"conservatory" poems
I wish, most of all, to have had a tangibly physical notebook to write all this in. instead I use the 'note' function of my smartphone, smoke a cigarette. busy on forward, it's Pandora.
one of those acid-high coffee overbouts, feeling the brain compress inside the skull. for an hour. for a few.
some man in tattered-all's gets angry when I state I have no quarter. like I'm lying when I say it, and must be lying because my pants aren't worn like his. bus and car alike ghost past, the monastic rise of the local music conservatory pokes at the skyline, straight at the overcast.
I toss "If on a winter's night" by Italo Calvino atop the third step of the church stairs leading to the church doors, the Seventh Day Adventist Church, Where we meet Jesus. I begin to write this poem, huddled atop my cellphone as if I were in silent debate with a lover, only sitting to make a point.
to the left is a McDonald's flying a McDonald's flag. A man with a thoughtless white ball-cap and a thoughtful tattoo walks past with a McDonald's dollar drink in his right hand, pointing his arms in opposite directions to illustrate the dimensions of something he wants. "See?" he says to the woman he walks with, her face scabbed over with acne scars.
my eyes are tunnel-visioned to the screen every time I follow a thought, or the glancing past of a passer-by like the woman with the black scarf, black hair, black sweater, grey pants, black shoes.
the orange 'don't walk' sign pulses 7 times, and then sticks, as if waiting for a high-five.
I reach into my backpack for a cigarette.
Apr 9, 2014
Apr 9, 2014 at 10:32 PM UTC
Who knows who would
'true valiant be'
when you can't see
beyond the end of your nose?
who knows?
It has to be Sunday some day
and today is some day for some
hymns and hers (towels in the bathroom)
down the stairs
toast and preserves in the conservatory
not mandatory
but it's Sunday.
God must be reeling in shock
wondering what he has done
Jesus is getting the backlash
it's always a Sunday for some.
I'm going to queue up for my
holy wine and wafer
it's
safer not to sit upon the fence
and where else can you find this
kind of entertainment
for a pound or even less,
for fifty
pence?
beyond when I pass into
poets corner
where the monks and Friars
sort wheat from the chaff
I shall laugh
I shall rhyme
have a ****** marvellous time
Who knows who
'..would true valiant be..'
Apr 22, 2018
Apr 22, 2018 at 1:38 AM UTC
Running the gauntlet down Midchester Road,
A veritable suburb of Gleethorpes City,
You pass a line of house-castles
Of the well to do.
But don’t be fooled
By what you see,
For I know someone
Who lives there.
And he will tell you,
Of bountiful gardens
Stripped bare
And concreted over
So that families can park their fleets
Of expensive cars.
See those conservatory extensions
And widened pavements.
A lady poses,
Doing her best
To emulate the Kardashians.
Money attracts
No end of thugs
And dodgy dealers:
Swarming parasitic wasps
Around the honey ***
Nights of drunken revellers
From the local pub:
Swaying from trees
And kicking cans about.
Boy racers tearing down the road,
Music systems booming
With a mindless
Moronic drumming.
“Where has reality gone?” asks
My despairing friend.
They have their money
Their riches,
Expensive toys
But few of them are Happy.
What happened to “Goodness” and virtue
And dreams of Utopia?
Where are the heroes
Inventors and creators?
Instead we have a world of celebrity,
In which true talent – even genius
Is ignored and undervalued.
“Where are we going?” my friend exclaims.
Things get worse and worse,
The world all in reverse.
For it’s “Unreal City”,
Far from pretty.
So have a think,
Don’t let yourself sink
Even further into the mire.
Just get real,
You know the deal,
It’s you I’m trying to inspire.
Paul Butters
© PB 2\8\2019
(with help from a bloke who lives in such a place. Same town as me).
Aug 2, 2019
Aug 2, 2019 at 6:01 AM UTC
Day debt
night wept
sleep crept
Attachment.
Where is my attachment?
evening out of balance
The line of my life has broken
off into separate identities
Flower feather
Hollow weather
Moonlight Canyon
Skylight childhood nostalgia
Stolen star
Battered cheekbones
Of weary workers keeping to
The hornet's nest
Reality a constant terror
Of city structures swallowing
them whole.
