"mitre" poems
Working parts and mechanisms,
charts and graphs and mannerisms,
a table, pencil, square and mitre...
eraser marks, sweat drops, -go lighter!
A thought or two and ponderance...
Decimal here and decimal there,
-micron adjustment now we're square...
Up all night until daylight dawn
and finally I've fixed the Krong!
A thought or two and ponderance...
To the factory arrive before eight
and finished, furnished, a model late...
A handheld one and something larger,
humanity saved by my charger!
A thought or two and ponderance...
10 years long after planet saved,
They'll be parades and accolades...
Statues, tributes, my name in text-books,
but no one, never, a second look!
Never to worry on life again...
..I did it,
I reset the world; begin.
And did it all with Earth's mighty spin.
Oct 3, 2016
Oct 3, 2016 at 3:31 PM UTC
Tools of the Patriarchy
Fence pliers, claw hammers, crescent wrenches
Nail sets, c-clamps, wood planes, mitre boxes
Come-alongs, White Mule gloves, ball-peen hammers
Jumper cables, wood planes, mill bstrd files
Plumb bobs, twist bits, cross-cut saws, ripping saws
Tire irons, air compressors, pressure gauges
Brace-and-bits, drawing knives, pneumatic jacks
Cold chisels, clamps, mortar trowels, channel locks
A twelve-hour day plus d*mned low pay, you bet!
And
A work ethic, knowledge, muscles, and sweat
Mar 14, 2017
Mar 14, 2017 at 1:47 PM UTC
this is an educated
refined, cultured, poem
fit to clothe a queen’s body
radiant enough to sit on a king’s head
no doubt,
the king’d head on a silver plate
this is elegant, truthful,
and most dignified as robes
and gold threads on a priest’s mitre
and ermine round the waists
this is immaculate,
probing, penetrative and sedate
so well-constructed, traditional
so cast into meter and scanned
so organised and adept
as a gynaecologists’s fingers
and last but not least
it is reverend, respectful and silent
as full of respect as are holy poems and sonnets
and poems all fit into good form and shape
and thus it refrains from 4-letter words
though - **** - sometimes it slips and falls
like a drunkard, into the gutters
but it is the fault of the terrain
Nov 2, 2011
Nov 2, 2011 at 7:17 AM 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.
1.2k
I have a man with a pointy hat
Lives under my desktop lid,
He came for muffins and jam, and that,
I call the Wizard of Did,
His beard got caught when the lid came down
So I had to trim it back,
But he says it’s comfy and warm in there
So he’s turned it into a flat.
I thought at first I would charge him rent
But he wasn’t too keen on that,
So I suggested a garden tent
And he said he’d pass the hat.
I’d try to type in the early hours
But he’d bang up under the lid,
‘How can I get my beauty sleep,’
He said, the Wizard of Did.
‘You’re going to have to pay your way,’
I said, ‘It’s not for free,
‘You’d better come up with something good
That’s of some use to me.’
‘You say you struggle for plots,’ he said,
‘Well I can help with those,
‘I’m full of people I want to be,
I just need different clothes.’
The Wizard was as good as his word
He’d pop up now and then,
Whenever I’d sit and scratch my head
He’d mention Holy men,
Then march along the top of the desk
With mitre, staff and cross,
And make me kiss the pontiff’s ring
On the eve of Pentecost.
He’d play the role of a murderer,
He’d play the role of a clown,
He’d play an old sheep herder-er
With a crook in a shepherd’s gown,
He’d pop up with a pirate’s patch
And ****** pieces of eight,
Or keep me longing for Molly Brown
When my ship came in too late.
Whenever I sat there at a loss
For a line, a rhyme, a verse,
He’d throw a bag on the table top
And say, ‘Now pick a curse!’
He’d turn mine into a haunted house
And he’d stalk me in the gloom,
And have me making a pact with Faust
In a dark and lonely tomb.
And now when I think my muse has gone
That my stories have been spent,
I tap-tap-tap on the table top
And he says, ‘You must repent!
I’m not a bottomless pit, you know,’
Climbs in, and closes the lid,
I say, ‘You promised a constant flow,’
And he groans, ‘I know… I Did!’
