Celia
Celia, we know, is sixty-five,
Yet Celia's face is seventeen;
Thus winter in her breast must live,
While summer in her face is seen.
How cruel Celia's fate, who hence
Our heart's devotion cannot try;
Too pretty for our reverence,
Too ancient for our gallantry!
poem by Alexander Pope
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Song: Perswasions to enjoy
If the quick spirits in your eye
Now languish and anon must die;
If every sweet and every grace
Must fly from that forsaken face;
Then, Celia, let us reap our joys
Ere Time such goodly fruit destroys.
Or if that golden fleece must grow
For ever free from agèd snow;
If those bright suns must know no shade,
Nor your fresh beauties ever fade;
Then fear not, Celia, to bestow
What, still being gather'd, still must grow.
Thus either Time his sickle brings
In vain, or else in vain his wings.
poem by Thomas Carew
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Perswasions to enjoy
IF the quick spirits in your eye
Now languish, and anon must die;
If every sweet, and every grace
Must fly from that forsaken face;
Then, Celia, let us reap our joys,
Ere Time such goodly fruit destroys.
Or if that golden fleece must grow
Forever, free from aged snow;
If those bright suns must know no shade,
Nor your fresh beauties ever fade;
Then fear not, Celia, to bestow
What, still being gathered, still must grow.
Thus, either Time his sickle brings
In vain, or else in vain his wings.
poem by Thomas Carew
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Celia
Cherry, cherry,
glowing on the hearth,
bright red cherry….
When you try to pick up cherry
Celia’s shriek
sticks in you like a pin.
When God throws hailstones
you cuddle in Celia’s shawl
and press your feet on her belly
high up like a stool.
When Celia makes umbrella of her hand.
Rain falls through
big pink spokes of her fingers.
When wind blows Celia’s gown up off her legs
she runs under pillars of the bank—
great round pillars of the bank
have on white stockings too.
Celia says my father
will bring me a golden bowl.
When I think of my father
I cannot see him
for the big yellow bowl
like the moon with two handles
he carries in front of him.
Grandpa, grandpa…
(Light all about you…
ginger… pouring out of green jars…)
You don’t believe he has gone away and left his great coat…
so you pretend… you see his face up in the ceiling.
When you clap your hands and cry, grandpa, grandpa, grandpa,
Celia crosses herself.
It isn’t a dream….
It comes again and again….
You hear ivy crying on steeples
the flames haven’t caught yet
and images screaming
when they see red light on the lilies
on the stained glass window of St. Joseph.
The girl with the black eyes holds you tight,
and you run… and run
past the wild, wild towers…
and trees in the gardens tugging at their feet
and little frightened dolls
shut up in the shops
crying… and crying… because no one stops…
you spin like a penny thrown out in the street.
Then the man clutches her by the hair….
He always clutches her by the hair….
His eyes stick out like spears.
You see her pulled-back face
and her black, black eyes
lit up by the glare….
Then everything goes out.
Please God, don’t let me dream any more
of the girl with the black, black eyes.
Celia’s shadow rocks and rocks…
and mama’s eyes stare out of the pillow
as though she had gone away
and the night had come in her place
as it comes in empty rooms…
you can’t bear it—
the night threshing about
and lashing its tail on its sides
as bold as a wolf that isn’t afraid—
and you scream at her face, that is white as a stone on a grave
and pull it around to the light,
till the night draws backward… the night that walks alone
and goes away without end.
Mama says, I am cold, Betty, and shivers.
Celia tucks the quilt about her feet,
but I run for my little red cloak
because red is hot like fire.
I wish Celia
could see the sea climb up on the sky
and slide off again…
…Celia saying
I’d beg the world with you….
Celia… holding on to the cab…
hands wrenched away…
wind in the masts… like Celia crying….
Celia never minded if you slapped her
when the comb made your hairs ache,
but though you rub your cheek against mama’s hand
she has not said darling since….
Now I will slap her again….
I will bite her hand till it bleeds.
It is cool by the port hole.
The wet rags of the wind
flap in your face.
poem by Lola Ridge
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Lips and Eyes.
IN Celia's face a question did arise,
Which were more beautiful, her lips or eyes ?
“ We,” said the eyes, “send forth those pointed darts
Which pierce the hardest adamantine hearts.”
“ From us,” repli'd the lips, “proceed those blisses
Which lovers reap by kind words and sweet kisses.”
