"marcel" poems
to kindness, to knowledge,
we make promises only; pain we obey.
Marcel Proust
I was born into this world
of people without
guardian angels but
loveless pockets
no body to see how
pain was incessantly
turned into tombstones
a carousel of masks and
defeated laughter
blinded by deceitful colours.
triumphant sidewalks not afraid
to be crushed by the weight of
humiliated bodies.
-he was secretly dreaming
how vanilla ice-cream would taste
on her lips-
people got used to bringing their thoughts
to the drug stores
as if walking their pets
weeping was incomprehensible
forbidden by law.
-she was secretly dreaming
of him smelling like tobacco,
white musk and cedarwood -
this world survived because of
all the hidden dimensions,
perhaps.
I was handed over a disembodied world
to dream of but
the metaphors were of
no use
to moonless people
their hands paralyzed.
oh, can anybody see?
the unspoken terror
that time stood still.
-I was secretly dreaming of destroying
this world with fresh words, with
the craziness of feeling alive-
I inherited the secret passion
of some unknown promises and
never-whispered desires
the only teacher I could find -
my manic heart
unbearable the pains of
growing a mind.
they wanted to keep it simple:
to cry, to speak, to fall in love.
muted seagulls
loveless alphabets
into this world
waiting for the sun to shed
its hidden self
of blindness
Jul 10, 2022
Jul 10, 2022 at 7:51 AM UTC
“I have loved you so much that I believe I understand you a little.”
Marcel Proust
we are wearing our glowing skins
full of unwoven whispers
or au contraire
we’ll have worn them
-who knows
in poetry, not in theory,
anything is possible-
one of us could say
“take this animal
out of my eyes, teeth, bones
for wild flowers
to grow in my sockets”
and I’ll say:
“for my eyelids to rest
in the shadow of your breath
and my vertigo, indigo
in the nest of your palm"
-words are just riverbeds-
see you - the sea in me
at the echo point
of blood
I’ll wear rivers
lipstick
bluebirds
in this poem of touching
every cell is spinning
its nucleus of numinosum
while the day breaks open
into the heart of trees
-words are stones of silence,
unintelligible altars-
I was in love
with a vertigo man
last time I checked
blood has its madness
Apr 22, 2015
Apr 22, 2015 at 2:43 PM UTC
Con ciudades y autores frecuentadosVenecia / Guanajuato / Maupassant /
Leningrado / Sousándrade / Berlín /
Cortázar / Bioy Casares / Medellín /
Lisboa / Sartre / Oslo / Valle Inclán /
Kafka / Managua / Faulkner / Paul Celan /
Ítalo Svevo / Quito / Bergamín /
Buenos Aires / La Habana / Graham Greene /
Copenhague / Quiroga / Thomas Mann /
Onetti / Siena / Shakespeare / Anatole
France / Saramago / Atenas / Heinrich Böll /
Cádiz / Martí / Gonzalo de Berceo /
París / Vallejo / Alberti / Santa Cruz
de Tenerife / Roma / Marcel Proust /
Pessoa / Baudelaire / Montevideo
1.3k
KEY OF HEAVEN
Here amongst Milton's
Lycidas...a cowslip's
skeleton
pressed between its pages
blossomed back in 1922
its ghost haunting the book
its head bent over the line
"Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil."
staining the word "Fame"
with its own lost shadow
the unknown woman in
the photographs laughs
at my discovering her
dressed in black and white in black and white
hands stuck in pockets
defiantly staring back at me
she more real
than me
the only other photo
she has removed her hands
from her pockets
producing them like a magic trick
they lay on her lap
like limpid rabbits
curiously alive
somehow
a sheen of sunlight
catches her Marcel wave
Petrella
the photograph names her
in writing as elegant
as she
early spring
1922.
***
Key of Heaven is only one of the names for the common cowslip( Primula Veris ). It travels under other names such as cuy lippe, herb peter, paigle, peggle, key flower, fairy cups, petty mulleins, crewel, buckles, palsywort, plumrocks and tittypines.
