"nuptial" poems
At length their long kiss severed, with sweet smart:
And as the last slow sudden drops are shed
From sparkling eaves when all the storm has fled,
So singly flagged the pulses of each heart.
Their bosoms sundered, with the opening start
Of married flowers to either side outspread
From the knit stem; yet still their mouths, burnt red,
Fawned on each other where they lay apart.
Sleep sank them lower than the tide of dreams,
And their dreams watched them sink, and slid away.
Slowly their souls swam up again, through gleams
Of watered light and dull drowned waifs of day;
Till from some wonder of new woods and streams
He woke, and wondered more: for there she lay.
30k
WIFE and servant are the same,
But only differ in the name :
For when that fatal knot is ty'd,
Which nothing, nothing can divide :
When she the word obey has said,
And man by law supreme has made,
Then all that's kind is laid aside,
And nothing left but state and pride :
Fierce as an eastern prince he grows,
And all his innate rigour shows :
Then but to look, to laugh, or speak,
Will the nuptial contract break.
Like mutes, she signs alone must make,
And never any freedom take :
But still be govern'd by a nod,
And fear her husband as a God :
Him still must serve, him still obey,
And nothing act, and nothing say,
But what her haughty lord thinks fit,
Who with the power, has all the wit.
Then shun, oh ! shun that wretched state,
And all the fawning flatt'rers hate :
Value yourselves, and men despise :
You must be proud, if you'll be wise.
8.2k
On its back,
The cockroach,
In a jacket of red wings,
Slender legs,
And bulging abdomen,
Like the tummy of African statesman,
Its legs wallowing in despair,
In the air,
Stamping the spread eagled,
Hind and forelimbs,
Of the poor anthropod,
Kicking and waving,
A cry for the succor,
To be freed from ebola,
Or breaking the *** tether,
Or un-doing strong bonds of poverty,
Three districts under leprosy,
In the domain of the bull’s eye,
Where lesbians and gays swallow raw fate,
Its salient manifestation,
Then the cockroach kicks silently,
Anticipating for salvage,
But when the domain owner comes,
He steps with full weight,
His foot dressed in military boots,
From the previous legacy of Che Gue Vara,
On the belly of the kakerlag at Berlin Wall,
Bursting its stomach but hopscotch,
Spilling the white stuff out,
Of poverty and mental dilemma,
Amid hopelessness in future and history,
As terrorism mires tomorrow,
When China reigns today,
At mercy of contemporary panjandrums,
Moving from white to black
And from black to face book,
Killing those who fall in commercial love,
As if money is the ***** for nuptial night,
But only to go forth ignobled,
Without making momentous affinity,
In the realm of ill fated cockroach back-dom,
Sending Mafousian Egypt to Swedish table,
Without scorn and regard for true African blood,
Where will I apologize?
If the ****** bug
Enters my head and heart,
To blind my logical eyes,
Only to open wide
The senses that see and feel
Religion and race; O! Al Qaeda!
Dec 4, 2014
Dec 4, 2014 at 6:17 AM UTC
They are silent and beautiful,
gorgeous in in the white halo,
cemented in a beautiful terrazzo,
baring the names of fallen soldiers,
the European soldiers that fell in Wars;
second and first and the heinous silent wars,
i hope this is why they have a proverb; white sepulchre,
only baring the white dead, only chiefs but no dead Indian.
Common wealth graveyards are all over in Africa,
in India , panama , Latin America and europe,
the active fronts in which the allies fought ******
they are beautifully placed in silently posh areas,
in langata when in Nairobi, in Mbaraki when in Mombasa,
in Matisi when in Kenya, In Namusungui when in Lodwar,
They bear horizontal silence with white names engraved
on their beautiful face shouting the glory of European empires,
which provoked the evil sense in the heart of the king's horseman
in Kenya, in the city of Nairobi, to steal the graveyard lands,
he made them his urban home with an uppish courtyard,
for him the dead white neighbours are better than in-corruption.
