Poetry – Page 2 – Phil Slattery, Writer, Publisher

“Tithonus” by Alfred, Lord Tennyson

The woods decay, the woods decay and fall,
The vapours weep their burthen to the ground,
Man comes and tills the field and lies beneath,
And after many a summer dies the swan.

Me only cruel immortality
Consumes; I wither slowly in thine arms,
Here at the quiet limit of the world,
A white-hair’d shadow roaming like a dream
The ever-silent spaces of the East,
Far-folded mists, and gleaming halls of morn.

Alas! for this gray shadow, once a man–
So glorious in his beauty and thy choice,
Who madest him thy chosen, that he seem’d
To his great heart none other than a God!

I ask’d thee, “Give me immortality.”
Then didst thou grant mine asking with a smile,
Like wealthy men who care not how they give.
But thy strong Hours indignant work’d their wills,
And beat me down and marr’d and wasted me,
And tho’ they could not end me, left me maim’d
To dwell in presence of immortal youth,
Immortal age beside immortal youth,
And all I was in ashes. Can thy love
Thy beauty, make amends, tho’ even now,
Close over us, the silver star, thy guide,
Shines in those tremulous eyes that fill with tears
To hear me? Let me go: take back thy gift:
Why should a man desire in any way
To vary from the kindly race of men,
Or pass beyond the goal of ordinance
Where all should pause, as is most meet for all?

A soft air fans the cloud apart; there comes
A glimpse of that dark world where I was born.
Once more the old mysterious glimmer steals
From thy pure brows, and from thy shoulders pure,
And bosom beating with a heart renew’d.

Thy cheek begins to redden thro’ the gloom,
Thy sweet eyes brighten slowly close to mine,
Ere yet they blind the stars, and the wild team
Which love thee, yearning for thy yoke, arise,
And shake the darkness from their loosen’d manes,
And beat the twilight into flakes of fire.

Lo! ever thus thou growest beautiful
In silence, then before thine answer given
Departest, and thy tears are on my cheek

Poem: “Come with Me, My Love”

This is a poem I wrote in the late 80’s to early 90’s, most likely some time between 1988 and 1991, when I was living in Alexandria, Virginia, dating around and frequenting the bars in Old Town Alexandria. I don’t recall the circumstances under which I wrote this, just the feeling of these being the emotions of walking home around 2:00 a.m. after closing time.

This is the opening poem of my first volume of verse, Nocturne: Poems of Love, Distance, and the Night, a callous and disinterested lover. Nocturne will be free on Amazon Kindle on February 23. I published it on Valentine’s Day of this year.

Going through my computer files tonight, I believe I have discovered some poems unintentionally left out. Stand by for a second edition. I hope you enjoy this poem.

Come with me, my love
and I will show you
nights of love
full of life and laughter
as empty as an empty
bottle rattling down a cobblestone
street blown by a chill
wind

Come with me, my love
and I will show you
nights of love
full of lust and passion
as lonely as a lonely
man pacing off a deserted street
under the brisk October moon
its cold light muted
in the mists

As the fog embraces you
like a one-night stand in a town
of dying dreams where
hopes lie scattered on the barroom floor
with cigarette butts and the dust
of endless roads

Bring me to that ultimate pleasure
in your all-consuming eyes.
Let us become one
and share the horrors of this
world
as only
lovers can.

Poem: “Come with Me, My Love”

Going through my computer files tonight, I believe I have discovered some poems unintentionally left out. Stand by for a second edition. I hope you enjoy this poem.

Come with me, my love
and I will show you
nights of love
full of life and laughter
as empty as an empty
bottle rattling down a cobblestone
street blown by a chill
wind

Come with me, my love
and I will show you
nights of love
full of lust and passion
as lonely as a lonely
man pacing off a deserted street
under the brisk October moon
its cold light muted
in the mists

As the fog embraces you
like a one-night stand in a town
of dying dreams where
hopes lie scattered on the barroom floor
with cigarette butts and the dust
of endless roads

Bring me to that ultimate pleasure
in your all-consuming eyes.
Let us become one
and share the horrors of this
world
as only
lovers can.

Poem: “Come with Me, My Love”

Going through my computer files tonight, I believe I have discovered some poems unintentionally left out. Stand by for a second edition. I hope you enjoy this poem.

