A Poem Thread

Memory plays a Whistle

Memory plays a Whistle

Memory plays a whistle as the images
unwind; synaptic maze meandering is
messing up my mind.

Coiled around my cortex is an ancient
serpent wraith, that awakens to the whistle
it’s the engine of my hate.

Rage is my mandala it’s emblazoned in my
eyes, and I’ll snarl my poisonous venom as
I walk my murderous mile.

Ghost’s synonyms abide like fallen foes
along my way, cursed to drop like blossoms
as my anger has its day.

Look into to these eyes of ice, the glaciers
on it’s way, and if you aren’t too careful.

I might not look away.

My brain’s a supernova in my frozen Arctic eyes,
and when I hear the whistle serpent energies will
rise.

From its plasma core, my buried vengeance will
erupt, and from my scornful mouth, my blasted
words will burn white hot.

Why would this memory whistle send hate’s engine
on its way? Why would a twisting dragon of my
fury rule the day?

I saw a face in passing, set my memory to life,
dredged up from a dark labyrinth, cortex serpent
of the light.

Walk the rage mandala will this prophet of the ice,
my words are like cruel weapons, and sharp wits
are my devise.

And if you see me coming, take one look and run
away. Cause I might see you espying and I might
not turn away.
 
Scary Monster steps it up with “Memory plays a Whistle”. I loved it. Don’t change it.
 
Trooper said:
Scary Monster steps it up with “Memory plays a Whistle”. I loved it. Don’t change it.
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Thank's Trooper, I had some reservations about writing a poem about rage and fury, I wasn't trying to condone this feeling or its possible consequences only to give it life in words.

I think it's a seductive roller-coaster ride of passions, and "this prophet of the ice," lures us with a siren call. Everyone can attach their own angst to my words and feel the explosion of this elegant chain reaction of words.
 
Some Candy

Promise smiles of certitude
Unity changeing
is very alive

and laughs
 
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Regret

Ah, sweet Maud with her posture of shame.
Her perpendicular perception, as the wick holds the flame.

Ole Maud Muller herself did not realize
that forged content pierced through the eyes.

Forward and backward, imaginary time,
when regrets were once dreams, a voiceless crime.

Regret's cold grip stings with fits and starts,
only spares but frozen hearts.

Degrees of freedom and repressed circumstance,
internal censorship prohibited chance.

Drunk from that from which we drank,
the shores of wonder to whom shall we thank?

Ah, language is the ultimate gimmick.
Inquisitive heads bob as the pinnipeds mimic.

Is a word a prerequisite for logic and reason?
How peculiar the praise of the diocesan.

The palace of pleasure so cleverly whetted,
though the five wits heavily indebted.

Travel companions drenched in self-indulgent belief.
Oh, the bard of Avon with his sighs of relief.

Spitting into the wind with the word,
the cries for salvation go unheard.

Oh, how they squandered the breath,
to be liberated only by death.
 
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There’s a Red Spot on Jupiter

There’s a Red Spot on Jupiter

There’s a Red Spot on Jupiter like
an iris in an eye, fervidly watching.
Io’s ashen mountain sighs.

Heated lava road’s snake beneath
tress like, flaming plumes. Gadfly stung,
desire formed of fancy, dances before
his amber gaze.

Can she flee her lustful lord?

Taut in friction’s velvet cord, stressed
to bursting, stroked beyond exploding,
wandering forever in an ox passage of
fire, a plaything for a God.

And watching from our own blue ball, an old
story enfolds, empyrean reflected upon
starry highways.

Will we join their whirl? Ourselves whirled
by worlds.

The spheres still dance on elliptic paths, and
Prometheus lifts his Titan head to cry out in
his pain.

“Look away O’ Jupiter. Retract your
cruel light, cause one thing is for certain,
all cows are black at night.”

There’s a Red Spot on Jupiter like the spark
within my eye. And am I just like Jupiter,
espying Io in the night?
 
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Hellenologophobia said:
Arrg, ScaryMonster one-ups me again with "There’s a Red Spot on Jupiter." Damn it! :grumble:
Click to expand...

