"artefacts" poems
I saw my world again through your eyes
As I would see it again through your children's eyes.
Through your eyes it was foreign.
Plain hedge hawthorns were peculiar aliens,
A mystery of peculiar lore and doings.
Anything wild, on legs, in your eyes
Emerged at a point of exclamation
As if it had appeared to dinner guests
In the middle of the table. Common mallards
Were artefacts of some unearthliness,
Their wooings were a hypnagogic film
Unreeled by the river. Impossible
To comprehend the comfort of their feet
In the freezing water. You were a camera
Recording reflections you could not fathom.
I made my world perform its utmost for you.
You took it all in with an incredulous joy
Like a mother handed her new baby
By the midwife. Your frenzy made me giddy.
It woke up my dumb, ecstatic boyhood
Of fifteen years before. My masterpiece
Came that black night on the Grantchester road.
I ****** the throaty thin woe of a rabbit
Out of my wetted knuckle, by a copse
Where a tawny owl was enquiring.
Suddenly it swooped up, splaying its pinions
Into my face, taking me for a post.
7.9k
all things are useful, bulbs
bring light , denote ideas,
good intentions, spent,
collected.
cotton hankies, frayed hold the books,
yet those with nylon, stretch the skin
resulting in red and soreness.
shy away from dangerous commodities,
use the best, those tradtional artefacts
which are gentle on your soul, bring light.
wipe your nose clean.
sbm.
today we have added notes for your interest.
A HANDKERCHIEF (also called handkercher or hanky) is a form of a kerchief, typically a hemmed square of thin fabric that can be carried in the pocket or purse, and which is intended for personal hygiene purposes such as wiping one’s hands or face, or blowing one’s nose. A handkerchief is also sometimes used as a purely decorative accessory in a suit pocket. When used as an accessory to a suit, a handkerchief is known as a POCKET SQUARE. There are a wide variety of ways to fold a pocket square, ranging from the austere to the flamboyant.
The material of a handkerchief can be symbolic of the social-economic class of the user, not only because some materials are more expensive, but because some materials are more absorbent and practical for those who use a handkerchief for more than style. Handkerchiefs can be made of cotton, cotton-synthetic blend, synthetic fabric, silk, or linen.
Historically, white handkerchiefs have been used in place of a white flag to indicate surrender or a flag of truce; in addition to waving away sailors from port. King Richard II of England, who reigned from 1377 to 1399, is widely believed to have invented the cloth handkerchief, as surviving documents written by his courtiers describe his use of square pieces of cloth to wipe his nose.
Jun 9, 2014
Jun 9, 2014 at 1:33 AM UTC
You spoke longed words,
artefacts dusted with time
and careful caution.
We fall into sleep
in a haze of tangled limbs
and your lips kissing my neck.
With each of your breaths
I rise, feeling your heart shout -
finally.
Jun 14, 2015
Jun 14, 2015 at 5:58 AM UTC
The slant-eyed
giant hunter
people of Tsul Kalu
came in peace
To become
the central universe
Cherokee white elders
hereditary priests
teaching peace
Winged rattlesnake
constellation
of time untime
Singing the death song
Sacred spirits
animal, plant, herb and tree
The wheel
what is, will be
(*The ancient Chinese were
the greatest astronomers.
Later in the 1400's their
massive treasure fleets
mapped the World
The Yuki, Navajo, Apache,
Yuchis, Ming ** Melungeons,
Shawnee (Oceanye ** Sioux,
Cree Ojibuwa and Moskoke
have Chinese ancestors
some claimed to be Chinese
European explorers told of
elders speaking Chinese
ancient Chinese artefacts
and wrecked junks seen
History as taught might
be but a fairytale*)
Aug 12, 2010
Aug 12, 2010 at 5:07 AM UTC
pigeons perch themselves preening
on marble fauns ambivalent to their
perch, while dark skinned men prowl;
seeking tourists (Americans) to sell
cheap novelty items, over priced, yet
bought to drive away the insistent
merchants; ignorant to the realization:
if you remain silent and don’t make eye
contact you will not forfeit your money...
merchants who ruin the peace and awe
of grand feats of sculpture—I know they
are human (on a base level)—craving
money to make a living, yet there are
many (more respectable) professions…
their presence crowds the already
crowded (streets and) piazzas—aggregates
of language babble—old women and men
meandering along waiting to die—hoping
it is true: the slower you move the faster
time flows—if not: to hell with relativity!
