Spleen (III)
Je suis comme le roi d'un pays pluvieux,
Riche, mais impuissant, jeune et pourtant très vieux,
Qui, de ses précepteurs méprisant les courbettes,
S'ennuie avec ses chiens comme avec d'autres bêtes.
Rien ne peut l'égayer, ni gibier, ni faucon,
Ni son peuple mourant en face du balcon.
Du bouffon favori la grotesque ballade
Ne distrait plus le front de ce cruel malade;
Son lit fleurdelisé se transforme en tombeau,
Et les dames d'atour, pour qui tout prince est beau,
Ne savent plus trouver d'impudique toilette
Pour tirer un souris de ce jeune squelette.
Le savant qui lui fait de l'or n'a jamais pu
De son être extirper l'élément corrompu,
Et dans ces bains de sang qui des Romains nous viennent,
Et dont sur leurs vieux jours les puissants se souviennent,
II n'a su réchauffer ce cadavre hébété
Où coule au lieu de sang l'eau verte du Léthé
----------------------------------------- ------------------------------------------
Spleen
I am like the king of a rainy land,
Wealthy but powerless, both young and very old,
Who contemns the fawning manners of his tutors
And is bored with his dogs and other animals.
Nothing can cheer him, neither the chase nor falcons,
Nor his people dying before his balcony.
The ludicrous ballads of his favorite clown
No longer smooth the brow of this cruel invalid;
His bed, adorned with fleurs-de-lis, becomes a grave;
The lady's maids, to whom every prince is handsome,
No longer can find gowns shameless enough
To wring a smile from this young skeleton.
The alchemist who makes his gold was never able
To extract from him the tainted element,
And in those baths of blood come down from Roman times,
And which in their old age the powerful recall,
He failed to warm this dazed cadaver in whose veins
Flows the green water of Lethe in place of blood.
— Translated by William Aggeler
-------------------------------------- ---------------------------------------------
Spleen
I'm like the King of some damp, rainy clime,
Grown impotent and old before my time,
Who scorns the bows and scrapings of his teachers
And bores himself with hounds and all such creatures.
Naught can amuse him, falcon, steed, or chase:
No, not the mortal plight of his whole race
Dying before his balcony. The tune,
Sung to this tyrant by his pet buffoon,
Irks him. His couch seems far more like a grave.
Even the girls, for whom all kings seem brave,
Can think no toilet up, nor shameless rig,
To draw a smirk from this funereal prig.
The sage who makes him gold, could never find
The baser element that rots his mind.
Even those blood-baths the old Romans knew
And later thugs have imitated too,
Can't warm this skeleton to deeds of slaughter,
Whose only blood is Lethe's cold, green water.
— Translated by Roy Campbell
--------------------------------- ------------------------------------------------- -
Spleen
I'm like the king of a rain-country, rich
but sterile, young but with an old wolf's itch,
one who escapes his tutor's monologues,
and kills the day in boredom with his dogs;
nothing cheers him, darts, tennis, falconry,
his people dying by the balcony;
the bawdry of the pet hermaphrodite
no longer gets him through a single night;
his bed of fleur-de-lys becomes a tomb;
even the ladies of the court, for whom
all kings are beautiful, cannot put on
shameful enough dresses for this skeleton;
the scholar who makes his gold cannot invent
washes to cleanse the poisoned element;
even in baths of blood, Rome's legacy,
our tyrants' solace in senility,
he cannot warm up his shot corpse, whose food
is syrup-green Lethean ooze, not blood.
— Translated by Robert Lowell
--------------------------------------- --------------------------------------------
The King of the Rainy Country
A rainy country this, that I am monarch of, —
A rich but powerless king, worn-out while yet a boy;
For whom in vain the falcon falls upon the dove;
Not even his starving people's groans can give him joy;
Scorning his tutors, loathing his spaniels, finding stale
His favorite jester's quips, yawning at the droll tale.
His bed, for all its fleurs de lis, looks like a tomb;
The ladies of the court, attending him, to whom
He, being a prince, is handsome, see him lying there
Cold as a corpse, and lift their shoulders in despair:
No garment they take off, no garter they leave on
Excites the gloomy eye of this young skeleton.
The royal alchemist, who makes him gold from lead,
The baser element from out the royal head
Cannot extract; nor can those Roman baths of blood,
For some so efficacious, cure the hebetude
Of him, along whose veins, where flows no blood at all,
For ever the slow waters of green Lethe crawl.
