Best 1920S Poems
(Baldassare Galuppi was a music composer
in 18th century Venice. Johann Pachelbel
came a little earlier. Maurice Chevalier and
Mistinguette were vaudeville artists and
on-off lovers in Paris in the 1920s.)
Your filigree correctly fret,
those perforations, so correct!
And how I love that dying strain,
suggesting sadness, feigning pain!
A twisted, coloured paper chain,
a love both sacred and profane,
your melody's a silhouette:
imperfect pleasure, sweet regret.
Your sharp and sugared vinaigrette
is like a Pachelbel duet,
a sorbet made with fine champagne,
or raindrops on a window pane,
the fragrant soil of southern Spain,
a grief I still can't ascertain -
Chevalier and Mistinguette?
That wistful chime! I hear it yet!
When we love life so much
we hate to live,
she said,
nothing. And I was not about:
—to give in.
You drink death from a bottle
filled with nothing,
"Like" ashes that never left an ember.
And we had classes... on the river...
she said.
No need to wait...
I remember lotsa larfs; with you
too;
in pyramids deeper than a close
but not an older heart,
could swallow,
such a golden year that only two can render.
So I turn away from the costs;
and am sickened by the impersonal
bills paid by broken hearts made
by forgotten papers.
With you, she said, there's yet an interest.
Sharpened by knives that don't see each other everyday.
Put aside a few good years, and you will have
percentages based on broken seed encumbered.
Like the last word in a will of faith....
Left to pay the rent of sundered responsibility.
That was not love, if that's the taste of it,
she said, and read a poem of the 1920s.
We were left for more real things
than the truest love, betrayed, in its finest memories
could even pay a visit.
Riveting Thread
Riveting
designs of antiquitity
Recovered ruins of the distant past
Mix and match with modern taste
Adaptations and variations
Cropped tops
High waisted pants
Shoulder pads
Corsets
Tie dye tee shirts
And acid jeans
Fringe Flapper strings and beads
Sequins
Earnings
And head bands or ornaments
Of the 1920s
Vintage
Classic, unique pieces
Collecting dust in the mere hour
Porcelain doll
Annabelle,
Her pout lips
And rosy, droopy cheeks
Find her chin
Her aquamarine eyes
Complimentary of the green olive of her puffy sleeved dress
Her head
Of strawberry blond tresses
Her cream, lace ribbon
Tied upon her curly strands
Embellished Elizabethan
Glossy polyester
In turtleneck
Two bronze bows tied upon her chest
Adorned with faded yellow wallpaper and synthetic flower ,
Golden and peachy hues
Masked by charcoal grime
Some two fingers chipped as tooth
Laced up brown cowgirl boots
Flat heel
Clicking horseshoes
Beguiled is the eye that dismisses
her rough countenance
Her owner knew not of her quality
Her value
Her brevity
A knowing eye prizes such finds
Collectables in his treasure box
Marckincia Jean
Free verse
09/03/19
The snow on the ground is aglow at midnight
A sheet of moonlight
Like a sketchpad with shadows
Stretched from tree limbs furiously penciled in,
A speakeasy dance floor from the 1920s
Mobbed and sashaying,
Doing the jitterbug,
With black arms and black legs
Pumping stutter-stepping,
Swaying forward then back
Hands risen as if polishing the air with praise
In a wind that creaks in these trees
Like kindling wood caught on fire.
Who is the ghost, here, in this freezing rhythm?
These poltergeist dancers?
Floating
Between now and then drinking gin,
Lit by a swinging winter lantern?
Or is it me? Weaving through the phantom crowd,
A traveler from the future,
Pardon me, looking good,
Carrying a tray of translucent light above my head?
Or is the celestial artist the true spirit?
The only one who really exists?
Yes, I think it is the brilliant artist,
The invisibly sketching Goddess bringing life to the long dead,
While lurking from her corner table, cold cigarette in hand,
Diligently recording history.
Oh oblivion of time and space I make my way to her,
A coming total lunar eclipse.
