Poet's Corner at the Edge of Time...

[Marc]

This one arrived upon the wings of a dream...

'Enarellen'

At the sight of Death should I be afraid
At the root of the Mandrake world
Where forbidden flowers gently wave and beckon
Should I enter within and not return?
On the desert road of Hanasis shall I gather
the Relar, yellow and pale, from the
Gardens of the Watching Wizard
Who sits frowning at charts of stars
In patterns far beyond mortal ken,
Should I follow my dream and seeing
The beacon scatter diamondspray in the
Haunting stillness of an alien sky
Deep the blue, and twilight the hour
Whereupon the dawn I shall take
The winding paths with the grim caravan traders
Who endure silently the golden seduction
Of a magical sun--shining brightly
Oh so brightly, on the morn of our parting
A far and distant journey to where the
Traitor's hand lies, cursed by obliquity,
With cruel foresight shall I wander
Through the carousel rainshadow
To where the phosphorescent waters twirl endlessly
In eddying pools of heaven stolen quicksilver
To finally following that fair, tortuous coastline
On the other side of memory amid obsidian images
Where sable seabirds call and fly
Above crashing breakers where the light fades
Into a delicate peach,
O there shall I dwindle within yearning sight
Of the lost city of Enarellen,
More deadly than a single tear,
Where my soul aches to go
Where my foot fears to tread
With what my heart dares to know...

[Count_Brass]

Can't we have something more befitting contemporary sentiments?
Like losing your password or mobile phone, like too many hormones in our food effininating the passionate young lover beyond repair or something about Terri Schiavo and the Philistines of Today?


As he sits there against the wall
in his long white dish-dash
calm, reticent, perhaps knowing all?
Oh, the whiteness of your dish-dash.
Clean shaven, no sweat on his brow.

Once, not long ago, I'd taken you for my lover,
yet others decided for you and for me:- not now!
They gave you a cause for bomb-throwing
in your white dish-dash
And me an order and lots of unknowing.
I shot you, my dark and handsome would-be.
Don't ask why, but your white dish-dash
now sports a trickling red sash.

That sort of thing. The example is ex-promptu and terrible ( :oops: ), but maybe felt by a young soildier on patrol in Iraq. Excuse in any case!
I'm just fed up with phony-sounding "archaic" style poetry relating to traitors and long forgotten cities, but not any of today's issues.

[Anonymous]

Didn't ask for your opinion, old chap. You're welcome to add whatever poetry you like (as you have) and I shall continue to write in the style that pleases me. Good day to you.
8)

[Marc]

That was me above--forgot to sign in again. Sigh.
8)

[Doc]

Absolutely, Marc!

We at the end of time are supposed to pass our days according to our own hedonistic whims, after all. :D

Keep doing what makes you happy. And share it.

[Marc]

I will. And thank you for your encouragement and support, Doc.
8)

[Marc]

In fact, here's another one...

'Dark Tides'

Where does nothing go
(the broken shades on the tarmac)
When it is followed through to its bitterest end?
What is eternity
Beyond a remembered kiss stolen in the hollow
of a throat
If it is not the dust of ages, echoing,
Sifting slowly through the palms of time,
Drifting down--or is it up??--in patterns
which repeat themselves endlessly in iteration
The only difference is the scale
--and that is relative;
Against this vast, restless backdrop one life is as
A single twinkle of a star,
The sudden splash in the moonlit swell,
Briefly shining, gone, gone, like the wave
in stark contrast to its medium
Original, each, aching for meaning
denied at the last
Ego stops halted at the doors of Death
and dissolves, shuddering, grasping desperately
At life departed,
Fading, the slight stirring of leaves in the wind,
such effort--
The shadow at the periphery of the eye,
The unbidden guest departing before dawn,
Before recognition,
And a lump in the throat, a sad duration
will not come again in precisely the same way,
A child's laughter and a senile giggle
Point to the sundering of innocence
snatched by experience between these ends
Which meet, full circle,
In the weave of fate
Where for one waking moment
We fool ourselves, that it is not too late...

[Typhoid_Mary]

A response to Count_Brass's comment in the form of a haiku:

So negative, Brass?
A poet's style is his own
Rolling eyes go here

:D

Nice imagery, Marc.

[Marc]

Why thank you Mary, how good of you to say... :)

[Count_Brass]

I apologize firmly for having hurt your feelings with my criticism.
Even my consort chided me for allowing a dark mood rule over my words.
That's my temperament, alas.
Anyway - sorry, and your second poem is much more to my liking as it could (and perhaps does) plausibly deal with feelings of today. Please carry on.

[Marc]

My dear Count_Brass, your apology is accepted with the same good grace with which it was made. Thank you. :)

Poetry is very subjective and it's certainly a form I've always struggled with. Prose is a much easier beast to wrestle to the ground! Part of the problem is that in poetry the words flow, as it were--that was certainly the case with my first poem--and the dilemma artistically is whether subsequent revisions detract from the "feeling" of the original. While I agree it could most likely be (vastly) improved by editing (and probably by a complete deletion), I still enjoy trying to figure out what my subconscious was trying to tell me, when I first wrote it, fresh from sleep.