David Lewis Paget
Dec 19, 2014
Dec 19, 2014 at 1:31 AM UTC
Sorry said the merry man, adjacent on his way,
I've gone and ticked you off while I've been out tramping today
And in my careless frolic I seem to have stole your heart
What brutal lust you blow towards me, gushing like a ****
But I'm not la-da-dee-da-dee, a manly bearded sprite
Jingle though my stirrups do like dormice held too tight
I'm a serious enterprise, a man deeply invested
In stacking stocks and picking prices, if you're interested?
She danced reluctantly to him, unnatured to the rhythm
But with a wink she start'd to slink and jim-jam along with him
The two then picked their sandals up and shuffled down the street
And drank and laughed amerrily at all they chanced to meet
To the bank they wandered, legislating they did go
In government, in finance, in high station to and fro
Each day they yawned and gargled on a fresh new tonic smell
And went on down the street to make a fresh mismanaged hell
Soon agiggling and adultering they fell down in a mess
Holes and tears ashaming his and her once modest dress
There they lay and blocked the road till bobby picked them up
And once they'd laughed their fill of him they bribed the greasy pup
He took them to the city square and let them borrow his hat
They gave out fines and sentences for being thin or fat
They stood on boxes, had ideas for rent for half a pence
And sat gracefully cross-eyed on the splintering picket fence
Then donned a mitre, did a dance, their pageantry displayed,
They became gods, just for a laugh, the vicarage dismayed
When down from heaven lightning bolts, shot with a holy hum
Came buzzing like a hornets' nest and shocked them on the ***
A **** of smoke, a whiff of cheese, the townsfolk breathed release
Gone at last those terrors past, they could return to peace
Then up from high a saintly sigh two angels billowed down
Golden halos greasy and no pants beneath their gown
The townsfolk wept and cried aloud, their stomachs plopped and churned
To see the pair of villains there, so gracefully returned
Blessed be the kingmakers the two of them agreed
Until next weekend, Duw my dear, and until then, God's speed.
Nov 28, 2020
Nov 28, 2020 at 10:00 AM UTC
The amorphous world hates each and every creative soul
Another, I can't name
Except the idols held in such high regard
Excluding the ones I disavow
Save a few, all ideas are below me now
The masses all bleed but not all bleed red
Some bleed black, and some bleed falsehoods.
Our perfect community has more common ground with the enemy than the elitist ground we've come to sacrafice our lives and time defending
If only for the present my perception is less muddled
Before I cloud my mind with hurdles
To Disincentivize
Future fleshing out
Stout lies, watching promises
Fall by the way side
I will rise
I repeat the faster I sink
This elevator ideology is showing no signs
As it drags me to hell
One intention at a time
Marching round in time
Circling, quickening my pace
Winning a race
Invented for me
By people like me
How about you try me
And then we'll see just how deep
Inside me
The mitre has me
The mindset grasps me
And chains around me
Feel soft as feathers
The wings I fly on are burdens beneath my feet
My brothers and sisters hold the keys to my shackles but have mistaken them for unspeakable horrors.
Mar 18, 2017
Mar 18, 2017 at 5:27 AM UTC
eyes that drink it in,
eyes that glaze, eyes tempted sin,
walk, drive, hear or see,
scent or feel,
what has this to do with me,
is it all the outside objects of desire for poetry,
is it for a friend,
is it at the end of the day, in a wild free-
verse way, is this a dress rehearsal for after-play,
in love,
of love, gone astray
of self-image, renovation reconstruction,
but you can no longer see the dysfunction,
but,
but;
the broken exploded pieces of your heart,
are lodged in every nerve, you can only writhe
to your pain.
you have meter, you have mitre, cut the rhythm so
close to perfection, a pentameter of frustration, first
name, iambic.
Will you be content,
with the content,
language sounds
hard and rounds,
soft supple syl-
lables slipping silently,
off your tongue,
the strongest muscle,
a double edged, an implement,
sword for word play too.
