"madame" poems
En l’an trentiesme do mon aage
Que toutes mes hontes j’ay beues…
Pipit sate upright in her chair
Some distance from where I was sitting;
Views of the Oxford Colleges
Lay on the table, with the knitting.
Daguerreotypes and silhouettes,
Her grandfather and great great aunts,
Supported on the mantelpiece
An Invitation to the Dance.
. . . . .
I shall not want Honour in Heaven
For I shall meet Sir Philip Sidney
And have talk with Coriolanus
And other heroes of that kidney.
I shall not want Capital in Heaven
For I shall meet Sir Alfred Mond.
We two shall lie together, lapt
In a five per cent. Exchequer Bond.
I shall not want Society in Heaven,
Lucretia Borgia shall be my Bride;
Her anecdotes will be more amusing
Than Pipit’s experience could provide.
I shall not want Pipit in Heaven:
Madame Blavatsky will instruct me
In the Seven Sacred Trances;
Piccarda de Donati will conduct me.
. . . . .
But where is the penny world I bought
To eat with Pipit behind the screen?
The red-eyed scavengers are creeping
From Kentish Town and Golder’s Green;
Where are the eagles and the trumpets?
Buried beneath some snow-deep Alps.
Over buttered scones and crumpets
Weeping, weeping multitudes
Droop in a hundred A.B.C.’s
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Quite unexpectedly, as Vasserot
The armless ambidextrian was lighting
A match between his great and second toe,
And Ralph the lion was engaged in biting
The neck of Madame Sossman while the drum
Pointed, and Teeny was about to cough
In waltz-time swinging Jocko by the thumb—
Quite unexpectedly the top blew off:
And there, there overhead, there, there hung over
Those thousands of white faces, those dazed eyes,
There in the starless dark the poise, the hover,
There with vast wings across the cancelled skies,
There in the sudden blackness the black pall
Of nothing, nothing, nothing—nothing at all.
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When grandma laid me down to sleep
she prayed the Lord my soul to keep
and if I died before I woke
she prayed my soul the Lord would yoke
Post-psychedelic black door dreams
monsters climbing in the breeze
Running, falling, flying, stare
yet with the morning not a care
the wafting flow through morning light
Madame’s kitchen fueled the air
The children sang of fresh insight
With voices pure and futures bright:
We smell sausages, we smell sausages,
we smell sausages, we smell sausages,
We smell sausages, we smell sausages,
we smell sausages, we smell sausages
Slipping, sliding, sowing sin
Sipping cider in the sun
Seeking soaring savoir faire
Serenade non-sequitor
Life’s a joke at seventeen
Painful angst, gray misery
With one look the light pours in
Eyes to see, now born again
Fresh squeezed juice is just divine
Grapes and berries off the vine
over easy, over hard
Weeds have overgrown the yard
And all the brothers in their haze
with lifted voices sang their praise:
We smell sausages, we smell sausages,
we smell sausages, we smell sausages,
we smell sausages, we smell sausages,
we smell sausages, we smell sausages
Mother’s teeth and Mother’s paw
Mother’s cradle, Mother’s bough
Mark the day’s devotions done
in the back track He looks on
The Sun is setting in the East,
and though the Magi know the truth
The Book of Lies, lies in disguise
of jagged tooth with mangy hide
The night recedes, the morning calls
Memories of far gone days
Memories of yawning halls
Memories of random joy
Though the hand that feeds we bite
now sing we all, with all our might:
We smell sausages, we smell sausages,
we smell sausages, we smell sausages,
we smell sausages, we smell sausages,
we smell sausages, we smell sausages
Mar 5, 2015
Mar 5, 2015 at 4:25 PM UTC
drunk on the dark streets of some city,
it's night, you're lost, where's your
room?
you enter a bar to find yourself,
order scotch and water.
****** bar's sloppy wet, it soaks
part of one of your shirt
sleeves.
It's a clip joint-the scotch is weak.
you order a bottle of beer.
