"silvia" poems
I'm starting to dream in color
swimming in Silvia red night gowns
and dancing into silhouettes of purple and crimson.
psychedelic actually,
if you take the time to think within that perspective.
it's like a toned-down rave set in slow motion by overdose.
and where are you?
are you passed out on the lawn in front of some closed down swapmeet?
did the flicker of insomnia turn you off like a light switch you hadn't paid the bill for?
who now, will answer your phone or pay homage to your quips
or late night phone calls to God?
I wish I could say that I relayed the message
but my nerves never were enough.
I wonder if the angels ever picked up on the twisted games you played on their names.
Many people never bothered to decipher it all.
But on occasion I did.
When the time was convenient,
when the moments were dull.
I delved into it.
I tried anyhow.
Forgive me for never letting you pass.
For standing arms and legs wide apart to halt the inevitable.
I wish for so many seconds
that I was there to do something,
to show something,
some inkling of understanding through sarcastic grimaces.
To you, who will read this and play dead for flair,
may you call upon me from the imaginary casket when you get this.
Fore I do see that you could never leave like that.
Dec 3, 2010
Dec 3, 2010 at 9:56 PM UTC
Who is Silvia? What is she?
That all our swains commend her?
Holy, fair, and wise is she;
The heaven such grace did lend her,
That she might admirèd be.
Is she kind as she is fair?
For beauty lives with kindness:
Love doth to her eyes repair,
To help him of his blindness;
And, being help’d, inhabits there.
Then to Silvia let us sing,
That Silvia is excelling;
She excels each mortal thing
Upon the dull earth dwelling:
To her let us garlands bring.
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Silvia, rimembri ancora
quel tempo della tua vita mortale,
quando beltà splendea
negli occhi tuoi ridenti e fuggitivi,
e tu, lieta e pensosa, il limitare
di gioventù salivi?
Sonavan le quiete
stanze, e le vie dintorno,
al tuo perpetuo canto,
allor che all'opre femminili intenta
sedevi, assai contenta
di quel vago avvenir che in mente avevi.
Era il maggio odoroso: e tu solevi
così menare il giorno.
Io gli studi leggiadri
talor lasciando e le sudate carte,
ove il tempo mio primo
e di me si spendea la miglior parte,
d'in su i veroni del paterno ostello
porgea gli orecchi al suon della tua voce,
ed alla man veloce
che percorrea la faticosa tela.
Mirava il ciel sereno,
le vie dorate e gli orti,
e quinci il mar da lungi, e quindi il monte.
Lingua mortal non dice
quel ch'io sentiva in seno.
Che pensieri soavi,
che speranze, che cori, o Silvia mia!
Quale allor ci apparia
la vita umana e il fato!
Quando sovviemmi di cotanta speme,
un affetto mi preme
acerbo e sconsolato,
e tornami a doler di mia sventura.
O natura, o natura,
perché non rendi poi
quel che prometti allor? Perché di tanto
inganni i figli tuoi?
Tu pria che l'erbe inaridisse il verno,
da chiuso morbo combattuta e vinta,
perivi, o tenerella. E non vedevi
il fior degli anni tuoi;
non ti molceva il core
la dolce lode or delle negre chiome,
or degli sguardi innamorati e schivi;
né teco le compagne ai dì festivi
ragionavan d'amore.
Anche peria tra poco
la speranza mia dolce: agli anni miei
anche negaro i fati
la giovanezza. Ahi come,
come passata sei,
cara compagna dell'età mia nova,
mia lacrimata speme!
Questo è quel mondo? Questi
i diletti, l'amor, l'opre, gli eventi
onde cotanto ragionammo insieme?
Questa la sorte dell'umane genti?
All'apparir del vero
tu, misera, cadesti: e con la mano
la fredda morte ed una tomba ignuda
mostravi di lontano.
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I am a single man
And there are some
Who cannot understand
Why
I don't want to fall
In love again
I hope my poem
Will explain
I keep telling everyone
I don’t want to take a chance
I’ll never be ready
For another romance
She held me so close
With her Latin hands
And we had such a wild
And a wonderful dance
I feel like I’ve climbed
The world’s highest peak
Already I’ve seen
All there is to see
Silvia’s her name
And drama her game
Every night and day
She took my breath away
I’ve been to the top
Of the world’s highest peak
And already I’ve seen
All there is to see
I’ll never forget
Our long goodbye
Ain’t it strange when you fall
You can climb so high
Sean Hunt May 2016
May 25, 2016
May 25, 2016 at 5:05 AM UTC
Let us, though late, at last, my Silvia, wed
And loving lie in one devoted bed.
