"caftan" poems - Hello Poetry

Chieftain Iffucan of Azcan in caftan Of tan with henna hackles, halt! ****** universal **** as if the sun Was blackamoor to bear your blazing tail. Fat! Fat! Fat! Fat! I am the personal. Your world is you. I am my world. You ten-foot poet among inchlings. Fat! Begone! An inchling bristles in these pines, Bristles, and points their Appalachian tangs, And fears not portly Azcan nor his hoos.

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3.1k

Wallace Stevens

Bantams In Pine-Woods

Chieftain Iffucan of Azcan in caftan Of tan with henna hackles, halt! ****** universal **** as if the sun Was blackamoor to bear your blazing tail. Fat! Fat! Fat! Fat! I am the personal. Your world is you. I am my world. You ten-foot poet among inchlings. Fat! Begone! An inchling bristles in these pines, Bristles, and points their Appalachian tangs, And fears not portly Azcan nor his hoos.

10

.oh... hi y'all: or rather - how did i find this in the noun Ohio? i guess after watching the disaster artist and no having watched the room... the tetragrammaton is so glaring to me in the English tongue, i might as well be a reincarnation of Belshazzar (but not really... because, to me, reincarnation implies a fixed number of people... and an mingling of solipsism from philosophy, and NPC from the gaming world... no, i can't believe in reincarnation... saving grace of the Hindus? they're not lactose intolerant; boogie-woogie-boo-woo ooh things are turning, freak-y... why is that a Y and not an E? see... the tetragrammaton is glaring at me... like an ***** protruding phallus with the added "flavor" of a circumcision snippet... me? i'm fine... no snippet... i can **** off as much as i like and not feel stupid - or catholic, about it, having, in my possession, an unsheathed "sword"). p.s. it really is the case of circumcising men as a procreational motivation, no ******** on you... plenty of ******** on her... and how the east meets the west... back in the east i'd be a blessing... over 'ere? i'm a walking abortion... a nuisance... something you send off to fight in incestuous... here's my 100 year closure celebration: V! like the Welsh longbow men... up yours! who? in the 100 year war... the French would cut off the... **** index or middle finger? they would cut off one of the fingers of the Welsh longbow men... so they could fire an arrow... P.O.W.s... so the Welsh longbow men came up with V... a salute to the French... up yours! i still have mine! hence? i don't feel ****** jerking off... too bad, ol' chap, you've been given an incentive to find your missing ******** in a woman's ***** sorry... i actually feel sorry for you having this imposed on you... the missing caftan / hood and all... sometimes i wondered: does she even know what she's doing performing ******** on me? maybe i could cut my torso off and show her how to do it? in the east i'd be a godsend, but in the west i'm an embarrassment... great in tissue... greater still in pointless wars... auxiliary pageant... sure sure... glorify the women... last time i heard my ex-girlfriend gave birth to her fourth child... her fourth daughter... i seriously should have been born a ******* Mongol.

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Nov 12, 2018

Nov 12, 2018 at 6:47 PM UTC

removed.polaroid-scrabble

V

.oh... hi y'all: or rather - how did i find this in the noun Ohio? i guess after watching the disaster artist and no having watched the room... the tetragrammaton is so glaring to me in the English tongue, i might as well be a reincarnation of Belshazzar (but not really... because, to me, reincarnation implies a fixed number of people... and an mingling of solipsism from philosophy, and NPC from the gaming world... no, i can't believe in reincarnation... saving grace of the Hindus? they're not lactose intolerant; boogie-woogie-boo-woo ooh things are turning, freak-y... why is that a Y and not an E? see... the tetragrammaton is glaring at me... like an ***** protruding phallus with the added "flavor" of a circumcision snippet... me? i'm fine... no snippet... i can **** off as much as i like and not feel stupid - or catholic, about it, having, in my possession, an unsheathed "sword"). p.s. it really is the case of circumcising men as a procreational motivation, no ******** on you... plenty of ******** on her... and how the east meets the west... back in the east i'd be a blessing... over 'ere? i'm a walking abortion... a nuisance... something you send off to fight in incestuous... here's my 100 year closure celebration: V! like the Welsh longbow men... up yours! who? in the 100 year war... the French would cut off the... **** index or middle finger? they would cut off one of the fingers of the Welsh longbow men... so they could fire an arrow... P.O.W.s... so the Welsh longbow men came up with V... a salute to the French... up yours! i still have mine! hence? i don't feel ****** jerking off... too bad, ol' chap, you've been given an incentive to find your missing ******** in a woman's ***** sorry... i actually feel sorry for you having this imposed on you... the missing caftan / hood and all... sometimes i wondered: does she even know what she's doing performing ******** on me? maybe i could cut my torso off and show her how to do it? in the east i'd be a godsend, but in the west i'm an embarrassment... great in tissue... greater still in pointless wars... auxiliary pageant... sure sure... glorify the women... last time i heard my ex-girlfriend gave birth to her fourth child... her fourth daughter... i seriously should have been born a ******* Mongol.

