"biographer" poems
By: Cedric McClester
Despite some misconceptions
And attacks
Endure for centuries
By us blacks
Let me lay down
Some unknown facts
How ‘bout we start with
Henrietta Lacks
For most of us
After our death
Other than memories
What else is left?
For our survivors
The bereft
Yet her cells live on
It’s a matter of theft
From Henrietta’s
Cancerous cells
A bold idea
Suddenly jells
Spawning cures for cancer
As her biographer tells
And in vitro fertilization
Other things as well
Science took complete advantage
Of her cells
Which they still manage
Though she died of cervical cancer
Her cells provided them
With the answer
To scientific mystery
Check out her cells history
Cedric McClester, Copyright © 2017. All rights reserved.
Apr 15, 2017
Apr 15, 2017 at 12:25 PM UTC
A repost:
A Roman poem written before The birth of Christ, inspired the title Gone With The wind
with Scarlett and Rhett Butler
But here you see only old
confessions of a man's true love for his beloved who is all gone
-Or-
(Or a woman's true love for
her beloved runner wishing she could have chased.)
~~~
CYNAR*A.
~~~~~
Last night yesternight, betwixt her lips and mine
There fell thy shadow, Cynara! Thy breath was shed
Upon my soul between the kisses and the wine;
And I was desolate and sick of an old passion,
Yea, I was desolate and bowed my head:
I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.
All night upon mine heart I felt her warm heart beat,
Night-long within mine arms in love and sleep she lay;
Surely the kisses of her bought red mouth were sweet;
But I was desolate and sick of an old passion,
When I awoke and found the dawn was grey:
I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.
I have forgot much, Cynara! Gone with the wind,
Flung roses, roses riotously with the throng,
Dancing, to put thy pale, lost lilies out of mind
But I was desolate and sick of an old passion,
Yea, all the time, because the dance was long:
I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.
I cried for madder music and for stronger wine,
But when the feast is finished and the lamps expire,
Then falls thy shadow, Cynara! The night is thine;
And I am desolate and sick of an old passion,
Yea, hungry for the lips of my desire:
I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.
~~~~~~~
By:Ernest Dowson
For:RhettlvScarlet.
to honor Karijinbba
in her great loss and healing
of her memory chip.
~~~~~~
Copy Rights.
~~~~
Ernest Dowson (1867-1900) died of alcoholism at the age of 32. His downward spiral began at age 23 when he fell for an 11 year old girl who would spurn him at 14 when he proposed marriage.
The following year, in 1894 his father died from an overdose. Dowson's mother
hanged herself within a year of her husband's death.
Soon after this dual tragedy Dowson left for France before returning back to England in 1897. Curiously he lived with the family of his unrequited love. Penniless, heartbroken and filling the empty voids in his life with alcohol, Dowson would spend the last six weeks of his life in the cottage of the Oscar Wilde biographer Robert Sherard who had found him
drunk in a bar.
Speaking of Oscar Wilde, he wrote after Dowson's death of a,"Poor wounded wonderful fellow that he was, a tragic reproduction of all tragic poetry, like a symbol, or a scene.
I hope bay leaves will be laid on his tomb and rue and myrtle too for he knew what true love
unrequieted love was."
~~~~~
Oct 22, 2018
Oct 22, 2018 at 12:44 AM UTC
By: Cedric McClester
Despite some misconceptions
And attacks
Endure for centuries
By us blacks
Let me lay down
Some unknown facts
How ‘bout we start with
Henrietta Lacks
For most of us
After our death
Other than memories
What else is left?
For our survivors
The bereft
Yet her cells live on
It’s a matter of theft
From Henrietta’s
Cancerous cells
A bold idea
Suddenly jells
Spawning cures for cancer
As her biographer tells
And in vitro fertilization
Other things as well
Science took complete advantage
Of her cells
Which they still manage
Though she died of cervical cancer
Her cells provided them
With the answer
To scientific mystery
Check out her cells history
Cedric McClester, Copyright © 2017. All rights reserved.
Apr 15, 2017
Apr 15, 2017 at 12:19 PM UTC
Embedded in Afghanistan
were the General and the Blonde.
It gets lonely in those mountains
and she was close and warm.
She was his biographer
and he her primal source-
When he offered her "full access"
Her reaction was "of Course".
Their spouses both were far away
in another land and clime
Why not steal a kiss or two
is it really such a crime?
For this betrayal of our trust
Petraeus now must pay.
He placed his privates in command
and now he rues the day.
Nov 14, 2012
Nov 14, 2012 at 12:48 PM UTC
1460
His Cheek is his Biographer—
As long as he can blush
Perdition is Opprobrium—
Past that, he sins in peace—
1.2k
blind from birth, she
could tell the difference
between the odor of chrysanthemums and tulips,
and remember her first whiff of both
she could identify
the scent of her brother
in a groping group
of sweaty brutes
she knew
her nose was her biographer
collecting memories, visions
her eyes could not
she studied biology
only to discover her compendium
of smells originated in a space infinitely
smaller than a fly's eye
a few molecules
devoted to identifying ham,
the rich smokey meat
of her first Easter
another clump to help her hold
the faint smell of perfume which lingered
in the room hours after
her mother passed
and who knew what atoms,
what cells, what curse of chemistry
forced her to recall, most of all, the sweet scent
of her newborn's hair,
the few seconds she held him,
after his heart stopped, and they took him
and placed him in a smooth, cold box, where sight,
sound and smell were locked forever
Jul 9, 2016
Jul 9, 2016 at 11:36 AM UTC
The novelist shows people that do not exist
in situations that never happened.
