Best Surplice Poems
The Burial, Translation of Paul Verlaine’s sonnet : L’Enterrement
I know nothing as gay as a burial !
The grave-digger who sings with his pickaxe in bright thrill
The church bells from afar reverberating with their svelte trille
The priest in a white surplice whose joyous prayers hardly in denial
The chorus boy with his voice fresh as a girl’s,
And when at the bottom of the hole, all warm and snug,
The coffin nestles in with the tumbling in soft tug
Of earth making the corpse’s eiderdown, the lucky devil’s
All this looks to me quite charming forsooth !
And then, all those, stuffed plump in tail coats’ sheath,
Mourners whose noses redden while receiving tips
And then, the proper concise speeches stuffed with advice rare
And then, with bulging hearts and glorious foreheads glistening
Hail ! The sparkling heirs !
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2013
Some keep the Sabbath going to Church
I just keep staying at home
with thunder for a chorister
and an ochard for a dome
Some keep the Sabbath in Surplice
I just wear my wings
instead of tolling the bell for Church
our little Sexton sings
God preaches a noble Clergyman
and the serman is never long
So instead of getting to Heaven
at last, I'm going all along
NOTE: not my poem just a very inspirational and special poem to me.
The ramblings of a yellow rose,
What are they, do you suppose?
And is there any sense in prose,
When written by a rambling rose?
And does it have a single purpose,
Or is such stuff as this simply surplice?
And if we were to juxtapose,
With artwork of a deep red rose,
Would it be that yellow prose,
Simply failed to keep its pose?
And tumbling down to fall apart,
Are ramblings written of yellow's heart.
A yellow heart that nearly froze,
Just because the artist chose,
To base his work on redder rose,
While creating lovers prose.
While yellow must suffice to spend,
His imaginary to represent a friend,
And much as this he could pretend,
He’d rather it not start a trend.
For rambling on, like a rose,
His thoughts follow where a lover goes,
And impatiently he tos and fros,
And through him yellow always shows.
So, in the dimming of the day,
As the artist puts his pen away,
Sometimes young lovers loose their way,
And with their loved ones cannot stay.
With yellow creeping into mind,
Love's ideals are left behind.
So what's the point of yellow prose?
Does it have one, do you suppose?
And when supposition comes to a close,
Would you trust a yellow rose?
There once was a sensitive vicar,
who said, "I'm not one to bicker,
but the peal of that bell,
makes me feel quite unwell,
and plays merry hell with my ticker."
An incensed old soul by the spire,
preaching incense-igniting to the choir,
exclaimed, "There is but one catch,
when striking a match,
don't set your surplice on fire."
A parson spoke from the nave,
"Spend all you can, do not save,
if you've spilled all the sands,
and still have time on your hands,
you can't take it with you to the grave."
A wise minister in the kirk,
enlightened, observed with a smirk,
"When it's dark out there,
put your hands in the air,
as many hands make light work.”