Melancholia
In the afternoon, baby in my room
When the lights are dim way beyond the hill
In the afternoon, baby in my room
When Im really down get me off the ground
Melancholia, melancholia, melancholia
In the morning time when I go outside
In the morning time its like that all the while
In the afternoon when Im in my room
Every single day, it wont go away
Melancholia, melancholia, melancholia
And its in my heart, when were apart
And it stops and starts, and its in my heart
Every single day its always in my way
When Im making hay, all Ive got to say
Melancholia, melancholia, melancholia
Well its in my blood and its in my veins
Here it comes again, when Im in the rain
In the wind and rain, well the sun dont shine
Well its always mine, all of the time
Melancholia, melancholia, melancholia
And its in my life and its all the time
It doesnt go away when the church bells chime
In the evening time when I drink my wine
In the evening time when its on my mind
Melancholia, melancholia, melancholia
Its only melancholia
Oh melancholia, oh melancholia, oh melancholia, oh melancholia
Melancholia, melancholia
They call it, call it melancholia, call it melancholia, call it melancholia, call it melancholia
Call it melancholia, melancholia, melancholia, melancholia
song performed by by Van Morrison
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Related quotes
Melancholia
Melancholia devastates
It is just life erosion
Drains the spiritual state
Such a consuming depression.
Melancholia negates
The human will to rise
And conquer cruel Fate
Wipe wasted tears from the eyes.
Melancholia is unhealthy
Must be dealt with at the roots
And with Hope as the recovery
That births the Joy as fruit!
poem by Cynthia Buhain-Baello
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Melancholia
the history of melancholia
includes all of us.
poem by Charles Bukowski
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Melancholia
My coffees cold, my papers old,
My heart is sold to melancholia,
My clothes are torn, my shoes are worn,
My heart is born to melancholia.
A strange surprise, what I despise in other guys is here in me,
They lose their girl, they lose their world,
And then they cry for all to see,
Ive never felt so bad, the fires drive me mad.
The sheets are gray, left since the day she went away, I lost all power,
The dust is thick, the dog is sick, the kids have picked most of the flowers.
The sun is shining, but not for me,
The sun is shining, but not for me.
Ive never felt so bad, the fires drive me mad.
The sheets are gray, left since the day she went away, I lost all power,
The dog is sick, the dust is thick, the kids have picked most of the flowers.
song performed by by Who
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I'm so depressed. Christmas is the worst of all. Holidays are terrible, worse than Sundays. I get melancholia.
quote by David O. Selznick
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Invisible Moon
Like some mad
bespoken
melancholia
that fits me
like a glove
on a stormy night
howling
at the invisible moon.
poem by Vince Gullaci
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Maybe it's just my own chronic morbidity and melancholia, but I really do think about it a great deal and quite often in the small hours of the night when, it is said, the greatest numbers of people die.
quote by Brian Sibley
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Writing is a form of therapy; sometimes I wonder how all those who do not write, compose or paint can manage to escape the madness, melancholia, the panic and fear which is inherent in a human situation.
quote by Graham Greene
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Melancholia
Kirsten Dunst, Charlotte Gainsbourg, Kiefer Sutherland, Charlotte Rampling, John Hurt, Alexander Skarsgard, Stellan Skarsgard, Brady Corbet, Udo Kier
by Lars von Trier from Melancholia (2011)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Unfinished Poem
In this unfinished poem
your empty stares
still lingers to pillage
every mellifluous words
and the superfluous revelries
malingered on its way
to be spewed and
to pierce the veil
And the memories,
they osculate to brew
the bitterness that shall
wear out the young bones
that remember every shudder
of your melancholia
The persiennes remained
shut down and afraid
and I can never pull them up;
this will be the crowded room
where the tarantula
feeds on itself
poem by Norman Santos
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October Song
When October comes
With its misty melancholia.
And trees of their leaves undress
In the cooling air.
When autumn chill settles;
A trickling stream into my bones.
