"contemn" poems - Hello Poetry

1298 The Mushroom is the Elf of Plants— At Evening, it is not— At Morning, in a Truffled Hut It stop upon a Spot As if it tarried always And yet its whole Career Is shorter than a Snake’s Delay And fleeter than a Tare— ’Tis Vegetation’s Juggler— The Germ of Alibi— Doth like a Bubble antedate And like a Bubble, hie— I feel as if the Grass was pleased To have it intermit— This surreptitious scion Of Summer’s circumspect. Had Nature any supple Face Or could she one contemn— Had Nature an Apostate— That Mushroom—it is Him!

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7.5k

Emily Dickinson

The Mushroom is the Elf of Plants—

1298 The Mushroom is the Elf of Plants— At Evening, it is not— At Morning, in a Truffled Hut It stop upon a Spot As if it tarried always And yet its whole Career Is shorter than a Snake’s Delay And fleeter than a Tare— ’Tis Vegetation’s Juggler— The Germ of Alibi— Doth like a Bubble antedate And like a Bubble, hie— I feel as if the Grass was pleased To have it intermit— This surreptitious scion Of Summer’s circumspect. Had Nature any supple Face Or could she one contemn— Had Nature an Apostate— That Mushroom—it is Him!

21

She loveth me nay-- The supermodel-- Cause my pocket is lean. But I did apace tell Her as she's sashay- Ing along that "I'm no James Dean: That Hollywood icon and superstar, Who was by his acting rich in dollar; But that i'm a poet, writing poetry." So contemn me not, sultry popsy.

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Nov 9, 2011

Nov 9, 2011 at 2:41 PM UTC

folorunsho-obalugemo

Am no James Dean

She loveth me nay-- The supermodel-- Cause my pocket is lean. But I did apace tell Her as she's sashay- Ing along that "I'm no James Dean: That Hollywood icon and superstar, Who was by his acting rich in dollar; But that i'm a poet, writing poetry." So contemn me not, sultry popsy.

10

The streets, plain The scenery, new but unchanged The city, now black and white The candle that failed to ignite The crisp morning air The usual affairs The same unheated ground Then there was a faint sound The leaves started to sway There was a presence of warm sun rays The grass and flowers danced The prospect, enhanced All because my ears have found A vaguely familiar and new sound An enamoring explosion of melody An enthralling harmony A beguiling musicality An enslaving euphony A perfect array of notes Flowing with a hypnotic coat A piercing tune Resembling a rune It's rhythm, throbbing It's tempo, moving The sound was too perfect and strong That it seemed like a torturous song Nonetheless, it was a beautiful beat Beautiful enough to move my feet What I heard was an alluring sound That eventually made me slide through the ground I closed my eyes and followed what I heard Walking, searching, to clarify the blurred The faint sound, grew louder Eventually I was overpowered While seeking for the source of the hymn I turned into a willing victim My feet have stopped moving When I saw a man, the man who was playing My eyes settled upon his silhouette Which was in contrast to the sunset There he was, sitting on a wooden stool Unknowingly making all the listeners drool His fingers fluttering atop black and white keys Creating color through a musical breeze I saw him, that man Still playing, talking through his hands I followed a sound and saw a pianist And then my heart was kissed Not because of the music that made my ears fuss Not because he splashed paint all over the dull canvas But because of how he looked at the instrument It's as if, for the piano, his eyes were meant How he gazed upon it with those eyes As if the piano was his only prize How he goggled the piano with those eyes As if for that instrument he was willing to agonize As if he can only see the piano As if there was only him and the piano It was that look that little girls dream of It was that look that symbolized love That look that little girls wished were for them That look that would give little girls contemn That look that was only for the piano That look that was pure as snow That look was colorful and honestly warm That look that entrapped a celestial swarm That look which was gentle and intense That look which was passionate and immense That look which was alive, painful and afraid In that moment, I longed for a shooting star's aid As if a little girl, I wished for what little girls wish for I wished for him to look at me like that, nothing more But none can compare with his instrument Nor to the reason why he plays it with such intent To the new girl he plays for To the girl he currently adores I hope his sound reaches you I hope you listen and give him value I hope you look at him as he plays for you Look at him like how he looks at the piano when he thinks of you Like how the crowd looks at him as he plays like this Like how the little girls look like when they wish Like how he used to look at the piano When he misses and plays for the little girl, not too long ago

