"cravat" poems
182
If I shouldn’t be alive
When the Robins come,
Give the one in Red Cravat,
A Memorial crumb.
If I couldn’t thank you,
Being fast asleep,
You will know I’m trying
Why my Granite lip!
17.3k
Your father was raised in Panama. I can imagine him vividly... The floral silk shirt with velvety red cravat, tan leather loafers, waxed-to-perfection moustache, and a big cigar. It was the late sixties and he was beautiful. I've never seen a photo but I can tell by the way you talked about him. His joi de vivre oozed into your stories and I recognized it: the distilled essence of his elegance was passed to you, and you shared it with me.
We met by our mutual attraction for showing off... I wanted to be treated like a delicate porcelain treasure - you wanted a plastic toy with the price tag of an heirloom. Twenty five years my senior and you still hadn't learned your lesson about girls like me... I may have broken your heart, but you should've known a tryst between the free-spirited edge of seventeen and a businessman with dreams of Panama would burn out in the end, just like your father's cigar.
Jun 9, 2016
Jun 9, 2016 at 8:50 PM UTC
Pennarby shaft is dark and steep,
Eight foot wide, eight hundred deep.
Stout the bucket and tough the cord,
Strong as the arm of Winchman Ford.
'Never look down!
Stick to the line!'
That was the saying at Pennarby mine.
A stranger came to Pennarby shaft.
Lord, to see how the miners laughed!
White in the collar and stiff in the hat,
With his patent boots and his silk cravat,
Picking his way,
Dainty and fine,
Stepping on tiptoe to Pennarby mine.
Touring from London, so he said.
Was it copper they dug for? or gold? or lead?
Where did they find it? How did it come?
If he tried with a shovel might he get some?
Stooping so much
Was bad for the spine;
And wasn't it warmish in Pennarby mine?
'Twas like two worlds that met that day--
The world of work and the world of play;
And the grimy lads from the reeking shaft
Nudged each other and grinned and chaffed.
'Got 'em all out!'
'A cousin of mine!'
So ran the banter at Pennarby mine.
And Carnbrae Bob, the Pennarby wit,
Told him the facts about the pit:
How they bored the shaft till the brimstone smell
Warned them off from tapping -- well,
He wouldn't say what,
But they took it as sign
To dig no deeper in Pennarby mine.
Then leaning over and peering in,
He was pointing out what he said was tin
In the ten-foot lode -- a crash! a jar!
A grasping hand and a splintered bar.
Gone in his strength,
With the lips that laughed--
Oh, the pale faces round Pennarby shaft!
Far down on a narrow ledge,
They saw him cling to the crumbling edge.
'Wait for the bucket! Hi, man! Stay!
That rope ain't safe! It's worn away!
He's taking his chance,
Slack out the line!
Sweet Lord be with him! 'cried Pennarby mine.
'He's got him! He has him! Pull with a will!
Thank God! He's over and breathing still.
And he -- Lord's sakes now! What's that? Well!
Blowed if it ain't our London swell.
Your heart is right
If your coat is fine:
Give us your hand! 'cried Pennarby mine.
2k
Dancing outside the saloon,
they toss pennies at his feet.
On his harmonica he plays,
a tune, off key, up beat.
On his head of sparse grey hair,
he sports an old top hat.
His tattered coat of tailored tails,
frames a frayed and worn cravat.
On a thin frame the tux does hang,
his pants, held up with twine.
You can't help, but to think,
he is from another time.
Come rain or shine, he is there.
Tip of his hat to all the girls.
He gives a nod of thanks at each sound,
as round his feet, the pennies swirl.
Feb 18, 2013
Feb 18, 2013 at 6:09 PM UTC
We never saw eye to eye,
you and I.
Me with my growth spurts
and eclipse of hair,
you with high-buttoned shirts,
cravat-ensnared.
We took turns to overlook each other.
Like your birthday on Valentine's:
I, aged nine,
ate with open flies.
You mocked until I begged you cease.
You told me boys don't cry,
but smile and grit their teeth.
Callous, Clements, but I've ground on since.
And ten years on, your white flag
got snagged,
when your lesson on how to heat
one's whisky in one's crotch
landed you at Matron's feet,
and I revelled as I watched.
Maybe we should have been friends.
There's a lot of you in me,
D.V.C.
but a pinch of salt for each trait.
So let's bury the hatchet where you died
and let's put it down to fate
that I wasn't by your side,
with a handful of earth.
Sep 21, 2011
Sep 21, 2011 at 6:49 AM UTC
being Polish was never **** it was never a clue for
the sentencing of volleyball team effort... it was never ****
whatever it was... it was never going to be an Irish
bargain of gambling... it was just bad luck...
something akin to Lithuanian, something worth forgetting...
like Indians and the Bangladeshis... like Versailles and Belvederes palaces...
it was worth forgetting... which exemplified the love of
music in western Europe... and where music is
lacking there the poetic expression... well thank you Pink Floyd,
but let us forget Auden... we can all do enough with a sing-along...
but when it comes to canvases of involvement to track
the shoe-lace ties or the cravat tangle readied for a ballet...
well, aren't you the one to tell us that it was just
a calorie intake of veganism:
mark that as a turnip postage... and a
fried potato licked, while she gags on ageing for the
added repertoire of scandal in sandals flicked to represent lapping
tongues and butterfly flicking of what became
flapped toe-curls of synchronisation; and the dipping,
soda baking of a tartar sauerkraut.
