"louise" poems
The Wild Iris
by Louise Gluck
At the end of my suffering
there was a door.
Hear me out: that which you call death
I remember.
Overhead, noises, branches of the pine shifting.
Then nothing. The weak sun
flickered over the dry surface.
It is terrible to survive
as consciousness
buried in the dark earth.
Then it was over: that which you fear, being
a soul and unable
to speak, ending abruptly, the stiff earth
bending a little. And what I took to be
birds darting in low shrubs.
You who do not remember
passage from the other world
I tell you I could speak again: whatever
returns from oblivion returns
to find a voice:
from the center of my life came
a great fountain, deep blue
shadows on azure sea water.
103.5k
(1674.)
I have desired, and I have been desired;
But now the days are over of desire,
Now dust and dying embers mock my fire;
Where is the hire for which my life was hired?
Oh vanity of vanities, desire!
Longing and love, pangs of a perished pleasure,
Longing and love, a disenkindled fire,
And memory a bottomless gulf of mire,
And love a fount of tears outrunning measure;
Oh vanity of vanities, desire!
Now from my heart, love's deathbed, trickles, trickles,
Drop by drop slowly, drop by drop of fire,
The dross of life, of love, of spent desire;
Alas, my rose of life gone all to prickles,--
Oh vanity of vanities, desire!
Oh vanity of vanities, desire;
Stunting my hope which might have strained up higher,
Turning my garden plot to barren mire;
Oh death-struck love, oh disenkindled fire,
Oh vanity of vanities, desire!
14.3k
little ladies
than dead exactly dance
in my head,precisely
dance where danced la guerre.
Mimi à
la voix fragile
qui chatouille Des
Italiens
the putain with the ivory throat
Marie Louise Lallemand
n’est-ce pas que je suis belle
chéri? les anglais m’aiment
tous,les américains
aussi….”bon dos, bon cul de Paris”(Marie
Vierge
Priez
Pour
Nous)
with the
long lips of
Lucienne which dangle
the old men and hot
men se promènent
doucement le soir(ladies
accurately dead les anglais
sont gentils et les américains
aussi,ils payent bien les américains dance
exactly in my brain voulez
vous coucher avec
moi? Non? pourquoi?)
ladies skilfully
dead precisely dance
where has danced la
guerre j’m'appelle
Manon,cinq rue Henri Mounier
voulez-vous coucher avec moi?
te ferai Mimi
te ferai Minette,
dead exactly dance
si vous voulez
chatouiller
mon lézard ladies suddenly
j’m'en fous des nègres
(in the twilight of Paris
Marie Louise with queenly
legs cinq rue Henri
Mounier a little love
begs,Mimi with the body
like une boîte à joujoux, want nice sleep?
toutes les petites femmes exactes
qui dansent toujours in my
head dis donc,Paris
ta gorge mystérieuse
pourquoi se promène-t-elle,pourquoi
éclate ta voix
fragile couleur de pivoine?)
with the
long lips of Lucienne which
dangle the old men and hot men
precisely dance in my head
ladies carefully dead
10.5k
'They're just a teen' gets dropped on the daily.
Like the added couple of letters at the end
determine whether our feelings are valued
or not.
They only ever tell us they're here for us
when someone offs themselves on the train
tracks next to the school. Call this number
if you feel down.
Teenage years are the time to find out who
you are, and maybe I am a depressed mess,
but us Gen Z kids are doing our best to make
sure us sad'ens feel alright.
Sometimes we don't feel alright, and, so what,
if it is just down to hormones and periods,
and Max's muscly shoulders or Louise's
brown eyes.
We are allowed to feel like **** Cos Teenage
years are the time where we find out life isn't
like animated movies;
that bad guys are defeated and the hero wins;
cos, in the end, sometimes we're our own saboteurs.
And we find out,
sometimes that's okay; to knock ourselves down will
make us build ourselves up in the grand scheme of
things; I sure as hell know I hate how I feel most days,
and I'm sure most teenagers do.
I'm just a teen;
but I have a loud voice, terrible jokes and
a **** economy to grow into,
and I'm allowed to be mad and cry
and I'm allowed to feel like ****
and want to die
because in the end, I know it'll all
be fine.
Married or alone with wine.
Sometimes life is ****
and that's okay;
and to me,
that _is_ the teenage dream.