Thy watch may stand, my minutes fly post-haste;
No sound calls back the year that once is past.
Then, sweetest Silvia, let’s no longer stay;
True love, we know, precipitates delay.
Away with doubts, all scruples hence remove;
No man at one time can be wise and love.
1.1k
Photographs of my family hang on the wall.
Some I know.
Some would recognize me.
Others I know only from the stories
that immortalize them.
There is a family portrait in the hall
it tells tales that great legends envy.
For the stories left by these faces
will never be forgotten,
retold at bedtime for generations
to come.
The portrait speaks of a time
before cancer and old age.
Back when Linda and Debbie ran the house
and Jorge still went by Georgie.
Kathy was falling in love with dirt bikes,
Joey had to take Jimmy everywhere
and Nena made everyone save food
for when Silvia got home from school.
All the while Papo sipped his scotch
and watched his legacy leave their footprint
in the sand.
Truth is I’ve always known
he’d live forever.
Long before he began his walk home
Papo was already immortalized
in our memories and spirits.
Now that you rest
I find comfort knowing that I
carry your story with me,
and have the honor of calling you
Grandfather.
For us, you will always be
the legendary
Vincent Joseph Schement.
Sep 4, 2014
Sep 4, 2014 at 11:02 PM UTC
There are days where we meet up
To walk under cool crisp skies
Made up of indigoes, lilacs and light crimsons
Sunnier afternoons. Skimming to and fro
The slates of English Street. The plains of Sprucefield
Sprawling in front of us. Boulevards of Cookstown
That stretch far and wide, skirted with shops
Owned by unloved mannequins. We journey further
In our red Nissan Silvia, with the roll-down windows
With a pile of yellowed copies of the Beano in the back.
Mine, of course. I like to read. You taught me to.
Blur upon blur, we share whispers with each other
The alphabet, songs. I can count to ten, on my own. I did it once
In Marks & Spencer. Everyone was proud.
Taking our bag of tricks with us, we sup from place to place
Chicken nugget Happy Meals. Crumbs of a german biscuit.
Half of a sausage roll at the Trian. Twilight falls, the blurs
Become darker, curiouser. Soon I am home. The day is done.
There are other days where we meet up
Under a slightly greyer tinge. I laugh
I can’t change that, I tell you. The weather sometimes.
Less skimming, less journeying. Sometimes I’ll say
Remember that red Silvia? All the places we used to go?
But there’s no answer. The whispers have gone.
May 13, 2013
May 13, 2013 at 8:36 PM UTC
Houston woke up early. Yawning. A cigarette away from just packing his meager possessions and leaving everything this dusty room did not have to offer. A spark of zippo flame had his lungs drowning in chemical filth. Sometimes it felt good to get ***** Often enough now that he had forgotten what it felt like to be clean. The yellowed pages of his favorite books stared back at him in a mismanaged pile on his writing desk. What few thoughts he had managed to scripple out kept them company on crumpled napkins and ink stained pages.The sheets a sweaty twist around his pale form. He knew something had to give or he really was going to go over to Silvia's to just "talk" but do what he had been thinking about more often of late and drown her in the kitchen sink sloshing over with ***** dish water she never drained. Gods but that woman drove him crazy. The clanging of glass every time he took a step a testament to those emotions. All he could do to cope with the damage she had wrought was lose himself in a bottle. Any bottle would suffice but his favorite was spiced *** It used to burn going down but they had gotten so used to each other it was like old people having *** with the added bonus of actually reaching fulfillment. The company he had kept last night lay sadly on it's side next to his worn mattress. It's cap somewhere in the wreckage of Houston's hundred dollar a month room. He looked down at it and sighed, picking up the neck and now stale sips left in the bottom. He knew that this one swallow would only stoke the flames of his desire for more yet he could not help himself. Autopilot had taken control weeks ago. The glass on his lips was comforting but the not enough taste left on his tongue was sour. Today. Cracking of his spine echoed as he stretched. Today he was going to get revenge.
