"lapel" poems
I’ve tattooed a line across
the veins of my wrist
and marked a down stroke
for every time
“you can’t wear red lipstick”
made me believe
I never wanted to in the first place.
for every time instead
I’ve stained my lips with cherries
learning how to tie the stems
so I can slip forget-me-knots
to the back of your throat—
do you feel my restriction now?
the razors that fly off my tongue
perk thorns on my skin,
another down stroke on my wrist
will teach me that
you were right,
shyness is a virtue.
no need to speak,
go spend one hundred dollars
and some percent for tax
to cover up,
even though I’m sure your mother told you
that cotton stains.
so make it black.
get your hair stuck
in the zipper of that sundress
and pray as you pull it out
that it will lose its pigmentation
in the process
mark a down stroke
for killing two flowers
for one bouquet.
hold it
close your eyes and throw it back,
I know we shouldn’t be wearing white anyway
but tradition can take a lot out of you
like what you really think—
don’t say **** in public.
instead drag your first impressions
all the way to the altar
and dress in your Sunday best
a flower on your lapel
clear on your lips
a stroke for the neat decline
of the son
I tattooed a line across
the veins of my wrist
and marked a down stroke
for every time
my image
was my fault.
May 4, 2015
May 4, 2015 at 1:51 PM UTC
Following are several translations
of the 'Old Pond' poem, which may be
the most famous of all haiku:
Furuike ya
kawazu tobikomu
mizu no oto
-- Basho
Literal Translation
Fu-ru (old) i-ke (pond) ya,
ka-wa-zu (frog) to-bi-ko-mu (jumping into)
mi-zu (water) no o-to (sound)
The old pond--
a frog jumps in,
sound of water.
Translated by Robert Hass
Old pond...
a frog jumps in
water's sound.
Translated by William J. Higginson
An old silent pond...
A frog jumps into the pond,
splash! Silence again.
Translated by Harry Behn
There is the old pond!
Lo, into it jumps a frog:
hark, water's music!
Translated by John Bryan
The silent old pond
a mirror of ancient calm,
a frog-leaps-in splash.
Translated by Dion O'Donnol
old pond
frog leaping
splash
Translated by Cid Corman
Antic pond--
frantic frog jumps in--
gigantic sound.
Translated by Bernard Lionel Einbond
MAFIA HIT MAN POET: NOTE FOUND PINNED TO LAPEL
OF DROWNED VICTIM'S DOUBLE-BREASTED SUIT!!!
'Dere wasa dis frogg
Gone jumpa offa da logg
Now he inna bogg.'
-- Anonymous
Translated by George M. Young, Jr.
Old pond
leap -- splash
a frog.
Translated by Lucien Stryck
The old pond,
A frog jumps in:.
Plop!
Translated by Allan Watts
The old pond, yes, and
A frog is jumping into
The water, and splash.
Translated by G.S. Fraser
11.2k
As you plaited the harvest bow
You implicated the mellowed silence in you
In wheat that does not rust
But brightens as it tightens twist by twist
Into a knowable corona,
A throwaway love-knot of straw.
Hands that aged round ashplants and cane sticks
And lapped the spurs on a lifetime of game *****
Harked to their gift and worked with fine intent
Until your fingers moved somnambulant:
I tell and finger it like braille,
Gleaning the unsaid off the palpable,
And if I spy into its golden loops
I see us walk between the railway slopes
Into an evening of long grass and midges,
Blue smoke straight up, old beds and ploughs in hedges,
An auction notice on an outhouse wall--
You with a harvest bow in your lapel,
Me with the fishing rod, already homesick
For the big lift of these evenings, as your stick
Whacking the tips off weeds and bushes
Beats out of time, and beats, but flushes
Nothing: that original townland
Still tongue-tied in the straw tied by your hand.
The end of art is peace
Could be the motto of this frail device
That I have pinned up on our deal dresser--
Like a drawn snare
Slipped lately by the spirit of the corn
Yet burnished by its passage, and still warm.
