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The starving artist throws a party
With my paint I make a tavern,
fish, a dinner.
And fine company:
wine together with wine,
my head troubled with my head,
aching all night.
Poems on the topic: party
Poems on the topic “party” on Poets.by.
Soirée
Let the meeting of yes
and never, bear and bottle,
stone and noon
be merry with wine
and wholly underwater,
laughing at a bass.
Sad party
playing at cards
I am forced to deal
the difference between a friend
and a whore
I hear some symphony
of his own making
perform my part
and part
Party
Anyone who was everyone was there.
I love your new work
with shadows, I exclaimed
to a wan-looking moon.
Without
It is an interesting feeling,
Feeling nothing.
When something should send you reeling,
You stare blankly into the abyss.
Perhaps you've seen it before?
Perhaps not.
Maybe it's all that you abhor,
But it's been dulled down far enough.
The thunderous roar of the party;
And yet,
You've decided rather smartly
You'd rather be somewhere else.
It's not happiness, no;
Just noise.
Finding somewhere to go,
But it won't leave you alone;
Friend Whore
”Things will be fine” is their common line.
To tell you to just go away.
“Don’t touch what is mine or drink my good wine,
and no, don’t ask to stay.”
“We don’t care if you fail or end up in jail,
where it is you sleep or even if you bleed.
Just keep us mind when your struggles are over,
we love it when you succeed.”
Because they’ll be there,
like all the parties before.
Without knowledge or care,
just like a friend whore.
Victory
At the party the husband tried to defeat
his young son.
At croquet, perhaps. Or table tennis.
The wife at the party watched the husband
leaning over the game
or leaning into talk, setting his jaw, winning.
She turned to a listener. Dusk chilled her.
Breezes dragged
her hair across her face. She said,
“My husband is very competitive.”
The listener watched
a highway of loss and fatigue
form in her mind, stretch for miles.
All the women
in that neighborhood are deciduous wives
married to evergreen husbands.
Describe a feeling — we’ll find a poem
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