"martins" poems
I'm dreaming of a WHITE Christmas
Not like the ones we used to know
Where the hoods and robes are
making things all *****
Those kooks dressed up white as snow
I'm dreaming of a WHITE Christmas
His uni underneath the tree
With his new Doc Martins
That he'll look smart in
To show his mentality
I'm dreaming of a WHITE Christmas
I'm glad it only is one night
With his new plaid shirt on
This racist *****
Hia tree...has no coloured lights
I'm dreaming of a WHITE Christmas
What would he do if he just knew
The KKK man
Had better re-plan
His Christ....he was born a jew
I wish everyone a Merry Christmas, black or white, green or grey, red, brown and yellow. Have a wonderful Christmas Season, because it is Christmas after all.....and remember, this is just a poem, just fiction. I want a White Christmas, but, one with every colour of the rainbow treated equally, and hopefully some nice prezzies and a song or two by Andy Williams and Bing Crosby.
MERRY CHRISTMAS EVERYONE
Dec 5, 2013
Dec 5, 2013 at 11:12 AM UTC
You at least went.
so that meant the party could finally be awkward.
that's homeroom
at your personal Harvard
your low self esteem was the head dean
[ claimed you had promise ]
then promptly vomits
but you promised to maim
your lollipops with hot topic's
most goth night-shade of hemlock
iron-on, henna tattoos
for your thin lips.
like two gates
to a birdcage
where you keep
ravens...
pecking the tip of your tongue
where your brave words die
for lack of oxygen... pecking
the flesh off the skeleton key
to the heart of your insightful
comment,... stymied -
a black raven
savors the succulent eyes
of your hurricanes, so
braille maps for blind rage
fly off the shelves... fly like
led zeppelins to
fresh hell.
you lose your window seat
on the wing of a prayer
to Charles Bukowski.
now you're scowling a gilded smile
at all the Ed Hardlys'...
good thing you brought Jello Biafra Shots
to the shindig... cubes of gelatinous absinthe
each with a sugar box
lodged in supermax insecurity prisms...
fey emeralds.
monochrome rubicons
you pop
when cross.
like wainscoting the panic room
that came with a deejay
who thinks you're
a boy who got
lost.
Jun 5, 2013
Jun 5, 2013 at 7:10 AM UTC
Dear
Brown colored boy,
Mine
Shining in all your melanin filled armor I salute you.
The soldier you are as tall as the tree that bore the wood of the cross they burned on martins lawn.
You burn brighter than those flames
You ignite something in me that wants to melt into your melanin crossing legs and arms and becoming tangled in ligaments that look more like trees before they were torn apart to become those burning crosses.
Mine
Eye closed I imagine you holding a brown boy bore from my trees,
Laying him on your bare chest
Loving him because he's your own.
Not just mine anymore,
I'll look at you both in fear seeing those burning crosses become shining badges and sirens in the distance
Not just mine anymore
May 30, 2015
May 30, 2015 at 10:45 AM UTC
along emilys hill road
the trees are bare
she's skipping stones
across st martens creek
as she turns
smiling my name
her breath comes out
white clouds
mingles
and hangs in the air
the quiet
stillness
in her eyes
she sees something
in me
that I can't
see
and that s why
i love her so
emilys hill road
unchanged
the trees are bare
she's skipping stones
across
st. martins creek
I believe that's the way
I remember her best
Dec 22, 2020
Dec 22, 2020 at 5:02 PM UTC
There were grass-hoppers once, in these fields of green.
Leaf-hoppers too and a myriad other tiny wing'ed ones.
Now bees fidget fretfully along the hedgerows.
Lady-bugs, now only the twelve-spot greenhouse slaves.
Monsanto's beetles badgering them as they fiddle.
These ditches that once housed frogs and musk-rat, ferocious diving beetles,
The sky absent the wheeling martins, the boisterous larks.
Gone the pests, I rue the dearth,
bring me back my mud, my earth.
Never was I annoyed by them, always an ally that buggy thing,
Who yet knows how the June bugs sing?
