"othello" poems
I saw the morning dew betwixt thine thighs
as I removed my source of Grecian power,
as if King Midas dared to touch the skies,
upon thy body fell a golden shower.
Thy body's temples, two church bells had rung
upon thy chest, a row of pearls bestowed.
The sun had set, thy set with wary hung
I thought, "How black a night, and blue a lode!"
I said, "What light through yonder ****** breaks?
It is the yeast!" And now my belly's yellow.
My pole gives cause to storms and earthy quakes,
but 'tis not massive, I am no Othello.
And when that final moment came to pass,
like Christ I came a-riding on an ***
Mar 22, 2015
Mar 22, 2015 at 3:54 PM UTC
why do you act like hamlet,
all depressed and grieved,
for your own heart shuts me out,
and it's you who's deceived?
when did you think like othello,
murderous and violent,
irrational with decisions,
making me suffer with guilty silence?
how did you turn into macbeth,
from the silky words that grace your lips,
to the venomous fangs you bit back at me,
stinging like burning, sharp whips?
because i thought you were romeo,
with your adventurous soul and romantic antics.
now you've faded away,
with all your heroic tactics.
wherefore art thou, romeo?
don't call me juliet,
if i'm just another rosaline.
Nov 11, 2014
Nov 11, 2014 at 9:16 AM UTC
In the last months of March 2014,
Soldier Othello the Moroccan moor
Was in Stratford-upon-Avon at the graveside
Of William Shakespeare the English bard,
He was observing the anniversary
Of Shakespeare and his European brother Cervantes,
He had in his pocket another charm and amulet
Given to him by his paternal grandfather,
This time round not a charm for love portion,
But a mystique totem to raise the dead from dusts,
As Othello himself has hitherto over-matured
Above the painful torture of *** with aristocrats,
He has left it for the Jewish aristotrash; Frantz Kafka,
Whose torturous appetite for *** with German women,
Was the sorriest eyesore of his thespic efforts.
Like Jesus at the grave of Lazarus
Othello groaned by shouting; William the son of John!
No response, he shouted again; Shakespeare the bard!
Then the mystique powers of Othello’s amulet
Electrified Shakespeare back to life,
What is your problem you black moor,
The ***** of Morocco, the soldier
Who beguiled Desdemona into betrothal,
Not because of glory of your work,
But due to charms of your love portion
Bequeathed to you by your witch mother,
What brings you to my sepulchre,
For only to perturbed my purgatorial peace,
What brings you!?
Questioned Shakespeare the bard.
Am no longer the moor, blackness is class
But not the race, as race is bankrupt,
I come here to salute you with good news,
That your European brother, Alfred Nobel,
Currently rewards thespic bards like you,
Whether black or white, blue or green,
The ***** bards from the natural forest,
He also rewards, so wake up and pick the prize!
Retorted Othello in virtue of truth,
And also tell me the native bricks
Of your beautiful architecture;
Where and how did you mold thy bricks?
Your brown English bricks that walled your culture;
***** clown, leapfrog, mercurial, oxymoron,
Falsitafity, Shyllocking, colleaguery and window,
Cauldron, graymalkin, woo, betroth, infatuation and so on.
From underneath his sepulcher Shakespeare broke
A violent gaggle of laughter as if he was ten English skeletons,
You Othello you are still a beautiful moor
Whose foolishness time has not condemned to oblivion,
You are as a fool as I created you ; I will only teach you
One brick, the window , that you go and put on
Your wind disturbed African huts,
Put the wind door on your hut,
And be flexible in your tongue
To give it English elegance
Combine and shorten wind and door
To get your cultural brick of; window !
Apr 11, 2014
Apr 11, 2014 at 9:39 AM UTC
O blessed night I am feared
For I am a black man who can't shake spears thrown at him on the daily.
High courts let us get clipped by Brutus- clipped by brutes in fact a loose noose can hang you from any platform
Oxygen doesn't transcend class
Eric wasn't the first nor last unable to Garner breath
I... Cant... Breath.
