Best Huxley Poems
At the station Paton stares at me from the train bound for Johannesburg
He leaves a note to remember to mop up where the roof leaks
This is after the British take Achebe and I's gods away
before sitting back down on their buttocks
When I take their son in Taylor draws my black skin being thrashed by the wind
I feel the kid burying me before the ship comes
I resurrect, thanking Wendt for at least some power and glory
before stupid maggots come and eat up my winnings
Orwell hires me to feed his pigs when I'm broke
I want to kill them when they stand up on two legs and talk back to me
Smith and I meet at Catholic school and ditch Boys' Club together
His brother catches him and I hide across the street as he gets a beating
I run into Fitzsimmons who's looking for Les Darcy
I tell him, 'I'm not his girl, go ask Winnie where he went'
They make Ihimaera and I run errands at the family gathering
I tell myself we're either cousins or enemies: don't fall for him
That same night Huxley and I get high on soma
He passes out on the beach and I run back home to sleep it off
The stabbing wakes me up in time to tell Selby to go tahell
He gets up in my face and tells me plainly to be honest with myself
It's strange after that...just me and Bukowski waiting for a bus
He puts up with me and I fall in love with the pungent smell of him.
Categories:
huxley, books, history, language, literature,
Form:
Free verse
Watch out, brother,
An eye's following you,
Watching what you do,
Each movement remembered.
Don't cheat,
Don't steal,
Don't breathe too loud,
Someone's sure to find out.
Each flaw, each mistake,
And blow it up big.
Your life's another production,
A movie or an album.
There's a camera pointed at the Hollywood signed,
And another on a stop sign, pointed at you.
Please, halt at the white line,
Or they'll never let you live it down.
Watch out, brother,
You'll let them in your head,
And they'll eat away your thoughts.
It's less painful and time consuming to open your head,
Hand them a spoon
And let them dig in.
Brainwash isn't just a swirled, black and white spinning background.
It's every advertisement,
Every restaurant,
Every street corner news vendor,
Every word that leaves the mouths of the men and women who are supposed to represent our
fellow man.
Watch out, brother,
Read the words of our forefathers:
George Orwell, Aldous Huxley, and the men who had insight.
They predicted outrageous futures,
But oh, how right they're becoming.
The clock's about to strike thirteen!
Please open your eyes,
There's much to be seen.
Remember brotherhood of man,
An unspoken code of empathy, understanding, and a willingness to lend a hand?
It's melting away into apathy,
An emotion only surpassed by hatred.
Watch out, brother,
You think I'm a skeptic,
But I'm not.
I'm a thinker,
I see truth through a thick smog of lies.
I won't tell you what to see, hear or eat.
I'll only help guide you.
I'll be the lens of a monocle,
To help you see clearer,
But I won't give you answers.
I am not them,
I believe in the freedom of thought,
Think what you may,
Fine by me,
Just promise you'll watch out,
Brother.
Categories:
huxley, brother, educationmen,
Form:
"WINTER"
the beautiful season
of suspension
where we find
our true selves
hibernating
under sacred blankets
of wisdom won
dreaming of all
the days past, gone
in the never complete
and we dream
in songs
of the other life
approaching
beautiful,
inviolate,
lilting pure,
lighter, pristine,
more truer
than true
than the heavy
coloured cloaks
covering lost victories
in the dedicated Obscure
never wrong
never won
(LadyLabyrinth/ 2021)
vcb-llb
(john 1:42 NIV)
“In Exile”, The Silver Tree/Lisa Gerrard
https://youtu.be/fjXqfjjFK_k
(john 1 NIV)
“O light! This is the cry
of all the characters
of ancient drama
brought face to face
with their fate.
This last resort
was ours, too,
and I knew it now.
In the middle of winter
I at last discovered
that there was in me
an invincible summer.”
(Albert Camus, L’été)
“A poet is a blind optimist.
The world is against him
for many reasons.
