Best Yves Poems
$hawty Got $wag
Shawty got swag,
Shawty mad dope.
Face all cheesin’,
She real turned up.
Goin’ to da club,
She steppin' wit her peeps,
Lookin’ so ratchet,
She’s straight up hoochie.
No racks in her pocket,
No stacks in her wallet,
But she all into bubbly
Slurpin’ and burpin’.
Lookin for a big baller,
Who’ll give her wat she wants,
Wildin’ on the dance floor,
Tweakin’ an’ freakin’,
Shawty actin' so cra cra!
She just like da rest a dem,
But Shawty real fly,
Sure likes a lotta ice,
Bling bling, and Benjamins.
Shawty creepin’ to hook up
Coz she needs a boo wit finesse,
Who’ll give her Yves St. Laurent,
5-star hotels, and 5-star restaurants.
Shawty off the chain,
Shawty off the hook,
She got game and she’s aight!
Shawty da bomb - fuh real!!!
08-18-2014
Contest: Ebonics – Let’s Do Some Slang
Sponsor: Verlena S. Walker
Placement: 1st
Some Terms and Definitions:
shawty – a young attractive female; dope – cool, nice, awesome; swag – style;
turn up – excited; mad – really a lot; peeps – friends, close pals; baller – a
thug that made it in the big time; racks/stacks– lots of money; aight – alright;
wildin’– to go crazy, acting out of control; cra cra – crazy; tweakin’/freakin’ –
dancing provocatively and moving around out of control; cheesin’ – smiling;
finesse – man who has swag and can spend a huge amount of money; ratchet
– ghetto diva; creepin’ – sneaking about; bubbly – champagne; bling bling –
expensive flashy jewelry; Benjamins – hundred dollar bills; boo – one’s lover;
da bomb – the best of the best; game – skills; ice – expensive flashy jewelry
usually diamonds or jewelry with diamonds; off the chain/off the hook –
excellent, fantastic, awesome; fly – cool, in style; hook up – getting together
with someone romantically; hoochie – a female who dresses trashy; straight up
– absolutely, really.
‘Do I look good in this and I want the honest truth?’
‘Well honey it would help if you stepped outside the booth.’
‘The zip’s a little tight’ she said, so I knew the task ahead,
But I couldn’t really tell her to choose something else instead.
‘What do you think? Is the colour right and what about the length?’
‘I’m not Yves Saint Laurent’ I said, someone give me strength.
There are women all around the place, there are women everywhere,
Being outside the changing rooms, where’s appropriate to stare?
A hundred outfits later and not a single item bought,
Despite vocal approval of the complimentary sort.
And so alas we return to the item at the start,
‘This is my favoured choice’ she said. At least now we can depart!!
"The sea, once it casts its spell, holds one in its net of wonder forever." ~ Jacques-Yves Cousteau
When Cupid’s wishes surf on the tail of a comet,
eventide envelops the tender skyline in stillness,
mirroring sparks of neon stardust on the shore.
Stroking the salt-laced sand in silken rhythm,
while hushed leaves surrender to the sea’s songs,
curating a silent reverie of drifting dreamers,
filling the amethyst air with indigo blooms,
as wind and waves merge, echoing secrets~
like heartbeats aching for a kiss of moonbeams,
amidst fluorescent tides twinkling in tune,
erasing tears in the blush of forgotten sunsets.
Prison Souvenirs, Translation of Paul Verlaine’s poem : Souvenirs de prison, March 1874*
(Verlaine was sentenced to serve a term of two years in prison for having shot his erstwhile lover in the arm/hand, the legendary poet Arthur Rimbaud, ten years his junior, on July 9th or 10th, 1873, in Bruxelles ; yet he was deeply in love with his wife : Mathilde, left to nurse his son in Paris. He was also sentenced to a month in prison in 1885, following a complaint by his mother and another Dave, for drunkenness. Cf. Yves-Alain Favre, Ed. Paul Verlaine : Œuvres Poétiques Complètes. Paris : Robert Laffont, 1992.)
About a year now and more, I haven’t seen the butt-end
Of a newspaper. « Could the « Blue Library » be
sufficient ?
Sometimes I tell myself, despite myself : « Would you
have believed it ? »
Oh ! Well ! One can’t die for the lack of it. First of all,
it’s undigestible a bit,
A little bit too insipid, the experienced eye gets angry.
But the spirit ! Since it laughs and triumphs, lets it be !
And then again, it’s a patriotic pleasure, besides being
salubrious :
Not to want to know anything of this century turned
murderous
And not to continue to watch during this last spate of
trance
This abominable agony which plagues La France.
