"embroideries" poems
I MADE my song a coat
Covered with embroideries
Out of old mythologies
From heel to throat;
But he fools caught it,
Wore it in the world's eyes
As though they'd wrought it.
Song, let them take it,
For there's more enterprise
In walking naked.
1
Notorious, till all my priceless things
Are but a post the passing dogs defile.
2.6k
Happiness is like,
grandpa's smoking pipe,
breathing tranquil frequencies,
like grandma's needlework,
knitting sweaters with embroideries,
like a radio,
antenna of thanksgiving,
the harvest of beautiful melodies.
May 21, 2015
May 21, 2015 at 5:54 AM UTC
Swallows' games
in the summer sky.
They ****
flutter
play
drawing wefts
with black and white colours
and with embroideries
the blue vault
seems to be painted.
My eyes follow
but chasing them
they get tired
until exhausted I close them
and in the darkness
the swallows
still fly about.
30.6.'13
Feb 19, 2015
Feb 19, 2015 at 2:23 PM UTC
I found myself rooting for the tiny ant
The spider was trying to trap in its webbed snare,
No thoughts did I spare before swiping a finger,
and helping it make a dramatic escape
As I looked at the spider, left food-less,
Rearrange itself in its meticulous net,
I wondered at the strangeness of this
Little world of ours, and also its pointlessness
We make it seem so rosy and pretty,
Embellish it with garlands of emotions,
But underneath lies the truth of its existence,
Made up of cruelty, chaos and commotion
The Designer painted it beautifully,
But gave it finer embroideries of pain,
He threw in an entire cosmos together,
And arranged it into a food chain
Compartments and more compartments,
Of colour and country and gender galore,
Hustle and bustle to stay put in a labile balance,
That is forever tipped at the cusp of war
We fool ourselves with the sham that our lives
Depend on friendships and love and such stunts,
When what we are, if we think about it,
Is a part, of one gigantic hunt
A hunt for alimentation,
And monetary satisfaction,
And physical satiation,
Does being conditional deserve glorification?
I wonder if I've turned into a permanent cynic,
It may very well be just a phase,
Though the spider would be cursing me for sure,
Not too romantic it is, sabotaging a prey!
Nov 1, 2016
Nov 1, 2016 at 4:53 PM UTC
The sky is about to make you a liar
because
to the moon and back
is utterly impossible.
I still believe you
even if the universe never did.
And danger was closer and closer with each passing moon
but anyway
we turned to stargazing.
But even the stars fall from the sky
and no dream of mine could make you love me;
Or you for that matter
but I do
I love you.
You look good in blue,
it imitates my eyes
which mirrors my heart
that is yours
forevermore.
I weaved something beautiful for us both
but life is not a loom.
Its a series of complex embroideries
and our patterns never
matched.
At least you're honest,
that's something I've never been much good at.
May 12, 2013
May 12, 2013 at 11:02 AM UTC
This is not a poem to idealize you, but
I remember your body well.
I miss how soft your skin was, the way it smelled
like your bed, back home when we…when you
would hold and kiss me lightly.
I hadn’t loved you then.
You were a stranger, with new paint and gold embroideries,
a beautiful boat in a safe harbor.
No, I did not love you then.
It was when I could see my fingerprints on your windows,
the scuff marks on the floors,
and the nights I’d hear you creek and moan.
It was when I felt the dulling of the brass
on the railings I used most often,
the day I memorized the placement of every
chip of paint, and ugly barnacle.
I wish you felt the same.
When we met, I was far away
(I had not loved you then).
You saw my silhouette and imagined
a glowing vessel of gold and pearls,
delicate and wild.
I’m sorry to have disappointed you
with my wooden frame, and chipped paint.
The creaks and moans of a body at sea.
The parts I loved of you,
you didn’t wish to see in me.
So let me set aside the flowery words
the alliteration and simile.
Let me speak plainly.
You are a miserable self-fulfilling prophesy
riding on the coat-tails of sympathy
with an ego so self-righteous, so blind
that if you were handed a mirror,
you’d only see another stranger to criticize.
You wouldn’t know love if it hit you in the face,
And it has, on several occasions.
I now fully understand the stories
of women running you over with cars,
and screaming profanities from 2nd story windows.
You called them crazy, but,
I only wish I had the nerve to join their ranks.
You are a judgmental, emotional leech
squirming in your own self hatred and soiled clothes,
imposing your disparaging insecurities
onto the ones who try to clean you up.
So please believe me that when I say
**** you”
It is only because they have not created a word
powerful enough
to describe the sour taste your name leaves in my mouth,
or the sparks of hot metal it leaves
when it crosses my mind.
