Quotes about steely, page 6
The Wind in the Hemlock
Steely stars and moon of brass,
How mockingly you watch me pass!
You know as well as I how soon
I shall be blind to stars and moon,
Deaf to the wind in the hemlock tree,
Dumb when the brown earth weighs on me.
With envious dark rage I bear,
Stars, your cold complacent stare;
Heart-broken in my hate look up,
Moon, at your clear immortal cup,
Changing to gold from dusky red --
Age after age when I am dead
To be filled up with light, and then
Emptied, to be refilled again.
What has man done that only he
Is slave to death -- so brutally
Beaten back into the earth
Impatient for him since his birth?
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poem by Sara Teasdale
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I Give Birth To A Poem!
I GIVE BIRTH TO A POEM!
I am about to give birth to
a Poem!
I totter, engulfed by the unbearable,
Yet sweet intoxicating pains
With razor-sharp edges,
Striking me blind
With brilliant flashes in quick succession!
The war-drums of pains thunder-dance on me,
Hissing furiously like venomous cobras,
And striking fast knifing their fangs at my waist!
Oh! that designated moment has just arrived!
The sharp jabs of its steely second-hand
Erupt in me massive pains of roaring waves;
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poem by Sundaram Chandrakalaadhar
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Periwinkle-Blue Pyjamas
Periwinkle-blue pyjamas, crowned with grey, untidy hair,
added unexpected contrast to the drab neglected air
of the hospital sub-basement where the x-ray plate portrays
in black and white bone highlights that lie hidden from our gaze.
Periwinkle-blue pyjamas took their stand behind the queue,
as a wrinkled ragamuffin flanked by darker midnight blue
of two stalwart representatives of France’s force of law
who escorted the pyjamas to a chair far from the door.
Periwinkle-blue pyjamas clothed a scarecrow whose despair
could be read by all around him, clear as day to all who’d dare
to read between those lines that linked both hands and feet, that played
a sing-song steely solo when limbs were together laid.
Periwinkle-blue pyjamas parodied that ‘tent of blue’
Oscar Wilde depicted poignantly, - o scar! - so well he knew
man is by man dehumanized, what’s killed none can restore,
man leaves empty husk to wither, kernel rotten to the core.
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poem by Jonathan Robin
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My Aquarium
i used to admire my brother who had
aquariums of fishes outside the garage
and in our rooms, fishes that swam
through every phase of our teenage years
now another of his fruitful hobbies steals our sights,
breath and hearts
he keeps a garden of orchids, many he
fervently crossed breed himself with a secret
wish to name a few at least after his sweet heart,
special friends and luminaries in town
with also the hope some would make their
way into every florist's vocabulary
the blade leafy shrubs have started to
make a cut into the finer part of our life
showering us dainty fair ladies in their best wear
i am always at a loss of their names
those protrusions with an array of flowers
of subtle shapes, racy exploding colours and scents
carrying apt names such as slippers, tigers, spiders
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poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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Me and My Guitar
Me and My Guitar
we are as one, the sum of the two wholes,
sometimes we're happy, sometimes we're sad,
when I am happy, Lester, thats the name of my guitar,
plays joyful, bouncy little tunes, that can bring a smile.
When I am sad, the dark phrygian sounds pour out that
emulate the death march of a requiem mass, or the crying
sounds of the blues ala Clapton, BB King, Stevie Ray,
Johnny Winter, Robert Cray, Gary Moore just to name a few.
Blues seem to be the best blend of music. It can be played at almost
any tempo. It can be straight forward 1,3,5 chordal progressions or my
favorite is more of a jazz fusion, up tempo, with lots of flat 5's.
Anyway the blues style is so versatile that almost anything goes.
Even the Dan (Steely Dan) had a song “show biz kids” that was a blues
song that used only 3 chords thru the entire song but with the jazz flavorings
that they added you would have thought more was going on.
It seems these days, a lot of blues are flowing from my guitar.
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poem by Gomer LePoet
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Carousels Before The War
In the silence of the station and its insatiable yearning
To be filled with tourists and passengers
And bludgeon obliviously to the familiar feeling
Roused by scent and warmth of their far-flung home,
Another tourist loitered juxtaposed the ticket booth
Careening over the burning rails of nostalgia
Because the calendar pages holds a succinct
Concern for the macabre in inertia
Her coruscating soul was plummeting from her lips
Waiting for the sleeping train to stir and growl
This tourist stared at me unwaveringly
With the tackling of her foreign eyes, rolled the dice
Like a steely glacial wheel chafing with the rails
And I could have feigned a fuming act
But I knew very well who this tourist was
She lives in my sala, behind the crumbling wallpapers
I stared back into the voids of oblivion
And in her skyscraping eyes, I saw thoroughly
The war before the sunrise slithering
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poem by Norman Santos
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The Earthly Paradise: Apology
Of Heaven or Hell I have no power to sing,
I cannot ease the burden of your fears,
Or make quick-coming death a little thing,
Or bring again the pleasure of past years,
Nor for my words shall ye forget your tears,
Or hope again for aught that I can say,
The idle singer of an empty day.
But rather, when aweary of your mirth,
From full hearts still unsatisfied ye sigh,
And, feeling kindly unto all the earth,
Grudge every minute as it passes by,
Made the more mindful that the sweet days die--
--Remember me a little then I pray,
The idle singer of an empty day.
The heavy trouble, the bewildering care
That weighs us down who live and earn our bread,
These idle verses have no power to bear;
So let em sing of names remember{`e}d,
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poem by William Morris
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Dwelling Place
Every night, I fumble to scavenge
My place among estranged acquaintances
And when deception sought for suicide
I will return to a haunted chamber
Inside my cold steely heart
Where the lofty and glacial gates
Loomed hostilely in bolted chains
And I would mount the escalating height
As inebriation descends from liver to soul
And the equipoise of time let down its velvet robe
Draping the horrendous vicissitude hovering my home
And the heralding thought that when I knock the door
It would either be a hammering holiday
On my parent's irrational loathe
Or the crispy echoes of the hollow quietude
In the stretch of a colossal living room,
Darting through a number of quarters
That the eyes can both perceive and not
I'll shake the my fists and make believe
Then I'll get through with all the heedless pounding
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poem by Norman Santos
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To His Noble Friend, Mr. Richard Lovelace, Upon His Poems
Sir,
Our times are much degenerate from those
Which your sweet muse with your fair fortune chose,
And as complexions alter with the climes,
Our wits have drawn the infection of our times.
That candid age no other way could tell
To be ingenious, but by speaking well.
Who best could praise had then the greatest praise,
'Twas more esteemed to give than bear the bays:
Modest ambition studied only then
To honour not herself but worthy men.
These virtues now are banished out of town,
Our Civil Wars have lost the civic crown.
He highest builds, who with most art destroys,
And against others' fame his own employs.
I see the envious caterpillar sit
On the fair blossom of each growing wit.
The air's already tainted with the swarms
Of insects which against you rise in arms:
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poem by Andrew Marvell
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On Growing Old
only the bayan tree
by the temple seems
to be growing stronger
tougher these forty years
while my legs have loosen
developed rheumatism
the old cement floor too has
given way to the bayan's roots
that rise to show its steely strength
bayan, the first to herald
buddha's enightenment
our ancestor's friend
ever strong, tenacious,
saviour to barren women
seen occasionally
at lonely dawn
weeping profusely
for a heaven sent
smoke of their josssticks
angled on crevices,
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poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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