poems

This is a collection of poems that I've written across the years. I tried ordering them chronologically according to the times when they were finished. I have a habit of returning to my works to read them, and change a few things, then scratch everything, rewrite everything etc etc. The majority of these have been left as they are for a long while and they're special to me for various reasons. Some influences include Robert Frost, Walt Whitman, Lord Byron, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow and Edgar Allan Poe.

Carpe Diem

It's now or never; nothing stands in our way,

In youthful euphoria, we revel,

O, merry gentlemen, Seize the Day,

Let us live; let us be rebels.

Even as rose buds, we shall wilt,

From ashes we came to ashes we’ll return.

So let not a drop of time be spilt

For 'tis the moment that we yearn.

Dream I will and dream I must,

I see through Old Time’s facades:

Tomorrow we’ll be dust,

But today we live like gods.

Bacchanalia

Summer is here,

So pour another glass

'Cause I'm full of spite, dear,

My frustration came to pass.

I've been pondering all year

Over our sweet cause,

And my request is quite clear:

Drench my Apollonian flaws.

Let me lose my mind with Rhenish, 

All these logarithms sunk,

And my glasses all replenished 

Just so you may call me drunk!

Drunk and lost betwixt the clouds,

Lost between these drunken dwellers.

Love exists within these crowds 

And in casks, and flasks and cellars.

The Man in the Moone

It's been some time since I departed

All pale and dim and broken-hearted.

Synodic months have left me weary,

Nights becoming dull and dreary.

Perhaps I've had too much claret,

But I'm not inclined to stop just yet,

For so long I've been forsaken,

I'd rather be wine-overtaken.

Seafarers weep, for they once hath

My argent visage upon their path.

Nomads lost, they beg and cry

For my ivory horns upon the sky.

Minstrels sing of drunken hours:

"Wine shall lull this mind of ours

And if we do so, why shouldn't you

Drink until the Moone comes through?"

A heroic feat! With dead men!

A dance of death 

Unlike any other,

A dance without breath,

A dance for all who suffer. 

Stripped of your golden glory,

You'll be on your best behaviour.

Killed to tell the oldest story,

Killed to mock mother nature.

Denizens of death's gray land!

Prostrated, gnawed, and impaled,

In the end, 'ere they stand:

A grim testament to all who failed.

Glory be! Heroes will rise again,

Sworn to action; they must win.

'Tis a heroic feat, with dead men

Sworn to action; the dance begins.

God's Lonely Man

Moonlit café,

I grieve in violin.

Eyelashes and a monotonous day,

And strings that bite my skin.

Moonlit sidewalks,

Screeching, creaking in my ears.

No more late-night talks,

And I'm wasting every year.

Moonlit store,

The stereo sounds strange.

I think we've been here before,

But it's far too late for a change.

Hunter, Hunter…

Hunter, hunter, I beseech you,

Let your blade with mine collide.

Under rays of moonlight blue,

Emerge emotions I can no longer hide.

Hunter, hunter, look at me!

The scornful beast returns.

Tear me open wide and see

How bright the fire burns.

The Underground Man

O, Lover, dearest Lover,

Weep for me no more,

For I've been right 'ere, right 'ere under

The hollowed wooden floor.

O, Mother, dearest Mother,

I think I've lost my lore

While I was right 'ere, hiding under

The hollowed wooden floor.

But laughter, O, sweet laughter

Shook me to the core

While I was down 'ere, weeping under

The hollowed wooden floor.

And Father, dearest Father,

Look at me no more,

For I've been a madman, rather

'neath the hallowed wooden floor.

And Lover, dearest Lover,

Search for me no more,

O, I've been right 'ere, right 'ere under

The hollowed wooden floor.

December

On a distant Friday's eve,

As I slaked my thirst with wine,

With tears of sorrowful belief

And waves of frugal, distilled shine,

I stepped right into a church,

(House of Woe, O, doleful Church!)

I stepped right into that church and I began to pray.

O, how could I forget, however,

Rough December, fading embers,

It was now that such endeavours 

Forced me boldly to recall

That I sought the blissful Eden,

Lo! The Eden of the flowers,

And to be all passion-ridden 

On this night of many hours.

Thus I knelt, engaged in guessing,

As I searched the distant Aidenn, 

Yet no syllable expressing 

Of my soul with sorrow laden.

And the Father sitting lonely,

Bearing myrrh and saintly lore,

Spread his arms to speak of only

That said word we both adore:

“The Garden? The Garden!”