— Translated by Edna St. Vincent Millay
----------------------------------- ------------------------------------------------
Spleen
I'm like a king of rainy lands and cold
— wealthy, but impotent: still young, but old —
who, scornful of his tutors' bows, prefers
his hounds and boredom to such grovellers.
nor stag nor falcon rouse his apathy,
nor starving subjects 'neath his balcony.
his favourite jester's wildest ballads now
no longer clear his cruel, sickened brow;
his royal bed's a coffin drowned in care,
and court-ladies, to whom all kings are fair,
— seeking a smile from that young skeleton —
no longer find one shameless robe to don.
nor can the sage who makes him gold succeed
in purging him of Death's corruptive seed,
nor in the baths of blood the Romans knew,
wherein the agèd rich their strength renew,
learn how to warm that cold numb corpse, through whose
dull veins, for blood, green Lethe's waters ooze.
— Translated by Lewis Piaget Shanks
--------------------------------------- --------------------------------------------
Spleen
I am like the king of a rainy country,
Rich, and yet powerless, young and yet most old,
Who, distrustful of the bows his tutors make,
Sits bored among his dogs as with his other beasts.
Nothing can lift his spirits: neither hawk nor game;
The dying subjects gathered to his balcony;
The grotesque ballad of his best-loved fool
--No more distracts him in this sickness cruel.
His lilied bed is changed into a tomb;
The ladies of his court all lords might love,
And yet they can no longer find shameless attire
To draw a smile from their young, wasted sire.
The alchemist who made him gold could not
Purge from his soul this corrupt element,
And in a blood bath, as in ancient Rome,
Remembered by the mighty in their latter days,
Knew not to warm this dazzled corpse
Where flows not blood but Lethe's waters green.
Translated by Anonymous
poem by Charles Baudelaire
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
Spleen
I'm like the king of a rain-country, rich
but sterile, young but with an old wolf's itch,
one who escapes Fénelon's apologues,
and kills the day in boredom with his dogs;
nothing cheers him, darts, tennis, falconry,
his people dying by the balcony;
the bawdry of the pet hermaphrodite
no longer gets him through a single night;
his bed of fleur-de-lys becomes a tomb;
even the ladies of the court, for whom
all kings are beautiful, cannot put on
shameful enough dresses for this skeleton;
the scholar who makes his gold cannot invent
washes to cleanse the poisoned element;
even in baths of blood, Rome's legacy,
our tyrants' solace in senility,
we cannot warm up his shot corpse, whose food
is syrup-green Lethean ooze, not blood.
poem by Charles Baudelaire
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Young Blood
i saw her standing on the corner,
(ooh ooh ooh)
a yellow ribbon in her hair,
(ooh ooh ooh)
i couldn't keep myself from callin' ,
looky there,
looky there,
looky there,
oh looky there!
young blood,
young blood,
young blood,
i can't get you outta my mind.
i took one look and i was flattered
(ooh ooh ooh)
i tried to walk along the lane
(ooh ooh ooh)
i couldn't keep myself from shouting,
whats your name?
whats your name?
whats your name?
oh whats your name?
young blood,
young blood,
young blood,
i can't get you outta my mind.
what crazy step
she looked so tept
i had to follow her all the way home
then things went bad
i met her dad
he said
you'd better leave my daughter alone
i couldn't sleep that night for crying
(ooh ooh ooh)
i saw the rising of the sun
(ooh ooh ooh)
and all along my heart was sighing
she's the one
she's the one
she's the one
oh she's the one
young blood
young blood
young blood
i can't get you outta my mind
young blood
young blood
young blood
i can't get you outta my mind
young blood
young blood
young blood
i can't get you outta my mind
song performed by by Bad Company
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Prince Fell For The Fair Maiden…
An allegorical ballad
Love bore the tale,
The black-eyed belle.
The prince loved her,
Despite the spell.
He married her,
Became a king.
The girl’s too shy
To be a queen.
She dreamed of dales,
Of sweet carnations.
A bird in her soul –
Her consolation!
The king’s cruel mum
And sisters said:
“We’ve brought you up,
Our dear lad! ”
Then the ocean of pains,
Of quarrels and worries.
The queen grows stubborn,
When the king dies…
The court’s alarmed,
The palace dives in vice,
The skies assault the earth,
Women cry out their eyes.
