"plait" poems
Under the bluish yellow marble sky
I introduce my soul;
to the demon & the angels
By the lemons tree, I've unleashed my hair and unbutton my blouse
Then cried
as if my teacher called me the black girl
I will call to the 1st passing girl:
"Slow down, please wait for me;
Rise me up by my arms
like a little girl.
I wanted her to Plait 2 branches;
of hair for me
To walk over the world's cold grass
And lie down in front of the sea
Forget the stars - she said
Forget the sea - I said
We left the world coughing its smoke;
of poisoned kids' toys,
cast the residuals of cosmetics and tore bras
Into this sacred sea
So come with me my friend
Delete all of my contacts
smash my mobile phone by your shoe's heel
And let's vanish
from this world
Toward shiny white space
Toward inky smell books
Toward white skies and pink kisses
infinite daylight
For you and for me.
- Sally S. Ali
Jan 21, 2019
Jan 21, 2019 at 6:00 PM UTC
I will tie you up
and torture you,
in all the best ways.
It could last hours,
possibly even daze.
I will leave you dehydrated,
aching,
sticky,
and sore.
I will leave you physically unable to say you want more.
It will be too hard,
too soft,
j u s t right,
not enough,
tease tease choke bite spit gag pull s q u e e z e.
Lie back, if you please.
Jul 3, 2018
Jul 3, 2018 at 1:30 AM UTC
My hero bares his nerves along my wrist
That rules from wrist to shoulder,
Unpacks the head that, like a sleepy ghost,
Leans on my mortal ruler,
The proud spine spurning turn and twist.
And these poor nerves so wired to the skull
Ache on the lovelorn paper
I hug to love with my unruly scrawl
That utters all love hunger
And tells the page the empty ill.
My hero bares my side and sees his heart
Tread; like a naked Venus,
The beach of flesh, and wind her bloodred plait;
Stripping my **** of promise,
He promises a secret heat.
He holds the wire from this box of nerves
Praising the mortal error
Of birth and death, the two sad knaves of thieves,
And the hunger's emperor;
He pulls that chain, the cistern moves.
2.9k
I spy
with my little eye,
something beginning with I.
I wonder
if the kids younger
than I, know what it is to wonder.
To dream
of all that's unseen
and the places they've never been.
When sat
do they know how to relax
with just their thoughts as they plait,
their hair
or ears of a teddy bear
adding a bow for a flair,
to see
all their creativity
at the age of only three.
And how
parents let them plough
through screens without
a notion
that this motion
is only just a token
gesture
undress her
she's no saviour.
As she
believes the he
is here to set her free.
Romanticise
see the prize
a body plasticised.
Naïvety
meant to be
girl don't you see.
Plastic
elastic
please don't be sarcsatic,
she dreams
to be
the perfect thing to see,
but don't you see
it's not meant to be
she.
That girl of only three
now forever ****** to be,
Perfect.
A statement
not a standard,
so please don't do this to her.
Ignore her
for her
one day she'll thank ya'.
I spy,
with my little eye,
someone. Who wants to cry
Sep 24, 2024
Sep 24, 2024 at 4:45 AM UTC
It’s a warm evening on the sahara
camel washed sand dunes
rise up like sacred mountains in the
red distance
I unzip the flap of my
nomad tent
dry desert winds
plait golden grains of sand
through my nubian hair
Sai Krishna
my heart is a parched fig
monsoon tears flood the nile
and my mind plays ***** tricks on me
mirages robed in ochre
waver across the striped horizon
Peacock Lord
Your Radha has prepared a basin of
fragrant myrrh
to anoint your lotus feet
flowers gathered from the gardens of
Isis
are eager to adorn Your divine neck
Prema Swaroopa!
Answer the ardent prayer of Your devotee
before the moon rises a silver swan
in the heavens
Jan 27, 2016
Jan 27, 2016 at 1:20 AM UTC
Amputated from man
Amputated by man
Implanted to the outside of a wall
A foreigner refused entry into the family
The patern is as such: evrey need I fill
Opens up another two in me
One morning I awoke an amputee
And so it continued the whole life through
"How sincerity made a mad man of you"
If I ever face the mirror that's what I would say to thee
But me and my reflection have gone our seperate ways you see
Half a coffin for the amputee
I know they blame me and say how it's all my fault
Just cos I don't have a hatred for others
Which clearly they have got
Selfish to the core...vanity pride and greed..
Trick a poor stranger for an extra penny
Charge an arm and a leg from an amputee
God has unlocked my heart
But not the padlock on his gate
Heaven may be within reach
But hell is on a plait
So shall I DIE now??..is that what it will take ?
