"pendent" poems
stranded in
the beauty of her throat shunted
her preference
a short drop
in a bulwark twisting knot
a hanged ghastly pendent
her feet arching desperately in search of a floor
they will never find
obedient!
yet
her face
a hideous insubordination
she dissolves like tropical butter
a screaming silence
a falling prayer
shuddering
with downward sloping limbs
she
blue
hemorrhaging
eyes wobbled
bulging to break into paradise
tumbling
like a dizzied cyclops
as numb lipped jutting howls
turn cement
always willing to help
he scums
for her
in pulsing heaves
of beatific gush
Oct 1, 2018
Oct 1, 2018 at 10:46 AM UTC
On winter nights beside the nursery fire
We read the fairy tale, while glowing coals
Builded its pictures. There before our eyes
We saw the vaulted hall of traceried stone
Uprear itself, the distant ceiling hung
With pendent stalactites like frozen vines;
And all along the walls at intervals,
Curled upwards into pillars, roses climbed,
And ramped and were confined, and clustered leaves
Divided where there peered a laughing face.
The foliage seemed to rustle in the wind,
A silent murmur, carved in still, gray stone.
High pointed windows pierced the southern wall
Whence proud escutcheons flung prismatic fires
To stain the tessellated marble floor
With pools of red, and quivering green, and blue;
And in the shade beyond the further door,
Its sober squares of black and white were hid
Beneath a restless, shuffling, wide-eyed mob
Of lackeys and retainers come to view
The Christening.
A sudden blare of trumpets, and the throng
About the entrance parted as the guests
Filed singly in with rare and precious gifts.
Our eager fancies noted all they brought,
The glorious, unattainable delights!
But always there was one unbidden guest
Who cursed the child and left it bitterness.
The fire falls asunder, all is changed,
I am no more a child, and what I see
Is not a fairy tale, but life, my life.
The gifts are there, the many pleasant things:
Health, wealth, long-settled friendships, with a name
Which honors all who bear it, and the power
Of making words obedient. This is much;
But overshadowing all is still the curse,
That never shall I be fulfilled by love!
Along the parching highroad of the world
No other soul shall bear mine company.
Always shall I be teased with semblances,
With cruel impostures, which I trust awhile
Then dash to pieces, as a careless boy
Flings a kaleidoscope, which shattering
Strews all the ground about with coloured shards.
So I behold my visions on the ground
No longer radiant, an ignoble heap
Of broken, dusty glass. And so, unlit,
Even by hope or faith, my dragging steps
Force me forever through the passing days.
3.8k
Vientecico murmurador,
Que lo gozas y andas todo, &c.;
Airs, that wander and murmur round,
Bearing delight where'er ye blow!
Make in the elms a lulling sound,
While my lady sleeps in the shade below.
Lighten and lengthen her noonday rest,
Till the heat of the noonday sun is o'er.
Sweet be her slumbers! though in my breast
The pain she has waked may slumber no more.
Breathing soft from the blue profound,
Bearing delight where'er ye blow,
Make in the elms a lulling sound,
While my lady sleeps in the shade below.
Airs! that over the bending boughs,
And under the shade of pendent leaves,
Murmur soft, like my timid vows
Or the secret sighs my ***** heaves,--
Gently sweeping the grassy ground,
Bearing delight where'er ye blow,
Make in the elms a lulling sound,
While my lady sleeps in the shade below.
2.1k
Le long du vieux faubourg, où pendent aux masures
Les persiennes, abri des secrètes luxures,
Quand le soleil cruel frappe à traits redoublés
Sur la ville et les champs, sur les toits et les blés,
Je vais m'exercer seul à ma fantasque escrime,
Flairant dans tous les coins les hasards de la rime,
Trébuchant sur les mots comme sur les pavés,
Heurtant parfois des vers depuis longtemps rêvés.
Ce père nourricier, ennemi des chloroses,
Eveille dans les champs les vers comme les roses ;
Il fait s'évaporer les soucis vers le ciel,
Et remplit les cerveaux et les ruches de miel.
C'est lui qui rajeunit les porteurs de béquilles
Et les rend gais et doux comme des jeunes filles,
Et commande aux moissons de croître et de mûrir
Dans le coeur immortel qui toujours veut fleurir !
Quand, ainsi qu'un poète, il descend dans les villes,
Il ennoblit le sort des choses les plus viles,
Et s'introduit en roi, sans bruit et sans valets,
Dans tous les hôpitaux et dans tous les palais.
