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Sender D. MacLean

• Herausgeber: BookRix
• Kategorie: Poesie und Drama
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2013

Beschreibung

My first poetry anthology which details the Return to Sender...A look at lifelong battles with depression and Bipolar Disorder and how love and living help me overcome the insurmountable as best I can.

Leseprobe

Sender D. MacLean

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For all the women whom have loved me and I have loved especially My Hmong Key!BookRix GmbH & Co. KG81371 Munich

Return To... The Poetry of Sender D. MacLean

My Mind – Shakespeare’s Words

Like two lovers star cross’d,

Doth protest too much,

Fortune like the market,

Where delays have dangerous ends,

And small things make base men proud,

Bid me discourse, I will enchant thine ear.

No beast so fierce but knows some touch of pity,

These words are razors to my wounded heart,

Such an injury would vex a very saint,

Asses are made to bear and so are you,

That unlettered small-knowing soul.

The heavenly rhetoric of thine eye,

For courage mounteth with occasion,

I will instruct my sorrows to be proud;

For grief is proud and makes his owner stoop,

I do not ask you much;

I beg cold comfort.

Things past redress are now with me past care,

This music mads me: let it sound no more,

The clamorous owl, that nightly hoots, and wonders

At our quant spirits,

Lord what fools these mortals be.

I will make thee think thy swan a crow,

Virtue itself turns vice, being misplaced;

And vice sometime’s by action dignified,

See what a scourge is laid upon your hate,

That heaven finds means to kill your joys with love.

Well then, once in my days, I’ll be a madcap,

A Corinthian, a lad of mettle, a good boy,

Rebellion lay in his way, and he found it,

Greateness knows itself.

I am Sir Oracle,

And when I ope my lips let no dog bark!

I never knew so young a body with so old a head,

This night methinks is but the daylight sick,

Past and to come seem best; things present worst.

Before thy hour be ripe,

I would give all my fame for a pot of ale, and safety,

But if it be a sin to covet honour,

I am the most offending soul alive,

He wears his faith but as the fashion of his hat,

Stemming it with hearts of controversy.

The abuse of greatness is when it disjoins

Remorse from power

An itching palm,

One out of suits with fortune,

The “why” as plain as way to parish church,

This is the very false gallop of verses.

Sell when you can, you are not for all markets,

A little more than kin, a little less than kind,

Season your admiration for a while,

Give thy thoughts no tongue,

These tedious old fools,

The indifferent children of the earth.

Come, give us a taste of your quality,

Reason, in its self confounded,

Saw division grow together,

My mind is troubled, like a fountain stirr’d:

And I myself see not the bottom of it.

Farewell, fair cruelty,

The web of our life is of a mingled yarn,

Good and ill together,

Condemn the fault, and not the actor of it?

Virtue is bold, and goodness never fearful,

Truth is truth

To the end of reckoning,

I do perceive here a divided duty,

For I am nothing if not critical,

Men should be what they seem.

It makes us, or it mars us,

Mend your speech a little,

Lest you may mar your fortunes,

The art of our necessities is strange,

That can make vile things precious.

I wonder men dare trust themselves with men,

I am Misanthrope and hate mankind,

Look like the innocent flower,

But be the serpent under’t,

Memory, the warder of the brain.

Shut up,

In measureless content,

Things without all remedy

Should be without regard: what’s done is done,

When our actions do not,

Our fears do make us traitors.

I bear a charmed life,

Eternity was in our lips and eyes,

Bliss in our brows bent,

Music, moody food

Of us that trade in love,

And go to’t with delight.

The beast

With many heads butts me away,

The game is up,

I wear not my dagger in my mouth,

And art made tongue tied by authority,

The hardest knife ill used doth lose its edge.

O benefit of ill,

For I have sworn thee fair, and thought thee bright,

Who art black as hell, as dark as night,

Your tale sir, would cure deafness,

The fringed curtains of thine eye advance,

Make the prize light.

Do not give dalliance,

Too much the reign,

A kind

Of excellent dumb discourse,

But this rough magic

I here abjure,

O brave new world,

That has such people in’t!

The mirror of all courtesy,

This bold bad man,

Heaven is above all yet; there sits a judge,

That no king can corrupt,

A peace above all earthly dignities,

A still and quiet conscience,

‘Tis well said again;

and ‘tis a kind of good deed to say well:

and yet words are no deeds.

So may he rest;

His faults lie gently on him!

To dance attendance on their lordships’ pleasures,

Let us not burden our remembrances

With a heaviness that’s gone,

This thing of darkness I acknowledge mine.

Shakespeare’s Words – My Mind

Sender, Liberal & Abednego

Attributed, Thomas Aquinas;

“The church is a whore…but she’s my mother,”

got me to thinking

the end IS near,

or, so I am told,

have been since childhood,

thankfully not an altar boy,

too near for my liking,

for death stalks me like a cheetah,

fast and sporadic,

yet the demons I face,

have me asking questions of faith,

questions that I am not to ask,

those that may have no answers,

you see,

I wonder where the conversation stopped,

No dialogue,

Only a barrage, one way,

By men and women