Still my favorite, I don't know if I posted it before...

      Home From The War

They were days of terror, of boredom and brotherhood

Of not knowing if the next moment would be the last

Seeing lives end every day and feeling the emotional arteries harden

I remember my true love from those times

She was long and lean with such a smooth action

The wild abandon I felt with her pressed tightly to my shoulder

High powered sensations running up my arms

And filling my existance

There was no time to feel shame at the destruction we caused

Just the joy of being the ones to live through the day

 

Those days are gone now and I have another love

One it hurts no one to hold

She wears a puzzled frown

At the wetness that sometimes comes to my eyes

But how do I tell her about that part of me

That will never come home from the war

      DCM

 

Here's a Poem I wrote for english class about half a year ago. My teacher asked the class to base their poem on the style of Dillon Thomas. This is a new stlye for me, so please tell me what you think.

 

Clonmactose: Narrative Poem

Let us go back to the beginning, where not only the beginning began� On a winter�s morning dew, Listen, listen to the owls hooting under the woodllike sky, its sharpened voice echoes, hitting of the trees like needle on stalk. As the leaves hustle in the breeze. The night is still, with where one might hear the rare sound of an animal scurrying, as it rustles through the leaf stained floor. Be wary, a perched spectre lye�s sited on its woody vine. Its prey a victim to its desire. A spotted mouse below scurries under the brush like a Fugitive on the run. Swoosh. The large wings of the owl go. The mouse has been strangled by its demons claws.

 

Below is a Green sea.

 

Up up any mountain, down the rushy glen. Parsley.sage, rosemay and thyme

 

Down down into that hollow hole which is Clomactose, no one ever leaves, nor no one ever acknowledged existed.

 

 

Oh not again. The presidented politician mayor of all Clonmactose slumbers sureingly enough upon his pillow, pilling dash upon dash of endless complaints, constantly continuing through his mind. In one ear out the other, they go. His currency is overrated.

 

Shh, one must keep quiet in Clomactose, so not to awaken those asleep. Lawyers, doctors, politicians, schoolgirls, schoolboys, teachers, hairdresser, police, woodcutters, coalminers.

 

Each a sleap, all awake.

 

Schoolboys dream of wondrous adventures where ye must fight hand on weapon with a band of companions, against the forces of evil.

 

Schoolgirls of adventures too, but these of horses, and how they will have to attain that wonderful prize be it golden egg or crystal cup.

 

 

But now morning is coming, and one can hear that cunning cock while it plans its crow, while crouped upon its coup.

 

 Morning has come and the sun is peeping its head above the horizon, and slowly seeping through the forest, bark after bark.

 

The silence breaks as the continuing thud of the woodsman�s axe, hears its way throughout the forest as it carves its way into a tree.

 

A statue UN built. It may be

 

I share creation, kings can do no more.

 

The silence is slowly dispersed, into that which is nothingness, as the chirping of birds can be heard, which is the recognition by all that morning has come.

The chirp of the birds start as flame but soon flame turns to fire, as noise erupts throughout the green woody like wood, as its inhabitants leave their homage.

 

As there is a lot to be done.

 

So that eternal wheel, which is Clomactose, slides down its infinite hill and the woodman cuts as in every morning.

 

Clang, Clang, Clang goes Clomactose.

 

 

Bits written in red not my�n.

 

This Narrative Poem attempts to copy the style of Dillon Tomas.

 

2005. Age 15

P.S

All Things will Die - Alfred Lord Tennyson

---

   
Clearly the blue river chimes in its flowing

      Under my eye;
Warmly and broadly the south winds are blowing

      Over the sky.
One after another the white clouds are fleeting;
Every heart this May morning in joyance is beating

      Full merrily;
   Yet all things must die.
The stream will cease to flow;
The wind will cease to blow;
The clouds will cease to fleet;
The heart will cease to beat;
   For all things must die.
      All things must die.
Spring will come never more.
      O, vanity!
Death waits at the door.
See! our friends are all forsaking
The wine and the merrymaking.
We are call�d�we must go.
Laid low, very low,
In the dark we must lie.
The merry glees are still;
The voice of the bird
Shall no more be heard,
Nor the wind on the hill.
      O, misery!
Hark! death is calling
While I speak to ye,
The jaw is falling,
The red cheek paling,
The strong limbs failing;
Ice with the warm blood mixing;
The eyeballs fixing.
Nine times goes the passing bell:
Ye merry souls, farewell.
      The old earth
      Had a birth,
      As all men know,
      Long ago.
And the old earth must die.
So let the warm winds range,
And the blue wave beat the shore;
For even and morn
Ye will never see
Thro� eternity.
All things were born.
Ye will come never more,
For all things must die.