(should have put chips on more than one table)
can math really explain all?—or
is life more than abstract objects?
while the din of crowds palpitates my heart
making way for anxious calculations,
C— and I hurry pass to find some area
to give the artefacts the respect they deserve
Apr 9, 2013
Apr 9, 2013 at 1:08 PM UTC
Hairline cracks are breaking through
the slough I'm about to shed.
Dry and dysfunctional
as the neuron sac in my skull.
I'll change my hat and change my ammo
honeysuckle artillery polished,
waiting in my drawer.
Sliding an empty coffee mug
back and forth along a counter
like a puck preparing for a slapshot.
Paper matches in colourful books
pressed between the pages
found leaves for child arsonists.
Takeout boxes filled with poems
are sold as artefacts
Don't be silly, poetry comes in plastic bags,
not styrofoam.
To keep ideas hot, wrap them in tinfoil.
But don't forget to leave a hole at the top for steam
or your fresh concepts will get soggy.
Equipped with tennis *****
spandex suits picket office blocks
standing on chairs and voicing nearly racist remarks
making health and safety inspectors nervous.
Out of control students
launch dictionaries out of third story windows,
donning 21st century masks.
I left my patience beside my keys, on the kitchen table.
Waiting in line for obsolete phone booths
as movie stars soundlessly mouth slang into a receiver.
Nearly responsible
nearly nine
nearly time for bed
I resolve again
that I’ll resolve more
but this time write it down.
Folding kamikaze paper planes
to hide behind park benches, fly into trees.
Let the sun fade the pencil crayon.
I can't run from this blasé gangrene that’s taken my toes.
May 12, 2013
May 12, 2013 at 2:02 AM UTC
my body is a tragedy
lined with fragmented artefacts
of a wartorn state
highlighted by shades of red
and lines of grey sadness
there is nothing like the pity
in the eyes of those trusted to provide aid
it sings a woeful song of healing and love
until you are okay to walk again
you become a symbol
of their service to society
and they move on to lands more beautiful
and planes much less devasted
you are left in the shadows
still broken but warmer than before
warmer despite the poison
you have been doused in called care
Mar 29, 2019
Mar 29, 2019 at 8:23 AM UTC
The skin at the bed of her nails shone, tight.
Forever healing, windows that rattle
With the changing of her moods.
Love was a locket, an heirloom
That insisted its presence
Upon her bedside table.
She could turn out every light
And it would still be there.
Steady metronome,
Lifeless thud,
Invasive thought.
The carpet gathered artefacts from late night walks.
Bad habits clung to the walls.
No pillow talk, only muffled strings,
Failed symphonies,
Conversations three years old:
Memories that play Chinese whispers
Across the faces in the ceiling.
Irregularity of breath,
Sleep comes, clothed in Zopiclone;
A mind that never rests.
Narcosis in the morning,
Nausea over dried toast,
Sweet flamenco on the radio,
But there is nothing to calm her bones.
The red wine cast last night’s shadow,
Hollow in the eyes, first hit of daylight,
First hit of nicotine
To prove she is still alive.
Anxiety: the ball and chain,
Always dragging her behind.
Living as a ghost,
The people at the bus-stop stare,
The traffic, the signs, the passers-by,
The doldrums in the headlines,
The rain upon her window;
The heart attack and vine.
Prescription pills in the afternoon
To get her through the day,
Until she can get her fix,
Have her fill,
And finally hide away.
The high-street parade comes alive after dark,
Lanterns on the lake, the fish-bowl
Of a small town, familiar tongues that roll;
Memorised anecdotes across the ashtray,
The lipstick on her teeth.
