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Best Poems Written by Candide Diderot

Below are the all-time best Candide Diderot poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

Details | Candide Diderot Poem

Within the White Noise

Have you ever pondered
shadows are made of 
softness, they are not 
hard surfaced like 
those of us existing 
outside of the white noise

unable to grasp -

the invisible, 
that speak meaning to us, 
whispering their sagacious platitudes,
we see them briefly, then, 
they disappear into the cracks 
in the walls of us,

we are blind -

to the shadows that stand
and walk beside us,
they make us jump, 
so we avoid looking
too closely, 
at those penumbras

we shut our windows,
we roll down the venetians,
those masks we wear daily - 
no one is an open book,
we are the bookmarks,
in our own recycling stories,
 
dog-eared each chapter -

returning occasionally
to understand what 
long sentences mean
in the shorter less than 
poetic moments 
of our purpose

intelligence scattered -

running from the hell hounds
those shadows we never 
successfully collar and lead,
they find us eventually 
and lick at our feet,
praying for us to take them in,

to love them, to tame them,
but they are wild things, living,
all in their own dimensions;
the shadows that walk beside us,
the ones we hardly ever notice, 
feed those baying Baskervilles light

to satiate, and to calm them, 
we try to love them,
those hell hounds - 
eventually they possess us,
for a while, their hunger strays
to other things

we ride the wild 
like we are them, 
they eventually turn on us
and take us by the throat, then,
we, unable to speak, resort
to writing poetry 

they rip our hearts out
greedily, the blood leaves 
a trail - and we look, 
for the shadows again,
to bring us light, still,
something of the hounds remain

you can see it 
in the eyes, 
something wild
romping in the mind, 
pulsing bright light
like a neon sign 
advising, 

"avoid at all costs, 
The Uncontained"

avoiding at all costs,
for it is far far too expensive
to entertain the loss of time
in such darkness, 
the ripening fear in others
steers them mercilessly,

they turn their backs
and walk away,
from all 
that singular madness,
"no! never that!", they think, 
that is never them;

that one, singing
beautiful unlearn’ed tunes 
to mirrors in the darkness, 
dances with ghosts 
who remember 
the brush strokes of a life,

listening to other channels -

who gift 
strange meaning
embedded automatically
between the magik 
refrains of music
of the forgotten 

the phantom heartbeat -

that one 
is with the Baskervilles
running wild and free 
barking with shadows 
loving the luscious life licking
the uncontained within





Candide Diderot. ‘24

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The Pain Sweet

Existentially you think
you know me 
having eaten a slice 
of my mind 
delicious you think
the bubbling froth 
of this poetry
peppered with sprinkles
of rising undertones 
the sugar depth charged
unstirred, yet 
touch the lip of my cup
you’d feel the burn 
the tongue means to speak
unhoneyed
the kiss stings 
the pain 
swollen 
and 
sweet







Candide Diderot. '24

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The X Spot



There was trouble written all over her
like a treasure map, gold buried deep
between the missing ampersands 
where to begin, 

X marks the spot

Y chromosones
like quicksand YX
rolled up, a necessary
reoccurring addiction
sage smoked slowly

then fed to the sharks 

gold buried deep
between the missing 
ampersands
the better treasure 
hidden

XX marks the spot




Candide Diderot. ‘24.

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small exorcisms

When your heart 
corresponds 
with your mind,
then, give it a shot,
you write 
back to me

what expressions 
you so badly 
need 
to bleed;

the characterisation 
of letters 
are alphabet soup 
to me, child's play,
peeling tattoos 
like bells ringing 
over a tongue 
not speaking,