I walk around the commonwealth graveyards,
in the all quarters of erstwhile British empire,
looking for the names of African soldiers ,
who died in thousands fighting for the queen
the royal bloodied woman of England;Elizabeth,
Looking for the sons of Ethiopia who stood with
the second duce Benito son of Mussolini,
fighting for Hitler,for Shintos in the European war,
i have seen no name of any African,
I have not seen Wandabwa wa masibo,
who was conscripted into the first world war,
Along with his father Biket wa Khayongo,
Biket back after seven years in 1918,
carrying Wandabwa's Belt,
Wandabwa died in the field,
Where was he buried, he is nowhere
Not anywhere among the soldiers in cemeteries,
I have not seen Nasong'o wa Khayongo,
who was conscripted in 1940,
to fight against ******
he was conscripted on his nuptial evening,
even before he had had the first ***
with his new wife, he went away crying,
he never came back, his name is nowhere in the graves
the commonwealth graves that bare names of the fallen,
Fallen soldiers, but they all bare white names in the black world.
you come to Africa, Kenya, Nigeria, Malagasy,Egypt,
whatever the geographies of Africa, and you keep keen,
you hear someone is called Mr. Keya, or Madam Keya,
or you come to Bungoma county of Kenya,
you meet a man that is of the circumcision age group,
Known as Bakikwameti Keya, Bakinyikewi Musolini,
Keya is subverted sound for Kings african rivals; KAR
the African sound for KAR is Keya,
in reference to mass conscription of Africans
into the KAR, to fight ******
A child born during that time is Keya,
A man circumcised during the time
is in the age group of Keya,
A simple lesson in regard to our people,
taken away to fight the colonial power
and left to died and rot away in the bush
with a simple courtesy for ceremonial burial,
that come along with the death of soldiers,
who passed away in the battle field.
Sep 1, 2014
Sep 1, 2014 at 4:13 AM UTC
Finger soldered brilliant new gold band
proudly circling nuptial sun
orbiting eclipsing the clans
completing a family connexion
with others ovoid chipped but fondly funded
wearing thin on hardened blue veined hands
some waving some proclaiming all belonging.
Oct 17, 2015
Oct 17, 2015 at 6:13 AM UTC
Once of a bride was I by a belle informed;
Who, on the very night of their honeymoon
Upon sighting her groom's dower, screamed
And would not let him in for his ***** boon,
Until she's taken thru the script the following
Morn by her parson's wife in cool counselling.
Many things in morals and etiquette do
Parents their children ever and anon teach
Except on this single unfolding issue
Will they falter to them plainly preach:
The act of marriage in its detailed image,
Cause it's found nay on their nurturing page.
An African mother will quiver her girl to lecture,
For instance, in the subject under review,
But will leave it to the Omniscient Nature
To instruct her like cry to a curlew.
So the bride's mom will not to her say:
This is how you should roll in the hay.
Neither will a father his son likewise tell
Explicitly of this duty--this too I know--
How to make his led-to-the-altar angel
Fly on cloud nine during their maiden show.
My pa never me of this nuptial scene told,
How in bed my lady I should stylishly hold.
Yet instinct, that great ancient teacher,
The green Adam and ****** Eve taught
On man's debut moment of ecstasy ever,
And did lead him to her piquant spot,
Whilst one another they caressed for affection,
Premiering for all couples conjugal copulation.
And the animals who do not the wisdom
Of man have, even every diminutive creature,
How each by divine smarts in their kingdom--
Like the fish in the sea of their rapture--
Do with themselves mate with none
Giving them tutorials nor showing them ****
To close this up where it had first started:
The *iyawo after the pending deed was done,
As it should betwixt man and wife, delighted
Was and with glowing warmth did thence burn
In the hearth of her *ókò with ultra joy,
Who at the beginning of performance was coy.
Nov 28, 2011
Nov 28, 2011 at 4:43 AM UTC
This Little, Silent, Gloomy Monument,
Contains all that was sweet and innocent;
The softest pratler that e'er found a Tongue,
His Voice was Musick and his Words a Song ;
Which now each List'ning Angel smiling hears,
Such pretty Harmonies compose the Spheres;
Wanton as unfledg'd Cupids, ere their Charms
Has learn'd the little arts of doing harms ;
Fair as young Cherubins, as soft and kind,
And tho translated could not be refin'd ;
The Seventh dear pledge the Nuptial Joys had given,
Toil'd here on Earth, retir'd to rest in Heaven ;
Where they the shining Host of Angels fill,
Spread their gay wings before the Throne, and smile.
3k
I don’t remember exactly when Budberg died, it was either two years
ago or three.
The same with Chen. Whether last year or the one before.
Soon after our arrival, Budberg, gently pensive,
Said that in the beginning it is hard to get accustomed,
For here there is no spring or summer, no winter or fall.
