Best Profane Poems
Love
Love is but a word
To describe such an emotion
in a four-letter word
is the most profane act any human can commit.
Love is Love.
it cannot be defined by four measly letters.
Love is more than art,
more than literature,
you cannot fully describe it.
It is a unique experience,
yet anyone who has every been madly in-love
knows exactly how it feels
Yet, they too know that "love" is not an accurate analysis of that emotion
Love is beauty,
Love is peace,
Love is happiness,
Love is Joy,
Love is all around us, really, if we choose to see it.
Love is more than a four-letter word.
And I wish, there was a way, to accurately describe,
the intense, beautiful emotions,
of being madly in-love.
But I find myself,
committing the most profane act
a human could do,
In me hoping to convey to you,
what I think of you.
I love you.
For the love of my life, Dj.
Sacred and profane love by Titian - 1514
Love divine
How it burns when it falls from the sky -
how it hurts when the water is done.
How it rains with the words half-denied,
When the world looks for fabulous suns.
How it aches when the feeling's away
from the roads that are fast and are clean.
How it roars when the lights are insane,
how they fatefully touch our skin.
How I pray for this love not to fade,
How I look for your eyes in the woods,
How we crave for emotional shade,
In each other we find our roots.
Profane love
When the touch dumbs us down -
when the shadows arise,
When in passion we drown,
when there's evil disguised.
When your kiss, black as night,
slowly turns on my key,
when your arms, full of might,
burn my fragility,
When we're fruitful and hot,
when we're lost in our dreams,
When we're tied with love's knots,
So profane we might seem.
06.05.2016
(c) Maryna Tchianova, Ukraine
Love divine
How it burns when it falls from the sky -
how it hurts when the water is done.
How it rains with the words half-denied,
When the world looks for fabulous suns.
How it aches when the feeling's away
from the roads that are fast and are clean.
How it roars when the lights are insane,
how they fatefully touch our skin.
How I pray for this love not to fade,
How I look for your eyes in the woods,
How we crave for emotional shade,
In each other we find our roots.
Profane love
When the touch dumbs us down -
when the shadows arise,
When in passion we drown,
when there's evil disguised.
When your kiss, black as night,
slowly turns on my key,
when your arms, full of might,
burn my fragility,
When we're fruitful and hot,
when we're lost in our dreams,
When we're tied with love's knots,
So profane we might seem.
06.05.2016
(c) Maryna Tchianova, Ukraine
I see her as the woman on the road,
and in the distance just inside her sight,
one solitary male approaching—that alone,
draws up within her, latent fire
and by its warming she must genuflect
before the altar of desire.
There is a silent passion, holy in its touch,
that sparks connection, unexplained.
There is electric purity within its cloud
that strikes across that narrowing space,
creates magnetic lust in celebration
of the naked thrust oncoming,
finally to close the gap
between her trembling body
and his throbbing heat.
I see divinity in that.
I see the re-enactment of the woman made
to be the glory in that polymorphic act
inspired from pagan dreams of paradise,
gifted yet today
upon the god-blessed whoring saint
called humankind.
~
(Some of you will be offended by this poem,
but I am more convinced than ever that there
are times of affinity between the states of
sexual attraction and holy blessedness)
Gnarled traffic defines the divine and the mundane
and its peak hours mix the sacred with the profane:
the slightest, faintest trace
of a vacant parking space
is seen as nothing less than a great miracle,
beatific vision, ecstatic spectacle!
I
Fear of God was healthy for friends
The relationship was it, not ulterior ends
II
Fear of God is still widely spoken
Love of things, brings Promises broken
A heart quite overpoured is mine.
It replicates the breath
inspiring purity and art
with just a piquancy of lust,
expiring endings of romance
and promises,
of wisdom in the dance
that holds decorum back
and celebrates the wilds
of fancy, balanced by
excursions of the moment
into love.
Two natures reach
across the table of my life,
and at the moment they are friends.
They vie for some ascendancy
but give no thought
to final victory; it is a badinage
with no superior but for
the instant flashing of reality,
the fleeting smile of tolerance,
the protocol of dreams.
And then the desert wind comes up
and passion flares. Sirocco dares
to cross the sea and steam my body,
yield, invoke the sanctity of art,
and bowdlerize the arcane glory
of desire. Thoughts of transcendence
intertwine the carnal heat, and I,
aware there are two men
who ride the storm within me,
may relish laughter
in my quest for peace
~
A new home feels slightly pregnant
with possibility
yet empty of sacred reality
Not yet any echoing memories
of bumps on stairs,
late night scraping chairs
stuffed with familiar intimates.
Organic warmth sacrificed with each move,
attenuation of well aged relationships
with a new view,
a cleaner character of silence,
more unscrubbed inscrutable
than mere absence of familiar sounds
and sights
and savored smells left behind.
Each move a commencement
toward a renewing sense of home
and reincarnation
of ego-culture within eco-climate
identity
nondually co-arising
toward a deeper
dug in
sacred place.
He is quite a talented actor who is considered better than good.
However, he has to have the dirtiest mouth in Hollywood.
Achieving great fame, his name is one everybody would know.
