Le Testament: Les Regrets De La Belle Heaulmière
By chance, I heard the belle complain,
The one we called the Armouress,
Longing to be a girl again,
Talking like this, more or less:
‘Oh, old age, proud in wickedness,
You've battered me so, and why?
Who cares, who, for my distress,
Or whether at all your blows I die?
You've stolen away that great power
My beauty ordained for me
Over priests and clerks, my hour,
When never a man I'd see
Would fail to offer his all in fee,
Whatever remorse he'd later show,
But what was abandoned readily,
Beggars now scorn to know.
Many a man I then refused -
Which wasn't wise of me, no jest -
For love of a boy, cunning too,
To whom I gave all my largesse.
I feigned to him unwillingness,
But, by my soul, I loved him bad.
What he showed was his roughness,
Loving me only for what I had.
He could drag me through the dirt,
Trample me underfoot, I'd love him,
Break my back, whatever's worse,
If only he'd ask for a kiss again,
I'd soon forget then every pain.
A glutton, full of what he could win,
He'd embrace me - with him I've lain.
What's he left me? Shame and sin.
Now he's dead, these thirty years:
And I live on, old, and grey.
When I think of those times, with tears,
What I was, what I am today,
View myself naked: turn at bay,
Seeing what I am no longer,
Poor, dry, meagre, worn away,
I almost forget myself in anger.
Where's my smooth brow gone:
My arching lashes, yellow hair,
Wide-eyed glances, pretty ones,
That took in the cleverest there:
Nose not too big or small: a pair
Of delicate little ears, the chin
Dimpled: a face oval and fair,
Lovely lips with crimson skin?
The fine slender shoulder-blades:
The long arms, with tapering hands:
My small breasts: the hips well made
Full and firm, and sweetly planned,
All Love's tournaments to withstand:
The broad flanks: the nest of hair,
With plump thighs firmly spanned,
Inside its little garden there?
Now wrinkled forehead, hair gone grey:
Sparse eyelashes: eyes so dim,
That laughed and flashed once every way,
And reeled their roaming victims in:
Nose bent from beauty, ears thin,
Hanging down like moss, a face,
Pallid, dead and bleak, the chin
Furrowed, a skinny-lipped disgrace.
This is the end of human beauty:
Shrivelled arms, hands warped like feet:
The shoulders hunched up utterly:
Breasts….what? In full retreat,
Same with the hips, as with the teats:
Little nest, hah! See the thighs,
Not thighs, thighbones, poor man's meat,
Blotched like sausages, and dried.
That's how the bon temps we regret
Among us, poor old idiots,
Squatting on our haunches, set
All in a heap like woollen lots
Round a hemp fire men forgot,
Soon kindled, and soon dust,
Once so lovely, that cocotte…
So it goes for all of us.
poem by François Villon
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
All You See
Ooh Ooh
Aaah Aaah
Aaah Haa
Ooh Ooh
Aaah Aaah
Hey Hey
Verse 1 Terry
You best believe everyday I get the same ole thang
All kind of bruthas coming up to me
With silly lies that could make you sick oh they need to quit
And get away from me, don't get me wrong I like attention too
But do they really have to act a foolCuz they see a lady lookin' good?
Please admit
Chorus
Is it my hips? my lips?
My eyes? My thighs?
My chest? My hair?
My big ole hey-e-e-ea
Is that all you see?
Is it my hips? My lips?
My eyes? My thighs?
My chest? My hair?
My big ole hey-e-e-ea
Is that all you see?
Verse 2 Terry
In a limousine, fancy car, bling-bling-bling
Even if you're standing 6 foot 3 or 3 feet tall with no teeth
Have respect for me, try conversation please
Before you try and put your hands on me
When will they ever learn there's more to me,
Than T&A on this PYT
Daddy please
Chorus
Is it my hips? my lips? (Daddy)
My eyes? My thighs?
My chest?(My chest) My hair? (My hair)
My big ole hey-e-e-ea
Is that all you see?
Is it my hips? (My hips) my lips? (My lips)
My eyes? (My eyes) My thighs? (My thighs)
My chest? (My chest) My hair? (My hair)
My big ole hey-e-e-ea
Is that all you see?
Bridge Michael Marshall:
How come you actin' like you don't know
Why some bruthas always lose control
When you're wearing them hip high jeans
With your thong out baby please let a playa speak
And don't you start to tweak,
You got the body that can make men weep
So when you walk around in those do me clothes like those videhos
Girl you need to know that all I'm lookin' at is
Chorus
Hips and lipsAnd eyes, your thighs
Your chest, your hair
Girl that big ole (hey-e-e-ea)
Is that all you see?
Your hips, your lips
Your eyes, your thighs
Your chest baby, your hair
You're sexy underwear (hey-e-e-ea)
Is that all you see?
Uh-huh Uh-huh sexy underwear I see
Ooh and I know, I know
Your hips somethin' 'bout your thighs
Is driving me crazy, Ooh hey uh-huh uh-huh
(Ooh)Ooh Ooh
Aaah Aaah
Aaah Haa
Ooh Ooh
Aaah Aaah
Hey Hey
(hey-e-e-ea)
Is that all you see?
song performed by by En Vogue
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Beauty has no standard
Plump cheeks,
Surging breasts,
Massive buttocks
Fleshy thighs.
