"disdainfully" poems
Reflecting disdainfully, remembering painfully,
upsetting, annoying, troublesome
Bickering, sarcastic, disputing, bombastic,
arrogant, conceited, unwelcome
Fastidious relations, private fixations,
foreboding, disturbing resentment
Silently scheming, nobody weeping,
selfish, unblinking, TRIUMPHANT!
Feb 7, 2010
Feb 7, 2010 at 10:23 AM UTC
She sits in the back of classes
Answers all the questions
As if there to her all alone.
She annoys those around
Like no other.
She spews out another answer,
And sits back with a smug smile.
She thinks she just a little better then the rest.
She basks in the glow of self satisfaction,
Looking disdainfully down on those around her.
All the While insulting those who laugh or smile,
as if their Happiness annoys her most of all.
Do you think when she looks around,
And realizes she has no friends,
That she just supposes she’s too good for them?
Feb 7, 2013
Feb 7, 2013 at 4:27 PM UTC
She strolled along the narrow pathway through
the park. Her soft skirt flitting in the breeze,
her long legs smooth and pampered, sandaled feet
took mellow steps under the Springtime sun.
She caught the eye of Fred, who from his book
rose up bespectacled and drank the scene
of one young beauty carried by the breeze,
and thanked the Lord for all His wondrous things.
She noticed that he noticed and she sneered,
disdainfully and crushed him with the lids
of scornful eyes that closed upon his face,
and cursed the womb that birthed this pervert live.
She caught the eye of Tom, whose magazine
dropped to the bench from fingers preening hair,
his lion's gaze devouring this gazelle,
and she took notice of his notice there.
She threw back hair and turned to meet his gaze
with sideways glance, a wink, and half pursed lips,
amazed a stroll from bench to bench could find
a pervert and a stud so side by side.
Both men came to the park to sit and read,
and read indeed, then both, like men, did do
what men so do, and neither differed there,
yet one was deemed a pervert, one a stud.
(C)2014, Christos Rigakos
Apr 15, 2014
Apr 15, 2014 at 4:16 PM UTC
replacing white lines with gray ash and sleeping in beds for sleeping in bathrooms and you wonder if you had any self respect in the first place because this afternoon you tried to think of your happiest memories in the past year and it wasn't when you were in someone's arms or thinking of your successes in the mirror while you flexed your kickass young *** it was when you were smoking bummed menthols and your friend commandeered a miniature tractor in the tenderloin and conducted two drug deals in less than 30 minutes and you watched her disdainfully with her girlfriend and wondered where on ******* earth you could get a three dollar old fashioned and let a forty year old flirt with you for coke and you wouldn't even have to do anything for it wouldn't life be nice like that
Oct 21, 2014
Oct 21, 2014 at 5:32 PM UTC
Tanagra! think not I forget
Thy beautifully-storey'd streets;
Be sure my memory bathes yet
In clear Thermodon, and yet greets
The blythe and liberal shepherd boy,
Whose sunny ***** swells with joy
When we accept his matted rushes
Upheaved with sylvan fruit; away he bounds, and blushes.
I promise to bring back with me
What thou with transport wilt receive,
The only proper gift for thee,
Of which no mortal shall bereave
In later times thy mouldering walls,
Until the last old turret falls;
A crown, a crown from Athens won!
A crown no god can wear, beside Latona's son.
There may be cities who refuse
To their own child the honours due,
And look ungently on the Muse;
But ever shall those cities rue
The dry, unyielding, niggard breast,
Offering no nourishment, no rest,
To that young head which soon shall rise
Disdainfully, in might and glory, to the skies.
Sweetly where cavern'd Dirce flows
Do white-arm'd maidens chaunt my lay,
Flapping the while with laurel-rose
The honey-gathering tribes away;
And sweetly, sweetly, Attick tongues
Lisp your Corinna's early songs;
To her with feet more graceful come
The verses that have dwelt in kindred ******* at home.