Bill Cosby's first words after sentencing
Sandra Bland's last thoughts before being propped up
I ride around my city feeling Gray inside, DEAD inside wondering if convenient transportation is worth my life.
Othello ruled this nation for eight years yet noble souls are still treated as peasants.
I mean if all the worlds a stage, then why do they play us only when we're players or when the play, us.
Aug 15, 2018
Aug 15, 2018 at 11:30 AM UTC
Iago, the self-serving menace
Knew how to play people like tennis
Got inside a guy's head
Now everyone’s dead
Including the poor moor of Venice
Feb 4, 2016
Feb 4, 2016 at 1:57 PM UTC
Had I the choice to tally greatest bards,
To limn their portraits, stately, beautiful, and emulate at will,
Homer with all his wars and warriors—Hector, Achilles, Ajax,
Or Shakespeare’s woe-entangled Hamlet, Lear, Othello—Tennyson’s
fair ladies,
Meter or wit the best, or choice conceit to wield in perfect rhyme,
delight of singers;
These, these, O sea, all these I’d gladly barter,
Would you the undulation of one wave, its trick to me transfer,
Or breathe one breath of yours upon my verse,
And leave its odor there.
7k
. @
@ @
@ @
@ @
@ @
@ @ @ @ @ @
america, americultus, americate, dubiously **********
::: our gold-flecked bodies.
blackbirdian danceparty, i'll go.
washed-up beach bottles and all our feet amongst them curling time.
teens dream in orchid; they wait for stars and dark and los hombres of good dust.
they wait on eyes, and on embers, on belly belly.
jellyfish flashlight shrine.
we eat acid and strawberries and butter in the cemetery,
and feed foxes lizards face first :::
us lost ghouls on school-nights.
flash tag jazz, and yellow bicycles.
::: that hot eternal light.
that candy colored smoke don't smoke; go south on her body.
then thoughts form thoughts form action, form twangs all tuned to air.
& we, as notes, we notes harp like light
to dust.
our glistering hormonal thrusts beneath sheath of liquid love. her eyes,
with those multi-speckled strands
infinitesimally drunk :::
seed from my ****
pearled halo: smoke above my head.
::: waves and machines and weekends. filtered by the long ****
of existence.
boys wait in rooms of hotels for more drugs, and the girls bringing them.
like caterpillars on silky thin treadways,
with nothing but the flavor of our passions to ignite the way. we
exacerbate the boundaries of our intentions. we
curl under sheets, bending sheets of light and sound. we
flakey emaciated flakes. [sequence suffered time in motion] we
dirt. it’s what we are; dirt.
we are druggernauts, tasting ourselves along the iridescent brim.
::: we crawl up cross-glowing hillsides toward portals and faraway
bleep-blorps of hot god-head calibration.
we sticky-crackle go burn. [nature puzzles]
the brain shifts back; twenty-one grams they say the soul weighs.
they say things.
cherry blossom tree tips in the dark.
tele-portal surfing with an intergalactic pizza priest, and his satchel of secret sauce.
he heaves in the corner; rebirth :::
tendrils pulled tight, everybody **** chung…
Apr 3, 2014
Apr 3, 2014 at 3:44 PM UTC
fear me not, though I am armed.
I have opened my entry to that next country,
and my heels sit upon its border.
gentler, guiltier than last time, I reach for thee
and as I drown and I dry, I hope for her to see.
Nov 27, 2015
Nov 27, 2015 at 10:23 AM UTC
To **** her love with your death is but a tragedy.
The lucky few who find this fate are the ones who blindly see.
That in the end all love dies and so too will thee.
Feb 29, 2012
Feb 29, 2012 at 1:25 AM UTC
Every night the underprivileged will be lifted up by the privileged.
Every night the rich will have everything right to eat, but the poor.
Every night the homeless will have nowhere left to sleep, but our old carpeted floor.
Every night scicle cell anemia will have everywhere right to be contained,
including your city heart snooker.