Blackbird rests
on an Autumn branch of
hidden meadow
checking its wristwatch obsessively for the
Hydrogen Volcano
INEVITABLE.
Termite Corporations
Cavernous Hilltops
All that green is gold
(A straw man in Byzantine robes approaches
the frosty Manhattan
to become a relic in it's Libraries)
People fall in Love with coincidence,
(The illusion of order beyond our field or reach)
All that love is kept in a
Conservatory somewhere...
Glossy stems connected to palpitating blossoms.
Our tired eyes are focused to the asphalt confluence
whether fever or handhold.
Hymns ring throughout the forests of
Vancouver Island
Dreamers hang from the Niagara Trestle caught in
overwhelming sunlight
Doused in spirit.
Holy Melancholic September
Sweeps away the dusty Summer,
everything seems renewed
In the rain..
Sep 2, 2015
Sep 2, 2015 at 8:29 AM UTC
Bringing to light genuine poetic gifts bestowed upon a peculiar genius; a macrocosmic telekinesis with heterogenetic keenness
Sagacious enlistee receiving tuition without a fee - earned a transcendental degree in a ceaseless state of commendable, chimerical reverie
A golden dispensary of wisdom dramatically uplifting humanity candidly; treasure full of esoteric mysteries transporting wondrous abundance through bundles of subject matters and earning a celestial masters.
Nov 15, 2014
Nov 15, 2014 at 11:39 AM UTC
it’s spring world growing into something different iceland volcano ash interrupting european flights dream of new worlds better life happiness new architecture language love everyone wants something different god’s eyes see through gazillion eyes each center of universe why do i cry so easy flinch at sight of blood violence what is love happiness sunday morning volcanic ash persists we are all inter-connected sweet little freezing cold iceland dominates world life is crazy too crazy where is bjork this morning drinking grog coffee laughing i’m so different from you unaccountable chemistry go away it’s hot i’m sweating stink i wish for your smell so bad jasmine basil lavender female scent ticket home to nowhere we are all such liars over-reactionary sensationalists well on my way yes i choose horse with wings house-boat floating up river mountain top glass conservatory filled with plants clouds girlfriend i wish for way back wiser choices more content result
Apr 18, 2010
Apr 18, 2010 at 7:05 AM UTC
A thought in process...
Imagery that tells a story....
I can see
the Prestigious School of Gills:
The Conservatory of Velvet & Blues.
In the process...
The conservatory will need to
hire the Ground sharks
to make sure there
are no shellfish or
Crappie fish laying around.
Once all the Crap is
swallowed up,
we can hire Dolphins so they
can share in their porpoise.
Even in the deep,
we have trouble with
Blackchin. We should consider
hiring Giant Wels to calm
the Blackchin. if that does not
work, we will get the Bigmouth Buffalo
to calm all the Bitterling.
I do need to get around-
I should Perch a Black Neon Tetra
...and find some Pumkinseeds.
I will need to hire an
Octopus to get the building
done sooner.
In one hand- I will use a Hammerhead.
In another hand- he should use a Sawfish.
I will need two arms to scratch
the Rough Scad from the floor.
Two more arms should
use Smelt-whiting on the walls.
We need Muscles to do the
heavy lifting.
Finally, the Octopus will need two
arms to lay the Velvet.
EEL!!! I have noticed Roaches!
I noticed the Roughy patches.
Hey look!!! We do not need to
worry about electric-
we will just use electric eels.
To right- I will place the lampfish.
Do not worry about the
evil of the Ghouls & Devil Ray-
I will be sure to Discus
with Alfonsino all
the trouble with the
Blue-eye, Bullhead, ***** shark.
We will have a Whale of a time,
omitting the Suckers & Swallowers
from the Red Velvetfish.
I need to cool
things off with icefish.
And to keep the roofs from
leaking, hire the seals.
Our Seahawk Security will
be watching for the White Shark.
If you see them please,
send out the Yellow Jacks
and I will use the River Loach
as backup for there is plenty of
fish in the sea.
