"divan" poems
Though authors are a dreadful clan
To be avoided if you can,
I'd like to meet the Indian,
M. Anantanarayanan.
I picture him as short and tan.
We'd meet, perhaps, in Hindustan.
I'd say, with admirable elan ,
"Ah, Anantanarayanan --
I've heard of you. The Times once ran
A notice on your novel, an
Unusual tale of God and Man."
And Anantanarayanan
Would seat me on a lush divan
And read his name -- that sumptuous span
Of 'a's and 'n's more lovely than
"In Xanadu did Kubla Khan" --
Aloud to me all day. I plan
Henceforth to be an ardent fan
of Anantanarayanan --
M. Anantanarayanan.
7.9k
On the southwest side of Capri
we found a little unknown grotto
where no people were and we
entered it completely
and let our bodies lose all
their loneliness.
All the fish in us
had escaped for a minute.
The real fish did not mind.
We did not disturb their personal life.
We calmly trailed over them
and under them, shedding
air bubbles, little white
balloons that drifted up
into the sun by the boat
where the Italian boatman slept
with his hat over his face.
Water so clear you could
read a book through it.
Water so buoyant you could
float on your elbow.
I lay on it as on a divan.
I lay on it just like
Matisse's Red Odalisque.
Water was my strange flower,
one must picture a woman
without a toga or a scarf
on a couch as deep as a tomb.
The walls of that grotto
were everycolor blue and
you said, "Look! Your eyes
are seacolor. Look! Your eyes
are skycolor." And my eyes
shut down as if they were
suddenly ashamed.
4.3k
There are different wells in your heart.
Some fill with each good rain,
Others are far too deep for that.
In one well
You have just a few precious cups of water,
That ‘love’ is literally something of yourself,
It can grow as slow as a diamond
If it is lost.
Your love
Should never be offered to the mouth of a stranger,
Only to someone
Who has the valor and daring
To cut pieces of their soul off with a knife
Then weave them in a blanket to protect you.
There are different wells within us.
Some fill with each good rain,
Others are far, far too deep
for that.
Feb 9, 2017
Feb 9, 2017 at 12:23 PM UTC
**The glass bowl stands-a fragile shell
For puny, puffing orange swimmers
Flimsy as the frosting on a wedding cake
You, an endearing fool care too much
For goldfish- that on a bleak Sunday evening
When the weather’s offbeat and the curtains
Appear especially dull- and you slouch back on
Your favorite divan regretting the choice of
Wall-color and some slightly more cardinal matters
Will die on you-
All you asked was for the dumb goldfish to keep
Scurrying about- but no, today’s not your day.
Your heart is a shore pebble and your lips are
As twisted as a winding hill road
As you regret ever having brought in the goldfish that die.**
Apr 23, 2015
Apr 23, 2015 at 11:41 PM UTC
**Lacking of life now
I lol on my fine divan**
*Laziness often
lacks the power of rapture
as in sofa or bedsprings*
**Labour of love her
for large obese lobster me**
*Mermaids capture me
a symphony of sea-sick
rasping tongues lick our lumps*
**Little old lady
typing the language of love**
*A real cyber date
computer romance limits
operational life's love*
**Laughing over lines
of disco **** pure *******
*Lewd obscene language
grasping lemon or lime highs
to count Hollywood star shootings*
**A full length of life
the longing off, lay proceeds**
*Lady of the Lake
lunging our lisps sound depths
we are - breathing harmony*
**The land of Lincoln
legion of Lucifer's Lord**
*landscaping of lawns,
losing our liberty's law,
leaving on lights, blinding*
**Lots of Laughs or 'lol'
populist abbreviation**
*language often less,
leftovers of literate
gone to libraries of late*
May 18, 2010
May 18, 2010 at 12:38 PM UTC
"You know, what the most annoying thing is?"
Stacking box, after box, after box
in her empty-floored home.
"What?"
"Knowing how," stack, "lost," stack, "I'll be."
