neglected poets

[quasimodo1]

HIDDEN FLAME
Feed a flame within, which so torments me
That it both pains my heart, and yet contains me:
'Tis such a pleasing smart, and I so love it,
That I had rather die than once remove it.

Yet he, for whom I grieve, shall never know it;
My tongue does not betray, nor my eyes show it.
Not a sigh, nor a tear, my pain discloses,
But they fall silently, like dew on roses.

Thus, to prevent my Love from being cruel,
My heart's the sacrifice, as 'tis the fuel;
And while I suffer this to give him quiet,
My faith rewards my love, though he deny it.

On his eyes will I gaze, and there delight me;
While I conceal my love no frown can fright me.
To be more happy I dare not aspire,
Nor can I fall more low, mounting no higher.
(1631-1700)

[Psycheinaboat]

Revenge
by Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L.E.L.)

Ay, gaze upon her rose-wreath'd hair,
And gaze upon her smile;
Seem as you drank the very air
Her breath perfumed the while;

And wake for her the gifted line,
That wild and witching lay,
And swear your heart is as a shrine,
That only holds her sway.

'Tis well: I am revenged at last;--
Mark you that scornful cheek,--
The eye averted as you pass'd,
Spoke more than words could speak.

Ay, now by all the bitter tears
That I have shed for thee,--
The racking doubts, the burning fears,--
Avenged they well may be--

By the nights pass'd in sleepless care,
The days of endless woe;
All that you taught my heart to bear,
All that yourself will know.

I would not wish to see you laid
Within an early tomb;
I should forget how you betray'd,
And only weep your doom:

But this is fitting punishment,
To live and love in vain,--
O my wrung heart, be thou content,
And feed upon his pain.

Go thou and watch her lightest sigh,--
Thine own it will not be;
And bask beneath her sunny eye,--
It will not turn on thee.

'Tis well: the rack, the chain, the wheel,
Far better hadst thou proved;
Ev'n I could almost pity feel,
For thou art nor beloved.

[quasimodo1]

You do not need many things

My house is buried in the deepest recess of the forest
Every year, ivy vines grow longer than the year before.
Undisturbed by the affairs of the world I live at ease,
Woodmen’s singing rarely reaching me through the trees.
While the sun stays in the sky, I mend my torn clothes
And facing the moon, I read holy texts aloud to myself.
Let me drop a word of advice for believers of my faith.
To enjoy life’s immensity, you do not need many things.


- Ryokan

[quasimodo1]

ON IMAGINAGION
Thy various works, imperial queen, we see,
How bright their forms! how deck'd with pomp by thee!
Thy wond'rous acts in beauteous order stand,
And all attest how potent is thine hand.

From Helicon's refulgent heights attend,
Ye sacred choir, and my attempts befriend:
To tell her glories with a faithful tongue,
Ye blooming graces, triumph in my song.

Now here, now there, the roving Fancy flies,
Till some lov'd object strikes her wand'ring eyes,
Whose silken fetters all the senses bind,
And soft captivity involves the mind.

Imagination! who can sing thy force?
Or who describe the swiftness of thy course?
Soaring through air to find the bright abode,
Th' empyreal palace of the thund'ring God,
We on thy pinions can surpass the wind,
And leave the rolling universe behind:
>From star to star the mental optics rove,
Measure the skies, and range the realms above.
There in one view we grasp the mighty whole,
Or with new worlds amaze th' unbounded soul.

Though Winter frowns to Fancy's raptur'd eyes
The fields may flourish, and gay scenes arise;
The frozen deeps may break their iron bands,
And bid their waters murmur o'er the sands.
Fair Flora may resume her fragrant reign,
And with her flow'ry riches deck the plain;
Sylvanus may diffuse his honours round,
And all the forest may with leaves be crown'd:
Show'rs may descend, and dews their gems disclose,
And nectar sparkle on the blooming rose.

Such is thy pow'r, nor are thine orders vain,
O thou the leader of the mental train:
In full perfection all thy works are wrought,
And thine the sceptre o'er the realms of thought.
Before thy throne the subject-passions bow,
Of subject-passions sov'reign ruler thou;
At thy command joy rushes on the heart,
And through the glowing veins the spirits dart.