There is a story from Renmark in the Riverland
Of a man in the bush as his legend began
He was a shearer from New Zealand in the Depression
Who came to Australia in the 1920s for shearing sessions
But hard times meant he could not buy his Union ticket
This put him out of work without it
So he went into the bushland
And lived his life there not so grand
Cause people were different in those days
And Possum was proud staying out of the way
So he lived on bush tucker all the time
Doing odd jobs he would be just fine
Surviving on track rations from police stations
He travelled the bush tracks of the Australian nation
Taking no charity working for salt he’d need to do
This he said it would get him through
Max Jones was a local detective sergeant there
Who tried to look after this legend as he did care
But Possum would look after himself
Using his bushcraft skills as his wealth
As the years went on his legend grew
He’d mend a fence or chop firewood too
But he would not take handouts
As he would travel the Riverland on walkabout
He would say he’d be alright
When he would get his Union ticket as his right
One of a disappearing breed
Only taking what he would need
And so now Possum has gone from this world too
With his body being found next to the river in 1982
They built a statue of Possum at Wentworth town
At the place where the Darling meets the Murray flowing down.
© Paul Warren Poetry
The bric-a-brac shop waits on Rue Nationale.
In a sleepy French town.
It opens at ten,
And closes at one,
Till three.
Then on till seven in the evening.
Madame opens the shutters
Before going to feed her little dog,
Hettie.
Hettie's toenails clip clop on the ceramic tiles.
Madame feeds her green beans and tuna from a tin.
Hettie barks.
Madame sits at her counter
And waits for mail.
A customer comes in.
"Bonjour!"
"Bonjour. Ca va?"
A deal is done on a 1920s doll.
Three hundred euros until Christmas.
A good gift for a collector.
But no more customer's today.
All is quiet.
Evening comes.
Hettie barks.
She eats and drinks.
Madame is always kind. Hettie knows.
She clip clops to her basket again.
Madame thinks about her man in England.
She smiles, but no-one sees.
She shuts the shutters and puts out the lights.
Another evening alone with Hettie and the TV.
Her man is waiting. Her man is waiting.
tease of wicked night
mimicking a Hallow's scheme--
dressed as Clyde's Bonnie
Halloween Senryu
16 Oct 2017
---Bonnie Parker ( Bonnie and Clyde)
was history's most nototious robber
and killer in the 1920s.
Well, I suppose that I am again revealing my age,
But I grew up when Burma Shave signs were all the rage!
Could it be that those 'masterly creations' sparked my poetic bent,
As I soaked up a tad of 'culture' as down the rural roads I went?
"Buddy, if its a bit of romance you crave;
Best you slather yer mug with Burma Shave!"
"Why would she deign to give you a cuddly hug?
Better use Burma Shave to smooth yer bristly mug!"
"Fer a smoother shave here's the latest buzz;
Use Burma Shave to rid yer mug of all that fuzz!"
"If you really want to set that romance on fire;
Use Burma Shave to smooth yer mug of all that brier!"
"If you need to clear yer mug of that five-o'clock shade;
Use a heap of Burma Shave with yer razor blade!"
"If scratchy whiskers are causing romance to be rather grim;
Perhaps a dab of Burma Shave would smooth yer trim!"
"If yer love-life with her has nearly disappeared;
Maybe its time to lather-up with Burma Shave on yer beard!"
"If yer whiskers are as scratchy as a field of thistles;
Use Burma Shave on your kisser to rid it of all those bristles!"
(To learn more about Burma Shave signs during the 1920s/30s go to your
search and enter "History of Burma Shave Signs")
The house came with ghosts.
Not the subtle kind, either—no
wistful sighs or cool drafts,
just full-blown poltergeist tantrums.
Cabinets slamming at 2 a.m.,
spectral remnants of old arguments
rattling the windows, the smell
of burnt toast no matter
how thoroughly they scrubbed.
Still, the buyer had insisted,
"It’s got good bones."
And it was true: the skeletons
were stable in their stasis.
Antique mahogany banisters
curved like ribcages cradling
the heart of the house. Windows
leaded with panes' frames
mettle enough to turn an afternoon
light into prayers. A fireplace
cozy enough to roast the marrow
of an ox into paralysis without
its animal sense even noticing.
But bones have a way of remembering.
She hadn’t counted on the ruinous
creaks of staircases groaning
as if mourning her descent into ruts.
