"toga" poems
The woman is perfected
Her dead
Body wears the smile of accomplishment,
The illusion of a Greek necessity
Flows in the scrolls of her toga,
Her bare
Feet seem to be saying:
We have come so far, it is over.
Each dead child coiled, a white serpent,
One at each little
Pitcher of milk, now empty
She has folded
Them back into her body as petals
Of a rose close when the garden
Stiffens and odors bleed
From the sweet, deep throats of the night flower.
The moon has nothing to be sad about,
Staring from her hood of bone.
She is used to this sort of thing.
Her blacks crackle and drag.
6.4k
On the southwest side of Capri
we found a little unknown grotto
where no people were and we
entered it completely
and let our bodies lose all
their loneliness.
All the fish in us
had escaped for a minute.
The real fish did not mind.
We did not disturb their personal life.
We calmly trailed over them
and under them, shedding
air bubbles, little white
balloons that drifted up
into the sun by the boat
where the Italian boatman slept
with his hat over his face.
Water so clear you could
read a book through it.
Water so buoyant you could
float on your elbow.
I lay on it as on a divan.
I lay on it just like
Matisse's Red Odalisque.
Water was my strange flower,
one must picture a woman
without a toga or a scarf
on a couch as deep as a tomb.
The walls of that grotto
were everycolor blue and
you said, "Look! Your eyes
are seacolor. Look! Your eyes
are skycolor." And my eyes
shut down as if they were
suddenly ashamed.
4.3k
Once for Halloween
I dressed up as Athena
The Greek goddess
My favorite Greek goddess
And it was a decent costume
Your standard iParty fare
Paired with an elaborate hairdo and some 50 cent earrings
And I knew I was only a cheap imitation
Nothing close to the real thing
For no one would ever build me a temple
Burn cattle in my name
Put on white robes and fall to their knees
For me
No, not for me
But for Athena
Oh, how they fell!
How the ancient Greeks worshipped her very name
Gave her their capital city
And dedicated the most powerful force to her
Wisdom
That force which drove the philosophers
The very energy
That sustained Socrates
And Plato
And Aristotle
And all those dead guys we read about in class
I was in a class
Reading the words those dead guys collected
In their moments of clarity
But all I could think about
All I really wanted
Was to throw on a white robe
And fall to my knees at the Parthenon
Begging for wisdom, wisdom
Please, Athena, some wisdom!
I don't care if it's heresy
I don't care if you're a myth nowadays
Because you once reigned
You once stood on Mount Olympus
In all your ancient power
And watched your people crying out wisdom, Athena, wisdom!
Please!
I wish
I could have been there
I wish I could have seen
The day the goddess cracked open Zeus's skull
And was born
Fully armed
Ready for her battle
Not the fight for wisdom, no
The fight she faced was undying
The war she would lead
Would ripple through the ages
Taking all civilizations
And tearing at their social order
For it was the men she was fighting
The disbelieving fools who put her *** down
Taking all women's wisdom
And deeming it inferior
Substandard
Not good enough
So Athena blazed in glory
And for her, men believed
Believed in their mothers and wives and daughters
Saw in that enthroned goddess
The sparks that fueled women's minds
Yes, I wish I'd been there
I wish I could have kissed her sword
And asked her to stick around
To blaze her way to the twenty-first century
And make these guys tremble, too
Instead
I look around my 80% male college of engineering
And wonder why I need to prove my worth
Simply because I have a second x chromosome
I wish that I could blaze in glory
And dazzle them all the same
That my Halloween costume could be enough to fool them
That they would turn their toga-party bedsheets
Into white robes
And fall to their knees
Gasping, "Wisdom, wisdom!"
