Best Zola Poems


The Truth Will Set You Free

You are scared to let go of the familiar;
the familiar has a feigned ignorance of making you feel safe and comfortable.
You dismiss the voice of reason,
because you are blinded by the sole thing that barricades you.

Be true to yourself:
“If you shut up truth and bury it under the ground,
it will but grow, and gather to itself such explosive power 
that the day it bursts through, it will blow up everything in its way” (Emile Zola; 1840-1902)

You must find strength.
Surround yourself with what is positive.
Be strong.
Strength, truth and belief in yourself are the keys to unlocking 
all that binds you.

You are a free spirit;
No person characterizes your being;
No person dictates how you think, act or speak;
No person controls your life;
No person except for yourself.

Diana-Marie Bombardieri
2006

Gamecocks

Just because we wish it so, means not that it will pass;
this lesson’s one we all must learn in the Gamecock class. 
Runs my blood, it’s red and black---garnet the deepest hue,
any orange is anathema, do not this misconstrue.

They always fought with all their heart, especially on game day,
ran out to strains two thousand one, sandstorm on white display,
from first kickoff to last tackle, they’d hit with abandon,
they feared no foe, this fact is true, but seldom champion.

Football saints are lively here, from Rogers to Norwood,
When Lattimore took the field, we always felt they could,
defeat all squads, from Florida to the great North land,
and many others in between, I’m sure you understand.

Jadeveon polished our fame, no one could say “Who dat?,”
he pulverized a Wolverine, and handed Smith his hat.
Sidney Rice and Sterling Sharpe could surely catch that ball,
while Alshon and McKinley too, flew often past them all.

Sheldon Brown and John Abraham were known to give a lick,
while Swearinger and Gilmore too, could make a tackle stick.
Ryan Brewer bowled them over, while Succop split the posts,
Connor Shaw and Phil Petty racked up the winning boasts.

So many more graced our field, their names are not forgot,
Wharton and Boyd, Culliver and Ellis, and even A. Pinnock.
Munnerlyn, DiMarco too, and who could forget Ace Sanders?
Ajiboye and Cunningham, were not gridiron outlanders. 

Kalimba, Ko, Dunta and Zola, we’ve surely had strange names,
But on the field they won our hearts, and more than a few games.
Faison to Watson, and all others, who flashed their spurs with pride,
we celebrate each footballer who’s graced the Gamecock side!
© Jim Tidd  Create an image from this poem.

Premium Member Oscar-Ku 10 -The Life of Emile Zola

19th Century
French writer Emile Zola-
defender of truth






Copyright © 2018 by Mark Toney. All rights reserved. 
First published 2018 in Hollywood Haiku via wattpad.com
© Mark Toney  Create an image from this poem.


Small Town Library - October

SMALL   TOWN   LIBRARY   -   OCTOBER


Sleepy with silent words , soundless print       
Outside a world of school bells and  traffic hum.
Cant keep my focus,  glasses need renewing. 
Read same line seven times, I’m  losing 
My place - losing my grip.    I  am   
Held  in a  place where speech ends and
Time stops  - quiet, silence,  hush , no noise. 


Afternoon long pale crimson sun oozes 
Into  gloomy  room,  lone sunbeam  edging 
Into the forbidden roomy  gloom.
Silent stealthy steps  like a yellow cat with
Dust  motes   held   in its  claws.


Snoozing over yesterday’s newspapers
Old man agreeing,  nodding, mutters,  
Nodding at the 1968 UN yearbook.   
Studying and  skimming thru files for a look
Imperceptible  earphones  in  students head.
Kids being shushed for fairy tales being read


Smell of polished tables and newly-printed paper gloss,
Books on shelves  by the dusty dozen to choose,
Quotes and poems  by   Zola,  Balzac and Moses,
Flies buzz lazily by,  old librarian checks books out,  
Buzz, flicker, and plink-plonk from the faulty tube light.


