when u discover a relationship u thought was based on truth and exclusivity is, infact, nothing of the sort and the decade u invested has been wasted and burnt........ - are there some poems to ease the bitterness and pain?
i do hope so, please help.
Epitaph on a Pessimist
I'm Smith of Stoke, aged sixty-odd,
I've lived without a dame
From youth-time on; and would to God
My dad had done the same.
Not exactly about lies and deceit, but about relationships:
After the Quarrel
by Paul Laurence Dunbar
So we, who've supped the self-same cup,
To-night must lay our friendship by;
Your wrath has burned your judgment up,
Hot breath has blown the ashes high.
You say that you are wronged -- ah, well,
I count that friendship poor, at best
A bauble, a mere bagatelle,
That cannot stand so slight a test.
I fain would still have been your friend,
And talked and laughed and loved with you
But since it must, why, let it end;
The false but dies, 't is not the true.
So we are favored, you and I,
Who only want the living truth.
It was not good to nurse the lie;
'Tis well it died in harmless youth.
I go from you to-night to sleep.
Why, what's the odds? why should I grieve?
I have no fund of tears to weep
For happenings that undeceive.
The days shall come, the days shall go
Just as they came and went before.
The sun shall shine, the streams shall flow
Though you and I are friends no more.
And in the volume of my years,
Where all my thoughts and acts shall be,
The page whereon your name appears
Shall be forever sealed to me.
Not that I hate you over-much,
'Tis less of hate than love defied;
Howe'er, our hands no more shall touch,
We'll go our ways -- the world is wide.
We shall have our little day.
Take my hand and travel still
Round and round the little way,
Up and down the little hill.
It is good to love again;
Scan the renovated skies,
Dip and drive the idling pen,
Sweetly tint the paling lies.
Trace the dripping, pierced heart,
Speak the fair, insistent verse,
Vow to God, and slip apart,
Little better, Little worse.
Would we need not know before
How shall end this prettiness;
One of us must love the more,
One of us shall love the less.
Thus it is, and so it goes;
We shall have our day, my dear.
Where, unwilling, dies the rose
Buds the new, another year.
She Dried Her Tears
by Emily Jane Brontë
She dried her tears and they did smile
To see her cheeks' returning glow
How little dreaming all the while
That full heart throbbed to overflow
With that sweet look and lively tone
And bright eye shining all the day
They could not guess at midnight lone
How she would weep the time away
Some Ezra for ya:
by Ezra Pound
I would bathe myself in strangeness:
These comforts heaped upon me, smother me!
I burn, I scald so for the new,
New friends, new faces,
Oh to be out of this,
This that is all I wanted
- save the new.
Love, you the much, the more desired!
Do I not loathe all walls, streets, stones,
All mire, mist, all fog,
All ways of traffic?
You, I wold have flow over me like water,
Oh, but far out of this!
Grass, and low fields, and hills,
Oh, sun enough!
Out, and alone, among some
The senseless years' extinguished mirth and laughter
Oppress me like some hazy morning-after.
But sadness of days past, as alcohol -
The more it age, the stronger grip the soul.
My course is dull. The future's troubled ocean
Forebodes me toil, misfortune and commotion.
But no, my friends, I do not wish to leave;
I'd rather live, to ponder and to grieve -
And I shall have my share of delectation
Amid all care, distress and agitation:
Time and again I'll savor harmony,
Melt into tears about some fantasy,
And on my sad decline, to ease affliction,
May love yet show her smile of valediction.
Alexander Sergeyevich Pushkin
My lover, capable of terrible lies
at night lay close to me
in a dream
that lied like truth.
I woke up, still deceived,
and caressed the bed
thinking it was my lover.
It's terrible. I grow lean
like a water lily
gnawed by a beetle.
1st century Tamil
trans. by A.K.Ramanujan
Never to have lived is best, ancient writers say,
Never to have drawn the breath of life, never to have looked into the eye of day;
The second best's a gay goodnight and quickly turn away.
From "Oedipus at Colonus," trans. W.B. Yeats
More obscure, but still on the subject.
by Thomas Hardy
IF but some vengeful god would call to me
From up the sky, and laugh: "Thou suffering thing,
Know that thy sorrow is my ecstasy,
That thy love's loss is my hate's profiting!"
