"masque" poems
~weary weighted~
flummoxed are the sea watchers;
the long rhythms of sea change reveal only minor modesties,
difficult discerned are the tidal subtleties
though repetitive thrashing extracts it toll,
only the weary-weighted see the true meaning of the beating,
knowing full well,
it beats for them
recalling their early day’d fascination with its endless chaining,
now knowing all are similar
detained-chained,
and the ******* churning but a cover up masque,
they need not longer conceal,
an unrevealed confess:
water is heavy-weighted, you cannot forever float,
constancy is of a thing to be wary,
its sadder longevity,
a chipping away erosion of wearing,
*‘tis is the knelling noise of sad respite,
an unlight lighthouse*
~for Victoria, a year later~
Jul 29, 2018
Jul 29, 2018 at 3:21 PM UTC
eye did. As my prejudices expected, the odd assortment of "characters"were all present and not to be unaccounted for...a romantic comedy on a good Friday, attracts the believers, the well wishers, the ones who think if only the world was.. and I was not re or so tired of life, unemployed, lonely, damaged in some manner of being...
not too many young, just a few... theater darkness is a masque, with a risqué chance of oh no, I've been witnessed by the non-believers.
the infirm with their mobile caretakers and paraphernalia were there. Odd couples, were there. If there was one unifying common characteristic, I selected this one. We all needed haircuts. eye don't know why but it made me think about going to get one's haircut, and the rituals that requires....and it is and is not a bit like being in a almost totally private world inpublic, where you, the individual and some outside force majeure, hairdresser, movie screen engages and temporarily transforms you. That is why, I, went to the movies on a Friday afternoon, to be transformed and not reformed, in public, in private...
Apr 4, 2015
Apr 4, 2015 at 4:30 AM UTC
a birthday poem for S.
perhaps, this is the responsibility, the purposeful gentility,
that poetry engenders, that thwarts the impulse to anger,
guiding away, finding a way, to temper the temper, to out
and joust away our basest, our first, but never our foremost
nor finest, succinct instinct, yet terrible human nonetheless...
perhaps, this is where we hide, neath our carnival masque,
our-would-be better selves, and struggle in this, this intensity intentional,
the season's change is subtly blatant, not obvious 'cept to those
who have a front seat, a well worn Adirondack chair in the nook
where the airy breeze offers fruits of words so easy, pluck words
as easy as breathing, and the slight gradation change, in the light and
temperature, and yet, the suns cares not, for it still warms my body,
though lower and slower, nonetheless, when the heat invades my soul, confirming my, our, existence,
burning off the fog of our contradictory confusions,
and eliciting an unsolicited
"thank you god"
for my, our personal miracle of re~birthing
and better comprehending,
that other
miracle we can embrace
never enough
loving kindness
sun~mon
sep 14~15
twenty twenty five
Sep 15, 2025
Sep 15, 2025 at 8:33 AM UTC
I wanna have lunch with Poe,
at Burger King,
because I'm sure he would appreciate how ghoulish that King in their commercial is
I don't want him to recite verse
while we fill our medium cups with corn syrup nectar--a giant leap
down from laudanum
I do want to ask about the Cask of Amontillado and being walled in slowly, for eternity
for to me that is creepier than all the crimson cream in the Masque of the Red Death
I want to know if he likes the fries--will he dare to dip them in scarlet paste we call catsup
mostly I want to know if he remembers the alley where he was found,
not yet a legend, consumed by consumption and delirium in equal measure
and if there were rodents privileged to hear his last whispered words--or even a gasp
I am buying, Ed, so grab that Whopper with both bony paws and tell me terrible tales, evermore
Sep 5, 2017
Sep 5, 2017 at 7:40 PM UTC
So stick up ivy and the bays,
And then restore the heathen ways.
Green will remind you of the spring,
Though this great day denies the thing.
And mortifies the earth and all
But your wild revels, and loose hall.
Could you wear flowers, and roses strow
Blushing upon your ******* warm snow,
That very dress your lightness will
Rebuke, and wither at the ill.
The brightness of this day we owe
Not unto music, masque, nor show:
Nor gallant furniture, nor plate;
But to the manger’s mean estate.
His life while here, as well as birth,
Was but a check to pomp and mirth;
And all man’s greatness you may see
Condemned by His humility.
