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Madame Bovary is myself.

quote by Gustave Flaubert
Added by Lucian Velea
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Tenth Commandment Explained

Madame Bovary could cheerfully have carried
on adultering if she had not run out
of money, which is something you can’t do without
when having an affair with someone who is married.

Money helps support adultery, that’s why
the people coveting their neighbor’s spouse
will also covet things they own, their house
a means to pay for the adultery they play.

Inspired by Margaret Atwood, who told Deborah Solomon in an interview in the NYT Magazine, September 28,2008 that Madam Bovary that it was overspending that caused Madam Bovary’s adultery to come to a premature end:
As one of Canada’s most esteemed novelists and poets, you are about to deliver a series of public lectures on a seemingly nonliterary subject, “Payback: Debt and the Shadow Side of Wealth, ” which is also the title of your latest book. Your timing is perfect. Well, I didn’t do it on purpose. It’s not my fault. I didn’t make those banks collapse.
I thought maybe you made the banks fail in order to help your book sales. I didn’t even consider it. When I came up with the idea two or three years ago and planned out the lectures, this was not on the horizon. Everybody was happily buying subprime-mortgage vehicles.
So what led you to take up the subject of debt? Long ago, I was a graduate student in Victorian literature. When you think of the 19th-century novel, you think romance — you think Heathcliff, Cathy, Madame Bovary, etc. But the underpinning structure of those novels is money, and Madame Bovary could have cheerfully gone on committing adultery for a long time if she hadn’t overspent.
Are you saying we should view her as a pioneer of deficit spending? You can examine the whole 19th century from the point of view of who would have maxed out their credit cards. Emma Bovary would have maxed hers out. No question. Mr. Scrooge would not have. He would have snipped his up.

9/29/08

poem by Gershon Hepner
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Madame George

Down on cyprus avenue
With a childlike vision leaping into view
Clicking, clacking of the high heeled shoe
Ford & fitzroy, madame george
Marching with the soldier boy behind
Hes much older with hat on drinking wine
And that smell of sweet perfume comes drifting through
The cool night air like shalimar
And outside theyre making all the stops
The kids out in the street collecting bottle-tops
Gone for cigarettes and matches in the shops
Happy taken madame george
Thats when you fall
Whoa, thats when you fall
Yeah, thats when you fall
When you fall into a trance
A sitting on a sofa playing games of chance
With your folded arms and history books you glance
Into the eyes of madame george
And you think you found the bag
Youre getting weaker and your knees begin to sag
In the corner playing dominoes in drag
The one and only madame george
And then from outside the frosty window raps
She jumps up and says lord have mercy I think its the cops
And immediately drops everything she gots
Down into the street below
And you know you gotta go
On that train from dublin up to sandy row
Throwing pennies at the bridges down below
And the rain, hail, sleet, and snow
Say goodbye to madame george
Dry your eye for madame george
Wonder why for madame george
And as you leave, the room is filled with music, laughing, music,
Dancing, music all around the room
And all the little boys come around, walking away from it all
So cold
And as youre about to leave
She jumps up and says hey love, you forgot your gloves
And the gloves to love to love the gloves...
To say goodbye to madame george
Dry your eye for madame george
Wonder why for madame george
Dry your eyes for madame george
Say goodbye in the wind and the rain on the back street
In the backstreet, in the back street
Say goodbye to madame george
In the backstreet, in the back street, in the back street
Down home, down home in the back street

[...] Read more

song performed by Van Morrison
Added by Lucian Velea
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Little Pierre's Song

In a humble room in London sat a pretty little boy,
By the bedside of his sick mother her only joy,
Who was called Little Pierre, and who's father was dead;
There he sat poor boy, hungry and crying for bread.

There he sat humming a little song, which was his own,
But to the world it was entirely unknown,
And as he sang the song he felt heartsick,
But he resolved to get Madame Malibran to sing his song in public

Then he paused for a moment and clasped his hands,
And running to the looking-glass before it he stands,
Then he smoothed his yellow curls without delay,
And from a tin box takes a scroll of paper worn and grey.

Then he gave one fond eager glance at his mother,
Trying hard brave boy his grief to smother,
As he gazed on the bed where she lay,
But he resolved to see Madame Malibran without delay.

Then he kissed his mother while she slept,
And stealthily from the house he crept,
And direct to Madame Malibran's house he goes,
Resolved to see her no matter who did him oppose.