The memoirist shows actual people
in situations that never happened.
The biographer shows people that do not exist
in actual situations.
The poet shows every person that has ever existed
in situations that should have happened.
The playwright shows people that should have existed
in every situation that has ever happened.
The journalist rather makes one prefer fiction.
Feb 24, 2010
Feb 24, 2010 at 6:24 PM UTC
someday I will live on a water,
it will love me
I will spend my days discovering it’s mysteries
spinning them into fantastic tales,
cinematic grays of storm,
kaleidoscope colors of dragonfly spring
I will live in the cocoon of its beauty,
in the folding space of beings from every world
I will story the breath of pirouettes,
the creation waves of slumber
finding uncommon lives
woven through fertile riparian fabrics
the water will know me as no human could
it will absorb me into it’s rhythm
I will disappear from causation
cherished and protected the remainder of my days
I, devoted witness and biographer to a landscape
Jan 29, 2023
Jan 29, 2023 at 11:56 PM UTC
Abater, wherein art thou?
Hung in hopeless romantic gallow's?
Stuck in a cloud?
Abdicate this volition repudiate
The time is now;
For the pearlied gate's.
Proliferation's hit mine glut
None staying behind;
No if's, and's, or what's.
Grandiose word's from other's, to much saidst
Guile liar's;
Of unholiness.
Fidelity gone unseen
Lost in the finesse of foment dream's;
Daunting foresight, dearth belief
Snakes with teeth, to slither thine audacity!!!
Abstinent, they locketh their beak's
Their two people by nature, masked freaks;
Giveth thee evidence, of non-concrete
They shuffleth their feet, for defaming fun.
Biographer's, of their own self
Don't careth, for noone else;
Trap us in a wanting hell, wherein croon's art pain, pain is swell..
We fall
We fell
In their devour....... .
©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
Aug 2, 2015
Aug 2, 2015 at 1:19 PM UTC
Abater where art thou?
Hung in gallows?
Stuck on cloud?
Abdicate this volition repudiate
The time is now
For the pearlied gate's,
Profliations hit mine glut
No staying behind
If, and's or what's......
Grandiose word's from others, to much said
Guile betrayer's
Of unholiness!!!!!!
Fidelity gone unseen
Lost in finesse of torment dreams
Daunting foresight, dearth belief's
Snakes with teeth, to slither thine audacity!!!!!
Abstinent they locketh their beak's
Two people in their bipolar nature, masked freaks,
Giveth thee evidence of non-concrete
They shuffle their feet for defaming fun!!!!
Biographer's of their own self
Don't care for noone else,
Trap us in a limbo hell
Wherein croon's art pains, pain is swell
We fall
We fell........
In their devour!!!!!!!
Jun 27, 2015
Jun 27, 2015 at 8:11 PM UTC
Someday when I leave this earth
They'll need some details from my birth
Who is a better biographer than me
To let all know of my family tree.
Just to get the story straight
I think I need to participate.
No one would ever know
Of fears I had so long ago
How as a child of four
I questioned my Mother from door to door.
Thought I was adopted
but when I learned to read
I found the truth
A birth certificate
Showing that I was
the Baby girl of my parents
Frank and Eunice
Or at least I appeared to be
I needed documentation
Even then
What was I thinking?
My poor Mother sometimes
Covered her ears
I asked so many questions
Had so many fears
School was not fun when I began
I was so nervous I could barely walk in.
The principal looked like a witch
No kidding
What kind of place was this?
Sep 29, 2016
Sep 29, 2016 at 6:38 PM UTC
Des champs de caramel dans vos yeux
la vapeur de la beauté tout autour de vous.
Le foulard de nuit vous enveloppe,
les manches du jour sur le sol.
Ville froide, ville chaude
ville du cœur
vous êtes un citoyen universel.
Je suis votre cartographe,
votre biographe,
votre poète de nuit.
Je présente votre chanson au piano.
Femme caramel
quand ton cœur s’ouvre
c’est moi qui suis là
avec une bouteille de vin
et un cierge.
"Caramel fields in your eyes
the steam of beauty all around you.
The night scarf envelops you,
the sleeves of the day on the ground.
Cold city, hot city
city of the heart
you are a universal citizen.
I am your cartographer,
your biographer,
your poet of the night.
I present your song to the piano.
Caramel woman
when your heart opens
it's me who stands
with a bottle of wine
& a candle."
Jun 23, 2019
Jun 23, 2019 at 5:15 PM UTC
I am auto
mathematically
my own biographer
reading journals endlessly
old love letters not burned yet
interviewed all the survivors
Parsed the ones from the remainders
the lies from the strangers
how they had dinner with you
and both your ******
waited outside hearing the
fists and words fly
said they were about to call 911
but thought better
took the dividends and squared them
with being
exponential
logged all the debits against credits
balanced the sheet wrote notes to me the CEO
and protested in the streets
with bold lettered signs
saying
how my corporeal corporation
is somehow female repressive
equal rights for all
and such representations
just all mango mentally managed by
my tangled self-analyzations
it gets complex trying to footnote
all the references
as I try not to plagiarize myself
knowing I copyright
my *******
before flushing it down
Aug 17, 2017
Aug 17, 2017 at 3:03 AM UTC