Madame Death walks up to you
wearing a dress.
she sits down, you buy her a
beer, she stinks of swamps, presses
a leg against you.
the bar tender sneers.
you've got him worried, he doesn't
know if you're a cop, a killer, a
madman or an
Idiot.
you ask for a *****
you pour the ***** into the top of
the beer bottle.
It's one a.m. In a dead cow world.
you ask her how much for head,
drink everything down, it tastes
like machine oil.
you leave Madame Death there,
you leave the sneering bartender
there.
you have remembered where
your room is.
the room with the full bottle of
wine on the dresser.
the room with the dance of the
roaches.
Perfection in the Star ****
where love died
laughing.
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Seven sit around a fire,
burnt marshmallows on two foot sticks
stuck between grahams,
talk *** and film.
Had her naked like Kate Winslet,
not Titanic Kate,
but Little Children Kate.
**** on the washing machine
behind Jennifer Connelly's back.
But the part about Madame Bovary,
who really needs feminist literature in a feminist film?
Okay, maybe it's classic romantic...
I felt lost like a pebble
sinking in the ocean
five miles deep
in the Puerto Rican trench.
I hadn't seen either movie
nor was I well versed
in feminism or romance.
My mind drifted to my first time.
Started with a french kiss
from a Latina girl,
at a house on Cleveland Ave,
I wish I could remember more.
Oct 4, 2010
Oct 4, 2010 at 9:15 PM UTC
Atomic energy is a good thing contemplated the good scientist
But only for us good people to forget
Lincoln's, Hemingway's and Madame Curie's silent voices echoes from the sidewalk
Where people idly passes by; lost in tall low fat Frappuccino’s
Looking and hoping then ultimately wishing for a visit from Benjamin Franklin
Unwittingly employed by all the dead presidents
These days’ people know the price of everything
But the value of nothing
Makes me gallivant; my own memory warehouse
As I pose this question towards my own psyche;
What is the worst thing I have ever done?
In the name of personal achievement career elevation and prosperity
All everyone ever wants to be is successful rich and richer
Oppenheimer colleague put our modern society in to perfect perspective
Post detonation of the Trinity project - after the first nuclear test
When he gracefully quoted
"Now we are all son of *******
Aug 22, 2018
Aug 22, 2018 at 3:05 PM UTC
THE LAST LOVE LETTER OF TCHAIKOVSKY*
My angel, life of my life
Fate would never allow me to meet thee
Only in thy letters to me
Do I feel the touch of love’s ecstasy.
Would but that upon thy sweet face
I would just once behold
All my sixth symphonies I would gladly exchange
In love’s name and in its wondrous beauty untold.
Here with all my rapturous kisses
I send thee the music of ‘Love’s Sorrow’
Every note swims in the sea of my restless heart
None would such grievous pain of mine ever know.
Let history judge
All that is between thee and me
Even the deluge that drowns the whole world
Would never obliterate every melody I dedicate to thee.
• Tchaikovsky’s benefactress was Madame Von Meck (Nadezhda) who exchanged 260 love- letters (1876—1887)with him and endowed him with a regular income on the understanding that they should never meet.
Her late husband was a millionaire whose fortune was derived from his railway business.
Finally, she broke up the relationship leaving the composer in complete devastation.
This is one of the most poignant love-stories of all time.
Nov 11, 2015
Nov 11, 2015 at 4:04 AM UTC
Prosecco cocktails, être pour la danse,
cassis pour moi avec limoncello,
madame, passion fruit, and blood oranges
très grownup, breakfast at Tiffany's,
she is all sunglasses and Audreyfied,
me and George P., struggling writers,
checking if i got enough cash
or have to exit smooth, just in case,
maybe we leave our
coats behind, as ransom?
lincoln center plaza cross-dressers,
past the opera,
the sun, a balmy thirty five degrees,
laughing at us teasingly,
cause tonight and tomorrow,
*********** all the day,
winter kisses
in case we forgot,
early March
first belongs to the Ides of Winter
Afternoon of a Faun,
another ballet, origin,
a Mallarmé poem.
