"hangnail" poems
There are three versions of this poem. only one of them is available on the internet. This first version is from the New Yorker in a 1941 issue. It is the earliest version and the one that is quoted all over the internet.
To My Valentine
by Ogden Nash (1902-1971)
More than a catbird hates a cat,
Or a criminal hates a clue,
Or the Axis hates the United States,
That's how much I love you.
I love you more than a duck can swim,
And more than a grapefruit squirts,
I love you more than gin rummy is a bore,
And more than a toothache hurts.
As a shipwrecked sailor hates the sea,
Or a juggler hates a shove,
As a hostess detests unexpected guests,
That's how much you I love.
I love you more than a wasp can sting,
And more than the subway jerks,
I love you as much as a beggar needs a crutch,
And more than a hangnail irks.
I swear to you by the stars above,
And below, if such there be,
As the High Court loathes perjurious oaths,
That's how you're loved by me.
The next version is the lyric of a song from the Broadway musical "One Touch of Venus" (1943) by Ogden Nash, J S Perelman and Kurt Weill. Nash wrote this lyric. It is not on the internet that I could find. I got it from the sheet music.
HOW MUCH I LOVE YOU
More than a catbird hates a cat,
Or a criminal hates a clue,
Or the Axis hates the United States,
That's how much I love you.
As a sailor's sweetheart hates the sea,
Or a juggler hates a shove,
As a wife detests unexpected guests,
That's how much you I love.
I love you more than a wasp can sting,
And more than a hangnail hurts.
I love you more than commercials are a bore,
And more than a grapefruit squirts.
I swear to you by the stars above,
And below, if such there be,
As a bride would resent a blessed event,
That's how you are loved by me.
More than a waitress hates to wait ,
Or a lioness hates the zoo,
Or a batter dislikes those called third strikes,
That's how much I love you.
As much as a lifeguard hates to swim,
Or a writer hates to read,
As Hays office frowns on low cut gowns,
That's how much you I need.
I love you more than a hive can itch,
And more than a chilblain chills.
I yearn for you in an ivy clad igloo,
As a liver yearns for pills.
I swear to you by the stars above,
And below, if such there be,
As a dachshund abhors revolving doors,
That's how you are loved by me.
The third is from the book "Marriage Lines: notes of a student husband" It was published in 1964 and contains a revised version of the poem with a much different ending. This too is not on the internet. I got it from the book.
TO MY VALENTINE
More than a catbird hates a cat,
Or a criminal hates a clue,
Or an odalisque hates the Sultan's mates,
That's how much I love you.
I love you more than a duck can swim,
And more than a grapefruit squirts,
I love you more than commercials are a bore,
And more than a toothache hurts.
As a shipwrecked sailor hates the sea,
Or a juggler hates a shove,
As a hostess detests unexpected guests,
That's how much you I love.
I love you more than a wasp can sting,
And more than the subway jerks,
I love you truer than a toper loves a brewer,
And more than a hangnail irks.
I love you more than a bronco bucks,
Or a Yale man cheers the Blue.
Ask not what is this thing called love;
It's what I'm in with you.
Feb 14, 2018
Feb 14, 2018 at 2:51 PM UTC
Planks, splintering in solidity
Together twined in tedium
Curving cords of mated metal
Lost in ludicrous loops
Twines of tetanus protrude
Danger danger
Rising flying roaring floating
Above the stillborn trains
Arching acrid aerial arms
Lazy concrete spiral, neighbor snail
Inverse slide with railings
Rumble rumble try and grumble
Jitter in jumpy juxtaposition
Guts of grotesque giants
Flayed flawed under flaming flight
Blink away oblivion
Orange and omnificent, opaque concern
Useful hangnail, table scraps
Rise above
Shocked stillness soon stumbling
Ornamental oasis for the oracles
Unseen unheard untasted unsmelled
Unfeeling unused to understanding
Carry me across
Fly me over
Lift me beyond
Suspend.
