Casanova
If I tell you
That I will take you to a castle
Buried in the sands,
Would you surmise
The esoteric grotesqueness
Of my chagrined empire
With walls of odes,
Firmament of naked
Despondence, incandescence,
The portcullis left ajar
For the meandering souls
Astray in the garish
Coruscations of the sun
And the feline yawning
Of the tinkering crystals
In every chandelier
Tells a tale
And caress a condole
More supple than the velvet
Curtains and carpets
The chiffonier that will carry you
In the caroming susurrations
Of the bland slurs
Of grandiosity
Will you slew in the rendour
Slopes of enigma?
Will you keep the portmanteaux
Bolted from the panorama
And swath the corona
Of the feral castigations
Of bigoted clovers
With four leaves
Establishing the thwarting
Of our weary eaves?
I shall wait
It shall stay
Till you trample in the pavements
Of unruffled cobbles
And quaff the gambles
In the goblet
Of perpetual fire.
poem by Norman Santos
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Related quotes
Cradle the Lion's Grave
The meandering Lion, impaired by a trance
Of feral instinct and hedonistic impetus
Torn to avert or succumb his fated tragedy
But only festoons the lion's unwritten fable
Ensconced by the eaves of pure enigma
Slithering the ornate tangling forlorn forest
Whilst the Moon stroke the fiery wisps
Of his cynical golden tresses and bastion
Grazing on his poignancy to submission
And scintillating a cordial theme park
Clandestine with a selfish feisty carnival
From the Lion's lacerations that stalls
Upon the labyrinthine forest's walls.
poem by Norman Santos
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Debut
Eighteen roses
with manifold thorns
floridly swaying with
the flummox of motes
and then there was
a single carnation
unabashedly uncurling
and prying behind
the reticent curtains
of my endless nights
Eighteen candles
with mouthful of garish lights
devouring moths
with ludicrous invitations
and then there was
a lone chandelier
flickering many orbs
to a consummate glow
to deluge the dark and unfurl
these clandestine volitions
Eighteen treasures -
flamboyance gilded by
dilettante architectures
profligate the leisure
and pillage the quintessence
and then there was
a lissome string
unfettered from the poisons
of mediocre demarcations
unlatch the vault and reveal
your struggles, your lights, your shadows
Eighteen years
of an eternal waltz caroming
the clean lines of living
bemuse the fastidious poetry
and outgrow your limitations
and then there was
a single descrying of time
when your roses shall blossom,
your candles shall hone visions,
your treasures shall encompass grandiosity;
now, titillate your shy unreality.
poem by Norman Santos
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Tom and Fatima
I saw your warm footprints, Fatima
They lingered in the sinking quartz
Stalled within the quaint wonder
That crossed this parceled paper
I saw them, standing with the colossus
Unruffled in the vapid slough of fire
A crawling inferno of treacherous
Skirmish waltz of phantom swords
And from this florid vantage
My solemn eyes rolled in naivety
To find my own footprints
Meandering supply and aimlessly
Caught in the inebriated throttle
Of the feral roars of hope
Traversing the dampen moss
Until abeyance congealed
When I saw our prints dissipate
As it crossed the enigma
Of the cesspool of ignorance
I scampered through the desert
That bit my tongue and burnt my feet
The mackerel sky threw my bitter dreams
Into a pond that gnawed at my sanity
Like an army of piranhas
That got to open their mouths
For the first time; blood-shed partied
Into the distance were crystals
That warned me: it would cut and kill
But I didn't care for the signs
Trampling upon plastic daisies
And dissolved colors into fake waters
I reached out for your echo
Hoping my mind, an impetus
To make you tangible enough to hold
So tell me, dear Tom;
Now that we're past the fire
And slowly sinking into the icicles
Of better musings and melodious muteness
How do you do?
poem by Norman Santos
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1: From the Void
A rift in the bones ached
To be amongst the quakes
Of the forest's riddling dance
As I sink in fathoms futilely
Gulping ounces of buoyancy,
Aloof in the inert stance,
Siphoned of sporadic chances,
Slurring in the slopes of darkness,
Chagrined in the tranquil motion,
Lost in the stability of perpetual lost:
This malign cycle is a serpent
Chasing its own tail,
Poisoning its own cure.