There was also a recipe for a delicious sparkling cowslip wine. Alas the book was too expensive for my means and I was more interested in the cowslip dying between Milton's lines and the woman who was Petrella back in the days of the year 19 and 22!
I no longer remember how to make cowslip wine and I never did.
Jan 8, 2019
Jan 8, 2019 at 7:38 AM UTC
*Ross wept when Marcel went away
and hoped, in the midst of those tears
that their souls will, again, one day
intertwine and dance and play.
Aria stepped in the darkness
with her only company – grave fear.
Dominant is the dread and terror and distress
until Spence held her hands and said, “I’m here.”
Marcel found his way
back to Ross, nonetheless
and Aria’s fears went away
as she walked hand in hand with Spence.
As I roam around this Central Perk
“It’s not your fault,” said Phoebe Buffay.
As I remain to prowl and loiter and lurk
I forgot that I’m a cat, smelly and stray.*
I meow as I hear this song subsist
To Regina Phalange, I owe all these
She may be unaware she’d done these things
Just know I’m forever grateful you exist.
Oct 9, 2015
Oct 9, 2015 at 1:32 AM UTC
"Chess can be described as the movement of pieces eating one another."
-Marcel Duchamp
Relics and old wives
telling tales for telling.
Reminds me of living
in America, dying.
I think about America
when I see a sidewalk
cracked, clean spider webb'd.
There are so many cracks here.
In the dark, America
looks like any other jar
of ink. You could walk
forever without noticing the blood on your feet.
The day the bombs
drop I'll be sleeping. Oh
what a horror when you
wake up and realize where you've heard that sound before.
Feb 17, 2012
Feb 17, 2012 at 12:08 PM UTC
Sitting on that Bowery curb,
Jackie Coogan,
Years shy of Uncle Festus and
The Addams Family,
Clasping his hands on one knee,
Wearing blue denim overalls &
A raggedy, red
Turtleneck sweater,
Jackie: the kid in "The Kid."
And Charlie’s inimitable face,
Inhaling his ****** moustache.
Nobody squeezed more out of a
****** expression than Charlie,
Back in the day when
Actors told their stories physically.
The Silent Era:
A Marcel Marceau world back then,
Economical when it came to words.
Oct 7, 2014
Oct 7, 2014 at 11:06 AM UTC
Tombes , more to count than to sit at ,
Marcel Joséphine , weird name ;
.
.
.
Silence , eerily feeling which reminds us of it , pity that the almighty feels all of us , poor lord indeed
.
.
.
Old ones with lys , kids near them , family then , playing , grieving , singing , saddening
.
.
.
Vanilla , awful smell , rooting corpse in sunny Season , no milka anymore , nice Sun though
.
.
.
Leaves , dancing to Eole's humming , his music of his air , freedom , do they know their treasure
.
.
.
Thousand birds crying , light neighing , rain falls if not heaven's wrath , paining my earings
.
.
.
Steps , slow , sorrowful , slits , so grim reaper , smile , some soul shan't seen sad but happy
.
.
.
Jaa ne !
Nov 7, 2018
Nov 7, 2018 at 3:21 AM UTC
Neighbor: "Hey, what did you get Amber for her birthday?"
BF: I gave her a blank CD and told her it was a rare, pirated copy
titled "Marcel Marceau's Greatest Hits."
Neighbor: "And?"
BF: "She liked it."
