"georgian" poems
What sort of lean-to
is habitat to your humanity?
Is it an apartment, bungalow, flat ,
or a cozy cape cod
or perhaps a suburban ranch?
What sort of lean-to
provides those inches and flames
that shield you from
hypothermia and death?
Is it a Georgian Mansion by the sea
or cardboard boxes stacked
beneath the interchange
on the far side of town?
(How many lack even that)?
What sort of lean-to's
will suffice
to shelter the family of man?
December, 2013
Dec 15, 2013
Dec 15, 2013 at 9:46 AM UTC
The light of evening, Lissadell,
Great windows open to the south,
Two girls in silk kimonos, both
Beautiful, one a gazelle.
But a raving autumn shears
Blossom from the summer's wreath;
The older is condemned to death,
Pardoned, drags out lonely years
Conspiring among the ignorant.
I know not what the younger dreams--
Some vague Utopia--and she seems,
When withered old and skeleton-gaunt,
An image of such politics.
Many a time I think to seek
One or the other out and speak
Of that old Georgian mansion, mix
pictures of the mind, recall
That table and the talk of youth,
Two girls in silk kimonos, both
Beautiful, one a gazelle.
Dear shadows, now you know it all,
All the folly of a fight
With a common wrong or right.
The innocent and the beautiful.
Have no enemy but time;
Arise and bid me strike a match
And strike another till time catch;
Should the conflagration climb,
Run till all the sages know.
We the great gazebo built,
They convicted us of guilt;
Bid me strike a match and blow.
4.3k
Two people once residied in a flat in London city,
A man who had a drug addiction, things did not seem pretty,
His ***** at eighteen, barely grown who worked the streets at night,
She slept all day while **** guy flushed her veins with coke mixed *****
Now, girl would wonder what life would be like if she were home,
A georgian three up, two down house, with trees and garden gnomes,
She wondered how she got here, reminiscing on times better,
A stupid fight with mum, some awful words, a goodbye letter.
So many times she tried to get away from her **** guy,
But cravings soon kicked in, so she would pierce her veiny thigh,
She saw the flyers on the walls, she knew her mother missed her,
She pleaded with the **** through lips all swollen full of blisters.
Two people now reside inside a house so filled with sorrow,
A mother,racked with sadness for her girl who evil borrowed,
A dad who knows his brother fills his neices veins with drugs,
The money that dad makes from her will never make him snug.
A flat lies empty, desolate, void of two more souls,
A child lies dead from overdose,
Her uncle full of needle holes...
Aug 25, 2010
Aug 25, 2010 at 4:28 AM UTC
Write about socks, she said...
Write about socks, she said.
She likes socks, I guess.
Socks are cool, she said.
Socks are sock are socks nonetheless.
Socks are cotton clad elastic sacs,
They go on your feet and they can go up the ***
(That last line was a reference to how I feel when I hear bull crap.)
Particularly my own when I'm intoxicated on life.
This poem is for a girl in New Jersey.
There's dirt underneath my socks, but there's concrete underneath hers'.
Jersey girl's wind is colder than mine, and it smells like one of the smallest states in continental America.
My Georgian wind always feels like a broken leaf.
I like my wind though.
There's a small draft between my toes here.
It sort of feels good.
That's what it's like when I don't wear socks though.
It sort of feels good.
As for Jersey girl.
She likes socks, I guess,
but I'm not one-hundred percent sure yet.
She is.
Mar 8, 2014
Mar 8, 2014 at 6:18 PM UTC
I love my early morning hikes
in the Georgian-woods,
where alone
I glide along,
my feet carrying me
through the zephyr-mists,
upward on the granite stairway
into the disappearing stars
& onto the bald-summit.
Happily,
I stand exposed
on another sacred-peak,
one of God's gifts
for wayward hikers,
smiling.
Feb 9, 2014
Feb 9, 2014 at 6:25 AM UTC
THE KNIGHT IN THE PANTHER’S SKIN
***** Rustaveli (c. 1160-1250), often called simply Rustaveli, was a Georgian poet who is generally considered to be the preeminent poet of the Georgian Golden Age. “The Knight in the Panther's Skin” or “The Man in the Panther’s Skin” is considered to be Georgia’s national epic poem and until the 20th century it was part of every Georgian bride’s dowry. It is believed that Rustaveli served Queen Tamar as a treasurer or finance minister and that he may have traveled widely and been involved in military campaigns. Little else is known about his life except through folk tradition and legend.