• There’s a reference to Verlaine’s letter to Lepelletier, dated August 22, 1874, and poems titled : Vieux Coppées.
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2013
Is this the weekend, by the way?
(I always think it’s Saturday!)
Load the kids up in the car –
country club (I hit the spa:
hand the kids to gay Adolphe –
calisthenics, crazy golf).
I spoil myself – it helps the stress –
the kids are having fun (I guess).
Fox News Tom Cruise
No Jews designer shoes.
Rufe’s so square, a diplodocus:
the kids will always be my focus.
Everybody needs a break
(we’re human too, for goodness’ sake).
We just do the normal things:
cabin in Borrego Springs,
week in Vegas, see the shows,
birthday dinner (Kiriko’s):
never noodles, only sushi
(table used by John Belushi) –
private beach in old La Jolla
(Rufe knows someone, bigshot lawyer):
cocktail bar, upholstered loungers
(razor wire keeps out the scroungers).
Juan’s the poolboy. My help’s Auxi
(Juanito’s neat, and Auxi’s mousey).
Wears my cast-offs, lives on chilli –
keeps her pay from getting silly.
Neither’s legal – which is good:
they stay grateful, like they should.
Minimum wage would tie a noose to it:
anyhow, they’re plenty used to it.
She breastfeeds, Juanito hustles
(fine-boned body, high-toned muscles).
He’s moonlighting, pumping gas
in San Diego, humping ass.
Rufe’s no idea what good taste is.
Parties with them friends of his.
I can’t stand them business folks –
Steaks and beers and dirty jokes.
I won’t go to meets or meals
if I can’t wear my strapless heels
and backless dress (Yves St Lauren)
it’s not about impressing men
(who cares what they think?) – it’s the wives
it matters what a woman drives
who fixed her hair. What’s Satan’s curse?
To show up toting last month’s purse.
Ballade : In favour of those called Decadents and Symbolists, Translation of Paul Verlaine’s Ballade en faveur des dénommés Décadents et Symbolistes
for Léon Vanier*
(The texts I use for my translations are from : Yves-Alain Favre, Ed. Paul Verlaine : Œuvres Poétiques Complètes. Paris : Robert Laffont, 1992, XCIX-939p.)
Some few in all this Paris :
We live off pride, yet flat broke we’re
Even if with the bottle a bit too free
We drink above all fresh water
Being very sparing when taken with hunger.
With other fine fare and wines of high-estate
Likewise with beauty : sour-tempered never.
We are the writers of good taste.
Phoebé when all the cats gray be
Highly sharpened to a point much harsher
Our bodies nourrished by glory
Hell licks its lips and in ambush does cower
And with his dart Phoebus pierces us ever
The night cradling us through dreamy waste
Strewn with seeds of peach beds over.
We are the writers of good taste.
A good many of the best minds rally
Holding high Man’s standard : toffee-nosed scoffer
And Lemerre* retains with success poetry’s destiny.
More than one poet then helter-skelter
Sought to join the rest through the narrow fissure ;
But Vanier at the very end made haste
The only lucky one to assume the rôle of Fisher*.
We are the writers of good taste.
ENVOI
Even if our stock exchange tends to dither
Princes hold sway : gentle folk and the divining caste.
Whatever one might say or pours forth the preacher,
We are the writers of good taste.
*One of Verlaine’s publishers who first published his near-collected works at 19, quai Saint-Michel, Paris-V.
* Alphonse Lemerre (1838-1912), one of Verlaine’s publishers at 47, Passage Choiseul, Paris, where from 1866 onwards the Parnassians met regularly.
*Vanier first specialised in articles for fishing as a sport.
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2013
The Virgin Maid of Orleans, Translation of Paul Verlaine’s La Pucelle
To Robert Caze*
Even as the blaze crackled around the stake’s pyre,
Joan was deafened by the clergy’s brutal chanting,
Harsh eyes with hate from all the windows demeaning,
She felt her flesh quiver and her soul budge on fire.
And like lambs that resold to the butcher expire
The shepherd roamed with country airs whistling
She reflected in earnest on things and being
And met her lord who ungrateful did conspire.
« It’s wrong, gentle Bastard, sweet Charles*, good Xaintrailles,
To let the English take charge of her funeral
She who forced them to abandon the siege of Orleans. »
And as for Lorraine, the very thought of that injury,
While death clasped in its arms the non-believers,
Weary ! She cried out just as another creature formerly.
• Acc. to Yves-Alain Favre, a journalist (1853-1886), slain in a duel.