When late roses lose their petals
And winters but a step away.
Then I think of you,
Who would never another winter see
Nor the first spring flowers
Or Feel summers warmth where you lie
For it does not penetrate that deep.
P H Brookes Copyright 2011
poem by Paul Brookes
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Musings over a Morose Morning
Awakened from a sleepless night,
Grief-stricken sunflowers shun away the morning light
The sweet song of the cuckoo is heard no more
The eerie silence sounds like the shrieks of a whore
The depressions on the crags have deepened
Distances between bipolar cliffs widened
The fast arrived spring has beckoned the fall
The proximal mountain appears farther and unreachably tall.
Pensive, perturbed clouds glooming in melancholia,
Recollecting the maddening mists of euphoria.
A growing sense of isolation and vacuity
The valley awaits the restoration of inner peace and tranquility
poem by Supriya Choudary
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The Shorter Week
I worked for fifty hours a week,
And someone said to me,
'Don't be a serf! Throw off your chains,
And show the world you're free!'
So I cut down my working hours
And found, upon the whole,
The leisure time I had to spare
Good for my body's carking care,
And better for my soul.
I worked for forty hours a week,
And someone said to me,
'Release your bonds, you shackled slave!
Show all the world you're free!'
So I reduced my working hours
And found in leisured lull,
The more I sought to play, the more
Amusement had become a bore,
And life was rather dull.
I worked for twenty hours a week,
And someone said to me
'Awake, you mutt! Snap out of it,
And show the world you're free!'
So I cut out my working hours
And found that joy had flit.
Upon black melancholia's brink,
I sometimes used to sit and think
And sometimes merely sit.
I worked for not one hour a week,
And someone said to me,
'You lazy coot! Arise and shine!
You call this being free?'
So I resolved I'd better far
Rejoin the toiling mob.
But when I rose and looked around,
To my intense digust I found
Someone had pinched my job.
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Vicissitude II: Spring
The picador sun retires
And pants gloriously in his throne
His sweat quenched the drought;
Ocher turns to green and yellow
Marauding with the superfluity
Of palettes soused in nubile flowers—
A chateau of jaunty heraldries
And in the subterfuge of its alleys
I trampled in a quaint boudoir;
A loquacious room for a witling orchid
In the labyrinthine contours of the heather
I strife, I stride, I earnestly bristle
The verdure of saccharine spring time
But the pristine panoramic scene
Diverges a tatterdemalion man
Lost in dainty blossoming days
So I sifted through the prairies,
Ran across turfs, knolls, and valleys,
And slumber with a wilting orchid
The maelstrom of iridescent petals
That dabs the flagellating thorns
Oscillates like the sun and moon
With soporific lulls and inebriated
Pangs of melancholia in gnarls
Chagrined by the superfluity
Foreboding the dawn of debauchery
In the bosom of a redolent spring
poem by Norman Santos
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Of Reckoning
A somnolent velvet mustered and galloped
With the maladroit circling of the parliament
Of vultures and crows over slumbering carrion—
Meat suits disembogued of the singeing blood
And I am one among the riveted motions
Shearing the skies with profane pulsations
Lingering in the temples of the unholiest gods
Here, I am a colorless myriad of liaisons:
A sedentary life, a breathless death,
Lurking back into the svelte gutters
Of irrevocable stains of melancholia.
The redolence creaking with the floorboards
That used to be scraping warmth and life
Beneath the pheromones and morning breaths,
The humdrum noise in the alleys of turbulence
With people for walls, and hearts for rings
That binds ladders for all the falling,
The last tick of the crooning clockwork
Careening for gilded memories and staring
At his last wave for regrets and chances
Of a thousand more defeat; a thousand more
Photographs of the drizzles in your pane.
poem by Norman Santos
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Dares The Storm
The pain out-thinks every moment,
all over the body
I wander in a solitary walkway.