The pedagogy of the night
Lies in the pitch black, point blank
Despondence buried in the sighs
In the salient grave in these eyes
Imagine the fathoms to brave
To find my core rocking slowly
Assuaging the moribund sways
Of the pendulums and hooks
That slivered the atmosphere
To sequester my soul
From my body
And from yours
And they called this place
Void.
poem by Norman Santos
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The Collective: The Porcelain Doe
Eloquently, she skid and hop
In the summer haze and mistral fog
Never let the mirth to stop
Serendipitous legs of a scallywag
Gallop out of a hungry trap
And wave along the rainbow flag
She ran with the alacrity of snow
Plummeting sveltely and gracefully
Do you escape? Do you chase? We do not know
Exuberant from an enigma that vexes me dearly
Your resilient swings seldom goes slow
And it concerns me unfathomably
In blithe, you skip, hop, amble
Forgetting about your frail rendour
That porcelains dare not trample
Or reside in gelid pieces on the floor
I am here to pick your shards too supple
But only you can find the girdling core
Skip and hop to the endless night
With peril, avert the haunts of blight
poem by Norman Santos
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Jaundice
I found you there, clad fully
In a tawny velvet in the visage
Of the sun seekers espionage
Cringing in the svelte beams
Seething through the yawning
Of the assuaging curtains and
The vestiges of your quintessence
Meander with the vacuous
And suspended breathing,
Fringing the cholera slathering
The solitary holidays
In this robust abode, a turret,
The sooty pockmarks
In the pallid tangerine bricks
Condensed the slumbering veneer
Like a hefty ripple in a cesspool
Garish rays swooned marauding
With prismatic buoying mirth
Rather rudimentary and hollow
Impenetrably shallow
Cleaving vexation eagerly
And the vivid coruscations
Casted shadows aloft that bore
Unfathomable ulcer in the flaws
As the gilded chiming bawls
Rouse and float innocuously
My baleful iron eyes toppled
From the adverse gaiety
Perhaps, I belong amongst the gloom
And the shadow is my mooring home:
A bijou for a wavering wander
Through my frangible walls
Vicissitude galloped in berserk
Digressing and regressing
Without the huff and puff
Of a culpable wolf
On the jaundice creeping
The bewildering mirror
poem by Norman Santos
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Drowning the Sea
My walls shudder and the persiennes rustled
Whispering secrets to each other
And tingling my curiosity
To open the portmanteaux
Where I have stashed the tides
With surges I cannot defeat
But I would not let myself deplete
Into the seductions of the ocean
And her airborne secrets
Your tides, they were pristine and feral
And I had pleasured myself
From the delusive consoles
Catching it in my palms
Like a paramour's hand
In spite of the saltiness of your fingers
That would detour from my frantic clasp
Filleting my hopes, every time
Until I gladly drown with all that I have
In your sympathy
That I have taken erroneously
Everything sank
I am dead-beaten and sea-sick
With the drifting consoles
Of the voracious sea
Because at these times
Where the gears of the clock collapses
And does not seize each other
I am drawn to reckon
And probe for honesty
In the vertigo of surrender
And I grew sterner by the helm
Taking the mistral gale
As an endless beating
With the mistral blades
Of different shades
Like tonight, for instance
The cordial yuletide hue
Is ballasted by my veracity
As another vacant holiday
In a vacant banquet
Of vacant platters
Indeed, this is how I grew sterner;
Surging the breaking waves
With a sea-sick stomach
An overwhelming surf
Over the slopes of skepticism
Until the undulation settles
And the sea drowns
Into a numbed state and
The waves and the gusts
Would be driven back to the shore
And I shall attend
The pangs of a vacant holiday
And that, I do prefer,
For it is not inflicted
By my own flimsy hands
And I would not be shaken
By the whispers and the rustles
Inside the bolted portmanteaux.
poem by Norman Santos
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The King Of Thule
IN Thule lived a monarch,
Still faithful to the grave,
To whom his dying mistress
A golden goblet gave.
Beyond all price he deem'd it,
He quaff'd it at each feast;
And, when he drain'd that goblet,
His tears to flow ne'er ceas'd.
And when he felt death near him,
His cities o'er he told,
And to his heir left all things,
But not that cup of gold.
A regal banquet held he
In his ancestral ball,
In yonder sea-wash'd castle,
'Mongst his great nobles all.
There stood the aged reveller,
And drank his last life's-glow,--
Then hurl'd the holy goblet
Into the flood below.