Then leave your open house and noise,
To welcome Him with holy joys,
And the poor shepherd’s watchfulness:
Whom light and hymns from heaven did bless.
What you abound with, cast abroad
To those that want, and ease your load.
Who empties thus, will bring more in;
But riot is both loss and sin.
Dress finely what comes not in sight,
And then you keep your Christmas right.
3k
Nous etions, en cet instant, prisonniers du bonheur.
Heritiers de cette douce mais, o combien lourde, ferveur
Brulant sous cette peau vernie de sueur, de sable et de sel,
Portes, en princes sous les ficelles des tisseuses de ciel.
Nous regardions le gris a nous ecorcher les yeux,
Aimant de la passion infidele du zenith bleu
Le vide encombrant de nos plus incroyables espoirs
Et le remou sans debut ni fin de nouvelles memoires.
Nous les connaissions, ces esprits, vagabonds des mers
Chassant, au milieu des vagues ces humeurs incidencieres,
Celles la meme qui jadis se prenommaient “reves d’enfance”
Et qui depuis de sont transformes en dependence.
Nous les connaissions, et meme si la nature de ce lien
M’est masque par un sacerdoce qui ne sera jamais mien,
Elle me dicte toujours chaque contour de leur lames grises
Qui de cet air sec et fier sont tragiquement eprises
Nous etions, en cet instant prisonniers de beaute,
Celle la meme qui voit nos poumons dechiquetes
A vouloir engouffrer ce monde entier sous nos pores
Que demain a travers ces lettres je puisse a nouveau le voir.
Feb 19, 2015
Feb 19, 2015 at 1:01 PM UTC
Take the moral law and make a nave of it
And from the nave build haunted heaven. Thus,
The conscience is converted into palms,
Like windy citherns hankering for hymns.
We agree in principle. That's clear. But take
The opposing law and make a peristyle,
And from the peristyle project a masque
Beyond the planets. Thus, our bawdiness,
Unpurged by epitaph, indulged at last,
Is equally converted into palms,
Squiggling like saxophones. And palm for palm,
Madame, we are where we began. Allow,
Therefore, that in the planetary scene
Your disaffected flagellants, well-stuffed,
Smacking their muzzy bellies in parade,
Proud of such novelties of the sublime,
Such tink and tank and tunk-a-tunk-tunk,
May, merely may, madame, whip from themselves
A jovial hullabaloo among the spheres.
This will make widows wince. But fictive things
Wink as they will. Wink most when widows wince.
2.1k
clink clink clank cling ding
ding-ding clack
ding ding clink clink clack
masquerade
pianissimo charade
heart strings pulled taught
by a known gentleman
transformed into an unknown savior
flying faces
other worldly in expression but not intent
all are drawn blankly lustful
craving distinction from
a sea of flamboyant feathers
stretched personas
masquerade
freedom is her trade
the light in your eyes
the corners of your lips
for a mask
and a fanciful freedom
alive in compartmentalized limits
clink clink clank cling ding
ding-ding clack
ding ding clink clink clack
ding ding
the song masked musicians play
isn't a song at all
but a simple masquerade
Jan 3, 2011
Jan 3, 2011 at 2:19 PM UTC
Il n'est pas donné à chacun de prendre un bain de multitude : jouir de la foule est un art ; et celui-là seul peut faire, aux dépens du genre humain, une ribote de vitalité, à qui une fée a insufflé dans son berceau le goût du travestissement et du masque, la haine du domicile et la passion du voyage.
Multitude, solitude : termes égaux et convertibles pour le poète actif et fécond. Qui ne sait pas peupler sa solitude, ne sait pas non plus être seul dans une foule affairée.
Le poète jouit de cet incomparable privilège, qu'il peut à sa guise être lui-même et autrui. Comme ces âmes errantes qui cherchent un corps, il entre, quand il veut, dans le personnage de chacun. Pour lui seul, tout est vacant ; et si de certaines places paraissent lui êtres fermées, c'est qu'à ses yeux elles ne valent pas la peine d'être visitées.
Le promeneur solitaire et pensif tire une singulière ivresse de cette universelle communion. Celui-là qui épouse facilement la foule connaît des jouissances fiévreuses, dont seront éternellement privés l'égoïste, fermé comme un coffre, et le paresseux, interné comme un mollusque. Il adopte comme siennes toutes les professions, toutes les joies et toutes les misères que la circonstance lui présente.
