"camille" poems
Rodin: My love, I am on my knees facing your beautiful body. My mouth is drinking your fire. I ***** us in stone. We are indissoluble.
Camille: I am heaven and hell. I am goddess and fire. You are my chauvinistic art-boy concubine.
Rodin: My dear Camille, can you not see my love for you is rooted in passion not stone or clay or bronze? Can you not feel my tongue lapping at your feet?
Camille: Foolish man. My feet are broken. I walk over you on stumps.
Camille leaves for England. Rodin follows.
Camille: You are boring.
Rodin: My love, can you not see that I am in a depressed mood. Can you not see that your capriciousness plagues me?
Camille: I love another.
Rodin: How can you say these things to me? I give you my heart. I give you my soul. I give you my artistic genius!
Camille: You’re right. You are a genius.
Rodin: Shall I write us up a contract?
Camille: As long as you don’t touch me.
Camille and Rodin return to Paris separately.
Rodin: It has been written. I will mentor you, write you in newspapers, place you in museums, and find you buyers.
Camille: You will not love another? You will spurn all but my art?
Rodin: I will. And you will marry me in return.
Camille: …
Rodin: Is there something wrong, my love?
Camille: Can you not see I am being facetious?
Rodin: My dear, you are my flora and gaiety. You are my chisel and stone. You are my breath and lungs.
Camille: Learn how to breathe without me.
Camille exits. Rodin crumples at the feet of Eternelle Idole.
Rodin: What have I done wrong?
Camille re-enters, her hands caked in clay.
Camille: A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush.
Rodin: Shall I get the handcuffs?
Camille: No. The lion’s cage.
Strong tides and wet fuchsias. Camille enters the cage forever.
Mar 20, 2016
Mar 20, 2016 at 12:40 PM UTC
By: Cedric McClester
As we shall see infidelity
While seeming to be
The latest fashion
Where there’s conviction
And passion
So even those
Who walk down the aisle
Are often betrayed by words or a smile
Increasingly
We’re beginning to see
Infidelity
Wouldn’t you agree
Let’s keep it real
There’s Bill - (And Camille)
Knows how it feels
When tabloids reveal
The infidelity
That she didn’t see
Though it kept happening
Time and again
Increasingly
We’re beginning to see
Infidelity
Wouldn’t you agree
The unions survive
The husbands and wives
Living separate lives
Check out the archives
So what’s the reason
For their treason
Finding someone to squeeze in
Must be in season
It’s hard to respect
Those you wouldn’t suspect
Of bedding the babysitter
So you can’t blame the wives
For being angry or bitter
Cuz it never occurred
It was the babysitter
Who was preferred
Increasingly
We’re beginning to see
Infidelity
Wouldn’t you agree
Cedric McClester, Copyright (c) 2016. All rights reserved.
Apr 11, 2016
Apr 11, 2016 at 10:32 PM UTC
Shannon, Mariah, Serena, Maria
Meridia, Midian, Sharon, Alliah
Rochelle, Camille, Rose, Halo
Trenna, Jessica, Ashley, Georgia
Marla, Olivia, Sofia, India
Daniella, Diana, Christina, Caroline
Isabella, Amelia, Amanda, Matilda
Nadine, Haley, Bailey, Francine
Eliza, Annabelle, Kathryn, Sandra
Melinda, Audrey, Aubrey, Emily
Tara, Emma, Ginny, Kathleen
Josephine, Helena, Charlotte, Laura
Chelsea, Arkady, Megan, Kelsey
Kayla, Karliah, Moana, Vivien
Kaysea, Macy, Stacy, Lorraine
Theresa, Felicia, Cecilia, Darlene
Holly, Brianna, Alexa, Ariel
Marianne, Miranda, Jennie, Coral
Korra, Daisy, Penelope, Rayne
Zoey, Cassandra, Grace, Stephanie
Jul 27, 2013
Jul 27, 2013 at 12:34 AM UTC
spirit stone
the emotion caught
in your embrace
where my body
melts into yours
the perfect blend
of masculine
and feminine
bathing in a river
of marble
the waves are
disquieting
the ring is lost
spirit stone
don’t deceive me
with other women
don’t trick me with
the old man
at your feet
I do not give up
I slave away
I work morning
and night
spirit stone
everything has been
cut
hay, wheat, stone
the interlude in
the fields
the moment when
the ring is found
dawn and thought
watch me
dawn and thought
wear on my
countenance
spirit stone
the moving echo
of my own past
the waltz to come
the hidden
atelier
the moment when
the king falls in love
with his wife
with his child
spirit stone
I am muse
I am artist
I am caught like
a fly
an agnostic
queen who found
the ring
to fall in the arms
of man
spirit stone
if you keep your
promise
we will grow
with the sky
if you keep your
promise
we will be in
paradise
Mar 21, 2016
Mar 21, 2016 at 12:46 PM UTC
my dear Cosette,
why did you fall?