Then would I bear, and clench myself, and die,
Steeled by the sense of ire unmerited;
Half-eased, too, that a Powerfuller than I
Had willed and meted me the tears I shed.
But not so. How arrives it joy lies slain,
And why unblooms the best hope ever sown?
--Crass Casualty obstructs the sun and rain,
And dicing Time for gladness casts a moan....
These purblind Doomsters had as readily strown
Blisses about my pilgrimage as pain.
How many of these would you like?
by Oscar Wilde
THE wild bee reels from bough to bough
With his furry coat and his gauzy wing.
Now in a lily-cup, and now
Setting a jacinth bell a-swing,
In his wandering;
Sit closer love: it was here I trow
I made that vow,
Swore that two lives should be like one
As long as the sea-gull loved the sea,
As long as the sunflower sought the sun,-- 10
It shall be, I said, for eternity
'Twixt you and me!
Dear friend, those times are over and done,
Love's web is spun.
Look upward where the poplar trees
Sway and sway in the summer air,
Here in the valley never a breeze
Scatters the thistledown, but there
Great winds blow fair
From the mighty murmuring mystical seas, 20
And the wave-lashed leas.
Look upward where the white gull screams,
What does it see that we do not see?
Is that a star? or the lamp that gleams
On some outward voyaging argosy,--
Ah! can it be
We have lived our lives in a land of dreams!
How sad it seems.
Sweet, there is nothing left to say
But this, that love is never lost, 30
Keen winter stabs the breasts of May
Whose crimson roses burst his frost,
Will find a harbour in some bay,
And so we may.
And there is nothing left to do
But to kiss once again, and part,
Nay, there is nothing we should rue,
I have my beauty,--you your Art,
Nay, do not start, 40
One world was not enough for two
Like me and you.
And from Sarah T.
When I have ceased to break my wings
Against the faultiness of things,
And learned that compromises wait
Behind each hardly opened gate,
When I can look Life in the eyes,
Grown calm and very coldly wise,
Life will have given me the Truth,
And taken in exchange -- my youth.
I like the hope and optimism offered in "Say Not the Struggle Nought Availeth," by Arthur Hugh Clough, especially the concluding verse:
SAY not the struggle naught availeth,
The labour and the wounds are vain,
The enemy faints not, nor faileth,
And as things have been they remain.
If hopes were dupes, fears may be liars;
It may be, in yon smoke conceal'd,
Your comrades chase e'en now the fliers,
And, but for you, possess the field.
For while the tired waves, vainly breaking,
Seem here no painful inch to gain,
Far back, through creeks and inlets making,
Comes silent, flooding in, the main.
And not by eastern windows only,
When daylight comes, comes in the light;
In front the sun climbs slow, how slowly!
But westward, look, the land is bright!
Arthur Hugh Clough
A Cherry Viewing
Sputtering in wind
like a waterfall of stars
your muffled laugh
kissed my understanding tears
with a stream of love.
I understood the tokens of absence.
Your beauty, humour, intelligence
would all be removed.
Ingredients on the wind.
A peerless, lover's moon
casts unyoked shadows,
a thorn-studded reality.
Embracing in a cherry tree.
composed 9-05-02 dlc
I hope this helps best dlc
There's really NO KNOWING what will ease the pain and what will intensify it ... but here's my two cents' worth:
I SHALL NOT CARE
by: Sara Teasdale (1884-1933)
WHEN I am dead and over me bright April
Shakes out her rain-drenched hair,
Tho' you should lean above me broken-hearted,
I shall not care.
I shall have peace, as leafy trees are peaceful
When rain bends down the bough,
And I shall be more silent and cold-hearted
Than you are now.
by William Ernest Henley (1849-1903)
Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.
In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.
Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.
It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.
By the time you swear you're his.
Shivering and sighing.
And he vows his passion is
Lady, make a note of this;
One of you is lying.
Love is a breach in the walls, a broken gate
Where what comes in that shall not go again
Love sells the proud heart's citadel to fate
They have known shame, who love unloved. Even then
When two mouths, thirsty each for each, find slaking
And agony's forgot, and hushed the cryin
Of credulous hearts, in heaven-- such are but takin
Their own poor dreams within their arms, and lyin
Each in hie lonely night, each with a ghost.