And when he reached the door he knocked like a brave gallant
And the door was answered by her lady servant,
Then he told the servant Madame Malibran he wished to see
And the servant said, oh yes, I'll tell her immediately.

Then away the servant goes quite confident,
And told her a little boy wished to see her just one moment
Oh! well, said Madame Malibran, with a smile,
Fetch in the little boy he will divert me a while.

So Little Pierre was broght in with his hat under his arm
And in his hand a scroll of paper, thinking it no harm,
Then walked straight up to Madame Malibran without dread
And said, dear lady my mother is sick and in want of bread.

And I have called to see if you would sing my little song,
At someof your grand concerts, Ah! Say before long,
Or perhaps you could sell it to a publisher for a small sum,
Then I could buy food for my mother and with it would run.

Then Madame Malibran rose from her seat most costly and grand
And took the scroll of paper from Pierre's hand
And hummed his little song, to a plaintive air,
Then said, your song is soul stirring I do declare.

[...] Read more

poem by William Topaz McGonagall
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The Cōforte of Louers

The prohemye.

The gentyll poetes/vnder cloudy fygures
Do touche a trouth/and clokeit subtylly
Harde is to cōstrue poetycall scryptures
They are so fayned/& made sētēcyously
For som do wryte of loue by fables pryuely
Some do endyte/vpon good moralyte
Of chyualrous actes/done in antyquyte
Whose fables and storyes ben pastymes pleasaunt
To lordes and ladyes/as is theyr lykynge
Dyuers to moralyte/ben oft attendaunt
And many delyte to rede of louynge
Youth loueth aduenture/pleasure and lykynge
Aege foloweth polycy/sadnesse and prudence
Thus they do dyffre/eche in experyence
I lytell or nought/experte in this scyence
Compyle suche bokes/to deuoyde ydlenes
Besechynge the reders/with all my delygence
Where as I offende/for to correct doubtles
Submyttynge me to theyr grete gentylnes
As none hystoryagraffe/nor poete laureate
But gladly wolde folowe/the makynge of Lydgate
Fyrst noble Gower/moralytees dyde endyte
And after hym Cauncers/grete bokes delectable
Lyke a good phylozophre/meruaylously dyde wryte
After them Lydgate/the monke commendable
Made many wonderfull bokes moche profytable
But syth the are deed/& theyr bodyes layde in chest
I pray to god to gyue theyr soules good rest

Finis prohemii.

Whan fayre was phebus/w&supere; his bemes bryght
Amyddes of gemyny/aloft the fyrmament
Without blacke cloudes/castynge his pured lyght
With sorowe opprest/and grete incombrement
Remembrynge well/my lady excellent
Saynge o fortune helpe me to preuayle
For thou knowest all my paynfull trauayle
I went than musynge/in a medowe grene
Myselfe alone/amonge the floures in dede
With god aboue/the futertens is sene
To god I sayd/thou mayst my mater spede
And me rewarde/accordynge to my mede
Thou knowest the trouthe/I am to the true
Whan that thou lyst/thou mayst them all subdue
Who dyde preserue the yonge edyppus
Whiche sholde haue be slayne by calculacyon
To deuoyde grete thynges/the story sheweth vs

[...] Read more

poem by Stephen Hawes
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Madame de la Pompadour (Revised)

Madame de la Pompadour puts Darcy’s condescending
aunt in ‘Pride and Prejudice’, Lady Catherine de Bourgh,
to shame by being more arrogant than said worthy Lady
ever was when scolding the poor into harmony and plenty

Madame declines to come to work like we poor peasants
yet regards Mary Poppins disdainfully, judging her useful
discovery of an element of diversionary fun in boring
jobs a doddle that is wanting in every ethical respect

She’s blissfully above ethics involved in rigidly maintaining
State policy regarding personal leave, stays home indolently
claiming social life ineffable excuse to remain insensitive
of mutual obligations towards her State employer

Scolding one and all into administrative prowess and bland,
textbook translations finely tuned to dissonant registers in which
the original score was produced - while emitting clouds of smoke
that would be the envy of a Cruella DeVille planning to

make coats from Dalmatian skins; Hannibal Lecter in ‘Silence
of the Lambs’ would be proud to claim her acquaintance as
fellow cannibal and Pollyanna, who routinely finds excuses for
delinquents, failed come up with quaint innovative pretexts

making a catch-all smoke-screen valid for the Madame’s
continuous absence – only Sherlock Holmes would be able
to find dysfunctional clues particular to which mental screws
are loose in Madame’s imperious imbalanced indolence…