Fancy might now her silken pinions try
To rise from earth, and sweep th' expanse on high:
>From Tithon's bed now might Aurora rise,
Her cheeks all glowing with celestial dies,
While a pure stream of light o'erflows the skies.
The monarch of the day I might behold,
And all the mountains tipt with radiant gold,
But I reluctant leave the pleasing views,
Which Fancy dresses to delight the Muse;
Winter austere forbids me to aspire,
And northern tempests damp the rising fire;
They chill the tides of Fancy's flowing sea,
Cease then, my song, cease the unequal lay.
By Phillis Wheatley (1753-1784)

[kiz_paws]

quasi, thank you for the American Indian Poetry link above -- very cool stuff.

I also loved the Zen Poetry, beautiful.

Psyche, loved that Revenge, thanks!

[quasimodo1]

To Kiz paws: If you know any genre of poetry that hasn't been posted, maybe you could let me know. That zen stuff is the best; have to do more of that. quasi

[quasimodo1]

{Exerpt from this poem by Vladislav (Vlanes) Nekliaeu, 1969 to the present} Whatever dies in this gigantic rut
overfilled with agony and water, it rockets to the stars
amassed like silver coins upon a plate of brass,
it soars far above the predator that cut it,

flies, flows, flaps its ravaged wings
made whole again on the other side -
it does not have to wince and hide,
but being whole, ends up beyond its vital accident,
to reappear rapidly, when the outer circle is complete,
like a stray tongue of light,

dazzling its former monsters overspent,
fatigued by their thirst and greed -
this light congeals on their fur like a green
thread of algae, a small emerald enframed by these machines,
it rolls down abruptly, jumps from hair to hair, gleans
their ponderous vapour, their clean

spirit that envelops them and leans
towards them, freeing them within their time,
so that they can palpitate, unbridled, tame,
until no greed is left, no thirst for throbbing flesh, no taste
of boiling salt, no memory of twitching fins, and haste
with which a creature shrinks towards its doom,

and freezes, and submits, once
the first resistance is broken, and the hands
of destiny grab it and rend apart, without the sense
of their soul, the precious music, the untasted meal of time – out
it is spat, disgorged, revived, restored to its own dying shout
which now begins to modulate and hastens

through each chord that resonates around
the tactile crystal spheres falling down so
fast that the unfurled drab wings appear slow
and awkward, and lag behind, beating about madly,
scattering the feathers of the sunrise, and then halt, and suddenly
release the loudest, the sharpest shriek, too

[quasimodo1]

TO A LADY
SWEET rois of vertew and of gentilness,
Delytsum lily of everie lustynes,
Richest in bontie and in bewtie clear,
And everie vertew that is wenit dear,
Except onlie that ye are mercyless

Into your garth this day I did persew;
There saw I flowris that fresche were of hew;
Baith quhyte and reid most lusty were to seyne,
And halesome herbis upon stalkis greene;
Yet leaf nor flowr find could I nane of rew.

I doubt that Merche, with his cauld blastis keyne,
Has slain this gentil herb, that I of mene;
Quhois piteous death dois to my heart sic paine
That I would make to plant his root againe,--
So confortand his levis unto me bene.
by William Dunbar (1460-1520) ...This poem was composed during the reign of Henry VIII. Before he broke away from the Roman Catholic Church, the clerics tasked with censorship would not have given their two seals of approval, i.e. impramatur and nihil obstat....Latin expressions written on the reverse side of the cover page which meant "it is permitted" and "nothing objectionable" respectively. And today people complain about violations of First Ammendment rights. In Dunbar's day, bawdy writing could get you imprisoned or worse; all the while, Henry lived in style that eventually would cause his death...from tertiary syphillis. Those were the days. quasi

[kiz_paws]

To Kiz paws: If you know any genre of poetry that hasn't been posted, maybe you could let me know. That zen stuff is the best; have to do more of that. quasi

Yes indeed, quasi -- more ZEN!

[quasimodo1]

The past is already past.
Don’t try to regain it.
The present does not stay.
Don’t try to touch it.

From moment to moment.
The future has not come;
Don’t think about it
Beforehand.

Whatever comes to the eye,
Leave it be.
There are no commandments
To be kept;
There’s no filth to be cleansed.

With empty mind really
Penetrated, the dharmas
Have no life.

When you can be like this,
You’ve completed
The ultimate attainment.
Layman P’ang (740-808)

[quasimodo1]

ARMS, and the man I sing, who, forc'd by fate,
And haughty Juno's unrelenting hate,
Expell'd and exil'd, left the Trojan shore.
Long labors, both by sea and land, he bore,
And in the doubtful war, before he won
The Latian realm, and built the destin'd town;
His banish'd gods restor'd to rites divine,
And settled sure succession in his line,
From whence the race of Alban fathers come,
And the long glories of majestic Rome.
Virgil

[kiz_paws]

The past is already past.
Don’t try to regain it.
The present does not stay.
Don’t try to touch it.

