"sweeney" poems
Look, look, master, here comes two religious caterpillars.
The Jew of Malta.
Polyphiloprogenitive
The sapient sutlers of the Lord
Drift across the window-panes.
In the beginning was the Word.
In the beginning was the Word.
Superfetation of ,
And at the mensual turn of time
Produced enervate Origen.
A painter of the Umbrian school
Designed upon a gesso ground
The nimbus of the Baptized God.
The wilderness is cracked and browned
But through the water pale and thin
Still shine the unoffending feet
And there above the painter set
The Father and the Paraclete.
. . . . .
The sable presbyters approach
The avenue of penitence;
The young are red and pustular
Clutching piaculative pence.
Under the penitential gates
Sustained by staring Seraphim
Where the souls of the devout
Burn invisible and dim.
Along the garden-wall the bees
With hairy bellies pass between
The staminate and pistilate,
Blest office of the epicene.
Sweeney shifts from ham to ham
Stirring the water in his bath.
The masters of the subtle schools
Are controversial, polymath.
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And the trees about me,
Let them be dry and leafless; let the rocks
Groan with continual surges; and behind me
Make all a desolation. Look, look, wenches!
Paint me a cavernous waste shore
Cast in the unstilled Cyclades,
Paint me the bold anfractuous rocks
Faced by the snarled and yelping seas.
Display me ****** above
Reviewing the insurgent gales
Which tangle Ariadne’s hair
And swell with haste the perjured sails.
Morning stirs the feet and hands
(Nausicaa and Polypheme).
Gesture of orang-outang
Rises from the sheets in steam.
This withered root of knots of hair
Slitted below and gashed with eyes,
This oval O cropped out with teeth:
The sickle motion from the thighs
Jackknifes upward at the knees
Then straightens out from heel to hip
Pushing the framework of the bed
And clawing at the pillow slip.
Sweeney addressed full length to shave
Broadbottomed, pink from nape to base,
Knows the female temperament
And wipes the suds around his face.
(The lengthened shadow of a man
Is history, said Emerson
Who had not seen the silhouette
Of Sweeney straddled in the sun.)
Tests the razor on his leg
Waiting until the shriek subsides.
The epileptic on the bed
Curves backward, clutching at her sides.
The ladies of the corridor
Find themselves involved, disgraced,
Call witness to their principles
And deprecate the lack of taste
Observing that hysteria
Might easily be misunderstood;
Mrs. Turner intimates
It does the house no sort of good.
But Doris, towelled from the bath,
Enters padding on broad feet,
Bringing sal volatile
And a glass of brandy neat.
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The snow leopard mother runs straight
down the mountain.
Elk cliff. Blizzard.
Hammers keening
into the night.
Her silence and wild
falling is a compass
of hunger and memory. Breath
prints on the carried-away body.
This is how it goes so far away
from our ripening grapes and lime,
coyote eyes ******* the canyon.
Yet
we paddle out in our ice boat
headed toward no future at last.
O tired song of what we thought,
stillness crouches like a prow.
We break the ice gently forward.
If I want to cling to anything
then this quiet of being the last
to know about our lives.
Copyright @ 2014 by Jennifer K. Sweeney. Used with permission of the author. This poem appeared in Poem-a-Day on June 27, 2014.
Jun 27, 2014
Jun 27, 2014 at 11:25 AM UTC
Apeneck Sweeney spreads his knees
Letting his arms hang down to laugh,
The zebra stripes along his jaw
Swelling to maculate giraffe.
The circles of the stormy moon
Slide westward toward the River Plate,
Death and the Raven drift above
And Sweeney guards the hornèd gate.
Gloomy Orion and the Dog
Are veiled; and hushed the shrunken seas;
The person in the Spanish cape
Tries to sit on Sweeney’s knees
Slips and pulls the table cloth
Overturns a coffee-cup,
Reorganised upon the floor
She yawns and draws a stocking up;
The silent man in mocha brown
Sprawls at the window-sill and gapes;
The waiter brings in oranges
Bananas figs and hothouse grapes;
The silent vertebrate in brown
Contracts and concentrates, withdraws;
Rachel née Rabinovitch
Tears at the grapes with murderous paws;
She and the lady in the cape
Are suspect, thought to be in league;
Therefore the man with heavy eyes
Declines the gambit, shows fatigue,
Leaves the room and reappears
Outside the window, leaning in,
Branches of wistaria
Circumscribe a golden grin;
The host with someone indistinct
Converses at the door apart,
The nightingales are singing near
The Convent of the Sacred Heart,
And sang within the ****** wood
When Agamemnon cried aloud,
And let their liquid siftings fall
To stain the stiff dishonoured shroud.
