Poetry That Wouldn't Pass a Breathalyzer: "Ballad Of A Heart So Full"

"Ballad Of A Heart So Full"

Some men fear the thing they love,

By each let this be heard.

Not all know what they're scared of,

To know would be absurd.

But those men still do fear the same,

When fear itself says it's name.

Of those men some are kind,

And some men are too rash.

Of those rash all are blind,

And those blind will turn to ash.

For each man loves that thing he fears,

And for it spill the blood of tears.

The soldier loves war and fame,

The priest loves prayer and faith.

Yet each's heart feels the same,

Sure as ninth follows eighth.

And as sure as waves flow to the shore,

These things both would die for.

A man will spill blood and tears,

And not think twice or thrice,

And will not change through the years,

No matter payment's price.

And whether he does pray or not,

Won't the slow wheels of fate stop.

No man loved or ignored

Is safe from such fate as this,

Sometimes sealed with a sword,

And sometimes with true love's kiss.

But both the love and the hate,

Produce the seeds grown by fate.

Sealed are my lips, as with my fate,

As I now feel true love's kiss.

And as my love replaces hate,

There is no sweeter sound then this.

For each man fears what they adore,

For fear it will be one day no more.

Some love to dark, some to light,

Some love the person wrong.

But each falls for one that 's right

If they let time sing it's song.

I have fallen and would die for,

Whom it is that I adore.

When love shows it's ancient face,

Be it with a smile or frown,

It's time to forfeit time's ol' chase.

For a pleasure so renowned.

It's face is old, it's face is new,

In all cases, it's face it true.

Love is to be nurtured by all,

But is botched more times that not.

It's for one not to rise, but to fall.

For true love writes it's own plot.

The author to which all must bow,

And the bow by which all must vow.

Love makes hate but not reversed,

Behold the spot of our fruit;

By this hand the world is cursed,

And is rotted to the root.

You can cut the spot off the fruit,

But it won't stop hate's pursuit.

That hate is a wild dog at hunt,

It bounds with strides so wide,

It must be said, soft or blunt,

With shame or with pride,

That hate burns like a flame,

And like the dog, cannot be tamed.

Some men fear the thing they love,

By each let this be heard.

Even if of this they feel above,

Or digest every second word.

Half the words will serve the cause,

Of avoiding the dog's bloody jaws.

Not one man enjoys full control,

Or can say they have that power.

For when each man hits that pricy toll,

Each man's clock strikes the hour.

And when that hand hits that time,

The bells of fate do so chime.

Those bells did chime aloud for me,

And that toll my path did cross.

And to this day I must agree,

What I paid was not a loss.

If I had to pay more to keep that love,

Of fame and fortune it'd be above.

Love makes fame wilt in awe,

And fortune scour with shame.

Love the perfect picture does draw,

And us the perfect frame.

Hang that art with love and pride,

For all you need, love does provide.

I will also mention how love scorns,

And leaves some men behind.

They must wear that crown of thorns,

Until that bitter kiss dost rewind.

Just like the thorns beget the rose,

When love strikes again no-one knows.

I do not believe in Heaven nor God,

Instead I have faith in man's heart.

I shalt not praise a holy facade,

When what I feel in Love dost impart,

A sense of reason not to doubt,

That 'tis a warmth to live not without.

A mother's love is as strong as steel,

A lover's as tough as stone.

A father's love brings him to kneel,

Before love's golden throne.

All strive to be forever true,

And true love's pleasure they pursue.

A poet loves words, a painter his paint,

The writer his plot, the priest his saint.

A pet loves his master, a runner the track,

A general loves his plans for attack.

For each man loves that thing he fears

And for it will spill blood and tears.

Tears love fear and joy the same,

The way blood loves to be craved.

And like a moth loves his flame,

The helpless loved to be saved.

For each man fears what they adore,

For fear it will be soon no more.

If I could share with you one thing,

It would be to follow suit.

Hark! the music of love does ring,

Heed it's savory flute.

Feel it's churn, it's turn, it's mill.

Submit to it's every will.

Love is something to be feared,

And something to be craved.

Love is something to be cheered,

And something to be saved.

Love will seal all men's fate,

When man finds his true soul mate.

written under the influence by jeff campagna

Writers I Now Love

So, it has been eleven or twelve blogless days while I have been traveling around Scotland and Ireland. Sorry to say, I am now back and with a certain refreshed outlook on the literary world and those who reside in it.... or have resided in it more specifically. 

There was one thing I really appreciated about Edinburgh and Dublin and that was their loyalty and gratitude towards the writers than were born in their cities and their talents that were born out of them.  It was never hard to find a monument, statue, bastille, museum or plaque that had been erected in their names. And for good reason, the class of writers that I am referring to were sick with talent, technical skill, originality, swagger and most of all paved the way for the literary world as we have come to love or hate it today.

Robert Burns

One of the worlds most famous poets, Robert Burns lived in the mid-late 1700's in and around Edinburgh and truly did posses a way with words.  He is a pioneer of the romantic movement and his works embody the beauty and elegance of his homeland.  He has taught me that true poetry should have a flow and rhythm and not always just appear as a collection of words that may or may not have some remote meaning to their author - something I am guilty of myself.

Sir Walter Scott

Another 1700's writer hailing from the land of Scotts, Walter Scott was the talented, intelligent and ballsy  author of classics such as "Waverley", "Ivanhoe" and "Rob Roy"... to name a few. There are many things about Scott that intrigue me, beyond his apparent literary prowess. One is the fact that he wrote the first many of his major works anonymously, even after it was obvious that there would be no issue with claiming the authorship. Apparently, he kept up this facade out of fun, which is just plain cool. Secondly, he has the largest monument in the world ever erected for a writer, you should see this thing, it's like a damn war memorial.

James Joyce

Yes, we all know James Joyce. Or at least we all know of James Joyce. What fascinates me most about Joyce, aside from his great work, is the fact that he seriously disagreed with the literary movement that was happening in the city of Dublin at the time, around 1904. Because this movement seemed so false and unmotivated to him, he went into self-imposed exile first in Zurich, then on to Trieste and Paris. Yet, Dublin still treats him as his own. His works include "Dubliners" a series of short stories, "Ulysses" and "Finnegan's Wake" which took 17 years and is written in an idiosyncratic language making it a hard read.

Oscar Wilde

The most quotable man in the world... Yes, more quotable than the movie "Dumb and Dumber". Wilde pretty much revolutionized the notion of the celebrity. He fast became known outside of artistic circles in Dublin and began writing plays, many of which are still celebrated today. Later in life he was imprisoned for two years on 'gross indecency' charges relating to his homosexual behavior. He had more than enough time to flee the country before his jail time, still he stayed, willing to do his time. Later, after his imprisonment, he would flee to Paris where he could live the life he chose. Can you say Roman Polanski? Anyways, if you want a great example of Wilde's poetic skill read the poem "The Ballad Of Reading Goal" which is one of the only pieces he wrote after his prison sentence. 

Brendan Behan

One of the original Bad Boy's of literature, it isn't so much Behan's writing that fascinates me, but why he started writing in the first place. As a young man he was part of the IRA and served lots of prison time because of it. It was in prison that he started writing poetry and published it in the IRA news letters. It is rumored that he began writing pornography to pay the bills once out of prison. His drinking problem worsened throughout his life, and as the fame came at him harder, harder to the drink he went. Notorious for drunken public episodes on television and stage, the people began to love and crave his escapades - a love that would soon diminish and leave Behan as a lonely drunk who could no longer write. "There's no bad publicity except an obituary" - Brendan Behan

writing under the influence of greatness,

jeffc