Come with me, my love
and I will show you
nights of love
full of life and laughter
as empty as an empty
bottle rattling down a cobblestone
street blown by a chill
wind

Come with me, my love
and I will show you
nights of love
full of lust and passion
as lonely as a lonely
man pacing off a deserted street
under the brisk October moon
its cold light muted
in the mists

As the fog embraces you
like a one-night stand in a town
of dying dreams where
hopes lie scattered on the barroom floor
with cigarette butts and the dust
of endless roads

Bring me to that ultimate pleasure
in your all-consuming eyes.
Let us become one
and share the horrors of this
world
as only
lovers can.

“Her Strong Enchantments Failing” by A.E. Housman

Her strong enchantments failing,
Her towers of fear in wreck,
Her limbecks dried of poisons
And the knife at her neck,

The Queen of air and darkness
Begins to shrill and cry,
“O young man, O my slayer,
To-morrow you shall die.”

O Queen of air and darkness,
I think ’tis truth you say,
And I shall die tomorrow;
But you will die to-day.

A Short Analysis of Dylan Thomas’s ‘Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night’

Powerful reading: A reading of a classic poem ‘Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night’ is probably the best-known villanelle in English poetry. If you’re not sure what a villanelle is, don’t worry – it’s not importan…

Source: A Short Analysis of Dylan Thomas’s ‘Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night’

‘I am the master of my fate’: A Short Analysis of William Ernest Henley’s ‘Invictus’

A summary of a classic poem ‘Invictus’ is a famous poem, even to those who haven’t heard of it. This is because, although the title ‘Invictus’ may mean little to some (other than, perhaps, as the t…

Source: ‘I am the master of my fate’: A Short Analysis of William Ernest Henley’s ‘Invictus’

A Flash to the Past: “The Listeners” by Walter de la Mare (1912)

Walter de la Mare June, 1924 from the National Portrait Gallery — Walter de la Mare
June, 1924
from the National Portrait Gallery

‘Is there anybody there?’ said the Traveller,
Knocking on the moonlit door;
And his horse in the silence champed the grasses
Of the forest’s ferny floor:
And a bird flew up out of the turret,
Above the Traveller’s head
And he smote upon the door again a second time;
‘Is there anybody there?’ he said.
But no one descended to the Traveller;
No head from the leaf-fringed sill
Leaned over and looked into his grey eyes,
Where he stood perplexed and still.
But only a host of phantom listeners
That dwelt in the lone house then
Stood listening in the quiet of the moonlight
To that voice from the world of men:
Stood thronging the faint moonbeams on the dark stair,
That goes down to the empty hall,
Hearkening in an air stirred and shaken
By the lonely Traveller’s call.
And he felt in his heart their strangeness,
Their stillness answering his cry,
While his horse moved, cropping the dark turf,
‘Neath the starred and leafy sky;
For he suddenly smote on the door, even
Louder, and lifted his head:—
‘Tell them I came, and no one answered,
That I kept my word,’ he said.
Never the least stir made the listeners,
Though every word he spake
Fell echoing through the shadowiness of the still house
From the one man left awake:
Ay, they heard his foot upon the stirrup,
And the sound of iron on stone,
And how the silence surged softly backward,
When the plunging hoofs were gone.

The Saturday Night Special: “Red is the Color of Blood” by Conrad Aiken (1918)

RED is the color of blood, and I will seek it:

I have sought it in the grass.

It is the color of steep sun seen through eyelids.

It is hidden under the suave flesh of women–

Flows there, quietly flows.

It mounts from the heart to the temples, the singing

mouth–

As cold sap climbs to the rose.

I am confused in webs and knots of scarlet

Spun from the darkness;

Or shuttled from the mouths of thirsty spiders.

Madness for red! I devour the leaves of autumn.

I tire of the green of the world.

I am myself a mouth for blood …

Here, in the golden haze of the late slant sun,

Let us walk, with the light in our eyes,

To a single bench from the outset predetermined.

Look: there are seagulls in these city skies,

Kindled against the blue.

But I do not think of the seagulls, I think of you.

Your eyes, with the late sun in them,

Are like blue pools dazzled with yellow petals.

This pale green suits them well.

Here is your finger, with an emerald on it:

The one I gave you. I say these things politely–

But what I think beneath them, who can tell?

For I think of you, crumpled against a whiteness;

Flayed and torn, with a dulled face.

I think of you, writing, a thing of scarlet,

And myself, rising red from that embrace.