Nov 19, 2012
Nov 19, 2012 at 8:34 PM UTC
She writes from deep within her
Opening up her soul to all,
finding the words like a river
Allowing them to come, to flow
Power transformed to her fingers,
igniting the flames of her soul
Fire given form to the written page
Releasing all she has deep inside
Just like she would submit to a lover
All-consuming fire is in my essence
An eternal flame burning wildly,
never to diminish, throughout time
As it seeps through these fingers,
in unearthly passion, writ in blood
A creative mind is set into motion
Capture now this notion, if you will
As I spew forth, in depths unknown
Yet known, in the core of existence
The pulse of an unrelenting desire
I press pen unto page within love
Nevermore to please the masses
Evermore to appease the essence
I care naught for fame, nor fortune
Wishing merely to pierce the silence
In a sole purpose, right to be heard
Amongst the chaos of every day
Creating a cleverly laid design,
to ensnare those who take notice
Touching the soul of yet another
Copyright © 1/2013 Chris Smith/Lucy Martins
All poetry by Chris Smith/Lucy Martins are copyright protected by International Copyright Law, the use without written permission is illegal. All Rights Reserved ©
May 30, 2016
May 30, 2016 at 4:25 AM UTC
I want to love a radical chick
with brightly colored hair and tattoos on her arms
piercings under her skin and
doc martins stomping on the ground
smoking **** and dancing
in dark open fields
playfully doing somersaults
falling on her ***
and holding me under her arm
never without her beanie
or her sarcastically loving tone
I want a radical girl to call my own
Nov 13, 2012
Nov 13, 2012 at 11:37 PM UTC
Andrew Gn
Probably the most prolific Singaporean designer, Gn graduated from the renowned Saint Martins School of Art and Design in London and the Domus Academy in Milan before joining Emanuel Ungaro in 1992. He launched his namesake label in 1996, establishing a fan base among the Parisian high society and A-list celebrities such as Jessica de Rothschild and Sarah Jessica Parker for his luxurious fabrics and exquisite embellishments. Gn was awarded the President’s Design Award in 2007 and is stocked in all the major continents, with his atelier based in the Le Marais district in Paris.
Ashley Isham
The other Singaporean high fashion designer to hit big time in the international circuit, Isham established his namesake label in London in 2000, and is a show fixture at London Fashion Week. The label is known for its sharp, contemporary tailoring and high-octane glamour, and is a hit among film, TV and music stars as well as British royalty.
Aijek
Self-taught designer Danelle Woo creates easy-breezy, ultra-feminine pieces in sustainable fabrics. Aijek is stocked at multi-label boutiques in China, Hong Kong, Malaysia, Indonesia, Latin America, the Middle East and the United States.
Depression
The neo-Gothic ready-to-wear label’s stark, minimalist designs are stocked in Hong Kong, Belgium, Japan and the U.S., and counts celebrities like Adam Lambert and The Black-Eyed Peas as fans.
Sabrina Goh
The feted Singaporean designer stocks her easy-to-wear pieces from her namesake label at multi-label boutiques in the United States, the Fred Segal store in Japan and a London-based online store Not Just A Label.
Max Tan
The avant-garde label features experimental silhouettes and a contemporary artistic flair, and is stocked in Europe, the Middle East, San Francisco and Taiwan.
Benjamin Barker
This stylish menswear brand founded by designer Nelson Yap in 2009 now has two stores in Melbourne and offers custom tailoring as well. It also offers shipping to Australia and New Zealand via its website BenjaminBarker.co. .
In Good Company
The well-loved minimalist label with unusual silhouettes fronted by designers Sven Tan and Kane Tan is stocked in Hong Kong at Kapok, at various departmental stores in Jakarta, Indonesia, including Sogo, Seibu and Galleries Lafayette Jakarta and in New York’s Saks Fifth Avenue.Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-sydney | www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-brisbane
Aug 19, 2016
Aug 19, 2016 at 12:23 AM UTC
IF we were such and so, the same as these,
maybe we too would be slingers and sliders,
tumbling half over in the water mirrors,
tumbling half over at the horse heads of the sun,
tumbling our purple numbers.
Twirl on, you and your satin blue.
Be water birds, be air birds.
Be these purple tumblers you are.
Dip and get away
From loops into slip-knots,
Write your own ciphers and figure eights.
It is your wooded island here in Lincoln park.
Everybody knows this belongs to you.
Five fat geese
Eat grass on a sod bank
And never count your slinging ciphers,
your sliding figure eights,
A man on a green paint iron bench,
Slouches his feet and sniffs in a book,
And looks at you and your loops and slip-knots,
And looks at you and your sheaths of satin blue,
And slouches again and sniffs in the book,
And mumbles: It is an idle and a doctrinaire exploit.
Go on tumbling half over in the water mirrors.
Go on tumbling half over at the horse heads of the sun.
Be water birds, be air birds.
Be these purple tumblers you are.