why didn’t you pick
yourself back up?
I saw you
on the battle lines
red shemagh
tied about your neck
I saw the bayonet
pierce your
breast
to match your
red
your man’s
clothes
why do we
disguise ourselves,
Cosette?
why don’t women
make history?
why can’t a woman
take a bullet?
my dear Cosette,
we fall
on words
on chisels
on the battle lines
sometimes we don’t
get back up
sometimes we die
before we are dead
my dear Cosette,
I watched you
bleed
I heard you
scream blue
******
you were my sister
and I was the sculptor
to capture
the peace of death
on your face
my dear Cosette,
I watched you die
now rise
to the battle lines
rise
with your head high
let me resurrect you
with my hands
Mar 13, 2016
Mar 13, 2016 at 4:26 PM UTC
i tell myself someday i'll start living
not just breathing and moving
and using fake ****** expressions
i don't wanna make waves as a freshmen
'cause i know one you throw the stone
you don't control the ripple
and the waves can reach many shores
so i'm afraid to become attached
and afraid to say how i feel
i'm not comfortable with myself
hell, i'm barely comfortable with people
if it weren't for my three really good friends
Camille, Elizabeth, and Lexi
would i still smile
no
would i start living
no
living, to me, is doing what you love
every **** day
and loving people
and being happy
all the time
and listening to music that makes you dance
going outside
being able to sit with people and not wanting to leave, or feeling like your being judged
not judging yourself
loving yourself
making beautiful art, but no one gets it except you
and when someone does understand it, you fight for them, because you know it's meant to be
and if they slip through you hands, you move on
no regrets
no broken promises
you go after each dream
every **** one
and one day, you'll die
but you won't say "i wish i did this..."
you'll smile and say
"i'm glad i did this..."
i think it's the saddest thing in the world that some people aren't living
in a sense, they are already dead
they are just atoms moving through the air
until the air stops coming
and the atoms cease to move
they die
never knowing
life
Sep 18, 2012
Sep 18, 2012 at 5:55 PM UTC
HELLO POETRY is the best poetic site in the world
It allows the poets to disseminate their magical word
Which flies like an ever flying and everlasting bird
Whose beautiful and delightful wings does it spread
Camille Frick is a linguistic wonder
Chris is a literary and poetical wonder
Yelena M is a musical rhythmic beauty
Reading which is my professional duty
Rue is somewhat naughty
But in her hearts of hearts she is a sweety
Neva Flores is a poetic muse
Whose poetry I involuntarily choose
I am happy to be a member of this prosody club
Our creativity revolves round this magnetic hub
We are indebted to this wonderful web
Writing poetry is a kind of hubbub
Feb 2, 2011
Feb 2, 2011 at 4:28 AM UTC
The glossy water was a crystal ball,
Covered in vegetating film called age.
It mesmerized the lonely man so much,
He called out: Camille! this became a stage.
Light blurred like an ink blot on soft paper,
Then only to blind his cataract eyes.
A case of passion through Mother Nature,
Expressed by the tears of the old man’s cries.
