A poem by Alistar Crowley (1875-1947)
I to the open road,
You to the hunchbacked street –
Which of us two
Shall the earlier rue
That day we chanced to meet?
I with a heart that’s sound,
You with sick fancies of pain –
Which of us two
Would the earlier rue
If we chanced to meet again?
I jingle homely lore,
While you rhyme is with kiss –
Which of us two
Will the earlier rue
The love of the Hoylake Miss?
Not I the first to go,
Nor I the first to deceive –
Which of us two
Shall the the earliest rue
Our garden of make-believe?
You were a Chinese god,
I an offering fair,
As we entered the
Garden of Allah,
To sing our holy prayer.
Entered with hearts bowed low,
Yet I heard a voice that cried:
For he is the god of the
Sacrifice,
You are the crucified.
It was all make-believe,
A foolish game of play,
Our garden of Allah
A drawing-room,
Our Chinese god of clay.
Strings of bruises for pearls,
Tears for forget-me-nots,
And a deadly pain
Of the sickening shame
Watching the fading spots.
As quickly they faded,
The heart of me faded as well,
Until nothing is left
Of my garden,
But a soul sunk to hell.
Hail!
Poet prend ton lute -Je disparaire,
No more together we’ll enter the
Enchanted garden of make-believe,
Nor my sad soul listen while thine deceive.
No more you’ll be the God of Sacrifice,
Nor I the crucified.
Ah, Garden of Allah -how bitter sweet
Thy fruit. Why breakest thou the heart?
Why spoilest thou the soul with notes
From thy golden lute?
Lo! our garden a common room
Our Chinese god burnt clay, and
The singing of verses a funeral hymn
That awakes with awakening day.
‘Twas all such a meaningless play,
Poet prend ton lute -Je disparaitre.
Hail!
Poet, take my hand -we’ll walk
Still a little way.
I’ll not desert thee at the close of day,
I, too, must pray.
A beggar asking alms of passers-by,
Does not refuse a drink to one who’s dry
That once by him did lie.
Poet, come close -before I leave for aye
Take thou my hand, we’ll walk still
A little way.
One garment covered both to keep us warm,
What harmed the one, was’t not the other’s harm?
Close clasped, one single form.
Was it not meant of aye?
Poet, take thou my hand -we’ll still
Walk a little way.
A few random poems:
- On Being Challenged to Write an Epigram in the Manner of Herrick by Sir Walter Raleigh
- The Labour by Mousumi Guha Roy
- Mulholland’s Contract by Rudyard Kipling
- Владимир Маяковский – Теоретики
- Twins by Vinko Kalinić
- Robert Burns: O Kenmure’s On And Awa, Willie:
- The Most Exquisite Creature Of My Dreams by Mac McGovern
- The Steeple-Jack by Marianne Moore
- Couplet 4 poem – Amir Khusro poems | Poems and Poetry
- Василий Жуковский – К Филону
- Eucalyptus Grove, morning by Neal Dachstadter
- Sonnet 17: Who will believe my verse in time to come by William Shakespeare
- An Argument by Thomas Moore
- To His Dead Body by Siegfried Sassoon
- Вера Павлова – Подарил мне жизнь
External links
Bat’s Poetry Page – more poetry by Fledermaus
Talking Writing Monster’s Page –
Batty Writing – the bat’s idle chatter, thoughts, ideas and observations, all original, all fresh
Poems in English
- Memorials of A Tour In Scotland, 1803 I. Departure From The Vale Of Grasmere, August 1803 by William Wordsworth
- Matthew by William Wordsworth
- Maternal Grief by William Wordsworth
- Mark The Concentrated Hazels That Enclose by William Wordsworth
- Lucy by William Wordsworth
- Lucy Gray [or Solitude] by William Wordsworth
- Louisa: After Accompanying Her On A Mountain Excursion by William Wordsworth
- Look Now On That Adventurer Who Hath Paid by William Wordsworth
- London, 1802 by William Wordsworth
- Lines Written On A Blank Leaf In A Copy Of The Author’s Poem “The Excursion,” by William Wordsworth
- Lines Written In Early Spring by William Wordsworth
- Lines Written As A School Exercise At Hawkshead, Anno Aetatis 14 by William Wordsworth
- Lines On The Expected Invasion, 1803 by William Wordsworth
- Lines Left Upon The Seat Of A Yew-Tree, by William Wordsworth
- Lines Composed a Few Miles above Tintern Abbey by William Wordsworth
- Laodamia by William Wordsworth
- Lament Of Mary Queen Of Scots by William Wordsworth
- It was an April morning: fresh and clear by William Wordsworth
- It Is No Spirit Who From Heaven Hath Flown by William Wordsworth
- It Is a Beauteous Evening by William Wordsworth
More external links (open in a new tab):
Doska or the Board – write anything
Search engines:
Yandex – the best search engine for searches in Russian (and the best overall image search engine, in any language, anywhere)
Qwant – the best search engine for searches in French, German as well as Romance and Germanic languages.
Ecosia – a search engine that supposedly… plants trees
Duckduckgo – the real alternative and a search engine that actually works. Without much censorship or partisan politics.
Yahoo– yes, it’s still around, amazingly, miraculously, incredibly, but now it seems to be powered by Bing.
Parallel Translations of Poetry
The Poetry Repository – an online library of poems, poetry, verse and poetic works