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Dawn and I dawn my caftan With pen in hand I close my eyes And start crafting I put on my djellabah Which begets my lojong ...and soon I begin to float Like paint, ink blankets The sheets of my Bengali jute ...and soon I begin to coast In this moment I exist happily Outside of all I know About me * Reprinted from 'My Hajj A Collection of Poems by Mekael' © September 16, 2011 by Mekael Shane

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Jan 12, 2014

Jan 12, 2014 at 2:26 PM UTC

mekael-shane

Djellabah

Dawn and I dawn my caftan With pen in hand I close my eyes And start crafting I put on my djellabah Which begets my lojong ...and soon I begin to float Like paint, ink blankets The sheets of my Bengali jute ...and soon I begin to coast In this moment I exist happily Outside of all I know About me * Reprinted from 'My Hajj A Collection of Poems by Mekael' © September 16, 2011 by Mekael Shane

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The chessboard is patterned in onyx and white. Yellowed ivory are the pieces she plays. The King is in Jeopardy; her options are few; Death’s Jet pieces are against her arrayed. Her opponent is fearsome; a skeletal Knight, enrobed in a caftan as dark as midnight. Each move she makes falls before the plan of the specter’s outstretched bony hand. As she pauses to ponder if her next move is wise Her spectral opponent assumes a new guise; “it’s your move, Dolores.” Her opponent now said in the guise of her husband, some twenty years dead. By now almost all ivory pieces are gone, leaving her only her King and one pawn. She moves to defend but no chance can be seen in sending a pawn out to battle a Queen. Once more her opponent assumes a new face; Her beloved lost Daughter assumes her Dads place. She has fought long and hard; long past hope of gain. Now draining fatigue saps the strength from her frame. “Mom, it is time to resign without shame; None can deny you gave Death a good game.”

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Jun 10, 2019

Jun 10, 2019 at 9:21 AM UTC

john-f-mccullagh

END GAME

The chessboard is patterned in onyx and white. Yellowed ivory are the pieces she plays. The King is in Jeopardy; her options are few; Death’s Jet pieces are against her arrayed. Her opponent is fearsome; a skeletal Knight, enrobed in a caftan as dark as midnight. Each move she makes falls before the plan of the specter’s outstretched bony hand. As she pauses to ponder if her next move is wise Her spectral opponent assumes a new guise; “it’s your move, Dolores.” Her opponent now said in the guise of her husband, some twenty years dead. By now almost all ivory pieces are gone, leaving her only her King and one pawn. She moves to defend but no chance can be seen in sending a pawn out to battle a Queen. Once more her opponent assumes a new face; Her beloved lost Daughter assumes her Dads place. She has fought long and hard; long past hope of gain. Now draining fatigue saps the strength from her frame. “Mom, it is time to resign without shame; None can deny you gave Death a good game.”