[ORIGINAL]

Madame de la Pompadour puts Darcy’s condescending
aunt Lady Catherine de Bourgh in Pride and Prejudice to
shame by being even more arrogant than that worthy Lady
ever was when scolding the poor into harmony and plenty

While Madame cannot come to work like the rest of the
poor peasants; she regards Mary Poppins with a disdain-
ful eye, finding her discovery of an element of fun in every
job that has to be done, wanting in every ethical respect

While blissfully ignorant of the ethics involved in following
State Policy regarding leave, gaily stays at home claiming
her social life as valid excuse for remaining obtuse re obli-
gations towards an employer, scolding one and all into

Administrative prowess and bland, textbook translations

[...] Read more

poem by Margaret Alice Second
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In Her Dark Citadel (Revised)

I am so glad to be led by Madame Pompadour,
her employees are irksome self-motivated prigs
dissatisfied as their central value, the ethic of
the hard-working Calvinist, showing a lack of
ambition; is trampled beneath Madame's feet as
only dishonesty pays, she is ashamed of her
underlings; she says

Madame Pompadour shows grand ambition by
sneering at work ethics and showing utter
disdain for everyone except her own arrogant
self, she spreads the bitterness eating away
at her soul by destroying work enjoyment, re-
lationships and processes, she thrives
on discontent

She detests the culture of her underlings, their
behaviors, attitudes, assumptions, beliefs; it's
an affront contravening her ideal of sharing un-
happiness equally; she stamps on undue diligence,
the unspoken, unwritten rules followed by those
coming in early, leaving late, making every
due date

She counteracts them by staying home, not
being on time, shouting at clients and service
providers alike, playing cards at work; this is
her way to fulfill ambitions her behaviour
proclaims, belittling everyone without rank
or status to fight injustice when she rates
them badly or refuses permission to leave

She runs her world to her satisfaction, no ethic
or moral principle is brooked in her reign of
terror, making a stand Voldemort would envy,
a representative of Nietsche's Ubermensch,
hooray for Madame La Pompadour - supreme
in her dark citadel!

[ORIGINAL]

I am so glad to be led by Madame Pompadour,
she says her employees are irksome by being
self-motivated prigs who are dissatisfied as
their value of a hard-working Calvinist ethic,
shows a lack of ambition in a world where
only dishonesty pays, she is ashamed of
her underlings, she says

[...] Read more

poem by Margaret Alice Second
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Malmaison

I

How the slates of the roof sparkle in the sun, over there, over there,
beyond the high wall! How quietly the Seine runs in loops and windings,
over there, over there, sliding through the green countryside! Like ships
of the line, stately with canvas, the tall clouds pass along the sky,
over the glittering roof, over the trees, over the looped and curving river.
A breeze quivers through the linden-trees. Roses bloom at Malmaison.
Roses! Roses! But the road is dusty. Already the Citoyenne Beauharnais
wearies of her walk. Her skin is chalked and powdered with dust,
she smells dust, and behind the wall are roses! Roses with
smooth open petals, poised above rippling leaves . . . Roses . . .
They have told her so. The Citoyenne Beauharnais shrugs her shoulders
and makes a little face. She must mend her pace if she would be back
in time for dinner. Roses indeed! The guillotine more likely.

The tiered clouds float over Malmaison, and the slate roof sparkles
in the sun.

II

Gallop! Gallop! The General brooks no delay. Make way, good people,
and scatter out of his path, you, and your hens, and your dogs,
and your children. The General is returned from Egypt, and is come
in a `caleche' and four to visit his new property. Throw open the gates,
you, Porter of Malmaison. Pull off your cap, my man, this is your master,
the husband of Madame. Faster! Faster! A jerk and a jingle
and they are arrived, he and she. Madame has red eyes. Fie! It is for joy
at her husband's return. Learn your place, Porter. A gentleman here
for two months? Fie! Fie, then! Since when have you taken to gossiping.
Madame may have a brother, I suppose. That -- all green, and red,
and glitter, with flesh as dark as ebony -- that is a slave; a bloodthirsty,
stabbing, slashing heathen, come from the hot countries to cure your tongue
of idle whispering.