To make happy those so called "near to me"
To beautifie the amputee.
Mar 30, 2014
Mar 30, 2014 at 4:51 PM UTC
When the guests arrived we would hasten to sit in separate rooms.
Quick to cover and observe deep voices through walls,
Men with domed hats and flowing kameez would arrive and wait
for steaming chaaval,
brought in a mound topped with cloves.
Dishes placed and eyes down, they would acknowledge with
half nods,
hairy knuckles to pour the saalan over geometric bowls.
My aunts would hush in the kitchen,
pinning their scarves in a zig-zag fashion.
The colours burning from the tiles,
watching them made me dizzy and inside
I longed
that my plait would one day thread gold like theirs.
Timed silence was a key,
and a pyramid that was never fell,
unlike the tasks that could be
stitched to your hands,
structured stiff – like a testing lap.
Boiled milk in china cups,
there would be nods, gap-tooth smiles, low chatter
with ears pricked to
the humming of satisfaction within.
Sounds through division that showed that yes,
in the right hands
the colours could burn brightly,
and that yes,
in a brush of joint henna,
we would stand separate from your
Vision of us.
Aug 17, 2016
Aug 17, 2016 at 7:55 PM UTC
Gauri, Kali
The fair one, the dark one
Bedecked in silks naked body bedecked with skulls
flowers and jewels taken from demons
dark hair tied in a long lovely plait her wild hair hangs all about her
Jagatmaata-Mother of the World The Fierce One-Destroyer of Evil
Feminine grace personified Feminine Power in all its glory
her kindness assures her countenance strikes fear
Calm and peace in the hearts of evil doers
She uses the primal energy
To nurture, to create To destroy, to cleanse
Some days I’m like her On other days like her
On most days I’m both
Copyright © Vijayalakshmi Harish
Sep 20, 2012
Sep 20, 2012 at 10:11 AM UTC
what had happened
what we made
may be compared to a fishtail braid
the situation
the mess we made
may be likened to a fishtail braid
just as it takes the braid a few minutes
this "love" we had took a few years
woven slowly, outcome dainty
despite the flinches and the fears
just as beautiful the braid is
our "love" was magnificent
oh! the beauty! with sorrow i'll miss
never desired for it to end
and then it happened; then you stopped
the fragile masterpiece, the work of art
slowly, the plait became undone;
messy. ugly was the result
i, the fog that fades
you, last farewell bade
us, the ruined fishtail braid
Feb 16, 2014
Feb 16, 2014 at 11:17 AM UTC
I am fixed
to the walls of this house
so tightly joined to it,
this bed
through sinew and bone
thread, thread, thread
another plait into me
the night, the breed she is
with that ****** needle
and thread, thread, thread
knows I can’t stand within it
the vignette
the solitude
the white coats,
the men of the word
those in the mire of the clay
all prescribing the same thing
a hit of perseverance
“Oh, okay,”
“oh, okay,”
“oh, okay.”
I lick, lap at
the slow drip
so tightly fixed to where I always have been
don’t come in,
don’t go out
“I’m sorry,”
in the pooling of spit
one hand in the *****
reaching into the pit
the *********
night
I don’t say in vain
“Okay,”
“Okay,”
“Okay,”
she waits
loosens my thread
slips those little tethers
so much good slack
I run
take my hit of perseverance
I burn
burn, burn, burn
right up in the fire of day
she waits for the ash
the sun rises and sets
on the same thing, always
always
always
always
they don’t understand
those free feet, walking the narrows
I watch them all go
no wince, no limp
no thread, no spit
the way that it seems,
from my portion of shadow,
“Oh, okay,”
so easy
Dec 19, 2022
Dec 19, 2022 at 5:04 AM UTC
Th’ast dar’d too far ; but, fury, now forbear
To give the least disturbance to her hair:
But less presume to play a plait upon
Her skin’s most smooth and clear expansion.
’Tis like a lawny firmament as yet,
Quite dispossess’d of either fray or fret.
Come thou not near that film so finely spread,
Where no one piece is yet unlevelled.
This if thou dost, woe to thee, fury, woe,
I’ll send such frost, such hail, such sleet, and snow,
Such fears, quakes, palsies, and such heats as shall
Dead thee to th’ most, if not destroy thee all.
And thou a thousand thousand times shalt be
More shak’d thyself than she is scorched by thee.
