The review
At the review he was to give a 'preview' of his book
He wore crushed purple velvet
To create a distinguished 'celebrity look! '
He bit his nails for the first time
He was nervous
And as writers often do.....he 'chainsmoked'
And despite being teetotal he drank...
First shorts...then wine...
One day 'Champagne ' he mused
And feeling clumsy and confused
He stumbled to the podium
Almost missed his seat
There was a literary agent he was anxious to meet
Then foolishly he began
His dedication was exact
'Before I begin I would like to thank my cat
Tabs wrote this book,
called 'kitty meat'
A novel about a hungry cat with nothing to eat
Who kills its own mother and sister and brother,
Then the audience stood to their feet
He got a standing ovation
Then his dad told him the sad news
His cat had got run over in the street
During all the reviews
yvette smith sept 08
poem by Yvette Smith
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Related quotes
Misreading 'misnomer
I mistook blue for sorrow
Misread the blue clouds in a grey day
Full of white unclaimed passages
I made long corridors,
My loneliness,
Old mansions
Mysterious wombs
Echoing history
I riddled the earth
With the decay
Of my 'misinterpretation'
Smelt the burnt out ends of smoky daze
In hidden alleyways
And time was just another number
To add to the endless lists
Missed
My misnomers
'Waiting silently to 'un name themselves! ]
'Under a deep blue velvet sky]
yvette smith sept 08
poem by Yvette Smith
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What might Have Been.
And you stood there arms folded
In that street in Dubrovnik wearing
That yellow shirt and that moustache
Like some Latin lover with other people
Passing by while you posed for some
Photograph and you thinking of that
Courier dame who came to your room
The day before because your brother
Said you were sick and she sat on your
Bed in her short skirt and said how are
You now? And all you could raise while
Lying there was a small smile and you
Said feeling pretty bad and she touched
Your brow and looking so sad and the
Photo shot done you go back to the table
With the glass of wine and that paperback
Book on Schopenhauer and the hot sticky
Afternoon sun and you wondering if the
Courier dame would have been a good lay
If you’d been feeling better on a different
Day and your brother said lets’ go see the
Sights and you finished the wine and began
To tour the city musing on the young courier
And the missed chance saying to yourself
Walking the streets oh my god what a pity.
poem by Terry Collett
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Submission
I submit myself to these things
The 'small talk' on the sidewalk
The eyes that survey a thousand faces
Without question
The measure of my self and men
The day hangs impatiently outside
Unchanged
I cannot rearrange the sky
Or measure a world in an hourglass
Yet something must give
In all these acts of living
Is this it?
Letting the mask slip
As the light falls to the window
Uncurl words
Unpaint the feelings
Is it possible just to live
Let life in, under the so many illusions made?
Submit to these other things?
That do not ask anything of us
But just let the day in
The world unfold beneath our feet
Shall we begin
Again?
yvette smith sept 08
poem by Yvette Smith
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Unread
Unread the faces in the street
That cross and cross the path
Where they meet, and do not meet
The eyes unseen
There, there are windows without souls
But two feet mark the spot
And on they go
casting their lot beneath them
Like an afterthought
Can you see the lines in her skin?
See the colour fading from his hair?
The old lady in the street who talks to her imaginary friend?
The lover and the stranger
Share the same seat in the park
Exchanging looks and numbers
The old man with a parting centrefold
'I grow old I grow old'
Do you see these unseen things?
The automatic gestures?
The tarnished rings?
The bell that tolls?
Ringing in the godless?
Ringing in the godly?
They all share the same seat
Break bread
But do not speak
Or see
The wonder of their skin
The same blood shared
The same hunger
Just beneath the all seeing
Unseen eye
The window without a soul
The souless window
All pressing in
crossing paths
line upon line
Written on skin
faces without maps
Feet without direction
catching the last bus home
After 'callling time'
So much crowding in
So much being alone
yvette smith june 09
poem by Yvette Smith
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Book Agent Story
As we have given several humorous Scottish stories in verse we will venture to
trespass on your good nature by giving an American specimen. The scene is laid
in the suburbs of New York. It was a prose tale, and we fancy we have not
diminished the height, breadth or depth of the humour by grinding it in our
poetical mill and having it flow out in rhyme.