Ce que les hommes nomment amour est bien petit, bien restreint et bien faible, comparé à cette ineffable orgie, à cette sainte prostitution de l'âme qui se donne tout entière, poésie et charité, à l'imprévu qui se montre, à l'inconnu qui passe.
Il est bon d'apprendre quelquefois aux heureux de ce monde, ne fût-ce que pour humilier un instant leur sot orgueil, qu'il est des bonheurs supérieurs au leur, plus vastes et plus raffinés. Les fondateurs de colonies, les pasteurs de peuples, les prêtres missionnaires exilés au bout du monde, connaissent sans doute quelque chose de ces mystérieuses ivresses ; et, au sein de la vaste famille que leur génie s'est faite, ils doivent rire quelquefois de ceux qui les plaignent pour leur fortune si agitée et pour leur vie si chaste.
2.3k
Cosplay Human
the art or practice of wearing costumes to portray characters from fiction, especially from manga, animation, and science fiction; a skit featuring these costumed characters
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
this cosplay of human we so oft effect,
movie projection of shaped variations,
semi-firm but mostly pliant,
bone not-so-hard-as-we-believe,
draped in skins of tissue pre-perforated,
we are forms that can last a century,
yet shrivel back to fetus in days,
for lack of simple water...
think human and know simultaneous,
billions of earth persona and
billions of cells in each
*by for of -
the people,*
each masked, each outfitted
in uniforms of differentiating gaps
more alike, all unique,
masses of differences of constructs same,
this cosplay is a preeminent miracle...
all of us
nakedly similar,
all naturally defiant of time,
all defeated by time, naturally...
this skit we play routinely,
costumed in a manner similar,
yet different, to distinguish ourselves,
and mark as group members
pretending to
vive la différence!
what import all this, pretty words
that tell us what we know instinctively?
just this...
I see you
perhaps you see me
changing my costume
not by choice,
still do not wear a
masque
my cells my words,
no cosplay,
my humanity on parade,
my file open to inspection
dare you visit the beginning,
when passion drove me,
the early version,
when I was not circumspect,
and my poems
were passion plays,
verifiable truths
and cosplay was not
part of my vocabulary
Oct 4, 2014
Oct 4, 2014 at 4:59 PM UTC
Sown as corn at little cost
And doomed to bloom amid the frost
Struggling through frozen earth
Weak and withered after birth
Swaddled up in soothing lies
With jingles as our lullabies
Numbered at our fledgling breath
Weighed, tagged and worked to death
Grown into a paper mould
With ball and chain of solid gold
Impotent to break or twist
The wireless shackle about the wrist
Conform, obey, do not resist
A silken blindfold binding eyes
To hide corruption on the rise
While noblemen with scented whips
Peddle lies from fattened lips
Voices raised in honest fear
Are drowned before they reach an ear
Just watch the screen, rapt, unblinking
Television does your thinking
Accept the credit, pay the debt
Take the chance and make the bet
Tow the line and wear the tie
Heckle the honest, praise the spy
Apathy has your gullet gripped
And leather fingers, sugar dipped
Have slipped on over zealous triggers
Suppressing freedom, defending figures
Chemical fed and bred to serve
Dry of tongue and numb of nerve
Right and wrong have merged together
And apathy, our chosen tether
The beast is neutered, caged and tame
The sinews of defiance, lame
Wash down pills with poison water
Disregard the silent slaughter
Slumbering as lions of old
While politicians growing bold
On plundered gains and stolen lives
Until their reckoning arrives
For once again the lions stir
And shackles fall from ancient fur
Beware the people, stay the whip
The masque of apathy must slip
Rise up, lions, sleep has passed
With every lie and bullet cast
A revolution overdue
We are still many, they are few
**
Nov 15, 2016
Nov 15, 2016 at 10:56 AM UTC
there is a glacier
partially concealed
melting from a climactic
climate shift revealing a
reality congealed by revolt
rebels burdened with
a philosophy that
elevates humanity
insisting we will not grovel
before a vain messiah
espousing erroneous
iterations of ideology
will the human race permit
the iceberg to dissolve
as vapid reformist
rhetoric inundates our
political consciousness with
pragmatic progressivism
or will we rise in resistance
with the radicals
fists clenched in protest and
hands outstretched to one
another rather than
lifted high in praise to a savior as we
witness the glacier solidify once more
as CO2 perforates our atmosphere
with heady highs and noxious toxins
will we succumb like dumbfounded
addicts intoxicated by inoculation
consuming the opiated semantics
of charismatic personas or will we
challenge the corrupt
with our wits about us
facing the sobering corporate
corporeality with the pride
of lions facing a den of thieves
abandon the chosen champion
of the vanguard party
we stand hand-in-hand
7 billion
sisters and brothers
in an anthemic chorus of
solidarity that shakes the
bastions of the enthroned
with the resounding shouts of
perseverance in our
non-compliant defiance
our manifestos are written
in the blood sweat and tears
we've shed for this
dream deferred
and we will not be the
silent majority anymore
the masque of anarchy
is ours to share
will we wear its visage
or will hell freeze over
before we choose
freedom
over happiness
Feb 2, 2016
Feb 2, 2016 at 8:00 AM UTC
Illusions of grandeur, spoon-fed to the youth.
