Orbler
Byron Twain
Brenton
Dexter
Jeanne Dininni
Shilpa KarhikThe Demon in Me by Marina Tsvetaeva
October 31st 2008 02:36
The Demon In Me
by Marina Tsvetaeva
The demon in me's not dead,
He's living, and well.
In the body as in a hold,
In the self as in a cell.
The world is but walls.
The exit's the axe.
("All the world's a stage,"
The actor prates.)
And that hobbling buffoon
Is no joker;
In the body as in glory,
In the body as in a toga.
May you live forever!
Cherish your life,
Only poets in bone
Are as in a lie.
No, my eloquent brothers,
We'll not have much fun,
In the body as with Father's
Dressing-gown on.
We deserve something better.
We wilt in the warm.
In the body as in a byre.
In the self as in a cauldron.
Marvels that perish
We don't collect.
In the body as in a marsh,
In the body as in a crypt.
In the body as in furthest
Exile. It blights.
In the body as in a secret,
In the body as in the vice
Of an iron mask.
Choices of the psyche,
Decisions of the conscience,
The Awakened decision,
To do right or wrong.
Rallying against the ease of negative,
The simplicity of laziness, of idle self service.
Basic apathy and deception all to available,
A path of temptation, compassionate honesty laboured.
Who is in the mirror?
The vulnerable truth or the hardened lie.
Infinite battles waged,
a war never won just abedded.
Dictating destiny rewards,
taxes,
pains,
Suffering for tenderness in a selfless society.
by Marina Tsvetaeva
Marina Tsvetaeva (1892 - 1941)
The demon in me's not dead,
He's living, and well.
In the body as in a hold,
In the self as in a cell.
The world is but walls.
The exit's the axe.
("All the world's a stage,"
The actor prates.)
And that hobbling buffoon
Is no joker;
In the body as in glory,
In the body as in a toga.
May you live forever!
Cherish your life,
Only poets in bone
Are as in a lie.
No, my eloquent brothers,
We'll not have much fun,
In the body as with Father's
Dressing-gown on.
We deserve something better.
We wilt in the warm.
In the body as in a byre.
In the self as in a cauldron.
Marvels that perish
We don't collect.
In the body as in a marsh,
In the body as in a crypt.
In the body as in furthest
Exile. It blights.
In the body as in a secret,
In the body as in the vice
Of an iron mask.
Review In Poem By Dexter
Choices of the psyche,
Decisions of the conscience,
The Awakened decision,
To do right or wrong.
Rallying against the ease of negative,
The simplicity of laziness, of idle self service.
Basic apathy and deception all to available,
A path of temptation, compassionate honesty laboured.
Who is in the mirror?
The vulnerable truth or the hardened lie.
Infinite battles waged,
a war never won just abedded.
Dictating destiny rewards,
taxes,
pains,
Suffering for tenderness in a selfless society.
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