He saw it falling, filling,
And sinking 'neath the main,
His eyes then closed for ever,
He never drank again.
poem by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
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Interlude
Meandering in shotgun alleyways,
Cradling a pseudo-leonine soul astray—
Vagrant without a name but a tale,
Do not unfurl yours if you can't stay.
poem by Norman Santos
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A Poet Not
Hello Stranger,
Have you read my endeavors?
Have you dissected the tassels
of my ornate tapestry
of grief, of shabby bliss?
Because underneath
the obsidian armour of
these eloquent words
is a door left ajar
for someone to penetrate
my shy impenetrable curtains
Dear Stranger,
I am no one and
I have never been important;
I am nobody's son,
no proud homeland,
not a good comrade,
not an idyllic beau,
not a simple soul,
my esoteric penchant
for a profound quintessence
is a casualty
glaring with a neon sign
But would you be generous
to let me covet the banner
of a poet - manqué or laureate?
Would you not take
a poet for granted and peer
behind the eloquently tossed
epistles and paroxysmal rhymes?
Would you be parsimonious
of the serrated veracity
that my arcane tirade
is defunct of grandiosity?
Would you cure
me egoistic affliction
slowly and quickly abating
to the void of everything?
Because if am no one,
not even a poet in your
simple and delicate tableau
then I have always been
futilely no one
then please neglect
the spurious laments
of this poet.
poem by Norman Santos
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Tough cat Sam returns
Tough cat Sam is restless
he wants to box again
retirement is boring he says
he misses the action and even the pain.
Jess says he's lost the plot
and he's being a grumpy old cat
although Sam maybe knocking on a bit
he can still do a hundred press ups on the mat.
He wants to fight the reigning champ
a psycho cat by the name of feral Fred
he hasn't lost a fight in years
and two poor opponents ended up dead.
But Sam has been working out
and eating lots and lots of raw fish
feral Fred has heard all about this
and says he'll grant Sam his wish.
The Feline Gazette ran the headline
that Sam is too old and must be mad
they wrote some nasty things in their paper
saying he was washed up and very sad.
But Tough cat Sam had heard it before
and announced that he was in really good nick
while feral Fred laughed and taunted Sam
saying he was just an old cat and thick.
So Sam had his fight with feral Fred
and for fifteen rounds they went paw to paw
and when the fight finally came to an end
feral Fred was lying knocked out on the floor.
Tough cat Sam was the champion again
the oldest cat to retain the boxing crown
and as Sam proudly said to the feline press
' I'm living proof you can't keep a good cat down!
poem by Kevin Halls
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The Meandering Lion
Latch the doors,
I want to meander
With flaming feet
Of an opulent lion
Inside my prattling veins
And in the currents
Of your thunders
If you can see them
In the condoles of the scars
And in the knot of my temples.
Let the arrows strike
With vengeance and repugnance
They do not have the heart
Of gilded susurrations,
They can nick my tawny suit
But never touch the soul
Basking in the prowls
Of a protracted and brazen
Glissando.
Stay, inside my forlorn forest
If you can endure the enigma
And if you can wrangle
With the lashing of
My violent yet pliant chains,
Not of lightning,
But of infinity
In the farcical veneer
Of the moon-kissed eaves
Dispensing all amiable jewelries
Into the sea
Of drudgery.
Hear me feign a tongue-tied roar
And rip myself with electric tongues,
Corrupt these eyes of a child
As I pretend to scamper the wiles
Of the labyrinthine riddles;
I am who I am,
A perplex cacophony,
And the dissonance of the desires
To be heard while whispering
A clandestine interpolation.
Leave and shun the scintillations
Of the lackluster stars
That would remind me
Of you and your lucidity
And wedging distraught,
And of being one amongst
These far-flung constellations.
If you cannot give me
A lion soul,
Stay away and permit me
To pretend that I am
A meandering lion.
poem by Norman Santos
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Pavements
there are traces on the pavements
there are eyes on the pavements
sadly looking at us
pavements are like history on strata and decaying leaves
there are booksful of words on the pavements
on the pavements
there are faces
ı haVE BEEN ACquı Nted with
looking at me lonely and sadly
the pavements look as they have come from above
and constructed there
on the pavements
there are many memories carved
there are lonely traces on the pavements
there are eyes on the pavements
we tread on
ı have acquinted with... faces look at me sadly and lonely
the pavements must have drunk from various waters
from many sourCes and fountains
who guesses who passed and gone on this pavements?