For what it's worth, I think that you are both very talented with words.

There are many interesting people on this thread and at this forum, and I appreciate the opportunity to take in all of the variety from my remote location. :cool:

As this is a poem thread, I offer the following.

Cynical tone and most elementary of rhyme,
My tribute unto 'Christmas time'......

Come out of the dark, and into the light,
where all is warm and cheery and bright.
Products galore, to thrill and excite.
Never mind means, your credit's alright.

Spend your way to limit's height,
Repay on time, no interest bite,
Plenty for all, no need to fight.
The registers' ring, as merchant's delight.

January brings employment plight,
Health concerns, additional fright,
Wish you may with all your might,
You chose your burden, serves you right.

How can you tell that the commercial aspects of Christmas have left me more than a little 'jaded', lol....:p
 
scheherazade said:
For what it's worth, I think that you are both very talented with words.
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Thank you and “Happy Holidays.”
presents2.gif

5erv11ef.jpg
 
Hellenologophobia said:
It was an autostereogram, which I created for you. Assuming that you know how to view them. ;)
Click to expand...

It used to be very difficult for me to view autostereograms, yet with some practice, I have learned to look 'through' the image presented, which I believe is termed 'Wall-eyed viewing', which requires that the two eyes adopt a relatively parallel angle.

Very nice autostereogram, Hellenologophobia.
last_unicorn.bmp
 
Hellenologophobia said:
Arrg, ScaryMonster one-ups me again with "There’s a Red Spot on Jupiter." Damn it! :grumble:
Click to expand...

I don't know, I think my poems aren't as grounded as yours. More self indulgent flights of fantasy than anything else. I'd say only 10 percent of anyone who reads that last one would actually get it.
 
I speak German and like translating Rainer Maria Rilke's works for pleasure.
Here's one of my translations.

----
What went Right

I want to become one as such
that rides through the night on wild horses
with torch light, straight long hair unbound
that blows in the journeys strong wind.
I'd like to stand in front like being in a small boat,
big like a rolled up flag.
Dark with a heritage of gold,
that shines noncomplacently. And with me knowing
ten men of the same darkness
with the same heritage of gold, men of courage
quite clear like glass, quite dark, old and impassible.
One stands by me and makes room for us
with the trumpet, of thunder and reaching
blown into the blackend solitude,
virtue through it like a quickening dream:
the houses fall behind our responsability steadfast
those that ate were against us
those places soften:we comprehend
and our courage moves like rain.
 
Thanks, Anew. I’m going to have to read “Letters to a Young Poet”. It sounds good.

ScaryMonster,

I borrowed from your Nymph theme. I hope you don’t mind. :D

Mi sento come ti sento

The gods indulge in her favors through desire and play.
Whilst resting on one's laurels with mangled words of Dante.

She is timeless, so sayeth the ancient mythos,
but not all is restored through her gentle repose.

Praise from the blood, which crieth from the ground?
But what of t = 0? Are we not all bound?

Tethered with the inconsistencies of sin,
if motionless, when could it ever begin?

Her secret of when or where,
is neither here, nor there.

Its 'desire' the Naiads whisper and shout.
Adorned in duty, destroy by the devout.

A mere quibble for Antony or Macbeth,
Oh, how she cringed at the Avidyā of death.

Absent from the original bordereau.
What the gods did not know.

How many, if any, returned her embrace?
Her true love of nature was the Naiad’s grace.

Her tears glisten as the morning stars rise.
All long to hear the lyrics as the Naiad cries.

“Mi sento come ti sento.”
 
Another Rilke*

The Song Of The Gnome

My Soul is whenst straight and good:
yet my Heart, my 'bended Blood,
everything that hurts me
can she not be 'til of Valor.
She has no Garden, she has no Bed,
she hangs on my 'sharp Skeleton
with disposed Wingflapping.

From my Hands becomes nothing anymore.
How excessive they are, look here:
tenacity they boast, damp and heavy,
like small toads after Rain.
And the other subject I carry
worn out old and trist;
why is God a hesitation, on the Mess
everything of this to place rightly.

