"hugo" poems
The root
Of ambition
Is ambivalent
There's no “one cause”
No one causes
A man
To make life decisions
In a day
It takes
Much more
For
A man to be successful
And real
With his inner-self
Accepting
The cards dealt
With the stamina
To play through
Exercising his will
With the feel
Lingering in every pore
Unsure
Of obstacles ahead
Headstrong
Through barricades
Bearing the bruises
Trampling
Over your own
Feet
Defeat
Seen in battle
But the war’s on
And the war zone
Isn’t limited
To a few
Years
Like ages 19-22
Whose to do
Worse
Who has more
Money
CARS
Clothes
And hoes
And whose vision
Is so small
To tack them
with success
All in all
And attack those
Who lack the
Wills
To move forward
And ignorantly
Attach it
With a phenomena
Of
Your unknowing
Root of ambition
Can spread
Like weeds
And weeds
Can **** ambition
Or spread
Like seeds
How many men
Dive
Head first under the influence
Or rise above
High
From the same drug
Barack Obama
Michael Phelps
William Shakespeare
Bill Clinton
Lebron James
Pablo Picasso
The Beatles
Jay-Z
Bob Marley
Conan O’Brien
Dr Francis Crick. (Nobel Prize Winner)
Samuel Taylor Coleridge
Salvador Dali
Victor Hugo
Kareem Abdul-Jabar
Snoop Dogg
Dr. Dre
Stephen King
Just to name a few
Maybe
Just maybe
It has nothing to do
With success
Or you.
Sep 30, 2010
Sep 30, 2010 at 1:11 AM UTC
He declared himself a refugee, and ran away from his country
Running away from hunger and poverty, to the overseas,
He roams foreign countries from one place to another,
Chewing foreign fortunes of historical efforts,
Of blood and sweat shed by the fore(wo)men of those countries,
He is prostrate and defenseless to foreign languages,
Begging for sympathy to be made a citizen in Europe,
His rapacious appetite wedding his tongue,
Swallowing saliva on sight of European fortune,
Feating into mad appetite for sweat of others proceeds.
He burned the bridges on the way back to his home
Lest he be told the piffling of going back to his emaciated mother,
He changed his names to become a foreign native
Out of laziness not to fight for political and social change,
An imperative need of his motherland and fatherland,
Blind cowardice made him to over measure homespun folly
In the patriotic spirit of verve-less readiness
To die for political goodness of his motherland,
A (de)patriotic syndrome to only which
Hugo Garcia Manriquez sang a limerick
The best of all poems in his time of solitude;
(The fear of representation, of going back
to representation, that is,
to animosity)
May 7, 2014
May 7, 2014 at 10:27 AM UTC
IN the cool of the night time
The clocks pick off the points
And the mainsprings loosen.
They will need winding.
One of these days...
they will need winding.
Rabelais in red boards,
Walt Whitman in green,
Hugo in ten-cent paper covers,
Here they stand on shelves
In the cool of the night time
And there is nothing...
To be said against them...
Or for them...
In the cool of the night time
And the clocks.
A man in pigeon-gray pyjamas.
The open window begins at his feet
And goes taller than his head.
Eight feet high is the pattern.
Moon and mist make an oblong layout.
Silver at the man's bare feet.
He swings one foot in a moon silver.
And it costs nothing.
One more day of bread and work.
One more day ... so much rags...
The man barefoot in moon silver
Mutters "You" and "You"
To things hidden
In the cool of the night time,
In Rabelais, Whitman, Hugo,
In an oblong of moon mist.
Out from the window ... prairielands.
Moon mist whitens a golf ground.
Whiter yet is a limestone quarry.
The crickets keep on chirring.
Switch engines of the Great Western
Sidetrack box cars, make up trains
For Weehawken, Oskaloosa, Saskatchewan;
The cattle, the coal, the corn, must go
In the night ... on the prairielands.
Chuff-chuff go the pulses.
They beat in the cool of the night time.
Chuff-chuff and chuff-chuff...