O let thy children lean aslant
Against the tender mother's knee,
And gaze into her face, and want
To know what magic there can be
In words that urge some eyes to dance,
While others as in holy trance
Look up to heaven; be such my praise!
Why linger? I must haste, or lose the Delphick bays.
1.8k
she has prized credentials
where grovelling is concerned
and many a brownie point
without merit she's earned
******* up to management
is something she's good at
her activity is as undistinguished
as a gross gutter rat
she crawls all over the high ups
like an uncontrollable rash
her sycophantic behavior
causes our teeth to disdainfully gnash
to observe her inching
up the head honcho's ***
makes us all snigger
at her sniveling farce
Mar 31, 2013
Mar 31, 2013 at 11:06 AM UTC
the death
of self, exhaled, borne upon
wafts of
air, and
I, with my self-conscious
prose and pretensions
of intellectualism,
and I, dreaded I -
there is a beauty in
ideology; even wastrelism,
being the muck of the earth and
much reviled by Proper Gentlemen,
has its allure and adherents
those disciples of Dionysus,
bacchanalia becoming banal by
sheer repetition:
***** ***** ***** shotgunned beers, and then-
TEQUIIIILA!!
crowed at the top of their lungs,
memory expunged by
hepatic-processed organic compounds.
of course, these mannerisms are simply
beneath you, disdainfully
catalogued by keen eyes:
no, your form of forgettance
is much more forceful, much less
fanciful and romanticized:
your amnesia is
absolute,
it required nothing less than
total dedication, mortification,
death of self as you
expatiated lusts, loves,
aught but ambitions remain,
and now, you have triumphed:
you stand solitary, skyscrapers
shining for your personal
pleasure, yet you can find,
none.
Jul 3, 2014
Jul 3, 2014 at 9:56 PM UTC
A bear sat upon a mountaintop,
And there he contemplated life.
A thousand nights he thought,
A thousand days he slept,
Until he had a thought
For each star in the sky.
Himself he considered a star too,
As old and wise and special.
One evening a young squirrel
Bounded up the mountain.
With a leap and a chatter,
She said to the bear:
"When I was born you sat here;
Now you still do.
What have you done in between?"
"I have thought," the bear replied,
"Until I have a thought and a story
For every star in the sky.
I have lived a thousand moments
From here on this mountain."
"I have lived a thousand moments too,"
Piped the squirrel.
"Nonsense," the bear snorted.
"I was here a thousand moments
Before your coming."
"But how many did you live?"
The squirrel jumped to and fro
With formless jubilation.
"Quiet, squirrel!"
Thundered the now-annoyed bear.
She froze, then peeped,
Ever-so-quietly,
"You were here,
a thousand moments before me.
Is this moment one-thousand-and-one?"
The bear chuckled now. "Yes
Dear squirrel, now I have lived
A thousand moments and one more."
"That's where you're wrong."
"DID YOU COME HERE
JUST TO PROVE ME WRONG?"
Again thundered the bear.
He rose and swung his terrible paws
Through the clear air.
"No no no!" screamed the squirrel,
Now frantic.
"I have lived a thousand moments
and you have lived a thousand moments!
I came to see what yours were,
Because they're so much longer."
"NO, you are wrong."
The bear came down on all fours
And put his face in front of hers,
Teeth staring like soulless pearls.
"A moment does not change.
I have lived more, not longer
Moments than you."
"Ah," muttered the squirrel,
Creeping backward before
His awesome teeth;
Then she fled outright.
When safely out of sight,
The squirrel stopped, composed herself.
"Ah," she repeated disdainfully.
"I went to you seeking answers,
But you have proven to me:"
Age does not bring wisdom.
Oct 3, 2018
Oct 3, 2018 at 12:44 PM UTC
I can't be bothered to be your princess today - maybe tomorrow.
Today I think I would rather exist as an idea.
Oriented this way, and that
to point directly at the centre of my own sun.
Present fluctuating
with the ebb and flow
of passion and disinterest.
A colorless, careless moon
one big eye glares
down on my escapades (or lack thereof)
disdainfully amused.