Doze,  lose consciousness,  
Soon be November  -  winter approaching…. 
Got to save energy =  mc squared = MC2…..
CO2  +  H2O  is acid rain  =  droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven…..and 
The rain plays a little sleep-song on our roof at night,    ****
And so to sleep , perchance to………….wake
In a place where speech ends,
Time stops………………….
 



****   Langston Hughes   (1902-1967), U.S. poet. April Rain Song (l. 4-6)

Books Galore

I went to the Frankfurt Book Fair the other day.
It was mind-boggling..
Books! There were fat books, thin books,
White books, black books, tawny books,
Paperbacks, hardbacks, beautifully bound books,
Pure books, lax books, learned books, lay books,
Plain books, books of many colours,
Books on every subject under the sun,
Not to mention other books on
Distant galaxies, pulsars, quasars, black holes,
Books on any theme you can think of,
Or on themes you can’t even pronounce, from:

Art to Arthropods,
Bees to Biochemistry,
Cats to Catastrophes
Drugs to Decadence,
Energy to Ergonomics,
French Cooking to Frescos,
Guns to Gout,
History to Hippopotami,
Internal Medicine to Icebergs,
Julius Caesar to Justification,
Kulturkampf to Kinetics
Lace to Logogriphs,
Man to Manchuria,
Nietzsche to Nonsense Rhymes,
Opera to Ophthalmoscopes,
Poodles to Pollution,
Quantum Mechanics to Queen Victoria,
Russell to Rabbits,
Shaw to Shingles,
Tao to Torts,
Urdu to Ultimatums,
Virgil to Vivisection,
Whales to Witchcraft,
X-rays to Xylographs,
Yoga to Youth Hostels,
Zen to Zola,..

By closing-time my legs were giving out.
A voice, it seemed, was saying:
“Of more than is taught by these, my son, take care.
Of making many books there is no end,
And much study is weariness of the flesh.”
I don’t know about making them, I thought,
As I commenced my get-away from the Penguin stand,
But it takes something of an athlete just to glance at them.
I felt crushed, not only by the crowds
but also by the weight of my appalling ignorance.

Some Sun Drunk Day He Said

Emotions war against sense,
And his mind remains
A pot pourri,
And thoughts in his head
When he lies in his bed
Would make Dorian Gray
Appear pristine.
He wishes to moralize
On a corrupt example,
Yet from the wicked cup
He hath supped a sample.
                                                                    
He appears to think in extremes;
He is beau-laid and realist,
Whose inspiration stems from his dreams.
"Life is a beautiful strain for me,"
One sun-drunk day he said,
"But I pray I say what my soul needs to
Before the heavens decide me dead."
But his mind is a disorderly drawer
Full of confused categorizations;
He has that Scott Fitzgerald illness
For dates, times, rhymes and quotations.
"I have a clear flowing mind, 
But I cannot foretell
When the clogging black clouds will arrive,
For they will arrive.
Live with the love, then bear the pain
Recurrent like the monsoon rain."
                                                                    
He is afraid of happiness 
For the inevitable despair that must follow it;
Afraid of happiness
For its cruel impermanence.
Like Zola, the seasons in life, for him,
Are inevitable.
"All artists," he says, "are at once alike and unique
One day, it's clear,
The next, hazy, like a beery vision,
The fulfilment that they seek."
Misty dreams of sweet-smelling roses
And swaying streams
Bring him chills and pains in his soul and being;
He lives his life through a melancholy tragedy,
And has an ever-yearning mind.

("Some Sun Drunk Day He Said" has the dubious honour of being a near-unadulterated slice of juvenilia, having been conceived as some kind of poem when I was about 20 years old.)


Premium Member Four Cafes

Inside cooped up in my loft all autumn with writer’s block, it was time.  I arrived on New Year’s Day.  I wanted a fresh start, so I took a well-deserved hiatus.
        