22

1 On that night, pierced by the sound of rain, Everything is possible... When one is washed in cognac, Drenched in sorrow, Haunted by the unknown... And when one refuses to remain a stone. So why— Do you consult the coffee cups? Why— Do you ask the endless questions? And why— Did you come to the sea, If you fear the journey? 2 Between October and October, Like the warm sugar flowing from the heart of fruit... Leave your fate to God, and sleep. For your ******* come into this world by destiny, And by destiny, they fade away... 3 Love will come in its time... So wear your Egyptian caftan. I now recall the cotton fields of the Delta... Sit wherever you like, For the piano concerto Will erase time, Erase you, Erase me, And erase the burdens we have carried since birth. Love will come in its time... And passion will come in its time... For the piano concerto Washes all things in camphor and oil, Melts the ice off the faces of lakes, Summons strange butterflies, And brings forth fields anew. So let things be natural... effortless... For the piano concerto Finds its own solutions. Love will come in its time... And the piano... Will call us into its watery chamber, And I do not know what it will say... 4 Everything is possible... On that night, pierced by the sound of rain. Tchaikovsky— Now passes like a bird through Petersburg’s squares, Slipping like a green dream from Montparnasse, Drifting through the memory of roses, Gathering the yellow leaves of Europe's forests, Praying in Hagia Sophia, Weeping in the sacred halls of Najaf, Between mirrors and golden domes... 5 Everything is possible... On that night, pierced by the sound of rain. So wear your Kurdish caftan... I do not know why— But I recall Mosul in spring, The water reeds swaying in the marshes, The orchards of Al-Rasafa, And the writings God inscribes In roses and gold, Upon the palm fronds of Shatt Al-Arab At sunset... 6 Good morning, jasmine... are you well? The piano concerto Lit the fire for us... then vanished. Now, I recall the orchards of Al-Rasafa, The shanashil that line the banks of Al-A’zamiyah, And the writings God inscribes In roses and gold, Upon the palm fronds of Shatt Al-Arab At sunset... 7 Good morning, jasmine... are you well? The piano concerto Lit the fire for us... then vanished.

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Mar 8, 2025

Mar 8, 2025 at 12:08 AM UTC

Jesse

Concerto for Piano

1 On that night, pierced by the sound of rain, Everything is possible... When one is washed in cognac, Drenched in sorrow, Haunted by the unknown... And when one refuses to remain a stone. So why— Do you consult the coffee cups? Why— Do you ask the endless questions? And why— Did you come to the sea, If you fear the journey? 2 Between October and October, Like the warm sugar flowing from the heart of fruit... Leave your fate to God, and sleep. For your ******* come into this world by destiny, And by destiny, they fade away... 3 Love will come in its time... So wear your Egyptian caftan. I now recall the cotton fields of the Delta... Sit wherever you like, For the piano concerto Will erase time, Erase you, Erase me, And erase the burdens we have carried since birth. Love will come in its time... And passion will come in its time... For the piano concerto Washes all things in camphor and oil, Melts the ice off the faces of lakes, Summons strange butterflies, And brings forth fields anew. So let things be natural... effortless... For the piano concerto Finds its own solutions. Love will come in its time... And the piano... Will call us into its watery chamber, And I do not know what it will say... 4 Everything is possible... On that night, pierced by the sound of rain. Tchaikovsky— Now passes like a bird through Petersburg’s squares, Slipping like a green dream from Montparnasse, Drifting through the memory of roses, Gathering the yellow leaves of Europe's forests, Praying in Hagia Sophia, Weeping in the sacred halls of Najaf, Between mirrors and golden domes... 5 Everything is possible... On that night, pierced by the sound of rain. So wear your Kurdish caftan... I do not know why— But I recall Mosul in spring, The water reeds swaying in the marshes, The orchards of Al-Rasafa, And the writings God inscribes In roses and gold, Upon the palm fronds of Shatt Al-Arab At sunset... 6 Good morning, jasmine... are you well? The piano concerto Lit the fire for us... then vanished. Now, I recall the orchards of Al-Rasafa, The shanashil that line the banks of Al-A’zamiyah, And the writings God inscribes In roses and gold, Upon the palm fronds of Shatt Al-Arab At sunset... 7 Good morning, jasmine... are you well? The piano concerto Lit the fire for us... then vanished.

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