A fine afternoon it is, with tall bright clouds sailing over the trees.

'Bonaparte, mon ami, the trees are golden like my star, the star I pinned
to your destiny when I married you. The gypsy, you remember her prophecy!
My dear friend, not here, the servants are watching; send them away,
and that flashing splendour, Roustan. Superb -- Imperial, but . . .
My dear, your arm is trembling; I faint to feel it touching me! No, no,
Bonaparte, not that -- spare me that -- did we not bury that last night!
You hurt me, my friend, you are so hot and strong. Not long, Dear,
no, thank God, not long.'

[...] Read more

poem by Amy Lowell
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Two Folk Songs

I. THE SOLDIER

(Roumanian)

When winter trees bestrew the path,
Still to the twig a leaf or twain
Will cling and weep, not Winter's wrath,
But that foreknown forlorner pain-
To fall when green leaves come again.

I watch'd him sleep by the furrow-
The first that fell in the fight.
His grave they would dig to-morrow:
The battle called them to-night.

They bore him aside to the trees, there,
By his undigg'd grave content
To lie on his back at ease there,
And hark how the battle went.

The battle went by the village,
And back through the night were borne
Far cries of murder and pillage,
With smoke from the standing corn.

But when they came on the morrow,
They talk'd not over their task,
As he listen'd there by the furrow;
For the dead mouth could not ask-

How went the battle, my brothers?

But that he will never know:
For his mouth the red earth smothers
As they shoulder their spades and go.

Yet he cannot sleep thereunder,
But ever must toss and turn.

How went the battle, I wonder?

-And that he will never learn!

When winter trees bestrew the path,
Still to the twig a leaf or twain
Will cling and weep, not Winter's wrath,
But that foreknown, forlorner pain-
To fall when green leaves come again!

[...] Read more

poem by Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch
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Madame George

(van morrison)
Originally performed by van morrison. this cover is found on the trash can tape (a bootleg tape).
Down on cyprus avenue
With a child-like vision leaping into view.
The clicking clacking of the high-heeled shoes,
Ford and fitzroy; madame george.
Marching with the soldierboy behind
Hes much older now with hat on, drinking wine
And the smell of sweet perfume comes drifting thru
In the cool night breeze like shalimar
And then your self control lets go
And suddenly youre up against the bathroom door.
The hallway lights are finely getting dim
Youre in the front row touching him
And outside theyre making all the stops
The kinds out in the streets collecting bottle tops,
Going for cigarettes and matches to the shops,
Happy talking, madame george
And thats when you fall, oh,
Oh, thats when you fall
And you fall into a trance
Sitting on a sofa playing games of chance
With your folded arms in history books you glance
Into the eyes of madame george
And you think youve found your bag,
Youre getting weaker and your knees begin to sag
And in the corner playing dominoes in drag,
The one and only madame george
And outside the frosty window raps
She says be cool, I think that its the cops
Stands up, drops everything she gots,
Its not easy now you know
Now you know you gotta go
Catch a train from dublin up to sandy row,
In the wind, rain & fog & slush & snow
Keep on going on
Say good-bye we know youre pretty far out
And all the little boys comin round
They got gold cigarette lighters in their pockets
Walking away from it all, so cool.
Thats when you fall.

song performed by Jeff Buckley
Added by Lucian Velea
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Radio Activity

Radioactivity
Is in the air for you and me
Radioactivity
Discovered by Madame Curie
Radioactivity
Tune in to the melody
Radioactivity
Is in the air for you and me
Morse:
Radioactivity is in the air for you and me
Radioactivity discovered by madame curie
Radioactivity tune in to the ... Kraftwerk
Radio Aktivitaet
Fuer dich und mich in All entsteht
(=For you and me in Space comes into being)
Radio Aktivitaet
Strahlt Wellen zum Empfangsgeraet
(=Sends waves to the receiver)
Radio Aktivitaet
Wenn's um unsere Zukunft geht
(=When its about our future)
Morse:
Radioactivity is in the air for you and me
Radioactivity discovered by madame curie
Radioactivity tune in to the ... Kraftwerk
Radioactivity
Is in the air for you and me
Radioactivity
Discovered by Madame Curie
Radioactivity
Tune in to the melody
Radioactivity
Is in the air for you and me

song performed by Kraftwerk
Added by Lucian Velea
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Suite Madame Blue