The old hag raged,
Was absorbed in wrath,
Couldn’t cast a spell,
And met her death.
The widow grew more fearless,
No longer was she a slave.
She could display her smartness,
And the court was filled with awe.
The court prospered and flourished,
Ended the ill-fated years,
The young queen loved her homeland,
That love made her shed tears.
And the spark of beauty – the love
Was born again… it sparked, it flamed,
The knight adored the young queen,
Faithful to her he remained.
Many know that story,
The ballad of glory:
The old tricks and shams
Repeat themselves.
Turned into a brave woman
The humble lass in the past...
She hoisted like sails
Her mourning dress.
The virtue was rewarded… at last.
29.O1.2OO2.
Translated from Georgian
poem by Janri Gogeshvili
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Young Blood
i saw her standing on the corner
A yellow ribbon in her hair
I couldn't keep myself from shouting
Look - a - there
Look - a - there
Look - a - there
Look - a - there
Young blood
Young blood
Young blood
I can't get you out of my mind
I took one look and i was fractured
I tried to walk but i was lame
I tried to talk but i just stuttered
What's your name
What's your name
What's your name
What's your name
Young blood etc.
What crazy stuff
She looked so tough
I had to follow her all the way home
Then things went bad
I met her dad
He said
You better leave my daughter alone
I couldn't sleep a wink for trying
I saw the rising of the sun
And all night long my heart was crying
You're the one
You're the one
You're the one
You're the one
Young blood etc. (twice)
song performed by by Beatles
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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We Suck Young Blood
Are you hungry?
Are you sick?
Are you begging for a break?
Are you sweet?
Are you fresh?
Are you strung up by the wrists?
We want the young blood (la x8)
Are you fracturing?
Are you torn at the seams?
Would you do anything?
Fleabitten motheaten?
We suck young blood (la x8)
We suck young blood (la x8)
Woah woah
Won't let the creeping ivy
Won't let the nervous bury me
Our veins are thin
Our rivers poisoned
We want the sweet meat (la x8)
We want the young blood
La x8
song performed by by Radiohead
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Fresh Blood
All the neighbours never see me
But they wonder why I walk around at night
He gets hungry - I go hunting
In the moonlit streets
For somebody that's right
Fresh blood, a sanguinary feast Is all he's living for
And he craves it more and more
Showgirls, businessmen in suits in the midnight rain
If they walk alone are never seen again
In the paper, seems a florist
Found in Lincoln Park, died of some anemia
No one raped her, poor Doloris
Just detained her and drained her on the spot
Fresh blood, a sanguinary feast
Is all he's living for
And he craves it more and more
Old men, ladies of the night walking in the rain
If they walk alone are never seen again
Fresh blood it goes through me, flows through me
Fresh blood inside of me, cry to me
Fresh blood it goes through me, flows through me
Fresh blood inside of me, cry to me
No one calls and no one visits
We're like a couplet out of Desolation Row
We don't want them to want to know us
'Cause when they do, they get a little bit too close
Fresh blood, a sanguinary feast is all I'm living for
And I crave it more and more
Bad girls, cops on the beat in the midnight rain
If they're out alone, are never seen again
Fresh blood it goes through me, flows through me
Fresh blood inside of me, cry to me
Fresh blood it goes through me, flows through me
Fresh blood inside of me, cry to me
Fresh blood it goes through me, flows through me
Fresh blood inside of me, cry to me
Fresh blood it goes through me, flows through me
Fresh blood inside of me, cry to me
Fresh blood it goes through me, flows through me
Fresh blood inside of me, cry to me, cry to me
Fresh blood it goes through me, flows through me
Fresh blood inside of me, cry to me, cry to me
song performed by by Alice Cooper
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Fresh blood (Lyrics)
All the neighbours never see me
But they wonder why I walk around at night
he gets hungry - I go hunting
In the moonlit streets
For somebody that's right
Fresh blood, a sanguinary feast
Is all he's living for
And he craves it more and more
Showgirls, businessmen in suits in the midnight rain
If they walk alone are never seen again
In the paper, seems a florist
Found in Lincoln Park, died of some anemia
No one raped her, poor Doloris,
Just detained her and drained her on the spot
Fresh blood, a sanguinary feast
Is all he's living for
And he craves it more and more
Old men, ladies of the night walking in the rain
If they walk alone are never seen again
Fresh blood it goes through me, flows through me
Fresh blood inside of me, cry to me
Fresh blood it goes through me, flows through me
Fresh blood inside of me, cry to me
No one calls and no one visits
We're like a couplet out of Desolation Row
We don't want them to want to know us