7.6k
the committee
has convened
(kangaroos corralled)
the agenda
is set
(scapegoats framed)
the politicos
are preened
(perfect patriots)
hair coiffed
teeth whitened
(fangs sharpened)
correct talking
points bulleted
(minds closed)
puffed chests
perfectly postured
(bombastic bravado)
freedom fighters
stand firm
(Constitution usurpers)
American flag
lapel pins
(sparkling bright)
liberty's spirit
and tolerance
(roundly condemned)
special interests
are watching
(payola earned)
partisan lines
clearly drawn
(democracy doomed)
Music Selection
Cream: Politician
Oakland
10/1/10
jbm
Apr 12, 2013
Apr 12, 2013 at 7:46 PM UTC
There was a tube
of chapstick in the
lapel of his jacket
and i wondered
silently if it
might be
the same
as a kiss.
May 23, 2013
May 23, 2013 at 6:56 PM UTC
JOY ... weaving two violet petals for a coat lapel ... painting on a slab of night sky a Christ face ... slipping new brass keys into rusty iron locks and shouldering till at last the door gives and we are in a new room ... forever and ever violet petals, slabs, the Christ face, brass keys and new rooms.
are we near or far?... is there anything else?... who comes back?... and why does love ask nothing and give all? and why is love rare as a tailed comet shaking guesses out of men at telescopes ten feet long? why does the mystery sit with its chin on the lean forearm of women in gray eyes and women in hazel eyes?
are any of these less proud, less important, than a cross-examining lawyer? are any of these less perfect than the front page of a morning newspaper?
the answers are not computed and attested in the back of an arithmetic for the verifications of the lazy
there is no authority in the phone book for us to call and ask the why, the wherefore, and the howbeit it's ... a riddle ... by God.
3.9k
The middle class idea of theft--
where we eat at semi-fancy restaurants
seated at faux leather interior
deep seated dimly lit coves
dine in a sarcophagus of tasty mildew.
A youth lends their smile
teeth faintly shine through,
but roughly cut short of sincere;
on their lapel in fine print the label says Sandy.
Flexing water spotted plastic
black brim borders
and articulated names of food
that would put all of Italy to shame.
Porcelain plates hold lofty portions
of what is purely compensation
as texture and flavor remind me of my adolescence
this is when Playdoh and Crayons are used for flavoring.
A slate for my signature is provided
and the upside to this all
was the perfection of a pen they lent me
it was ball tip and bright pink--
finally something I'd be glad to take home with me.
Aug 19, 2015
Aug 19, 2015 at 12:17 PM UTC
Where are our clowns
With baggy waist-coats
Filled with promises;
Clowns wearing
Borrowed crowns.
One plucks a rose
In his white garden,
To pin on his lapel;
He's a squirter
And it shows.
One's in the square
With large red shoes
Putting on a show.
But feet don't fit,
Soon he'll trip
With tongue-in-cheek ego.
One has rhine-red ruffs
Around her neck,
Her GNP
Surpasses debt;
Her audience finds
They too get wet.
A three-ringed circus
We're wise to regret.
One in the Yuan
Has a red nose on,
A harlequin clown
Asleep in red dawn.
But tweak his nose
And the tent comes down
On the Big Top Shows.
Mar 6, 2015
Mar 6, 2015 at 8:53 AM UTC
EVERY year Emily Dickinson sent one friend
the first arbutus bud in her garden.
In a last will and testament Andrew Jackson
remembered a friend with the gift of George
Washington's pocket spy-glass.
Napoleon too, in a last testament, mentioned a silver
watch taken from the bedroom of Frederick the Great,
and passed along this trophy to a particular friend.
O. Henry took a blood carnation from his coat lapel
and handed it to a country girl starting work in a
bean bazaar, and scribbled: "Peach blossoms may or
may not stay pink in city dust."
So it goes. Some things we buy, some not.
Tom Jefferson was proud of his radishes, and Abe
Lincoln blacked his own boots, and Bismarck called
Berlin a wilderness of brick and newspapers.
So it goes. There are accomplished facts.
Ride, ride, ride on in the great new blimps-
Cross unheard-of oceans, circle the planet.
When you come back we may sit by five hollyhocks.
We might listen to boys fighting for marbles.
The grasshopper will look good to us.
So it goes ...
2.6k
There is no cure, no fix, no magic spell.
I am an aberration, as you know.
I never promised you a villanelle.
You cannot trap the ocean in a shell.