There is a man, his name is Brown,
He lives in a suburban town
And has an office in the city,
His misfortunes you will pity.
His mind it was on stocks and change,
He cared not for things new or strange ;
But agent managed him to hook
And sold to him a costly book.
Brown cared not for those glorious names-
Died for religion in the flames;
Now he felt agent was a Tartar
For selling him a book of martyr.
The agent knew it would make strife,
But sold another to his wife;
She did not know that Brown had bought,
And agent on her easy wrought .
Approaching her with winning smile
He poor woman did beguile.
He made her believe without a doubt
No Christian could do without
This book, which would all inspire
With spark of celestial fire,
With feelings like the first martyr
Who had died for Christian charter.
When Brown did home return at night
His wife, to add to his delight,
Resolved that she would, after tea,
Get chatting with her husband free
And tell him of fine book she bought ;
Of trouble fresh she never thought,
But she noticed a gloomy frown
On the brow of her husband Brown,
But thought when I my purchase tell
Those dark clouds they will dispel ;
She said, my dear, I bought martyr,
He looked as if he her could quarter.
And said the scoundrel sold me book ;
Out of the window then he did look
And saw the agent haste to train ;
He tried to stop him, but in vain ;
Smith then was passing in spring waggon,
And he had his trotting nag on ;
He told him to stop book agent ;
His escape for to prevent,
Smith told him Brown wanted him ;
But agent-nothing daunted him ;
Said he : He only wants to barter
With me for my book of Martyr.
If thats all, said Smith, with quick dash,
Give me his book, and here's your cash ;
Book agent jumped aboard the car,
For he knew there would be war;
Smith met Brown with triumphant look-
Said he : I have got you the book ;
Brown's feelings now no one could paint,
He there did show he was no saint ;
But to big own home he now returned,
And fierce rage in his bosom burned ;
He was not fit for Knight of Garter
When he brought in the third martyr.
poem by James McIntyre
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A handful of sorrow
A handful of sorrow
called grief
In an hourglass
The sand slid through time slowly
They held onto their self help books
Like walking sticks
Refusing to grow old
Yet clutching at the grey day
Like a constant mourner
Working out a diary
The darkest sonnet
Looks framed
Eyes distracted from the road
Driving dangerously
Oblivious to the passengers
They took down slowly
To their death
Storms breaking even the oldest trees
Falling in time
yvette smith sept 08
poem by Yvette Smith
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Amen
They raised the oak
Then let it gently sink into the soft dark earth
Soon your roots would be rekindled
Some brought candles
Some burnt fires
But no one could interpret the silence
For a sign
Poets sat in bars
At the same chair
Where they were always seated
Copywriting the space
Possessing a certain look
That wasn't theirs, yet...
The midwife nearly always arrived late
And birth was just a second from another death
The children stood laughing at the gate
yvette smith sept 08
poem by Yvette Smith
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Book
If I write a book,
Would I approach
You to write its
Review?
Why?
If my book is
Worth reading,
Wouldn't you be
Tempted to write
Its review?
Why should I
Use you for its
Marketing and
Publicity?
If you like my book,
You'll yourself feel like
Sharing with everybody
It's an instinct
That comes
Naturally…
We believe in
Loving and giving,
And so if we genuinely
Like something,
We'll recommend it
Or choose it for gifting
So if I write a book,
I'll never beseech you
To write its review
I would rather wait
For you to feel free
To read it and perhaps
Write its review…
poem by Aparna Chatterjee
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St. John, Apostle and Evangelist
The younger son of father, Zebedee,
And younger brother of St. James, the great;
His mother was Mary’s sister, Salome;
He was the disciple whom Jesus loved.
A fisherman like his father,
He fished in Genesaret Lake;
Called ‘Boanerges’ by Jesus,
Meaning ‘sons of thunder (anger) ’.
Born in Bethsaida, Galilee AD6,
One of twelve apostles of Christ;
A former disciple of St John, the Baptist,
A ‘half-cousin’ of Jesus Christ.
