"colpo" poems - Hello Poetry

I’ll never bee kissed Every weekend, Humble would go to the same bar, In the same part of the hive, with the same group of mates. He always went on the same Friday night and nothing ever changed. Until one day there came message that The Pollinator band, Were playing a gig outside the hive at Bee Pride And as Humble arrived, he saw all the honey-fungus mushroom lights! There was a huge crowd, so Humble pushed his way through And eventually he made it to the front. Some bees were drunk, some babes were happily screaming And there, stood next to Humble, was a bee-punk. She looked like the other bees, but she was a tattooed rebel. She looked at Humble and his bees-knees began to wobble. Then in-between Humble and the bee-punk stumbled her boyfriend And Humble thought, typical. Later, Humble couldn’t believe what he was seeing. The crowd of bees began to split apart; I must bee dreaming, he thought, As the music disappeared. No sound to bee heard from a thousand cheers. All he could see, all he could hear, Was a Queen of undeniable beauty approaching. The beat of Humble’s heart began to quicken, He was in shock at the look of this fox! She was unlike any other and he hadn’t even been drinking. He knew right away that he loved her And he would forever love her for all his days. It was Colpo Di Fulmine; make no mistake And luckily for him, she felt the same way. She walked up and gave Humble his first kiss And his entire life was changed And then she said “Hi Cutey, what’s your name?” He was left speechless, He had actually been kissed! It was like nothing he had ever experienced before And no other kiss would ever bee the same since. This was Humble’s first kiss, It was unique. He had finally managed, To find his true love! …or did he? (C)2017 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.

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Jul 5, 2019

Jul 5, 2019 at 5:15 AM UTC

aa-harvey

17. I’ll never bee kissed

I’ll never bee kissed Every weekend, Humble would go to the same bar, In the same part of the hive, with the same group of mates. He always went on the same Friday night and nothing ever changed. Until one day there came message that The Pollinator band, Were playing a gig outside the hive at Bee Pride And as Humble arrived, he saw all the honey-fungus mushroom lights! There was a huge crowd, so Humble pushed his way through And eventually he made it to the front. Some bees were drunk, some babes were happily screaming And there, stood next to Humble, was a bee-punk. She looked like the other bees, but she was a tattooed rebel. She looked at Humble and his bees-knees began to wobble. Then in-between Humble and the bee-punk stumbled her boyfriend And Humble thought, typical. Later, Humble couldn’t believe what he was seeing. The crowd of bees began to split apart; I must bee dreaming, he thought, As the music disappeared. No sound to bee heard from a thousand cheers. All he could see, all he could hear, Was a Queen of undeniable beauty approaching. The beat of Humble’s heart began to quicken, He was in shock at the look of this fox! She was unlike any other and he hadn’t even been drinking. He knew right away that he loved her And he would forever love her for all his days. It was Colpo Di Fulmine; make no mistake And luckily for him, she felt the same way. She walked up and gave Humble his first kiss And his entire life was changed And then she said “Hi Cutey, what’s your name?” He was left speechless, He had actually been kissed! It was like nothing he had ever experienced before And no other kiss would ever bee the same since. This was Humble’s first kiss, It was unique. He had finally managed, To find his true love! …or did he? (C)2017 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.

42

in this other side air took other color forms emphasizing details, scanning asymptotes, like hearts burning on pristine snow, of winter coming in october already, even in the sun, in the sun above all, almost red, like the air that took your form, hiding walls and faces, of concealed rooms you make insomniac and abruptly clear away, as you pour them in sealess salt —————————————— Italian version from “Chieti, Scalo”, 2014: asintoti obliqui in quest’altra parte l’aria prese altre forme di colore, insistendo sui dettagli, scandendo asintoti, come cuori bruciati sulla precocissima neve, dell’inverno che viene già di ottobre, anche nel sole, soprattutto nel sole, quasi rosso, come l’aria che ha preso forma di te, celando volti e pareti, di segrete stanze che componi insonne e sparecchi di colpo, versandole in un sale senza mari

