Perfume: The Poetry Chapbooks Collection - 25 Years

By Miss Jayne L. Blair

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• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jun 20, 2003
• ISBN: 9781469104881

Miss Jayne L. Blair

Miss Jayne L. Blair has been nominated seven years in a row since 2002 as Poet of the Year by the International Society of Poets. She attended their conference twice 1994 in Washington D.C. and in 2006 in fabulous Las Vegas.

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Copyright © 2003 by Miss Jayne L. Blair.

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Contents

A SHORT BIOGRAPHICAL POETRY SKETCH

SOMEDAY YOU ARE GOING TO COME RUNNING TO ME

I CHOOSE YOU TO BE KING

UNTOUCHABLE LIKE THE GODS

IN MY GENERATION

WISDOM

I WANTED YOU

AMERICA

RICHNESS IS EVERYTHING

THAT BLACK MAN BOXER

MY HOMETOWN

TIME

TIME (WE ARE RUNNING OUT OF TIME)

A WHITE WINTER’S NIGHT

A RATTLE, A RIDDLE

SAIL

CITIES: PHILADELPHIA

TIFFANYS

CHILDREN

SONNET #21

CLOCK-WORK

DOWNTOWN

CHARTREUSE

I AM GOING TO THE MOON

DEMOCRACY AND GODS

* IMAGES *

BEAUTY

THE SUBWAY STATION

FOR JOYCE CAREY

WILD PIGS

MY HOME TOWN

THE DRAPES

OUTSTANDING POETS

APRIL 1992

I PUT THE POEMS IN THE SKY

THE LEADER

CEN’EST PAS, CEN’EST PAS

A PHOTOGRAPHER

TWO PESOS

THE HAMMER

CANTERBURY FOOLS

DUBLIN

COMING MY WAY

LEAVES

TRAINS

ALL THE WAY HOME

I AM AN ISLAND

WILD FEVER

THE WEST

SILENCE

RIDE HIGH IN THE NIGHT

A DEATH MASK

THE AGE OF HARMONY HAIKU

STUDIO 8

PEARLS

FOR YOUR LOVE

NICE

DOVER BEACH

BRIGHTEON BEACH

NASSAU

GRANDPA AND GRANDMA

HAIKU

WHEN ALL THE WORLD SPEAKS ENGLISH

THE PRESIDENT’S PARADE

A LA RECHERCHE DE TEMPS PERDU *

WHEELS

ALONE

POSTCARDS FROM MOSCOW

WITHOUT A MELODY LINE

SUNSET BOULEVARD IN HOLLYWOOD

ANYTHING

JAYNE L. BLAIR

JAYNE BLAIR

ROMANCE POEMS

MOONS

THREE ONE LINERS

COUNTLESS ARE THE DAYS

RED PASSION

HIS LOVE

A PAINTING

JULY 1991

THERE WAS A TIME

I ALWAYS LIKED YOU

THE KISS

THE BOOK PLATE POEMS (IN COUPLETS)

TANKA

THE TANKA OF EROS AND THANATOS

THE BEST POEMS OF THE ‘90S

THE CRISIS OF A CAVALIER AT COVENT GARDENS

SANGFROID SILHOUETTE

TICK TOCK

FULL MOONS

TEN CURTAIN CALLS

THE COURT OF MARC CHAGALL

IMMORTAL STRAVINSKY

TERRA COTTA CLAY

JAMBE

BROWN EYES

MOZART MINUET

THE TIMES

PASSIONATE PRINCE

CINDERELLA

TWO PIROUETTES

MUSIC MAESTRO

BLACK TIGHTS AND BEAUTY

ELIZABETH II

STILL

DISTINGUISHED POETS OF AMERICA (SONNET #21)

ZEUS AND JUPITER

THE NUTCRACKER

PASSION

HEROIC COUPLET

THE BEST POEMS OF THE 90’S

A SHORT BIOGRAPHICAL POETRY SKETCH

Education

1970 OGDEN HIGH SCHOOL, diploma 1983 UNIVERSITY OF UTAH, Master of Arts Degree English Literature

1992 Further Studies: HUNTER COLLEGE, CITY UNIVERSITY of NEW YORK

Miss Blair has taken an active interest in foreign languages having studied German, French, Classical Greek and some Spanish.