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Ever wondered about my style?
What I admire and what I deem vile?
Well, gather around, I'll let you see
Who I am, through what else, but poetry?
My favorite flower is a cherry blossom.
As for food, bread is awesome.
I spend much of my time on Twitter.
I like birds, the ones that flutter.
My favorite author is Ms. Anne Rice.
Her book, "Memnoch" is very nice.
My favorite poet is Aleister Crowley.
As for artist, that would be Dali.
I like Reggae straight from Trenchtown.
Most of all, I like System of a Down.
Philip Wesley is my favorite composer.
If I may be so bold, Chopin, move over.
My favorite film is Sweeney Todd.
By my top director, who is slightly odd.
Johnny Depp is my favorite actor and hunk.
I'm not a fan of touchdowns and dunks.
A big interest is Nutrition and Health.
I'm against Corporations and Banks, with all their wealth.
I like Documentaries and things that make me think.
Carrot juice is one of my favorite things to drink.
My favorite painting hangs on my wall.
The artist or name, I have not a clue at all.
I like eating cherries and playing pretend.
I like talking to those I consider a friend.
I like dancing at raves, even on the stage.
I like my job, though it's minimum wage.
I'm good without gods, I bow to none.
No political party, with that, I'm done.
That about sums me up, I hope you see
My likes and interests described to a tee,
In the fashion of the rhyme scheme A and B.
Did I mention the fact that I write poetry?
Jan 2, 2014
Jan 2, 2014 at 3:34 PM UTC
Teaching high school kids the craft
Directing them in their school show
Teenagers singing just off key
With a band that's one beat slow
Holding rehearsals when the gym is free
Have you really sunk this low
Are you truly at your bottom
Or are you "Waiting for Godot"?
"YOU'RE ON IN FIFTEEN MINUTES...MR. WILSON"
Doing plays in local theater groups
With untrained amateurs on stage
You tell them all your stories
And you keep them on their page
It's not exactly where you started
Talent that you just can't gauge
Selling programs in the lobby
It's time you act your age
"TEN MINUTES TILL SHOWTIME MR. WILSON"
Touring shows around the country now
Second touring group, smaller towns
Doing revival shows of Sondheim
"Sweeney Todd " and "Send in the clowns"
Living out of an old suitcase
The countryside a sea of browns
Where you are at the local's mercy
And there's less ups than there are downs
"FIVE MINUTES TO SHOW TIME MR. WILSON"
You've made it, you're on Broadway
Starring roles are yours to choose
Where the highlights of last nights show
Are in today's reviews
Where a sold out run continues
And your name is in the news
You're an actor, and you're famous
The world is yours to lose
"SHOW TIME MR.. WILSON...ON STAGE PLEASE"
The kids are out there schlepping
working their way through the *****
singing songs sung by the Beatles
"All This and World War II"
You're just a pillar standing, sweating
As you see what you can do
You're still an actor, and you know it
You'll need a drink when this is through.
Jan 6, 2013
Jan 6, 2013 at 7:33 PM UTC
It was also
TARDIS blue
Dark Knight black
Balloons
Flying houses
Hugs
Falling asleep holding hands
Staring at your lips
Staring at my lips
Sweeney Todd slicing necks
Singing, singing, singing
Coldplay
Ed Ed Ed
(writing with Taylor was the worst move he ever made)
Opinion
Laughter
You're wrong
You're wrong
I'm sorry
You're not sorry
You're never sorry
I love you
Please don't
I won't
Doctor Who?
Doctor Who.
Apr 22, 2014
Apr 22, 2014 at 4:40 PM UTC
by: T.S. Eliot (1888-1965)
PENECK Sweeney spreads his knees
Letting his arms hang down to laugh,
The zebra stripes along his jaw
Swelling to maculate giraffe.
The circles of the stormy moon
Slide westward toward the River Plate,
Death and the Raven drift above
And Sweeney guards the horned gate.
