Thread: Sip your Sherry, you Dear Lady

Do not lend your lace-gloved hand to the gardener
yellowed from the times when
bespectacled boys bratted around you
thrusting corsages, shy fisted,
ceremoniously like daddy did
and did until he found
the right woman
who found the right nanny,
beady eyed with aquiline nose.

Malodorous Evening of Paris
little blue bottles, plastic gold rimmed
lined neatly in a row on your bureau
like skinny ducklings starved,
your ears overfed in the mornings.

Memories rush unbid from your ribbons long frayed
the cotillion dances where boy men bowed to blushed skin
and that first bold kiss, tongue moving to Lester Landon’s band.

Men, like circles, surround you; dizzying you
“Oh, your eyes are the color of violet!”
“Your lips are plump like a cushion in my heart”

And you arch your neck. A cat’s slow curl,
hair pinned back for the tease you could then afford

Time is a tyrant, terribly skewed
Now is not the time to cry sober

Sip your sherry, you dear lady
in the living room where your ancestors spoke of ancestors
where old carpet stains keep you company

Do not lend your lace-gloved hand to the gardener.

He is not your beau.

This is another one with good characterization. I like that. I'm seeing a sort of a Miss Havisham-like lady, a long-faded beauty who dwells on the past.

Nice visuals. I can almost smell that perfume. I like poetry that uses all the senses -- that really puts me someplace.

I have to say I don't like "wombman," that comes off as a little gimmicky to me. Same deal with "boymen."

I like the way it reads too, and the inclusion of the dialog. Nice little story. Well done. Inspires me to try something like this.

PS, I think it's supposed to be "sherry" -- right?

I too, see an old faded beauty dwelling on her youthful flirtations and the power she had over the boys back then.

Some of my favorite verses, I really like the picture these ones create in my mind Laurie.

bespectacled boys bratted around you
thrusting corsages, shy fisted,
ceremoniously like daddy did

Memories are indefatigable
they rush a feverish race into your ribbons long gone
the cotillion dances where boymen bowed to blushed skin
and that first bold kiss, tongue moving to Lester Landon’s band.

And you arch your neck. A cat’s slow curl,
hair pinned back for the tease you could then afford

Loved that one!

Then this one, shows the sad state she has fallen to. The ugly truth of the present which she doesn't want to live in.
A decayed and faded glory.

Sip your cherry, you dear lady
in the living room where your ancestors spoke of ancestors
where old carpet stains keep you company

Good poem Laurie!

Thanks, Joe. I was debating whether or not I should keep womban and boymen. But thought I'd let them in be just for the kind of feedback I'm getting from you.

PS, I think it's supposed to be "sherry" -- right?

Oh, you're so right and I'm so wrong. Trying to get that fixed in title. Wish we had access to do that ourselves!

I'm seeing a sort of a Miss Havisham-like lady

I wasn't aiming for that portrait but as I was writing I clearly saw the image.
Now, if I had thrown a beautiful niece in there it would have been a disaster!

Again, thanks Joe for your comments. Laurie

Title is now fixed.

Cindy, thanks so much! You always manage to pick up on my favorite lines. Think we're on the same wave length!

I too enjoyed this 'period' piece, Laurie. Clinging to faded beauty, if only in memory, is something we will likely all relate to, sooner or later. I've included some notes below:

Originally Posted by SilverMoon

Do not lend your lace gloved hand to the gardener

I think you are going for a somewhat archaic feel here with the wording, but it's a bit awkward. How about

Spare the gardener your lace-gloved hand

yellowed from the time when

yellowed from the times
bespectacled boys bratted around you
thrusting corsages, shy fisted,
ceremoniously like daddy did
and did until he found
the right woman
who found the right nanny,
beady eyed with aquiline nose.
I got a little lost at this point. Is the narrator the woman's daughter, then? Why bring in the nanny which twice removes us from the poem's subject?

Malodorous Evening of Paris
little blue bottles, plastic gold rimmed
stacked neatly in a row on your bureau
'stacked' and 'row' don't go together. Could be lined neatly or simply

in a neat row on your bureau

like skinny little ducklings starved,

we've got 'skinny' 'little' and 'starved'. That's overkill, particularly as you used 'little' a line or two earlier.
your ears overfed in the mornings.
'every morning' instead of 'in the mornings'?