Look at the ants scurry -
watch those monkeys dance!
And her;
watch her feeling empty and inadequate,
fiery with pride,
giddy with laughter.
Why should it matter to me?
I am too far to reach,
too cold to carress.
I have seen the crowded space -
Stars vying for a chance to rub up against celestial bodies.
it's a matter of perspective.
And look! see the moons' precision;
watch it wax and wane.
Does it touch me?
why should I care.
Feb 17, 2010
Feb 17, 2010 at 7:39 AM UTC
Choosy, contemplating all options,
or even disdainfully passing
by without so much as a look,
Is how they see her, laughing
awkwardly, when they suggest
spells and love potions.
All is in jest.
But why is she alone?
Always quiet, unfathomable gaze.
Hides worlds in her sighs
when she shields neath a book.
If they knew of the thirst
the fire
bursts
Love is a stranger to her
Daftly escaping everyone's tries
of introduction, under
pressure, nimble lies
when they fail.
Is that why
she is alone?
Oct 14, 2013
Oct 14, 2013 at 4:29 PM UTC
Wry is one of many things you do well....
~~~~~~
dedicated to, inspired by Paul Anthony Hutchinson, who wrote those words to me but two hours ago
*Wry
- produced by a distortion or lopsidedness of the ****** features: a wry grin.
- abnormally bent or turned to one side; twisted; crooked: a wry mouth.
- devious in course or purpose; misdirected.
- contrary; perverse.
- distorted or perverted, as in meaning.
- bitterly or disdainfully ironic or amusing: a wry remark.*
It is bitter,
It is amusing,
the distorting that gives a shape and thereby
meaning
to a misdirected life,
the ****** muscles perused,
all reversed, all per-versed
t'is not just the smile that is loopy,
or simplistically turned upside down,
twisted but not dubious, nor devious,
twisted but straight, I say,
wry is not a seething something I do well,
wry is in every nuclei I ever split,
every line etch-a-sketched in every poem
worn down,
physically inscribed on my face.
so much to reveal,
but not here not now not,
ever on and ever in, explicit
but blurred, burred, and buried
within them is the ironic of a man
that laughed through the better part of his life,
for in that period, there was no
better,
just worse
I was born wry.
the last of three, I was nameless till I was twenty one,
they called me just
brother, or the brother.
at twenty five, I married the wrong woman,
though we both wanted not too,
thirty five years of wry, the lawyers rejoiced,
the judges celebrated, the poets went mad,
swear it true,
the family counselors said
beyond hopeless,
and with wry smiles at the spectacle of years wasted,
spent like there was no tomorrow,
for there was none
in the titanic disaster of more, new lives corrupted
I lived life wry.
now, in the final fourth quaternary,
see how he,
the master of the unceremonious,
in on bent knee, hands clasped, on bed, rested,
when he seeks comfort and guidance for the upcoming
finality following a two minute warning,
warning that even now,
the future wry, turned to one side, when all he wanted,
was to live quiet in the straight and narrow
and not write poems asking himself with trepidation,
from where will come the courage to make this
last passage....
oh yes, I do wry so well,
and all things that wryhme with hell,
you will be spared,
for wryly he exclaims
"Enough, enough"
wry why!
for in all the days of his disheveled life,
there have been but a few,
when it has been simply,
enough
Feb 4, 2014
Feb 4, 2014 at 11:05 PM UTC
My three year old daughter
Bubbling with laughter
Sang to me a sweet song
In a long ago summer.
Fresh washed and brushed blond hair,
A pair, of bright white shoes
With heel and unformed soul combined
To give this girl in new blue dress
And eagerness for lucid life
A twirling grace, that framed her
Face with swirling curls, which spoke
Of innocence to win the race
By perfect form and fortune born
Of a pure and guiltless mind.