Jul 30, 2018
Jul 30, 2018 at 6:06 PM UTC
Only in sleep I see their faces,
Children I played with when I was a child,
Louise comes back with her brown hair braided,
Annie with ringlets warm and wild.
Only in sleep Time is forgotten —
What may have come to them, who can know?
Yet we played last night as long ago,
And the doll-house stood at the turn of the stair.
The years had not sharpened their smooth round faces,
I met their eyes and found them mild —
Do they, too, dream of me, I wonder,
And for them am I too a child?
8.1k
Romeo, Juliet
They were better off dead
For falling in love is just like getting shot in the head
Come along, little fool
What better way to learn the rules
Than for someone to be cruel to you
Miss Thelma and Louise
Their spirits drift over Belize
Lovers live forever and never learn to leave
Mrs. Bonnie, Mr. Clyde
Seems like everyone in love has died
Not in each other's arms but by their side
Apr 11, 2016
Apr 11, 2016 at 10:34 PM UTC
The old man paints seashells
for all of the women he has loved.
He takes his husky for walks
along the beach, returning with
a bag of **** and a collection
of spirals and fans, still pregnant
with the whispers of the ocean.
By the window, he licks his brush
and steadies his nervous hands.
He will share a steak with the dog,
and wonder when the best company
became inanimate or at most; unspeaking.
He had long turned his back on Dylan
and Cohen, in favour of empty sound
and the rain hitting the tarp
in the garden. He recalls Diane
and the green of life in her poetry.
Louise, the blue of her moods and the sea.
Each woman had coloured his life
in hopeful hues, oh, and what a mess
he was in their absence.
(even the dog wouldn't sleep beside him)
The old man drew his last breath
when the silence became deafening.
When he realised he could not reclaim
memories through art, or through
the patient analysis of nature.
There was no shape or colour
that had not been created before.
Oct 19, 2014
Oct 19, 2014 at 5:18 PM UTC
"Too many things are occurring for even a big heart to hold." - From an essay by W. B. Yeats
Big heart,
wide as a watermelon,
but wise as birth,
there is so much abundance
in the people I have:
Max, Lois, Joe, Louise,
Joan, Marie, Dawn,
Arlene, Father Dunne,
and all in their short lives
give to me repeatedly,
in the way the sea
places its many fingers on the shore,
again and again
and they know me,
they help me unravel,
they listen with ears made of conch shells,
they speak back with the wine of the best region.
They are my staff.
They comfort me.
They hear how
the artery of my soul has been severed
and soul is spurting out upon them,
bleeding on them,
messing up their clothes,
dirtying their shoes.
And God is filling me,
though there are times of doubt
as hollow as the Grand Canyon,
still God is filling me.
He is giving me the thoughts of dogs,
the spider in its intricate web,
the sun
in all its amazement,
and a slain ram
that is the glory,
the mystery of great cost,
and my heart,
which is very big,
I promise it is very large,
a monster of sorts,
takes it all in--
all in comes the fury of love.
5.6k
I once knew a lass called Louise
Who had a penchant for smelly cheese
She got camembert
Stuck in her hair
And said 'that'll be good for the fleas!'
Apr 21, 2013
Apr 21, 2013 at 9:32 AM UTC
Gypsy Rose Lee.
Is that you or me?
Does that make you Baby June?
The favourite and best
No concern for the rest
You sing and you dance in the tune.
Or just like Gypsy
You learn how to strip tease
The glamour and glitz of the night.
But who's mama Rose?
And how could I know?
She pushes and leads to a fight.
But Gypsy is magic
And a rare art form
And June is so dainty
Doesn't know when she's born
She's the centre of attention
She's the first one who speaks
And Gypsy is left there
Still being Louise.
Chow mein and lambs
Travel the land
A show on vaudeville stage.
Let me entertain you
Let me have a try too
Honey, were you not entertained?