John was called Evangelist too;
A friend of Jesus, fast and thick;
He sat near Christ at Last Supper;
He went to jail with St. Peter.
Called ‘Apostle of Charity’;
St John the Theologian;
St John the divine;
He saw Peter heal the lame man.
He witnessed Jairus’ daughter being raised,
And was in Gethsemane with Peter;
He called Christ, the Lamb of God;
He was a ‘pillar of the Church’.
With Mary, John stood near the cross,
And Jesus said, ‘This is your son! ’
And to John, ‘This is your mother! ’
He saw Jesus when transfigured.
He ran with Peter to Christ’s grave,
Believing Him to have risen;
He recognized Jesus ashore,
When he appeared after He rose.
Thrown into a cauldron of boiling oil,
He did not suffer injury.
He was banished to Patmos isle.
He wrote his gospel at Ephesus.
He wrote the fourth Gospel;
He wrote three epistles;
The Book of Revelation (Apocalypse):
He founded churches in Asia Minor.
He died at AD 100 when,
He was extremely old by then;
He died on Sept 26th.
His feast is on Dec 27th.
Copyright by Dr John Celes 09-07-‘08
poem by John Celes
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Book Of Love
Oh, I wonder, wonder who
But who knew who
Who wrote the book of love
Tell me, tell me, tell me
Who wrote the book of love
Well, Ive got to know the answer
Is it someone from above
Oh, I wonder, wonder who
But who knew who
Who wrote the book of love
Baby, baby, baby
I love you, yes I do
And it says so in this book of love
That Im the one thats true
Oh, I wonder, wonder who
But who knew who
Who wrote the book of love
Chapter one says you love her
You love her with all your heart
Chapter two says youll never
You never, never... never gonna part
Chapter tree, remember
The meaning of romance
In chapter four you break up
Oh, wont you give me just one more chance
Oh, I wonder, wonder who
But who knew who
Who wrote the book of love
I wonder who
Who wrote the book of love
song performed by by Carpenters
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I wrote a book called The Taste of New Wine because I couldn't find a book that talked about the reality of the situation and how we were dishonest and afraid.
quote by Keith Miller
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Prayer
There is no prayer, for the dead man in the street
For the pauper who plies his trade
For the traveller with dirty feet
There is no prayer that can eclipse the sun
For what is done is done!
No mourning
Turning cry
No casting shadow
Only dust
And so much lost
In unprayed prayer
Their lives
Waiting to begin in praying
Beyond hands tied down
And lights fragile threads of dawn
The street is full of them
These silent chanting
Unheard prayers that mourn
So many lives
Lit candles
Waiting to be heard
In the darkest light
yvette m smith uk poet may 09
poem by Yvette Smith
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The man who lost his soul
The man who lost his soul had a hole for a heart,
And so, wherever he went, there was a draught
Until one day he met his 'better half'
And feeling complete
He could thaw his sad frozen feet, at last
At the fire of love
And all loss was a thing of the past!
yvette m smith jan 09
poem by Yvette Smith
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Radio Girl
Every morning she hung her sad same song
On the hum of the radio words
Mimicking
Her coffee mug
microphone under her chin, lip synch
Always late for work
Humming the same sad song
On the bus
Always arriving
As if she were somewhere else
[Visiting another life]
yvette m smith sept 08
poem by Yvette Smith
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Submission To A Badly Writ Poem
There is a theory about single women [of a certain age]
That like the freudian slip up
They are one cat owners
Some inhabit a single room
Some have a one bed flat
[They are hidden in basements]
They have bad hair and teeth
They have kept their secret behind old photographs
They keep friends to the past
At the back of the fridge shelf with the old vegetation
Taking up residence
Wearing the same out of date dress
Dancing alone
Out of time
Who told them this?
When did this happen?
Who wrote the expiry date on the label
'marked woman thirty and upward going nowhere?
Some people [they are always on mass and nameless]
Believe in labels and counting calories
They live on green salad and french fries
And old movies? did I say 'old'
Who told them this?