2k
~~~~English~~~~
Everything is white
Snow is all I can see for miles and miles
Icicles hang from the shivering trees
And the flowers are resting in sweet peace
Until Spring wakes them from their sleep
Sound of jingling sleigh bells
Blow across the wind
Mingling with the sound
Of distant church chimes
Cold bitter breezes sting my face
And I can clearly see my breath
Slowly I homeward trod
To sit beside the fireplace
With a hot cup of cocoa
~Marian~
~~~~French~~~~
Tout est blanc
Neige est tout qu'i can see for miles et des miles
Glaçons pendent des arbres avec frisson
Et les fleurs sont reposent en paix doux
Jusqu'au printemps eux réveille de son sommeil
Bruit de tintement de grelots
Coup dans le vent
Se mêlant avec le son
Du lointain carillon église
Froides brises amers piquent mon visage
Et je vois clairement mon souffle
Lentement j'ai foulé chemin du retour
S'asseoir à côté de la cheminée
Avec une bonne tasse de cacao
~ Marian ~
Jun 4, 2014
Jun 4, 2014 at 12:19 AM UTC
Bare skin on dampened green,
arms pendent and the heavy,
near-sighted swing
of dull metal in the pit.
As I loosely ready myself
for another miss,
you call me an anarchist -
the word rouses
me, and I try it on,
gingerly checking
for fit, style and colour.
And yet
I haven't had the time -
or the ruthless abandon -
to learn and befriend it,
to humour and then
ignore it.
No, I haven't had
the time - something I know
we both measure
in cups and baking spoons -
brash spoons sound
anxiety and precision,
or the death-knell clang
of hollowed metal on sand.
Sep 30, 2012
Sep 30, 2012 at 9:42 PM UTC
Sudden, as a bolt from the blue,
Came down a humming bird, tantalizing
Skimming down and darting up
As an ever revolving top
It reeled round and round
Before it alighted on a shoe flower;
That hung from a drooping branch
In a corner of my front yard garden
It precariously clung on to it
Like a small pendent on a chain
A sight so cool, now so rare
That lighted up my dull spirits!
Once they showed themselves up
On almost every sunny day
Promptly after the monsoon rains
When the plants en mass in resplendent bloom
Oh! How I love this tiny bird
Not larger than a bumble bee
Dressed in a cloak of gold and black
Flitting round on fluttering wings
It literally dances and pirouettes in the air
Before descending down closer to its target
Swirling, gliding n’ moving back and forth
As if unsure of what it should do
Then with a terrific **** and swiveling move
It hovers close to hanging blooms
Balancing itself sans any support
And draws out nectar with its long needle bill
When the zephyrs carry a sweet scent
It flits from flower to flower
And having enjoyed the ambrosial treat
It flies back well satiated like a shooting missile
My eyes fail to capture its lightning move
As it goes whizzing through the lambent air
Quickly disappearing like a mote of soot
Losing itself in the vast expanse of the blue
Being less than an ounce of fat
So light, sleek and well streamlined
It travels faster than the light of speed
In a fleeting dash, moving out of sight
Can any other bird rival it in agility?
Or vie with it in its simple grace?
How cute, this spirit of ‘disembodied joy’
This winged diminutive denizen of the sky!
,
Jul 25, 2016
Jul 25, 2016 at 7:31 AM UTC
You looked at me like you were insulted I hadn't noticed,
when I asked what it was that you carried around your neck.
As you pulled the pendent out from under your shirt,
you said you'd been wearing it all week.
But I already knew.
I'd been staring at the cord it's on,
wanting to feel it between my fingers all week --
and have the dark hair on the back of your neck brush my hands.
I'd been seeing it for days from behind you and beside you.
I can't help but notice you constantly, hourly,
so of course I saw the black cord around your neck.
Nov 15, 2014
Nov 15, 2014 at 7:50 PM UTC
1.
This blue one is my favorite,
in the peak of ****** excitement
she calls me "Devil" between
sweet obscenities and tender bites
that lets me decide her species
a killer whale she is.
2.
I fell in love with this aspect
at the very first sight,
the easy buoyancy of the cuttle fish,
Ah! the delicate squid in my dreams
in her transforamtive rigor of
peripatetic desire.Above me she hovers,
we are entangled with the strands of clouds.
In the soft poetic squid folds,
my desires find discharge.
3.
Octopus, oh my perfect metaphor for desire,
are you strictly a fish by definition, I muse
though a mollusc, who cares, as long as your
supple tendrils, know how to touch and arouse
allow pleasure to flow through eight ducts,
would take you as the equivalent of a bisexual yen
in your tight binding and sucker amour,
under water I am the slave for your pleasure,
bleeding amour in equal measure
on each embrace.