You feed the roses blood to make them grow.
There is no cure, no fix, no magic spell.
It does get bumpy on this carousel.
The ride is all extremes of high and low.
I never promised you a villanelle.
I was the aberration, you could tell.
I tied up my neuroses in a bow.
There is no cure, no fix, no magic spell.
I think it's safe to say you know me well
in all my many masks, but even so
I never promised you a villanelle.
Let me pin my ragged heart to your lapel.
If it's truly what you need, I'll let you go.
There is no cure, no fix, no magic spell.
I never promised you a villanelle.
Apr 24, 2017
Apr 24, 2017 at 2:56 PM UTC
The Harvest Bow
As you plaited the harvest bow
You implicated the mellowed silence in you
In wheat that does not rust
But brightens as it tightens twist by twist
Into a knowable corona,
A throwaway love-knot of straw.
Hands that aged round ashplants and cane sticks
And lapped the spurs on a lifetime of game *****
Harked to their gift and worked with fine intent
Until your fingers moved somnambulant:
I tell and finger it like braille,
Gleaning the unsaid off the palpable,
And if I spy into its golden loops
I see us walk between the railway slopes
Into an evening of long grass and midges,
Blue smoke straight up, old beds and ploughs in hedges,
An auction notice on an outhouse wall—
You with a harvest bow in your lapel,
Me with the fishing rod, already homesick
For the big lift of these evenings, as your stick
Whacking the tips off weeds and bushes
Beats out of time, and beats, but flushes
Nothing: that original townland
Still tongue-tied in the straw tied by your hand.
The end of art is peace
Could be the motto of this frail device
That I have pinned up on our deal dresser—
Like a drawn snare
Slipped lately by the spirit of the corn
Yet burnished by its passage, and still warm.
by Seamus Heaney
Aug 30, 2013
Aug 30, 2013 at 8:02 PM UTC
When Death comes,
he will not find me
with hands in pockets.
No, I am going to tip my hat
and look the other way.
Going to act like I didn’t
see him coming. He will
be surprised to learn
he's the only one in the room
not in on the joke.
When Death comes,
I’ll ask if he can spare a buck,
see if he has an extra stamp,
and *** a smoke.
I’ll not inquire about
the weather,
tell him about the family,
or pretend to like his coat.
I’ll just point down the hall
and show Death the door.
When Death comes,
I’ll not shake hands
or be a gentleman.
If he taps me on the shoulder,
I'll brush him aside
with a boorish smirk,
check my watch,
mention he’s looking older.
Then I’m going to ignore him
and pick the lint from my lapel.
When Death comes,
I’ll get my best poem
and read it aloud
but I won’t let Death hear.
If old friends visit,
I’ll make them brownies
and we'll talk about Death.
As life begins to disappear,
and you believe Death has me,
put two sugars in my coffee.
When Death comes,
I’ll be ready.
Apr 9, 2011
Apr 9, 2011 at 7:23 PM UTC
People are nothing more than a blur of genitalia,
gasps,
groans,
grunts,
g-spots
to savor, then scrap.
The Catch is a rehearsed routine,
catcalls turned to cat scratches
and long blonde hairs stuck to his lapel;
his wife will make
****
sure
he'll repent.
Lip bites and ***** licks,
the high leaves long breaths
escaping quenched lips.
**** falling for you,
I'd rather
**** you and leave
standing up straight
Aug 4, 2014
Aug 4, 2014 at 11:34 PM UTC
I suckled my mother's Bluetooth breast
while my father built me a bassinet
of series circuits with high, motherboard
bars.
I've got that artificial baby glow.
But Mom put my ****** on Facebook
at four weeks and I still haven't re-friended
(forgiven) her. My upgrade's in nine months,
but I want my downgrade now
'cause all I get are social invite excuses
from Facebook fuckfaces. We pack
our lives into little boxes that we're
not even allowed to open.
We drink to technology, keep our lazy
eyes on our news feeds, and recycle
ideas like their owners would even
want to see what we've done to them.
We misquote Confucius and credit ourselves
with mangled Robert Frost stanzas.
"Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, and I think
it's awesome that Pepsi used to be blue."
Reblog, revine,
retweet, FaceTime.
