"portia" poems
Portia and Bassanio
Brave Portia's lot was cast
Inside a mocking case of lead,
Morrocco came and passed,
Then Arragorn, arrived and left, forlorn.
A list of louts came, failed, and went
Before Bassanio played his turn...
Poor rich Portia's patience spent,
Nerissa's lady solace yearned
Antonio, Bassanio, a troubled pair
A wily shark a loan arranged,
Whose bite, though small,
Beyond compare aimed deepest
To the matters of the heart.
Antonio, about to lose his fortune,
Bemoaned the losing of a friend,
The foiling of a fortune, sunk.
Shylock, certain of his pound of flesh,
Summarily dismissed by gentile gender-bending,
Played as a fool by a woman posing as a man,
Who drove a lawyer's visage in a Portia.
All ended well, at least for "Christian" men...
Life sweetened by the turning of a Jew,
No matter his conversion at duress...
Straight away Portia and Nerissa turned back
A ******* borrower who had landed on his feet,
And sprang their traps to tame their husbands' heat.
Apr 16, 2014
Apr 16, 2014 at 11:52 PM UTC
I walk down the street.
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.
I fall in.
I am lost... I am helpless.
It isn't my fault.
It takes forever to find a way out.
I walk down the same street.
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.
I pretend I don't see it.
I fall in again.
I can't believe I am in the same place.
But, it isn't my fault.
It still takes me a long time to get out.
I walk down the same street.
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.
I see it is there.
I still fall in. It's a habit.
My eyes are open.
I know where I am.
It is my fault. I get out immediately.
I walk down the same street.
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.
I walk around it.
I walk down another street
Mar 7, 2016
Mar 7, 2016 at 4:38 AM UTC
(To Ellen Terry)
I marvel not Bassanio was so bold
To peril all he had upon the lead,
Or that proud Aragon bent low his head
Or that Morocco’s fiery heart grew cold:
For in that gorgeous dress of beaten gold
Which is more golden than the golden sun
No woman Veronese looked upon
Was half so fair as thou whom I behold.
Yet fairer when with wisdom as your shield
The sober-suited lawyer’s gown you donned,
And would not let the laws of Venice yield
Antonio’s heart to that accursed Jew—
O Portia! take my heart: it is thy due:
I think I will not quarrel with the Bond.
3.4k
In purple checked dresses we are confronted
Behind a piano sits ‘Miss Creak’ head of house
She has one bad eye, unfixable from childhood
But plays beautifully perched on an oakwood
And fabric stool. This is our secondary school.
On the wall above the piano is a framed print
‘Madonna of the Meadows’ by the artist Bellini
I pushed a drawing of a couple intertwining
Under ‘her’ door knowing she never would have
But a boy may have felt affection for ‘that’ affliction.
Here we all ate meals, did fashion shows and sang
I was glad my dress was purple not orange or red
Went better with my blue eyes and blonde hair
The rest of the school diveded into coloured checks
To represent Shakespearean female characters.
Just opened in Wandsworth a new comprehensive
Serving all abilities, behaviours and nationalities
Cordelia, Beatrice, Juliet, Katharine,
Portia, Rosalind, Olivia, Viola a rather unsuitable
Vision for such an uptake of adolescent froth.
Miss Creak was, kindly, I wish I had always been.
Oct 22, 2018
Oct 22, 2018 at 10:59 AM UTC
I make my grave in her dark treason of hair,
Fragrant master of soldiers and memories,
Bei capelli, conspiracy of internecine curls.
Her upbraidings strangle all my sweet nothings
To breathless wish of the emperor-purple of lips.
Flow then like black gloss of birds
And the brood hatchlings of shadow, exiled eastward,
Fled like a premonition of warmth somewhere far off,
While the wine-colored blood spills his heart into a throng of mouths.
Love, you are the hardest grave,
Were you ever just a kiss
Or always from daggers made?
Jun 4, 2019
Jun 4, 2019 at 1:52 PM UTC
A governess, a guardian of the young, so known and dear as to be called “Mother” and a noblewoman, just barely 12 by age, named Portia, sit talking as the sun sets the stage for a cool, cloudless night.