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Oct 25, 2014

Oct 25, 2014 at 5:22 PM UTC

tokonoma

Oblique Asymptotes

in this other side air took other color forms emphasizing details, scanning asymptotes, like hearts burning on pristine snow, of winter coming in october already, even in the sun, in the sun above all, almost red, like the air that took your form, hiding walls and faces, of concealed rooms you make insomniac and abruptly clear away, as you pour them in sealess salt —————————————— Italian version from “Chieti, Scalo”, 2014: asintoti obliqui in quest’altra parte l’aria prese altre forme di colore, insistendo sui dettagli, scandendo asintoti, come cuori bruciati sulla precocissima neve, dell’inverno che viene già di ottobre, anche nel sole, soprattutto nel sole, quasi rosso, come l’aria che ha preso forma di te, celando volti e pareti, di segrete stanze che componi insonne e sparecchi di colpo, versandole in un sale senza mari

17

L'ultima cicala stride sulla scorza gialla dell'eucalipto i bambini raccolgono pinòli indispensabili per la galantina un cane alano urla dall'inferriata di una villa ormai disabitata le ville furono costruite dai padri ma i figli non le hanno volute ci sarebbe spazio per centomila terremotati di qui non si vede nemmeno la proda se può chiamarsi cosí quell'ottanta per cento ceduta in uso ai bagnini e sarebbe eccessivo pretendervi una pace alcionica il mare è d'altronde infestato mentre i rifiuti in totale formano ondulate collinette plastiche esaurite le siepi hanno avuto lo sfratto i deliziosi figli della ruggine gli scriccioli o reatini come spesso li citano i poeti. E c'è anche qualche boccio di magnolia l'etichetta di un pediatra ma qui i bambini volano in bicicletta e non hanno bisogno delle sue cure Chi vuole respirare a grandi zaffate la musa del nostro tempo la precarietà può passare di qui senza affrettarsi è il colpo secco quello che fa orrore non già l'evanescenza il dolce afflato del nulla Hic manebimus se vi piace non proprio ottimamente ma il meglio sarebbe troppo simile alla morte ( e questa piace solo ai giovani)

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1.2k

Eugenio Montale

Al mare (o quasi)

L'ultima cicala stride sulla scorza gialla dell'eucalipto i bambini raccolgono pinòli indispensabili per la galantina un cane alano urla dall'inferriata di una villa ormai disabitata le ville furono costruite dai padri ma i figli non le hanno volute ci sarebbe spazio per centomila terremotati di qui non si vede nemmeno la proda se può chiamarsi cosí quell'ottanta per cento ceduta in uso ai bagnini e sarebbe eccessivo pretendervi una pace alcionica il mare è d'altronde infestato mentre i rifiuti in totale formano ondulate collinette plastiche esaurite le siepi hanno avuto lo sfratto i deliziosi figli della ruggine gli scriccioli o reatini come spesso li citano i poeti. E c'è anche qualche boccio di magnolia l'etichetta di un pediatra ma qui i bambini volano in bicicletta e non hanno bisogno delle sue cure Chi vuole respirare a grandi zaffate la musa del nostro tempo la precarietà può passare di qui senza affrettarsi è il colpo secco quello che fa orrore non già l'evanescenza il dolce afflato del nulla Hic manebimus se vi piace non proprio ottimamente ma il meglio sarebbe troppo simile alla morte ( e questa piace solo ai giovani)

32

Se il mondo va alla malora non è solo colpa degli uomini. Così diceva una svampita pipando una granita col chalumeau al Cafè de Paris. Non so chi fosse. A volte il Genio è quasi una cosa da nulla, un colpo di tosse.

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937

Eugenio Montale

Locuta Lutetia

Se il mondo va alla malora non è solo colpa degli uomini. Così diceva una svampita pipando una granita col chalumeau al Cafè de Paris. Non so chi fosse. A volte il Genio è quasi una cosa da nulla, un colpo di tosse.

7

Mia vita, a te non chiedo lineamenti fissi, volti plausibili o possessi. Nel tuo giro inquieto ormai lo stesso sapore han miele e assenzio. Il cuore che ogni moto tiene a vile raro è squassato da trasalimenti. Così suona talvolta nel silenzio della campagna un colpo di fucile.

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891

Eugenio Montale

Mia vita

Mia vita, a te non chiedo lineamenti fissi, volti plausibili o possessi. Nel tuo giro inquieto ormai lo stesso sapore han miele e assenzio. Il cuore che ogni moto tiene a vile raro è squassato da trasalimenti. Così suona talvolta nel silenzio della campagna un colpo di fucile.

8