Poetry is special, as those who strive
to write it,
they may be life lessons shared
to right their ship,
poetry may be long,
it may be short,
you may
write in
privacy,
and no one will
ever read your poetry,
but if they do, you may know, that their
life has changed, and they may never thank you.
And as I often do and this is not an insult but
sometimes true, though I write poetry from
that awful place of woe in me, I seldom
see myself a poet. But my Muse I believe
and it tells me that I am.
Apr 15, 2015
Apr 15, 2015 at 10:41 PM UTC
after a few bottles o’ Tom
at the world’s end
I start talking
to Karen whose fingers
were freezing at first
& Pru
a friend o’ hers.
But it was Karen - woollen
pale
Australian -
who started
wanting my pockets
in the mitre
who began teasing me
with are m’ hands cold? Are they?
as we steadied each other
on the slippery cobbles close.
It was Karen
who started
whispering warmly
on a wheel
o’ ice groaning :
we kissed once in London
& almost there again
I replied:
*I know! was Xmas Eve
Heathrow somewhere*
a royal mile in the snow
was all it took to thaw I know!
Sep 26, 2015
Sep 26, 2015 at 6:18 PM UTC
The bishop knew his bounds and his curved sceptre
swept like a serpent up to his face
elongating his brows into wisdom beauty
but his eye wandered to the lady up front
with bubbly buttocks
and tight skirt.
Even his scriptures wobbled against
the power of adrenaline rushing
down his swollen
veins into his vesicles
where he still remained a bishop
with the diocese backing his holy grail
on the road to heaven.
With all those thoughts behind the mitre
and the dash of plumage purple
the bishop often wondered
what life would have been like
with the same spoils the church offered
and a warm woman in bed.
Feb 21, 2014
Feb 21, 2014 at 4:18 PM UTC
Voici juin. Le moineau raille
Dans les champs les amoureux ;
Le rossignol de muraille
Chante dans son nid pierreux.
Les herbes et les branchages,
Pleins de soupirs et d'abois,
Font de charmants rabâchages
Dans la profondeur des bois.
La grive et la tourterelle
Prolongent, dans les nids sourds,
La ravissante querelle
Des baisers et des amours.
Sous les treilles de la plaine,
Dans l'antre où verdit l'osier,
Virgile enivre Silène,
Et Rabelais Grandgousier.
O Virgile, verse à boire !
Verse à boire, ô Rabelais !
La forêt est une gloire ;
La caverne est un palais !
Il n'est pas de lac ni d'île
Qui ne nous prenne au gluau,
Qui n'improvise une idylle,
Ou qui ne chante un duo.
Car l'amour chasse aux bocages,
Et l'amour pêche aux ruisseaux,
Car les belles sont les cages
Dont nos coeurs sont les oiseaux.
De la source, sa cuvette,
La fleur, faisant son miroir,
Dit : -Bonjour,- à la fauvette,
Et dit au hibou : -Bonsoir.
Le toit espère la gerbe,
Pain d'abord et chaume après ;
La croupe du boeuf dans l'herbe
Semble un mont dans les forêts.
L'étang rit à la macreuse,
Le pré rit au loriot,
Pendant que l'ornière creuse
Gronde le lourd chariot.
L'or fleurit en giroflée ;
L'ancien zéphyr fabuleux
Souffle avec sa joue enflée
Au fond des nuages bleus.
Jersey, sur l'onde docile,
Se drape d'un beau ciel pur,
Et prend des airs de Sicile
Dans un grand haillon d'azur.
Partout l'églogue est écrite :
Même en la froide Albion,
L'air est plein de Théocrite,
Le vent sait par coeur Bion,
Et redit, mélancolique,
La chanson que fredonna
Moschus, grillon bucolique
De la cheminée Etna.
L'hiver tousse, vieux phtisique,
Et s'en va; la brume fond ;
Les vagues font la musique
Des vers que les arbres font.
Toute la nature sombre
Verse un mystérieux jour ;
L'âme qui rêve a plus d'ombre
Et la fleur a plus d'amour.
L'herbe éclate en pâquerettes ;
Les parfums, qu'on croit muets,
Content les peines secrètes
Des liserons aux bleuets.
