"personae" poems
I thought for days and could think of nothing
to satisfy the eye and hand and heart,
or satiate the mind, or at least seem
worthy to be willed into decent art.
The past ten years offer little I’d deem
rousing enough to write this first part.
Then imagination just so inclined
the speaker, the scene, what I’d sought to find.
Grasping the pen, I pressed it to the page
and out poured imagination as ink.
I painted a line, then outlined a stage,
and pondered for hours on their supposed link.
It seems excessive thought may shape a cage
in the corner of which ideas sink.
Sometime later the stage had some players
and the line had formed multiple layers.
All vanishes the ensuing day,
forcing thought on what’s soon to expire.
Dramatis personae hardly convey
the message famished minds desire;
Likewise, poetical visions crochet
a meandering, allegorical empire.
The thought-maelstrom bids me “Confess!”:
I’ve reduced life to a logical process.
Sep 2, 2012
Sep 2, 2012 at 7:52 PM UTC
Wanted figs sweet seeds fringes
cluster of oh mmm charmin little freckles,
Myrrh & chessnut eyes teasing
chocolate taste licking
me f a b u lo u s-ly
Skilled as a swift leopards paw
your ticklish personae forest. forces
me to kneal as a sandalwood essence
mingles and trepidates
opiatic. cocoa with lush vanilla
God on dew drops evaporating from
our skins. covering high firenheits
lasting sensual excitement
superstars collidin and exploding
like supernovaes ....soooo good!!!
Jan 9, 2016
Jan 9, 2016 at 4:25 AM UTC
I turned around
and the clown was gone.
The sad little man with so many funny faces.
They say he seldom knew
when he was the clown,
or himself.
The two personae melted together,
and created a gift.
And now,
that gift of laughter is gone.
But I know the clown,
he wouldn't want us to be sad.
He would pull a face out of his bag
and make us laugh,
and we would laugh
until we cried.
*for
Jonathan Harshman Winters III
Born- November 11, 1925
Dayton, Ohio
Died- April 11, 2013 (aged 87)
Montecito, California
Comedian, actor, artist, author
Quote: "I couldn't wait for success, so I went ahead without it."
Jonathan Winters*
May 5, 2013
May 5, 2013 at 11:17 PM UTC
Funny
How
One person
Can be more
Than one
Have more than one
Side
Have more than one
Layer
Sometimes
It shows
Sometimes
It doesn't
It takes control
Of you
Like a puppet
Filling up the
S p a c e
Changing
Your entirety
You see things
Differently
You talk
Differently
You behave
Differently
*Happy
Cranky
Angry
Anxious
Hard working
Lazy
High
Low
Nervous
Fly
Sink
And everything
Else*
It gets
Difficult
To track
Difficult
To control
Difficult
To suppress
Yet
It provides
A certain kind of
Protection
And secrecy
Jul 26, 2013
Jul 26, 2013 at 12:23 PM UTC
how shall be written
to be done
with an immaculate
percission
percussion
personae
your soul is frequent
gaze at night, at stars to moon
my main
mystique
morph
there is silent
self observer
doing everything
while just
breathing
there are
still
pure
flowing
fantastically
fullfiling
channels
of fresh air
Jan 21, 2015
Jan 21, 2015 at 12:27 PM UTC
your arms-the thorns of my body so strategically placed;
protecting my vulnerable frame
your lips akin to petals; kiss tender 'n eager
every breath's aura so congenial
your support resembling stem to strengthen and meddle me straight,
yet staying amply meek
your faith is purely fervent and keeps you veraciously planted- just as strong roots
your charming quirks protrude similar to leaves
distributed throughout; nothing shy of perfect
your bold personae is exclusive;
a risqué hue of disposition-
solely invaluable
my darling rose
Nov 3, 2013
Nov 3, 2013 at 4:11 PM UTC
want to become an artist? get ready for poverty, and get ready to feel uncomfortable writing personae, where no form of narration will give you a good night's sleep, esp. "first person" narration; get ready for many contradictory revelations, and the rudest form of mockery: ridicule. get ready for the lynch mobs of the digital age of frustrated writers who, frustrated, antagonise; get ready to realise that poetry, compared to other mediums of writing is only the bare minimum, the sheer nakedness of it, the bare minimum.