There is nothing between mind
and brain. Whole prosperity of thoughts
curves easily. The body
spends all the internal wealth
to gain a humble peace.
The rambling melancholia
pales into white lava.
The fatal fear follows you
like a hot light. The pursuit
of incense, the chase of
beautiful icon’s cleavage brings
the charm. Speaking about the ecstasy,
about the shapeless pleasure,
the ultimate opposite of
sacredness becomes instant
liberation, from any symbol.
The contents of the dumb
days are burning. Peace
never returns. Prayer
and worship wakes the child
inside you. Flesh denies
the natural desire. You
cannot accept the corrupt barometer
of obedience. It dares the storm,
gathers the momentum
and kisses the slayer.
poem by Satish Verma
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The Cloth Doll and the Weeping Wallow(recitation to sorrow)
She straddled over the lake
as she approached the only existing living hell
as she approached the lonely
she opened her violet eyes
eyes made of three buttons of a dress
lace dress
beauty
half-burnt dress
I can inhale the smell
of seared fabric
and my soul with sorrowful compassion can follow
the threadbare fringes as they creep painfully and woefully
across her skin
and across the ground
where she leaned
but refused to kiss
I can inhale the sadness
emitting through her skin
I can repel the darkness
but she said it is the only way
she needs, to see
the only way she needs
to breathe
"I can see. And I can breathe. Through darkness.
As they are blind. And breathless. Before the light."
Enigmatic contraction of her muscles
around her smile
around her cloth lips
when they slowly open
to utter a cry
and I can look inside her third eye
where I can lay and cry
inside her white third eye
that remains closed
closely-guarded eye
embraced and warm
by a secret lullaby
by a frozen sorriness
by a woebegone loneliness
it is not her
but she has to live
in her third non-violet eye
Within her beauty and her pride
the cloth doll prepares to die
behind a weird smile
die
she prepares to die
among the lonely
She twiddled once before the sadly plaintive weeping wallow
with her girlish legs
like sticks
she twiddled
once
twice
in front of the weeping tree
"dance with me"
and she touched her dress like a noble lady
with hands soft and skinny, inconsolable and gently graceful
considerate and lonely
hands
gentle and frozen
And the weeping wallow leaned
and gratefully murmured a trite elegy
yet moving like death
yet motionless like death
like death
She stands still
and as she stands still
among the lonely
ice cubes fall off the waving tree
"I am not alone"
said the sallow
"stay with me
or I shall never be."
And the cloth doll caressed the rugose trunk of her desperate friend
and crooned those words
sweetly and carefully
cordially and heartlessly
words that brought the morn
wreathed in the veil of the deathly dusk
"we shall accept solitude
we shall accept death"
and carefully again,
she grinned
and whispered to her desperate enemy
"my dear lonely sallow
as you mournfully dance to the echo of the wind
as you painfully straggle though your waving against the sun
your mind shall not be shallow
but let your heart lay dead as it should be"
And the cloth doll leaned upon the lake
and repeated her purified sin
and as she waved back to the crying tree
to the sniveler
she knew her mind should never again be awake
she shall let it sleep
her mind should sleep
so sleep cloth doll
lean upon your lament
and sleep
Melancholia
and grief
but lean upon your melancholia
and just fall asleep…
poem by Katerina Val
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Gouging the Sun's Vessels
Here we go again, after forty-seven sunsets
Counting the insurmountable steps
Ballasting in the wicks of fireballs emblazing
Subtly stirring the warm nostalgic lullaby
Soused in a maladroit tangerine fire
That parcels the dirty grass blades oozing
From the notches of the downtrodden path
Here, again we bask enthralled to the wafts
Of the gloaming's ubiquitous crowd
Here, we find the footsteps heaved
In the sands desperately fertilizing
In an echopraxic melancholia
Here, we linger with the truant and the charlatan
Five thousand footsteps slumbering in the bassinet
Of inebriated foreign tongues
Stomping upon the malingering apprehension
Mirth and gloom registered in the visage of our liaison
But the sun shall not halt for the summer eve sky
Or the toppling pillars of our frail constitutions
We shall not digress with the violent gush