'Cause when they do, they get a little bit too close
Fresh blood, a sanguinary feast is all I'm living for
and I crave it more and more
Bad girls, cops on the beat in the midnight rain
If they're out alone, are never seen again
Fresh blood it goes through me, flows through me
Fresh blood inside of me, cry to me
Fresh blood it goes through me, flows through me
Fresh blood inside of me, cry to me
Fresh blood it goes through me, flows through me
Fresh blood inside of me, cry to me
Fresh blood it goes through me, flows through me
Fresh blood inside of me, cry to me
Fresh blood it goes through me, flows through me
Fresh blood inside of me, cry to me, cry to me
Fresh blood it goes through me, flows through me
Fresh blood inside of me, cry to me, cry to me
poem by Satan's Sibling
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Ancient Warrior
Theres no end - theres no beginning -
To the old mans story
Does he still remember me -
From lives gone by
Oh I see his spirit rising
Upon the back of time
Ive got nowhere to hide
Will he keep a place for me
He is the king of all kings
The keeper of light
He holds eternitys wings
In his eyes an oceans burning
Swollen seat of tears
Troubled mind the beating
War drums in his ears
No one ever hears his warning
Am I the one he calls
When they tell me theyre afraid
Some say Ill be put away
He is the king of all kings
The keeper of light
He holds eternitys wings
My blood will spill my blood
My blood will spill my blood
In the wisdom of the prophets
Never ending tale
Open up the eyes
Within your mind, he says
Crowned in his ancient glory
Theres a king within us all
Some will say its all in vain
That he doesnt have a name
He is the king of all kings
The keeper of light
He holds eternitys wings
song performed by by Black Sabbath
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Young Blood
Young blood where you going now
Young blood where you going now
I didn't mind it when you left me honey
But i miss you ain't the truth
I haven't give up hanging on the phone
But all i hear is the proof
*one more night and
I'm thinking what's going wrong
You say you love me but
Does love take this long
You paint a picture you tell a story
Oh the tangled web that you leave
I hear the whispers the candid talking
Arid i don't know what to believe
(repeat*)
**where do all these dreams have broken
Right or left it's stolen
Stop your running away
Young blood ooh tell me
Where you going now
Young blood ooh tell me
Where you going now
It's never never nothings forever
Turning gold in our hands
There's no magic it all seems tragic
'cause it's slipped through our fingers like sand
(repeat*)
(repeat * * twice)
Run run running away
song performed by by Ufo
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Poor Skeleton Steps Out
Poor skeleton steps out,
Dressed up in bad blood,
Bad brains, bad thoughts, and others deeds.
Poor skeleton no doubt,
One of these days,
You can cast aside your human, be free.
When the cities run with blood,
And you drink our health in mud,
All flesh be gone.
Save your dry and joyous shout,
For the day poor skeleton steps out.
Poor skeleton steps out,
Sprung from his life sentence,
Deep inside some muscle mask.
Poor skeleton devout,
Propping up truck drivers,
Filmstars, thieves or queens, your brave task.
When technology is rust,
And you write your book in dust,
All flesh be gone.
Cant buy tickets from a tout,
For the day poor skeleton steps out.
Poor skeleton steps out,
Liberated from sex organs,
And brown, black, white skin.
Poor skeleton you lout,
Dont you think that we might,
Like to have been asked to join in?
For good skeletons are we,
And were dying to be free,
All flesh be gone.
I will scream or sulk and pout,
Until my poor skeleton steps out.
Better watch out, here comes bony boy.
song performed by by Xtc
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The River of Blood
It’s the river of blood
Initiated by the enemies of God
And when advised too or told to stop
They just give you the nod
The nod of ignorance and cruelty
The nod of no life and no feel
As they are told about they’re evilness
They believe that none of it is real
It’s the river of blood
That flows down a dark and red stream
And as I dip my hand in, it feels like sour, bitter cream
It’s the river of blood
The river of cruelty and pain
The river of blood
The river that flows in vain
The river that will never end
The river full of the dead
The river where they remain silently hopeless
The river where the majority of them bled
It’s this river of blood where I inject my power and strength from
It’s this river full of blood where my victory will soon come
The river of blood, the river that will soon contain me
It’s this river where my blood has long sought to be
The river of blood that shall soon end with an atrocious fight
The river of blood, the river that will no longer stay at sight.
poem by Marria Attar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Alchimie de la douleur (The Alchemy of Sorrow)
L'un t'éclaire avec son ardeur,
L'autre en toi met son deuil, Nature!