“I kept dreaming of snow and birch forests.
Where so little changes you hardly notice how time goes by.
This is, you will see, a magic mountain.”
Budberg: a familiar name in my childhood.
They were prominent in our region,
This Russian family, descendants of German Balts.
I read none of his works, too specialized.
And Chen, I have heard, was an exquisite poet,
Which I must take on faith, for he wrote in Chinese.
Sultry Octobers, cool Julys, trees blossom in February.
Here the nuptial flight of hummingbirds does not forecast spring.
Only the faithful maple sheds its leaves every year.
For no reason, its ancestors simply learned it that way.
I sensed Budberg was right and I rebelled.
So I won’t have power, won’t save the world?
Fame will pass me by, no tiara, no crown?
Did I then train myself, myself the Unique,
To compose stanzas for gulls and sea haze,
To listen to the foghorns blaring down below?
Until it passed. What passed? Life.
Now I am not ashamed of my defeat.
One murky island with its barking seals
Or a parched desert is enough
To make us say: yes, oui, si.
'Even asleep we partake in the becoming of the world.”
Endurance comes only from enduring.
With a flick of the wrist I fashioned an invisible rope,
And climbed it and it held me.
What a procession! Quelles délices!
What caps and hooded gowns!
Most respected Professor Budberg,
Most distinguished Professor Chen,
Wrong Honorable Professor Milosz
Who wrote poems in some unheard-of tongue.
Who will count them anyway. And here sunlight.
So that the flames of their tall candles fade.
And how many generations of hummingbirds keep them company
As they walk on. Across the magic mountain.
And the fog from the ocean is cool, for once again it is July.
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1542
Come show thy Durham Breast
To her who loves thee best,
Delicious Robin—
And if it be not me
At least within my Tree
Do the avowing—
Thy Nuptial so minute
Perhaps is more astute
Than vaster suing—
For so to soar away
Is our propensity
The Day ensuing—
2.7k
Before sunlight can shine
I hear you breathing
long and deep
a melody to my ears.
Before sunlight can shine
I smell your aroma
raw sensual bouquet
a buffet to my nose.
Before sunlight can shine
I feel you waking
slightest of movement
a masterpiece to my fingers.
Before sunlight can shine
I see your eyes open
glimmer of new day
a vision to my eyes.
Before sunlight can shine
I taste your lips
hungrily eager
an ****** to my tongue.
Before sunlight can shine
our bodies entwine
renewal of vows
a nuptial of our senses.
Dec 20, 2010
Dec 20, 2010 at 7:56 PM UTC
As when desire, long darkling, dawns, and first
The mother looks upon the new-born child,
Even so my Lady stood at gaze and smiled
When her soul knew at length the Love it nursed.
Born with her life, creature of poignant thirst
And exquisite hunger, at her heart Love lay
Quickening in darkness, till a voice that day
Cried on him, and the bonds of birth were burst.
Now, shielded in his wings, our faces yearn
Together, as his fullgrown feet now range
The grove, and his warm hands our couch prepare:
Till to his song our bodiless souls in turn
Be born his children, when Death’s nuptial change
Leaves us for light the halo of his hair.
2.3k
When the buds began to burst,
Long ago, with Rose the First
I was walking; joyous then
Far above all other men,
Till before us up there stood
Britonferry's oaken wood,
Whispering, "Happy as thou art,
Happiness and thou must part."
Many summers have gone by
Since a Second Rose and I
(Rose from the same stem) have told
This and other tales of old.
She upon her wedding day
Carried home my tenderest lay:
From her lap I now have heard
Gleeful, chirping, Rose the Third.
Not for her this hand of mine
Rhyme with nuptial wreath shall twine;
Cold and torpid it must lie,
Mute the tongue, and closed the eye.
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Nov 27, 2015
Nov 27, 2015 at 10:11 AM UTC
Strings sting
Sticking feelings on eternities billboard
All roads leading to the altar
For comemoration of a promise made in thick and fulfilled when the chances looked slim.
'Can't be together'
Some said.
but forever didn't bother.
Cos fate had drawn the borders
knowing we were meant for each other.
How did we become lovers?
I need not know
Why u chose to wait
is still a source of debate
Carpets fell to the floor
Wow!they are red
Threadless needle
sew our hearts
as we exchanged vows crisply
Nuptial cords
soothing like piano chords
Hearty jingles
escaping from your dimples
Exchanging smiles
Cos now I can finally say you are 'mine.'
