"frisson" poems
*what forests are those we pass,
blazing along the railway tracks,
a tree bloom of still cranes,
stream black of ******* bane,
stench of dead city rubble,
factories of rusted cast metal,
distant cotton twilight skies,
sun slide across a bunch of wires,
passing tunnels echo
lonely platforms, frantic gecko,
looming hillside,
crackle dry wood fire,
a god barred in lock&key,
blink glimpse of the sea
one rush of vision,
pebble fling at frisson,
metal-crunch rhythm,
grind music sublime,
spark, grunt, grate,
we arrive, we dissipate...*
Aug 22, 2016
Aug 22, 2016 at 11:42 AM UTC
roaming colours
paint the woods
pencil feathers
ringlets echo
one after one
each flap
hues of sunlight
touch up shades
soft plumes
little hiccups
with each take off
leaves quake
wild flowers
a frisson of pleasure
swamps in
petals unfurl
a sigh undone and
sepals swell
tender sips
with rooted focus
bees detour
minds untie
as each glides by
a masterpiece
© Malintha Perera 2014
Oct 7, 2014
Oct 7, 2014 at 6:32 AM UTC
Seagull on rotting planks, bouy bells ding to fog and driftwood.
A culling fire exploits the docking shire.
Filled with chlorine shards, legs caught in the clap-traps.
Friar palms glisten,
Rage responds with frisson.
Clear view over water.
Feel your arms relax and slip onto your back while the culling fire attacks.
Bulbous deadening brain chimes
As the eyes slide down to your omission crimes.
Leave me alone in my despondent company.
Don't push the matter further let communication fail to nurture.
A warm breeze carries me
like a floating portrait towards unreal scented meats.
I'm here now, alone in the corner,
The greatest intimacy with the static patterns on the carpeted flooring. The king of this corner is the odor of plank seating and flowery detergent in this lonely corridor fluorescent light-bulb poles and old grain floorboards.
Now the returning shards of panic to uncelibate strangers drive me up, far, deep in my own ribcage to something wholly non-organic.
Time to clock-in, time to check out.
May 3, 2014
May 3, 2014 at 1:25 AM UTC
Her syllogisms repose trust in her adept beleaguering of unworthy opponents.
Constantly in a state of lassitude for this desultory, inure world of the insouciant youth which dwells upon it's cathartic terrain, she engages not in lachrymose nor is she crestfallen for the hope of romance and it's everlasting ineffability.
She is a fugacious moment of frisson embodied in a human form; a juxtaposition of the serendipitous moments that ever constantly come one after the other in a fickle wheel of steep highs and deep lows. All her life, this girl will lilt through the crossroads of her obstacles and show the world the efflorescence of her beauty. Hush don't speak lest you miss hearing the mellifluous music of her voice of fail to hear the lagniappe that is her name.
She is the cynosure of human attention, the goddess and we are but her humble servants. She is innocence most rare, love most coveted. She is infinite. She is peace.
Jan 13, 2014
Jan 13, 2014 at 10:25 AM UTC
Turning table of bare skin and plaster
Sitting model of perfections mastered
Brushing every layer on blank sheets
Watering eyes for moisture in basking heat
Now cry those pictures prettier than me
Wash away what flaws replay then flee
Creating beauty; an authentic frisson
Until the truth is unmasked to glisten
Strokes of warmth into lustrous mellow
Let me shine then fade a sweeter yellow
Add finishing touches on the drying husk
Then marvel at the paint of dawn to dusk.