Then wept the eyes, and from their springs did pour
Of liquid oriental pearl a shower ;
Whereat the lips, moved with delight and pleasure,
Through a sweet smile unlock'd their pearly treasure
And bad Love judge, whether did add more grace
Weeping or smiling pearls to Celia's face.
poem by Thomas Carew
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Hint From Voiture
Let Sol his annual journeys run,
And when the radiant task is done,
Confess, through all the globe, 'twou'd pose him,
To match the charms that Celia shows him.
And should he boast he once had seen
As just a form, as bright a mien,
Yet must it still for ever pose him
To match - what Celia never shows him.
poem by William Shenstone
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Cecilia
Celia, you're breaking my heart
You're shaking my confidence daily
Oh Cecilia, I'm down on my knees
I'm begging you please, to come home
Celia, you're breaking my heart
You're shaking my confidence daily
Oh Cecilia, I'm down on my knees
I'm begging you please, to come home
Come on home
Making love in the afternoon
With Cecilia up in my bedroom
I got up to wash my face
When I come back to bed
Someone's taken my place
Celia, you're breaking my heart
You're shaking my confidence daily
Oh Cecilia, I'm down on my knees
I'm begging you please, to come home
Come on home
Jubilation, she loves me again
I fall on the floor and I'm laughing
Jubilation, she loves me again
I fall on the floor and I'm laughing
song performed by by Simon & Garfunkel
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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What Celia Saw in the Back of a Spoon
Celia looked at her reflection
In the back of the spoon;
Her face was blown outward
As if captured on some balloon.
It almost made her laugh;
The memory of it;
How she and her sister Sassy
Would do that as kids,
Before the dark days,
Before her death in a bath.
That drowning, that sad death.
Sassy's husband had beaten her
Black and blue and green
And she'd hide herself away
So as not to be seen.
But she'd seen her,
Seen the bruises
Like smudged tattoos,
The closed eyes,
The swollen lips,
The hardly able to talk words
Pushing through the mouth
To say: he says he loves me still.
Celia stared at her reflection,
The way her own mouth was distorted,
Her lips blown up, her eyes enlarged,
Out of proportion.
She almost laughed,
But something about Sassy's sad death
Made her stifle any guffaw
That may have broken free
From her distorted reflected jaw.
There was the time she'd seen her
Undressing for bed when she stayed
Because Sassy's husband (the weird freak)
Was off on business, some big deal,
Needing to be pulled off,
And she saw the black and blueness
With tinges of green
Along her naked flesh,
The buttocks welted
Where he had belted.
Sassy had said nothing,
Had not noticed Celia looking,
Had not thought it unusual
To be unclothed as such
Away from other's peering eyes.
Now Sassy was dead;
Found in the bath;
Drugged out, wrists slit,
Having drowned recorded.
But he had driven her over the edge;
He had bullied and beaten
Like some spoilt cruel child
An unwanted toy.
Celia turned the spoon over
And put it down.
No more desire to laugh,
Just fond memories of Sassy
Before her death in the bath.
poem by Terry Collett
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Persuasions to Joy, a Song
IF the quick spirits in your eye
Now languish and anon must die;
If every sweet and every grace
Must fly from that forsaken face;
Then, Celia, let us reap our joys
Ere Time such goodly fruit destroys.
Or if that golden fleece must grow
For ever free from aged snow;
If those bright suns must know no shade,
Nor your fresh beauties ever fade;
Then fear not, Celia, to bestow
What, still being gather'd, still must grow.
Thus either Time his sickle brings
In vain, or else in vain his wings.
poem by Thomas Carew
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Since Bearing Of A Gentle Mind
Since bearing of a Gentle mind
Woud make you perfect be
Dear Celia to your self be kind
By being so to me
Hast to be happy while you can
Time flys and pleasures flow
Nor ere will have the Chance again
To be so long as now
Give me a kiss now give me more
And now another bliss
For Love has such a world in store
We need not dy on this
Twas thus Amintor Celia wood
the Fair expecting lay
He took the hint his point pursud
And blessd the lucky day.
poem by Thomas Parnell
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There shall be eternal summer in the grateful heart.
quote by Celia Thaxter
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Of Caterpillars and Childhood
We were childhood playmates
Way back in the late fifties
She was sort of a retardate,
We children were not aware of this.
One day we climbed a guava tree
And Celia (that's her name)
Tried to climb the tree with me
How we enjoyed that racing game!
On a stronger branch I sat
My brother climbed the other
As Celia climbed I noticed that
Green caterpillars were all over!
I jumped off that tree so fast
And my brother followed suit
Celia tried to get off, alas!
A caterpillar stuck to her foot.
She held to a branch in fear
Her hand crushed the green thing there
With a scream she let go, oh dear!
