Souvenirs
nostalgic
heirloom
memorabilia
archived
muniments
prospectus
paraphernalia
posters
sequestered
Benefaction blight
twinkling trinket
tinged trophy
hoisted
himalayan style
melancholy monument
meteoric miniscule
flyby
verdant vestiges
viral vanish
Mayfly
transient
miscellany
evanescent
detritus
fugacious
snippets
antiquarian
bricolage
hodgepodge
Testament atrophied
gossamer gaudy
gazumping
languid lodger’s
meretricious milestone
culminated
artefact assemblage
bowdlerised bijou
moribund reticule
abecedarian
Marcescent abstract
mileage mocker
synthetic switch
unplugging
nomadic nonpareil
reminiscence’s
ineffable
ephemeron
aphoristic
aleatory
I wandered into an antiquarian bookstore, mind following feet.
My eye fell on a tome most wonderfully philosophical.
I could not help but wonder whose hands these pages turned,
And were those hands turned by these pages?
Eye full, mind full, wondering, wandering into a wilderness of thought…
Should this, could this join the shelf with others that I've bought?
The corner was turned… by a young boy, then a young man,
And I focused on the task at hand.
How many more corners have I yet to turn?
How many more pages will I find to learn the things I need to know about this life?
There's really no way to know where a hand will turn,
A mind will learn, the feet will choose to go.
So I placed it back upon the shelf,
Mindful that another self might benefit beyond my ken,
Whose mind, and hand, and feet await a treasure there for them.
A
Nonet…
No sonnet
Not a haiku
Nor a senryu
No alliteration
Nor ode antiquarian
No Limerick and no ballad
Nor some ‘epic’ verbose word salad
But whilst the Nonet isn’t likely
To fuddle a mind that’s spritely
With my eyes starting to glaze
And my mind in a haze
A nonet ain’t what
gets me a-tizz
A DOUBLE
Nonet
Is
Being older than I once was, inevitably places have changed,
yet where I was born now looks like an alien city to me,
it’s now a tourist destination for the ever rootless.
Back then people were dangerous yet much kinder.
Now here in my corner of no-place-much, faces
float in and out speaking a language that means less to me
the more I hear it.
We once carried books around, we loaded cars and pushbikes
with travel books and the poetry of adventurers.
We once dared to be piratical.
Of course the young were always dumb, and the more educated
they got the dumber we all got. The old have
always talked like this, our handbrakes are looser,
thoughts slip backwards downhill, yet we must speak
occasionally about the puerile encroachments
the cheapening of what was once hard won.
The land I now inhabit gave me a passport, and an address.
I recognize sometimes who I was and where I went,
however only in antiquarian maps once crossed.
Maybe I am too young to forget, it will probably get
better as I age. Besides vapid banality
tends to grow on you bit by bit.
stylised
landscapes rural&urban
churches&momuments
historic in appearance
openhand
egalitrian
vidual arts
modernism in manner
planes of colour
antiquarian abstractions
tographically stained
yet
radical&progressive
a constructurist
in
decorated deight
ancient yet
modern
representitive
the avant garde
in
vocabulary form
firmanent reorientated
chimed encounters
with
the unexpected
art
emancipated
but
related to life
Shortly after the Internet discovered itself,
I set out to be an explorer; not of land and water,
but a finder of the odd and peculiar.
My first inclination
was to search for antiquarian artifacts,
but lacking the knowledge of said artifacts,
I thought to be a ‘picker’ and a junk collector,
or even a mildly addicted hoarder.
Knowing little of buying and selling,
and next to no space for storing anything,
I had to re-think the whole exploring business.
Lacking funds to travel far,
I commenced to explore myself.
Having only a limited aptitude for self-awareness,
I sought the aid of many spiritual agencies.
Lacking the sensitivity to receive their help,
I turned to drinking and writing poetry.
Lacking anyone else to blame but myself,
I determined to blame the Internet,
especially Internet Explorer.
Antiquarian classic lovers embrace
Orangeade silken light, circles around his place
Romantic satin in black lace, gifts bestowed to thee
Delicate ruffed red confection eyes, he showed me
Dignified I was dressed in Velveeta and chrisom shoes
I held soft black satin purse, white cape, blue trimmed lace
Shimmery in candy red heels, freshwater pearl adorn my face
Lacey corset jacket , ruffled Nostalgic demure Raspberry pantaloons
I wore on my wedding day, Myriad silvery beads
My Grecian gown scattered about the bodice, angels feathers
Scalloped hems, Ivory slip, his kiss twinflames
My face adorn with chiffon pink lace
An unusual melody,
a reticent antiquarian
I will wear my galloping age
with your dark eyes.
The lines were drawn
in the crocus fields.
We were fighting for the wild
immitative geckoes.
A toad stumbles out from the eyelids
of a zero hour. You will not
touch the counterfeit of questions
thrown at the meadows.
Evening of life celebrates
the failures. In the beginning
there were no lights.
End came with a red moon.
Satish Verma
The desert wind scours the land
Home to all of civilized man
Ankhs hang from leather straps
No turkey gobbles nor Auntie naps.
Kids in mosques and chapels abound
Singing chants of eastern sound.
Genies squirm in lamps too tight
Images rise of Arabian nights.
Visitor you’ll find me over seas
In search an antiquarian gies.
No pumpkin pie or candied yams
Gathered around a table of clan.
Destiny has brought me here
Ancient pyramids now come clear
Yesterdays dreams, I do revere.
*************************
With a snakelike hiss, the tangerine train doors close
and the engine rock-rumbles forward
clicking over each joined metal coupling.
Long gone are the pristine days of virginity
and the impassioned rush of slick new parts.
The small sounds of newspaper pages turning,
and whispered phrases penetrate the antiquarian din.
As an industrial landscaped melds with the
stark spring sunshine through the cars’ graffiti scared glass.
The rigid plasticine interior fills at first stop
with giggling, rose cheeked girl-children.
Herded in single file to the rear of the car,
by Moslem matrons wrapped in head scarves.
The girls’ blue-plaid, pleated, school skirts,
dusted the cobalt seats.
Foreign images, our images, reflect
Dali-like from British eyes of blue, brown, and green,
an American couple
on the way to Wimbledon station.
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.