Dec 23, 2018
Dec 23, 2018 at 3:43 PM UTC
Acquiesce here my love
Ameliorate my heart
The assemblage of circumstance provides dulcet ebullience
An efflorescent dalliance conflated into cathartic becoming
My bucolic bungalow made upon your callipygous
A young Life’s denouement
Your evocative elixir fetching
An erstwhile emollient embrocation
Your eloquent fingers find their way to frisson
My felicitous chatoyant gambols in glamor like a halcyon incipient made ineffable by the look of the ingénue
The labyrinthine inglenook lagoon leisurely lithe
The murmurous daffodils wink at the insouciance of your beauty
A panoply panacea, the half shadow complete as an epiphany
Quintessential to feminine riparian resplendence
Your mellifluous voice, an opulent offing, the sumptuous summery soliloquy of an angel
Cools my soul like the smell of earth after rain
Your propinquity ripples the scintilla of my spirit
Your surreptitious smile like a zephyr quietly whispers
Its redolent seraglio sempiternal in my thoughts
As skyward gazes like saccharine gossamer lilt with the knowledge of our raveling juxtaposition
a masterful pastiche, the cynosure of divine revelation
Nov 5, 2013
Nov 5, 2013 at 9:25 PM UTC
*Contended by mine eye and ear
I wouldst be joined by this kiss
in the promise made Dwynwen
whilst captured by thine poetry
a beauty lost in past empyrean age
as is this disciple here and now
in a sirens call of dark promise
lips offering a frisson of delight
thence romances pulsing core
Let this vow and plea be honoured
each 'Dydd Santes Dwynwen'
David x*
Jul 15, 2010
Jul 15, 2010 at 11:50 PM UTC
Regret is the consequential disappointment
That the thrilling transgressive frisson your
Online ****** therapist offered for a number.
On the web no one knows if you are a dog
But the Daily Mail knows if you are a love rat
Their readers will wallow in your misfortune.
Millions have had web fantasies exposed
Sharp onomatopoeic cheating thrills have
Become a fear of secret lives found out.
Their private diversions now public lead
Nervous executives newly emasculated
To realise life is short, shorter than desire.
Jul 27, 2015
Jul 27, 2015 at 6:12 AM UTC
A scintillating ocean.
Refracting light across the spectrum,
colours beyond white, black, and red;
Mirror to the universal spirits.
Crystalline forms growing
like families of fungi across the horizon.
A mycological configuration
of salts and waveform reflectors.
A frisson of diamonds.
Seizures of globular light, elliptical rainbows.
Twice-reflected hollow moonbeams.
Creating.
Cubes in the molecular structure,
Silent carbon and quartz,
as from some distant caverns
unseen by any eye.
May 22, 2012
May 22, 2012 at 3:11 PM UTC
Rien n'est jamais acquis à l'homme Ni sa force
Ni sa faiblesse ni son coeur Et quand il croit
Ouvrir ses bras son ombre est celle d'une croix
Et quand il croit serrer son bonheur il le broie
Sa vie est un étrange et douloureux divorce
Il n'y a pas d'amour heureux
Sa vie Elle ressemble à ces soldats sans armes
Qu'on avait habillés pour un autre destin
À quoi peut leur servir de se lever matin
Eux qu'on retrouve au soir désoeuvrés incertains
Dites ces mots Ma vie Et retenez vos larmes
Il n'y a pas d'amour heureux
Mon bel amour mon cher amour ma déchirure
Je te porte dans moi comme un oiseau blessé
Et ceux-là sans savoir nous regardent passer
Répétant après moi les mots que j'ai tressés
Et qui pour tes grands yeux tout aussitôt moururent
Il n'y a pas d'amour heureux
Le temps d'apprendre à vivre il est déjà trop ****
Que pleurent dans la nuit nos coeurs à l'unisson
Ce qu'il faut de malheur pour la moindre chanson
Ce qu'il faut de regrets pour payer un frisson
Ce qu'il faut de sanglots pour un air de guitare
Il n'y a pas d'amour heureux.
2.3k
I've read that people re-write their memory repeatedly,
until we've floated down so far from the moment
we can only think of our pruning hands.
Tiny hills of flesh soaked through from a river of touching
and going.
I am still here.
I kept you whole by building theme parks over
bad decisions.
A carousel of nights where we'd slip away
to try each other on.
Some sudden frisson
roller coaster rolling me closer to
knuckled blood, white bone, holding your hand
during the free fall we were too embarrassed to be afraid of,
but rode it three times just to be sure we had a grip.
I cannot hold it all so I thought to carry just the goodness.
Me a hungry thief with my arms full in an orchard of peaches,
that you gave
like someone who had never been kissed.
Your eyes were so bright and new I swear sailors must have seen you coming
over the horizon at dawn on the last day at sea.
Their skin wet with the voyage as they slide down
to find earth underfoot and look back over an ocean
only to whisper under a hushed northwesterly,
"Finally."
