"sotted" poems - Hello Poetry

You don't wear black face. You'd never do such. You don't wear white face; Do you Kabuki? Mime, non? Mime, oui? But every March, Millions of others, Attired in green, Some painted like Celtic warriors, Affect terrible brogues, And get sotted, some must disgracefully. That's what the Irish do, think they? I won't wear a yarmulke on Yom Kippur, Not a burka on Eid al-Adha, Or lead the parade Up Fifth Avenue. Slainte

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Oct 8, 2019

Oct 8, 2019 at 2:58 PM UTC

francie-lynch

Wearing of the Green Face

You don't wear black face. You'd never do such. You don't wear white face; Do you Kabuki? Mime, non? Mime, oui? But every March, Millions of others, Attired in green, Some painted like Celtic warriors, Affect terrible brogues, And get sotted, some must disgracefully. That's what the Irish do, think they? I won't wear a yarmulke on Yom Kippur, Not a burka on Eid al-Adha, Or lead the parade Up Fifth Avenue. Slainte

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Here hang the wine-sotted troubadours of sadness and clouds, ~Having played serenas to paramours lipping at the cup of an evening bawd~ Like tethered donkeys now with their packsong of pastorela and alba, No more musical mensurations of the ****** Mary, Cantigas de Santa Maria, But slung over the railings of dawn-blotted taverns or courts of renown, Here hang the wine-sotted troubadours of sadness and clouds, Like drinking gourds, their stringed citherns dangle from their shoulders, Leaking the strummed honey-wine of sound like the retchings of the nearby sea.

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Jul 31, 2019

Jul 31, 2019 at 11:33 AM UTC

ChrisSaitta

Here Hang the Wine-Sotted Troubadours

Here hang the wine-sotted troubadours of sadness and clouds, ~Having played serenas to paramours lipping at the cup of an evening bawd~ Like tethered donkeys now with their packsong of pastorela and alba, No more musical mensurations of the ****** Mary, Cantigas de Santa Maria, But slung over the railings of dawn-blotted taverns or courts of renown, Here hang the wine-sotted troubadours of sadness and clouds, Like drinking gourds, their stringed citherns dangle from their shoulders, Leaking the strummed honey-wine of sound like the retchings of the nearby sea.

8

'What happens to bad poets when they die?' 'Aye, tis a good question,' says the sotted brute wavin his hand whilst spittle flyin with most syllables 'I yam told bad poets stew in alphabet soup and get eaten by old grannies for all eternity' 'I eard that one but seems a waste of good soup' 'Aye, and why de grannies get involved it's a misog misog a ting against women I'll bet' 'Well then, what might you think?' says the innkeeper to the quiet sod at the end of the bar 'Eh..I should think they'd go with the good ones cuz I'll be ****** if I can tell the difference' 'Aye' says all 'aye' ©2012 Lyn

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Nov 14, 2013

Nov 14, 2013 at 8:51 AM UTC

LynSenz

What happens

'What happens to bad poets when they die?' 'Aye, tis a good question,' says the sotted brute wavin his hand whilst spittle flyin with most syllables 'I yam told bad poets stew in alphabet soup and get eaten by old grannies for all eternity' 'I eard that one but seems a waste of good soup' 'Aye, and why de grannies get involved it's a misog misog a ting against women I'll bet' 'Well then, what might you think?' says the innkeeper to the quiet sod at the end of the bar 'Eh..I should think they'd go with the good ones cuz I'll be ****** if I can tell the difference' 'Aye' says all 'aye' ©2012 Lyn

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Quiet is loud tho not as bad as she seems so don't be so proud you're not alone in your screams see quiet's not quiet no she'll get loud if you let her and no quiet day will ever let you forget her so let there be sound when you can't find a way to make her quiet calm down just let sound have his way dear take pleasure in sound let him sing it's okay let him scream all around no more quiet today cuz sound is just sound just his way to be heard a sotted voice in the night or a tree with one bird are singing for sound ©2002 Lyn

