To Mrs. Frances--Arabella Kelly, With A Present Of Fruit.
Tho' the Plumb, and the Peach, with Apollo conspire,
To present you their Softness, and Sweetness, and Fire;
Their Aid is in vain; for what can they do,
But blush, and confess them selves vanquish'd by you?
Where Virtue and Wit with such Qualities blend,
What Mortal, what Goddess, would dare to contend?
poem by Mary Barber
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Fire Goddess.
I am the fire goddess.
The one you tried to kill,
But did not succeed.
I am the fire goddess.
The one that never lingers,
Just goes ahead and riots.
I am the fire goddess.
The one that is thought to be evil,
But you misjudge my greatness.
I am the fire goddess.
The one with endless power.
The one with immense power.
I am the fire goddess.
The one that ruined his life.
I am the fire goddess.
The one that is ruining her life.
I am the fire goddess.
The one that will ruin their lives.
poem by Normal Girl Normal World
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Written At Camberwell, Near London, In The Study Of Mr. Wainwright
Whilst happily I pass my Hours
In Camberwell's delightful Bow'rs;
From thence the beauteous Walks survey;
Or thro' the fragrant Mazes stray;
Or o'er the Study cast my Eye,
Where Virgil, Coke, and Horace lie,
Just Emblem of a Bosom grac'd
With Law, and Elegance of Taste;
Apollo I invoke in vain,
Apollo answers with Disdain:
``Mortal, you're here allow'd to roam.
``And bid to think yourself at home:
``O'er the Domesticks then preside;
``Let that content your Female Pride;
``In vain you call on me To--day;
``Here Wainwright only I obey.
poem by Mary Barber
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Apollo Laughs
'APOLLO laughs,' the proverb tells,
Far echo of old oracles,
A Delphic waif, —'Once in the year,
Apollo laughs.' O laughter clear
As sunshine, blithe as golden bells!
What mortal folly parallels
Olympian jest and so impels
To mirth till Heaven's bright charioteer,
Apollo, laughs?
'Tis when the annual critic knells
The death of poetry, while swells
Some faint, fresh wood-note, pioneer
Of music earth shall thrill to hear.
Then at Apollo's infidels
Apollo laughs.
poem by Katharine Lee Bates
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Sexy Peach
You're a sexy peach.
Delicious on the eyes!
Igniting my taste buds...
To get close enough,
To eat as my treat!
Sexy peach...
I'd love to rub against your fuzziness.
And cuddle on the beach.
Sexy peach...
I wish to feel what now appeals,
And even lick the pit of it!
I'd like to bite every slice...
With the dripping of the nutrients done,
Provided by the succulent Sun.
And your fuzzy on my lips...
Inviting you to kiss,
That sweetness I can not resist.
Let's share it and strip away...
Those inhabitions exciting the addmission,
We both desire to pleasure and ride.
Sexy peach...
I'd love to rub against your fuzziness.
And cuddle on the beach.
Sexy peach...
I wish to feel what now appeals,
And even lick the pit of it!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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The Peach Tree On The Southern Wall
The peach tree on the southern wall
Has basked so long beneath the sun,
Her score of peaches great and small
Bloom rosy, every one.
A peach for brothers, one for each,
A peach for you and a peach for me;
But the biggest, rosiest, downiest peach
For Grandmamma with her tea.
poem by Christina Georgina Rossetti
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Sonnet IV: Virtue, Alas
Virtue, alas, now let me take some rest.
Thou set'st a bate between my soul and wit.
If vain love have my simple soul oppress'd,
Leave what thou likest not, deal not thou with it.
The scepter use in some old Cato's breast;
Churches or schools are for thy seat more fit.
I do confess, pardon a fault confess'd,
My mouth too tender is for thy hard bit.
But if that needs thou wilt usurping be,
The little reason that is left in me,
And still th'effect of thy persuasions prove:
I swear, my heart such one shall show to thee
That shrines in flesh so true a deity,
That Virtue, thou thyself shalt be in love.
poem by Philip Sidney
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A Request To The Graces
Ponder my words, if so that any be
Known guilty here of incivility;
Let what is graceless, discomposed, and rude,
With sweetness, smoothness, softness be endued:
Teach it to blush, to curtsey, lisp, and show
Demure, but yet full of temptation, too.
Numbers ne'er tickle, or but lightly plea{e,
Unless they have some wanton carriages:--
This if ye do, each piece will here be good
And graceful made by your neat sisterhood.
poem by Robert Herrick
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Should I
He stirs within me
Something I thought I had lost
So long ago
He stirs within me
Warmth deep inside
That slowly warms the soul
He stirs within me
A hunger a need
To be touched to be loved
That only he can appease these needs
That is sparkling like a flame deep within my soul
I blush as he sweetly caresses my life with his soul
I blush as he gently reminds me how much he loves me so
I blush thinking how he possible can fill my wants and needs
I blush thinking have I fallen in love once again
Dare I take that chance?