Clumsy in victory, each stumble confined
To look as if she has walked through life
Without ever missing a stride.
There is nowhere to breathe
But in the solitude of her insanity.
She paints the walls
To the colours of her moods:
Grey in the long, long winter,
Blue in the onset of June.
May 22, 2016
May 22, 2016 at 7:02 PM UTC
*delicate swirls
abstract motif
dainty spirals*
I.
I see you as a wide sheet of fabric
Beautiful, paisley pattern
Highlighting your odd qualities
That I love, more than you could get.
How you shimmer and shine
So well.
II.
Yet, I knew not that there exists -
Very quietly bold and calmly geometric;
Another sheet beneath this visible one
A layer concealed, that only my oblivion feels.
How you shiver and hide
So well.
III.
So, as I learn and delve and discover
Burrowing passages and intense pathways
A myriad of tunnels within tunnels
Where is the real you?
How alone; thought I knew you
So well.
IV.
Am I thus lost?
Blinded so by the light in your patterns....
[said in one breath:
so, I try to brush ever lightly over artefacts of your stained existence,
ensuring I leave no trace of me...
there I go making a new layer (for me)
only to see...another layer....and yet
another....]
layer upon
layer upon
layer upon
layer upon....
layerrrr.
V.
Into the icy face of wind, words are flung
Only, they come back...messier!
Disaster.....blast the blundering heart in dusty chokes
Love thrives not in intemperate climes.
At which point did you let your voice die?
Perhaps you hide in fear, of suffering alone....
So long.
VI.
There stands a figure in the circle of light....lonesome
We hover near the highly-charged cosmos of chance
Daring the winds to take us, off guard
To glide away on impossible parades....
S T, 28 April 2013
Apr 28, 2013
Apr 28, 2013 at 11:56 AM UTC
Once more I dream of Istanbul where light perfumes and Eastern tunes conspire to set my sleep on fire
in my dreams this city seems to sparkle in the evening sky and as I wander by Topkapi,
I see treasures in the architecture
and jewels in the very stone that builds into the home of artefacts and in times gone by, this building was the East of many men who desired to steal what was within.
I always dream of Istanbul when my life is not as full as I think it ought to be
and I see it as a mental therapy that helps me sort the wheat from chaff,and
belly dancing girls who laugh and serve up raki , I see pearls that peep from midriffs bare,
a kind of reiki for the mind which I don't mind at all nor care if this is not politically correct
in my dreams,I elect the law stands silent to one side so I can ride the currents of the night that flow in cities of delight.
I wake to drizzle,one more grizzle of the day in which I get up out of bed but should really stay and replay Istanbul once more.
In the palm of my left hand I find a pearl (which is not good) a memento of the Eastern Hollywood
tonight, I'll have to go back there and find the girl who shared this treasure and has stolen at her leisure
my heart away.
Jul 10, 2013
Jul 10, 2013 at 2:32 AM UTC
There is strength here.
Built in glaciers older than countries
Known only to cold seas
And the animals that thrive in the face of difficulty.
There is beauty here.
Reflected in water droplets that tear the light apart
We gaze upon the scattered remains and declare it a rainbow.
We're not wrong.
There is anger here.
You only have to watch the way the volcanoes erupt in fury
Or the water-bound tsunami who reaches for land but is banished to sea.
There is pain here.
Watch the way the Earth shudders, and the ground tries to hold itself together
And oil runs from water.
We call them immiscible.
There is violence here.
It inhabits the living and the still,
Tornadoes chase and throw and break
And guns scream
And the prey cry
And comrades become competitors
There is sorrow here.
You can hear it in the breaking of a voice from topic not age
And the way the rain cries down windows,
In the whimper of a sleeping child.
There is joy here.
You see it in the songs of whales and the chatter of dolphins
And the way the stars twinkle contentedly,
Find it in the breathy huff of a baby's first laugh.
Look for it in the secret smile that wasn't meant to be seen.