Blinders cloak their unsuspecting eyes from truths.
The masquerade of the masses,
Misinformation spreads through the classes.
"You can be what you desire to be",
How maniacal can one cliche be?
Kids, it's just that easy.
No effort or self-discipline needed, and all you need is a degree.
Real-life is much stranger than fiction.
The depiction of the world couldn't be more of a mask.
Slough all that you've heard, there will be afflictions.
Or, continue and join the world's soporific masque.
May 5, 2013
May 5, 2013 at 4:25 AM UTC
Did you ever just once
stand in front of a mirror
and actually see the pain
reflected in your eyes?
Behind this pain lies
many years of feeling
that you are never worthy;
never worthy of ever being
loved by that one special
someone that you were
supposedly destined to
spend the rest of your
natural life with.
People like this often
regress into a sea of
blackness that they can
never swim out of.
They are surrounded
by nothing but empty
water filled with
empty promises -
these exact promises
that they desperately
cling to in order
not to drown.
It is ultimately their
choice to brave
these murky waters,
or allow themselves to
be continually trapped
in this Sea of Obscurity.
Even if they can pull
themselves out of this
despair, they still have that
lingering feeling that
they are forever doomed
to live in this constant
state of pain and agony.
These lost spirits just
want and need to feel
like they matter.
They desire to be
accepted and loved
for who they are,
regardless of their
faults and flaws.
They often times try
too hard to have
others accept them.
However, when they are
overlooked or made to feel like
a speck of dirt on the ground,
they again lose their way.
It is a constant battle that
people face daily if they feel
that they are never worthy –
never deserving to be given a
real chance in life and in love.
They feel unappreciated
and find themselves
questioning their place
In this world.
Many masque their pain
with poisons that
make them feel numb.
But, most know that
these elixirs are only
a temporary fix.
They do not even
know where to start
to fix this internal pain.
All they want is to feel
loved and accepted.
Instead of condoling these
people, help them by not
only extending your hand,
but also by sharing your
heart with them.
They need to feel that
they are just as worthy
as someone who appears
happy and content with
their own life.
Help give them a
reason to feel like
they really do matter.
Show them they are not
condemned to a life of
feeling like they
are never worthy of
any joy and love.
There is hope and promise
for them, and maybe
sooner than later,
these exact same
misguided people
will be able to look
in the mirror and
not dread what they
have seen in the past;
but instead, the mirror
emulates that sparkle
of hope that has been
missing for so long.
Vicki A. Zinn
June 25, 2016
Jun 25, 2016
Jun 25, 2016 at 2:29 PM UTC
She wore gloves,
long, cotton swan's necks
which she stole from the
fields outside Baltimore,
plucked from the brown
fingers that wore the soil to dust.
She wore gloves,
a white pretense of elegance,
to hide her dainty,
fingers of a lady
who had never labored a day in her life.
Or so he supposed.
She wore gloves,
he'd soon discover,
to masque the bleeding
from nights spent battling
a linguistic war
with her old typewriter.
She wore gloves,
white lies that they were,
to protect her only valuables
from being taken from her
or doomed to the fate
of being held in another's.
She wore gloves,
never took them off,
as her one and only disguise.
