"duchess" poems
I am what is around me.
Women understand this.
One is not duchess
A hundred yards from a carriage.
These, then are portraits:
A black vestibule;
A high bed sheltered by curtains.
These are merely instances.
9.3k
A is the Alphabet, A at its head;
A is an Antelope, agile to run.
B is the Baker Boy bringing the bread,
Or black Bear and brown Bear, both begging for bun.
C is a Cornflower come with the corn;
C is a Cat with a comical look.
D is a Dinner which Dahlias adorn;
D is a Duchess who dines with a Duke.
E is an elegant eloquent Earl;
E is an Egg whence an Eaglet emerges.
F is a Falcon, with feathers to furl;
F is a Fountain of full foaming surges.
G is the Gander, the Gosling, the Goose;
G is a Garnet in girdle of gold.
H is a Heartsease, harmonious of hues;
H is a huge Hammer, heavy to hold.
I is an Idler who idles on ice;
I am I--who will say I am not I?
J is a Jacinth, a jewel of price;
J is a Jay, full of joy in July.
K is a King, or a Kaiser still higher;
K is a Kitten, or quaint Kangaroo.
L is a Lute or a lovely-toned Lyre;
L is a Lily all laden with dew.
M is a Meadow where Meadowsweet blows;
M is a Mountain made dim by a mist.
N is a Nut--in a nutshell it grows--
Or a Nest full of Nightingales singing--oh list!
O is an Opal, with only one spark;
O is an Olive, with oil on its skin.
P is a Pony, a pet in a park;
P is the Point of a Pen or a Pin.
Q is a Quail, quick-chirping at morn;
Q is a Quince quite ripe and near dropping.
R is a Rose, rosy red on a thorn;
R is a red-breasted Robin come hopping.
S is a Snow-storm that sweeps o'er the Sea;
S is the Song that the swift Swallows sing.
T is the Tea-table set out for tea;
T is a Tiger with terrible spring.
U, the Umbrella, went up in a shower;
Or Unit is useful with ten to unite.
V is a Violet veined in the flower;
V is a Viper of venomous bite.
W stands for the water-bred Whale;
Stands for the wonderful Wax-work so gay.
X, or ** or *** is ale,
Or Policeman X, exercised day after day.
Y is a yellow Yacht, yellow its boat;
Y is the Yucca, the Yam, or the Yew.
Z is a Zebra, zigzagged his coat,
Or Zebu, or Zoophyte, seen at the Zoo.
7.1k
for Sylvia Plath
O Sylvia, Sylvia,
with a dead box of stones and spoons,
with two children, two meteors
wandering loose in a tiny playroom,
with your mouth into the sheet,
into the roofbeam, into the dumb prayer,
(Sylvia, Sylvia
where did you go
after you wrote me
from Devonshire
about rasing potatoes
and keeping bees?)
what did you stand by,
just how did you lie down into?
Thief --
how did you crawl into,
crawl down alone
into the death I wanted so badly and for so long,
the death we said we both outgrew,
the one we wore on our skinny *******
the one we talked of so often each time
we downed three extra dry martinis in Boston,
the death that talked of analysts and cures,
the death that talked like brides with plots,
the death we drank to,
the motives and the quiet deed?
(In Boston
the dying
ride in cabs,
yes death again,
that ride home
with our boy.)
O Sylvia, I remember the sleepy drummer
who beat on our eyes with an old story,
how we wanted to let him come
like a sadist or a New York fairy
to do his job,
a necessity, a window in a wall or a crib,
and since that time he waited
under our heart, our cupboard,
and I see now that we store him up
year after year, old suicides
and I know at the news of your death
a terrible taste for it, like salt,
(And me,
me too.
And now, Sylvia,
you again
with death again,
that ride home
with our boy.)
And I say only
with my arms stretched out into that stone place,
what is your death
but an old belonging,
a mole that fell out
of one of your poems?
(O friend,
while the moon's bad,
and the king's gone,
and the queen's at her wit's end
the bar fly ought to sing!)