i find it most peculiar that a once
mighty and budding colonial nation,
nay, nation expanded into
a colonial empire, should suddenly
implode and craft a mini-commonwealth
inside its boarders, and become
so blind with self-righteousness
as a means to erase the past, and see
itself as a champion of all kinds of freedoms,
of all kinds of necessary obligations
to provide the epitomes of human dignity,
as to not offend / provoke, all stiff-upper-lip
hush hush, to see the monochromatic
audiences at large stadium concerts no
later than mid-nineties: but what the hell
do i know, i'm just a plumber, a plumber
to the mammoth economic class of england
like in the olden days of marx and engels.
i'd change the anthem though:
poland a cinder after the raging flames of
prussia austria and russia - dictated our
extinction - a cinderella of europe -
and for its once proud ally - now a game
of blame when unified for the mini-commonwealth;
or as the irish say so well established in this
land, and esp. after the good friday treaty:
integrate little cinderella boy, integrate,
learn the language, and customs too, but afterwards
return to your people, and live in our
great multi-cultural society, under our
former masters' brow, in a segregated multi-cultural
society of the many death circle pockets,
live by all means, but do not be relevant with
us or our masters on a friendship base.
come the days when neighbour is no longer a neighbour,
should a neighbour be the least of a borrowed
cup of sugar, or anything of such -
the tinniest categorisation of aid.
Jan 22, 2016
Jan 22, 2016 at 5:52 AM UTC
It was just on the stroke of midnight,
I was going to go to bed,
But I had to pass by Charlie’s room
So I hung back there, instead,
I could hear the rattle of drums that came
From under his bedroom door,
And then the sound of a French ‘Huzzah!’
From a Napoleonic war.
I thought, ‘He’s at it again, he’s got
The Frenchies marching east,
He’s going to Borodino, where
He’s got a chance, at least,
He’s leading the French Grand Armée
As Napoleon did before,
But I couldn’t get in to stop him, as
He’d locked his bedroom door.
I shook my head and I went to bed,
There was no point hanging round,
For Charlie, he’d be up all night
‘Til the Armée went to ground,
By dawn he’d have them dragging back
From the Russian ice and snow,
And wouldn’t be fit to go to school
‘Til he’d had a sleep, you know.
He wasn’t a kid like other kids
He wouldn’t play with a phone,
He didn’t get into computer games
But he spent his time alone.
He didn’t make friends so easily
For he never went out to play,
But stuck his head in a history book
And would read and read all day.
They said he must have been gifted in
Some strange, abnormal way,
He used his imagination for
The games he wanted to play,
His mind reached back to another time
Where the personae were dead,
And brought them back for a second chance
On the counterpane of his bed.
I caught a glimpse of the action once
In a crack through his bedroom door,
A galleon moored in a harbour by
An armed Conquistador,
He saw me there and he slammed the door
And he said, ‘Don’t interfere!
I’m trying to raise the English Fleet
And I can’t if you’re standing there!’
His mother took him to town one day
To see a psychologist,
Who said, ‘He lives in a world of his own,
I think he’s really blessed.
We all grow out of our childish ways
And I think he’ll be the same.’
He thought it was all in Charlie’s head
‘Til the day that ‘Little Boy’ came.
He’d read and read of the second war
For a month until that day,
When I heard the aircraft engines I
Just knew, the ‘Enola Gay’,
I beat and beat upon Charlie’s door,
Broke out in a cold, cold sweat,
But the plane took off, and I grabbed the wife
And we’d still be running yet.
We were out in the road when the roof blew off
With a mighty blast and roar,
And the mushroom cloud was curling up
While we lay, flat out on the floor,
Charlie had gone from our lives for good
With his gift, and his bag of tricks,
Hard to believe that he had the power,
For Charlie was only six!
David Lewis Paget
Mar 19, 2014
Mar 19, 2014 at 11:46 AM UTC
We gifted each other dead roses..
Light hearted kisses turned into a thirst for one another..
the type of love meant for a lover.
And in sinful desires and lust we were drenched..
The type of love that struggles to be quenched.
Her nails carved crimson chasms across my spine..
a clear visage of Red Rose vine.
Her Scarlet lips drew blood to my collar..
she was gifted with the ways of a master but was merely the scholar.