I swallow words
hungrily 

then I spit them out,
bullets that pierce
a page, 
bulls eyes
staring back 
through the black holes, 
the other silent horns, 
all silently complicit 

small missions 
of truth 
cornucopias,
wearing through 
the thin fabric 
of ludicrous 
fantasy

feathers that fall 
from soft pillows
quaking against 
levees breaking
the barriers hitting marks 
the sands of time broken,
river banks splitting, 

the bodies drowned
and sucked up
like works of art
in a hyped up 
Hieronymus Bosch,
if you are in deep
you can make sense 
of it all, 

you know you're in it, 
that picture, way, way
up to your eyeballs

brushing against 
all the others, removed, 
flotsam and jetsam 
in the wash, sensing 
the path they all took,
but the mystery 
of never quite knowing, 
like a smell, pervades

charcoal tears 
melt all the ways
a heart can be kicked
down and gutted 
witnessed through 
gilt edged windows
full and jaded

to a gate opening,
the sound cracking 
like a mouth 
terraforming 

dustied and green 
the shaman soul 
found underneath 
it all, humourously
rustling sage over 
the external, 
a serious novice 
for burning 

small 
exorcisms

smoking out
renegades, those
stubborn seeds planted 
in long spent sentences,
those true romantics,
the forgotten ill-bred,
well-tilled, rebel poets

small 
exorcisms

for burning





Candide Diderot. ‘24 



violins.

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The Little Man

Why should we 
be allotted a day at all
there is no allotment
we carry the load 
we always have 
we always will
it is au naturale 

we succeed 
the pain, or, 
somehow 
just proceed
despite it all
the ripping open
of seals, torn -

the message crowns,

at the opening
the trident 
at the door
 
inside, revealed

we are 
the strength
potentate 
high above
the little man
the smaller 
sacrament

the Mother 
that birthed 
it all



Candide Diderot. ‘24 



“Mother is the name for God in the lips and hearts of little children.” 





Barber, Samuel. Adagio. Strings.
William Makepeace Thackeray.
International Womens' Day.

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Behind the Eternal Fringes

The unpopular 
express 
their popular strings
to the garrison, contained
within 
safe boundaries, there,
their thoughts 
pirouetting words 
hung, 
the black beetles 
shine 
like exotic 
fresh water 
pearls strung 
waving like 
green peas shelled 
nonchalantly cast 
into boiling pots 
not of their own making 
in the soup of 
the fifth estate 
boiled well,
swallowed 
and regurgitated,
muses

the pods left wide open 
floating in the nowhere
like emerald boats without sails

blinking 
internal, 
forever behind

the eternal fringes







Candide Diderot. ‘24 





homonyms

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Tar and Feathers

We exist in space and time 
invisible, unseen for who we
truly are exchanging 
words for thoughts
never face-to-face
but touching just the same
vitriol tossed with the sweetness
fair barter for some form 
of kind heaven exchanging 
inclement weather
to the vestries of 
each others’ 
netherworlds 
divesting 
tar and feathers



Candide Diderot. ‘24 





head on.

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Night Creatures

Like a gecko, that one changes their colours
speaks in tongues long then short blue
climbing up and down walls clicking
translating the draconians’ poetic profusions
all are night creatures in the absence of light fluctuations

they scurry along the cracks over the white and the black 
5 fingers 5 toes, quite quite reptilian, 
efficient in the chosen environment, useful,
amusing a muse, then, when the mourning sun rises, 
contradictory, scurrilous, misplaced, undeniably ugly, 

yet cute

Night creatures, light framed 
lone vigils, velvet skinned strict vigilantes
on all fours preying Carthusian monks
nakedly bathed in absinthe chartreuse
through their clicking chants, looking for true

through the glass onion
peeling back layers 
shedding skin
on a wall
5 fingers, 5 toes 

amusing a muse



Candide Diderot. ‘24 





sadeness.
enigma.

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Other

The world could end tomorrow
and here we sit writing filigree
stitching daisy loops loves me loves me not

torn lace like words to be removed 
eventually, life felt melting in the silky grooves
to reveal what’s naked underneath

a last cry into the early morning hours
like a freed nightingale

the cardinals in their red capes
sit on the aloof shoulders of watching trees
come to collect for themselves

some Other’s sweet moment of release



Candide Diderot. ‘24




Dissolved Girl.

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The Ordinary Heart

The Invisible unpicked the stitches
holding the broken pieces together
like loud music Love spilled like poetry 
from the ordinary heart 






Candide Diderot. ‘24