(you begin to comprehend)
yes quite so,
a perfect synopsis of the day,
Acheron imported from Scarlett Liam
who lives in the U.K.,
but comes to choreograph here,
for gloria Americana
sundown, soul cold back,
"lest we forget,"
but the dancers bid us adieu
with a rousing waltz, frenchified,
La Valse, une poème chorégraphique,
by Ravel, bien sûr!
aroused and heart gladdened,
return home for
for veal chop love
two hours of *** banging,
kitchen banishment, (Yay!)
chanterelles steeped in red wine,
coverlet for a non-vegan tasting,
English peas, red and purple potatoes,
and for desert,
a diet dream of verbal exchanged of detailed
I love you's
He: I love you,
She (happy), replies: I love you more.
(this repartee ballet, has been rehearsal danced before)
He: Why?
She: Because you are kind and generous, to street beggars, my single friends, good and smart, love art,
and never let me down, and love my cooking, leave space for others when you park, go thru life making waiters and ticket takers smile and laugh, sleep for hours your head on my hip, write me crazy love poems about veal chops
He: What's for desert tonight?
She: A ****
Apr 29, 2014
Apr 29, 2014 at 8:41 PM UTC
12/3/12 16:15pm
The painted lady waiting in the wings
Now parts her lips to sing her lover's name;
She enters, arms spread outwards as she sings
Like some fantastic orchid made of flame.
She scatters fragrant petals in the hall
And yet more petals round the master bed
Her sweet song echoes like a linnet's call
Her swirling silks are edged with golden thread.
Then comes a telegram from overseas
To say her love will not return again
The lady falls, still singing, to her knees;
Her heartbeat speeds, like wings beating in vain.
Such is the way of love made through a lie;
Like chloroform, to **** a butterfly.
Mar 12, 2012
Mar 12, 2012 at 12:15 PM UTC
If dogs could speak, O Mademoiselle,
What funny stories they could tell!
For instance, take your little "peke,"
How awkward if the dear could speak!
How sad for you and all of us,
Who round you flutter, flirt and fuss;
Folks think you modest, mild and meek . . .
But would they - if Fi-Fi could speak?
If dogs could tell, Ah Madame Rose,
What secrets could they not disclose!
If your pet poodle Angeline
Could hint at half of what she's seen,
Your reputation would, I fear,
As absolutely disappear
As would a snowball dropped in hell . . .
If Angeline could only tell.
If dogs could speak, how dangerous
It would be for a lot of us!
At what they see and what they hear
They wink an eye and wag an ear.
How fortunate for old and young
The darlings have a silent tongue!
We love them, but it's just as well
For all of us that - dogs can't tell.
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~
*Here is an assertion
and showiness
in the expanse
of white skin – from her
high forehead,
down her graceful neck,
shoulders, and arms.
Although the black
of her dress is bold,
it is also deep, recessive,
and mysterious.
He stalks her
as one does a deer,
his palette composed of
lead white, rose madder,
vermilion, viridian,
and bone black.
A dash of light rose
over the former
gloomy background,
you see, and
the élancée figure
shows to much
greater advantage.
Her body boldly
faces forward while
her head is turned in profile.
A profile of both
assertion and retreat.
The table provides support,
and echoes her
curves and stance.
One strap of her gown
has fallen down
her right shoulder,
suggesting the possibility
of further revelation;
one more struggle
and the lady will be free.
Everything converges to
imply a distant sexuality
under the professional
control of the sitter,
rather than offered for
the viewer's delectation.
Her untamed wilderness
remains unseen.*
~
Aug 4, 2021
Aug 4, 2021 at 9:59 AM UTC
*"Veuve Clicquot" is French for
"The Widow Clicquot".*
They say that Madame Clicquot would dance in the vineyard,
They say she would run and jump and crush grapes
Under her pale, white, aristocratic feet,
Then one day she came back home,
Pale feet stained red,
Ivory robe stained red
And she saw her husband,
Red face drained white.
