"edwardian" poems
A proud man,
Upright and unshakable
In belief and morals,
Once only I did I see him
Without a tie.
A child of Edwardian England,
The links Of his watch chain
Glinted
As they hung
With formality and elegance
From his waistcoat pocket,
Yes, even as he worked.
And work he did.
Patiently,
Brilliantly and tirelessly
With ingenuity and imagination.
A craftsman from a bygone age.
A master of his tools.
Grandfathers are soft,
Playful, bear-like in their
Gruff-whiskered familiarity.
Not Poppy.
Unwittingly aloof from his grandchildren,
We avoided the need for directly addressing him,
Unsure of where we stood.
He’d probably have secretly
Loved the informality
Of our secret nickname.
I hope he knew.
The chapel piano did for him.
Too much weight for his work-weary ticker.
Grandma gave me his pocket watch to keep,
And for a time I treasured it,
Measuring its weight
Like a smooth round pebble
In my palm.
A workman’s watch;
Practical.
A yellowing face
Behind a scratched
And hazy glass.
But accurate,
And precise.
Reliable as the man.
Detached in life,
I liked to hope that
Gazing down,
Watching,
He just might have
Laughed
In loving acknowledgement of his
Grandson’s curiosity
And foolishness
Sitting cross-legged on the carpet,
With heart-thumping nausea
Adrift in a sea of springs.
Mar 21, 2011
Mar 21, 2011 at 3:15 AM UTC
knitting with scissors you run with.
will get you there. but you can't buy a house. i'm sorry.
you might, miiiiight get the Edwardian Tudor for a mansion in false claim
but you keep your gaze, your weary gaze ....and slumber not so sweet, my sweet.
knitting with false gods will get you everything
but Not the Other Thing
that gnaws at the substance of your gut
where the heart resides like a lion
addicted to Aesop Fables -
and dry humors that decimate with bounty
flooding the bleak with our windmills !
you and i are regardless.
knitting with shopping carts and dead batteries. washing ashore.
lick your lips at the foam
of our hysterical event. pitch a ******* tent.
and eat more stars than you came in with.
sew the hole
with a hole and
answer the phone sometimes,
****
i ain't got all day but you might take your time
like an aspirin.
Apr 16, 2013
Apr 16, 2013 at 5:00 AM UTC
I do not like the architecture of the mall.
It's discordant and lax. The architects
dismissed all Edwardian charm
and even the Gothic grace.
When crossing my field of vision,
the mall concedes defeat,
whimpering against a prismatic sky:
"I am a hodgepodge of ambition distressed,
resolute on pioneering a style unlike anything past,
but locked off in dead history, trapped
in a monologue whose audience is myself."
I presume it's the same across the world,
architecture molded into something impulsive,
something so forced it falls flat.
Where have all the artchitects gone?
Jul 26, 2013
Jul 26, 2013 at 4:07 PM UTC
In the ashes of division hope ignited
Unity decided a new fate, in its wake.
My father lived in Chester Road,
Off Ladbrook Grove, eight children
In a tenament flat back to back.
The poverty of the forties are
Now palatial palaces, white pillared.
My father joined the army to escape
To marry and move to Streatham,
South London, to an Edwardian terrace.
Notting Hill, the divided community
Chelsea and Kensington let it happen.
My grandmother moved to a new town
And this year we all watched on TV
Grenfell burn as an inferno in the dark.
Love Mary
Jun 14, 2018
Jun 14, 2018 at 12:48 PM UTC
A pair of stays to bind in fashion,
Stiff bodice lift those ample *******
French sophistication and ***** south,
Linen lines taken from the robin's nests.
Once seen in times known to all Baroque,
Steel cages more true to the name,
Renaissance blushed at the very sight,
This hidden and blustering shame.
Georgian era was always that late,
Yet women united to sheer the skin,
Frills and cuffs were the new bloom,
The dowdy apron given to the bin.
Victorian, Edwardian seen a rise of empire,
When romance boasts the whale bone done,
Now scattered in all weddings and burlesque,
Dear Corset is set in memory to run and run.
Jun 8, 2016
Jun 8, 2016 at 7:50 AM UTC
The Moon searches out the night
During the day sits in the background
Probably knitting a scarf of clouds
Pick one drop one, Cirrus follow by Cumulus
Allowing the Sun it’s all day brilliance
At night trumping all that coloured time
With a soft monochrome thrill
Wrapped in its unravelling grey black scarf
Bit of a night owl our Moon
Throws quite a few shapes
During it’s month
Revealing a little Edwardian anklet
And then to tantalise
Following with its full scandalous magnificence
A bit of a flirt our lovely Moon.
