"bodice" poems
Bent
Near to breaking
by her burden
of fruit, swollen with seed
In that thrashing by wind
Bearing down on the sun
in her labor—
of Need
to bear
the pain
to bring
her yield
to his hands—
her harvest
of warm juicy softness
___
Gone—
the upright
reach of untouchable spring
When stems, stern and smooth
wore a lace-beaded bodice of bloom
of coral chiffon
First leaves
a scarf
with a fringe of lime green
wrapping her gifted and lean
to the buzzing
She was lighter than dew
to the amateur insects
smeared with her
Her only accessory--
a robin
They had left
as evidence
they had ravaged
its song
___
Now broken and leaking
more damage endured
Ripe fruit in rough hands
He leans against limbs
by his weight sternly pressed
so suffused in the fragrance
of peach intoxicants
which he will have--
He is lost to his lust
He is forcing his need
into another year's beauty
asserting his claim over and over again
of that lost and ancient bounty
Aug 3, 2018
Aug 3, 2018 at 3:59 PM UTC
i left your wine glass
on my bedside table
for seven days
it settled in the very place
that your hands had aimlessly
chosen
staining a ring around a mostly empty bodice.
mostly empty?
barely full?
you see, for me,
the wine glass was
my way of having you
stay as long as I wanted.
I saw your delicate
fingerprints stamped upon
the stem and body
just as they were on mine, under a tin roof
amidst a blanket of summer rain.
......
i washed the glass tonight
as you boarded the plane to the rest of your life.
i wonder if you'll think of me as you sip on your complimentary glass.
rouge ou blanc, mon amour?
rouge comme mon amour?
ou blanc comme mon remise?
-Anna Blake
Oct 1, 2017
Oct 1, 2017 at 9:31 PM UTC
we lay together, 6:00am, body warmth touch-sharing,
as the June morning summer chill coming off its night nadir coolness
surrenders very reluctantly,
full length pajamas, blankets and coverlets in use,
keeping cold out while bodies touching generate heat -
a big difference
through these layers of cotton controversy, my right arm,
my cunning, falls awkwardly upon her, advising I am woken
and aware she is as well, hear her earbuds emplaced, make shushed
whispering noises re the future of artificial intelligence
and other such mental knottings
my awkward angled arm rests on her landscaped outline of shape,
coming to rest where legs meet at the top of an upside down V spot,
which makes no request, but accepts my bequest of steady
stroking of her ****** as an unnecessary
but atheist-acceptable to her
morning prayer ritual, kept at the intersection of the
physical and physics theorems
funny how some prayers,
where recitation comes thoughtlessly and routine,
uttered without any contemplation are yet
deep comforting for their inherency,
so I pray a stroking repetitive on her body,
well hid neath a summer coverlet,
wordlessly chanted, wordlessly accepted, silence connoting approving permission
I comfort her,
above and through a floral coverlet for her floral coverlet,
till the sun rises enough to truly warm up our plot,
my praying reaches the end of its rope,
where quality and quantity achieve unanimity resolution
no longer needed,
but am appreciated, besides my arm is cramping,
not designed for the rising, unleveled angle of her breathing bodice
my comfort is her extra comforter,
an offering of coffee my reward,
for my daily work has begun,
and I have many more poems stillborn
that require coaxing stroking
to become
witnesses to living
Jun 17, 2019
Jun 17, 2019 at 7:32 PM UTC
494
Going to Him! Happy letter!
Tell Him—
Tell Him the page I didn’t write—
Tell Him—I only said the Syntax—
And left the Verb and the pronoun out—
Tell Him just how the fingers hurried—
Then—how they waded—slow—slow—
And then you wished you had eyes in your pages—
So you could see what moved them so—
Tell Him—it wasn’t a Practised Writer—
You guessed—from the way the sentence toiled—
You could hear the Bodice tug, behind you—
As if it held but the might of a child—
You almost pitied it—you—it worked so—
Tell Him—no—you may quibble there—
For it would split His Heart, to know it—
And then you and I, were silenter.
Tell Him—Night finished—before we finished—
And the Old Clock kept neighing “Day”!
And you—got sleepy—and begged to be ended—
What could it hinder so—to say?
Tell Him—just how she sealed you—Cautious!
