive shade,
But she that, in the morning of her day,
Entomb'd beneath the grass-green sod was laid.
No more her eyes their wonted radiance cast,
No more her breast inspired the lover's flame;
No more her cheek the Pæstan rose surpass'd,
Yet seem'd her lip's ethereal smile the same.
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poem by William Shenstone
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Euphelia
As roam'd a pilgrim o'er the mountain drear,
On whose lone verge the foaming billows roar,
The wail of hopeless sorrow pierc'd his ear,
And swell'd at distance on the sounding shore.
The mourner breath'd her deep complaint to night,
Her moan she mingled with the rapid blast,
That bar'd her bosom in its wasting flight,
And o'er the earth her scatter'd tresses cast,
"Ye winds," she cried, "still heave the lab'ring deep,
The mountain shake, the howling forest rend;
Still dash the shiv'ring fragments from the steep,
Nor for a wretch like me the storm suspend.
"Ah, wherefore wish the rising storm to spare?
Ah, why implore the raging winds to save?
What refuge can the breast, where lives despair,
Desire but death?--what shelter but the grave?
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poem by Helen Maria Williams
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Rocket
Cape canaveral florida, ready for takeoff stages
Zoom destination an isolated planet mars
On which observed many relics of past ages
On return despite rocks no spars
2nd destination worlds largest planet jupiter
From there obtained some ancient relics
When returned at base -- we want hoopiter!
And we would like some fancy cows milk
3rd destinations many ringed planet saturn
While there darted among the rings
At base had a few thoughts of astral matter
Again at base a welcoming with sings
4th zoom destination to an isolated planet neptune
Whose surface was clear of any vegetation
At base quote -- would like large dirigible balloon
During when there was no hesitation
5th zoom destination smallest planet pluto
On which there are many beautiful sights
It has no vegetation you know
No power to illuminate dark nights.
song performed by Xtc
Added by Lucian Velea
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So Long, Astoria
It was the first snow of the season
i can almost see you breathin
in the middle of that empty street
Sometimes i still see myself
in that lonesome bedroom
playin my guitar
and singing songs of hope
for a better future
life is....only....
as good as the memories we make
and i'm taking back what belongs to me
polaroids of classrooms unattended
these relics of remembrence
are just like shipwrecks
only theyre gone faster
than the smell after it rains
last night while everyone was sleepin
i tripped through my old neighborhood
and resurrected memories from ashes
we said that we would never fit in
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song performed by Ataris
Added by Lucian Velea
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Mementos
Arranging long-locked drawers and shelves
Of cabinets, shut up for years,
What a strange task we've set ourselves!
How still the lonely room appears!
How strange this mass of ancient treasures,
Mementos of past pains and pleasures;
These volumes, clasped with costly stone,
With print all faded, gilding gone;
These fans of leaves from Indian trees--
These crimson shells, from Indian seas--
These tiny portraits, set in rings--
Once, doubtless, deemed such precious things;
Keepsakes bestowed by Love on Faith,
And worn till the receiver's death,
Now stored with cameos, china, shells,
In this old closet's dusty cells.
I scarcely think, for ten long years,
A hand has touched these relics old;
[...] Read more
poem by Charlotte Brontë from Poems by Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell (1846)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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The Field of Waterloo
I.
Fair Brussels, thou art far behind,
Though, lingering on the morning wind,
We yet may hear the hour
Pealed over orchard and canal,
With voice prolonged and measured fall,
From proud St. Michael's tower;
Thy wood, dark Soignies, holds us now,
Where the tall beeches' glossy bough
For many a league around,
With birch and darksome oak between,
Spreads deep and far a pathless screen,
Of tangled forest ground.
Stems planted close by stems defy
The adventurous foot-the curious eye
For access seeks in vain;
And the brown tapestry of leaves,
Strewed on the blighted ground, receives
Nor sun, nor air, nor rain.
No opening glade dawns on our way,
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poem by Sir Walter Scott
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