1.5k
Hush my little one
They might hear
We must be silent
Not let them find us
For they never understand
They hate who we are
Always hunting us
We try to survive
But still they come
They always do
So in the shadows
Do we now dwell
Reduced to hiding
From these mortals
We may die in thirst
I say we must rebel
For we are stronger
Shape shifters
With naught to dear
Let us rise in freedom
Remember little one
How they killed her
The way your mother
Was taken from us
When they found out
How can we fight back
They have too many weapons
Different ways to **** us
We can only use the night
But they can use the day
How can I not recall
My dearest father
The way she died
The cruelty of it all
Never feeding on them
Ripping her from our coven
Leaving us in eternal misery
Of a loss forever engraved
Yet, I can not shake
My deep thirst for revenge
I am tired my little one
Feeling my true age
For too many centuries
This was my existence
Now you must carry on
My life is slowly fading
The coldness is close
You have fed from me
So you can be strong
Goodbye my little one
My father now gone
The ultimate sacrifice
Of an undying love
For his only daughter
Lost now am I - alone
A curse once bestowed
By the dark of night
Never to return
To the day of light
Losing all I have loved
With new found strength
I now hold - I will seek
The one who cursed us
In this living nightmare
For time is now immortal
Through the silence
Of the nights calling
I shall fight, with might
Striking - taking down
The prince of the night
Mar 28, 2015
Mar 28, 2015 at 1:35 PM UTC
theloraxformula
i am getting to the point of my day
when
waking
up
is like making my way through a battlefield
where Valkyries live in my stomach
when I lay on my back and count my ribs
(what I can feel of them)
and stand only to find my head hurting…again
and I am realizing that your love
isn’t
worth
this.
but this isn’t really about you, is it?
it’s about power
and control
like feeling like a god of titans on a
volcano about to erupt
feeling like pele burning through bones & calories
and feeling some sense
of pretty while
starving myself to death.
but your love
isn’t worth
that
it isn’t worth counting calories in my sleep
playing mad mathematician with meals
weeks in advance
knowing the caloric value of everything in my university’s cafeteria
by heart
and feeling like
passing out when I try to tie the
laces of my doc martins.
your love isn’t worth that
and neither is the hate I have for myself
Jul 19, 2013
Jul 19, 2013 at 8:55 AM UTC
“Graceless Ravens Envy You,” by Eric Robert Nolan
Revel in apostasy.
You are the black dove, hovering
High in an inklike arc.
Blacker, even, than
coal-colored wolves in onyx lines seeking
quarry at starless midnight.
More ebon, even, than
narrow sable blacksnakes staying
cravenly in shade at noon.
Darker, even, than
murders of crows, newly legion at Autumn, amassing
among saw-wing martins at dusk.
You’re blacker, even, then the rooks.
Graceless ravens envy you.
Remember your rebirth?
The sun rose,
Your birdsong changed and then
the questions flew from your beak
faster even than the wrens?
Faster than you could fly?
For a moment, they rendered
all the world obsidian.
Remember your feathers burning?
Sunlight striking your wings and then
all the slow alabaster there
singing, quickening into
aerodynamic black?
Remember the flock’s suspicion?
Remember your siblings, the nest?
Remember when
all their pearl heads turned
their backlit crowns in morning sun
ringed so thinly in shining ivory?
Their song was interrupted,
Yours was made a query —
empiricism’s aria.
Flustered, they fluttered
at all the low notes.
There were all immaculate;
you were the color of night.
Now you arc alone —
soar and sin and sing,
unrepentant one.
Somewhere an ordinary dog,
awakening from shadow,
howls at the sun.
(c) Eric Robert Nolan 2015
Oct 3, 2015
Oct 3, 2015 at 11:42 PM UTC
The hum of the fan
sings a lullaby
as the stress of the day
falls out of the muscles
An angels cloud of a pillow
my head sinks in
covers pulled up high
warm in my womb
The sheep ramble bye
one bye one
and slowly transform
into nothing
The sandmans dust
has been sprinkled
and rapid eye movement begun
falling into the land of dreams
Landing softly
in a newly mown green field
with knee deep patches
of bluebonnets and Indian paint brushes
A creek trickles nearby
its lulling sound
a salve for any remaining pain
brim swim in its cool waters
In the distance
snow capped mountains
haloed by the sun
that hides behind it
Cottontail rabbits
on the move
pay me no mind
on their journey
The purple martins
sing their song
interrupted
by the mockingbird
A whitetail doe
and her two spotted fawns
ease by, head down,
munching on grass
Calmed, and relaxed
breathing easy and rhythmic
eyes dart around
taking in the beauty of the dream
Oct 1, 2016
Oct 1, 2016 at 9:04 AM UTC
The night flopped over the chimney tops
and dripped from the guttering as
the day broke through in spots
I could hear the house martins sing.
