"tutu" poems
Midnight!
Midnight!
Midnight!
The burning sensation of those word were hard to digest
Sorrow, Tear, How ugly can I be
Black is Beauty I say…to whom they say
Midnight! Midnight!.. you are as dark as Midnight
I'm haunted by those words, As they stuck to me like fresh sap from a tree..
I’m drowning, I’m drowning, I can’t get free, those words will forever trail me..
They trailed me; they jarred me, Blackie Tutu! Blackie Tutu!
How can kids be so cruel using skin color as a tool
I held my own and stayed cool for I knew has long I was in this school my fate was doom.
Pickey-Pickey head! was the melody of the song
I listened allowing the word to sink into my soul
The beat made me sick and I knew this one would also stick
I Looked up to the sky wondering why
No! No! No! Woman don’t cry
Be an African and hold your pride…
Hands by my side, I held my head up high
I found the fight within me, Stone faced Killer bee
I faced the music and it set me free
On the attack I had them flee…using word to conquer thee
I carried on knowing freedom wasn’t free and then
Like bolt of lightning it occurred me
To defeat them I had to BELIEVE in ME
Feb 12, 2018
Feb 12, 2018 at 8:16 AM UTC
***I really like Christmas
It's sentimental, I know, but I just really like it
I am hardly religious
I'd rather break bread with Dawkins than Desmond Tutu, to be honest
And yes, I have all of the usual objections
To consumerism, the commercialisation of an ancient religion
To the westernisation of a dead Palestinian
Press-ganged into selling Playstations and beer
But I still really like it
I'm looking forward to Christmas
Though I'm not expecting a visit from Jesus
I'll be seeing my dad
My brother and sisters, my gran and my mum
They'll be drinking white wine in the sun
I'll be seeing my dad
My brother and sisters, my gran and my mum
They'll be drinking white wine in the sun
I don't go in for ancient wisdom
I don't believe just 'cos ideas are tenacious it means they are worthy
I get freaked out by churches
Some of the hymns that they sing have nice chords but the lyrics are dodgy
And yes I have all of the usual objections
To the miseducation of children who, in tax-exempt institutions,
Are taught to externalise blame
And to feel ashamed and to judge things as plain right and wrong
But I quite like the songs
I'm not expecting big presents
The old combination of socks, jocks and chocolate is just fine by me
Cos I'll be seeing my dad
My brother and sisters, my gran and my mum
They'll be drinking white wine in the sun
I'll be seeing my dad
My brother and sisters, my gran and my mum
They'll be drinking white wine in the sun***
**And you, my baby girl
My jetlagged infant daughter
You'll be handed round the room
Like a puppy at a primary school
And you won't understand
But you will learn someday
That wherever you are and whatever you face
These are the people who'll make you feel safe in this world
My sweet blue-eyed girl
And if, my baby girl
When you're twenty-one or thirty-one
And Christmas comes around
And you find yourself nine thousand miles from home
You'll know what ever comes
Your brother and sisters and me and your Mum
Will be waiting for you in the sun
Whenever you come
Your brothers and sisters, your aunts and your uncles
Your grandparents, cousins and me and your mum
We'll be waiting for you in the sun
Drinking white wine in the sun
Darling, when Christmas comes
We'll be waiting for you in the sun
Drinking white wine in the sun
Waiting for you in the sun
Waiting for you...
Waiting...**
***I really like Christmas
It's sentimental, I know...***
Dec 26, 2012
Dec 26, 2012 at 12:33 PM UTC
Never will I be covered in tattoos
My legs and toes shall forever stay bruised.
I’ll never paint or carry a tune
Forever and ever, I’ll wear a tutu.
I won’t dye my hair pink or blue
My piercings will stay as the simple two
Nails cut short and hair in a bun
In ballet, this must be done.
Pink tights by the mound
Bobby pins all around
Leotards on the floor
Pointe shoes by the door.