Ce qui dit à l'un: Sépulture!
Dit à l'autre: Vie et splendeur!
Hermès inconnu qui m'assistes
Et qui toujours m'intimidas,
Tu me rends l'égal de Midas,
Le plus triste des alchimistes;
Par toi je change l'or en fer
Et le paradis en enfer;
Dans le suaire des nuages
Je découvre un cadavre cher,
Et sur les célestes rivages
Je bâtis de grands sarcophages.
The Alchemy of Sorrow
One man lights you with his ardor,
Another puts you in mourning, Nature!
That which says to one: sepulcher!
Says to another: life! glory!
You have always frightened me,
Hermes the unknown, you who help me.
You make me the peer of Midas,
The saddest of all alchemists;
Through you I change gold to iron
And make of paradise a hell;
In the winding sheet of the clouds
I discover a beloved corpse,
And on the celestial shores
I build massive sarcophagi.
— Translated by William Aggeler
Alchemy of Sorrow
One puts all nature into mourning,
One lights her like a flaring sun —
What whispers 'Burial' to the one
Cries to the other, 'Life and Morning.'
The unknown Hermes who assists
The role of Midas to reverse,
And makes me by a subtle curse
The saddest of all alchemists —
By him, my paradise to hell,
And gold to slag, is changed too well.
The clouds are winding-sheets, and I,
Bidding some dear-loved corpse farewell,
Along the shore-line of the sky,
Erect my vast sarcophagi.
— Translated by Roy Campbell
Alchimie de la douleur
one lights thee with his flame, another
puts in thee — Nature! — all his gloom!
what says to this man: lo! the tomb!
cries: life and splendour! to his brother.
o mage unknown whose powers assist
my art, and whom I always fear,
thou makest me a Midas — peer
of that most piteous alchemist;
for 'tis through thee I turn my gold
to iron, and in heaven behold
my hell: beneath her cloud-palls I
uncover corpses loved of old;
and where the shores celestial die
I carve vast tombs against the sky.
— Translated by Lewis Piaget Shanks
poem by Charles Baudelaire
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Ballad of God-Makers
A bird flew out at the break of day
From the nest where it had curled,
And ere the eve the bird had set
Fear on the kings of the world.
The first tree it lit upon
Was green with leaves unshed;
The second tree it lit upon
Was red with apples red;
The third tree it lit upon
Was barren and was brown,
Save for a dead man nailed thereon
On a hill above a town.
That night the kings of the earth were gay
And filled the cup and can;
Last night the kings of the earth were chill
For dread of a naked man.
‘If he speak two more words,' they said,
‘The slave is more than the free;
If he speak three more words,' they said,
‘The stars are under the sea.'
Said the King of the East to the King of the West,
I wot his frown was set,
‘Lo, let us slay him and make him as dung,
It is well that the world forget.'
Said the King of the West to the King of the East,
I wot his smile was dread,
‘Nay, let us slay him and make him a god,
It is well that our god be dead.'
They set the young man on a hill,
They nailed him to a rod;
And there in darkness and in blood
They made themselves a god.
And the mightiest word was left unsaid,
And the world had never a mark,
And the strongest man of the sons of men
Went dumb into the dark.
Then hymns and harps of praise they brought,
Incense and gold and myrrh,
And they thronged above the seraphim,
The poor dead carpenter.
‘Thou art the prince of all,' they sang,
‘Ocean and earth and air.'
Then the bird flew on to the cruel cross,
And hid in the dead man's hair.
‘Thou art the son of the world.' they cried, `
‘Speak if our prayers be heard.'
And the brown bird stirred in the dead man's hair
And it seemed that the dead man stirred.
Then a shriek went up like the world's last cry
From all nations under heaven,
And a master fell before a slave
And begged to be forgiven.
They cowered, for dread in his wakened eyes
The ancient wrath to see;
And a bird flew out of the dead Christ's hair,
And lit on a lemon tree.
poem by Gilbert Keith Chesterton
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The King's Daughter
WE WERE ten maidens in the green corn,
Small red leaves in the mill-water:
Fairer maidens never were born,
Apples of gold for the king’s daughter.