From moment to moment.
The future has not come;
Don’t think about it
Beforehand.

Whatever comes to the eye,
Leave it be.
There are no commandments
To be kept;
There’s no filth to be cleansed.

With empty mind really
Penetrated, the dharmas
Have no life.

When you can be like this,
You’ve completed
The ultimate attainment.
Layman P’ang (740-808)

Oh, I loved this one, quasi. Thank you very much.

[quasimodo1]

YVONNE OF BRITTANY
In your mother's apple-orchard,
Just a year ago, last spring:
Do you remember, Yvonne!
The dear trees lavishing
Rain of their starry blossoms
To make you a coronet?
Do you ever remember, Yvonne,
As I remember yet?

In your mother's apple-orchard,
When the world was left behind:
You were shy, so shy, Yvonne!
But your eyes were calm and kind.
We spoke of the apple harvest,
When the cider press is set,
And such-like trifles, Yvonne,
That doubtless you forget.

In the still, soft Breton twilight,
We were silent; words were few,
Till your mother came out chiding,
For the grass was bright with dew:
But I know your heart was beating,
Like a fluttered, frightened dove.
Do you ever remember, Yvonne,
That first faint flush of love?

In the fulness of midsummer,
When the apple-bloom was shed,
Oh, brave was your surrender,
Though shy the words you said.
I was glad, so glad, Yvonne!
To have led you home at last;
Do you ever remember, Yvonne,
How swiftly the days passed?

In your mother's apple-orchard
It is grown too dark to stray,
There is none to chide you, Yvonne!
You are over far away.
There is dew on your grave grass, Yvonne!
But your feet it shall not wet:
No, you never remember, Yvonne!
And I shall soon forget.
(by Ernest Dowson, 1867-1900)

[quasimodo1]

IN PRAISE OF WRITING LETTERS
Blest be the Man! his Memory at least,
Who found the Art, thus to unfold his Breast,
And taught succeeding Times an easy way
Their secret Thoughts by Letters to convey;
To baffle Absence, and secure Delight,
Which, till that Time, was limited to Sight.

The parting Farewel spoke, the last Adieu,
The less'ning Distance past, then loss of View,
The Friend was gone, which some kind Moments gave,
And Absence separated, like the Grave.
The Wings of Love were tender too, till then
No Quill, thence pull'd, was shap'd into a Pen,
To send in Paper-sheets, from Town to Town,
Words smooth was they, and softer than his Down.
O'er such he reign'd, whom Neighborhood had join'd,
And hopt, from Bough to Bough, supported by the Wind.
When for a Wife the youthful Patriarch sent,
The Camels, Jewels, and the Steward went,
A wealthy Equipage, tho' grave and slow;
But not a Line, that might the Lover shew.
The Rings and Bracelets woo'd her Hands and Arms;
But had she known of melting Words, the Charms
That under secret Seals in Ambush lie,
To catch the Soul, when drawn into the Eye,
The Fair Assyrian had not took this Guide,
Nor her soft Heart in Chains of Pearl been ty'd.


Had these Conveyances been then in Date,
Joseph had known his wretched Father's State,
Before a Famine, which his Life pursues,
Had sent his other Sons, to tell the News.


Oh! might I live to see an Art arise,
As this to Thoughts, indulgent to the Eyes;
That the dark Pow'rs of distance cou'd subdue,
And make me See, as well as Talk to You;
That tedious Miles, nor Tracts of Air might prove
Bars to my Sight, and shadows to my Love!
Yet were it granted, such unbounded Things
Are wand'ring Wishes, born on Phancy's Wings,
They'd stretch themselves beyond this happy Case,
And ask an Art, to help us to Embrace.
By Anne Kingsmill (1661-1720)

[quasimodo1]

In Memory of My Mother

I do not think of you lying in the wet clay
Of a Monaghan graveyard; I see
You walking down a lane among the poplars
On your way to the station, or happily Going to second Mass on a summer Sunday--
You meet me and you say:
'Don't forget to see about the cattle--'
Among your earthiest words the angels stray.
And I think of you walking along a headland
Of green oats in June,
So full of repose, so rich with life--

excerpt of "In Memory of My Mother" by Patrick Kavanagh