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Cigars and Poetry

Poetry can tell a story, describe an object or situation, narrate an event, or simply express feelings. Whatever the substance of the remarks and the ultimate message, poetry is characterized by linguistic elements that go beyond standard sentence structure. Above all, poetry involves aspects of language that appeal to, and communicate by, sound and sight. It is for these reasons that we cannot really speak of restating poetry. Indeed, this is one reason many people find poetry difficult.

A collection of poetry in favor of cigars, can be found. Those who wrote it describe their passion for their favorite cigar. Some may let us think that their beloved cigar is much more important then any other thing in life.

If you love a really good cigar and the excellent conversation that comes along with the light blue smoke, here you will find a collection of poetry in favor of cigars...
If you would like to write us your own poetry about your cigar, don’t hesitate!


Some sigh for this and that,
My wishes don't go far;
The world may wag at will,
So I have my cigar.

Some fret themselves to death
With Whig and Tory jar;
I don't care which is in,
So I have my cigar.

Sir John requests my vote,
And so does Mr. Marr;
I don't care how it goes,
So I have my cigar.

Some want a German row,
Some wish a Russian war;
I care not.  I'm at peace
So I have my cigar.

I never see the "Post,"
I seldom read the "Star;"
The "Globe" I scarcely heed,
So I have my cigar.
Honors have come to men
My juniors at the Bar;
No matter — I can wait,
So I have my cigar.

Ambition frets me not;
A cab or glory's car
Are just the same to me,
So I have my cigar.

I worship no vain gods,
But serve the household Lar;
I'm sure to be at home,
So I have my cigar.

I do not seek for fame,
A general with a scar;
A private let me be,
So I have my cigar.
To have my choice among
The toys of life's bazaar,
The deuce may take them all
So I have my cigar.

Some minds are often tost
By tempests like a tar;
I always seem in port,
So I have my cigar.

The ardent flame of love,
My bosom cannot char,
I smoke but do not burn,
So I have my cigar.

They tell me Nancy Low
Has married Mr. R.;
The jilt! but I can live,
So I have my cigar.

Looking for Mr. Goodsmoke
Dr. Paul B. Harris

He met her at a bar
They call the humidor
And from the look she gave him
He knew that he would score
She said "your ash is firm"
He said "your butt is smokin'"
She said "you seem complex"
He said "you must be jokin'"
A quick glance at his finger
She saw he was unbanded
He confirmed he was a "single"
Not likely to be branded
She said "my recent love life
Has strictly been 'a mano'
But if you come to my place
We'll change that if you wan'o"
He said "you're much too loose"
She said "you must be tight"
But his draw was getting hard
So he joined her for the night
He thought that she'd be sweet
Mild and light as fluff
But she was hot and spicy
And liked to play it rough
She asked if he would binder
He said he'd rather filler
She wanted him to wrapper
He feared that he might kill her
She tried to pinch his foot
She tried to nip his head
They finally reached a compromise
And rolled around instead
When the night was over
They lay smoking on the floor
Their lust burned to ashes
Their bodies spent and sore
She asked if he would ring
He said "it's hard to gauge
I think it might be safer
When you've mellowed some with age"
But he would soon be back
Both knew and understood
The Betrothed...
by Rudyard Kipling