Glimpse the unparalleled phenomenon
Ribs of steel, rain has parted
Seeping to the soul
Buzzing through the boards
Immobile, cradle in the wind
Twist
Take off your sunglasses
Be sure to look around as you pass through
Oct 20, 2012
Oct 20, 2012 at 10:30 PM UTC
i hate it when you have a hangnail but it is mostly a piece
of skin that is really steadfast about not detaching
from your finger. it’s like the piece of skin has
separation anxiety and you can’t get it
to leave ever
all you want is for the piece of skin to move out.
today is your twentieth birthday and you are thinking
about your mortality a whole bunch and how you have provided
the piece of skin with a comfortable home and now
you want it to move on and make a big life
for itself so when you’re old and more carrot-like
you will have the piece of skin to take care of you
until you are ready to make the big trip to hamilton
known as dying alone and feeling okay about it
because hamilton is a nice place to die alone
hamilton is a port city in the canadian province of ontario
you dream of hamilton and you are already a little bit more
carrot-like on this day, your twentieth birthday. we want the
piece of skin to get its **** together so we can all be happy
for you one day when the amount of carrot-like
characteristics you grow into becomes immeasurable
and creamy. the piece of skin smiles and says
it does not like your conservative-minded nonsense
the piece of skin feels as though it has a right to
prosperity and a new season of hey arnold
and its own episode of mtv cribs.
you say the piece of skin is too liberal and you
get out a pair of scissors and cut of your finger
the finger with the piece of skin that was too clingy
is now resting peacefully on the hardwood floor
of your apartment in a pool of blood that you are
proud to say is something you made on your own.
the piece of skin quotes hemingway as it dies
the reference goes over your head and the reader’s head too
Dec 30, 2011
Dec 30, 2011 at 1:56 PM UTC
i prefer to brush my teeth
to the point where my gums bleed
and pull the floss down hard
between my pearly whites,
grinding the thread back and forth.
i get chills down my back
when i get a papercut
and i can see the blood
slowly come out in little round *****
or when i rip a hangnail down my thumb
and i can see the fresh layer of skin.
my body goes numb
and my mind draws a blank
when he bites at my neck,
even better when it leaves a bruise.
the feeling i get
when his hand suddenly meets
the bare skin of my lower body
is pure ecstacy, i could only imagine
what it would be like
if my brain was on a high.
the sting and the should-be negative,
or unwanted, emotions
are what i strive for in life.
i like the feel
of the pain
but not when i'm alone.
Nov 6, 2012
Nov 6, 2012 at 9:38 PM UTC
What does it mean to relax?
I think I've forgotten true comfort.
Fear is a constant hangnail,
and the summer heat makes my nerves kick in.
My teeth peel skin as I worry and my clothes dampen.
Drawing my own blood, it's a stupid self-induced sin.
Voices whisper in my ears.
"Watch your gaze, or they'll think you're up to something.
They'll assume the worst.
They won't see your chewed up fingers
and they'll only see the thirst.
Your lips parched from heavy breathing."
Who spoke first?
Was it me licking my lips-
causing questions within them?
Or am I the one asking?
Wondering like this when I should be relaxing?
"Close your eyes to heighten the panic,
seems like it's euphoric,
But you're really just frantic.
Open them but don't look at a soul."
I have eyes that penetrate
as deep as their goals.
They speak more than my clothes,
they speak more than my curves.
If I stare at them longer,
and release my nerves,
Misunderstood.
Misunderstood.
I'll relax when reality
And their thoughts become good.