And that, for one moment
I could be their goddess
Nov 27, 2010
Nov 27, 2010 at 6:38 PM UTC
fem in isms,
i imagine Sapphic eyes:
bad *** advert coruscates elite
fairness sensing slavish blind
in gestate calm affirm
in genders More numerous of Windows--
Superior--for Doors--
O harsh judgement foiled,
as a foil, as unknown truth
foil-doubles in the brow,
abject symmetry to systemize
a fertile lack of sterile barrenness,
i am a mediatrix rend,
nirwaan, hijra wonderment aside
from transemotion's ground swells
demeaning to be understood.
i celebrate and face the same
to be what paperwork tests being
normal being, freely chosen
atom each belonging moves
an asterisk of paths
of mutate art of nature social darwin maze.
i imagine Sapphic eyes,
ginko soft they pile up all cobble
memories themselves concretely
cloistered fame
spray of salty waves,
macho screams symbol
for dismissal ease
for tearing at an inner unsaid war
with lists offense of proper taste
to what posterity intends
an undulation womblike seeming nourish safety sounds.
i imagine Sapphic eyes
past
debauched
meanderings
where hyster-clarity rejoins its titular
and reliable escapisms curl the lips
of maleness found
here and there smile sneer love
i imagine Sapphic eyes
linguistic pirouettes
congest that wisdom nonetheless
the moment passed on to a
feigning truth in pretty rhyme
ornamenting time with fine meter fine
vernacular chimes peter in
to juggle perspectival paradox,
redichotomize the twilight idols,
resolve the conflict like a dawn
Aurora,
i imagine Sapphic eyes
running plastic with Alaskan wolves,
toga floats to snow
to let us see the purest fairness form
a ****** circle,
Hypatia ascends from tenebrous grave,
Impregnable of Eye is pregnant now
with Wollstonecraft revered
in liberation's fount
families held exemplar gaze of
Taylor, ****** Cady,
Anthony resanctified
to vote entitlement's
empathic origins, waxen mold
of nascent categories,
narrow hands spread wide to panoply anew
the manifest evolve in true unknowns
Nov 23, 2012
Nov 23, 2012 at 11:56 PM UTC
Do the bathmat shuffle
To the closet in the hall
It's never very graceful
But try not to fall
No towels on the shelf
Must be in the dryer
Do the bathmat shuffle
But now you’ll do it slyer
Shuffle down the hall
And hope no one's about
Or shimmy like you don’t care
Shake, dance, belt out
Do the bathmat shuffle
You’re nearly almost there
Made it to the dryer
But the towels are elsewhere
Do the bathmat stumble
Your quads are feeling tight
Eureka in the living room
The end is now in sight
Do the towel toga boogie
Time to celebrate
You could put the towels away
But maybe you’ll just wait
NCL April 2019
Apr 24, 2019
Apr 24, 2019 at 4:30 PM UTC
Heathens -
in heaven's lobby
flock
to barter
for Magic 'Shrooms
with pop rocks... and pancakes
and leaf-green brownies.
new to the scene;
the Son of Man
holds a motley court,
then wanders off
to fetch Picasso - Lassoed
from his cups, his Love that must Love
his genius... doubtless,
cloud-scrawling
huge pendulous *******
in Elysium; for no one at all.
better Pablo
should tend bars that set mobs free
than one god's toddler, with long odds
against Bacchus - should ever
small-talk-speak
to the godless
or worse...
preach.
" Better Sins to love.. " The Spaniard once taught...
A Lover's Urge is born in forms of weakness.... adorned in all Might -
bathed in blessed contradiction,
a Lingam for a Yoni's dream of stiff drinks
and pliable men, with strong arms.
a blue fiction on Calvary -
nailed to the softest
cross.
Between thieves,
an honor, double
parked
with bucket seats brimming with moonlight,
and her knickers
tossed.
Picasso asks for absinthe
to be sent
post haste
and polished off -
by all
his better angels he had guillotined
with dull snails,
and fallen
harps
ones - he stole, to de-tune
a flat fifth of Cuttysark
for a deaf
**** [but no mute ]
a portrait, ****
and is soon
bought...
lust
sleeps then -
with both Eyes;
Locked on
One of
God's.
like a deer
in a Head-light's
Gospel...
now, a Minotaur on the
Autobahn -
stalking
it.
II
Heathens
in heaven's lobby
recite ' Howl '
as Ginsberg, walks over hot coals
and spicy psalms; glowing wanton
in white grass; with a very
cherry ****
And a wise throng, cobbles...
****** -
they rob
Peter of his toga,
leaving nothing wrong.
but no less ' On '
they laugh hard; and wake the dead
asking them for new songs
to set their false alarms
in lofty Tic' Tocks
of Eternity's
clock.
Bible on a snooze bar
for at least that long
or someone
knocks.
As if "Hello."
