Best Cheval Poems
Perfection's Chains
Inner child
Blinks back tears through the cheval glass
At a bruised reflection staring back
Battered by the hand of perfection.
2-20-21
Taken from Woman in Chains
Contest: Liberum Divisa 4
music's turning little dance sing the sonettos cabriole a turning stance ballerina's toe ~ tops cheval bureau a glance songs of little strophe on look the spiraling chance day dreams étoile's soul
translation below
Tomber dans le vide
Je rêve de toi
Je rêve de toi toute la nuit
Je bois du vin
Je bois l'amour
Je suis triste dans la nuit
Je regarde dehors à la pluie
Je joue avec mon cheval-jouet
Je rêve de voyager
Je rêve de toi
Je meurs dans la nuit
Le froid, la glace
Mots inachevés
Translation
Falling into the void
I dream of you
I dream of you all the night
I drink the wine
I drink the love
I am sad in the night
I gaze outside at the rain
I play with my toy horse
I dream to travel
I dream of you
I die in the night
The cold, the ice
Words unfinished
Long ago there lived a girl with long livid locks of sable,
Whose vivid avid amber eyes derived, it seems, from fable.
Her tiny tendons tied to nimble bones to each limber muscle enhanced,
By the hours and hours of practice made perfect with her sport of dance.
Her mother Mary had adored her, as if her bones were porcelain,
Draping her daughter and dressing her, like a postured doll for ornament.
Father Joe endured her, seldom applauded the athletic acrobats,
Of gymnastics she practiced in her bedroom within the cold attic.
One day she claimed "I'm done with mirrors, may this be the last,
Of poising pirouettes en pointe," while posed before a cheval glass.
With that she hung her tutu atop the highest shelf,
In a closet where now the ballerina has left her ego's self.
Now she dances not with poles, nor mirrors covering the wall,
But to rock and roll and hip-hop pop, while unafraid to fail or fall.
I saw a beer tap called
Cheval Blanc
while sitting in a tavern
in Quebec City.
Cheval Blanc.
It was the most heroic,
and poetic,
and majestic,
and powerful
name I’d heard in a while.
Cheval Blanc.
I liked the marriage
of the sound
of the v and the l
and I liked the finality
of the word "Blanc."
Right at that moment,
Cheval Blanc-
White Horse-
seemed so damned regal
and perfect.
I wished I was a cheval blanc
galloping away from town,
away from the cracks of the whips,
into the sanctity of the white woods.
Le gommier de la Municipalite - Translation of Oodgeroo Noonuccal's Municipal Gum Tree by T Wignesan
[Automatic re-translation into English edited for effect...]
Le gommier qui se trouve sur la rue de la ville,
Le bitume autour de tes pieds,
Il vaudrait mieux que tu sois
Dans le monde des espaces fraiches entouré d’arbres feuillus
de la forêt
Et des chants des oiseaux sauvages.
Ici tu me parais
Comme ce pauvre cheval de trait-là
Castré, démoli, une chose écartée et damnée,
Harnaché et bouclé, c’est l’enfer prolongé,
Dont la tête baissée et le mien fade exprime
L’espoir à jamais perdu.
Le gommier de la ville, c’est douloureux
De t’apercevoir ainsi
Figé dans ta pelouse noircie de bitume –
O concitoyen,
Qu’est-ce qu’ils ont fait de nous?
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2016
Copyright © T Wignesan | Year Posted 2016
Le gommier de la Municipalite - Translation of Oodgeroo Noonuccal's Municipal Gum Tree by T Wignesan
Gum tree sitting on the street of the city,
Bitumen around your feet,
It would be better if you were in the world of cool spaces
Surrounded by leafy trees of the forest
And the songs of wild birds.
Here you recall
That poor draft horse
Castrated, demolished, a thing spread-eagled and damned,
Harnessed and shackled.
This is prolonged hell,
And whose head downcast, bland mien expressing hope forever lost.
Gum tree of the city, it's painful
To see you thus
Frozen in your turf, blackened with bitumen –
O! fellow citizen!
What did they do with us?
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2016
Copyright © T Wignesan | Year Posted 2016
A man without a car is a poor fellow,
It’s like a cowboy without a horse, a lonely soul,
He doesn’t know what to do or who to visit in the ranches,
He walks alone in Los Angeles or Dallas,
He can’t visit the great rivers of Utah,
Nor go to photograph the mighty bisons,
Everything is complicated without a car, without a horse,
The cowboy can’t dress himself in California,
He can only feed on salads or sweet poetry;
Everything is difficult, buying a book, a new razor,
Look at the shooting stars above Lake Powell,
Everything is so far away, the flowers on the green hills,
A cowboy without a horse is not free, poor fellow
He can’t cross the Grand Canyon or Arizona fields,
He sees no sun, nor can he meet again his friends,
The gold diggers, the noisy saloons, the poor fellow,
The poor fellow, he is not master of his destiny.
