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Daily Archives: October 17, 2014

THE SECOND COMING- William Butler Yeats (1865-1939) -YOUR FAVOURITE POEM


    Turning and turning in the widening gyre
    The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
    Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
    Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
    The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
    The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
    The best lack all conviction, while the worst
    Are full of passionate intensity.

    Surely some revelation is at hand;
    Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
    The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
    When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
    Troubles my sight: a waste of desert sand;
    A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
    A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
    Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
    Wind shadows of the indignant desert birds.

    The darkness drops again but now I know
    That twenty centuries of stony sleep
    Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
    And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
    Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?


The Second Coming was written in 1919 in the aftermath
of the first World War. The above version of the poem is
as it was published in the edition of Michael Robartes and
the Dancer
dated 1920 (there are numerous other

versions of the poem).William Butler Yeats (1865-1939)



“Joyas Voladoras, ” by Brian Doyle – Your favorite poem


Consider the hummingbird for a long moment. A hummingbird’s heart beats ten times a second. A hummingbird’s heart is the size of a pencil eraser. A hummingbird’s heart is a lot of the hummingbird. Joyas voladoras, flying jewels, the first white explorers in the Americas called them, and the white men had never seen such creatures, for hummingbirds came into the world only in the Americas, nowhere else in the universe, more than three hundred species of them whirring and zooming and nectaring in hummer time zones nine times removed from ours, their hearts hammering faster than we could clearly hear if we pressed our elephantine ears to their infinitesimal chests.
Each one visits a thousand flowers a day. They can dive at sixty miles an hour. They can fly backwards. They can fly more than five hundred miles without pausing to rest. But when they rest they come close to death: on frigid nights, or when they are starving, they retreat into torpor, their metabolic rate slowing to a fifteenth of their normal sleep rate, their hearts sludging nearly to a halt, barely beating, and if they are not soon warmed, if they do not soon find that which is sweet, their hearts grow cold, and they cease to be. Consider for a moment those hummingbirds who did not open their eyes again today, this very day, in the Americas: bearded helmetcrests and booted racket-tails, violet-tailed sylphs and violet-capped woodnymphs, crimson topazes and purple-crowned fairies, red-tailed comets and amethyst woodstars, rainbow-bearded thornbills and glittering-bellied emeralds, velvet-purple coronets and golden-bellied star-frontlets, fiery-tailed awlbills and Andean hillstars, spatuletails and pufflegs, each the most amazing thing you have never seen, each thunderous wild heart the size of an infant’s fingernail, each mad heart silent, a brilliant music stilled.
Hummingbirds, like all flying birds but more so, have incredible enormous immense ferocious metabolisms. To drive those metabolisms they have race-car hearts that eat oxygen at an eye-popping rate. Their hearts are built of thinner, leaner fibers than ours. Their arteries are stiffer and more taut. They have more mitochondria in their heart muscles — anything to gulp more oxygen. Their hearts are stripped to the skin for the war against gravity and inertia, the mad search for food, the insane idea of flight. The price of their ambition is a life closer to death; they suffer heart attacks and aneurysms and ruptures more than any other living creature. It’s expensive to fly. You burn out. You fry the machine. You melt the engine. Every creature on earth has approximately two billion heartbeats to spend in a lifetime. You can spend them slowly, like a tortoise, and live to be two hundred years old, or you can spend them fast, like a hummingbird, and live to be two years old.
The biggest heart in the world is inside the blue whale. It weighs more than seven tons. It’s as big as a room. It is a room, with four chambers. A child could walk around in it, head high, bending only to step through the valves. The valves are as big as the swinging doors in a saloon. This house of a heart drives a creature a hundred feet long. When this creature is born it is twenty feet long and weighs four tons. It is waaaaay bigger than your car. It drinks a hundred gallons of milk from its mama every day and gains two hundred pounds a day and when it is seven or eight years old it endures an unimaginable puberty and then it essentially disappears from human ken, for next to nothing is known of the mating habits, travel patterns, diet, social life, language, social structure, diseases, spirituality, wars, stories, despairs, and arts of the blue whale. There are perhaps ten thousand blue whales in the world, living in every ocean on earth, and of the largest mammal who ever lived we know nearly nothing. But we know this: the animals with the largest hearts in the world generally travel in pairs, and their penetrating moaning cries, their piercing yearning tongue, can be heard underwater for miles and miles.
Mammals and birds have hearts with four chambers. Reptiles and turtles have hearts with three chambers. Fish have hearts with two chambers. Insects and mollusks have hearts with one chamber. Worms have hearts with one chamber, although they may have as many as eleven single-chambered hearts. Unicellular bacteria have no hearts at all; but even they have fluid eternally in motion, washing from one side of the cell to the other, swirling and whirling. No living being is without interior liquid motion. We all churn inside.
So much held in a heart in a lifetime. So much held in a heart in a day, an hour, a moment. We are utterly open with no one, in the end — not mother and father, not wife or husband, not lover, not child, not friend. We open windows to each but we live alone in the house of the heart. Perhaps we must. Perhaps we could not bear to be so naked, for fear of a constantly harrowed heart. When young we think there will come one person who will savor and sustain us always; when we are older we know this is the dream of a child, that all hearts finally are bruised and scarred, scored and torn, repaired by time and will, patched by force of character, yet fragile and rickety forevermore, no matter how ferocious the defense and how many bricks you bring to the wall. You can brick up your heart as stout and tight and hard and cold and impregnable as you possibly can and down it comes in an instant, felled by a woman’s second glance, a child’s apple breath, the shatter of glass in the road, the words I have something to tell you, a cat with a broken spine dragging itself into the forest to die, the brush of your mother’s papery ancient hand in a thicket of your hair, the memory of your father’s voice early in the morning echoing from the kitchen where he is making pancakes for his children.

