The Failed Poet

Times like these, I catch love napping
It twists me over, murmuring desire.
It says that nowtimes, life has lost its clamor,
Has lost its agelong burning at the pyre.

And if the world should end in hate and ice,
It cannot end while love sleeps in its bed.
Love needs to wake and live and perish;
It needs a last performance ‘ere it’s dead.

It needs to howl and raise a ghastly din;
It needs to roar defiance at the cold;
It needs to burn; a single shard of frost
Must melt a little ‘ere the ice takes hold.

The formatting is all screwed up so I'm ( lj-cutting ) it.

http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=protectors+of+the+plot+continuum <-- that makes me happy.

More Edits to be included later.

SAT SCORES ARE IN!!!!!!!

AND I'VE GOT 2250!

That is GOOD.

w000t.

Ha! And you were all worried, parents! See? I did WELL.

So there.

And my essay was an 8, even though I didn't get to finish it.

:)

EDIT: ( Just so I have the picture online... )

This time stolen from Matt.

( Yes. Another one. )

And now you guys are supposed to guess what the songs are. ^_^

*looks back* Whoa. Lots of these are in Japanese and Russian...

He never spoke, but to forgive;
He never cried, but to alarm;
He only asked that you should live,
And never do another harm.

You walked away, unharmed, untouched;
You never spoke another word.
You whispered, lest it be too much
To die unmournéd and unheard.

~~

It was a perfect moment, one in which
The world stood still and sighed.
It pressed into your chest its feelings
Until you felt as though you would have died.

It was a perfect moment, one in which
You clenched your hand around your heart;
You squeezed until it'd fallen from your fingers,
Bloodless. Piece by piece, you played your part.

It was a perfect moment, one in which
You wiped a single tear aside without a word
It trembled, gasped for breath, and surfaced.
It would not pass until its cries were heard.

It was a perfect moment, one in which
A bolt lanced through your heart
It took you in; it took you through the moment.
You held your head aloft; you played your part.

As Yom Kippur begins again,
We think of all the wrongs we've done.
And cry to God to make amends,
Believe, we meant to do no wrong.

So, if I ever spoke you ill,
Or if I ever did you harm,
Or if toward you, ill I have thought,
Believe, I meant to do no wrong.

And if in dreams, I stole or killed,
Or wished to do someone a wrong,
Dear God, believe I meant no ill!
Believe, I meant to do no harm!

The lines of people mesh and swell;
They want to live their dream today.
But I, I am content to dwell
Upon the thoughts no one can sway.

You walk, you wake, your rough-shod feet
Will never help you on you way.
And if by chance we two should meet,
Please do not talk to me today.

I dream of depths and of great heights.
I dream of yesterday's today.
And when I set you in my sights,
You cannot hope to walk away.

You stumble, stand, continue on,
You will not give yourself away.
But though you feel yourself forlorn,
Please do not talk to me today.

The ivory is white and pure;
The ebony is black.
The elephant who gave his bones
For beauty won't be back.

Lyrical and soft, I hear
The fingers on the keys.
She plays old hymns to ancient gods
Inside the diocese.

In silence and in mystery,
She drowned her lullaby.
He prayed for salves to heal his wounds,
Not for the last goodbye.

And now that Judgment Day has come,
What ship would dare to sail?
What winds would dare to take them forth
Across the waters pale?

Who dares to sing of ancient ships?
No ships again will flee.
They fled a long, long time ago
Across an ancient sea.

Happy Talk Like A Pirate Day, me hearties! An' in honour of this grand day, I shall post for yer viewin' pleasure a song that was written by someone else. It bein' so wonderful, I'll share it with you all. Arrr!

Most days are like all of the others,
Go to work, come back home, watch TV,
But, brother, if I had me druthers,
I'd chuck it and head out to sea,

For I dream of the skull and the crossbones,
I dream of the great day to come,
When I dump the mundane for the old Spanish main
And trade my computer for Rum! Arrr!

T'me, yo ho! Yo ho!
It's "Talk Like A Pirate" Day!
When laptops are benches God gave us for wenches,
And a sail ain't a low price to pay!
When timbers are shivered and lillies are livered
And every last buckle is swashed,
We'll abandon our cars for a shipfull of Arrrs
And pound back the grog till we're sloshed. Yo ho!