There is coldness here.
Not just the kind that makes exhibits of mammoths
But there is something in the look of a bigot,
The indifference of an eagle,
Something in the way ash falls slow and steady as it watches lava desolate a city.
There is life here.
In this world we do not limit living to survival
And we have a way of finding new ways to look at our world.
And though the mountain does not breathe it moves constantly.
Though leaves that left their trees are not green, they dance on the wind.
And even when we are gone we remain in memories and dreams
And artefacts, or speeches, or actions.
There are many problems here.
But we're trying to fix them.
This is a planet worth fixing.
Aug 12, 2015
Aug 12, 2015 at 1:46 PM UTC
Podium
That’s me on the totem pole,
with the face paints and cigarettes.
The smoke burns your eyes.
That’s me on the pedestal,
ears to ground and eyes in the clouds.
The rain soaked your skin.
That’s me on the platform,
with the rucksack and treasured artefacts,
The timetables melted your mind.
That’s me on the podium,
soaked in sweat, medal around my neck.
The track broke your heart.
That’s me at the finish line baby,
maybe,
we could go back to the start.
Nov 6, 2015
Nov 6, 2015 at 12:45 PM UTC
i love how after 70cl of whiskey my
metabolism is up and running -
i know, egoistical self-indulgent crap,
but it works! i get to say **** you
to 99 people and say: come on in
to 1 - but that doesn't even
matter, given the circumstance
of the 1 being a schizophrenic;
but hey! i grew a beard
after all, being post-25 years of age,
so a fully grow Amazon on my cheeks
and chin, a welcome reminder of:
the Aztecs played football too,
but it was more like
****** of San Francisco mixed
with golf mixed with netball
mixed with the ailing N.H.S.
chanting: god save our bed-shitting queen,
god save our precious artefacts from
Hindustan. and Gobi the cabby from
new Delhi -
god save our... a round of pints for the lot
of us! way-hey! charging into crusades with
a jaguar export from Germany under
the slogan: Vein Diesel biceps-flexed:
too fast, and two of each:
that'll be a pistachio - say it as meaning
lime green, go on - oi! ******
who's that Russian hooligan with pistaccio?!
one keg-pouch over here must have minded
the safety-belt limit
prior to a heart-attack and you're giving me
all Abba lip-sarge and surging...
gimme gimme a man at half time...
two pints and a burger in and i'll be
juicing up a saxophone for a crescendo better than
this one...
well... it was lovely to meet you, send my
best regards to your mother, a sincerely;
i swear to god, when i'm done, the only
person you'll be phoning will be your mother.
Jun 20, 2016
Jun 20, 2016 at 9:01 PM UTC
Anthropogenic artefacts
Heart attacks
hearts attacked
Dead calm gyre
Tide line debris
You and me
and I
Beach combing
the detritus
of us
and them
and they
Invasive spaces
hidden faces
aroma of decay
Kicking over seaweed mounds
Lost and founds
Seeking out sun sparkled jewels
the aroma of decay
the plastic looks like ruby
the netting gossamer light
life moves amongst the mass
massing moving living
and dying
I save one shell
to liberate the memory
To fix it
in the opalescent bisque
pocketed
treasured
that tide line
left behind remains
from us
all of us
Everyone tries
amongst the stinking tangle
of uselessness
of spoil
to see the value
to seek and love the life
appreciating
interpreting
beauty in our tideline
Personal life left overs
the things we leave behind
left behind
beached beyond doubt
dried beyond quenching
Those hours
objects
people and places
those cruel elements
took away
Stripped from us
only to dispose of them
because they could
because we could not stop them
Tide line
physical
metaphorical
epitomized by those eyes
that shell
the reason
why walking on beaches
makes us feel better
Aug 19, 2013
Aug 19, 2013 at 9:23 AM UTC
History
a mystery
of facts
and artefacts
swallowed by time
evolution
or revolution
fossilised claws
and medieval wars
fallen in time
monarchy
hierarchy
ruling society
to equality
change over time
existence
a distance
from memory
a stone in a cemetery
rotting over time
shut up
boxed up
laid down
in the ground
shipped to a new time
forgotten
or a mystery
written
our history
forgotten in time
May 20, 2016
May 20, 2016 at 12:09 PM UTC
It's a phrase I often playfully use to describe my queer self.