We were ten maidens by a well-head,
Small white birds in the mill-water:
Sweeter maidens never were wed,
Rings of red for the king’s daughter.
The first to spin, the second to sing,
Seeds of wheat in the mill-water;
The third may was a goodly thing,
White bread and brown for the king’s daughter.
The fourth to sew and the fifth to play,
Fair green weed in the mill-water;
The sixth may was a goodly may,
White wine and red for the king’s daughter.
The seventh to woo, the eighth to wed,
Fair thin reeds in the mill-water;
The ninth had gold work on her head,
Honey in the comb for the king’s daughter.
The ninth had gold work round her hair,
Fallen flowers in the mill-water;
The tenth may was goodly and fair,
Golden gloves for the king’s daughter.
We were ten maidens in a field green,
Fallen fruit in the mill-water;
Fairer maidens never have been,
Golden sleeves for the king’s daughter.
By there comes the king’s young son,
A little wind in the mill-water;
“Out of ten maidens ye’ll grant me one,”
A crown of red for the king’s daughter.
“Out of ten mays ye’ll give me the best,”
A little rain in the mill-water;
A bed of yellow straw for all the rest,
A bed of gold for the king’s daughter.
He’s ta’en out the goodliest,
Rain that rains in the mill-water;
A comb of yellow shell for all the rest,
A comb of gold for the king’s daughter.
He’s made her bed to the goodliest,
Wind and hail in the mill-water;
A grass girdle for all the rest,
A girdle of arms for the king’s daughter.
He’s set his heart to the goodliest,
Snow that snows in the mill-water;
Nine little kisses for all the rest,
An hundredfold for the king’s daughter.
He’s ta’en his leave at the goodliest,
Broken boats in the mill-water;
Golden gifts for all the rest,
Sorrow of heart for the king’s daughter.
“Ye’ll make a grave for my fair body,”
Running rain in the mill-water;
“And ye’ll streek my brother at the side of me,”
The pains of hell for the king’s daughter.
poem by Algernon Charles Swinburne
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Precious Purpose Of Prayer
Think not that prayers aren't heard above,
God has a heart of gold...
And He has heard the King of Love,
The day Christ's Blood ran cold...
Through Christ alone, God's mercy flows
In Christian hearts like mine...
Who sense the debt each sinner owes
To Him who is divine...
At night, before His hour came,
The Son of God bled fast,
When fears beset His mortal frame
And He stood there aghast...
He prayed beyond His fragile thoughts,
Now humbled, on His knees...
This King of Kings, this Lord of Lords,
This Christ, the Prince of Peace...
As servant of the Lord Most High,
He sought His destiny!
Was He to live, was He to die?
If death, then Calvary!
No easy death, no great escape,
No mercy from His foes...
His body whipped, bent out of shape,
Such truths God only knows...
The choice was plain, no turning back.
By faith, He went ahead...
To face a future, oh, so black,
That He was good as dead...
With firm resolve, He now stood tall,
Because He understood...
Obedient to His Father's call,
So brave, so bold, so good...
Thus Judas kissed the Son of Man
With Christ betrayed that day,
Who prophesied God had a plan
To take Man's sins away!
Thus Jesus went from place to place
For men to choose His fate...
For rogues to beat His precious face
And scoff and celebrate...
But Christ faced more than fists and whips,
As Calvary drew near...
To leave behind His Blood that drips
And mingles with each tear...
For there, the precious Saviour prayed,
Forgiveness to implore,
Of God, who watched such things dismayed
And wept for Him for sure...
Think not that prayers aren't heard above,
God has a heart of gold...
And He has heard the King of Love,
The day Christ's Blood ran cold...
Through Christ alone, God's mercy flows
In Christian hearts like mine...
Who sense the debt each sinner owes
To Him who is divine...
Denis Martindale, copyright, December 2010.
poem by Denis Martindale
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Ballad of God-Makers
A bird flew out at the break of day
From the nest where it had curled,
And ere the eve the bird had set
Fear on the kings of the world.
The first tree it lit upon
Was green with leaves unshed;
The second tree it lit upon
Was red with apples red;
The third tree it lit upon
Was barren and was brown,
Save for a dead man nailed thereon
On a hill above a town.
That right the kings of the earth were gay
And filled the cup and can;
Last night the kings of the earth were chill
For dread of a naked man.
'If he speak two more words,' they said,
'The slave is more than the free;
If he speak three more words,' they said,
'The stars are under the sea.'
