In the English noon.

[RedStone]

It is dark here: little can be heard from
what came of the mind—if only it were
pleasures and passions linked to a tempest,
a bewitchment of the soul, to take what has
sunk to the bottom of the spirit and has yet
to understand the wretched disdaining lingerment--
I have thought upon stars, pieces of our oceanic
universe bathed in the waters of closing black--
too dense to see through, and yet we devour the
skies with our own thoughts, take ideas and ideals
to a native mind and let it wander free.
And yet I cannot help but weep, nor smile
or stay as a statement of indecision--
whilst the seas still do their constant waves,
as empty as what we place upon the whole--
his name, her name, our name shall be unknown.
All shall fade—into that of the first thought to
the last, and yet I wait to be devoured, as yet
I am not dead nor death has chose to take me
along the journey beyond the body.
I heard a voice that spoke from within, fatal
descending and like dust too hard to hold
together as a something but this is a muse that
has soared and spread her wings, how the crowd
only sees the ruins of what has come from time.
The flattering of emotions—for what sake is this
delicious lust brought with lavish form, as nothing
in this English air does consist of freshness and
demand—beneath all that is of skies, and planets
to the ends of roots—ere not I know a coming
whilst outward the human neighbour knows little
of that spark of cedar-wood within the eyes,
far from it, oriental, covered as a distance of difference.
To bands of brothers and packs of wolves, and scented
women thro’ Yet all these has in such a tide, a passion
for the half-open scar to that of the red that wounds--
fed with thee, ah I know of lying alone, whitest petals
upon yielding plucked too early, yet they treasure the taste.
Tell me of the summers, and of autumn, soft hums and low
voices singing, whilst slumbering I lull—of soft pauses--
drawn from each expression deep; I cannot veil my sight
as nothing but light comes thro’ like the sun calls to the
earth still a dark side exists away and cold, fixed in a rotational
need of depression to the subjective bounds of bursts with
happiness, tell me what is it like to sit and feel nothing, but
understanding nature and the thought of nothing more than
the basic independence of a gaze.
”And we sat by the water”.

[breathtest]

This is truly special. A great English poem. The style and syntax remind me of a poem which i think was written by Coleridge and which i think is called 'the pains of sleep' or something along those lines. (I read it a long time ago).

It seems cathartic to me. A stream of emotion. Good good poem. Thank you for sharing it.

[RedStone]

To think I once were, but was, and am--
on breathless knees and resignation;
without my revelation—a sense of pride
against the soul dost stroll too calm away,
and I conceived from this very thought
find my end of day; even thought I pray.
But there is still something to burn, objects
of desire—intolerable people to brush my name
and still I suffer loathing what has been trampled
yet is not mine.
Up there in the scorned skies, the powerful and
powerless, all shades as my eyes—confused but
taste a fruitful likeness to a Eden long ago explained--
but it is a fiendish dream—baffled by the senses,
here I am a wild fantasy shrouded with passions
with a sip of maddening into this earthly brawl.
So I am stunned to find this calamity—even though
it was told and told so many nights a passing; out loud
with screams and worshipped praise—but we shed no
tear for the passed, such is our own punishments.
And having no entempest to milder filter away these
thoughts I sit and sit and ponder subdued in my court.
Anew I knew the anguish of my heart with its trembling
moods and a stain that never parts—for I am saddened
she wakes my very being and brings me back to where
I fall upon my knees, it is a cycle I long to break to
whom I love such to the unfathomable grieves that hold
me heavy like a chain.
Let me echo what has flowered, with whites and jasmine,
greens and teas, to taste the flavours that once poured
made a conversation—that late enriched the night--
to stars trailing with innocence, and her eyes with a soul
snatched from the stresses of the world to be calm in this
moment for it is now all but a memory, growing in silence.
Floating on the lake, gently, waiting to sink into the depths
whilst thinking of the taste of honey from the trees, the twilight
surges over me, and I sink and rise—I am of no-where but
this constant time where I lay drenched on a voyage to another
place, here in the wild where there is no interference just that
of nature and its melodies—it pours the rain now, down across
my being like a lover; and yet does not pause, untamed,
fuelled only by its natural function to fall but down, and down.
Slumbering now, I want to wake in tranquil dream, still part
of life and all that is from thought and motions, all written into
a lifetime of this soul—and I swell full of all these feelings
as a various form of human and all that is beyond and detached
”Upon the lake flowing along”.