lyrical poems

If I Could Stop the Time | Jim Bellamy - Contemporary Poetry Website Featuring Notable Poems

If I Could Stop the Time | Jim Bellamy

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if i could stop the time, then there would be a way to join the faceless
child in fields of yesterday, and there would be such dreams for children
to unfold; dreams of endless burning in meadows manifold.
if i could stop
time, then trendless youth i’d see, and every trendless season would be a
gallow tree, and every gallow tree would be a place for breath; a place
where endless burning would marry my behest.
if i could stop time, if only
time were mine to cease, then everywhere i’d find an eastern lake of
peace, and peace would drown me kindly and peace would drown me well. if i
could only stop the time, then youth should thrill and swell.
time, i’ve
seen u murder the best of mine and me- now is the time to marry to the
times that cannot see- & i shall see time cease, for time is seldom mine,
and in that time must cease, my mind shall tow the line, and in that time
must cease, all love shall cease to shine.
if i could stop the time, if i
could only live, then desecrated madrigals should celebrate to give, and
time should cease forever, and time should learn to blow a kiss, and time
should earn its pleasure, and know how much a child is missed?

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Death in the Sun | Jim Bellamy - Contemporary Poetry Website Featuring Notable Poems

Death in the Sun | Jim Bellamy

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ahh
out of the death in the sun, when time was out of love
and the cares of the countless soul
lay riven in the seed of this zero earth,
over this barbed law and the war that comes hereafter
to dedication to the self and the salt moon in burning,
man who is woman denies no rain.

ohh
for the heart and the rent child and the mourning star
and the spurs of the world gone over
where Love knows the river cannot run
nor shall the fablers in their dark rooms of booming
break the silent tomb nor charge the signs of light
neither can the stars declaim their shine.

and
as much as the world that breeds for summer’s aether
will never shape what murder gasses night,
the death in the sun in its never-ending run
might purr for dreams or else deny the winter’s rage.
and the wracked words of the birds gone blind
decry this sullen death or else go mad.

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Rhyme’s Word Is Sirius | Jim Bellamy - Contemporary Poetry Website Featuring Notable Poems

Rhyme’s Word Is Sirius | Jim Bellamy

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rhyme’s word is sirius, dogtooth in a samba.
rhyme fleeces its flesh and bone and
spires in a pyramidic valley.
rhyme rears, through hearse and arctic spume,
the straining ebbs of the rainbow’s gyre,
the cry of helm and envoi, sired and volleyed.

rhyme’s lave is daughtered by a jordanous fire.
the sermon in a scut, the glory that abides,
strips on the summits of verbotem.
rhyme that seeks Life, sparkling in the mouth,
as the shores of Israel, shall be found
and furnished with the yores of death verbatim.

who makes a rhythm? which rhyme is colour?
rhyme blows the starving angel in the vein.
rhyme is board and sovereign as time’s scheme-
the world is fusion made inside its searing peril-
a secret-in-a-vial, conserving with the seas,
sound knells the supine bell with runeous hammer.

behind a rock of rumour a lackadazing whistle
tells me of the hour, its harpstrung scream
flairing where the word expires, consumed and gleaming,
where harpischord and trumpet wind against a dream.
come of blood and mortar and the meadow’s signals,
cum of spark and ash, the rhymer grinds,
breaks and constrains then parries like a widow.
born of clang and crash, the whistler splits the choir.

especially when the rhymer reads-
(born of spring and summer and the autumn’s sister,
the angelus of winter and the dilly in the veins)
with linguid liquids, famishes and cleaves?-
come of an augur whose auguries are daughter
to the hearted heel of music, spiring come the showers
of the tocsins in the blood, warring and conspiring,
where, by bolt and oboe, the vowels of music flood.

glad in a shower of words, i listened?

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Mister Mephistopheles’ Tea-Party | Jim Bellamy - Contemporary Poetry Website Featuring Notable Poems

Mister Mephistopheles’ Tea-Party | Jim Bellamy

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at the end of a rainbow, where the starfish spree; where the mermen glide
and the anemones weave- in the very middling centre of a cave at sea-
mister mephistopheles sits down for tea.

the table’s laid and the chairs
set to, and the lamplight’s motion is lighting the blue, and from the
middle of thunder come the guests to be, where mister mephistopheles sits
down for tea. and here there are potions and purple pomades, and songbirds
and dovebirds and fashionable raves, and here too are sermons and songs in
high key, where mister mephistopheles sits down for tea.

at the end of a
rainbow, at the end of the night, inside the other side, within the
smoking of a pipe- in the centre of a notion, in the middle of a plea-
mister mephistopheles sits down for tea.

and now the guests arrive by
midnight coach, and the best of the men wear a scarlet broach, and the
best of the hens wear a shaman’s beads, when mister mephistopheles sits
down for tea. and when the evening’s at an end, hellfire burns, and the
selling of a soul is all that’s earned- and the hellfire burns and the
hellfire flees- where mister mephistopheles sits down for tea.
and if you
should wonder whose teacups glint, then look no further than the eyelid’s
blink, and look no further than the fathomless sea- the haunt of mister
mephistopheles…

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Sweet Child | Jim Bellamy - Contemporary Poetry Website Featuring Notable Poems

Sweet Child | Jim Bellamy

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reap now, sweet child; my rooms are spare,
whose scarce horizons cry you clear,
of strangest sermons; reap these years,
sweet child, whose eyes I mould.

In open mouths, these caverns spark
caves of canine devils; barks
strip of them, blind interludes,
vulture gullies, cloven hooves.

reap now, sweet child,o, sweet child, reap,
these babbling years; my rooms are neat,
whose scarlet ruled horizons cry
you clear of strangest sermons; DIE!

or reap & spear me, mother, child,
whose eyes are rolling cold,
in the open mouths; the cavern ducts,
where the boy in man blows old.

reap now, sweet child, reap now, & spear
these idylls; reap, my girl, since I,
am blind with you, your bark, your stare,
who mould of me this cloven lie.

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