It is epic beauty.
Firm cheeks,
Standing breasts,
Bonny buttocks,
Slender thighs,
It is modern beauty.
Beauty reforms according to fashion.
26.04.2002, pkd
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Lovely One
Lovely one,
Just as on the cool stone
Of the spring, the water
Opens a wide flash of foam,
So is the smile of your face,
Lovely one.
Lovely one,
With delicate hands and slender feet
Like a silver pony,
Walking, flower of the world,
Thus I see you,
Lovely one.
Lovely one,
With a nest of copper entangled
On your head, a nest
The coloUr of dark honey
Where my heart burns and rests,
Lovely one.
Lovely one,
Your eyes are too big for your face,
Your eyes are too big for the earth.
There are countries, there are rivers,
In your eyes,
My country is your eyes,
I walk through them,
They light the world
Through which I walk,
Lovely one.
Lovely one,
Your breasts are like two loaves made
Of grainy earth and golden moon,
Lovely one.
Lovely one,
Your waist,
My arm shaped it like a river when
It flowed a thousand years through your sweet body,
Lovely one.
Lovely one,
There is nothing like your hips,
Perhaps earth has
In some hidden place
The curve and the fragrance of your body,
Perhaps in some place,
Lovely one.
Lovely one, my lovely one,
Your voice, your skin, your nails,
Lovely one, my lovely one,
Your being, your light, your shadow,
Lovely one,
All that is mine, lovely one,
All that is mine, my dear,
When you walk or rest,
When you sing or sleep,
When you suffer or dream,
Always,
When you are near or far,
Always,
You are mine, my lovely one,
Always.
poem by Pablo Neruda
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Lovely Mary Donnelly
Oh, lovely Mary Donnelly, my joy, my only best
If fifty girls were round you, I’d hardly see the rest;
Be what it may the time o’ day, the place be where it will
Sweet looks o’ Mary Donnelly, they bloom before me still.
Her eyes like mountain water that’s flowing on a rock,
How clear they are, how dark they are! they give me many a shock.
Red rowans warm in sunshine and wetted with a shower,
Could ne’er express the charming lip that has me in its power.
Her nose is straight and handsome, her eyebrows lifted up,
Her chin is very neat and pert, and smooth like a china cup,
Her hair’s the brag of Ireland, so weighty and so fine;
It’s rolling down upon her neck, and gathered in a twine.
The dance o’ last Whit-Monday night exceeded all before,
No pretty girl from miles about was missing from the floor;
But Mary kept the belt of love, and O but she was gay!
She danced a jig, she sung a song, that took my heart away.
When she stood up for dancing, her steps were so complete,
The music nearly killed itself to her feet;
The fiddler mourned his blindness, he heard her so much praised,
But blessed his luck not to be deaf when once her voice she raised.
And evermore I’m whistling or lilting what you sung,
Your smile is always in my heart, your name beside my tongue;
But you’ve as many sweethearts as you’d count on both your hands,
And for myself there’s not a thumb or little finger stands.
Oh, you’re the flower o’ womankind in country or in town;
The higher I exalt you, the lower I’m cast down.
If some great lord should come this way, and see your beauty bright.
And you to be his lady, I’d own it was but right.
Oh, might we live together in a lofty palace hall,
Where joyful music rises, and where scarlet curtains fall!
Oh, might we live together in a cottage mean and small,
With sods or grass the only roof, and mud the only wall!
O lovely Mary Donnelly, your beauty’s my distress,
It’s far too beauteous to be mine, but I’ll never wish it less.
The proudest place would fit your face, and I am poor and low
But blessings be about you, dear, wherever you may go.
poem by William Allingham
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Characteristics of People
Long hair,
Short hair
Dark or light,
Black or white
Small or full lips,
Thin or wide hips
Blue eyes,
Brown eyes
Skinny or fat,
This or that
Everyone has one or another,
Wether it's from themselves
Or their father or mother.
poem by Jessica Goudreault
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Haystack in the Woods
Had she come all the way for this,
To part at last without a kiss?
Yea, had she borne the dirt and rain
That her own eyes might see him slain
Beside the haystack in the floods?
Along the dripping leafless woods,
The stirrup touching either shoe,
She rode astride as troopers do;
With kirtle kilted to her knee,
To which the mud splash'd wretchedly;
And the wet dripp'd from every tree
Upon her head and heavy hair,
And on her eyelids broad and fair;
The tears and rain ran down her face.
By fits and starts they rode apace,
And very often was his place
Far off from her; he had to ride
Ahead, to see what might betide
When the roads cross'd; and sometimes, when
There rose a murmuring from his men
Had to turn back with promises;
Ah me! she had but little ease;
And often for pure doubt and dread
She sobb'd, made giddy in the head
By the swift riding; while, for cold,
Her slender fingers scarce could hold
The wet reins; yea, and scarcely, too,
She felt the foot within her shoe
Against the stirrup: all for this,
To part at last without a kiss
Beside the haystack in the floods.