Time after time I sit and I wait for your call
I know Im a fool what can I say
Whatever the price Ill pay for you, madame blue
Once long ago, one word from your lips and the world turned around
But somehow youve changed, youre so far away
I long for the past and dream of the days with you, madame blue
Suite madame blue, gaze in your looking glass
Youre not a child anymore
Suite madame blue, the future is all but past
Dressed in your jewels, you made your own rules
You conquered the world and more ..............heavens door
America....america...america..america..
America....america...america..america..
America....america...america..america..
Red white and blue, gaze in your looking glass
Youre not a child anymore
Red, white, and blue, the future is all but past
So lift up your heart, make a new start
And lead us away from here

song performed by Styx
Added by Lucian Velea
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The Flower And The Leaf

When that Phebus his chaire of gold so hy
Had whirled up the sterry sky aloft,
And in the Bole was entred certainly;
Whan shoures swete of rain discended soft,
Causing the ground, felë tymes and oft,
Up for to give many an hoolsom air,
And every plain was [eek y-]clothed fair

With newe grene, and maketh smalë floures
To springen here and there in feld and mede;
So very good and hoolsom be the shoures
That it reneweth, that was old and deede
In winter-tyme; and out of every seede
Springeth the herbë, so that every wight
Of this sesoun wexeth [ful] glad and light.

And I, só glad of the seson swete,
Was happed thus upon a certain night;
As I lay in my bed, sleep ful unmete
Was unto me; but, why that I ne might
Rest, I ne wist; for there nas erthly wight,
As I suppose, had more hertës ese
Than I, for I n'ad siknesse nor disese.

Wherfore I mervail gretly of my-selve,
That I so long, withouten sleepë lay;
And up I roos, three houres after twelve,
About the [very] springing of the day,
And on I put my gere and myn array;
And to a plesaunt grovë I gan passe,
Long or the brightë sonne uprisen was,

In which were okës grete, streight as a lyne,
Under the which the gras, so fresh of hew,
Was newly spronge; and an eight foot or nyne
Every tree wel fro his felawe grew,
With braunches brode, laden with leves new,
That sprongen out ayein the sonnë shene,
Som very rede, and som a glad light grene;

Which, as me thought, was right a plesaunt sight.
And eek the briddes song[ës] for to here
Would have rejoised any erthly wight.
And I, that couth not yet, in no manere,
Here the nightingale of al the yere,
Ful busily herkned, with herte and ere,
If I her voice perceive coud any-where.

And at the last, a path of litel brede
I found, that gretly had not used be,

[...] Read more

poem by Anonymous Olde English
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Thomas Winterbottom Hance

IN all the towns and cities fair
On Merry England's broad expanse,
No swordsman ever could compare
With THOMAS WINTERBOTTOM HANCE.

The dauntless lad could fairly hew
A silken handkerchief in twain,
Divide a leg of mutton too -
And this without unwholesome strain.

On whole half-sheep, with cunning trick,
His sabre sometimes he'd employ -
No bar of lead, however thick,
Had terrors for the stalwart boy.

At Dover daily he'd prepare
To hew and slash, behind, before -
Which aggravated MONSIEUR PIERRE,
Who watched him from the Calais shore.

It caused good PIERRE to swear and dance,
The sight annoyed and vexed him so;
He was the bravest man in France -
He said so, and he ought to know.

"Regardez donc, ce cochon gros -
Ce polisson! Oh, sacre bleu!
Son sabre, son plomb, et ses gigots
Comme cela m'ennuye, enfin, mon Dieu!

"Il sait que les foulards de soie
Give no retaliating whack -
Les gigots morts n'ont pas de quoi -
Le plomb don't ever hit you back."

But every day the headstrong lad
Cut lead and mutton more and more;
And every day poor PIERRE, half mad,
Shrieked loud defiance from his shore.

HANCE had a mother, poor and old,
A simple, harmless village dame,
Who crowed and clapped as people told
Of WINTERBOTTOM'S rising fame.

She said, "I'll be upon the spot
To see my TOMMY'S sabre-play;"
And so she left her leafy cot,
And walked to Dover in a day.

