"adresses" poems - Hello Poetry

The poet stands, bending over a piece of his writing, next to his wife musing, not writing any longer. His wife, in both appearance and mind much stronger than him, shares his glance and dares to let her eyes dance right across his naked lines. He feels her breath next to his shoulder, on his skin, remembers how, when growing older, you start to be content with less. So now, she finally adresses him: Are you writing about me? He frowns, something he rarely does, takes a deep breath and, quietly bereft of his most personal emotion, starts to smile. You know, he anwers, with a slight shiver in his voice, I'd rather you asked something else. I'd rather- but he has no choice, is forced to speak, at last. His wife, slightly intrigued, demands: elaborate! Two hands are raised to shape the air, create a space and place an invisible heart inside its core. Look here, he speaks, this is my work, and indicating this he gestures wildly while his wife remains disquiet, though now she sees, thus smiling mildly, what he is getting at. *And in the middle, this is you as if* - now he does not allow his voice to drift as if my poetry evolves - But he stops dead and sees a clear image inside his spinning head: He concentrates, takes a step back - and reaches for his woman's face, places his palms on her red cheeks, one side each, and begins to speak anew: *If I had ever written just a single line about you, dear, I shall be ****** I won't let false words touch you! Let me explain: It is the other way around! All pieces and all lines and words have once belonged to you, and now emerge from your sweet face! I am now well prepared just to erase all of my poetry, for all of it I will find then again, anew, in your kind heart, in you.*

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Aug 30, 2013

Aug 30, 2013 at 11:23 AM UTC

Vera

The Poet's Wife

The poet stands, bending over a piece of his writing, next to his wife musing, not writing any longer. His wife, in both appearance and mind much stronger than him, shares his glance and dares to let her eyes dance right across his naked lines. He feels her breath next to his shoulder, on his skin, remembers how, when growing older, you start to be content with less. So now, she finally adresses him: Are you writing about me? He frowns, something he rarely does, takes a deep breath and, quietly bereft of his most personal emotion, starts to smile. You know, he anwers, with a slight shiver in his voice, I'd rather you asked something else. I'd rather- but he has no choice, is forced to speak, at last. His wife, slightly intrigued, demands: elaborate! Two hands are raised to shape the air, create a space and place an invisible heart inside its core. Look here, he speaks, this is my work, and indicating this he gestures wildly while his wife remains disquiet, though now she sees, thus smiling mildly, what he is getting at. *And in the middle, this is you as if* - now he does not allow his voice to drift as if my poetry evolves - But he stops dead and sees a clear image inside his spinning head: He concentrates, takes a step back - and reaches for his woman's face, places his palms on her red cheeks, one side each, and begins to speak anew: *If I had ever written just a single line about you, dear, I shall be ****** I won't let false words touch you! Let me explain: It is the other way around! All pieces and all lines and words have once belonged to you, and now emerge from your sweet face! I am now well prepared just to erase all of my poetry, for all of it I will find then again, anew, in your kind heart, in you.*

47

she said she’d wait forever so she took the pills and chased them down with fine wine, picked up the phone and waited till the end for you to pick up the line. was it selfish? was it romantic? was it kind? she was a wet dream come to life, she would have been such a prize. a hand on the curve of her hip- you couldn’t handle it. there were grainy photos of you both, some fancy motel maybe by the name of the shangri-la. there are moments you can see just how deep her sadness stretched inside of her, just how deep her need stretched inside of her, for you. there are state of the unions adresses and inaugural china. long lasting feasts. she might as well have just been the lady hiding in the cake, the lady singing you to sleep. everybody’s wet dream could’ve been a reality for you. she said she’d wait forever and you probably passed it off as histrionics. and maybe you couldn’t live with that sort of guilt. she said she’d wait forever so she did. she picked up the phone, pills and fine wine. waited for you in this world and ready to wait until the end of time.

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Nov 18, 2014

Nov 18, 2014 at 11:54 PM UTC

melina-padron

JFK

she said she’d wait forever so she took the pills and chased them down with fine wine, picked up the phone and waited till the end for you to pick up the line. was it selfish? was it romantic? was it kind? she was a wet dream come to life, she would have been such a prize. a hand on the curve of her hip- you couldn’t handle it. there were grainy photos of you both, some fancy motel maybe by the name of the shangri-la. there are moments you can see just how deep her sadness stretched inside of her, just how deep her need stretched inside of her, for you. there are state of the unions adresses and inaugural china. long lasting feasts. she might as well have just been the lady hiding in the cake, the lady singing you to sleep. everybody’s wet dream could’ve been a reality for you. she said she’d wait forever and you probably passed it off as histrionics. and maybe you couldn’t live with that sort of guilt. she said she’d wait forever so she did. she picked up the phone, pills and fine wine. waited for you in this world and ready to wait until the end of time.

43

I stand and wait for the 115 Or 15 bus to arrive It's cold, I blow an icy vapour with every breath A sea of umbrellas Hoodies Raincoats Dreary faces Longing for freer times since fleeting, since forgotten, since lost Pudless stepped in without hesitation Or avoided with passive agression Like their lives Like ours The water adresses what we can (could) not

0

Feb 9, 2021

Feb 9, 2021 at 1:09 PM UTC

KNS

A rainy day in Budapest

I stand and wait for the 115 Or 15 bus to arrive It's cold, I blow an icy vapour with every breath A sea of umbrellas Hoodies Raincoats Dreary faces Longing for freer times since fleeting, since forgotten, since lost Pudless stepped in without hesitation Or avoided with passive agression Like their lives Like ours The water adresses what we can (could) not

15

Any gift which is lauded may become a curse If it denies one office, or lightens the purse. Though I once drank deep of the sweetness of favor, My visions bear the taint of unpleasant flavor. I have become, it seems, an inconvenience Not to be moved aside with relative lenience, But to be swatted roughly like some irksome fly, To be excised as a nagging, untimely sty An irritant which confounds and clouds one’s vision. I stand before you, an object of derision, A dustbin to collect your calumny and scorn (Paraded in the roughest cloth, hair rudely shorn) Likened to that which falls from a donkey’s behind. No matter, then—one finds that young thoughts in an old mind Foment suspicion rather than learned debate, (Though I would likely decline to participate) The upshot being unpleasant realities. So shake your fists, and mouth your banalities, Yoke me with the verdict of trial by fire. You shall, soon enough, do your dance with the pyre.

0

Jun 7, 2018

Jun 7, 2018 at 4:15 PM UTC

wk-kortas

In Which The Seer Adresses Those Who Have Condemned Him

Any gift which is lauded may become a curse If it denies one office, or lightens the purse. Though I once drank deep of the sweetness of favor, My visions bear the taint of unpleasant flavor. I have become, it seems, an inconvenience Not to be moved aside with relative lenience, But to be swatted roughly like some irksome fly, To be excised as a nagging, untimely sty An irritant which confounds and clouds one’s vision. I stand before you, an object of derision, A dustbin to collect your calumny and scorn (Paraded in the roughest cloth, hair rudely shorn) Likened to that which falls from a donkey’s behind. No matter, then—one finds that young thoughts in an old mind Foment suspicion rather than learned debate, (Though I would likely decline to participate) The upshot being unpleasant realities. So shake your fists, and mouth your banalities, Yoke me with the verdict of trial by fire. You shall, soon enough, do your dance with the pyre.

20