Jul 21, 2014
Jul 21, 2014 at 10:42 PM UTC
You are an exit wound
the extra shot of tequila
the tangled knot of hair that has to be cut out
you are the cell phone ringing in a hushed theatre
pebble wedged in the sole of a boot
the ****** hangnail
you are, just this once
you are flip flops in a thunderstorm
the boy's lost ********
a pen gone dry
you are my father's nightmare
my mother's mirage
you are a manic high
which is to say:
you are a bad idea
you are ****** despite the ******
you are, I know better
you are pieces of cork floating in the wine glass
you are the morning after
whose name I can't remember
still in my bed
the hole in my rain boots
******** with no batteries
you are, shut up and kiss me
you are naked wearing socks
mascara bleeding down laughing cheeks
you are the wrong guy buying me a drink
you are the typo in an otherwise brilliant novel
sweetalk into unprotected ***
the married coworker
my stubbed toe
you are not new or uncommon
not brilliant or beautiful
you are a bad idea
rock star in the back seat of a taxi
burned popcorn
top shelf, at half price
you are everything I want
you are a poem I cannot write
a word I cannot translate
you are an exit wound
a name I cannot bring myself
to say aloud
Feb 28, 2012
Feb 28, 2012 at 9:42 PM UTC
pouring another glass
is peeling a hangnail
down with your teeth,
a monotonous ****
will only draw blood
to surface,
waking up is now
a monotonous signature
on a death certificate,
a tedious magnificent
and I’m still here
and my calligraphy
is becoming magnificent
Nov 27, 2016
Nov 27, 2016 at 8:54 PM UTC
pulling on a pigtail
chewing on a hangnail
tucking in a shirt tail
your hearts on the line
turn to a stranger
look him in the eye
you feel a little awkward
you feel a little shy
your hearts on the line
ducking in the restroom
fiddle with your hair doo
looking in the mirror
though it never looks right
******* in your tummy
checking on your ****
well you know what
your hearts on the line
well you know what
your hearts on the line
Feb 25, 2014
Feb 25, 2014 at 7:48 PM UTC
Pull your sleeve over your fist. Clean your window. The moon is smirking, hanging like a hangnail off of the fingers of the night, about to teeter off the edge of the atmosphere trying to get a good glimpse of you - a better one. Let your hair fall down, and do not be afraid. Stars stare in a twinkling trance until the cruel curtain of the blue summer sky veils them from your sleeping face like a bride from the aisle, and from outer space you are a fuzzy silhouette until the sun sleepily sets, rolls off the sky's tongue like an alliteration from God himself; we have found that the atmosphere's magnetic field will put on a celestial show, but something about the way you sigh in your sleep keeps the dawn peeking over the horizon like a rosy-cheeked child over the tops of trees. The fog has dissipated like cigarette smoke - it's a beautiful night to be the full moon. Stretch your sinewy body - let your bones crack ever so carelessly. Allow the moonlight to cling to your skin like my arms never can, and bring yourself to keep your form cradled by the curtains of a silky breeze as you gaze at the sky as though it wants to tell you something. On this evening, midnight is going to love you better than I ever could. On this night I cannot be the moonlight, on many nights I can only dream. But at least you are immortal when the moon abandons the tugging of the tides to gently tug at your hair until mist and cicada songs are woven throughout, until milky beacons of starlight on your cheeks transform into my very own fingertips.
Feb 16, 2014
Feb 16, 2014 at 7:42 AM UTC
the bleak reality of life
is giving spark to a dream
and one day waking up
inside a coffeeshop
in the city you love
but have begun to question
(once the doubt sets in, it aches small and grows and grows)
the magical backdrop,
the music and hipsters,
bikelanes and teetering mountaintops
you can barely grasp the
feeling you once knew so well
breathless expectancy
towering opportunity
a fire in your chest
what was safe was safe in the
unknown and the opportunity
two pennies and a peach soda
coffeeshop dreams and tattoo guns
brokenhearted like a nagging hangnail
the best feeling in the world is
being recognized in a crowd and
pulled into familiar arms
and drunken monologues,
nihilism and Nietzsche
fridge beer - it's in the fridge
***** looks from passerby
purple sunglasses and
a sleeve of mountaintops
mid-afternoon rush and strange men
wearing sports shoes
empty words and another good
day
there's never enough time to write as life is happening
these are just words and words,
for writing's sake
he told me to write about it
but maybe I can't.
I tried to jump past it -
the messy dreams and the
stark emotion each morning
(I hate waking up to my emotions, spending most of the morning putting them back where they belong...)
