Category: Poems

My thoughts can sometimes run with no regard

To worldly matters or mundane affairs;

Like children playing tag along a plain

And stooping on a whim to flowers pick; Continue reading “Musings”

I

The brevity of the book that you hold

To naught but lacking eloquence is due;

If only I had the means to unfold

The libraries of love I feel for you!

For when I scroll the chapter of our time,

As you might read the leaves of this short work,

I find that my verse lacks its inner chime,

And try my disappointed cry to burke.

The hours that formed in our love-chain a link

Are now enclosed within my aching heart,

Inscribed in splendid letters of gold ink,

And sealed so that their lips may never part.

I’d publish hefty volumes on our age,

If my soul I could transcribe to the page.

Continue reading “Thanksgiving”

I

What makes your art, what is its secret power?

Bethought by all mankind so sage and wise

You who above the great do yet so tower

Your essence I am left to but surmise.

Begot within the lofty crown of Jove

You made your way to show your arms to light,

And took with you the most of that you clove,

And now all gods do bow before your sight.

The key to your success I wish to find,

In risk of thus evoking dreadful wrath,

To share the golden fruit of noble mind –

To walk upon the scarcely trodden path.

I humbly kneel in fear and awe of thee,

And beg you leave my poor two legs to me.

Continue reading “Sonnets to Minerva”

I’ve sometimes heard, not without surprise,

That discarding artificial beauty is deemed wise;

Instead it is Nature who’s admired

Though it leaves so much to be desired-

T’is naught but the work of chance in guise

~

Every beauteous bird, every comely foliage,

Feign dazzles brighter than any stage

But when I lift up Isis’s veil:

Just another being striving to prevail

Desperately reaching for the next age

~

Every jagged rock, every mountainous crown:

Merely pressure vented, an accidental down;

The senses they do often delight

But when illumed by a slightly different light

The spectator may change his awed gaze to a frown

~

But the painter, to whom the vision’s lent

As he applies the brush, so slightly bent;

Creates something loftier with his plate:

For even if he were but to emulate

His every stroke holds full intent

Dearest lover of mud and fire

Ever sought by men’s desire,

Especially by tyrants’ ire;

Without your tongue, not wont to tire

The greatest were yet forgotten, left in mire

 

Of those – one who’s truly able

Dared to call you but a fable-

I slam my fist upon the table!

To offer such a brazen label

Dissuades my heart from beating stable

 

Mine is a love of stronger zeal!

Hereby before you do I kneel;

Present me thou with lovers’ seal

To my nascent boat become the keel

Ah! what pangs and longing do I feel!

 

My dear, my love, my burning flame,

I beg you hold me not to blame;

T’is love! I seek you not for the sake of fame!

 

But dearest, darling, if you came,-

Wouldn’t you, please, just slightly raise my name?

The noble stag, adorned by Nature’s crown

Walks before the timid doe:

His is higher the renown,

Yet judged by one who’s rather plain-

One whose own ability is low

By selection’s power turned so vain.

 

Though numbing right is sought by all,

The runner’s bettered by the race

While idle judge behind will fall.

To glory through action rise-

So Atalanta joined the chase;

The winner’s greater than the prize.

Ferocious being of wing and feather

Kingly in demeanor and attire

Held aloft, within the weather

Though silent, inspiring both song and lyre;

Your soar’s unburden’d by a care

Your mighty rustle proud an’ fair

~

Far below, chained to rustic ground

With every element at odds

Another being, full of sound

Encumbered by batons, scepters, select rods

To wanton flags fervently flocks,

The individualist e’en mocks

~

And you, although the other’s better

Were caught by patriots’ hand,

Were placed in unfit fetter-

Upon countless banners hence made to stand;

Left without a way to rectify:

The scoundrel’s refuge you signify

Cast beneath unsettled waves

Detached from poets’ guiding light-

One one’s way with effort paves

While wit and metre language tries.

The muse, whose power in connection lies,

Like fair Echo calling craves.

Bereft of aid, Parnassus’ height

Awesome, dazzling to the eyes,

Yet looms beyond my line of sight;

Can even you her name recite?

To champion a pleasant life

Pacified, avoiding strife,

To dread the sorely needed knife:

A vile notion often taught

Voicing empty wind and naught,

That progress is utility caught-

Its essence, dwindling, even so

May come to halt without a foe-

Face some danger, hardship sow!

Progress stems from will to fight

Not from comfort, but from plight;

Whets itself on others’ might.

Steer away, remain not dull

Lest numbing bliss will take its toll,

Lest the bell resound its call.

Within the flight of tireless time

The bell of choice does sometimes chime

Will you take the common way,

Or yet upon your own delay?

Slacken not your quicken’d pace

He shan’t weary of the race

But lament not ye at the loss

Of ‘saken ways, oft over-gloss

For none shall travel every road

Nor only stick to their abode

Content remain with select miles

Of rougher, yet rewarding, tiles

Stay unblinded by the flux, and mind,

Become you not the thoughtless kind

An’ though preferences may sway

Still remember, Panta rhei