They say Monsieur Clicquot became an alcoholic,
And she came back and saw him hanging from a vine.
He let it grow in the farmhouse for two years,
It climbed, it climbed,
He climbed at tied a noose,
Made a sickly green, thorny loop.
The Veuve Clicquot gave up red wine,
Moved South,
Remarried,
Started growing champagne--
You can't tie a noose with champagne vines.
Nov 26, 2014
Nov 26, 2014 at 5:44 PM UTC
Here in my heart I am Helen;
I'm Aspasia and Hero, at least.
I'm Judith, and Jael, and Madame de Stael;
I'm Salome, moon of the East.
Here in my soul I am Sappho;
Lady Hamilton am I, as well.
In me Recamier vies with Kitty O'Shea,
With Dido, and Eve, and poor Nell.
I'm of the glamorous ladies
At whose beckoning history shook.
But you are a man, and see only my pan,
So I stay at home with a book.
2.6k
What is love?
Murasaki would say it was an obligation,
a sort of duty
where the rules
say to bury one’s emotions
and succumb to the overpowering ***
Mian Mian embraces the sexuality
of her culture. Arguing that love
is the force behind drugs and emotion.
It is not the government’s obligation
to dictate the author’s form of rules
on writing a novel that serves its own duty.
How does Black Jade feel about her duty?
Despite her lover’s sexuality
and his matriarch’s ruling
of marrying well even if he does love
her, the family cares more of their obligation
then of their prized sons emotions.
Coco lived by her emotions.
The sickness of Tian not her duty
as it would have been in the old days. Lui’s obligation
to turn in Shiba overruled by rough ***
and her quest for painful love
in a time that disregards all form of rule.
Peony was one who broke the rules
but was rewarded for it. Unless it’s Peony #2 because her emotions
got the best of her when she fell in love
at the wrong time. It was not her duty
to see the play nor feel anything ******
in the Three Wives Commentary; this, her obligation.
Was it Abe Sada’s obligation
to castrate her lover and make her own rules?
Madame Mao too knew all about ***
and succumbed to her emotions
when her duty
was no longer to love.
From emotional red chambers with rules
on obligatory *** the cycle of East Asian
love patterns has yet to fulfill its duty.
Dec 14, 2010
Dec 14, 2010 at 5:16 AM UTC
Madame Salamander
With her small, speckled spots
Spread smoothly over her
Skin, similar to the sun.
Tiny toes tip tapping long treks
Through tough terrain.
Madame Salamander
Grand and glamorous, great gales
Of green-eyed ganders give her
Gosh awful grabs as gifts, gabbing
Gleefully of gross gourds.
Madame Salamander
Feel her filmy eyes on her
Flat facade furrow into a feverish
Gaze as her words fan further
And farther whilst she fabulates.
Madame Salamander
Let her linger on her long legend
Of little lizards lipping to large
Lions and licked away from
Their lovely lives as lizards.
Mar 22, 2015
Mar 22, 2015 at 11:46 AM UTC
Your advice is appreciated,
but I think that instead of
the 'three shining coins
and a lonely crossroads' thing,
I'll just write him a poem.
Jan 12, 2011
Jan 12, 2011 at 1:42 PM UTC
Take the moral law and make a nave of it
And from the nave build haunted heaven. Thus,
The conscience is converted into palms,
Like windy citherns hankering for hymns.
We agree in principle. That's clear. But take
The opposing law and make a peristyle,
And from the peristyle project a masque
Beyond the planets. Thus, our bawdiness,
Unpurged by epitaph, indulged at last,
Is equally converted into palms,
Squiggling like saxophones. And palm for palm,
Madame, we are where we began. Allow,
Therefore, that in the planetary scene
Your disaffected flagellants, well-stuffed,
Smacking their muzzy bellies in parade,
Proud of such novelties of the sublime,
Such tink and tank and tunk-a-tunk-tunk,
May, merely may, madame, whip from themselves
A jovial hullabaloo among the spheres.