O tiny mother,
you too!
O funny duchess!
O blonde thing!
6.2k
291
How the old Mountains drip with Sunset
How the Hemlocks burn—
How the Dun Brake is draped in Cinder
By the Wizard Sun—
How the old Steeples hand the Scarlet
Till the Ball is full—
Have I the lip of the Flamingo
That I dare to tell?
Then, how the Fire ebbs like Billows—
Touching all the Grass
With a departing—Sapphire—feature—
As a Duchess passed—
How a small Dusk crawls on the Village
Till the Houses blot
And the odd Flambeau, no men carry
Glimmer on the Street—
How it is Night—in Nest and Kennel—
And where was the Wood—
Just a Dome of Abyss is Bowing
Into Solitude—
These are the Visions flitted *****
Titian—never told—
Domenichino dropped his pencil—
Paralyzed, with Gold—
4.4k
Disclaimer: I did this as a creative rewrite for one of my university lit courses, and all the inspiration and quotes belong to Robert Browning the original writer of "My Last Duchess"
HIS LAST DUCHESS
ARRIVEDERCI
_“That’s my last Duchess painted on the wall,
Looking as if she were alive.”_ (I’m not)
Alas! Me, “a wonder.” He calls.
Now wretchedly refined and pasteurized.
To be consumed, now, for genteel eyes.
Pity! Should you ever see me roll mine.
Behind those curtains, you might have been surprised
To see my countenance whimpering
At you Sir; and seething, at _Him._
Must you not be fooled by that sickly decorum
Upon which his manly pride resides.
The Duke—what rich talent in envy he has,
And of pithy idiosyncrasies! Pardon me now
As I speak of his infamies: Is it not,
Too preposterous of a Duke, to sulk
And take offense, over a blush?
(As if the blush was his to wield and shun.)
Am I not allowed to flush _at all?_
And must I be ashamed of being swooned
By the casual offers of life’s grandiosities?
Each and every, dropping of the daylight,
Ripen cherries in May and chivalrous gentlemen,
my dear white mule; must I then weep
at them all, only to prove my fancy for him.
And when does gracious gratitude itself
become in vain: a finite honour—
deemed excessive elsewhere?
Never had he plucked me out, for censure,
Before he gave commands, I knew he did
To pluck the smile out of my face.
Utterly clueless—he thought I was
To find myself throttled, for immodesty.
A wife, an appendage to a Duke,
Loosely felled, to stroke a green-eyed ego.
My fault it seems, is a mere generosity
Of affection: falsely opined, if not
Misread, to fare a defect of temperament,
A chronic malady, doth be cured by death.
To cement the farce he will, soon, bring you
Downstairs to meet a friend. (a fiend)
A prized possession: Neptune, taming a sea-horse.
His hubris incarnate, cast in bronze.
But you must know the truth, for the sea-horse
Did not perish for naught, she is freed from him
At last.
Dec 7, 2018
Dec 7, 2018 at 3:26 PM UTC
If you want to be a true influencer
you should put in some actual work
****** the Archduke of Austria and his wife
The Duchess of Hohenberg
Gavrilo Princip did not have many followers
He did not have any discount codes for his online store
He had a simple dream to break off Austria-Hungary's South Slav provinces so they could be combined into a Yugoslavia, and instead he started a world war
If you want to influence society
for centuries to come
Stop being a coward posting vacation pics online
Go out and get yourself a gun
Jan 7, 2021
Jan 7, 2021 at 7:02 PM UTC
Hark! Now everything is still,
The screech-owl and the whistler shrill,
Call upon our dame aloud,
And bid her quickly don her shroud!
Much you had of land and rent;
Your length in clay ’s now competent:
A long war disturb’d your mind;
Here your perfect peace is sign’d.
Of what is ‘t fools make such vain keeping?
Sin their conception, their birth weeping,
Their life a general mist of error,
Their death a hideous storm of terror.
