"martinet" poems - Hello Poetry

We have time on our youth, inches on our throat. We have cleaned for years. We swell to cry, this does not fix us. Flatter our unsoiled volitions! Gorge our empty stomachs— Martinet, our Big Brother! We have cleaned for years. “Clean til I say— Satisfied.”

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Sep 26, 2011

Sep 26, 2011 at 8:19 PM UTC

paulcosta

We have been Cleaning the Mirror for Years

We have time on our youth, inches on our throat. We have cleaned for years. We swell to cry, this does not fix us. Flatter our unsoiled volitions! Gorge our empty stomachs— Martinet, our Big Brother! We have cleaned for years. “Clean til I say— Satisfied.”

11

We have time on our youth, inches on our throat. We have cleaned for years. We swell to cry, this does not fix us. Flatter our unsoiled volitions! Gorge our empty stomachs— Martinet, our Big Brother! We have cleaned for years. “Clean til I say— Satisfied.”

0

Sep 26, 2011

Sep 26, 2011 at 8:21 PM UTC

paulcosta

We have been Cleaning the Mirror for Years

We have time on our youth, inches on our throat. We have cleaned for years. We swell to cry, this does not fix us. Flatter our unsoiled volitions! Gorge our empty stomachs— Martinet, our Big Brother! We have cleaned for years. “Clean til I say— Satisfied.”

11

(with apologies to Elizabeth Barret Browning) Arrogant Book Soldier Conceited Con Artist Covetous Cunning Deceitful Disingenuous Egoist Egregious Envious Entitled Evil Haughty Hypocritical Ignominious Immoral Jealous Jumped Up Machiavellian Martinet Mendacious Nit Picky Obsessed Peck Sniff Perfidious Persnickety Pompous Popinjay Predatory **** Rapacious Regimental Sanctimonious Self Important Shylock Smarmy Sophist Supercilious Unctuous Unethical Vile Vicious Zealot ljm

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Mar 31, 2017

Mar 31, 2017 at 1:52 PM UTC

LoriJonesMcCaffery

HOW DO I DESCRIBE THEE; LET ME COUNT THE NAMES

(with apologies to Elizabeth Barret Browning) Arrogant Book Soldier Conceited Con Artist Covetous Cunning Deceitful Disingenuous Egoist Egregious Envious Entitled Evil Haughty Hypocritical Ignominious Immoral Jealous Jumped Up Machiavellian Martinet Mendacious Nit Picky Obsessed Peck Sniff Perfidious Persnickety Pompous Popinjay Predatory **** Rapacious Regimental Sanctimonious Self Important Shylock Smarmy Sophist Supercilious Unctuous Unethical Vile Vicious Zealot ljm

46

Rooster has to crow in the morning Cat has to prowl around at night. I see a petty dictator ruining lives I grab my pencil ready to fight. We’re not in the dark ages anymore. Nor are we still in the Old West. We don’t slap on a pistol and go out And put a bunch of lead into the pest. So, I write down the words that I feel. I call a snake-oil salesman what he is. I carefully explain what a crook looks like And show off the difference from a Wiz. They may claim they’re an eagle today If that is the delusion they are in. But I will be quick to dispel such a lie By pointing out the wattles on their chin. Pigeons spread their droppings all over. Dog likes to dig around in the dirt. I have to point out the creeps in the world Then take appropriate joy when they’re hurt. My hope is the people that are fooled will see They don’t have to sit and eat the lies. They can stand up and ***** in the face Of those who are criminals in disguise. Tell any scoundrels exactly what they are And let them know you are not fooled. Don’t let them walk away feeling proud. Make sure they’re appropriately schooled. Knock any martinet off their pedestal. Tell them you think they are a clown. Don’t leave their ego in undented shape. Then go on and kick them when they’re down.

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Nov 13, 2016

Nov 13, 2016 at 2:22 PM UTC

brent-kincaid

RULES OF COMBAT

Rooster has to crow in the morning Cat has to prowl around at night. I see a petty dictator ruining lives I grab my pencil ready to fight. We’re not in the dark ages anymore. Nor are we still in the Old West. We don’t slap on a pistol and go out And put a bunch of lead into the pest. So, I write down the words that I feel. I call a snake-oil salesman what he is. I carefully explain what a crook looks like And show off the difference from a Wiz. They may claim they’re an eagle today If that is the delusion they are in. But I will be quick to dispel such a lie By pointing out the wattles on their chin. Pigeons spread their droppings all over. Dog likes to dig around in the dirt. I have to point out the creeps in the world Then take appropriate joy when they’re hurt. My hope is the people that are fooled will see They don’t have to sit and eat the lies. They can stand up and ***** in the face Of those who are criminals in disguise. Tell any scoundrels exactly what they are And let them know you are not fooled. Don’t let them walk away feeling proud. Make sure they’re appropriately schooled. Knock any martinet off their pedestal. Tell them you think they are a clown. Don’t leave their ego in undented shape. Then go on and kick them when they’re down.

