Within the palm of Miles Davis From a 1986 photograph by Irving Penn You can feel the grooves all the notes created from exhausted breaths, of his lips chapped gold on his glowing instrument, gripping sounds trying to capture music— by coloring the air canvas with new notes he creates in the gust of improvisation, always chasing the rhythm that eludes him— under the sweat of spotlight, overcoming calluses, he reaches for creations exhale, when he blows, Davis loves the taste of inspiration inside his mouth, making out with masterpieces in the middle of his solo— with so many miles to go his trumpet never sleeps. Midnight at Newnham Gardens Sylvia loved speaking poetry to the sculpted boy and dolphin, splashing in Cambridge winter silence, as she moved her shivered lips speaking to something who could listen without accents. She loved to daydream within the snow globe shadows. Plath would make up naturally blessed Ariel verses and the boy would glow statuesque— frozen marble eyes would attract her night after night, not saying much ears open waiting to hear her sneaker footsteps, standing in front of her quiet friend was her favorite solitude, conversations sharing December breaths alone, when she spoke in whispered Winthrop, Massachusetts rhymes, Plath would beautifully melt icicles. Chewing midnight sojurn, Sylvia loved listening Trying to decipher all the frozen London voices— buried in the moonlit snow. Driving us, Floating Uptown Bluntly passing joints watching the street car, car stereo loudly imagines Bob Dylan between us, almost floating on the grassy median while on this short mind trip, you drove us Uptown on St. Charles Avenue, the trees are colorful carnival umbrellas, scattered with Mardi Gras beads hanging on every branch. As I reach from the car window, wishing I could grab one but as you signal to turn the car onto your street. I can feel my munchies kick in, remembering the laughter when we smoked out, it was not just getting high, passing me the joint, there was this unspoken joy of two buddies lifted, sitting on his couch listening to Dylan’s Man of Constant Sorrow, two po boys munching down on our favorite Magazine St. sandwiches, minds stoned sharing so many silence of moments— although I’ve forgotten so many NOLA nights, shows at Tipitinas, State Palace Theatre raves, free movie passes at Canal Place Prytania, pizza slices/ SIN discount drinks at Club Decatur— I always remember cotton mouth contagious, like howlin’ wolves lifting our spirits, joyfully, sipping bottled beers next to a buddy in a smoky room, with minds in the clouds, always missing the jubilant uptown banter, bongs of remembrances parking grins— spinning CD’s imagining Dylan between us, lyrically lighting one up, in an afternoon daze, with my buddy Keefer the high always transcends. Only the wind can truly kiss me “I was coming apart. / They loved me until/ I was gone” — Anne Sexton Some nights, I sleepwalk on the beach, waking up quivering, knowing this is where my often maltreated body loves to feel the chills rippling against my robe, titillating underneath, my naked skin. My face loves the way the gust could reach deeper, each breeze against my cheeks, the gale kisses wildly like no man’s lips never dared to reach— the wind never takes me, she blows inviting thoughts so cool, revealing the only time I feel naturally blushing without make up, just me— my eyes closed loving how much the tempest winds match each storming burst tempting so beautifully disrobing me from my inside. (If I had) Five Minutes with Marilyn Monroe From a 1955 photograph by Ed Feingersh at Costello’s Restaurant, NYC I would light up more than her cigarette, and her soft inquisitives smile. I would sit across the booth and encourage her not to only focus on silver dreams, attractions becoming only on theatre screens. Instead of centerfold, photoshoots, exposing more than skin, show all your body, volumes printed from the spine. Remember Sandburg, Miller, Capote’s gift? You too can expose sharing every imperfect scar, have your legacy so brave on the page, each line you bare engraved like a lyrical kiss. So many dreaming to touch you, why not reach out with words from afar? Reflecting your verses connecting so much closer, circulating each of your most secret fragments, pieces, crumpled ink stains see through markings; underneath your flashing beauty reveals the most captivating poetry a voice of siren, that star is you. At Marilyn's grave Still everblooming like the roses glowing on your wall, despite everyone who doubted you, those who could never see beyond your beauty, your life, a poem, like the most perfect rhyme, in eternity’s spotlight, Norma Jeane even my shuttering camera knows you will outlive us all. Bio: Adrian Ernesto Cepeda is the author of Flashes & Verses… Becoming Attractions from Unsolicited Press, Between the Spine from Picture Show Press, Speaking con su Sombra with Alegría Publishing, La Belle Ajar & We Are the Ones Possessed from CLASH Books and his 6th poetry collection La Lengua Inside Me will be published by FlowerSong Press in 2023. Adrian lives with his wife in Los Angeles with their adorably spoiled cat Woody Gold.