Remind me; despite my tender care,
That this fair and loving child
Was an embryonic wild and wanton woman,
Whose finite measured days of fun
The sun disdainfully allowed to run;
Whilst guileless beauty, golden, turning,
Passed the infant hours of learning
Unaware that time had planned
A moving of the hour hand,
To end the promise
Of this fresh faced start
In pain the coming rain would surely bring,
Filling these growing years with knowing tears
To slowly stain this new and true blessed heart,
And force; this singer, and her long departed song,
A long; long way apart.
© James Rainsford 2010
Mar 3, 2011
Mar 3, 2011 at 2:09 AM UTC
I would have loved
to have had ***
with Kafka
Nima said
something about him
the photo of him
I sat opposite her
in the café
in Charing Cross Road
she had a coke
I sipped coffee
I feel the same
about Marilyn Monroe
I said
love to have got
her in bed
Nima looked at me
disdainfully
you would
she said
not necessarily
for ***
I said
just to listen
to her voice
sense her being there
the scent of her
Nima shook her head
ok I’d listen to Kafka
and sense
his being there
but ********
his **** off
at the same time
she said
an old guy
on the other side
of the café
gave her a look
have you read
any of his books?
I asked
some
she said
the one where he turns
into a big beetle
actually it doesn't say beetle
in the book
it says gigantic vermin
which people has interpreted
as a beetle or bug
I said
she sipped her coke
it's his body
I want to go to bed
with not his book
she said
he's dead
I said
died in 1924
shame
she said
he doesn’t know
what he's
missed out on
I guess he did
I said
she smiled
have to be satisfied
with his books then
won't I
we drained our drinks
and went on our way
I went to Dobell's
Jazz Record shop
and bought
a Coltrane LP
then we walked
to the train station
where she got a train
to the hospital
where she was being treated
for her drug addiction
I went home to play
my Coltrane
on my record player
via another train
thinking of her
and Kafka
and me and Monroe
having ***
in that cheap hotel
off Trafalgar Square
where Nima and I
once had *** there.
Jun 19, 2014
Jun 19, 2014 at 1:46 AM UTC
Not a single word can be forgiven If it means abuse to others ... Our pretty words must be like Our pretty flowers which we pick them To our loved-ones anytime ... If we don't watch what we say ,then Harsh criticism will be available ... Our words must match our deeds or Others will look at us disdainfully anytime ... ________________________________________________________________
May 11, 2015
May 11, 2015 at 5:32 PM UTC
day time disaster drifting
disdainfully into nights dark-lit
by only the protrusion of the sky
skinned till thin
in pieces at my feet, once, I mourned
and now again before mystique fails mystery
I grow tall and directed
shifted and perfected
incomplete
do they trim the *****
after doing your chin?
doing that to me is not a sin?
Aug 30, 2013
Aug 30, 2013 at 5:55 AM UTC
Ye, Oh ye my little ones who patter forth on silent feet
Ye who whisper secretly with downcast eyes, perchance we meet,
Thee who failed, in droves, to vote yet mouthed foul words at what transpired
Across this nation wallowing, wringing hands, feel defiled,
Pray glance now at thy countenance shadowed deep in mirror’s face,
Scan thee there integrity?…. or see thy image thinly graced?
Shoulder thee this burden’s share now burning in thy conscience flame?
….or disdainfully dismiss, absolving thee from
vivid eyes of blame?
Hark the herald Angels sing
so witness thee, thy forsakening.
M.
The White House, Hamilton NZ
23 January 2017
Jan 22, 2017
Jan 22, 2017 at 10:37 PM UTC
Unfit Gifts
by Rabindranath Tagore
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
At sunrise, I cast my nets into the sea,
dredging up the strangest and most beautiful objects from the depths ...
some radiant like smiles, some glittering like tears, others flushed like brides’ cheeks.
When I returned, staggering under their weight, my love was relaxing in her garden, idly tearing leaves from flowers.
Hesitant, I placed all I had produced at her feet, silently awaiting her verdict.
She glanced down disdainfully, then pouted: "What are these bizarre things? I have no use for them!"
I bowed my head, humiliated, and thought:
"Truly, I did not contend for them; I did not purchase them in the marketplace; they are unfit gifts for her!"