“Mother, who invented candlelight and the slow, delicate brush of lips?”
“Some rakish boy, pawning his experience for present pleasure, no doubt.”
“Say true, Mother. If you were a man, would you find this common body worthy of love?”
“You show no blemish child, and display a certain bony voluptuousness - I should think.”
The governess begins to comb and braid Portia’s hair for sleep.
“I saw Portincio this morning, in the courtyard.”
“The boy from Padua?”
“He’s a man Mother, and his cast portents a passion so sweet - it shakes my very frame.”
Mother chuckles, “Even hopeless birds sing in cages.”
“I am not hopeless!” Portia writhes angrily, like a snake about to strike but mother calms her.
“Shoo, shoo, now,” Mother purrs, brushing all the more gently, “I meant nothing of it.” After a moment, she continues, “Love is more than coquetry, little one, and it soon passes - like a parade, or a rash. For now, be happy, you are like the chaste stars - unreachable.”
Feb 23, 2023
Feb 23, 2023 at 10:44 PM UTC
I hear you whispering to me
it's alright my child
I know you want this to be over
I am right here
I will always be right here
don't give up you hear me?
As long as you can still grasp a breath
you fight
You breathe...so keep breathing.
Your body...your soul
may be fighting you
It is older and has taken
on many troubles and trauma
but your spirit needs to stay
you have important work still to do here
As they press on your throat
Trying to check the last bit of air
the Red tail Hawks Circle in the sky
we are here
Do not be afraid
You were born with white blood
The ones who have dark blood
are angry that it is
still running through their veins
are afraid of you
Your light is so bright
they fear getting burned
Time may not be on your side
But you will know when the time is right
you are the silvertip grizzly bear
who smells from many miles away
who will rip flesh with your mighty
claws in seeming anger
His smell
seven times stronger than the Bloodhound
your nose is a time traveler
while they see someone's name
carved in
a heart in the tree they will know
this person loves someone else
you know who made the carving
what was on the soles of their feet
what direction they walked in
And to stay away if they are dangerous
little Portia...jumping spider
you can see in four dimensions
Opening Our Eyes to history
as ancient Greek statues were painted
not white
your evolutionary camouflage
is useless against the death machine
the black Emperor Scorpion
which to you glows in a bright blue green
you are also like the monarch butterfly
waking from sleep cocooned
living only a few months
migration that spans Generations
born knowing exactly how to get to their
greatest grandfathers home
who left six months ago
not told by your Mother
You are the beautiful white bleeding heart
that I planted outside your door
you didn't know where it came from
It will provide you ease from your pain
and calm your nerves
you must extract this from the root
It all feels very important
To speak the truth
to get it all down
It feels like it might be too late
but it is not
just remember to keep breathing
As long as you have a breath
as long as you can grasp a breath
you breathe
keep fighting
I am here
I am with you
I will always be here.
Cherie Nolan© 2016
Jun 15, 2016
Jun 15, 2016 at 3:49 PM UTC
I attained that you are predetermined,
quiet and an ever stalwart girl
I attained you are admiring success
and you are precisely deigned
with truthful excitement and analyses each move you make
you are an expertise really,
and you have the ability to learn with understanding
you're introspective, yet you're introvert
Let me say you like September breeze - my month
That's why I have a faculty to detect a bigger picture of you
That's why I consociate with you
I'm sure God brought you to life just for me
Me and you have allotment in common,
and we can achieve the innermost of it
I would name her portia, your name of course
if I were to have a baby girl with you
from your intellectualist optimism,
I'm sure she would adapt clearly
I'm sure she would suits the two of us' s integrity
if we are a summer breeze,
she would be like a December beverage
The three of us full of smiles
Apr 23, 2016
Apr 23, 2016 at 9:17 AM UTC
SHAKESPEARE'S MIND AND ART *
In the memorable words of Ben Jonson,
Shakespeare, the great Bard of Avon,
"Is not of an age,
But for all time."
