Author Topic: Victoria's Poetry Stop (Read 55828 times)

pryzmsticv · « **Reply #255 on:** March 17, 2016, 10:55:33 pm »

CRIMSON TEARS

Drowning in my sorrow ov blight, the end ov the tunnel is our light.
My thoughts are ov you, my visions shining thru.
Our Luv lights, with the glimmer of the moon.
Haunting the night, without you.
Drifting thru out this place, ov you there is no trace.
Wicked my mind, wanting to fly.
Being free, dont want my heart to die.
You are my life, I am yours, together we explore the crimson life.
Silently we entice, our life that we deplore.
With nothing to fear, we become the expertise here.
Living our crimson life.

Clay Death · « **Reply #256 on:** March 18, 2016, 10:46:06 pm »

Edwin Arlington Robinson

Merlin

"Gawaine, Gawaine, what look ye for to see,
So far beyond the faint edge of the world?
D'ye look to see the lady Vivian,
Pursued by divers ominous vile demons
That have another king more fierce than ours?
Or think ye that if ye look far enough
And hard enough into the feathery west
Ye'll have a glimmer of the Grail itself?
And if ye look for neither Grail nor lady,
What look ye for to see, Gawaine, Gawaine?"

So Dagonet, whom Arthur made a knight
Because he loved him as he laughed at him,
Intoned his idle presence on a day
To Gawaine, who had thought himself alone,
Had there been in him thought of anything
Save what was murmured now in Camelot
Of Merlin's hushed and all but unconfirmed
Appearance out of Brittany. It was heard
At first there was a ghost in Arthur's palace,
But soon among the scullions and anon
Among the knights a firmer credit held
All tongues from uttering what all glances told-
Though not for long. Gawaine, this afternoon,
Fearing he might say more to Lancelot
Of Merlin's rumor-laden resurrection
Than Lancelot would have an ear to cherish,
Had sauntered off with his imagination
To Merlin's Rock, where now there was no Merlin
To meditate upon a whispering town
Below him in the silence.-Once he said
To Gawaine: "You are young; and that being so,
Behold the shining city of our dreams
And of our King."-"Long live the King," said Gawaine.-
"Long live the King," said Merlin after him;
"Better for me that I shall not be King;
Wherefore I say again, Long live the King,
And add, God save him, also, and all kings-
All kings and queens. I speak in general.
Kings have I known that were but weary men
With no stout appetite for more than peace
That was not made for them."-"Nor were they made
For kings," Gawaine said, laughing.-"You are young,
Gawaine, and you may one day hold the world
Between your fingers, knowing not what it is
That you are holding. Better for you and me,
I think, that we shall not be kings."

Gawaine,
Remembering Merlin's words of long ago,
Frowned as he thought, and having frowned again,
He smiled and threw an acorn at a lizard:
"There's more afoot and in the air to-day
Than what is good for Camelot. Merlin
May or may not know all, but he said well
To say to me that he would not be King.
Nor more would I be King." Far down he gazed
On Camelot, until he made of it
A phantom town of many stillnesses,
Not reared for men to dwell in, or for kings
To reign in, without omens and obscure
Familiars to bring terror to their days;
For though a knight, and one as hard at arms
As any, save the fate-begotten few
That all acknowledged or in envy loathed,
He felt a foreign sort of creeping up
And down him, as of moist things in the dark,-
When Dagonet, coming on him unawares,
Presuming on his title of Sir Fool,
Addressed him and crooned on till he was done:
"What look ye for to see, Gawaine, Gawaine?"

"Sir Dagonet, you best and wariest
Of all dishonest men, I look through Time,
For sight of what it is that is to be.
I look to see it, though I see it not.
I see a town down there that holds a king,
And over it I see a few small clouds-
Like feathers in the west, as you observe;
And I shall see no more this afternoon
Than what there is around us every day,
Unless you have a skill that I have not
To ferret the invisible for rats."

"If you see what's around us every day,
You need no other showing to go mad.
Remember that and take it home with you;
And say tonight, 'I had it of a fool-
With no immediate obliquity
For this one or for that one, or for me.'"
Gawaine, having risen, eyed the fool curiously:
"I'll not forget I had it of a knight,
Whose only folly is to fool himself;
And as for making other men to laugh,
And so forget their sins and selves a little,
There's no great folly there. So keep it up,
As long as you've a legend or a song,
And have whatever sport of us you like
Till havoc is the word and we fall howling.
For I've a guess there may not be so loud
A sound of laughing here in Camelot
When Merlin goes again to his gay grave
In Brittany. To mention lesser terrors,
Men say his beard is gone."