For when they near'd that old soak'd hay,
They saw across the only way
That Judas, Godmar, and the three
Red running lions dismally
Grinn'd from his pennon, under which
In one straight line along the ditch,
They counted thirty heads.
So then
While Robert turn'd round to his men
She saw at once the wretched end,
And, stooping down, tried hard to rend
Her coif the wrong way from her head,
And hid her eyes; while Robert said:
"Nay, love, 'tis scarcely two to one,
At Poictiers where we made them run
So fast--why, sweet my love, good cheer,
The Gascon frontier is so near.
Naught after this."
But, "Oh!" she said,
"My God! my God! I have to tread
The long way back without you; then
The court at Paris; those six men;
The gratings of the Chatelet;
The swift Seine on some rainy day
Like this, and people standing by
And laughing, while my weak hands try
To recollect how strong men swim.
All this, or else a life with him,
For which I should be damned at last.
Would God that this next hour were past!"
He answer'd not, but cried his cry,
"St. George for Marny!" cheerily;
And laid his hand upon her rein.
Alas! no man of all his train
Gave back that cheery cry again;
And, while for rage his thumb beat fast
Upon his sword-hilts, some one cast
About his neck a kerchief long,
And bound him.
Then they went along
To Godmar; who said: "Now, Jehane,
Your lover's life is on the wane
So fast, that, if this very hour
You yield not as my paramour,
He will not see the rain leave off--
Nay, keep your tongue from gibe or scoff,
Sir Robert, or I slay you now."
She laid her hand upon her brow,
Then gazed upon the palm, as though
She thought her forehead bled, and--"No!"
She said, and turn'd her head away,
As there were nothing else to say,
And everything were settled: red
Grew Godmar's face from chin to head:
"Jehane, on yonder hill there stands
My castle, guarding well my lands:
What hinders me from taking you,
And doing that I list to do
To your fair wilful body, while
Your knight lies dead?"
A wicked smile
Wrinkled her face, her lips grew thin,
A long way out she thrust her chin:
"You know that I would strangle you
While you were sleeping; or bite through
Your throat, by God's help--ah!" she said,
"Lord Jesus, pity your poor maid!
For in such wise they hem me in,
I cannot choose but sin and sin,
Whatever happens: yet I think
They could not make me eat or drink,
And so should I just reach my rest."
"Nay, if you do not my behest,
O Jehane! though I love you well,"
Said Godmar, "would I fail to tell
All that I know?" "Foul lies," she said.
"Eh? lies, my Jehane? by God's head,
At Paris folks would deem them true!
Do you know, Jehane, they cry for you:
'Jehane the brown! Jehane the brown!
Give us Jehane to burn or drown!'--
Eh--gag me Robert!--sweet my friend,
This were indeed a piteous end
For those long fingers, and long feet,
And long neck, and smooth shoulders sweet;
An end that few men would forget
That saw it--So, an hour yet:
Consider, Jehane, which to take
Of life or death!"
So, scarce awake,
Dismounting, did she leave that place,
And totter some yards: with her face
Turn'd upward to the sky she lay,
Her head on a wet heap of hay,
And fell asleep: and while she slept,
And did not dream, the minutes crept
Round to the twelve again; but she,
Being waked at last, sigh'd quietly,
And strangely childlike came, and said:
"I will not." Straightway Godmar's head,
As though it hung on strong wires, turn'd
Most sharply round, and his face burn'd.
For Robert--both his eyes were dry,
He could not weep, but gloomily
He seem'd to watch the rain; yea, too,
His lips were firm; he tried once more
To touch her lips; she reach'd out, sore
And vain desire so tortured them,
The poor grey lips, and now the hem
Of his sleeve brush'd them.
With a start
Up Godmar rose, thrust them apart;
From Robert's throat he loosed the bands
Of silk and mail; with empty hands
Held out, she stood and gazed, and saw
The long bright blade without a flaw
Glide out from Godmar's sheath, his hand
In Robert's hair, she saw him bend
Back Robert's head; she saw him send
The thin steel down; the blow told well,
Right backward the knight Robert fell,
And moaned as dogs do, being half dead,
Unwitting, as I deem: so then
Godmar turn'd grinning to his men,
Who ran, some five or six, and beat
His head to pieces at their feet.
Then Godmar turn'd again and said:
"So, Jehane, the first fitte is read!
Take note, my lady, that your way
Lies backward to the Chatelet!"
She shook her head and gazed awhile
At her cold hands with a rueful smile,
As though this thing had made her mad.
This was the parting that they had
Beside the haystack in the floods.
poem by William Morris
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Haystack in the Floods
Had she come all the way for this,
To part at last without a kiss?
Yea, had she borne the dirt and rain
That her own eyes might see him slain
Beside the haystack in the floods?