Jun 21, 2015
Jun 21, 2015 at 5:17 PM UTC
To: Sarah Joyce Crimson 8th July 1943
A man in a gray suit has captured my heart, mother
Along with the tie, of course
Surrounding plants would've died
At his gaze and grace
Armored charm and wide toothed smile
His last name could've might as well been poise
I don't know what it is about him, mother
But his gentle crinkled eyes certainly isn't
His voice is as flattering as the lullaby you once sang
The tone itself symbolizes warmth and stability
Undiscovered treasure in the midst of all volumes
It is home I feel closest to when I catch a glimpse of it in my ear
I don't know whether to feel astonished or quivered
By all means, that'd be deemed as eerie
But you once said when a man one day turned my cheeks bright pink
It sure could only mean one thing
It is unreliably evident not to notice me blush
It is even more apparent not to notice his blunt stare
Sending chilly shivers down my spinal cords
Activating fondness I'd never in a million years imagine I'd sense
If only you were here to see for yourself
How proud I'd make you, indeed
You said one day I'll be able to marry, mother
Well, this day isn't as far planned as it once seemed
From: Christine Louise Crimson
Aug 21, 2016
Aug 21, 2016 at 3:07 PM UTC
My house will be filled with the things that I love;
Goldfish, dandelions,
Green sofas, Greek mythology,
Books of psychology.
Books. Lots of books with lots of words.
Multiple copies of the really good books too.
All stacked to the ceiling
on bookshelves adequate to
The height of the house
All equivalent to
My love of the place I’ll call home.
A sock monkey here or there,
pillows and throw blankets.
Pictures of Lake Louise, and a souvenir
If I’m ever lucky enough to go there.
I will print poetry, frame it, put it on my walls.
My walls will be yellow gray and blue,
I will have a boombox with speakers that go BOOM
(but at night it will sing me to sleep
with many sweet lullabies).
And it’s music will fade to the sound of voices
Voices of people I love and admire
Who can walk through the door,
of the place I aspire
To make my own,
To share and not waste
With the precious presence of others
And their ideas
And hopes and dreams
So if you aren't a thing I love,
You have to leave.
I’ll probably have a lot of lamps too.
Nov 23, 2012
Nov 23, 2012 at 4:24 PM UTC
Retreating Light
You were always very young children,
always waiting for a story.
And I’d been through it all too many times;
I was tired of telling stories.
So I gave you the pencil and paper.
I gave you pens made of reeds
I had gathered myself, afternoons in the dense meadows.
I told you, write your own story.
After all those years of listening
I thought you’d know
what a story was.
All you could do was weep.
You wanted everything told to you
and nothing thought through yourselves.
Then I realized you couldn’t think
with any real boldness or passion;
you hadn’t had your own lives yet,
your own tragedies.
So I gave you lives, I gave you tragedies,
because apparently tools alone weren’t enough.
You will never know how deeply
it pleases me to see you sitting there
like independent beings,
to see you dreaming by the open window,
holding the pencils I gave you
until the summer morning disappears into writing.
Creation has brought you
great excitement, as I knew it would,
as it does in the beginning.
And I am free to do as I please now,
to attend to other things, in confidence
you have no need of me anymore.
Jun 29, 2021
Jun 29, 2021 at 5:59 PM UTC
There was a girl named Louise
Who sat amongst the trees
She had a dream
About peaches and cream
And suddenly she began to sneeze
Jul 8, 2012
Jul 8, 2012 at 5:30 AM UTC
Are you serious? You can’t make this up.
Like seriously. You can’t make this stuff up!
You are not even trying anymore!
So that’s the guy you have chosen for sure?
Audacious. Your pure arrogance endures!
A tyrannosaurus. You’re kidding me.
Surely you could be more subtle than that.
That guy? Couldn’t find a ******* diplomat?
Politician? Lying through his teeth for nothing?
Jeez Louise lemon squeeze. Right into my eyes.
Starting to feel the pain from all your lies.
No longer Mr. Freedom and bla blaaa.
More like Mr. **** off. And la la la.
La la la la la la la! Can’t hear you!
I’ll never trust anything you say or do.
*** I know you’re only looking out for you.
Feb 14, 2019
Feb 14, 2019 at 7:57 AM UTC
Dark skies now roll overhead
The sunlight disappears as the day ends
My thoughts now go back six years
To a night in maternity awaiting your birth
The fear when the midwife said it was going wrong
The joy when later I held you in my arms
You and Emily Rose will never read my prose
That's ok because those who do
Know your daddy loves you
And that's enough
Feb 18, 2013
Feb 18, 2013 at 1:24 PM UTC
Mr. Santa can I have your reindeer for Christmas
Mr. Santa lend me your reindeer for Christmas
She was only seventeen
When she meant the world to me
So come on Santa please
Lend them to me
So I can see my sweet Louise
Mr. Santa can I have your reindeer for Christmas
Mr. Santa lend me your reindeer for Christmas
She meant the world to me
When she moved to far to see
Now she's living in Miami
So Santa please lend them to me
Lend them to me
Send Dasher and Dancer and Prancer and *****
Comet and Cupid and Donner and Blitzen
And just so I can see
Send Rudolph with his red nose PLEASE
Oh, Santa won't you please
Mr. Santa can I have your reindeer for Christmas
Mr. Santa lend me your reindeer for Christmas...