He has appeared in three big movies with Robert DeNiro.
Those films were “Goodfellas”, “Raging Bull”, and “Casino”.
His histrionics are accompanied with language so dirty and raw.
In the theater audience, there is many a pronounced guffaw.
This actor’s voice usually comes out loud and clear.
I would tell you what he said, but they don’t allow profanity here.
For those of you who consider his words “noise pollution”,
putting your fingers in your ears is one good solution.
She appealed for just having a dignified life.
The illiterate sit, their illiteracy pulls them down into darkness and shadow.
Let me be the new light, let me have a dignified life.
I wish to be one of my kind, don’t control me by your mind.
The thing she needed was right motivation.
I have my strengths, my talents, and the weaknesses too, but I can surely transform my life as well of others if you give me courage to do so.
She wanted to wake up the society, she wanted to scale higher altitudes and develop positive attitude.
She wanted to unearth her true potential with her full dedication.
Only a supportive environment can help us grow.
Education alone empowers to learn and know.
Caught in the snares of a night divided between the sacred and the profane,
where the stars seem to whisper forgotten secrets, I find myself in search of truth,
on a journey that parts the veil of self-knowledge,
where every tear of light, every shadow
reveals fragments of an esoteric existence, woven from fragile hopes and deep doubts.
Religion, like Freud, bears the burden of a difficult mission,
like a torch that illuminates the abyss of our fear of self-awareness,
for self-knowledge is man's hardest task,
a risk of revealing how his self-esteem was built
on the power of others, in an effort to deny his own creatureliness and mortality.
Character is the vital lie, a veil that conceals
the painful ambiguities of our likeness to worms,
as well as the divinity incarnate in our being,
and people deny both their creatureliness and their divinity,
to live peacefully in the world, fattened by illusion and comfort.
My stream of thoughts flows like an underground river,
where every idea is a wave that digs deep into the banks of consciousness,
and I get lost in the labyrinth of questions, where every answer
is a riddle that exposes how fragile man is,
a creature warring with its own destiny, rejecting the truth
of creatures and gods in the vast dispersion of existence.
On the land of this night, where moonlight filters through leaves
like an elixir of delusion, I find myself seeking meaning
in a world that will dissolve into its own paradoxes,
in a perpetual struggle between denying fragility and desiring transcendence,
a battle between dualities, where each victory brings a new burden,
and in every defeat, a growth.
This painful ambiguity is man's path,
a road paved with shattered dreams and divine aspirations,
where every step is a tribute paid to the illusion
of being more than a mere creature,
and less than an omnipotent god,
watch as every breath is an ephemeral dance
between the fear of the unknown and the desire to soar.
In a world abandoned by certainties,
where truths are but rejected shadows,
I begin to understand that our only refuge
is to embrace complexity,
to accept ourselves as both trivial and divine
walking on the edge of eternity, where illusion becomes the safety net
in a vile universe, full of fallen stars and dreams lost in the silence of the night.
Profane Speech
Russel Abdur Rahman
There is no history that everyone is blind at night
Murk has eye, Lingo and it likes to love with hungrily song
And bear pulses of light!
Dirty time wouldn’t stable, history will sing changing song
It seems imperious habit of a fruitful creation.
No history of injuries of the earth only life be injured
There is no clearing house of body
If breaks shrine for taciturnity no responsibility of progeny
It is lex or habit profane or pure.
We sing “Holy is thy name, O Lord,”
Yet attach it to every unsavory word
Then euphemizing, we say “gall-durn,”
It seems like we will never learn!
We pray “Hallowed be thy name,”
Forgetting our curses mean the same
We even go so far as to say “Holy Sh*t,”
And rarely consider what we mean by it.
I must plead guilty too often saying
Words that wouldn’t be fit for praying
And when I lose my temper, most often,
I spit out words like nails in my coffin.
written December 21, 2021
what is said to be
sacred
has never been such.
the fictions of religions have
plagued the minds of humans since
we made our first aurignacian
scrawlings in the haute garonne of
france.
there we began to carve our
images---
just embodiments of the world
around us but stretched out into
irrational fables which we then
held up high
to echo the shining sun.
wanting to have answers to
questions that brought amazement &
fear in all of our hearts---
but with which we had no actual
factual
evidence---
we worshipped our scrawlings,
& then we documented our insane
babblings
about the mystical nature of them,
& how they would affect our lives for
centuries to come.
what is
profane,
clearly is the power of these
fictions to arouse us to kill
to arouse us to destroy
to arouse us to hate
to arouse us to do whatever the
said
self-appointed representatives
of these fictions
demand.
when we as a species
finally
step out of the caves
it is only then that we will gain our own
authority
in ourselves & nothing outside us,
to pick up our eraser
and rub away the ramblings made by
people who had no access to the
scientific-method,
the technology that we have at our
fingertips today,
and the drive that we have now to keep
asking
questions
and not to settle for answers until we have
evidence to back them
up.
Visited a psychiatrist, proved to be a strain
She apologized, she couldn't find my brain
Told her to keep searching
I can hear some chirping
Also noticed the chirping was extremely profane