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Estel Apr 28
Your hands dance among the ivory
In sync with one another
Creating a perfect harmony
While the sun pours through the window
Adding a glowing light to your display of talent
And a shimmer to your face
I get lost in thoughts
When I hear you play
I begin to drift away
Among the stars
For a time everything seems okay
Oh, would you re-play that one for me once more?
Svetoslav Apr 21
Olive juice hovers
summoning ivory mist
closing fiery lips
annh Sep 2020
12
•                               •

•                                                 •
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9         «———  >§<  ———»         3

•                                                 •

•                               •
6


“Struck is the hour from its ivory tower,
At sixes and sevens, the stars in their heavens,

As minute hands dance at twilight's advance,
To the cadence of time, the archangel’s chime;

Listen closely for me at a quarter to thee,
‘Twixt the tick and the tock of grandpapa’s clock,

Unquicken thine pace, for run is the race,
Hear the pendulum lock, ziccoty, diccoty, dock.

‘There was a sudden stillness like the gap between ticks on a clock, but the next tick never coming.’
- Sadie Jones, The Outcast
Lane O Aug 2020
Skin like porcelain
Ivory, milk and honey
Your kiss pacifies
Michael R Burch Mar 2020
Come Down
by Michael R. Burch

for Harold Bloom

Come down, O, come down
from your high mountain tower.
How coldly the wind blows,
how late this chill hour ...

and I cannot wait
for a meteor shower
to show you the time
must be now, or not ever.

Come down, O, come down
from the high mountain heather
now brittle and brown
as fierce northern gales sever.

Come down, or your heart
will grow cold as the weather
when winter devours
and spring returns never.

NOTE: I dedicated this poem to Harold Bloom after reading his introduction to the Best American Poetry anthology he edited. Bloom seemed intent on claiming poetry as the province of the uber-reader (i.e., himself), but I remember reading poems by Blake, Burns, cummings, Dickinson, Frost, Housman, Eliot, Pound, Shakespeare, Whitman, Yeats, et al, and grokking them as a boy, without any “advanced” instruction from anyone. Keywords/Tags: Harold Bloom, literary, critic, criticism, elitist, elitism, ivory, tower, heights, mountain, winter, cold, frigid



Rant: The Elite
by Michael R. Burch

When I heard Harold Bloom unsurprisingly say:
Poetry is necessarily difficult. It is our elitist art ...
I felt a small suspicious thrill. After all, sweetheart,
isn’t this who we are? Aren’t we obviously better,
and certainly fairer and taller, than they are?

Though once I found Ezra Pound
perhaps a smidgen too profound,
perhaps a bit over-fond of Benito
and the advantages of fascism
to be taken ad finem, like high tea
with a pure white spot of intellectualism
and an artificial sweetener, calorie-free.

I know! I know! Politics has nothing to do with art
And it tempts us so to be elite, to stand apart ...
but somehow the word just doesn’t ring true,
echoing effetely away—the distance from me to you.

Of course, politics has nothing to do with art,
but sometimes art has everything to do with becoming elite,
with climbing the cultural ladder, with being able to meet
someone more Exalted than you, who can demonstrate how to ****
so that everyone below claims one’s odor is sweet.
You had to be there! We were falling apart
with gratitude! We saw him! We wept at his feet!
Though someone will always be far, far above you, clouding your air,
gazing down at you with a look of wondering despair.
Dream Fisher Mar 2020
She dances on ivories
To a small bar dreams came to die
Closing her eyes as each digit sweeps
Becoming sound as fast as her fingers fly.
Hoping her music will set her free
From a town she lingered too long.
She plays them the song she's felt
In every bone, letting the piano tell
The words she's too afraid to say.

She dances on ivories
Live on a stage with attention of many
Looking for familiar faces but doesn't see any.
Her music takes her places far and wide
Everything she wanted, still it doesn't feel right.
Adored by her fans in a personal spotlight,
Loved for her sound, shaking countless hands
Thousands fill the stands as she's grown
With each show, she feels more alone.

She dances on ivories
For her family listening to her play,
Telling her children if they try to be,
They can be anything if they practice everyday.
"But listen, no matter how much you grow
Don't ever forget this is your home."
Ederae Dec 2019
II
I've quarantined this tenderness for now
Of failure, evolved away
Not for the weariness of blood,
Coiled upon our ivory
Not for the reeling about it all,
Painting them with quiet eyes

Please.
I never wanted to know about this.

All I used to need was a shadow
Not for rest
For food, fruit
For time sulking further into the earth
My love, it was all I ever wanted
But a world without end
annh Jun 2019
Nox
moon-soaked renegade
Morpheus riding shotgun
the ivory and the horn
5-7-7
‘Such dreams as issue where the ivory gleams Fly without fate, and turn our hopes to scorn. But dreams which issue through the burnished horn, What man soe'er beholds them on his bed, These work with virtue and of truth are born.’
- Homer
stopdoopy Nov 2020
You think
I am a hen
In god's house

There for the plucking

Oh honey
How foolish you are

To think it'd be so easy
To get close to me

My feathers are gold and ivory
And my beak deadly

Moving with pigeon toes
You stumble and trip

You thought this dance
Would be swift

But this is ballet
And you are not my Siegfried
Ballet is wild y'all, mad respect to anyone who does it
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