The Knight in the Panther's Skin
by ***** Rustaveli
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
excerpts from the PROLOGUE
I sing of the lion whose image adorns the lances, shields and swords
of our Queen of Queens: Tamar, the ruby-throated and ebon-haired.
How dare I not sing Her Excellency’s manifold praises
when those who attend her must bring her the sweets she craves?
My tears flow profusely like blood as I extol our Queen Tamar,
whose praises I sing in these not ill-chosen words.
For ink I have employed jet-black lakes and for a pen, a flexible reed.
Whoever hears will have his heart pierced by the sharpest spears!
She bade me laud her in stately, sweet-sounding verses,
to praise her eyebrows, her hair, her lips and her teeth:
those rubies and crystals arrayed in bright, even ranks!
A leaden anvil can shatter even the strongest stone.
Kindle my mind and tongue! Fill me with skill and eloquence!
Aid my understanding for this composition!
Thus Tariel will be tenderly remembered,
one of three star-like heroes who always remained faithful.
Come, let us mourn Tariel with undrying tears
because we are men born under similar stars.
I, Rustaveli, whose heart has been pierced through by many sorrows,
have threaded this tale like a necklace of pearls.
Keywords/Tags: ***** Rustaveli, Georgia, Georgian, epic, knight, panther, skin, queen, Tamar, praise, praises, Tariel, Avtandil, Nestan-Darejan
Apr 22, 2021
Apr 22, 2021 at 1:38 AM UTC
We dine on Tuna & Merlot red wine
a single car's headlights shine
traveling down a road
so many stories untold
you're selling your old flat
in the Georgian house
we all lived in
back in the colorless nineties
when the music was bad -
Westlife, Take That, Spice Girls
& everyone
wore either black or blue
it seemed, on this Island
& your boys were still small
& my family holidayed in Cornwall
& I didn't yet know I could write poetry
when you move away
I shall be sorry to see you go
Aug 15, 2015
Aug 15, 2015 at 7:33 PM UTC
It was a magical summer.
Lodi blared as fireflies glowed,
leaves fluttered in the pure winds
of those cool Georgian nights.
We scared them foxes
something good.
You were classic in
your favorite auto.
They peed in their pants
seeing a werewolf and me
driving around the park
in a beat-up Chevy Impala.
You’re gone now,
alcohol took you away.
I still have the mask
somewhere in a box.
I sure miss you,
those good times
and Fogarty.
Oct 28, 2013
Oct 28, 2013 at 3:09 PM UTC
IN MEMORY OF EVA GORE-BOOTH AND CON MARKIEWICZ
THE light of evening, Lissadell,
Great windows open to the south,
Two girls in silk kimonos, both
Beautiful, one a gazelle.
But a raving autumn shears
Blossom from the summer's wreath;
The older is condemned to death,
Pardoned, drags out lonely years
Conspiring among the ignorant.
I know not what the younger dreams --
Some vague Utopia -- and she seems,
When withered old and skeleton-gaunt,
An image of such politics.
Many a time I think to seek
One or the other out and speak
Of that old Georgian mansion, mix
pictures of the mind, recall
That table and the talk of youth,
Two girls in silk kimonos, both
Beautiful, one a gazelle.
Dear shadows, now you know it all,
All the folly of a fight
With a common wrong or right.
The innocent and the beautiful.
Have no enemy but time;
Arise and bid me strike a match
And strike another till time catch;
Should the conflagration climb,
Run till all the sages know.
We the great gazebo built,
They convicted us of guilt;
Bid me strike a match and blow.
