"madeleine" poems
Moving amidst my Ramona chapter books,
I make out your movement, M, the moody turns
Of your mounts and valleys, the moniker of
Family names, you marked me like a maternal
Emblem of the generation’s matriarch,
You mingled amid reminiscences of former matrons
Maria Helena from the Midwest,
Who crossed the mountains in a wagon,
Madeleine, a migrant from Marseilles,
Who baked warm loaves in San Francisco,
And her own daughter, my Mimi,
Who muttered merde while she drank martinis.
In my own time, you materialized in
Marjorie, my nana, and Maria, my mom,
The women in which I knew you growing up,
Then Molly, who made dreams out of
Magic and Movies and Marie Antoinette,
You embellished my most favorite things.
In my monogram, you aimed my impulses
in your masts’ diametric directions
Towards competence, towards imagination.
In your middle ‘s mysterious compartment I make snug
With magazines and novels and mugs of hot milk.
You nuzzled me in moments of melancholy, then motivated me
To meander among your fundamental family,
The sumptuous L of melt and mélange,
The meticulous N of man or monk or money.
Even W, which matches your mien in mirror
It warped wicked witch while you
Milled maidens and damsels, so I imagined
The mutilation of those two majuscules formed
My image of womanhood. M, Molly Smithson materialized
From a meek mademoiselle into the mistress of mischief.
May 20, 2014
May 20, 2014 at 10:09 AM UTC
I turned the key and opened wide the door
To enter my deserted room again,
Where thro’ the long hot months the dust had lain.
Was it not lonely when across the floor
No step was heard, no sudden song that bore
My whole heart upward with a joyous pain?
Were not the pictures and the volumes fain
To have me with them always as before?
But Giorgione’s Venus did not deign
To lift her lids, nor did the subtle smile
Of Mona Lisa deepen. Madeleine
Still wept against the glory of her hair,
Nor did the lovers part their lips the while,
But kissed unheeding that I watched them there.
1.4k
This one's for the 20 kids
Now all dead, god forbid
For the parents who now cry
Who always ask themselves, "why?"
For those teachers killed on the job
Their entire city mourns and sobs
For all the people who took a fall
I support you and I bless you all.
To the familes of Charlotte Bacon, Daniel Barden, Rachel Davino, Olivia Engel, Josephine Gay, Ana M. Marquez-Greene, Dylan Hockley, Dawn Hochsprung, Madeleine F. Hsu, Catherine V. Hubbard, Chase Kowalski, Jesse Lewis, James Mattioli, Grace McDonnell, Anne Marie Murphy, Emilie Parker, Jack Pinto, Noah Pozner, Caroline Previdi, Jessica Rekos, Avielle Richman, Lauren Rousseau, Mary Sherlach, Victoria Soto, Benjamin Wheeler, and Allison N. Wyatt.
Dec 19, 2012
Dec 19, 2012 at 9:00 PM UTC
Fairy tales are how girls get to sleep
Girls who sleep sweetly next to siblings; best friends' pictures scattered about the room
their world is safe and full of love
But I have no prince, no siblings, no daily phone calls, no pictures, no best friends, no sweet dreams.
What does that leave me?
I stop to give a homeless man a taco and to ask him about life, love, healing, karma.
Frosty says I should stop by again sometime.
I smile
The teal green hat I bought in Japan makes me look silly;
I put it on, grin at the girl in the mirror and play with the fuzzy ***** attached to the ear strings.
Today I look up from my tv series to watch Madeleine in her favorite Madeline shirt, chatting with her friend while casually dusting our food storage.
The cute girl who swipes IDs manages an awkward conversation upon my every re-entry to the caf --
Perhaps I shouldn’t have asked her sexuality for no apparent reason, or pretended to ***** in the dish room.
My mother once broke her nose doing a pushup
Upward facing dog.
This’ll do.