Dec 10, 2014
Dec 10, 2014 at 12:20 PM UTC
Aretha Louise Franklin
Labeled "The Queen Of Soul"
She was expressive in her music
There was a story waiting to be told
Her voice was fierce and powerful
The sound was succinct and sharp
She was one to open up your mind
And give light to those stuck in the dark
Uplifting and exhilarating
Willing to enhance one's vision
Embracing love, life, freedom, and happiness
And carrying out her mission
When in a state of sorrow and pain
She still found a way to persevere
Her inner strength was profound
The messages in her songs were clear
At the age of 76
She has sadly passed on
The legacy of Aretha Franklin
Will continue to be heartstrong
Aug 18, 2018
Aug 18, 2018 at 4:04 PM UTC
<6:36 AM>
~for Joanne Louise Veronika~
patches of light, snatches of sleep,
cumulative tallies of every 24 hour arrhythmia,
detect heart alarms ringing, watch warnings screeching beeping
who cares!
new commitment, self imposed!
greet the early ones with sooth and java,
a combination, “all across the nation,”
ease them in from sleeply lyrical dreams,
to a clear sky, renew anew, bay waters
running new tide fast, tiny tendrils of water points,
etch-a-sketch paths to a calm souls restoration
the smoke haze bad dream departed,
sun rays warmth for the invisible innards,
waves look like the EKG of human at peace,
resting heart rate steady and rhythmically sweet
and I laugh at myself, preposterous!
this is my secret path to restoration,
please laugh at me, join the raucous joy
of not-taking-yourself too seriously,
meaning of a new light, fresh waters,
of an old friend, the same diurnal perspective,
a new alphabet that spells but a singular duality,
a two-word~poem of
meditative perfection:
calm sheltering
Jun 10, 2023
Jun 10, 2023 at 7:05 AM UTC
YOU
Ignore the weeping wounded
As they wallow in the mire
YOU
Fear contamination
Of your heart's desire
**Kudos
Respect
Acceptance**
YOUR
Palatable poison of the day
Knock
Knock
Knock
*"Have you seen my courage?"
"Is it coming out to play?"*
"Not today Poet
For your words are all but dead
Maybe ...
Next time
Stick to your principles
Instead of rolling over .... playing dead!"
"You have a voice
Use it
Stand tall
Walk tall
Walk proud
Believe what
YOU
Believe in
Not the needs of this faux crowd!
"I thought you were a Warrior
A God amongst mere men
But ...
When the push
Came to
The shove
YOU
YOU
Divorced yourself from Zen
"So here is my dilemma
The knot tight inside my soul
Was this just a one off?
Or will
YOU
Always roll
Always roll on with the 'in crowd'
Irrespective of the
THOUGHT
Or will
YOU
**Stand by .... what you believe in?
Stand by .... what you've been taught?"**
"Fakes & Phonies
Two a penny
Cut no ice with me
But ...
For the record
I will state
My name is
MARIE-LOUISE
Bathsheba was just a bit of fun
It held me in good stead
But now ...
I feel the time is right
To lie her down to bed"
"And as I lay her down to sleep
Silently close the door
I know she was a lot of things
**But never a poet *****
She always held her principles
In highest of esteem
She was an individual
But still part of the team
Can you my friend
Say the same
With your hand held on your heart
Or will
YOU
Stick your head in the sand
then try to pass it of
as
ABSTRACT ART!
Feb 16, 2011
Feb 16, 2011 at 8:50 AM UTC
..