2.1k
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
I was down to my knees
Hands up and a gun to my head
They kept pulling the trigger
Bang Bang I was supposed to be death
Hell I even started to think
To pull the trigger myself so it could end
But I survived the struggle
And I wasn't about to bend
Anymore
Than I already did
I was down to my knees
Just when I thought hell ****
NO
I got to get back on my feet
I' ve got to fight back and stand tall
I am that unwritten book nobody will read
Unless I start to get back on my writing
chair
You know life ain' t always going to be
A freaking **** fantasyfair
So yes I was down to my knees
But I started to fight back
I crawled out of the valley directly up on the hill
On top of it I screamed ,,Hell I'm back''
I screamed ,,Hello world this is me''
Yes it's not what you see
Ok I am size ''A little more''
Please dear world can I get an encore
I'm still happy I still live with joy
Alltough I wasn't that kind of boy
Now I am I am that kind of man
And there is really nothing you can
Nothing you can do anymore
To make my heart feel numb
And my head feel sour
I decided to live my life the way I want it to live
And I decided that I want to give
That I want to give and pass this feeling on
To my unborn daughter and unborn son
I am going to give this feeling to everybody who deserves it
Everybody who's feeling like ****
If you are too fat or you are too skinny
If you are too ugly or you are too pretty
If you are too gay or you are too straight
For equality I will start a public debate
I'll give equal rights to the white and black sheep
A promise I will intend to keep
Now dry all your invisible tears
And we'll fight all our darkest fears
Together we will start the fight
And we will fight side by side
Today we will stop the invisible tears we cry
So our smiles won't have to keep up the lie
We will rise like a phoenix
Start a history remix
People will remember our generation
As an solution instead of a mathematic eqaution
People will know our names like they know King, Ghandi and Mandela
This will be the start of a whole new era
Now everybody who's down to their knees
Stand up, stand tall and fight with me please
Spread our words around the globe
Spread our words of peace and hope
Together we will be strong
And nobody can do us wrong
Everybody will follow their dreams
So again by all means
Get out of the valley up to the hill
At least I know I will
I'm finally standing, screaming on my Georgian red hill
Feb 2, 2015
Feb 2, 2015 at 3:31 PM UTC
(descent)
Hindered by progress, or the idea of progress:
evolution-in-waiting bellows me to hide,
tattering becomes ruination.
Animism creeps,
not-yet hands pushing at dim velvet.
Peeping one-eyed through the past
where had borne such potent promise
immutability lain intact
flumped into snowy thickness
and thrown hard against Georgian glass.
Here comes the stealth of unillumination
thankfully blanketing
they were tied at the hips
and neck,
then wrapped as old mirrors.
That door went nowhere
it always does
those Victorians, forever meddling,
will folly themselves into any trouble.
(resurrection)
You haven’t changed one bit!
I say to myself,
showing you their brand new niceness
***** as copper pans.
Go on, spit in my fire
the hiss is the thing that’s real.
May 19, 2017
May 19, 2017 at 3:46 AM UTC
Chatter, as I watch the snowdrops falling
It blends in from the street, the pavement, the everything but me
and the lonelier soles who walk their own ways in the path
Taking their own hands against the cold.
Distances there into and always with the twilight
Strings and biscuits in the dawn of the twice
Winds pass and monsoons sweep through
Often I watch them in the memories of you.
Cross the sidewalks, mirrors, delights
Christmas parties and silent enchantments
Invisible but dwelling in the darkness of the stars
So humbling in all the georgian opacity
I yearn for the lights of the morning essence
Dream of the warmth in the hearth of men
Assuming in vain the welcome of all night blankets
And grieve in the vacancy of the traveller's awe.
Who takes the broom of the closets past
Who walks the dawn and evening stars
Who fawns over the reflection of the moon
Who tells of my works in their brilliant cocoon?
Dec 23, 2010
Dec 23, 2010 at 6:32 AM UTC
after one last summer of cottages, palm-beers floating on the lake,
faceplanting into the waves while trying to kneeboard,
badly-planned but perfectly-timed trips to toronto for shows
(getting kurt viled)
the family casa (host of
many ragers and teenage kicks) was sold and georgian bay was no longer home.
my parents bought a new truck and moved what was
once 15 quesnelle drive
down to cape breton island, three quarter million in pocket
and i,
i had a resurgence of old feelings towards a girl i won't name
brought on by our rekindled friendship after the death
of my best friend, (nothin' helped me get thru those months
quite like that smile)
and after an embarrassing night spent having various altercations
(fisticuffs)
with a young birch tree behind my pal's place
i hopped in my '03 volvo and sped west like that old man once told
dean to do.
dust flying thru the open windows and my split knuckles
smilin' at the fat old sun.
that summer the bookstore,
where i bought so many weathered novels, died and
the man who was its overseer, with whom i spent so many evenings philosophizing over cups of joe in the closed-up shop ,
sort of faded away; i'd see him thursdays at the study sipping whatever he drank there in the corner and always felt too bad
about the closing of cottage books, ashamed in a word, to
ever go over and buy the guy a beer.
still don't know why.
guess i'm a bit of a *****
that drive out west was good. made 10 mixes in addition to CDs
i already had and slept on the highway side and stopped
where ever the hell i wanted to stop. smoked cigars while blazing over the pavement with my life in the backseat at 120 km/h
not knowing how to feel,
but doing alright.