"Do men say that?"
A twitch of an impatient weariness
Played for a moment over the lean face
Of Dagonet, who reasoned inwardly:
"The friendly zeal of this inquiring knight
Will overtake his tact and leave it squealing,
One of these days."-Gawaine looked hard at him:
"If I be too familiar with a fool,
I'm on the way to be another fool,"
He mused, and owned a rueful qualm within him:
"Yes, Dagonet," he ventured, with a laugh,
"Men tell me that his beard has vanished wholly,
And that he shines now as the Lord's anointed,
And wears the valiance of an ageless youth
Crowned with a glory of eternal peace."

Dagonet, smiling strangely, shook his head:
"I grant your valiance of a kind of youth
To Merlin, but your crown of peace I question;
For, though I know no more than any churl
Who pinches any chambermaid soever
In the King's palace, I look not to Merlin
For peace, when out of his peculiar tomb
He comes again to Camelot. Time swings
A mighty scythe, and some day all your peace
Goes down before its edge like so much clover.
No, it is not for peace that Merlin comes,
Without a trumpet-and without a beard,
If what you say men say of him be true-
Nor yet for sudden war."

Gawaine, for a moment,
Met then the ambiguous gaze of Dagonet,
And, making nothing of it, looked abroad
As if at something cheerful on all sides,
And back again to the fool's unasking eyes:
"Well, Dagonet, if Merlin would have peace,
Let Merlin stay away from Brittany,"
Said he, with admiration for the man
Whom Folly called a fool: "And we have known him;
We knew him once when he knew everything."

"He knew as much as God would let him know
Until he met the lady Vivian.
I tell you that, for the world knows all that;
Also it knows he told the King one day
That he was to be buried, and alive,
In Brittany; and that the King should see
The face of him no more. Then Merlin sailed
Away to Vivian in Broceliande,
Where now she crowns him and herself with flowers
And feeds him fruits and wines and many foods
Of many savors, and sweet ortolans.
Wise books of every lore of every land
Are there to fill his days, if he require them,
And there are players of all instruments-
Flutes, hautboys, drums, and viols; and she sings
To Merlin, till he trembles in her arms
And there forgets that any town alive
Had ever such a name as Camelot.
So Vivian holds him with her love, they say,
And he, who has no age, has not grown old.
I swear to nothing, but that's what they say.
That's being buried in Broceliande
For too much wisdom and clairvoyancy.
But you and all who live, Gawaine, have heard
This tale, or many like it, more than once;
And you must know that Love, when Love invites
Philosophy to play, plays high and wins,
Or low and loses. And you say to me,
'If Merlin would have peace, let Merlin stay
Away from Brittany.' Gawaine, you are young,
And Merlin's in his grave."

"Merlin said once
That I was young, and it's a joy for me
That I am here to listen while you say it.
Young or not young, if that be burial,
May I be buried long before I die.
I might be worse than young; I might be old."-
Dagonet answered, and without a smile:
"Somehow I fancy Merlin saying that;
A fancy-a mere fancy." Then he smiled:
"And such a doom as his may be for you,
Gawaine, should your untiring divination
Delve in the veiled eternal mysteries
Too far to be a pleasure for the Lord.
And when you stake your wisdom for a woman,
Compute the woman to be worth a grave,
As Merlin did, and say no more about it.
But Vivian, she played high. Oh, very high!
Flutes, hautboys, drums, and viols,-and her love.
Gawaine, farewell."

"Farewell, Sir Dagonet,
And may the devil take you presently."
He followed with a vexed and envious eye,
And with an arid laugh, Sir Dagonet's
Departure, till his gaunt obscurity
Was cloaked and lost amid the glimmering trees.
"Poor fool!" he murmured. "Or am I the fool?
With all my fast ascendency in arms,
That ominous clown is nearer to the King
Than I am-yet; and God knows what he knows,
And what his wits infer from what he sees
And feels and hears. I wonder what he knows
Of Lancelot, or what I might know now,
Could I have sunk myself to sound a fool
To springe a friend.. No, I like not this day.
There's a cloud coming over Camelot
Larger than any that is in the sky,-
Or Merlin would be still in Brittany,
With Vivian and the viols. It's all too strange."

And later, when descending to the city,
Through unavailing casements he could hear
The roaring of a mighty voice within,
Confirming fervidly his own conviction:
"It's all too strange, and half the world's half crazy!"-
He scowled: "Well, I agree with Lamorak."
He frowned, and passed: "And I like not this day."

