Struck Blind By Beauty

Struck blind by beauty, let my eyes retire;
What need have I for any further sight?
They’ve tasted of this unsurpassed delight,
Depleting every morsel of desire.
To keep them is to see her beauty tire,
Her body give in to the ageing fight,
Then one day watch her eyes succumb to night
Before the embers of the dwindling fire.

O sight can go and memory take its place,
That cavern modelling eternity,
To shelter this one image of her face
Forever, silently and wistfully,
Envisaging some fanciful embrace
Even if it was never meant to be.

10:25 pm: sonofdemodocus1 note

Ignore Her Beauty

Ignore her beauty, glance away
Before the heart is led astray
By loveliness that’s sworn to fade,
And search for features not displayed.
The more that shows, the more that lacks,
Yes, hush the heart and heed these facts.
O never talk to pretty girls,
Makers of days, breakers of worlds.
No, talk to those of sterling mind,
The ones your eyes would see declined,
Of whom your parents would approve,
For they have learnt that passions move
With greatest speed towards a snare.
So look away when beauty’s there
But quick! before your temperance melts,
And give your glance to someone else.

09:30 pm: sonofdemodocus1 note

In Memory of WB Yeats’ Memorial, Now Faced and Defaced

As if all Ireland doesn’t stand in solemn
Memorial to the one who could illumine
All Ireland, one green park contains a column
Sculpted into a form both vaguely human
And semi-abstract, like all works of art;
It’s here I saw the statue could withstand 
Disfigurement by snow, but with a start
I saw it had been altered by a hand. 

A pen was used to give his face a grin
No poet’s ever had, for they’ve a curse
To show upon their face their worst within,
Their best is left depleted by their verse. 

Is this a free man’s praise of liberty, 
Allowing this expression to remain
Although, in memory of Yeats’ poetry,
An exhibition lies just up the lane?

An artist may be of the loftiest worth,
Applauded by the palms of poorer men,
But even if immortalised on earth
A later mortal holds a fresher pen. 

04:25 pm: sonofdemodocus


Alas, another beauty’s quit the game,
Departing from the realm of unattached,
Arriving in the region of the matched; 
Depriving the reserve of one more name.
Another fellow must possess a heart
Sufficiently assured of its desires,
Not plagued by tendencies to fall apart
When faced by any charming woman’s eyes.

Admittedly, when she was yet to bind
Herself to his affection, I was cursed
By indecision’s paralysing glare
That stilled my actions, magnified her worst,
And now she is forbidden, wonders where
A similar beauty I could ever find.

01:35 pm: sonofdemodocus

Sonnet on Inspiration

The deluge inspiration moves in soon
Becomes assumed, believed to be as air
In natural presence—so long as it’s there
The mind’s constituents can, in peace, commune.
Within those moments, that hypnosis seems
To safely promise ease of artistry
Forever, until heaven’s eternal dreams
Reveal a richer, infinite tapestry.
Yet all this reverie requires to break
Its stupor, and dissolve its binding spell,
Is any dull reminder—duty, chore
Or faded insight—that an artist’s well
At any moment might display its floor
And jolt the dreaming artist’s mind awake.

11:38 pm: sonofdemodocus1 note


(Written on commission for a friend to use)

O darling, sweetest specimen of all:
Bewitching beauty with the blesséd power
To give to man a second, deeper Fall,
Not caused by a desire to devour
An apple, tasting both evil and good,
But from a glimpse of beauty after which
No imperfection can be understood,
Not after perfect loveliness so rich.

Your wondrous grace has left me a devout 
Believer in a life of purest bliss
Until eternity has faded out
And only love’s defeated the abyss.
I hope our lives will always intertwine,
But for today, please be my valentine.

10:39 pm: sonofdemodocus3 notes


When love, in unrequited form,
Has stirred within your heart a storm
The elements would never dare
Unleash from their unworthy air,
There’s nothing one can do or say
To cast emotions from the fray,
As nature’s every shining grace
Reminds of her superior face:
The sunrise—early wakers’ prize—
Could well be night beside her eyes,
And sunset, doubled by reflection,
Would pale before her bright complexion,

Apollo, thus, was oddly blessed
When Daphne, though his passion pressed
Her heart join his in symmetry,
Refused, and then became a tree.
Her bark and branches clearly told
Apollo to abruptly fold
Away his passions and decide
Upon another for his bride.
Alas, we do not share his luck;
In human form we’re firmly stuck
Unlike in Metamorphoses,
For girls are girls, and trees are trees.

10:46 am: sonofdemodocus3 notes


A baby’s cry will only spike the mood
With madness, fuelling fury all around
As lookers on remember that it’s rude
Resenting newborn children for a sound
We all have made—not even Gandhi came
Into this noisy world promoting peace—
Our geneses have always been the same
And babies’ cries will never truly cease.

05:59 pm: sonofdemodocus3 notes


Her every feature sings of distant lands,
Of mysteries whispered at the close of day
That not even the bearer understands,
But dares not let them ever drift away
For fear of family lines diminishing,
A task for which not one man on the earth
Would not extend his help, that he might bring
Just anything of value to her worth.

Her mother did not know her power and nor
Does she, with radiant beauty far too rare
To have been born on this side of the shore
Or in the stale stillness of this air,
And with her every step the world expands;
Her every feature sings of distant lands.

01:25 pm: sonofdemodocus1 note


Stock poem to give to attractive girls that come sit near me at uni:

Your entry could enamour and enthral
A town that only housed the blind inside;
Please take this scrap of paper with a scrawl
Upon its face, some words unqualified
To lay a claim to even capturing part
Of the glory your humble entrance gave
This room, a brighter hue that any heart,
Complete at last, would give itself to save.

10:48 am: sonofdemodocus