Nov 27, 2014
Nov 27, 2014 at 1:06 AM UTC
Your eyes,
they are like wildflowers.
They wander around in spiritual freedom.
And they are strong as ever.
Sometimes when they twinkle,
They twinkle like two stars,
That shines the brightest up in a Georgian night sky.
I wish your eyes would twinkle that way
When they met mine.
And if only your eyes could tell you,
How much sorrow they discovered in my eyes.
So that maybe one day,
You would come back to me and heal it.
People used to tell me that
my eyes were beautiful.
But who in the world knows how
my eyes would have that ability,
To blind people from seeing that
they were actually pretty sad too...
-l.r
Aug 27, 2013
Aug 27, 2013 at 11:50 PM UTC
On our bikes, day after day
Wheeling along the West Country Way
From Georgian Bath, that Jane Austen knew
To Glastonbury Tor, our challenge still new
Where are we now, is it this way or that?
Another cool stretch on a railway track
No one fell off, no one got hurt
Except now and then by a few cross words
And so over Exmoor, our longest day yet
It was football, not cider in our Somerset
Sea views and fresh air in Westward **
We could have stayed longer but on we go
The hills are getting longer, tall hedges either side
Our legs are getting stronger now we've found our stride
The Eden project was on our route
So we had to stop and see
The scene was complete in a bio-dome
With David Attenborough filming for tv
Past holes in the ground where they dug the clay
Along old canals our journey panned out
Then over a beer at the end of the day
Out came the map for the mileage count
On through the ancient landscape we go
Past the odd castle or stately home
Past sheltered coves and beaches of sand
And on to the end -Lands End-
Where we ran out of land
Mar 22, 2013
Mar 22, 2013 at 4:39 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
we ran out of gas as we pulled
into the marina
and I thought
“how lucky it was
we weren’t stuck at sea”
it mimicked the moment
you called and said
“I didn’t feel how
I was supposed to.”
the dog was stepping on my toes
on board
and
the bare-chested captain
bounced me out of my seat
going parallel along the waves
the salt air kept catching
in my throat
it felt like your hand
was still clasped around it
I am at ease knowing
that sardines don’t swim
in these waters
I wonder if your fish pillow
swims sentinel –
no school surrounding –
watches you scroll past
pictures of my naked figure
with newly acquired tan lines
I am shallow water:
feel comforted knowing
you can wade in up to your knees
and not get in
too deep.
Aug 18, 2015
Aug 18, 2015 at 4:12 PM UTC
There was none of your itsy-bitsy, teenie-weenie bikinis at a fashion show of vintage swimwear in aid of the Cleveland Pools.
The costumes on show on the catwalk at Green Park Station were a much more modest affair, with a lot less flesh on view, and with some very interesting costumes which seemed to amuse the younger audience.
The Vintage Swimwear fashion show celebrated the last 200 years of bathing suits – the pools celebrate their 200th birthday next year.
Costumes from the last two centuries were modelled down the catwalk, with some interesting reactions from the audience, many of them design or fashion students from Bath Spa University.
It was a great turnout according to Sally Helvey from the Cleveland Pools Trust.
"We had a great night, and it really was great fun," she said.
There was a bar and barbecue hosted by Green Park Brasserie, and ice cream from a vintage Humphry van.
The audience also enjoyed a photography booth, and picture and video slideshows.
The Cleveland Pools is the only surviving Georgian Lido in the country, with a beautiful outdoor pool nestling in the back woods by the River Avon near the Bathwick estate.
But it is very derelict and will need millions spent on it before it can be re-opened again to the public. Last summer the trust received the welcome news the amenity is to be granted more than £4 million from the Heritage Lottery Fund, so plans are in place to have the pools restored and open for use again possibly as early as 2017.