If he's angry with my faces
with these morose mouths?
It had been often perfect standing, complete light
and to become clearer in reason;
yet nothing came of him so thick
like the big dogs.
And the Dogs don't have this.
 
The Cold Qur'an

The Cold Qur'an

The Mullahs of Floe, in a mosque of
glazed whispers, recite their quite cool
Qur'an.

Measured and metered, concocted of
octaves, it seizes, it eases, it threatens
and pleases.

And one syntax more, it’s riven for sure,
on the wind and sins, on the skins of our
fathers.

To be sold in the markets by merchants
of sound, this chant, that’s a pulse and a beat
from the ground.

It wails in the waste of the south frigid plain,
like a pain that proclaims there’ll be more of
the same.

And then turns a seeker, a Prophet of Ice.

To gaze on the world with a visionary sight.
And with every step, driven glaciers creep forth,
scouring a road to the Mecca of mores.

A Prophet is coming; his judgement has claws, a
sleeted ice Jihad enkindles with cold. It’ll
freeze all the pain in a lassitude lake. And take
away fear, it will remake your hate.

The Mullahs of Floe, in their mosque of glazed
whispers, embellish the telling on burnished ice
floors, under roofs of ice crystal they’ll cool
lustful mistrals.

With their chant that foretells of the end of it all,
they clutch to their hearts an entropic Qur’an, and
augur of endings, of hurt and much more.
 
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Maxwell was a poet and I didn't even know it. :D

A Problem in Dynamics

An inextensible heavy chain
Lies on a smooth horizontal plane,
An impulsive force is applied at A,
Required the initial motion of K.

Let ds be the infinitesimal link,
Of which for the present we've only to think;
Let T be the tension, and T + dT
The same for the end that is nearest to B.
Let a be put, by a common convention,
For the angle at M 'twixt OX and the tension;
Let Vt and Vn be ds's velocities,
Of which Vt along and Vn across it is;
Then Vn/Vt the tangent will equal,
Of the angle of starting worked out in the sequel.

In working the problem the first thing of course is
To equate the impressed and effectual forces.
K is tugged by two tensions, whose difference dT
Must equal the element's mass into Vt.
Vn must be due to the force perpendicular
To ds's direction, which shows the particular
Advantage of using da to serve at your
Pleasure to estimate ds's curvature.
For Vn into mass of a unit of chain
Must equal the curvature into the strain.

Thus managing cause and effect to discriminate,
The student must fruitlessly try to eliminate,
And painfully learn, that in order to do it, he
Must find the Equation of Continuity.
The reason is this, that the tough little element,
Which the force of impulsion to beat to a jelly meant,
Was endowed with a property incomprehensible,
And was "given," in the language of Shop, "inexten-sible."
It therefore with such pertinacity odd defied
The force which the length of the chain should have modified,
That its stubborn example may possibly yet recall
These overgrown rhymes to their prosody metrical.
The condition is got by resolving again,
According to axes assumed in the plane.
If then you reduce to the tangent and normal,
You will find the equation more neat tho' less formal.
The condition thus found after these preparations,
When duly combined with the former equations,
Will give you another, in which differentials
(When the chain forms a circle), become in essentials
No harder than those that we easily solve
In the time a T totum would take to revolve.

Now joyfully leaving ds to itself, a-
Ttend to the values of T and of a.
The chain undergoes a distorting convulsion,
Produced first at A by the force of impulsion.
In magnitude R, in direction tangential,
Equating this R to the form exponential,
Obtained for the tension when a is zero,
It will measure the tug, such a tug as the "hero
Plume-waving" experienced, tied to the chariot.
But when dragged by the heels his grim head could not carry aught,
So give a its due at the end of the chain,
And the tension ought there to be zero again.
From these two conditions we get three equations,
Which serve to determine the proper relations
Between the first impulse and each coefficient
In the form for the tension, and this is sufficient
To work out the problem, and then, if you choose,
You may turn it and twist it the Dons to amuse.

by James Clerk Maxwell
 
Trooper,

Glad you wrote A Problem In Dynamics here
myself as thinker
it is playfull of tinker.

Good Day to you :)
 
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