Sep 25, 2013
Sep 25, 2013 at 5:56 AM UTC
~~~~English~~~~
Everything is white
Snow is all I can see for miles and miles
Icicles hang from the shivering trees
And the flowers are resting in sweet peace
Until Spring wakes them from their sleep
Sound of jingling sleigh bells
Blow across the wind
Mingling with the sound
Of distant church chimes
Cold bitter breezes sting my face
And I can clearly see my breath
Slowly I homeward trod
To sit beside the fireplace
With a hot cup of cocoa
~Marian~
~~~~French~~~~
Tout est blanc
Neige est tout qu'i can see for miles et des miles
Glaçons pendent des arbres avec frisson
Et les fleurs sont reposent en paix doux
Jusqu'au printemps eux réveille de son sommeil
Bruit de tintement de grelots
Coup dans le vent
Se mêlant avec le son
Du lointain carillon église
Froides brises amers piquent mon visage
Et je vois clairement mon souffle
Lentement j'ai foulé chemin du retour
S'asseoir à côté de la cheminée
Avec une bonne tasse de cacao
~ Marian ~
Jun 4, 2014
Jun 4, 2014 at 12:19 AM UTC
It’s work, this wailing,
a daily occupation.
Alongside the light-rail
A ghost bike, a placard,
a quickening in the blood.
Murmur, breathe myself to sleep,
fleece this feeling,
Blue skies somewhere
and yeah, life goes on.
I struggle to wake,
my sharpest knife
slides along this peach’s stone,
scoop this flesh, devour.
Crepuscular light,
Fecundity of life,
Lacerate this daytime
cut through with dim.
Celerity of dusk,
and with it this gloaming,
My quidnunc neighbor
seals ear to wall to trace
my hitching breaths from air.
But it’s tomorrow now
and it is warm in Paranoia Park.
This violinist, though hardly Paganini,
embroiders sound onto sound.
His bow draws a frisson
along my spine, my nerves
His strings, vibration,
shimmering, a shock, a flush.
This moment: a reprieve,
my coffee break from grief.
All the trees are turning orange.
The days all turn to sleep.
Nov 10, 2011
Nov 10, 2011 at 3:52 PM UTC
My orbs sought yours
Amidst the same old crowd
Waiting to connect
To create a sound so loud
An instant glee
This soul thirsts for
Just one look at me
I won't need more.
Nov 3, 2014
Nov 3, 2014 at 7:56 AM UTC
Telephone wires are tangled in the trees tonight
and the stars are copper colour,
as if scattered from a fountain
and Romeo is calling from beneath the balcony
of the Capulet family in Verona,
trying to get reception-
but the receiver is busy
moving on, and growing up-
Juliet, the girl he is calling, has a new phone
that she doesn't trust with unfamiliar numbers,
and his is listed 'unknown'
Unsent messages: *"goodnight
"goodnight- parting is such sweet sorrow,
that I shall say good night till it be morrow."*
The story of the star-cross'd lovers was no tragedy at is end.
Nobody died, nobody had to pretend
to die. They rarely think of one another now,
only from time to time do they wonder 'what if'
or regret the absence of a real goodbye.
Romeo never got the chance to defy the stars
Juliet never got the chance to contemplate him cut out in them
and neither of them got the chance to commit,
and neither of them took a chance with suicide.
Telephone wires in trees, copper stars-
-ghosts, wished on, shooting, burning far, far away-
Unspoken words: *"some consequence
yet hanging in the stars,
auspicious stars"*
(the fairest of them, he'd once found in her eyes)-
no reception, nothing received.
In this love story, nobody dies.
It is remembered as any other night before.
It was not long until where Romeo had come and gone
he'd left behind just a flicker of a frisson
in memory, growing distant,
gradual decay, and then
he was nothing more than threads to weave
the patchwork of a dream,-
hard to recall, a close call,
a near miss, a could-have been-
but it was harder, with time, to believe it was ever
the real love she yet knew nothing of
at the keen age of only thirteen.
