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Worldly Place

Even in a palace, life may be led well!
So spake the imperial sage, purest of men,
Marcus Aurelius. But the stifling den
Of common life, where, crowded up pell-mell,

Our freedom for a little bread we sell,
And drudge under some foolish master's ken
Who rates us if we peer outside our pen--
Match'd with a palace, is not this a hell?

Even in a palace! On his truth sincere,
Who spoke these words, no shadow ever came;
And when my ill-school'd spirit is aflame

Some nobler, ampler stage of life to win,
I'll stop, and say: "There were no succour here!
The aids to noble life are all within."

poem by Matthew Arnold from Sonnets (1867)
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Searching...

The darkness of my existance is blinding,
In the distance fireflies dance amidst the dark,
A flickering light in the bleakness of the abyss,
Lighting up the nothing that I have become,
Yet they are not fireflies but the lanterns of others,
They light up the blackness of my horizon,
Calling to me through the darkness,
When shall the lantern I seek set aflame my heart?
I know not what I seek for I am empty,
I have traveled decades throughout this life,
Searching for something others seem to find so easily,
Searching... Yet finding nothing...

Spread the love... The peace will follow...

poem by Cosmic Dreamer
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The Skyfall

the abyss being bespoken
sounds more quiet than your fate
and louder than your history
like a body tortured stretched
on an inquisition inventory quest
thus the sky fell and was left lying
pinned in between the lines
in a dying Atlas alas
the words too empty could no longer
stretch the horizon lines
the wordles twisted aflame
were put out one by one
the ashen tattoos on his muscles
a feeble piercing on the tip of his tongue
a circled earring in his ear
twinkling chains around the starry ankles
and a curve unknown around his navel
all of them sing the tune of dust
piercing through the lelek night

poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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Down from the Mountain

As down Mount Emerald at eve I came,
The mountain moon went all the way with me.
Backward I looked, to see the heights aflame
With a pale light that glimmered eerily.

A little lad undid the rustic latch
As hand in hand your cottage we did gain,
Where green limp tendrils at our cloaks did catch,
And dim bamboos o'erhung a shadowy lane.

Gaily I cried, "Here may we rest our fill!"
Then choicest wines we quaffed; and cheerily
"The Wind among the Pines" we sang, until
A few faint stars hung in the Galaxy.

Merry were you, my friend: and drunk was I,
Blissfully letting all the world go by.

poem by Li Po
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The Red Sunsets I, 1883

The twilight heavens are flushed with gathering light,
And o'er wet roofs and huddling streets below
Hang with a strange Apocalyptic glow
On the black fringes of the wintry night.
Such bursts of glory may have rapt the sight
Of him to whom on Patmos long ago
The visionary angel came to show
That heavenly city built of chrysolite.

And lo, three factory hands begrimed with soot,
Aflame with the red splendour, marvelling stand,
And gaze with lifted faces awed and mute.
Starved of earth's beauty by Man's grudging hand,
O toilers, robbed of labour's golden fruit,
Ye, too, may feast in Nature's fairyland.

poem by Mathilde Blind
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The Red Sunsets, 1883

The twilight heavens are flushed with gathering light,
And o'er wet roofs and huddling streets below
Hang with a strange Apocalyptic glow
On the black fringes of the wintry night.
Such bursts of glory may have rapt the sight
Of him to whom on Patmos long ago
The visionary angel came to show
That heavenly city built of chrysolite.

And lo, three factory hands begrimed with soot,
Aflame with the red splendour, marvelling stand,
And gaze with lifted faces awed and mute.
Starved of earth's beauty by Man's grudging hand,
O toilers, robbed of labour's golden fruit,
Ye, too, may feast in Nature's fairyland.

poem by Mathilde Blind
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The Quest

I sought Him on the purple seas,
I sought Him on the peaks aflame;
Amid the gloom of giant trees
And canyons lone I called His name;
The wasted ways of earth I trod:
In vain! In vain! I found not God.

I sought Him in the hives of men,
The cities grand, the hamlets gray,
The temples old beyond my ken,
The tabernacles of to-day;
All life that is, from cloud to clod
I sought. . . . Alas! I found not God.

Then after roamings far and wide,
In streets and seas and deserts wild,
I came to stand at last beside
The death-bed of my little child.
Lo! as I bent beneath the rod
I raised my eyes . . . and there was God.

poem by Robert William Service
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Peace Talks

They sling mud balls at each other and spat
Sitting respectively in their countries
One day they say, “let us resolve disputes”
And meet in his or his palace to chat
Their wives, their kids, their seats, their fates and none
Of their countries, their men and boundaries
And bid adieu over a glass of wine
To soon declare, they made a good headway
And meet again this time in Champaign fair
They meet, they talk, they laugh and part for zilch
The border line remains like (a) bleeding weal
With both the sides aflame with ire and fright

The price at last is paid by populace
But peace remains as ever in pieces

poem by Sathya Narayana
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Esther, A Sonnet Sequence: X

An instant, just an instant, and no more,
And it was gone, and I with eyes unsealed
Saw the bald pageant stripped to its thought's core,
And naked there to my scared eyes revealed.
Upon a throne which filled the upper space
Two female monsters sat, the first a girl
Marked like a leopard with pied arms and face,
And restless eyes aflame and teeth of pearl.
Her as we ventured near, I heard awhile
Say she was hungry, and a gleam like blood
Lighted her lips and died in a fierce smile.
A woman's hand behind me in the crowd
Clutched at my arm, and through the booth there went
A shiver of half fear, half merriment.

poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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In The Dials

To GARRYOWEN upon an organ ground
Two girls are jigging. Riotously they trip,
With eyes aflame, quick bosoms, hand on hip,
As in the tumult of a witches' round.
Youngsters and youngsters round them prance and bound.
Two solemn babes twirl ponderously, and skip.
The artist's teeth gleam from his bearded lip.
High from the kennel howls a tortured hound.
The music reels and hurtles, and the night
Is full of stinks and cries; a naphtha-light
Flares from a barrow; battered and obtused
With vices, wrinkles, life and work and rags,
Each with her inch of clay, two loitering hags
Look on dispassionate--critical--something 'mused.

poem by William Ernest Henley
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