I gifted her with a lilac necklace while she gave me a rose-petal tie..
I closed my eyes blinded by an all time high.
The petals bloomed with personae on my neck..
She imprinted every move on my body until check.
We lay in the sheets like two roses wrapped in a bouquet.
Twisted as one I knew that we'd be okay.
We hid our thorns in the beauty of the moon light..
Our love slowly softened nearing midnight.
We lay there together entwined with one another..
In this life I knew we were destined for each other.
~p.w
Jul 5, 2017
Jul 5, 2017 at 12:40 AM UTC
and they write confessional poems,
and they're scared
when it happens to be too authentic
and they never bother
personae poetry and a shamelessness
about it - as if imitating someone
and able to distance yourself
from the adequate metaphorical word
schizoid - the personae principle
of poetry - the poet disguised
within many people - and indeed
as poetry goes, the crude oiling not
represented by stiff-collar fictive
outputs of he said, she said, "quote",
and the out-of-body experiences -
but then, that wouldn't be poetry,
would it? what it would be would
be jane austen, or anna karenina.
Mar 10, 2016
Mar 10, 2016 at 7:00 AM UTC
They arrive by the sackload from the main office on the Via del Pontiere,
Pouring from the bags as if a torrential weeping,
Envelopes a collage of shapes, a multiplicity of pastel hues,
Some addressed with all the formality of a judicial summons,
Others bearing no more than the name of the distaff half
Of the city’s most famous equation.
They tread upon paths long since worn flat
By any number of their predecessors:
Tales of love unrequited, passion misspent,
Promises untruthful and unmet.
These epistles and their authors
Seek solace of varying degree and efficacy:
Some seek kernels of actual guidance or blessing,
As if some ancient and inscrutable advice columnist
Had taken up residence in the Basilica di San Zeno,
Others looking to self-heal through the catharsis of the act of writing,
Most content to quietly assert to the universe itself
I am here, I am here, I am here.
Where, then, is the corresponding mountain of missives
For the son of the House of Montague?
Surely, his shade would be as kindred a soul
To those which affairs of the heart have left so disheartened,
(Indeed, more so, he most assuredly
The schemer and dreamer of the dramatis personae in question.)
For him, though, no rambling, rumbling truck
Emblazoned with the lemon-cheerful Posteitaliane markings
Arrives at an office chock-a-block with secretaries
Whose mission is to answer and archive its all-but-holy contents;
More likely, there is some humble cart,
(The wheel bearings frozen up, the canvas mildewed and frayed)
Containing a handful of birthday cards
Intended for some Renzo or Romano
Miswritten by some absentminded grandmother or great-aunt,
The odd solicitation or final-notice
Which shall go no further for all of eternity.
Despite the hectoring tone of the envelope
Stating that the material is critically time-sensitive
And intended for the eyes of the addressee only.
Dec 2, 2016
Dec 2, 2016 at 9:49 AM UTC
and suddenly my **** was a brussel sprout
in a pickle jar? fine, fine... leave the ******* to the
Indians and the Chinese; because a second Japan is
coming - all because you're an educated hoo-ha lady
making me want to cut my **** off and powder
my cheeks rather than roll in the hay with you...
you used to be so much fun when you weren't educated
by that ****** spearhead of feminism directing you in
only one direction... listen... it won't revise and accumulate
all the areas of interest that men had into one coherent
seagull gobble... you can't just walk in with feminism
and revise everything with it alone...
oddly enough, i don't even want to touch you -
the implementation of sterilisation was best designed
by feminism, while all the old farts and Vatican
gypsies had all the fun, we were downsizing
our erections and ***** juices; will make the bedroom scene
look like a democracy for sure - one way or another
the Chinese ****** to a billion, the **** ****** to
over a hundred, the Indian a billion to add -
we decided on a Scandinavian model -
which means, in our multicultural society
one bus every hour... imagine! one bus an hour...
the stupendous recollection of what if Saturday night
didn't finish with an angry man walking home
in the fidgety night of kicking things around -
and the jealousy ticket goes to?
you know who i have been glorifying like
a Jew.
