Biography of Uriah Hamilton
A writer in search of the right word combinations to capture beauty and truth. The trail of beauty he is following begins with King David watching a woman bathe across a rooftop and then fasting for a dying child, then to Walt Whitman making poetic long lines with Emersonian ideas while saluting prostitutes, then to Paul Verlaine shooting the young Arthur Rimbaud who flees poetry to run guns in Africa, somewhere beauty's face becomes more appealing in Emily Dickinson's bedroom than any other place until T. S. Eliot achieves perfection with Prufrock and then Allen Ginsberg Howls in conformist America while Jack Kerouac drinks in a lonely spiritual sadness, all before the advent of the beautiful gypsy Bob Dylan singing with the voice of righteous indignation.
The elusive trail of beauty and truth must be followed if never satisfactorily found.
Uriah Hamilton Poems
A Different Sky Is Waiting
We’ve been in the rain so long That our eyes are sore and red; When joy is missing, We gaze down too long at our feet
A Lush For Your Love
I would give up drinking To be drunk with your perfume On a summer night With the sea breeze singing
A Dreamscape Of Love
I still find comfort In the soft caress Of the moonlight’s Tender glow
A Stranded Girl On A Friday Night
She was weeping when we met Outside a party store Where the lonely purchase their wine; Her boyfriend had left her behind
Accumulating Days That Lead To The Grave
In my mind, I value the Easter Sunday life: The resurrection Of the spring sunrise,
A Fading Memory Beneath Forgetful Sod
Look me up at 2: 00AM When the last lonely bar has closed And you’re drunk with sadness And not with booze;
A Little Girl Lost
Abandoned to sadistic streets, A school room of sullen tears, A little girl lost beneath A blanket of rejection and fears
A Twisting Mental Knife
There is a twisting knife In your disturbed unhappy mind, Those who don’t understand you, Tell you to pull it out,
Adoration Of The Feminine
In the valley of forbidden dreams, I see my heart explode At the feet of a Queen; My pulse rate increases
Feminine Mystery Of The Eternal Goddess
I’m writing the poetry of fragile souls Sitting quietly in the broken sunlight Of hopeful but fleeting romance.
All Spirits Will Rise
No one dares dream of beach houses While walking on these dirty city streets In the misty sullen rain Where the children smile despite some new despair
Because You Have Given Me Love
We’re sauntering slowly In the exciting evening Exchanging a mystical kiss Soft moonlight avenue bliss;
A Solitary Poet
A lone flower peaks Out over the city From a tenement roof. She is speechless
A Life Too Long
A cold day freezes My desperate thoughts In a lonely place.
I have immense affection for poets,
Those desperate lovers who often lose
All vestiges of sanity in amorous pursuits.
Propertius lived and wrote in Rome
A few decades before the birth of Christ,
He wrote passionately
Of his tumultuous relationship with Cynthia,
Cursing ships and seas when they took her away.