Oct 16, 2014
Oct 16, 2014 at 7:29 PM UTC
- for him a.k.a Rembrandt, a fellow poet & love of my life-
I think of you in the conservatory
of the Little Harp Inn, on the seafront
is this where you came too
is this the place you meant
in your poems when you spoke
in them of the ‘ glass tearooms’?
a ginger waiter brings a couple
their tea. Outside, a thunderstorm is raging
suddenly, there sounds a cry:
‘’ Look, the roof is leaking!’’
& bright lightning again splits the sky
just like love, striking
Everyone laughs in wonder
& an old lady walks by in pink
outside, without an umbrella
in this, Clevedon in the summer
Aug 23, 2015
Aug 23, 2015 at 10:00 AM UTC
Anxiety.
Conserve.
Conservatory.
Shakespeare.
Man.
Monk.
****
I ******
I'm better.
Expulsion.
Breathe.
Friend.
Not friend.
Friend.
Best friend.
Awkward.
I still have that.
Dress.
Tights.
Queen.
Mill.
Birthday.
Song.
500.
Guitar.
Tears.
Nostalgia.
Nostalgic.
Dead.
You're dead.
You're dying.
I'm dying.
I'm dead.
I'm not dead.
24.
You're blonde.
I'm not blonde.
I'm old.
I'm still old.
I'm a child.
I'm going to cry.
Stop.
I don't cry.
No more crying.
I'm allowed to cry here.
That's why I cry here.
I'm allowed.
I can do what I want.
I know what I want.
I have no idea what I want.
But I think that's what I want.
I'm not doing what I want.
But this is enough.
It's not enough.
I'll make it enough.
Where am I?
24.
Twenty.
Four.
Stop thinking.
Jun 2, 2013
Jun 2, 2013 at 10:42 PM UTC
I like old glass windows,
how they’ve blurred and frosted over
looking like the back of a used postage stamp
everything behind them a shadow.
I laid in a conservatory, a glasshouse,
after ruining your relationship.
The green things just barely hid me:
I wished I had been some place more antique
less inhabited, less cared for.
I wished I had not been seen.
Leaves danced out insults, all were true,
*** tourist, homewrecker, and everyone knew
because I became proud to have hurt her
when I had only meant to hurt you.
To run would have been preferable
although wine-colored flora may tango up my
ankles, spiral to the belly of my heels.
You know how my feet seemed ******
in the red Georgia clay?
Yet the arch remained clean, elevated by itself?
That is how I was,
ripe and daisyed in a surrounding brick.
I wished I had not been seen,
rather purchased a futon set that is not more
than a silhouette behind stained glass
and ended myself as well I as did you and her.
May 21, 2013
May 21, 2013 at 1:30 PM UTC
She smiled, those eyes of greeting,
Doors opened with moving breeze,
I entered the drawing room, amused
As I crept with creeks from the hard
Wood floors at the foot of the stairs,
Throughout her abode, finery draped
And sheer linens played with the sun
Round her body. We drew the curtains
That led the light and waited for dark,
A kettle broke in and filled our cups
By the bay windows that burst, pierced
Into her lovely gardens, we had some
Tea and talked of travels and seasons
Huddled in the glassy mirror of nook,
Of her white conservatory, at the table
Already made with silver and crystal
And song birds sang in the open airs.
Nov 28, 2014
Nov 28, 2014 at 9:05 PM UTC
In the conservatory with the windows open wide I can still smell your pipe smoke.
I walk past and feel your oilskins' brush my hand.
I found some snippets of jet black hair left in my jewellery tray.
Your crash helmet sits on the hallway table.
I swear it wasn't there yesterday.
A visiting spirit playing games with my memory.
I'm guessing that's all it can be.
Or maybe I haven't accepted you're gone.
Love lingering too long.
(C) LIVVI
Feb 11, 2015
Feb 11, 2015 at 6:26 AM UTC
One more recess
and I depress the lever
then laying prone
with a metronome that ticks away
like a clock that's gone awry
I lie and close my eyes and listen to the steady beat
tick
tick
I lick chapped lips and wonder where the balm would be
inside the conservatory
or in the kitchen drawer?