Un homme sans voiture, c’est un pauvre bougre,
C’est comme un cowboy sans cheval, sans âme,
Il ne sait que faire, ni qui visiter dans les ranchs,
Il marche solitaire dans Los Angeles ou Dallas,
Il ne peut visiter les grandes rivières D’Utah,
Ni s’en aller photographier les puissants bisons,
Tout est compliqué sans voiture, sans cheval,
Le cowboy ne peut s’habiller en Californie,
Il ne peut que se nourrir de salades ou de poésie ;
Tout est difficile, acheter un livre, un rasoir neuf,
Regarder les étoiles filantes au-dessus du Lake Powell,
Tout est si loin, les fleurs sur les collines vertes,
Un cowboy sans cheval, n’est pas libre, vous dis-je,
Il ne peut traverser le Grand Canyon, ni l’Arizona,
Il ne voit de soleil, ni ne peut retrouver ses amis,
Les chercheurs d’or, aux saloons bruyants, le pauvre,
Le pauvre bougre, il n’est pas maitre de son destin.
PS, when i come back from the garage friday, i was the happiest man of the world
Catch the sound of green petals
echo the thoughts of my mind
left with a weak feeling
while gently waving your thumb
lack of procrastination
Amadeus Theme
with its complex dynamics
The nightingale was full of happiness
in the sound of the melody wind
The azure sky glitters
got into me with their lyrics
Written: August 12, 2022
A Brian Strand Premiere Choice Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Brian Strand
Michael Cheval is a modern artist noted for his "Absurdist" paintings, sketches, and portraits. Cheval's art is a mystery. His artwork's title and graphics include hints of its secret significance. According to him, absurdity is the opposite of rationality. It's neither surrealist nor subliminal. His metaphorical art takes a trained eye to identify hidden allusions.
When I am broke
I write a poem
I make myself the hero
In my poem, nobody can stop me
Out, I hop from my S-Class Benz
Into my waiting Lamborgini to my private airstrip
That car is sleek and comfy, one in a million
My chopper I enter and chop off to Brazil
To breathe the Amazon forest
Lunch I take in Dubai, at the Burj Al Arab
Get my favorite classique and Nouvelle Cuisine
Then float on the sea with petals of belly dancers
Then I fly to France for Dessert. Park Hyatt is the Place
Where light is tuned to my eye, the spoon is customized
To match the length of my fingers
I Meet Paul Bocuse, the father of culinary Art
And eat his delicious hand
When I swallow I hear the chime in sync
Then my order in Lilac Geneva. Le Richmond is rich
I ask for Chateau Cheval Blanc. That wine is fine
I take a nap at the Palms. In Las Vegas
Where the massage is complete
Each broke nerve is touched
Silently restored
In my poem
I summon the president, the chancellor
The Prime Minister and the Speaker of Parliament
The Chief Justice, the Queen and King, the General
The Emperor, Field Marshal and Archbishop
They run and bow and panic and look away
I ask them to sing me lullaby and ensure my security is tight
someone salutes
someone smiles
someone trembles
someone nods
someone freezes
But they all understand
They consult as I slumber in my epic bed
Where I am the hero
Today
Down the street a merchant to Church
Who worked all day
Has given me a note, the part of his tithe
God bless him
A packet of milk, it can buy a cookie
Oh how rich I am
Today
No time for poetry, I am rich again
When I am broke I write a poem
Like this!
seas equestrian
mare de mer with her stallion
leading charge to bear
18.04.14
Composed for Julia Ward's
Seahorses
Notes:
Cheval De Mer, horse of the sea, the literal French translation of Seahorse.
Chivalry and cavalry share the same root Medieval Latin caballarius meaning "horseman" or "knight".
The male seahorse has a brood pouch wherein he takes on the eggs from the female to fertilize and carry their offspring to term.
Woman in Chains
Inner child blinks back tears through the cheval glass
At a bruised reflection staring back,
Battered by the hand of perfection,
Wearing chains in glimmering pearls deception,
Beauty and the beast - beauty now turned beast -
Though in the grip of vogue,
Restrained designs fettering creativity,
Beneath the veneer of outlandish style,
Wears hand-me-downs;
Wounded dove, kissed with a rose from the mist
Gasping on the runway of perfection
Beneath the blazing sun of cutting tongues
Behind made up faces,
Disappears into a chalice -fiery crucible -
Of coveted, borrowed, chains –
A dark kaleidoscope of shifting shapes and sizes -
Of stolen sublime – esteem devoured – ravished -
In runway parades of opaque flawless delusion
Skin hanging from a bony dress frame
Of starving wings scarred by black veils of distortion
With the salt of conformity heaped onto tender wounds
Searing tender flesh reaching out
In manacles for models of the meticulous
Bound up in chains of unforgiven imperfection
Forged in expectation’s subtle abusing links
With parables of precise precision
Handmaid designed by faultless perfection unseen the in the reflection
Till, clothed in a sheath of a new creation,
Slips out of leg shackles, greased by grace,
The inner child in somersaults soars on wings re-stored.
