"celia" poems
I’ve been told by a friend to wait here.
As long as I stay here, you’ll be back past five o'clock.
I’ve waited—you came and opened the door.
It’s true; now I will dedicate my nine lives to you.
"She drinks her tea by midnight and lulls herself to sleep. You should waggle your tail and lie beside her. Every day except for Saturday." My friend laughed rigorously when she finished that statement.
“Why can’t I play with her every Saturday?” I asked her, trying to grasp her evading eyes.
"Just because," she shrugged and tried to climb the tree.
"Wait!" I hissed, but she’s nowhere to be found now.
I did everything she told me to do. Eat my food past lunch, play with my worn-out toy, and wait for her to be home.
At the exact moment the cruel sun rose and the light hit my body, I waggled my tail and lied beside her. Unfortunately, I forgot it was Saturday today.
I called her name, distinctively meowing in a weird manner. I cackled slightly; she wouldn’t understand. Biting slowly with her calloused hands and licking the side of her face, she still won’t wake up.
And I meowed until there was no sound left of me. My dear Celia, wake up, for you have to give me food now.
You still need to bathe me and play with me at the park. We’ll still wait for the night to come and watch TV.
Oh, Celia, I’d still spend my nine lives with you. Where have you been since I slept last night?
I’d still wait for you here at the table, near the window. Where the trees dance the delicacy of their sickening leaves. Oh, how we both hated the crispness of those brown leaves.
Oh, how you knew how much I hate autumn and how much I undoubtedly love the breeze of winter. The screeching of the winds and the snow falling onto the ground, where we both scrutinize its unique aspect. We were the same.
How you were covered in snowdrops, and you’d throw me inside the snowpack. I’ll hiss, and you’ll laugh.
"I told you not to play with her every Saturday," my friend whispered, almost with a faint cry. There was a hint of longing in her voice.
"You haven’t told me the answer, Ong."
"She grieves in her dreams, my friend. He visits every Saturday, spends a day with her, and goes home at exactly midnight. She’ll wake up tomorrow, bud," she answered in agony.
Who's he? " I turned to her, but she vanished once again.
Celia, I will love you for the rest of my nine lives. I’ll wait for you tomorrow. It’s okay to grieve for now.
I’d still wait for you here at the table, even though it’s autumn. We both got to accept that winter is already over.
It’s my first life with you in autumn.
Sep 9, 2023
Sep 9, 2023 at 3:10 AM UTC
I was foretold, your rebell ***
Nor love, nor pitty knew;
And with what scorn you use to vex
Poor hearts that humbly sue;
Yet I believ’d, to crown our pain,
Could we the fortress win,
The happy Lover sure should gain
A Paradise within:
I thought Loves plagues, like Dragons sate,
Only to fright us at the gate.
But I did enter, and enjoy
What happy Lovers prove;
For I could kiss, and sport, and toy,
And taste those sweets of love;
Which had they but a lasting state,
Or if in Celia’s brest
The force of love might not abate,
Jove were too mean a guest.
But now her breach of faith, farre more
Afflicts, than did her scorn before.
Hard fate! to have been once possest,
As victor, of a heart
Atchiev’d with labour, and unrest,
And then forc’d to depart.
If the stout Foe will not resigne
When I besiege a Town,
I lose, but what was never mine;
But he that is cast down
From enjoy’d beauty, feels a woe,
Only deposed Kings can know.
3.2k
Celia looked at her reflection
In the back of the spoon;
Her face was blown outward
As if captured on some balloon.
It almost made her laugh;
The memory of it;
How she and her sister Sassy
Would do that as kids,
Before the dark days,
Before her death in a bath.
That drowning, that sad death.
Sassy’s husband had beaten her
Black and blue and green
And she’d hide herself away
So as not to be seen.
But she’d seen her,
Seen the bruises
Like smudged tattoos,
The closed eyes,
The swollen lips,
The hardly able to talk words
Pushing through the mouth
To say: he says he loves me still.
Celia stared at her reflection,
The way her own mouth was distorted,
Her lips blown up, her eyes enlarged,
Out of proportion.
She almost laughed,
But something about Sassy’s sad death
Made her stifle any guffaw
That may have broken free
From her distorted reflected jaw.
