"maupassant" poems
"One is at last killed by what one loves violently."
--Guy De Maupassant
During the nights when I cannot seek the sanctity of
sleep,for it does not come over me until the
deadly light of daybreak;
I listen to the still, small voice
calling out from the cracked, crumbling and
falling
plaster firmament hanging over me--
a proverbial coffin-lid
threatening
to close in over me, nailed tightly
shut
with antique copper spikes
to keep
the good dreams
out.
I am so often told in tones
echoing sad and
silent
in the O Holy Night,
to write
the elegy of insanity
creeping
up
from my feet
beneath
these ***** blankets,
seeping,
working its way to my throat
where lies my stifled
cries
that engulf the labored breathing
as my tender, simple
heart
threatens to explode.
Tossing a pillow against the
peeling,
painted wall, I utter
a course ************
to the weathered, unwashed window
by my head
that pounds;
needing the soothing
song-sounds of
whiskey, scotch or
lukewarm beer to revive
my
sinking,
burning soul as
*i lay me down
to die,
i pray to nothing
and embrace the lies*
O, the lies...
I can scarce recall
a time of peace and
bliss,
laying lonely in your arms,
with regret I had to
kiss
your sour lips
perfumed bitter with stale smoke,
***** and other such things like
this...
...this nowhere outside goiing,
going
gone:
The Wheel of Misfortune,
the agony of armies in
retreat,
the ****** of the mind,
the birth
of Jesus, Muhammad, Krishna
and the plastic
Elvis Presley poking up
off your dusty dull-blue dashboard
like the other man's
***** you left
for mine.
Yes,
on these and every sleepless
forever nights
I know,
I show that
O, still, small voice
the things
we refuse to see,
and maybe after it's all over
it
will sing myself to sleep.
Jun 4, 2010
Jun 4, 2010 at 1:59 AM 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
AHHH....AMI!
"Je cherche le mot..."
Her left foot
had gone
. . .asleep.
The rest of her
still
. . . wide awake.
The net curtains
she noticed idly
needed washing
blew back
in an almost
theatrical( how
dramatic)fashion
& there
stood Death
large as life
( so to speak ).
Death itself
like an old fashioned butler
"Almost a Jeeves!"
she chuckled softly
to her self.
"Madame, if I may
...have a word?"
"Oh, Mr. Death
surely not yet...not yet?"
Death smiled
obsequiously.
"Le Roi, s'amuse. . ."
The unfinished Maupassant
falling from her hand.
Mar 4, 2016
Mar 4, 2016 at 5:53 PM UTC
“We’re so happy.”
“Only in the picture though.”
Happiness flees
Like water moving underneath the trees
You can’t step in the same river twice
(Maupassant's Pierre et Jean taught me that)
So I just don’t step in at all.
But I do other things
With my feet and
hands.
Other people.
I slide my hand up her
Skirt.
I slide my foot up her
Slacks
She stands up after she
figures it out.
That I’m a miserable ****
Who just wants off
And only sees doubt.
Nov 12, 2010
Nov 12, 2010 at 7:38 PM UTC
(News, May 2015: Every new home in France must grow food or have solar paneling)
Maupassant and Baudelaire
Say stick it up your derriere
You countries that just won't care
'Cos energy is free as free as thought
In, out, sunshine caught
So take your sticky carbon crap
Your shale, oil, and your frack
And leave them in the ground below
For we are here: the undertow
And we will grow.
May 26, 2015
May 26, 2015 at 9:17 PM UTC
AHHH....AMI!
"Je cherche le mot..."
Her left foot
had gone
. . .asleep.
The rest of her
still
. . . wide awake.
The net curtains
she noticed idly
needed washing
blew back
in an almost
theatrical( how
dramatic)fashion
& there
stood Death
large as life
( so to speak ).
Death itself
like an old fashioned butler
"Almost a Jeeves!"
she chuckled softly
to her self.
"Madame, if I may
...have a word?"
"Oh, Mr. Death
surely not yet...not yet?"
Death smiled
obsequiously.
"Le Roi, s'amuse. . ."
The unfinished Maupassant
falling from her hand.
Mar 4, 2019
Mar 4, 2019 at 6:56 PM UTC
Echoes of silence rippling through our veins;
The weight of the evening is shifting
From unseen words, lonely phrases
To midnight's twinkle and altruistic gazes.
You become my buoyant hammock,
With the surrender of sound,
My Maupassant,
But I am not found.
As you enfold me with one leg,
I am your darkroom so bright.
Gentle ticking,
Clockwork through the night.
As we bathe in the muteness of the hour,
I can hear your heart slowly beating
As I listen to our souls' casual meeting.
Oct 1, 2014
Oct 1, 2014 at 11:44 PM UTC
next to never (a pair of ones)
squeezed between nuh-uh and fugetaboutit,
is that long gone notion in the nation of concepts,
like one true love, the connected lines on each of our
bodies, certifying we are a pair of ones, a strong hand.
there are chores to be done:
reread Guy de Maupassant,
delete two thousand unread emails
cry for my so lost children
let Walt Whitman wash over my body like oil
kick the guy out of bed so he can make us coffee.
a ton of stuff to do, good thing, we got a strong hand,
that pair of ones.
which I am now informed is called a pair of
Aces.
Who Knew?
7:51 Sun Jul 12
Jul 12, 2020
Jul 12, 2020 at 8:06 AM UTC
“It is the lives we encounter that make life worth living.”
-Guy de Maupassant
The lessons I've learned
some granted, some earned,
befell upon my soul
many in parts, some in whole.
And the paths that I sought
were simply thought.
T’was not my task
to question, but to ask.
With great wisdom to impart,
the sage spoke of his heart.
And how it grew in the sun,
as he watched the river run.
The carpenter’s will
was to hone his skill
by observing his peers
throughout the years.
The healer cured the ill
through holistic means, not a pill.
For the body will never grow
if you treat it, but ignore the soul.
The banker loaned this advice
Spend once, but save twice.
That to earn your day of leisure,
work comes before pleasure.
The peasant had no riches to give,
materials to offer or home to live.
But she spoke of another time and place
one of honor, love and grace.
The farmer’s hand
was blessed by the land.
Whose gifts were fruits grown
from tiny seeds sown.
With the utmost diligence and care,
I chronicled these affairs.
My notebook, weathered and worn,
frayed about the edges and slightly torn.
In the distance, a faint light
grew closer and became very bright.
A ringing sound filled my ear,
becoming so loud I could not hear.
The clouds started to twist and bend,
my life had come to an end.
The notebook fell from my hand,
my pen dropped and lodged in the sand.
Then came a gentle whisper in my ear
so soft a voice, yet very clear.
She said “What is important is what you left behind.
For those that never search, never will find!”
Sep 14, 2017
Sep 14, 2017 at 8:58 PM UTC