But the poet persists.
He believes
that he is on the right track,
no matter what
any of his fellow men say.
In his eternal search for truth,
the poet is alone.
He tries to be timeless
in a society built on time.”
(Kerouac)
"For small creatures
such as we,
the vastness
is bearable
only through
love."
(Carl Sagan)
“There are things known
and there are things unknown,
and in between
are the doors of perception.”
(Aldous Huxley)
"As Above, So Below"
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/As_above,_so_below
https://linguaholic.com/linguablog/as-above-so-below-meaning/
https://wikireligions.com/as-above-so-below/
Categories:
huxley, dark, death, dream, life,
Form:
Free verse
A new day perhaps, of immeasurable tin, sound of din
A hurricane noise, a thrall of riotous cuts, although thin
The blood-curdle choke of rage from before
Now purchased like plasma from the needle store
Go hump yourself, If you want my schtick, you vampire whore
You’ve had enough since the Garden, Lillith, you’ll not get more
Now the ratio between human, vampire, dragon and other dead
Has been cast with fair radiant echo against the nuclear thread
A shroud sewn with Alcubierre’s hand and Teller’s eye
Will re-write the laws of your time to die
Not forced by the forced prison of your local priest
Or enticed by Babylon to take part in it’s wicked feast
The work that was promised to Adam and re-framed unto Cain
To un-curse the valley, glen and land: to filter Acid from Rain
With thorns o- the rose coming loose from the Bush
And snakes running hither or thither in scintillate Rush
The Oracle of Satan found new charms to spread in perfect Cube
Could be the shape of Sound Maynard or Max’s Cubic Rube
The Time of Orwell Now and Jobs spelling Apple at his Side
And Sting writing programs for the Cops, whom along for the Ride
the Bladerunner checkin for humans among the technical horde
Huxley detected the separate spirit, lobotimized souls, Model T Fords
And Harrison checked again with electric sleep on the Brain
A tear for Summer, or a vision for Canticles, a wave almost Inane
With countless ages past since the Dust of Sumer lent
It’s hell-bound rasp of gutteral destruction spent
The awful wave of gas, a riotous nuclear blast
In the once Green land where sage grew fast
The dim spectre of time has given up the ghost
With markets bazar and material plenty, yet consider the cost
From Alabaster bone the Ocean’s a-shallow
The Mermaids remember the times that were fallow
Year upon year the bi-peds walked without aim or deed
That could count for fullness, even yet upon steed
Even in those ages of lore when upon horse they’d trot
Or with Gasoline chariot to the park like Mel Ot
None could account for the empty space of land
Or like Kieth Stone, bend down and till without turning into sand
The eidolons of time, immemorable: drooping, eternal clocks
An echo of murmurs, drogue and sorrow, indifferent as the rocks
Whom would not cry out, with refusal of price
None could garner their strength or bleed them twice
Categories:
huxley, 11th grade, absence, allusion,
Form:
Abecedarian
This is the great big world we will see.
It begins inside this hatchery.
Since Our Ford made it reality,
it has been home for both you and me.
These are the children of tomorrow.
Give them happiness without sorrow.
In harmonious community,
we are strong with solidarity.
Zygotes renew our identity;
each a pillar of stability.
We will expand our society.
It is possible with you and me.
From the alpha down to epsilon,
the quilt is sewn at each echelon.
We insure that life shall carry on
We shall make each stitch continuous.
All our borders are contiguous.
With Ford’s help, it shall be congruous.
Take pride in your working as you go.
Care for the fetuses. Watch them grow.
These are the children of tomorrow.