Jul 30, 2013
Jul 30, 2013 at 9:01 PM UTC
and at the end of this session, i'm going to gorge on homemade banana cake, and a glass of milk; hmm, so that's that.
hannah hallysem, chloe vevrier, rosalia verne, dakota skye, nadine jansen, milena d., katrina jade, alison tyler, sasha foxxx, noelle easton, shay fox, kourtney kane, aletta ocean, lexi belle, aria giovanni, maritza mendez, silvia loret, laura lion, ashley graham, latex lucy, alexis texas, dana dearmond, abella danger, karmen karma, jezebelle bond, keisha grey, karmen grey, jelena jensen, carmen croft, aneta buena, ines cudna, ewa sonnet, emma green, louisa marie, ivy nedkova, karolina pliskova, emma green, louisa marie, ivy nedkova, rooney mara, claire forlani, kelley scarlett, malina may, amirah adara, phoenix marie, foxy di., kenya lust, kiera winters, christy mack, paige delight, faith nelson, darya klishina, sand morris, alysha newman, silvia saint, adele stephens, deven davis, ewa wyrwal, tanya song, synn wagner, christina lucci, hunter leigh, lynda leigh, gemma atkinson, mulani rivera, sarah harding...
all those "expectations" mingling with a babuska...
gotta have a babuska after a list like that...
looks nice, doesn't it?
see how honest other people can become...
that's as honest as you're going to get:
i'm hardly an out-of-the-closet gay / intellectual...
and this is hardly the most desireds genetical "encyclopedia"
worth reciting...
but at least there's no closet,
and certainly no skeleton in it...
to be honest, i'd love to see a compendium of
a woman's favourite *****
oh sure, i can switch off...
i just start thinking about cow *******
and milk sacks; not that hard;
ugh... furr... itchy... stroking a cow is like
scratching your skin after the barbers...
milking a cow: ah... another subject
of investigation...
why do men not bother being
breast-fed, to out-compete the babe?
seems a shame to leave a vacuum for
capitalism to not investigate, don't you think?
Sep 2, 2017
Sep 2, 2017 at 10:01 PM UTC
Its getting about that time
that we all switch pictures
define ourselves in some new way
write plays about the years we didn't pay attention to whilst in them.
She glows.
Shifts in the distance like shifters do
mirrors the parts of me I cling to
splices in the new shade of blue
that some commoners cooked up one summer
I want to move like you do
I want to follow a tune that you grew
up out of that dangerous mouth of yours
I want to slip in unnoticed into your background
I want to leave you in the wake of a spellbound
insomnia silvia nightgown.
I'm a remix of secret decisions
that I would love to let you and your friend in.
Take the tour of the wicked and old sins
that I wrote when I worked for the lived-in.
But she's still staring loudly at the floor.
Forgetting what project I wrote for.
Forgetting what score I produced.
Forgetting why I haven't noosed myself quite yet.
She shifts in the distance like shifters do,
mirrors the parts of me I cling to.
May 8, 2011
May 8, 2011 at 7:50 PM UTC
I wonder, when the apple fell from its tree did gravity reinvent itself?
Did the weight of scientific endeavour hang heavier on the branch?
Did the sun cease to affix the earth with his benevolent glare; the moon blush with shame for having - just once - wandered from her orbit, distracted by the stars? I think not.
Would Silvia have hesitated to tread through the unfrequented woods of Mantua, have declined to walk by silvered path to meet her Valentine? And what of Roxane? Could she have failed to be enchanted by the seductive stories spun beneath her night-time balcony, to be inspired by a shining artemisian crescent?
All of life can not be defined and quantified, expressed as an equation and mathematically declared a derivative of time, distance, and mass. We need no formula for beauty, heartbreak, commitment, and courage. For there are more things in heaven and earth, my dear Isaac, than are written in your philosophy. And - what’s more - you **** well know it!
Apr 14, 2019
Apr 14, 2019 at 4:44 PM UTC
Stripping for her sister, Silvia has to talk pretty;
fingers playing music for free beneath the Tree
of Life; meaning, kissing the standard of the
Prophet, homeless in the area of the gods' legs;
**** teen club for those married to the six original
fallen strippers; their Dream Machine waiting for the
rich Rainbows did smell of the power of peace in her
eyes filled with soiled thong *******
Kenneth Williams that died at birth; Cold chaser
of the genius of life, of the painting of Christ & the cops'
Alchemy; In the sand wrote Mary sitting on a low Wooden
Wall
where the robot's tongue turned to wearing
Science; Einstein would have loved the winding
walls to unknown parts where injuries do not listen
to mom beating a friend with a bat; Top Air Park toes
asleep, Bobbi, the clear message that she was
pregnant; maces seized drinking enemy to live
within the sound of the gun, the angel of ***********
went up to meet, to meet; After you are watching a fool
in just his socks carrying a changing table to change
the broken glass of Bettie's ***** her friends holding her hands
at the fast food w/ a lot of debt and deceit as he sat down upon
the earth; Thomas Wolfe, on the radio he sang
the song, remember our night on this town [1 to 1]
of ours
upright in their ways to the nakedness of the
daughters of the bookmarks, go to play in one of the
corners, talking to & understanding the trees' leaves;
the meaning of the empty gun between her teeth
Sep 25, 2018
Sep 25, 2018 at 11:25 PM UTC
She speaks to me
from the screen
of poets
passion
and poetry
The backdrop
a bookshelf
a piano
a nobel man
I listen from my couch
on the bus
from my bed on a Sunday morning
Mesmerised by the poetic of the speaker
The sound of a passing train on its way to Adlestrop
where Edwards captured a moment of ease
But moments can turn in an instant
like Sexton
lost in the obliquity of bad poetry
***
church steeples
Is poetry lost
out the window of the bus in the rain?
