Poem – Virgina Woolf: Her Last Words

I begin to hear the voices again, 
and I feel certain 

this darkness of times

and minds turns me insane.
I can’t fight any longer and

I am doing (what seemsthe best) –

the last Act of this life in vain, 

I am falling into a lasting sleep.
I owned all the happiness and joys

and can’t go on spoiling yours

anymore. Adieu my love, 

you could do better without me. 

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Poem – Vere Homo

Be human, rather than divine 
living such life is truly a surprise. 
the world is for you, and

seek your worth and prize
what intoxicates our minds, are

the stories of doom and demise, 
so with these false theologies 

let’s unbind our trade and ties.
In search of god(s) 

don’t stare at the skies
just intuit (for awhile) and

feels others’ agonies and cries. 

Poem – Mariana in the South 

With one black shadow at its feet,
The house thro’ all the level shines,

Close-latticed to the brooding heat,

And silent in its dusty vines:

A faint-blue ridge upon the right,

An empty river-bed before,

And shallows on a distant shore,

In glaring sand and inlets bright.

But “Aye Mary,” made she moan,

And “Aye Mary,” night and morn,

And “Ah,” she sang, “to be all alone,

To live forgotten, and love forlorn.” 
She, as her carol sadder grew,

From brow and bosom slowly down

Thro’ rosy taper fingers drew

Her streaming curls of deepest brown

To left and right, and made appear,

Still-lighted in a secret shrine,

Her melancholy eyes divine,

The home of woe without a tear.

And “Aye Mary,” was her moan,

“Madonna, sad is night and morn;”

And “Ah,” she sang, “to be all alone,

To live forgotten, and love forlorn.” 
Till all the crimson changed, and past

Into deep orange o’er the sea,

Low on her knees herself she cast,

Before Our Lady murmur’d she:

Complaining, “Mother, give me grace

To help me of my weary load.”

And on the liquid mirror glow’d

The clear perfection of her face.

“Is this the form,” she made her moan,

“That won his praises night and morn?”

And “Ah,” she said, “but I wake alone,

I sleep forgotten, I wake forlorn.” 
Nor bird would sing, nor lamb would bleat,

Nor any cloud would cross the vault,

But day increased from heat to heat,

On stony drought and steaming salt;

Till now at noon she slept again,

And seem’d knee-deep in mountain grass,

And heard her native breezes pass,

And runlets babbling down the glen.

She breathed in sleep a lower moan,

And murmuring, as at night and morn

She thought, “My spirit is here alone,

Walks forgotten, and is forlorn.” 
Dreaming, she knew it was a dream:

She felt he was and was not there.

She woke: the babble of the stream

Fell, and, without, the steady glare

Shrank one sick willow sere and small.

The river-bed was dusty-white;

And all the furnace of the light

Struck up against the blinding wall.

She whisper’d, with a stifled moan

More inward than at night or morn,

“Sweet Mother, let me not here alone

Live forgotten and die forlorn.” 
And, rising, from her bosom drew

Old letters, breathing of her worth,

For “Love”, they said, “must needs be true,

To what is loveliest upon earth.”

An image seem’d to pass the door,

To look at her with slight, and say,

“But now thy beauty flows away,

So be alone for evermore.”

“O cruel heart,” she changed her tone,

“And cruel love, whose end is scorn,

Is this the end to be left alone,

To live forgotten, and die forlorn?” 
But sometimes in the falling day

An image seem’d to pass the door,

To look into her eyes and say,

“But thou shalt be alone no more.”

And flaming downward over all

From heat to heat the day decreased,

And slowly rounded to the east

The one black shadow from the wall.

“The day to night,” she made her moan,

“The day to night, the night to morn,

And day and night I am left alone

To live forgotten, and love forlorn.” 
At eve a dry cicala sung,

There came a sound as of the sea;

Backward the lattice-blind she flung,

And lean’d upon the balcony.

There all in spaces rosy-bright

Large Hesper glitter’d on her tears,

And deepening thro’ the silent spheres

Heaven over Heaven rose the night.

And weeping then she made her moan,

“The night comes on that knows not morn,

When I shall cease to be all alone,

To live forgotten, and love forlorn.”