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Nov 30, 2015

Nov 30, 2015 at 10:25 AM UTC

Stitch

Nostalgia

The streets, plain The scenery, new but unchanged The city, now black and white The candle that failed to ignite The crisp morning air The usual affairs The same unheated ground Then there was a faint sound The leaves started to sway There was a presence of warm sun rays The grass and flowers danced The prospect, enhanced All because my ears have found A vaguely familiar and new sound An enamoring explosion of melody An enthralling harmony A beguiling musicality An enslaving euphony A perfect array of notes Flowing with a hypnotic coat A piercing tune Resembling a rune It's rhythm, throbbing It's tempo, moving The sound was too perfect and strong That it seemed like a torturous song Nonetheless, it was a beautiful beat Beautiful enough to move my feet What I heard was an alluring sound That eventually made me slide through the ground I closed my eyes and followed what I heard Walking, searching, to clarify the blurred The faint sound, grew louder Eventually I was overpowered While seeking for the source of the hymn I turned into a willing victim My feet have stopped moving When I saw a man, the man who was playing My eyes settled upon his silhouette Which was in contrast to the sunset There he was, sitting on a wooden stool Unknowingly making all the listeners drool His fingers fluttering atop black and white keys Creating color through a musical breeze I saw him, that man Still playing, talking through his hands I followed a sound and saw a pianist And then my heart was kissed Not because of the music that made my ears fuss Not because he splashed paint all over the dull canvas But because of how he looked at the instrument It's as if, for the piano, his eyes were meant How he gazed upon it with those eyes As if the piano was his only prize How he goggled the piano with those eyes As if for that instrument he was willing to agonize As if he can only see the piano As if there was only him and the piano It was that look that little girls dream of It was that look that symbolized love That look that little girls wished were for them That look that would give little girls contemn That look that was only for the piano That look that was pure as snow That look was colorful and honestly warm That look that entrapped a celestial swarm That look which was gentle and intense That look which was passionate and immense That look which was alive, painful and afraid In that moment, I longed for a shooting star's aid As if a little girl, I wished for what little girls wish for I wished for him to look at me like that, nothing more But none can compare with his instrument Nor to the reason why he plays it with such intent To the new girl he plays for To the girl he currently adores I hope his sound reaches you I hope you listen and give him value I hope you look at him as he plays for you Look at him like how he looks at the piano when he thinks of you Like how the crowd looks at him as he plays like this Like how the little girls look like when they wish Like how he used to look at the piano When he misses and plays for the little girl, not too long ago

84

love graceful and delicate but it can go from smiling, caring, and laughing to contemn, despise, and scorn and ends up being bitter and resentful hate

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Aug 15, 2015

Aug 15, 2015 at 2:11 AM UTC

jenny-g

Untitled

love graceful and delicate but it can go from smiling, caring, and laughing to contemn, despise, and scorn and ends up being bitter and resentful hate

9

Lights, Not far away, Just beside dark they sway, May be some are dazzled by them, And some are just fighting their demons with contemn!

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Dec 27, 2019

Dec 27, 2019 at 6:06 AM UTC

tanu_shree_shukla

LIGHTS

Lights, Not far away, Just beside dark they sway, May be some are dazzled by them, And some are just fighting their demons with contemn!