But—if He ask where you are hid
Until tomorrow—Happy letter!
Gesture Coquette—and shake your Head!
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I see her sitting over there
another's arms around her waist.
Sunlight shimmers through golden hair,
bodice ruffled and unlaced.
Surprise sits obvious on her face,
over the distance where I walk
it shouts to me of felt disgrace.
A story told no need for talk.
I look down staring at the ground
feeling awkward as I continue
not raising eyes to what I found
like curtains drawn across a window.
My footsteps quicken with the pace,
footpath blurs with constant view.
My head can't raise to see her face
because I don't know what to do.
I hear her calling, voice a quiver,
I hear her tread as she doe's chase
Almost a trot I do deliver
trying to clear from this place.
I manage to evade her follow,
thinking of the scene I saw.
Her cheating ways are cruel and hollow
as I viewed her frolic on the floor.
What do I say when next I see
her arm in arm with my best friend.
But if these words I say to he
will cause him harm that may not end.
So I have given them some room
to sort themselves in their own way.
It's she that must hand out the gloom
from her own words then she must pay.
As for this secret I say nought
I shall not give her game away
for she's not the only one I've caught
for my friend does play away.
I do not judge the things they do
and best that I do not involve
myself with what they both go through.
It's for themselves both to resolve.
Aug 29, 2014
Aug 29, 2014 at 9:26 AM UTC
It was her grandmother’s,
on her step-mother’s side,
not really a relative at all.
A hideous thing, it was,
crudely constructed yards
of yellowing ivory, with
giant creampuff shoulders
and a scratchy hemline.
The bodice was decorated,
sprinkled with dull gems,
crusty pearls.
The veil was, by far,
the worst offender.
A gauze with blotchy
brown stains, misshapen
holes, gnawed by rats.
She bit her lip as her step-
mother wrinkled her brow,
poking at the skirt, the train,
hoping it would burst like an
odd bubble or
mushroom at
any moment.
Oct 20, 2010
Oct 20, 2010 at 6:03 PM UTC
1.
Eyes, eager fish, in deep Himalayan blue, splash and swim
the ultramarine sky of the mind, gets color coordinated, in resonance
wind from across the ranges, incessantly chant guttural "Öm"
gently spreads waves, that on ears, vibrate as music,divine
our feet get liberated from mind's control, the trek becomes us.
2.
Eyes now, turn swifts, fly to the valley extending to horizon,
teeming with flowers of every hue, profusion of orchids,
rolling white clouds above,create *tantric patterns
of grace, swirls, swoops,scoops, somersaults,the trek goes on.
3.
Melting ice, fits well on the conical brown mountain tops,
a white bodice, perfect cover for her lovely peaks,
angular mounts gleam in the limitless avalanche
of light, an impulse for benediction is palpable.
4.
Simple folks of village, on the way side
in flowing colorful dresses ***** tall poles
festoons of bright colors, joyous prayer flags flutter in wind
proclaims festive spirit, they vigorously wave.
5.
Now heart overwhelms, sings the paeans of
a sky that changes it's face from blue to white
and sometimes, a hue so bleak, deep gloom,
on red brown earth, sun light prances around.
6.
The grass bed then transforms quick,
mind drinks the dense benediction peace brings
that coils inside the soft blue waves, beating within and out
7.
Himalayan blue has taken us in to it's embrace
bird songs ring along the path of ancient sages,
who went in to the forest abode to contemplate, never returned,
became one with the hum of cosmos, they walk within us.
Mar 25, 2015
Mar 25, 2015 at 6:05 AM UTC
✿⊰✲⊱✿
"She's finally here!" Sue claps as we all rise
from our seats and walk to the Ballroom.
There they are, atop the marble steps!
Queen Donna and Dean of proud Vesian,
both dressed in bright red. The couple faces
each other with loving smiles as the cacophony
of cheers and claps echoes through the great
Luciuscemi Palace.
✿⊰✲⊱✿
From afar, I study Donna's beautiful gown;
the shade of wine, made of velvet, her sleeves
long and puffed. Her bodice embrodiery is
extraordinary; patterned with red Rose of Vesian,
but since her marriage, she added a white
one. The embrodiery comes alive under the
light of chandelier; glittering with intricately
cut rubies and agates and sunstones for
Donna's red roses, emeralds and peridots
for the coiling stems and thorns, quartz
and white opals and moonstones for
the white roses.