Every night peace will have everywhere to be passive,
including your japanese zen gardens,
Everyone will be right to make peace with us,
but our unkempt sons.
Every night the proletariat will sleep ignoring the foremen descending their picket fences,
Every serious thief will be rejected as a nightmare-
For they are owed nothing, and must reject everything more
than The Othello denial an ounce of starved soul.
They will lament, as we cool our overheated hearts,
on the pristine grounds of our single rooms.
And they will lament, as we lounge on the branches of our stoic oaks,
decomposing birthday songs for the Bad young nights of the wicked little girls…
Jul 3, 2012
Jul 3, 2012 at 5:25 PM UTC
I saw the morning dew betwixt thine thighs
As I removed my source of Grecian power
As if King Midas dared to touch the skies
Upon thy body fell a golden shower
Thy body's temples, two church bells had rung
Upon thy chest, a row of pearls bestowed
The sun had set, thy set with wary hung
I thought, "How black a night and blue a lode"
I said, "What light through yonder ****** breaks?
It is the yeast"
And now my belly's yellow
My pole gives cause to storms and earthy quakes
But 'tis not massive, I am no Othello
And when that final moment came to pass
Like Christ I came-a riding on an ***
Feb 4, 2014
Feb 4, 2014 at 2:19 PM UTC
When I lost my marbles,
My dad would always say:
"Don't worry, you'll find them
When you just stop searching."
And it sounded stupid,
But every time I stopped,
Yeah, I found my marbles.
I grew up; my dad died,
Seasons changed, so did I,
But the rule stayed as true.
One day, I'd given up
On that romantic stuff,
And,
Resigned to die alone,
I walked into a big
Ol' Shakespeare conference,
To watch Othello die.
Well there, they were taking
"Volunteers" for Juliet,
"Lucky men" Romeos,
And I was one of them.
Nov 27, 2014
Nov 27, 2014 at 11:10 AM UTC
*put out my light
put out my light*
as Othello did to Desdemona
no crimson painted on porcelain skin
from false betrayal found within.
*put out my light
put out my light*
allow my body to sink in the deep
my skin will shimmer under pulsing tide
only a ghost, my guiltless soul has died.
*put out my light
put out my light*
Nov 18, 2013
Nov 18, 2013 at 2:34 PM UTC
OLD HOUSE
They retain precious memories,
intimate feelings of inhabitants
passing through its sagging doors.
Romantic are seekers of forgotten times
memories encased in hard wood floors;
as lath plastered walls ooze remnants of a
history while we; when inclined listen.
We don't go very often, to abandon houses,
perhaps on a dare, or at Halloween.
Are we passed enjoying extremes into this
another world, musty energy a curious child.
That was the yesterday
which now waits behind
musty, dusty, derelict halls.
I stand I stand at paint chipped banister,
a faded worn carpet once carried dancing feet,
children playing before they sleep. The
broken coat tree on the floor.
From the third floor murmuring,
a wind storm jars
loose fears, of time
once lost to dreams.
Echos billow from
each room, curtains hanging
yellowed by a sun where
dancing light through holes in damask lace.
Mice gremlin's artful droppings,
tracks of nature on dirt strewn floor.
Broken shards from window
panes, confetti after New Years day.
Branches scratched
etched paths, tracks like graffiti
on sill its unread words, a glif
eerily cast shadows trigger echos from the past.
Jagged memories protrude from every corner
mixing with new, enriching our fantasies
bringing us closer renewed;
these musty memories long forgotten.
Like waves rushing back;
flooding a mind like broken
dikes they crash into our world,
Rembrandt's paintings on canvas fading.
Silent footsteps outside a door,
we hear laughter from bedroom walls;
a smell a whiff of hot butter *** silent
conversation coming our way.
Old Doc Masters listened at my chest, as
I read all by candle light, Sherlock detective stories
or the Tell Tale Heart of Poe or
Othello; all masters in the past.
A Grandfather clock
stands silent, keeping time,
lost its tick yet still striking,
it stands tall, upon a clueless floor.