Such grandeur, and glory, partaking in wine, croque monsieur and then champagne so decadent.  I met him in a bar café, the one alongside three others in a row!  He indulged my fancy with a Moulin Rouge cabaret, a real gentleman; flamboyant, debonair, and flippant.  Montgenevre mistakenly booked my room.  By chance of fortune, he overheard the desperation of my voice, cawing at the matradee.  “I know my way around.   We’ll find you a place to stay until they get their affairs in order.” 
        
I heard a voice whisper, “You can stay as long as you like, mon chéri.”  This morning I awoke alone, I remember late last night looking out his high-rise apartment window, down at the four cafés', to see what he sees, think what he thinks.  Long leggy locals, intoxicating femme's, drinking peppermint schnapps to tame the harsh chill of January.  Perusing today’s paper, I noticed his name, Emile Zola VI.   He’s a journalist?!  My muse reignited my passion to write.  A work in progress.  


A croque monsieur-is a hot sandwich made with ham and cheese.
© I Am Anaya  Create an image from this poem.

Premium Member On the Left Field-Monoku

POETIC LICENCE
those who live out loud-stand clear from the cloud

after zola

Small Town Library In October

SMALL   TOWN   LIBRARY   IN   OCTOBER


Sleepy with silent words , soundless print       
Outside a world of school bells and  traffic hum.
Cant keep my focus,  glasses need renewing. 
Read same line seven times, I’m  losing 
My place - losing my grip.    I  am   
Held  in a  place where speech ends and
Time stops  - quiet, silence,  hush , no noise. 

Afternoon long pale crimson sun oozes 
Into  gloomy  room,  lone sunbeam  edging 
Into the forbidden roomy  gloom.
Silent stealthy steps  like a yellow cat with
Dust  motes   held   in its  claws.

Snoozing over yesterday’s newspapers
Old man agreeing, mumbling, mutters,  
Nodding at the 1968 UN yearbook.   
Studying and  skimming thru files for a look.
Imperceptible  earphones  in  students head.
Kids being shushed for fairy tales being read

Smell of polished tables and newly-printed paper gloss,
Books on shelves  by the dusty dozen to choose,
Quotes and poems  by   Zola,  Balzac and Moses,
Flies buzz lazily by,  old librarian checks books out,  
Buzz, flicker, and plink-plonk from the faulty tube light.

Doze,  lose consciousness,  
Soon be November  -  winter approaching…. 
Got to save energy =  mc squared = MC2…..
CO2  +  H2O  is acid rain  =  droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven…..and 
The rain plays a little sleep-song on our roof at night,                 
And so to sleep , perchance to………….wake
In a place where speech ends,
Time stops………………….


 Written  2  August    2015

Any Editor To Any Poet

These vain attempts at verse could not be droller.
Your stuff is less inviting than ebola
(and not as catchy).  Wordier than Emil Zola,
you haven’t got the steam to be a roller.
I’ve seen more cutting-edge in Pepsi-Cola.
You clearly honed your style in Fuengirola.
About as challenging as last year’s “¡Hola!”
(I’m sure you’re highly thought of in Angola.)

But that aside, I need a favour, mate.
The flood of would-be Spensers is in spate.
I’d like you to review – that is, donate
your time and talent (at the going-rate,
which happens to be zero.)  Desecrate
the pricks who prattle, and the prigs who prate.
Denounce, detract.  Indulge that gelding hate
that wells in all of us.  The cut-off date
is looming, so get hacking.  Don’t be late!

They Made Me Fall In Love With Chelsea

THEY MADE ME FALL IN LOVE WITH CHELSEA

Color blue...
Dan Petrescu...
Capi Dennis Wise,
UEFA the biggest price,
Celestine Babayaro,
Still remember him like tomorrow.
Zola definitely lure me
As honey attracts the bee.
Y'all remember Tore Andre Flo?
Our football was a masterful flow...
Then comes a flash from flanks,
Robben does the wing robbery with silky pranks,
The Duffer those it from the left flank,
Damien Duff dust-off defenders off the rank.
Witness the power of thunderbolt Hasselbaink:
Jimmy the Floyd playing the dummy
then ball rolls out like a mummy,
Straight to Bolo Zenden for a cut back
through the acute angel of the pitch arc
to the rocketed-feets of Lampard into the net.
Now, watch the replay; the spectacule is set.
Never underestimate the blue army clan,
These heroes & more made me a lifelong fan.