Publishing

She has been published ten times since 1990, four times in ANTHOLOGIES WITH THE NATIONAL LIBRARY, 1991 THE OLIVE TREE REVIEW, of Hunter College and in 1994 Weber County Library, ROUGH DRAFT, and the Utah State Poetry Society, PANORAMA.

The printing of TIME and other selected poems, is her first collection and represents her earlier writing and short poems, 1997, in addition to the Romance and Sonnets, Taste and a Sense of Fashion.

Reading

In New York City, Miss Blair read consistently for the audiences of ABC NO Rio, Café Bustelo, Back Fence, 86th Street Coffeehouse,

Primarily Poets, ST. MARKS Poetry Project . . . 4 years in a row . . . Thomas Hall at Hunter College, York Institute, and in 1993 was the featured reader at the St. Agnes Branch of the NYC Public Library. Since Miss Blair has taken up residence in Ogden, her hometown in 1993, she has been gone since she graduated from high school . . . she has read The Eccles Art Center, Thought Continuum Bookstore, Union Station Cowboy Poetry and the Poetry Slam at THE BOOKSHELF, on Washington Blvd., where the chapbook signings have been. Further in 1994 she attended and read her poetry at THE INTERNATIONAL SOCIETY OF POETS in Washington D.C., of which she is a lifetime member.

Honour

1995 distinguished with a DECREE OF MERIT for her contribution to LITERATURE from the International Biographical Center, Cambridge England . . . of which she is very proud.

Miss Blair will be printing more poetry collections in the near future.

Associations

Life-time Member INTERNATIONAL SOCIETY of POETS Contributor, ACADEMY OF AMERICAN POETS, nyc

all rights reserved, MISS JAYNE BLAIR

SOMEDAY YOU ARE GOING TO COME RUNNING TO ME

Someday you are going to come running to me

with your arms spread open across your chest

with your lungs breathing and your heart beating

as though there were no tomorrow.

Someday you are going to come running to me,

up the street, out of a taxi cab

out of control with a hat on

your leather briefcase clutched tightly in your hand.

Someday you are going to come running to me

like a child at recess or after school

like a train on a track to the west

sure of a destination

sure of a propose.

Someday you are going to come running to me

frightened, frightened of the mob’s control

the countless violations against your soul,

frightened, frightened of the masses in fight, as war,

of the violations against your soul.

Sighing out of breath, crying your last tear,

looking for all the past behind you!

The nights gone, the days past,

the dogs dead, the treasures buried,

with bells ringing, ringing Sunday morning

and the train whistle late at night,

frightened, wondering if I was still alive,

with a will and a soul to share.

Someday you are going to come running to me!

with your arms outstretched across your chest,

tired so tired of rich girls,

so tired to deals done and deals failed

at the Moslems killing the Jews for 2000 years,

tired of the artless art!

THIS IS NOT ART, I said!

Tired of the rough beast that made its way to the west,

tired of no one that sees the world as it is

or sees the world as you do,

tired of rich girls with nothing to say

tired of their rich perfume.

All this time while I have wondered

looked at the stars, caressed the moon each night,

wondered who first displayed lipstick,

wondered who ran racing down FIFTH Avenue

when it was raining cats and dogs

with the first umbrella

and at what party the host opened

the first bottle of champagne with tiny bubbles.

Things like this and others crowd my mind,

leave me dreaming

eager and struggling for tomorrow.

A night out, and a poem in print!!

Someday you are going to come running to me

I tell you! and I’ll tell you

I hope a 100,000 jocks play round, fall down

the summer that I die.

Someday you are going to come running to me

and when you get there you will know.

Someday you are going to come running to me

like I once did, with youth and innocence,

eyes open, my jaws dropped in expression

of such a shadow behind me,

by those so uncertain of their place and work.

In fairness they alert them,

we are policemen, we are policemen!

See our badges and uniform!

See our badges and uniform.

They know what they are about.

policemen, policemen, everyday cops for everyday robbers!

We know what they are about.

But the under cover agents

the rich kid from NEW YORK

the rich Christian saints,

the rich oilman from Texas that lives with his mother,

beware! beware!

These men will BITE DOGS!