She drops to a box, face in hands. ******* it."
What do you say
To the widow of an adulterer,
To the crier of sorrows
you've never known?
"I'm sorry."
******* it, you're sorry. Everyone's sorry."
What do you say to all the bitterness
of a woman stacking, stacking, stacking
The boxes of her new life?
I sit on the divan by the window. "What do you want
me to say?" I ask.
Naive.
**** I don't know." Sighing. "Say you know
He really loved me
And that even though I'm just your pain-in-the-ass
broken-hearted
and stupid older sister,
who's made too many mistakes to count,
and who's never ever been there when you need her
because she's too busy with her
piece-of-shit
******* accident
of a husband,
you really love me too."
Looking up at me
with tear-swimming
mascara-ringed green eyes
under a black fringe
of artistic bangs.
"Of course I really love you." The automaton of my voice.
"You're my only sister."
Tears falling onto
white velvet wrists.
"I really miss him.
That *******
If only
he hadn't been
the adulterer
With me.
Oct 22, 2011
Oct 22, 2011 at 10:41 AM UTC
Cihlové stínadlo, divan bez prachu
Výhybky prskavců chutnají zle
Hne sumcem, vylíže střídavě bráchu
Semena s holbou na výkladním skle
Páry a mrdiny končí pod voly
Nad hrstí úliteb vítězné gesto
Stříbrné příbory v podpraží hulí
Za bradou dřímá horoucí těsto
Proč běží sádla na získané body
Proč běží pro kádry, ze kterých jebe
Pásovec zas dal hlavičku do tmy
Pár krysek sladí sžíravě sebe
Jul 16, 2017
Jul 16, 2017 at 4:26 PM UTC
When I lie in bed
in that limbo between sleepy and sleeping
I think about throwing open all the windows on a hot summer night
(the kind where you can't breathe for the season's breath beating you senseless)
and dancing in your arms.
We'll both be tired and conservative with our words
but our feet will converse into the night.
I'm thinking Sidney Bechet's "Blue Horizon" should be a good place to start
so you have an idea of where I'm going.
I want the heat to press us together until we melt.
The end of your body will be the beginning of mine
because no one's paying attention to where lines are drawn.
If anyone's going to draw them, it'll be me
sliding the tip of my finger across your chest in time to the record
which is so slow we're almost standing still.
We don't notice though, because the only rhythm we care about is us.
The way I see it,
it's like Tennessee Williams is somewhere up there
hacking away at his typewriter
creating us with each stroke of the key.
His fingers work our literary strings and we sway like marionettes in the hands of our creator.
He places the screen door on the other side of the room
the ***** walls around us
the indifferent lightbulb hanging above our heads,
giving off just enough light so we don't have to squint
but not enough to make the room feel anything less than sensual.
Tennessee draped the sundress over my shoulders
but kindly left my feet bare so I could feel the floor in its imperfect softness.
He put a watch on your wrist
not so you'd keep time
but so you'd remember the person who gave it to you.
There's a hint of a smile stretched across the divan of your lips
though I know Tennessee had not a single thing to do with it.
It was all me.
And just before I fall asleep,
the song finishes
and Tennessee packs up his machine,
leaving us to ourselves for the rest of the dream before a dream.
Apr 4, 2013
Apr 4, 2013 at 11:33 AM UTC
Ey Devlet-i Aliye Osman'ın şairleri!
Sultanlar geldi gitti, ama sözünüz kaldı.
Ne ** ne şirin inceler döktünüz aleme,
Ne uzun ne uzak seneler geçmiş yazalı.
Gözüm bir divan görür, canım bir derya görür,
Gözüm baktı, okudu, canım sadece daldı.
Dec 23, 2016
Dec 23, 2016 at 8:52 AM UTC
Now what do we poets do
When we fall in love ?
Unable to sleep the
Master bedroom frozen,
Their divan on fire.
Hearts longing throbbing
fire and ice peach cobbler
can't suffice to apeace.