Dare I risk giving my heart?
Should I
©Copyright Kaila George 2012
poem by Kaila George
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Playing With The Wolves
The wolves are out to play when they desire,
This soul needs comfort to state the reign,
Our souls are always the same to conspire.
To revel and seek festivity is worthy of barbwire,
Inside the soul we house a strict after pain,
The wolves are out to play when they desire.
Strength and virtue are to be selected by the choir,
Workers are around us in actions to ascertain,
Our souls are always the same to conspire.
Strong men are never to think the exact attire,
That works well for people to attain,
The wolves are out to play when they desire.
Searching for attributes or names is so entire,
The walking and breathing of men is to abstain,
Our souls are always the same to conspire.
Versatile effects are reselling, reworking with hellfire,
Anything is in the production, in the campaign,
The wolves are out to play when they desire,
Our souls are always the same to conspire.
poem by Naveed Akram
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This peach my teacher
This peach
that I’ve just eaten,
been graced by,
been blessed by,
been taught by,
been transformed by…
it’s as if some
Messenger of the Gods
had arrived, stopwatch in hand,
saying, everything holds in perfection
but a little moment -
as William Shakespeare noted:
so I’m going to arrange things so that
as the stopwatch ticks out
ten seconds to that moment,
you’ll reach out your hand to the fruitbowl,
take it, feel its yielding softness under velvet skin,
cut it carefully twice through the poles,
once equatorially… and as it falls apart,
spear one segment; eat…
this peach
was full of what even Rilke
could say no more than, peachness..
it was a living proof of Plato:
its perfection taught me
where essence meets experience,
where actuality meets the ideal of peach;
where a singular perfection speaks of
all perfections; where perfection
leaves from perfection, naught else but perfect…
how could such a perfect thing
have been invented by one
who does not love? Who is not love?
This peach is love itself, and I the worshipper
must needs make of myself a living God
to whom to kneel, to offer praise and gratitude
for all perfection known..
this peach my teacher.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Sonnet- God Is Very Just
What mortal sin, a beggar lame would do,
Denied of food and shelter, dress to wear?
He lives at the mercy of Nature too;
Diseases, problems that he cannot bear.
What mortal sins, the blind would dare to do?
They live in darkness, neglected, alone;
In vain, they try to 'see' God's Nature too,
Like you and me, for they are not of stone.
But mortal sins- the ones well-formed much do,
with intact senses, duping God and world;
Yet, Mother Nature seems to help them too;
Into the Pit of Hell, they will be hurled!
The handicapped and beggar will see God,
But not the 'Wholesome, sinful one' from clod.
poem by John Celes
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On the Outskirts of Antioch
We in Antioch were astonished when we heard
what Julian was up to now.
Apollo had made things clear to him at Daphni:
he didn't want to give an oracle (as though we cared!),
he didn't intend to speak prophetically, unless
his temple at Daphni was purified first.
The nearby dead, he declared, got on his nerves.
There are many tombs at Daphni.
One of those buried there
was the triumphant and holy martyr Vavylas,
wonder and glory of our church.
It was him the false god hinted at, him he feared.
As long as he felt him near he didn't dare
pronounce his oracle: not a murmur.
(The false gods are terrified of our martyrs.)
Unholy Julian got worked up,
lost his temper and shouted: "Raise him, carry him out,
take him away immediately, this Vavylas.
You there, do you hear? He gets on Apollo's nerves.
Grab him, raise him at once,
dig him out, take him away, throw him out,
take him wherever you want. This isn't a joke.
Apollo said the temple has to be purified."
We took it, the holy relic, and carried it elsewhere.
We took it, we carried it away in love and in honor.
And hasn't the temple done brilliantly since!
In no time at all a colossal fire
broke out, a terrible fire,
and both the temple and Apollo burned to nothing.
Ashes the idol: dirt to be swept away.
Julian exploded, and he spread it around—
what else could he do?—that we, the Christians,
had set the fire. Let him say so.
It hasn't been proved. Let him say so.
The essential thing is—he exploded.
poem by Constantine P. Cavafy
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Hail to you!
Victory to you, O Most Auspicious One, O Abode of Sublimity and Eternal Delight! O Goddess of Freedom, O Triumphant One, We salute you!
O Embodiment of our National Life-Force, O Goddess of Freedom, Of Virtue and Prosperity Supreme Queen you are!
In this darkness of Slavery, O Goddess of Freedom, Alone gleaming in the sky A bright and Shining Star you are! O Goddess of Freedom, You are the blush that prospers, On cheeks as soft as flowers, On flowers as soft as cheeks! You are the Radiance of the Sun, the Depth of the Ocean, O Goddess of Freedom, Without you their worth is naught!