Apr 25, 2015
Apr 25, 2015 at 7:32 PM UTC
04:14 and the shadows are long
A boy pressed into a rail-side bench
Raises his arms to shelter himself
From the cloudless sky
He ticks off seconds with the twitch of his left knee
And the jump of his unhinging jaw
He falls
He falls nowhere
But flat, back, motionless in his seat
Hands cocooning head like a heavy day’s work
And then digging up and pressing down
Trying to rid himself of the sounds
Which splice him like glass shards
Or screaming shrapnel
And mutilate
His view of a pretty English station
And a blue steam engine
Beaming like the moon for which it was named
04:18 and he sets himself straight
Like ***** shoelaces
Or cards on the mantelpiece
Winds a bit of string
Around his wedding finger
And croons
As a man inside a toddler
Re-wired refrains
Lick his lips like soup stains
*Pack up your troubles…
Long way to Tipperary…
In your old kit bag…
I wonder who’s…
My heart’s right there…
Kissing her now…
Smile, smile, smile…*
And from my compartment
I watch him fade like
An ink blot from a pillow case
While a boy who looks a lot like him
Turns with purposeful avoidance
And takes the opposite view
Of a pretty English station
He soothes the angry creases
Of his forehead
Of his uniform
And smiles
Smiles
Smiles
And mutters to himself
And they said it would be over by Christmas
04:14 and the shadows are long
A boy pressed into a rail-side bench
Jogs his knees
With the obligatory poppy
His mum pushed into the zip of his winter coat
Drooping like a hangnail
He is busied and hassled
By the phone in his palm
It plays an odd kind of game
Where those who die
Are allowed to come back
And press Retry
Nov 15, 2014
Nov 15, 2014 at 11:23 AM UTC
Behold
As a fly does
She swiftly escapes
The fingertips
Of her old friend
Death
Over and over again
All he wants
Is a handshake
A “fair game”, a gentle goodbye
But she is quick
To run
Door closed behind
Tightly
Thoughts shut within
Softly
Exotically neurotic
Behold!
They say
She is the fox
Too sly
To be caught
Too cunning
To be trusted
And she has lusted
She has lusted
She has lusted
They say
Like an alchemist
She eats tar
And regurgitates
Sweet glittering gold
To the people
Laying roads
Behold!
They say
She is the silent, stalking menace
The shadow in the corner
Of your childhood bedroom
She lurks and lingers
She fastens her fingers
Into unsuspecting hearts
She is no darkness, no
She is the holder of light
In the mouths of drunks
They praise her
For all that she has overcome
All that she has undone
From what they have done
And what she has become
A fang toothed light switch
They praise her
Behold!
They say
A prodigy of protest
She builds her bones
In restless legs
In limp, loose arms
In a hoarder managed head
And a stale, vacant heart
Behold!
They say
She forges on
Though it never leaves her
If just a quick blip in time
In the corner of her eye
A hole burned by
A hot cigarette
A small portal
The other world
Like a maddening hangnail
She is afraid
She may unzip the very fabric
If she holds on too tightly
Behold!
She says
I am no rainy day blues
I am a symphony forged in
A natural disaster
Behold.
Nov 16, 2017
Nov 16, 2017 at 8:43 PM UTC
sitting by a window
staring out the smudged pane
past the polychromatic crowds
bent, huddled, faceless in the rain
a smeared image swirling by
modern art painting not yet dry
wishing to nod off
tired to the bone
the rattle and rumble beneath
the stop and the start
keep my weary eyelids apart
the odors of crowded humanity
fill my nostrils,
make them burn
alcohol, sweat, stale cigarette smoke
on clothes that are old and worn
garlic, deep fryer grease
pastrami and cheese in a sack
blood dried on the apron
slung over a butcher's back
a cacophony of noises
surge inside the car
papers rattle, fingers tap
on electronics or on steel bar
~~~
nobody's talking
eyes are downcast
to newspaper, cell phone
or hangnail
fear and distrust
thick in the air
scattered about like
yesterday's mail
on this common commuter carrier
they're traveling the same route
home
just working folks
trying to make it all work out
they have much in common
in a way, aren't they all kin?
worn and weary at end of day,
fellows in the midst of this din?