Spoke the Whole World into Being -
And " Goodbye."
misspoke, and
trailed
off...
Feb 6, 2013
Feb 6, 2013 at 1:58 PM UTC
I feel half drunk half Punk and intimidated in this place,
toga alley show me your ramshackle best,
you also ran,
cracked capers
has been tested,
is no reason to desist
ultimate humility.
Jan 1, 2013
Jan 1, 2013 at 10:22 AM UTC
So you pulled again.
In Essex, in London, in Leeds, in Weymouth...
The list goes on.
Why do you always tell me?
I'm not jealous. You're just ******* them.
But that photo with your arm around her.
You ****** her too, I'm sure.
Complimentary of toga night you're pretty much semi-naked.
It was the two lipstick marks on your bicep that got me.
Not one, but two! On your perfectly firm, right bicep.
The one I gladly tied a blue ribbon around, whilst
my face was turning as pink as my Girl Power bandanna.
I hope you'll change back to the changed man you said you would be,
after the Fresher's fortnight is done.
If not, as opposed to ******** me emotionally,just **** me too.
It'll never be enough, but it's better than your smug texts! x
Oct 1, 2012
Oct 1, 2012 at 7:34 PM UTC
translation from russian by rolanda
E.К
I write you from ex-colonia
grounded twenty centuries ago
by romans-sounds like a symphony
for hyperborean ear, hundred time
increased distance till addressee.
Looks like Agrippa knew what she did
the sister, worth by her madness of her brother.
Further cinematograph-nude body
bent and etc..accordingly screenplay
maid lapping in marble bathtube
horns leads triumphal aria
with a long sound. On the backstage
usual complaining on the fate,
tangent glance to the east,
muscle of cease walk
the female wolf her concrete ******
snapping, moving back to the building of arsenale
lost fatten twins.
I recollect what you didnt finish to say me
closing second door on the bolt,
on same spot there is a snow, cover up Prachechnij bridge
panorama of river, filled up by ice,
something with tear through two thousand miles
or old age with saged belly.
In our age, verticals are
soaring unreachable, slipping to result
of life, just right to dress on sandals
but hardly happens to slip into toga.
Invariable law of falling drops
down, no matter- fontain, rain, ******
Harbour of postscript...rats storm the ship.
Funeral office offers moire
from spring collection for upholstery of
coffins, grief on the faces of personals,
just in time served coffee with cream
soften disaster of final account.
I write you, for what? - after victory
of foreign football team
from the closeness of prosperous summer,
connected Alps and Andes
by wave of psychose from tv,
inflicted by joy of superiority
above..(not clear what of), and their poses
of victors is sign of ugliness
from point of view of observer-
old neurasthenic and misantrope.
Contemplating fly of pterodactyl
by eye of stamped cyclop,
gilded **** on short spike of chirch
scream by voice of Luter:
"Be blessed folks cars!",
and morning flow down by sunrise on wood
by Dmitrij Poparev
Jan 15, 2014
Jan 15, 2014 at 10:27 AM UTC
Late night Macca-run,
Busted up hand-me-down car
Rattling along the rocky road
With his warm hoodie draped around me
Like a toga with a Supreme sticker.
AC's turned off in traffic
As the night breeze is all we need
To enjoy this comfortable night
In his car, together.
I order a hot chocolate.
He orders a cheeseburger.
And we share the fries,
And I drain his pepsi
Until all there is
Is a pile of melted ice
And the soft pallet of knock-off cola
- in which both of us refuse to drink the leftover contents.
The cup is still warm in my hands,
And the car smells of fried food and cocoa powder.
His eyes are focused on the road,
While mine are focused elsewhere.
Soon,
He drops me home,
and ditches the trash.
And that was the end of our quiet late-night dinner-date.
Mar 3, 2019
Mar 3, 2019 at 2:57 AM UTC
Listlessly
Hope?
