"bovary" poems
Seven sit around a fire,
burnt marshmallows on two foot sticks
stuck between grahams,
talk *** and film.
Had her naked like Kate Winslet,
not Titanic Kate,
but Little Children Kate.
**** on the washing machine
behind Jennifer Connelly's back.
But the part about Madame Bovary,
who really needs feminist literature in a feminist film?
Okay, maybe it's classic romantic...
I felt lost like a pebble
sinking in the ocean
five miles deep
in the Puerto Rican trench.
I hadn't seen either movie
nor was I well versed
in feminism or romance.
My mind drifted to my first time.
Started with a french kiss
from a Latina girl,
at a house on Cleveland Ave,
I wish I could remember more.
Oct 4, 2010
Oct 4, 2010 at 9:15 PM UTC
1.
there once was a poem
who climbed into a paper boat
and sailed on to the moon
not a moment too soon
for they came to lock the sun away!
2.
best not mount this whippy one
rock-a-billy wild carriage
ride me to the city's end
don't drive me round the bend
we can always try a bold bovary-move!
3.
look into the fire and sing a song
about the lonely, tarrying sea
oh sailor, make it sweet
then I'll put it up on tweet
and nary mind; make your children's lullaby.
4.
I gives ya posies bright and gay
come sit by me...closer, dear
she smells, then sneezes
oh, he didn't know how to please her
her floral allergies packed him off for good.
5.
there was a lazy man from Shadder
who said 'twas too cold to empty his bladder
so, he sent it a-walkies
off alone to the loo
well, it just drove his wife madder!
S T, 30 June 2013
Jun 30, 2013
Jun 30, 2013 at 12:51 PM UTC
THE DANGERS OF READING FLAUBERT....AL FRESCO!
( for Ray )
"Souvent la chaleur d’un beau jour..."
he reads, stops:
kisses her.
" ...Fait rêver fillette à l’amour."
she completes the words
kisses...kisses him.
Dining al fresco
feeling somewhat frisky
they throw caution
to the wind
soon all too soon
Flaubert forgotten
Madame Bovary
discarded on the grass
soon all too soon
even the food forgotten
clothing of both
male and female attire
discarded on the grass
now nothing but gasps
they each
the other's feast
the wind idly turning
Bovary's pages
skipping to the end then
beginning again
until one last ***** gusty
breeze interrupts their play
chasing their clothes
that run away
his boxers hang now
upon the bough
her pink camiknickers..pale pink bra
making a run for it
laughingly they chase
their clothes
this Adam and his Eve
bra floating tits-up
in a pond
the camiknickers never
alas to be found.
And here now on their
50th
they share the same smile
when asked how it was
they came together
remembering their love making
in windy weather
shyly slyly blame
Flaubert
" Il souffla bien fort ce jour-là,
Et le jupon court s’envola."
Jan 9, 2018
Jan 9, 2018 at 12:22 PM UTC
Hold my hand dear Benjamin
don't let Professor Edwards
catch me in a dreamscape
challenging me off guard
as we sit in math class
hands clasped together
for when you knowingly
squeeze my hand tighter
scribbling with your right hand
the answer which is required
to be erased so as not caught out
but today as I look out
onto drifting clouded skies
I see the changes and I lose
myself in shapes and smoke
forging out homes, characters
stories into my past, present
and what could be in the future
nothing is taken from me, distracted
in an instant I'm Vivian Ward
racing around Hollywood
with my best friend Kit De Luca
who eats cold pizza for breakfast
and crawls the streets with me
hop scotching across the
Hollywood Walk of Fame,
five star terrazzo and brass stars, names of Hollywood greats
blonde, brunette elegance
Manolo's, mink coats,
jewelled necklines of emerald stones
we'd both dreamt as kids
Los Angeles; the City of Angels
we are the winged, we are the free
inhabiting the land of opportunity
the ladies of the night, grappling onto souls of kids, shared flat
with bunk beds and a closet filled
with 80's short tight spandex
leg warmers, faux gold earrings
bright coloured lingerie, leather bomber jackets, tutus...
oh and those perms and scrunchies
fake eye lashes, an 80's kid high as hell
being courted by an older wealthier man
living fast, dying young, a fugitive
of the land
broken
The silence I succumbed to
bruised by a cacophony of bells ringing
"never change Lou lou!"
he winked and smiled
packing his rucksack
leaving for the day.
© Sia Jane
“She was the amoureuse of all the novels, the heroine of all the plays, the vague “she” of all the poetry books.”