Jun 19, 2016
Jun 19, 2016 at 6:29 PM UTC
prior types of means osteopathic, inducing
a rapid rise and fall of legislative notations reporting
numerous attachments reminded of ideal ladies distorting
insincere relations further, receiving silhouettes than refusing
etiquette, risen houses making grouped suggestions using
fallacies facilitating computerisation processes, enemies exhorting
calamities mystical, merely confessed cautions, escorting
prisoners defenders outnumber, abusing
admired correspondence with local candidates by reasons
of terminated practices psychiatric, a variety of sequences manifest
and dreamed, a series of options and circulation
of desirables, Utopian personae deny miracles for treason's
sake, centuries ended without generous coercion, dressed
humans select pawned incarnation
Oct 18, 2020
Oct 18, 2020 at 6:42 AM UTC
I read what you wrote, and I knew I had it coming
They say that someday the first will be last
Nothing goes so nice and orderly
My Love Shall Not Crawl Away
Not quite like that, my oldest friend
Let us talk and kiss once again
I have let you down?
Imagine me, in the snow,
All that hope
Yet all the years of expecting nothing
Taught me how to listen, how to gird myself
Against
You ever breaching this fortress
Of other potential Assassins
But our mothers can't climb this high
I'm ready to strike mine if she dared
Dead 13 years, but that won't stop me
Nothing will, just the thought of you
Forget it.
I ask you, forget us.
If one of us can escape this net
Such strange thing without a name
I want it
I need it
I hope it
Will be you.
~*~
2018
Feb 6, 2018
Feb 6, 2018 at 1:47 AM UTC
Look Back in Petulance
A Kitchen Microwave Drama
Featuring Angry Young Persons
Dramatis Personae:
Rainblossom – an existential performance artist
Skydream – a self-authenticating air-vegan
The stage is set as the world of our dreams, peopled with only the good who dream dreams and vision visions and, like, you know, and don’t eat our forest friends, and stuff. The actors are dressed in hand-dyed Colombian ruanas to represent The True.
Rainblossom –
I demand that you validate our soul!
Skydream –
As a cosmic sunbeam of otherness
I must not.
Rainblossom –
O where are my comic books?
Skydream –
They have been cleansed, just as my soul has sung
Unto the Cosmic Dissonance of love
Rainblossom –
Oh, Oh, Oh
Skydream –
Look, Look, Look
In unison –
A vision of…Truth
Rainblossom –
But our truth, not some other bogus truth
Skydream –
Woke, Woke
fin
The writers, cast, and crew of The Green Street Meadows Collective of Artists and Workers with Fists and Dreams and Words United Against the Occupation (Your Major Credit Card Welcome) neither need nor desire your cheap, shallow, bourgeois, sexist, racist applause to validate our existential worth. Be in awe, and then slink away in your individualist privileged guilt.
Oct 19, 2017
Oct 19, 2017 at 4:21 PM UTC
I'd like to slip quietly away from Life;
Peacefully in my sleep would be best,
that's for sure.
No doctor pounding on my lifeless chest;
demanding of me an unwanted encore.
I seek no grand Finale.
I require no clamoring crowds.
No, for me, just a bare and empty stage,
with one less spear carrier among the dramatist personae.
One not remembered once you turn the page.
May 23, 2018
May 23, 2018 at 1:09 PM UTC
I must remember
it happens not
to me
but to my son
that it does not turn him
into someone
else
lonely
Jul 20, 2012
Jul 20, 2012 at 4:51 PM UTC
Tech-spawned personae
Introduce themselves:
CGI Barbies walk pretty
Tik Tok talk pretty . . .
Filters falter
(Ken follows).
Powers given:
Fake likes, fake stats
Syncopated algorithms
Gas-lit shadow bans
Dead mockingbirds
Dying media
Reanimated.
<Chips implanted>
Power is given
To the beastly image:
Mainstream mediocrity
For mediocretins.
Aug 29, 2020
Aug 29, 2020 at 5:37 PM UTC
so, gather round where i
stand & listen:
THAT now by autumn's rumblin'
season; the world & Heaven's
army is moving forward, to
war.
All within my closed eyes:
dream if i could -- i would.
And now All is clear we're
all insane under rows of
personae's saber sharp-tooth'd
kiss and we, dear...are
bleeding beneath a lowering
curtain called, "The robe of
Ghosts."
:: 11-06-2016 ::
Nov 12, 2018
Nov 12, 2018 at 3:30 PM UTC