November sun is sunlight poured through honey:

Old things, in such a light, grow subtle and fine.

Bare oaks are like still fire.

Talk to me: now we drink the evening’s wine.

Look, how our shadows creep along the grave!–

And this way, how the gravel begins to shine!

This is the time of day for recollections,

For sentimental regrets, oblique allusions,

Rose-leaves, shrivelled in a musty jar.

Scatter them to the wind! There are tempests coming.

It is dark, with a windy star.

If human mouths were really roses, my dear,–

(Why must we link things so?–)

I would tear yours petal by petal with slow murder.

I would pluck the stamens, the pistils,

The gold and the green,–

Spreading the subtle sweetness that was your breath

On a cold wave of death….

Now let us walk back, slowly, as we came.

We will light the room with candles; they may shine

Like rows of yellow eyes.

Your hair is like spun fire, by candle-flame.

You smile at me–say nothing. You are wise.

For I think of you, flung down brutal darkness;

Crushed and red, with pale face.

I think of you, with your hair disordered and dripping.

And myself, rising red from that embrace.

###

This poem is from Gothic Romantic Poetry, which adds this note about Conrad Aiken:

“Conrad Aiken came from a wealthy, and well known family who were from New England but moved to Savannah, Georgia. His father was a respected physician and surgeon however for no apparent reason Conrad’s father

Conrad Aiken October 3, 2013 (photographer unknown) — Conrad Aiken
October 3, 2013
(photographer unknown)

suddenly seemed to change his temperament and became difficult to get on with and violent. Then early in the morning of February 27, 1901, he murdered his wife and shot himself. Conrad (who was eleven years old) heard the gunshots and discovered the bodies. After this tragedy he was raised by his great-great-aunt in Massachusetts.

“To read more about the life of Conrad Aiken read his autobiographical novel Ushant (1952), one of his major works which is an excellent source of information. In this book he speaks candidly about his various affairs and marriages, his attempted suicide and fear of insanity.”

The Saturday Night Special: “Annabel Lee” by Edgar Allan Poe (1849)

It was many and many a year ago,

In a kingdom by the sea,

That a maiden there lived whom you may know

By the name of Annabel Lee;

And this maiden she lived with no other thought

Than to love and be loved by me.

I was a child and she was a child,

In this kingdom by the sea,

But we loved with a love that was more than love—

I and my Annabel Lee—

With a love that the wingèd seraphs of Heaven

Coveted her and me.

And this was the reason that, long ago,

In this kingdom by the sea,

A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling

My beautiful Annabel Lee;

So that her highborn kinsmen came

And bore her away from me,

To shut her up in a sepulchre

In this kingdom by the sea.

The angels, not half so happy in Heaven,

Went envying her and me—

Yes!—that was the reason (as all men know,

In this kingdom by the sea)

That the wind came out of the cloud by night,

Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love

Of those who were older than we—

Of many far wiser than we—

And neither the angels in Heaven above

Nor the demons down under the sea

Can ever dissever my soul from the soul

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;

For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;

And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;

And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side

Of my darling—my darling—my life and my bride,

In her sepulchre there by the sea—

In her tomb by the sounding sea.

New Poetry by Marieta Maglas: “Evil Earths” (third of three poems)

Screaming voices shattering the inner mirror of love

Clattering to nothingness, searching freedom in space,

Bloody songs tightly warping their blue heaven above

In the thin and chill air disappearing without a trace,

O’er sad whispers wind whipping through the wounds

In the symphony of demons’ dreams as a hot disguise,

Bloody voices needing to build up stomping grounds,

Buried danger sprouting out to keep growing in size,

The salty tears of liquid souls forming watery waves,

Beauties in the road waiting to face with their fear of death,

Still screaming while drowning in the cold watery graves,

Tearing the silence with their groan and bleeding breath.