If I were you
You would be me
I don't need you
French says we are 'une'.
We have loved each other from our early teens
but each morning our love takes a new theme.
Heaven stunned by earth
Angels admiring lovebirds
Cos though we bound by eternal strings
We don't wish to be free
Confined in the cell:
You is me and I is you.
May 14, 2018
May 14, 2018 at 7:27 PM UTC
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**PERINATAL POETICS:
Prelude to a post-nuptial pre-partum event**
What is meant
by this prenatal parental lament?
Can the Spare-a-Dime shaft
upgrade to paradigm shift
as buzzwords replace the new jargon?
If the new synthetic empathy
is merely the same old pathetic symphony,
should we put away the flow charts when the show starts
to prevent a casual view
of the visual cue?
I fear this will only occur
when fast-breeding Other
becomes breast-feeding mother
even if her man’s fertility
is eclipsed
by human futility.
Feb 17, 2017
Feb 17, 2017 at 5:32 PM UTC
Writing this piece was a trouble,
says the story of a lovely couple.
A dinky apartment of 2 BHK.
Each day as lively as a flower in a freshly made bouquet.
First light was marked with peck.
Followed with looking for specs on the head.
Before the office came a hug,
that was addictive as a drug.
Their love moved the machine,
and so was their routine.
Today was no different,
For the going to be parent.
The peck, the spec, the hug and lunch.
All love showered in a bunch.
An extra kiss for the bump.
Promised to be back before the moon came up.
Had to return early,
to take her to the hospital securely.
The staff started to prepare.
Sat reciting a prayer.
That happiness was no lie,
when heard his baby girl cry.
Their eyes were full,
when saw their daughter beautiful.
Jul 24, 2020
Jul 24, 2020 at 5:41 AM UTC
Says King Kong to Ann Darrow
the blonde who screams like no other:
Mmmm….we got to talk
What? says Ann Darrow
*about practicalities…real things…
…things that matter…*
says King Kong
Like a pre-nuptial contract you mean?
No, says King Kong…
*I mean like real things…things we have…
things that make me male,
things that make you woman…*
OK, we can have a shared bank account,
says Ann Darrow
King Kong can feel it in his marrow
he’s got to be clear and narrow:
*Look, Ann…
I can’t be too explicit;
my upbringing at Devil’s Island
is high on modesty;
still
I think things can be too big
and some too small,
if you know what I mean*
OK, says Ann Darrow
*we’ll live in Colorado;
build me a small shed in the deserts
and you can have the wide open plains*
Oh, Monkey God!
says King Kong
*Are you a dumb blonde or what?
I mean, Ann Darrow…
Oh, never mind…*
Ah, ah…says Ann Darrow
*Never hide things, King Kong
You always must bring them out
into the open!*
*Oh, Ann Darrow;
You speak more truth than you know –
It’s I who have things in the open
and it’s you who hide them!*
I love you, says Ann Marrow
with a shrug
and gives King Kong a hug
I love you too, says King Kong
wondering how he’ll ever get through
Aug 12, 2011
Aug 12, 2011 at 3:52 AM UTC
January: Love is an intricate design on a snowflake
February: Love is like a heart shaped box of chocolates
March: Love is like a clover full of promise of good things to come
April: Love is like a gentle rain
May: Love is like a fresh flower
June: Love is like a nuptial kiss
July: Love is colorful like fireworks
August: Love is like a gentle breeze on a hot summer day
September: Love is a time to prepare for positive change
October: Love is gentle like falling leaves
November: Love is being thankful
December: Love is giving
Sep 23, 2013
Sep 23, 2013 at 6:00 PM UTC
Searching for a treasure
.... since the childhood to youthful
Now in the stage to depart..... !
*****
Searching .....
in the wooded forest......
..... yellow paddy field.......
..........crystal water of river......
........rugged terrain of mountain.......
...........Springy coast ...........................
......... in the head, heart and hand of man and women ....
...... in the street .... in the houses.....
....... in the houses of decision makers .....
.... in the policy paper.......
..... in the papers of plan and model....
....... in the balance sheet .........
.... for a fixed as well as liquid asset... !
****
Searching for the
Treasure ........
Full with kindness ...........
..... broad brotherhood ......
...... nuptial of peace and humanity...
....... Sparkling smile........ !
****
But, in this quest....
before now worn-out year after year.......
