The Sick Muse
My impoverished muse, alas! What have you for me this morning?
Your empty eyes are stocked with nocturnal visions,
In your cheek's cold and taciturn reflection,
I see insanity and horror forming.
The green succubus and the red urchin,
Have they poured you fear and love from their urns?
The nightmare of a mutinous fist that despotically turns,
Does it drown you at the bottom of a loch beyond searching?
I wish that your breast exhaled the scent of sanity,
That your womb of thought was not a tomb more frequently
And that your Christian blood flowed around a buoy that was rhythmical,
Like the numberless sounds of antique syllables,
Where reigns in turn the father of songs,
Phoebus, and the great Pan, the harvest sovereign.
Translated by William A. Sigler
Submitted by Ryan McGuire
poem by Charles Baudelaire
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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La Muse Malade (The Sick Muse)
Ma pauvre muse, hélas! qu'as-tu donc ce matin?
Tes yeux creux sont peuplés de visions nocturnes,
Et je vois tour à tour réfléchis sur ton teint
La folie et l'horreur, froides et taciturnes.
Le succube verdâtre et le rose lutin
T'ont-ils versé la peur et l'amour de leurs urnes?
Le cauchemar, d'un poing despotique et mutin
T'a-t-il noyée au fond d'un fabuleux Minturnes?
Je voudrais qu'exhalant l'odeur de la santé
Ton sein de pensers forts fût toujours fréquenté,
Et que ton sang chrétien coulât à flots rythmiques,
Comme les sons nombreux des syllabes antiques,
Où règnent tour à tour le père des chansons,
Phoebus, et le grand Pan, le seigneur des moissons.
The Sick Muse
My poor Muse, alas! what ails you today?
Your hollow eyes are full of nocturnal visions;
I see in turn reflected on your face
Horror and madness, cold and taciturn.
Have the green succubus, the rosy elf,
Poured out for you love and fear from their urns?
Has the hand of Nightmare, cruel and despotic,
Plunged you to the bottom of some weird Minturnae?
I would that your bosom, fragrant with health,
Were constantly the dwelling place of noble thoughts,
And that your Christian blood would flow in rhythmic waves
Like the measured sounds of ancient verse,
Over which reign in turn the father of all songs,
Phoebus, and the great Pan, lord of harvest.
— Translated by William Aggeler
The Sick Muse
Alas, poor Muse, what ails you so today?
Your hollow eyes with midnight visions burn,
And turn about, in your complexion play
Madness and horror, cold and taciturn.
Green succubus and rosy imp — have they
Poured you both fear and love into one glass?
Or with his tyrant fist the nightmare, say,
Submerged you in some fabulous morass?
I wish that, breathing health, your breast might nourish
Ever robuster thoughts therein to flourish:
And that your Christian blood, in rhythmic flow,
With those old polysyllables would chime,
Where, turn about, reigned Phoebus, sire of rhyme,
And Pan, the lord of harvests long ago.
— Translated by Roy Campbell
La Muse malade
poor Muse, alas! what ails thee now? for thy
great hollow eyes with sights nocturnal burn,
and in they changing pallor I descry
madness and frozen horror, turn by turn.
did rosy sprites or pale green succubi
pour love or panic from their dream-filled urn?
did the mad fist of despot nightmare try
to drown thee where the fiends of hell sojourn?
I would that thou wert always filled with health
and manly thoughts undaunted; that a wealth
of Christian blood were thine, which always flowed
in calm broad rhythms like a Grecian ode,
now echoing forth Apollo's golden strain,
and now great Pan, the lord of ripening grain.
— Translated by Lewis Piaget Shanks
The Sick Mused
My impoverished muse, alas! What have you for me this morning?
Your empty eyes are stocked with nocturnal visions,
In your cheek's cold and taciturn reflection,
I see insanity and horror forming.
The green succubus and the red urchin,
Have they poured you fear and love from their urns?
The nightmare of a mutinous fist that despotically turns,
Does it drown you at the bottom of a loch beyond searching?
I wish that your breast exhaled the scent of sanity,
That your womb of thought was not a tomb more frequently
And that your Christian blood flowed around a buoy that was rhythmical,
Like the numberless sounds of antique syllables,
Where reigns in turn the father of songs,
Phoebus, and the great Pan, the harvest sovereign.
Translated by William A. Sigler
poem by Charles Baudelaire
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Bad Monk
On the great walls of ancient cloisters were nailed
Murals displaying Truth the saint,
Whose effect, reheating the pious entrails
Brought to an austere chill a warming paint.
In the times when Christ was seeded around,
More than one illustrious monk, today unknown
Took for a studio the funeral grounds
And glorified Death as the one way shown.
