Huxley Poems | Examples

Clerihew Huxley

Aldous Huxley with a famous granpa
became a satirist of the dystopoia
Poetic in the metaphysical modr
'Doors of Perfection' with its hidden codr

Clerihew Huxley

From the erudite family ofHuxley
cane Aldous with poetics so free
Penning satirical novels so well
his posey perhaps too metaphysical

The Great Debate

The nature of our spiral nebulae or Milky Way,
is the size of our universe from where we stay.
Believing that our nebulae is relatively small,
Astronomer Curtis declared a far bigger call.
Billions of galaxies much larger and distant,
the scale of the universe, 1921 relevant.
Island universes in the trillions,
supernovas outshine galaxies in brilliance.
Another great debate by Huxley at that time,
upholding the biblical creation in us to refine.
To him self affirming the preference to be an ape,
giving Darwin’s theory the wishing shape.
In letters of war between Burke and Thomas Paine,
the debate in differences of conservatism,
and the misleading perception of progressivism.
After 2021 in lockdown giving nature a break,
wildlife’s resources in reviving stake.
The new debate now in consideration geographic,
3 working days and nights, 4 days no traffic.
Zero hours at sunrise, 12 at dawn lights mean,
nature hours including month thirteen.
The ultimate provider in absolute respect,
labor camp for restoring wasteland to correct.
Human independence and it’s grow of sacrifice,
the caring things of nature love that satisfies.

The Trilogy

it's a nice box set
each of the three
fifteen hundred or
so pages making
up the entire work
placed in a sturdy
cardboard box
embossed

it was given to me
on one of my birth
days remembering
not which but it for
awhile made a 
rather stylish
door stop to
stop it from

keeping things from
getting passed as it
kept open a door 
that liked to close
on its own but was
known only as
perception or
the third eye

it just wasn't part of
the decor for it more
then was for show
it showed those who
wanted to know 
Huxley or
Morrison
but it

wasn't what you might
think for as a solid
body of work
that it was
and is if i
we're to
throw it
and hit

you
in the
head you'd
be dead by
forceful use
of the words
of Marcel
Proust

Head Space

Whole little worlds  
All in one place  
Some taking place sporadically  
Others simultaneously  
Some spin at neck-breaking speed  
And others turn with motion
Almost imperceptible  
But they're there  
Whole little worlds  
All in one place  

Each content  
With its own erroneous sense    
of self-imposed isolation  
Ignorant to the burden of their presence  
On other worlds now rendered barren  
Travelling the true path of isolation  
Their peaceful existence  
Threatened.  
Whole little worlds  
All in one place  

Fighting to be the only one  

- that's what I get,  
for taking the bus.    
Rebecca .A. Huxley

The Solo Swansong ******

“I don't like that” 
I told him wide-eyed and anxiously. 
It reminded me of a time long ago, 
Not necessarily of someone I used to know 
But of someone who had helped himself anyway. 

Head turned, 
Face disgruntled  
-he wasn't about to let me  take away his toy.  One of his 'collectibles' 
Bound and marked: 
'****' 
written on my skin with my own make-up.   
The stain on my flesh: fleeting 
His stain on my pride: indelible. 
  

“I'll show you what you like”   
He informed me with vigour 
and 
gasp 

Suddenly I'm his. 
Silenced. 
Not a word to utter 
Heart and thighs red hot and throbbing 
Struggling a flightless flutter 
Terror seized   
and it didn't let go. 
Its dirty, smelly grip.   

I become his wound, in pain, 
that yields to placate 
My superficial senses smell his lust 
But I bet he barely tastes my hate.      
My shaking legs spread asunder 
In everlasting disgrace 
I – the vessel   
To empty himself 
of the burden of his desire.   

He imparts upon me new life 
As I die a thousand deaths inside.   

Rebecca .A. Huxley

The Final Command

Stop.
This heart from beating,
Two.

Leave.
This girl bleeding,
Blue.

Forget.
This beating, bleeding heart that once beat and bled for
You. 