It was Paris she fell for. The two were to marry
and for her bouquet that day, the flower she chose
to carry- for their romance and sweetness-
was the rose, and in her vows, she spoke of her love
being boundless and deep as the sea,
and infinite. All the wishes he'd made on stars
and coins in fountains had come to be.
Spoken words: "Have I thought long to see this morning's face..."
So many saved lives and one love lost and
a glooming sort of peace settled over
the star-cross'd streets of Verona.
Aug 8, 2014
Aug 8, 2014 at 2:02 PM UTC
Prayer is a thought,
a frisson,
a song,
a sob.
Prayer can be all that one is,
All that one aspires to be,
It can be all that one has lost,
The last thing that one has to give.
True prayer is internal,
Prayer is like a snowflake,
Prayer is not printed
Words on a page.
Prayer is not always cathartic.
Prayer is angry. Prayer is hopelessness.
Prayer is more often than not
A last resort born of desperation.
Prayer uttered daily, commanded by a man,
Is prayer stripped of meaning, desecrated,
A holy word on a holy plane
Made mundane.
Sep 9, 2013
Sep 9, 2013 at 7:27 AM UTC
Drastic measures must be taken to overcome the afternoon lull.
Seventeen obscure hardbound essays to consume, spines flaking
and half-eaten by dustmites. Their goodies
can only be extracted by torture, but my instruments are dulled
by shriekless hours and the fuddy-duddies
beside me, who god help me I’ll never become,
though I’m already bearded, and have started showing some dome.
Time, I think, to give something back:
a single bogie on a lone mission
to retake Stevens’ Noble Rider and the Sound of Words.
A big ask, I reckon, but this mischievous frisson
is deepness: It’ll probably be half, or at least a third
of my life before anyone finds my sleeper, my double agent
Amongst horses shedding their coats for the summer.
I smile at no one in particular, and return to my stack.
Keyboards clatter like rain, drowning out what little glamour
remains of the microfiche, leaping silent
over centuries in a smallish room in the corner.
Oct 22, 2011
Oct 22, 2011 at 6:49 AM UTC
Tout est pris d'un frisson subit.
L'hiver s'enfuit et se dérobe.
L'année ôte son vieil habit ;
La terre met sa belle robe.
Tout est nouveau, tout est debout ;
L'adolescence est dans les plaines ;
La beauté du diable, partout,
Rayonne et se mire aux fontaines.
L'arbre est coquet ; parmi les fleurs
C'est à qui sera la plus belle ;
Toutes étalent leurs couleurs,
Et les plus laides ont du zèle.
Le bouquet jaillit du rocher ;
L'air baise les feuilles légères ;
Juin rit de voir s'endimancher
Le petit peuple des fougères.
C'est une fête en vérité,
Fête où vient le chardon, ce rustre ;
Dans le grand palais de l'été
Les astres allument le lustre.
On fait les foins. Bientôt les blés.
Le faucheur dort sous la cépée ;
Et tous les souffles sont mêlés
D'une senteur d'herbe coupée.
Oui chante là ? Le rossignol.
Les chrysalides sont parties.
Le ver de terre a pris son vol
Et jeté le froc aux orties ;
L'aragne sur l'eau fait des ronds ;
Ô ciel bleu ! l'ombre est sous la treille ;
Le jonc tremble, et les moucherons
Viennent vous parler à l'oreille ;
On voit rôder l'abeille à jeun,
La guêpe court, le frelon guette ;
A tous ces buveurs de parfum
Le printemps ouvre sa guinguette.
Le bourdon, aux excès enclin,
Entre en chiffonnant sa chemise ;
Un oeillet est un verre plein,
Un lys est une nappe mise.
La mouche boit le vermillon
Et l'or dans les fleurs demi-closes,
Et l'ivrogne est le papillon,
Et les cabarets sont les roses.
De joie et d'extase on s'emplit,
L'ivresse, c'est la délivrance ;
Sur aucune fleur on ne lit :
Société de tempérance.
Le faste providentiel
Partout brille, éclate et s'épanche,
Et l'unique livre, le ciel,
Est par l'aube doré sur tranche.
Enfants, dans vos yeux éclatants
Je crois voir l'empyrée éclore ;
Vous riez comme le printemps
Et vous pleurez comme l'aurore.