8)

[A_Non_Ymous]

Marc,

Would you like to particpate in the villanelle game we're having, where we all write a set of verses in a fixed form to a jointly chosen set of end rhymes?

We're still selecting the words, and you can help, if you're interested. The thread is in this forum.

LSN

P.S. Tu es Quأ©becois? Il ya beaucoup de francophones ici.

[Marc]

Sure, I'd love to! :)

First, I'll drop a line in what i think is the right thread and you can always re-direct me if I'm wrong.

As for where I'm from, it's on the opposite coast actually--B.C. Don't speak a word of French but I do love Paris in the springtime...
8)

[Marc]

'Breathe'

Last words are taken in, counsel heeded
The stillness before the storm
A far light in the sky,
Low clouds, gray and sun-tinged, the horizon stretches
Beyond, what--what do you see--what you thought it would be?
Towers, tall above imagining beckon beyond,
The snow lies muddy and trampled,
Not quite the white of purity
The path is harder upon the shoulder of the frozen forest
Haunted by starless spaces, waiting unseen
Or perhaps the path lies in another direction,
Previously unheeded
Clean glades of sun kissed orchids, the ocean a whisper of surf
On the ears, longed for--the salt tang in the air--and shadows fall behind,
Forward all is motion,
Surging promise of many themes blended together, unsullied by none
The path is liquid and splashes arcs of eternity,
Choice is in freedom
The result foreknowledge if all
Lies well in the intent, meaning is purpose
Living is breathing and breathing is joy...

[lemec]

Hello, I was reading through the poetry threads and I enjoyed what I saw!

I wanted to post this poem here just for your entertainment since we all like the Eternal Champion stories. I know this is mostly for personal works,but I thought someone might enjoy this in case there was someone on here who never read it. I am talking about that poem General George S. Patton,Jr. wrote. To me, it sounds like he is one of the Eternal Champions! or maybe an eternal companion to a champion. hehe. I happened to read it again recently and thought I'd put it on here somewhere. Anyway, here it is.

THROUGH A GLASS, DARKLY
by Gen. George S. Patton, Jr.

Through the travail of the ages,
Midst the pomp and toil of war,
Have I fought and strove and perished
Countless times upon this star.

In the form of many people
In all panoplies of time
Have I seen the luring vision
Of the Victory Maid, sublime.

I have battled for fresh mammoth,
I have warred for pastures new,
I have listed to the whispers
When the race trek instinct grew.

I have known the call to battle
In each changeless changing shape
From the high souled voice of conscience
To the beastly lust for rape.

I have sinned and I have suffered,
Played the hero and the knave;
Fought for belly, shame, or country,
And for each have found a grave.

I cannot name my battles
For the visions are not clear,
Yet, I see the twisted faces
And I feel the rending spear.

Perhaps I stabbed our Savior
In His sacred helpless side.
Yet, I've called His name in blessing
When after times I died.

In the dimness of the shadows
Where we hairy heathens warred,
I can taste in thought the lifeblood;
We used teeth before the sword.

While in later clearer vision
I can sense the coppery sweat,
Feel the pikes grow wet and slippery
When our Phalanx, Cyrus met.

Hear the rattle of the harness
Where the Persian darts bounced clear,
See their chariots wheel in panic
From the Hoplite's leveled spear.

See the goal grow monthly longer,
Reaching for the walls of Tyre.
Hear the crash of tons of granite,
Smell the quenchless eastern fire.

Still more clearly as a Roman,
Can I see the Legion close,
As our third rank moved in forward
And the short sword found our foes.

Once again I feel the anguish
Of that blistering treeless plain
When the Parthian showered death bolts,
And our discipline was in vain.

I remember all the suffering
Of those arrows in my neck.
Yet, I stabbed a grinning savage
As I died upon my back.

Once again I smell the heat sparks
When my Flemish plate gave way
And the lance ripped through my entrails
As on Crecy's field I lay.

In the windless, blinding stillness
Of the glittering tropic sea
I can see the bubbles rising
Where we set the captives free.

Midst the spume of half a tempest
I have heard the bulwarks go
When the crashing, point blank round shot
Sent destruction to our foe.

I have fought with gun and cutlass
On the red and slippery deck
With all Hell aflame within me
And a rope around my neck.

And still later as a General
Have I galloped with Murat
When we laughed at death and numbers
Trusting in the Emperor's Star.

Till at last our star faded,
And we shouted to our doom
Where the sunken road of Ohein
Closed us in it's quivering gloom.

So but now with Tanks a'clatter
Have I waddled on the foe
Belching death at twenty paces,
By the star shell's ghastly glow.

So as through a glass, and darkly
The age long strife I see
Where I fought in many guises,
Many names, but always me.

And I see not in my blindness
What the objects were I wrought,
But as God rules o'er our bickerings
It was through His will I fought.

So forever in the future,
Shall I battle as of yore,
Dying to be born a fighter,
But to die again, once more.