Aug 17, 2016
Aug 17, 2016 at 10:37 PM UTC
You have always thought
since you were a little girl
That all you had to do
was do a pretty twirl,
and the world would fall
into your pretty lap
with your fancy silk cravat,
and your simpering sighs.
You. Make. Me. Sick.
Twirl little girl,
If you may,
To twirl and twirl another day
in your fancy house with your sparkling jewels,
they're what you call 'bargaining tools'.
Of pearl or diamond
they're not made
lasting not in the rain,
Melting sugar, simpering dew,
puddle at my feet,
adieu, adieu.
Apr 20, 2011
Apr 20, 2011 at 4:56 PM UTC
The memory of a death comes knocking at the door,but of a death that has been and gone before,
and it will come again, as it has for many years and many tears have been shed.
Fred Wimbow didn't know the time and wasn't quite sure how to dress for his interview,
but he knew enough that to impress, he'd better look his ***** and span,best boots and spats a nifty cravat and hair tonic on his moustache.
He set of to the interview with answers ready in his head and was hit by a van which was driven by a short sighted man from Hartlepool and then poor Fred was dead,quite so,
and when Death came a knocking at the door the widow Wimbow knew what for.
And she was waiting case in hand to go meet Fred in the promised land.
Sep 5, 2013
Sep 5, 2013 at 1:02 PM UTC
I was late for school but it was cool, my chauffeur took the wrap
I even blamed the butler for the absence of my cap
My cravat was always crease-less and my slacks were really snappy
My shoes were always shiny, which made my pappy happy
Lesson one was cookery, but not for me today
So I sent our chef, an hour ahead, to make a nice soufflé
He usually does a marvelous job or when his mood permits
For Daddy signed him on a whim, after dining at the Ritz
Lesson two was Polo or Gymkhana if you must
So I chose fresh clothes and donned my hose as Polo’s upper crust
Oh I wish I’d brought my pony for the school ones just won’t do
They are barely fit for peasants, they are barely fit for glue
Morning break was late to take and the Polo match was drawn
But if you pleased, they’d bring cream teas to be taken on the lawn
I really didn't fancy Maths, so I stayed and sipped my char
For who could bear, and hour with Blair and his dreadful algebra
Lesson four was falconry with Mr Preston Love
His birds were plump but deadly and so quick off the glove
I loved to watch them soar and dive, a spiffing show for all
Reminds me of my gap year, hunting foxes in Nepal
Lesson five was cancelled as Mummsy wrote a letter
She felt that English won’t suffice and elocution’s better
So Wilson rolled up in the Rolls and whisked me off to class
I hope tomorrow’s much improved, for today was oh so crass
Oct 22, 2014
Oct 22, 2014 at 9:07 AM UTC
I once knew a man called Joy
We met when he was but a boy
He was merry as can be
But his chin was soon whiskery
He wore a red plumed hat
With a matching cravat
His pants were green and fluffed
Tucked into boots all scuffed
We had a cheery life together
No man could have ever been better
But soon he was far older than me
Eye to eye we could not see
His laugh lines got all baggy
His skin turned grey and saggy
It breaks my heart every day
Remembering what he did say
We were walking through a grove
Between the trees we strode
Under one he sat to rest his head
Looked about him and happily said
“This is more beauty I have ever seen”
On his face the light shone green
That was the last time I saw the man
“Please do not leave me!” I began
But it was too late and he was dead
Ever since I’ve felt nothing but dread
Dec 8, 2010
Dec 8, 2010 at 7:19 PM UTC
Always a bit of a mystery,
She lived in a seaside shack,
Would go to town when the sun was down
The widow of Martin Black.
She always went in her mourning dress
And a veil that covered her face,
‘Do you think she’d date,’ I had asked a mate,
‘You wouldn’t be in the race!’
‘There’s a list of suitors, long as your arm
Just waiting to take her out,
They knew her back on her Daddy’s farm
When Martin wasn’t about,
But he ******* them all with his shiny Porsche
With his black cravat and coat,
And in the bay not a mile away
With his V6 Jet-ski boat.’
‘You tell me she was a good time girl
In love with material things?’
‘She certainly liked the odd gemstone
And her hands were covered with rings.
But that was him, with his taste for gold
That he liked to shower on her,
And parade her down in the glitz of town
In bling, and covered in fur.’
‘And yet, I’ve not seen a single chain
Or a necklace, brooch or ring,
She’s so austere when I’ve noticed her
I’ve not seen anything,
She wears a drape of the blackest crepe
And a veil that hides her eyes,
But pauses there when I stop and stare
As if caught in some surprise.’