Along the dripping leafless woods,
The stirrup touching either shoe,
She rode astride as troopers do;
With kirtle kilted to her knee,
To which the mud splash'd wretchedly;
And the wet dripp'd from every tree
Upon her head and heavy hair,
And on her eyelids broad and fair;
The tears and rain ran down her face.
By fits and starts they rode apace,
And very often was his place
Far off from her; he had to ride
Ahead, to see what might betide
When the roads cross'd; and sometimes, when
There rose a murmuring from his men
Had to turn back with promises;
Ah me! she had but little ease;
And often for pure doubt and dread
She sobb'd, made giddy in the head
By the swift riding; while, for cold,
Her slender fingers scarce could hold
The wet reins; yea, and scarcely, too,
She felt the foot within her shoe
Against the stirrup: all for this,
To part at last without a kiss
Beside the haystack in the floods.
For when they near'd that old soak'd hay,
They saw across the only way
That Judas, Godmar, and the three
Red running lions dismally
Grinn'd from his pennon, under which
In one straight line along the ditch,
They counted thirty heads.
So then
While Robert turn'd round to his men
She saw at once the wretched end,
And, stooping down, tried hard to rend
Her coif the wrong way from her head,
And hid her eyes; while Robert said:
"Nay, love, 'tis scarcely two to one,
At Poictiers where we made them run
So fast--why, sweet my love, good cheer,
The Gascon frontier is so near.
Naught after this."
But, "Oh!" she said,
"My God! my God! I have to tread
The long way back without you; then
The court at Paris; those six men;
The gratings of the Chatelet;
The swift Seine on some rainy day
Like this, and people standing by
And laughing, while my weak hands try
To recollect how strong men swim.
All this, or else a life with him,
For which I should be damned at last.
Would God that this next hour were past!"
He answer'd not, but cried his cry,
"St. George for Marny!" cheerily;
And laid his hand upon her rein.
Alas! no man of all his train
Gave back that cheery cry again;
And, while for rage his thumb beat fast
Upon his sword-hilts, some one cast
About his neck a kerchief long,
And bound him.
Then they went along
To Godmar; who said: "Now, Jehane,
Your lover's life is on the wane
So fast, that, if this very hour
You yield not as my paramour,
He will not see the rain leave off--
Nay, keep your tongue from gibe or scoff,
Sir Robert, or I slay you now."
She laid her hand upon her brow,
Then gazed upon the palm, as though
She thought her forehead bled, and--"No!"
She said, and turn'd her head away,
As there were nothing else to say,
And everything were settled: red
Grew Godmar's face from chin to head:
"Jehane, on yonder hill there stands
My castle, guarding well my lands:
What hinders me from taking you,
And doing that I list to do
To your fair wilful body, while
Your knight lies dead?"
A wicked smile
Wrinkled her face, her lips grew thin,
A long way out she thrust her chin:
"You know that I would strangle you
While you were sleeping; or bite through
Your throat, by God's help--ah!" she said,
"Lord Jesus, pity your poor maid!
For in such wise they hem me in,
I cannot choose but sin and sin,
Whatever happens: yet I think
They could not make me eat or drink,
And so should I just reach my rest."
"Nay, if you do not my behest,
O Jehane! though I love you well,"
Said Godmar, "would I fail to tell
All that I know?" "Foul lies," she said.
"Eh? lies, my Jehane? by God's head,
At Paris folks would deem them true!
Do you know, Jehane, they cry for you:
'Jehane the brown! Jehane the brown!
Give us Jehane to burn or drown!'--
Eh--gag me Robert!--sweet my friend,
This were indeed a piteous end
For those long fingers, and long feet,
And long neck, and smooth shoulders sweet;
An end that few men would forget
That saw it--So, an hour yet:
Consider, Jehane, which to take
Of life or death!"
So, scarce awake,
Dismounting, did she leave that place,
And totter some yards: with her face
Turn'd upward to the sky she lay,
Her head on a wet heap of hay,
And fell asleep: and while she slept,
And did not dream, the minutes crept
Round to the twelve again; but she,
Being waked at last, sigh'd quietly,
And strangely childlike came, and said:
"I will not." Straightway Godmar's head,
As though it hung on strong wires, turn'd
Most sharply round, and his face burn'd.
For Robert--both his eyes were dry,
He could not weep, but gloomily
He seem'd to watch the rain; yea, too,
His lips were firm; he tried once more
To touch her lips; she reach'd out, sore
And vain desire so tortured them,
The poor grey lips, and now the hem
Of his sleeve brush'd them.
With a start
Up Godmar rose, thrust them apart;
From Robert's throat he loosed the bands
Of silk and mail; with empty hands
Held out, she stood and gazed, and saw
The long bright blade without a flaw
Glide out from Godmar's sheath, his hand
In Robert's hair, she saw him bend
Back Robert's head; she saw him send
The thin steel down; the blow told well,
Right backward the knight Robert fell,
And moaned as dogs do, being half dead,
Unwitting, as I deem: so then
Godmar turn'd grinning to his men,
Who ran, some five or six, and beat
His head to pieces at their feet.
Then Godmar turn'd again and said:
"So, Jehane, the first fitte is read!