This will make widows wince. But fictive things
Wink as they will. Wink most when widows wince.
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Can I see your wine menu? What's the bestseller?
'We have bottles and labels from France, madame'
Oh...
Do you have something stronger?
Something that will knock me off my feet?
Perhaps something more bitter would be better.
Something that will get me home crawling.
Maybe something smoother and a little closer.
French just isn't doing it for me.
𝘋𝘰𝘯𝘯𝘦𝘻-𝘮𝘰𝘪 𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘭𝘲𝘶𝘦 𝘤𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘦 𝘥𝘦 𝘱𝘭𝘶𝘴 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘵 𝘦𝘵 𝘱𝘭𝘶𝘴 𝘥𝘶𝘳 𝘴'𝘪𝘭 𝘷𝘰𝘶𝘴 𝘱𝘭𝘢î𝘵.
Nov 9, 2023
Nov 9, 2023 at 9:37 PM UTC
After fifty years
I slipped into the school.
Madame Bela was visibly pleased
*The classroom was too empty
Now I've one to do maths with*
No less happy was Auntie Aloka
My favorite student is back
She lifted me up and said with a kiss
*So vacant felt my class of English
Without a boy from olden times
Sweetly singing nursery rhymes*
My eyes searched her and before long
Miss Jaya spoke in her softest tongue
*I'm so glad to see his face
Sans him Bengali class was all emptiness*
And there he was the only Sir
Amiyo Baboo the sports teacher
*Isn't this the boy never won my trust
For always being in every race last*
Fifty years haven't changed a bit
Either their age or their spirit
And surely the fun was doubly more
When I stood before the school mirror.
Apr 25, 2016
Apr 25, 2016 at 10:19 AM UTC
cocktail heels
sharp as tacks
watch your feet
every step the green mile
you could hear a pin drop
(or was that a pearl earring?)
the lipstick on her teeth smiles at you.
skin so creamy
it’d feel right at home in a cup o’ joe
free that poor hair from *******
so the red sea comes tumbling down her shoulders
just ignore the diamond on her finger—
it’s merely a suggestion.
that dress
smooth black and form-fitting
follow the zipper towards the small of her back
now emerging from the chrysalis
madame butterfly
nice clothing like hers looks better on the carpet.
Jun 23, 2012
Jun 23, 2012 at 11:46 AM UTC
A bright blue police box spins through the sky
Over 50 years have passed, so no one bothers to ask why.
A Doctor in name, but no medicine dispensed
His adventures defy all common sense.
A Companion is always along for the ride
When the TARDIS lifts off; it’s bigger inside.
Our open-mouthed guide every step of the way
Their first visit extends to a permanent stay
The last of the Timelords or so people say
From a long-distant planet they call Gallifrey
Endlessly loyal with a mind second to none
He has never resolved a dispute with a gun.
He never seems to look the same for more than a few years
A fact that has left some in fits of angry tears
But everyone he’s truly known has felt a deep bond
Just ask Rose, Martha, Donna, Clara, or Amy & Rory Pond
Questioning the world and its traditions, his mind often lingers
On the tasty goodness of custard and fish fingers.
His personality leaves cause for some alienation
But what else can one expect after regeneration?
Friends often follow quickly in his tracks
Like Danny Pink, Madame Vastra, Jenny, & Strax
Otherworldly villains into our imaginations creep
Psychotic snowmen, The Master, Daleks, Cybermen, and unrelenting Angels that Weep
Dinosaurs in London, the Titanic in space
Motorcycles driving up Big Ben fast enough to win a race
Green forests of Sherwood; painting with Van Gogh
He can take us anywhere we want to go
And if when the journey stops your lips begin to quiver
Just breathe deep and imagine the Song of a River
Don’t go off the handle or fly into a rage
Open up a favorite book and tear out the last page.