Open the old cigar-box, get me a Cuba stout,
For things are running crossways, and Maggie and I are out.
We quarreled about Havanas -- we fought o'er a good cheroot,
And I knew she is exacting, and she says I am a brute.
Open the old cigar-box -- let me consider a space;
In the soft blue veil of the vapour musing on Maggie's face.
Maggie is pretty to look at -- Maggie's a loving lass,
But the prettiest cheeks must wrinkle, the truest of loves must pass.
There's peace in a Larranaga, there's calm in a Henry Clay;
But the best cigar in an hour is finished and thrown away --
Thrown away for another as perfect and ripe and brown --
But I could not throw away Maggie for fear o' the talk o' the town!
Maggie, my wife at fifty -- grey and dour and old --
With never another Maggie to purchase for love or gold!
And the light of Days that have Been the dark of the Days that Are,
And Love's torch stinking and stale, like the butt of a dead cigar --
The butt of a dead cigar you are bound to keep in your pocket --
With never a new one to light tho' it's charred and black to the socket!
Open the old cigar-box -- let me consider a while.
Here is a mild Manila -- there is a wifely smile.
Which is the better portion -- bondage bought with a ring,
Or a harem of dusky beauties, fifty tied in a string?
Counsellors cunning and silent -- comforters true and tried,
And never a one of the fifty to sneer at a rival bride?
Thought in the early morning, solace in time of woes,
Peace in the hush of the twilight, balm ere my eyelids close,
This will the fifty give me, asking nought in return,
With only a Suttee's passion -- to do their duty and burn.
This will the fifty give me. When they are spent and dead,
Five times other fifties shall be my servants instead.
The furrows of far-off Java, the isles of the Spanish Main,
When they hear my harem is empty will send me my brides again.
I will take no heed to their raiment, nor food for their mouths withal,
So long as the gulls are nesting, so long as the showers fall.
I will scent 'em with best vanilla, with tea will I temper their hides,
And the Moor and the Mormon shall envy who read of the tale of my brides.
For Maggie has written a letter to give me my choice between
The wee little whimpering Love and the great god Nick o' Teen.
And I have been servant of Love for barely a twelvemonth clear,
But I have been Priest of Cabanas a matter of seven year;
And the gloom of my bachelor days is flecked with the cheery light
Of stums that I burned to Friendship and Pleasure and Work and Fight.
And I turn my eyes to the future that Maggie and I must prove,
But the only light on the marshes is the Will-o'-the-Wisp of Love.
Will it see me safe through my journey or leave me bogged in the mire?
Since a puff of tobacco can cloud it, shall I follow the fitful fire?
Open the old cigar-box -- let me consider anew --
Old friends, and who is Maggie that I should abandon you?
A million surplus Maggies are willing to bear the yoke;
And a woman is only a woman, but a good Cigar is a Smoke.
Light me another Cuba -- I hold to my first-sworn vows.
If Maggie will have no rival, I'll have no Maggie for Spouse!
To My Cigar...
by "Moses"
Yes, social friend, I love thee well,
In learned doctor's spite;
I love thy fragrant, misty spell,
I love thy calm delight.
What if they tell , with phizzes long,
Our years are sooner past?
I would reply, with reason strong,
They're sweeter while they last.
And oft, mild tube, to me thou art,
A monitor, though still;
Thou speak'st a lesson to my heart,
Beyond the preacher's skill.
When, in the lonely evening hour,
Attended but by thee,
O'er hist'ry's varied page I pore,
Man's fate in thee I see.
Awhile like thee the hero burns,
And smokes and fumes around,
And then like thee to ashes turns,
And mingles with the ground.
Throu't like the man of worth, who gives
To goodness every day,
The fragrance of whose virtues lives,
When he has passed away.
Oh when thy snowy column grows,
And breaks and fails away,
I trace how mighty realms thus rise,
Then tumbled to decay.
From beggar's frieze to monarch's robe,
One common doom is pass'd:
Sweet nature's works, the mighty globe,,
Must all burn out at last.
And what is he who smokes thee now?
A little moving heap:
That's soon, like thee, to fate must bow,
Like thee in dust must sleep.
And when I see thy smoke roll high,
Thy ashes downward go,
Methinks 'tis thus my soul shall fly,
Thus leave my body too.
A huge Cigar are all mankind,
And time's the wasting breath,
That, late or early, we shall find,
Gives all to dusty death.

Burbank with a Baedeker: Bleistein with a Cigar
By Thomas Stearns Eliot

Tra-la-la-la-la-la-laire--nil nisi divinum stabile
est; caetera fumus--the gondola stopped, the old
palace was there, how charming its grey and pink--
goats and monkeys, with such hair too!--so the
countess passed on until she came through the
little park, where Niobe presented her with a
cabinet, and so departed.

Burbank crossed a little bridge
Descending at a small hotel;
Princess Volupine arrived,
They were together, and he fell.