Toes taped so tightly
Smiling big and brightly
Red lipstick adding to her beauty
The dancer moves so smoothly.
Turned out from my hips
No words coming from my lips
I dance sweetly to the sound
Ooh ballet, to you, I am bound.
Full of grace, never haste
Filling perfectly my costume of lace
Ever so sweet, my dancing feet
Step after step, I repeat and repeat.
Obtaining perfection is my key
It’s what I strive for, it’s all that defines me
Pushing harder and harder to reach my goal
It’s what I live for, ballet is my soul.
My toes may bleed
And my knees, grow weak
But I’ll never stop dancing…
Not until I reach my peak.
Pirouette, Pirouette
Dancer’s silhouette
Practicing at dusk
Dedication is a must.
Stretching my limbs
Choreographing on a whim
Alway aiming to be stronger
To hold my arabesque longer.
When I do finally reach that triple pirouette
and all is done and all is set
I put myself back into class
Aiming for a fourth, to be better than the last.
This is the life of a dancer en point
Risking the health of her feet, legs and joints
Just for that one perfect moment on stage
Where the ballerina stands tall and all are amazed.
Feb 19, 2014
Feb 19, 2014 at 3:49 AM UTC
Nina pranced about
the lush green grove.
The pitter patter of her footsteps
like raindrops on the ground,
and her movements,
like a fog rolled through a valley.
A white satin leotard
decorated with flowery lace patterns
A tutu that blossomed
from her slender waist.
Hair elegantly tied back into a bun.
Face, filled with symmetry, lightly made up with powder.
Her cheeks flushed with a pinkish red blush,
but natural like her lips of pomegranate red.
The grove,
short deep green ryegrass that rolls over the lumpy ground like moss.
Trees shade like many arms shielding many eyes.
The pure white light of the sun shone through the canopy in beams.
Nina danced furiously intent and
music box intricately
in and out of the beacons of light
as a ballerina should following a lifetime of training.
Oct 18, 2012
Oct 18, 2012 at 12:44 PM UTC
little missy mouse she just long to be a little ballerina
for all the world to see'
she took a trip to russia far across the sea
to become a dancer with a ballet company.
she packed up her tutu and tiara too
to be a ballet dancer and make her dreams come true.
she praticed all her moves and spiining on her feet
trained every single day till her training was complete
now her time had come to join a company .
and a ballerina now at last would be
she began to dance like she never danced before
little spins and pirouttes the crowd all shouted more
they stood on there feet now a star was she
a famous ballet star just like she longed to be
May 6, 2014
May 6, 2014 at 6:08 PM UTC
Where the grapes you eat are red and green
But the ones you draw are purple
Where you love your parents with all of your heart
But pretend you’re an orphan when you play with friends
Where the monsters that lurk in closets and under beds
Can be destroyed by the light of day
Where a stinging, aching cut or bruise
Can be healed by a kiss
Where a girl can transform into a fairy princess
By slipping on a voluminous pink tutu
Where a boy becomes a conquering hero
By arming himself with an intimidating roll of wrapping paper
Where a slightly unkempt yard
Becomes a jungle full of tigers and serpents
Where an in ground pool
Becomes an ocean whose depths must be explored
Where winter
Is a season for snowmen and presents
Where summer
Is a season for ice cream and beaches
Where Mommy
Is the best chef, nurse, and storyteller
Where Daddy
Is the great protector, hug giver, and handyman
Where science has no bearing
Because rainbows and lightning come from magic
Where logic doesn’t make sense
Because the powers of love and fantasy are illogical
And there is no place for suffering
Because pain is overshadowed by innocence
Feb 26, 2012
Feb 26, 2012 at 7:01 PM UTC
Kumasi, the Tree City,
The Kingdom City with a divine eagle
Standing bravely on a mighty stick,