A reflective life shown upon water,
On a screen glittered with young, pink flowers,
And the admission was free for this show,
Who wants to watch tragedy for hours?
But the sun lit the water, swamp to lush,
And there he saw fresh sparkling eyes and knew,
Lily pads are for both frogs and flowers,
And the choice of hue isn’t always blue.
Nov 18, 2011
Nov 18, 2011 at 1:09 PM UTC
sculpt me,
young artist
I am your brother
and you are gold
an effigy of
the purest
beauty
*Giganti
Jeune Fille a la Gerbe*
even your art
I take from you
out of
admiration
I find you
your svelte figure
bending into
the air
your hands
like magic
pricking my fingers
whatever you do
is mine
whichever way
your body turns
is my path
to confusion
ah
Camille
you are splendid
in your task
your caprice
molds the clay
your being
melts my
heart
let me sign
your body
for my
own
Mar 19, 2016
Mar 19, 2016 at 12:10 PM UTC
Camille is purple
tensing her body
feeling lonely
not lonely
enough
to call anyone
all calls are dry mouthed
and stained ***** red
apothic red if you
want her to be
exact although
unnatural
she writes
drunk
and never edits
the words tumble out
of her like kids who learn
gymnastics at a young age
and laugh at her for plugging
her nose when jumping into the
foam pit, so unnatural
Marilyn talks to her and she
feels a little less lonely, and
a little more comfortable in
her abnormalities as she sips
at her glass before chugging
the rest of the bottle while
pondering another until
she realizes that it's no
good for her rethinks
and decides it's a
yes
Nov 19, 2014
Nov 19, 2014 at 9:03 PM UTC
There are times that I wish I was dead there are times when I ask god why did he make me. Was it just to make me cry every night. Make my own mother hate and blame me. Well then maybe I should let her **** me maybe I should run way maybe I disappear for goodness sake then someone said to me i know you hurt but you don’t how strong you really are so listen just listen
-Mia
I looked into my father’s eyes and saw the hatred...when he said I was no longer his son I pulled knife to my neck and said “devil have me” but god said wait don’t you let him take you away from me don’t you let him have my child just wait and listen
-Nick
I heard my mother cries saying she was sorry that she couldn’t afford the life we deserve. She was sorry that my father wasn’t around. She was sorry that my sister, her daughter might be stuck in a wheel chair for life. So I got down on my knees begged god to save me please and he said your greatness is coming my child just wait and listen
-Lorenzo
I heard the whispers that was a b*****d child, that my mother slept with married man. I heard the rumors that i wasn’t gonna go anywhere that I was just gonna end up like her a desperate soul. And that’s when I lost control. My mother died as I laid in her arms 16 & pregnant I was mad at the world but god was telling me to listen. Just wait and listen not to them but to me your greatness is coming your greatness is now
-Camille
He died in my arms blood everywhere, my mother left, my father was in Jail i was left by myself had this gun in my hand put it to head ready to pull the trigger but god said wait you have purpose open your ears and listen. He said boy don’t you do it don’t let the devil make you into something your not don’t let his demons break you like this. Just listen
-Malik
Oct 28, 2018
Oct 28, 2018 at 6:27 AM UTC
It's easy to say things when they don't mean anything,
and that's how I've always gotten by.
But then I said something that ripped off my skin,
and my sea-soaked beauty didn't want to give in.
She ****** me, I ****** her,
we danced all night,
I wrote her a poem,
when I forgot how to write.
Aug 27, 2010
Aug 27, 2010 at 11:02 PM UTC
Let's pack up your old car and head out east,
To a coast where no one knows our names.
You'll wear those dark shades and I'll dye my hair brown.
We can start over, change our names.
I've always liked Camille.
You say it's forced and contrive, but you like it for me anyway.
You'll choose Wadsworth or Earnst, just to be witty.
We can shop for our new personas at thrift stores in the towns we pass through.
We will look ragged and worn, just like the cover of your favorite book.