4.
Gold fish is a cliche, but is it her fault?
when frothing orange morning sun
seeps in to her spacious glass cage
she is another rich kid, seeking pleasure
and when she sings with her wings
dreamily moves, a pendent of Gods she is
my longing see the cliche, yet oh! such *** appeal,
my tactile desire, is more alacritous than being tactical.
May 5, 2016
May 5, 2016 at 10:55 AM UTC
On fineries, a woman has to wear,
passionately they discussed;
the name wasn't mentioned
though you were that woman
I was aware
A pendent in the central parting of hair
claiming aloud attention, top most
and a necklace, the kind
that turns all heads
worn around the neck
like lightning flash
Twinkling studs
on both sides of the nose
that attract and stun men folk
like two resplendent stars
in the clear morning sky.
Armbands on both arms
bejeweled calling attention,
bracelets and bangles
all that she could elegantly carry
waist band highlighting artistic skill
and her slender middle,
a belt in gold, a string of pearls,
the best of all worn by an Indian girl.
On her dimpled navel,
itself a work of nature's fine art
would shine a diamond
winking wantonly at every man.
Discussions on fineries went
many days on and on
I felt proud and contented
as she deserved all this and more.
But at the moment of truth
everything went up side down
"Who said she is the one?"
They had the temerity to ask.
On the illuminated podium,
a flower caressed by butterfly eyes,
she stood pale but smiling
still stunning without a bit of finery
Oct 15, 2011
Oct 15, 2011 at 11:28 PM UTC
I'm a fox, a folk of lore
I sneak and slink across the floor
Sly, and mean and quick, but poor
Getting rid of me's a chore
All I want's to heal your sore
Leaping spirit, shore to shore
I heal hearts that people tore
I'm the pendent that she wore
I'm kind and sweet and so much more
I do not bite, or scratch, or roar
I'm the animal she swore,
Pendant locked up in her drawer,
Taken out and proudly bore
I'm a fox, the fox of lore
Jan 3, 2018
Jan 3, 2018 at 2:54 AM UTC
Time for loneliness to settle in,
Hope to the gods I never give in.
The pain spreads like flowers,
Hoping that this wont be my final hour.
As I sit here lost in my thoughts,
I know that it was not all for naught.
I'm stuck here only to watch so far away,
through this painful window miles away.
I clutch at this pendent of mine,
To remind myself of the better times.
A smile always seems to cross my face,
Setting my mood with a new pace.
I hold onto these things,
These things called dreams.
In hope for a better time to be.
- 50RR0W
Dec 9, 2015
Dec 9, 2015 at 10:45 AM UTC
Produced the reduced use of deuced youth as well fall flat on back relapse of a matter oh’ fact there is no reason to bring back the lack of acts that have collapsed as endorse isn’t the course we force the indorsed remorse’s horse it how it sounds from the round about turned down, wrapped around the mound of wound bounds traced as we wish to erase the missed ace am disgraced to waste the space from haste it is misplaced finding grace abducted, while we are interrupted so disruptive all corrupted instructed that we be introduced to a new place to set loose then choose to roost.
Audible is honorable when placed in space of a new disgrace we haste to chase the base relate the mate is gallant, accordant abeyant to reliant now defiant why deny, when have tried to reply the unquestionable supply of high relies reprieved cephalized isn’t the aim to gain the same remains of main stained for blame, have strained the aim of shame to restrain the bargain attain then pass the refrain again the demand to stand on the right hand of man as have banned the uttermost do tend to boast then coast on to deposed what isn’t supposed to mean the most.
Regulate the agitate of will you wait till the proper date to calibrate where we have done, what have become after having won no youth refund underhung rung the reliefs beliefs in this we speak to realize have agonized the civilized tho don’t deprive for now do thrive from abrasive wise isn’t lies relented the dependent to sentence the pendent, abolishment of what was, have turned around the have does, to what wasn’t because of we lock without a knock of shock we stopped and sought to sample of what before couldn’t handle now we have another hand ful to dandle.