Strew your hair with powders sweet,
Don clean linen, bathe your feet,
And—the foul fiend more to check—
A crucifix let bless your neck:
’Tis now full tide ‘tween night and day;
End your groan and come away.
3.9k
Georgiana Seymour,
Duchess of Somerset
crowned _'Queen of Beauty'_
at the 1839 Eglinton
Tournament, the first known
beauty pageant;
W
European festivals dating to the medieval era
provide the most direct lineage for beauty pageants.
For example, English May Day celebrations always
involved the selection of a May Queen.
In the United States, the May Day tradition
of selecting a woman to serve as a symbol
of bounty and community ideals continued,
as young beautiful women participated
in public celebrations; such as the beauty pageant
held during the Eglinton Tournament of 1839,
organized by Archibald Montgomerie, 13th Earl of Eglinton,
as part of a re-enactment of a medieval joust
that was held in Scotland; the pageant was won
by Georgiana Seymour, Duchess of Somerset,
wife of Edward Seymour, 12th Duke of Somerset,
and sister of Caroline Norton;
Georgiana proclaimed _"Queen of Beauty"_;
Entrepreneur Phineas Taylor Barnum staged
the first modern American pageant in 1854,
his beauty contest closed down after public protest;
However beauty contests became popular
in the 1880s; In 1888 the title of _'beauty queen'_
was awarded to an 18-year-old Creole contestant
at a pageant in Spa, Belgium. All participants
had to supply a photograph & a short description
of themselves to be eligible to enter; a final selection
of 21 judged by a formal panel.
Such events were not regarded as respectable;
But beauty contests came to be considered more
respectable with the first modern _"Miss America"_
contest held in 1921;
Still the oldest pageant in operation,
the Miss America pageant was organized
in 1921 by a local businessman as a means
to entice tourists to Atlantic City, New Jersey;
The pageant hosted the winners of local
newspaper beauty contests in the
_Inter-City Beauty Contest_ & was attended
by over one hundred thousand people;
_Sixteen-year-old Margaret Gorman of Washington, D.C.
was crowned Miss America 1921, having won both the
popularity and beauty contests, and was awarded $100_
Sep 1, 2018
Sep 1, 2018 at 10:04 AM UTC
Today is your birthday,
How years do go by;
Though your eyes
Never change
As they heighten
Your smile.
Your hair's long
And sun-dyed,
Your cheeks blushed
And high,
Your lips as sublime
As Mona's beguiled.
Your frame hangs now
In another's hall,
But you're the last,,
My duchess,
To decorate
My wall.
Mar 29, 2015
Mar 29, 2015 at 10:00 PM UTC
Oh, duchess when you ascend your neck
To scrutinize the skyline
Were you aware that you could discover?
The very marvel that for years you so yearned?
Oh, duchess did you think it feasible
That you could matriculate the novelty ‘tis amour
Did you?
Open your eyes alluring one
Shan’t be a reason to averse your devoirs
though you must dismember all that bleeds
Oct 10, 2012
Oct 10, 2012 at 4:11 PM UTC
Trains at the bottom of the garden
metal dragons breathing out smoke and steam
huffing and puffing, waiting for the signal
some compact with tanks affixed
others larger, more grand
pulling colour matched tenders
sometimes bearing shields and names
beginning with 'Duchess' or 'City'
mostly black, some rusty
deep reds or greens
with contrasting lines edged in gold
Once one came in matt pink
and I wondered why it didn't gleam
like the others, perhaps pink
was a colour not to be given
it's equal due with other
less feminine shades
it had to be denied vibrancy
yet I loved the pink one best
later I learned somehow
that the colour was that
of the primer used
to inhibit the rust
and my pink engine
was just an unfinished paint job
pressed into service
prematurely to give cover
for another that was broken
I wrote down the numbers regardless
it was a ritual that one performed
though I didn't understand why
yet it was exciting
to record a new one
that hadn't passed before
Behind the business end
came carriages laden heavy
with the visitors of summer
come to fill our beaches
and our town with their loudness
their raucous laughter
with strange accents
brummie, scouse, mancunian
faces pressed against glass
expectant, excited, impatient
almost there now
anxious that this last delay
pass quickly and the half mile
remaining be completed
We would lurk beneath the bridge
like adopted troll children
it was cool there in the summer heat
darting out from behind pillars
or in my case watchfully, cautiously
edging my way forward
to place pennies on the track
or sometimes nails
then to retrieve them
flattened, thinned, squashed
once the train had passed
sometimes we'd wait hours
or so it seemed
sometimes no train would come
and we would trail home
for tea and bath and bed
leaving our offerings
to the gods of the rail
for rediscovery and inspection
the following day.