May 5, 2010
May 5, 2010 at 12:11 AM UTC
There's a frenzy around ID cards
when you're fifteen
an excitement like trapping bees in an airtight jar
which cannot be replicated as an adult
although the behavior is the same:
Criticize the picture
Berate oneself for being
A human with height and width and coloration
Then there's the barber shop mirror replication of self
the meta-selfie of taking a picture of one's ID
and posting to
everything . . . ever
so you have a sounding board for your self-aggrandizement
enrobed in self-deprecation like
a chocolate-dipped madeleine
which will inherently lead to a
knitted afghan of praise and adoration
which was entirely the point
Then there's the dismissal
the abandonment into a wallet
from which it will never escape
living out lifetimes ad infinitum in vain
never recognizing the worth of
Your student ID
113809
which identifies you
but is not you because
You could never be so two-dimensional
Sep 6, 2013
Sep 6, 2013 at 1:31 PM UTC
for Herman and Mary
Old friends. New days. Years like miles fall away.
A visit, a visit. Time collapses. Walks and talks.
Memories in an instant. Tattoos on the brain remain.
This world, inconsequential and uncaring, but home.
Pain and failure as knowledge. A maturity of knowing.
The zig-zag manifestation of life. Pearls of moments.
We live a succession of dangling modifiers. Syntax.
Dreaming the most legitimate activity. Breathe.
Here but not forever. There is no full stop.
Only a pause in the Bardo for tea
And then a flowing outward to see.
May 12, 2016
May 12, 2016 at 8:12 AM UTC
(Song title from Madeleine Payroux’s catalogue,
by Peyroux, Harris & Klein)
I know I should be famous,
I know I need to take the plunge,
To leap from the edge,
To ride the wind wherever it leads,
To write my stories, sing my songs,
Act the roles, be where I belong,
But I get scared by own doubts,
I tell myself to take the bull by the horns,
And enjoy my fame in all its forms,
Mama says, “Do something with your life”,
Papa says, “Risk the hurt and the strife”,
I say, “Don’t wait too long”,
But still I wait like an unlit candle,
An unturned page,
A roaring fire waiting to rage.
Aug 28, 2012
Aug 28, 2012 at 11:42 AM UTC
And so the party...Zoë
Called me...I listened
To her problems;
References
To my innocent face.
Linda said:
"Sally seems elusive
But is in fact,
Accessible;
You're the opposite -
You give to everyone
But are incapable
Of giving in particular."
Madeleine was comparing me
To June Miller;
Descriptions by Nin:
"She does not dare
To be herself..."
Everything I'd always
Wanted to be, I now am.
"...She lives
On the reflections
Of herself in the eyes
Of others...
There is no June
To grasp and know."
I kept getting up to dance
Sally said: "I'm afraid;
You're inscrutable;
You're not just
Blasé
Are you?"
I spoke
Of the spells of calm,
And the hysterical
Reactions,
Psychic exhaustion,
Then anxious elation.
Aug 7, 2015
Aug 7, 2015 at 5:54 AM UTC
the shadow in the corner,
looks at me, whispers,
and whispers, at me ear,
looking for a way, to
become and merge with me.
as an insisting parasite,
as a shadow inside me,
but futile, and vain,
i'm too egotic, to let him.
enjoying my years of pain,
as a heartless man,
but the whispers, share his
childish flashes, a futile pursuit.
to myself, to be merge,
with creeps, cowards,
and annoyingly vain.
the poets secret crown, of
lovers in heaven, golden and
invisible, but made of pain.
cover my head, as a dead poet,
passing at this era, not blind or
vain, but true, and loving every girl.
even those i hate, the sexi hip bones.
the ego of a lion, never can be merge,
with a creep, pathetic and weak,
but he tries still.
wise by pain and deceit,
a lover in the prime, longing,
loving, watching, smelling them all.
with or without, gauche or droit.
tout le femme, e belle et magnifique,
comme le pleure de madeleine,
le sacre femme.
and this shadow, in me ear,
wants to be me,and make them feel,
complete and divine, as a goddess.
as y make them feel.
or a lioness, in the hand of a fouling,
and feverishly beast. burning and longing,
for the tresor, in their chalis, as mother earth,
smelling as her, as a jungle, and a door,
to infinite delights, between their thighs.
the shadow in my ear, y can see her pain,
but, it was his ******* choice, trie to be me,
and didn't make it, for being weak.