A lot more funding needs to be raised to try and match the funds given by the HLF, and the fashion show, organised by Bath Spa student Jenny Brown, was just one of many events being organised over the summer.Read more here:www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/bridesmaid-dresses
May 24, 2015
May 24, 2015 at 10:33 PM UTC
I do not have it in me to be the kind of empty and full that you need
I carry secrets and liquid sad feelings in my stomach like an antique hot water bottle
They are the colours of mashed up autumn leaves and ***** puddle water and decaying petals floating on some pretend witches potion
Crimson rust lines the edges of my eyes, I use black eyeliner to patch the pinprick holes, where I have previously sewn, trying to forget
These are the remnants of my rock heart which has been eroded away
The powder sits regretfully in my veins
When my heart beats I feel it scrape and catch the pink surfaces
It aches too much
My insides are losing their pinkness
Your presence is abrasive
Use a higher grade sandpaper and be done
Take off the old circus ride paint layers, my nail beds are already saturated with chips of red yellow and blue
Reach something clear and peaceful
Cut lengths of my hair, and separate them into small twists, tethered with small satin ribbons to be used for some happier embroidery
Or to be stored in tin lockets
Or to be disposed of in rivers like those Georgian keepsakes that mothers leave at hospitals
Let other people write with it
Pass the used up glass needle like straws through calico or linen
Felt tip the colour over
Cut out my heart and let the elements sit.
Nov 17, 2013
Nov 17, 2013 at 8:25 AM UTC
Folding Foes, walk yourself down the Georgian line
Sweet savanna wrap around porches in summer sweat
Crushing companies sipping sweet tea on pedestals above me
Anchored at average is that old adage that it attached to the lattice that they try to get past us.
Nailed shoes to our feet and glued to our seat, living in lies and deceit, trying to force our defeat and to break the decree
Held solemnly,
And somberly,
By you
And by me.
Thee, the only lonely listeners of our own sweet soliloquies
In ripping tides of attention tearing through hate and affection,
Is found a pain never to mention for any chosen direction.
Now our learning gets lost in the lesson.
It started with tension, then moves to intervention, but ends with rejection.
Where now it lends to those friends that tend to your need to mend
Jun 12, 2011
Jun 12, 2011 at 10:28 PM UTC
There were
those thickets
of flat
graying trees
and a frozen
skin of lake
out by the
hunched rink
behind Georgian Woods
the terrace apartments
where Dad lived
after he left
the family.
Left to my
own devices
while Dad
delved in books
I slipped out
the sliding door
through
the frost-grass
and the
snow branch gap
into the
unfolding stillness
of the drowsing park.
Sometimes
my sister
was there
with me
in the woods,
our play
always some form
of running away.
In the early
years Dad
smoked a pipe
his thick
blue rug scented
with Captain Black
**** tobacco,
the white tin
with the rigged
ship logo.
The humming silo
of the air purifier
Dad's concession
to my convulsing
asthmatic chest,
close-gathered lung
like the branch bark
that scraped
my lip
as I ran in
the park wood,
blood slipping
across my face
and down
into the ache.
Dec 21, 2018
Dec 21, 2018 at 2:00 PM UTC
Water flows by,
Quietly polite.
Green under sunlight,
Silver at night.
Is that my monarch's head
Shimmering between wakes?
She looks down and kisses Georgian rooftops.
She dives and twists her celestial face.
But as rain falls my monarch distorts,
And in the first snows she poses for me.
And as we celebrate new solstice a hail of thin ankles bruises the water.
Fish dart from them.
Sharp stones bury themselves so as not to offend.
I remember my feet in there...
All the times comes past here.
All the times yet to come.
I cross a bridge and the town's vein is out of sight.
I breathe the smell of ecclesiastical ceremony
And the cut-grass stench of various friendships nurtured and deflowered.
I mimic footprints that I've pounded into the ground.
The same drunk campaign.
I drink the river and become its flavid run-off.
Water flows by,
Timeless in flight.
Not at the front of my mind,
But in sight
As I recross the bridge.
I'm accustomed to its murky silence.
The distant, sporadic car horns.
Avoided emergencies, obnoxious goodbyes.
I hear them all.
I smell fuel emissions and nocturnal suffering.
I taste staling alcohol and summer's fruits.
I see the town that has cradled me.
I pick at its foliage and try to feel something.
I'll remember praying for floodwater.
I'll remember plains and peaks.
I'll remember the wall that can't hold it all.
The long, loud day
And the long, quiet sleep.
Aug 22, 2016
Aug 22, 2016 at 1:40 PM UTC