Cynthia Pauline Jones 17/10/13
Mar 19, 2014
Mar 19, 2014 at 2:23 PM UTC
333
The Grass so little has to do—
A Sphere of simple Green—
With only Butterflies to brood
And Bees to entertain—
And stir all day to pretty Tunes
The Breezes fetch along—
And hold the Sunshine in its lap
And bow to everything—
And thread the Dews, all night, like Pearls—
And make itself so fine
A Duchess were too common
For such a noticing—
And even when it dies—to pass
In Odors so divine—
Like Lowly spices, lain to sleep—
Or Spikenards, perishing—
And then, in Sovereign Barns to dwell—
And dream the Days away,
The Grass so little has to do
I wish I were a Hay—
2.7k
I called her Duchess.
and I called the other one Sweet.
The third was too dry, so I called her Meat.
Three different rooms, they wasted the space,
i brought them food, and sometimes things with lace.
I gave them purpose, I loved those *****
without me, they'd be on the street unloved.
I love them
they love me
then why did they leave
Mar 16, 2016
Mar 16, 2016 at 10:27 PM UTC
And with that she
began nursing her child again, singing a sort of
lullaby to it as she did so, and giving it a vio
lent shake at the end of every line: -- --
"Speak roughly to your little boy,
And beat him when he sneezes;
He only does it to annoy,
Because he knows it teases."CHORUS
(in which the cook and the baby joined): -- -- "Wow! wow! wow!"While the Duchess sang the second verse of
the song, she kept tossing the baby violently up
and down, and the poor little thing howled so,
that Alice could hardly hear the words: -- --
"I speak severely to my boy,
I beat him when he sneezes;
For he can thoroughly enjoy
The pepper when he pleases!" CHORUS"Wow! wow! wow!"
2.5k
Beware the sour duchess with her cobra tongue,
Come marionette, fall at her feet, the carnal cherry flower maid,
She hides in the devil's gap tooth,
In his pinstriped pockets full of rosary beads and candlewick,
She steals the heart-shaped cosmic superstition,
Demure with dulcet debauchery,
Forged in a grand dalliance of coquettish repulsion with his valiant renegades,
Vagrant of prayer and petrichor,
Buying fancy for the maudlin dolls, the ethereal actresses nursed to betray,
These childish ordeals rosy with youth,
Turn to lilac smitten executioner under the glass of a silver boulevard,
She writes me foolish want in this presence of gods and criminals,
Sell me your kisses and fingertips bruise my aura with your architecture,
Sleeping sound in your dominion the sheets are always warm.
Nov 5, 2016
Nov 5, 2016 at 5:31 PM UTC
Peter never understood why Wendy was meant to grow up
why she had to leave the blissfulness of Neverland
If there's an answer to his questions it would be that
she was dreaming of castles and voyages and someone to love
while he was mischieving pirates,chasing a never setting sun
I often wander if I'm more like her,
sincere, gentle, a duchess-to-be
a young girl who dwells in stories
or like the boy who wouldn't grow up,
nonchalant, full of lovely wonderful thoughts,
Peter Pan,the one who could fly
But what did he do when she left?
Is she a beautiful memory in a child's mind,
why didn't he abandon immortality for love?
Here's Wendy, back in Kensington Gardens
a lady asking herself what if I had stayed
why couldn't he abandon youth for her love?