Who took away their names?
Took up residence in their minds
.................read THE NEWS
It's happening in a town near you
yvette smith april 09
poem by Yvette Smith
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Hardrive
Its a 'hardrive to success and to 'happiness'
A fingertip in space
Tapping at a 'human face'
Perfect
In digital harmony
Colour tone
And paste
Each pixel an atom
Finding its completion
Locked in space
yvette m smith sept 08
poem by Yvette Smith
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Been There Done That
I've seen the devil,
Stared him straight in the eyes.
Danced in his fire on my darkest nights.
Laid in his garden an' I drank his wine.
Slept with temptation to laugh at salvation:
It almost saved me alive.
Oh, I've been there done that, had my thrill:
Ain't goin' back again.
I was the life of every party,
It nearly did me in.
I was the baddest man you've ever seen,
Lord, I wrote the book on sin.
Yeah, I been down that road,
I ain't goin' back again.
I caused more damage than a hurricane.
I broke your heart an' didn't feel a thing. (I walked.)
Then walked away and cursed your name in vain. (Cursed your name.)
But with you as my witness,
You gave me forgiveness,
Now I've got a second chance.
Oh, I've been there done that, had my thrill:
Ain't goin' back again.
I was the life of every party,
It nearly did me in.
I was the baddest man that you've ever seen,
Lord, I wrote the book on sin.
Yeah, I been down that road.
He's knockin' at my door,
Ain't walkin' round here no more.
Been there, done that,
Ain't goin' back again, no!
Instrumental Break.
I was the baddest mother that you've ever seen,
Lord, I wrote the book on sin.
Been there, done that,
Ain't goin' back again.
I was the life of every party,
It nearly did me in.
I was the baddest man that you've ever seen,
Lord, I wrote the book on sin.
Yeah, I been down that road.
I ain't goin' back again,
Oh, no!
Been there, done that.
I was the life of the party, yeah.
(Been there, done that.)
To fade.
song performed by by Van Zant
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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2nd Christmas Without You!
My little christmas,
with Dad, sister and Brother,
another christmas passes,
still without my mother,
not even so much,
as a seasons greeting,
a christmas without her,
caused by her cheating,
i think about if shes thinking about me,
if she was here,
how different would things be?
today i missed your smile,
i missed your laugh,
the look of hungry faces,
as the turkey was being carved,
the day passed by,
with fun and banter,
with words being whispered,
'oi, pass me another fanta, '
the day was good,
but something wasnt there,
i missed my tiny feely-boy,
hes no longer sleeping,
just an empty chair,
without felix and mum,
christmas will never be the same,
but we pull through together,
again and again,
so another christmas passes,
me, sister, brother and dad,
and this christmas was fun,
with many more to be had!
poem by Emma Jane Rae
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The mute singer
She cut out her tongue
So she could sing
Those unheard songs
sung
She cut out her tongue
So silently
She could unspeak herself
Free, from prison words
She cut out her tongue
So that her soul could catch the light
And let it run
Through her body transparent
Prism shining out
She cut out her tongue
To free her self
From her self
Completion
Knitted under the skin of silence
Flying unseen
Into unexplored horizons
Without
Mother
Country
Point of
Trace
She cut out her tongue
To see the eyes
Behind the face
yvette m smith sept 08
poem by Yvette Smith
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Pill.........placebo Domingo
Give me a pill, and I'll say I'm okay
Give me a pill and I'll just go away
Give me a pill and I'll swing from the rafters
Give me a pill and I'll live 'happy ever after'
Give me a pill and I'll site you in my will
Give me a pill and I'll stop being 'ill'
Give me a pill and I'll trip the light fantastic
Give me a pill and i'll overdose on 'plastic'
Give me a pill and I'll lie through my back teeth
And say that you're 'fantastic'
Give me a pill and I'll give you some wine
Give me a pill and I'll say that I'm fine
But give me a placebo
And then i'll sing 'nessun dorma' like that FAT CAT
PLACIDO DOMINGO!
yvette ethel smith 4.8.09
poem by Yvette Smith
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