by Brian Doyle


The City of the Crown, the Ghost Town – Promote Yourself


There was a town,

full of children`s laughter,

it was the City of the Crown,

until the time

when there was a slaughter.


It happened one night,

full of dark clouds,

the moon was looking

from above the sky.

His face turned red.

He sent everyone to bed.


Next day, no one woke up,

not because they were sleepy,

but because the guardian,

the moon, Mr. Dropout,

disappeared and turned

laughter into the creepy



He was tired of them,

tired of arguing and destroying

everything around,

so he made sure no one ever

would made that horrible sound.

The sound of the war.


Terrible stories started to spread

around the surrounding towns,

that their capital one

lost all of their crowns.


Until now, when someone

enters that creepy town,

he can hear whispers,

he can sense the presence

of the ghost sisters

and brothers.


Every night, Mr. Dropout

turns on the sky,

making sure no one will stay

and he will not hear

another cry.


After all these years,

he is still guarding them,

the souls that betrayed him.

He is looking down,

to the City of the Crown,

to the Ghost Town.


Not because he wants

them to be safe and peaceful.

He is making sure

they will not harm.

He still haunts

and stalks that town.


Some people say he was merciful,

that he sent them to sleep,

so they do not had to fear

all that was coming.

Another people say he was cruel,

trying to made them never forget,

only regret

what they had done.


When you enter the city

and start to frisk,

you will experience the pity,

so enter at your own risk.

He is watching.

Still watching you.


Mia Rohacova

Author: LilSwot (


//A bit about me: I am a writer and poet living in England, who is on her long way of self-publishing process. On my blog I focus on poetry, especially Spooky Poems and I`ve stared with poem story called Ghost Town. 

Autumn – Promote Yourself


gentle wispy breeze
subtle shadows dance on walls
leafy branches dip

and as the days grow shorter….

crowning of Autumn
caramel copper cascade
satisfying crunch

Guila Greer

Autumn is my favorite time and I have written a poem of this glorious season.

Become – Promote Yourself

More than you can imagine,
more than you can see in yourself,
you were meant to
bring freedom.
Bound in the chains
of your own past,
you have become disillusioned
to who you are.
You are a warrior;
you fight with passion
that pierces the hearts
of all who watch and admire.
Allow yourself to be free
from all that is outwardly appealing,
from all the memories that
provoke anger and bitterness.
Become the warrior who
defends the weak
who have been overcome
with pain and despair.
Let your praises resound
and force the enemies of God
to fall on their knees
in surrender.
Two choices present themselves before you:
To live in the mask of worldly success
or to open the eyes of the lost
to a love they never dreamed could exist.
If you could know this freedom for yourself.
If you could know the depths of His love,
the warrior you are would see that there is no choice:
To lead the way to freedom is the greatest
Lauren Heiligenthal
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