These men will bite dogs,

these men will smash a bluebird’s nest with eggs in it

for fun and entertainment

To take the pleasure away from the children in the

neighborhood that watch it in the tree each day!

These men have place and power,

and there men will bite dogs!

They have no pleasure, no innocence,

no kindness and sympathy,

They are ready to bite dogs,

and smash bluebirds’ egg nests.

Beware these men bite dogs!

They can get their name in the paper, and on T.V.

They are important!

Hire and fire, bat you around without a blink,

unlike policemen with badges,

They can’t get pleasure from a bluebird’s egg nest,

So they don’t want you to have any either!

Beware they bite dogs!

Beware their women have no future like yours!

They can’t even put their lipstick on straight!

carry a tune,

They would become a trophy wife!

leave their boyfriend, dump their husband

These women never get past the high school prom queen

election!

and wouldn’t know BACON from a piece of meat!

even after the high school science class!

Trophy wives!

Rich old bachelors from Long Island!

These people smash blue birds’ egg nests

because you get pleasure from seeing them and they

can’t.

It’s not in their scheme, their place, their plans

their schedules, bank accounts, deals,

pensions plans, tax shelters, lobbying coalition!

for such a sensation.

They have to keep up with somebody else,

because they can’t keep up with you.

GIVE THEM A SONG AND A DANCE AND A snapshot!

and leave them to their Hell!

Beware they bite dogs!

Someday; you are going to come running to me,

with your arms outstretched across your chest,

and if not!

Someday I will come running to you!

And yet it turns I’ll cry.

How strange the days and ways

on my 40th birthday,

when I can recount with such ease and speed,

images of my past.

So clear and vivid just like yesterday.

through my mind and my eyes.

What sleepy morning image lies on my mind,

what part of my past I recall or brush aside.

Why I select this, why hurry past that?

Why hope for something I have always wanted.

How I can now laugh at my innocence,

which nobody ever had,

which somebody else tried to steal out of poverty, from me

Not that one no longer has the innocence,

But that one knows that that is what it is!

Strange are the days and ways of genius!

that doesn’t grow old.

Genius that is there at 5, 10, seventeen and forty!

Of all the images before I was 5

why should I recall with such animation

going with grandpa to feed the big brown cows,

lined in the stalls, for hay with syrup, carameled

like sweet maple syrup for my pancakes!

Carrying a large heavy pitch fork and high aluminum tin

canisters!

That’s instant replay,

And yet it turns I’ll cry!

Why should such things give me so much and others

nothing!

Strange are the days and ways of life,

such a variety of splendid fruits and vegetables,

nuts and honey, cow’s milk and goat’s cheese,

bagels, cookies, doughnuts and the morning’s paper,

strange are the days and ways of life.

I could never shoot a duck,

just sitting there in a pond,

unheard of. HONK! HONK! HONK! HONK!

with a proud green head fit for St. Patrick’s day.

To snap at a dog tearing at your pant leg

that’s another matter.

Strange are the days and ways of life,

of such sorrow for another

such a coldness, such a heat

such dryness and so wet

strange are the days and ways of life,

of the past recaptured, of a future to forge again!

Strange are the days and ways of life,

of first love and last rites,

of such a consciousness high like clouds floating

outside all the arbitrary lines set by gods,

packs of dogs and whimpers of impotency.

Strange are the days and ways

of love and sorrow, hate, and revenge

those you betrayed, that I did not

strange are the days and ways of life and sorrow,

such a struggle to fight against the odds, the mass.

Someday you are going to come running to me

I may be there, I may not.

Someday you are going to come running to me,

wondering where I lived and for how long,

if it was near town and in the city

and how I lived and what I lived for?

And how I lived and why?

Someday you are going to come running to me

rain or shine, windy or wet,

with the blues or full of hope,

with cash in your pocket or penniless

but someday you are going to come running to me

with a briefcase in your hand

and your arms outstretched across your chest,

wondering what I had made of myself

as if I had to make anything at all,

other than exist be well and live long

question all the past, smile at all the beauty,

marvel at life itself, marvel at life itself,

grasp a sense of ‘oldness’ or ‘the modern age’

Caesar at the Rubicon

before the common era,

or the summer at Canterbury

the English language at 1066

or after Elizabethan