Hairy
A hippopotamus slain
Leeward shores
Drifting days
A cup that can't be raised
Hours and hours of counting your flowers
Etch
And pray for pain
Toga way
A he I say
And swirl down the drain
Memories-emotions
Nothing never gone
Conflating with hating
Regurgitating
Til all of it is gone
Oct 16, 2012
Oct 16, 2012 at 12:25 PM UTC
it's Friday morning &
we're up early sitting at
the windowsill after
shuffling as one self
down the carpeted hallway
toward the miraculous
coffee kitchenette with her
knuckles belt-buckled around
my hip bones & her head
tucked into my breastplate/armpit
still in our peejays
shirtless in sweatpants
rolled to my knees &
she's wrapped in the sheets
but still vulnerable with one
bare tattooed ankle living
in my lap
we're waiting for the sun
to sing an orchard symphony
to our skin & burn last night's
clear coat off the pane
so we can laugh & pull weeds
in the garden & share a
bath bomb afternoon or maybe just
jump in the river holding hands
just as I began to wonder
about the green/white/striped
thong she let me ****** off
last night & if she replaced it
she stood up
arched her back to
stretch out the dimples there
winked at me
& then she dropped the sheet
Mar 11, 2016
Mar 11, 2016 at 12:09 PM UTC
* Fashionably Unexpected*
the devil had arrived but as the sun was at it's peak
the invitation was for nine, but in the evening
of next week...
he was naked save the toga, and his flaxen locks of gold
and a massive crop of wings, slightly mussed; -
adroitly posed.
i had just been in the garden, plucking apples from a limb
with my pruning shears and sherry
and no clue it might be him....
but there i stood astounded, having thought -
" I heard the bell ? "
and again
by ' Who'd ' Come knocking
on my mallet chain
from Hell.
the devil held a mirror and a silver box, ornate
with the likeness of a lotus and an acorn
on a plate...
the gilding was perfection, and the mirror was opaque
but the fallen one was flawless
as the smile upon
his face...
and how i broke the silence in my simple garden threads
was to ramble at the Serpent
as I handed him a Jacket.
Amused by my conceit that any custom i condone
were applied with an epoxy
Only carpenters from Rome, that were spotless and
And from Nazareth
with a Father
and a Ghost -
A Mother without Blemish
and Disciples in a grove...
And blessed be
the Mercy of the Lending
of the glue
by the resurrected Handy Man
and King of
all the Jews !
The Morningstar obliged!
But held the blazer
in rebuke
He grimaced His Displeasure
And instantly
for proof
He dismembered my regalia
and assembled it anew
Into such a splendid Toga
There was nothing
I could do -
but simply step aside
as all the sting
had let the ruse.
I received the Prince of Darkness
Wearing gloves and dirt and boots
Oct 3, 2011
Oct 3, 2011 at 10:59 PM UTC
Para el asombro de las greyes planas
suelo zurcir abstrusas cantilenas.
Para la injuria del coplero ganso
torno mis brumas cada vez más densas.
Para el mohín de los leyente docto
marco mis versos de bizarro rictus,
(leyente docto: abléptico pedante)
tizno mis versos de macabros untos.
Para mí... no hago nada, nada, nada,
A qué contar a la olvidosa gente
si el amor en mi pecho llora o canta?
(a la olvidosa gente, es a saber:
al aire, al viento, al sol, al río, al mar...)
o a qué decir si el alma poesía,
-gruña así o grazne la trivial raleaa
qué decir si el alma poesía
huésped es de mi torre o de mi rúa?
Y que (como Villon el su tabardo,
su buitre prometeiico Atlas el Sordo,
como Nerón la púrpura, y la toga
César el Calvo, y ponzoñosa daga
el Valentino de mirar buido,
y, de la Tour de Nesle precipitado,
el saco Buridán, oh Margarita!)
yo porto, a más del tirso y la careta,
yo porto, en mí, la sombra del fastidio,
signo fatal, exilio sin remedio?
(como Nerón la púrpura, o la toga
César el Calvo, o la siniestra daga
el Valentino César, cuando arruga
su ceño ante las turbas enemigas!)
Un ignorado ritmo, dócil, terso,
donde el absurdo corazón esparzo,
¡eso será la impertinente estrofa
en que de todo mi desdén se befa,
y más de mí!: desdén, sobrio estilete
y el más seguro amigo en el combate
contra la tribu inulta! ¡Oh Muchedumbre!:
qué vales tú, si topas con el Hombre?
(y el Hombre, dí, si topa con el Hambre?
y Muchedumbre y Hombre con la Hembra?).