Folding chair fold-out on someone's lawn.
White-out Yeats, Keats, Byron, and Auden,
and write John ******** or Tom Whatever.
We're caught in the chicken wire of an LCD
fruit basket so neat, orderly, and brushed
aluminum. How can people write in Starbucks?
S
B
U
X
B
S
The cooler's too ****** music's too shy,
and the sugar, no, not just the sugar.
THE PEOPLE are too artificial.
The carpet-suit inlay I'm standing
on has pencil lead, sock lint,
and receipt shred lapel pins.
Even corporations play dress-up.
But what happens when Y2K kicks
in tomorrow?
Lives will be lost even before
the missiles **** us.
And the planes that drop
from the sky won't even come close
to when the bough breaks your little
girl's heart, baby, because your phone
can't raise her anymore, so you have to.
And based on your search history,
tweets, and recorded dreams,
she's better off in the warm
embrace of a hard drive.
Nov 26, 2014
Nov 26, 2014 at 10:54 PM UTC
not forgetting flames me up
like a foam of whispers
bursts into with laconic daring
over darkened waters
your name hangs unwritten
I rolled over on a rib
but it's useless
how long am I going to ferment you in my armpit
with your fragile ****** smile?
chase me away like the passersby do
with the meaning of travelling
I was not and you were not
you were not in my dying
we were only a laden pool of sunlight
I didn't find any solution
than to behead the days
these thin days unraveled from myself
from the bone of the world peeled of magic
the art of forgetting is for those
who sleep on pillows
such a long, long road
I've been travelling to a destination
obliterated by pain
to this gravitational center, to this place
with no hiding space
only mute seagulls
have seen my screaming
I've cursed myself on pages,
diaries of gory hours
I've cupped myself in belated answers,
dancing tears
more than eyes can meet
while I was forgetting nothing about everything
the world revolved once, twice, a dozen of times
you were learning to dissipate your name
to waste it on the lapel of not yet discovered seas
in the silence of leaves
now I know this calmness,
this tenderness of dying
I could write this unthreatening poem
today, tomorrow
till forever finds some peace
perhaps
some forgetting
Feb 27, 2015
Feb 27, 2015 at 5:46 PM UTC
Enter softly, she spoke to me, twisted like fungi on a tree trunk. For every spot of desert there's an ounce of ocean to fit inside it. Our tunnels will meet someday I told her. Do not be afraid reading this, doom can be sweet as a garden or smelly like an eye ******
My abdomen is creased with age and tourniquets. Every time...I tie myself to a lamp post and wait for my Master to come with the next direction. I eat sugar cubes, carrots, and stand eight feet- so dive with me. I am a Pisces. I have been built to swim and suffer intolerable cruelties. Break me with your hand, your closed fist, a strap of leather, a bagful of flour. I am not the valor of your toothbrush or table cloth. I do not follow the sunset home, instead I fly over the bayou, scouting for sandpipers in the low tide.
Looking at the telephone for you to appear, playing the songs of you in my head. I hear you, I remember the airports, the MCA, the head holding, and the longing. In place of reality, I choose your colors boldly and stuff them tightly into my left lapel and chest breast pocket. You are superior evidence that I exist.
Mar 14, 2014
Mar 14, 2014 at 5:27 AM UTC
I don’t want a sunbeam
give that to Jesus.
Don’t bother me with purity,
don’t let me make shadows
out of you.
I don’t want a butterfly
batting along on the wind.
The wind of my word,
on the gale of my opinion.
I don’t want a pearl,
something that needs to be made.
Made from gritty sand, held close,
and pressurised round and edgeless.
I don’t want a rose
called what I want it to be,
cut where I want it to be,
on my lapel, for when it makes me look best.
I don’t want conversations like schizophrenia.
If you want me to be able to explain you in four lines,
I don’t want you.
Dec 9, 2015
Dec 9, 2015 at 6:23 PM UTC
There sits an geisha along
The shore
When will love arrive; the ocean her tears have cried
Awaiting the sound of Orr like arms to paddle through
Melancholy puddle.
Her hair shimmers ebony
Awaiting a love that crosses the sea
Her Wooden sandels no longer echo above gravel and dirt
Awaiting their sound to be replaced. Repeated over and over
Laped by the lapel of rescuing arms.