Les petites ailes blanches
Sur les eaux et les sillons
S'abattent en avalanches ;
Il neige des papillons.
Et sur la mer, qui reflète
L'aube au sourire d'émail,
La bruyère violette
Met au vieux mont un camail ;
Afin qu'il puisse, à l'abîme
Qu'il contient et qu'il bénit,
Dire sa messe sublime
Sous sa mitre de granit.
Granville, juin 1836.
535
Your Grace, you cannot be a common man
There are no common men - but there are men
And in their service, wearily, alone
You now must bear their mitre and their ring
Your Grace, please do not dine with the regime
They’re only using you, laughing at you
Nor with the blessed poor – you’ll slurp your soup
And they deserve better company anyway
Your Grace, you must completely humble yourself
Submitting even to being addressed as “Your Grace”
Oct 4, 2018
Oct 4, 2018 at 3:53 PM UTC
Chanson.
Pour les bannis opiniâtres,
La France est **** la tombe est près.
Prince, préside aux jeux folâtres,
Chasse aux femmes dans les théâtres,
Chasse aux chevreuils dans les forêts
Rome te brûle le cinname,
Les rois te disent : mon cousin. -
Sonne aujourd'hui le glas, bourdon de Notre-Dame,
Et demain le tocsin !
Les us frappés sont les plus dignes.
Ou l'exil ! ou l'Afrique en feu !
Prince, Compiègne est plein de cygnes,
Cours dans les bois, cours dans les vignes,
Vénus rayonne au plafond bleu ;
La bacchante aux bras nus se pâme
Sous sa couronne de raisin. -
Sonne aujourd'hui le glas, bourdon de Notre-Dame,
Et demain le tocsin !
Les forçats bâtissent le phare,
Traînant leurs fers au bord des flots !
Hallali ! hallali ! fanfare !
Le cor sonne, le bois s'effare,
La lune argente les bouleaux ;
À l'eau les chiens ! le cerf qui branle
Se perd dans l'ombre du bassin. -
Sonne aujourd'hui le glas, bourdon de Notre-Dame,
Et demain le tocsin !
Le père est au bagne à Cayenne
Et les enfants meurent de faim.
Le loup verse à boire à l'hyène ;
L'homme à la mitre citoyenne
Trinque en son ciboire d'or fin ;
On voit luire les yeux de flamme
Des faunes dans l'antre voisin. -
Sonne aujourd'hui le glas, bourdon de Notre-Dame,
Et demain le tocsin !
Les morts, au boulevard Montmartre,
Rôdent, montrant leur plaie au cœur.
Pâtés de Strasbourg et de Chartre,
Sous la table, un tapis de martre
Les belles boivent au vainqueur,
Et leur sourire offre leur âme,
Et leur corset offre leur sein. -
Sonne aujourd'hui le glas, bourdon de Notre-Dame,
Et demain le tocsin !
Captifs, expirez dans les fièvres.
Vous allez donc vous reposer !
Dans le vieux saxe et le vieux sèvres
On soupe, on mange, et sur les lèvres
Éclôt le doux oiseau baiser ;
Et, tout en riant, chaque femme
En laisse fuir un fol essaim. -
Sonne aujourd'hui le glas, bourdon de Notre-Dame,
Et demain le tocsin !
La Guyane, cachot fournaise,
Tue aujourd'hui comme jadis.
Couche-toi, joyeux et plein d'aise,
Au lit où coucha Louis seize,
Puis l'empereur, puis Charles dix ;
Endors-toi, pendant qu'on t'acclame,
La tête sur leur traversin. -
Sonne aujourd'hui le glas, bourdon de Notre-Dame,
Et demain le tocsin !
Ô deuil ! par un bandit féroce
L'avenir est mort poignardé !
C'est aujourd'hui la grande noce,
Le fiancé monte en carrosse ;
C'est lui ! César le bien gardé !
Peuples, chantez l'épithalame !
La France épouse l'assassin. -
Sonne aujourd'hui le glas, bourdon de Notre-Dame,
Et demain le tocsin !
Le 25 janvier 1853.
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