The unquestionable love that embraces
The soul of the arch enemy,
The tradition that swallows
The ancient courage and modern pride,
Kumasi, the Tree City,
The mighty city that lies under
The flying wings of the
Beautiful Okumanin tree,
The golden city of the Western Sudan
Planted by the arm of the Almighty,
You are truly the dwelling
Abode of unity and majesty,
Kumasi, the Tree City,
The echoes of your ancestral spirits
Do not sleep nor slumber
You that provides a comfortable
Seat for the grandson of
The almighty Krobea Asante Kotoko,
The modern pride of the great
Ancient mother of Yaa Asantewaa,
Kumasi, the Tree City,
The great son of the vulture,
Otomfuo Osei Tutu, may not
Appreciate your present
State of modernization,
For you have surrounded
T he Golden Stool with
Carelessness and filth,
Your crime rate has swept
Away the memories of
The great Okomfo Anokye,
Kumasi, the Tree City,
Oh, the inhabitance under the protective
And motherly wings of the great tree,
The Ayoko kingship deserves a clean land,
This great city must regain
Her serene and inviting sweet-scented
Greeny and stable environment,
For mother Ghana has always
Pride herself in your glory and dignity,
Kumasi, the Tree City,
The precious eye of Asanteman,
Never deny your former glory,
Oh, the pride of West Africa
You still have what it takes
To be the Garden City of West Africa,
You are Oseikrom indeed,
Okumaninase, the capital city of Kwaman,
The heart of the Republic of Ghana.
© PRINCE NANA ANIN-AGYEI
Email: [email protected]
Apr 8, 2013
Apr 8, 2013 at 6:25 AM UTC
The rush
The grace
The feeling I get when I dance
My heart beating faster and faster and faster
Until everything falls silent
Its me
And the music
Just Me
And the rhythm
My heart is beating, my feet are moving
My head is spinning, I hit it
A switch turns on inside of me
I’m in it to win it now
I want that platinum, I want to make you proud of me
I want to be the dancer you want me to be
But ballet, thats not it.
You ruined this, you told me I wasn’t good enough
Point your toes,
lift your chin,
hold your leg higher
Do this, do that. Who cares?
Do I look like a prima ballerina to you?
I am not tall, I am not lanky
I am not skinny, I am not light
And I’m sorry but I have *****
You can push me,
Stretch me, pull me in all different directions
To do what?
Make me more flexible, more graceful, more
you
You have beaten me down with your words,
so much that the one thing I loved most in the world
has slowly been slipping away from me
Dance doesn’t define who I am,
It is who I am.
Dance is me
I am dance
I’m big ***** I have strong muscles
I’m not graceful, when you tell me to hit it hard,
I hit it with intensity, with power
Don’t ask me to prance around in a pink tutu.
I won’t.
Put me in harem pants, and a baggy sweatshirt
Throw some beats down
And I’ll groove it
Pop it, slide it, lock it
Sharp sharp smooooooth
So many different moves,
Some don’t even have names
No Fouetté, or jeté
No relevé, or adagio
What do these even mean?
Do I look french to you?
I’d rather body roll
Chest pop
And just let my body do the talking
I don’t dance to impress you
I don’t dance to please your needs
I don’t dance for high scores
I dance to express the words I cannot speak
Mar 25, 2014
Mar 25, 2014 at 1:34 PM UTC
I just hugged Zoe and I saw her hickies and wanted
to kiss her lips over and over just like the day
we got high and danced underneath moving lights
and she was in my tutu and her blonde hair
felt right tickling my face and the boy
who is supposed to love her didn't notice
and it made us laugh and laugh because
if we didn’t laugh; we would have cried.
Why do we love to leave behind bruises
on lips and necks and arms and eyes
and teeth? It hurts but no matter what, no
matter how much I crush my teeth together to
hide my yelps, it always turns into this
beautiful, beautiful mark that doesn't want
pressure and looks like a sunset borrowed
it it’s colors because *no one, not even
a bruise, wants to be ugly*.