Said the King of the East to the King of the West,
I wot his frown was set,
'Lo; let us slay him and make him as dung,
It is well that the world forget.'
Said the King of the West to the King of the East,
I wot his smile was dread,
'Nay, let us slay him and make him a god,
It is well that our god be dead.'
They set the young man on a hill,
They nailed him to a rod;
And there in darkness and in blood
They made themselves a god.
And the mightiest word was left unsaid,
And the world had never a mark,
And the strongest man of the sons of men
Went dumb into the dark.
Then hymns and harps of praise they brought,
Incense and gold and myrrh,
And they thronged above the seraphim,
The poor dead carpenter.
'Thou art the prince of all,' they sang,
'Ocean and earth and air.'
Then the bird flew on to the cruel cross,
And hid in the dead man's hair.
'Thou art the sun of the world,' they cried,
'Speak if our prayers be heard.'
And the brown bird stirred in the dead man's hair,
And it seemed that the dead man stirred.
Then a shriek went up like the world's last cry
From all nations under heaven,
And a master fell before a slave
And begged to be forgiven.
They cowered, for dread in his wakened eyes
The ancient wrath to see;
And the bird flew out of the dead Christ's hair,
And lit on a lemon-tree.
poem by G.K. Chesterton from The Wild Knight and Other Poems (1900)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Old Ireland
FAR hence, amid an isle of wondrous beauty,
Crouching over a grave, an ancient, sorrowful mother,
Once a queen--now lean and tatter'd, seated on the ground,
Her old white hair drooping dishevel'd round her shoulders;
At her feet fallen an unused royal harp,
Long silent--she too long silent--mourning her shrouded hope and
heir;
Of all the earth her heart most full of sorrow, because most full of
love.
Yet a word, ancient mother;
You need crouch there no longer on the cold ground, with forehead
between your knees;
O you need not sit there, veil'd in your old white hair, so
dishevel'd; 10
For know you, the one you mourn is not in that grave;
It was an illusion--the heir, the son you love, was not really dead;
The Lord is not dead--he is risen again, young and strong, in another
country;
Even while you wept there by your fallen harp, by the grave,
What you wept for, was translated, pass'd from the grave,
The winds favor'd, and the sea sail'd it,
And now with rosy and new blood,
Moves to-day in a new country.
poem by Walt Whitman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Blood Flow
Blood, blood
Let it all flow
Crimson
The worlds new gold
A precious ruby
The most sacred jewel
Blood
Sweet poisonous blood
Let it flow as a snake river may
Let it fall like the cruel rain
Red red
Crimson red
Let it pour
Let it drain
Into my goblet of fire
A delicious meal
My sinful desire
poem by Janelle Morehart
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Nothing But the Blood
What can wash away my sin?
Nothing but the blood of Jesus;
What can make me whole again?
Nothing but the blood of Jesus.
For my pardon this I see -
Nothing but the blood of Jesus;
For my cleansing, this my plea -
Nothing but the blood of Jesus.
Nothing can for sin atone -
Nothing but the blood of Jesus;
Naught of good that I have done -
Nothing but the blood of Jesus.
This is all my hope and peace -
Nothing but the blood of Jesus;
This is all my righteousness -
Nothing but the blood of Jesus.
CHORUS
Oh! precious is the flow
That makes me white as snow;
No other fount I know,
Nothing but the blood of Jesus.
poem by Robert Wadsworth Lowry
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I Didn’t Choose This Unnatural Way
Since I’ve been here I can’t stand the light it burns,
so I have to live at night, but it brings good returns.
My nourishment is free and people give it to me
they don’t always like to, but what will be will be.
I’ve found that the warm red liquid is all I can digest,
but two pints is usually enough if it’s from the best.
Young blood or old will get me through the night,
and one has to eat when the time is right.
I walk through the parks and streets in the shadows
just looking for unsuspecting ladies or fellows.
Sleeping people on benches are such easy prey,
but so are the lost and lonely who come my way.
In the cold of winter when people don’t go out so much
I survive on animals like pet rabbits, cats, and such.
But I really do miss the things of beauty that I used to see
like the birds and flowers the butterflies and bee.
I didn’t chose this unnatural way of drinking human blood
the creature who opened my coffin said death was good.
If only I could somehow escape this world of the living dead,
I would be so much happier on a mortal’s deathbed.
poem by Orlando Belo
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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