Take note, my lady, that your way
Lies backward to the Chatelet!"
She shook her head and gazed awhile
At her cold hands with a rueful smile,
As though this thing had made her mad.
This was the parting that they had
Beside the haystack in the floods.
poem by William Morris
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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My Beauty
There’s are days when you just wanna feel like a beauty in everyone’s eyes. But there’s always a butt head to make you feel less then you are I believe if you think or know you are then you are. It’s only what you make of it. There are times when I don’t feel beauty at but I think of what I always told myself. “My beauty is not just a pretty face. The beauty I have is a brand new sent of peace. My beauty is lovely peace sense of laughing out loud. My beauty is like an oak wooden chair that my daddyand I love to sit and think in. My beauty is a graceful smile I give her everyday.
My beauty I have is a great sense of style that I have to show the world. My beauty is my fragrant smell of lavender on my skin and hair. Beauty that I want is a 5 star hotel that someday I will stay in when I’m famous. Beauty is my toned color of the skin on my body. My beauty slowly surely of love i feel for you.
Beauty is my sleek smooth skin of my true beauty is deep within me. Now I know the sign of beauty I was bless with.
poem by Evevona Plummer
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Kiss kiss and kiss
Kiss kiss kiss me again*
Afterwards kiss kiss kiss my thoughts*
Then kiss kiss kiss my spirit*
Still kiss kiss kiss my shadow*
Don't forget to kiss kiss kiss my hair*
Repeated again kiss kiss kiss my face*
I'wanted to be kiss kiss kiss by you my brow*
Don't forget to kiss kiss kiss my cheek*
Afterwards kiss kiss kiss ears and my nose*
I'will like if being kiss kiss kiss by you my heart*
More kiss kiss kiss my lips*
Don't forget kiss kiss kiss with the love*
Repeated still kiss kiss kiss in the hope that we *
I'wanted to be kiss kiss kiss by you before i'slept*
I'hoped was kiss kiss kiss by you when i'opened the eyes and got up from my dream*
I'will like if being kiss kiss kiss by you my wish*
Don't forget kiss kiss kiss with your loyalty*
Kiss kiss kiss was our prayer together in the love*
G(-_-) (-_-) D
Maundy Thursday and Later.
Maundy Thursday. The church
Was packed. Full of incense.
Miss Dogberry sat at the back.
Mudrift watched her. He studied her.
The way her hair hung black and long.
Her broad bridged nose. Sat next to her.
She unaware. Priest proceeded with
The service. Miss Dogberry smelt Mudrift’s
Scent passions were stirred. She sniffed
Heavy her nose breathed deep. A bell
Was tolled. Candles were lit. Mudrift felt
Love or was it lust? Moved closer his thigh
Touched her thigh. Priest’s hands were
Raised host lifted high the Crucified the
Bloodied lamb. Miss Dogberry whispered
Softly do you sense it? Mudrift nodded
His loins stiffened. The last supper the Judas
Gone the Magdalene followed him out.
My place or yours? Mudrift muttered.
Mother’s at home Dogberry said no privacy.
Mudrift took her his hand in hers. I live alone
Mudrift muttered no disturbance. His room
Was warm smelt of old smoke and beds unmade.
He offered drinks and put on jazz with lights
Turned low. She undressed slow hand holding
Out each small item. Mudrift watched her
The nakedness revealed the plump body
The broad bridged nose the soft flesh lips
The melon breasts. Is that Stan Getz?
She asked Mudrift that baritone’s his
Saxophone. Mudrift nodded his mind on
Sex not saxophones or soft jazz tones.
He kissed her lips his arms embraced her
Ample flesh. She didn’t mind his lack of hair
On balding head or bearded face rubbing
Her chin. She wanted sex and saxophones
And him within. Maundy Thursday.
The Crucified above the bed upon a cross
Nailed hands out wide eyes looking down
Head to one side. Mudrift made love the
Magdalene Miss Dogberry gazed up above.
poem by Terry Collett
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Woman And God
You are in the up
You are in the down
You are from south
You are from north
You are from west
You are from east
You are from every where.
I love your all sides
Beauty of your front
Beauty of your back
Beauty of your hips
Beauty of your lips
The heaven God created
Between your thighs
You are the miracle of God
You are the mystic of God
I love you
Because I love God
28/11/09
poem by Devil Poet
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A Blouse Machinist
Miss Murphy has blue eyes and blue-black hair,
Her machine's opposite mine
So I can stare
At her pale face and shining blue-black hair.
I'm sure that other people think her plain
But I could look at her
And look again
Although I see why people think her plain.
She's nice to watch when her machine-belt breaks.
She has such delicate hands
And arms, it takes
Ages for her to mend it when it breaks.
Oh, beauty's still elusive and she's fine.
Though all the moulding
Of her face, the line
Of nose, mouth, chin is Mongol, yet she's fine.
Of course things would be different in Japan.
They'd see her beauty.
On a silken fan
They'd paint her for a princess in Japan.
But still her loveliness eludes the blind.
They never use their eyes
But just their mind.