Oct 17, 2011
Oct 17, 2011 at 7:25 PM UTC
When I was in hostile environment training in Manchester
I picked up this butterfly pendent for you but never presented it
Because of your ludicrous inkling, that true friends should never exchange gifts;
When I first met you working at that coffee shop back home
I was trying to woo you by writing poetry but I failed and read them on my own;
When I was 20 occupied in Dubai I was rationalizing what adventures you might have ventured in to
While observing the city ***** ****** monoliths of sand cement and glass;
When I was stuck in an airport in Pakistan, I saw a humming bird and a blue plastic bag
Arbitrarily floating in the air, then thought of your indigo hair band
Which you use to wear, hopelessly on your left arm
When I was watching the Formula 1 back in Bahrain I watched the race cars firm pass
And wondered how our time together also expired just as fast;
When I was 23 - enduring in the war tore city of Baghdad
I meant to write but there was nothing stimulating
In that hell hole to write for your innocent soul to have ever grasped
Hence I held my silence steadfast
I spared you the misery when I failed to communicate the wounds I received in Ballad (a US Air force base in Iraq);
Then when I was in the ***** fields in the Kanoon province of Afghanistan
I discovered that ****** is almost as intoxicating & addictive as you
When I was in a discotheque in New Castle, I saw a girl with a butterfly tattoo
Reminded me of how you spread your wings and flew away with someone more attuned to you
When I was in a seafood restaurant in Singapore, I ordered a Unagi sushi (I did not even eat it)
Only to induce the aroma of your favourite dish as it evoked the sweet memory of you
When I was in a 15 hour layover in Male sinking my feet in the sea sand
I simply wished that you were there with me holding my hand
When I was once stuck in the metro in London I allegedly meant to send a postcard
But got distracted by the fact that you were engaged to another hence it was excruciatingly hard
After a Coldplay concert ended in Liverpool I saw this little Irish lass
And thought how beautiful your children might take after your beautiful stance
When I was visiting a castle in Edinburgh oh! How I wished I have secured a castle for you
And how I should have said those 3 words more often than I ever moved around without you
Jun 11, 2018
Jun 11, 2018 at 2:20 PM UTC
She wears a cameo
Pendent around her neck.
of her departed mother
above her breast...
Forever near her heart,
etched in stone,
love never lost,
or shall she be alone...
Mar 10, 2014
Mar 10, 2014 at 3:19 AM UTC
I’ve never stopped a heart-
The poem should end here.
It doesn’t.
The sound of the levees breaking was quiet,
I thought it would be bigger-
The poem should end here.
It doesn’t.
I was expecting shrieking sirens, stirring dogs,
and motion sensor porch lights chasing rabbits
from driveway to driveway,
I was expecting to shatter mirrors
and lower temperatures
with my very existence-
The poem should be over.
We should all be in our beds by now,
(but we've got six more miles until our exit.)
I've been keeping up;
brushing my hair and
vacuuming the stairs like it matters.
I've walked through this damp, hail-heavy winter
with wet socks, a back-pack,
and a sterling silver pendent of jaded righteousness
swinging from my neck.
I’ve kept my head down and
blinked smoke out of my eyes.
Something inside of me was rusting and rattling
and I wanted everyone to listen carefully
to my clicking bones.
A doctor diagnosed my sacroiliac joints as dysfunctional
and suggested physical therapy.
My mother diagnosed my humor as alienating,
my spirit as disillusioned,
and suggested to lighten the **** up.
I’ve never stopped a heart-
I don’t think I have it in me.
I’ve never stopped a heart,
but I’ve just about figured out
how to end this poem
without the heart stopping me.
Apr 19, 2015
Apr 19, 2015 at 1:07 AM UTC
There is more than one way to skin a cat
And there is more than one way to break a heart
I'm surprised you don't know this by now
You don't always have to rip it into shreds
With your bare hands tensed in rage
Intentionally destroying the pulsating thing you hold
You do not always have to spill it's blood
Watching the thick red liquid congeal on the floor
You need not always fill it with shame
Ridiculing it's nature, the way it beats, it's purpose
Until it's too small to believe in itself
All you need is to be loved by that heart
And every time you walk away it will follow
Pieces of it sewn into your jacket pocket
Or dangling proudly around your neck
And when you leave that jacket in a haunted house
With a haunted soul that robbed you of safety
I will not get that piece of me back
When the bright and beating pendent resting on your clavicle
Is torn off and lost in someone's couch cushions
The same place you lost your dignity and self worth
I will not get that piece of me back
My heart is sewn onto yours like a patchwork quilt
And whenever your heart breaks, mine does too
Wherever your blood is spilt, my heart is stained red too
There is more than one way to skin a cat
And there is more than one way to break a heart.