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Nov 7, 2013

Nov 7, 2013 at 7:39 PM UTC

LynSenz

for sound

Quiet is loud tho not as bad as she seems so don't be so proud you're not alone in your screams see quiet's not quiet no she'll get loud if you let her and no quiet day will ever let you forget her so let there be sound when you can't find a way to make her quiet calm down just let sound have his way dear take pleasure in sound let him sing it's okay let him scream all around no more quiet today cuz sound is just sound just his way to be heard a sotted voice in the night or a tree with one bird are singing for sound ©2002 Lyn

29

dismember us meeting in the long dark bar made of old wooden doors ******* closed we nerved about conversation and drank the gruff dense social den drew in grew around us pushing our minds about like the ember remains of a sotted campfire ploying mother lens we shuffled into the other cleaved a little and uncleaved then tuning out the winters night we did together leave

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May 19, 2025

May 19, 2025 at 6:03 AM UTC

neth-jones

d i s m e m b e r 2

dismember us meeting in the long dark bar made of old wooden doors ******* closed we nerved about conversation and drank the gruff dense social den drew in grew around us pushing our minds about like the ember remains of a sotted campfire ploying mother lens we shuffled into the other cleaved a little and uncleaved then tuning out the winters night we did together leave

14

Look at them, the rain-spotted Lovers: hand in hand under lathered moon as the bars flood out at cold close. The night grass is April swaying as they bluely stroll down the road, unaware of anyone, anything else - there could never be anything else - isn't that the rule of all new lovers? No care for a bright-cheeked road, no anxious looks at a dartboard moon, just two pairs of shoulders swaying closer, closer, closer... Yet now that the bars are closed, they must join to something else: a long laughing file beerily swaying, a newly louched breed of lovers under foam-headed moon, carried down a water-hearted road. Perhaps they sweeten the sotted road, these two who veer so close & share this last garnish of moon, carpaccio of stars and space and something else. Cars throw dapples across the Lovers, shy white coins in spotted sway. We drunks of course are also swaying vaguely down the rained road, but how different our rhythm is; these Lovers tie spring breath tight as twine, and close their fingers like mating snakes - no one else seems tide-locked like earth and stubborn moon: since this frozen-faced scrap of moon refuses all requests, it's we who must sway with them, at least until we find something else on this cloud-tented tar-sown road to hold us oh-so-close; they're home, these Lovers, & so someone else must follow the lolling moon to become the newest Lovers who will sway on wetted road as night closes off behind.

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Apr 11, 2024

Apr 11, 2024 at 8:48 AM UTC

EvanS

Major Arcana: VI. The Lovers

Look at them, the rain-spotted Lovers: hand in hand under lathered moon as the bars flood out at cold close. The night grass is April swaying as they bluely stroll down the road, unaware of anyone, anything else - there could never be anything else - isn't that the rule of all new lovers? No care for a bright-cheeked road, no anxious looks at a dartboard moon, just two pairs of shoulders swaying closer, closer, closer... Yet now that the bars are closed, they must join to something else: a long laughing file beerily swaying, a newly louched breed of lovers under foam-headed moon, carried down a water-hearted road. Perhaps they sweeten the sotted road, these two who veer so close & share this last garnish of moon, carpaccio of stars and space and something else. Cars throw dapples across the Lovers, shy white coins in spotted sway. We drunks of course are also swaying vaguely down the rained road, but how different our rhythm is; these Lovers tie spring breath tight as twine, and close their fingers like mating snakes - no one else seems tide-locked like earth and stubborn moon: since this frozen-faced scrap of moon refuses all requests, it's we who must sway with them, at least until we find something else on this cloud-tented tar-sown road to hold us oh-so-close; they're home, these Lovers, & so someone else must follow the lolling moon to become the newest Lovers who will sway on wetted road as night closes off behind.

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