Clay Death · « **Reply #257 on:** March 18, 2016, 10:54:51 pm »

Clay Death · « **Reply #258 on:** March 18, 2016, 10:56:15 pm »

pryzmsticv · « **Reply #259 on:** March 18, 2016, 11:31:23 pm »

You have been busy sire, the prose is exquisite. The poems done ov Camelot, King Author, Sir Lancelot & lady Guinevere, are all in their length. Would you not say. Thank you for sharing dear.😚

pryzmsticv · « **Reply #260 on:** March 18, 2016, 11:54:06 pm »

TO HOLD

Needing to hold you tight, making luv to you, thru out the night.
Visions to you would excite, in your dreams you expedite.
Ecstasy to demure, when you see me in the mirror.
To feel a touch to illicit, just as much as you explicit.
If you could only see, what my visions show me.
You would have no fear, for your heart I do endear.
My admiration, for your soul.
Your luv, is still in your control
Someday I'll be, within your arms to hold.

EquineAnn · « **Reply #261 on:** March 19, 2016, 02:48:50 am »

I love your latest poem.

Clay Death · « **Reply #262 on:** March 19, 2016, 11:06:05 pm »

The Myth Of Arthur

- Poem by Gilbert Keith Chesterton

O learned man who never learned to learn,
Save to deduce, by timid steps and small,
From towering smoke that fire can never burn
And from tall tales that men were never tall.
Say, have you thought what manner of man it is
Of who men say "He could strike giants down" ?
Or what strong memories over time's abyss
Bore up the pomp of Camelot and the crown.
And why one banner all the background fills,
Beyond the pageants of so many spears,
And by what witchery in the western hills
A throne stands empty for a thousand years.
Who hold, unheeding this immense impact,
Immortal story for a mortal sin;
Lest human fable touch historic fact,
Chase myths like moths, and fight them with a pin.
Take comfort; rest--there needs not this ado.
You shall not be a myth, I promise you.

Clay Death · « **Reply #263 on:** March 19, 2016, 11:08:36 pm »

Thank You, Knightly Warrior

- Poem by MoonBee Canady

Thank You, Kind Sir
Gentle Warrior
For Showing Me
Chivalrous Honor

And Deference
And Defense
In Reference
To Your Worthy Strength

“Stuck In Traffic
‘Til Triple A”
Waiting for Rescue
You Saved The Day!

With Your Efforts
In My Behalf
While Others Passed By
… and Laughed

and So, For Your
Endeavor
I Now Give You
A Silken Favor …

Of Compliments
And Ovation
With Maidenly
Admiration

For, So It Does
To Remind Me
Of Days Of ‘Yore
And Gallantry

Your Good Manners
Of Shining Armor
A Shining Example
Of High Caliber

You Must Have Heard
Of Camelot
This Deed, You’ve Done
Like Lancelot

Thank You, Kind Sir
Knightly Warrior
You Took Sword From Stone
Like King Arthur

And Yea’ For My
Modest Gratitude
A Hail To Thee
With Amplitude

You Took No Payment
But Pleasantry
And A Smile and
Chaste Kiss Of Poetry …

… Upon Modern
Coat Of Mail
Let Your Shoulder
Tell The Tale...

Of An Embrace
In Innocence
Where My Lipstick Set
Marked Your Epaulette …

… Your Brave Medal
For Your Valor
On Yon Shirt Sleeve
Shown In Mirror

And, Whence You See
Thence, Think Of Me …
As A Lady Troubadour
Sings Of Your Knightly Lore

Clay Death · « **Reply #264 on:** March 19, 2016, 11:38:46 pm »

Madame Of Dreams

- Poem by William Stanley Braithwaite

KNOW a household made of pure delight,
That sits within a garden of quietness:
A welcomed visitor by day or night,
I win a refuge from life's storm and stress.
Ah, here no footfalls cease and then resume,
Nor sounds of closing doors nor creaking beams;
And throned within her favorite gold room
Amid the roses' perfume and the gloom,
I greet my smiling hostess, Madame of Dreams.

I know not how I won so dear a friend,
I know not of her family or her race;
Her voice is a sweet music without end
Unfolding the wistful beauty of her face.
She has known all the world s great tragedies ---
Was at the ruins of Troy and Actium;
And her deep heart holds many memories
That are the ghosts of countless aching sighs
Dead lovers uttered ere their lips grew dumb.

She seems so old from her experience ---
With Egypt's queen she sailed along the Nile ---
She heard Demosthenes great eloquence ---
Saw Camelot melt 'neath Arthur s golden smile.
But Time has dealt with her as with the sea,
Whereon it leaves not any scars nor seams;
And like a bud that breaks at last to be
A faultless rose June s dews and suns decree ---
Beauty and Youth have crowned Madame of
Dreams.

EquineAnn · « **Reply #265 on:** March 20, 2016, 07:47:22 am »

They are very good poems you shared with Lady Victoria, Clay.