Knowledge lost to a past
in a house so worn,
births, deaths, wars, wrapped
forgotten, encased by neglect,
I visited a house besotted,
neglected waiting to be
remodeled into another century
moving it to present times.
Ajerry
Archival Jan 5, 2011
Nov 1, 2013
Nov 1, 2013 at 2:46 PM UTC
Well done, well done/ with this hand of marble
White roses, open doors, rise the sun and fall
Flit and float, under the river’s flow/ shadows
thrilled/
Arrow in my hand/ as a tool for lovers/ beyond
the Dawn/
Keep the chief/ inside your deep velvet pocket/
Full of almonds/ to feed the thirstiest of dry soul/
Let the civilians/ to arrange the war and burn
the dead/
Well done my Lord/ well done/ those yours/
lie on the edge of seas/
What left is a narrow place for dwarfs/ to plug
the pledges/
Othello handkerchief/ under my pillow / to remember
before dark/
©MARIA PANOUTSOU
Oct 16, 2016
Oct 16, 2016 at 4:28 AM UTC
I always thought I'd fall in love with a poet
A man who loved me almost as much as he loved words
Who composed verses in his head
While ******* my ear with his tongue
Instead, I fell in love with a fisherman with
crackerjack hands and icy morals
An Othello, not an Orsino
He loves me more than he loves love
Because we don't always fall in love with ourselves
Thank God.
Oct 27, 2012
Oct 27, 2012 at 6:49 AM UTC
1
He'd love her
and then the coldness
of marriage took love
away from him
and the coldness turned into suspicion
and then into an obsession:
and she was an inconvenience
he murdered her a Friday
night
suffocated her with her pillows
it was easy;
like Othello did
but she was no Desdemona;
and he heard her whisper with her last breath:
"I'll have your eyes"
he cut her up in manageable parts,
and buried her below the floorboards
in the study
2
It is a year later
and he is at the computer
and far below lies parts of his wife
but now his wife is smiling
she's on screen
smiling like a Greek Goddess
and he sits transfixed
and she says:
*"You are Oedipus, darling -
I will have your eyes"*
She is smiling
He is willing
Beside the printer are paperclips
He undoes two
She beckons; she smiles
and she whispers
that same deathbed whisper:
"I'll have your eyes"
And he is Oedipus
Just paperclips will do
He gouges one eye out
And he gouges the other too
It is easy
She lies deep below
below the floorboards;
She need whisper no longer
And he is become Oedipus,
eyes gouged,
blind like the Greek Homer
Mar 4, 2012
Mar 4, 2012 at 7:34 PM UTC
(Solitary Chamber. Heart breaking melodious music is flowing silently. Young Ren is looking pale, soliloquizing.)
Young Ren: Sweet Flance!
Can you hear me?
I do know you can never see me now;
But hear me --- my words at least!
Feel my heart that hangs on nothing;
Yet resting itself on my unrequited love.
Hear me! Do hear me!
Send thy spirit unto me awhile,
And hearken my silent words.
Dear Flance!
Thou must be now with thy partner
Breaking thy footprints with me once;
Yet ne'er am I angry with thee.
From him I should not take thee away;
Yet listen unto me awhile.
Dear Flance!
I loved thee not at the very first sight
Like Orlando and Rosalind ---
Orlando was a wrestler,
Rosalind was a fair lady.
Their love began at an arena in a contest ---
Rosalind in the guise of Ganymede,
Their love passed thro' rustic lands
Symbolizing the art of Nature,
Their love stirred the young hearts
With wonder and fancy.
Sweet Flance!
Romeo died of Juliet and Juliet of Romeo ---
Breaking endurance to chaos.
There was poison in their love.
Dear Flance!
Jealousy lingered in the fatal love
Betwixt Othello and Desdemona,
At night their love was born,
At night their love was dead
When blackened by the candle light.
Dear Flance!
Lysander loved Hermia
And sought fanciful beings
For their fanciful union.
