'I Am' (John Clare) Penny Dreadful - S02e05 'Above The Vaulted Sky'

"The Little Match Girl" (Danish: Den Lille Pige med Svovlstikkerne, meaning "The little girl with the sulphur sticks", i.e. matches) is a literary fairy tale by Danish poet and author Hans Christian Andersen. The story, about a dying child's dreams and hope, was first published in 1845.
***
On a freezing New Year's Eve, a poor young girl, shivering and barefoot, tries to sell matches in the street. Afraid to go home because her father would beat her for failing to sell any matches, she huddles in the alley between two houses and lights matches, one by one, to warm herself. However, the girl is ignored by passersby as no one buys from her, leaving her to suffer alone in the cold weather.

In the flame of the matches, she sees a series of comforting visions: the warm iron stove, the lovely roast goose, the great glorious Christmas tree. Each vision disappears as its match burns out. In the sky she sees a shooting star, which her late grandmother had told her means someone is on their way to Heaven. In the flame of the next match she sees her late grandmother, the only person that ever treated her with love and kindness. To keep the vision of her grandmother alive as long as possible, the girl lights the entire bundle of matches.

When the matches are gone, the girl freezes to death, and her grandmother carries her soul to Heaven. The next morning, passers-by find the girl's body with a smile on her face, and express pity. They do not know about the wonderful visions she had seen, or how happy she is with her grandmother in Heaven.

the little match girl celebrating Christmas

The Tudors  A Historic Love (extended) - Trevor Morris

A Historic Love (extended)

https://youtu.be/QvLstIIJNd4
I live in a country where the sun never sets;
Eratosthenes and Pliny, they write stories about me;
Waiting for me to show up
In a world that really does exist,
In a land that lives in a world of myths.

I have fed hundreds of swans flying
I have fed hundreds of swans flying…

I was the defense counsel
At The Battle of Thermopylae.
I live and die to fly in Thrace's winds, for the golden freedom described by Pindar.

I am a Hyperborean living in Serbian land.
I am an Atlantean living in Serbian land.

***
I embrace the pillars of Hercules
I am an inspiration to the writings of Plato
And Ignatius L. Donnelly
I am a visitor to the magnificent Garden of Eden
I kiss earthly gold and walk through the ocean.
I am the queen of Egypt
I am a teacher, showing Phoenicians their alphabet
I poured hyperborean shadows into the golden bars

We mock the poor Hyperboreans
Who dream of Thrace's winds. BUT

In one horrible day we died, trampled by
A hairy brethren of elephants.
In one horrible day and one night, we
Sank into the ocean, lost.
I am a hedonist who
Lost her might from fear.

I was a Hyperborean woman
In the land where the sun never sets
I was a Hyperborean woman
Who fed her swans, watching them fly in the wind.
I did not die in a world of myths
I was defense counsel at The Battle of Thermopylae
Apollo took me to Delphi in his carriages
So that I might spread his doctrine to other nations
Since then no one has ever seen me,
I'm still waiting for her to become.

I am a Hyperborean living in Serbian land.
I am an Atlantean living in Serbian land.

I Am Hyperborean, Atlantean

My poetic tribute to Ksenija Pajčin, born on December 3, 1977. Xenia was a Serbian singer, actress, songwriter, choreographer, fashion designer, and was tragically killed on March 16, 2010.

Show - 12223488 - 2023 - 05 - 16 - 18 - 13 - 54 0k9dtYoh

Nothing Left to Burn

O Forsaken Hope, Burn These Wastelands To Ashes Black!

Tearing glass flays my skin, feet dance no more -
Bone maps lands fled, senses lost in maddened dreams twilight

O Forsaken Hope, Reap Vengeance With Hatred Endless!

Smoke chokes lungs acrid, flesh seared bare by hellfire
Kin wail in cursed streets, hearthstones stained with their dust

Smoke fills skull drowned in their death knell, screams haunt tormented dreams
Bone shards of loved ones buried in ash of ruined vida

O Forsaken Hope, Burn These Wastelands To Ashes Black!

Emptiness engulfs rapture complete,
inextinguishable inferno ravaged inviolate inn

Rest now, ruined hopes.
Let embers dye what was
to dust again.

Conflagration crushed clear citadel,
clan became bones I clutch in maddened hands

O Forsaken Hope, Choke Their Lives From Corpses Stillborn!