• Charles the VII, crowned King at Rheims on July 17, 1429, with the help of Joan of Arc who was then aged 15. It was thought Charles VII may not have been the son of his father, Charles VI, owing to an extra-marital affaire with a Bavarian monarch.
• © T. Wignesan – Paris, 2013
Conquistador, Translation of Paul Verlaine’s tercets : Conquistador
Message to fellow soupers: I have been trying to upload, in vain, yet another translation of a
Paul Verlaine poem titled: "Ballade in favour of those called Decadents and Symbolists" since 28/09/2013, so if anyone is interested in reading it, just Google it or go to my pages in other poetry sites like PoemHunter, PoemsAbout, ZCommunications, etc. Thank you. T. Wignesan
(Published in « La Revue blanche », April 1894 , under the title : « Mal de mer » ; and « Pall Mall Magazine » November 1894. Source : Jean-Yves Favre’s Paul Verlaine : Œuvres Poétiques Complètes. Paris : Robert Laffont, 1992) T. Wignesan
My heart looms heavy as the ocean waters rear
From having left behind a cherished being dear
Who grows sad by the day, embittered by fear
Over the oceans, alas I must depart
With the heart stout and the soul stalwart
Even if from the Queen exile I must out
Exiling myself only to return to pasture
Though much more joyous beckons the future
Than thoughts of remembrances’ adventure…
My heart has grown alike by many a wave
Pushed up in an enormous mass concave
Immense breast upon which the world doesn’t rave…
O ! so far a away to be safe from fear
Yet left without care the being so dear
Excepting just that which holds down one tear.
I board ship while the tempest rages
With this hope which keeps gnawing for ages :
To find treasure which my quest assuages.
To bring back to her in merriment :
Gold, silver, pearl and diamond
With my heart as a supplement.
The waters rage, the ocean pregnant bulges
Terrible state : falling and rising spasms
Stooping low to make huge chasms.
Struggling as though forming a tomb
While with courage and with aplomb
The sailor wrestles even as waters loom
Meanwhile without respite the hurricane
Cradled like an infant lost in dreamy bane
The ocean holds to course or inhumes sane
Dreaming of gold by masses and more
Filling up infinite rows of corridor,
For my Sovereign, my life I lay down ever more…
November 1893, London
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2013
October seventeenth ninety sixty one ...
Born sixty one years ago,
the follow poem from your bro
transmitted courtesy flagship
named Jacques-Yves Cousteau
constituting countless ones and zeroes
instantaneously traversing cyberspace
as packeted, framed dataflow
binary digits bit of information
to acknowledge when
thee transitioned being an embryo
(approximately the second
to eighth week after fertilization)
approximately nine months prior,
whose birth marked debut
of bouncing daddy's little girl,
whose inquisitiveness nourished
birthed perception buzzfeeding
capital one earthlinked baby
fostering, kickstarting, and
orchestrating cognitive aptitude,
who throughout storied existence,
which kudos ye
proudly promulgate to and fro
hither and yon across
social media platforms
understandably, opportunistically, and
humbly letting family and friends
across the webbed wide world
know amazing accomplishments,
when ye did initially grow
from being precocious genetic pedigree
into a whip smart self confident
globe trotter, whose curriculum vitae
dwarfs (by powers of seven)
feeble accomplishments of mine,
went thee invested with a heigh-ho
positive state of mind
every endeavor undertaken
(in one physically gruelling instance)
biking, hiking, riding
to your private Idaho
(fast as a B-52)
versus humdrum life of one common Joe,
whose heightened perception
aside from singing the praises
of admiration toward youngest sister
after countless years, he failed to know
about her trials and tribulations
exercising your potential to the maximum
invariably feeling dog tired
with a dose of lumbago
thrown in for good measure
nevertheless adept as bilingual person
quite helpful travelling
to Spanish speaking countries
during your roaring twenties off to Mexico,
and just recently taking a jaunt
to Portugal donned accruing
vibrant sense and sensibility
treasuring richly pocketing nouveau
memories attracting natural outgrow
of ardent followers, whether online
or in flesh, who clamor for selfie photo
with thee and steadfast husband
unlike henpecked wife of mine
enjoyable as pesky miss Quito
who pesters me to get off computer
so she can binge watch Netflix
hence adieu as I hop on my cubii
off to complete
another stationary roadshow.
In the meeting
of LUKA members,
Yves Kamunobe
stood up and started reciting, "
As I was sleeping ,
I heard an old man screaming ,'
Wake up Wamasanzi,
Wavira , Wafipa , wagoma
Watabwa, Wabuyu , Wabemba ,
Waholoholo , wabwali."