(Memories are indefatigable
they rush a feverish race into your ribbons long gone)

Memories rush unbid from your ribbons long frayed:
the cotillion dances where boy men bowed to blushed skin
and that first bold kiss, tongue moving to Lester Landon’s band.

Men, like circles, surround you; dizzying you Like circles?
“Oh, your eyes are the color of violet!”
“Your lips are plump like a cushion in my heart”

And you arch your neck. A cat’s slow curl,
You arch your neck, a cat's slow curl (nice line!)
hair pinned back for the tease you could then afford suggest delete 'you could then afford'

Time is a tyrant, terribly skewed
Now is not the time to cry sober These lines are losing me again

Sip your sherry, you dear lady
in the living room where your ancestors spoke of ancestors
where old carpet stains keep you company

Do not lend your lace gloved hand to the gardener Just a repeat of the first line would work well here.
He is not your beau.

J.R. Excellent suggestion as are all. In fact, I will be incorporating them in the poem, if you don't mind. Great thanks to you~

Much better:

Memories rush unbid from your ribbons long frayed:

who found the right nanny,
beady eyed with aquiline nose.
I got a little lost at this point. Is the narrator the woman's daughter, then? Why bring in the nanny which twice removes us from the poem's subject?

Here:

ceremoniously like daddy did
and did

Could be any boy, any daddy, any mother, any nanny. I'm basically getting across the "sterotype" of a "Blue Book" society.

Time is a tyrant, terribly skewed
Now is not the time to cry sober These lines are losing me again

To be taken literally. She's out of reverie and truly ready to cry.

Hope my explainations cleared up your questions. Again, thanks much. Laurie

yellowed from the times when
bespectacled boys bratted around you

i love this image

where old carpet stains keep you company

what a beautiful line

I really enjoyed this poem. You describe this character so definitely, yet so vaguely. This is a wonderful little story. It reminds me of Bataille's the Blue of Noon

Thank you, Svir. You caught the "feel" I was hoping to get across! Laurie

Arriving late to the party, most have already mentioned the best lines, and such. So I will simply say this is my favorite of yours thus far Laurie. I feel a " Tennessee Williams " sensation in this, old southern, and opaquely blue with all its connotations.

Excellent read Hun

Originally Posted by MaggieG

Arriving late to the party, most have already mentioned the best lines, and such. So I will simply say this is my favorite of yours thus far Laurie. I feel a " Tennessee Williams " sensation in this, old southern, and opaquely blue with all its connotations.

Excellent read Hun

Thanks, Maggie. This is my first experimental piece. Going for a more sophisticated movement.

I'm late like Maggie, all the good stuff's already been said, so I guess have to settle for being an echo. If sophisticated was your goal, success is yours. This is one fine piece of writing, Laurie, from start to finish. I read it before you took out the last line of "he is not your beau" which I thought was grand, I was sad to see you removed it. My only other nit was the use of indefatigable which you've since removed, wise move, for some reason that puppy sucked me right out of the piece. I've read this multiple times, and will be returning to it now and again. I especially enjoyed it this particular afternoon as it seems a befitting companion to such a warm late spring day. Awesome piece, love, your talent is sharpening its mighty claw.

Thanks, Lisa. I've now outgrown what I now call my "basement voice" (not that there won't be "hints" of it!). I fear my work has become fairly predictable to my audience as "I" no longer get that "Wow!" upon completion. You know, that visceral feeling you get after all the cerebral work is done?

I've been reading up on Confessional poets e.g. my favorite woman, Sylvia Plath, then Anne Sexton who's more playful and Robert Lowell who was their teacher. (Certainly, this was not a Confessional piece but a "portraiture". The other genre I work with. (The Nature of the Condition of Humankind".) It's going to be a welcomed challenge to write Confessional in a more sophisticated fashion. For example: words, sentences juxtaposing each other, sometimes blatently, sometimes more inconspicuous all within one verse even. The use off odd words, unexpected ones, startling ones. A new journey.

J.R. gave me some really great pointers and I've been vacilating as to whether I should keep the last line in. I've decided I'm going to because it informs the reader that my lady is not only stuck in time but has a degree of dementia. Without that line she's not complete.

As always, I love your commentaries! Thank you. (And am glad it worked for your day!) And Happy Memorial Day weekend! Just the all American hamburgers and hot dogs for us. Laurie