Brains deeped in energies
of color purple in hearts.
Her poet longing for her diamond cave behind
her Jimmie Angel,
And El Salto del Moro
Waterfalls!
His poetess thirsting
for his jewls
behind his Dhrudhiya
swelling on monsoon
His Padajhar Mahadev
Waterfalls
She's dreaming with his
Mount Abu
in Rajasthan.
Thus the poets
lay throbbing, longing
Sketching love's honey pots
The poets bunny bees!
Lay enamoured
by their waterfalls abliss..
~~
By Karijinbba 2021
All rights reserved
Jul 9, 2021
Jul 9, 2021 at 9:43 PM UTC
Feels are but invisible pet
sleeping on the polished table
Sometimes they wake up silently
As the frequency of air changes.
When a bluish smell comes from 3bs:
bell, butterfly, and bonsai;
A song starts singing in the media player
without any pre-loaded program;
More and more events happen within a moment;
And a smile shakes the hand touches the soul
from a clear distance!
Entering into a light blue candy
I've found an off-white emotion lying on a divan
Spreading coffee-purple smile sweet and cute.
Person is a stuff of meat, bone, blood and water;
Should I believe no more things are there-
feelings of dream?
Poem 15
Book 'Beckoning Jade-Dreams' April 2007
Copyright Musharrat Mahjabeen
Mizan Publishers, Dhaka, Bangladesh
ISBN 984-8700-82-X
Aug 20, 2012
Aug 20, 2012 at 8:08 AM UTC
The sound of
a flute
the whistle of the wind
an old-century bel canto
more ambrosial than
the allayed gale on the book
a siccative for the soul
beautiful and fibrous
warmer than the divinity
with a broken arm
outdoor on the walkway
the sound of flute
the wording of beauty
like being faced with the spring
and the cliffs
the first tone erodes
the stones
the second tone ******
the bones
the thrid tone captured
the thrills at the ends
of the neurons
like waking up
on a divan
in a morning.
May 19, 2015
May 19, 2015 at 2:32 AM UTC
In an antiquated walk-up
in an older part of town,
The photographer waits patiently
for her to shed her gown.
His output decorates his studio walls.
Please don’t be confused.
These are pictures, without exception,
of tasteful female nudes.
Some are done in sepia tones,
others in harsh light,
Each girl eyes you wantonly
with the promise of delight.
His model for this evening
is an old grand-dame in pearls.
Her eyes, half blind with cataracts,
have seen the wonders of the world.
She reclines upon the bed
in his suggested pose.
Her arm is draped across her *******
So many men had fun with those.
He has a special camera,
unique of all its kind.
It has a special lens
that takes its subjects back in time.
The old girl, there on the divan,
In this lens is twenty-three.
Her eyes are clear, her silver tresses blonde,
Her youth restored miraculously.
Her fingers play with her string of pearls.
She enjoys the cool air on her skin.
Once more she knows the pride she felt
when she could tempt a priest to sin.
Their time is short, soon she must dress
And face the world as a withered reed.
She gladly pays the photographers price
for this great service in her hour of need.
May 19, 2019
May 19, 2019 at 8:32 AM UTC
Sur tes riches tapis, sur ton divan qui laisse
Au milieu des parfums respirer la mollesse,
En ce voluptueux séjour,
Où **** de tous les yeux, **** des bruits de la terre,
Les voiles enlacés semblent, pour un mystère,
Eteindre les rayons du jour,
Ne t'enorgueillis pas, courtisane rieuse,
Si, pour toutes tes soeurs ma bouche sérieuse
Te sourit aussi doucement,
Si, pour toi seule ici, moins glacée et moins lente,
Ma main sur ton sein nu s'égare, si brûlante
Qu'on me prendrait pour un amant.
Ce n'est point que mon coeur soumis à ton empire,
Au charme décevant que ton regard inspire
Incapable de résister,
A cet appât trompeur se soit laissé surprendre
Et ressente un amour que tu ne peux comprendre,
Mon pauvre enfant ! ni mériter.