2.2k
start with a bucket of dusted gravel
tip into a cold pan, a wriggling jungle of alphabet
gasps.
drown.
rock the pan of words in arms
agitating the line-breaks
the twisting plait of water
spurts the lightweight
sediment over the edge
to a scrap pool of dog-tailed idioms
the rest charges, a collage of schooled fish
the pulse in the rubble sinks
like a dictionary to the base.
ransack the salt-swamp of dazed stanzas
as a malnourished mole
catch a lump, grasp between digits
it twinkles under caked mud.
free it from parasite-adjectives
strain from the crocodile water
a chiseled torso of words in the rock
all along.
Mar 25, 2012
Mar 25, 2012 at 7:06 AM UTC
Ciao baby, preggo
that means let's smooch under romantic balconies
and make lovely thick-haired multi-cultural children
I want a big ole belly of wine drinking zygotes
feta crumble eye *****
real live sculptures in my palace
jaggedy rocks with blood streams
trickling into the ocean
salty and brine like sewer sludge
let's go for a swim
could be amazing, or beautiful
most likely exciting at least
light bulb moment: I want to hear yours first
you're so dang brilliant like cerulean skies
fake but still pretty
tell me your story
teach me your lingo language
sil-vous plait?
Non?
Well fine, you're verbally redundant anyway
thoughts made of unsettling murky waters
no light can penetrate
and sweetie neither can you
not now
I'm 20,000 leagues too deep for your puddle of a conscience.
Jun 1, 2012
Jun 1, 2012 at 6:31 PM UTC
Look at her
Greenfield said
he was referring
to Miss Money
a girl who sat
two desks in front
hair light brown
drawn into a woven plait
at the back
bet she’s
got **** on her
he said
you glanced over
your finger turning
the page
of the history book
some text
on the Tudors
some boring ****
who had six wives
or so you’d read
the girl was engrossed
in writing
hand gripping a pen
head slightly down
I wouldn’t know
you said
bet she has
Greenfield uttered
the history teacher
had his back
to the class
fingers with chalk
scribbling
on the board
you noticed
the girl’s neck
between blouse collar
and light brown hair
my cousin’s got big *******
he said
saw them
when she was dressing
one morning
while straying
at her house
getting ready
for a wedding
he drawled on
you followed the text
with your finger
the second wife
had her head
chopped off
poor *****
you thought
Miss Money turned
her profile captured
ear
eye maybe brown
then turned
back again
sunlight
from window’s glass
blessed her head
but Greenfield talked
of her figure
and waistline
instead
making motions
with his hands
in the air in front
history
was lost on him
Miss Money
moved him more
at least
some aspects did
not the finer things maybe
but he kind of
wrote and made
his own
dull history.
Apr 15, 2013
Apr 15, 2013 at 2:43 AM UTC
In the monsoon,
I walked colonised streets
trying to befriend a city,
forged fields and bright street lights,
they often vanished inside my eyes
to see happy children on beaches;
glass ceilings shattering to find a sky,
that broke down abruptly
to weep on my shoulders.
I swam in the rain
only to meet those children at the beach.
They roofed me under white curtains,
for the Witch might try to grab me,
plait my hair
and take me back
to her hall of circus.
Every flower,
every breeze,
every wounded bird in a city
are part of a folklore
where minstrels live,
they all sing me
back to beaches.
Jul 1, 2016
Jul 1, 2016 at 12:03 PM UTC
Éloge de Monsieur de Montaigne
(Dédié à Jean-Pierre)
Toi seigneur de Montaigne, au si beau nom d'Eyquem
que nul amateur de Bordeaux ne saurait négliger.
Tu fus l'ami de La Boétie et un sage joyeux,
Tu vécus en ton château, dont l'une des tours rondes,
contenait une bibliothèque fournie.
Toi, qui faisait cultiver ce vin de Bordeaux,
qui sied au palais et plait tant aux anglais.
Cher Montaigne ayant étudié à Bordeaux,
au collège de Guyenne,
Tu vécus en un temps empoisonné
par les guerres de religion et ses sombres fureurs.
Temps affreux ou l'homme égorgeait l'homme,
qui ne partageait pas sa même lecture de la Bible.
Et dire que nous avions cru, ces temps-là, révolus !
C'est peut-être ce qui te poussa à choisir l'école stoïcienne,
Bien que par ton tempérament et ta vie.
Tu fus beaucoup plus proche des bonheurs de Lucrèce.
Tu fus, un long temps, magistrat au Parlement de Bordeaux,
bien que les chicaneries du Droit t'eussent vite lassées,
et plus encore, la cruauté de ses modes de preuve.
et cet acharnement infini des plaideurs,
à n'en jamais finir, à faire rebondir les procès
que tant d’énergie vaine te semblait pure perte.