as an adult, inside the veil,
of a mouse's in a suit, the persistence
is futile, a shadow, trying in vain,
to be as me, but can't be but himself.
a lame little shadow mouse, in loved,
with a beast, can't love until she love
herself.
can't live or know anybody,
until he knows himself, and accept
his truth, until that happens, nothing,
will save him from him,
and his shame, is a cross.
as a man, can't live, as a boy either.
just as a shadow, in my body, trying to be me.
but failing at it, to weak and vain, to be me.
all y think, as i watch her, is thinking,
and for this **** almost burn my ***
and destroy my life, good choices, babes
but all wrongs, can't be forgiven,
or excused. all the pain was
hell on earth, but still unbreakable.
and loving even those that y still
hate, the lover's love even **** haters.
covered by lies, y emerge from the hell
some girls create, for the one, who wasn't.
an they where never me.
and now anyone can see. it was only
lies and deceit, little girls playing dodgeball,
for the shame of the creeps
not everything can be forgiven,
as y say, good choice babes.
20 years later, they still can't be me,
or not feel ashamed for their weakness,
or accepting their fate, and being without
feeling a ******* disgrace,
but nothing to
be ashamed of,
just their cowardness,
like tigers not accepting
the stripes,
creepy shadow on my wall,
you will never be me.
accept it and be free,
or you'll end up blowing lucy,
in the basement, loving the burning,
of HELL.
as THE shadow of a mouse,
in Lucy's playground,
suffering, and being only
you, the one you hate.
but you never were me.
Apr 28, 2015
Apr 28, 2015 at 12:06 AM UTC
Je n'ai pas pour maîtresse une lionne illustre :
La gueuse, de mon âme, emprunte tout son lustre ;
Invisible aux regards de l'univers moqueur,
Sa beauté ne fleurit que dans mon triste coeur.
Pour avoir des souliers elle a vendu son âme.
Mais le bon Dieu rirait si, près de cette infâme,
Je tranchais du Tartufe et singeais la hauteur,
Moi qui vends ma pensée et qui veux être auteur.
Vice beaucoup plus grave, elle porte perruque.
Tous ses beaux cheveux noirs ont fui sa blanche nuque ;
Ce qui n'empêche pas les baisers amoureux.
De pleuvoir sur son front plus pelé qu'un lépreux.
Elle louche, et l'effet de ce regard étrange
Qu'ombragent des cils noirs plus longs que ceux d'un ange,
Est tel que tous les yeux pour qui l'on s'est ****
Ne valent pas pour moi son oeil juif et cerné.
Elle n'a que vingt ans ; - la gorge déjà basse
Pend de chaque côté comme une calebasse,
Et pourtant, me traînant chaque nuit sur son corps,
Ainsi qu'un nouveau-né, je la tette et la mords,
Et bien qu'elle n'ait pas souvent même une obole
Pour se frotter la chair et pour s'oindre l'épaule,
Je la lèche en silence avec plus de ferveur
Que Madeleine en feu les deux pieds du Sauveur.
La pauvre créature, au plaisir essoufflée,
A de rauques hoquets la poitrine gonflée,
Et je devine au bruit de son souffle brutal
Qu'elle a souvent mordu le pain de l'hôpital.
Ses grands yeux inquiets, durant la nuit cruelle,
Croient voir deux autres yeux au fond de la ruelle,
Car, ayant trop ouvert son coeur à tous venants,
Elle a peur sans lumière et croit aux revenants.
Ce qui fait que de suif elle use plus de livres
Qu'un vieux savant couché jour et nuit sur ses livres,
Et redoute bien moins la faim et ses tourments
Que l'apparition de ses défunts amants.
Si vous la rencontrez, bizarrement parée,
Se faufilant, au coin d'une rue égarée,
Et la tête et l'oeil bas comme un pigeon blessé,
Traînant dans les ruisseaux un talon déchaussé,
Messieurs, ne crachez pas de jurons ni d'ordure
Au visage fardé de cette pauvre impure
Que déesse Famine a par un soir d'hiver,
Contrainte à relever ses jupons en plein air.