Gloomy Orion and the Dog
Are veiled; and hushed the shrunken seas;
The person in the Spanish cape
Tries to sit on Sweeney's knees
Slips and pulls the table cloth
Overturns a coffee-cup,
Reorganized upon the floor
She yawns and draws a stocking up;
The silent man in mocha brown
Sprawls at the window-sill and gapes;
The waiter brings in oranges
Bananas figs and hothouse grapes;
The silent vertebrate in brown
Contracts and concentrates, withdraws;
Rachel née Rabinovitch
Tears at the grapes with murderous paws;
She and the lady in the cape
Are suspect, thought to be in league;
Therefore the man with heavy eyes
Declines the gambit, shows fatigue,
Leaves the room and reappears
Outside the window, leaning in,
Branches of wistaria
Circumscribe a golden grin;
The host with someone indistinct
Converses at the door apart,
The nightingales are singing near
The Convent of the Sacred Heart,
And sang within the ****** wood
When Agamemnon cried aloud,
And let their liquid droppings fall
To stain the stiff dishonoured shroud
Jul 18, 2013
Jul 18, 2013 at 3:25 PM UTC
by: T.S. Eliot (1888-1965)
PENECK Sweeney spreads his knees
Letting his arms hang down to laugh,
The zebra stripes along his jaw
Swelling to maculate giraffe.
The circles of the stormy moon
Slide westward toward the River Plate,
Death and the Raven drift above
And Sweeney guards the horned gate.
Gloomy Orion and the Dog
Are veiled; and hushed the shrunken seas;
The person in the Spanish cape
Tries to sit on Sweeney's knees
Slips and pulls the table cloth
Overturns a coffee-cup,
Reorganized upon the floor
She yawns and draws a stocking up;
The silent man in mocha brown
Sprawls at the window-sill and gapes;
The waiter brings in oranges
Bananas figs and hothouse grapes;
The silent vertebrate in brown
Contracts and concentrates, withdraws;
Rachel née Rabinovitch
Tears at the grapes with murderous paws;
She and the lady in the cape
Are suspect, thought to be in league;
Therefore the man with heavy eyes
Declines the gambit, shows fatigue,
Leaves the room and reappears
Outside the window, leaning in,
Branches of wistaria
Circumscribe a golden grin;
The host with someone indistinct
Converses at the door apart,
The nightingales are singing near
The Convent of the Sacred Heart,
And sang within the ****** wood
When Agamemnon cried aloud,
And let their liquid droppings fall
To stain the stiff dishonoured shroud
Jul 18, 2013
Jul 18, 2013 at 3:25 PM UTC
GERRY SWEENEY'S MAMMY
Mrs. Sweeney
was Gerry Sweeney's mammy.
And even though I had my own
I had her on loan.
It was like having a spare
mammy.
And even when she was mad
with us
she just couldn't be mad
with us.
"Go on..." she'd grin "....go on!"
"Ya'd wear the heart out of a stone!"
And if ya fell and
ya were cryin'
your heart and knee
badly grazed
or badly bitten by a bee
she....
would hug you up
with all of her self
"Ahhh come here to me ya
poor little dote!"
Wrap you up in
so much love
it would last
for years.
For years.
Gerry Sweeney was my best
friend ever
way back in the way-back-then:
still is....nothing's changed
except us young fellas
have become auld fellas
who still think
they're young fellas.
And every time I see him
I could almost cry.
I can still see his mammy
smiling out of his eyes.
Nov 25, 2016
Nov 25, 2016 at 2:45 PM UTC
Drip, drip, drip.
The dripping of distain
Like the rain on the window
And Sweeney Todd's barber blade.
Do you hear the owl calling?
He always asks a question.
Who is there? Who is listening?
Do you dare to mention?
The crunching of the leaves
Under your boots in the night.
Your pace begins to quicken,
Yet you refuse to show your fright.
Crunch, crunch, crunch
The crushing of branches.
Is someone there? Are they listening?
Are they planning their advances?
Why is it in the dark
People's minds begin to wander?
When they are cold and alone,
They can't help but ponder.
The darkness hold secrets,
Mysterious and unknown.
One can't help but fear the night
Even if they are fully grown.
Traveling in a city
Or journeying in a wood,
Fear ignites in the lonely man's heart.