There was the time she’d seen her
********** for bed when she stayed
Because Sassy’s husband (the weird freak)
Was off on business, some big deal,
Needing to be pulled off,
And she saw the black and blueness
With tinges of green
Along her naked flesh,
The buttocks welted
Where he had belted.
Sassy had said nothing,
Had not noticed Celia looking,
Had not thought it unusual
To be unclothed as such
Away from other’s peering eyes.
Now Sassy was dead;
Found in the bath;
Drugged out, wrists slit,
Having drowned recorded.
But he had driven her over the edge;
He had bullied and beaten
Like some spoilt cruel child
An unwanted toy.
Celia turned the spoon over
And put it down.
No more desire to laugh,
Just fond memories of Sassy
Before her death in the bath.
Mar 6, 2012
Mar 6, 2012 at 2:04 AM UTC
If the quick spirits in your eye
Now languish, and anon must die;
If every sweet, and every grace
Must fly from that forsaken face;
Then, Celia, let us reap our joys,
Ere Time such goodly fruit destroys.
Or if that golden fleece must grow
Forever, free from agèd snow;
If those bright suns must know no shade,
Nor your fresh beauties ever fade;
Then fear not, Celia, to bestow
What, still being gathered, still must grow.
Thus, either Time his sickle brings
In vain, or else in vain his wings.
2.6k
Know, Celia, since thou art so proud,
’Twas I that gave thee thy renown.
Thou hadst in the forgotten crowd
Of common beauties lived unknown
Had not my verse extolled thy name,
And with it imped the wings of Fame.
That killing power is none of thine;
I gave it to thy voice and eyes.
Thy sweets, thy graces, all are mine;
Thou art my star, shin’st in my skies:
Then dart not from thy borrowed sphere
Lightning on him that fixed thee there.
Tempt me with such affrights no more,
Lest what I made I uncreate.
Let fools thy mystic form adore,
I know thee in thy mortal state.
Wise poets, that wrapped truth in tales,
Knew her themselves through all her veils.
2.6k
He that loves a rosy cheek,
Or a coral lip admires,
Or from star-like eyes doth seek
Fuel to maintain his fires;
As old Time makes these decay,
So his flames must waste away.
But a smooth and steadfast mind,
Gentle thoughts and calm desires,
Hearts with equal love combin’d,
Kindle never-dying fires.
Where these are not, I despise
Lovely cheeks, or lips, or eyes.
No tears, Celia, now shall win
My resolv’d heart to return;
I have search’d thy soul within,
And find nought, but pride, and scorn;
I have learn’d thy arts, and now
Can disdain as much as thou.
Some power, in my revenge, convey
That love to her I cast away.
2.3k
All the way to Zion,
She hung from the
Tip of my tongue.
She was the right song,
At the right time. That’s
What I hoped, at least.
I loved her accompaniment;
The kind that was as fine
As a San Francisco sunset.
She invited me to eat dinner,
And I said, “Yes, of course.”
Because I had never been
To her place before.
She said she lived somewhere
Off the North Juda Line.
We agreed to meet
After work, at half past seven,
Outside of the Market
Street subway stop.
I knew that I didn’t have
Much time to waste.
She was the type to leave
If I was late.
Sure enough,
By the end of the day,
I got delayed. I was still
In the office at eight.
I called her twice,
But she didn’t wait.
I tried to catch her
At the next stop,
But my feet were slow -
So there I was again, caught.
I knew the perfect song
To sing to Celia,
I was just late
On the chorus.
Free to amble because of
My missed commitment,
I walked further down
The Embarcadero,
Until I heard some Cuban dudes
Playing a familiar old song
In the SBC Park, just below Pier 38.
I recognized it immediately -
Such a beautifully simple melody:
Yo soy un hombre sincero, de donde crece la palma
Yo soy un hombre sincero, de donde crece la palma
Y antes de morir yo quiero cantar mis versos del alma.
The funny thing is, for a while,
I forgot about everything.
I sat on that bench, and listened.
The song had that old wisdom to it,
Something that you can’t really explain,
You just feel.
Eventually, I decided to
Walk out onto the pier.
I got to thinking
About Celia again,
How mad she must have been -
Send in the clowns.