Non : ces rires, ces pleurs, ces baisers, ces morsures,
Ce cou, ces bras meurtris d'amoureuses blessures,
Ces transports, cet oeil enflammé ;
Ce n'est point un aveu, ce n'est point un hommage
Au moins : c'est que tes traits me rappellent l'image
D'une autre femme que j'aimai.
Elle avait ton parler, elle avait ton sourire,
Cet air doux et rêveur qui ne peut se décrire.
Et semble implorer un soutien ;
Et de l'illusion comprends-tu la puissance ?
On dirait que son oeil, tout voilé d'innocence,
Lançait des feux comme le tien.
Allons : regarde-moi de ce regard si tendre,
Parle-moi, touche-moi, qu'il me semble l'entendre
Et la sentir à mes côtés.
Prolonge mon erreur : que cette voix touchante
Me rende des accents si connus et me chante
Tous les airs q'elle m'a chantés !
Hâtons-nous, hâtons-nous ! Insensé qui d'un songe
Quand le jour a chassé le rapide mensonge,
Espère encor le ressaisir !
Qu'à mes baisers de feu ta bouche s'abandonne,
Viens, que chacun de nous trompe l'autre et lui donne
Toi le bonheur, moi le plaisir !
1.2k
Damla damla geldi yağmurlar gibi,
Bir hafif yağıştan aldım bir ilham,
Şairim öyle de yazdım tabii,
Ve kelimeleri döktü hep kalem.
Dağılmış, yayılmış mis kokular **
Ağaçlar yakarsan yanamaz ateş,
Boz bulutlar geldi, gelmedi güneş,
Bu bahar yağışı eder hep devam.
Böyle havalarda etmem şikayet,
O düşen inciler değil mi rahmet,
Akan yağmur bence güzel bir nimet,
Fikirler gibi havada gezer nem.
Böyle bir destan biraz başka olmuş,
Küçük yağışlar gibi kısa olmuş,
Bu sevimli inşallah sana olmuş,
Yağmurlu günlerde olsun sana şem.
Bir yağmurlu günde yazdım bir destan,
Ben böyle inşallah oldum bir ozan,
Boyle bir şiir görsün benim divan,
Okuyanlar duysun benden vesselam!
Jul 3, 2017
Jul 3, 2017 at 1:47 PM UTC
My bed sheets remain the same
With the tainted love stained on white roses
With the scent of skin fusing and hopes colliding
All for the pleasure of sweet surrenders
To my divan where you used to breathe in
Silence of exhaling roars
To my pillowcase trapped forever
Deep groans that left glorious scars
Bashfulness banished off the frame
Rolling strengths into the threads
Savoring the agony of loud throbs
Whispering my name to depth
For the love that is lost
For the love that never fades away
For the love that wanders every day
To my bed linens carved to eternity
Apr 22, 2016
Apr 22, 2016 at 9:29 PM UTC
what they don't know is that I said "absolutely not" to his offer of marriage as I laughed through shiny teeth and then we made sweet sweet love upon his former companions divan and we desecrated the room we burnt that **** Down he lit 300 candles on fire to profess his burning passion to me and he proved it to me with his eyes and drooling lips I can't believe I believed the lie I was blinded by the orange glow that I so loved it made my intestines quiver as I gargled salt water I felt like Mumbai as the colors surrounded me but the stench overwhelms me I could not breathe and for a moment I felt safe in my own skin as I lay there listening to the uneven sound of his breathing and the way his heart beat matched mine, I'm not joking, EXACTLY the soft glow of the tube flashed against the poorly painting cream walls that we left marks on it was a battle field or a storm and now we lay in the eye of that which our love is swirling about ready to destroy one another over and over and over again I can't take it my body was not made for such violence my heart begs for love and gives love only but yet it does not receive and it is not because it is incapable but it is because those who surround me are so unwilling to open theirs for fear of letting a dark being inside to shatter the windows of their home they have spent their entire lives building and because of this they do not expand they do not grow they are scared they fear and they tell themselves over and over again "I cannot do it" we all reach this point but at this moment of saying you cannot is when you must
Jun 27, 2016
Jun 27, 2016 at 11:24 PM UTC
*Every night on the divan divine
Beside her when I recline
In the comfort of that precious chance
My mind in the sit finds a hidden romance!
