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  • Mine with sleep.
    Post edited by iuventus at 2016-11-07 05:39:38
    If I were dead, could I do this?
  • Love Song


    How shall I hold my soul so it does not

    touch on yours. How shall I lift it

    over you to other things?

    Ah, willingly I’d store it away

    with some lost thing in the dark,

    in some strange still place, that

    does not tremble when your depths tremble.

    But all that touches us, you and me,

    takes us, together, like the stroke of a bow,

    that draws one chord out of the two strings.

    On what instrument are we strung?

    And what artist has us in their hand?

    O sweet song.
    U R I E L
  • ^That's great, PG! Who wrote it - it sounds a bit like Rilke?
  • Ah, YES! You win the prize! These times call for a bit of Rilke~~~

    “Perhaps everything terrible is in its deepest being, something helpless that wants help from us.”

    U R I E L
  • (Rilke again)

    Sunset~

    Slowly the west reaches for clothes of new colors
    which it passes to a row of ancient trees.
    You look, and soon these two worlds both leave you
    one part climbs toward heaven, one sinks to earth.

    leaving you, not really belonging to either,
    not so hopelessly dark as that house that is silent,
    not so unswervingly given to the eternal as that thing
    that turns to a star each night and climbs-

    leaving you (it is impossible to untangle the threads)
    your own life, timid and standing high and growing,
    so that, sometimes blocked in, sometimes reaching out,
    one moment your life is a stone in you, and the next, a star.
    U R I E L
  • Did anyone ever compose art song incorporating Rilke?
    If I were dead, could I do this?
  • Googled my own answer.

    Hindemith didn't treat them with quite the delicacy I'd have expected.


    If I were dead, could I do this?
  • Perhaps, Morten Lauridsen's choral compositions are a little more suitable.


    If I were dead, could I do this?
  • Here's the poetry thread
  • I put poetry in the search box. Nada. Perhaps it needed the stars?
    Ta. Post now moved.
    Post edited by Urban_Tribesman at 2017-04-25 14:57:05
    The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ.
    Moves on: nor all thy Piety nor Wit.
    Shall lure it back to cancal half a line,
    Nor all thy Tears wash out a Word of it.
  • Dream within a Dream

    Take this kiss upon the brow! And, in parting from you now,
    Thus much let me avow — You are not wrong, who deem
    That my days have been a dream; Yet if hope has flown away
    In a night, or in a day, In a vision, or in none,
    Is it therefore the less gone?  
    All that we see or seem
    Is but a dream within a dream.

    I stand amid the roar, Of a surf-tormented shore,
    And I hold within my hand, Grains of the golden sand —
    How few! yet how they creep, Through my fingers to the deep,
    While I weep — while I weep!
    O God! Can I not grasp, Them with a tighter clasp?
    O God! can I not save One from the pitiless wave?
    Is all that we see or seem
    But a dream within a dream?
    Post edited by Urban_Tribesman at 2017-04-25 14:54:06
    The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ.
    Moves on: nor all thy Piety nor Wit.
    Shall lure it back to cancal half a line,
    Nor all thy Tears wash out a Word of it.
  • For the lazy, the same poem, set to music (calm down Stevil!)



    The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ.
    Moves on: nor all thy Piety nor Wit.
    Shall lure it back to cancal half a line,
    Nor all thy Tears wash out a Word of it.
  • Chaos of the mind

    The tempest storm does not begin to tell the tale of mind
    The thought runs through and breaks apart, all thought does, now, unwind
    The tempo and the meaning scattered 'cross the farthest shore
    And, bring it all back home, again, to revel just once more
    A shattering of mind, a thing to not be feared, the least
    For, with a will, each shattering, new wonders have increased
    In awe, I stand before the tempest razed across the wind
    A tattered length, bright colored cloak, all hopes, right there, are pinned
    From tempest, there appears bright form, found rushing 'cross the sky
    Head bowed down, arms fall to side, releasing breathless sigh
    Post edited by Whickwithy at 2017-04-26 10:40:46
  • Maybe this should be in the 'Silver Eye Inspired Art' thread, but I wrote a little poetry for the Moon tonight.

    Flower Moon

    Illuminated, she holds the sky..
    black gloved.
    a pearl once mothered by it's maker..broken from the string like a necklace- lost to endure the countless impacts.
    She will see you every night, as long as the Sun never fails.

    The ocean, a mere breath in your chest...rising, falling.
    They do not know you, do they. How could they?
    Lens upon lens, magnified..the artificial eye. Resting and one-sided, suspended..
    synchronized to trick.

    Circle of opal, an oval of bone..we turn together.
    Pull me in close, then let me go.
    Course through me like blood heavy with the red iron of gravity and revolve
    in my breath.
    You are distilled into a dream, every night dropped into heavy eyes..the promise of repair.

    She turns with the Deepest waves of space.
    It unlocks a billion year old lullaby which sings
    "I am with you- you are home.
    You are home, I am with you."

    Post edited by Ponygurl at 2017-05-10 23:44:21
    U R I E L
  • That's beautiful Ponygurl. Have you ever been published?

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