"rature" poems
Alors pourquoi juste maintenant?
C’était une nuit sur Bagneux
Nous étions mercredi soir à la station Montparnasse-Bienvenüe
Je portais ces mêmes vêtements noirs et ma veste grise achetée en Italie
Il ne faisait pas trop froid
Je rentrais chez moi, vingt heures
Mon regard croisa celui d'une jeune femme d'à peu près mon âge
Jolie, mince et calme, le visage d'opale et les deux pieds bien posés au sol
Avec insistance je la regardais
Elle me faisait tellement penser à celle que je n’arrive pas à être
Fixant le quai d'en face
Le métro était censé arriver dans une minute
Quand soudain
La tête me tourna
Je ne contrôlais plus aucun de mes mouvements
Je me suis approchée du mur, m’y suis appuyée tant bien que mal juste pour ne pas tomber
Et là, je ne sais pas très bien pourquoi
Mais la jeune femme que je ne cessais de regarder sauta sous la rame.
L’insupportable bruit
L’électricité
Le corps en mille morceaux
Les gens qui hurlent
Le métro qui s'arrête juste devant cet embrasement
Pourtant moi
Moi
Je ne disais rien
Je m'accrochais tant que je pouvais au mur
J'avais si peur de glisser à mon tour
Pourquoi elle
Elle était si jolie, si fine et si calme
Aucune rature sur son visage d'opale
Rien
Tandis que moi...
Ce n’était qu’une autre nuit sur Bagneux.
May 17, 2012
May 17, 2012 at 5:43 AM UTC
I'm languished here in lack of lit'rature,
for treading words - writ oceans black and pale.
I woe my want of discipline demure
to hoist my mental canvas and set sail.
To set this sextant sentence south to north,
my odyssey sees strange sands lap aground
with trepidation slipping slowly forth,
and omnipresent, inauspicious sound.
Please show me now around this simple isle.
Lead me by hand to cliffs by time distressed.
Forgive me then if I retreat a while
to cast off, searching ****** shorelines' rest.
This covered ground, font foliage, anon
will meet me once this weary world is gone.
Aug 12, 2014
Aug 12, 2014 at 2:01 PM UTC
...ARGH! Hence the title...
(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCLXV)
Spent, ere the fragile chance to what? avail,
Look how blue skies warm in dawn's welcome, whence
Don't roll a single word for aught intents
Across my tongue, jist see, and wonder, pale
As howling oer grey heavns' sheer lack, nor scale
Lo, any bit of this or that cuz sense
Drowned late on Monday night where visions dense
With oh, Victorian airs stole off wee bail.
Yes, when I've but a minute to bestir
My pencil for ah, which detail passed through?
I'm swooning sans a voice yet over her--
That girl whom lit'rature FORGOT, cuz ooh!
She was his mistress; won the world as twere
Because of that keen secret: I've naught cue.
12Mar19a
Mar 14, 2019
Mar 14, 2019 at 10:19 PM UTC
What my men lament, I suppose.
(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCXCIV)
Lo, how mists shroud the world til aught fr'intents
Quite disappears! The clustered houses tale
Lost to that fragile whiteness, firs detail
The edge of haunting yonder likeas thence
I knew high in the Rocky Mountains, whence
My soul takes off on that note, like the veil
Hides steeper ledges and ravines, this pale
Eye of thin warmth with puddles in suspense.
An essay on erm, Samuel Johnson fer
Is't thus another angle on just who?
I thought our lit'rature taught us in tour
His name at least. Perhaps I'm wrong. He knew
So much tis reckoned better he as twere
Was NOT a lawyer, brilliant. Is't fog's cue?
06Feb19b
Feb 13, 2019
Feb 13, 2019 at 12:52 AM UTC
Though poetry does not know me
It's fair to say I know poetry.
The kind that poets used to write
With simile and metaphor,
Onomatopoeia, and much more.
When every stanza had a rhyme,
And poets always took the time
To smell the roses on the vine,
To know the rules
And toe the line.
But now I fear it's not that way,
There are no rules to know today.
Poets now write lit'rature,
The kind that's really so obscure
The reader's left with thoughts impure and meter doesn't count for much of anything at all.
Sep 15, 2016
Sep 15, 2016 at 7:10 PM UTC
Linger whisper the air so sweet
And the pillow talks down the street
No one knows what they share
If they dare to intertwine bare
If they do sizzle and bliss
Is it something that you resist
If clothes unwrap and we titillate
Will we rature and seal fate
And waterfalls sprinkle over our skin
We'll waken tomorrow and start again
If desires sizzle in the dark
We'll come together igniting those sparks
If you're ****** and feel ashamed
Do in dark among the rains
Jul 31, 2016
Jul 31, 2016 at 3:59 PM UTC
Alas & Alack, When Will Poetry Be Back?
Though poetry does not know me,
It's fair to say I know poetry.
The kind that poets used to write,
With simile and metaphor,
Onomatopoeia, and much more.
When every stanza had a rhyme,
And poets always took the time
To smell the roses on the vine.
To know the rules
And toe the line.
Now I fear it's not that way
There are no rules to know today
Poets now write lit'rature
The kind that's really so obscure
The reader's left with thoughts impure and meter doesn't count for much of anything at all.
Sep 16, 2016
Sep 16, 2016 at 9:25 PM UTC