About 30 million people suffer from Anorexia Nervosa – both women and men. It can be a fatal disease effecting heart, kidney and liver functions. It is most prevalent in teenagers and young women. Anorexia took the life of singer Karen Carpenter, ballerina Heidi Guenther and model Isabella Caro. Princess Diana suffered from Anorexia. The recovery rate is very low – about 20%. This is definitely the story of Beauty and the Beast.
8-26-20
Contest: Woman in chains
30 lines
Le gommier de la Municipalité – Translation of Oodgeroo Noonuccal’s “Municipal Gum” by T. Wignesan
Le gommier qui se trouve sur la rue de la ville,
Le bitume autour de tes pieds,
Il vaudrait mieux que tu sois
Dans le monde des espaces fraiches entouré d’arbres feuillus
de la forêt
Et des chants des oiseaux sauvages.
Ici tu me parais
Comme ce pauvre cheval de trait-là
Castré, démoli, une chose écartée et damnée,
Harnaché et bouclé, c’est l’enfer prolongé,
Dont la tête baissée et le mien fade exprime
L’espoir à jamais perdu.
Le gommier de la ville, c’est douloureux
De t’apercevoir ainsi
Figé dans ta pelouse noircie de bitume –
O concitoyen,
Qu’est-ce qu’ils ont fait de nous?
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2016
Magnus Annas
Summer's sensuality
New leaves green with love
Mark the ritual's beginning
A ritual old as the unmarked time
That passed before us all,
In which we were called to spring, to dance
Butterflies and mindless acrobats
Like flowers silently chanting Carpe Diem,
Like Chinese paintings, sense and shadow
Or in the guise of neolithic figures
Scratched upon rocks -
This is what we are,
What we became.
The question asked: Did I love you in the Summer,
Only Summer, when you traced yourself
Upon my skin, my burning skin?
Mon Amour,
That's when I loved you most,
Perhaps, perhaps - this question somewhat answered.
All this and more
When Summer comes.
Play the flute she hands to you.
Pick the fruit from off the altars.
Whilst living in the hic et nunc,
Live also in the there and then.
All these things you live,
If only for the time
You think of them.
Often Summer is the coldest time,
Before the Autumn reigns.
Old Dion is a madman then,
A madman, and he loves to dance
Upon the still soft Winter's graves.
The young all follow Dion,
They laugh and jeer,
Tugging Winter by the beard,
Forgetting all the while
That with each day
They die a little more.
But Dion always lives.
Dion outlives them all.
"Catch me a star!" she'll say,
While you stand gazing at your own reflection,
Whispering,"J'amour toi".
Oh, now comes the rocking-horse time,
When all things grow anew;
Be kind, be kind -
You're fragile as a shard of glass,
Youth's shadow bared before the gaze of wisdom,
Begs sufferance for a few more moments
To bid farewell to Dion
And the girls he checked out on the bus to here.
Before we etch ourselves into the rocks,
Be kind, O Time,
For you are just un beau cheval gris,
Leading us from what we know
Into what we cannot see.
i think of you often...
this cheval glass
titled like downcast eyes
retracts memories
of reflective past
i see you there
this tiny frame
surfeit on pain
can't see me
beyond you
gaunt on love
starved of touch
i reach for you
beyond
the shards
of shattered glass
where you fall
again in death
yet in each piece
i fall with you
a shadow
in your reflection
longing to be seen
without you
as the years
fade by
yet i only see you
in the image
behind shattered glass
The reflection of what you see
To me, it deflects the purities that my spectral lenses catch
Matching with every insecurity of
Impurities overflowing as water through a gutter
Cluttering me from seeing my self-worth
Birthed from times of weakness down the road most of us have treaded
Yet,
a worn path others have made it down.
The thing about a mirror
Is it’s easy to break
It’s the shattered pieces we’re afraid to pick up
Those individual shards made to make up what’s left of your reflection
Your identity
The sharp fractures of what’s left from the whole cheval
Though it now reflects a peculiar perspective.
The intricate things that were once overlooked.
Crafted and handpicked by your own hands and not of that of another constructor.
Cuts and nicks
Pains and pricks will cut deep as you assemble your speculum
A Curriculum self taught to teach you your worth
Birthed from pain to be made whole.
liberté retrouvée