That night I flung them, one by one, into the street, like refuse.
The next morning travelers came, picked them up and carted them off to exotic countries.
Keywords/Tags: Tagore, translation, Hindi, unfit, gifts, sunrise, nets, sea, depths, objects, smiles, tears, cheeks, love, lover, mistress, flowers, verdict, bizarre, refuse, trash, garbage, travelers, exotic, mrburdu
Mar 30, 2020
Mar 30, 2020 at 11:18 PM UTC
Everyone looks at things from A certain distance ... Those who live in their ivory towers, They look disdainfully at other people ,but Those who live in their tin houses, They look differently at other people ... There is a gap between those who live upstairs and Those who live downstairs anytime ... Everyone has one's perspective that enables him or her To look at other people differently ...........
Feb 16, 2015
Feb 16, 2015 at 2:40 PM UTC
audience of one
alone on a deserted isle
rhymes written,
sonnets sung,
arias performed,
the theater, the opera madhouse full,
readers to followers to auto-push button heart adoration magi,
darling of the critics,
"His voice unique in our times"
he disdainfully,
look upon me, them,
do they not know:
vanity, all is vanity
Feb 13, 2014
Feb 13, 2014 at 12:51 PM UTC
It is in our nature to create dichotomies,
particularly in the grayest of the gray.
How do you debate en masse,
in the absence of either or?
And so we ask—
for example,
at Harper High School
in the South Side Chicago,
where 29 current and former
students
were shot
in a single year—
we ask, disdainfully,
How do we Learn
when we can’t Breathe?
On the question of need—
at a beautiful school
with 16 security guards
4 social workers,
and more than 15 surrounding gangs—
we refer back to Maslow.
I went once,
to a high school full of
“at risk” students
and discussed dropout rates—
as high as 80 percent in some parts.
We gave them cards and figures,
and asked them to contemplate futures,
for example,
as a janitor or an NBA basketball star!
Questions so self-righteous in their ignorance
my cheeks burned,
asked to faces
six generations descended
from slavery
& six decades from
Brown vs. Board.
Are we not awed by the
logic in their response
to a system with little
historical or contemporary
evidence of their success?
We are sustained more by the
business of answering,
than asking
the right questions.
So maybe the question of
basic needs versus pedagogy
was always a false dichotomy.
Maybe, in fact,
general revenue funding &
destandardization of curricula,
universal prenatal care &
a rebirth of the arts,
do not exist in hierarchy.
Do we dare ask the question,
to everyone,
“What would you do
to make your heart sing,
if you knew you could not fail,
if you knew you could not disappoint?”
Nov 1, 2016
Nov 1, 2016 at 3:11 PM UTC
The tobacco end is lit under sickly, divine light.
Its artificial glow lays heavy on the snowy spectators.
I am the preacher of this sermon today, this cigarette my casualty, my charge:
The cigarette’s life began like most, its burning birth
Lightened the darkness which surrounds us.
And with the ragged breaths that are taken, the flare of its
Seemingly undying ember burns strong.
Impossible it must seem to the cigarette, that this flicker of bright life
May itself be extinguished, that this furnace of vitality
Shall ever be dampened.
But so it is, in flesh as it is with the ****
That through one’s exertions your smoky essence be filtered
Through the lung of life. Expelled, exhaled, disdainfully into the world.
I am the mother of this life, I gave it breath, I gave it fire.
And yet, it will be I who stamps its ember.
Its cemetery is grey and ashy.
Generations of the used stand squashed.
They themselves are their own headstones;
The cracked bodies the only sign of their resting place,
Like those unknown soldiers and their wooden crosses.
I lay it down to rest, in its sandy grave,
I say its last rites, I cross, amen.
It falls upon deaf ears, as it should.
And so I stand over it, life’s true eulogy
Echoing off empty walls.
May 11, 2013
May 11, 2013 at 3:49 AM UTC
To the pacient poet,
who saw the world falling into perdition,
I, another young, I say to you which nowadays
everything's much more lost.