there are traces on the pavements
there are faces on the pavements
looking at me..lonely and sadly
when ı walk
and stroll on them lonely and slowly and slowly
Ali TÜRK KESKİ N Translatı on Metin SAHİ N
poem by Metin Sahin
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Airplane
Over the city in an airplane
I can see everything below
The houses they look so tiny
The cars look like dots
Weve only got fifteen minutes to go
The clouds in the sky caress my mind so tenderly
The sun shines down on the great big beautiful scene
The sound of the engine fills my ears up
Im hopin this rainy weather clears up
My lover is waiting at the airport
Soon shell be kissing me hello
The woman sitting next to me tells me bout her guy
And I tell her all about you and i
Airplane, airplane
Carry me back to her side
Airplane, airplane
I need God as my guide
Down, down on the ground
Cant wait to see her face
(a-1, a-2, a-1, 2, 3)
I cant wait (cant wait)
To see (her face)
I cant wait (cant wait)
To see (her face)
I cant wait (cant wait)
To see (her face)
I cant wait (cant wait)
To see (her face)
I cant wait (cant wait)
To see (her face)
I cant wait (cant wait)
To see (her face)
I cant wait (cant wait)
To see (her face)
I cant wait (cant wait)
To see (her face)
I cant wait (cant wait)
To see (her face)
song performed by by Beach Boys
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Damsel Of Snow
A not so subtle enigma walks leisurely
Into the silky phosphor of her skin
Engulfed by the garish gestures of gaiety
And her fragrant vision-stealing scenes
What profound riddle lay buried
In the tinkering of her innocence?
What color gush in the grids
And architecture of her slumbering veins?
The answer resonated in the pulsations
Caught in somnabulism in her neck
Craning over for my desiccation
To fondle mellifluously this wreck
Beneath the blaring pounds of your croon
Is a pristine language of genuine hope
That had traversed with the monsoon
Grazing scars to eloquently festoon
I fancy and trust your gilded heart
For it beats the exotic tempo
Of the heaven's salient art
Purging the cacophony in a glissando
poem by Norman Santos
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House of the Setting Sun
In the tawny moiré of your eaves
I found a city lying asleep
Buried in their tangled locks
Of synthetic gold and
In the tinkers of inebriation
I found the streets
That will ferry me home
And the sun would never bow
To cut the salient swath
Of time and vertigo
Because these walls hold
The pliant corolla of
Of surfeit gaiety
And this floor is the threshold
Of infinite chances
In the pale gilded walls
I impale myself like a wallpaper
Slathering every soul
Into the graves in my skin
I am one with the yellow house
And we are the maladroit spin
Of the clock's wafting arms,
The silent breathing
In the attic's chambers,
And in your bright collection
Of quasars and chandeliers
I will never be a shadow.
poem by Norman Santos
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Velvet Goldmine
You got crazy legs, you got amazing head
You got rings on your fingers and your hairs hot red
You got wit from my tongue, name on the sun
I gotcha going to my breast
Cause youre the only one, who uses school to pleasure
You make me act real gone, you make me trawl along
I had to ravish your capsule, suck you dry
Feel the teeth in your bone, heal ya head with my own
Why if I dont have you home, well have to fight alone
Hang all together
Velvet goldmine, you stroke me like the rain
Snake it, take it, panther princess you must stay
Velvet goldmine, naked on your chain
Ill be your king volcano right for you again and again
My velvet goldmine
Youre my taste, my trip, Ill be your master zip
Ill suck your hair for kicks, youll make me jump to my feet
So youll give me your hand, give me your sound
Let my sea wash your face, Im falling, I cant stand
Oooh! put your mink on
Velvet goldmine, you stroke me like the rain
Snake it, take it, panther princess you must stay
Velvet goldmine, naked on your chain
Ill be your king volcano right for you again and again
My velvet goldmine
Oh
Shoot you down, bang bang
Velvet goldmine, you stroke me like the rain
Snake it, take it, panther princess you must stay
Velvet goldmine, naked on your chain
Ill be your king volcano right for you again and again
My velvet goldmine
Velvet goldmine,
Velvet goldmine,
My velvet goldmine
Velvet goldmine,
Velvet goldmine
song performed by by David Bowie
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Crazy Lowdown Ways
Well i got a problem
and it just won't wait
I've been getting on one
With the man who guards your gate
When he says you're sleeping
In your hideaway
It is what he's keeping back
That gives your game away
Come quit your crazy lowdown ways
You're walking astray
Come quit your weary worn out ways
You're walking astray