Category: Marilyn Monroe
Poetry by Jackie Chou inspired by Plath,Sexton and Marilyn Monroe
The Morning Walk I wander the streets in late mornings, windblown hair brushing against my face, jagged at the ends, as if torn by a shark's teeth. The eyes inside the booming cars pierce my thin skin. I wear a sweater, but it doesn't protect me from their glares. I'm a pedestrian. My slow steps and daydreams get in the way of a world that needs to keep moving, keep its children fed. Escaping the Voices The night has fallen, turning the sky deep purple, the color of bruises. Outside the glass door of the place I call home, the noises, and the witchy voices on the intercom, are drowned out. Some men have tried to quell my anxiety. We've gone browsing in the shoe store, the phone company, to distract me from fears. But I've come back again and again, to hardened criminals with hard hearts. I've held them to my chest, let them chew me to bits. I've gotten used to this frozen sidewalk, where I've learned to ground my feet. The following Poem inspired by Marilyn Monroe's poetry Life- I have been a rose, sometimes wishing to be the bee buried in its petals, the one who is intoxicated by another's nectar. But life- I have bloomed in your very dance halls, twirled under the strobe light in satin and chiffon dresses, red-lipped and silver-footed. I've looked into the mirror long and hard, my flushed cheeks yellowing under the bathroom lamp, the years stolen from my face. Bio: Jackie Chou writes poems about romantic love, friendship, coming of age, grief over losses, mental illness, the creative process, and more. Some of her works are published by Fevers of the Mind Press. Her new poetry collection, Finding My Heart in Love and Loss, published by cyberwit.net, is available on Amazon.
Poetry Showcase: Rp Verlaine (May 2023) inspired by Townes, Kerouac & more
Bio: Rp Verlaine lives in New York City. He has an MFA in creative writing from City College. He taught in New York Public schools for many years. His first volume of poetry- Damaged by Dames & Drinking was published in 2017 and another – Femme Fatales Movie Starlets & Rockers in 2018. A set of three e-books titled Lies From The Autobiography vol 1-3 were published from 2018 to 2020. His latest book, Imagined Indecencies, was published in February of 2022. He was nominated for a pushcart prize in poetry in 2021 and 2022. Haiku for Jack Kerouac Too drunk to find where I was headed or been. Coney Island at the freak show I find my soul mate. Warming up the stripper takes off her glasses. No strings attached shows you how even bondage gets complicated The ashtray tells me how many cigarettes I've had since quitting. Moonlight finds the thumb of the hitchhiker My dance partner a bottle Stargazers We hot wire a car though we are far beyond any false sparks we may need. We make out between precautions abandoned and the waiting jail cells promised to us since birth. Cars seem to stand still, all going 55, too slow to chase us- totally high on meth and too crazy for redemption. This is our sixth robbery in three months. Two 7-11cashiers think we’re joking as if we knew how. And though my nine isn’t loaded, it looks good in her hand. The last holdup got us some ink in the local papers. We peel the Chevy Camaro out of the lot , leaving a blue blur crossing red lights. Out the window, we throw twenties at the stunned hitchhikers we pass. They'll remember us which is the point or it isn't. Outside the city limits she wants to play. Lust interferes our planned getaway to nowhere but what the heck. She chokes me and laughs, daring me to do it to her harder. The backseat leaves us bruised but the wine heals our pain. We stargaze on a hill, sad we don't see a shooting star which would be just right. Bottle empty when she starts more kissing. As flashlights like sabers penetrate our fog. The Sheriff's gun registers big time. .When she tells him the handcuffs are way too tight, the Sheriff smiles and jokes- we thought you'd like that. Zero Kickbacks of Love I should've stayed clear or seen past the broken glass to what it was. A mix of liquor both good and bad taken straight. Only one of us in love paying every day for zero kickbacks of love. Watching always her lovers real and imagined in the rear view mirror with face against the reflector. Driving with nervous hands on the wheel on those cruel nights when nerves shook me not knowing where she was. Impossible to find an illusion which was all she was. While I relived stolen moments in a nightmare waking up to turn on the radio to hear voices to convince me I was less alone... Until she came home smiling. We ended it promising to stay out of each other's lives. I do not miss the distress or being a jester stripped of the joke while played with like a child's toy. Love covets its petty tortures as it does its delights. Even with her gone I can't remove the poison she left to crawl in my veins. Loves petty tortures... Being drunk before noon again thinking of her, in an empty bar is one of them. Remembrance For Townes Van Zandt Ever laconic, drifting on any number of limitless booze and pills. Hardened self-respect lost in mirrors long ago cracked for wire thin showman w/ ace songs up and down his sleeves. A genius too many said to be ½ wrong. Bittersweet tunes laced with the underdog's sad eyed look as wistful idealism slithered through despair. Only 52 at his demise the cheap parlor trick of making virtuosity disappear. He is much missed. On his birthday, I listen to his masterpieces on old vinyl they were made in that just seemed to know... the odds of winning while playing the devil's default clauses. Where there's no such thing as dying from natural causes. 