Mais tu voulais être utile et l'égoïsme étroit de l' «otium»,
choquait ta conscience.
Tu eus un ami cher, Prince de Liberté et de distinction,
Etienne de la Boétie, qui réfléchit avec profondeur,
sur les racines de la tyrannie en nos propres faiblesses.
Et de cette amitié, en recherchant les causes,
Tu conclus et répondit ainsi :
«Parce que c’était lui, parce que c’était moi»
Révélant ainsi que la quintessence du bonheur de vivre
luit au cœur de cette amitié dont nous sommes,
à la fois, le réceptacle et l’offrande.
Cher Michel de Montaigne, je voulais,
te saluer ici et te faire savoir en quelle estime
Je te tiens avec tes «Essais» d’une bienveillante sagesse
Qui font songer aux meilleurs vins mûris en barriques de chêne
Et à ces cognacs qui éveillent l’Esprit et les sens,
Même lorsque l’hiver nous pèse et nous engourdit
Je voulais aussi te dire que de ton surnom
J’ai nommé Jean-Pierre qui te ressemble si fort
Et apporte une douce ironie à mes passions tumultueuses.
Paul Arrighi
Apr 21, 2016
Apr 21, 2016 at 6:16 AM UTC
we the daughters of sliced sunbeams
and those who chase gales in between
the pasture gates and barbed fences behind
the silo--
who think there's nothing softer than the way
honey sounds drizzled on toast or daisy petals at the supermarket
the women of ferocious silences, standing before
dozens with trimmed smiles and deafening inner beauty
squeezing our fingers down barley stalks and sewing
the roots into our dresses, we've tried six ways to sunday
the rules, the book on being wanted, before realizing that anything
born out of self-indulgence wilts away
all the work we did to grow and plait our hair with vanilla,
dipped in sweet almond oil we had no idea
that pretending
could only get us
so
far.
Sep 5, 2016
Sep 5, 2016 at 10:26 AM UTC
You have my permission
Off to Austria go,
Braid and plait your hair
Alpine style, sing if you must,
Lay ee odl lay ee odl lay hoo hoo
Even Do Re Mi
But be **** sure
You are back in
The USA, on NBC,
Come the weekend,
Singing the opening song of
Sunday Night Football
Your braids and long dresses,
Leave behind,
Blow out that hair,
Wear the shortest of skirts
That wardrobe will provide,
Cause if truth be told,
No football watcher on the workweek eve
Will sleep well,
no matter the outcome,
Unless your presence is the opening
Finale of the weekend to
Do Re me.
Dec 7, 2013
Dec 7, 2013 at 9:01 AM UTC
Notre ami, le Mouflon
Parfois ses cornes tire-bouchon e font ressembler le mâle à un faune farceur,
Peu haut sur pattes mais véloce, le Mouflon se révèle un remarquable Athlète bondissant de rochers en rochers,
Escaladant les rocs avec effronterie, il se rend parfois en été ou lorsque la nourriture se fait rare, au cœur des clairières et dans le creux des vals
Pour goûter avec gourmandise ces mets de choix que sont pour lui les baies, glands, faînes, châtaignes et surtout les mannes du frêne à fleurs,
Le Mouflon est, avant tout animal des cimes et des à-pics ; il est aimant de tous les lieux inaccessibles sans le secours de jumelles ou de téléobjectifs.
Pour Mouflons et Mouflonnes, la saison de l’amour est l’automne ce qui révèle un goût de seigneur,
Car la vêture des clairières est alors rougeoyante de beauté, à l’instar de tapis persans,
Le Mouflon ne serait-il pas animal sauvage certes mais romantique car il se plait à admirer l’encolure des Mouflonnes, qui s’harmonise si bien avec les couleurs automnales ;
Mais pour les Mouflons, le plaisir d’amour doit rester subtil et ne pas verser dans ces luttes meurtrières : l’ami Mouflon est un épicurien qui donne leçon de sagesse à tous les jaloux.
Le Mouflon fut longtemps, le maître des Montagnes et du maquis Corse qu'il ne partageait qu'avec l’aigle royal, les sangliers les plus hardis et quelques bandits ou patriotes traqués,
Mais trop chassé par certains Hommes, dépourvus de sagesse et à la gâchette trop faciles, il faillit disparaître de son île emblématique.
Aujourd'hui il revient de l'île sœur, la Sardaigne, mais reste encore plus caché dans quelques massifs impénétrables comme le «Monte Cinto» et les «aiguilles de Bavella».