The radio sizzled, the
bacon crackled,
on the range was a pan
full of porridge from the
morning before.
Boots by the door which were itching to go
everything's slow when you want to go fast but
at last we were out on the last day of the world,(a
game that we played where zombies were real and
they were coming for us to make of us a meal)
Each day is a bonus where the onus to be, is
the King of all castles, the Queen of all seas and
to seize with both hands the hands of all friends.
The day ends with a call from,
Mother, you know,
everything goes fast when it ought to go slow.
Mar 3, 2015
Mar 3, 2015 at 3:57 AM UTC
The king wears Doc Martins
For booting tardy servants
And the servants grovel meekly
Whilst planning dire retribution
Come the day, you old *******
Come the glorious day
The queen is in the bike shed
Letting down random tyres
Throwing stones through windows
To while away the hours
Oh! the trial of royal boredom
With a castle and pointed towers
The princess lives in the highest tower
And spits on passers by below
Sometimes she uses a catapult
To fire cats at nearby nobles
And the nobles mutter curses
Whilst bowing so very low
But now that it's Christmas time
And the royals anticipate gifts
But the royal tree hides nothing, you see
Because these things are never missed
And the sleigh did not stay
And Santa did not call
By Phil Roberts
Dec 23, 2016
Dec 23, 2016 at 8:22 AM UTC
Clover honey sunshine o'er Sassafras rivers
Proud Martins sing for notoriety , full bloom-
white sugar , shivers in the afternoon pasture
Our last Raven of the hard day season
Roaster , stained glass color kinda holidays -
liquid Kildare clover valleys , euphoric July nightshades
Apr 6, 2016
Apr 6, 2016 at 8:32 PM UTC
You’re haunting me
Rattling my bones with such a sweet song
The melody is setting my spine in a way
that causes my teeth to ache
It’s the first taste of devastating paired with final notes of irreparable
I have your memory
Buried underneath my bed
slipped between folded up t-shits and double knotted
into the laces of my doc martins
hidden yet taken with me everywhere I go
It’s gonna end up driving me mad if I let it
You’re haunting me
Yet here I am trying to exorcize my past
sinking my memories of you
right back into your dusted bones
I have you rolling over in your grave
Assured in your afterlife
this secret and I would go quietly into the night
Only I came back screaming
(my knuckles are skinned to the bone)
(but I will keep fighting. I will keep fighting)
I hear you singing in victory
Can you hear me
Answering back
- A secret for the night
Jul 16, 2021
Jul 16, 2021 at 2:37 PM UTC
The Owls are Watching
In memory of Helen Martins
'The Owl House'
Nieu Bethesda, South Africa
In sculpture and rock rested your art
Cement faces that speak volumes
Of emotions and tales untold
As mysterious as your life itself
Glittering walls of crushed glass
That shone by candlelight
Outside of art you were branded
Though remembered as unique and ahead of your time
With big glass eyes the owls watch the world
What was once your sanctuary
Now a showcase to the world
Recognized at last
Unspeakable loneliness of a soul misunderstood
Now your handwritten letters are framed and displayed for all to read
But you don't mind the curiosity of mankind
With cement hands raised to the heavens facing the east
You drank your chosen cup
Your Mecca now complete
_____
Written by Sean Achilleos
28 March 2016©
_____
How this poem came about:
I was a visitor to the Owl House Nieu-Bethesda South Africa in 2015. Approximately, one year later I was inspired to write a poem about the late great Helen Martins. I was intrigued by the eccentricity of this woman.
One evening while in my living room and enjoying a glass of wine, my eye caught the cement owl in my windowsill which I had purchased outside the Owl House from a vendor. I saw its big blue glass eyes glaring at me. At the time I was listening to a Jennifer Ferguson record, and decided to write while the music was playing. Once I had completed the poem I felt exhausted. Then a very strange phenomena occurred, the lights went off for a few seconds and came back on, unlike a power surge. It reoccurred a second time that same evening, and never since. It felt like a supernatural intervention. As far fetched as it may sound, it seemed like Mrs. Martins had personally given her approval of the poem. I then decided to email it to the official Owl House website. I didn't think much would come of it. However, they embraced the poem and were generous enough to display it on their official Website for a number of years under a section titled "A Visitor's Perspective".
https://g.co/kgs/BPyx1U
Apr 28, 2020
Apr 28, 2020 at 7:58 AM UTC
*'Brownleaf Chestnut giants rattle like Spanish dancers , maracas crackle in the changing wind , do perform auburn 'Lover of Autumn' before the plenteous , frosted daughter of Winter , before Sun sprinkled dale , fig , lilac
Atop the red-rock spillway , as the piping martins , the whippoorwill
question , the wild goose direction
Voice of the swallow , of tenderness and regal griffin
Coppering , flint sparked showers upon the grindstone , mesmerizing
twilight orbs , polished gems , starlight Guatemalan priestess* ....
