Pity the Beautiful
By Dana Gioia
Pity the beautiful,
the dolls, and the dishes,
the babes with big daddies
granting their wishes.
Pity the pretty boys,
the hunks, and Apollos,
the golden lads whom
success always follows.
The hotties, the knock-outs,
the tens out of ten,
the drop-dead gorgeous,
the great leading men.
Pity the faded,
the bloated, the blowsy,
the paunchy Adonis
whose luck’s gone lousy.
Pity the gods,
no longer divine.
Pity the night
the stars lose their shine.
Source: Poetry (May 2011).
When I am an old woman, I shall wear purple
with a red hat that doesn't go, and doesn't suit me.
And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves
and satin candles, and say we've no money for butter.
I shall sit down on the pavement when I am tired
and gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells
and run my stick along the public railings
and make up for the sobriety of my youth.
I shall go out in my slippers in the rain
and pick the flowers in other people's gardens
and learn to spit.
You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat
and eat three pounds of sausages at a go
or only bread and pickles for a week
and hoard pens and pencils and beer nuts and things in boxes.
But now we must have clothes that keep us dry
nd pay our rent and not swear in the street
and set a good example for the children.
We must have friends to dinner and read the papers.
But maybe I ought to practice a little now?
So people who know me are not too shocked and surprised
When suddenly I am old, and start to wear purple.
By Jenny Joseph
That would be lovely dweez. I used to write page after page of poetry when I was younger but it seems my Muse has deserted me.
Smokes, judging by this poem alone, your son has the dangerous potential of becoming a poet.
Smokes, judging by this poem alone, your son has the dangerous potential of becoming a poet.
I'll try to find the poem I wrote for my old girlfriend who later become my ex-wife. I know I have it somewhere.
Image at Dawn
As the morning rays lick my face, I awake and breathe in her wonder and pause as my mind swoons in her beauty. The sun lightly trickles down her face, as if it were afraid to mar such alluring grace for fear of being doused in shame. Her hair, reflecting the beams in a myriad of hues, causes a spectrum of rouge and crimson to dazzle my eyes, forcing me to blink, afraid that if I do this angel will spirit away leaving me empty and wanting. The striking hues of her locks, drawing me to her, are contrasted by the soft petals that are her cheeks. As I reach out to caress the supple skin the thought of an angel again enters my mind. I tense in surprise as, expecting to pass through her like a billowing cloud, my arms surround her gentle frame. As I hold her near, I sense an esoteric vigor that belies her delicate stature.
I am now complete.