These heartbeats travel the night a mile
And touch the moon silver at the window
And the bones of the man.
It costs nothing.
Rabelais in red boards,
Whitman in green,
Hugo in ten-cent paper covers,
Here they stand on shelves
In the cool of the night time
And the clocks.
2.5k
In preserving Hugo Chavez,
every method will be tried.
If stuffing Hugo doesn’t work,
They’ll try Formaldehyde.
Madam Tussaud’s was consulted
But their wax was doomed to melt.
It is steamy in Caracas
And Hugo’s not exactly svelte.
A corpse in a glass coffin
Like Snow White on display
The late lamented Hugo
Was a saint some peasants say.
What is it with these communists
Who all faiths do decry?
They long to be like Lenin;
To be worshiped, deified.
In the end they'll use McDonald's
secret sauce to tan his hide.
Their burgers last forever
don't get me started on their fries.
If you go to Venezuela
Be sure and say hello for me
To the carcass of Caracas
preserved for posterity.
Mar 9, 2013
Mar 9, 2013 at 11:06 PM UTC
Her voice poors out of her mouth
She is able to stand on that stage and share her talent
She is talented
That voice is thick and strong and loud enough to reach hundreds of ears
That voice is smooth and gentle and soft enough to please hundreds of hearts
What good is a second-rate piano player compared to a voice like that?
Her skirt will always be longer, more flirty
Her teeth with always be straighter, tucked further away with the pensive look she has
It is my love for Victor Hugo against her love for Victor Hugo
My love for Broadway versus her love for Broadway
But all I have is 10 stubby fingers to tickle the worn Baldwin in my living room
She has that voice in a room full of red velvet seats
It is my interest in Kristin Chenoweth against her interest in Kristin Chenoweth
We both like to read
We both like the theatre
We both like you
But what can compare to a voice like that?
Apr 16, 2013
Apr 16, 2013 at 10:03 PM UTC
Let’s start with a reminder:
President Harding,
President Woodrow Wilson,
President McKinley,
President Calvin Coolidge
& President Harry S. Truman--
Harry giving them hell in my lifetime,
In my time—
An ever so proximate reminder--
These were all Presidents of the U.S. of A.
Also, KKK Members.
Warren G. Harding, for Christ’s sake,
Was actually sworn into the Ku Klux ****
At a **** ceremony
Astonishingly conducted,
Inside the White House,
Presided over by Wizard Imperial of the Day,
The Honorable Colonel Simmons.
And I may as well throw in
Justice Hugo of the Supreme Court
Hugo Black in white robes,
While we’re on the subject of cultural memory,
To wit: the one Branch where Fairness
Is supposed to go with the territory.
You want to talk about race?
Hey, don’t get me started.
Jun 4, 2014
Jun 4, 2014 at 11:04 AM UTC
They throw down cash,
throw back shots, and
throw me business cards
at lunch break —
Sardines wearing
headphones who ride the
same express train
everyday,
in between sardines
wearing headphones
who ride the same express train
everyday,
in between sardines
wearing headphones
who ride the same express train
that stops at Lincoln
and Broadway,
everyday.
Wasting Brooklyn nights
for noisey lights till trash time.
Stinky sticky street
walk home past
empty bars
to Hugo meowing
down the door
for new litter.
But I am so tired.
Sep 12, 2014
Sep 12, 2014 at 9:16 PM UTC
Porque me ven la barba y el pelo y la alta pipa
dicen que soy poeta..., cuando no porque iluso
suelo rimar -en verso de contorno difuso-
mi viaje byroniano por las vegas del Zipa...,
tal un ventripotente agrómena de jipa
a quien por un capricho de su caletre obtuso
se le antoja, fingirse paraísos...! ¡al uso
de alucinado Poe que el alcohol destripa!, 1
de Baudelaire diabólico, de angelical Verlaine,
de Arthur Rimbaud malévolo, de sensorial Rubén,
y en fin... ¡hasta del Padre Víctor Hugo omniforme...!