You always find the beauty in the rough edges, you tell me I look the most beautiful when I first wake up, or just get out of the shower.
You are a true romantic. You don't belong in this dust filled state. You be long somewhere better.
Let's pack up your old car and head out east, where you can truly be free.
Sep 6, 2010
Sep 6, 2010 at 10:03 PM UTC
Hey guys!
I know you don't really care but today's my birthday!!!
I'm 13 now,not 12.
Thank you guys,it's been a good year,I couldn't have made it with oh you guys.
:-D thanks a Millon!
The freakin 13 year old,
-Evie Camille Wills
Apr 30, 2016
Apr 30, 2016 at 7:42 AM UTC
I hate abstract art,
right along with you.
I like the impressionists,
and pointillists.
You will be
my Camille
and I will be
your Oscar-Claude.
Wear that green dress
to bed tonight
and I will make you
bashful,
but confident too.
You will make me
humane and
delightfully weak
inside of 500 square feet.
Jan 2, 2012
Jan 2, 2012 at 4:39 PM UTC
I like to think
that when Oscar painted
Camille,
it was their best time.
Afterward
Camille
becomes a blur on the beach.
But in all her detail
and naivete,
Oscar paints her
the last time
he really sees her.
They had coffee
and played with each other's feet
underneath millions of tables
during that time.
Jan 6, 2012
Jan 6, 2012 at 9:44 PM UTC
When i first met you
You brought a spark to my world
A flame it started
Warm, pure, and bright
When i saw your smile
Its like the sun shined as bright as noon
Or the moon, on a clear chilly night
It brought my world to its toes
I learned to laugh and love to the everyday sun you brought me
When i saw your face i saw the most beautiul thing
And thought the most beautiful thoughts
Like a shimmering sunset over the water on the deep blue water at the beach
When i saw you my world became whole
The cracks filled, the darkness fades
All i saw was the sun, shining in my face
Im greatful to have the gifts you bring me.
Im greatful to have the beautiful inspiration
That i can call. You
Feb 9, 2017
Feb 9, 2017 at 1:43 AM UTC
I can almost recall a time when I didn’t care... there was so much life laid up in store
frivolous days tossed aside:
grisly hangovers of endless nights,
I used to observe the characters of Paris from a window in Chez Camille... sun light flashing through the green of horse chestnut trees lining wide Montmartre streets-
well heeled parents guiding their chattering children past a
staggering drunk, **** marks up his trouser leg, greasy hair clinging to his beard
he’s avoided too by those girls in summer dresses, all legs and laughter and dreams
they are ogled by the old men drinking coffee outside cafes, complaining about their busy wives...
back in that time when our choices could send us anywhere-
careening into old cinemas watching movies with wide eyes,
building driftwood fires on deserted beaches
or writhing with nameless shapes in little rooms
washed in strawberry *****
back before our choices defined us and hardened into everything we are.