Oct 23, 2012
Oct 23, 2012 at 8:51 PM UTC
At 5 I was convinced I was
a flower
whose vocation was imitating
their final hysterical
wail
once Winter awoke from its
anorexia.
I pleaded my case with
a botanist
whose seamstress wife consented to stitch
a tutu of Kadupul
flowers,
like a fairy godmother warning of their death at
dawn.
At 16 I finally danced
their goodbye,
petals whisked off as if molted
layers of skin
and only when at the end I stood naked
did the concept of death have
definition.
Jun 7, 2014
Jun 7, 2014 at 7:13 PM UTC
Rat Farts
Once again me and my baby have split
now I'm all alone and feeling like doodoo
Im bettin' for sure you thought I'd say ****
can't talk like that when I'm wearin' my tutu
the Doobies in the background rockin' it out
smoked one myself now at least I am writing
stuffing my face with my homemade sour *****
next on my jukebox is a song 5 for fighting
I usually can find a good way to ***** up
too often my mouth gets in the way of my brain
I once stood in front of the asylum with a cup
trying to convince everyone that I was insane
one more hit should make the trip complete
crap, now I spilled a bowl of chili on my shorts
sitting here staring at the warts on my feet
another trip to the doc what can I say but rat farts
Gomer and Morpheus
Sep 26, 2011
Sep 26, 2011 at 8:37 AM UTC
He always wanted to be a ballerina
To dance so dainty up on his toes.
But everyone could see under his tutu
And the bump they saw was not his nose.
He had the talent and the perfect figure
To perform the balletic steps just right.
There was no way he could ever manage
To keep that ample package out of sight.
Jete, jete. Plie, Plie.
Dance like that’s all you want to do.
Dancing straight, or dancing gay,
Do whatever is right for you.
Hands and toes pointed fine
Back and necks held straight.
Maybe it’s not your time to get picked.
But make it worth their wait.
His skin was smooth just like a swaddling baby
There was no concern about flat *******
Many ballerinas are rather mannish
With not much curvature to their chests.
So he could pass completely undetected
Androgyny was his great good friend
But any moment when he swirled about
Tutu would lift and then spell the spell would end.
Jete, jete. Plie, Plie.
Dance like that’s all you want to do.
Dancing straight, or dancing gay,
Do whatever is right for you.
Hands and toes pointed fine
Back and necks held straight.
Maybe it’s not your time to get picked.
But make it worth their wait.
He never really loved the danseur posture
The holds and lifts and hearty leaps about.
But in the world of ballet and its leaders
Ballerina guys are always left out.
Still he danced in tutu at auditions.
He heard the comments, paid them no mind.
If they could not see grandly male Pavlova
That meant that all of them were blind.
Jete, jete. Plie, Plie.
Dance like that’s all you want to do.
Dancing straight, or dancing gay,
Do whatever is right for you.
Hands and toes pointed fine
Back and necks held straight.
Maybe it’s not your time to get picked.
But make it worth their wait.
Aug 7, 2015
Aug 7, 2015 at 9:07 PM UTC
not here, here, here
inside, outside, her head
bath tub, bubbles shaped
like balloons, rising
in the air,
cut open, she
precludes the secret nature
of her love,
he loved, her
every ballet she danced
pink fur, a butterfly moving,
on tips of toes,
tripping the light, en pointe
painted pale lips,
winged eyeliner, corset
silk, golden embellished,
Lacroix,
feathered tutu, romantic
Tchaikovsky's compositions,
faery tale ballets,
Swan Lake, Paris Opéra
Odette, a sorcerer's curse
falling to her fate, black
later, taxi rides home, kissing
moonlight, bedroom laughter,
KNOCK
not here, here, here
the bathroom door,
she kisses away,
her melancholy madness,
his voice; Laurier...
her soul, punctured
by her lover...
not here, here, here
© Sia Jane
Feb 28, 2014
Feb 28, 2014 at 5:30 PM UTC
As I approached this new anomaly I couldn't help but notice how seamlessly it was dancing...