Rather we let the body be laid to rise
As the sojourner of the sun's setting
Without groveling, permit it be
And watch the footsteps thaw
Into the harlequin sun's maw
We are the wafting and the wisp
Of every dusk's shrouded sleep
And in the oblivious latticing of rays
We shall wander aimlessly the afternoon asleep
poem by Norman Santos
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Love Without End - Written With Unwritten Soul
Creator awaken in me
childhood companion of lost memory
once again take control of my mind
carry my fatigue fallen body to the end
lift my life to safe refuge
so I may reach the finish line
pushing past broken dreams, tired bones,
every promise made forced to put on hold
giving chase to the suns shadow
falling through the moon's cellar door
from the far hills to the oceans wide
harken melancholia wails
of the wind and waves
from deserted valley
to abandoned port
death echoes
the call of oblivion
I've found despite what
falters and falls daily
something inside me
refuses to fail
and when what must
of this world and of myself
comes to meet
decidedly an end
departing/arriving
spirits transiting
voyage between
spherical junctions
then and there
I know that place
beyond time
where we are free to peer
and stretch ourselves out
across the plain of eternity
free to dip our feet in
the waters of eden
where I keep the forgotten
fragments of my heart
letters of lost love
scatted in the sands
Cinderella's glass slipper
washed up along the shore
there is where the
seeking shall cease
the point of existence where
life intersects with soul
where there is waiting
truth without lies and
love without end
poem by Gregory Allen Uhan
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Ecce Ancilla Domini.
Behold the Handmaid of the Lord, be it done unto me according to Thy word.'
The Angelus
The bells from St. Mary's still rings in the twilight
though I am a million miles away
from my hometown in which I was raised.
I hear them this early evening,
somehow they ring out this end of day
that falls, lies, then drowns
into the waters off this big city river bridge
where I sit alone,
just thinking
across the river
Ophelia closes her shop
the books standing alone, now
in perfect attention
waiting to be held
waiting to be read
I understand the books
this river's light and its reflections hold me now
and that, that is good
like the light always seems to be
though its passing will silence
the mourning birds
deepening my melancholia
like the waters of this river....
still, for now
the light shines
as the Angelus Bells ring
the light dancing
across the waters of this wide river
(Mars and Venus ascending)
that sameness of light reflects
in the eyes, the smile of Ophelia
who closes the doors
on the books
in the shop
who wait to be held
who wait to be read
who wait to be understood
as we all do
or hope to
before the Angelus Bells
ring us out of our days....
poem by R. James Sterzinger
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Like a girl
Like a girl whose feet are bleeding and swollen
From walking a long,
Long distance to school
Like a girl who pants in pangs and pains
Because she works tirelessly
Doing this and that
You know these domestic chores.
Like a girl whose clitoris is protruding
Not because she is longing for the stick
But because someone has forced himself into her
Like a girl whose genitalia leak blood
Not because she is in 'time'
But because she has been raped
Like a girl who sings alone
In melancholia, a girl who cries alone
Because she remembers her dead parents
Who cries and curses AIDS
Like a girl who sits alone in the dunes
In secluded spaces and prays much
Because she has lost hope in life
Like a girl who sits in the staircase
And looks at the horizon and ponders over her burdens
Over her thousand predicaments
Like a girl who looks at the sky
At night, who counts stars hoping that one day
The One who created those amazing stars
Will answer her prayers
Like a girl who dances in the darkness
Who listens to the music to soothe the pains
Like a girl who wants no man
Because she believes men bring curses with them
Like a girl who plays alone
A young girl who plays alone in the yard
Like a girl who cannot go to school
Because she has to take care of her siblings
Like a girl who will survive no matter what
Who will continue achieving unachievable goals in life
Like a girl who has a soldiers’ courage
poem by Zolani Kupe
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