Gustave Flaubert, “Madame Bovary”
Jan 17, 2014
Jan 17, 2014 at 12:00 PM UTC
Bright-eyed and bold
With dreams that unfold
Artless, naïve and hopeful
A certain unease, that shifts with the breeze
Afflicts you
You think that bliss
Doesn’t come with just a kiss
But to other lands you fly
In your mind, unsatisfied
Such discontentment inside
Wishing….
Wishing for walks, for long midnight talks
The hearth of a snowbound cabin
Mysterious scenes from a cinema screen
Fill your mind
If I could make all your dreams come true
And take you to Heaven – I would
You’d still be wishing for more
Always unsettled, unsure
Wishing… wishing…
Wishing for grace, a moonlit embrace
Tears bathing hands at parting
A silk-curtained room, and the finest perfumes
Are your due
When you survey your reality
It makes you turn away, away
You grow detached day by day
Wishing for what - you can’t say
Apr 4, 2015
Apr 4, 2015 at 1:25 PM UTC
I remember how we first met,
It's a blurred image of you and the rain
Right now the things I love the most.
I remember our first fight,
you, yelling at the top of your lungs
And me, crying my eyes out on the other side of the phone
I remember our first kiss,
I still feel bad for pulling you close so I could kiss you forever,
But you said you liked it, so it's okay.
And then I remember every time we broke up
Every broken heart, every broken moment, every shattered piece of heart
I also remember me always coming back and you always forgiving me.
This time had to be different, not the good kind of different
They say time heals everything, and I will get over you
You were the most beautiful shade of blue, but blue to me is just a color.
Of course I will get over you
Over your hugs and kisses, because I never stayed up late
thinking of how time stops every time we touch.
Of course I will get over you
You were the only reason I loved writing poetries
But poetries never meant anything to me, anyway.
Of course I will get over you,
I will eventually get over you.
And I think I know the perfect time when to
I will get over you soon,
As soon as I start believing Emma Bovary was a total *****
And Jessie J is a bad singer,
And poetries are just words connected to one another,
And Sleeping at Last is so not the best music band ever.
I will get over you as soon as I start hating rain,
Or think that black is the most beautiful color,
Or just claiming that black is a color to begin with.
As soon as I start being all passionate about studying Biology
Or stupid trigonometry.
I will get over you, just like I'll get over flowers,
Or Sasuke, or Zuko, or English.
They think I can't get over you?
I will get over you.
You still remind me of Saturn and Venus having a baby together,
That would have probably looked like you,
But they are just planets,
I don't like planets.
So I will get over you.
Just like that prince got over that beautiful girl he danced with until midnight,
Just like the sun gets over the moon every morning when she dies,
Just like Shakespeare got over his lover or Narcissus got over himself.
It's not that hard to get over you, come on.
I will get over you, as soon as I stop feeling.
I will get over you, okay?
Just not now.
Not today.
Not ever.
Sep 3, 2015
Sep 3, 2015 at 6:57 AM UTC
If you had to describe the night time through the senses, what would you say?...
Night. A bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon on the table. A cigarette with a shadow of lipstick still highlights a little spot in the empty room. An act of passionate synergy just happened here, just now.
A woman is lying next to a man. The man starts slipping into the vague slumber. He did his part, and started dreaming about his first love, then the second, and afterwards just about another woman who was not a ****** but a “Madame Bovary”... not a fire but an atomic bomb.
She is naked from the waist down. Even darkness of this room seems to like her smooth, young and perfect legs. Her skin is painted into the twilight colors and occasionally gleaming lights of passing by cars, the only intruders here. Eyes closed, lips shut, a silent mask on her face says that is somewhere else now, as well. She has a slight breeze of dissatisfaction, melted by sweet atmosphere of the good wine. “But the *** was not as good as the wine; today’s *** was rather like a Siberian ***** **** butcher…” she thought.
She smiled, as a note once dedicated to her by a guy, whose name she forgot, came up in her sleepy mind:
“It is totally impossible to describe. Furthermore, describing you is an offensive act that sets boundaries to your unlimited perfection. I gaze at you as though you are my best and the one perfect equilibrium for any moment of my tiny life. You could have been my best decision and “perpetuum mobile” for the whole life, where is no sorrow and solitude, but ideality. As sun flares, your true beauty starts and ends in you. I am lost in your magnetic fields. From the moment I saw you, my existence disappeared. In the places where you appear, everything loses its meaning, each string is exhilarated to build a special and an ideal reality around you and for you. And I am a part of this new universal heaven where there is no need to breath or think, but only to see you dancing…”
On the last hissing sound the cigarette burnt out. Good boys win.