And just as I
Started to sink -
You know, really feel
Bad for myself,
Someone tapped me
On the shoulder.
I turned to face
The unsuspecting person,
To let them know that
It was the wrong day,
And I was the wrong guy
To be asking for directions…
And there she was,
Right in front of me.
“Take my hand,”
Celia quietly said,
As the lights on the pier
Danced to the sweetness
Of her voice in my ears.
I laughed. She laughed.
And there we were -
A little bit lost together.
Aug 31, 2011
Aug 31, 2011 at 1:45 AM UTC
I feel I'm falling face first on broken knees,
All because your lust still lingers on my lips,
With the memory of fingers pushing into my hips.
But you know I never could make love stay.
And I'm sorry I keep on calling you all the time.
You only love me as a friend, I heard what you said.
But I've lost some things, like my heart in your bed,
My earring too, and I'll be needing that back.
We're just sour gummie bears and stale cigarettes.
Touching, swapping spit, and taking long car rides,
Never even knowing what the next turn decides.
Only the here and now of Hopeful and Bitter
Oct 30, 2012
Oct 30, 2012 at 12:32 AM UTC
Exhausted, Celia laid in bed.
Staring at a cockroach trapped on a spider web.
She laid in bed, motionless.
Thinking of what she had done two minutes ago.
In a matter of seconds she had chocked and mutilated him.
She had cut his hands, cut his throat and his manly *****
In her mind he kept insulting and belittling her,
but she had been stronger.
She had defended herself.
He could no longer take advantage of her.
Celia saw how the cockroach gasped for her last breath
while the spider started to rip her apart starting with her heart.
But as always when the sun peeked through the window,
Celia saw him there,
sleeping beside her.
A dormant lion, who would soon come for his prey.
May 16, 2013
May 16, 2013 at 6:38 PM UTC
Sigue, sigue blanca estrella,
Por el cielo en que naciste,
Sin dejar ninguna huella...
Siempre te hallaré más bella,
Siempre te hallaré más triste.
Hoy vengo con mi dolor,
Cual antes feliz venía;
Mas ya nunca, astro de amor,
Ceñirás con tu fulgor
Ni su frente ni la mía.
Tú cruzas por ese cielo,
Dando con tu luz la calma;
Yo cruzo, por este suelo,
Llevando en mi desconsuelo
Lena de sombras el alma.
Dame, dame tu luz bella;
Que en esta alma sin amor,
Tú sorprenderás estrella,
En cada nube una huella,
Y en cada huella un dolor.
Tú que has escuchado el canto
De mi primera pasión,
Acompaña mi quebranto,
Y alumbra el amargo llanto
que brota del corazón.
¡Horas del primer cariño!
tú las miraste lucir,
Cuando ante tu luz de armiño,
La niña en brazos del niño
Soñaba en el porvenir.
¡Dulce amor! ¡grata ciencia!
¡Blanca luz! ¡Delirio ardiente!
¿Por qué huyes de la existencia,
Cuando una dura experiencia
Va marchitando la frente?
¡Aquellos goces extraños,
Aquel esperar en Dios,
Sin recoger desengaños,
Aquel pasar de los años
Sin perturbar a los dos!
Todo, todo, blanca estrella,
Tu tibia luz alumbró;
¡Edad de sueños aquella,
Envidiable, dulce, bella,
Que para siempre huyó!
Celia, al expirar el día,
Por estos sitios vendrá,
Ya no como antes venía,
Que aquella alma que fue mía,
Pertenece a otra alma ya.
Antes ¡ay! ¡cuánto embeleso!
Sollozando de placer,
Dejaba en mi frente un beso;
Por eso, estrella; por eso
No quiero volverla a ver.
Ahora, dulce y cariñosa,
En otro sus ojos fijos,
Tendrá su boca amorosa
La majestad de la esposa
Para besar a sus hijos.
Con tus rayos blanquecinos
Alumbra siempre su hogar;
Aparta nuestros caminos,
Y ¡ay! que sus ojos divinos
No aprendan nunca a llorar.
Si sigues, tú, blanca estrella,
Por el cielo en que naciste,
Sin dejar ninguna huella...