32

I take it that a spray of Sun occults your face, like watching in a squalid cinema, something a slapstick would conjure a stylistically dumb image, or the prattle of bunkum hubbub drowning loudspeakers in plazas. You know there is a part of you that goes missing every time you hear me pass carefully under the care of toppled light, and there is a part of me that engages the dark in this straining mutiny. This is such a troubled time on the hardline; a martinet on the other cheapened end of a totaled horizon hollering at gentrified space, eyes sternly fixed on the mattress, conspicuous in urbane manner, something shadows bade with hands, lifts up all the ragamuffin days: to capture you in such moment, such oneness, of no complication, like a clean Yamazaki on the house, or a metropolitan district augured with rubicund crisscrosses, streets sidereal in measures, an aggressive ********** at the end of the curb, the spanked curve of the mordant asphalt, and the rise of body heat from yesterday’s swelter; something only I could have thought of in white thighs of little ladies and peering birds for collarbones: look at this, maddened, retaining nothing but age.

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Feb 2, 2016

Feb 2, 2016 at 9:34 PM UTC

windsor-i-guadalupe-jr

Nothing But Age

I take it that a spray of Sun occults your face, like watching in a squalid cinema, something a slapstick would conjure a stylistically dumb image, or the prattle of bunkum hubbub drowning loudspeakers in plazas. You know there is a part of you that goes missing every time you hear me pass carefully under the care of toppled light, and there is a part of me that engages the dark in this straining mutiny. This is such a troubled time on the hardline; a martinet on the other cheapened end of a totaled horizon hollering at gentrified space, eyes sternly fixed on the mattress, conspicuous in urbane manner, something shadows bade with hands, lifts up all the ragamuffin days: to capture you in such moment, such oneness, of no complication, like a clean Yamazaki on the house, or a metropolitan district augured with rubicund crisscrosses, streets sidereal in measures, an aggressive ********** at the end of the curb, the spanked curve of the mordant asphalt, and the rise of body heat from yesterday’s swelter; something only I could have thought of in white thighs of little ladies and peering birds for collarbones: look at this, maddened, retaining nothing but age.

20

At Kapooka for Corporal James (Jim Tulty) 1st Recruit Training Battalion One new platoon of raw recruits, Each with newly shaven head, Reach down to tug off brand new boots, Then tumble thankfully into bed. Eight and forty on parade, Compelled to stand in rank and file, Are chased by livid martinet, Until at last they step with style. Can slowly move yet not be seen, With full kit run a mile or more, Climb the rope, toe the beam, they can Be blithely passed along to corp and later, Vietnam. One new platoon of raw recruits, Each with newly shaven head, Reach down to tug off brand new boots, Then tumble thankfully into bed; Reflect - five hundred plus of them are dead.

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Mar 2, 2019

Mar 2, 2019 at 11:16 PM UTC

Expressive_Muse

Recruit Training

At Kapooka for Corporal James (Jim Tulty) 1st Recruit Training Battalion One new platoon of raw recruits, Each with newly shaven head, Reach down to tug off brand new boots, Then tumble thankfully into bed. Eight and forty on parade, Compelled to stand in rank and file, Are chased by livid martinet, Until at last they step with style. Can slowly move yet not be seen, With full kit run a mile or more, Climb the rope, toe the beam, they can Be blithely passed along to corp and later, Vietnam. One new platoon of raw recruits, Each with newly shaven head, Reach down to tug off brand new boots, Then tumble thankfully into bed; Reflect - five hundred plus of them are dead.