Neighbor: That's scary!
copyright: richard riddle 04-12-15
Apr 12, 2015
Apr 12, 2015 at 10:58 AM UTC
two hearts
stampede through a china shoppe
like huge
huge like
looking up at the hoover dam
saying ****
****
is something that leaves my lips
when i can’t wrap my heart around
something impossible for my head
pronounced
probable
proust would say
“let us be grateful to people who make us happy
they are the charming gardeners who make our souls blossom. “
pruned
blooming
watered and spoken to
fed from the pail from the leak in the roof
to marcel, warmth
the proof
May 28, 2013
May 28, 2013 at 8:43 PM UTC
Ariel
sits across
opposite
from myself
looking plump
and balding
we're talking
of Tolstoy
(Ariel's
favourite
novelist)
he creates
the largest
fictional
canvases
Ariel
informs me
his large eyes
focusing
on his class
of real ale
now and then
looking at
a table
quite near us
where young girls
talk and laugh
their laughter
echoing
in the warm
evening
summer air
I prefer
Marcel Proust
I tell him
watching how
his eyes scan
the young girls
less manly
Ariel
says to me
don't like Proust
no substance
just gossip
from parties
he went to
you know he
was a queer
yes I know
wrote in bed
yes I know
he gazes
at the girls
taking in
their laughter
their bodies
their brightness
all his thoughts
of Tolstoy
put aside
I sip beer
wondering
what Tolstoy
would say here
seeing this
this canvas
intellect
dissolved in
human lust
words silent
write again
another
War and Peace
in English
now I trust.
Dec 3, 2014
Dec 3, 2014 at 3:44 AM UTC
Summer recess had come
and she sat with you
out in the field
over looking her house
and the railway
was not far off
where the occasional train
puffed by sending
a sprouting of white smoke
as it went by
and she looked at it passing
and spoke of after school days
when she would begin
her adult life and settle down
and have children
but you were thinking
of a train trip with your parents
years before
to some seaside place
and you watched
the scenery go by
and the steam go by
the window
and the smell
and the sight excited you
and stuck itself
inside your head
and Judith said
what do you think?
and you said
about what?
and she said
about children's names?
what names
would you choose?
your brain struggled
to the surface
and whirled through
a list of names
that came to mind
boy or girl?
you asked
she sighed
either
haven't you been
listening to me?
sorry got distracted
by the train smoke
had a Proustian moment
you said
a what?
she said
a Proustian moment
you replied
what the heck is that?
she said
pulling her skirt
over her knees
where it had risen up
as she moved
Marcel Proust wrote
that eating a certain cake
took him back
to a certain moment
of his life
but you
haven't been eating cake
Judith said
her hand rested
on her knees
her eyes focusing on you
no it's just an example
you said
about how things
can remind you
of other things
or places or times
do you recall
the first time we kissed?
she asked
yes
you said
of course I do
it was near Christmas
and we were carol singing
and it was dark
and the moon was out
and the stars were bright
and your lips pressed
onto mine
ok ok
she said laughing
at least you remember
and as she moved forward
the buttons
of her white blouse
parted briefly
to reveal a hint
of fleshy *******
so what names
do you like?
she asked
none come to mind
you said
she shook her head
what about Rachel or David?
she said
fine
you said
nice religious names
although David
brings to mind
a kid with a catapult
and a girl I once knew
with buckteeth who smelt
of old socks
she looked skywards
and sighed
and lay back
on to the grass
and you lay beside her
both of you
gazing up
at the expanse
of blue and white
her hand reaching out
for yours
in that one moment
of life
in the great
out of doors.
Jun 23, 2013
Jun 23, 2013 at 9:25 AM UTC
Proust kept a log of his untidy mind
inviting readers in to sink, or swim
some find their thoughts are much of the same kind
some feel it's all particular to him
great literature ought to resonate
but still meets a diversity of taste
those hawthorn blossoms of his endless prate
some readers find a shapeless verbose waste
a shorter form fits my attention span
of seventy iambs in rhyming verse
within a reader's mind I dare hope can
evoke a self-consistent universe
a monument to years spent pent in bed
Marcel's rich life was mostly in his head
Dec 29, 2016
Dec 29, 2016 at 5:12 PM UTC
He told what he thought, a funny joke
She got mad with that Uncle Sam bloke
His sense of humor was awry
So she smacked him in the eye
Jesting lies in the art of delivery
To get it right Sam needed smart livery
But smart these days doesn't seem to be the way
In America or any other place on the planet's lay
For Sam's joke to translate well to her funny bone
He should've employed a Marcel Marceau megaphone
But what occurred instead was the sound of thunder
From the bad joke from America to the land down under
Laughs didn't abound in a generous supply
Her tempest did storm with an endless cranky cry
But in the end it all turned out right
Poets through it all and friends in a genial light
Apr 12, 2015
Apr 12, 2015 at 9:04 AM UTC
I play a game of chess with Marcel Duchamp
Stripped bare totally but with looks still in the mood
I make a final move to rook him into my moan
'You know I want to be the darkest queen of your dreams'
He lifts calm his queen as his eyebrows but without really looking at me
picks up my rook contiguously
deepens some of his penetrating basses and whispers playfully:
' You already are my sweet Rose Sélavy and shall stay so eternally but …
you know … for now...'
