hobbit_feets: (c'lebs || my heart in the speakers)

Litany in Which Certain Things are Crossed Out
~Richard Silken

Every morning the maple leaves.
Every morning another chapter where the hero shifts
from one foot to the other. Every morning the same big
and little words all spelling out desire, all spelling out
You will be alone always and then you will die.
So maybe I wanted to give you something more than a catalog
of non-definitive acts,
something other than the desperation.
Dear So-and-So, I’m sorry I couldn’t come to your party.
Dear So-and-So, I’m sorry I came to your party
and seduced you
and left you bruised and ruined, you poor sad thing.
You want a better story. Who wouldn’t?

 

A forest, then. Beautiful trees. And a lady singing. )

 

hobbit_feets: (c'lebs || my heart in the speakers)

Litany in Which Certain Things are Crossed Out
~Richard Silken

Every morning the maple leaves.
Every morning another chapter where the hero shifts
from one foot to the other. Every morning the same big
and little words all spelling out desire, all spelling out
You will be alone always and then you will die.
So maybe I wanted to give you something more than a catalog
of non-definitive acts,
something other than the desperation.
Dear So-and-So, I’m sorry I couldn’t come to your party.
Dear So-and-So, I’m sorry I came to your party
and seduced you
and left you bruised and ruined, you poor sad thing.
You want a better story. Who wouldn’t?

 

A forest, then. Beautiful trees. And a lady singing. )

 

hobbit_feets: (c'lebs || my heart in the speakers)
Nicked from [livejournal.com profile] snowgrouse : Put your mp3 player thingy on shuffle, and write down the first line of the first twenty songs.  Post the poem that results.

Wandering child; so lost, so helpless
We all came out to Montreux
When you're walkin' down the street
You're back again, but I'm sorry- it's too late
Ooh, baby, don't you know I suffer?
We took a walk that night, but it wasn't the same
As I was goin' over the Cork and Kerry mountains
Dies irae, dies illa
I’m sick of picking the pieces
For the benefit of Mr. Kite
There are barn doors
It's a god-awful small affair
There'll come a time when all of us must leave here
Make your bed up high
I fell down in the desert baby, yeah
Looking for a new kinda lover
Moving forward using all my breath
Everyone else has had more sex than me
Let us celebrate the foreign glamour of boys
Only love
hobbit_feets: (c'lebs || my heart in the speakers)
Nicked from [livejournal.com profile] snowgrouse : Put your mp3 player thingy on shuffle, and write down the first line of the first twenty songs.  Post the poem that results.

Wandering child; so lost, so helpless
We all came out to Montreux
When you're walkin' down the street
You're back again, but I'm sorry- it's too late
Ooh, baby, don't you know I suffer?
We took a walk that night, but it wasn't the same
As I was goin' over the Cork and Kerry mountains
Dies irae, dies illa
I’m sick of picking the pieces
For the benefit of Mr. Kite
There are barn doors
It's a god-awful small affair
There'll come a time when all of us must leave here
Make your bed up high
I fell down in the desert baby, yeah
Looking for a new kinda lover
Moving forward using all my breath
Everyone else has had more sex than me
Let us celebrate the foreign glamour of boys
Only love
hobbit_feets: (f & l || everything except temptation)

The Sphinx

Oscar Wilde

In a dim corner of my room for longer than my fancy thinks
A beautiful and silent Sphinx has watched me through the shifting gloom.

Inviolate and immobile she does not rise she does not stir
For silver moons are naught to her and naught to her the suns that reel.

Red follows grey across the air, the waves of moonlight ebb and flow
But with the Dawn she does not go and in the night-time she is there.

 

Dawn follows Dawn and Nights grow old )

hobbit_feets: (f & l || everything except temptation)

The Sphinx

Oscar Wilde

In a dim corner of my room for longer than my fancy thinks
A beautiful and silent Sphinx has watched me through the shifting gloom.