And she will forever remain in his mind as a little girl,
who played family with and dreamed
but Wendy will be married and will be kissed
but not with him.
And Peter will always be a chasing dream,
a fairyland with pirates and ships,
a world of villains, mermaids and the boy who
didn't return her kiss.
I read, imagining his crooked smile growing up
or her staying forever
and none of these feels completely right
In the end, I am another lost boy who went to Neverland,
and flew and fought with a sword, and swam with mermaids
and danced around fire with the eyes of Tiger Lilly
Sometimes there I return, finding him lost in her thoughts,
but there again everyone's forgotten among the things we never say...
Aug 30, 2014
Aug 30, 2014 at 2:08 PM UTC
I
duchess in labor;
trusted royal storks on call;
where is the baby..?
II
duchess delivers,
trusted royal storks receive;
a charmed boy or girl...?
III
duchess is relieved,
royal baby is conceived;
it's a burly boy!
Jul 22, 2013
Jul 22, 2013 at 6:18 PM UTC
My mind is full of these thoughts
Thoughts that are surrounded with her
The thoughts grow every day like crops
In a field of love and care
She is the queen, the princess, the duchess
Of the kingdom that is my heart
She's won me over and wants my touches
It is a shame that we're apart
Her body is my muse
Her thoughts my only interest
By her I want to be used
She is the finest artist
I want her to paint me with her fantasies
And on my heart write her love
She has stolen my sanity
She fits me like a glove
I'm not even aware of how we got here
To this very high and heavenly place
But to be completely fair
She deserves this along with my warm embrace
I hope to remain in this field forever
This field of pure joy and happiness
So our love crops can evolve into a fever
A fever that is just an added bonus
Aug 17, 2013
Aug 17, 2013 at 1:41 PM UTC
I like accelerating
As fast as it can get there
(Because even if it is a Saab,
It's still a sports car)
I like accelerating in the fog
Pressing forward into the unknown darkness
Past the hanging anglerfish lure
On every street lamp
I like to think Keats would like it
(Driving fast in the dark where you know
There's no speed traps)
And I like the word "like" in poetry
Because love on the page means something so
Different from what I mean
(It's a word that
I don't want you associating with me)
Unless you're here to cast me as your Last
Duchess because I love you as much as
I love driving in the dark as much as
I love this song as much as
I love your shoes and I love your eyes
(but I really do love your eyes)
So I don't like the word "love" because it
Implies some kind of favoritism that I'm not
Willing to give you if it means
I only like this song
Means using that word all wrong
Because you're not better than my Saab-
(you just have nicer eyes)
Apr 3, 2013
Apr 3, 2013 at 6:08 PM UTC
As I sat down by the lake,
And watched the waves come and go by,
I saw a group of mermaids, who came by for a chat,
I was surprised, as they called each other fat.
Worried about the pettiest pimple,
I realized, they were no different,
They talked about how handsome their Duke is,
As, each of them yearned to be a Duchess.
When it was getting dull,
I saw a seagull,
I cheered for him, as he picked up a fish,
I was free like him, I wish.
I decided to sit there, and blend into the essence of the lake,
Till the water turns into snowflakes.
Apr 13, 2013
Apr 13, 2013 at 3:39 PM UTC
Downton Abbey’s going off the air.
I’m not through yet, it’s just not fair.
Nothing before that show ever had
That kind of class, that degree of flair.
Life without my weekly Downton
Is too sad and inordinately scary.
What will I do without my frequent fix
Of the elegantly snarky Lady Mary?
And will the feckless Mister Barrow
Ever develop a true human soul?
I am sure this handsome actor fellow
Will never again get such a meaty role.
And the Dowager Duchess herself,
She is not someone easily done with.
She is, after all, tradition incarnate,
And under all that, she’s Maggie Smith.
Bates and his Anna filled my heart
With alternating sorrow and great joy
Almost as much as a lady of nobility
Marrying the handsome chauffer boy.
Dresses and hair lengths shortened
And nobility began to get real jobs.
All this was before ****** flared up
And turned starving folks into a mob.