C’est ainsi que la Corse retrouve l'un de ses plus beaux animaux dont le nom de ses enfants, "I Muvrini", a fait le tour des scènes du Monde pour magnifier son emblème et sa terre nourricière, la Corse.
Paul Arrighi
Mar 23, 2014
Mar 23, 2014 at 1:31 PM UTC
Sweet whispers against
thighs opening
baring taut affluent ***
a pleasurable tremor
rises without touch
his mouth eagerly finds
femininities universe
libidinous tongue...
affinity begs, arched
in ecstasies moan
an amorous plait woven
in a pulsating knot
as we're completely undone
my universe succor
Feb 19, 2013
Feb 19, 2013 at 12:55 PM UTC
Eden’s Weeds (Andrew Crawford)
“seed buried somewhere six feet deep beneath dry bones
and brittle debris, lost in all of eden's weeds” Andrew Crawford
<><>><>
you tripped exploring mine own eden's weeds,
more precisely, tripped me up, your poring over,
my one hundred year old poems, flawed, by
many spilled tears, aged old, for and over them,
and now, once again, je vous réponds s'il vous plait
this poem planned, title chosen, well before you
exercised my memories, disinterring by your fingers,
(surprise!} but the content you also now provided,
@ ten to midnight, your privacy invasion, a very fine
sleep deprivation excuse to compose one more time
who knows, perhaps this next one could be ”flawless”^
not likely though, flawless never found amidst the weeds
though in Eden chances are, chances are, not impossible,
for that’s the place where slow, simple songs get replayed,
celebrating lovers of life, its pleasant harmonies, go figure
over, over again, like a rolling stone, until friction finally wins,
yes ”my own chosen speed”^ is a-slowing, direction home, finally,
the mosses occluding new words and combinations, concealed,
like a moss, got no roots, birthed by shedding spores airborne,
my new old poems, plucked from air, words passing by in phrases
your phrase,
eden’s weeds,
hit my irises,
insisting it deserved,
instant cognition,
two words,
demanding special education,
accolade recognition,
perhaps if I
stick around,
for a few more poems,
I’ll learn to write
as beautiful as you.
Jun 17, 2020
Jun 17, 2020 at 12:31 AM UTC
Blond locks of hair
Made fairer still
By the tongue
Which she speaks
Parle vous francious
The rounded jaw
The smile so sweet
Jesuit silvou plait
In voice I hear
Her laughter there
But her words
I do not comprehend
She says to me
Salivee
And spends a kiss
Upon my
Lonely cheeks
Mar 1, 2015
Mar 1, 2015 at 5:46 PM UTC
***
Out of the black ground they grow –
ghostly windy
fibers
and the birds – wavers
in baskets they plait them
like Venice
gondolas.
And in them we’ll get on.
In channels
of white pigeons
we’ll sail away
when golden bells
their chime
sow
And we will simply settle
The World…"
Jun 22, 2011
Jun 22, 2011 at 12:20 PM UTC
The way we do things religiously, the way we talk, the way we run our country's, and how we convict a person. May be all based on this thing called "religion" yet when asked what religion is there is no possible way to explain it easily. So why do we have religion? I think that religion is a need for human diplomacy, to see someone/something who is higher in all aspects to our leaders of whom we can not ask to help us. In this aspect is religion a way of making it is that we have a leader of a country who doesn't listen to his people, and as a denial to that power we create a thing that is greater than this leader? But what about the aspect of asking for assistance in something that doesn't at all relate political issues then is that a different form of religion?
Many religions create a being who is capable of anything. If not one being then there are multiple beings with individual "special abilities". Such as a Sun God. They thus pray to these beings in a plea to assist them in their plait, in some religions prayers are accompanied with a sacrifice of some sort, i.e. Goats, sheep, cattle and in history so were humans.
But why? What is the whole purpose of this "religion"?
Religion is a basis of human emotion, if we were not emotional we would not need religion, there are few people who are emotionally obsolete, they have no capable emotions. When asked what religion was they still were incapable of explaining due to the fact that every decision we make is all emotionally connected. When you have an emotionally inclined question asked to an emotionless person it is still an unviable solution to define it.
Jun 25, 2016
Jun 25, 2016 at 5:48 PM UTC
there were those days
when my thoughts
washed upon your shores
freely for you to pick and choose
and to cherish if you would
but now
the waves have fallen silent
the clams, they stay shut
why would they open?
unloved, unwanted, unheard
they decay
- Vijayalakshmi Harish
20.12.2012
Copyright © Vijayalakshmi Harish
Dec 20, 2012
Dec 20, 2012 at 4:05 AM UTC