Inviolate and immobile she does not rise she does not stir
For silver moons are naught to her and naught to her the suns that reel.

Red follows grey across the air, the waves of moonlight ebb and flow
But with the Dawn she does not go and in the night-time she is there.

 

Dawn follows Dawn and Nights grow old )

hobbit_feets: (Default)
Did you see the rainbow?!?!?!?!!? Oh gods, it was the most gorgeous thing- I was walking home from Art, and I looked over, and I just saw this rainbow, as vibrant as though someone had painted it- spanning the whole sky. It was absolutely breathtaking. And to think that it's nothing but light... craziness.

Here I have a poem I wrote in Bio the other day. I don't know where it came from, nor if it's any good, but, nonetheless, here we are:

The Saint )
hobbit_feets: (Default)
Did you see the rainbow?!?!?!?!!? Oh gods, it was the most gorgeous thing- I was walking home from Art, and I looked over, and I just saw this rainbow, as vibrant as though someone had painted it- spanning the whole sky. It was absolutely breathtaking. And to think that it's nothing but light... craziness.

Here I have a poem I wrote in Bio the other day. I don't know where it came from, nor if it's any good, but, nonetheless, here we are:

The Saint )
hobbit_feets: (Default)
Hello, my ducks! I awoke this morning to find one of my journals open on the floor, with a new entry in it I could not ever recall writing. As it was my handwriting, I can only assume that I wrote it in my sleep. Given the state of the writing, that would make sense- it is sloppy, and in many places the writing overlaps. It is very difficult to read, but, simply for the sake of... something, I am copying it down here. Perhaps this glimpse into my subconcious will tell y'all something about me, aye? Here we are- my Dreaming Poem.

People say I'm a dreamer
I don't really know where
or who
I am
And it's true, you know
I dream to pass the time
Escape from reality, for me, is but an afternoon outing
as it were
And oft it happens that my dreams
doth take me places I don't know
Strange planes composed of thought
Where creatures stalk the edges of my vision
with all the sinuous grace of a one-legged duck
Voices
which rend the air, calling my name
A cacophany of tortured voices
issuing from twisted throats
A dirge, a hymn, a battle-cry, a curse-
No longer a name
A perversion of nature
A digression from what ought to be
And then a scream
piercing the hollow of my ear
And I am not sure whether it is mine, or someone else's
As the moon rises in a smoke-coloured sky
And I wake
and wonder

There we are- rather strange, that. A bit like a Dali painting put to verse. Really not at all like my ordinary writing style at all. Poetic writing style, I should say.
hobbit_feets: (Default)
Hello, my ducks! I awoke this morning to find one of my journals open on the floor, with a new entry in it I could not ever recall writing. As it was my handwriting, I can only assume that I wrote it in my sleep. Given the state of the writing, that would make sense- it is sloppy, and in many places the writing overlaps. It is very difficult to read, but, simply for the sake of... something, I am copying it down here. Perhaps this glimpse into my subconcious will tell y'all something about me, aye? Here we are- my Dreaming Poem.

People say I'm a dreamer
I don't really know where
or who
I am
And it's true, you know
I dream to pass the time
Escape from reality, for me, is but an afternoon outing
as it were
And oft it happens that my dreams
doth take me places I don't know
Strange planes composed of thought
Where creatures stalk the edges of my vision
with all the sinuous grace of a one-legged duck
Voices
which rend the air, calling my name
A cacophany of tortured voices
issuing from twisted throats
A dirge, a hymn, a battle-cry, a curse-
No longer a name
A perversion of nature
A digression from what ought to be
And then a scream
piercing the hollow of my ear
And I am not sure whether it is mine, or someone else's
As the moon rises in a smoke-coloured sky
And I wake
and wonder

There we are- rather strange, that. A bit like a Dali painting put to verse. Really not at all like my ordinary writing style at all. Poetic writing style, I should say.

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hobbit_feets: (Default)
a little bit wildean

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