I am not sure how new this is but it is still in hard back. The computer here will not allow to to post the image of the book on properties but here is the amazon link:
It looks good so I will order it from Amazon, vs. $24.99 at Border's book store.
The Fall of Constantinople: The Ottoman conquest of Byzantium (General Military) (Hardcover)http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/images/1846032008/sr=1-1/qid=1205172759/ref=dp_image_0?ie=UTF8&n=283155&s=books&qid=1205172759&sr=1-1

This seems like a good poetry society - far too often poetry societies dissolve into Romanticism appreciation societies run by ponytailed ponces who think they are profound because they can plagurise Byron or Shelly and quote one sentance of Nietzche. Phew - sorry, I've had bad experiences with poetry societies!

These are a couple of poems from an Albanian poet who is one of my favorites: Gjergj Milosh Nikola AKA Migjeni(the acronym he is mostly known by). His poetry is usually of the depressing type and very detached from any sort of nationalist poetry that dominated at that time. He died at the very young age of 27.

These are rough translations of his poetry.

Blasphemy

The mosques and churches float through our memories,
Prayers devoid of sense or taste echo from their walls.
Never has the heart of god been touched by them,
And yet it beats on amidst the sounds of drums and bells.

Majestic mosques and churches throughout our wretched land,
Spires and minarets towering over lowly homes,
The voice of the hodja and priest in one degenerate chant,
Oh, ideal vision, a thousand years old!

The mosques and churches float through memories of the pious,
The chiming of the bell mingles with the muezzin's call,
Sanctity shines from cowls and from the beards of hodjas.
Oh, so many fair angels at the gates of hell!

On ancient citadels perch carrion ravens,
Their dejected wings drooping - the symbols of lost hopes,
In despair do they croak of an age gone by
When the ancient citadels once gleamed with hallowed joy.

Poem of poverty


Poverty, brothers, is a mouthful that's hard to swallow,
A bite that sticks in your throat and leaves you in sorrow,
When you watch the pale faces and rheumy eyes
Observing you like ghosts and holding out thin hands;
Behind you they lie, stretched out
Their whole lives through, until the moment of death.
Above them in the air, as if in disdain,
Crosses and stony minarets pierce the sky,
Prophets and saints in many colours radiate splendour.
And poverty feels betrayed.

Poverty carries its own vile imprint,
It is hideous, repulsive, disgusting.
The brow that bears it, the eyes that express it,
The lips that try in vain to hide it
Are the offspring of ignorance, the victims of disdain,
The filthy scraps flung from the table
At which for centuries
Some pitiless, insatiable dog has fed.
Poverty has no good fortune, only rags,
The tattered banners of a hope
Shattered by broken promises.

Poverty wallows in debauchery.
In dark corners, together with dogs, rats, cats,
On mouldy, stinking, filthy mattresses,
Naked breasts exposed, sallow dirty bodies,
With feelings overwhelmed by bestial desire,
They bite, devour, suck, kiss the sullied lips,
And in unbridled lust the thirst is quenched,
The craving stilled, and self-consciousness lost.
Here is the source of the imbeciles, the servants and the beggars
Who will tomorrow be born to fill the streets.

Poverty shines in the eyes of the newborn,
Flickers like the pale flame of a candle
Under a ceiling blackened with smoke and spider webs,
Where human shadows tremble on damp stained walls,
Where the ailing infant wails like a banshee
To suck the dry breasts of its wretched mother
Who, pregnant again, curses god and the devil,
Curses the heavy burden of her unborn child.
Her baby does not laugh, it only wastes away,
Unwanted by its mother, who curses it, too.
How sorrowful is the cradle of the poor
Where a child is rocked with tears and sighs.

Poverty's child is raised in the shadows
Of great mansions, too high for imploring voices to reach
To disturb the peace and quiet of the lords
Sleeping in blissful beds beside their ladies.

Poverty matures a child before its time,
Teaches it to dodge the threatening fist,
The hand which clutches its throat in dreams,
When the delirium of starvation begins
And when death casts its shadow on childish faces,
Instead of a smile a hideous grimace.
While the fate of a fruit is to ripen and fall,
The child is interred not maturing at all.

Poverty labours and toils by day and night,
Chest and forehead drenched in sweat,
Up to the knees in mud and slime,
And still the empty guts writhe in hunger.
Starvation wages! For such a daily ordeal,
A mere three or four leks and an 'On your way.'