So must much loveliness elude the blind.
poem by Lesbia Harford
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Love and Sleep
Love and Sleep
Lying asleep between the strokes of night
I saw my love lean over my sad bed,
Pale as the duskiest lily's leaf or head,
Smooth-skinned and dark, with bare throat made to bite,
Too wan for blushing and too warm for white,
But perfect-coloured without white or red.
And her lips opened amorously, and said -
I wist not what, saving one word - Delight.
And all her face was honey to my mouth,
And all her body pasture to mine eyes;
The long lithe arms and hotter hands than fire
The quivering flanks, hair smelling of the south,
The bright light feet, the splendid supple thighs
And glittering eyelids of my soul's desire.
poem by Algernon Charles Swinburne
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The Leper
NOTHING is better, I well think,
Than love; the hidden well-water
Is not so delicate to drink:
This was well seen of me and her.
I served her in a royal house;
I served her wine and curious meat.
For will to kiss between her brows,
I had no heart to sleep or eat.
Mere scorn God knows she had of me,
A poor scribe, nowise great or fair,
Who plucked his clerk’s hood back to see
Her curled-up lips and amorous hair.
I vex my head with thinking this.
Yea, though God always hated me,
And hates me now that I can kiss
Her eyes, plait up her hair to see
How she then wore it on the brows,
Yet am I glad to have her dead
Here in this wretched wattled house
Where I can kiss her eyes and head.
Nothing is better, I well know,
Than love; no amber in cold sea
Or gathered berries under snow:
That is well seen of her and me.
Three thoughts I make my pleasure of:
First I take heart and think of this:
That knight’s gold hair she chose to love,
His mouth she had such will to kiss.
Then I remember that sundawn
I brought him by a privy way
Out at her lattice, and thereon
What gracious words she found to say.
(Cold rushes for such little feet—
Both feet could lie into my hand:
A marvel was it of my sweet
Her upright body could so stand).
‘Sweet friend, God give you thank and grace;
Now am I clean and whole of shame,
Nor shall men burn me in the face
For my sweet fault that scandals them.’
I tell you over word by word.
She, sitting edgewise on her bed,
Holding her feet, said thus. The third,
A sweeter thing than these, I said.
God, that makes time and ruins it
And alters not, abiding God,
Changed with disease her body sweet,
The body of love wherein she abode.
Love is more sweet and comelier
Than a dove’s throat strained out to sing.
All they spat out and cursed at her
And cast her forth for a base thing.
They cursed her, seeing how God had wrought
This curse to plague her, a curse of his.
Fools were they surely, seeing not
How sweeter than all sweet she is.
He that had held her by the hair,
With kissing lips blinding her eyes,
Felt her bright bosom, strained and bare,
Sigh under him, with short mad cries.
Out of her throat and sobbing mouth
And body broken up with love,
With sweet hot tears his lips were loth
Her own should taste the savour of,
Yea, he inside whose grasp all night
Her fervent body leapt or lay,
Stained with sharp kisses red and white,
Found her a plague to spurn away.
I hid her in this wattled house,
I served her water and poor bread.
For joy to kiss between her brows
Time upon time I was nigh dead.
Bread failed; we got but well-water
And gathered grass with dropping seed.
I had such joy of kissing her,
I had small care to sleep or feed.
Sometimes when service made me glad
The sharp tears leapt between my lids,
Falling on her, such joy I had
To do the service God forbids.
‘I pray you let me be at peace,
Get hence, make room for me to die.’
She said that: her poor lip would cease,
Put up to mine, and turn to cry.
I said, ‘Bethink yourself how love
Fared in us twain, what either did;
Shall I unclothe my soul thereof?
That I should do this, God forbid.’
Yea, though God hateth us, he know
That hardly in a little thing
Love faileth of the work it does
Till it grow ripe for gathering.
Six months, and now my sweet is dead.
A trouble takes me; I know not
If all were done well, all well said,
No word or tender deed forgot.
Too sweet, for the least part in her,
To have shed life out by fragments; yet,
Could the close mouth catch breath and stir,
I might see something I forget.
Six months, and I still sit and hold
In two cold palms her two cold feet.
Her hair, half grey half ruined gold,
Thrills me and burns me in kissing it.
Love bites and stings me through, to see
Her keen face made of sunken bones.
Her worn-off eyelids madden me,
That were shot through with purple once.
She said, ‘Be good with me, I grow
So tired for shame’s sake, I shall die
If you say nothing:’ even so.
And she is dead now, and shame put by.
Yea, and the scorn she had of me
In the old time, doubtless vexed her then.
I never should have kissed her. See
What fools God’s anger makes of men!
She might have loved me a little too,
Had I been humbler for her sake.
But that new shame could make love new
She saw not—yet her shame did make.
I took too much upon my love,
Having for such mean service done
Her beauty and all the ways thereof,
Her face and all the sweet thereon.
Yea, all this while I tended her,
I know the old love held fast his part:
I know the old scorn waxed heavier,
Mixed with sad wonder, in her heart.
It may be all my love went wrong—
A scribe’s work writ awry and blurred,
Scrawled after the blind evensong—
Spoilt music with no perfect word.
