Long Coquetry Poems
Long Coquetry Poems. Below are the most popular long Coquetry by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Coquetry poems by poem length and keyword.
The mechanical bird covered with diamonds, sings only
waltzes until the insides give way, and the sound
of his craft is crowing. Whether or not
(my Ladies and Gentlemen, and the Emperor above all)
the mood is coquetry, gurgling as if their mouths held
sweet water, cheesemongers, chambermaids and courtiers,
lackeys and the Duchess, all try for a nightingale,
and the Chief Imperial Singer of the Bed Chamber.
The bird, wound up, wags its tail and sounds the same
tune (decided beforehand) times over, and the moment
of a thousand gold lamps, where the walls and the floor
are made of china is recompense for the title of "Cook."
Even the Emperor's heart is on the left side.
The writers of books insist the Black Art untrue,
but the kitchen maid waiting in the outside world
where the garden ends, finds the cow's bellow gracious,
and frogs croaking in the marsh are church bells.
She dallies for tickets to the court festival to see
the emperor dining, and the ZI-ZI-BI of the Music Master
charms the evil away though he fix on her the great
hollows of his eyes and jewels glare.
In the woods blue by the bay, a small grey bird among
branches believes all that is written, watching
maids and their men grow merry on tea, their forefingers
in the air as they dance.
"Though I live alone,
my song is not stone,
Neither rubies, diamonds, nor pearls,
And the world is a place.
There the actual grace
Will tolerate waltzes and whirls.
Where the loud drums sound,
Both upside and down,
The sword strikes, the gold banner flies,
But porcelin takes care,
I sing as I dare,
And tears are in the Emperor's eyes."
Form:
Dark louring clouds,
Golden hues of flirting pirouettes,
Hushed waters,
A gentle breeze in whispering conversation,
Lovers' bliss,
Dream's honeycomb,
The soul shall have its sweets,
And taste love floating free,
Where the shore kisses the sea,
With subtle coquetry.
I shall meet my heart,
Where her emotions are soaked,
She will lure me into her depths,
To caress that special flame,
I shall not resist the urge,
Standing on the edge,
Where my fall will be splashing delights,
And when you have had me,
I shall confess,
That never have I loved like this,
Where everything in me is consumed,
By delicious flows,
Of sea song and heartbeat waves.
BANISH ME TO THE BOOKSHOP
Chain me, so I can roam. Lock me away in this bower.
Banish me to the bookshop - i’ll enjoy this affair for hours!
First editions recline behind smudge-proof glass.
Lock-and-key lick of lips, but I can’t afford the brass
ring, the covet of unopened leather, so I’d dance
through each unshielded shelf, illuminated romance,
the touch like a lover’s touch, before the cover’s
turned down. Miniature to oversized, to discover -
here titles do matter - beautiful, powerful, charming.
Turning over the self-help discourse, disarming
of self-loathing, fear, and bitter soul. Then straight
to a perfumery of fairy tales, feel the weight
of each piece of fruit in the balance of my teeny palms.
Even in the claustrophobic stuffiness of this shop, I feel calm.
Like tickling braille, my fingers glide over each word,
riveted by the familiar scent, I close my eyes, bestirred
by mysteries, history, fantasy, and the coquetry,
the delicious pageantry, vivid hues and imagery of poetry.
Chain me, so I can roam. Lock me away in this bower.
Banish me to the bookshop - i’ll enjoy this affair for hours!
3/10/2021
Bookshop
Sponsor: Kai Michael Neumann
I feel a nauseating revulsion to see scraps of prose
Bundled together in a neatened pile in the name of poetry,
And prizes being awarded for such otiose verbiage
And praises being heaped for such boring coquetry.
Poetry, my dear uninitiated impostors,
Is the language of the mute solemn gods.
You ought to choose your nifty title well
And thus commence your verse against the odds.
Avoid Soyinka’s worn-out style of incompetent blank verse,
Instead, give it the rhyme scheme of the unbeatable Yeats;
The superior verse that one Tom Mboya has never read,
The taste that a Kenyan editor will haul over the rooftop sheets.
Line after line beg the company of some higher Muse
So that you may pen the will of the gods and not your own;
Alliterate here and there though you must not make it your aim,
Then lunge into deeper thought with a deity-like melancholy tone.
And never seek fame for your sacred poetic tasks.
Leave the young to sing your lyrics centuries upon your death,
And remember a great weaver of rhymes long deceased
And pray and wish you immortal blissful health.
A governess, a guardian of the young, so known and dear as to be called “Mother” and a noblewoman, just barely 12 by age, named Portia, sit talking as the sun sets the stage for a cool, cloudless night.
“Mother, who invented candlelight and the slow, delicate brush of lips?”
“Some rakish boy, pawning his experience for present pleasure, no doubt.”
“Say true, Mother. If you were a man, would you find this common body worthy of love?”
“You show no blemish child, and display a certain bony voluptuousness - I should think.”
The governess begins to comb and braid Portia’s hair for sleep.
“I saw Portincio this morning, in the courtyard.”
“The boy from Padua?”
“He’s a man Mother, and his cast portents a passion so sweet - it shakes my very frame.”
