August 2011
17 posts
Chthonic
lifeofliterature:
|ˈTHänik | adjective
concerning, belonging to, or inhabiting the underworld.
ORIGIN late 19th cent.: from Greek khthōn ‘earth’+ -ic.
“The most interesting thing about writing is the way that it obliterates time.”
– Gore Vidal (via theparisreview)
July 2011
30 posts
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Ode to Sleep
Wake me not For I am Still dreaming Let foolish reality Drip from my Fingers And let my mind Wander In dreamland delights I am in heaven, here. Wake me not For I am still dreaming Only wake me When I am dead
-Jared Lamb, 2011
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O Withering Venus
You are dying my fair maid! Your beloved blush like Roses Is beginning to fade. It is too far tragic a fate For a beauty to be late. Death longs to hold you! Death longs to kiss away Your tears fashioned from Morning dew Do not fear this sunset ride For tonight, you will be Death’s bride. But it is I that will Suffer and long For such a loss of Beauty Is a sinful wrong I will be a Mourning...
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Aplomb
lifeofliterature:
|əˈpläm; əˈpləm| noun
self-confidence or assurance, esp. when in a demanding situation
ORIGIN late 18th cent. (in the sense [perpendicularity, steadiness] ): from French, from à plomb ‘according to a plummet.’
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I Am Prometheus
I am Prometheus I am the lame god Born in the wastelands Never to see the glory of Olympius O regretful father O lost mother Forgive me my Mistakes Take pride in what These hands can Craft I am sorry. I do not shine like Apollo. I will hide in my Netherworld Unapproachable Without care and concern I will only have my Aphrodite for company
- Jared Lamb, 2011
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Let the Summer Depart
Let the summer depart Let the light die The heat overwhelms me The sun makes my skin Fry So long until the cooler Months I can barely abide The wait These slow hours do Nothing But Irritate Where is the chill? Where is the parade Of colorful, dying Leaves? Will my Jack-O-Lantern Soul Fester Until we see bare Trees? Let the summer depart Let the light die Let us receive the Splendor of autumn And...
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“Whoever is alone will stay alone,
will sit, read, write long letters through...”
– Rainer Maria Rilke, from “Autumn Day,” trans. Stephen Mitchell (via proustitute)
10 Random Things About Me
My favorite seasons are autumn and winter.
I started writing poetry when I was fourteen. Before that, I wrote short stories, but I felt a deep dissatisfaction with the prose format. I finally felt at ease with my writing when I discovered poetry.
I’ve been friends with Stormy for a very long time. A part of me wants to say since we were in diapers.
I desperately want to move out of Ohio....
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La Belle Dame Sans Merci
Ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight, Alone and palely loitering; The sedge is withered from the lake, And no birds sing. Ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight, So haggard and so woe-begone? The squirrel’s granary is full, And the harvest’s done. I see a lilly on thy brow, With anguish moist and fever dew; And on thy cheek a fading rose Fast withereth too. I met a lady in...
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Lamia (Left to Herself)
Left to herself, the serpent now began To change; her elfin blood in madness ran, Her mouth foam’d, and the grass, therewith besprent, Wither’d at dew so sweet and virulent; Her eyes in torture fix’d, and anguish drear, Hot, glaz’d, and wide, with lid-lashes all sear, Flash’d phosphor and sharp sparks, without one cooling tear. The colours all inflam’d...
whisperedverse:
Creatures of the night sitting, wrapped in shadows, they quietly write.
January 2011
24 posts
1 tag
1 tag