Defunctive music under sea
Passed seaward with the passing bell
Slowly: the God Hercules
Had left him, that had loved him well.

The horses, under the axletree
Beat up the dawn from Istria
With even feet. Her shuttered barge
Burned on the water all the day.

But this or such was Bleistein's way:
A saggy bending of the knees
And elbows, with the palms turned out,
Chicago Semite Viennese.

A lustreless protrusive eye
Stares from the protozoic slime
At a perspective of Canaletto.
The smoky candle end of time

Declines. On the Rialto once.
The rats are underneath the piles.
The jew is underneath the lot.
Money in furs. The boatman smiles,

Princess Volupine extends
A meagre, blue-nailed, phthisic hand
To climb the waterstair. Lights, lights,
She entertains Sir Ferdinand

Klein. Who clipped the lion's wings
And flea'd his rump and pared his claws?
Thought Burbank, meditating on
Time's ruins, and the seven laws.

the old man cigar-roller
by Jackson Riley

to watch him work is like watching a concert pianist. diligently deliberate and delicate fingerings in the falling lightshower bathing his table from the showerhead of his desklamp. like watching a watchmaker work. so purposeful and precise and precautious. old and withered he sits with his lowered brow, the tributaries of wrinkles through the plains from his nose to his mouth. lightningbolts across the furrowed firmament of his forehead. he is hard concentrating. eyebrows pulled together and down: causing slight vertical wrinkles between them. the subtle tightening and raising of muscles around his eyelids cause faint spiderwebwrinkles at the corners of his eyes. he has few tools: a chopping block (family heirloom) , a jar of paste (a kind of vegetableglue, called pectin) , a curved blade (family heirloom, called a chaveta) , and caramelbrown tobacco leaves, paperthin and pliant as prosciutto. watch him chaveta-cut the curled edges, leafwrap, pectin-seal. oh, he’s good: a pigtail on the cigar by holding the cap and spinning it, then, using his chaveta, he tucks the end of the pigtail to form a knot. he’s been doing this longer than I’ve been alive. he hands his centuries of culture and a lifetime of studied craftsmanship, freshlyrolled, to a fascinated onlooker who leans into a flame, puff puff. suddenly there’s an air about the man, a certain élan he lacked earlier. cigars do that to a man: chin up as he examines the lambent tip-ember, and with bifurcated fingers, replaces the cigar between his lips. you could tell from his slight smile, the old man gets his satisfaction from watching that first puff. he loves to watch the cigar bestow some sort of magical insouciance upon the smoker: chin up as he pronounces resonantly, mmmmm, very smooth. nice draw. yes, yes. and without looking up, the old man smilingly gets another leaf…

Light a Cigar
By David Darbyshire
Walking down the lonely street,
hearing the cobbles beneath my feet.
The sound echoes through the small lanes,
some people looking through windowpanes.
I feel alone as I wonder into the night,
stars above, no girl, not feeling just right.
I pass a bar, hear the sound of laughter,
carried on walking might go back after.
Let out a sigh looking at the night sky,
so alone, feeling down, wondering why.
Thought I might go back to that happy bar,
instead leaned against a lamppost, light a cigar.

Circumstantial Evidence
By Ellis Parker Butler 

She does not mind a good cigar
(The kind, that is, I smoke);
She thinks all men quite stupid are,
(But laughs whene’er I joke).

She says she does not care for verse
(But praises all I write);
She says that punning is a curse,
(But then mine are so bright!)

She does not like a big moustache
(You see that mine is small);
She hates a man with too much “dash,”
(I scarcely dash at all!)

She simply dotes on hazel eyes
(And mine, you note, are that);
She likes a man of portly size;
(Gad! I am getting fat!)

She says champagne is made to drink;
(In this we quite agree!)
And all these symptoms make me think
Sweet Kate’s in love with me.

By Carl Sandburg

CRIMSON is the slow smolder of the cigar end I hold,
Gray is the ash that stiffens and covers all silent the fire.
(A great man I know is dead and while he lies in his
coffin a gone flame I sit here in cumbering shadows
and smoke and watch my thoughts come and go.)
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