("Were you ever?"my beloved Alison uniformly says in jest).
But now it seems unusually apt in another way:
As I swann around this empty house, the decor, the photos, the ornaments and old perfume bottles overwhelm me.
My head is brimming with memories as I glance past these fragments of our shared lives.
My loss is palpable and yet inescapable under this roof.
She surrounds us on the walls, hanging over us with her beaming smile amidst the family photos.
I want to escape but I can't:
In a mad way I want to believe that something of these relics around us can bring her back somehow.
She did after all carry something of the old Irish paganism with her.
But, no, this ancient shamanism is sadly absent in a room drowned out by every token of Catholicism you can think of.
It's all too much for this first born to take and yet she is still here in the tiny gaps of these precious artefacts.
Hidden away where you can't see her.
So, no, being honest right now - I'm not quite straight yet.
The head and heart will realign soon but not with this gnawingly painful grief.
Pray for me.
Nov 13, 2018
Nov 13, 2018 at 7:43 AM UTC
We were never them
their glass would shatter and scatter
when hard times came
but you and i
we may have cracked
but our shortcomings became masterpieces
artefacts
of what we used to be,
celebrations of what we weren't:
then we fell
through the same cracks we celebrated
and nothing broke our fall
so we floated,
drifting
in disbelief, we gazed at each other
where a thrashing ocean of emotions
pierced our stare,
a draining era
that left us like them,
shattered
and scattered.
Nov 20, 2017
Nov 20, 2017 at 5:53 PM UTC
Now poetry flows like river bows,
and falls from my thoughts and
joints joined by dots like dominos,
From head to toe in the body of a maze,
These cravings keep me a slave to the page.
The million ways to say what I have to say,
but that minimum wage won’t ever pay my soul,
or pave my way to these big road goals.
With my foot on the pedal,
backside on the pedsatool,
Theres plenty of fuel for those fools,
they know me better than you.
The way I look.
The way that I moved.
Gliding inside the atmosphere,
in-between the atoms and patterns;
to clear the way into my hiding place.
The mask I’ve worn to hide my face.
The glue unstuck to keep in place,
my fears, desires and smiles so fake.
But words held me together like skeleton bones,
italics in prose to expose
those brittle tones when home alone.
To engage thoughts from dial tones,
to try to be at one,
with those we chose to grow amongst.
Engaged us together,
enraged in the way they chose to measure up.
It was never good enough from book to cover.
And they shunned us like the paragraphs
those paranoid artefacts that -
you;
were just too scared
to show to the world.
May 27, 2016
May 27, 2016 at 4:14 PM UTC
and so what have i to offer you beyond
a collection of cheap and naive sentiments
matted in the dust of ineloquence?
i miss you, is all, but not even you:
an image of you, but not even an image:
the ghost of a fantasy. yes, i am
haunted, haunted by your absence
your senseless existence your
orbit without mass or distance
and all the rest, in its restless fabrication.
all that remains are your artefacts
with i among them, not quite intact.
May 9, 2017
May 9, 2017 at 3:03 AM UTC
light bulbs and cotton hankies .
all things are useful, bulbs
bring light , denote ideas,
good intentions, spent,
collected.
cotton hankies, frayed hold the books,
yet those with nylon, stretch the skin
resulting in red and soreness.
shy away from dangerous commodities,
use the best, those tradtional artefacts
which are gentle on your soul, bring light.
wipe your nose clean.
sbm.
today we have added notes for your interest.