My lips are sore
my life's a bore and so, prone upon the bed
I step outside of this weary head and wander through the passages
remembering massages and brief encounters
steps on which I've stood and wept
stairways crept up fitfully
just to see what was up there
and now
I come across the bare light
the coldness of the moonlight
and the howling of the winds that bite and harried me along
for I in fear would not delay
to welcome in another day and welcome out the night
polite is always best to be
never know when you might see or need a darker place
so just in case
I go that extra mile put out a charming smile
and all the while
my insides churn
my body burns
twists and turns and
in turns I see
the metronome that laughs at me
and what a waste then it would be
tick
tick
never as sick as when you're well
too much heaven down here in hell.
Then rising
realising that I'm back at where I started from
is like someone has dropped the bomb
and I am just collateral
a colony of flattery
and a sycophantic man I'll be
until the evening when I see
that no one stands alone with me.
In this saturation
this desolation spiced up with my perspiration
I don't smell so sweet
another timely beat from my friend metronome
ticks the box and I am home
tomorrow I may lie prone again
tomorrow just might be the same as if in this never ending game
I do not go to jail or collect my bonus from the bank.
Why So Serious
well Frank, the Government sponsored failsafe think tank
said to me,
'drug free is the way to go and then he went'
leaving me with bones so crooked,bent I can hardly stand
A helping hand that helps itself
to dreams of youthfulness and health
I see
or rather cannot see
what is the point and what's for me
but that is just another lie
tick
tick
my how time does fly.
Why
I don't think I'l ever know the answers that I seek so
dearly
I'm not nearly bright enough.
Jun 2, 2013
Jun 2, 2013 at 3:15 AM UTC
She smiled, those eyes of greeting,
Doors opened with moving breeze,
I entered the drawing room, amused
As I crept with creeks from golden
Wood floors at the foot of the stairs,
Throughout her abode, finery draped
And sheer linens played with the sun
Round her body. We drew the curtains
That led the light and waited for dark,
A kettle broke out and filled our cups
By the bay windows that burst, pierced
Into her lovely gardens, we had some
Tea and talked of travels and seasons
Huddled in the glassy mirror of nook,
Of her white conservatory, at the table
Already made with silver and crystal
And songbirds sang in the open airs.
Sep 14, 2015
Sep 14, 2015 at 5:14 PM UTC
I used to listen to Winehouse in the greenhouse and the windows cried in pain.
I had Gillespie in the conservatory and Kitt in the kitchen, but I saved Brenda Lee for the bedroom see 'cause she was the queen.
I had them all running recordings in my head, Dave Dee, Fats Domino, Bono, Callas for a touch of class, Des and Bygraves, slaves to the sound spinning around in my mind and now I can't find a song that's familiar, can't make out the words, don't know the artists, missed out along the tracks, no vinyls, no needles, no tables just racks of CD's
oh please tell me it isn't so
this can't be the way to go,
where's Slim and Kim and Marty gonna go now that the party is over?
In the greenhouse where I listened to Winehouse and watched the pickup pick up the beat,
I take a back seat and eat a tomato while nothing else is going on.
Dec 11, 2015
Dec 11, 2015 at 6:21 PM UTC
While leaves may dance
as the wind visits, passing by
on its way from there to here,
there can be a stillness too
that comes upon itself, falls,
descends even, alighting on
plant or tree and settles, stays
for a moment or maybe a while,
restlessness resting.
In the conservatory
it is time for tea
and the finches flit about
as Lucy opens the door,
brings the tray forward
to the table by the Citrus Sinensis.
A plain girl whose face lights up
as the little birds flutter to her side,
and suddenly bright-eyed,
with grace she kneels
to wait the required moments
for the Lapsang to enfuse
before pouring, before filling
my bone china cup painted
with the quaking aspen leaves
of the Populous Tremuloides
shimmering and fluttering,
quivering like butterflies.