For who would publish
lofty, luxurious paragraphs
when tainted by the pronoun her?
Oct 28, 2015
Oct 28, 2015 at 11:01 AM UTC
A stranger may look on in wonder,
Curious of its splendor.
They may ask,
"Who made this mask?"
And With a heavy sigh,
I'll curtly reply:
"The mask is of my own design,
I made it faultless, line by line."
They'll look on in perplex.
Then comment next,
"What purpose does it serve?"
My answer, "To preserve."
They'll give a questioning look,
And my eyes will be those of a crooke.
"To preserve a broken state,
Which has been rather ill of late.
Behind this mask,
Lies an ungodly task.
The broken soul,
Is ***** as coal.
The bleeding heart,
Needs a jump start.
The shattered mind,
Could use a new shine...
But to speak of more,
Is to open a horrendous door.
There is so much pain,
Anyone else would fain."
They'll continue to stare at me,
"May i ask.. if I may see?"
I'll pause. And think.
Before I speak,
"If I let you behind my mask,
There is but one thing I ask.
Look around with care,
I can't take another tear."
Apr 3, 2015
Apr 3, 2015 at 12:30 AM UTC
"cease fire" spouts microphone,
hot blood on tongue,
the wheels whirl,
dramamine for my ex-girlfriends,
dramamine for my future binge--
will this time do?
"listen, listen",
nah-- there's a war on,
we've got **** to do,
dramamine for the foothills of Dakota,
dramamine for the brothels of Orleans,
will I make the sun?
the vultures feast prematurely,
the death masque,
the collegiate, the ******* and the cry--
dramamine for the funeral singer,
dramamine for the swollen shrapnel,
let's just wait for the savior.
Apr 13, 2011
Apr 13, 2011 at 10:21 PM UTC
Aphrodite, Xochiquetzal, Vénus, Ishtar, Astarté !
Oxum, Inanna, Erzulie Freda
Mes muses en Kâlî polycéphale réunies,
Venez vous ébattre et débattre avec moi !
Et vêtez le masque des savantes hétaïres,
Des nagaravadhu, des femmes matadore
Des tayu, des ahuianime, des harots
Et autres courtisanes de lumière,
Rhétoriciennes scandaleuses d'antan,
Pour m'initier à l'Intime quintessence
Des mystères de vos fils Kama, Eros, Cupidon.
J'ai choisi pour vous, les Immortelles,
La tenue mortelle des Métèques :
Entre Shamhat, la Joyeuse sumérienne
Amrapali , Vasantasena,
Basaui, Kulika, les tantriques
Shinano, Sakura et Bunsui
Diotime, prêtresse Mantinéote
Aspasie, la belle Milésienne,
Omphale, la Lydienne qui domina Hercule,
Lasthénéia, Nicarété, les grandes maquerelles,
Phryné, de son vrai nom Mnésarétè, la demoiselle,
La pudibonde muse de Praxitèle,
Puis encore Thargélia, qui devint reine
Impéria qui vécut en beauté pendant vingt-six ans et douze jours
Veronica, Lamia, Nééra,
Laïs qui vous dédia son miroir,
Toutes érudites catins de haute volée,
Porte-paroles d'Eros,
Indomptables et puissantes concubines
D'amour et d'intelligence,
Je ne peux décider
Avec qui convoler au Banquet des Sophistes ?
Certaines m'enflamment la chair
D'autres l'esprit et l 'âme
Et pour toutes cependant sans exception
Je bande d'égale vigueur.
"Amour, ont assuré ces maîtresses
Au disciple fervent que je suis,
N 'est ni divin ni humain
Ni beau ni laid
Ni bon ni méchant
Amour est un démon, un sorcier
Un magicien, un entremetteur...
Si j 'en crois ces rhétoriciennes,
Honorer l 'Amour
C'est désirer le Beau, assouvir
L 'impérissable désir d'immortalité.
On aime car on engendre
On aime car on féconde
On aime car on se reproduit
Pour les siècles des siècles.
Et c'est Ilithyie qui nous accouche
et nous délivre de la mortalité par la conception et l'enfantement.
Le Beau est éternel
Ce n'est pas un Beau physique
Mais métaphysique
Qu 'il nous faut reproduire
Par des joutes sensuelles
Pour tendre vers l 'immortalité.
