Famous Poets

Discussion in 'Dragon Poetry, Dreams, Music and Creativity' started by Allisiam, Oct 11, 2014.

  1. Allisiam

    Allisiam Well-Known Member


    I want you to know
    one thing.

    You know how this is:
    if I look
    at the crystal moon, at the red branch
    of the slow autumn at my window,
    if I touch
    near the fire
    the impalpable ash
    or the wrinkled body of the log,
    everything carries me to you,
    as if everything that exists,
    aromas, light, metals,
    were little boats
    that sail
    toward those isles of yours that wait for me.

    Well, now,
    if little by little you stop loving me
    I shall stop loving you little by little.

    If suddenly
    you forget me
    do not look for me,
    for I shall already have forgotten you.

    If you think it long and mad,
    the wind of banners
    that passes through my life,
    and you decide
    to leave me at the shore
    of the heart where I have roots,
    that on that day,
    at that hour,
    I shall lift my arms
    and my roots will set off
    to seek another land.

    if each day,
    each hour,
    you feel that you are destined for me
    with implacable sweetness,
    if each day a flower
    climbs up to your lips to seek me,
    ah my love, ah my own,
    in me all that fire is repeated,
    in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,
    my love feeds on your love, beloved,
    and as long as you live it will be in your arms
    without leaving mine.

    Pablo Neruda
  2. Allisiam

    Allisiam Well-Known Member

    Like Water or Clouds​

    Li Po (699-762 AD)​

    Lu Mountain, Kiangsi

    I climbed west on Incense Cloud Peak.
    South I saw the spray-filled falls
    Dropping for ten thousand feet
    Sounding in a hundred gorges,
    Suddenly as if lightning shone,
    Strange as if light-wet rainbows lifted.
    I thought the Milky Way had shattered,
    Scattering stars through the clouds, downwards.

    Looking up an even greater force.
    Nature’s powers are so intense.
    The Cosmic Wind blows there without stop.
    The river’s moon echoes back the light
    Into vortices where waters rush.
    On both sides the clear walls were washed,
    By streams of pearl broken into mist,
    By clouds of foam whitening over rock.

    Let me reach those Sublime Hills
    Where peace comes to the quiet heart.
    No more need to find the magic cup.
    I’ll wash the dust, there, from my face,
    And live in those regions that I love,
    Separated from the Human World.

    Note: Lu Mountain is a Taoist sacred site in Kiangsi Province.
  3. Allisiam

    Allisiam Well-Known Member


    Buddhist New Year Song

    I saw you in green velvet, wide full sleeves
    seated in front of a fireplace, our house
    made somehow more gracious, and you said
    “There are stars in your hair”— it was truth I
    brought down with me

    to this sullen and dingy place that we must make golden
    make precious and mythical somehow, it is our nature,
    and it is truth, that we came here, I told you,
    from other planets
    where we were lords, we were sent here,
    for some purpose

    the golden mask I had seen before, that fitted
    so beautifully over your face, did not return
    nor did that face of a bull you had acquired
    amid northern peoples, nomads, the Gobi desert

    I did not see those tents again, nor the wagons
    infinitely slow on the infinitely windy plains,
    so cold, every star in the sky was a different color
    the sky itself a tangled tapestry, glowing
    but almost, I could see the planet from which we had come

    I could not remember (then) what our purpose was
    but remembered the name Mahakala, in the dawn

    in the dawn confronted Shiva, the cold light
    revealed the “mindborn” worlds, as simply that,
    I watched them propagated, flowing out,
    or, more simply, one mirror reflecting another.
    then broke the mirrors, you were no longer in sight
    nor any purpose, stared at this new blackness
    the mindborn worlds fled, and the mind turned off:

    a madness, or a beginning?
  4. Allisiam

    Allisiam Well-Known Member



    Extract the juice which is itself a Light.

    Pulp, manna, gentle
    Theriasin, ergot
    like mold on flame, these red leaves
    from mesquite by the side
    of dry creekbed. Extract

    the tar, the sticky
    of things
    (each plant a star, extract

    the juice of stars
    by circular stillation
    the inner man w/the coction
    till he burn
    like worms of light in quicksilver
    not the false
    puffballs of marshfire, extract

    the heart of the empty heart
    it is full
    of the star soul that paces fierce
    in the deeps of earth
    the Red Man,
    in furs
    who carries a club
    who carries
    the pale homunculus
    in his belly.
    For you are angel, you call
    the soul from plants

    or pearls of ambergris
    out of the grudging sea.
    Extract arcanum. Separate
    true Archeus from the false
    the bitter
    is not less potent—nor does clarity
    bespeak truth.