¡Y tánta tierra inútil por escasez de músculos!
¡tánta industria novísima! ¡tánto almacén enorme...!
Pero es tan bello ver fugarse los crepúsculos... 2
1.5k
A thick flood of thought clogs
lemon teeth and pools, crude
and salty behind lost red eyes.
Gouge them hollow! Darken the moon.
Brittle moans like a swollen beehive
loom tall, fifty miles behind the lost craters.
Hugs from pigs in blue,
they dance and loll around the flames,
a funky dark against their luminous fire.
Proud and bogus (and probably ******
bitter about foul books they never read,
statues made of fear in the groins of men.
Ruined: hurled into a crag,
torn and singing, trapped in loops -
No elbow room in black hole falls.
Snoring next to wives wrapped in shawls,
hugging her leather Buick seat,
praying to wake up gaunt and lithe.
They rise, mornings, clutching onto dreams
in which they fly through the cold gloom.
They scratch desperate screeds onto napkins,
bite squirming, disobedient tongues,
souls raw, chafing in their dank enclosures.
Animals! Bred to elect ourselves for slaughter.
Oct 22, 2013
Oct 22, 2013 at 4:20 AM UTC
1.
"After three days without reading, talk becomes flavourless."
- Chinese Proverb
2.
"The future has several names.
For the weak, it is the impossible
For the faint-hearted, it is the unknown.
For the thoughtful and valiant, it is the ideal."
- Victor Hugo
3.
"It has been my observation that most people get ahead during the time that others waste."
- Henry Ford
4.
"The true measure of a man [person] - is how he [..] treats someone who does him [..] absolutely no good."
- Ann Landers
5.
"The mere fact that you have obstacles to overcome - is in your favour."
- Robert Collier
6.
"Things may come to those that wait, but only things left by those who hustle."
- Abraham Lincoln
7.
It is precisely the moment, when we are at our lowest ebb, that the tide begins to turn."
- Author unknown
8.
"Coming together is the beginning.
Keeping together is progress.
Working together is success."
- Henry Ford
9.
"Circumstance does not make me; it reveals me."
- William James
10.
"Before you speak, ask yourself:
Is it kind, is it necessary,
is it true,
does it improve on the silence?"
- Shirdi Sai Baba (Indian Saint)
S T - 11 oxy-tubes 2013
Oct 11, 2013
Oct 11, 2013 at 4:55 AM UTC
Dear Ernesto Hugo de Castro,
Keep breathing and keep thinking,
we'll **remember that somewhere,
along the lines, you were there**,
since you have something to gain.
I like reading your poems and poetry,
I also like that you express yourself clearly,
I also like that you know how life does hurts
and I like your ruthful and inspiring works.
I love knowing your writing and trueness,
I also love how reaching perfection you do,
and, last but not least, I also love you.
- Ludapoetry
Dec 13, 2014
Dec 13, 2014 at 9:51 AM UTC
Degrees Of Gray In Philipsburg
You might come here Sunday on a whim.
Say your life broke down.
The last good kiss
you had was years ago.
You walk these streets
laid out by the insane,.......
The only prisoner
is always in, not knowing what he's done.....
Richard Hugo, 1967
with many, many apologies to Richard
The Last Prisoner
For years gray man
Huddled in the old cell
In his burning brain
He plots his escape
So quiet and careful he has been
In his scheming. Even in the dark nights
His plan moves forward
The latch is weakening
Under careful pressure the hinges
For the door itself, begin to fail
He imagines the excitement of being released
Of friends who might shout his name,
Buy him a drink
Of his lover, older now, with her knowing smile
Telling him she knew no jail could hold him
Of the light, the sun, the trees in the rain
He grinds his remaining teeth
Brushes thinning hair
Chuckling to himself, thinks of old songs
He has lost any sense of time, can't remember
Winter or Spring
For him there has been the locked door
The endless filing, rubbing, wearing down
Pushing, cursing the barrier that has blighted his life
It happens when is he is drowsing
Half awake, wrapped in rags
That pass for bedding
A strange sound, like a tree falling
Or a sudden heavy blow
And the gate, the door,
The anchor that has blighted his life
Is gone!