Some share that night. But they know love grows colder
Grows false and dull, that was sweet lies at most
Astonishment is no more in hand or shoulder
But darkens, and dies out from kiss to kiss
All this is love; and all love is but this.
When the Roman poet Catullus (1st Century BC) realized his lady love never had been and never would be faithful to him, he eased his bitterness (or tried to) by letting her have it in verse. A close translation:
Furius and Aurelius, who’d keep me company
if I wayfared even to remotest India
afar where shore meets Aurorean swell and
resounds to its pounding,
or went among Hyrcanians or soft-living Arabs
or fetched up with Sacians or Parthian bowmen,
or down where the sea’s smooth face is reddled
by the septuple Nile,
or scaled the lofty peaks of the Alps
surveying the monuments of mighty Caesar,
the Rhine of the Gauls and that horrible island
of outlandish Britons––
You who’d be willing to tackle all those things,
whatever fate brings me, the whole lot together––
just take a message to that girl of ‘mine’,
which is brief and not kindly:
May she live and grow fat among her adulterers,
the hundreds together she opens her legs to,
loving none truly, to all being always
a ball-busting bitch;
Nor let her recall the love that aforetime
I had for her. By her fault it fell
like a flower at the edge of a field when touched
by a passing plough blade.
Whoo-hoo! Go man, go! Been there, done that, y'know ...
Another translation of the valediction:
'live with your three hundred lovers,
open your legs to them all - simultaneously -
lovelessly dragging the guts out of each of them each time you do it,
blind to the love that I had for you
once, and that you, tart, wantonly crushed
as the passing plough-blade slashes the flower at the field's edge.'
Oh, I know what you mean, JP. Quite shocking. No rhyme, no metre, minimal imagery, hardly poetry at all. I can quite understand your 'WELL!'
What do you suppose brought about the line... "that horrible island
of outlandish Britons––" Catullus was obviously out of sorts.
Since when was Catullus buddies with Aurelius and Furius?
Rude language, so I will just post the link:
I'm not sure about that translation, though. I seem to remember irrumatio being in there somewhere in the original.
No ‘irrumatio’ in this one, Hugh. Check it out:
Furi et Aureli, comites Catulli,
sive in extremos penetrabit Indos,
litus ut longe resonante Eoa
sive in Hyrcanos Arabesque molles,
seu Sacas sagittiferosve Parthos,
sive quae septemgeminus colorat
sive trans altas gradietur Alpes,
Caesaris visens monimenta magni,
Gallicum Rhenum horriblem insulam, ulti-
omnia haec, quaecumque feret voluntas
caelitum, temptare simul parati,
pauca nuntiate meae puellae
non bona dicta.
cum suis vivat valeatque moechis,
quos simul complexa tenet trecentos,
nullum amans vere, sed identidem omnium
nec meum respectet, ut ante, amorem,
qui illius culpa cecidit velut prati
ultimi flos, praetereunte postquam
tactus aratro est.
Text from ‘Catullus: Selections from the poems’ edited by F. Kinchin Smith and T.W. Mellish (Allen & Unwin, 2nd ed 1946), a most enlightened little schoolbook, alas long out of print.
The unflattering reference to the green and pleasant land dates this to after Caesar’s touring legions visited there in 55BC and were made worse than unwelcome by its unkempt, woad clad warriors. Catullus died in 54BC, so maybe he was out of sorts physically as well as emotionally.
By the way, Hugh, that link doesn’t seem to work.
Yeah, the links don't always work any more, but I cannot see what is preventing the ones that don't. Cut and paste all but the beginning and ending brackets into the address line of your browser to make it work right.
Here is the one I was (mis)remembering:
Pedicabo ego uos et irrumabo,
Aureli pathice et cinaede Furi,
Qui me ex uersiculis meis putastis,
Quod sunt molliculi, parum pudicum.
Nam castum esse decet pium poetam
Ipsum, uersiculos nihil necesse est,
Qui tum denique habent salem ac leporem,
Si sunt molliculi ac parum pudici
Et quod pruriat incitare possunt,
Non dico pueris, sed his pilosis,
Qui duros nequeunt mouere lumbos.
Vos quod milia multa basiorum
Legistis, male me marem putatis?
Pedicabo ego uos et irrumabo.
Please correct typo in the 3rd stanza of Non Bona Dicta. Should be 'horribilem' not 'horribile'.