Flowing through the street like a land-based whirlpool with the elegance of a veteran ballerina
It's distressed white plastic tutu left drifting freely, spinning into a pirouette in spite of it's singular audience
A defiant **** between sidewalk blocks--It's simple presence, a larger then life statement
As if to say "Go on, try to stop my freedom! I'll just pirouette away!"
Sep 23, 2013
Sep 23, 2013 at 2:16 PM UTC
She rolls along the high wires
Tightrope walkin' moon
She graces life's big circus
She is gone too soon
Huge! A glowing fairie
So luminous! So bright!
She's suspended on the ropes
The performer of the night!
I watch her intently
As she's held aloft
Then she slips toward the hills...
... she is fallin' off!
But she bows down and curtseys!
A smile on her face
She's lost not her dancer's poise,
She maintains her grace.
Finally she exits
The horizon sets the stage
She is only a faint glow
The night has turned the page.
I'll remember her with fondness
As she danced to Claire de Lune...
In her sequined tutu
Tightrope walkin' moon.
SøułSurvivør
8/26/2018
Aug 26, 2018
Aug 26, 2018 at 8:37 AM UTC
Girl, put down the pocket knife fist and pick up that pen of yours.
stop...
They aren't worth the status updates or the 140 character #hashtag
They are worth books. Trilogy novels of witty 'should have' banter and Good wins over Evil plot themes.
Rake in the millions.
Then put down the skinny jeans and wear the Tutu.
stop...
They aren't worth the clone bulimic fashion trends.
They are worth ballets. Extravagant classical shows where millions come to see. Each one hanging on you like fish hooks.
Because you got that audience hook, line, and sinker.
Then, go home.
stop...
They aren't worth the boastful air you inhale.
Exhale humility and stories about best sellers and the view from a ballet hall in Germany.
You are worth it.
You are worth the pens,
and tutus,
and a home.
Oct 22, 2012
Oct 22, 2012 at 3:21 PM UTC
dance with daddy
wear your tutu
spin and twirl
hold his hand
arabesques
pirouette
into his arms
and heart
you’re his little
prima ballerina
Jul 26, 2021
Jul 26, 2021 at 10:41 PM UTC
I'll be at the ball in my tutu and fishnets
While I idolize the girls with the long hair and dresses
The money thrown at them by loving parents
While my outfit is made up of spare change and short tresses
But I'll wear my mohawk high because even though
I look out of place and not as royal as you
I am me and true to my name
While you are just the same ******* dolled up
Jul 30, 2015
Jul 30, 2015 at 5:57 AM UTC
****** a ***** in Timbuktu
Rode her all the way to Kalamazoo
Told to ***** to blow my kazoo
And I'd shove my finger in her tutu
I wish all of this we're true
The only ******* I get say moo
Jan 30, 2014
Jan 30, 2014 at 10:56 PM UTC
Round and round and round I whirl
I exist to pirouette, to twirl.
A sea of jewels at my feet shimmer,
They twinkle, glisten, shine and glimmer.
A rich array of cherished treasure,
Of value far too great to measure.
I hear the music as I turn…
The only tune I’ll ever learn.
My pose is ever full of grace,
A smile is fixed upon my face.
My hair is twisted into a perfect pleat
My ballet points laced on my feet.
My pink tutu stands out starched and straight,
As I mechanically revolve, rotate.
My spinning trajectory gently slows
My jolting pivot draws to a close.
And I’ll stand stock still until rewound
To again start swirling round and round.
Apr 8, 2018
Apr 8, 2018 at 12:18 PM UTC
I.
The armless maiden was your favorite bed-time story.
He ties my hands behind my back while my heart sings:
Here he comes! My king of the Nile!
For whom I will fight the gods with my womanly magic,
the spells of a women who’s eager to wield away
swollen lips and stained sheets
and her stained soul.