Rebecca .A.Huxley

Death Becomes Me

You’re within  me
Talking, stalking
In the guise of a false memory

Arbiter of what is and is not
A cloaked and shadowed form
Whom I had hoped to forget

Feebly I had prayed that I could live in peace
But your ghostly spectre is haunting
Taunting with no surcease

Virulently cawing ‘why?’
and ‘how could this be?’

I can’t answer

And then - again - I see you die
die, inside of me 

Like a fire lit too soon
In an inhospitable domain
Fate, it seems, had already declared your doom. 

Fate.
As though I were vindicated of agency
As though I were not driven by others’ fear and hate

Fear.
Of what could be
Of the relief if you were to just disappear

Alone.
I, the adjudicator 
Fear to leave my home 

False dawn
For home offers no such sanctuary from your
Memory I so privately mourn

Virulently cawing ‘why?’
and ‘how could this be’

You can’t answer

I can’t answer

And then -again - I see you die,
Die, inside of me. 

Rebecca .A. Huxley

Unhidden

I have to hide
Can’t let them see
The pain inside
Consuming me
Can’t let them know
Can’t let them see
A heart that’s hollow
And a soul that’s empty
Everything hurts. 
It hurts to feel,
It hurts to be, 
I need something extreme in order to feel. 
But it hurts. Everything hurts. 
It hurts just being me.
  
Rebecca .A. Huxley

Everything and Nothing

I gave you everything
You gave me nothing.

I gave you my dreams,
Laid them beneath your feet.
They carpeted your path to success. 
And I – long forgotten.

My dreams, a remnant of what was; 
Long since drowned, dingy and trodden. 
I gave you intimate dreams –
But my dear, you gave me only endless nightmares.
 
And oh, how I filled you with love 

As you emptied me of hope.
And blinded, I fell foolishly.
You rendered my love limp,
My breathless heart labouring

Scars of violent lacerations
Howl my long-since harboured lament.
The fragility of hope.
The finality of ruin.

I remember,
I remember how I gave you everything
I remember,
I remember that you gave me 

Nothing. 

Rebecca .A. Huxley

The Black Dog

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

The Undarkened Room

Light breaches
My drawn heart
Where darkness once enveloped
Now heavy violet drapes sit sloping
Precariously 

Light touches
The outermost corners
Where dust once lay prevalent
Now sifting
Ever impermanently

Change teases
The long-since dormant flame
That now just sits 
Remnants of vitality are spitting
Hungrily.

Rebecca .a. Huxley

The Entombed Heart

Seal your heart
So no one can touch.

Weld it shut
So no one can penetrate. 

Fill the cracks
So no one can see.

Bolt the door
and throw away the key.

Rebecca .a. Huxley

The Battle

How can you expect me to win a battle
 by giving me a blunted, tarnished sword 
and thrusting me into the unknown? 

How can you expect me to have the courage 
when I'm in a land I've known all my life 
but yet is now so inexplicably unfamiliar? 

How can you expect me to know my way 
down darkened alleys, 
muggy streets and seldom-trodden paths? 

How can you expect me to feel at ease 
in ill-fitting garments 
carrying a useless weapon twice the size of me? 

How can you expect me to feel at ease in my own home 
when behind each seemingly innocuous corner 
lurks hidden danger and those with ill intent? 

How can you expect me to win a battle 
by telling me the enemy is infinite, 
its influence immeasurable that I am surrounded; there is no hope.   

So stop expecting. 
Stop mindlessly instructing.   
Because nothing is simple.   

Because every. Little. Thing. 
Every. Damn. Day.
 Is a battle.   

- Hear my battle cry

Rebecca .a. Huxley

Reticence of the Heart

One day
When we’ve finally had enough
When we’ve drained each other dry
We will wander forth
Exhausted, and beneath the star-lit night lie. 

In bewilderment 
As we wonder how much much time slipped by
Reflecting on fleeting sensual moments,
Which stood still an eternity in time. 

Rebecca .A. Huxley

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