Only smog, dust, distrust..........
Spread over......
Snuffle of ocean spill over .......;
Albeit..........
Searching for
Our cache of happiness...
to make this world..........
Pulsate with smiles!!
Nov 21, 2014
Nov 21, 2014 at 8:39 AM UTC
Blessed I am to have you here
To touch your apple cheeks dear
To feel the warmth of your true love
And cherish all here, down or above
I am so lucky, to have the lucky charm
Of nuptial beauty, charismatically warm
O love, my love! You are what I'd convert
This world may end, death comes,so what?
Nov 23, 2024
Nov 23, 2024 at 8:15 PM UTC
In black and white and shades of grey,
They stand there, the dicky bird watching few.
The groom in the ill fitting demob suit, shoes polished with spit.
The bride, voluptuous in white brocade clutching the fading blooms.
Her father, proud, reluctant to smile, relinquishing loving care of his little girl.
Best man, a real rocker, with dark flirting eyes, slicking back black hair.
Two young girls, pretty book ends to the nuptial scene,
Short skirts and coiffured hair, clutching flower strewn prayer books in gloved palms.
I am there, the only one left standing, remembering little of that day.
But how I hated that PINK dress.
Oct 16, 2018
Oct 16, 2018 at 2:30 PM UTC
January: Love is an intricate design on a snowflake
February: Love is like a heart shaped box of chocolates
March: Love is like a clover full of promise of good things to come
April: Love is like a gentle rain
May: Love is like a fresh flower
June: Love is like a nuptial kiss
July: Love is colorful like fireworks
August: Love is like a gentle breeze on a hot summer day
September: Love is a time to prepare for positive change
October: Love is gentle like falling leaves
November: Love is being thankful
December: Love is giving
Mar 21, 2015
Mar 21, 2015 at 10:11 PM UTC
If slumber, sweet Lisena!
Have stolen o'er thine eyes,
As night steals o'er the glory
Of spring's transparent skies;
Wake, in thy scorn and beauty,
And listen to the strain
That murmurs my devotion,
That mourns for thy disdain.
Here by thy door at midnight,
I pass the dreary hour,
With plaintive sounds profaning
The silence of thy bower;
A tale of sorrow cherished
Too fondly to depart,
Of wrong from love the flatterer,
And my own wayward heart.
Twice, o'er this vale, the seasons
Have brought and borne away
The January tempest,
The genial wind of May;
Yet still my plaint is uttered,
My tears and sighs are given
To earth's unconscious waters,
And wandering winds of heaven.
I saw from this fair region,
The smile of summer pass,
And myriad frost-stars glitter
Among the russet grass.
While winter seized the streamlets
That fled along the ground,
And fast in chains of crystal
The truant murmurers bound.
I saw that to the forest
The nightingales had flown,
And every sweet-voiced fountain
Had hushed its silver tone.
The maniac winds, divorcing
The turtle from his mate,
Raved through the leafy beeches,
And left them desolate.
Now May, with life and music,
The blooming valley fills,
And rears her flowery arches
For all the little rills.
The minstrel bird of evening
Comes back on joyous wings,
And, like the harp's soft murmur,
Is heard the gush of springs.
And deep within the forest
Are wedded turtles seen,
Their nuptial chambers seeking,
Their chambers close and green.
The rugged trees are mingling
Their flowery sprays in love;
The ivy climbs the laurel,
To clasp the boughs above.
They change--but thou, Lisena,
Art cold while I complain:
Why to thy lover only
Should spring return in vain?
1.1k
Nuptial state!
Is it a bond?
Is it a grief?
I can see the fire at the end,
Disappearing and untouchable stars.
What is alike?
Obliging your hubbies
Cranky babies
Are they our burden?
I screamed,
Suppressing my emotions and reactions.
What is marriage?
A little adjustment, said one.
I feel it is a full of amendments.
Accommodate yourself for others.
Is this life?
Risking our future for a stranger.
How it call as divine?
Wearing a dress of his preference,
Is this call freedom?
How to live hiding my wishes?
A heartbeat is lost a dream forgotten.
Think,
If you have a child,
Will you happy ever after divorce?
It is a real lock
Locked within a ring
Are you afarid of it?
Is it an everlasting inexpliacability
No it is not,
Think slackenly,
And prefer good...
Nov 24, 2015
Nov 24, 2015 at 11:34 AM UTC