Something bad happening could.
But don't worry, my pretty.
Don't fret, my little pet.
I know the quickest way to safety
If you only heed my threat.
Don't trust the stranger.
Don't trust the creep.
Don't trust the beggar man.
He'll **** you in your sleep.
Listen to the rich man.
Listen to the able.
Listen to the nice man.
Listen to the stable.
But do be careful,
Looks aren't always what they seem.
Because you see, my young friend,
I love to hear them scream.
Jan 18, 2013
Jan 18, 2013 at 1:30 AM UTC
mustard seed
in the short lifeline
of the rain
Jan 27, 2015
Jan 27, 2015 at 2:10 AM UTC
We met for drinks and music
in a quiet little bar.
A singer, Reno Sweeney,
was the evening’s featured star.
Bob and Shelia never showed,
throwing us together:
You, a dark eyed beauty,
loquacious and quite clever.
I, your unexpected swain,
With eyes an emerald treasure.
Later at the Piper’s inn
We sat before the fire
You sipped on your white Russian
I drank my Pinot Noir.
I could not know, did not foresee
Our future in my glass:
Our sensual adventures
On rooftops and on grass.
Our joys, our sorrows, and our end
Which then could not be guessed-
Just your sweet face upturned to me
anticipating to be kissed.
Dec 2, 2011
Dec 2, 2011 at 9:51 PM UTC
My age alone must tell you
I cant be all "that" good
not exactly Sweeney Todd
but not quite Robin Hood
But a nice-ish guy I must surely be
as I sometimes come in last
and as for the good ones dying young
thats a test I think I've passed.
Jun 7, 2010
Jun 7, 2010 at 2:08 PM UTC
"There was a barber and his wife,
And she was beautiful.
A foolish barber and his wife
She was his reason and his life
And she was beautiful
And she was virtuous.
And he was naive.
There was another man who saw
That she was beautiful
A pious vulture of the law
Who with a gesture of his claw
Removed the barber from his plate.
Then there was nothing but to wait
And she would fall,
So soft,
So young,
So lost,
And oh, so beautiful."
May 11, 2015
May 11, 2015 at 12:44 AM UTC
I scurry to the bathroom, shutting the door of the uncleaned world behind me and I just stare in the mirror.
I see myself, but not only myself, but what I have become.
I see blood and tears shattering down to the purist of sinks.
I have become Sweeney Todd, a man forsaking his lost world.
A man who doesn't even see himself anymore.
It just comes to show how much this cruel world can change someone, making them think that there’s No Place Like London. Their own creation of their own world.
Here with a mask, portraying what I have become; this man.
A man who kills for passion and with love and with no scarce for bleeding over the white dove.
A man who is mistaken by a fellow Judge, a bias judge who has ruled his final destiny, my final destiny.
I see myself becoming more lost, slowly slitting my throat by this man with white hair; dead bodies filling up the floor. I’m losing control.
Just like The Worst Pies in London, I’m disgusting, I am revolting; like an unsold bottle of elixir.
I have been tossed and used and if I dare take one step out of place I will be beaten.
People expect so much from me and I've tried my best to be worthy in their presence just like
my childhood, nothing but a blurred line, controlled by an egotistic, vile Italian wanna-be.
I've grown into a killer.
Not only on myself, but those who even dare to care for me.
I stare in the mirror with a forbidden soul I call my wasteland, my graveyard, my sewer; this man, this man has shown me the ways of disgrace and having an unloved life.
I scream in horror as this blade takes control of my new life.
Am I evolving into something I have wanted? Or am I following the footsteps just like the customers did when they lined for their funeral?
I glance at the puddle of blood I have created and wonder if this is the life for me.
I take a taste of what is yet to come of this new life and all I can do wait.
Wait Down By the Sea for this man to become, this man who lives this life of Sweeney Todd; the man of my creation, me.
I stare in the mirror struggling to open that closed door, wondering and thinking what it’s like out there, out there in the real world and question myself, is it the world for me?
Nov 26, 2014
Nov 26, 2014 at 9:53 PM UTC
in my sore ear
the slanting rain
means what it says
Jan 27, 2015
Jan 27, 2015 at 2:06 AM UTC
(Song title from “Sweeney Todd, The Demon Barber Of Fleet Street” by Stephen Sondheim & Hugh Wheeler)
Everywhere I look I see pretty women,
Rushing and dashing in the rain,
Like a fish that’s lost and swimming,
I hope to meet one of these women again.