I saw the group of people following him.
They were speaking similar languages.
The old man said ,' don't allow
your enemies to divide you."
As I was walking ,
I saw a group of beauful ladies,
Who were singing
some cultural
Bwali songs.
I was over the moon
As seeing my beautiful sisters
dancing in bwali rhythm.
I open my heart to you my brothers-in-law.
You who wish to find wise
and good hearted women.
The way to Masanzi land is opened
The way to Vira land is opened
The way to Bemba land is opened
The way to Tabwa land is opened
The way to Waoma Land is opened
There are beautiful flowers
on those lands.
Yes!
Natural dark , chocolate,
and brown flowers...
I mean so lovely in and out.
Remember,
it is not marketing
But the choices
are yours.
As I was speaking,
Some men heard me
and they will rush to pick up
flowers of their choices.
Nice fragrance will impress
all their visitors.
This message seems
to be much Poetic
than Historic
Symbolic
than Philosophic
Romantic
than Tribalistic
Lovely
than Lonely.
Yes!
Marying each other will strengthen our Unity
Bajhoba and Wayao.
I am with Wayao today
telling the truth
as one of the beautiful creatures
that living this planet Earth.
I don't wish to close my breath
In front of some beautiful
Yao women at lake Nyasa beaches.
I dont think my future
brothers in law hearing me.
Marying each other will strengthen our Unity
Bajhoba and Wayao.
I don't mind to climb Yao mountain
to find the soap of my heart on the pic.
I don't mind to fly to NyasaLand
to find the flower of my choice.
What about you?
Remember !
The way to Masanzi land is opened
The way to Vira land is opened
The way to Bemba land is opened
The way to Tabwa land is opened
The way to Waoma Land is opened
Marying each other will strengthen our Unity
Bajhoba and Wayao.
I share my Mind
As I am so Kind
Living on Royal Land.
I thank you."
Multiple premise
olfactory adventures,
contemplative tactile
sensory ... Clothing
colors, odors, hues,
varnishes ...
Beauty has always done
fashion ... or your own
reason for being...
Fashion is a game
to show the generations
information, transgressions,
transmissions of customs and customs ...
What, or who influences that
and who? references, trends
biased almost always ...
Fashion is all that, it's fashion ...
it's also humanity ...
because it is meant for beings
humans...
The fidelity of fashion exists,
because there is a cult of creativity,
quality, inventiveness:
Chanel 5 is preferred,
for years ... your romance
olfactory endures through life ...
Nina Ricci, Gucci, Prada,
Balenciaga, Armani, Muccia,
O'real, Yves Saint Laurent,
Dior, Lancôme ... are idols
and remain so ...
Fashion in dress, on the floor,
in painting, makeup,
in the perfume ... eternal struggle
against destiny ,,, the fight
against body fatigue,
aging of
mind ... night creams
for skin regeneration,
for strengthening
hair ... softness of hair,
regeneration .... ah! That
youth that passes fast ...!
If you want to have youth in
body, see Helena
Rubinstein ... wants the mind
healthier ... fashion is poetry ...
I recommend
Yves Klein trademark IKB
for 'happenings' he loved to see
Influential&a high profile game
achieving '15 minutes of fame'
Selftaught Surrealist Yves Tanguy
you may indeed wonder why
A style more weird than scary
is so so imaginary
Let’s use Majorelle blue, okay?
I nodded.
Knowing nothing of it.
Morocco botanical garden blue.
Named for Jaques Majorelle.
French painter.
Nuturerer of gardens for forty years.
Eighteen years after his death.
Yves St. Laurent and Pierre Berge’ restored it.
A glorious lively cobalt blue.
A name that whispers on the breath,
A healer in the halls of care,
Where shadows cling and fear holds death,
His steady presence lingers there.
With gentle hands and knowing gaze,
He charts the heart's uncertain sway,
Through intricate and hidden ways,
Where life can falter and decay.
Compassion, like a quiet stream,
Flows from his touch, serene and deep,
An empathy, a waking dream,
For those whose weary secrets sleep.
The holder of life, at times it seems,
When fragile pulses ebb and fade,
A heart beats softly in his dreams,
A life upon his skill is laid.
He sees the rivers, swift and strong,
The steady rhythm, clear and bright,
And when the currents turn out wrong,
He guides them back towards the light.
The ocean's vastness, deep and wide,
Reflects the mysteries he knows,
The surging of the inner tide,
Where health and hope again arose.
And in that space, where tensions cease,
A grateful breath, a whispered plea,
He brings a fragile heart to peace.