If I am a poet am I in danger
like Silvia
of dying in darkness
in the shade of the yew tree?
For she cannot hear me
though I speak to the screen
of my love for poetry and a dream
The silent piano
a ventriloquist
rescues the poet
and her poetry from the fishhouses of gods sea
Yet I cannot believe in a god
who leaves the beggar I see out the window of the bus
to sleep in the rain alone
In the mill
I grind words for politicians
who make the beds of stone
for the beggar to sleep on in the rain
whilst they fatten the pockets
of the privileged and the rich
I board the bus covered in flour
that sticks to me like guilt
for my part in the grinding
But once on the bus
I must follow my heart
unless it is broken
Then I must lead it to mending
through words tied together with strings and feeling
Aug 15, 2014
Aug 15, 2014 at 10:37 PM UTC
Los adjetivos que me sobran
van como siempre al cubo de desechos
más tarde llegarán
a la galaxia de los basurales
allí se encontrarán con un pueblo de cosas
cáscaras de naranja / de huevo / de discursos
mechones de peluca y huesitos de pollo
condones de prudentes sementales
promesas de almanaque / telegramas
de mal y bienvenidas / invitaciones rotas
nimios perforadores de la capa de ozono
boletas estrujadas con inquina
caspas uñas verrugas papilomas
fetos de mucamitas y señoras de pro
cucarachas resecas y sin deudos
paños higiénicos hollejos puchos
postales de un prehistórico año nuevo
mirko te quiero silvia
citaciones vencidas arrugadas
recibos de la luz / facturas de apagones
propuestas de asco siempre renovadas
un taco sin zapato y sin chapita
un decímetro / resto de algún metro amarillo
chau viejita esta noche no me esperes
un pescado podrido con bigotes de gato
un pie de inconsolable maniquí
un afiche político sin vergüenza y sin rostro
desde su infierno / desde la inmundicia
mis adjetivos sufren como verbos
no merecían semejante oprobio
juro no echarlos más a la basura
cuando me sobre alguno en buen estado
lo entregaré a las damas de la beneficencia
483
Moss grows and gets frozen over
And I grow and slowly die
From the moment I was born
I don’t think this is very
Healthy of a viewpoint
But I don’t want to judge myself
Silvia Plath was depressed
I am just a little sad
A few moments of every day
I think of myself as creative
But I don’t consider myself
Anyone of significance
I can only complain
I can’t express the good
Things I see every day
Just because you call yourself
A poet, doesn’t mean
It’s true, you have to make money
I can have moments of brilliance
Sparked by nothingness
But really what is the point
Apr 22, 2015
Apr 22, 2015 at 12:53 AM UTC
Through our bloodshot eyes we watched,
Worried for our kin.
"Trust not thy neighbor"
We whispered prayers
Private misconceptions of lonely rattled minds
The 5th of November
Is the day we all remember
A slowing, the Slowing
"We have no way of knowing"
The man cleared his dry throat,
and swallowed what little Silvia left.
"But we suspect that it will continue"
In the beginning of the end of our world
I remember watching.
Stores were soon empty
People hear the news, and they wanted to move
They scurried like small animals suddenly under a light.
But, there was nowhere on earth to go.
Feb 2, 2019
Feb 2, 2019 at 5:00 PM UTC
So I’m sitting here, partially feeling the sun caress the side of my face between the shrubs that grew to be pretty enough not to be a nuisance, the heat weakened to a point that could be considered enjoyable as it can only be at 4 in the afternoon, watching people lost in their comfortable moments, listening to jazz being released from the speakers across the room. The half lit cigarette on my fingers burning away with every drag, better relaxing my oh so anxious mind like a lullaby heard with a drowsy mind.
It makes me think of all writers with broken souls; Virginia Woolf who said “You cannot find peace by avoiding life” And Silvia Plath who questioned “Is there no way out of the mind?” And I wonder if their peace came from flashes of instances like these, where they could only lose themselves in a crowed of other people’s lost moments and be able to revere in them.
Nov 6, 2019
Nov 6, 2019 at 2:56 AM UTC