Mar 28, 2016
Mar 28, 2016 at 11:58 AM UTC
une semaine serpentine,
des pommes empoisonnées pendent d’un arbre perché,
j’en ai mangé jusqu’à la rupture,
et puis sept soleils sont morts, l’un après l’autre,
mais l’horloge ne s’en est pas rendu compte
et depuis
des poussières ont envahi ma poitrine,
ce qu’il y avait avant, je ne sais plus,
mais je n’arrive plus respirer …
mes poumons sont gonflées par une fumée noire
pendant qu’une brume funèbre m’enveloppe le cerveau
et ces jours-ci je n’avale que mes larmes
peut-être ….
quand je ne serai plus qu’un squelette,
je pourrai disparaître en toute tranquillité
de cette terre étrange
où les bêtes parlent à l’envers dans une langue inconnue
entre-temps, j’avale la mienne dans l’espoir de m’étouffer
d’où vient l’homme primordial
d’où vient cette femme lâche
Jul 17, 2013
Jul 17, 2013 at 11:10 AM UTC
A qui donc sommes-nous ? Qui nous a ? qui nous mène ?
Vautour fatalité, tiens-tu la race humaine ?
Oh ! parlez, cieux vermeils,
L'âme sans fond tient-elle aux étoiles sans nombre ?
Chaque rayon d'en haut est-il un fil de l'ombre
Liant l'homme aux soleils ?
Est-ce qu'en nos esprits, que l'ombre a pour repaires,
Nous allons voir rentrer les songes de nos pères ?
Destin, lugubre assaut !
O vivants, serions-nous l'objet d'une dispute ?
L'un veut-il notre gloire, et l'autre notre chute ?
Combien sont-ils là-haut ?
Jadis, au fond du ciel, aux yeux du mage sombre,
Deux joueurs effrayants apparaissaient dans l'ombre.
Qui craindre? qui prier ?
Les Manès frissonnants, les pâles Zoroastres
Voyaient deux grandes mains qui déplaçaient les astres
Sur le noir échiquier.
Songe horrible! le bien, le mal, de cette voûte
Pendent-ils sur nos fronts ? Dieu, tire-moi du doute !
O sphinx, dis-moi le mot !
Cet affreux rêve pèse à nos yeux qui sommeillent,
Noirs vivants! heureux ceux qui tout à coup s'éveillent
Et meurent en sursaut !
825
my favorite color is the color of your skin,
like the amber with bugs in it
(except there are no bugs,
just pieces of your mind and your heart
which--thank god--i can't carve out
and put on a pendent,
just to have something touching me at night,
when my sheets are too thin to warm me
but too thick to let my lungs breathe with ease
the cold air which strikes me like a bullet to the throat,
unlike your arms around me
which hold me like a rib cage,
breathing with me in synchronized whispers)
Aug 24, 2013
Aug 24, 2013 at 9:15 AM UTC
that long hanging silence,
when no one wants to hang up the phone
Jan 31, 2015
Jan 31, 2015 at 7:14 AM UTC
what happened to you
that made you change?
you were a different person
when I knew you.
now your values are deeper than your veins
you hug people less but now you mean it.
your confidence itself
has morphed into something
less like a sun-bright dress
and more like an adamantine
gem,
a pendent you wear close to you
under layers and layers and jackets and sweaters.
do you still respond to the same name?
the creature you are now
is surely a different being
than the one you were before.
Feb 20, 2019
Feb 20, 2019 at 2:50 PM UTC
Mères, l'enfant qui joue à votre seuil joyeux,
Plus frêle que les fleurs, plus serein que les cieux,
Vous conseille l'amour, la pudeur, la sagesse.
L'enfant, c'est un feu pur dont la chaleur caresse ;
C'est de la gaîté sainte et du bonheur sacré,
C'est le nom paternel dans un rayon doré ;
Et vous n'avez besoin que de cette humble flamme
Pour voir distinctement dans l'ombre de votre âme.
Mères, l'enfant que l'on pleure et qui s'en est allé,
Si vous levez vos fronts vers le ciel constellé,
Verse à votre douleur une lumière auguste ;
Car l'innocent éclaire aussi bien que le juste !
Il montre, clarté douce, à vos yeux abattus,
Derrière notre orgueil, derrière nos vertus,
Derrière nos malheurs, Dieu profond et tranquille.
Que l'enfant vive ou dorme, il rayonne toujours !
Sur cette terre où rien ne va **** sans secours,
Où nos jours incertains sur tant d'abîmes pendent,
Comme un guide au milieu des brumes que répandent
Nos vices ténébreux et nos doutes moqueurs,
Vivant, l'enfant fait voir le devoir à vos coeurs ;
Mort, c'est la vérité qu'à votre âme il dévoile.
Ici, c'est un flambeau ; là-haut, c'est une étoile.
Mars 1840.
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