There she sits alone by the shore
Seducing the tears she has made; praying a love fair and true
The koi of her dream refuses to swim
Alone she waits by an ocean she's made
Sep 11, 2016
Sep 11, 2016 at 4:21 AM UTC
James Corden’s close relationship with Burberry designer Christopher Bailey was celebrated at the 2016 Tony Awards.
On Sunday night (12Jun16) the toast of Broadway were celebrated at the annual awards show. British star James was the evening’s host, winning the crowd over with his warm sense of humour and down to earth delivery.
As well as a successful acting and presenting career, James can now also add style icon to his burgeoning resume.
“We wanted to keep the wardrobe tight and focused with a definite beginning and an end,” stylist Michael Fisher told vogue.com.
“We started with Burberry for the red carpet. James and Christopher Bailey have a long-standing relationship. I wanted a strong look that complemented the roses. The deep burgundy tux had matte black micro sequins on the lapel: very sophisticated and classic, with a technical update.”
Like any good awards show host, 37-year-old James had numerous outfit changes. Two suits from Tom Ford featured; a black three-piece design which served as a tribute to Broadway and then a teal dot dinner jacket, which James chose to wear at the after party.
A show-stopping Dolce & Gabbana look also featured, with the fashion house supplying a pair of “handmade, dark green croc shoes” to complement the green velvet and crystal jacket James wore to close the show.
Another stand out moment came thanks to a red Gucci suit adorned with a bird and butterfly motif.
“The Gucci suit was my favourite,” Michael smiled. “You can’t ignore the influence (Gucci designer) Alessandro Michele has on fashion right now. It reminded me of (musical) The Boy From Oz and in that way was very appropriate for the Tonys.”Read more at: www.marieaustralia.com/evening-dresses | http://www.marieaustralia.com/cocktail-dresses
Jun 15, 2016
Jun 15, 2016 at 1:40 AM UTC
In the Garden there was a man
a quiet maker of boutonnieres
whose sunflower grin stirred pollen.
In the Garden there was a bird
a hummingbird, a quiet maker of songs
who steeped within his mirth, thirsty for more.
And now she tastes his flowers everywhere
as he weaves them into his lapel
that she might always flit home
just below the crook of his smile
and just above his April heart.
Mar 17, 2013
Mar 17, 2013 at 8:08 AM UTC
And he's provocative, a provocateur, a beacon of free speech and foul speech and vague speech and pointed speech, pacing the Conference Room Alamo on the ground floor of the Hilton, testing his lapel mike, asking the crowd of eighty, ninety to move to the front rows, and he mouths something to the photographer, a dreadlock'd skin and bones white boy, and the photographer flanks the crowd, angling the shot to solidify the intended narrative: he is a provocateur, a popular provocateur, a staunch opponent of political correctness (which this bystander must note strangely equates to a champion of hate speech), a former poster child for the alt-right, but—and quoting here—he says, "I cannot be pigeonholed," and perhaps that's it, the secret to his former success, his viral, shapeless nature, a terrorist of language and persona, and perhaps that's it, the secret to his demise, his shape forming, his identity emerging from the podcast ghettos and GOP speaking gigs, and he's on the stage and he's in all white and this is intentional, this is the redemption tour, the other-side tour, and the crowd claps now as he pumps his arms (at this point in the presentation they used to shout, I should point out), and he calls Hillary Clinton "Satan's ingrown **** hair," and the men in the audience laugh and pant and cough, and he spends fifteen minutes on fake news and hit pieces and the nuance of video editing and how liberal snowflakes won't stop protesting his appearances (for clarity here, there were no protestors at this event), and he wraps everything rather quickly (especially for the $150 ticket price) and says he has a minute for questions, and a young man, twenty-five or so, asks for tips on becoming the God King of Internet Trolls, and he, the popular provocateur, says, "Ah. The next generation is coming up from behind."
Mar 7, 2017
Mar 7, 2017 at 4:58 PM UTC
the kissing dogs are gone, sleeping long, chasing fancy in their fog
curious, a girl with a pocket of amaranth
always fresh rain on her lapel and neck
and eyes that become fixed and smaller in pleasure
an image that remains un-graven in memory, a mystery still,
like a candle stolen from a windowsill
sitting at a bar, drinking ***** with lime
seeing people i know, yet alone in rhyme
"this is how it’s going to be", said the picture of j. edgar hoover
"i’m burning you, feeding the furnace in your belly.
