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Best Poems Written by The End Commune

Below are the all-time best The End Commune poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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The Sad Farmer - a Rhyme Attempt

there flies a bird as white as life,
an ugly, peaceful dove,
 which carries darkness in its beak,
 the poem wroth with love:
 the farmer wakes at morning,
 weak with pain and ache;
there's no peace in sleeping in
when mares they howl and shake;

with mordant scythe and sickle,
he cuts the grain in half:
 he sows therein the seed of death,
 then carves an epitaph;
the farmer stops at nightbreak
 welcoming the dusk,
he grips the seed of death with warmth,
 peeling on its husk;

as sun sets darkly ominous,
he treads his dusty path;
in his palm he holds his dream,
the grains he cult in half;
his hut, stern, built of timber-oak,
  cumbersome a house;
embellished with the memories
  of his dearly loved spouse...

 royal scribes and bards beloved,
their hands rest comatose;
for the farmer dreamt a poetry
blessed with the heavens' prose;
no scribe or bard can outcompare
this master amongst men;
 for one who sees the depths of love
shall never sleep again!

whence shall his cup of nectar 
 dry like menopause;
how long shall grief outspan his joy,
fear remain his cause?
how long may life flow gutter-like
  with the poison of the asp,
 from the wound that birth cut deep
     but none can verily grasp?

how can one not blame oneself
  when death knocks firm the door,
carrying verdicts to the young -
  of pestilence and war?
to life itself he has become
the spiteful, bitterest foe;
how can the farmer, lost from love,
 reclimb that high plateau?

the visions overflood his soul
 like the great deluge;
yet he shall never build an ark,
however great and huge;
as every day must die alone
  upon the cross of night,
the farmer sees his truest self
absconding, like a kite:

a viscid hearth of soot and blood,
 a sorrow black as led;
he sits down 'round its lonely flame,
  remembering why she's dead;
she grabbed the knife as bow in hand,
 aloof in hopeless mists;
she played her violin up-down,
  with beauty, on her wrists;

imps of grief and ghosts of doubt, -
by every step they taunt; 
how long may the spectres stay, 
...how they schreech and haunt!
a thousand nights, a thousand days,
 weary is he, old;
the bitter muscle of his heart,
pumping weak and cold;

a final night he wept away,
burdened by the guilt;
a final morn' alone in here,
the house which sorrow built;
now weeping in his deathly throes,
   "my love, i'll come for you",
he swallows now the poison-seed,
    the grain he cut in two...

Details | The End Commune Poem

The Boreal Night

pine, spruce, larch -
     be my witness
as i lead this pack of wolves
across the taiga of existentialism;
   i am the biome of conflicting identities;
   my winters are harsh, my summers, mild:
i am the earth -
   i am its plains, its forests, its rivers,
   on which we graze, hunt, and drink;
i am the oldest of the conifers, the fir of might and age,
i am the sad, forgotten spirit, the looming apparition,
   the boreal winds, the storms of ice, the murky sea,
   the hoarfrost in the foliage of pines -
i am the spectre over moors at night, wailing the lost love,
     and when i dream,
     i dream polewards, and in saudade: 
boreal night, lull me to sleep -
     i can hear the ambience of the Östersjö waves.

Details | The End Commune Poem

The Love of Tiamat

behold now everything on this earth;
    the fields with abundance of grain,
    palm-grove harvests rich and fruitful,
    the forests that separate kingdoms and the fires that scorch them;
    the brickwork of ancestries and the towers that reach our gods.
 behold these crop-fields that we call life and death,
 grown on the back of a sludge-like entity
 sowed, and heaped, in granaries of self-doubt;
 collected by children's dirty hands; 
 bronze-sickles, charcoal-eyes;
  while the storms unwrap in the south...
 gales have swept these homes and huts of clay, 
 the dog-faced pazuzu gnarls at the moon, as inimical as it is revered;
      a mother's love for the murderous son is as complex 
      as the children's dependence on these fearsome steppes.

            behold now everything on this earth;
 the countenance of the origin-beast-mother carved in the mountains of the north 
 and the efflux of her genitals streaming to the south of the marshes,
 into that great ocean whose shores we know only by myth
 and whose waters is the abode of the primordial one,
 whom hurls the long-spear of flood and storm 
 deep into the sides of these lands - for these lands are hers:
    when all comes about, has not the lands risen strongly
    from her bottomless and abysmal womb?
    was not the pleasure that shook the members of the old, old gods 
    into ejaculation, indeed, the motion of her scaled loins?
 
 is she not the temple to which all sacrifices are offered, all libations put forth:
 is she not the shrine; the death-black ziqqurat; the lighthouse emitting darkness?
 is she not the stele inscribed with all words of grace,
 and the eloquence of our beautiful poets? 

 over the lapse of a thousand millenia,
 she has been constricting the gods of the heavens
 in a strong leather noose,
 f o r   i s   n o t   v o i d   o r i g i n a l   t o   a l l ;  
         c h a o s ,   d i s c o r d ,   o r i g i n a l   t o   o r d e r ?