Based on the 1932 novel "Brave New World" by the late Aldous Huxley
Categories:
huxley, adventure, science fictionchildren,
Form:
Rhyme
had Julian been even a sparkle in his
mom’s eyes
when Ray put the pen to Fahrenheit 451,
one might have witness the light being
passed
straight from one hand to the next---
from Zamyatin to
Huxley & from Huxley to
Orwell & from Orwell to
Mr. Bradbury & from Mr. Bradbury to
Burgess, from Burgess to Atwood &
onward &
as one picks up the torch,
cranking the floodlights on the
dastardly deeds of the empire at hand
12 more flick on their lighters,
17 more strike matches &
light candles, whilst the flashlights,
the spotlights, the headlights,
the energy saving sunlight bulbs &
even the bug lights,
all spread like rampant wildfire
throughout the world,
continuing the tradition
(one of the few worth keeping)---
Julian & Wikileaks, Anonymous &
LulzSec,
should not be assaulted but instead
hailed for what they are doing,
as the work they are producing is
of immeasurable value to our species---
they all run with the flame burning bright &
though idiots across the board still
buy into the propaganda peddled by the
masters spending $5 billion a year in
the campaign to brainwash more of us
citizens into
numbness,
we who work in the light
unafraid of these attempts still failing
miserably on us,
raise our lights in unison
for one day this world will be lit
perpetually, and not the largest
industrial blower of any kind
promulgated by the powers that be,
will be able to extinguish it.
Categories:
huxley, life, work, work,
Form:
Free verse
1. Kelly Lune:
silk rose under dome
opaque glass
thwarted love preserved
2. Jack Collom Lune:
the faded corsage
under a dusty glass dome—
missed spring ball
NOT FOR CONTEST
POET'S NOTES
The lune (aka American haiku) created by New York-based poet Robert Kelly (1935–) in the 1960s consists of 5-3-5 syllables (the 13 syllables correspond to the 13 lunar months), and the shape resembles a crescent moon hence it is never centred on the page. Later, poet Jack Collom (1931–2017) came up with the word-count-variant, The Lune, that is more popular today, namely, 3-5-3 words per line representing a gibbous moon. No cutting word required (it may employ enjambment); and any subject matter (reference to nature is not a prerequisite). Punctuation, capitalisation, and rhyme is the prerogative of the poet.
The following poetic forms are akin in design to the Lune: Empty Moon, by Alan Mudd (a 9 word poem—3 words per line); Leaf, by Joseph Braun & Marielle Grenade-Willis (The Braun leaf is an eleven syllable couplet: 6-5. The Grenade-Willis leaf is an eleven syllable tercet: 3-5-3); elevenie or elfchen, German meaning little eleven, (1-2-3-4-5 syllables per line with specific structure requirements); and triplet.
The triplet is a three word poem—usually no capital letters or punctuation is used. As a linguistic geometry the triplet may be seen as a triangle in two ways: 1. each word is a leg, or 2. each word is an angle. One of the principle insights one gains when producing triplets is a functional knowledge of how (and under which circumstances) words form especially reliable structural bonds; it often enjoins adjectives to a special noun. A famous triplet by Aldous Huxley:
Brave New World
Categories:
huxley, lost love, poetry, seasons,
Form:
Other
War & Peace
We agree most of the time war is caused
By capitalism, nationalism, in fact, any isms
Demagogues and murky propaganda
These entities can`t fight wars without soldiers
And there are too many young men who
Simply love the idea of wearing arms and fight
They go to war the survivors are veterans
They know now they have fought for nothing
In despair, they take to drink and drug and sink
To the bottom of the human heap
Aldous Huxley spoke of something in the water
That takes the aggression away….Good!
Only one has to be careful not making them into
Zombies with no ambition to the point the world
Disappear in the morass of apathy.
We can`t stop wars happening but we can try to
Prolong peace and make wars more infrequent.
Categories:
huxley, absence,
Form:
Blank verse
Sitting, I am graceful
Still,
And ever paceful.
I am waiting.
Waiting for you to die.
I let loose a slow soft purr
-I am content at the thought -
As I sit and stare,
At your body ageing,
And failing
No longer intimately engaging.
Even your once silvery-white shine
Has diminished to a dull grey.