Endowed with a brilliant mind,
Worldwide knowledge and intuition,
He comprehends the changing trends
And creates enthralling situations.
With his amazing knowledge of man's nature,
Creates admirable, everlasting characters
Like Hamlet, Macbeth, Caesar and King Lear,
Rosalind, Miranda, Shylock and Portia.
Skilful blend of wit, irony and humour,
Youthful merriment, song and dance
As well as poignant scenes of sorrow and remorse.
Dialogues lively, powerful and spontaneous
Enrich all his comic and tragic scenes.
In his inimitable way, he describes -
How "..the poet's eye in a fine frenzy rolling
Doth glance from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven
And as imagination bodiesforth
The forms of things unknown,
The poet's pen turns to shape
And gives to airy nothing,
A local habitation and a name."
The world cherishes his poems and plays -
A perennial source of delight and solace.
******** M. G.Narasimha Murthy
Hyderabad, India.
(Copyright: MGN)
Apr 25, 2016
Apr 25, 2016 at 11:17 PM UTC
All these artists gather here on my floor
Three evenings
Poets, painters, musicians
Arguing, playing
I don't need streets of gold
The angels couldn't possibly make this music
Its weekend
And they gather
I'm a muse to many
So they say
A minority
My pitiful poetry and dance
But I dwell in these hills
With them
And my mahogany floors
Rests their shoes
Loud and melodous
Joey picks a tune and yells about fascism
Maria, sings her Spanish tunes
Stella laughs and dances our dance
Jimmy plays the strings to fire and ash
Chris beats the drums like an angry demon
Portia paints scenes that bring tears
Chloe makes her black and whites burst with every colour
They gather on my floors
I lay on the pillows and smile for them
With my liquor
They tell me I'm pretty
Catch my tears in mason jars
Moonshine passed between artists and lips
My house can't hold them all
We lack a banjo
Some "rap" some sing
Some write others paint
We all argue and fuss
Its a scene of crazy great
How I wish you all were here too
Mar 17, 2017
Mar 17, 2017 at 9:20 PM UTC
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Sep 7, 2015
Sep 7, 2015 at 5:44 AM UTC
The Girl in the mirror...
How the world got changed
In a mere moment!
Flower-like dreams got crushed
Under the sudden darkness,
And a tiny star
Twinkling with celestial music
Became lustreless and mute.
Tales of frolicking fairies
Lost their charm,
And the lips of the branches
Gently kissing a stream
Became totally numb.
Eyes knew for the first time
That they carried tears,
Sobs got arrested in the throat
Like the daisies strangled by weeds.
The girl in the mirror
Lost her smile.
© Portia Burton
May 24, 2017
May 24, 2017 at 9:25 AM UTC
Did I Cry? Why?
On waking up in the morning
I felt the smears of tears
across my cold cheeks,
with the gory image
of the last evening
of a sparrow killed
by the neighbour's cat
still burning my eyes.
'Did I cry? Why?'
I wondered aloud.
The walls replied,
'Because we could not.'
©Portia Burton
Oct 28, 2021
Oct 28, 2021 at 4:12 AM UTC
Cordelia - integrity everywhere
Portia - nobility and care
Juliet - beyond compare
Ophelia - alas, suicidal despair
Anne Hathaway - what did she share?
Jan 30, 2019
Jan 30, 2019 at 9:06 AM UTC
Thy heart is big
Lend me your hand
Because I love you, I shall let you know
That our faults lie not in our stars
But that we are mere mortals
Your once commended beauty--
Still Lingers
All my vows of love--
Still Strong
You are as dear to me
As the life blood in my veins
Kneel not, gentle Portia
I love you well
Not without cause
Let me, upon my knee, prevail in this
Apr 27, 2016
Apr 27, 2016 at 9:22 AM UTC
~_I walk down the street.
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.
I fall in._
—Portia Nelson, "Autobiography in Five Short Chapters"
My own four experiences with holes
written October 5th, 2021
1.