girls talk with God and God talks with girls
girls in silk stockings, studded leather and pearls
girls between jobs and girls between boys
girls all grown up and girls from hanoi
girls for all seasons and girls for the spring
girls for the winter and girls from beijing
girls coming first and girls coming last
girls from the future and girls from the past
girls on film and girls on waterskis
girls on one leg and girls named louise
girls who pretend and girls who must fake it
girls who steal and girls who just take it
girls in magazines and girls in books
girls in between and girls' fully cooked
girls fast and girls slow
girls high and girls low
girls in ivory towers and girls on the street
girls on their backs and girls on their feet
girls who remember and girls who forget
girls who have found jesus and girls who haven't yet
girls who own and girls who rent
girls on full throttle and girls who are spent
girls running and girls walking
girls biking and girls talking
girls who like girls and girls who like men
girls who prefer to be left alone and girls without friends
girls who write prose and girls who write verse
girls who are extremely,exactingly,not to mention incredibly,over the top verbose and girls terse
girls on vacation and girls on the job
girls who swim laps and girls who....bob
girls who like basquiat and girls who like haring
girls who like warhol and girls who like sharing
girls in wet raincoats and girls in full drag
girls playing drums and girls playing tag
girls who john cale and girls who lou reed
girls who plant bulbs and girls plant seeds
girls who don't and girls who do
girls that are nice and girls that are true
girls from the bottom and girls from the top
girls who keep writing and girls who know when
to stop
Aug 20, 2013
Aug 20, 2013 at 12:52 AM UTC
a plain poem (the first time I came in you)
a plain poem, light and effervescent, a flim-flan tasting,
plein de absurde rimes, full of nonsensical rhymes,
a lattice of criss crossing pastry sugary lines, the ones,
cannot, struggle to deduce, induce, reduce
from my constipated vocabulary
oh well
~
*the first time I came in you,
entered, bidden welcome,
suffused a bridge between
the party of the first part,
the party of the second part,
sugar lightness airy nonsense,
two spirits dancing the singular
pas de deux of their finite lives,
a performance unbeatable,
unrepeatable,
lost to the perfection annals
Shockingly, Surprisingly, Summarily,
did not compose an ode,
don't mine a new vein of ore,
even write a plain poe poem
as best can recall,
at the candle melting of the
sealing wax of the deal,
gave an honest speech,
instantly falling fast asleep
with nary a grunted word
ever since l,
cannot write of plain love plainly,
so she makes me pay with a
new living elegant elegy daily,
a quatrain, what a pain,
this iambic panting meter
love poem writing
jeez louise,
how I wish could write of
roses red and violets blue,
get back to sleep,
oh well then,
back to work
got to make those sad moans,
hers, go away,
so please excuse me
near ten years later,
still paying the dues of the
initializing error of my way
she rumbles-mumbles in her
pre-awakening dream state,
so please excuse, got to go, think up
some implicated complicated
verses to soothe away
her simple poorly hidden anxieties
you see,
I am happy paying
on and on,
writing like the devil furious,
she is stirring, coffee soon,
cafe au lait
if you get my meaning,
but still cannot beat,
repeat, re-alive
that simple plain living poem notated,
when first I came in her*
<•;)
9/24/17 6:49am ~7:17am
Sep 24, 2017
Sep 24, 2017 at 7:29 AM UTC
I once had a lover, we'll call her Louise
Very attractive but so hard to please
She was a red haired beauty with emerald eyes
I fell head over heels I cannot deny
She told me she loved me but that was a crock
When a new beau came a strutting she took the walk
She told me our love would last forever
She told me a lie, she thought she was clever
My heart was in pieces, all tattered and torn
At that point I wished I'd never been born
Years passed by when out of the blue
She called , for what reason I hadn't a clue
My heart had healed but still had a scar
She thought she could play me - like a guitar
We arranged for a place that we both could meet
The next time I saw her my heart skipped a beat
By this time she had gone through so many men
She wanted to start all over again
The candle still flickered, my heart screamed out yes
She was quite a temptation to that I confess
But my head intervened, I wasn't taking this pill
Too many times I'd been through this drill
Although I desperately wanted to comply
The game was over, it was her turn to cry.
Nov 13, 2018
Nov 13, 2018 at 4:54 PM UTC
A Tale of Two Cities, Marie Antoinette, Les Misérables,
Populaire and Jacqueline Boyer—
Van Gogh and Monet and all things the Louvre—
Louise Labé and Louis Aragon,
Camus, Voltaire, Baudelaire…
I’ve been breathing in pieces of France,
Eating baguettes,
Dreaming of their kisses,
Committing the curl of their words to memory,
To maybe find out just why they say the French love better.
Maybe if I’ve established the impartiality to the Eiffel tower and the familiarity of romantic cheek-and-cheek-kiss greets,
I will grin under the Parisian Moon, whispering with some curls of my own:
Je suis heureux.
Jun 6, 2014
Jun 6, 2014 at 11:05 PM UTC