Details | The End Commune Poem

The Hedgehog

i am the hedgehog
   dying hour by hour
   thorns falling out
        one by one
    without anyone
         nor anything
         noticing.

   yes, i die little by little
   for my pile of leaves 
        is burning like reed
   and by the second the degrees heat
   and in a fortnight
    the pile of leaves will give away
    to the match and phosphor of nature.

we all die, and so i shall too, 
      the little hedgehog...
   and i will die a lonely 
    and burdened wanderer,
   now that my pile of leaves 
   has turned to walpurgis ash - 

but is it not beautiful
  that the nails of the corpse keep on growing after death,
   and that the memories of great deeds also echo,
         atleast for a while -
           until they too drop off the frequencies
           and becomes lost
           in the white noise static
           of all meaningful happenings unremembered,
           adding to a history
           of lost and buried greatness...

Details | The End Commune Poem

The Inherent Corruptibility of Communication

in every serious human idea 
 presented to the world as an engagement with it
 there is an unavoidable lacking in meaning
 which becomes left behind in the womb
        like a stillborn freak of words 
 sticking in the mire of that amorphous sludge 
         of unutterable intuitions and emotions,
         the uniqueness of personality,
         from which it originates.

             ponder this: 

 yes, in every serious human idea 
 presented to the world as an engagement with it
    something dire is lost, 
         even has to become lost: 

 drag out - isolate - the flash of genius from the complex electricity of personality;
  define it with language; compromise as to make it as commonly understandable as possible, 
  and it too shall die; 
  every idea that is born out of the genuinety of individuality, 
             having been ouroborically fostered, nurtured by it, 
     but has shifted into depending essentially on the mechanisms of the outside
     and its automation with the social machinery of communication
     as a measure of involuntary and instinctual endurance in order to thrive in continuity,
             shall wither with the systems of socialization on whose waves it floats, 
             for they can not be of eternal substance; they too 
             are aghast by the wraith of ominous impermanence 
             haunting and spooking like acoustic feedback all around, 
             bouncing, looping 
             in the rehearsal room of eschatorchestra, the final and ultimate end, 
             with which the idea in itself has become inseparable.

Details | The End Commune Poem

To the East of Eden

[This is an excerpt from a much longer poem]

    is there a garden to the east of eden 
    out there in nod, the harsher badlands, 
    where cain built his hut out of clay, grew his gardens, 
    planted his seeds and ploughed his soil, 
    while ripening all around  a blossoming nature,
    breathing with the fair oxygen of immanence?
    if so, surely, that is where i should be; that is where i should live my life -
    and better yet, surely it can outcompare even the babylonian botany,
    with its beautiful, scandent flowerwork -
    the awesome vines of hammurabi
    clinging and climbing abound all over the city-walls -
           the land of nod weeps over the garden 
           so luscious with the hebenon and paved with the glistening moonstone,
           fountained with the wine old as death -
           the wine which gurgles upforth from the mouth of the abyss.

   will gods' carrion-flower breathe anew,
   and if so, will death even die with its unfold?
   land of nod, dark waste of wild nod -
   will i hurt my feet on the nettles and the thistles of truth?
           yeah, probably i will hurt my feet; 
           not even dantes' footsteps are longer visible in the mud before me.

Details | The End Commune Poem

Poem To Lautreamont

life was given to me sarcastically;
   now i wade the swamps of doubt
   in search of something steadfast 
   to rest on. 

life was given to me as a wound
that every birthday bleeds afresh;
  i try to bind it with rags,
  i try to cauterize it,
  and i have considered amputation;

life is weird and mysterious, 
   i burned myself on gods' stove -
now i try to alm the burning sensation
   with the aloe vera of self-deceit. 

life was given to me as a wound
  - suicide has not yet
permitted me to make 
that wound a healing scar.

Details | The End Commune Poem

In Search of a Bird

i am a cage in search of a bird -
      not a bird in search of a cage.

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Ex Cathedra

the holy ghost covered its eyes
  with the palms of murdered children:
   behold! said I
and the holy ghost spake
ex cathedra
  my heart, my blessed temple
  and the holy ghost sounded
the horns of the Lord
    there
    within.

what a beautiful clangor
     there was -
     and suddenly dropped -
a noose from the beam of the earth!
   the hole opened the earth
   and at holy ghosts' behest 
   and I too spake soon with vapour
 out into there,
  into the cold realm, 
   the dying word of nights.

  so i did for the sake of my Lord.
 
   yes,
 an echo framed the night-sky
   and like a burglar in the night of zodiac
  i disappear -
     with the pitcher of aquarius!
  poured, did i , the water therein
    into the stream of worlds' all mouths - and  
 the holy ghost vanished
       under my rains, the sulphur of soul!
    
         boiled to broth and fat
          in the aether-caudron
      the holy ghost became
         the sustenance of the djinn!
          which threw their balls of fire
             over taiga, steppe and storm -
         no longer reign i
            ex cathedra -
            and the holy ghost abandoned...

    so it did for the sake of its Lord.

Details | The End Commune Poem

Poem To Lal Ded

my hunters' bow was bent to shoot -
   but i had no arrows!
   instead i had to take my feelings...
   and then i arched the bow once again. 

i charged the bellows and my throat with breath 
    but only fire spurted out!
     now i have to use lava
     instead of words...

my senses fattened 
     like five rams for slaughter - 
     so i fed them the grain of psychedelia;
     now i see things i shouldn't see...

the mortars of love-madness 
    continue their bombardment...
    i seek shelter...
    the shelling persists relentlessly -
    my fortress lie in ruin...