Tag Archives: mythology

w Chopin.

w Chopin

He smiled on you in his youth

So thin, pale, effeminate.

Blending in with your blanched and bleaching city.

But you remember him so well,

Dropping his name

When you drink at guest parties

Smiling or smirking

Your back straightens a bit.

You put his statue in your square,

Broader and straighter, I think, than he really was.

But that was how you saw him.

His songs were so quiet

You mention them so loud.

He left when you were free, and when you fell in bondage

He did not return to you.

Pari, Pari. There he drank wine

There he made love,

There he tasted the sordid, sweet delights you could not give.

(Pari is full of color,

And you are full of shade.)

You were Maria Wodzinska

Pari his George Sand.

Il ne jamais fait l’amour a vous.

Do you think his mind there was on you, Warsawa?

The prodigal son

Who never returned.

Warsawa, Warsawa,

Why do you cling to him

Who left you so young?

And you have nothing to claim

But his minuets.

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Hitler’s descendents

He seemed an ordinary man, I think,

So silent and still across the street.

German, I was sure, and his name I was sure

Was changed from Holges or Heines

To the less offensive “Heller.

I was rather in love with him, though he never saw,

Or seemed to, and was so comparatively old.

He and his brothers (there were no girls)

Had never married.

It seemed a shame, I thought,

To let that line die out.

Because he never saw me, he would never know

That we too had changed our names.

“Pessler” became “Parker”

And was written above our door

Next to our American Flag.

He had no name above his door,

But an American Flag was there,

Almost blushing, I used to think.

(How silly that is.)

How glad we are,

I am quite sure,

To live right here

(The home of the free.)

I only wish that when he came

Outside, he would once look at me.

(He never seems to look at me.)

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The Scarlett Letter

Is there any balm in Gilead? Tell me, truly, I implore.

Quoth the Raven, nevermore.

*

“Tomorrow will be a very special day.” Heather informed Penny as she tamed her unruly white curls. The reflection of mother and daughter flickered in the mirror, for Heather preferred light by candles, and the result was an atmosphere continually muted and dimmed.  “Tomorrow is your seventh birthday.”

“It isn’t!” cried Penny, her head quivering indignantly. “It is my four hundredth!”

Heather felt a slight shiver slide down her spine, but she brushed the feeling aside as she brushed Penny’s hair. “What a silly thing to say.” She murmured, her expression fixed and calm. “You were born seven years ago. I was present at your birth, after all.”

“You were not.” Insisted Penny, and her eyes snapped with quizzical excitement. “I sprang five hundred years ago from the blackest forest mud, as a daisy or a white, white rose; and you found me and keep me here for, I don’t know why.”

Heather tilted her head and considered what she ought next to say.

“And you are not my mother.” continued Penny curtly. “Vous n’etez pas ma mere. You also sprang from that black ground, and the dark man on the platform did also. For we are all made of the same dirt on the ground, and came from the same secluded spot, and we all have the same soul.” Penny turned her head round so she could find her mother’s eyes. “But your rose is not white. It is red.”

Heather sternly turned Penny’s head to face the mirror and continued fixing her hair.

“What a silly thing to say.” She murmered lightly, with no strain except in her eyes. “Are you Anaximander, to claim to spring spontaneously from the mud? When you speak such silliness, I doubt that you could be my daughter.”

Vous n’etez pas ma mere.” Penny insisted.

“Cannot you say “Tu n’es pas ma mere?” Heather questioned, giving her daughter a teasing tap. “At any rate, whether you are seven years old or four hundred, tomorrow I would like to play a game.

“We are always playing games.” Penny reminded her tiredly.

“Hush. This is what you must promise: you must be very quiet, well behaved and obedient; essentially entirely different from your normal self. No matter what happens, you must obey mother. The more obedient you are, the more points you receive, and if you get the most points, you will win. But if you are bad and mean and disobedient, you will get no points and you will lose the game miserably. Do you understand?”

Heather knew her daughter’s competitive spirit. Penny determined to win more points than her mother, and Heather knew that she would be well-behaved.

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The Snow Queen

Is, there, is there balm in Gilead?

Tell me, truly, I implore.

Quoth the Raven, Nevermore.

Poe.

5. TheSnowQueen

Tis a calm and lovely night

For the snowflakes falling light

Glitter the most perfect sight

You can know.

And the wind is slipping past

And the stars are fading fast

Oh, your dream has come at last

The first snow.

Can you feel the snow queen?

When the moon’s unearthly beams

Strike the snowflakes like a dream

She is there.

You can feel her pass by

And you shiver as her sigh

Quivers as a distant cry

In the air.

The night takes a darker tone

As she wanders all alone

And a melancholy moan

Is her song

 And that strange, seductive tune

Mixing with the snow and moon

Lures you to your death and doom

 Before long.

Come with me

You will see

Things you never knew to be

Come away

And we’ll stay

Far from glaring light of day.

Trailing blood on virgin snow

With a diabolic glow
Her insanity does show

In her eyes.

For they glitter when she’s pleased,

And they snap when she’s uneased

And can drag you to your knees

There to die.

Feel the creeping sense of dread

Tis continually fed

Pounding, pounding in your head

You are found.

Oh the burning, churning fright

How the snow flakes seem to bite

Eerie echoes fill the night

All around.

You must fear time is dear she is near almost here

You must run find the sun there is none you are done

You must run find the sun there is none you are done.

Photo rights to enjoiordie.blogspot.com

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The Morning After

Was she thy god,

Superior, or but equal?

That to her thou didst

Resign thy manhood?

Paradise Lost

I wonder how Adam looked at Eve the morning after they became as gods.

Perhaps she slept passed him, turned, for the first time, from his face.

Perhaps she woke first, and had moved away, shaking determined mud from her drying hair.

Perhaps Adam thought of yesterday’s decision. perhaps with clouded eyes he remembered glossy tears glistening, grinding into his nerves,

Perhaps he remembered a flawless form, a frightful look fretting he would leave her,

That insistent whisper that he must have her, if in desolation,  in hell.

Now a rotting apple lay at his feet, a symbol of the birth of progress.

The decision was done,

The morning was come,

And with steady sternness he searched for that immeasurable elegance that determined his choice.

Now he could see the chips of her painted nails,

The smears of her painted face,

The roots of her painted hair.

When Eve returned, his eyes were closed, as if in sleep, but really in disguise, hiding disgust, or fright, or despair,

To find his perfect idol flawed and defected, to have sold his soul for a gilded goddess and to wake to receive a poked paper doll,

Leah’s veil removed,

And reflection without respite

For eternity.

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Pocahontas

Et lui dit: je te donnerais toutes ces choses, si tu te prosternes, et m’adores. de Matthiew 4:9

3. Pocahontas

Pocahontas, shiftless, lean

Growing in the grades of green

Blending bare with bark of brown

Swift and sudden, seldom seen

Pocathontas in the dew

Couter chere et couter peau 

Less than brazen, more than brass

House of chamomile hue.

Pocahontas, traitor-trashed

Wash your feet and take the mass

Pocahontas dreams in white

Beating on the broken glass.

Lying lying with the logs

Hidden from the gaze of gods

Blowing soft albino clouds

Giving narcissistic nods.

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