20

Ce nuage est bien noir : - sur le ciel il se roule, Comme sur les galets de la côte une houle. L'ouragan l'éperonne, il s'avance à grands pas. - A le voir ainsi fait, on dirait, n'est-ce pas ? Un beau cheval arabe, à la crinière brune, Qui court et fait voler les sables de la dune. Je crois qu'il va pleuvoir : - la bise ouvre ses flancs, Et par la déchirure il sort des éclairs blancs. Rentrons. - Au bord des toits la frêle girouette D'une minute à l'autre en grinçant pirouette, Le martinet, sentant l'orage, près du sol Afin de l'éviter rabat son léger vol ; - Des arbres du jardin les cimes tremblent toutes. La pluie ! - Oh ! voyez donc comme les larges gouttes Glissent de feuille en feuille et passent à travers La tonnelle fleurie et les frais arceaux verts ! Des marches du perron en longues cascatelles, Voyez comme l'eau tombe, et de blanches dentelles Borde les frontons gris ! - Dans les chemins sablés, Les ruisseaux en torrents subitement gonflés Avec leurs flots boueux mêlés de coquillages Entraînent sans pitié les fleurs et les feuillages ; Tout est perdu : - Jasmins aux pétales nacrés, Belles-de-nuit fuyant l'astre aux rayons dorés, Volubilis chargés de cloches et de vrilles, Roses de tous pays et de toutes famines, Douces filles de Juin, frais et riant trésor ! La mouche que l'orage arrête en son essor, Le faucheux aux longs pieds et la fourmi se noient Dans cet autre océan dont les vagues tournoient. - Que faire de soi-même et du temps, quand il pleut Comme pour un nouveau déluge, et qu'on ne peut Aller voir ses amis et qu'il faut qu'on demeure ? Les uns prennent un livre en main afin que l'heure Hâte son pas boiteux, et dans l'éternité Plonge sans peser trop sur leur oisiveté ; Les autres gravement font de la politique, Sur l'ouvrage du jour exercent leur critique ; Ceux-ci causent entre eux de chiens et de chevaux, De femmes à la mode et d'opéras nouveaux ; Ceux-là du coin de l'oeil se mirent dans la glace, Débitent des fadeurs, des bons mots à la glace, Ou, du binocle armés, regardent un tableau. - Moi, j'écoute le son de l'eau tombant dans l'eau.

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456

Théophile Gautier

Pluie

Ce nuage est bien noir : - sur le ciel il se roule, Comme sur les galets de la côte une houle. L'ouragan l'éperonne, il s'avance à grands pas. - A le voir ainsi fait, on dirait, n'est-ce pas ? Un beau cheval arabe, à la crinière brune, Qui court et fait voler les sables de la dune. Je crois qu'il va pleuvoir : - la bise ouvre ses flancs, Et par la déchirure il sort des éclairs blancs. Rentrons. - Au bord des toits la frêle girouette D'une minute à l'autre en grinçant pirouette, Le martinet, sentant l'orage, près du sol Afin de l'éviter rabat son léger vol ; - Des arbres du jardin les cimes tremblent toutes. La pluie ! - Oh ! voyez donc comme les larges gouttes Glissent de feuille en feuille et passent à travers La tonnelle fleurie et les frais arceaux verts ! Des marches du perron en longues cascatelles, Voyez comme l'eau tombe, et de blanches dentelles Borde les frontons gris ! - Dans les chemins sablés, Les ruisseaux en torrents subitement gonflés Avec leurs flots boueux mêlés de coquillages Entraînent sans pitié les fleurs et les feuillages ; Tout est perdu : - Jasmins aux pétales nacrés, Belles-de-nuit fuyant l'astre aux rayons dorés, Volubilis chargés de cloches et de vrilles, Roses de tous pays et de toutes famines, Douces filles de Juin, frais et riant trésor ! La mouche que l'orage arrête en son essor, Le faucheux aux longs pieds et la fourmi se noient Dans cet autre océan dont les vagues tournoient. - Que faire de soi-même et du temps, quand il pleut Comme pour un nouveau déluge, et qu'on ne peut Aller voir ses amis et qu'il faut qu'on demeure ? Les uns prennent un livre en main afin que l'heure Hâte son pas boiteux, et dans l'éternité Plonge sans peser trop sur leur oisiveté ; Les autres gravement font de la politique, Sur l'ouvrage du jour exercent leur critique ; Ceux-ci causent entre eux de chiens et de chevaux, De femmes à la mode et d'opéras nouveaux ; Ceux-là du coin de l'oeil se mirent dans la glace, Débitent des fadeurs, des bons mots à la glace, Ou, du binocle armés, regardent un tableau. - Moi, j'écoute le son de l'eau tombant dans l'eau.

44