Cette bohème-là, c'est mon tout, ma richesse,
Ma perle, mon bijou, ma reine, ma duchesse,
Celle qui m'a bercé sur son giron vainqueur,
Et qui dans ses deux mains a réchauffé mon coeur.
1.1k
Where are you Madeleine?
Fiery red eyes
Giant torso wrapped in gauze
Horns jade green
We sit upon the shoulders
Why are you gone Madeleine?
Eyes leak no tears
Torso grumbles, blocked by the heavy material
Horns camouflage all we have
We count the minutes that pass by
Will I ever see you again my sister Madeleine?
Mar 25, 2014
Mar 25, 2014 at 2:25 PM UTC
Madeleine,
you are just a child.
You don't know your father's first name or your mother's sins.
You know the flowers and the syrup on your pancakes.
I see bliss in your brown eyes that blossom in the Springtime.
They should name a flower after you,
after your purple dress,
Madeleine.
You're so scared of the dark,
of all the things that don't exist in your closet.
Your shoes your dolls your fear.
You climb out of your bed and seek comfort in your parents' arms.
Your tiptoe doesn't even echo in the hallway.
Will their door be locked?
Knock knock.
Apr 15, 2011
Apr 15, 2011 at 8:06 AM UTC
It's time to sleep, my honeygirl
to close your pretty eyes
You stare into the ceiling
as if into the skies
The sand of sleep in all good children's eyes -
- an anxious flame in yours
And there has never been a night
when i could see them closed
Each day you wake up full of life -
- at nights you do not breathe
Is it an illness or a ghost
that we are dealing with?
It's Christmas day now, Madeleine,
to God above I pray
to send you dreams sweet like yourself
and take disease away
My poor girl Madeleine, sleep tight tonight
mad-mad-mad-Madeleine
Feb 26, 2019
Feb 26, 2019 at 4:58 PM UTC
Those halcyon days of yore
Lost forever like Lenore
And Leda and her godly swan
Forever come, forever gone.
Rough beasts in their hour slouch
But to flop upon the couch,
While memory mixes with desire
In the soul's broke-down empire.
Behold the smile of Ozymandias
(Do you wonder who he is?)
The preserver and destroyer?
Or maybe an ambitious lawyer?
Or the fearful handful of dust
That we wish we didn't trust?
Meanwhile the ominous moving finger,
Of truths unalterable the bringer,
Writes and then moves on,
Bitter tears to spawn.
Then there was the heel weak
That didn't get dipped in the creek
And anger over loss that prods
Both loving men and watchful gods.
The skull you hold--alas poor who?
Keep it cool, I knew him too,
Him and his considerable jest--
Some among us are so blessed.
Now in his grave he rests indeed
Where all our paths, alas, must lead;
Except, perhaps, for Humbert Humbert
(Remember that salacious old pervert?)
Scheming to get with his nymphette
In ways impossible to forget?
Outside at night J.J. compares streams
One more sibilant, or so it seems
And discusses Plumtree's potted meat
Ending up with "Yes, oh Yes my sweet".
Aroma from the petite madeleine
Reaches to where recollections begin
Of magnificent asparagus spears
And lesser events of long past years.
But for all that, for every bit of that, Stan
A man is still every bit a man
So get it together and get off the can
And make yourself a brand new plan:
The glowing time of midwinter spring
Has always been its own kind of thing
Don't be a gentleman in that good night
Get down with the program and put up a fight.
Come out strong like a red, red rose
And keep on punching until it snows.
Oct 4, 2016
Oct 4, 2016 at 4:44 PM UTC
I wish I had a coat of silk, the color of the sky.
I wish I had a lady fair, as any butterfly
I wish I had a house of stone that looked down on the sea
But most of all I wish that I was someone else but me.
(Madeleine cheers up Gonzo)
Now I don't have a coat of silk, but still I have the sky
Now I don't have a lady, but there goes a butterfly
Now I don't have a house of stone, but I can see the sea
Now most of all I know that I am happy to be me.
I'm happy to be me.