Siempre te hallaré más bella,
Siempre me verás mas triste.
924
He is her first love,
the love which makes
her want to open her
arms to the early day,
hear bird song, wash
in the cold water the
maid brings, breaking
the ice, her hand scooping
up the coldness to her
face, and the o yes this
is it, feel, in her. Before
him there were only dull
mornings, icy ablutions,
boring birds singing, and
her father lecturing at
the morning table about
the horses or the birds
for the shoot or how well
his dogs hunt. This first love,
this exciting explosion,
this wanting to run through
the fields undressed and
sing loudly, this new born,
fresh as a lamb kind of love,
this tingling through the veins
and nerves feeling, this is
what the poet’s name love,
their words ticking off the
virtues, their voices calling
across shires, hills and seas.
She wants him to come,
wants his arms about her,
his lips on hers, she thinks of
him each moment of her day,
senses him in each touch her
body feels, in each smell of air.
She wants him there. Before him
there was just the routine of daily
visits to the poor of the parish
with he mother’s gossip, picking
of flowers, the dull witted wit of
her tiresome brothers, before this
first love she almost drowned in
the daily drudge, but now she feels
each second’s tick, each moment’s
***** the over feel of air and breath
and him maybe being there to watch
her dress (unseen of course) and
all the little things that first love brings.
The maid helps her dress, buttons
up at the back, brushes the hair, o
o she wishes it were the first love
there unbuttoning her dress and
making her neatly done hair in a mess.
Mar 20, 2013
Mar 20, 2013 at 3:20 AM UTC
I wonder who these bosses think they are, bossying me around like some kind of slave. Tea
at 8,tea at 10,tea in between every break. Do they
know the fatigue from the stairs? I sincerely doubt, not with their password controlled elevators.
The other day one of those big men amused me. Mbu tell me Celia, why do u charge the same price even for people who take no sugar. I barely held bac insults and instead said, now if I were to charge according to how much sugar you take, I would charge those that take the price of quarter a kilo since I neither buy in spoons nor cups. And then for you that don't take sugar I would charge for the fuel used to boil the water.
hmph, men!!
Feb 11, 2013
Feb 11, 2013 at 9:45 AM UTC
And she likes to ride
on the swing and rise
higher and higher and
see beyond the hedges
and see houses and trees
and people passing
and wonders if it’s always
so and as she rises higher
her hands gripping the
ropes of the swing she
feels her stomach turn
and turn and remembers
when her mother’s new
boyfriend pushed her
on the swing a few years
ago how he would say
how high you want to
go Celia? and he’d push
her higher and higher
and she called out I’m
frightened slow me down
but he just stood there
laughing and waving his
hands and gawking at her
legs as she went up and
down and she tried to slow
herself down but he just
pushed her high again and
she said I’ll tell on you
pushing me too high but
he just shook his head
and pushed her instead
and then once he felt he
wanted to he pulled on
her ropes and slowed her
down and put his hands
on her thighs and squeezed
and held her there for a
moment or two staring
into her eyes and said that
wasn’t too bad was it?
And he grinned and she
wanted to say something
to her mother but never did
and when she got home
she said nothing and just
went to her room and stared
out at the park with its swings
and slides and the innocent
children laughing and smiling
and full of joy unaware as
she was then and knows now
how touches and suggestions
can end the innocence of
childhood in a single moment
once and for all and to no good.
May 23, 2012
May 23, 2012 at 7:43 AM UTC
an epic poem that I can't convince my pen to write
'cause I've been far too busy riding city buses
and drinking beer, and staying in bed.
a theme of budding alcoholism,
and seasonal depression.
classes and meals skipped,
comas and car crashes.
it's all real, and it's all happening.
it's going home and then leaving it again,
boxes both packed and unpacked,
facebook messages I wish I could take back.
pages I leave blank,
when I want to write all the way down.
puking in your driveway,
the last night that I skipped town.
phone calls to celia,
until I get to go see her again.
running into your houses,
smoking cigarettes with friends.
I hope that Portland swallows you up.
and that Seattle drowns you.