He staggers in the light
Blinded nearly
And sees the vague shadows
The empty streets, shops boarded up
An echoing silence, old papers blown
Leaning against the wall
He considers
Should he return to the cell?
Gibbens
Nov 22, 2011
Nov 22, 2011 at 11:25 PM UTC
Rip goes the foil that separates my man from his munchies,
like lightning he grabs one,
It is just like me,
a thin lifeless vessel covered in oils and saturated fats,
dangling between his fingers,
his index finger caresses my back while his thumb applies pressure onto my rib cage,
I cant breathe!
Is it him or I?!
Oh to be said crisp,
for him to place my grease upon his lips
and shout allowed I Love Tayto*...
But I am not a crisp,
I shall not reach the same level as a crisp,
I am me a mere man,
A man whose every moment of every day surrounds said Tayto lover.
Sep 20, 2011
Sep 20, 2011 at 6:33 PM UTC
Notre-Dame, she is quite old: although she may
bury Paris, which has witnessed her birth, one day
But in thousand years or more, Time will make recoil
her heavy body, like a wolf does with a bull
and twist each iron axon, each of her neurones
to gnaw alas, with its blunt tooth, her bones of stones!
Many men will overflow the island in the Seine
to contemplate the barren ruin, the last remains
dreamers, re-reading what Victor Hugo has seen ahead:
- Then they'll think they see the old basilica
as it was, mighty and magnificent, a Gloria
rising up before them like the shadow of a dead!
Sep 29, 2023
Sep 29, 2023 at 3:39 AM UTC
you repugnant *******
you keep me wondering
just why god created you
they say He has a reason
for everything. Why he created you
I still don't understand. but lately
i wonder if you were created
just so i could have this day
to myself.
full of filth, creepy as hell
disgusting at the sound
of your belly being squashed
but for the sake of justice,
i sprayed you with my favorite
perfume.
not because i have a pint of love for you
but because every opportunity to end your life
should be fully taken advantage of.
i watched you die. it was slow.
first your legs uncoordinated,
you scrambled for the walls
but they failed you. they did fail you.
then you choked. i could almost hear it
you thought of the darkest place
to dig your grave. but not on my marble floor
i watched you die. i wanted it faster
but the sweet smell of the Hugo Boss
and the death of a scape goat...
a scape roach,
was bearable.
maybe you deserve a soundtrack
or a more befitting burial in a bin
but a poem for you is totally undeserving
save for my joblessness.
Jun 4, 2014
Jun 4, 2014 at 6:08 AM UTC
¡Es con voz de la Biblia, o verso de Walt Whitman,
que habría que llegar hasta ti, Cazador!
Primitivo y moderno, sencillo y complicado,
con un algo de Washington y cuatro de Nemrod.
Eres los Estados Unidos,
eres el futuro invasor
de la América ingenua que tiene sangre indígena,
que aún reza a Jesucristo y aún habla en español.Eres soberbio y fuerte ejemplar de tu raza;
eres culto, eres hábil; te opones a Tolstoy.
Y domando caballos, o asesinando tigres,
eres un Alejandro-Nabucodonosor.
(Eres un profesor de energía,
como dicen los locos de hoy.)
Crees que la vida es incendio,
que el progreso es erupción;
en donde pones la bala
el porvenir pones.
No.Los Estados Unidos son potentes y grandes.
Cuando ellos se estremecen hay un hondo temblor
que pasa por las vértebras enormes de los Andes.
Si clamáis, se oye como el rugir del ***
Ya Hugo a Grant le dijo: «Las estrellas son vuestras».
(Apenas brilla, alzándose, el argentino sol
y la estrella chilena se levanta...) Sois ricos.