Nov 24, 2019
Nov 24, 2019 at 1:50 PM UTC
instead, they send me a glow of esperance
and expounding answers through the back of fireflies
which I now must entrap for further examination
like a sterile entomologist milling around
in the someday
blazing with unbridled wrath
the reason barred by all gods
only at nightfall disclosed
within my grasp but in the somewhere
preferably after the daytime shadows
have fueled my will in the antrum
a modest perishing cold revives splendidly
and I awake by the sound of my rumbles
from what seems to be one oblivious moment of eternity now
I swing an idly leg of my dented bed
pull the other inanimate carrier behind
she's here, whenever the eyes open
this time far back in the mirror right across
that stares back at me with those withered and dilated eyes
underneath two unilluminated crescents
uncertain, if she sobs or smiles
the night is nigh, better hurry
Jul 23, 2020
Jul 23, 2020 at 1:21 AM UTC
This is something
Worth remembering.
A place that had only beginnings
And no endings.
This is a place
Where we once saved face.
A place where memories
Were captured and saved for eternities.
This is something
Worth remembering.
A place that had only beginnings
And no endings.
In this area,
We once played like children.
Our happiness
Had no barrier.
This is something
Worth remembering.
A place that had only beginnings
And no endings.
I look at the landscape
I knew so well for many years
As an escape.
As I am about to embark on a new journey,
I hope I will come to it again,
And it will mean the same to me.
This is something
Worth remembering.
A place that had only beginnings
And no endings.
May 29, 2023
May 29, 2023 at 9:21 PM UTC
instead they send me a glow of esperance
and expounding answers through the back of fireflies
which I now must entrap for further examination
like a sterile entomologist milling around
in the someday
blazing with unbridled wrath
the reason barred by all gods
only at nightfall disclosed
within my grasp but in the somewhere
preferably after the daytime shadows
have fueled my will in the antrum
a modest perishing cold revives splendidly
and I awake by the sound of my rumbles
from what seems to be one oblivious moment of eternity now
so I swing an idly leg of my dented bed
pull the other inanimate carrier behind
she's here, whenever the eyes open
this time far back in the mirror right across
that stares back at me with those wizend and dilated eyes
underneath two unilluminated crescents
uncertain, if she sobs or smiles
the night is nigh, better hurry
Jul 20, 2020
Jul 20, 2020 at 5:28 PM UTC
En tes yeux nage une factice opale,
Et le charbon t'allonge les sourcils,
Mais ton regard sans douceur n'est que pâle
Sous tes gros cils de sépia noircis.
Ah ! Pauvre femme, il règne un froid de pierre
Dans la langueur menteuse de ce fard ;
Quand tu mettrais l'azur sous ta paupière,
Tu ne pourrais embellir ton regard !
Oui, porte envie aux yeux vrais qui nous laissent,
En se voilant, captivés d'autant mieux ;
Ceux-là sont beaux, même quand ils se baissent :
C'est le regard qui fait le prix des yeux.
Qui sait pourtant s'il faut qu'on te dédaigne,
S'il n'est plus rien, dans ton âme, à cueillir ?
Pour la sauver il suffit qu'on la plaigne,
Un dernier lis y pourra tressaillir.
Est-il si vain, ce rêve de jeunesse
Dont nous rions et que nous fîmes tous :
Guérir une âme où la vertu renaisse !
Si généreux, étions-nous donc si fous ?
Qui sait pourtant si tout ton maquillage
N'endigue pas des pleurs accumulés,
Qui brusquement y feraient leur sillage,
Pareils aux pleurs des yeux immaculés ?
Car tous les pleurs, de pécheresse ou d'ange,
Dans tous les yeux sont d'eau vive et de sel ;
L'onde en est pure, et rien de ce mélange,
S'il vient du cœur, n'est indigne du ciel ;
Vois Madeleine : elle y trône ravie
Pour une larme où Dieu se put mirer :
S'il t'en reste une, une ancienne, à pleurer,
Tu peux laver ta paupière et ta vie.
343
Her purity is beyond my ken
Afflicted are the hearts of men
Truth and blood mix in my pen
Please, don’t let me fall again
Apr 2, 2020
Apr 2, 2020 at 10:49 AM UTC