Young and lean your were the night owl
Lurching, taut and on the prowl,
Lean: you sported no spare ounce,
You pull but I pounce.
Don't you know that cats eat birds, oh fair owl?
I look upon you now
Frail and infirm
An owl with broken wings
that still insists on trying to fly
I'm still waiting
Still waiting for you to die.
I swish from left to right
Impatient.
Angry that you still choose to fight.
You rasp for one last kiss
I paw
Trying to catch this final fleeting moment
The sound of our saliva – a discordant hiss
Your lips become still
Your hands limp
And just like that you pass.
In death you are serene
Framed within your silvery-white hair
Long-since-lost longing re-emerges
As I look upon your face so fair
In shame I hold my breath
and weep as I feel a sense of freedom
upon your death.
Now our home is different
Your painful moaning replaced by
playful purring,
The cloying sense of death
In the air
Replaced by the feel of
Soft soft fur.
His 'meow' wakes me
The sight of my tom-cat Teddy
Takes me.
True there were many of them – tiny tiny things
All big bright eyes
Pouncing with vivacity
Unbridled
Prowling with ferocity
Unbound
But the failing, wobbly tomcat
Making the hissing sound
Inexplicably took my breath away.
I stroke his frail neck,
A barely audible purr responds,
He struggles to my lap
He no longer wants to play.
I stroke his once silvery-white fur
Now diminished to a dull grey.
Rebecca.A.Huxley
Categories:
huxley, bereavement, husband, loneliness, pets,
Form:
Narrative
John the Savage was overwhelmed with consternation.
This “Brave New World” of London was not like the reservation.
Nobody cared about their final fates
as they frolicked with numerous promiscuous mates.
His mother Linda died, and nobody cared.
This was another factor that left him scared.
Here was the total degeneration of morality.
In a secluded lighthouse, he sought to be solitary.
Based on the novel “Brave New World” by the late Aldous Huxley
Categories:
huxley, adventure, science fiction, social,
Form:
Rhyme
Hello hound from hell
Pretending to cower in the corner
Dripping, snarling fangs
Come to feast
On all I have.
I scavenge what little remains
Making do with what’s left:
the debris
the refuse
the dregs
the waste
- the things the hound didn’t want
Chewed up.
And spat back out.
What’s left is tainted
Drenched in the same gloopy dew
The halitosis of hell
Lingers on what’s left of me.
My love - its litter
For all its leavings
Pungent, hot and steamy
- not at all what I had imagined passion to be.
My strength - its chew toy
Tattered pieces
Litter the halls
Of my tooth-marked heart.
My confidence - a forgotten memory
The hound’s indelible presence
Has me wet
With the mark of its territory
My hope - a hopeless game of tug of war
I pull and hold on
Until my hands and heart
are bloody raw.
Rebecca .A. Huxley
Categories:
huxley, analogy, depression, imagery, mental
Form:
Free verse
... then again I'm almost 24
but i wish i could be 8 again, Kobe
Ignorance isn't bliss, it's a door
of perception, shoutout to Huxley
Bliss is knowledge & knowledge is power
& that's an insurmountable tower
but all the fun's in climbing...
Where it'll take you's impossible to foresee
But you can't put a price on bein' free
Free from the parameters of society
an people tellin' you what to think....
i speak what i think and do what i speak
and It took me awhile to find that sync
So... If you speak what you think
and you've been told what to think
Isn't that just a lip-synch?
Buy this, buy that
What we've got is fine!
Come and live amid the poverty line
& you might change your mind
about what you think you need
All that people remember are deeds
and they'll often only remember recently
Gimme gimme gimme gimme gimme
But please don't concede
You get what you give, guaranteed
Lord forgive me but you left alotta debris
And you programmed us oh so greedy
They should call religion the lottery
Pick 1 out of 10,000, Hail Mary!
Ohhh... what's it mean to be alive?
i used to be scared to die
Until i looked death in the eye
And you know what he told me?