✿⊰✲⊱✿
Her hair in a curly updo, ringlets framing
her wise and kind face with a simple white
diamond tiara resting upon her head; a simple
rose chain and earrings to complete her look.
In contrast, King Dean wears a deep crimson
coat of red and white roses brocade that falls
past his knees and above his ankles;
slits on the sides and on the back as well,
I imagine. I can see the black lining
underneath that fine coat.
Aug 27, 2018
Aug 27, 2018 at 6:10 PM UTC
208
The Rose did caper on her cheek—
Her Bodice rose and fell—
Her pretty speech—like drunken men—
Did stagger pitiful—
Her fingers fumbled at her work—
Her needle would not go—
What ailed so smart a little Maid—
It puzzled me to know—
Till opposite—I spied a cheek
That bore another Rose—
Just opposite—Another speech
That like the Drunkard goes—
A Vest that like her Bodice, danced—
To the immortal tune—
Till those two troubled—little Clocks
Ticked softly into one.
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Eye of a stone,
Blinded in shame,
Snakes on my head
Crying in vain
Dare not trip in wires of the sky
God or men, hate them or die
duel of chic, Angels of brothels
Serving their bodice, mind and villany
To art disown heaven
Or to burn into dust
Hell is just the reality
Rising
To face,
To fall,
The superior
Or call him
Unworthy, fake,
Terror is his name!
"He is wise, he is great!"
Only fools pass his gate
To drag Lucifer the bringer of light
Into shadow, the dark of night
Call him Hades, call him bad
It's the truth in his hand
And how could i forget Poseidon
Dear me, the conned face of villainy
dragged my flesh and sent me to hell
Burning his desires unto my breadth
And i stood for justice name her
Athena she is fair
or so i though till i read
"She's one of them, beware!"
And turned my head into a snake like crown
fighting my innocence bringing me down
Alone in this misogynist land
Grab my bitter hand!
Mankind is cruel
Man doesn't build home,
Justice contradicts itself
And Gods turn us into stone
Aug 8, 2018
Aug 8, 2018 at 6:20 AM UTC
if a sound could be grainy
like a photo with the ISO too high
over-compensating for the light that shone too dim
through the patterned curtains in your bedroom
in your mother’s old house
where the peaches tasted better in water than in sugar and that had never
ever happened
not since you were three years old when your grandmother
who was not yet too old to do much besides eat TV dinners
and watch ‘the price is right’
before your grandfather’s funeral
where you ruined your velvet dress
spilling cheap coffee all over the bodice
(if it had been good coffee the situation would be
entirely different)
the sound of you
exhaling like a train rolling right past the house
shaking the walls and the floor and the sofa
less and less as it gets farther away
you sound
grainy
like a photocopy
and i can’t find
the original
Jun 23, 2014
Jun 23, 2014 at 1:17 AM UTC
it is an traditional
afghan dress
look at the bodice.
encrusted with jewellery,
history, a desire to buy
is curtailed, only by
the price. i have
searched ebay for another,
more affordable, yet tis
this one, i love.
i can visit, touch
and take photographs.
the afghan dress
is £125, will not fit
me. that will not
stop me
liking.
sbm.
Dec 18, 2014
Dec 18, 2014 at 2:24 AM UTC
To be compared to a godess, a golden creature in a shining bodice.
(Is this what girls want?)
to be as fair as aphrodite, grace and beauty and lovers mighty.
(and to be an adulterous back stabber!)
to have athena's dilligence wisdom and intelligence.
(and to be a moody cow who cow who cant take critiscm)
or put hestia to shame, purity kindness a maiden without blame
(a symbol of female submission)
then may your wish come true and have all the blessings of a godess
(most of you already have there curses)
Mar 11, 2011
Mar 11, 2011 at 8:14 AM UTC
A pair of stays to bind in fashion,
Stiff bodice lift those ample *******
French sophistication and ***** south,
Linen lines taken from the robin's nests.
Once seen in times known to all Baroque,
Steel cages more true to the name,
Renaissance blushed at the very sight,
This hidden and blustering shame.
Georgian era was always that late,
Yet women united to sheer the skin,
Frills and cuffs were the new bloom,
The dowdy apron given to the bin.