I walk down a road
I fall into a hole
This happens a few times
I stop walking down roads.
2.
I get tired of being stuck in one place
I decide to try again.
I walk down a road
A different road than before
I know holes can happen
I keep my eyes on my feet
Just in case.
3.
I walk down roads
I carefully keep a list
of roads with holes
It is always in my mind
Is this a safe road?
Will it be safe today?
4.
I walk down a road with a friend
I forget to check if it's a safe road
We are talking and laughing
Then I realize
This is that very first road
the one with that big hole.
Did we not notice and walk around it?
Did we float over it?
Is the hole gone?
Will it come back?
So many questions.
All I really know is
I am grateful for
the moments of not worrying about holes
while laughing with a friend.
Oct 6, 2021
Oct 6, 2021 at 12:05 PM UTC
Let's **** Caesar and call it a day.
Brutus is laughing and Mark Antony is crying.
Calpurnia cries and Portia rejoices.
The people sing and some weep.
Wow, what a great day it is to be a Roman.
Dec 20, 2018
Dec 20, 2018 at 11:34 AM UTC
We were in
the Santa Croce
in Florence.
My mother
was talking
as she often did
about the process of things
and how
the capitalist system
would come to an end.
I switched off
and noticed Odette
walking nearby
one of the chapels.
She was alone
her cousin
must have been
elsewhere(thank God).
She saw me
and blushed
but walked
towards us
in her white blouse
and blue jeans.
My mother paused
her Marxist talk
and asked Odette
how she was
and where
her cousin was.
Odette said
her cousin was with
the novelist
who was staying
at the same pension
as we were
and who talked
endlessly
about her books
and her plot
for her new book
set in Florence.
I noticed
Odette's *******
pushing
against the cloth
of her white blouse
and how her eyes
seemed to light up
when our eyes met.
My mother began
her lecture
on Italian art
and the corruption
of the Catholic Church.
I wanted my mother
to go elsewhere
so I could be alone
with Odette
and capture
each aspect of her
and never forget.
Jun 13, 2017
Jun 13, 2017 at 6:46 AM UTC
Here’s my thinking:
Sir Kevan probably gave a decent plan
with solid foundations and associated cost
not loss
and all the Ricardians could see
was that it wasn’t all me, me, me
and so slashed away and thought:
those dumb enough to teach
can eat the **** sandwich
it’s not like they do anything that matters,
****** chattering classes,
now, how do we get them to do childcare
for the next six weeks
to stop the knived dead
and angry, apoplectic kids
and make sure their drone folks are on the lines
to feed our fat, fatcat selves?
I’m sure that Portia works for Ofsted...
Jun 3, 2021
Jun 3, 2021 at 12:40 PM UTC
When did, ‘You can be
Anything’, become –
‘You must be everything’.
The mother, the provider, the
Teacher, the preacher
Of hopes and dreams for
Millennial babies. Their lot
In life cast only by themselves.
An epic of their own making.
9-5 then home again,
To dishes and husbands,
Both alike in tediousness
The warrior of sleepless
Nights, lost teeth, and
Abandoned dreams.
My mother was a Mosuo,
Her grandmother an Amazon,
Matriarchs of power
Who ruled as iron ladies.
Wooden spoons were
Their guns, and
Aprons their armour,
With a flint-like stare,
And perfectly curled hair,
They convened court in
Their sitting rooms with
Cups of tea and an intelligent
Eye; that told tales, tales
Of a proud matriarchal
Ancestry, a dynasty.
‘You are one of us,
Dear millennial baby,
A future queen whose
Kingdom will be your
Kitchen, a place where
No man dare step’.
I am not a feminist
Nor a suffragette or
A dictator. I am a
Millennial baby, and
My dreams are not aligned
With the ancestral stars.
I am a daughter and a
Sister, my voice is cast
From the silent mountains
Who rise like towers to the east,
To the drought stricken
Valley that grows more
Brown and crinkled with
Each day. Do you hear me
Now spirits of old?
You tell me to be a lawyer
So I will teach. My hopes
Do not align with your stars.