Clay Death · « **Reply #266 on:** March 20, 2016, 10:13:08 pm »

Quote from: EquineAnn on March 20, 2016, 07:47:22 am

They are very good poems you shared with Lady Victoria, Clay.

thanks lady Ann.

glad you are enjoying Victoria's Poetry Stop.

Clay Death · « **Reply #267 on:** March 20, 2016, 10:14:11 pm »

Camelot

- Poem by Julia Ann Holliday

Camelot, rich imagination of mystery and power,
King Arthur, Merlin, the magic sword of Excalibur.
Fair maiden Guinevere, Arthur's queen,
A beloved wife, but faithful not,
Knights of the round table, and heroic Sir Lancelot.
Wonderful places, in these stories of old,
To bring dreams of romance with knights gallant and bold.
A sad tale of forbidden love affair to hurt Kings pride,
Story set in rugged English countryside.
Passionate love affair between Guinevere and Sir Lancelot,
Bringing trouble to enchanted castle at Camelot.
This love triangle, happy and sad, thrived in the golden mist,
But Mordred, evil knight, put end to this.
Guinevere to burn at stake, to save kings face,
Sir lancelot rescues her,
But now they have to leave enchanted place.
After bloodshed, tears, sad fall for all,
Enchanted land torn apart that day,
Sad music on a mandolin does play,
For broken holy law,
The price they had to pay.

Clay Death · « **Reply #268 on:** March 20, 2016, 10:21:29 pm »

King Ryence's Challenge

- Poem by Anonymous Olde English

As it fell out on a Pentecost day,
King Arthur at Camelot kept his court royall,
With his faire queen dame Guenever the gay,
And many bold barons sitting in hall,
With ladies attired in purple and pall,
And heraults in hewkes, hooting on high,
Cryed, Largesse, Largesse, Chevaliers tres-hardie.

A doughty dwarfe to the uppermost deas
Right pertlye gan pricke, kneeling on knee;
With steven fulle stoute amids all the preas,
Say'd, 'Nowe Sir King Arthur, God save thee and see!
Sir Ryence of North-Gales greeteth well thee,
And bids thee thy beard anon to him send,
Or else from thy jaws he will it off rend.

'For his robe of state is a rich scarlet mantle,
With eleven kings beards bordered about,
And there is room lefte yet in a kantle,
For thine to stande, to make the twelfth out.
This must be done, be thou never so stout;
This must be done, I tell thee no fable,
Maugre the teethe of all thy Round Table.'

When this mortal message from his mouthe past,
Great was the noyse bothe in hall and in bower:
The king fum'd; the queene screecht; ladies were aghast;
Princes puff'd; barons blustred; lords began lower;
Knights stormed; squires startled, like steeds in a stower;
Pages and yeoman yell'd out in the hall;
Then in came Sir Kay, the 'king's' seneschal.

'Silence, my soveraignes,' quoth this courteous knight,
And in that stound the stowre began still:
'Then' the dwarfe's diner full deerely was dight;
Of wine and wassel he had his wille,
And when he had eaten and drunken his fill,
An hundred pieces of fine coyned gold
Were given this dwarf for this message bold.

'But say to Sir Ryence, thou dwarf,' quoth the king,
'That for his bold message I do him defye,
And shortlye with basins and pans will him ring
Out of North-Gales; where he and I
With swords, and not razors, quickly shall trye,
Whether he, or King Arthur, will prove the best barbor:'
And therewith he shook his good sword Escalabor.

Clay Death · « **Reply #269 on:** March 20, 2016, 10:23:26 pm »

Madame Of Dreams

- Poem by William Stanley Braithwaite

KNOW a household made of pure delight,
That sits within a garden of quietness:
A welcomed visitor by day or night,
I win a refuge from life's storm and stress.
Ah, here no footfalls cease and then resume,
Nor sounds of closing doors nor creaking beams;
And throned within her favorite gold room
Amid the roses' perfume and the gloom,
I greet my smiling hostess, Madame of Dreams.

I know not how I won so dear a friend,
I know not of her family or her race;
Her voice is a sweet music without end
Unfolding the wistful beauty of her face.
She has known all the world s great tragedies ---
Was at the ruins of Troy and Actium;
And her deep heart holds many memories
That are the ghosts of countless aching sighs
Dead lovers uttered ere their lips grew dumb.

She seems so old from her experience ---
With Egypt's queen she sailed along the Nile ---
She heard Demosthenes great eloquence ---
Saw Camelot melt 'neath Arthur s golden smile.
But Time has dealt with her as with the sea,
Whereon it leaves not any scars nor seams;
And like a bud that breaks at last to be
A faultless rose June s dews and suns decree ---
Beauty and Youth have crowned Madame of
Dreams.

CAMELOT FANTASIES

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Author Topic: Victoria's Poetry Stop (Read 55828 times)

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