Doom of Exiles by Sylvia Plath

Now we, returning from the vaulted domes
Of our colossal sleep, come home to find
A tall metropolis of catacombs
Erected down the gangways of our mind.


Green alleys where we reveled have become
The infernal haunt of demon dangers;
Both seraph song and violins are dumb;
Each clock tick consecrates the death of strangers


Backward we traveled to reclaim the day
Before we fell, like Icarus, undone;
All we find are altars in decay
And profane words scrawled black across the sun.


Still, stubbornly we try to crack the nut
In which the riddle of our race is shut.

Strip Joint by Ellumbra (2011)

Would you strip away

All that is warm with hope,

Mysterious,

Full of promise,

With the scalpel of your curiosity,

Pare me to skeletal bone,

Enchained forever by your sight,

Your eyes,

Your knowing,

A camera, to steal another soul,

A cage, repealing flight,

A pot, in which to miniaturise,

Is that who you would have me be,

A confirmation of mortality?

read more @ : Cloudpillows (Ellumbra)

stuck in a puddle

how is it ?
not really disgusting
this mud feeling
glued methink
is not such a big tale
let it pass
 
but now
I 'm slowly sinking
 
dream's time

I can't see the way
 
Shadowed words all around
like alien jellyfisches
so sweet so tight so bright

I wish
I wish you could fly me
away
once more
but it seems
reality
flashing its white teeth
stucks me in that puddle
with a drifting breath

à Joséphine, tursiops amicus 

Poppies in July by Sylvia Plath (1932-1963)

Little poppies, little hell flames,

Do you do no harm?

You flicker. I cannot touch you.

I put my hands among the flames. Nothing burns.

And it exhausts me to watch you

Flickering like that, wrinkly and clear red, like the skin of a mouth.

A mouth just bloodied.

Little bloody skirts!

There are fumes that I cannot touch.

Where are your opiates, your nauseous capsules?

If I could bleed, or sleep! —

If my mouth could marry a hurt like that!

Or your liquors seep to me, in this glass capsule,

Dulling and stilling.

But colorless. Colorless.

Sylvia Plath  

Bibliography 

After Moreau (Jeffrey Ford)

"Tell me something I don't know," I said. Till then, it's roots and leaves, fucking in the wallow, and bobbing in the flow, dreaming of the cosmos. Infrequently, there's an uncertain memory of my family I left behind in the old life but the river's current mercifully whisks that vague impression of pale faces to the sea.

After Moreau A fiction by J. Ford  

Out in the dark par Philip Edward THOMAS (1978-1917)

Out in the dark over the snow
The fallow fawns invisible go
With the fallow doe ;
And the winds blow
Fast as the stars are slow.

Stealthily the dark haunts round

And, when the lamp goes, without sound

At a swifter bound

Than the swiftest hound,

Arrives, and all else is drowned ;

And star and I and wind and deer,

Are in the dark together, - near,

Yet far, - and fear

Drums on my ear

In that sage company drear.

 

How weak and little is the light,

All the universe of sight,

Love and delight,

Before the might,

If you love it not, of night.

Edward THOMAS

Edward THOMAS sur Wiki

Les poèmes de Ed THOMAS sur Poemhunter

The Dead by Rupert BROOKE

These hearts were woven of human joys and cares,
Washed marvellously with sorrow, swift to mirth.
The years had given them kindness. Dawn was theirs,
And sunset, and the colours of the earth.
These had seen movement, and heard music; known
Slumber and waking; loved; gone proudly friended;
Felt the quick stir of wonder; sat alone;
Touched flowers and furs and cheeks. All this is ended.

There are waters blown by changing winds to laughter
And lit by the rich skies, all day. And after,
Frost, with a gesture, stays the waves that dance
And wandering loveliness. He leaves a white
Unbroken glory, a gathered radiance,
A width, a shining peace, under the nights

(from THE WAR SONNETS)

 

"Say, is there Beauty yet to find?
And Certainty? and Quiet kind?
Deep meadows yet, for to forget
The lies, and truths, and pain? ... Oh! yet
Stands the Church clock at ten to three?
And is there honey still for tea?"

(from 'The Old Vicarege, Grantchester')

Rupert BROOKE ( 1887-1915)