I am watched by
Eager eyes for the time
In which I may rise as queen.
Those eyes will be disappointed.
For millennial babies do not
Become queens. They are
A pair of ******* with legs,
To be gawked at by the peanut-
Crunching gallery of
Men. Men. Men. Those
Who reign in the bedroom
where their power is greatest.
‘You are Otrera. Esther.
Joan of Arc. You are Rosa Park,
Portia, Ophelia, Deborah’
Those matriarchs seem to
Say. ‘You are a matriarch,
Uphold our legacy!’
Jan 9, 2020
Jan 9, 2020 at 6:36 PM UTC
There has got to be a more poetic
way to express one's infatuation
for her, other than saying that,
I am in love. She must have had
a lifetime of sensual suitors who
were seduced by her beauty. If
one were to take a page out of
Antonio's book, regard beyond
the enticing, of Portia's caskets,
it is there you'll find those grains
of flour, yeasted by her fondness.
<>
For Sheila Fitzpatrick
Owner of ABC Organic
Bakery English Market
City of Cork Ireland.
May 8, 2019
May 8, 2019 at 5:44 AM UTC
Re-vision
Euro
( 2020 )
Mmmmm
Messi,
especially
when it
comes to
Dough
even
Ron-
Al-
Do.
Because
now he has
Turin over
to the Juve's
in Italie,
easier to
get a pound
of flesh !
Ask Portia.
Jul 17, 2018
Jul 17, 2018 at 11:41 AM UTC
I love how we sugarcoat the struggle. It fits my fingers and decorates my wounds. Usually the Dog would lick them but this, this is too rosey. It's sunny on my soft hospital bed and I can hear the sound of medicine ringing in my ears.
The numbness caused by the dosage really disappoints my fans of the performance I put on when the drugs kick in. Allergic reactions to the drugs that look like a seizure so perfectly executed just so Portia can come to my rescue. She's the nurse with the beautiful *** and Warm chest. I'd like to thank the academy.
I know this feeling won't last forever. Least I'm not drunk again. Nostalgia's a ***** in this bed. My sorrows in the cigarette smoke was how I blew off steam. You knew I was fighting demons when I rolled the greens. I'd blow and blow some more to sharpen my senses. Wait, is that a six or a nine? Oops I didn't mean to jump the gun. The bullet missed my skull and Pierced my soul.
Stumbling through my recovery at least I got jack And Susan to help me. Sorry I meant Anxiety and I don't give a **** about your dying pet. That'll be anger.
Don't lose focus, back to my sunny hospital bed.
The effects of drugs and alcohol. Least I know what killed me. Of course you'll live longer than me. I inject my tight veins with boiling liquids, my twitching hands and bloodshot eyes dare not interrupt my fix. You on the other hand, Pizza and a Coke and call it a night. Huh. I'll race you to the death bed.
Sit down and compute. The difference is that my fixes take longer to prepare so you can keep reading about standards and Choices but don't act concerned, this is not sophisticated.
Okay. I'm about to perform again. I'd like to thank the academy. Isn't sad that Portia isn't working today?
All my efforts gone to waste. Lord, My hospital bed is winter now and it's here to stay. I always knew I'd be buried with the winter. My souvenir to a warmer world.
Look at it however way you want, Roses with thorns or Thorns with roses. The ride has beautiful colours and thorny Grounds but most importantly, the ride ends.
I'm sorry, is this the part where I cry?
Aug 14, 2017
Aug 14, 2017 at 12:34 AM UTC
Winnie, I'll take you over Albert Finney.
You remind me of the city.
Kendall,your legs are nice.
They add just the right spice.
Tishtish, you don't even go tisk tisk
On your way to sheshe
Who doesn't go heehee
At all.
On a necessary ball.
Ramona, I know I'm not your Joe Bolona
And you can tell you don't have to use
The tona.
Georgia, I bet you remember Portia. Faces. Life
You're that right.
On and on.
Yeah my latest cluster.
Oct 5, 2018
Oct 5, 2018 at 2:32 PM UTC