My bones grind 'gainst skin, balm lost in weedy fields of despair
Decay fouls air breathed at tables shattered beneath doomed world's rubble

O Forsaken Hope, Smite Their Homewards To Wails Silenced By Dust!

Lullabies entwine thick in dreams fractured
Gib glimpsed through veil that parts to show trinkets 'neath ashen shrouds

O Wrongs Redressed In Retribution A Hundredfold, Forsaken Hope!

Barren bridges join void to void
Blackened bones long beg for dust
As buried banners never rise again



© Leila Samarrai


“O lost,
And by the wind grieved,
Ghost,
Come back again.” ― Thomas Wolfe, Look Homeward, Angel "  awarded gold by @late_night_poets in their recent poetry contest. Grateful for the platform to share my work and the generous feedback that will help me grow as a writer. Thank you! #poetrycommunity #poetrycontestwins

Nothing Left to Burn

Plunge into the depths of unravelling insanity with this raw glimpse into a mind descending into chaos. "Madness Unhinged" pulls the listener into the fevered perspectives of one losing grip on reality. Through fragmented phrases capitalized for maximum effect, the poet vividly conveys the sensations of a skull vibrating with tremors beyond control. Visuals of crows, colors fading, and wings' sounds transport the audience into a madness that seeps and winds like haunting music.

Punctuation is discarded to mirror the shattered psyche, while creative spelling imbues ordinary words with unsettling qualities. Tense notes shriek our protagonist's lurid song of drunken flesh, a chant for the decay of rationality. Enter the terror within as frightening visions tear at shut lids, inviting you to experience madness through poetry in its most stripped-down and affecting form. Surrender to the raw power of a mind shown in its process of unraveling before you.

Madness Unhinged

This haunting poem follows an ominous journey to discover the dark secrets hidden within an abandoned church tower deep in a cursed forest. Drawn by faint otherworldly whispers on the wind, the narrator travels alone through the unnatural silence to the towering ruins at the edge of the blighted woods. As they draw nearer, an unearthly stillness hangs thick in the foul air. Alone amongst grasping skeletal trees, a primal fear takes hold. At the tower, grim empty windows stare down without mercy, unseen eyes watching as the narrator crosses the immense threshold. Descending into the darkness below, stone walls whisper and creak with memories not their own. In the gloom below, a grim pile of bones welcomes the sole living witness. Pursued by visions from beyond, the narrator stands before untold horrors long locked away. Madness claws at the edges of their crumbling grasp on reality until escape brings only fleeting release from the dread forces that still seek to pull them back into the shadows of that place of unholy aberration.

I.
The old church tower loomed ahead, solitary against
The gloom. I had traveled alone through an unnatural hush,
Following faint whispers of what mysteries it kept concealed,

III.
An unearthly stillness hung heavy in the air as I passed
Into this cursed wood. No green grew in this lifeless place.
Ruin and rot were the only things that thrived as I trod

VIII.
Grim sockets stared down without pity as I stood alone
Before its immense door, feeling unseen eyes upon my back,
Primal instincts screaming to flee this unholy place.

X.
Forgotten by time. My steps stirred dust as faint echoes seemed to
Rise up from the stones surrounding, chanting just out of reach,
My nerves growing ever more frayed at each creak and murmur.

XIV.
Illuming vaults untouched by life for epochs. I stood apart, the last
Living witness, pursued by memories not my own in this unholy place,
Madness clawing at the edges of my mind in this sepulchre.

Nightfall's Nefariousness

This haunting poem follows an ominous journey to discover the dark secrets hidden within an abandoned church tower deep in a cursed forest. Drawn by faint otherworldly whispers on the wind, the narrator travels alone through the unnatural silence to the towering ruins at the edge of the blighted woods. As they draw nearer, an unearthly stillness hangs thick in the foul air. Alone amongst grasping skeletal trees, a primal fear takes hold. At the tower, grim empty windows stare down without mercy, unseen eyes watching as the narrator crosses the immense threshold. Descending into the darkness below, stone walls whisper and creak with memories not their own. In the gloom below, a grim pile of bones welcomes the sole living witness. Pursued by visions from beyond, the narrator stands before untold horrors long locked away. Madness claws at the edges of their crumbling grasp on reality until escape brings only fleeting release from the dread forces that still seek to pull them back into the shadows of that place of unholy aberration.