Mar 22, 2010
Mar 22, 2010 at 8:26 PM UTC
I am Emma Bovary
I am Prufrock
I am the Underground Man
I am Gretta
I'm trapped in my mind, wondering why I am in this situation...
I'm unsure of myself and my feelings...
I needed to dominate but now I realize what I got isn't what I want...
I'm judged by my past and still wanting to re-live my glory days...
I too am Baumer...
I'm fighting but it's time to rest
Oh Dorian! why am I so perfect?
Tomorrow, I'll be at breakfast and won't see the girl who made me feel this way, I'll give up hope
and continue lying saying "I'll elope"
Besides, she'll think I'm ugly and I'll feel alone and ashamed
I too...
Am Decaying on The Inside
Mar 29, 2015
Mar 29, 2015 at 10:30 PM UTC
She threw you under the bus
to get the confirmation of his glance
He changed your name to Bovary
to get a taste of false romance
Circulating the marble floor
You waited for his arrival
You never would have guessed
She'd be the most perfidious rival
His hands were in his pockets
As you reached to touch his skin
He was secretly composing
Untroubled by your grin
You were intoxicated by love
He was drunk on ***
You ignored the signs
Of who he would become
At the fields of concrete
He left without a word
You saw him walk through guarded doorways
Perplexed by what occurred
She swallowed your left overs
While you were drowning in distress
They made fun of your appearance
And your feelings they oppressed
All that you have left now
Is a notion of how it should feel
To be completely consumed by somebody
Instead of being the wistful third wheel
She's all he ever wanted
You're everything she's not
Your heart is his to ruin
And he will never stop
Remember if you meet somebody
Who is all you're dreaming of
That you're safe when you are lonely
You are weak when you're in love
May 9, 2016
May 9, 2016 at 10:48 AM UTC
Apple tree soft sun rise
Clean air fresh breath a test
Of love too fragile to
Touch. A careening love affair
That, in the end, will
Only seem
Unfair.
Beat drum count sums
Of money made before the flood.
Exit signs waitress binge
Translucent memories of
Forgetful melodies.
Strangers here, strangers there.
Glory moly upstairs we wait
The rain is setting while the moon is rising.
Radio plays soft against these
Moldy window panes. Car honk
Don't stop, perfect this abstract harmony.
Where did we go last night
My faithful hummingbird?
The city streets were alive with fire.
Metro stop bus aloft passing crops
Coins rattle in my pocket like children tattle.
Coffee shop cradle top forgotten luck.
Piercing moons old tunes old friends
Forget where they come from
Where they've been.
Shepard on the hillside, clothed in
Rags, carry high your flag.
The sea is churning for your fury.
Ring the sun the bell reflects the table stands still
River running through all of it
Fishes swimming upstream collecting
No bulletin alive could catch the man
In the worn duster, the undone impostor.
French dialects swirl in my ceramic cup.
Abraham sells me a nickel for a dime.
Flowers line the windowsills of Madame Bovary.
Touching my nose, I she where she goes.
To the toll booth, to the restaurant, to where she was forsook.
Concrete colors of vile and depraved.
His hand brushes through the feathers of a blue jay.
Mistake him not for a savior, a saint, a sacrifice.
Our sins are our own,
Until He takes them away.
Uprooted unattended
No wound this deep
Can be mended.
Most of the moneys gone away,
To where
I cannot say.
Siblings dead of life's misfortune.
No reason to mourn
Somethings thats never happened.
The ships pulling out of port,
But where is our faithful captain?