14th Street station ahead
warns of various dangers
posted there on a column decreed
Please do not smile at strangers
Mar 25, 2018
Mar 25, 2018 at 10:50 AM UTC
The sun undresses its silky rays
before the blushing earth.
The earth gazes,
her sapphire eyes soak in
the glimmering shot of dawn. The moon
hide away, curving against
the hangnail of light. Stars
scintillate their last dust of evening.
“You always act like you’ve never seen me before.”
The sun removes another layer.
“Like each time is too good to be true. ”
Spinning, the earth grows dizzy. “You are the one who
abandons me in the dark.”
Above the horizon, the sun smiles.
“Clairvoyance is buried inside of you.
You know I will always return.”
The sun’s amber skin
radiates along coasts and cities,
intensifying. Brightness diminishes-
night turns into day into night once more.
“I’m still alive for you, love.”
The earth tucks in the trails of dusk
as the sun cradles revolving planets.
“See you again, soon.”
Oct 12, 2015
Oct 12, 2015 at 11:50 PM UTC
there is a point of no return
unthinkingly dismissed
a line crossed
bringing instant regret;
each and every decision
up until that moment
questioned
lamented
and rued
i have just crossed
that threshold again
the hangnail was
bitten and pulled
until flesh was torn
and the blood ran
now there is nothing
but discomfort
knowing full well
what i was doing;
there is no excuse
for such folly
Jul 8, 2021
Jul 8, 2021 at 11:44 AM UTC
Door **** lock
mouth puffed vvith
saliva
pink extension
release
under circular
compressed tree matter
bended knee
shook off number
one
grease under thumb
left knee
pop
hangnail & an eyelid
this tvvitch
vvont stop
for 40
I'm certain
Dec 27, 2016
Dec 27, 2016 at 3:35 AM UTC
A hangnail that ends beyond your cuticle,
I wish I could say it hasn't happened before.
It feels like I'm rotting on the backburner,
On everyone's backburner.
It feels like payback for the years of dust I've let them collect.
I've lost my touch; I can't sell it like I'm busy.
I just don't care to sell it at all.
Mar 18, 2014
Mar 18, 2014 at 5:08 AM UTC
In between
The choice of the knife
Or the razor
The bullet
Or the gun
Roads split in two directions
Two fates
Ode to past and present moments
That have been traveled before
We are the drifting wisps white with worry and anxiousness
We do no believe our fates
Mean only what the future
Deems important enough
To remember
Our Earth spins for itself
And we inhabit within that spin
That twirl
That curl of the God's fingernail
The hangnail of Hermes
The tip Zeus's bolt
Each mountain has vanquished
To quickly be
Reborn again
Each bird has soared through ****** meadow
We, we people
Are no different
And I see the light come through the tree tops
Grey yellow white azure blue
Hues of history repeating repeating repeated
Hands cracked with blood soaked eyes carry burnt dust atop shoulders
Of men to be mistakingly
Immortalized
By tools
They will never know of
The photo remains the same
We remain the same
And the Earth continues to
Whirl
Twirl
And
Curl
Aug 24, 2011
Aug 24, 2011 at 7:57 PM UTC
A core belief is a thing you can lean into with no second thought
You trust in it's way of leading you
Stretching those nerves
cracking knuckles to haunt your neighbor
Pearl bracelet hanging low, not even trying to hug your arm
Calming your fingers from picking at that hangnail
It’s an annoying habit with a millisecond of relief
Blisters from sharpening those pencils,
for a battle with your notebook.
