"marginalia" poems
I used to think
the heart was only a piece of
paper.
What else?
While you go through the motions,
he and him leave pencil marks.
Scrawls and doodles, just
hasty mutterings in the marginalia.
You know,
those little hearts with
those little initials
you find in little girls' maths books?
Your eyes don't stray from these scribbles,
ever, no, never,
but
you vow to yourself that one day there'll be
ink
scrawled across that paper.
Black or blue
heart-stamp.
Vivid.
And nothing else would matter anymore.
What the fairytale should really say is
once upon a day
he'll walk in and grab that sheet of
paper.
It'll disappear into his coat pocket forever.
And you won't even know it
until
that paper will crumple,
black and blue, black and blue,
out, out, out of his coat
that he's left behind in the closet.
A souvenir,
a lost cause.
That is your heart,
that is your heart.
Jun 9, 2015
Jun 9, 2015 at 4:01 PM UTC
161 to 180 of 3251 Poets
«78910»Viewsshow detailshide detailsSort by
Margaret Kaufman
Photo, Brownie Troop, St. Louis, 1949
Deborah Warren
Marginalia
Regan Huff
Occurrence on Washburn Avenue
Anne Marie Macari
From the Plane
Gerald Fleming
There are no poems by this poet on our website.
Sebastian Matthews
Barbershop Quartet, East Village Grille
Charles Harper Webb
The Animals are Leaving
Zozan Hawez
Self-Portrait
Jose Angel Araguz
Gloves
Russell Libby (1956–2012)
Applied Geometry
Robert Haight
How Is It That the Snow
Early October Snow
Dan Lechay
Ghost Villanelle
James P. Lenfestey
Daughter
Robert Hedin (b. 1949)
The Old Liberators
My Mother's Hats
John Maloney
After Work
Kaelum Poulson
The Crow
Stuart Kestenbaum
Prayer for the Dead
Emmett Tenorio Melendez
My name came from . . .
Gary Dop
Father, Child, Water
On Swearing
Berwyn Moore
Driving to Camp Lend-A-Hand
«78910»
Mar 13, 2014
Mar 13, 2014 at 9:01 PM UTC
For my own part
I have never had a thought
Which I could not set down in words
with even more distinctness
Than that with which I conceived it
There is however, a class of fancies
Of exquisite delicacy
Which are not thoughts
And to which as yet I have found it
Absolutely impossible to adapt to language
These fancies arise in the soul
Alas how rarely
Only at epochs of most intense tranquility
When the ****** and mental health are in perfection
And at those mere points of time
Where the confines of the waking world
Blend with the world of dreams
And so I captured this fancy
Where all that we see or seem is but
A Dream Within A Dream
Sep 24, 2013
Sep 24, 2013 at 8:37 AM UTC
Come here.
Let’s.
Let’s?
Let’s…
Let’s.
Come here.
Listen to Edith Piaf
(So hipster, n'est-ce pas?)
and the scratch of her
voice on the turntable,
will be ours
to keep in Moleskine
notebooks of memory.
So that we’ll try to believe,
love is actually a thing.
Let’s.
Come here.
This quaint room will be
ours,
our guest, as we breathe life
into the coffee cups, wooden chairs.
We’ll give it a nose, yes.
Lightbulbs will smell red
wine in fingerprinted glasses.
Windows will drink
us,
to us.
And we’ll laugh, our faces
hot and sad, mouths
crammed with French
fries.
A scene blurred with happiness.
Let’s.
Come here.
Trash the hands of every
boy, who’s spread himself
out on marginalia of our days.
Slathered himself on pieces
of time we wish we had hugged to ourselves.
Hate, hate, hate
him, we’ll say.
And his **** hands.
Let’s.
Come here.
Our eyes will be fireflies
behind our glasses,
in this cinema’s night, as we ‘swoon’
at rom-coms as buttery
as the popcorn we bought in the interval.
Life’s too short, we say.
Eat about it, drink about it,
maybe even talk about it.
Forget about it.
Let’s.
Come here.
Talk, about nothing.
We’ll all be dead one day.
Let’s.
Come here.
We can be friends.