10/27/13 For Lou Reed After ten text messages state and restate your death… real tears come. Much later I let the usual escapes fail me. A foreign movie the wrong company and drugs no more illicit now than then to fuck me up enough to forget the present is temporary as all of us are to every mirror that matters… as fewer and fewer do. Making memory a hostage we have no ransom for only counterfeit dreams cheaper by the day. Invisible Handcuffs For Nick Cave “I'm layers of dark beneath that, she said is unsettled turbulence.” Her invisible handcuffs I ask to loosen she sets conditions. Staling all my Ramones t-shirts, so I'll like her a fraction less. Still it's strange to kiss her tattoos of Nick Cave on her thighs most nights. Until thin ice gives way to the deep cracks between each word we speak. She tells me she can wear gold in other places besides her fingers. Not a day-walker avoiding the sun keeps her pale skin white. I wonder about her with vague trepidation. Her eyes tell me she's a vampire but her cross tattoo hints she might be just going through a phase. Vicki For Lou Reed You were so fearless others followed asking few questions. In high school every boy learned to beg after watching you walk Doe-eyed girls all wanted to be you toteing birth control & voodoo dolls.. You who called lovers disposable, not that any got close enough to argue. No one has forgotten the night you threw Marcy halfway down the stairs For calling you a whore even if it was true You did fuck her boyfriend In a bathroom when a party got too damned dull. Or the time a limo pulled up to the club and the driver picked you from the rest. And you got 400 bucks to piss in an old man's mouth he didn't touch you- you said. For years, you supported more musicians than welfare by stripping in clubs Your drug habits so well known tales abound of near arrests and spectacular overdoses. Yesterday, I learned you have Aids that the new drugs can't help you nor will friends scarce as hope. So I write this -to mark in the wind a fragile beauty fallen- wishing only you or I- had learned how to pray. For Marilyn Monroe in Niagara Not yet the actress-Strasberg's method made her nor the diva forcing directors to wait for hours. Nor the legend books would fail to decipher she is here a presence that somehow towers over the falls themselves with callow ease moving as if each false step carries an alibi beyond a shady past she wants no one to see through a primal allure of 1/2 smiles and lies. Her cunning however is undone by wild fear when she's hunted and becomes the prey Monroe dazzles as she totally disappears in the role till her violent end can't be delayed Hands on her throat her mad husband gasps “I loved you Rose- You must know that” THORN OF THE ROSE for Joni Mitchell please dream of me you said and i ask what for when the stillness in my heart is but an ocean roar beating for you like ocean water into the sand washing away everything that was my love will stand and where will you be away somewhere laughing at me all too unaware of the blood in my hands that ill hardly know gotten by touching you thorn of the rose and when our words are mere echoes that no longer ring lost in the confusion and doubt that strikes deep within to a truth so uncertain that it cannot be found know only this-longing and you-shall always be bound and what would you say nothing i could hear that wouldnt make me cringe or reduce me to tears when your lies and deceptions are finally exposed tearing those they embrace as do thorns of the rose and when the candles have all blown out in a fold and like the starless night the airs searching and cold as it looks for a reason and traces what was if theres nothing left there will be my love and how will i find you away somewhere laughing with another all too unaware of the blood on my hands that ill hardly know gotten by touching you as do thorns of the rose yes the blood on my hands that ill hardly know gotten by touching you as do thorns of the rose
Poetry inspired by Marilyn Monroe by Sarah Wallis
Bio: Sarah Wallis lives by the sea on the East Coast of Scotland, since moving from Yorkshire x4 years ago. She publishes cross genre, highlights are poetry in The Yorkshire Poetry Anthology, Abridged The Violet Hour, flash fiction at Ellipsis, a winning story at The Welkin and art in Feral. Recent work includes hybrid poem art at Osmosis, in print journals Gutter, Fragmented Voices, Eat the Storms –print and podcast. Chapbooks include Medusa Retold, Precious Mettle and How to Love the Hat Thrower.
Fuchsia the Illusionist She sweeps in all tremble-breath, so perfectly Marilyn, hour-glassing, bedazzling the gazing, adoring masses, and they unkempt, bedraggled, full blown roses, through a hedge backwards, she takes it all in and flicks her eyes one way, smiling, then another, frowning as first one faints, one fans, one befurgles themselves, Oh Marilyn! She raises an eyebrow, a sunbeam smile and dark glasses, waves... but still she is a fuchsia, an eminent specimen, bedecked in fine pinks and purples, the soft focus jewels, the balmy tinted nights, her twilight chandeliers twinkle like sails at sunset, out of the light ready to sparkle, lets her full skirts fall, begins the flower duet, alone, a ballet on the breeze, lanterns lilt, for a final breathless shimmywilt, down to the close of the day.