Victorian, Edwardian seen a rise of empire,
When romance boasts the whale bone done,
Now scattered in all weddings and burlesque,
Dear Corset is set in memory to run and run.
Jun 8, 2016
Jun 8, 2016 at 7:50 AM UTC
tell me how to strip off this breastplate
and dress myself in pure, lace bodice
washed in all shades of subservience,
when lilith herself taught me
to bare to no man —
bow to no man.
the soil of these lands are built on liberation;
your ribs stake no claim
to what they do not own.
they merely return to dust and ashes —
the very material
of the land you betrayed —
the land you watched burn down,
and i'll tell you this:
this land, it will drift, shake, crumble
to create a catacomb big enough
for all the deaths
you deserve.
honey, this is no prophecy.
this is no threat.
this is justice out of the ribs
of those who'd fallen;
this is justice at the hands of the oppressed.
Jun 5, 2020
Jun 5, 2020 at 2:53 AM UTC
I need to **** my own brains out.
**** the inside of my thigh
/
If self harm existed,
I'd be the definition. Even as a child.
Epitome.
I was the art of chaos.
Reviled taste in the mouth of structure of humanity.
In the eyes of hurricanes,
death emits it's life from my heart chasm,
a dark laceration that continually deprecates the vision of self and image.
When one revokes such practices,
when one covers such motive to make others happy,
destruction of the dreamer will ensue.
Beyond all of the folly in these steps
We continue this dance macabre in order to destroy the civilized that we see in and around us.
Please take this.
Please ingest it into your ears, and masticate it in the gears teeth of your brain.
Hold heart to hand.
Take a breath.
Hold atrial canals to the rib cage that holds it as a cell that completes your bodice.
If you must seek a destruction. Let it be for self intention.
For self seclusion.
Let it be for your own self imprisonment.
Not the caging of your existence by: a state,
a religion,
a county,
a dogma of any sort,
no to ecology,
no to misanthropy.
"Yay", ye shall say. To self worth.
Mar 20, 2013
Mar 20, 2013 at 1:44 AM UTC
The body lay in a mound of hay
That was all piled up by the forge,
He took one look at the butcher’s hook
And the sick rose up in his gorge,
He peered on down at the bloodied face
There was nothing that could be done,
But held his breath when he saw that death
Had taken the blacksmith’s son.
He looked around for a sign of life
But the shop and the forge were cold,
The blacksmith Kirk hadn’t come to work
Though he’d seen him, out in the fold,
And darling Kate would be calling in,
His fate whirled round in his head,
What would she think when she found him there
With the love of her life stone dead?
The villagers knew no love was lost,
They’d fought at the village fete,
All over the hand of the pretty one,
The hand of their darling Kate,
But George was on an apprenticeship
For his father had owned the forge,
While Faber was a farm labourer,
So Kate had gone off with George.
But now George lay in a pile of hay
And he wouldn’t be dating Kate,
So Faber thought that he shouldn’t stay
Though he’d left it a little late.
He didn’t know if they’d seen him come,
He couldn’t be seen to go,
They’d think that he was the only one
To deliver the killer blow.
He heard a rustle within the store
And the sweat broke out on his head,
He knew if somebody found him there
That he’d be better off dead.
He peered silently through the door
And into the corner gloom,
And Kate was sobbing, there on the floor
In the darkest part of the room.
Her bouffant hair was a tangled mess
Her dress was tattered and frayed,
It didn’t take but a single guess
To see the part that she’d played,
For blood was mingling with her tears
Her bodice was stained deep red,
‘He stole my innocence,’ she exclaimed,
‘I hit him just once,’ she said.
Now Faber sits in a darkened cell
To wait for the hangman’s rope,
The Judge had asked, but he wouldn’t tell
So now he’s bereft of hope.
He’d told the court that he’d stumbled in
On the blacksmith’s son, and ****
And hit him once with a butcher’s hook
For the sake of the darling Kate.
But Kate was strolling with someone new
On the day that they pinned his hands,
And led him up to the gallows floor
To pay for the court’s demands,
She never gave him a thought that day
Though the blacksmith thought he knew,
And lay in wait with a butcher’s hook
As Kate was passing through.