Mother chuckles, “Even hopeless birds sing in cages.”
“I am not hopeless!” Portia writhes angrily, like a snake about to strike but mother calms her.
“Shoo, shoo, now,” Mother purrs, brushing all the more gently, “I meant nothing of it.” After a moment, she continues, “Love is more than coquetry, little one, and it soon passes - like a parade, or a rash. For now, be happy, you are like the chaste stars - unreachable.”
The ballerina with her coquetry
and prince with yawning tights his legs stump me.
Her twirl a-spin with graceful poise so long.
The twaddle of his movements poor ping-pong.
Unhandsome chin and rabbit ears so dull
But Alice charms before the queen of bull.
Her ruffles white, she curtsies with a kiss
the redness of a playing card’s abyss.
A timed waste for the prince - he scorns his watch.
His buffoonish pants made of trips and starch.
The queen, she’s not amused — “Off with their heads!”
“I shall have rabbit stew and corset seeds”
The ballerina begs with lashes long
The queen so flatly states her wish “S’long!”
Just then a storm reshuffles deck - a win.
The queen’s been tossed - the duo rides their Schwinn.
To find a finer ballet stage just in
The precise time for girls and rabbit-spin.
10/22/2018
Try Something New Poetry Contest
Sponsor - Nina Parmenter
With dodgy rhymes
Claudelle, we must go away and start a new life.
This fruitless sharecropping has just cost me my wife.
Believe me, in every way, I loved your mother.
Frustrated and annoyed, she left me for another.
I know you were heartbroken about what happened to Linn.
You will love someone else after we begin again.
A bunch of other men want to hold you in their arms.
They fall peril to all of your feminine charms.
Your mother wanted you to marry a man fat and old.
To her, he seemed to be worth his weight in gold.
You knew deep inside he was not right for you.
Never did you have feelings for him that were true.
What sadness and grief love sometimes brings.
Your flirting and coquetry have made a mess of things.
Too many men are now competing for you.
We will leave these surroundings and start anew.
Based on the novel "Claudelle Inglish" by the late Erskine Caldwell and the 1961 film with the same title.
Kawaali or Kawali ( A form of Singing very popular in India and Pakistan )
SAMPLE OF A KAWAALI - ONE CAN HEAR ON U TUBE http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rNYwneo08xQ&p=12E509C60B2AAEC7&playnext=1&index=70
I Can Hear your Voice In My Heart Part 1/2 ( More details on my first Blog )
By a Male Singer or a Group of Singers
The singer is trying to please his lover by these beautiful words-
Kawaali or the singing starts from here:
01
'I can hear the voices of your appearance,
On the musical strings of my heart,
Only a touch would play its music,
Such is the fascination of your art'.
01
Reply By a Female Singer or a Group of Singers
The female singer is trying to reply her strange lover –
'You say that I have created music, on the strings of your heart,
But you throw your precious heart on every one, what to say of me,
And you repeat the same story, with every new face you come across,
Telling her with all the drama that only she has stolen your heart'.
02
Another plea By a Male Singer or a Group of Singers
'My heart has gone beyond the control of me,
Such is the graceful enchants of your youth,
Your movements create dazzling lightening,
You say this is just the beauty of your grace'.
02
Reply By a Female Singer or a Group of Singers
'How, when you are not in control of your heart, you say, it is only for me,
Feeling the lightening even in my movements, you sing a song in praise of me,
Your heart repeats the same story, feeling the grace and beauty in every face new,
These are only your sweet excuses, to mould a heart and to weave a story'.
03
Another plea By a Male Singer or a Group of Singers
'What you call the simplicity of your beauty,
The world is dying on it, to sacrifice anything.
It may be a beautiful Adaa* or grace for you,
But, its a thing of existence and life and death for me'.
03
By a Female Singer or a Group of Singers
'Sometimes you talk to die on my simplicity,
Sometimes you talk about the splendors of my beauty,
Proclaiming to die on my splendors and simplicity,
You wish to encroach, even in my dreams, O stranger'.
Ravindra
Kanpur India 9th October 2010 to be concluded in part II
*Adaa- a Urdu word means charm, grace, coquetry
* Husna*or Husn is a Urdu word means - beauty, elegance
Lady Melanie with silver locks
Loved her bonbons, bagels, and graved lox.
Curmudgeon geezers viewed her a fox,
But she loved them less than chicken pox.
Melanie kept free as best she could.
She allowed no time for coquetry
Or Penelope-style stitchery.
But three bores persistence understood.
Trini, a jet jockey CEO
Lived his life allegro con brio.
As his lovely red Lamborghini,
His love raced too fast for Melanie.
Claude, a failed nebulous maunderer,
Gossip, post-modern philosopher
Believed everything in life was free,
Which made sweet Mellie his property.
Her third paramour drove flat-bed trucks.
When Bo misspoke, he would say “Aw shucks!”
And then, hands on, wordlessly switch gears.
She cast him off leaving him in tears.
Single she may wait until too late,
For a blissful bridal altar state.
Should her three bores e'er face a hot date
At least she shall stand at heaven’s gate.