Our Moon has many beautiful scarfs
Holding hands and touch shoulders scarf
Or soft hand on the cheek while lips meet scarf
Hide under here together and pretend we are alone scarf
Let’s do something mad and feed the ducks at night scarf
And that warm promise don’t break my heart scarf
Bit of a romantic our lunatic moon.
Jun 6, 2017
Jun 6, 2017 at 2:30 AM UTC
The spirit of the age projects a myriad of peculiarities which are diametrically opposed to the wisdom of our ancestral manoeuvres of foreboding contemplations.
It is sufficient for me to say, that I have rolled up my trouser-legs in metaphysical resignation.
Lest you forget, that the history of our posterity is shrouded in post-Edwardian etiquette, as she balances on the brink of relinquished community.
Dec 31, 2013
Dec 31, 2013 at 4:09 PM UTC
It was a Victorian night where the streets were alight with braziers and gas lamps,when out of the shadows a man rose, in the sight of those poor waifs who were waiting for succour and a bowl full of supper from the sisters, and mercy they were,for the man wouldn't dare to buy favours from females,not in front of the saviours who went among poor men, whose behaviour was suspect and where the language was ripe.
The man sunk back into the blackness of night out of sight but in mind,a kind of reminder to those in the raggety clothes,that the streets were unsafe,and
a place fit for weirdos and those who looked through you and you looked for safety in the arms of the stately,but those homes were all shut,tut ,tut
The old Queens on the throne and you're thrown to the hounds and evil abounds in this Victorian night.
The morning breaks wind as you sniff at the air and wonder, just wonder why life's so unfair,
lice in your hair and you don't smell that good,a bath would be nice and if you could you would take one to relax in,but the morning backs into your face and let's face it,the life that you're living is not good enough to **** in,and we both know these oaths that pop out now and then are not spoken by you but are written by the pen,
and another page
an Edwardian age
but the rage carries on and Victoria's gone but it matters not
you've got what you've got and there's not much you can do about that.
Oct 16, 2013
Oct 16, 2013 at 8:20 PM UTC
A pair of stays to bind in fashion,
Stiff bodice lift those ample *******
French sophistication and ***** south,
Linen lines taken from the robin's nests.
Once seen in times known to all Baroque,
Steel cages more true to the name,
Renaissance blushed at the very sight,
This hidden and blustering shame.
Georgian era was always that late,
Yet women united to sheer the skin,
Frills and cuffs were the new bloom,
The dowdy apron given to the bin.
Victorian, Edwardian seen a rise of empire,
When romance boasts the whale bone done,
Now scattered in all weddings and burlesque,
Dear Corset is set in memory to run and run.
Jul 12, 2016
Jul 12, 2016 at 9:18 AM UTC
i saw her Eyes from the across the concrete field, not blue like an ocean but blue like my porch steps after it rains, blue like the bathmat i See as i watch it from above water, swirling and spinning under clear film, blue like the dorothy dress i Saw in the church when i was small, blue like my skin when i am dead and blue like my veins when life is brought unto me again. blue like the glow from my house's edwardian windows when i Look at them at sunset, blue like the wind and the goddess and the dew; she Looked back
Aug 25, 2016
Aug 25, 2016 at 10:51 PM UTC
COME, AYE COME!
Matloob Bokhari
Come, aye Come!
O the beauty of heaven!
Night in richly coloured dress is welcoming, come!
O the glory of stars!
Night stars like diamonds are welcoming, come!
O the ornament of moon!
In your absence, bright moon is welcoming,
Come!
O the queen of sky!
Scented air in night freshness is welcoming, come!
O the north polar star!
Moth orbiting around light has utterly consumed
Without form or body, is a part of beauty, come!
O the queen of light!
Carol of birds is playing melody sweet in tune.
My heart beating; cold callous gale started blowing.
Night has rolled hours away; moist has dampened my heart.
Come, aye come!!
COMMENTS : COME AYE COME
Kristen Scott: I love this very VERY much. This is hauntingly beautiful and each word of the poem is flowing in my veins like the poetry of my favorit poet, Federico Garcia Lorca..
Vern Ford : I can almost hear Buffy Saint Marie singing your absolutely breathtaking poems!