'you'll meet the devil if you haven't already'”, said the *****
"it will all sour, everything. get a taste and die
knowing one heaven”, said the lime
"you want to melt. the heat of your desperation touches me. you want to become a lone liquid and disperse into the clouds.
you think you can travel the world that way, maybe be tossed around
in the clear tide near fiji. but you won’t, look at me”,
said the ice in the glass.
Feb 3, 2014
Feb 3, 2014 at 3:20 AM UTC
To hold and acknowledge the representation of all things pure.
The gift of a black woman.
In picture perfect representation.
To hold the world in the palm of her hand. Your hand.
To birth all things beautiful.
You are the beholders of the universe.
With the patience and the endurance to witness the woes of stress.
To keep it all in stride.
You yourself are a living testament.
From the womb of resilience comes man.
With a duty to provide
To worship and protect the gift of our Queens.
A crown of wool radiating warmth.
The worry of pacing feet, cooled by the lapel of warm embrace.
From her mouth comes the food that nourishes the soul.
Around her tongue swirls knowledge of the universe.
The way her eyes connect with the stars.
Interwoven clouds that form the cuff of her crown, your crown.
With hair spread beneath her neck.
Flawless skin made of silk and honey.
With ripples of brown sugar, the moon, stars and cocoa.
Beneath her lashes lies the imagery of what she dreams most.
Her hands like the *** that brews the stew that warms the soul.
So much strength can be found. The way she holds her wrists steady.
To tame the cosmos that align against the beads of her bracelet.
Her talent , her embrace.
The way she gives herself as the wind.
Looming a sigh of relief.
Through you all life is formed.
Without her, Without you,
We'd all surely die.
Not knowing which way to go, baptized again by the palm of your hand.
This is a simple reminder to remind you that nothing could surpass you.
Beautiful black woman
Apr 6, 2017
Apr 6, 2017 at 11:06 AM UTC
A well cured woman with
tied back hair and
a Mac for fashion,
with also a mac for all weather action,
sat across from me on the train.
Probably sexually active and
without a doubt physically attractive,
she wore morals not money.
PETA badges peppered her lapel,
as she toyed with the check-in details
for the Four Seasons Hotel.
Never will I forget her scent;
high class, high art, high culture,
all distilled within a single
sculpture of smell.
My word, how she spoke so softly,
on the phone or too herself,
even when she asked me for help.
Definitions aren't embodied
in a person that often.
Maybe ex-girlfriends define hell,
but sitting-on-a-train-Mac-user
personified beauty, love,
and the everlasting man seducer.
Dec 16, 2012
Dec 16, 2012 at 7:44 AM UTC
Well let’s take it slow.
There’s no rush, tonight is all yours.
Take your time,
Pull on my lapel,
Go ahead and bite me
As I tighten my grip on your hair.
When you’re ready
I’ll lay you down gently,
Pull of whatever is left,
Tell you everything’s okay,
Caress your soft chest,
Until I’m sure you’re
Dripping wet.
Tonight won’t be something ordinary,
Nor something from a fantasy.
Its somewhere in between.
You’ll feel like magic,
But I’ll make you remember
The harshness of reality.
There’s no need to panic
When everything starts shaking.
Its all normal and expected,
So ride on my dear,
Till your back starts breaking.
Eventually you’ll memorize
The pattern of our bodies
When they move from side to side.
Its quite the strange delight,
Hearing your beautiful tune
As I hit you from behind.
When its time to close,
Scream my name, let it show.
Dig your nails into my skin,
Get your body to bend,
Get low.
Gasp for air, beg me to stop.
In.
Out.
Explode.
After reaching the end.
I’ll lay you down again,
Covering you with soft kisses,
Thanking you for fulfilling my body’s wishes.
Then we’ll lay here together,
Studying eachother with dreamy eyes,
Hoping that tonight,
Won’t be the last time.
Feb 9, 2011
Feb 9, 2011 at 9:49 AM UTC