—My soul is a tomb, an empty confine
Since eternity I scour and I reside;
Nothing hangs on the walls of this hideous sty.
O lazy monk! When will I see
The living spectacle of my misery,
The work of my hands and the love of my eyes?
Translated by William A. Sigler
Submitted by Ryan McGuire
poem by Charles Baudelaire
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Travelling Bohemians
The prophetic tribe of the ardent eyes
Yesterday they took the road, holding their babies
On their backs, delivering to fierce appetites
The always ready treasure of pendulous breasts.
The men stick their feet out, waving their guns
Alongside the caravan where they tremble together,
Scanning the sky their eyes are weighted down
In mourning for absent chimeras.
At the bottom of his sandy retreat, a cricket
Watched passing, redoubles his song,
Cybele, who loves, adds more flower,
Makes fountains out of rock and blossoms from desert
Opening up before these travelers in a yawn—
A familiar empire, the inscrutable future.
Translated by William A. Sigler
Submitted by Ryan McGuire
poem by Charles Baudelaire
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Ill-Starred
To bear a weight that cannot be borne,
Sisyphus, even you aren't that strong,
Although your heart cannot be torn
Time is short and Art is long.
Far from celebrated sepulchers
Toward a solitary graveyard
My heart, like a drum muffled hard
Beats a funeral march for the ill-starred.
—Many jewels are buried or shrouded
In darkness and oblivion's clouds,
Far from any pick or drill bit,
Many a flower unburdens with regret
Its perfume sweet like a secret;
In profoundly empty solitude to sit.
Translated by William A. Sigler
Submitted by Ryan McGuire
poem by Charles Baudelaire
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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My Earlier Life
I've been home a long time among the vast porticos,
Which the mariner sun has tinged with a million fires,
Whose grandest pillars, upright, majestic and cold
Render them the same, this evening, as caves with basalt spires.
The swells' overwhelming accords of rich music,
Heaving images of heaven to the skies,
Mingle in a way solemn and mystic
With the colors of the horizon reflected by my eyes.
It was here I was true to the voluptuous calm,
The milieu of azure, the waves, the splendors,
And the nude slaves, all impregnated with odors,
Who refreshed my brow with waving palms
My only care to bring to meaning from anguish
The sad secret in which I languish.
Translated by William A. Sigler
Submitted by Ryan McGuire
poem by Charles Baudelaire
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Enemy
My youth was nothing but a black storm
Crossed now and then by brilliant suns.
The thunder and the rain so ravage the shores
Nothing's left of the fruit my garden held once.
I should employ the rake and the plow,
Having reached the autumn of ideas,
To restore this inundated ground
Where the deep grooves of water form tombs in the lees.
And who knows if the new flowers you dreamed
Will find in a soil stripped and cleaned
The mystic nourishment that fortifies?
—O Sorrow—O Sorrow—Time consumes Life,
And the obscure enemy that gnaws at my heart
Uses the blood that I lose to play my part.
Translated by William A. Sigler
Submitted by Ryan McGuire
poem by Charles Baudelaire
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Accused
You are accused of a crime and i am accused of your love,
But be very cautious of whatever you see on this earth;
For a woman is like the bee and you have to treat her well then,
She will make sweet honey for you.
To be loved and to be honoured with the right words,
Love is like the aphrodisiac of Turkey!
And with a wet morning with the muse of your passion,
For i want to know what turns you on.
Womb, bomb, tomb!
You either have the questions or you know the facts;
For you are eloquently noted with the kin of your muse and,
I really want to know what turns you on always in this life.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Elevation
Above the ponds, beyond the valleys,
The woods, the mountains, the clouds, the seas,
Farther than the sun, the distant breeze,
The spheres that wilt to infinity
My spirit, you move with agility
And, like a good swimmer who swoons in the wave
You groove the depths immensity gave,
The inexpressible and male ecstasy.
>From this miasma of waste,
You will be purified in superior air
And drink a pure and divine liqueur,
A clear fire to replace the limpid space
Behind this boredom and fatigue, this vast chagrin
Whose weight moves the mists of existence,
Happy is he who vigorously fans the senses
Toward serene and luminous fields—wincing!
The one whose thoughts are like skylarks taken wing
Across the heavens mornings in full flight
—Who hovers over life, understanding without effort
The language of flowers and mute things.
Translated by William A. Sigler
Submitted by Ryan McGuire
poem by Charles Baudelaire
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Diary Of a Madman
What could it mean.
Living beyond shame and fear of the unknown.
Insanity is incredible
And sanity is unstable
The diary of the insane is history.