A HANDKERCHIEF (also called handkercher or hanky) is a form of a kerchief, typically a hemmed square of thin fabric that can be carried in the pocket or purse, and which is intended for personal hygiene purposes such as wiping one’s hands or face, or blowing one’s nose. A handkerchief is also sometimes used as a purely decorative accessory in a suit pocket. When used as an accessory to a suit, a handkerchief is known as a POCKET SQUARE. There are a wide variety of ways to fold a pocket square, ranging from the austere to the flamboyant.
The material of a handkerchief can be symbolic of the social-economic class of the user, not only because some materials are more expensive, but because some materials are more absorbent and practical for those who use a handkerchief for more than style. Handkerchiefs can be made of cotton, cotton-synthetic blend, synthetic fabric, silk, or linen.
Historically, white handkerchiefs have been used in place of a white flag to indicate surrender or a flag of truce; in addition to waving away sailors from port. King Richard II of England, who reigned from 1377 to 1399, is widely believed to have invented the cloth handkerchief, as surviving documents written by his courtiers describe his use of square pieces of cloth to wipe his nose.
Jan 13, 2018
Jan 13, 2018 at 1:41 AM UTC
You prefer succulents over grass
Plastic abhorred to glass
Preserve the trembling cast
The remnants,
Life’s artefacts
My heart, the truth -
Sincerity
Comforting and humble
With you I’m free
You are the rhythm in my bones
My present, past and future known
With you like roads made cobblestone
I cannot live without my heart
I cannot live if we’re apart
At least at heart please keep me be
For bound to you I’m totally free
Dec 27, 2016
Dec 27, 2016 at 3:49 AM UTC
XXXIII
swinging at her mooring
the Albatross sits out the squall
rain driving down the loch
its crew ready to launch
the tender to greet dry land
At last ! (said *****
XXXIV
Reading Ransome
(before sleep takes over)
celebrates this northern clime
Diver or no Diver preoccupied ****
leaves the shore party to find
adventure above the secret cove
where Captain Flint and the scrubbers
make the Sea Bear fit for Old Mac
. . . but I am seduced
(until she comes to bed)
with Ms Jamie’s Sabbath Day
on Collinsay finding nothing
more necessary to write than
Sea, Birds, Wind
XXXX
Yesterday it rained all day
so the museum beckoned
and we became enthralled
by the artefacts of daily life,
images of times within
the memory - just. The things
of living mostly at home and
further from the world we know
and somehow cope with stand
testament to a way of life
now passed now gone.
Between bench and stove,
dresser and wheel,
the chest and personal
things, their short distances
collect in memory.
XXXV
sky blue
clouds grey and white
hills green and brown and purple
rocks grey and black
sea green and turquoise
tide brown
sand khaki
all the colours come together
on this afternoon beach
where the tide rising
dogs the footstep
Oct 5, 2016
Oct 5, 2016 at 6:30 AM UTC
I cleared my desk today
I trashed pieces of paper, old receipts and movie tickets
I crushed and tossed letters and brochures
Perhaps its nothing to many of you
A simple clearing, of items that you no longer need
But to me, it was so much more than that
In this mass of what others may call trash
are items that hold memories and scrapped futures
Because I remember them all
Every movie we went for
Every cafe we visited
Every letter or piece of news that
we struggled or celebrated together
It was landfill of triggers that I was rummaging through eyes wide open
I was exposed
This gravity was craving in
Like an insurmountable weight
Place on top my chest
I couldn't breathe, I couldn't see
You've tried for months I told myself
Today's the day you will do it
Put those memories away
But how did I do it you ask?
How was it possible to no longer feel?
Truth is, I felt it all.
The weight still came in waves
As each item still screamed for its place to stay
But I was no longer in the mood for mercy
For they have haunted me long enough
Piece by piece, I was being set free
Perhaps what I felt in all these moments was genuine
Perhaps I only felt what I wanted to
Perhaps all I did was layer to stay longer in your storm
To keep you company, to lift you up
But it mattered not
For I knew that starting today
I no longer wanted to feel that way
For this is not the love I want not deserve
So for the last time
I did what I had to
Just like when you were in lalaland
I kissed the only picture you let me keep
With the same feeling of longing in my heart
But today, it was goodbye.