The pretty women never catch my eye,
They always pass me by,
The pretty women never catch my eye,
Although I make attempts and try,
The pretty women never catch my eye.
Everywhere I look I see pretty women,
Rushing and dashing in the sun,
Like a cloud in the wind; dreaming,
Just like yesterday, still I am left with none.
Aug 28, 2012
Aug 28, 2012 at 10:56 AM UTC
Among reed shadows
the noon blue heart
of the butterfly
Jan 27, 2015
Jan 27, 2015 at 2:02 AM UTC
The internet
A place of horror
And wonder
Sweeney Todd's barbershop
Next to Toys R us
In many ways a lawless place
With corrupt guards
And yet also a place where
all manner of wrongs
can be aired and addressed
I wonder at it's creators
Could they believe their eyes
At the place they have wrought.
Nov 8, 2015
Nov 8, 2015 at 2:12 AM UTC
"Birth, and copulation, and death.
That’s all the facts when you come to brass tacks:
Birth, and copulation, and death.”*
But though he repeated them twice,
Those aren’t all the facts when you
come to brass tacks,
Eliot left out a line:
Somewhere between copulation and death,
When you’re well along, but not near
your last breath,
You find that the facts when you come to brass tacks are
Ice, ibuprofen and time,
My friend,
Ice, ibuprofen and time.
*T.S. Eliot, from Sweeney Agonistes.
Jan 2, 2025
Jan 2, 2025 at 12:47 PM UTC
IT IS AT ONCE
( for Monica )
It is at once
nothing and everything.
A simple incident
on meeting.
"Your shoelace is open
Mr. Dempsey."
she tells him in case he
shoud fall or stumble.
"I know that love
but I can't get down to it."
So, Monica Sweeney
kneels and ties
my father's undone shoelace.
This simple act of compassion
and respect for his age
achieves for him
almost Biblical proportions.
It's almost insignificance
a tiny treasure."
"It was like being Christ..."
he will tell me after as
only he could tell it
each telling bringing tears.
"...having his feet dried
by Mary Magdalene's hair."
Even in his dying
he will recall it
" that lady helped me
whenI couldn't help myself
she was kindness itself"
It was at once
everything and nothing
Sep 22, 2017
Sep 22, 2017 at 4:38 AM UTC
there was Herman Sweeney
at the front gates?!
*** you just got to
get me a mannequiin pinguin
you **** cos i'm retro,
half-wished spetial,
ya n'ah, bit fudge bit thick -
goes **** among geese - quo quo quack -
or said grey, apparently sic - quo
thus said we have autumn's quota!
well hooray hooray and the Spanish
Inquisitors to minds a fabric of the new gold known
as golf, or whatever, ****** - hey, i could
be your ******** serial killer school friend...
so **** yo mama!
knife up her **** ha ha! see her phone up
a K.F.C. you ****
gansta that **** i bet you won't... boo'ya! ooh ooh
***** got took hold of a hood! n'ah n'ah d'at N.W.A.,
not even Jay S or Dr. Drip can help.
Jun 20, 2016
Jun 20, 2016 at 12:03 AM UTC
Oh look, it's what's his name
He was in that thing with...
Corrie?
No, well he might have been
Oh, you mean on BBC one a few years ago
Yes
He played a copper along with Denis, oh, I forget
Waterman?
No, he was in the Sweeney
That was the Seventies
He's old enough
The Bill?
No, that was ITV
Well, you've lost me
Google it
Google what?
His name?
Well you don't know his name!
Oh I give up
Hopper?
On BBC one?
He might have been in a film
Hmm, maybe
Right...it must have been Dennis Waterman
I'm telling you, it's not Dennis Waterman
Well, I give up, and so does Google
(2 minute silence watching the programme)
I've got it! Bill Paterson
He looks nothing like Dennis Waterman!
Same age...ish
Your mad
(A shrug of the shoulders)
Right, I'm going out
Yeah...see'ya
Thinks to herself...Bill Paterson...I think he was in a film actually
Oh, that's him in...
JJB
Aug 11, 2019
Aug 11, 2019 at 2:34 PM UTC