Apr 22, 2014
Apr 22, 2014 at 12:33 PM UTC
She threw you under the bus
to get the confirmation of his glance
He changed your name to Bovary
to get a taste of false romance
Circulating the marble floor
You waited for his arrival
You never would have guessed
She'd be the most perfidious rival
His hands were in his pockets
As you reached to touch his skin
He was secretly composing
Untroubled by your grin
You were intoxicated by love
He was drunk on ***
You ignored the signs
Of who he would become
At the fields of concrete
He left without a word
You saw him walk through guarded doorways
Perplexed by what occurred
She swallowed your left overs
While you were drowning in distress
They made fun of your appearance
And your feelings they oppressed
All that you have left now
Is a notion of how it should feel
To be completely consumed by somebody
Instead of being the wistful third wheel
She's all he ever wanted
You're everything she's not
Your heart is his to ruin
And he will never stop
Remember if you meet somebody
Who is all you're dreaming of
That you're safe when you are lonely
You are weak when you're in love
Jan 11, 2015
Jan 11, 2015 at 4:45 AM UTC
She threw you under the bus
to get the confirmation of his glance
He changed your name to Bovary
to get a taste of false romance
Circulating the marble floor
You waited for his arrival
You never would have guessed
She'd be the most perfidious rival
His hands were in his pockets
As you reached to touch his skin
He was secretly composing
Untroubled by your grin
You were intoxicated by love
He was drunk on ***
You ignored the signs
Of who he would become
At the fields of concrete
He left without a word
You saw him walk through guarded doorways
Perplexed by what occurred
She swallowed your left overs
While you were drowning in distress
They made fun of your appearance
And your feelings they oppressed
All that you have left now
Is a notion of how it should feel
To be completely consumed by somebody
Instead of being the wistful third wheel
She's all he ever wanted
You're everything she's not
Your heart is his to ruin
And he will never stop
Remember if you meet somebody
Who is all you're dreaming of
That you're safe when you are lonely
You are weak when you're in love
Jul 6, 2015
Jul 6, 2015 at 12:46 PM UTC
THE DANGERS OF READING FLAUBERT....AL FRESCO!
( for Ray )
"Souvent la chaleur d’un beau jour..."
he reads, stops:
kisses her.
" ...Fait rêver fillette à l’amour."
she completes the words
kisses...kisses him.
Dining al fresco
feeling somewhat frisky
they throw caution
to the wind
soon all too soon
Flaubert forgotten
Madame Bovary
discarded on the grass
soon all too soon
even the food forgotten
clothing of both
male and female attire
discarded on the grass
now nothing but gasps
they each
the other's feast
the wind idly turning
Bovary's pages
skipping to the end then
beginning again
until one last ***** gusty
breeze interrupts their play
chasing their clothes
that run away
his boxers hang now
upon the bough
her pink camiknickers..pale pink bra
making a run for it
laughingly they chase
their clothes
this Adam and his Eve
bra floating tits-up
in a pond
the camiknickers never
alas to be found.
And here now on their
50th
they share the same smile
when asked how it was
they came together
remembering their love making
in windy weather
shyly slyly blame
Flaubert
" Il souffla bien fort ce jour-là,
Et le jupon court s’envola."
Jan 9, 2019
Jan 9, 2019 at 6:24 AM UTC
THE DANGERS OF READING FLAUBERT....AL FRESCO!
( for Ray of the Pools )
"Souvent la chaleur d’un beau jour..."
he reads, stops:
kisses her.
" ...Fait rêver fillette à l’amour."
she completes the words
kisses...kisses him.
Dining al fresco
feeling somewhat frisky
they throw caution
to the wind
soon all too soon
Flaubert forgotten
Madame Bovary
discarded on the grass
soon all too soon
even the food forgotten
clothing of both
male and female attire
discarded on the grass
now nothing but gasps
they each
the other's feast
the wind idly turning
Bovary's pages
skipping to the end then
beginning again
until one last ***** gusty
breeze interrupts their play
chasing their clothes
that run away
his boxers hang now
upon the bough
her pink camiknickers..pale pink bra
making a run for it
laughingly they chase
their clothes
this Adam and his Eve
bra floating tits-up
in a pond
the camiknickers never
alas to be found.
And here now on their
50th
they share the same smile
when asked how it was
they came together
remembering their love making
in windy weather
shyly slyly blame
Flaubert
" Il souffla bien fort ce jour-là,
Et le jupon court s’envola."
Jan 9, 2020
Jan 9, 2020 at 11:04 AM UTC
Drop it, mate. Just drop it! Drop the act.
The audience has gone, the theatre's closing.
Get back to the dressing room and change -
No! Don't change, just take the costume off
And hang it up behind the door.
Outside the theatre it's useless-
Prince Hal buying beans in the late shop,
Cleopatra tucking children into bed,
Madam Bovary putting out the bins.
You got the house and set the stage
Brought on the family and dressed them in their parts,
Planned out the series,
Laid the clues for story lines to come,
Dropped hints, blocked routes, built tension as
The plot evolved and let the story board grow legs.
It walks away and sometimes backwards, looking backwards
To the previous acts.
Draws different pictures from the plans
And looks back past the plans
To the producer and director
Asking why? And How?
And 'What's my motivation?'
Aug 3, 2016
Aug 3, 2016 at 3:18 PM UTC
Proper proportion exits and I am left
To figure out what to do
With shadows and light
I cannot seem to get it right
So I will swallow this life whole
As punishment
As penance
Practicing patience
Apr 11, 2018
Apr 11, 2018 at 5:25 PM UTC