You are the Liberation from the Cycle of Birth and Death, O Goddess of Freedom, hailed as the Supreme Soul By the Yogis of the Vedas you are! All that is most supreme and noble, So very magnificent and oh, so very sweet, O Goddess of Freedom, All your companions are!
Soaked in the villain's blood-You are! Worshipped by noble men-You are! O Goddess of Freedom, The entire Creation surrenders unto you! Life is to die for You, Death is to live without You, O Giver of Boons, We await the time when you shall Clasp Our Motherland to your bosom! O Goddess of Freedom, O Triumphant One, We salute you!
Even Lord Shankar covets Our Himalayas, The Mighty Mountains of Terraced Snow, O, why does it not please you to sport here? Why O, why do you forsake the bountiful Ganga? Her stream, glowing like the moonshine, Is not it a worthy mirror for even the Apsaras?
O Freedom! What did you lack in this Golden Land? Is there not a fresh Kohinoor bloom for your braid each day? Here is The Bounteous One, Our very own Motherland, Why O, why did you push her away? O, why did your Motherly love of old wither away? O, so anguished is my soul! For she is now but a slave to others, Why O, why did you abandon her so, Answer me, I pray! O Goddess of Freedom, O Triumphant One, We salute you!
[Translated by Anurupa Cinar]
poem by Vinayak Damodar Savarkar
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Blend
blend, how did i ever use that word in my life?
blend with the people i work with, dissolve in their ordinariness
so i cannot be noticed anymore
i wear the same clothes, same brand and even same color to blend
with all of them, and so i am in, not a deviant, not an opposition
not a rebel but a supporter of their cause
blend with the crowd like cuts of carrots and apples and melons
in a blender and nothing is identifiable in that concoction
blend and blend and blend myself with the world and this universe
escape from my uniqueness betray my individuality
as all creeks and rivers all flow to the sea as one entity
away from loneliness, losing myself my thoughts
the I surrendering to the we, the coward one,
blending, and now there is no one, yet why this poetry apart from you?
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Instead of getting hard ourselves and trying to compete, women should try and give their best qualities to men - bring them softness, teach them how to cry.
quote by Joan Baez
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Sharing Eve's Apple
1.
O Blush not so! O blush not so!
Or I shall think you knowing;
And if you smile the blushing while,
Then maidenheads are going.
2.
There's a blush for want, and a blush for shan't,
And a blush for having done it;
There's a blush for thought, and a blush for nought,
And a blush for just begun it.
3.
O sigh not so! O sigh not so!
For it sounds of Eve's sweet pippin;
By these loosen'd lips you have tasted the pips
And fought in an amorous nipping.
4.
Will you play once more at nice-cut-core,
For it only will last our youth out,
And we have the prime of the kissing time,
We have not one sweet tooth out.
5.
There's a sigh for aye, and a sigh for nay,
And a sigh for 'I can't bear it!'
O what can be done, shall we stay or run?
O cut the sweet apple and share it!
poem by John Keats
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Gabriel
He fused her womb
with angel dust
and she gave birth
to a star.
poem by Sally Plumb Plumb
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Villanelle
Apollo left the golden Muse
And shepherded a mortal's sheep,
Theocritus of Syracuse!
To mock the giant swain that woo's
The sea-nymph in the sunny deep,
Apollo left the golden Muse.
Afield he drove his lambs and ewes,
Where Milon and where Battus reap,
Theocritus of Syracuse!
To watch thy tunny-fishers cruise
Below the dim Sicilian steep
Apollo left the golden Muse.
Ye twain did loiter in the dews,
Ye slept the swain's unfever'd sleep,
Theocritus of Syracuse!
That Time might half with HIS confuse
Thy songs,--like his, that laugh and leap, -
Theocritus of Syracuse,
Apollo left the golden Muse!
poem by Andrew Lang
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Goodnight Baby Love
Kiss those little
hands and feet.
Curl`ed toes
and fingers neat.
Little face
with rosebud lips.
Kiss babe all
to fingertips.
Kiss babes feet
sweet up to thumb.
Kiss as much
as you have done.
Kiss as much
as you are able.
Then lay love gently
in the cradle.
Sally Plumb
poem by Sally Plumb Plumb
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On The Conflagration Of The Po
Why is, and whence, the Po in flames? and why
In consternation do its borderers raise
Imploring hands to mortal men around
And Gods above? Are Gods implacable?
Or men bereft of sight at such a blaze?
Apollo hath no more a son; his breath
Is stifled, and smoke only fills the air
Where once was fire, and men to men were true.
Fierce ones and faithless now approach the waste,
Who look transversely with an evil eye,
And scowl and threaten, and uplift the sword,
And, if they lower it, 'tis but to grasp more
And more of amber left on either bank. Apollo hates the land he once so loved,
Nor swan is seen nor nightingale is heard
Nigh the dead river and affrighted vale,
For every Nymph shed there incessant tears,
And into amber hardened all they shed.
poem by Walter Savage Landor
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