[...] Read more

poem by William Schwenck Gilbert
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Athelston

Lord that is off myghtys most,
Fadyr and Sone and Holy Gost,
Bryng us out of synne
And lene us grace so for to wyrke
To love bothe God and Holy Kyrke
That we may hevene wynne.
Lystnes, lordyngys, that ben hende,
Of falsnesse, hou it wil ende
A man that ledes hym therin.
Of foure weddyd bretheryn I wole yow tell
That wolden yn Yngelond go dwel,
That sybbe were nought of kyn.

And all foure messangeres they were,
That wolden yn Yngelond lettrys bere,
As it wes here kynde.
By a forest gan they mete
With a cros, stood in a strete
Be leff undyr a lynde,
And, as the story telles me,
Ylke man was of dyvers cuntrie
In book iwreten we fynde —
For love of here metyng thare,
They swoor hem weddyd bretheryn for evermare,
In trewthe trewely dede hem bynde.

The eldeste of hem ylkon,
He was hyght Athelston,
The kyngys cosyn dere;
He was of the kyngys blood,
Hys eemes sone, I undyrstood;
Therefore he neyghyd hym nere.
And at the laste, weel and fayr,
The kyng him dyyd withouten ayr.
Thenne was ther non hys pere
But Athelston, hys eemes sone;
To make hym kyng wolde they nought schone,
To corowne hym with gold so clere.

Now was he kyng semely to se:
He sendes afftyr his bretheryn thre
And gaff hem here warysoun.
The eldest brothir he made Eerl of Dovere —
And thus the pore man gan covere —
Lord of tour and toun.
That other brother he made Eerl of Stane —
Egelond was hys name,
A man of gret renoun —
And gaff him tyl hys weddyd wyff
Hys owne sustyr, Dame Edyff,

[...] Read more

poem by Anonymous Olde English
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The Vision Of Piers Plowman - Part 01

What this mountaigne bymeneth and the merke dale
And the feld ful of folk, I shal yow faire shewe.
A lovely lady of leere in lynnen yclothed
Cam doun fom [the] castel and called me faire,
And seide, 'Sone, slepestow? Sestow this peple-
How bisie they ben aboute the maze?
The mooste partie of this peple that passeth on this erthe,
Have thei worship in this world, thei wilne no bettre;
Of oother hevene than here holde thei no tale'.-
I was afeed of hire face, theigh she faire weere,
And seide, ' Mercy, madame, what [may] this [be] to mene?'

'The tour upon the toft', quod she, 'Truthe is therinne,
And wolde that ye wroughte as his word techeth.
For he is fader of feith and formed yow alle
Bothe with fel and with face and yaf yow fyve wittes
For to worshipe hym therwith while that ye ben here.
And therfore he highte the erthe to helpe yow echone
Of woilene, of lynnen, of liflode at nede
In mesurable manere to make yow at ese;
And comaunded of his curteisie in commune three thynges:
Are none nedfulle but tho, and nempne hem I thynke,
And rekene hem by reson - reherce thow hem after.
'That oon is vesture from chele thee to save,
And mete at meel for mysese of thiselve,
And drynke whan thow driest - ac do noght out of reson,
That thow worthe the wers whan thow werche sholdest.
For Lot in hise lifdayes, for likynge of drynke,
Dide by hise doughtres that the devel liked:
Delited hym in drynke as the devel wolde,
And leccherie hym laughte, and lay by hem bothe -
And al he witte it the wyn, that wikked dede:
Inebriemus eum vino dormiamusque cum eo, ut
servare possimus de patre nostro semen.
Thorugh wyn and thorugh wommen ther was Loth acombred,
And there gat in glotonie gerles that were cherles.
Forthi dred delitable drynke and thow shalt do the bettre.
Mesure is medicine, though thow muchel yerne.
Al is nought good to the goost that the gut asketh,
Ne liflode to the likame that leef is to the soule.
Leve nought thi likame, for a liere hym techeth -
That is the wrecched world, wolde thee bitraye.

