The Heretik

DEATH BE NOT PROUD an immortal poem by John Donne

Death be not proud, though some have called thee,
Mighty and dreadfull, for, thou art not so,
For, those, whom thou think'st, thou dost overthrow,
Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleepe, which but thy pictures bee,
Much pleasure, then from thee, much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee doe goe,
Rest of their bones, and soules deliverie.
Thou art slave to Fate, Chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poyson, warre, and sicknesse dwell,
And poppie, or charmes can make us sleepe as well,
And better then thy stroake; why swell'st thou then;
One short sleepe past, wee wake eternally,
And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die.

JOHN DONNE

THE HERETIK REMEMBERS AND HOPES HE MAY NEVER FORGET:
Nation will fight nation for dominance forever.  Women and men will skirmish. Each generation rises to swallow the one before it. A snake swallows itself. Each of us in the end faces but one enemy at a time. 
I look in the mirror to see my enemy is myself.  I who admit no other am enemy to myself first and only then enemy to all.
In me is all life and grateful I am for it.
In me is my own death.  May I not share it so much with others.

THE DREAMS DEMANDS: a poem by Joe Ivory Mattingly Dedicated to Uppity Woman Shakespeare's Sister

Shakespeare's Sister Is ESSENTIAL READING Every Day

 

Shadows: a Poem by Joe Ivory Mattingly Doubly Dedicated to Uppity Women Lauren the Feministe and Bitch Ph.d

Mother: A Poem by Joe Ivory Mattingly

On This Day When We Are All Irish

ON THIS DAY WHEN WE ARE ALL IRISH

Easter 1916
by William Butler Yeats

I have met them at close of day
Coming with vivid faces
From counter or desk among grey
Eighteenth-century houses.
I have passed with a nod of the head
Or polite meaningless words,
Or have lingered awhile and said
Polite meaningless words,
And thought before I had done
Of a mocking tale or a gibe
To please a companion
Around the fire at the club,
Being certain that they and I
But lived where motley is worn:
All changed, changed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.

That woman's days were spent
In ignorant good-will,
Her nights in argument
Until her voice grew shrill.
What voice more sweet than hers
When, young and beautiful,
She rode to harriers?
This man had kept a school
And rode our winged horse;
This other his helper and friend
Was coming into his force;
He might have won fame in the end,
So sensitive his nature seemed,
So daring and sweet his thought.
This other man I had dreamed
A drunken, vainglorious lout.
He had done most bitter wrong
To some who are near my heart,
Yet I number him in the song;
He, too, has resigned his part
In the casual comedy;
He, too, has been changed in his turn,
Transformed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.

Hearts with one purpose alone
Through summer and winter seem
Enchanted to a stone
To trouble the living stream.
The horse that comes from the road.
The rider, the birds that range
From cloud to tumbling cloud,
Minute by minute they change;
A shadow of cloud on the stream
Changes minute by minute;
A horse-hoof slides on the brim,
And a horse plashes within it;
The long-legged moor-hens dive,
And hens to moor-cocks call;
Minute by minute they live:
The stone's in the midst of all.

Too long a sacrifice
Can make a stone of the heart.
O when may it suffice?
That is Heaven's part, our part
To murmur name upon name,
As a mother names her child
When sleep at last has come
On limbs that had run wild.
What is it but nightfall?
No, no, not night but death;
Was it needless death after all?
For England may keep faith
For all that is done and said.
We know their dream; enough
To know they dreamed and are dead;
And what if excess of love
Bewildered them till they died?
I write it out in a verse -
MacDonagh and MacBride
And Connolly and pearse
Now and in time to be,
Wherever green is worn,
Are changed, changed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.

FURY OF LOVE: a poem by joe ivory mattingly

MARTHA: a poem dedicated to ALL UPPITY WOMEN by Joe Ivory Mattingly

            the bitch
            gets it

            while the boys
            laugh free

            no one
            likes a woman

            who likes
            herself too much

            the bitch
            gets it

            when you play
            win

            the bitch
            bad bitch

            gives it
            gets worse

            bad boys
            bust the bank

            billionaires
            be friends

            in high places
            low down tricks

            no one likes
            a woman

            who likes herself
            too much

            so the bitch
            gets it

            get the woman
            not the men

A Poem by Joe Ivory Mattingly: What Clock Still Ticks

A Poem For Pissed Off Patricia: The Hurt

Just One of the Reasons Why Pissed Off Patricia Matters to Me here.

The Curse