She fell on her back with a holler!
Her grandma came rushing over
As we laughed at the silly crying
But out came our angry Mother
And we were in for a big scolding.
Looking back I have my regret
I have not been able to say 'Sorry'
My friend was one I will never forget
So for her, I write this little story.
poem by Cynthia Buhain-Baello
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No Longer Celia But Aliena
anatomize Selena Celia
Celestina bright
forsaken
abandoned
for the sake of power
the star
who never really shone
unless touchstoned
in fools armours wit
the star amourouse
the star mort
sans life
sans closeness
sans beautitude
'No longer Celia but Aliena'
xenos living across the vast sky
Quotation taken from William Shakespeare 'As you like it'
poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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As Celia With Her Sparrow Playd
As Celia with her Sparrow playd
She took a glass unseen
Her mouth she filld
& while he billd
She spirts ye liquor in
Usd to such sweet such rosy lips
He feard no treach'ry there
But love & such
Were too too much
For one poor bird to bear
Against ye Pretty fluttring fool
The Mighty foes combine
So down he Sunk
Bewitchd or drunk
By Beauty or wth wine
But ere left ye Chirping cup
& dropp'd the little head,
The folks who guess
What Birds express
have told me thus he said,
How use the various scenes of joy
at various times to reign?
Men kiss'd in one
They drunk anon
Then after kiss'd again.
But Celia shews short life to grasp
A double store of blisses,
While by her Means
A Bird obtains
At once both Drink & kisses.
poem by Thomas Parnell
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Weeping
While Celia's Tears make sorrow bright,
Proud Grief sits swelling in her eyes;
The Sun, next those the fairest light,
Thus from the Ocean first did rise:
And thus thro' Mists we see the Sun,
Which else we durst not gaze upon.
These silver drops, like morning dew,
Foretell the fervour of the day:
So from one Cloud soft show'rs we view,
And blasting lightnings burst away.
The Stars that fall from Celia's eye
Declare our Doom in drawing nigh.
The Baby in that sunny Sphere
So like a Phaeton appears,
That Heav'n, the threaten'd World to spare,
Thought fit to drown him in her tears;
Else might th' ambitious Nymph aspire,
To set, like him, Heav'n too on fire.
poem by Alexander Pope
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Mick takes it seriously!
'Hell, i read in bed, on the train, or walking
down the hall, don't you? ' Mick said.
We were sitting in his kitchen.
Celia was on the barcalounger
in the den watching a soap on TV -
Days of Our Lives sounded like.
'Books of Tennyson and Keats not my cup
of tea exactly, nor do I fancy them circling
overhead either - bleeding dangerous, that!
Sure, I puzzle over rhyme and meter, simile
and metaphor - shit! I went to college, too!
Can't hardly get that stuff out of my head!
I've bayed at the moon when I drink enough -
the curse of the Irish, right? But no dancing,
please! not in this neighborhood!
Celia is my idea of beauty, though a bit long
in the tooth, like the old Lab sitting with her -
they both shine with the patina of age,
know what I mean? They're the poetry
of my life, and I write about them both
in many guises! Say, is this Valentine's Day,
or am I sappier than usual! '
I agree with Mick all the way.
poem by Michael Pruchnicki
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Crafting Poems
'Yeah, it's a craft that you learn on the job,
don't you think? Like a carpenter learns
the ins and the outs of his trade.
It's not just puking up your guts,
spewing feelings left and right
like some demented jamoke! '
Mick said, holding the magazine
open so that Celia could read
what he was pointing to.
'Oates says here that writing
is a craft, it's not an experience
like an emotion, ' Celia said.
'You know, Mick, some folks
think that you're the author
of these poems that Malone
has been writing using you and me
as characters in an ongoing epic
poem. They identify you the character
with the same name as the author
as one and the same person -
Have you noticed, Mick? '
'That's my thought too, though we are
the very lifeblood of that narrowback's
epic poem in the making, as it were -
like a fancy cabinet handcrafted by
an expert woodworker in his shop!
Neat simile that, eh? ' Mick quipped.
poem by Michael Pruchnicki
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There may be a better one somewhere, but I haven't caught her at it.
quote by Celia Johnson
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I love living on that stage. Without that, I'd die.
quote by Celia Cruz
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I'd have liked to have leant against walls in thrillers.
quote by Celia Johnson
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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To Mrs.
Celia, when you oblige again.
Subdue that haughty Eye:
Rather than Insolence fustain,
Who would not wish to die?
A grateful Heart will own the Debt,
But, O! must feel it with Regret.
poem by Mary Barber
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