Letters you don't know, when they'll attack, in what shape or form
A blister you'll have to work around, the angst gives you space for more hangnails picking
The space between your fingernail and your next endeavor is a leap of struggle
or a buffet of choices which in all realness is just a lot of overthinking as a slow road to insanity
My core belief is an quivering tree of question marks
I think it represents the mindset
to begin anything with a clean slate
Have no expectations, then you won’t be disappointed
And you get surprised if it's actually not bad
But as an overthinker with anxiety and autism I stand with the quivering tree of question marks
I begin with a silent question, who is even listening
Trying to catch phrases, pauses, looks, body language
And then the quivering tree switches the question marks to nests of information
Mental notes of things I think is important, learning later that I missed the main point
Maybe the jokes lands a bit late
It’s okay, I get there in the end
A tree is a main point for endless branches and leaves
The real gold is the process you can’t see
The roots
The roots with its wings that never sleeps
Constantly expanding, learning and growing even when others only sees what the tree lets it see
A core belief of
a pessimist
a lingering friendship
a healing wound
a riptide
Feb 24, 2025
Feb 24, 2025 at 11:02 AM UTC
A nagging, stinging hangnail,
A self inflicted pain,
Although, unintentional,
I can't help but complain,
Regretful of my actions,
Blood-rimmed fingers swell,
Though I feel a certain traction,
Toward this pain as well,
Taste buds clothed in nicotine,
I watch the candle burn,
And as the flame,
Extinguished,
Smokes,
I fade away in turn
Jul 19, 2014
Jul 19, 2014 at 11:24 PM UTC
I spy with my weatherd eyes
A broken clock that shows me better times from my past life.
As these spiteful tides have turned me
Into a grumpy soul.
This desecrated ship of doubt
It's slowly peeling me away like a potato peeler
I need to grab my papers and maps
To find the breath that I was once searching for.
These scramblings of ramblings
So nonsensical
As they lead me to the fact
That you hate that I bite my nails
Like a hangnail you chew me apart,
Gifting me these splinters from this shovel
That I used as a kid to build mountains of possibilities
Which now leaves me a hole,
To bury my soul with.
Each stone I turn I see these regrets
That look like texts I that shouldn't have sent.
The heavens from above
Have blocked their facebooks
Casting her curses in cursive
Leaving me with my grave,
My shovel,
Memories of you.
Apr 2, 2019
Apr 2, 2019 at 6:14 PM UTC
Taken from a sentient, spit forth and proceed. Like the hangnail that hung until you ripped it off, then told it about what happened. What ... what would happen in the coming months. Try to distance it: a runner in the coldest part of warsaw. The image that serves as the vessel through which I breathe, test tube attached to each struggle which is nothing. Everything vile in the phlegm of yesteryear. Why wait in this hypoxic state? Keep diving within and without.
Now - as if settled through writhing. Cold dex and cut-to-shit with baby's breath. Whittle me in the corner with a carrot peeler cause i ain't got the guts. Test the ceslestial light like a fuse box or put the lid on.
Oct 2, 2014
Oct 2, 2014 at 11:32 PM UTC
Don't hate you,
but you're beginning to bug me
like a hangnail snagging a jeans pocket or a wind-chime in a gale.
Don't hate you,
but you're grating my nerves
like a headcold when I'm out of tissues or having to break a fifty cause I'm eight pence short on change.
Don't hate you,
but you're wearing me down
like a hole in the sole of my only boots when it rains or an intrusive question asked again and again.
Don't hate you,
but I'm getting there.
Don't want to get there,
please leave me alone
Jan 3, 2016
Jan 3, 2016 at 1:52 PM UTC
He lost his dad
Hold onto his hand so he doesn't run
He lost his dad
With the rubble smothering the color of the sky in war.
He lost his dad
Caught sight of the coffin the pain worse than an eight year hangnail.
He lost his dad for God's sake
Could we really say that name in a time like this without a taste of guilt?
He lost his dad
Turn and down half a bottle of alcohol and then tuck him in tonight
Quick, we're running out of paper
He lost his -
The super hero got a little close to the waves and didn't know how to swim
His super hero got too many of these corrupted crazy villians to fight off
And now the hero needs saving while we sit and turn away
He was already under when we look at the empty silhouette panicking
He lost his dad
His super hero
Jul 31, 2014
Jul 31, 2014 at 9:06 PM UTC
she runs a blade
along the side of truth
tearing seams to separate
the situation from semantics
tossing context
so I am nothing more
than a consequence
of bad behaviour,
an example of pain’s twisted path
reduced from a person
to a speed bump,
slowing her life plan
a hangnail on the hand
that feeds
Mar 21, 2018
Mar 21, 2018 at 10:17 AM UTC