Let’s.
Let’s.
Let’s.
Let’s?
(And your giggle will end
all and every verse written.
I’m **** sure of it.)
Apr 30, 2015
Apr 30, 2015 at 3:31 PM UTC
You wanted the truth so now here it is:
I want you to **** me up.
I want you to eat me alive
and tear me up and
rip out all my pages
and then struggle to glue them back together knowing
that you probably won't try because -oh!..- there's another page.
Open me.
End my being with your marginalia.
Write on my skin with ink if you have to,
but stain me. Stain me
with your negligent splashes of volatile
explosions of how your name tastes on your tongue.
Show me what it is to cry until you cry out blood
off of your throat. Let me know
why your vivid hair always curls like that
without your permission. Tell me that I don't need
your permission to do the same to you
because everyone says my hair isn't combed
and you say you can't see the difference when it is so
bite me.
Bite me.
Bite me.
Bite me.
Tear apart whole chunks of my flesh until
you have had your fill. Smile that smile
that smells its smell of blossoming blood
like a poppie that decided to implode outwards.
Do it so that Faust is not even a second too late
to offer us his bargain because we were eons
ahead of him. Do it so that I understand why
you called me a hurricane. Am I your disaster?
Take me to your hell. Your eyes
excite me and I want to know why.
We should burn out violently.
Not be put out. Not gently.
Yes.
In the silence I don't grab you.
Next time I might.
Jul 2, 2015
Jul 2, 2015 at 8:34 AM UTC
Tongue splayed and split,
******
your capital punishment
muster the courage to stay before the horde,
parcel truths like foul *****
Dirt fall out like sandpaper truths
waiting for El Nino to rinse them away
Dreads form follicle dreads,
permeable and purposeful.
lock them up,
leave them alone-
Tolerating the Zeppelins last descent:
royal blue dressings
your libel
your tragic symphony.
Fathered by frenzy,
true love is born.
convulsing into complacency,
it withers
do you mourn?
Chaotic clucking
limbs
slowly dismembered
tossed in
bountiful broth of bothersome beginnings
Powder your nose
chords shred
minors and majors of our failings.
Talcum powder traces
footprints to forgiveness
like foxes
like prey
Marginalia ingested
turbine breath
breathe out promises out of proportion
Drink up, shrink down
sink into sleep
we’re bathing in borrowed time.
Dec 29, 2016
Dec 29, 2016 at 4:27 PM UTC
Like a devil's advocate
I listened as deep as apparition
licked the fictional dust
falling under the self-written
mantra's power:
It's not my fault
-cj
Jul 26, 2014
Jul 26, 2014 at 10:18 AM UTC
Looks like I'll be on the road again. Nowhere to go. Poor af and no motivation. Shadow without a body. kicked pebble. road marginalia
Feb 28, 2016
Feb 28, 2016 at 5:57 PM UTC
for Joel Frye, who loves
“my sharing the marginalia of my life”
<>
the tiny smile in mine eyes’ white *****
glistens,
my eyes inhabited, as is my
habit,
of your noticings of the what & wherefore
of the “it” of my writing…
the marginalia of life
as you adeptly label them…
touch you, my fingernails ,
sensing the ragged edging,
alternating with the smooth
all is revelational, all is relational,
the irreverent,
the minuscule,
the bytes of super-valued
ordinary
and the
extra-undervalued-ordinaries,
each and both,
elevated by you…
observing me observing you!
living on the margin,
doesn’t mean the unimportant,
the margin is a place,
where our mind’s neuralgia
embrace; where you-receive
my envisioning, feel my marginality’s,
my discrepancies, the odd, that oddly
that makes us even!
and
understanding my fingernails,
are what you’re touching,
my touch, your sensing.
identical, precisely provisioned,
and our invisible envisioning,
with nothing in between running interference,
is everything
finest and fine
the marginalia are,
the margin is the beginnings and
the endings of my myriad words,
the overstuffed SUV of my mind
that you help me to unload!
<§>
Thu Jan 5
5:08 pm
Manhattan
Jan 30, 2023
Jan 30, 2023 at 3:40 PM UTC