and that 'but...for' mutes my **** mount line
highlights a grin of an ingenious rhyme and briefs a victory
on every strategic corner he knows to reach so well to
at once turn me on at an endgame pattern of check
to mate
'... c'est la vie sweet Monsieur S' he whispers
' I want to be the lone king for my queen'
and pushes solid his queen towards my defenseless territory.
Apr 9, 2015
Apr 9, 2015 at 5:28 PM UTC
"I hope in thee for us." Gabriel Marcel
When we share hope our bond is real
And when our voices chant a blended song,
Our ties are strong as tempered steel.
In fractious times with wrath surreal,
We seek out friends among the throng.
Without shared hope no bond is real.
But when our wills cause us to feel
Soul-bound to search, however long
For ties as strong as tempered steel,
Without a sign, the fates reveal
A newfound friend who's come along
To share our hope; our bond is real!
With zest our common course we seal
Impelled by duty’s civic song.
Our ties are strong as tempered steel,
With reason's light to fire our zeal,
We rise to challenge fortune’s wrong.
When we share hope our bond is real;
Our ties are strong as tempered steel.
Jun 27, 2025
Jun 27, 2025 at 10:10 AM UTC
In an Irish pub last night I met
a man, Ryan Patrick Sheehan.
His eyes were brown, his lips were soft,
his heart was heavy with reason.
To me, he quoted an early Yeats
as if he were Yeats himself.
"The Cold Heaven" danced from his tongue
to rest on my heart's bookshelf.
He spoke of Goethe and Marcel Proust;
two hundred pages that described Combrayan
eye for detail that bordered insane.
he proceeded then to quote Swann's Way.
Of mystery and shadows his silence spoke.
His words, like kisses quite unplanned.
God speed and hope be in your heart
My brief, Ryan Patrick Sheehan.
Jul 11, 2011
Jul 11, 2011 at 4:56 PM UTC
"... IN THE UNENDING AFTERNOON OF HER EYES..."
We drift from
Parisian museum to
Parisian museum
as if calling upon
some grand home
and the paintings deign
to see us
we the tourist class.
We are caught
in a deluge.
The unrelenting rain
tears time off
the present moment
revealing the past underneath
an older century
bleeding through.
How fragile are
les temps perdu.
I whistle a motif
from César Franck.
"What's that ?" you say
"...the National Anthem of our love!"
I gaze up at Proust's
cork-lined room
102 boulevard Haussmann
now become a bank.
Imagine him there
glancing down at us
glancing up at him
the slight movement of blue satin drapes.
Or have I imagined him
as he imagines us
hurrying figures
from another time
the rain obscuring us
each from the other.
"Love..." Marcel reminds me
“...is space and time.."
his voice almost lost
in the rain's din
"...measured by the heart.”
"Allons Madeline....allons!"
A French mum scolds her sulky child.
The rain reigns
supreme.
Dec 31, 2018
Dec 31, 2018 at 4:14 AM UTC
It's Paris
Miriam
says to me
looking out
the window
of the coach
her perfume
tending to
overwhelm
my senses
beside her
her finger
pointing
at the sights
as we pass
the Eiffel
Tower thing
lit up loud
isn't it
wonderful?
she exclaims
just to think
of artists
who once lived
and worked here
Picasso
and Van Gogh
and writers
like Miller
Hemingway
Marcel Proust
she pauses
looks at me
and who else?
what perfume
do you use?