I never missed that we were seeing
The transition from ‘la belle epoque’.
That time was running out for that
In the worlds ever-changing clock.
It was a yesterday we never knew
We of the age of electric equality.
We got to look inside and see it
In all its grandly overdressed reality.
I had begun to recognize artwork, in
Lovely strolls through baronial halls
And huge family meals at table.
I am sorry that it is over for us all.
Feb 4, 2016
Feb 4, 2016 at 12:17 AM UTC
recently in a women's magazine
I read an article
about the Duchess of Cornwall
being most ungracious
toward Princess Mary of Denmark
*the Duchess can be a very catty *****
especially when Charles
is eyeing something of more appeal
but Camilla seems to have forgotten
her come hither days
when she was conducting
an affair with the Prince of Wales
under his wife's nose
the protocols in royal circles
have become less civil
and it is about time
she on her high horse
was more convivial
where the crown
and matters of state
are paramount
the Queen should avail
her son's missus
of a polite dismount
Mar 8, 2017
Mar 8, 2017 at 8:37 PM UTC
Faded gilding, rubbed through to cracking, flaking wood.
A glamour of ages, sliding, flies to the breeze.
The little bird perches on a once-fine moulding;
Head tilted, one bright eye turned towards the mantle
where a half-blind mercurised mirror barely reflects
an army of creeping vines, consuming naked angels
and the God of this house.
Our hero’s velvets are ruined, dripping and eaten through.
Where riches have lived, decay succeeds.
Nature’s velvets; opulent mosses and emerald lichens
are devouring damask
and smoothing over marbled hardness.
The bird listens for footsteps.
The lady would scatter crumbs on the windowsill
and he would flutter, unafraid,
to peck at her sweet feast.
Once, she drew him.
Fine-lining passerine delicacy,
her pencils fetched him,
and bestowed him an artist’s nobility.
He turned, this way and that,
flashing gold-touched wings,
miming a duchess snapping open a fan.
She’s gone now,
and so have the crumbs.
The bird senses no sugar on the sill,
nor the faintest reminiscence
of lavender perfume, glittering as star bursts
at the hollow of her throat.
He sings regardless,
a mournful beauty
longing to return to a glorious, lustful age,
where light refracted in cut crystal,
danced upon frescoes
and illuminated the ugly –
- to render them enchanting.
He swoops to dance on the mantle,
answered by the mirror
and sits a while, preening.
The gentlemen and ladies are gone forever.
Ejected from history to echo as ghosts of fancy and excess,
undeserving of remembrance or pity.
The bird will never forget.
And knots up secrets
kept tightly in his breast,
committed to his tiny, fierce heart.
Aug 20, 2018
Aug 20, 2018 at 5:15 PM UTC
I thank you for showing your true colors.
Dott sure I'm now that you're not true,
Am I in need for more cheating,
My happiness is in love - true love,
Not in your way of life - fake love.
Your hits I've taken to the heart,
Of hell you have shown me a glimpse,
Under your unfaithful behavior corrupted.
The person who you cheated me with,
Of course he is at bigger blame than you.
He sure is the bigger player,
Even you are such a poser,
Lame he is - you look uglier,
Living life freely you have ruined it.
Dec 12, 2016
Dec 12, 2016 at 12:55 PM UTC
.
I survived Cameron and his band of hatchet men
remember when Thatcher took the axe to school milk?
but you ******* voted her in
as smooth as silk
but we see her now as the sows ear she was.
I won't vote for Corbyn
he never went and yet he's already a has been,
never seen that before excepting Jeremy and they named a park after him.
Thorpe.
Once
when I drew a breath in Toxteth
and the carnival was the riot
I got a bit
but that's censored.
Anyway
in Lancaster it's raining although it was cool down in Blackpool with the Duchess and only a slight breeze and a sneeze or two passing by Blackpool zoo.
Goodnight y'all
don't fall asleep
before you've said
your prayers.
Aug 3, 2016
Aug 3, 2016 at 4:45 PM UTC