Fécondez-moi donc et en honorant la courtisane,
La Métèque, qui vibre sous chacun de vos masques
J 'honore l 'Amour à travers vous,
Mes Etrangères,
Peu importe si mon amour est socratique,
Aristotélicien, platonique ou épicurien
Pour peu que j 'accouche de mes pensées lubriques.
Et si je meurs en couches
Qu'on me célèbre à travers tous vos panthéons
Comme le plus valeureux des guerriers !
Aug 21, 2019
Aug 21, 2019 at 2:17 AM UTC
Come on and dance with me
It’s easy if you try
Come on and dance with me
Follow my lead and glide
Slip in the mud
Racing through your blood
You’re as good as gone
Drifting away with eyes half-shut
Come on and dance with me
It’s easy if you try
Come on and dance with me
You’re stepping out of time
It’s a living Hell
Cold sweats, puke, and pain
Your skin goes blue
When you drink the blackened rain
Do you want to dance with me?
It’s easy if you try
Come on and dance with me
As we fall down from the sky
Oh, come on and dance with me
It’s easy if you try
Come on now, dance with me
And I’ll shiver down your spine
The warmth is gone
The rush is fleeting away
You’ve nodded off
For the last time
You’ve come here to dance with me
So give me your best try
You've tread upon my dancing shoes
It’s now your time to die
Come on and dance with me
It’s easy if you try
Now, tell me 'bout your dance with death
Was it worth the high?
Come on and dance with me--
Jan 27, 2017
Jan 27, 2017 at 5:46 PM UTC
Find me in the piazza where Neptune's confined
As night makes phantoms of us two entwined
Hold me tightly, with all your power
When we come across that evil tower
Where the feet of men once danced upon air
Please - do not let us not linger there
Instead, take me to the statues ball
Where shadows waltz across the wall
We'll join them in this moonlit masque
And spin until dawn begins her task
As darkness burns in morning's fire
Take my hand so we may retire
I'll place my head upon your naked chest
And savor the silence in which we're blessed
But most of all, do not let me leave
For home is not a place to grieve
Keep me here, until our hearts cease to endeavor
In our final moment, we will live forever.
Jun 23, 2013
Jun 23, 2013 at 7:18 PM UTC
Fable II, Livre V.
Je suis un peu badaud, je n'en disconviens pas.
Tout m'amuse ; depuis ces batteurs d'entrechats,
Depuis ces brillants automates,
Dont Gardel fait mouvoir et les pieds et les bras,
Jusqu'à ceux dont un fil règle et soutient les pas,
Jusqu'aux Vestris à quatre pattes,
Qui la queue en trompette, et le museau crotté,
En jupe, en frac, en froc, en toque, en mitre, en casque,
La plume sur l'oreille, ou la brette au côté,
Modestes toutefois sous l'habit qui les masque,
Moins fiers que nous de leurs surnoms,
Quêtent si gaîment les suffrages
Des musards de tous les cantons
Et des enfants de tous les âges.
L'argent leur vient aussi. Peut-on payer trop bien
L'art, le bel art de Terpsichore ?
Art unique ! art utile au singe, à l'homme, au chien.
Comme il vous fait valoir un sot, une pécore !
C'est le clinquant qui les décore,
Et fait quelque chose de rien.
La critique, en dépit de mon goût et du vôtre,
Traite pourtant, lecteur, cet art tout comme un autre.
Quels succès sous sa dent ne sont pas expiés ?
Qui n'en est pas victime en est le tributaire.
Le grand Vestris, le grand Voltaire,
Par sa morsure estropiés,
Prouvent qu'il faut qu'on se résigne
Et qu'enfin le génie à cette dent maligne
Est soumis de la tète aux pieds.
De cette vérité, que je ne crois pas neuve,
Quelques roquets tantôt m'offraient encor la preuve.
Tandis qu'au son du flageolet,
Au bruit du tambourin, sautillant en cadence,
Ces pauvres martyrs de la danse
Formaient sous ma fenêtre un fort joli ballet,
Un mâtin, cette fois ce n'était pas un homme,
Un mâtin, qui debout n'a jamais fait un pas,
Campé sur son derrière, aboyait, Dieu sait comme,
Après ceux qui savaient ce qu'il ne savait pas,
Après ceux, et c'est là le plaisant de l'affaire,
Après ceux qui faisaient ce qu'il ne peut pas faire.