Para mí no hago nada, nada, nada,
¡sino soñar, sólo vivir la vida!
Para mí no hago nada... ¿acaso humo
cuando en la pipa blondo aroma quemo,
-si en el magín devano las ideas
humo también, color de fantasía...-?
Para mí no hago nada, nada, sólo
soñar, vivir la vida a contrapelo.
Sin un sueño de Amor más que divino
-por tener de ideal y ser humano que
da objeto y razón a mi durar...
sin ése Amor, mejor fuérame ser
una Sombra en la Sombra: quieto Buda
dormitando en la Muerte o en la Vida.
Para el asombro de las greyes planas
suelo zurcir abstrusas cantilenas.
Para ofender la mesocracia ambiente
mi risa hago sonar de monte a monte;
tizno mis versos de bizarro rictus
para el mohín de lo leyente docto;
para divertimento de mí mismo
trovas pergeño: absurdos y sarcasmos!
Y busco algo de ensueño y de aventura
dentro la noche...! y doy la vida entera
por el Amor, oh tú, sola Mujer!
mientras viene el morir!
1.2k
The Ides of March had come
but its Sun was not yet cold
when Spurinna reminded me
what his augury had foretold
Some good men tried to warn me
About the risks I take-
But Caesar has no need of guards
I look Death in the face.
Calpurnia asked me not to go
Based on her silly dream
But the Parthian war won’t be derailed
By some Republican’s scheme
The supplicants surround me with petitions,
Bur I, impatient, moved to turn away.
Casca grabbed the draping of my toga
and bared me, awkwardly, to start the fray.
The first dagger found my flesh
and left a superficial wound.
I wrested the dagger from his hands
and swept the blade to clear some room.
They are too many that surround me.
Too many of their thrusts strike home
Brutus my son, “Et Tu, Brute”
I cover my face to die alone.
Bleeding, powerless, dying,
No one must see me as I lay.
My dignity must be preserved
for I am uncommon clay.
Dec 15, 2011
Dec 15, 2011 at 8:26 PM UTC
Koliko dugo neprimjetno lutaš
prljavim rijekama zla?
Darovana krila gube ti svrhu;
zašto se bojiš poletjeti?
Otvori oči - rekla sam ti nježno,
puno toga ne primjećuješ.
A ti tvrdoglavo zatvorio si dušu
i toneš u psihotičan san.
Iluzija...
Vrijeme prolazi...
Srca su nam prazna pustinja
Gladna ljubavi vičem bez glasa
tebi što ne čuješ i ne vidiš.
Probudi se anđele nezasitne utjehe!
Otvori se dvama morima plavim.
Slijep pored zdravih očiju živiš,
ubijen od strane vlastitog prijatelja.
Probudi se, preklinjem!
Ne želim da toneš u vječni san.
Tihi glas šapuće ti na uho:
Vrijeme prolazi...
Jun 27, 2015
Jun 27, 2015 at 3:39 PM UTC
The woman is perfected
She wears the smile of accomplishment,
The illusion of a her Greek-necessity.
Flows in the scrolls of her toga,
Her bare feet seem to be saying,
“We have come so far,
Now it’s over.”
Each new-born being coiled,
Black auras, black all over
One at each little pitcher of milk,
Once empty,
They’re poured out
With enough knowledge
From where they were fitted.
She has folded it back
Into her body as petals
Of a rose close
Her desire, her dream
They’re all in hand!
When the garden stiffens and odors bleed
From the sweet, deep throats
Of the night flower
She’ll remain awake.
The stars shall utter her name
Staring from her hood of victory
She’s used to this sort of thing
But it’s the grandest as of now.
(3/21/14 @xirlleelang)
May 28, 2014
May 28, 2014 at 12:40 AM UTC
It's a nuisance to leave dancing to chance
and to sit by and sigh a sigh of mild high relief.
It's brief, but for a moment there's courage
and the courage builds a bridge.
But "look out," comes a shout
from seemingly miles away
and your gaze blazes below.
There's a troll beneath you.
It wields a shield made of lies
and a club made of fear and dead wishes.
Make it swim with the fishes.
Silent let it be, and cross the bridge.
Beyond the concrete dance floor,
ignore the three harpies' bait.
Don't wait. It's not too late
to quicken your pace.