    Out of the heart of the ineffable
    draw the black flecks of matter
    & from these
    the cold, blue fire.
    Dry water. Immerse
    though it be but a drop.
    This Iliaster
    flowers like the wind.
    Out of the ash, the Eidolon of the world

  5. Allisiam

    Allisiam Well-Known Member

    Orpheus. Eurydice. Hermes

    Rainer Maria Rilke

    That was the strange mine of souls.
    As secret ores of silver they passed
    like veins through its darkness. Between the roots
    blood welled, flowing onwards to Mankind,
    and it looked as hard as Porphyry in the darkness.
    Otherwise nothing was red.

    There were cliffs
    and straggling woods. Bridges over voids,
    and that great grey blind lake,
    that hung above its distant floor
    like a rain-filled sky above a landscape.
    And between meadows, soft and full of patience,
    one path, a pale strip, appeared,
    passing by like a long bleached thing.

    And down this path they came.

    In front the slim man in the blue mantle,
    mute and impatient, gazing before him.
    His steps ate up the path in huge bites
    without chewing: his hands hung,
    clumsy and tight, from the falling folds,
    and no longer aware of the weightless lyre,
    grown into his left side,
    like a rose-graft on an olive branch.
    And his senses were as if divided:
    while his sight ran ahead like a dog,
    turned back, came and went again and again,
    and waited at the next turn, positioned there –
    his hearing was left behind like a scent.
    Sometimes it seemed to him as if it reached
    as far as the going of those other two,
    who ought to be following this complete ascent.

    Then once more it was only the repeated sound of his climb
    and the breeze in his mantle behind him.
    But he told himself that they were still coming:
    said it aloud and heard it die away.
    They were still coming, but they were two
    fearfully light in their passage. If only he might
    turn once more ( if looking back
    were not the ruin of all his work,
    that first had to be accomplished), then he must see them,
    the quiet pair, mutely following him:

    the god of errands and far messages,
    the travelling-hood above his shining eyes,
    the slender wand held out before his body,
    the beating wings at his ankle joints;
    and on his left hand, as entrusted: her.

    ‘Mercury’ - Willem Danielsz. van Tetrode (known as Guglielmo Fiammingo) (Dutch, active Italy, c. 1525 - 1580)The Los Angeles County Museum of Art

    The so-beloved, that out of one lyre
    more grief came than from all grieving women:
    so that a world of grief arose, in which
    all things were there once more: forest and valley,
    and road and village, field and stream and creature:
    and that around this grief-world, just as
    around the other earth, a sun
    and a silent star-filled heaven turned,
    a grief-heaven with distorted stars –
    she was so-loved.

    But she went at that god’s left hand,
    her steps confined by the long grave-cloths,
    uncertain, gentle, and without impatience.
    She was in herself, like a woman near term,
    and did not think of the man, going on ahead,
    or the path, climbing upwards towards life.
    She was in herself. And her being-dead
    filled her with abundance.
    As a fruit with sweetness and darkness,
    so she was full with her vast death,
    that was so new, she comprehended nothing.

    She was in a new virginity
    and untouchable: her sex was closed
    like a young flower at twilight,
    and her hands had been weaned so far
    from marriage that even the slight god’s
    endlessly gentle touch, as he led,
    hurt her like too great an intimacy.

    She was no longer that blonde woman,
    sometimes touched on in the poet’s songs,
    no longer the wide bed’s scent and island,
    and that man’s possession no longer.

    She was already loosened like long hair,
    given out like fallen rain,
    shared out like a hundredfold supply.

    She was already root.

    And when suddenly
    the god stopped her and, with anguish in his cry,
    uttered the words: ‘He has turned round’ –
    she comprehended nothing and said softly: ‘Who?’

    But far off, darkly before the bright exit,
    stood someone or other, whose features
    were unrecognisable. Who stood and saw
    how on the strip of path between meadows,
    with mournful look, the god of messages
    turned, silently, to follow the figure
    already walking back by that same path,
    her steps confined by the long grave-cloths,
    uncertain, gentle, and without impatience.

    Last edited: Oct 4, 2017

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