1.5k
Her present universe reflects an insurmountable challenge.
See how she struggles, climbing then sliding back on her alpine slope.
Climbing then sliding,
climbing, sliding.
How relentless her microscopic brain.
How miraculous such a diminutive creature evokes our human emotions.
Poor hopeless thing. She is the center of my attention.
She can count on all eight of her fuzzy legs that a sherpa rescue is at hand.
I toss in a towel.
Aware of oppressor, not saviour, she contorts her body,
covers her eyes with her legs. Screws herself into a dried raisin.
A class act if ever I saw one!
When the sound of thunder ceases to rattle the bath
she cautiously unfurls, stretches her joints,
then scurries over the snowy fibres.
Only then does a frisson of fear creep across my flesh.
copyright © Caroline Grace 2011
Jun 6, 2011
Jun 6, 2011 at 2:07 AM UTC
le couloir de mal
c’est un hôpital
où la gardien de la mort
habite; il te donne,
avec un frisson,
un baiser: et tu dors.
Jun 29, 2010
Jun 29, 2010 at 6:53 AM UTC
One upon a time, there was
a meeting of the minds,
A hot frisson of hunger;
an electric tingle down the spine.
Of course, we've had insulation put in since then. It's practically paid for itself already, hasn't it darling?
Sep 26, 2010
Sep 26, 2010 at 8:47 AM UTC
I could delve deep into my self named brain,
or just trickle yours,
I'm the trickster of the lame and helper of the poor, minded.
Ill come at you until you gobble all I have to say you'll have to force it out like puke. So take a deep breath, let the venom in these words seep into your eyes and travel through the chains and locks reflex-fully shut on your heart, to the deepest most brittle parts of your fingernails. Let this feeling bring frisson to your back and spine, give it the power to move your body, slash at your sleep and keep you ever so small at night. Let yourself sleep.
Sep 8, 2016
Sep 8, 2016 at 12:22 PM UTC
I knock three times and wait,
close my eyes and cross my fingers,
and I hear the click of the door opening,
and you're there, waiting for me
like you've been all along, maybe.
Without a word, I walk in and sit on your bed
You shut the door slowly and then
come to stand in front of me looking serious
"What is it?" I ask.
"Katie and I broke up."
"Oh."
He sighs and sits down next to me, close
enough to touch but not quite.
He looks at me and I look back into his silent eyes
He frowns momentarily and I think he's
starting to figure it out, so I look away
casting my eyes down at my hands, my fingers
twisting themselves into odd shapes
that betray how nervous I am, just being here
with him, knowing that... he doesn't belong to her
he doesn't belong to anyone, and
all I want is to be his.
I stand up and walk over to the corner
to try to escape the intensity of his presence
but he gets up and follows me until he's standing
just a foot in front of me
And I notice that he's not wearing shoes so
he's only a few inches taller than me
short enough so that it would be easy, so easy
for me to just reach up and -
But my thoughts are interrupted when he puts his hands on my shoulders
and asks me what I'm thinking about.
"Nothing," I lie.
His beautiful lips smile that annoying smirk of his
as he says "We both know that's not true."
And he's standing so close that I get distracted
by the amazing cupid's bow shape of his lips
and how his eyes light up when he's looking at me
And I feel a spark, a frisson, that's suddenly there
The room feels so much smaller, and it's just him and me
Inches apart, gazing into each other's eyes.
And then he leans in, still holding on to my shoulders
and he's getting closer and just before he closes his eyes
he whispers, "You have no idea how long I've been wanting to do this."
Apr 4, 2013
Apr 4, 2013 at 4:39 AM UTC
La lune est rouge au brumeux horizon ;
Dans un brouillard qui danse, la prairie
S'endort fumeuse, et la grenouille crie
Par les joncs verts où circule un frisson ;
Les fleurs des eaux referment leurs corolles ;
Des peupliers profilent aux lointains,
Droits et serrés, leur spectres incertains ;
Vers les buissons errent les lucioles ;
Les chats-huants s'éveillent, et sans bruit
Rament l'air noir avec leurs ailes lourdes,
Et le zénith s'emplit de lueurs sourdes.
Blanche, Vénus émerge, et c'est la Nuit.
831