It may seem her eyes are glued to TV
But I know they aren’t but riveted on me
In her sensuous silence I don’t fail to notice
The charm of her cheek how they still entice!
I utter not a word love those times’ silence
Like an old lover never out of patience
Stealing from air her old wine fragrance
Just happy to be there clutching the romance!*
Nov 5, 2013
Nov 5, 2013 at 7:12 AM UTC
Four years and his room is untouched.
I would love it that way
For years!
Stays ***** and span
The memory of my old man.
The southern window side of the bed
Where he laid his head
The eastern window that broke his sleep
With the sun’s first peep
His snapped photos on the wall of west
That ache my chest
On the northern wall the clock
That still of his time talks
His divan forlorn
Resting cold from his last morn
In each bric-a-brac
His touch his track
In ticks and creaks
His memory speaks.
Mar 13, 2014
Mar 13, 2014 at 7:30 AM UTC
Divan of Hafiz's poem
at this longest and darkest night
longing to be recited
Dec 11, 2015
Dec 11, 2015 at 11:52 AM UTC
I had become more aware of my surroundings. With my obscured vision, I trembled up the mountainous stairs, to find comfort in my divan. The wind blundered and blasted the shutters allowing shivers to roar down my spine. I drew the covers restlessly over my body. Sleep would not grace me with its presence as I tossed and turned, thrashing about the bed. Why did it feel so unwelcoming, so foreign to my touch? My eyes drifted towards the window in search of comfort. Wind cried from the heavens as the maleficent feathered silhouette made himself known. My vision began to haze as my eyes settled into the crevices of my head. I couldn’t take it anymore, the fierce gaze of the raven was too much for my heart to bear. I clambered to my feet and made my way to the kitchen, stumbling through the halls as the wine took effect. As I clung to the kitchen door-frame, there it was; my means to an end. With an unholy determination, I grabbed the pearl gripped revolver that lay on the kitchen counter besides the key to the cabinet. How it got there, I haven’t the slightest idea. I was inhibited within an ineludibly eternal oblivion.
My mind filled with hatred towards the ruffled being as my sweaty palms grasped the bronze handle that I flung open with the desire to end this misery bestowed within my soul. I had of **** it for this misery to end, I was compelled to end its life. The raven vanished as if knowing my pursuit.
This was it. Barefoot I ran, though my legs were long past exhaustion, I kept running. Trepidation had driven all other thoughts from my mind, leaving the only instinctive urge to abscond. And so I ran.
Jun 6, 2017
Jun 6, 2017 at 4:27 PM UTC
Elle s’appelait Cléopâtre,
Elle était amoureuse,
Son amour l’a laissée rêveuse.
Son animal favori était la panthère,
Marc laissait la belle prospère,
Elle était alanguie sur un divan, allongée
Sans jamais trop être dérangée.
Belle, belle comme une libellule
Elle aimait se lever au crépuscule
Jolie, jolie comme un papillon de nuit
Elle luisait dans un soleil, éblouie.
Elle aimait aussi les chats,
C’étaient des animaux dédiés à Râ,
Mais un jour, la reine se fit piquer par un serpent,
Et donna un dernier adieu à son amant.
27 Mai 2004
Hélette, Pays-Basque, premier poème.
Nov 28, 2015
Nov 28, 2015 at 6:40 AM UTC
If buses rattle over streets
At least you jounce on comfy seats.
Imagine a divan
Made from a frying pan
Or griddles cushioned by felt sheets.
May 21, 2025
May 21, 2025 at 7:28 PM UTC