Tread carefully. Don't be lured
by the drunken eyes,
or the devilishly devilish propaganda
for *** on their clothing and skin,
because it will hurt in the long run.
Head towards the sundress,
and the toga dancing next to it.
They're friends of yours,
but not yet.
So don't repress your desire to dance.
Take your chances.
Apr 6, 2015
Apr 6, 2015 at 5:46 AM UTC
Mermerna prostorija.
U njoj stojim u redu da platim clanarinu za biblioteku.
Ispred mene i iza mene nalaze se ljudi, bezlicni, u crnim odevnim kombinacijama. Reklo bi se dosli su na sopstvenu sahranu.
Dolazim na red- promena smene nastupa - naglim okretom ka salteru susrecem se sa gorilom osrednjeg rasta crne boje.
Ona se uplasila od mene! Uznemirena napusta radno mesto- cak uvredjena! zbog cega ne znam.
Koleginice je mole da vrati se na salter- a ja do tada samo znam kako sa psom- pa probam nesto od toga - shvatam da gorila sazvakace me.
Gorila se smirila nekako.
Ja sela da ucim.
Mar 28, 2015
Mar 28, 2015 at 7:02 PM UTC
Wearing just
a Toga fashioned from my black satin sheet
and a Tophat
sipping Sirrah out of a champagne flute;
It's been a crazy night.
Mar 16, 2014
Mar 16, 2014 at 5:08 AM UTC
I did not cry for you.
I have never cried for anyone who has left me because
I have always believed that I am so much stronger than the hollow silence.
But you once said I was beautiful, and you once said I was brave.
You will never see me in a toga or a white dress or a maternity tee,
but I hold fast to the days when you were mine to love and to look up to,
and I will always remember you in hot chocolate and french braids.
I'm so sorry.
Oct 1, 2013
Oct 1, 2013 at 6:48 PM UTC
We liked her much and ethereal self.
She carried her transience about her
As though it was a long flowing toga.
For her transience was a settled matter
Of evolution ,in Darwin and burlesque,
Just a comedy of sorts, full of sarcasm.
Surely the world was made in her kitchen.
Apparently he could not make a fine job.
Actually when she laughed it was at him.
Not that she was afraid of him, except
In the spirit-smell of a buttocks- injection
When she had a creepy feeling in her belly.
Things seemed to happen by a strange logic
A beyond-logic one failed to nail down.
Everything got mixed , things and words
Stewed in an orange light, an unreality-
Being light up there, the force of gravity low.
Above all this woman thing was God-like-
The mother of all, who suffered for children
Who have once lived in her puffed- up belly
And for strange men she met in the corridor.
Oct 31, 2010
Oct 31, 2010 at 6:17 PM UTC
I Have a Yong Suster
(anonymous Medieval English riddle-poem, circa 1430)
translation by Michael R. Burch
I have a young sister
Far beyond the sea;
Many are the keepsakes
That she sent me.
She sent me the cherry
Without any stone;
And also the dove
Without any bone.
She sent me the briar
Without any skin;
She bade me love my lover
Without longing.
How should any cherry
Be without a stone?
And how could any dove
Be without a bone?
How should any briar
Be without a skin?
And how could I love my lover
Without longing?
When the cherry was a flower,
Then it had no stone;
When the dove was an egg,
Then it had no bone.
When the briar was unborn,
Then it had no skin;
And when a maiden has her mate,
She is without longing!
This poem was sung in the movie "Animal House" by a college troubadour played by Stephen Bishop. A toga-clad John Belushi destroyed his guitar! Keywords/Tags: riddle, medieval, Middle English, young, sister, cherry, stone, dove, bone
Mar 31, 2020
Mar 31, 2020 at 12:49 AM UTC
they asked her what she wanted to be
when she was older
she replied “Lady Liberty”
and draped a toga around her
star-freckled shoulders
tissued fabric kissed her toes
she plucked a torch out of thin air
and shot it through with lightning
electric burns drew delicate scars on
the canvas of her forearms
the sun crowned her as a saviour
and the moon wrote love letters
while the sea-salt spray of the untameable ocean sang
a siren song of invincibility
and, with a wave of her hand,
the doors to freedom flew open.
Mar 28, 2014
Mar 28, 2014 at 2:26 AM UTC