Nor the basement walls whispering
stock tips from the 1920s—sell
steel; buy radium.
She certainly hadn’t considered
the attic, where—let’s just say
she never liked Victorian dolls,
and now she likes them even less.
Why buy? Why outbid?
Pride, mostly. The rollercoaster
of the auction, the plummet
into calamity sweetened by
elbowing the slick realtor
with his laminated grin. The thrill
of the gavel’s fall, the weight
of a binding contract. She didn’t care
about the dangers of yellow wallpaper
or the weeds growing through the parlor floor.
She didn’t even really need shelter.
But sometimes the juiciest deals
aren’t made with forethought,
only with hunger.
And what’s the value of hunger
without a little haunting to shatter
your comfortable sense of status?
Knickerbocker Glory
There's a story
How it got it's name
It originated in New York
In the early 1900s', so I've heard talk.
After a Hotel painted pink and cream
Gave rise to the Knickerbocker Glory dessert dream
The Knickerbocker Hotel sounds absurd
The Knickerbocker Glory is the name I heard,
It was a popular place
To embrace
Until the 1920s, when business decreased
And this glorious hotel deceased,
They made a dessert all pink and white
So every palate could delight
In the glory and the flavour
And savour,
Memories of times gone by
When people just like you and I
Wanted to preserve the Knickerbocker story
With a decadent sundae in all its glory.
Sailboats horses and carts and canal transport
Whale oil lighting and candles, salt to preserve
Meat, limited sanitation and available running
Water, all are part of a formerly more static society '
Which kept people in their national boundries.'
The emphasis seems to be on returning the
World to a typology of the above.? This being
Part of ( green agendas ) wordwide.?
Why then? Facilitate mass movements of
Humanity across borders.? If its more
Desirable for a worldwude static existence?
That will be inherent in any return to above
Practices.'
Is it just ideas.? That some people have cooked
Up after obtaining a doctorate, or other credentials
To get a million plus payment from a slush fund.?
With no real plan on how to live this out.?
I am myself quite prepared to live with limited
Technology..Yet it involves more effort, which
Would keep humans fitter.' A balance can be struck
But I dont see any cohesive drive.? I see ( a i ) and
A move to even more tech, and so called outsourcing
More desire for matterial things more waste much less
Recycling than from the 1920s to the 1980s am I
Alone in these observations? I welcome any comments.'
To my vision; all around some very good poetry, here abounds.'
Many born from 1950s and 60s express thoughts; emotions. That inspire no less!. Who were taught; by those from the
1920s and thirtys..My conjectue? Now on old schools qualitys i
Feel.' I Sense and so will venture. How many realitys caused this
Nomenclature? from a period quite challenging.' Iitself i beleive' I see
A very different manner.? Much more regard; for each other; a homelife
very focused on' by a father and mother, prayer at class
And full cream milk in your glass, fights in the playground
Unill teachers intervened at last; the piggyback rides and climbing trees, algebra caligraohy and math by rote, if you please,
Respect for the elderly was rammed down your throat.' Maybe
All was not perfect.? And i do not gloat! Yet such rich yeilds' From these people, and their ideals' it comes to me' that in all this essence grew; in many nations that their
Wide world knew' as Christendom, am i in error? Or is this all; historically true?
I
You will not be flying very far for the rest of 2020
Say goodbye to globe-trotting entitlements
The airlines are flummoxed: they need you; you need plenty
Of leg room (Finally!) Six whole feet passengers!
II
Now, at work you may do with less than six feet
But you will not work as "normal." Remember Cal Coolidge?
He longed for "normalcy" in the 1920s (we, a century late)
Will say goodbye to NORMALITY, if I mind my English
III
Your eating habits will change; more of your own effort
The restaurants will be following stricter guidelines
Especially for transporting pizza & take-out. We may not adapt
But previous pandemics brought real repenting the second time!
** NOTE: The problems of asymptomatic, & generally atypical cases of infection, will challenge nations as to who get the vaccine, when, and HOW? Delivery will bedevil vulnerable folks getting meds on time, as with food, aid, etc., in the best of times. Scholars are saying "Normal routines are gone for good." (See NEW STATESMAN write 04/20 that says "Our civilization is now changed.")