Vick Manuel Poetry {VMP}
Copyright© 7th January, 2020.

#OnTheSpotPoetry #InspiredByTheCaption #___MadeMeFallinLoveWithChelsea?? #ChelseaFC #poetking #poeticsoul #PoetSkills #poetrychallenge #poetsofinstagram #follow @vicki_dee1 #instagram #poet #vickmanuelpoetry #OnFacebook #vmp

Books

Books 

I went to the Frankfurt Book Fair the other day.
It was mind-boggling..Books! 
There were fat books, thin books,
White books, black books, tawny books,
Paperbacks, hardbacks, beautifully bound books,
Pure books, lax books, learned books, lay books,
Plain books, books of many colours,
Books on every subject under the sun, 
Not to mention other books on
Distant galaxies, pulsars, quasars, black holes,
Books on any theme you can think of,
Or on themes you can’t even pronounce, from:

Art to Arthropods,
Bees to Biochemistry,
Cats to Catastrophes
Drugs to Decadence,
Energy to Ergonomics,
French Cooking to Frescos,
Guns to Gout,
History to Hippopotami,
Internal Medicine to Icebergs'
Julius Caesar to Justification,
Kulturkampf to Kinetics,
Lace to Logogriphs,
Man to Manchuria, 
Nietzsche to Nonsense Rhymes,
Opera to Ophthalmoscopes,
Poodles to Pollution,
Quantum Mechanics to Queen Victoria,
Russell to Rabbits,
Shaw to Shingles,
Tao to Torts,
Urdu to Ultimatums,
Virgil to Vivisection,
Whales to Witchcraft, 
X-rays to Xylographs,
Yoga to Youth Hostels,
Zen to Zola,..

By closing-time my legs were giving out.
A voice, it seemed, was saying:
“Of more than is taught by these, my son, take care.
Of making many books there is no end,
And much study is weariness of the flesh.” 1

I don’t know about making them, I thought,
As I commenced my get-away from the Penguin stand,
But it takes something of an athlete just to glance at them.
On reaching the gates I felt crushed,
First by the crowds, and second,
Under the sheer weight of unfathomable ignorance.

1. Ecclesiastes 12.12

Caffeine Is My Coffin

Don't ever vouch for drunk caffeine
That it can't one show one's coffin,
Now,my heart's calm rate quickening,
Later,taxed vessels weakening
Turns it out a search for a lift
But towards Descent final drift.
One begins to question its source;
A system is being moved with force.

The waiter in every cola:
Eaters it won't make a Zola;
Even one drags by the collar,
My best movement A Parabola!

What would you have stimulated;
Samson's bearing simulated?
At the sight of caffeine stiffen:
I'd stop a long chat or briefing.

haiku : hiku : crow

  haiku

crow polishes beak shine
morning dew fresh washes window ~
gorgonzola sky

_________
hiku 

wwww
              oooooo
                            rrrrrrrrrr
             CC                                      crow
                                                        CROW
                        polishes 

                   b   /\              
                        \/         ea K             SHINE

       m o r n                         w              “””””””
                                                              ………:::
            i  n G           de    
                                           fresh
                                        \ washes /
                                          \          /    ,,,,,||||“”””””::::::—.          |||  ||||

                              
 WIN                                  - |         |-
                      DOW          -  |         | -

gor                                       Zola           
                                                                  KY    ^^^
                       ^^^^^^^^
               Gon                   “”” ***.             *****^^^^
                                             ***         S    *****^^^^^   
                                                                               @……,,,,,||||“”””””::::::—        “””””””
@@                                       /\/\/\
                                    /\                /\
                                          SK
                                ~         Y          ~

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