David Lewis Paget
Sep 11, 2014
Sep 11, 2014 at 12:41 PM UTC
You were there
Among millions of sweaty bodice
returning from the festivities,
Shouldn't the sky seem particular
Of a colour of a romantic being
pushing poetry in the likes
Of citizens of the night
The Universe unbothered by who killed whom
Or the philosophy of life,
Errands running from the bishop town or the markets of dream
Rush hour of the busy life,
I ask the meaning of life,
The holy pages of what not the monks, the sky,
The ask of truth, the sands of time
From a distance, you went by
And weren't a vision from the ornamental fashion they sell
I saw you never,
And I am cited for hell,
But your eyes sold the the meaning of life,
And this foolish passerby, could tell.
Sep 26, 2018
Sep 26, 2018 at 1:21 PM UTC
This is the third time
I've planted climbing roses
The first two failed to fulfill
my romantic fantasy of
efflorescent roses
flaunting their naughty
frilly pink bodice
and hooped skirts
draped in loops
like gingerbread scroll-work
or fleur-de-lis
gamboling, sauntering
across the white French trellis
I guess I'm really a fairy trapped
inside this 5' 8" terrestrial body
I love how the amethyst moon-flowers
with the pentagram tattooed on their
belly button petals
cast a magic spell over the garden
And the night blooming jasmine's
enchanting fragrance wakens the
dreaming gardenia and makes everybody
including our blue eyed ragdoll kitten
a wee bit tipsy
I curl up on my midnight Jhoola
topiary shadows crouch
like royal sphinxes
in the starlit courtyard
and reflecting pools of water
from summer rains
swirl open their third eyes
~portals to another world~
Jun 26, 2014
Jun 26, 2014 at 11:39 PM UTC
Soot and ashes are the platter from which I dine,
the pool of my flagellation is the outpouring Merlot.
I forget to breathe through the lash,
rending the sackcloth until my nakedness is set before you.
The bells harken, the pendulum keeps time,
my requiem is set by your pulse.
DO NOT dismiss me, DO NOT neglect to
render my salvation in parcels.
Level after level of purgatory the holy grail
I imbibe and drink in ruin.
As the shredding of my skin with filaments of rope,
dislplay a journey of persecutions selfless ardor.
Crouching I beseech, I grovel,
forming steepled hands.
Oh, humble penance
slips my parched tongue and crippled lips.
Sweet King, Soveriegn Lord, Merciful Master,
I cower in my nothingness,
wrapped in the robes of bleak shame.
STILL I PRESS FORTH,
through decadent chambers,
in filth for a glimpse of your being.
For the simple gesture of uttering
your name.
Does your crown sweat with the bulk of my sobs?
To wipe your brow,
smear your worries on my bodice.
Enticing you from your throne to love...
a slave.
Sep 7, 2012
Sep 7, 2012 at 9:47 AM UTC
Tell, if thou canst, and truly, whence doth come
This camphire, storax, spikenard, galbanum,
These musks, these ambers, and those other smells
Sweet as the Vestry of the Oracles.
I’ll tell thee:—while my Julia did unlace
Her silken bodice but a breathing space,
The passive air such odour then assumed
As when to Jove great Juno goes perfumed,
Whose pure immortal body doth transmit
A scent that fills both heaven and earth with it.
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He pulls a feather from her bodice
She laughs and turns a coy cheek.
The boa, all but bare, looks ragged.
Like her smile when she's feeling anxious.
She feels the heat of his eyes, feels his intensity.
Her fears belie her desires. She wishes she could see.
See what he sees. See this thing that he calls beautiful.
He seems to look to look right through her skin.
But all she can focus on is the curves and the scars.
The strange shape of her body. The embarrassment.
The awkward turn of her mouth. The knit in her brow.
Her conflicts with pleasure, her repulsion for needing to submit.
The memories that bite at the back of her moans.
The shadows of abuse crawling out of the seams.
Ugly, twisted devils that sought to steal her innocence.
Returning to feed again, to taint the morrows of adulthood.
All of these things color the love she makes.
Tar and feather it. Blacken it with shame.
He senses her discomfort. Internalizes it. Confuses it.
He shrinks back, recoiling from the slap of rejection.
But it isn't him at all. Him, she craves. Salivates for.