back when right and wrong were only whispering
and the streets of Paris called my name
May 25, 2020
May 25, 2020 at 2:03 PM UTC
CAMILLE
“She is So cute” we are told constantly
and oh how we love it, her Poppy and me
She’s our little “Camookie” smart as a whip
With her fingers a-snapping, or hands on her hips
We never had figured, just a few years ago,
That this sweet little girl, AKA “Dynamo”
Would come into our lives to spread joy and beguile
And capture our hearts with her “Monkey Face” smile
Now she is three, a most innocent time,
Her problems are Huge “It’s not yours, it is MINE”
Her Mommy’s her rock, and her Daddy is wrapped
So serene her small world, until time for a nap
Right now she is young, but there will come a day
She will read this and know, we are not far away
I wrote this short poem for the future, you see
To tell her we love her – her Poppy and me
May 23, 2014
May 23, 2014 at 9:36 PM UTC
You gaze down at your daughter, Camille, and lay your hand upon her body. She is asleep, resting after a long day, exhausted after the day with Boris at the Zoo, then the café in the park. You wish her father had been that affectionate, had taken the time to be with her, been interested enough to want to be with her and you, but he wasn’t, just other women, other things to occupy his life and mind. You stroke her rib cage; how thin she seems; not a bit like her father, not one ounce of him in her that seems apparent. You gaze at her hair, at the features that you can see, she takes after you, it’s in her face and eyes. Even her temperament is yours, you feel, and are glad, rather than her father’s moroseness, and cruelty. If you had taken you mother’s advice you would never have married Paterson, never have let his hands or lips near you, let alone marry the **** He’ll be no good, for you, Mavis, she had warned on your wedding eve. You never listened; never took note; you knew best you thought. Marry in haste, relent in leisure, you father had said, in that voice that made you want to hit him, but you never did, although he had hit you many a time as a child, even for the most trivial of things. Dead now, preaching to some other crowd now, wherever he is. You smile at Camille’s sleeping face. Picture of innocence. Like you as a child, you guess. But there had been no Boris in your mother’s life; just your father and his preaching and teaching and moaning and sitting at the table with his long hangdog features and the cane by his hand ready for punishments. You remember creeping into your parents one night as a child and hearing the most awful noises in the dark; like your mother were being strangled or beat up upon, you raced from the room, hid under your blankets in case you father should come and get you. Camille came into you room last month as you and Boris were making love, her voice knifed you, so that you and Boris fell apart like some circus act gone wrong. She had wanted a glass of water, her small voice echoing through the dark, Boris and you panting, going all frigid as if death had claimed. Boris lay smiling in the dark, as you went, took Camille by her hand, fetched her water, lay her back to bed and to sleep. Now she sleeps again. Picture of innocence. Angel of your life. Your precious. Your daughter.
May 22, 2015
May 22, 2015 at 3:11 AM UTC
Say you love me
like I love you
often and always
a million times
embrace me
consume me
burn me with kisses
If you go deaf
I will stop listening
If you go blind
I will stop looking
If you die
I will stop living
.
.
Songs for this:
From The Start by Good Kid
Habits (feat. Haley Reinhart) by Scott Bradlee's Postmodern Jukebox
Lover Girl by Laufey
In a Manner of Speaking (feat. Camille) by Nouvelle Vague
Jul 10, 2025
Jul 10, 2025 at 12:23 PM UTC
Max dug brunettes,
but blondes were never
a no-no. That broad in Paris
all over him like a plague,
but cute, and knew her Degas
like he knew ***** Camille
or such like name; cute dame.
Nous avons des relations
sexuelles, she said. It was all
French to him, but her friend
translated, and Max said of
course, and so they did. Max
inhaled his cigarette remembering.
The bar was empty except for
some broad at the far end. He'd
give her talk, but he was too
tired, and besides he knew her
guy, and she'd be poxed. Then
there was the blonde in Hamburg.
Neat dame, nice figure, short on
English words, but got the gist,
showed him around the city,
spoke of her old man, some
former SS, had a stroke, never
spoke. Max dug her deep; made
out for a month or two, then split
after some talk of her sister being
around too much. Max exhaled.
Sipped his beer. The broad at
the far end of the bar smiled.
Max smiled back. She wore black.
Her guy had died. Maybe she'd
not got the pox, maybe the guy lied.
May 5, 2016
May 5, 2016 at 11:17 AM UTC
Camille her beauty pursued.
Music she listens to according to her mood.
Before you can get to her hearts door there is a huge body of water that is frozen to cross.
All those who can't ice skate withdraws.
To her heart's door there is only one course.
When she takes off her glasses she is like a princess.
Her poem is a process.
Not writing her a perfect poem is pointless.
She is as sweet as the sweet things she likes.
I have to admit it. That's why I have to write it.
A closet with a mirror containing all the clothes and shoes she shopped for.
Where she keeps her special things a safe in her hearts floor. ©M.P.Jacobs
Jan 31, 2016
Jan 31, 2016 at 12:23 PM UTC