XI.

Down winding steps I trod deeper and alone into
Down winding steps I trod deeper and alone into
The lightless depths, where echoing whispers seemed to call
From the abyss, urging me on to uncover more.
Skeletal remains peered from niches in the moldering walls,
As if in warning, yet still my wavering lamp probed the yawning halls
Of this maleficent mausoleum, alive with memories not my own.

XIV.

Illuming vaults untouched by life for epochs, I stood apart,
The last living witness, pursued by memories not my own
In this unholy place. Madness clawing at the edges of my mind
As I stood trembling amidst the dust of the nameless dead,
Feeling phantoms pressing close on every side.
Their lingering presence seeped into my being,
Threatening to subsume my identity in this sepulcher.

XVI.

As fevered thoughts whirled within, a flutter of motion
Caught my eye from the gloom. A faint luminescence
Bled from a half-seen form gliding between cyclopean columns.
Cold fingers of fear clutched tight around my pounding heart,
For I knew with deathly certainty that I had crossed into realms
Not meant for the living. Madness breathed from the cursed stones
That had never known another, as I fled the dead world pursued
By glimpses of those bound here, their faint echoes attempting
To draw me back into the waking nightmare. Racing blindly now
Through grasping corridors twisting off into the darkness,
I abandoned all reason and composure in terror and panic.

Nightfall's Nefariousness (SoundCloud)

https://allpoetry.com/poem/17561797-Final-Fury-by-Leila-
When I set out to write this poem, I knew I wanted to explore some deep, unsettling feelings. I've always been fascinated by mythology and how those ancient myths tap into universal human truths. The story of the Furies in particular resonated with me - their embodiment of vengeance and rage. I wanted readers to feel what it's like when passion overwhelms you to the point of frenzy.

As I drafted the lines describing the tempest unleashed by the Furies, I worked to vividly capture that unhinged quality of mania. Looking back, I see it was also my own inner turmoil seeping into the words. Pouring my soul onto the page in a torrent of descriptive imagery, I descended into that volatile place where emotions rage beyond control.

It's a scary place to go, but an important one to confront. Through these mythical allusions, I questioned my own motivations and the costs of unrestrained passion. While madness threatens to engulf you in its flames, there's also a perverse comfort in surrendering to its wild truth. This poem was my way of wrestling with those demons and finding catharsis in sharing that harrowing inner journey. I hope readers may connect with grappling to understand their own souls, even in the fires of lunacy.

Final Fury rewarded gold by Late Night Poets, U.S.A

Here I am, already survived the entire arsenal of AI throat teas and online purifiers, but this is the real human deal - unprocessed, just awakened throat, with all its flaws and charms. Yes, throaty head, here I am, with emotions in full swing. So, enjoy the authenticity.  #stopfakery"

nothing really matters karaoke

Dostoyevski's book on my table,
His pen a torch when fear swore all was lost,
Till calmer weather clears these years,
Accepting donations. Bills must be paid, bills must be paid.
The Danube waits to drown our Virginias.

Sonja Semionovna Marmeladovna, you must bear
The cross of suffering, you, 'And how can I be without God'.
And this simple peasant here...
And that dog wants you.
And Katarina Ivanovna is a royal connoisseur of decency.
You're a prostitute who has already felt
The great, unseen Woman.

Sonja Marmeladovna, your instincts grasp that Woman.
That's why you've already trampled over so many heads.
That's why you pushed poor Rodion.
And you tangled with Hercules.
Now you're drinking him.

'What will become of those poor orphans if I don't sell myself?'
In burning red.
And Hercules is colossal.
He's in pink attire, a trikot, so his muscles show
And he looks like a multicolored wrestling poster and advertisement.

But he's wrapped in a rubber cloak like a true professional.
He's performing tonight at the circus.
He lifts cars, horses, breaks iron bars, iron.

Sonja has a full lap of roses.
American sugar like crimson curls, gingerbread hearts,
Silver panoramic vases, Dresden cakes in silver foil.

She laughs lifely.
Animal-like.
Womanly.

Sonja Marmeladovna, my femme fatale.

Sonja Marmeladovna, my femme fatale.

A haunting poem of despair, regret, and the cyclical nature of suffering. A powerful female voice rises from the ashes of a broken past, whispering a dark incantation of revenge and transformation. Journey with her through the gothic descent into madness.

Leila Samarrai

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