5

I stopped believing in love; because all I see is agony and heartbreak. It has been more than 445 days when things started to collapse. Your ignorance is unlike anything I have seen before. Much as I have been analysing your situation from different angles, there is nothing left to dig into. I am left alone; puzzled and hooked on the unknown… I thought I saw heaven on the other side, but you were an incredibly deceiving black-hole. You should know that I’m entitled to this rage as much as you are entitled to the choice you made to leave me forsaken. Your traces are deep wounds, and they are yet extremely sore. Thus, I have no other option, but to shed tears more, and more… Recalling the past is an incurable disease. You seem to have successfully latched onto my system. But do not get me wrong; I contemn the bitterness as I remember what we used to be. It is not a mystery that you strangely implicate the choices I make, and all the steps I am going to take. It actually boils my blood to admit that I have an incentive greed. I need to think that I am crossing your mind every second of the day just like you do mine. Otherwise, what is the point of falling in and out of love? Still, your silence defies each drop of faith, I have stored inside. You have a ruthless soul; I’ll give you that. Now tell me; by what means can I possibly pull you out of a bottomless heart? It is a curse you see; once you got in, you never got out…

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Jul 3, 2016

Jul 3, 2016 at 7:52 PM UTC

kawther-alkhabbaz

Shades of distress

I stopped believing in love; because all I see is agony and heartbreak. It has been more than 445 days when things started to collapse. Your ignorance is unlike anything I have seen before. Much as I have been analysing your situation from different angles, there is nothing left to dig into. I am left alone; puzzled and hooked on the unknown… I thought I saw heaven on the other side, but you were an incredibly deceiving black-hole. You should know that I’m entitled to this rage as much as you are entitled to the choice you made to leave me forsaken. Your traces are deep wounds, and they are yet extremely sore. Thus, I have no other option, but to shed tears more, and more… Recalling the past is an incurable disease. You seem to have successfully latched onto my system. But do not get me wrong; I contemn the bitterness as I remember what we used to be. It is not a mystery that you strangely implicate the choices I make, and all the steps I am going to take. It actually boils my blood to admit that I have an incentive greed. I need to think that I am crossing your mind every second of the day just like you do mine. Otherwise, what is the point of falling in and out of love? Still, your silence defies each drop of faith, I have stored inside. You have a ruthless soul; I’ll give you that. Now tell me; by what means can I possibly pull you out of a bottomless heart? It is a curse you see; once you got in, you never got out…

5

O yea, judge a lady not on the company she keepeth, It may be a reflection of her lack of choice Due to the ugliness of her face, tragic be that, Verily, measure her not by the tears she weepeth, For she may be weeping tears of humiliation, forsooth, Pronounce thee not upon the words she speaketh, Her accent may not be of the finest calibre Thanks to her lower class upbringing and bad teaching In this accursed socialist society we are curséd withal. Who be one such as I to contemn her in hypocritic words? In dark’s solace I'll just take her hand and let her share my camp-bed And in innocent insomniac lust we'll **** like puppy-dogs.

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Nov 11, 2014

Nov 11, 2014 at 10:44 AM UTC

edna-sweetlove

Forsooth

O yea, judge a lady not on the company she keepeth, It may be a reflection of her lack of choice Due to the ugliness of her face, tragic be that, Verily, measure her not by the tears she weepeth, For she may be weeping tears of humiliation, forsooth, Pronounce thee not upon the words she speaketh, Her accent may not be of the finest calibre Thanks to her lower class upbringing and bad teaching In this accursed socialist society we are curséd withal. Who be one such as I to contemn her in hypocritic words? In dark’s solace I'll just take her hand and let her share my camp-bed And in innocent insomniac lust we'll **** like puppy-dogs.

12

The Conclusion of a National Service Man President Nixon's national flags campaign (incidentally rejected by the British Prime Minister Harold Wilson). (contemn, origin: old French: contemner - to despise) For us to go to war they lied, And that is why we went and died, To add our flag, with theirs to fly, And no one thought to question why. Conscripted, and we trusted them, Never thinking they'd contemn their people. Those then, who blindly cast their votes Slaughtered us. We then, their sacrificial goats.

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Mar 2, 2019

Mar 2, 2019 at 4:42 PM UTC

Expressive_Muse

On Conscription

The Conclusion of a National Service Man President Nixon's national flags campaign (incidentally rejected by the British Prime Minister Harold Wilson). (contemn, origin: old French: contemner - to despise) For us to go to war they lied, And that is why we went and died, To add our flag, with theirs to fly, And no one thought to question why. Conscripted, and we trusted them, Never thinking they'd contemn their people. Those then, who blindly cast their votes Slaughtered us. We then, their sacrificial goats.

12