Try and imagine before you were born
That's all death is, no need to mourn
Realize this and you have eternity...
Categories:
huxley, age, allusion, anxiety, chanukah,
Form:
Rhyme
& huxley is giggling in his grave
if aldous was still alive,
he’d laugh himself to death
when confronted with the new evidence
that Zogenix’s
brand new spanking drug
“Zohydro,”
is yet another installment in mankind’s race
to create “soma,”
the government sponsored drug
he wrote of in Brave New World,
which would send us all into an
anesthetized oblivion,
so much so that eating, sleeping & sex
would hold second priority to
its ingestion, bearing
“All the advantages of Christianity
and alcohol; none of their defect.”
and the mad doctors in big pharma
are working night & day to pump out this
new prescription opiod narcotic---
a drug containing “10 times the amount of
hydrocodone as that of Vicodin,”
whose pure form would no longer be split with
acetaminophen,
like those versions that exist today,
so much weaker than this new
novelty,
whose timed-released quality could easily be
circumvented, by crushing the drug &
hence producing “an intense, immediate high.”
there are those voices that no one listens to,
like the National Coalition Against Prescription
Drug Abuse &
the Advocates for the Reform of Prescription
Opioids,
who claim that one more legal, highly addictive,
narcotic,
need not be pushed onto the public by
government sponsored pharmaceutical companies
whose sole purpose is to hook individuals for
profit---
how fortunate big pharma is,
because if someone did listen to them,
one might suppose that all those in prison for
the sale, possession or use of narcotics
would have to be set free,
and our BIG FAT LAND OF THE FREE wouldn’t
want that,
now would we.
Categories:
huxley, life, drug,
Form:
Free verse
Thanks to Henry Ford living six hundred years before,
here is a brave new world John the Savage would explore:
The Hatching and Conditioning Center is the source
where community and stability stay on course.
A team of scientists pre-determined each life’s path;
each fetus in an in-vitro amniotic bath.
They live as an Alpha at the highest echelon,
or a mindless manual-laboring Epsilon,
or as a Beta, Gamma, or Delta in between.
Their final decision was what remained to be seen.
Did anyone seem to care about their final fates,
while frolicking with numerous promiscuous mates?
No worries about depression or what brought them down;
daily rations of Soma obviated their frown.
For John the Savage, it didn’t take him very long
to determine his presence in this place was all wrong.
He would soon be inundated with consternation
regretting when he departed the reservation.
Based on the novel "Brave New World" by the late Aldous Huxley
Categories:
huxley, science fiction
Form:
Rhyme
My own hands unadorned,
Pale in comparison
to the embellishments of your own.
The lines, creases, crevices;
the salon-pampered nails and rings
All sing
The adventures and accomplishments
of your life - both tasteful and tasteless.
The lines on your hands
Like those on a map
Meandering they criss and they cross
- so many stories
and tales of trouble
of woe
It would seem that grief follows
Wherever you go.
Rough working hands
Tell of your true origins;
They belie the extravagance
Which besits your fingers
The ring from husband number one,
The other: husband number two
You threw away husband number three
And number four?
Too soon. Too raw.
There instead sits a barely visible tan line
Of the companionship that was.
And that one elusive ring,
Whose origin you cannot place,
Too many years, too many faces
but only eight fingers
to work the miracles of a mother
in one lifetime.
You worked hard
For all you have,
Turning scrap into silver,
A hole into a house,
Your body into money
To feed a thankless family.
Life sometimes takes me back,
To moments in my past,
My fingers drumming on the car wheel
in impatience
Shouting curses
That I learnt from you.
Sitting.
Waiting.
Memories,
Slowly dissipating
Embellished hands with etched lines
and professionally-done nails and shiny rings
rest,
tapping rhythmically
on the car wheel.
Rebecca .A. Huxley
Categories:
huxley, life, mother,
Form:
Free verse