"demurral" poems - Hello Poetry

649 Her Sweet turn to leave the Homestead Came the Darker Way— Carriages—Be Sure—and Guests—too— But for Holiday ’Tis more pitiful Endeavor Than did Loaded Sea O’er the Curls attempt to caper It had cast away— Never Bride had such Assembling— Never kinsmen kneeled To salute so fair a Forehead— Garland be indeed— Fitter Feet—of Her before us— Than whatever Brow Art of Snow—or Trick of Lily Possibly bestow Of Her Father—Whoso ask Her— He shall seek as high As the Palm—that serve the Desert— To obtain the Sky— Distance—be Her only Motion— If ’tis Nay—or Yes— Acquiescence—or Demurral— Whosoever guess— He—must pass the Crystal Angle That obscure Her face— He—must have achieved in person Equal Paradise—

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Emily Dickinson

Her Sweet turn to leave the Homestead

649 Her Sweet turn to leave the Homestead Came the Darker Way— Carriages—Be Sure—and Guests—too— But for Holiday ’Tis more pitiful Endeavor Than did Loaded Sea O’er the Curls attempt to caper It had cast away— Never Bride had such Assembling— Never kinsmen kneeled To salute so fair a Forehead— Garland be indeed— Fitter Feet—of Her before us— Than whatever Brow Art of Snow—or Trick of Lily Possibly bestow Of Her Father—Whoso ask Her— He shall seek as high As the Palm—that serve the Desert— To obtain the Sky— Distance—be Her only Motion— If ’tis Nay—or Yes— Acquiescence—or Demurral— Whosoever guess— He—must pass the Crystal Angle That obscure Her face— He—must have achieved in person Equal Paradise—

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My Night with Art Garfunkel some years back wrote a poem titled My Night with Paul Simon,^ so it seems that in time, this his companion’s piece would find me, reaching its own due date, the timing right, indeed, perceived, by the muses that this one, the poet who cannot sing, needs urgently another soft poet’s voice, to come to me at night, and so it came to pass last night a regaler, the teller of tales, both of us looking admiringly upon what was our youthful appearance that only we see in a vintage Murano mirror the where the why, no matter, just two NYC boys in their declining years reminiscing about growing up in Queens, telling tales with no need for exaggeration, too old for that, for old men lying is always sadder than sad and the truthful stories are not stories, but harmonies the voices are worn soft, the worse for wear, and the velveteen is two shaded where usage has reduced the weave, and sunlight has discolored but not discouraged the aging agents we exchange verses, the swapping of our ****** fluids, I do not share my prior pope paul adventure, a separate but now equalized recording he signs his new book for me, full of reminisce and new verses and I am thinking Art for art’s sake, or art for Art’s sake or both wistful higher and higher notes that can longer be reached of no consequence, for the body is the work and the work is from the body let’s take a selfie I ask, but a polite demurral hints of better a preference remembrance of things the way they were, in the past, but I snap a quick photo and it resides on a Facebook entry, unless the muses deleted it without telling me (which they do quite frequently, hoarding the best I made all for their elusives elfish selfish-selves)^^ Dec 5, 2017 10:20pm <•> ^ https://hellopoetry.com/poem/387251/my-night-with-paul-simon/ June 2013 ^^ https://hellopoetry.com/poem/747333/the-elusives/ June 2014

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Jan 13, 2018

Jan 13, 2018 at 5:19 AM UTC

nat-lipstadt

My Night with Art Garfunkel (a true story)

My Night with Art Garfunkel some years back wrote a poem titled My Night with Paul Simon,^ so it seems that in time, this his companion’s piece would find me, reaching its own due date, the timing right, indeed, perceived, by the muses that this one, the poet who cannot sing, needs urgently another soft poet’s voice, to come to me at night, and so it came to pass last night a regaler, the teller of tales, both of us looking admiringly upon what was our youthful appearance that only we see in a vintage Murano mirror the where the why, no matter, just two NYC boys in their declining years reminiscing about growing up in Queens, telling tales with no need for exaggeration, too old for that, for old men lying is always sadder than sad and the truthful stories are not stories, but harmonies the voices are worn soft, the worse for wear, and the velveteen is two shaded where usage has reduced the weave, and sunlight has discolored but not discouraged the aging agents we exchange verses, the swapping of our ****** fluids, I do not share my prior pope paul adventure, a separate but now equalized recording he signs his new book for me, full of reminisce and new verses and I am thinking Art for art’s sake, or art for Art’s sake or both wistful higher and higher notes that can longer be reached of no consequence, for the body is the work and the work is from the body let’s take a selfie I ask, but a polite demurral hints of better a preference remembrance of things the way they were, in the past, but I snap a quick photo and it resides on a Facebook entry, unless the muses deleted it without telling me (which they do quite frequently, hoarding the best I made all for their elusives elfish selfish-selves)^^ Dec 5, 2017 10:20pm <•> ^ https://hellopoetry.com/poem/387251/my-night-with-paul-simon/ June 2013 ^^ https://hellopoetry.com/poem/747333/the-elusives/ June 2014

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she said to herself: be willing you will not crumple to the floor and weep fear not humiliation fear demurral

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Sep 29, 2018

Sep 29, 2018 at 9:06 AM UTC

bn02

how she would survive the world

she said to herself: be willing you will not crumple to the floor and weep fear not humiliation fear demurral

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