01/28
Once in a great while the heart is simply struck
And rings out like a tuning fork to the nearby heart that struck it.
The two ring out together in discordant harmony
At first the noise is nothing but a brilliant symphony.
In time the notes come clearer, but this is when you hear
The sharps and flats and missed half-steps which at first endeared
How I wish that I could sing a song you would believe
But I’d not disguise the cracking sound of notes I can’t sustain.
The songs we sing into the world are bright and clear and true,
But you are right, I am afraid, I cannot sing like you.
How I hope that I might somehow match
The soaring high soprano that will surely be your path.
I must be a tenor, not that either is the lesser,
You’ve said the difference means that parting might be better.
I would miss you and I will mourn if no arrangement can be made,
But I think you’ll always strike me from your side of the stage.
The day you died,
Apart of me died with you,
Im not sure what part as i havent found it yet,leaving me like a half tank car
Left me with a hole from your loss,
But apart of me died too
So im reality i died too.
If you die ill die with you
-E.B.
Is todger envy a phallus see???… (I‘m just asking for a wee friend !!)
ill
sick
diseased
ill-behaved
naughty
wild
untamed
untethered
ill-defined
one-of-a-kind
chameleon
mercurial
Renaissance brain
cannot be categorized
Illuminated
Certainly not ill
The urge is overwhelming –
to see my battered skin break open.
To feel, believe, that I’m alive –
might thaw my soul, so frozen.
I’m cold, I’m numb, am I even real? –
or a figment of someone’s mind?
(For) no matter how much blood I spill –
(there’s no) feeling left that I can find.
I’m lost within a realm of souls –
where all but mine can matter.
I hate this suit of flesh I’m in –
it’s torn, beaten, and battered.
I’m branded as the “useful one” –
but all the same, disposable.
This hate could fill a sea —
(until it’s) shores should burst and overflow.
My loathing, not for others –
although they care not of their sins.
But if I must be honest –
I hate this soul which lies within.
I never understood –
why I was treated as an outcast.
I guess I’m just too sick –
perhaps it’s why my friends don’t last.
We see how this narcissist gloats
D.T. needs M.D.s who take notes
They say he is mad
And Trump's ballroom pad
Should be staffed by men in white coats
I think I must be mentally sick.
I look into my psyche - ick,
to think I would even pick
the Dodgers to win in four.
Someone on the TV
told me bright sunshine
red sky at night
the outlook is fine
and the app on my phone
says blue skies are due
but when has the forecast
ever been true
it seems like the Sahara
with no oasis in sight
and just another foolish dream
to see me through the starry night
a voice on the radio
said the storm will disperse
things won't go south
or take a turn for the worse
but it's an ill wind won't blow
all the grey clouds away
no matter what
the weatherman may say
it was an ill wind
blew for you to stray
and it's an ill wind
won't bring you home today
Make life in Aussie
Great again.' By
Promoting albo To (the dunna-ken)
She entered the room and his heart as one
then all before distant time mattered less
he was no innocent, and she no nun
to which, much later, they both would confess.
But, at that instant, neither prisoned, cared
baggage they hid inside their faded trunk
for she, was a vision all golden-haired
and he, he was a sun-bronzed, six-pack-hunk.
He entered the room, in her, something stirred
and all before distant time mattered less;
and long before they had exchanged a word
he was, she well knew, an invited guest.
And in the next morning, as they both lay
they were yet to know the price they would pay.
With just one sharp look she dares and defies,
You still call a woman vulnerable,
She casts lethal darts with enticing eyes,
And still…, poets you seem inscrutable,
When conquer can she e’en gods heavenly,
How helpless, wonder I can she e’er be.
_____________________________
Translation (sestet*) | 22.08.2025 | poets, women
*Wonder, if it can be called a Sestetto Rima-- iambic meter with a rhyme scheme of ABABCC.
Note: Here is a verse from Bhartrihari’s Shringaara Shatakam (hundred verses on love and romance). This one is in Vasanta-tilaka meter. Here he questions the wisdom of some great poets who call a woman ablaa, helpless one. She possesses immense power to command over men with the beauty she enjoys. Even gods of heaven are no exception. How can she helpless ever be? Here is the transliteration:
Noonam hi te kavi-varaa vipareeta-bodhaa
Ye nityam aahuh abalaa iti kaamineeh taah |
Yaabhih vilolatara taaraka drshti paataih
Shakra aadaya api vijitaah tu abalaa katham taah ||
true love
isn`t just kisses
but caring when one is ill
resting by the bedside at night
that makes a real spouse.
The lack of common sense
makes nonsense easy,
things that should make sense,
slip through, unchallenged.
Yet common sense itself
makes the absurd unbearable,
forcing logic upon the illogical,
struggling to grasp the uncommon.
To live without it
is to drift through chaos,
unbothered by contradiction.
To live with it
is to wrestle with reason,
forever questioning the senseless.
That which is ill-begot will love you not,
but pull the strings of a heavy heart.
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