‘That isn’t much of a mystery
If you knew the couple, Jack,
You might as well be a twin of him
The fabled Martin Black.
She’d think that his ghost had risen up
If she saw you in the street,
You might just give her a heart attack
If your dress is not discreet.’
I went back home to the mirror, donned
A coat and a black cravat,
And topped it off with a load of bling
And an old black stove-pipe hat,
The type they said that he used to wear
When they roamed abroad at night,
Taking in all the music halls
To dance till the early light.
She saw me there in the street, and screamed
Then rushed at me and attacked,
And cried, ‘you’re not going to spoil my dreams,
You’ll not be coming back!’
Her fists had pounded my solid form
Til she stopped, collapsed and cried,
And babbled out a confession that
For long, she’d kept inside.
The last I heard she was with the police
Who had questioned her all night,
Extracted all of the details of some
Long and drawn out fight,
They took her down to the waterfront
Where the Jet-ski boat was kept,
And then began to rip up the floor
As the widow wailed and wept.
And he was there with a livid scar
Where she’d slashed him in the throat,
Stuffed him under the planks and boards
By his pride and joy, the boat,
I didn’t know he had disappeared
When I’d thought to bring him back,
But all I’d caused was a host of tears
For the Widow of Martin Black.
David Lewis Paget
Mar 13, 2015
Mar 13, 2015 at 4:16 AM UTC
I prefer my actors live on stage:
Living, breathing, running around.
But sometimes you need a stiff;
I like them to be, metaphorically speaking, upstanding
With a military bearing and patriotic moustache,
Ideally tricked, or seduced, by cunning foreigners.
Once they are dead, I want them face down,
Fully clothed, shot in the back,
Being studied by a stooping policeman,
Or better still, an upper class pre-war sleuth
With a cravat and a monocle;
No need for ceremony with them.
A doctor arrives.
‘What seems to be trouble?’ he asks.
‘He’s dead, you idiot!’ cries the sleuth;
‘Make yourself useful. Get Lady Bounder here a cup of tea.
She’s fainted. Two sugars.’
Enter Inspector Dummy.
‘It looks like ****** he announces.
‘Give the boy a medal,’ comes the witty reply.
‘Oh, sorry, your Lordship. Shall I shine your shoes?’
Then there’s a sub-plot, a side issue:
The bones of a victim
Of a botched bank robbery
Forty years before
And the stiff was his grandson.
It’s a hard job, being dead on stage,
Or so I’m told, I’ve never tried it.
I once saw a ****** victim sneeze, twice,
Under a table in the library.
He deserved that kick; nothing like a good laugh.
Nov 28, 2017
Nov 28, 2017 at 11:49 AM UTC
They’d had him dead to rights for poisoning the well,
Least wise as far as they reckoned,
His fingerprints all over the pail
(Not the only set, but there in a goodly number nonetheless)
And footprints more-or-less conforming
To his boots in size and tread
And perhaps all that wasn’t stitched up as tight
As the sheriff’s boys would have liked it,
But there were other factors,
Things inferred and whispered
It being a place and time where truth
Was a sufficiently malleable thing
(There was also the testimony of one woman,
A lover, perhaps, or at least in her own visions,
Whose sworn statement was punctuated
With wild gesticulations and shrieking denunciations
As to how the accused had shredded all vows holy and otherwise,
The whole thing close enough to madness
That it was surreptitiously removed from the record)
And the trial was a brief, perfunctory affair
The defense attorney literally in shock
From the cavalier manner by his objections were waved away,
His motions for mistrial and subsequent appeal
Disappearing into some void of bored court clerks and paralegals,
The upshot of which was one man
Fitted with an unappealing cravat
Paraded before a sufficient gathering of onlookers
(But a quieter affair than such things normally were,
The harsh cacophony of the cicadas,
String section tuning for some discordant symphony,
Rising above the hum of the attendant mass)
And as the proceedings rambled onward
Towards its unwelcome conclusion,
The guest of honor grimly mused
As to how restoring of the water table and its potability
Would do little to put things to right.
Jul 28, 2022
Jul 28, 2022 at 4:19 PM UTC
bandana for a cravat / bow-tie,
and with a shawl you don
after a warehouse sprinkle,
you take seeing for an itch
and just stop blinking.
Feb 3, 2016
Feb 3, 2016 at 7:01 PM UTC
Red robin sing
messages you doth bring
t'ween hedgerows you hide
whispering secrets totherside
ebullient flyer
dash between, betwixt
garden to church spire
Sharing tales
from beyond the ghosts
scarlet cravat uppermost
Martyn Grindrod
Feb 14, 2019
Feb 14, 2019 at 12:28 PM UTC
Poppy remembers
Grandpas old coat
And the silk
Cravat and the
Pen that defines
Without shame
The lover of beauty
Mar 14, 2017
Mar 14, 2017 at 5:50 AM UTC