"Le Roi-Soleil": Une Collection de Poèmes
Preface
Ever since I was a diminutive child, I have passionately embraced the Humanities. The eloquent works of Sophocles, Homer, and later, Voltaire, Gertrude Stein, Ernest Hemingway and Virginia Woolf, have ignited a metaphorical, eternal flame within me - a flame unmatched by others - a flame, a passion, rather, for writing. My writing expresses deep, inner thoughts and explores, in detail, everything that flows through my mind, and I sincerely hope you not only enjoy it, but that you also embrace the ambiguous, yet inconspicuous, meaning of my work.
"Le Roi-Soleil"
Flowing, navy robes, trimmed in saffron,
Rich shades of ebony line your voluminous mane.
Garbed in ermine, you epitomize the likeness of a king.
Emphatically instructing all to pursue your interests,
You grasp the world in your gentle, yet brutal, hand,
Tightening your grip evermore,
Suffocating all Frenchmen within your realm.
Engaging in the frivolous affair of war,
Embarking on extraneous and superfluous construction projects,
Draining the nation's coffers, and worse,
Losing the invaluable trust of your subjects, rather, servants.
"A L'Automne Parisien"
The crisp, cool breeze
Envelopes me, as I slowly traverse the cobblestone streets,
Staring into the insipid, overcast sky.
Why, cruel autumn, do you
Wither the Chesnut trees?
Why, cruel autumn, do you
Wither away my livelihood?
But the beauty transcends the mere reality of
Death in the streets of Paris.
Staring into the insipid, overcast sky at a
Gargantuan entanglement of iron, illuminated by my interest,
I slowly slip into a state of lunacy.
The crisp, cool breeze
Envelopes me, as I slowly traverse the cobblestone streets of Paris,
Probing the streets for my lost psyche.
"Eros" WARNING: PG-13 CONTENTThe crisp, cool breeze
Envelopes me, as I slowly traverse the cobblestone streets,
Staring into the insipid, overcast sky.
Why, cruel autumn, do you
Wither the Chesnut trees?
Why, cruel autumn, do you
Wither away my livelihood?
But the beauty transcends the mere reality of
Death in the streets of Paris.
Staring into the insipid, overcast sky at a
Gargantuan entanglement of iron, illuminated by my interest,
I slowly slip into a state of lunacy.
The crisp, cool breeze
Envelopes me, as I slowly traverse the cobblestone streets of Paris,
Probing the streets for my lost psyche.
Eros,
God of sexual desire, as I lie within your breast,
You empower me, embrace me, fill me with a rich longing,
A longing for feelings only you can provide.
"A Lost Generation: A Commentary by Gertrude Stein"
Based on "If I Told Him: A Completed Portrait of Picasso" by Gertrude Stein
"You have no respect for anything...It does no good at all...You are all a lost generation."
-Gertrude Stein (in conversation with Ernest Hemingway)
You have no respect for anything; anything has no respect for you.
Have you no respect for anything?
Respect for anything have you?
It does no good at all; all does no good at it.
Good does no it all at; all at good no does
It...
You are
Are you
You are
Are you you are are you are are you
Are are you you you are are you?
Are you you and you and are re you and you and you are are are
You you you and you and you you you are and are and you
Are are are and are and are you are you are and you you you are and are
Yesterday,
Today,
Tomorrow,
Always.
No purpose have you; have purpose do you?
That's what you are.
That's what you all are.
Are all you what that's?
It does no good at all; all does no good at it.
You have no respect for anything; anything has no respect for you.
Anything for respect no have you.
"If I told him, would he like it? Would he like it if I told him?"
Of course he wouldn't like it if you told him if you told him he would like it.
He has no respect for anything.
You have no respect for anything
You are all a lost generation; a lost generation you all are.
"A Blank Interpretation of Life"
We are,
Are we,
Are are we,
We we are,
Are are are,
We,
Who are we?
We are who?
What, on Earth,
Is our purpose?
Have we, on this Earth,
Any purpose?
Days pass and we do nothing.
Days pass and we do nothing, and
Days pass and we do nothing.
Days pass and we do nothing, and
Days pass and we do nothing.
Days pass and we do nothing, and
Days pass and we do nothing.
Days pass and we do nothing, and
Why are we here?
Who are we?
Are we here?
Here - why are we?
"Gaia"We are,
Are we,
Are are we,
We we are,
Are are are,
We,
Who are we?
We are who?
What, on Earth,
Is our purpose?
Have we, on this Earth,
Any purpose?
Days pass and we do nothing.
Days pass and we do nothing, and
Days pass and we do nothing.
Days pass and we do nothing, and
Days pass and we do nothing.
Days pass and we do nothing, and
Days pass and we do nothing.
Days pass and we do nothing, and
Why are we here?
Who are we?
Are we here?
Here - why are we?
Utter lamentation...
What a lugubrious day,
Pondering,
Wasting away.
How often do we think of things of these things who,
Alone,
Conquer the sphere, and, without proper
Thought,
Destroy our mother,
Gaia?
How often do we, compared to these things,
Absorb the beauty and
Harmony that
She has to offer?
Very few
Confess they truly do.
Grey skies,
Of smoke, not rain,
Weep to me and
Express their pain...
Pain we have caused them...