Juntáis al culto de Hércules el culto de Mammón;
y alumbrando el camino de la fácil conquista,
la Libertad levanta su antorcha en Nueva York.Mas la América nuestra, que tenía poetas
desde los viejos tiempos de Netzahualcoyotl,
que ha guardado las huellas de los pies del gran Baco,
que el alfabeto pánico en un tiempo aprendió;
que consultó los astros, que conoció la Atlántida,
cuyo nombre nos llega resonando en Platón,
que desde los remotos momentos de su vida
vive de luz, de fuego, de perfume, de amor,
la América del gran Moctezuma, del Inca,
la América fragante de Cristóbal Colón,
la América católica, la América española,
la América en que dijo el noble Guatemoc:
«Yo no estoy en un lecho de rosas»; esa América
que tiembla de huracanes y que vive de Amor,
hombres de ojos sajones y alma bárbara, vive.
Y sueña. Y ama, y vibra; y es la hija del Sol.
Tened cuidado. ¡Vive la América española!
Hay mil cachorros sueltos del *** Español.
Se necesitaría, Roosevelt, ser Dios mismo,
el Riflero terrible y el fuerte Cazador,
para poder tenernos en vuestras férreas garras.Y, pues contáis con todo, falta una cosa: ¡Dios!
1.1k
There is a deafening inarticulateness here;
Among the Living-
Though I always anticipated the Dead would prevail.
Perhaps it is to let us think-
But do we really think here?
The Comprachicos of the psyche enable our free thought.
Bringing clemency to an abrupt and mutilated end.
Unlike Dea, we shrink from Gwynplaine's grotesque glasgow smile.
Unable to be enchanted by the spirit,
And unable to adore the soul.
Dec 7, 2012
Dec 7, 2012 at 3:10 PM UTC
Sleek dark hair
Highlights of auburn, color of fall
Stern lips
A look of austerity in the dark russet eye
Skin lighter than my own
The smaller wrist
Large eyes
Faint deepening crow's feet
Nursing knowledge
Small, short, slight, petite, and strong
Maternal vanguard
Matriarchal
Beautiful and earthly
Scorpionic elusiveness
Her unused canvas
Frequent Homegoods purchased
Shifts decor in the livingroom like a Feng Shui practitioner
Laughs at the absurdity of modern horror movies
Smells like bath wash and too much perfume
Smells of my childhood
Smells of my innocence
Paperbacks of Hugo and Austen in boxes in the basement
Paperbacks of The Symposium and a biography of Marx in the basement
Secretly likes to cook
Culinary explorer
Gastronomically open
Culinary door opener
Very little circle of friends
Outspoken
Austerity on the small mouth
Austerity in the small mouth
Conviction in her voice
Soft graphite in her voice
Has a lisp sometimes
The slight overbite(?)
Immigrant parent
Unnaturalized citizen
Reminds me of fall
Reminds me of everything
Reminds me of very little at once
Life-teacher, one of many
Protective
Over-protective
Pushy
The way her hand moves on her tablet
The way her voice sounded during a lecture when I was a child
The way she used to hug
Closet full of shoes and clothes she rummages through when she's going out
Meticulous cleaner
The way her voice sounded when she tried to make sense of me
The way her voice sounds
...
Oct 9, 2017
Oct 9, 2017 at 5:23 AM UTC
Parlons du charme pittoresque de l’automne
Des cloches de l’Angélus qui carillonnent
Des fleurs autrefois jolies et fortes, sur le gazon
Oh ! Automne, tu es une très belle saison!
Parlons des pétales et sépales tombés du ciel
Où les arbres sont médusés et presque dévêtus
Et les oiseaux stupéfaits sont tombés des nues
Oh ! Automne, j’aime ton sourire doux et naturel.
La saison de l’automne a un charme sensationnel
Une fraîcheur tiède et confortable et un ton solennel
C’est l’or du soir qui tombe toute la sainte journée.
Ce sont les feuilles et fleurs multicolores sur le tapis
Oh ! Automne, tu nous donnes beaucoup à imaginer
Et nous montres comment mirer des moments polis.
P.S. Ce poème est dédié à Victor Hugo.