Sep 20, 2016
Sep 20, 2016 at 2:15 PM UTC
My alter ego has pixie short, electrifying purple hair
she is unafraid of being bold
she's got tattoos on her wrists, doc martins on her feet, ebony black talons, and a voice that booms to declare her presence
my alter ego is a sass master and snark shark
she can call you out on your b.s. faster than you can bat an eye
she will swing that bat at your eye, she's not afraid of using her words as defense weapons
but she knows when to stop speaking
one night I was speaking to my alter ego, asking her how in the world did she get to be so brave?
she laughed and said
darling, it's always been in us, you just haven't unsheathed the sword yet
you've been too busy hiding behind the shield, you forgot you know how to wield
you fight with gentleness, not bite
and that's okay
I shrunk further back into my bed, while she, larger than life, thunked me on the head, said you'll get there, kiddo
and suddenly she vanished, with a mischievous glint in her eye, disappeared to cause change.
-
-z.z
Apr 3, 2016
Apr 3, 2016 at 8:11 PM UTC
Yoga, James Bond & The Bad Guys
Sitting on the floor
Watching James bond overpower foes.
A complicated character with
A subtle ethic, ice-chilled wrath –
Most of all, a yogic path
Of duty and detachment;
Yogic while the villain,
Mega-bombs his own routinely -
Ligaments and muscles blown,
Royal houses overthrown!
And yet we have so much in common.
Villain cool, detached but mean,
Followers his **** machine.
Bond the Lancelot,
Jaw-dropping stunts his lot,
Fencing, boxing, crashing cars;
Fights and scars his calling cards –
And when in need of surgery
He heals quickly.
Evil lurks, Bond never shirks, and still
His life is filled with perks:
Hotel suites, girls en suite,
Dry martinis, Aston Martins (note the plural)
Sure of all
And unequivocal
Bond’s megastar, ideal and idol.
This poet rather fond of Bond,
Both yogis of a different kind:
He the running, driving soldier,
I, the yogi on the floor,
Each connected to a power.
Grinding skills the Bond-dynamic,
Mine the tranquil skill-iambic.
I give in to un-excitement’s
Ordinary daily yoga;
Bond the knight with right to ****
(Nice guy James with license, aimed at
Ordinary evil ogres -
There you see the box of riddles:
Bond the paradox in middle
Fighting off the oh, so evil bad guys!
Yoga, James Bond & The Bad Guys 2.10.2015/revised 8.28.2016
Circling Round Yoga II; A Sense Of The Ridiculous II;
Arlene Corwin
Aug 27, 2016
Aug 27, 2016 at 7:26 PM UTC
Just another girl forging the beat.
Led zeppelin on her tee shirt, doc martins on her feet.
She walks with a stride
Then blames it on pride, when really it's the tight leather that surrounds her feet.
Play her any two songs and she'll just nod along.
She'll be wearing a new band in a week.
Letting trends set, before she takes a hold. Last week she liked her coffee hot, this week she likes it cold.
She went from liking guys with long hair to men who are bald.
And so on and so forth, now she's getting old.
Her youth waisted hiding behind a face painted with short lived fads.
'I'm a lesbian, this is how I was born, this is who I am, dad.'
Mar 25, 2014
Mar 25, 2014 at 6:26 AM UTC
"if i had a son, he'd look like trayvon." barack hussein obama
there will never be justice on stolen land.
be concerned of the people,
and the system,
and the philosophy.
nights like these i fear:
having a son
having a black son
being black
being American
being a woman
being...
i fear raising a murderer or the murdered, of spending the rest of my life scared of a shadow, or becoming one.
victimized.
they only regard our kind when we shake the grounds in anger, when our voices boom off the walls and translate into violence. we are marching Martins.
i fear my son carrying his struggles on his shoulders, doning a black cloak like his black hood.
i can't watch him die again.
no black boy should feel like dirt when their pigment is golden.
Jul 19, 2013
Jul 19, 2013 at 12:12 PM UTC