Feb 3, 2014
Feb 3, 2014 at 12:55 PM UTC
Two years ago I had a bad insomnia. As I remember, not sleeping enough led me to apathy and depression. Indeed, it was miserable time; I was lost in time and space, browsing through clubs and restaurants, looking for my medicine. But what I discovered was more than a cure from my insomnia; it was a life enriching experience that still brings beauty into my life.
It happened on one of those misty autumn nights. As I sat at the table, the DJ announced the name of a young performer. “This night will be just like all the other sleepless, long, and boring nights,” I thought, as she appeared in front of the audience. Seventeen or nineteen years old, dark blond, in a long black dress, a scared out of her wits conservatory student.
As I started looking impatiently for a waiter, she sat down at the piano and...
In the whole world clocks stopped. It was as if a colorful butterfly, following the shiny cold creek, flew into my soul, bringing the fresh breeze on its tiny wings. At her gentle touch of the keyboard, I got to see how beautiful she was. From the music she played, her face started pouring out light, and her pale skin glowed like the surface of the moon. Her music gushed into my veins infusing me with life. For a moment I thought, "She must be a goddess." The harmony of her music gave her confidence. She talked artfully to the black and white keys persuading them with striking chords. It reminded me of my childhood: easy, curious, satisfied and simple.
After she finished, she bowed down in front of everybody. Before disappearing behind the curtains, she looked at me and smiled for a short while, as though she knew me.
That night I came home and slept all night and all day.
I wanted to listen to her again, but I could not find that pianist anywhere; I did not even know her name.
After a while, insomnia came back.
Either in attempts to revive feelings of that night or just mere sleepless insanity, I had attended piano classes over one month, every evening. Considering that I was twenty one years old, it was not easy, but it was worth it.
Now remembering that one night when I saw the playing goddess, I understand what I needed. It was not a good restaurant, expensive meals, and drinks, but real beauty. Not the one that is on the surface of magazines, where everybody sees it, but the one that stems from the depth of the being itself, expressed in the art and love, that is able to go inside me and make me feel alive again.
Since that sleepless autumn, every time I practice my piano, the magic butterfly comes back, and when I go to bed, I sleep as sweet as a child.
Mar 9, 2010
Mar 9, 2010 at 6:40 AM UTC
I hate the ****** things
But I love them
Tangled round my feet
And I have to be so careful where I step
Midnight killers
The remains of night feasting on my conservatory carpet
To greet me in the morning
Who wants to spend hours with a ball of black fur sat on their lap?
Yes, that's me
Maxemillion, Merlin and Spartacus
My black shiny boys
Three brothers who I don't own
I don't own! Simple really, we don't own cats because they own us
I hate cats
Nov 6, 2015
Nov 6, 2015 at 5:30 AM UTC
she lives in a crystal ball of paradise.
at the windows flowers of any and every kind sell themselves to you
it's a rainforest in a china tea cup on a chipped saucer
it's a conservatory in north east England
for 10 years we've watched each other's lives
for a while I was small enough for it to be a jungle, somewhere I could get lost in
small enough to believe that tigers didn't live in the outside world
but then gradually it just became a constant.
something in my life that stayed the same
and kept the monsters in
entangled in the plants, ivy crept up the legs of a chair.
hugging it into the floor such that it too seemed to grow from roots
roots which after so long I stopped tripping over and became a part of.
next to the chair, fragmented through leaves, bits of a table sat
and within that, books, books , books
this well-read vegetation read me
as I walked past every day and stared
as I changed my routes and grew 2 feet taller
as I let others tread my path too, let them get my compost in their shoes
and I loved this paradise for not a single thing died or wilted in all of that time
and as I walked home carrying satchels of heavier problems I saw this chunk of rainforest and felt safe, somehow
it sits on the end of a long street 5 minutes away from my front door.
in it sits a woman who every day for 10 years waves at me but never speaks.
not to me or anyone it seems
she does not know me
I do not know her and yet she waves, and I wave
and it saves me.
and I wonder when it started and if she knows how important it is to me
or if I started it or she
or if her only purpose is to wave
or if she even likes flowers
or if she is real
or if we will ever speak.
I have no answers but one.