Copyright © Octobre 2024, Hébert Logerie, Tous droits réservés.
Hébert Logerie est l’auteur de nombreux recueils de poésie.
Oct 28, 2024
Oct 28, 2024 at 3:36 PM UTC
Please me____
(In) the- in -crowd
You lose me
(Out) the- out
Fury
never
works
out with
Gary_____
Don't ugly
goose me
No pretty, please
me so deceiving
Whole entire
City is leaving
Hot fun summer in the city
A curse like a bad omen such a pity___
Face me
Camelian
Stan the evil
man
To the ugliest
Fight at the
Grecian slam
Huncheback of
Notre Dame
The Pompeii fire
flame
Ugly ducking tamed
Modern
Video-game
Chavez
Fizz Roz
Heading towards
The Planetarium
Pretty tragic
Ending up in a
sanitarium
((Magic))**
Strikingly
matched
Twin of topaz
The Solarium Jazz
Going to Saratoga
Song Sara Smiles
But travels all the way
To Minnesota
So drained Rotto
Rooter
At the Polaris Mall
Christopher Columbus
Clockwork on a bus
Oh! Ohio red roaster
Never pretty at the
Bull's eye Rodeo
Rodeo drive*
Devil and Domino
Virgo meeting Hugo
Taurus
The Pluto Bull
of lotto
Gina eating
Italian Alfredo
Mudpack stinks
Frank and Dino
Sammy the
Rat pack
Moms
Baking soda
Dominque
Mystique
Trapeze
Doing Yoga
Please without
the pretty
Bo ditty
Feeling gitty
Not to be flattered
So bloated
fatter
Role Gotta give
Beauty beast wider
On Fox Five
Harley Quinn rider
Arizona
Eating
Tapioca
Life is a ***** not
a beach diet
Never do we pray
Pretty please to preach
May 7, 2018
May 7, 2018 at 5:58 PM UTC
There is one spectacle grander than the sea,
That is the sky,
There is one spectacle grander than the sky,
That is the interior of the soul.
Jan 19, 2016
Jan 19, 2016 at 10:10 AM UTC
"Ohhhhhh....!" he noticed
she was
wearing
the shortest skirt he had
ever seen
( a belt masquerading as
a skirt )
&
that she was reading the poetry
of Victor Hugo.
"...the forest has rusted
in the light and the rain..."
he quoted to the air
jealous of the sunlight
touching her hair.
"...le soleil et la pluie ont rouillé la forêt..."
her voice mirrored his
"Ahhhhhh...you know Hugo
and his poetry?"
"Oh if you knew Hugo
like I knew Hugo!"
he sang shamelessly.
She laughed
in French.
He laughed
in Irish.
"There's nothing
like the original!"
she crossed & re-
crossed
her legs
cutting through his thoughts
<<<<<scissors through paper.
"Only in translation!"
he shamefully admitted.
"Ohhhh...he has to be
experienced in the French!"
He tried not to stare at her
elegant-pale-pink-ivory-with-cream-applique-lace-trimmed
Janet Reger.
"...ta bouche sur ma bouche et
tes yeux sur mes yeux..."
she stared
into him.
"....your mouth on my mouth and
your eyes upon my eyes..."
the kiss only an instant away from
happening.
Jun 6, 2015
Jun 6, 2015 at 3:59 PM UTC
Des plus profonds des océans
Et du haut du ciel
Plus forts et plus ardents mes désirs sont
Tu me fais face avec ton sourire tout beau tout miel
Je me perds alors dans mes émotions
Intrigué, je t'observe comme un bel oiseau battant des ailes
Dans tes yeux brillent mille lueurs de satisfaction
Dans les miens dansent mille et un rayons de de lumière
Chaleur et douceur
Nul besoin de croire en son destin
Nul besoin de lire Hugo ou Voltaire pour te dire que tu es belle
Nul besoin d'attendre pour prendre part à ce doux festin
May 28, 2019
May 28, 2019 at 1:48 AM UTC