With that,
I placed you far and high
Out of my reach
I cleared my desk today
Removed all the artefacts
That I marked my precious
I couldn't breathe, I couldn't see
But I knew it was necessary
I knew deep down that I had more to give
But it mattered not
For it was time to go.
To all the things that weren't meant to be
I'm here saying my final apologies
For I knew that my rage is strength
For I knew that I had more to give
For I knew that this was not the end of my story
For I knew that I am grateful for all that life has given
The people, the love, the pain, the suffering
I love and am thankful for it all
But still a mark has not been made
And my fire lies unsatisfied
My fate calls for my awakening once more
And this time,
There are no chains on me
No gravity that shall bound me
No fear that will stop me
For deep in me, I feel power
Power that will allow me to
walk the path that is dark and unknown
For I am wiser and stronger
Than I have ever been
Let's do this, round 2.
Jun 25, 2020
Jun 25, 2020 at 11:03 AM UTC
. light bulbs, cotton hankies .
all things are useful, bulbs
bring light , denote ideas,
good intentions, spent,
collected.
cotton hankies, frayed hold the books,
yet those with nylon, stretch the skin
resulting in red and soreness.
shy away from dangerous commodities,
use the best, those tradtional artefacts
which are gentle on your soul, bring light.
wipe your nose clean.
sbm.
today we have added notes for your interest.
A HANDKERCHIEF (also called handkercher or hanky) is a form of a kerchief, typically a hemmed square of thin fabric that can be carried in the pocket or purse, and which is intended for personal hygiene purposes such as wiping one’s hands or face, or blowing one’s nose. A handkerchief is also sometimes used as a purely decorative accessory in a suit pocket. When used as an accessory to a suit, a handkerchief is known as a POCKET SQUARE. There are a wide variety of ways to fold a pocket square, ranging from the austere to the flamboyant.
The material of a handkerchief can be symbolic of the social-economic class of the user, not only because some materials are more expensive, but because some materials are more absorbent and practical for those who use a handkerchief for more than style. Handkerchiefs can be made of cotton, cotton-synthetic blend, synthetic fabric, silk, or linen.
Historically, white handkerchiefs have been used in place of a white flag to indicate surrender or a flag of truce; in addition to waving away sailors from port. King Richard II of England, who reigned from 1377 to 1399, is widely believed to have invented the cloth handkerchief, as surviving documents written by his courtiers describe his use of square pieces of cloth to wipe his nose.
Jan 30, 2018
Jan 30, 2018 at 1:40 AM UTC
Winter in Lisbon
Up rua Garret I walked and it is steep in baixa, the old heart of
this grand city, past shops that sell lottery ticket, besides a shop that sells
religious artefacts, and a shop that sells Cartier watches.
If you win there is money enough to decorate your mother's grave
and to buy a posh watch.
At the top of the street of the street a café Brasilia, it used to be
Fernando Pessoa's drinking den, now it is upmarket, suit and short
hair place who drinks tea and eat pastry; their forefathers used to
look down their noses at Fernando, now they are proud of him.
Irreverent poets can go somewhere else to drink.
The master poet is a statue outside his café in the rain, and tourists
take picture of him, one wonders what he thinks of it all.
There is also a statue of Antonio Ribero Chiado, a poet who lived
in the sixteen hundred, the largo is called after him, he was bald
and dressed like a monk.
I could see the river Tagus where tug-boats ply their in grey waters,
and remembered when I used to be a ******
The church across the street “Incarnacao”, where Antonio used to pray
is beautifully restored, but his God had left by the back door
the front door was too heavy but saw a woman weeping in front
of a statue of Christos, ***** for the masses? Why not?
It is getting dark the Portuguese suits are swallowed by the metro,
and men with cardboard boxes look for a doorway to sleep in.
Over this scene hovers Amalia Rodrigues the great Fado singer,
born in poverty, she hums a song for the wretched.
Aug 2, 2017
Aug 2, 2017 at 9:52 AM UTC