And memory is long lost in the desert
Of the heart.
To an insane,
Sanity is insanity
And insanity is sanity.
The soul of an insane has gone far beyond earth.
But the sane is oblivious
Of the fate of his own soul
After the final call.
Above all,
Is sanity sane?
No. For bad temperament is
Madness in itself.
poem by Efe Benjamin
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Insanity
Insanity. Want it all, know you are the greatest, and you will be great. You are smart, you are strong so take
Sanity speaking, "What hoarse sh…. We all know how this turns out."
Insanity, do not face your pain, project your pain, your hurts onto others. Fame and wealth will make it all better.
Sanity, own your pain, work through your pain, work on learning how to love in healthy ways.
poem by Michael Kavuoti
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Retrospection
I turn these leaves with thronging thoughts, and say,
Alas! how many friends of youth are dead;
How many visions of fair hope have fled,
Since first, my Muse, we met.--So speeds away
Life, and its shadows; yet we sit and sing,
Stretched in the noontide bower, as if the day
Declined not, and we yet might trill our lay
Beneath the pleasant morning's purple wing
That fans us; while aloft the gay clouds shine!
Oh, ere the coming of the long cold night,
Religion, may we bless thy purer light,
That still shall warm us, when the tints decline
O'er earth's dim hemisphere; and sad we gaze
On the vain visions of our passing days!
poem by William Lisle Bowles
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The Nightmare
The sky was bright blue,
No sight of you.
The grass was green,
No one was mean.
No fear,
No one here.
The sun shone bright,
There was finally light.
Clouds started to roll in,
And people appeared.
The sun dissappeared,
Just as I feared.
Everyone was crowding me,
I wasn't free.
I start to panick,
They say my name.
I scream,
Nothing comes out though.
They take me down,
And I feel like I'm about to drown.
They say my name,
But there is shame.
My eyes fly open,
And I sit up fast.
I'm drenched in sweat,
'Nightmare, I bet.'
I mumble to myself.
I stay up,
But visions blind me.
I get up,
And start throwing stuff.
The visions get more intense,
And I lose balance.
I dropp a chair on me,
And I can't get free.
I start to cry,
For my life is a lie.
My partner wakes up,
And helps me.
He ask me,
'What happened? '
'Nothing.'
I go back to sleep,
But the nightmare,
Still haunts me...
poem by Dragon Crenshaw
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Turn To Gold
SHINE!
I don't know why
all the fiction of your sleeping
doesn't visit you awake
I don't know how to get your storybook sunrise
to follow you above your cloudy day
all these gifts you left on you
with heaven painted on you
i wish this now with all my soul
may all your visions turn to gold
to have and hold
may all your visions turn to gold
may all your visions turn to gold
to have and hold
may all your visions turn to gold
terrified the world will never turn to look at you
and the sun won't see you shine
she'll resign for rose cooked blush just from your smiling
let the water form a cry
only better luck should greet you
the road should rise to meet you
i wish this now with all i know
may all your visions turn to gold
to have and hold
may all your visions turn to gold
may all your visions turn to gold
to have and hold
may all your visions turn to gold
loose inside your winter
feel the cold wind blowing
cutting through your head and through your ears
feel the fire growing
no more frozen danger
no more wrteched ice storm fear
may all your visions turn to gold
to have and hold
may all your visions turn to gold
may all your visions turn to gold
to have and hold
may all your visions turn to gold
song performed by by Audioslave
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Be Very Patient
Be very patient,
The potter's clay;
Be very wise,
The writer's pen;
Be very useful,
Of the muse of life with a living hope;
Let your yes be yes and your no be no.
Life is like the patience of Iyyob,
So abstain from fleshly lust;
Like the days of our visitations on this earth.
Sarah obeyed Abraham,
Like the sea and the seashore;
So established are the two witnesses.
Oh womb, womb, womb!
Oh bomb, bomb, bpomb! !
Oh tomb, tomb, tomb! ! !
Be very patient in this life.
Womb. bomb, tomb;
The womb is opened.
Womb, bomb, tomb;
The earth is defiled.
Womb, bomb, tomb;
The time of trouble on this earth with our muses.
Our bombs will shake the heavens,
And our sins will led us to our tombs;
As it is written in the Book Of Life like,
A child born today from the womb.
We came out of the womb and,
Many of us will be killed by the bombs! !
Which will finally send us into the tombs.
Read about the facts,
Learn about the truth,
Our days of darkness from the womb!
We came out of the womb and,
Are destroying the world with our bombs;
Soon, we will be buried in the tombs!
Womb, bomb, tomb;
Be very patient on this earth without hatred.
