eurydicebound: (bleed words)
Well, in the UK, anyway. Close enough.

And if I leave you:
It will not be your fault.
My choices
Whispers of myself
Siren song, forever fading
Broken words and bits of glory
These are the things that lured me away.

And if I leave you:
I will know I failed you.
My issues
Orthagonal to reality
Fighting my way through filters
Bright gardens with locked gates
These are the places I could not reach.

And when I leave you:
It will be against my will.
My failure
Fighting with gravity
Inexorably pulled from orbit
Spinning out to distant stars
These are the courses I could not hold.

But until I leave you:
I will fight to stay with you.
My Love
Longing for you
Magnetically pulled into your field
Cleaving to our uncommon lives
You are the place to which I will return.

Michelle Lyons-McFarland, 2012


Jan. 20th, 2011 03:02 pm
eurydicebound: (Jane Eyre)
I love this one.

The Canonization
by John Donne

For God's sake hold your tongue, and let me love ;
    Or chide my palsy, or my gout ;
    My five gray hairs, or ruin'd fortune flout ;
With wealth your state, your mind with arts improve ;
        Take you a course, get you a place,
        Observe his Honour, or his Grace ;
Or the king's real, or his stamp'd face
    Contemplate ; what you will, approve,
    So you will let me love.

Alas ! alas ! who's injured by my love?
    What merchant's ships have my sighs drown'd?
    Who says my tears have overflow'd his ground?
When did my colds a forward spring remove?
        When did the heats which my veins fill
        Add one more to the plaguy bill?
Soldiers find wars, and lawyers find out still
    Litigious men, which quarrels move,
    Though she and I do love.

Call's what you will, we are made such by love ;
    Call her one, me another fly,
    We're tapers too, and at our own cost die,
And we in us find th' eagle and the dove.
        The phoenix riddle hath more wit
        By us ; we two being one, are it ;
So, to one neutral thing both sexes fit.
    We die and rise the same, and prove
    Mysterious by this love.

We can die by it, if not live by love,
    And if unfit for tomb or hearse
    Our legend be, it will be fit for verse ;
And if no piece of chronicle we prove,
        We'll build in sonnets pretty rooms ;
        As well a well-wrought urn becomes
The greatest ashes, as half-acre tombs,
    And by these hymns, all shall approve
    Us canonized for love ;

And thus invoke us, "You, whom reverend love
    Made one another's hermitage ;
    You, to whom love was peace, that now is rage ;
Who did the whole world's soul contract, and drove
        Into the glasses of your eyes ;
        So made such mirrors, and such spies,
That they did all to you epitomize—
    Countries, towns, courts beg from above
    A pattern of your love."


Jan. 24th, 2010 10:30 am
eurydicebound: (bleed words)
Words hang in air as thin
as snow in late spring,
trying hard to cover ground
too warm to bear its passing.
Echoes hang behind,
whispers, shadows, rumors
of what once flew rich,
full-ripened, swaying
in the breezes above
summer’s wanton breath.
The answer comes, blown
soft against a lover’s cheek,
damp and warm as breath against skin.
Asked and answered,
the words immaterial,
over and over and over again.


Mar. 15th, 2009 12:50 pm
eurydicebound: (writing)
Two poems in the space of a year. What the hell?

Did you know, when first you set
your foot upon the path
that it would come to this?
When she laughed with you,
sang for you,
put her mouth on you,
shuddered in your arms,
were you on it even then?
Walking into this dark place --
no darker, though, than
where your mind has been --
your voice rises and
life springs forth.
Even light casts a shadow.
The guardian is charmed.
The way is open.
Would sound weep, if it knew?
eurydicebound: (writing)
Part I:

Sonnet 147
My love is as a fever longing still,
For that which longer nurseth the disease;
Feeding on that which doth preserve the ill,
The uncertain sickly appetite to please.
My reason, the physician to my love,
Angry that his prescriptions are not kept,
Hath left me, and I desperate now approve
Desire is death, which physic did except.
Past cure I am, now Reason is past care,
And frantic-mad with evermore unrest;
My thoughts and my discourse as madmen's are,
At random from the truth vainly expressed;
For I have sworn thee fair, and thought thee bright,
Who art as black as hell, as dark as night.
-- Shakespeare

Part II:

When first I looked upon old Shakespeare's poem
It seemed to me a paltry thing, a waste.
Not his best at all, a whining hymn
In which he suffered quite a lack of taste.
Then life occurred, and suddenly I found
Myself unsettled, mourning my own fate
Upset and disconcerted all around
I missed those calmer seas, all gone of late.
As wildly I swing 'twixt two extremes
It seems now tempests are my daily fare,
Now cursing ruefully my waking dreams
I slide from joy, past Reason, to despair.
Fate, it seems, finds all of this quite rich;
Love's made of me a whiny emo bitch.
eurydicebound: (Default)
If you see this, quote me something either in my journal or your own, for I'm half parched for poetry today. I'll start.

Sonnet 116

Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impdiment. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove.
Oh no, it is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark
Whose worth's unknown although his height be taken.
Love's not time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come.
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never lived, nor no man ever loved.

eurydicebound: (writing)
This was the reading at the UU service I went to last weekend, and I have to say I really like it. Therefore I will share it with all of you. :)

Most Like An Arch This Marriage
by John Ciardi

Most like an arch - an entrance which upholds
And shores the stone-crush up the air like lace.
Mass made idea, and idea held in place.
A lock in time. Inside half-heaven unfolds.

Most like an arch - two weaknesses that lean
Into a strength. Two fallings become firm.
Two joined abeyances become a term
Naming the fact that teaches the fact to mean.

Not quite that? Not much less. World as it is,
What's strong and separate falters. All I do
At piling stone on stone apart from you
Is roofless around nothing. Till we kiss

I am no more than upright and unset.
It is by falling in and in we make
The all-bearing point for one another's sake,
In faultless failing, raised by our own weight.
eurydicebound: (rose in book)
Evidently this is what my brain does when it wants to avoid homework. It's too bad it didn't want to be written in iambic pentameter. Then it would have been my only real sonnet ever. I still kinda like it, even if I did fudge one of the rhymes.


A rose, untimely touch'd by frost
Red petals fair yet edged by death
with little care for what is lost
perfumes the air, its dying breath

What can such tender blossoms know
of what lies past, a moment gone
or yet to come as breezes blow
and kiss or kill with each new dawn

Yet shelter seeks it not, its thorns
do prick all well-intentioned souls,
daring those who'd see it shorn
from its life's blood, though death it chose

In choosing, petals fall like rain
and, kissing earth, find peace again.

Michelle Lyons


eurydicebound: (Default)

March 2013

1011121314 1516


RSS Atom

Most Popular Tags

Style Credit

Expand Cut Tags

No cut tags
Page generated Oct. 24th, 2017 11:10 am
Powered by Dreamwidth Studios