Quoique mauvais danseur, en mes propos divers,
Pour la danse, en tout temps, j'ai montré force estime.
En douter serait un vrai crime ;
J'en atteste ces petits vers.
Mais que sert mon exemple à ce vaste univers ?
Je n'en crois donc pas moins le sens de cette fable
Au commun des mortels tout-à-fait applicable.
Chiens et gens qui dansez, retenez bien ceci :
L'ignorant est jaloux et l'impuissant aussi.
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Vous connaissez ce quai nommé de la Ferraille,
Où l'on vend des oiseaux, des hommes et des fleurs.
A mes fables souvent c'est là que je travaille ;
J'y vois des animaux, et j'observe leurs moeurs.
Un jour de mardi gras j'étais à la fenêtre
D'un oiseleur de mes amis,
Quand sur le quai je vis paraître
Un petit arlequin leste, bien fait, bien mis,
Qui, la batte à la main, d'une grâce légère,
Courait après un masque en habit de bergère.
Le peuple applaudissait par des ris, par des cris.
Tout près de moi, dans une cage,
Trois oiseaux étrangers, de différent plumage,
Perruche, cardinal, serin,
Regardaient aussi l'arlequin.
La perruche disait : " J'aime peu son visage,
Mais son charmant habit n'eut jamais son égal.
Il est d'un si beau vert ! - Vert ! dit le cardinal ;
Vous n'y voyez donc pas, ma chère ?
L'habit est rouge assurément :
Voilà ce qui le rend charmant.
- Oh ! pour celui-là, mon compère,
Répondit le serin, vous n'avez pas raison,
Car l'habit est jaune-citron ;
Et c'est ce jaune-là qui fait tout son mérite.
- Il est vert. - Il est jaune. - Il est rouge morbleu ! "
Interrompt chacun avec feu ;
Et déjà le trio s'irrite.
" Amis, apaisez-vous, leur crie un bon pivert ;
L'habit est jaune, rouge et vert.
Cela vous surprend fort ; voici tout le mystère :
Ainsi que bien des gens d'esprit et de savoir,
Mais qui d'un seul côté regardent une affaire,
Chacun de vous ne veut y voir
Que la couleur qui sait lui plaire. "
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Dans Venise la rouge,
Pas un bateau qui bouge ;
Pas un pêcheur dans l'eau,
Pas un falot.
Seul, assis à la grève,
Le grand lion soulève,
Sur l'horizon serein,
Son pied d'airain.
Autour de lui, par groupes,
Navires et chaloupes,
Pareils à des hérons
Couchés en ronds,
Dorment sur l'eau qui fume,
Et croisent dans la brume,
En légers tourbillons,
Leurs pavillons.
La lune qui s'efface
Couvre son front qui passe
D'un nuage étoilé
Demi-voilé.
Ainsi, la dame abbesse
De Sainte-Croix rabaisse
Sa cape aux larges plis
Sur son surplis.
Et les palais antiques,
Et les graves portiques,
Et les blancs escaliers.
Des chevaliers,
Et les ponts, et les rues,
Et les mornes statues,
Et le golfe mouvant
Qui tremble au vent,
Tout se tait, fors les gardes
Aux longues hallebardes,
Qui veillent aux créneaux
Des arsenaux.
- Ah ! maintenant plus d'une
Attend, au clair de lune,
Quelque jeune muguet,
L'oreille au guet.
Pour le bal qu'on prépare,
Plus d'une qui se pare,
Met devant son miroir
Le masque noir.
Sur sa couche embaumée,
La Vanina pâmée
Presse encor son amant,
En s'endormant ;
Et Narcisa, la folle,
Au fond de sa gondole,
S'oublie en un festin
Jusqu'au matin.
Et qui, dans l'Italie,
N'a son grain de folie ?
Qui ne garde aux amours
Ses plus beaux jours ?
Laissons la vieille horloge,
Au palais du vieux doge,
Lui compter de ses nuits
Les longs ennuis.
Comptons plutôt, ma belle,
Sur ta bouche rebelle
Tant de baisers donnés...
Ou pardonnés.
Comptons plutôt tes charmes,
Comptons les douces larmes,
Qu'à nos yeux a coûté
La volupté !
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