Lets be each others keeper,
Lets learn for the truth of all things;
Our days on this earth is still very short.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Acid Flesh
Great white eyes
Bleed away the
Trembling sound
No more time
Body spasm deep
And passing
Acid flesh
Human river stepping
Stones of
Love and death
A living legend's legacy yeah!
Hustler of the dead
Revolution steals the world
And turns the sky to red
Home sweet hellhole to the
Last man on earth
See what the face of evil
Is truely worth yeah!
Turn your eyes
To the sky
A corpse of blue
Night is time
Growing strong
With every moment
Acid flesh
Chaos pulsing
In my viens yeah!
Hell house temptation
Walk on to salvation
Cold steel-pain trust
Hot blood-forever lust
Raw horror make cheap thrills
Twitch the nerve get your fill
Razor make clean cut
River red so what
Gut twisting holiday
Skin dripping pay to play
Stain is blood
Without a doubt
Godslayer action
Eye to fist
Fist to eye
Dig the war anyway
Killing time
Killing time
Bending cracks up
In my mind
Bite down
Bite down
Money burns
In my hands
I can't seem to
Get enough
Hammerhead
Says to you
Love is the one
Thing money can buy
Bite down
Bite down
Down
Down
song performed by by White Zombie
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Acid Flesh
Great white eyes
Bleed away the
Trembling sound
No more time
Body spasm deep
And passing
Acid flesh
Human river stepping
Stones of
Love and death
A living legends legacy yeah!
Hustler of the dead
Revolution steals the world
And turns the sky to red
Home sweet hellhole to the
Last man on earth
See what the face of evil
Is truely worth yeah!
Turn your eyes
To the sky
A corpse of blue
Night is time
Growing strong
With every moment
Acid flesh
Chaos pulsing
In my viens yeah!
Hell house temptation
Walk on to salvation
Cold steel-pain trust
Hot blood-forever lust
Raw horror make cheap thrills
Twitch the nerve get your fill
Razor make clean cut
River red so what
Gut twisting holiday
Skin dripping pay to play
Stain is blood
Without a doubt
Godslayer action
Eye to fist
Fist to eye
Dig the war anyway
Killing time
Killing time
Bending cracks up
In my mind
Bite down
Bite down
Money burns
In my hands
I cant seem to
Get enough
Hammerhead
Says to you
Love is the one
Thing money can buy
Bite down
Bite down
Down
Down
song performed by by Rob Zombie
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Stick Of Incense
Whence did all that fury come?
From empty tomb or Virgin womb?
Saint Joseph thought the world would melt
But liked the way his finger smelt.
poem by William Butler Yeats
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Slow Rivers (feat. Elton John)
The weather man, he looks confused.
Shakes his fist at the sky like you used to do.
But you don't remember things like that, do you?
The balance was uneven but i'm breaking through.
Slow rivers run cold,
Shallow waters never sank so low.
I thought i'd drown and you'd never know,
You're a slow river and you run so cold.
The winter here don't belive in god,
The bitter wind just bites through me like a wild dog.
I still see in your eyes tonight like headlights through the fog,
But one foot in your door, oh that's all i ever got.
Slow rivers run cold,
Shallow waters never sank so low.
I thought i'd drown and you'd never know,
You're a slow river and you run so cold.
Chances are you'll reappear.
Swim my way in a flood of tears,
No place to hide your conscience
So you're a sinking ship with no place to go.
Slow rivers run cold,
Shallow waters never sank so low.
I thought i'd drown and you'd never know,
You're a slow river and you run so cold.
song performed by by Cliff Richard
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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a Lad on Fire
Being young and young in
green growth already being
in a struggle to understand
insanity and never understanding
the nightmare of burning the
finger like a green branch,
While the sap screams, and hisses
lost untill the smell is covered over
by her knowledge of him, and no
sorrow it was not in piety nor,
when the bubble was pierced,
and the tears flowed out and
that by giants could such be done
and death claiming him and sorrow
by her a great mountain of guilt that
even with my debt of forgiveness,
I cannot move and the guilt made
her worse, and no one knew it but me.
poem by Is It Poetry
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Actors Echoing Inspirationless
Poor plasticine people
trying... to be
someone somebody else...
unable
at introspection inspection
frequently
to find manifest
talented artistic transition...
Have not they
historically taught thought
inquired looking searching out...
in musty dusty
misted mirror reflection yet?
Role models
modeled frequently
upon societies fatally flawed...
Poor plasticine people
trying desperately to be
someone somebody else...
Imagined inquisitively
looking searching in...
magic mist... for mirrored... images...
poem by Terence George Craddock
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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