But surely I would fain have done
All things the best I could. Perchance
Because I failed, came short of one,
She kept at heart that other man’s.
I am grown blind with all these things:
It may be now she hath in sight
Some better knowledge; still there clings
The old question. Will not God do right?
poem by Algernon Charles Swinburne
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An Old Man To His Sleeping Young Bride
As when the old moon lighted by the tender
And radiant crescent of the new is seen,
And for a moment's space suggests the splendor
Of what in its full prime it once has been,
So on my waning years you cast the glory
Of youth and pleasure, for a little hour;
And life again seems like an unread story,
And joy and hope both stir me with their power.
Can blooming June be fond of bleak December?
I dare not wait to hear my heart reply.
I will forget the question-and remember
Alone the priceless feast spread for mine eye,
That radiant hair that flows across the pillows,
Like shimmering sunbeams over drifts of snow;
Those heaving breasts, like undulating billows,
Whose dangers or delights but Love can know,
That crimson mouth from which sly Cupid borrowed
The pattern for his bow, nor asked consent;
That smooth, unruffled brow which has not sorrowed-
All these are mine; should I not be content?
Yet are these treasures mine, or only lent me?
And, who shall claim them when I pass away?
Oh, jealous Fate, to torture and torment me
With thoughts like these in my too fleeting day!
For while I gained the prize which all were seeking,
And won you with the ardor of my quest,
The bitter truth I know without your speaking-
You only let me love you at the best.
E'en while I lean and count my riches over,
And view with gloating eyes your priceless charms,
I know somewhere there dwells the unnamed lover
Who yet shall clasp you, willing, in his arms.
And while my hands stray through your clustering tresses,
And while my lips are pressed upon your own,
This unseen lover waits for such caresses
As my poor hungering clay has never known,
And when some day, between you and your duty
A green grave lies, his love shall make you glad,
And you shall crown him with your splendid beauty-
Ah, God! ah, God! 'tis this way men go mad!
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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Her Anatomic Beauty
A face masked with beauty,
And a heart engross with charity.
An eyes as blazing as the sun,
Attached to a creature that brings fun.
Lips that produces an astonished smile,
That can make the air still for a while.
A nose that makes up her beautiful face,
Wonderfully created in the whole of human race.
A tongue that speaks for the truth,
Of a unique creature down from her root.
A pair of hands that embrasses love,
Love of her father above.
A chest that protects her special heart,
From thorns that can tear it apart.
Hairs both dark and brown,
That helps fit in her beauty crown.
A mind that's as peaceful as a dove,
Connecting with a will to show love.
A pair of ears that makes her a good listener,
And 2 fist that makes her a good fighter.
20 set of amazing fingers,
That makes her beauty lingers.
A reddish fluid that flows through her vains,
And tears that help wash away all her pains.
In her face lies 2 dots of dinpples,
That makes her lovely, gorgeous and simple.
A slimy gorgeous body of hers,
That makes her more beautiful than her pals.
From the crown of her hair to the sow of her fit,
Looks so radiant without a zit.
A pair of legs that keeps her moving by faith,
And also enables her to raise above hate.
She posses a skin so bright like a star,
And as sweet as ester.
All these unique parts comes together,
To make up a special creature altogether.
Believe me when i say she's amazing to be with,
And a perfect world without her is incomplete.
Her face is made without a scar,
That's why her beautiful name is ESTHER.
poem by Stanley Oguh
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A Shower
Water flowing down his black-haired head like the Greeks'
Streaming past his dark eyebrows and his deep eyes
Down his sharp nose and past his smooth cheeks
Dripping down his lush lips, past the mouth's rise
Water flowing down his strong jaws and steady chin
Streaming past his thick neck into the collar bones it trips
Down his biceps and sculptured arms that cause a din
Dripping down his hands and delicate fingertips
Water flowing down his broad shoulders
Streaming past his chest and slender warm back
Down his muscled stomach and thighs, hard as boulders
Dripping down his knees to his calves, which can bare a whack
Water flowing down his ankles to his firm feet
Creating a pool of pure liquid on the ground
Down his hard body, the water so sweet
The liquid dripping around him, so profound!
poem by Monalno Kim
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Supremacy is the beauty
Chubby lips, plump cheeks, massive breasts, fleshy buttocks,
Blunt nose, hairy skin, coarse hair and black eyes
Are the features the Dravidians inherited from the Negros.
Thin lips, flat cheeks, rounded breasts, slated buttocks,
Long nose, pale skin, silky hair and brown eyes
Are the features Aryan inherited from the White race.
Aryans are held beautiful by their cultural supremacy.
30.11.2000, Pmdi
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Mamie in Malaga.
