Poetry of Stefan Schulz
Install Theme

(Source: somebrand)

stefansir:

They can roam his archives; They can share his spirit; But his hands are so empty They cannot care for his love.Until he holds it—he himself.
—Stefansir
Note: I’ve self-published my first book of poetry. The original idea of the book was simple: to showcase my Featured poetry in the form of print. Over time though, the word Featured—to me, and in this social community in particular, became materialistic and often pursued for the wrong reasons. Glory does come in the strangest of places. For me the precious honor of poetic practice has not been from the following praise of peers, from the blue crown, although that has been at times reason to carry on; for me the precious honor of poetic practice has been in the development of something tangible, something dispensable, something that can collect dirt, something that can suffer, or perhaps endure under the uncertainty, scrutiny, and ambiguity of its life. I plan on writing more. I plan on Feat and I plan on Disappointment, whichever greets me shall find phrase and fortune.

stefansir:

They can roam his archives;
They can share his spirit;
But his hands are so empty
They cannot care for his love.
Until he holds it—he himself.

Stefansir

Note: I’ve self-published my first book of poetry. The original idea of the book was simple: to showcase my Featured poetry in the form of print. Over time though, the word Featured—to me, and in this social community in particular, became materialistic and often pursued for the wrong reasons. Glory does come in the strangest of places. For me the precious honor of poetic practice has not been from the following praise of peers, from the blue crown, although that has been at times reason to carry on; for me the precious honor of poetic practice has been in the development of something tangible, something dispensable, something that can collect dirt, something that can suffer, or perhaps endure under the uncertainty, scrutiny, and ambiguity of its life. I plan on writing more. I plan on Feat and I plan on Disappointment, whichever greets me shall find phrase and fortune.

They can roam his archives; They can share his spirit; But his hands are so empty They cannot care for his love.Until he holds it—he himself.
—Stefansir
Note: I’ve self-published my first book of poetry. The original idea of the book was simple: to showcase my Featured poetry in the form of print. Over time though, the word Featured—to me, and in this social community in particular, became materialistic and often pursued for the wrong reasons. Glory does come in the strangest of places. For me the precious honor of poetic practice has not been from the following praise of peers, from the blue crown, although that has been at times reason to carry on; for me the precious honor of poetic practice has been in the development of something tangible, something dispensable, something that can collect dirt, something that can suffer, or perhaps endure under the uncertainty, scrutiny, and ambiguity of its life. I plan on writing more. I plan on Feat and I plan on Disappointment, whichever greets me shall find phrase and fortune.

They can roam his archives;
They can share his spirit;
But his hands are so empty
They cannot care for his love.
Until he holds it—he himself.

Stefansir

Note: I’ve self-published my first book of poetry. The original idea of the book was simple: to showcase my Featured poetry in the form of print. Over time though, the word Featured—to me, and in this social community in particular, became materialistic and often pursued for the wrong reasons. Glory does come in the strangest of places. For me the precious honor of poetic practice has not been from the following praise of peers, from the blue crown, although that has been at times reason to carry on; for me the precious honor of poetic practice has been in the development of something tangible, something dispensable, something that can collect dirt, something that can suffer, or perhaps endure under the uncertainty, scrutiny, and ambiguity of its life. I plan on writing more. I plan on Feat and I plan on Disappointment, whichever greets me shall find phrase and fortune.

stefansir:

effortless
is how
i imagine
my body will
decompose

stefansir:

"I got a job!" cried the dead poet.

TONES OF QUIET

Windsewn, David drew a stitch
from his ear, long, but crimp, bound
with Leone’s and Leone’s, and
unraveled the harp a ways away.

An angel of sorts, David is fair;
his complexion is basic, yet
his eyes are latent given the twine.
Like a book brawn maiden,

like a permit canned frank,
a mechanic like David thought
about the wrench before the levy.
His might might be woven

for muck like hair and skin to find.
But even as the private oceans,
David cannot always volunteer. His
lives live together to gather and sign.

SCALED DISPROPORTIONATE

As I am, I can,
sanctioned by such moderated circumcisions,
forbid myself to be Earth’s child,
and remain public to supple parenthood.
With the mercy marches the mercenary.
On, and on, the clamor of grit
outweighs the encouragement of peopled
vacancies, the bravo of delve,
spirited, light, frivolous fits, equestrian glory.
Near vagabond nearer no vague.
I can, as I am, put end to fi.

Only oh only
were I
as a usual stream.

He listened to the pour houses
empty their inhabitants.

To the chapel of the higher men
they were wrote.

But what a white—white moon!
he listened past the pour houses.

Only oh only
were I
as a usual stream.

Good moon I would inherit
the per diem of the two

if only you’d assure me morning
followed after noon.