"anglophile" poems
I told the professor I loved beat literature and all the hippy consequences. He said they were such a small part of the population (along with Native Americans too apparently, he noted a different time. Because of what, you ******* I thought).
A pompous misguided thing, which either understandably or surprisingly, been teaching there since the 1960s. Five minutes of a winded attempt at putting anglophile humor into the lecture and you know the choice is "understandably" rather than "surprisingly." Been professing for the establishment, closed to other ways of thinking trickery.
A real square through and through. As if all change should come from appeasing the tyrannical bleachy supposed majority. Those in poverty, darker skins, gays, drug users, and all around flashy dressers ought to don suits for their one night Ed Sullivan performance. Get the folks on Bass Run Lane to be okay with seeing you in a glass cage in their living room scene. For just a couple decades. Then maybe they'll be used to seeing you in a grocery store. You'll always be laughable though, as they designed it to be so.
The hippies were a very small majority says the anointed professor.
"So were the suffragettes" snaps back a fiery thing sitting next to me. I should have talked to her more.
Aug 12, 2014
Aug 12, 2014 at 11:29 PM UTC
Twenty classless, eight cigarettes.
Fighting over the radio at the
Inpatient Mental Health Facility,
A broken sense of belonging,
And a dearth of veggie burgers.
Listless with his lists, of course.
Angst from the Anglophile, unable to
Put a stopper in the pouring,
Bleeding emotions.
Open hands
Stained red, and brown.
Three breaks a day, scarring his
Broken knuckles, they paint the walls.
Code Smoking Gun,
Code Smoking Green,
Manic man, loading his shoulders with his
Father’s burden, too big for Atlas’s arms,
Or his mother’s shunning palms.
Three breaks a day,
Knee, shoulder, hip.
The coffee’s decaf
But your calves? Well,
They’re just sore.
They dish the brick every
Other evening. But living, for
No light, only serves to lessen your
Love of life and make you
Light-headed.
Broken beds with rock-solid
Pillows. Three breaks a day to
Remind you of your regression. We
Want you here as much.
Why’re you whining?
Busy doctors bust the doors, thank
God for the freedom, the
Fluorescent finish to your odyssey. The
Flowers and grass greet you in
Shades of pink and green your
Greedy eyes hadn’t seen.
Exhale. Ghost out your grieving.
Apr 24, 2014
Apr 24, 2014 at 2:18 PM UTC
the bookies of High Street North will give you odds,
1000 to 1, our paths will never cross, a simple notion,
we’ll never meet, it’s a sucker’s bet they’re happy to take,
despite, shhhhh, not that hard, truth be told, airplane,
Terminal5, Heathrow Express, Paddington Bear Station
and yet, there are oceans to fly over, viruses in
every nook and cranny, and the biggest risk, those
what ifs...and the worries viral multiply as imagining
grows more spectacular than wild flowers on the
heath, bogs conjuring up Holmesian fluorescent hounds
she’ll know for whom this poem tolls, but
will never understand that my envision of her world,
through her eyes, unfamiliar words mellifluous,
for me, they, a nectar, the special Ritz teatime,
but don’t be mistaking me for an Anglophile
no, this Yank plainly loves her garden of nature,
and her own nature, beloved as well, floral blooming,
how it grasps his heart with her two hand’s nouns,
seizing and ceasing its beating, nicks it, his rhythm for
poetic composition, so little more to add, other than
writing this made both a young boy glad, an old man sad...
postscript
someday she’ll crook her finger, like the crook
of her hair, and this Tom, will no longer be waiting
Jul 25, 2020
Jul 25, 2020 at 7:29 AM UTC
-The stars in the sky have done nothing,
-Nothing, I think, to deserve their immortalization in verse
-They are the gas lamps still burning
-From the Universe’s Victorian Anglophile phase
-Old lights we haven’t looked at long enough
-To make them fade away
-The stars are dull and distant
-And yellowed with age
-When you step out to confide in them
-On a clear Winter’s night
-And instead find yourself starstruck
-To be surrounded by shattered sky
-Collapsed at your feet and dazzling only for you
-And the deer
-Picking through this fallen snow
-In quiet meditation
-Maybe the snow dazzles only for them
-It knows your heart looks skyward
Mar 17, 2013
Mar 17, 2013 at 8:45 PM UTC
I was drowned in the forest,
So deep and dull.
Where filtered no light that was blessed from the sun
And yet I was on the run.
Flowers there don’t blossom
Nor did my pale heart drum.
For no different was I than Mephistopheles
And was a beast that bore no feelings.
Memory had deceived me of my spring,
A time that time had timed away from my rhyme.
A little a dull dream I no often had
Of light and flies and lies and cries.
Cries, Oh! Cries! Ah! Cries!
Had I not cried would the forest have died?
Reason would tell it all but no sharp mind had I.
Walk had moved me onto the rocks,
And then to the river of smoke had I gone.
The vinous smell of which
Lumbered me into a deep slumber.
In sleep I saw Dante the man
At whose side stood Beatrice for whom he was mad.
I who knew nothing of groom and bride,
Glared my pearls onto the Anglophile that then did land.
Pierced he his mighty hands into the air;
Who under his command turned dust to there.
At him I screamed to know it all,
And answered he to ‘Speak low if you speak love’.
Pointed he his silhouette to the deity and uttered:
‘She’s beautiful, and therefore to be wooed,
She’s a woman, and therefore to be won’.
What sorcery had I witnessed!
For I heard my heart to bump and drum!
Sweet was the stream that filled my canals,
Where the fiery fluid of life now flows.
Fresh became the air that I drew there,
And a soothe deep blessed was in me.
Baptised was I then as human
Invited me then merry men to their den.
Oh! The smile I bore on my lips
For would witness I the kind to which I belonged.
Eagerness sprung out o’ my spirit
For soon with my tribe I will be with.
Nov 14, 2018
Nov 14, 2018 at 6:18 PM UTC