Perhaps above our heads there's peace.
However, each day which passes
I start to believe much more
in the pessimism which Assis
nurtured for so long.
I never did my words of others' actions,
because in the midst of such human evolution,
I believe, then, in the need for innovation
which we are charged daily.
Nevertheless, I can realize the insignificance
of this my thought
when suddenly
I become the direct agent.
We move with such stupidity
that I doubt our rationality
I'm sorry for getting only negativity,
but the deeds are disgusting
and who'll say about reasons?
I see the kids running
without even knowing what happens
and I can't feel another thing
except pity and will to try to change
the awful future which we'll let them.
When that secret war comes back,
my hope shrinks and vanishes.
When misery prevails
my disgust grows.
When the innocent die,
and they treat them disdainfully,
my hand sweats and shakes;
it shakes more than it sweats
and it sweats more than it writes.
The palace can't collapse
Because it's more important
for this country's beauty
than the own survival.
While everything collapses outside,
we protect the coffers;
after all, the future is so close!
May 8, 2014
May 8, 2014 at 2:03 PM UTC
"
The light we dread on the path we tread,
Scorched by the morals we misuse.
Misread the darkness, our hearts distressed,
Mocked by the values we choose,
Led astray by the prophecies of disharmony.
Heralds of the Righteous, deaf to hideous cries,
Sombre pleas linger, unseen in the abyss.
Angels seek refuge in hell from our treachery,
Watching disdainfully the absurdity we create,
While Demons, now praying for salvation,
Witness the tragic fall of humanity.
Instruments of war masquerade as peace,
Tormenting the innocent’s fragile ease.
A nation built on unity’s roar,
Now silenced by the lies of the false majority,
As citizens, evicted by leaders once upheld,
Fall victim to the very mother they served.
The tranquil ocean of individuals,
Swept away by the puddle of atrocities.
The gavel of justice hammers the innocent,
While the illustrious clowns, adorned in lustrous lies, roam free.
As avatars of Themis fall to Eris' tempting kiss,
Our heroes, once righteous, now stab us in the back with monarchic bliss.
While the poor laugh abundantly at their chains,
The rich weep for sovereignty that wanes.
Failure is the epitome of success,
While schools terrify us to death,
Teaching the race between ending a valuable life
And the finish line of a hollow diploma.
Yet in hallowed halls, they preach dismay,
As arguments and debates suffocate the air,
In this world already choked by toxic despair.
The masks of leadership conceal deceit,
As false ideals march beneath victory's flag.
And when the hands that build also destroy,
Philosophy, once pure and guiding,
Now teaches Angels the art of demonology.
"
-Klausyuer: The ****** Poet
Oct 9, 2024
Oct 9, 2024 at 8:41 PM UTC
Hollowed eyes look disdainfully on curdled blood
On crooked veins and twisted nerves
The clasp of hands might be enough,
But my skin feels fit to burst
Like a monster is knocking on my ribcage.
And what if I told you I had to keep away?
Locked lips sear doubts from my mind
But some vestige of yesterday is left behind
When they pull away
I've got such vivid scenes
Running through my mind
But why
These colors are not supposed to be
With gnarled nerves all spinning free
There is a monster inside of me
And I want to CUT
It out.
Oct 11, 2018
Oct 11, 2018 at 1:07 AM UTC
Like love
the river bends with a mind of its own
brutally, beautifully
slowly disdainfully, in no hurry to go places,
everything must succumb, no compromises,
no ifs and buts
and all else must stand aside
as the Grand Canyon mind
cuts its swathe through the hardest of emotions
and divides the great expanse
into rivulets of meaning
So it is with those we love
we move grains of sand
out of reach and slice through the toughest
facades to express this desire
to belong to the ocean
breaking into waves at the end
of its wandering
And yet in
these are rivers of love
people reside on the outside
looking in
at this constant connection.
Author Notes
Optional
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 4 days ago
Jun 23, 2014
Jun 23, 2014 at 9:45 PM UTC