Let me tell you a tale of consumption,
of the flame and the burnt child:
He shoots an arrow into the darkness
and I beg to run after it.
II.
Cinderella is hanging from the ceiling. Her body dancing in crystal light.
Funny,
how it reminds me of the pink tutu still somewhere in my closet.
Never the graceful ballerina or the mother of the falcon,
only the princess in rags, even clumsy in my desperation,
even unable to make you smile a little.
My shakal faced God, my butcher,
you who giveth and taketh.
Aug 12, 2018
Aug 12, 2018 at 11:34 AM UTC
The girl was weaving through the crowd.
Her bright green tutu glowed against the black backdrop of concert lighting.
She was magical, the little nymph thrashing around to the pop music was surprising and yet she didn't look out of place.
She had rainbow thigh-highs, long girly dreads, and beautiful half-sleeve tattoos.
I wanted to be as free as she looked.
And then the lights came up, the music gone and she was no where to be found.
Jan 25, 2010
Jan 25, 2010 at 6:21 AM UTC
mon amour
our innocence
moved in uncertainty
like our body moves, beautifully
in unnatural way
our tears of pain
and happiness
blend in our sweats
(when our body is bent
our heart is spent)
my tongue is strong
like the tip of your toe
as its slices the flesh
down your neck
like a velvet rag
wiping away your shame
blotting it out completely
as from the memory
your low, sustained cries
are music to my ears
like a cascading tutu, gasping
like waterfalls over steep rocks
pushing me
beyond any boundaries
made by man
even by gods
(and i felt your body quiver
like a wild circus at the
birth of the night)
my love, my prima ballerina
you are hysterical
evolving weightlessly
on my skin, whispering
into my pores
telling a story in each curve
conquering yet refined
and here i am, a criminal
condescendingly proud
taking justice into my hands
for only by these hands
could i bring justice
to our love, to our lust
to our soul
(and you pull me down
down to complete nothingness
where everything doesn't matter
and all that matters is nothing)
and together we dance
you and i
ever so gracefully
to that hopeful spotlight
hoping for the endless
hoping for eternity
but euernity has to end
only to begin again
Jan 12, 2013
Jan 12, 2013 at 10:07 PM UTC
Attention Wal-Mart Shoppers..
You know them
You've seen them
I hope you aren't one of them...
I don't drink
Not anymore
For my entertainment
I go to the store
I go out after dinner
That's when the show will start
I go and watch the people
Who shop at Wal-Mart
Cowboy boots, a tutu, and yoga pants with ***
with a muscle shirt and top hat
worn by a man named REX
a pair of pants just hanging
a pair of crocs and leather vest
with "she loves me for my money"
emblazoned on the chest
These are the people
Yes, you know the people
We've all seen the people
In their finest shopping clothes
These are the people
Yes, you know the people
We've all seen the people
At Wal-Mart, so it goes
I don't go clubbing
There's no fun in that
Late night trips to Wal-Mart
That, is where it's at
A woman dressed in plastic
a man all painted blue
and how many people have you seen
that look like escapees from the zoo
These are the people
Yes, you know the people
We've all seen the people
In their finest shopping clothes
These are the people
Yes, you know the people
We've all seen the people
At Wal-Mart, so it goes
Underpants, and stockings
garters and blue jeans
size 50 denim jumpers
Stretched like skinny jeans
Men wearing high heels
Women wearing...well
Use your imaginations
From a distance you can't tell
These are the people
Yes, you know the people
We've all seen the people
In their finest shopping clothes
These are the people
Yes, you know the people
We've all seen the people
At Wal-Mart, so it goes
Body parts free to see
******* and legs and butts
And people with their little dogs
The ugly, squeaky mutts
We know them
and we watch them
Take their photos
Yes....we do.
dress right when you go shopping
Or we may take one of you!!!
Aug 24, 2013
Aug 24, 2013 at 5:43 PM UTC