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Best Poems From
HERBERT NEHRLICH
(04 October 1943)
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273.
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Huge Lips
We'd gone there to share,
at La Ville des Lumiθre
many proper French kisses.
But the first ones were misses,
and because I was young,
had an innocent tongue
we did stand by the Seine
like two tourists from Spain.
When an African lad
with gigantic but sad
looking lips broke his stride,
gently brushed me aside
'Voyez-vous mon Chιrie
pay attention to me,
I can teach you the French
so let's sit on this bench.'
And with flair de Paris
and a black man's esprit
he then showed how it's done
while I wished for a gun.
In a minute or two
without further ado
he delivered her back
after one final smack.
'Twas a shock to the system
just to see how she kissed him,
and before we went home
we went down to see Rome.
On all further trips
we avoided big lips..
Herbert Nehrlich
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274.
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Hugs Of Sweetness
The little boy
that I revert to,
on all my birthdays
looked out
in vain
for one small sign
from her who would
not ever
let me go.
The boy had learned,
of course
from life
and souls alike
that talk is not
just cheap
but can be used
as ready currency
to catch a fly.
Or on occasion
a little boy.
All boys,
when young
are wholly owned
romantics,
who need
not only milk
but, often,
a dose of
sweet Manuka Honey.
I praise the Gods
who in their wise
and fair-play grace
created many
bees,
and gave them
faculties
to make
those hugs
of sweetness
last.
Herbert Nehrlich
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275.
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Im Jardin des Plantes, Paris (Rilke Translation)
His eyes, from looking at the passing iron bars
have tired and no images will hold
he feels as if there were a thousand bars
albeit behind them no reality at all.
The supple grace of lightly treading steps
endless gyrations of the smallest kind
a dance of strength encircling a core
which holds, subdued and numb a mighty will.
Brief moments when the pupil's curtains slide
an image passes, silently, inside
goes through the quiet of the body's lissome limbs
and finds its final rest inside the creature's heart.
Herbert Nehrlich
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276.
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Inspirations
Like the poet who wrote
that he ran out
of inspiration,
of words.
And he asked the Gods,
would they, perhaps
give it back to him,
this thing
that allowed him
to talk to people.
And be heard.
The Gods had mercy.
He's back,
undiminished
and forgetting his humbleness.
I knew he would
be twice okay.
And that his cry was more
a song of empty feelings.
So, he won't miss me
or my words,
because
I may have
defied the Gods.
So said the devil
when he
burned my paper
and poured
all my ink
into the fire.
'You done' he said.
Perhaps I am.
Herbert Nehrlich
Read more: inspiration poems, song poems, fire poems, people poems, running poems
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