fabric and warpaint
vodka, dancing, kissing, smiles
all the things you were and are
you say yes, or no
shoes so high you can taste clouds
and we all respect your joy -
the least we can do
Herwegh's poetry is characterized by its passionate advocacy for freedom and democracy. He became famous with his collection "Gedichte eines Lebendigen", published in 1841. This work was widely acclaimed for its revolutionary zeal and critique of the existing social and political order.
"The anxious night is now over,
We ride silently, we ride silently,
And ride to our doom.
How sharply the morning wind blows!
Mrs. Innkeeper, one more glass quickly
Before dying, before dying."
"At times it has been doubtful to me if Emerson really knows or feels what Poetry is at its highest, as in the Bible, for instance, or Homer or Shakspeare. I see he covertly or plainly likes best superb verbal polish, or something old or odd."
And there I was
Complaining
about the strength of the wind
It being the end of May
And all,
And then I noticed
The lustrous leaves
Of my moorland oak
Reaching out to me
As if to say
We've been through worse
Together
I'm inspired
By the tenacity of tree
And the spirit
Of the heart of oak.
The Curlew calls
Her treasures home
And I fly
With the Swallows. #poetry
A work is never completed except by some accident such as weariness, satisfaction, the need to deliver, or death: for, in relation to who or what is making it, it can only be one stage in a series of inner transformations.
there are the old tales
of the man who went for smokes
and never returned
as if it was that easy
afraid of laughter
in case it turned showery
caressing with smoke
lungs that gave up long ago
filled with that small joy
and he said, 'fuck it', and went
elsewhere, far beyond
the reach of life's pain and hope
as if his long trail
of lived days led to one choice
as if it wasn't
the weight of so much choosing
that crushed him to a fine dust
snug door
storm trapped outside
the shape of you in the darkness
our bones still humming to the tyres
skin patterned by stitched seats
eyes busy with back projections rolling
hands full wet clothes puddled
somewhere it is morning
there are people on their way to work
this is the stolen place between lies
where we can be true
light switch hidden but not needed
rain picking at the roof
wind wrestling the branches
peace in the darkness
and then they cut you
like you were the pattern bits
and not the pinned-to fabric
defining edges
from where no edges had been
before hungry scissors snipped