Laura Oliva Palacio: Magnifique voila!!!! What a beautiful poem! With simple words, but of great significance make one clearly perceived the sweet and sensitive young hearts have inspiration in the bright universe of love and the infinite .. Thank you so much for sharing Matloob !!!
Laura Grillo Laveglia: I love your poem. It is written in Edwardian style and this I adore!!!
Neil Perry :Refreshing and magical.
Gary Leikas: ahhhh . . . . mesmerizing music and thought . .
Kevin M. Hibshman : Amazingly beautiful...
Sep 27, 2014
Sep 27, 2014 at 3:20 AM UTC
Of elegant languor
with a tint of sepia
melancholy
The romance of
vague longing
and nostalgic bloom
a fading chrysanthemum
perhaps
Taking the promenade
panama hat and shades
suit sewn by hand and
long corporate umbrella
Macintosh and overcoat
by turns repel the
damp and cold
Cognac by the fire
and wistful glances with
widows in the hotel bar
Strolling on with
meaningless purpose
toward Edwardian
disaster
Jun 6, 2016
Jun 6, 2016 at 3:32 AM UTC
There came a time I closed our doors
A time after you left
For the heart of my heart
I cannot lock the door.
There came a time our treasure chest met its eternal hole
For life of my life I cannot bury it.
They say you love once
If that was true
Why oh why
Do I keep falling in love with you
Everyday , every night and it repeats
My beautiful replay of our edwardian love.
You were my everything and now that my everything is gone I have nothing.
Grieve I grieve more then I should , I hurt more then I should but all I can think and do is only love you.
With sorrowful joy-
Theres a part of me that still thinks of you and whatever fears I have disappears
Nov 23, 2015
Nov 23, 2015 at 2:46 PM UTC
Found and lost at once,
immediate
inbetweenity, here, not there
in a way, in the air, expired
whoosh, shush and remember
the wonder lost,
when the boy who wished never
to grow old
with this now to
remain the time of our lives, when
not knowing keeps us safe,
and our guides into ever on go, ever
be
holding, ever eyewise-touching
the face of God,
big g.
Time and Joy, Edwardian Gay
repressed as zeitgeist calling for
"lovely, wonderful thoughts"
infantile omnipotence, 700 million light
geotimed timid old ideas
The author imagines the same vision
one way, plain, unencoded
white wolves in a walnut tree
freud interpretted the unconscious wish source
ah, it was the witnessing of *** enacted, eh?
I think we may have granted Herr Freud
more credence than guesses are often allowed.
Is this not the same social act as when
any knowledge is claimed by faith in the answer
accepted
inner being, outer shown, reflective seeing
the world we see, we agree to see,
this is that, you see,
I say, literally living in word alone, a nobody
founding one fair-made tale, of favors owned, shrinking
death in the brothers wish, where lay the dead man
I recall as always handsome, though I never knew him.
I was such a liar, so ready to say true a not-ever-true
Having no success that makes history,
hold no certain truth that certainly made me
choose
to wish to
be an author of the faith I pour out
clap your hands if you believe
in fair
ways found oddly marked in the peace
found in old
"better to have had less ambition"
Thinking as a child, not as the old man, watching
slight smile
forming the setting for the scene, making much
of being a little boy, once, as a story
sifted from another, seeping into solution.
Yes the spirit of my time has been my friend,
for, most of the ways I wished to learn,
now are in my grasp, well within my reach, mine
and that of my Artistical Intuitive Muse,
ever aiming my morning at the mercy on the edge
of one day alone
with you,
lost in youth's untutored virginity
or something, impatient, yes, I'd wait… perfect moments
are rare,
but do occur, if your aim is close..
Dec 3, 2023
Dec 3, 2023 at 6:22 PM UTC
The garden leading to her Edwardian house
Came swiftly off the main road
The front path straight and lengthy
With bobble brick edging in grey stone.
Roses gathered irregularly along the borders
And a privet hedge lined the perimeter
Needing lots of attention in the Summer months
A few small trees and bushes broke up the space.
Every year I would visit my mother's sister ,Betty
Very different from my mother in outlook
As the front door opened the aroma of sweetness
Gathered from the year's cooking apple crop.
And so it would be a weekend of difference
Spread out as the art books lining the walls
A collection of shells, labelled with dates and places
Displayed on a trolley and covered with cellophane,
An old piano, Boosey and Hawks, on a side wall
And record cabinets containing her favourite music
Everything had its place, still, motionless, peaceful.
Feb 11, 2018
Feb 11, 2018 at 2:30 PM UTC