That way, the stories won’t ever end and we can let them be
Soon another generation will come along to see
How a man whose true name remains unspoken
Can face life’s harshest obstacles and still remain unbroken
Aug 27, 2015
Aug 27, 2015 at 9:47 PM UTC
My dearest Sammy,
The Mix Master came
Easter, Sunday
And we have not had time
To more than read
The literature
Put it together
And gloat
Oh
So beautiful
Is the Mix Master
So beautiful
We are very happy
To have it here
Bless you Sammy
Madame Roux said
oui
Il est si gentil
Et en effet
He is dear little
Sammy
Easter morning
What a spring
Lovely
as I have never seen anything
Lovely
Alice is all
Smiles
and murmurs in her dreams
‘Mix Master’
X
Gertrude
Sep 7, 2021
Sep 7, 2021 at 12:24 PM UTC
That day when I met the Eskimos
they were sitting by an ice cube house
On the hot Caribbean Island of Brim
I was about ten
The Tourism Board parade them like cattle on an auction block
Somehow, this Trinidadian floosy remind me of Eskimo Nate
All eyes in the shop were on her hips
those
bewitching and enticing moves
As she walked away,
Her long dread locks swing from side to side
I knew it wasn’t black pride
who was she trying to impress?
There wasn’t a man insight
just a beauty shop full of high volume of estrogens
and mixtures of hair bleach and toxic fumes
so difficult to consumes
The hairstylist just knew how to work it
with her deep orange outfit,
her usually looking pouty lip;
would make a Godfearing woman turn tricks
The **** bowlegged female *****
Never seem to quit.
She remind me of a younger me
a very long time ago looking for a mate
stylish, feminine young thing
But look where that got me
An unfriendly divorce and years full of hate
The youth of today will carry on the old Madame tradition
If you got it flaunts it.
Make the cowboys want it.
Dec 17, 2013
Dec 17, 2013 at 6:07 PM UTC
THE DANGERS OF READING FLAUBERT....AL FRESCO!
( for Ray )
"Souvent la chaleur d’un beau jour..."
he reads, stops:
kisses her.
" ...Fait rêver fillette à l’amour."
she completes the words
kisses...kisses him.
Dining al fresco
feeling somewhat frisky
they throw caution
to the wind
soon all too soon
Flaubert forgotten
Madame Bovary
discarded on the grass
soon all too soon
even the food forgotten
clothing of both
male and female attire
discarded on the grass
now nothing but gasps
they each
the other's feast
the wind idly turning
Bovary's pages
skipping to the end then
beginning again
until one last ***** gusty
breeze interrupts their play
chasing their clothes
that run away
his boxers hang now
upon the bough
her pink camiknickers..pale pink bra
making a run for it
laughingly they chase
their clothes
this Adam and his Eve
bra floating tits-up
in a pond
the camiknickers never
alas to be found.
And here now on their
50th
they share the same smile
when asked how it was
they came together
remembering their love making
in windy weather
shyly slyly blame
Flaubert
" Il souffla bien fort ce jour-là,
Et le jupon court s’envola."
Jan 9, 2018
Jan 9, 2018 at 12:22 PM UTC
X-rays of the soul,
Madame Chan proclaims,
translucent we stand,
visible out and inside
before our creator,
but only to that
limitable being
if only there were a machine such,
on earth, as in heaven
perhaps seventeen Frenchman,
one hundred and forty five,
mostly Pakistani children,
or thirty five
no longer alive,
just barely mentioned,
already forgotten,
Yemeni young
police cadets,
two NYPD,
might still be adjudged
innocent by those
who only see themselves in mirrors,
blindly believing
they are created
in the image of
God
and knowledgeable in the
execution of
his will
if human Justice is thus blinded,
perhaps God is too?
we need much betters cameras...
more accurate selfies...
Jan 10, 2015
Jan 10, 2015 at 3:15 PM UTC