I ask her
just some stuff
of my Mum's
she gave me
she answers
well not quite
gave to me
I kind of
borrowed it
the other day
while Mum was
out shopping
I study
her profile
her snub nose
rosy cheeks
rose bud lips
the slim neck
small tight ****
she has tons
of perfume
she wouldn't
miss any
Miriam
rattles on
is it good?
enticing
I tell her
she smiles wide
looks at me
parts her lips
moves her tongue
over them
Ezra Pound
was here too
I tell her
the poet?
she asks me
that's the guy
wasn't he
a fascist?
I guess so
but he wrote
The Cantos
her lips close
she turns round
Paris’s so
romantic
she utters
I lean close
breath her in
the perfume
inviting me
to drink in.
Sep 5, 2014
Sep 5, 2014 at 7:46 AM UTC
i think future history will show PewdiePie as Marcel Duchamp
and the ideas curated will be
something.
Nov 7, 2016
Nov 7, 2016 at 6:14 PM UTC
The dance has exhausted,
the muscles pull
and become taut
and tense.
She remembers
Marcel’s taunt:
she could not dance
after such a night
of *** She leans over,
ties tighter
her shoes, her
fingers fumbling,
her back aching,
limbs trembling.
She looks up,
sees the other
dancers in line,
pulling at dresses
and tights,
hair in place.
She rises, pulls
at her dress, tidies
her hair, stands
in line, trying
to focus, mind
on the now, not
last night, not on
the *** ****
maybe Marcel
was right.
May 13, 2013
May 13, 2013 at 3:06 AM UTC
“The freest person is the one with the most hope –“
Gabriel Marcel
Of all the shards of a broken world
That chafe our wounded psyches,
None cut deeper than the
jagged edges that would
exchange our essence for function.
Are we nothing but the pieces we craft,
the spreadsheets we tally?
Are we only the hours we clock?
When we raise our hands to the light
do our fragile bones
appear pale and translucent?
We wander like nomads without a tribe,
banished to a strange and distant land -
exiled from our once inquisitorial selves.
Do you see that distant light?
It calls us to elevate
the blinds of our forgotten dreams.
Its haze obscures the blazenness.
Which brightens with each forward step.
Go ahead, approach if you dare.
Behind that veil stands “Redemption”
who waits patiently for us in the
form of an oracle who coolly whispers,
“Welcome back, my name is Hope.”
Aug 29, 2025
Aug 29, 2025 at 12:47 AM UTC
Approaching the danger line red on the marker mine are the days I love most.
I have walked on the red hot vial, cast on the coals is fine, heat is the heart of the beast.
Those who I need or those never known have shown by their actions that I've never grown past the B stage and in the age of the marvel though Marcel is dead,
I have fed on the mime of time, unearthed unearthly rhyme
sought out the wired and the weirder.
Reader beware of what youth think we've lost the plot, but this sanctuary is what we got,
Like it or lump it or give it a clump it doesn't matter that much.
The meter runs even when we stand still.
Sep 9, 2015
Sep 9, 2015 at 8:12 PM UTC
“I hope in you for us." Gabriel Marcel
When we share hope our bond is real
And when our voices chant a blended song,
Our ties are strong as tempered steel.
In anxious times with fears surreal,
We seek out friends among the throng.
When we share hope our bond is real.
But when our wills compel us feel
Spirit-bound to search, however long,
Our ties are strong as tempered steel.
Without a sign, the fates reveal
A newfound friend who’s come along.
When we share hope our bond is real.
With zest our common course we seal
Hope-called by duty’s civic song.
Our ties are strong as tempered steel.
With reason's light to fire our zeal,
We rise to challenge fortune’s wrong.
When we share hope our bond is real.
Our ties are strong as tempered steel.
Jun 29, 2025
Jun 29, 2025 at 9:21 AM UTC