Poverty sometimes paints its face,
Swollen lips scarlet, hollow cheeks rouged,
And body a chattel in a filthy trade.
For service in bed for which it is paid
With a few lousy francs,
Stained sheets, stained face and stained conscience.

Poverty leaves a heritage as well,
Not cash in the bank or property you can sell,
But distorted bones and pains in the chest,
Perhaps leaves the memory of a bygone day
When the roof of the house, weakened by decay,
By age and the weather collapsed and fell,
And above all the din rose a terrible cry
Cursing and imploring, as from the depths of hell,
The voice of a man crushed by a beam.
Under the heel, says the priest, of*god irate
Ends thus the life of a dissolute ingrate.
And so the memory of such misfortunes
Fills the cup of bitterness passed to generations.

Poverty in drink seeks consolation,
In filthy taverns, with dirty, littered tables,
The thirsting soul pours glass after glass
Down the throat to forget its many worries,
The dulling glass, the glass satanic,
Caressing with a venomous bite.
And when, like grain under the scythe, the man falls
To the floor, he giggles and sobs, a tragicomic clown,
And all his sorrow in drink he drowns
When one by one, a hundred glasses downs.

Poverty sets desires ablaze like stars in the night
And turns them to ashes, like trees struck by lightning.

Poverty knows no joy, but only pain,
Pain reducing you to such despair
That you seize the rope and hang yourself,
Or become a poor victim of 'paragraphs.'

Poverty wants no pity, only justice!
Pity? Bastard daughter of cunning fathers,
Who like the Pharisees, beating the drum
Ostentatiously for their own sly ends,
Drop a penny in the beggar's hands.

Poverty is an indelible stain
On the brow of humanity through the ages.
And never can this stain be effaced
By doctrines decaying in temples.

If you don't like them: read some less:
There will be no bore if after the first
All the rest you suppress!

-Poésie, VLII

Thou rob it from me!
Thou showed in all of thy beauty!
O fair maid, I could not resist…
It is my heart you took away,

O white-bosomed maid,
The heart you are keeping
It’s flaring much…
Enhanced by the look of thee,

I know this isn’t good,
May you so keep it,
I can live without it
If I know you have it…

-Poésie, LVII

I dreamed a perfect world
Where the hen uses wings to fly
And nobody desires to know why.
They flew like a bird…

Where all weapons melted down
To forge; and help those who really need it.
Here it’s at last, accomplished a myth:
A world that’s united under one crown.

A world where hate is known,
But still, love holds us tight;
Where the skies are clear and bright.
A dream that won’t be renown…

 -Poésie, LXVIII

How I was waved aside
Should I dare?
Tell me that old lies are alive:
And just be there.

The more thou take,
The more I blame
For how I was fake…
But everything still feels the same.

I do take too much of a strain,
But I forgot to forget.
If I forget, what wilt I gain?
Nothing…

-Poésie, CXIII

Seldom thy quaff the bitterness of life,
Whence there hast be no strife?
Haring in a hazard chase:
In the den, what wilt thou have to face?

Hark! In this chapter thou art amid,
A life done’t, everyone needs to feed,
Hide, rather then living as a slave
Rather then dying as a brave…

Hare here and there
For someone should always care,
Rise high a home
Or at least, alone out, do not roam…

-Poésie, CXVII

In this marvelous land I was born:
The sun rises from the foam of the deep,
And sets, where the snow heap,
All of its beauty I love, even its thorn.

During spring, there’s woods where to be,
During winter, there’s snow where to play,
During autumn, there are parks where to stay,
During summer, there’s water where to flee.

You can always hear the whispers of the winds,
The trees are above us, making shadows for us, 
The woods, the fields, little river, made me free.
It’s the place where I dwell…

Poésie, CVLI

Always the same! So we march,
Going here and there, take a drink
Or a drunk that drunk more then his share
And carry him somewhere…

Then back, and once again:
All the way from the start,
Come boys, drink and get drunk,
And high till thou in the bottle sunk!

And thence confusion pursue me,
So confusing:
One disappears, hundred joins!
Or am I just drunk – the plausible solution!

By Stefano Segnan

I will not post other poems, because I'm afraid someone will just copy-paste (even if those are not good, I don't care: What you read in a brief time I took several months to write).

p.s I have a problem in changing the fonts and the size of the letters - that's why it is a wee bit of all

Edited by Illirac - 24-Jul-2008 at 22:28

My favorite poem from one of my favorite writer.  I haven't read it in years, but tonight it fits almost too perfect

Edited by King Kang of Mu - 25-Sep-2008 at 06:41