Don't pick up yer phone and say "Hello,
Your ten-o-clock meeting's delayed",
Ye scrunch up yer face and ye bellow,
"Avast! Ye've been bleeding belayed!"

Ye can't keep this ufnt o yourself, I bet,
So sing "Aye", "arrr", and "ayy", every man!
We ain't got much grasp of the alphabet,
But a damn good retirement plan!

T'me, yo ho! Yo ho!
It's "Talk Like A Pirate" Day!
Whatever's in fashion is in for a thrashin'
And bein polite is passe!
When it's ev'ry man's duty to grab his proud beauty
And let out a hearty yo ho!
And if this offends you, hold your brath as we sends you
Ta Davy Jones' Locker ya go! ...

Have fun singin' it with whatever tune ye can manage in yer drunken daze.

So long!
The Fail'd Poet

EDIT: Just had some thoughts...
Thought One: Did pirates even know what the word "passe" meant?
Thought Two: Oh, em, gee! How likely would it be to get the Brobdingnagian Bards to do a house concert at my house! *squees and lapses momentarily into netspeak* ... ... ... *breathes a bit and returns to coherency* Right. So. Um. The Brobdingnagian Bards are just awesome, and you can totally get free MP3s from their website. I was going to put up my personal favorites, but I can't because I have just too many. The most catchy ones are "Old Dun Cow", "Do Virgins Taste Better Medley", and "Finnegan's Wake", but that's just my opinion. I love their instrumentals as much as their songs, so you all should check it out at http://www.theBards.net/#Polina_Malamud. >.> And please use my link so I earn brownie points with them.

--The Failed Poet

Rain walks on lanky silver feet
Through halls of stone and glass.
He patters on the concrete;
Pelts people as they pass.

Music sings of love lost, love found
Barely audible beneath the torrents
A soothing rhythm, that beating sound
Of people mimicking rain’s currents

Sorrow, dullness grips people tight
That sluggish trafficking of city streets
Streetlights shed their dirty light
On subway murals and treading feet

Rain runs inside, despite shut doors
He makes his way in homes and schools
He tramps upon the marble floors
Through businesses and market pools

Rain whistles out a merry tune
He ambles with a kind of sass
I don’t know if we will meet soon
But I know it will come to pass.

Not a Poem This time. Just something incredible amusing.

( Somewhat Accurate )

Teehee!

Inside a silver, twilit dell,
Before I noticed in delight,
A ghostly breath with features fell
Had come to join me in my night.

I harbored tears and welcomed darts.
And dreams that ache with dawn and pain,
A silent pain to toll our hearts,
Came through the eyes like mist and rain.

Like bells beyond the serpent hills,
The drummings came with faint tattoo,
And burrowed deep into our wills,
Burrowed into our anger, too.

It stole my breaths and slaughtered me,
That ghostly shell of gloom and tears.
I painted air and painted, free,
Upon the gloaming of the years.

--The Failed Poet

'Twas a marvelous regression
In a past beyond my sight
'Twas a candle-lit procession
Toward the limits of the night

'Twas my barest, harshest longing
In the realm of come-and-see
'Twas my pale voice brightly singing
What it means to mean to me

'Twas a twilit conversation
In the past that passed us by
'Twas momentous integration
With a sparrow flying high

As you look into the morrow
'Twill be marvelous to behold
And the palour of your sorrow
'Twill be malleable as gold

--The Failed Poet

Well, I suppose a little explanation is in order. I have a different LJ username, but this is my screen name for writing poetry. Now, I'm not fishing for compliments. In fact, I think I'm pretty honest about the quality (or lack thereof) of my poetry. If something is good, I won't be falsely modest. If something sucks, I will know that it sucks and I will say so. The Failed Poet is a reference to a poem I wrote that I rather like called Song of a Failed Poet and here, since it follows that it must, it is.

The flowers from which she draws her inspiration,
The clichés that spew forth from her pen's mouth,
Marks of a God who failed at Creation,
In short, a poet left in desperation.

She stands before you now, her bloody pen,
That writes these words that long ago were stifled,
Tries to describe, again and yet again,
The melody she heard the Gods sing then.

What melody is this? You ask; pray tell
I answer haltingly, for I don't wish to tell you.
It is the road that leads us down to hell.
My lady Fate, she weaves for us her spell.

--The Failed Poet