Dear Flance!
Know you, Keats died of consumption?
His love for ***** Brown was limitless,
And so burst into tears.
Oh! No!
MY love for thee can never have comparisons.
Sweet Flance!
Blossomed my love for thee
When thou wert young,
When thou wert beautiful;
Yet it's not of Romeo's,
Of Othello's,
Of Lysander's,
Of Dante's,
Of Keats',
For they died of their love.
My love for thee be unrequited; yet ineffable.
You felt not my love; yet I cannot be Romeo.
Know you?
Romeo loved Juliet,
Juliet loved Romeo,
And so they died without love.
Loved I thy heart, not thee?
Love I thy heart, not thee?
And so,
We live in remembrance of each other.
Dear Flance!
Thou must be now living with thy partner
Rejoicing in his presence.
Can you think of me living myself.
Rejoicing in my thoughts of you?
Here am I in the air with wings waxed;
Yet I'll not fall down to fragments.
Know you?
I am to lead my life myself,
But with thoughts of you!
For
Loved I thee, still I love thee,
Ever I'll love thee.
(Young Ren sheds tears)
Sweet Flance!
My tears are not of my loneliness sans thee;
But born of bliss within me with thoughts of you.
(Curtain Falls)
Dec 20, 2011
Dec 20, 2011 at 11:38 AM UTC
the art of nothing more has not been lost, i know it well
it has been mine to serve Othello to the guillotine and poppies
the myriad are gathered to the helium and Harpies
and a gallon of miraculous is accidentally wasted
the meaning of the soul is how you love someone, distracted
by the loving for the loving was the loving that you loved
bind me more than set me free
and that be love exactly
and
the comet in your hand is my heart
Sep 28, 2011
Sep 28, 2011 at 10:44 AM UTC
In the twilight; out there somewhere
I can see his face; but he's what it all means
I wander though; the unchanging scenes
A plastic smile; my wordless everyday
Stronger! I want to
and still remain,
to live daringly
Stronger! I want to be;
'Cause someday I can see,
That you'll be out there for me to meet
I turn my eyes away, from this whole world
I run so far away; from me, this girl
The brilliance of reality; I want to get it back
Yet I always knew what makes it come true
Mar 3, 2015
Mar 3, 2015 at 5:27 PM UTC
remember mr shakespeare he was very bright
he wrote lots of plays hamlet and twelfth night
the merchant of venice the taming of the shrew
othello and king lear just to name a few
he was born in england many years ago
with the name of william that everyone would know
he wrote lots of poems in between the plays
thats how mr shakespeare used to pass his days
now is name lives on to this very day
the name of mr shakespeare will never go away.
Mar 9, 2010
Mar 9, 2010 at 3:01 AM UTC
Of flashy pictures and subtle texts found
A guy’s feet when I look around,
Of heavy lids of trashcans crude
Images of Paoli in the ****
Of blood being ****** through the veins
And bedsheets filled with coffee stains.
Of walls and posts and weeks gone by,
Without a single scream or cry,
Of not a bath or a shower
Helpless without any such power,
Of Faustus and Valdes to spare
Othello seemed to have no care,
Tomorrow never dies for me…
For it's tomorrow I will never see.
Jul 22, 2015
Jul 22, 2015 at 8:39 AM UTC
AND TIME A THIEF
She hugged her books
to her *******
Her ******* hardening into
her Othello and Algebra.
She watched his mouth
move
alive with words
she heard nothing of
only
her name
"...yadayadaMARY...
...yada yada MARY!"
A bead of sweat
trickled between her *******
She tried to catch
her breath and
what he was saying but
it only gave her hiccups.
She squirmed
under his gaze
a butterfly
held by a pin
pleasure that was
pain.
"And that was how
I met your Dad!"
She tells this story
only when she's very very
tipsy
crying now
for the girl she was
- then:
the Shakespeare & Maths
pressed to her chest
the world
awaiting her.
Sep 25, 2018
Sep 25, 2018 at 4:22 PM UTC