And i'd like to say
That i like this
More than i do today
Yes i' got a problem
like you've never seen
I've been getting bothered
By the man who locks your screen
When he says you're hiding
And in your room you'll stay
It is what he's holding back
That says what he can't say
Come quit your crazy lowdown ways
You're walking astray
Come quit your weary worn out ways
You're walking astray
And i'd like to say
That i like this
More than i do today
I'm just a lazy man
Who has to hear the truth
And i hear what's true from you
Come quit your crazy lowdown ways
You're walking astray
Come quit your weary worn out ways
You're walking astray
Come quit your crazy lowdown ways
Come quit your weary worn out ways
You're walking astray
And i'd like to say
That i like this
More than i do today
La la la
La la la
La la la
La la la
song performed by by Ocean Colour Scene
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Wall Engulfed By Shy Flowers
There is a rendezvous with flamboyance -
a stillness gilded by the peace of detachment
as tacit as the uncurling of moonflowers
when the night sprawls on her divan
and raises her goblet to the distant stars -
and he alone, in his howling dungeons, can
usurp the esoteric grandiosity in malcontent
Everything is intimate and close
in the sterile skin of your vulnerability -
the drifting autumn wind, the lifted eyelids,
the dancing lips, the glaring waltzing feet
But in your soliloquy - unraveling threads
that strangulates your recuperating breaths,
your swallowed words raving in the dark
fanning the embers of your glassy heart
the spurious tides of the oceans crash
into a lull amidst your redundant tremors
and everything sink into the unfathomable
There is an agog pleasure basking in
the immensity of monastic pendulums, whilst
the world gyrated in blurs and drifting lights
where the perfume of bliss passes above
the stagnant wind sculling our little breaths
the montage reels in the infinitesimal gilts
elsewhere held from the malingerers
There is an effulgent hymn immersed deep
in the cacophony of the world's manifold rhythms
like cathedral bells trembling from the hollows
that echoed through the gold insularity,
like a siren scintillating in the furnace of the sea
a charade, a riddle, born by loquacious maladies
When the pastels are pillaged to a halt,
when the only judge is the frost and fog,
when solace is the thief of the endless night,
he indulges into a dance and a song -
A fire burns underneath his sole and
a lilt titillates from his lifted susurrations
and reticence was eroding with the embers
whilst loneliness burns like red roses
and the web of bridges suspended above
The clockwork salutes fell unbeknownst
into a bottomless ocean of rigmaroles unto
the fusillade of your silence - a salient armada,
a sentry amidst the collapsing of confusion,
a terse bridge that burns with inner caliginosity,
a bulwark adamant wall that makes no echoes,
a flower awakening in the oppression of sleep;
Because your bland insinuation is more colossal
than the petulant beauty of many garden larcenies
The reticence you wore like paper petals are frail
vanguards that hones your puissant indifference -
Play along the farce, come soundless like a thief,
lean on your citadels, dance with the shadows
riveted on your walls and cringe only to intensify
the grandiosity of your gray shabby heavens;
Wallflower, sing. Wallflower, dance,
Wallflower, cringe. Wallflower writhe.
poem by Norman Santos
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Firebreak
Moseying in the skin of your complacence
I build an ornate heraldry of sycamores
With carnal lattices to fringe the eaves
But no vulture dares to crane and sing,
No quasar halt to pry and beam,
No burl stopped from lewdly skewing
Deeper and deeper, you are penetrating.
You amble sprightly, sagaciously, innocuously
Caroming into the maze gracefully
I was weighed to kneeling with a plea
And a silent cry for a trespassing treachery
But gravity opposed the resistance
And the sycamores flounced wistfully
My forest sprouted the ripped wings
And the castrated prongs in the foliage
Of dying moss and buried memories
Uttering the melody of a gamine
That mounts walls for a dream
To stir past the concatenations
And gnarls between you and me,
Utter a fastidious wisp of infinity
And dispense the momentum
To a ballasting defeat
In the lips of a famished fleet
Utter the ignorant sensation
Of emollient crevasses yawning
Swiftly eviscerating somnolence,
Utter
Brand new visions,
Utter
Desiccating illusions.
Scathe the fuel-bathed forest
And start a fire of black scorches
And charred parcels of melodies,
Instigate a fire to meet me
Burning in a pyre reticently
Draping my scarce body in crimson
Until a firebreak splice
This delusional aberration.
poem by Norman Santos
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