For the fend and thi flessh folwen togidere,
And that [shendeth] thi soule; set it in thin herte.
And for thow sholdest ben ywar, I wisse thee the beste.'
'A, madame, mercy,' quod I, ' me liketh wel youre wordes.
Ac the moneie of this molde that men so faste holdeth -
Telleth me to whom that tresour appendeth.'
Go to the Gospel,' quod she, 'that God seide hymselven,

[...] Read more

poem by William Langland
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A High-Toned Old Christian Woman

Poetry is the supreme fiction, madame.
Take the moral law and make a nave of it
And from the nave build haunted heaven. Thus,
The conscience is converted into palms,
Like windy citherns hankering for hymns.
We agree in principle. That's clear. But take
The opposing law and make a peristyle,
And from the peristyle project a masque
Beyond the planets. Thus, our bawdiness,
Unpurged by epitaph, indulged at last,
Is equally converted into palms,
Squiggling like saxophones. And palm for palm,
Madame, we are where we began. Allow,
Therefore, that in the planetary scene
Your disaffected flagellants, well-stuffed,
Smacking their muzzy bellies in parade,
Proud of such novelties of the sublime,
Such tink and tank and tunk-a-tunk-tunk,
May, merely may, madame, whip from themselves
A jovial hullabaloo among the spheres.
This will make widows wince. But fictive things
Wink as they will. Wink most when widows wince.

poem by Wallace Stevens
Added by Dan Costinaş
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The End

ADIEU, Madame! The moon of May
Wanes now above the orchard grey;
The white May-blossoms fall like snow,
As Love foretold a month ago--
Or was it only yesterday?

All pleasant things must pass away;
You would not, surely, have me stay?
I own I shun the inference! No!
Adieu, Madame!

Come, dry your eyes, for not this way
Should end your pretty pastoral play.
You have no heart--you told me so--
And I adore you, as you know;
Smile, while I break my heart and say
Adieu, Madame!

poem by Edith Nesbit
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A Prima Donna

Madame La Pompadour cannot come to work,
the world is spinning out of control, her dog
needs medical attention, her car cannot start in
the morning, her dog needs another vet, now
Madame Pompadour's newly built office is
empty - it was given as a compelling condition
for her return to work, yet it seems something
is lacking still, can we guess what it is

Maybe a chauffeur to drive her to work every
morning, a special kennel next to her office so
she can bring her dogs to be with her all day,
maybe a built-in a humidifier so she can breathe
freely without germs, maybe a Jacuzzi so she can
get rid of the tension right here at work, maybe
her own cook and kitchenette so she can order
the right meals with the same aplomb as

A Lady Gaga, surely Madame La Pompadour has
already dethroned both Madonna and Lady Gaga
for being a prima donna who gets her own way!

poem by Margaret Alice Second
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Awareness (Revised)

Awareness of beauty grows lavishly while seated
among Jacaranda trees, green canopies caress
the sun with more divinity than mere words
embrace – it makes my heart swell in music ‘til
lighter than air I float off on the breeze

Luckily we are government officials anchored to
chairs facing a grindstone patiently; at least my
brave Calvinist colleagues are the most upstanding
people I have ever met and cannot be deterred by
anything as fractious as sheer beauty;

Hanlie spreading good humour & delight wherever
she is; Hermien’s unselfconscious efficiency graced
with the calm of a state secretary; June brisk, tone
always crisp, laughter infectious, smile as precious
as jewels hidden deep in the earth,

And the boss Madame La Pompadour is an exact
replica of ‘Madame Olympia’, staying home under
various pretexts so as to not sully her soul by noise
of the open-plan office, and me growing more like
Madame Medusa in ‘The Rescuers’

Driving is my favourite activity, trying to beat each
other robot, succeeding mostly; slow lane overtaking
when the fast crawls at a snail’s pace, enjoying the
exhilaration of evading other motorists, my liberties
sometimes earn aggressive gestures

I merely respond with a smile, blissfully threatening
pedestrians with amazing goodwill while continuing
this enticing technological dance, my mind delighting
in nirvana of a Zen-like trance…

poem by Margaret Alice Second
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Exemplary And Lavish Extravagance

Aaah, Madame La Pompadour needs time off
from the office they had built her, soundproof,
air-con, and everything she wants inside, today
she plays chauffer to the children in her neigh-
bourhood and visiting her mother in the old-age
home - she condescendingly told us - though
there is really no need why we should know
where she is, she is the free incumbent

Madame La Pompadour suffers agoraphobia
at home and claustrophobia in the office, her
problems are debilitating; she needs a bigger
office of course, with user-friendly interior
decorating - I sigh in admiration, such a very
exemplary and lavish extravagance, with the
cool presumption that a James Bond would
envy her, she does what she wants

Madame La Pompadour looks down on the
mundane civil servants - us - who man the
open-plan office, why should she earn her
salary like a slave when she gets it without
ever leaving her home?

poem by Margaret Alice Second
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