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Best Poems Written by Sugar Newman

Below are the all-time best Sugar Newman poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

Details | Sugar Newman Poem

Erudite Destruction.

I sat in the rain with the world at my feet
and I sighed.
Staring into it's eyes; it's limitless gaze.
I swooned amidst the tragedy of a starving visage.
I cried at the birth of morning light;
Of the sun dappled vastness; the twittering congregation
that scorned my affections with ignorant, cheerful song.

The rain continued to fall in shivering waves.
Each droplet a wish I never made,
a promise I never kept,
a conclusion I never dared dream.
While the trees sang in unison, each leaf rejoicing
as my screams refused to interrupt their hedonistic sunrise.

The morning opened its jaws; wide, loose and jagged,
like the sharpened words of an ex lover.
It spoke to me in tongues and sang to me in Dutch.
I sat abashed, vainly interpreting such linguistically tainted insight
with a gaping mouth and clenched fists.
Revelling in the sadness of misunderstanding.

I merely nodded then, smiling warmer than the rising sun,
pretending that I had the slightest idea
as to what the morning was all about.
It laughed in my face.
Offering me a hand and a look of condemnation,
with a saddened smile that was too brief to register.
Our palms met and I shuddered at the plainness of its touch.

Onward we walked, as I marvelled at my fellow inmates.
Rotten fruit of damaged trees, walls left unpainted,
Stories that had reduced their writers to tears and disbelief.
Tangled, weeping, sceptics.
Erudite destruction.
I would have screamed, had the night not already covered by mouth
with the dark skin of a slender, furtive hand.

I watched with disdain, knowing I was among my kin;
I was one of the townsfolk in a city long since created
and left to crumble in ruins.
I felt the bile rise in my throat and the air leave my lungs
as I began to run back into darkness.

I turned my head so blithely that the morning shed a tear.

Details | Sugar Newman Poem

Daguerreotype

Watching old black & white movies
On a widescreen, HD-TV,
Mocks the classic style that we once loved.
Yet we are tolerant as we scowl at the visage;
As though the original film is what's wrong with the world;
That by viewing our faults, we might blame the medium.

But despite our technological revolution,
The film remains intact,
Raw and grained,
With its heroism and prideful acts,
Its dainty dames and strapping lads;
Misogynistic beauty in greyscale
Ruined by modern pretence; by the want of colour.

We once lived without photography;
Before camera obscura and daguerreotype.
Back when moments were only lived,
And never truly captured.
Never imprisoned in silver and ink,
To be hung on lavish walls
Only to be ignored.
Or locked in sleeves,
Trapped and unending in their poses.
Back before Kodak took over the world.

A timeless face needs no modernisation.
A classic needs no revival.
A love once lost should be left alone
Buried in the dirt and mourned appropriately.

Details | Sugar Newman Poem

Blank Page

You mock me with one blinking eye,
that never ceases, never stops, never relents.
Berating me with it's ease of place
in stead of my lack of flow.
Words like iron, like bark or sap,
existing somewhere outside of my view;
alive in someone else's woods.
My forest is bleak, unyielding.
It offers no shelter, its fruit has no taste.
A skeletal wasteland that I once picked clean.

Details | Sugar Newman Poem

I Fear

I fear.
Do you?

But, of course
There are nightmares;
one ghastly visage that plagues the mind even during rest,
that grasps your pillows for you;
puckered satin beneath stiff appendages,
clinging the sheets to your sweating form.

But a vision is not fear;
the waking perspiration, nothing but a warning
that the worst is yet to come.

A quivering hand;
disembodied fingers brushing a strange cheek.
A shaking step;
Eyes on the Green Cross Code and not the street ahead.
A single day;
the first of many and a fresh wound that only time could ever heal.
A staggered answer;
Hoping to be founded in the depths of this week's fountain of knowledge.
An indecision;
and the circadian motion of the shiny new variants that your pondering has to offer.

I fear the crunching stones beneath my feet,
because they signify my walking.
I fear the beating of my heart,
for it irrevocably signifies my mortality.
I fear my eyes,
as they speak louder than I would dare.
I fear my reflection,
for it will never display even a single ounce of beauty.
I fear my dreams,
for they make my reality into yet another waking nightmare.

I fear myself,
Because only I know the face beneath the mascara laced tears.

A burden to cling to;
that I am worth more than this.

A cross to bear;
that the end is never nigh.

A crippling truth;
that this is life.