When I say “I never want to see you again”
It is only because I am so embarrassed
by your appearance in my recent past
that if you were to:
fall into a hole,
float out to sea,
or disappear into your own puckered ****
I would breathe a sigh of relief.
So, yes- I miss the way your skin smelled;
like your bed, sweet and sour.
but there are beds
with more loveable personalities
than you.
Nov 14, 2012
Nov 14, 2012 at 10:56 PM UTC
Occasionally, fashion shows start late because the designer is still working on the collection. There are some persnickety types out there who would happily keep tinkering until it’s markdown time.
Maria Grazia Chiuri and Pierpaolo Piccioli decided they would throw in the towel whenever they felt each item in their spring collection was finished just enough to reveal the beauty of the craftsmanship at the heart of a couture house like Valentino. They explained that they had borrowed the concept from the “Unfinished: Thoughts Left Visible” exhibition at the Met Breuer in New York, which showcased some 500 years of paintings still in progress.
The highfalutin’ explanation had one searching for examples beyond the brogues with exposed staples and undyed edges they plucked off a table backstage. But apart from a bit of sagging lining here and a few dangling threads there, here was a collection with that familiar Valentino polish.
The camouflage coats and military-influenced ensembles had a sense of deja vu, too, albeit with more irregular splotches and ruff-hewn embroideries. What felt newer were the monochromatic ensembles, layers of featherweight coats and zippered shirt jackets tucked into tapered trousers. They came in Army green, a deep blue or black — the latter peppered with silver grommets — and were chic from start to finish.Read more at: www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-perth | http://www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-canberra
Jun 23, 2016
Jun 23, 2016 at 4:02 AM UTC
By Nabs
The well of words
Deep down in this breathing heart
Are drying and cracking before they reach,
This sinning fingertips.
These words
Taste dry, musty. Parching throats.
Crackled in the air
Louder than thunder and your screams.
As the spinning wheel
Stop.
Stopping forever.
Stop. Pricking blood from your vessel.
Embroideries, tapestries
weaved from the threads of life.
Unbound, unraveled
Marveled in the way they are being broken down.
Set fire to us,
And you'll see.
How prettily we all would burn
Inside this tomb, we called home.
Dec 24, 2015
Dec 24, 2015 at 6:39 AM UTC
Skin to skin,
Bones to bones;
I love you with every
fiber of my soul.
You weaved your place,
Your Persian blue
Into the tapestry
Of my amber hue.
How picturesque
Our sunset sky,
With embroideries
of amaranth divine,
like Venus’ blessing in disguise.
Feb 14, 2022
Feb 14, 2022 at 8:14 PM UTC
You're a floated Liver of sins, my friend
When you disrobe in-front of the mirror-unmarred
You find yourself bloated and ill hued
The excess soil in your cuss
has stoppered
What you’ve amassed in free wanting
has driven you into a clot
Your consumption has padded you to reach a total
and all you can do is amount upon the scale of mammal judgement
and feast upon your grave
Look to your pillow and it’s embroideries !
Can you make out the words ?
‘A pleasured out beast of glut and ego
Unwealthy and devoid’
Mar 28, 2019
Mar 28, 2019 at 11:04 PM UTC
In the past
passion
used to wake me up in the morning
caressing my hair,
stirring the senses
which in the torpor
were delighted.
Imagination
was her friend
and together,
holding hands,
would stroll on my body.
In the past
passion and imagination
used to kiss me in the morning
filling my bed
with memories and hopes
and allowing the desire
to make me see
even in the dark.
They would call fantasy
who still young
loved dreaming
and with the most beautiful embroideries
would adorn my heart.
In the past,
passion, imagination
and fantasy
used to wake me up in the morning.
In the past.
5.2.’14
Jan 22, 2015
Jan 22, 2015 at 2:30 PM UTC
A Coat
By William Butler Yeats
I made my song a coat
Covered with embroideries
Out of old mythologies
From heel to throat;
But the fools caught it,
Wore it in the world’s eyes
As though they’d wrought it.
Song, let them take it
For there’s more enterprise
In walking naked.
TOBIAS
Jun 14, 2018
Jun 14, 2018 at 1:53 PM UTC
I caressed the wings of sunrise
diaphanous and vague
against the morning light
while it embraced me
with a remote grin
while it taught me
to speak to my soul
looking each other
bound together by clouds threads
faint like frost
impalpable like spider's embroideries
regardless of distance
regardless of time.
Mar 25, 2017
Mar 25, 2017 at 11:51 AM UTC
Took the train north
to capture the star gaze
Didn't say if she would come back
Where is her boyfriend now
The one she believed in
She chooses her colours for pleasure
Russett sunset
and embroideries for you
surrounds herself with friends
To learn the truth
Summer fade
Leaves a smile
Aug 13, 2022
Aug 13, 2022 at 1:17 PM UTC