We will never speak.
a cold day, too cold for October, too damp for mild, milky, smokey October
I pass a lamp post not too far away and I see it's peak
The conservatory peak and I think ahead and I feel scared
for today I am not lost in my problems
I am broken by them and think of anything else
I think of the woman and of who she is and what she did and I resolve to wave first
and I do
and for the first time in 10 years there is no one to wave back.
but the flowers
and even they look wilted
I still wave to the marvellous woman who may or may not be there
I can't see her but then
i don't know I ever did
her paradise is still there though the flowers are pastels
and I wave
and still, in that glass paradise, nothing wilts or dies
Dec 23, 2014
Dec 23, 2014 at 2:21 PM UTC
~College ( Juilliard/ Chapman/ Texas A&M;/ Boston Conservatory)
~Contract/Professional dancer (Joffrey Ballet/American Ballet Theatre)
~Become a fashion designer
~Buy mom a house
~Get married + kid(s) (daughter)
~Live in paris (1 year)
~Travel rest of the world
...................
Oct 10, 2016
Oct 10, 2016 at 12:08 AM UTC
.
She smiled, those eyes of greeting,
Doors opened with moving breeze,
I entered the drawing room, amused
As I crept with creeks from golden
Wood floors at the foot of the stairs,
Throughout her abode, finery draped
And sheer linens played with the sun
Round her body. We drew the curtains
That led the light and waited for dark,
A kettle broke out and filled our cups
By the bay windows that burst, pierced
Into her lovely gardens, we had some
Tea and talked of travels and seasons
Huddled in the glassy mirror of nook,
Of her white conservatory, at the table
Already made with silver and crystal
And songbirds sang in the open airs.
Mar 8, 2016
Mar 8, 2016 at 6:25 PM UTC
How seemingly mystic
The conservatory ideas,
engraved into our existence
developed into passions
leading to so much.
How seemingly confusing it can all be;
the cyclic, linear process of life.
Neither dead nor living.
There is only self.
Only one thing I can be sure of.
Self...
whatever that may be.
But that frightens me:
Only self,
myself
only me and again...
i'm alone in the dark.
How selfish existence is...
Oct 21, 2015
Oct 21, 2015 at 12:33 PM UTC
Foreign astral,
Shew me thy astronomical ways,
Taper me down silently,
Tuck me into thy extraterrestrial conservatory!!!!
May 24, 2015
May 24, 2015 at 4:03 PM UTC
The classically-trained and symphony-polished,
If someone deigned to listen to their disapprobations,
Would tell all and sundry that he was playing it all wrong;
Indeed, his technique so unsound, his ********* so maladroit
That those who had wrestled with that stringed contraption
Reportedly favored by the angels
For years, indeed decades, at Julliard and Oberlin
Insisted that he couldn’t really play at all
(His opinion of his critics remained unquoted,
Though it was said he tuned his instrument
In such a fashion to ensure that he alone
Could produce notes from it)
Yet every night, in the middle of another knockabout farce,
He would sit alone, under a single light, and pluck away
While the gathering in the seven-fifty tickets sat rapt,
Commutes from Chappaqua and mortgages in Great Neck
Forgotten for the ***** wholly transported out of themselves
By the shabby- hatted and unruly-mopped figure before them,
Even the cognoscenti and conservatory-bred
Bewitched in spite of themselves,
Though they regarded the strumming
Much differently than the great unwashed in the stalls
(The author of these anomalous tones, being a reticent sort,
Keeping his opinion of them to himself.)
Jun 16, 2017
Jun 16, 2017 at 10:04 AM UTC
I live in a garden, among a thousand blooming things
a sickly sweet saturation of color
my conservatory, scented of blood and
buttercream frosting.
There are lilacs, dahlias, daisies
rolling fields of white clover flowers,
bushes of honeysuckle,
and fences of heavy wisteria.
The trembling of a lonesome violin
floats in the background
each crooning pitch melting away into
masterful vibrato.
Briefly I am reminded of you,
by the sound of the distant violin,
but the smell of the salty, sticky air
and the tragic lament of each gentle arpeggio
reminds me why I ran away
in the first place.
Dec 19, 2019
Dec 19, 2019 at 1:54 PM UTC