Mamie met you
in the base camp bar
in Malaga
her curly red hair
damp from a recent shower
and said
Picasso was born here
In this bar?
you said
No
she moaned
In the city
in 1881
and she took the drink
you'd bought her
I like Picasso don't you?
she asked
taking a sip
of the drink
and you noticed
the tight tee shirt
snugly holding
her firm breasts
and her eyes bright
as sunlight's breaking dawn
yes
you said
I like his later work
not the Blue
or Pink period or
that Cubist shite
and your eyes
slipped downwards
along her slender frame
the tight blue jeans
caressing her small
but plumpish ass
her fingers holding
the glass
and you thinking
of other things
far removed
from Picasso‘s art
though knowing he
would understand
where your mind
had wandered
and what the scene
your mind had set
like some dramatist
preparing for a play
she sipped more
of the drink
her head thrown back
the nice turn
of the neck
the chin
the nose
the ears protruding slight
between her red
and curly hair
and wondered deep
as you drank your own
if the other hair below
between her thighs
was as red and tight
as that above
and she said
breaking through
your thoughts
Was it lust or love
that moved his brush
Picasso I mean?
and oh you mused
taking on her words
and squeezing
the meaning
from each syllable
that was uttered
on her breath
to lay my head
upon her breast
not to sleep
but dreaming rest
and you turning to her
said High love or low lust
fed by his fond muse
moved his brush I trust.
poem by Terry Collett
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Giacinta
Giacinta sat upon the garden wall
Among the autumn lilies, and let fall
Their crimson petals on her lover's head,
And laughed because her little hands were red.
She was the fairest child of Italy,
And it was well the lilies thus should die.
But Giulio shuddered when she made him kiss
The stains away in her pride's wantonness
And held them up between him and the sun
That he might see the red blood flame and run
In the long finger--clefts from root to tip,
And still she pressed them closer to his lip,
And still she laughed. But Giulio looked at her
And it was half in love and half in fear.
And, when she saw him tremble, childishly
She laid both hands in his, and with a sigh
Told him to pity them. And he in vain
Hid them in his and would have hid his pain,
And tried to speak but could not for the weight
Upon his breast. And so the lovers sat
In a hard silence, while Giacinta's laugh
Rang in his ears like the discordant half
Of some fair carol from a tavern flung,
She watching him above, the flowers among,
First with her smile and then with a hurt pride
Kindling to wrath. And ``Fool'' at last she cried,
``You think because this hand of mine is white
And smooth to touch and wise in love's delight
It had not dared to dabble in such red,
The blood--of these dead flowers--for dead is dead;
And you sit dumb and tremble and turn pale
Because I laugh to see the lilies fall.
Why not laugh with me, since you have the heart
To say you love me in my tragic part?
Think you that blood can make a hand less white,
Or all the ink of heaven blot out to--night
The innocent stars, or kisses steal away
The sweetness of red lips, or memory
Drive laughter from the world? The moon grows wan
And wastes and fades and shrivels to a span,
Yet men watch on beyond the hills at even,
And lo there is a new moon in the heaven!
Look in my eyes. Are they less pure and keen
For all the passion which their depths have seen?
Is there a stain upon my brows? My cheek
Is it less fair for what it dares not speak?
Oh, Simon's blood was not so red a thing
But it has left my face its colouring.
Or think you drops from any vein of his
Could make my fingers blush as deep as this?''
And Giulio's courage sickened when he heard
Giacinta suddenly speak out this word.
She was the fairest child of Italy,
But Giulio thought it had been well to die.
``yet, had it left me pale,'' she said, ``I know
It had been all as one to Giulio
To love a pale face. You will love me yet
Though I have told you how my hands are wet,
And when I hold them out to you to kiss
Your lips will burn to drink away the lees.
Oh, lovers, lovers! Wherefore will you preach,
When women laugh at what you dare to teach
Of truth and honour? Is there one of you,
One honourable friend, one bosom true,
That will not sell his virtue for a kiss
Though the mouth that gave it were a nest of lies,
And will not soothe his soul with the deceit
Which swears a rose is not a whit less sweet
Because an angry bee was in its cell
An hour ago?--Oh, lovers reason well!
So take the flower and deign forget the bee.
But Giulio, do not bid me stop and see
How beautiful a thing your virtue is,
And do not cry to the unheeding skies
`Did I not love her?' See, I hate your love
More than I hate yourself.'' And Giulio strove
With his weak heart and could not bear the pain.
And so he took Giacinta's hand again,
Without more word. But she in softened mood
Looked on the boy her beauty had subdued,
And said ``Poor Giulio! I have never shown
Much hate to you, and this you needs must own,
Only beware of loving me. 'Tis strange
That men are wise, yet cannot take the range
Of a silly woman's mind, but still devise
Of their fool's love, as if it were the prize
For which a woman might forget the cost
Of her undoing and a world well lost,
And cannot see that love is only this,
A pretty word to whisper in a kiss,
As when one says, `God bless you' with `Good--night.'
But Giulio, who would ever suffer it
A man should always have the name of God
Upon his lips?'' Her lover only trod
The lilies with his heel. At last he sighed,
``And Simon loved you, and for this he died?''
They sat till dusk upon the garden wall,
And she began to sing a madrigal
About the falling leaves and quite forgot
To answer him. But Giulio heeded not
Because he held her hand. He could not flee.
She was the fairest child of Italy.
poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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