But like the ringing of Pavlov's bell, they've built a deeper path.
Men she never knew; Can't even remember. Faces obscured.
Yet she can trace the footprints they've left on her mind.
Tracks set with iron spikes running through the bedrock,
Through the deepest layers of her psyche. Below the surface.
To where thoughts exist without consciousness, without effort.
The symphony of tragedy continues to play on.
She has no words to express this to him.
She can only hope that he senses it.
Senses the murky bubbles of awakening as they arise.
Senses her need for him. Her need for his patience.
Senses her need for silence, for distance and recollection.
Senses her need for his quiet embrace. For understanding
For her troubled state of mind and damaged sense of self.
For a self that she has barely even begun to understand.
Sep 27, 2015
Sep 27, 2015 at 8:43 AM UTC
While the queen's dogs were howling into the broken night to throw away
The forces, the queen was preparing the poison for the Snow White's birthday.
The poison was melted into blood and dew by that queen with innocent eyes.
Her beggars jumped over the moon for a ritual dance of a princess, who dies.
Her crows were flying in the wind being so proud of what they have done,
Her dress could hide the truth so well, with her mask she enjoyed the fun.
''I'm having bodice laces for sale, '' she said knocking on the dwarfs' door.
Then, she pulled the laces so tight that Snow-White fell down on the floor.
The sun hid behind the sea of clouds not to see the Snow White's death,
The dwarfs came home and found her on the floor without having breath.
They cut the bodice laces in two and Snow White could come back to life,
''She will give you poison to drink in sips and you will die without any strife.''
‘'Mirror, on the wall, who in this land is fairest of all? '' Queen wanted to know.
‘'You, my queen, are fair; it is true, '' replied the bad mirror through its glow.
''But beyond the seven mountains, in the dwarfs' house, Little Snow-White
Is a thousand times fairer than you, moreover, her future is extremely bright! '
She poisoned a comb and went out to knock again on the Snow White's door,
When she stuck the comb into the girl's hair, the girl fell down on the floor.
When the seven dwarfs returned home, they drowned in their own despair,
But she opened her eyes, when Liar pulled the poisoned comb from her hair.
‘'Mirror, on the wall, who in this land is fairest of all? '' Queen wanted to know.
‘'You, my queen, are fair; it is true, '' replied the bad mirror through its glow.
''But beyond the seven mountains, in the dwarfs' house, Little Snow-White
Is a thousand times fairer than you, moreover, her future is extremely bright! '
Everything was grey, while the queen was saying her mystic words aloud,
Inside her dark castle's granite walls, even the signs of time were not allowed.
Only lonesome birds and souls were flying there above a big fragile shroud,
Only craggy faces and weary eyes could be seen there in a demonic crowd.
Apr 12, 2012
Apr 12, 2012 at 6:04 PM UTC
*Prancing rays of sun,
eager to touch and tickle
wake everything up
from slumber,
filter through
swaying bamboo groves
singing in a divine madness
a love song,
in honor of the couple
lost in sensual yearning,
in their lovely garden,
wrapped head to toe in morning mist.
Lust is far from their mind
and nature through them expresses
its sublime zeitgeist.
Gently the wind pulls her bodice,
exposes one breast, frozen snow like.
Swimming in the waters of
aesthetic languor, she lets
the fingers of sun caress,
turning it to pink.
A glowing wave of zen hits him-
a waterfall from above,
simultaneously a tornado from within
shaking him for an indefinite time.*
Nov 22, 2013
Nov 22, 2013 at 8:37 AM UTC
520
I started Early—Took my Dog—
And visited the Sea—
The Mermaids in the Basement
Came out to look at me—
And Frigates—in the Upper Floor
Extended Hempen Hands—
Presuming Me to be a Mouse—
Aground—upon the Sands—
But no Man moved Me—till the Tide
Went past my simple Shoe—
And past my Apron—and my Belt—
And past my Bodice—too—
And made as He would eat me up—
As wholly as a Dew
Upon a Dandelion’s Sleeve—
And then—I started—too—
And He—He followed—close behind—
I felt his Silver Heel
Upon my Ankle—Then my Shoes
Would overflow with Pearl—
Until We met the Solid Town—
No One He seemed to know—
And bowing—with a Might look—
At me—The Sea withdrew—
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