Mar 2, 2013
Mar 2, 2013 at 2:19 AM UTC
in quiet rooms where shadows hide,
celia whispers, soft inside.
a secret kept, a dream unspoken,
a song of strings, unbroken.
she waits in corners, dark and deep,
where memories fade, and shadows sleep.
eyes of silence, heart of mist,
tracing what’s been missed.
Oct 14, 2024
Oct 14, 2024 at 2:54 AM UTC
Right now, one of you is singing and the other is still in bed.
So I'm taking the time to think about where you guys will be in a few years.
In two years, I'll hopefully be traveling, getting out of here.
But you, Jaida darling, you're going to be a sophomore..
And Celia, you'll be in your seventh grade year.
(Who knows, maybe you'll have grown)
But to what I actually wanted to tell you today..
You know I've been sad
I've been angry
I've yelled and cried
And mom has yelled and cried
And so has dad.
And you both have been through that too.
So please, please remember
That when you finally get to high school
And everything seems kind of terrible
Like it has for me
You have an older sister who's been through
At least some part of the emotions you're feeling.
And don't go looking for help
In shiny blades
And smaller portions
Because yes, yes they will give you momentary satisfaction.
The sting and the crimson beauty,
The rush of pride on the scale.
But in the end they're just problems.
Problems, not helping, but taking away from who you can truly be.
So remeber.
Life is temporary,
So revel in every minute of it.
Being sad, depressed, upset, or angry
All of those feelings are okay.
Just don't hide them.
Because I don't want to lose any of you
Love
Me.
Nov 13, 2015
Nov 13, 2015 at 10:26 AM UTC
The pulp of brandywine leaves thistle with the dew of dawn,
the strung lights accorded bronze
sashing of the crumbled brick sacrament situated beneath the crack-
break of December 21st, Christ, Nativity,
a triptych; Wrench the whetted, gold seed the steed
of the Order, Clementine garland
and extension cords;
Altar of Santa Celia, burnished walnut shoes,
polished silver fillium.
The wanton hymn of baritones and wisteria hung
from candlelit pictures pressed
between rotted chicken boxes. Merry Christmas
Dec 14, 2016
Dec 14, 2016 at 2:33 PM UTC
“Love is hard” he said, as the edges of the beach and the ocean gathered together in on-the-ground clouds brushed up by the wind.
“What’s the hardest kind?” she said, staring out at the clouds, the ones on the ground and up above.
“Self-Love” He said.
“You’re right,” She said smiling but still not looking at him. “The kind I feel with you, is much much easier.”
The clouds subside
She puts her hand in mine
Our hearts walk out with the tide
Leaving nothing but our minds
To think about the times we had.
That’s all we have ever have.
“Tom?” She asks.
“Celia?” He replies.
“I love me.”
“I love you too.”
Jan 27, 2017
Jan 27, 2017 at 3:20 PM UTC
Floating in the air is the delicious smell of alcapurrias, pastelios, morcilla... home, laughter, long nights...
Echos of different radios playing Willie Colon, Celia Cruz, Marc Anthony, Bad Bunny, Karol G... which fiesta you tryna go to.
Viejitos sit together, reflect on how long its been, the neighborhood is changing..
playing dominoes by the trucks.
funny to hear them yelling over eachother,
a game of who's louder.
Pero never tell them "you're yelling!" tho , por que "no mama THIS IS HOW I TALK".
You don't just walk down the streets. You dance. To the rhythm. Hips start to sway. Bachata takes over and you're dancing with 3 others. 1..2..3..hip 1..2..3.. hip 1…2…3… hip 1…2…3… hip
"MY PUERTO RICAN QUEEN. If you can dance infront of everyone you can anything in this world. Never stop dancing."
I love them. Feels safe here. It's home.
The machismo never phased me. It lifted me up.
Faded memories of climbing the rusted bleachers, always daring to catch up with the boys of the block. taking breaks to eat my cherry piragua. These Memories hold me warm as a knitted blanket. Carrying with me, never forgetting.
The closest thing to remembering you.
Laughter strikes cause it was so long ago. I was so young, yet I miss the opportunity I could've had. Wish we had a chance. MY viejo. My abuelo. The prettiest princess in the land. The real Cinderella. (Only a joke he would know)
Oct 4, 2023
Oct 4, 2023 at 10:30 PM UTC