###

Ardus Publications, Sybaritic Press, Prolific Press, and some others published the poems of Marieta Maglas in anthologies like Tanka Journal, edited by Glenn Lyvers, The Aquillrelle Wall of Poetry, edited by Yossi Faybish, A Divine Madness: An Anthology of Modern Love Poetry, edited by John Patrick Boutilier, Near Kin:A Collection of Words and Art Inspired by Octavia Estelle Butler, edited by Marie Lecrivain, Three Line Poetry #25, edited by Glenn Lyvers, ENCHANTED – Love Poems and Abstract Art, edited by Gabrielle de la Fair, and Intercontinental Anthology of Poetry on Universal Peace and Love, edited by Madan Gandhi

New Poetry by Marieta Maglas: “Blind Reality” (second of three poems)

Hollow-eyed shades

of human beings,

human beings

cogitating on jazz music,

jazz penetrating the silence

of the bleeding angels,

angels in a fight for

the awakening of this blind reality,

monetization of

the objects & spaces, asylums,

sexual harassments

for anxious women, prostitution,

deadly ocean waves,

terrorist attacks and

Islamist militancy,

racism,

multiple vortex tornadoes

to damage gas stations,

ISIS’s strategies,

public executions, crucifixions,

vegetation fires,

emblazoned clothes

and precious stones,

children murdered

in egregious crackdowns,

meteorite impacts,

wars,

illegal immigration,

exposed naked bodies,

powerful quakes striking

near the plate boundaries,

changes

in refugee policies,

kidnappings, sales of

stolen artifacts, drugs,

protests blocking roads, landslides,

macroeconomic policies,

casino culture,

silent strategies of democracies,

food securities

for starving people,

food price increases,

Monsoon rains

and flash floods,

nuclear disasters,

smiling volcanoes,

human cells mixed up with

animal embryos,

sphinxes, thermal shocks

caused by global warming,

dengue fever, songs,

warming parties, temporary work,

seasonal unemployment,

low wages,

alcoholic cocktails,

ill people not displaying symptoms,

Zika and Chikungunya viruses,

birth defects, theatrical triumphs,

crime watchers,

new hairstyles,

glacier calving,

different drivers having

different styles to run their cars,

cars blinking their headlights

while their motors scream,

screaming trees and revolvers

that shoot up walls to write lyrics,

lyrics of jazz penetrating the silence

of the bleeding angels,

angels in a fight for

the awakening of this new reality.

###

John Patrick Boutilier, Near Kin:A Collection of Words and Art Inspired by Octavia Estelle Butler, edited by Marie Lecrivain, Three Line Poetry #25, edited by Glenn Lyvers, ENCHANTED – Love Poems and Abstract Art, edited by Gabrielle de la Fair, and Intercontinental Anthology of Poetry on Universal Peace and Love, edited by Madan Gandhi.

New Poetry by Marieta Maglas: “Screaming Mannequins” (first of three poems)

Eyes huddled in fear,

that paralyzing fear in front of

the bullets mercilessly sprayed,

deeply sprayed by some cruelty,

which is fed up

with a lot of victims,

those defenseless victims of hate,

a dreadful hate,

which is fed up with a little love

as well as

a little pleasure can be fed up

with a lot of pain,

that extreme pain,

which embellishes the madness,

one round and seemingly

nonexistent madness being like

a strange cold having

many moisturized rosy-red,

rosy-red ring-shaped patches

associated with

a giant Quincke swelling

and with a boisterous cooling

noisy breath,

that snorting breath

like a groaning song,

a love song for a dance of death,

that painful death for all the hot puppets,

beautiful puppets becoming

cold wax mannequins,

those mannequins screaming

in their red rain

of feelings,

those red feelings coloring

a few sad moments,

cool moments of many winter fires

those burning fires

in the lost caves of shadows.

###

Ardus Publications, Sybaritic Press, Prolific Press, and some others published the poems of Marieta Maglas in anthologies like Tanka Journal,

edited by Glenn Lyvers, The Aquillrelle Wall of Poetry, edited by Yossi Faybish, A Divine Madness: An Anthology of Modern Love Poetry, edited by John Patrick Boutilier, Near Kin:A Collection of Words and Art Inspired by Octavia Estelle Butler, edited by Marie Lecrivain, Three Line Poetry #25, edited by Glenn Lyvers, ENCHANTED – Love Poems and Abstract Art, edited by Gabrielle de la Fair, and Intercontinental Anthology of Poetry on Universal Peace and Love, edited by Madan Gandhi.

Winter’s Last Battle

By Sandy Wilson I am winter bringer of darkness and death Like Bonaparte I have laid waste to your lands Chilled you to your very souls You, Spring bringer of light and life Foolishly you thought I…

Source: Winter’s Last Battle

The Shadow

By DMG Byrnes The doll stood upon the bookshelf; piercing eyes in a cold China face overseeing the room from this royal perch. Light from the streetlamp cast a golden glow over the painted face and…

Source: The Shadow