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Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar.

classic quote by Sigmund Freud
Added by Lucian Velea
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The Cigar

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.

[...] Read more

poem by Thomas Hood
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The Betrothed

"You must choose between me and your cigar."
-- BREACH OF PROMISE CASE, CIRCA 1885.

Open the old cigar-box, get me a Cuba stout,
For things are running crossways, and Maggie and I are out.

We quarrelled 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,

[...] Read more

poem by Rudyard Kipling
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See The Constellation

I lay my head on the railroad track
Stare at the sky all painted up
Your train is gone, wont be coming back
See the constellation ride across the sky
No cigar, no lady on his arm
Just a guy made of dots and lines
Just a guy made of dots and lines
Two years ago moved from my town
I was looking up past the city lights
But the city lights got in my way
See the constellation ride across the sky
No cigar, no lady on his arm
Just a guy made of dots and lines
Just a guy made of dots and lines
I found my mind on the ground below
I was looking down, it was looking back
I was in the sky all dressed in black
See the constellation ride across the sky
No cigar, no lady on his arm
Just a guy made of dots and lines
Just a guy made of dots and lines
Just a guy made of dots and lines
Can you hear what I see in the sky?
Can you hear what I see in the sky?
Can you hear what I see in the sky?
Notes
The dial-a-song version:
I lay my head on the railroad track
Look at the sky all dressed in black
Your train is gone, wont be coming back
My lone constellation rides across the sky
No cigar, no lady on his arm
Just a guy made from dots and lines
Just a guy made from dots and lines
The city lights think nothings there
No real stars, nothings there
My lone constellation rides across the sky
No cigar, no lady on his arm
Just a guy made from dots and lines
Just a guy made from dots and lines

song performed by They Might Be Giants
Added by Lucian Velea
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What Is A Cigar?

Even Sigmund Freud
said that sometimes
a cigar is only a cigar.
Not a phallic symbolic

sensual sexual object.

Obviously President
U.S. of A. Clinton
did not graduate past
the phallic symbolism.

Has Clinton not got the Freudian
message down to political pat?

Cigar language is multicultural!
Lewd cigar games are probing
business psychology deeper than
Clinton with Monica Lewinsky!

During Oval Office Intimate Party Games!

Clinton smoked sexually used Lewinsky
cigars; with powerful Japanese businessmen?

Clinton knows a cigar. Is not
just a spent phallic symbol!
Representing a sexual object.

It is an extended aid; to established dominant!
For an ailing, impotent, spent hormonal politician?
Spent definitely. Impotent? Not by a long shot!

‘I did not have sexual relations with that woman! ’
The issue was pergury! He lied under oath!

Willfully and knowingly
stated a whopper falsehood under oath!
The BJ act itself was never unlawful
under the Constitutional Bill of Rights!

Copyright © Terence George Craddock
See also ‘Presidential Impeachment’.

poem by Terence George Craddock
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A Small Cigar

A small cigar can change the world
I know, Ive done it frequently at parties
Where Ive won all the guests attention
With my generosity and suave gentlemanly bearing
A little flat tin case is all you need
Breast-pocket conversation opener
And one of those ciggie lighters that look rather good
You can throw away when empty
Must be declared a great success
My small cigars all vanish within minutes
Excuse me, mine host, that I may visit
A nearby tobacconist
To replenish my supply of small cigars
And make the party swing again
I know my clothes seem shabby
And dont fit this hampstead soiree
Where unread copies of rolling stone
Well-thumbed playboys
Decorate the hi-fi stereo record shelves
If you ask me theyre on their way
To upper-middle-class oblivion
The stupid twits, they roll their only
One cigarette between them
My small cigars redundant now
In the haze of smoking pleasure
Call it a day
Get the hell away
Go down the cafe
For a cup of real tea
By the tube station, theres a drunk old fool
Who sells papers in the rush hour
I hand to him ten small cigars
He smiles, says, ''son, God bless you
A small cigar
Has changed his world, my friend
A small cigar
Has changed the world again
A small cigar . . .

song performed by Jethro Tull
Added by Lucian Velea
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I Don't Want To Be A Star

I don't want to be a star
Just want my Chevy and an old guitar
I don't want to be a star
I don't need the fat cigar
My friends wonder what is wrong with me
Cause I don't get off on my fame
I got so much confusion now
Sometimes I don't even know my name
I don't want to be a star
Just want my Chevy and an old guitar
I don't want to be a star
I don't need the fat cigar
Too many distractions run through my brain
So many girls they start to look the same
Too many options no time to choose
Too many clothes, too many shoes
I've had the world I've done it upside down
I played the part and I've been the clown
Now it's my time, it's a brand new day
To be myself in a different way
I don't want to be a star
Just want my Chevy and an old guitar
I don't want to be a star
I don't need the fat cigar
I got to meet all the wonderful people
I drank with Dylan boy did we act a fool
I got high with Jagger, it was really cool
I don't want to be a star
Just want my Chevy and an old guitar
I don't want to be a star
I don't need the fat cigar
Never...

song performed by Lenny Kravitz
Added by Lucian Velea
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Guantanamera

F/ lauryn hill
{s} indicates the actual words in spanish
{t} indicates the translation into english
---
{s} hola! soy celia cruz
{t} (hi! I am celia cruz)
{s} y estoy aqui con wyclef, celebrando carnival; azucar!!)
{t} (and Im here with wyclef celebrating carnival; azucar!!)
[singing] guantanamera
[wyclef] we out here in miami just shining
[singing] guajila, guantanamera
[wyclef] worldwide
[singing] guan-tana-mera
[wyclef] bout to bring it to you in stereo
[singing] guajila voy, de na meda
Yo soy un hombre sincero
[wyclef] that was then, this is now
Welcome to the carnival, the arrival... cmon!
[singing] de donde crecen las palmas
[wyclef jean]
Spanish harlem!
Oahh-eee-ohh!
Boogie down bronx! oahh-eee-ohh!
Manhattan! oahh-eee-ohh!
Back to staten!
Oahh-eee-ohh!
[wyclef sings, then raps]
Guantanamera
Hey yo Im standing at the bar with a, cuban cigar
Guajila, guantanamera
Hey, yo, I think shes eyeing me from afar
Guan-tana-mera...
Guajila guan-tana-mera...
Verse one: wyclef jean
Yo, I wrote this in haiti, overlooking cuba
I asked her whats her name, she said, guantanamera
Remind me of an old latin song, my uncle used to play
On his old forty-five when he used to be alive
She went from a young girl, to a grown woman
Like a virgin, so she sex with no average mahn
Peep the figure, move like a caterpillar
Fly like a butterfly, let your soul feel her glide
Pac woman better yet space invader
If your name was chun-li, wed be playin street fighter
Penny for your thoughts, a nickel for your kiss
A dime if you tell me that you love me
Chorus:
Guantanamera
Hey yo, Im standin at the bar with a, cuban cigar
Guajila, guantanamera

[...] Read more

song performed by Wyclef Jean
Added by Lucian Velea
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Guantanamera

F/ lauryn hill
{s} indicates the actual words in spanish
{t} indicates the translation into english
---
{s} hola! soy celia cruz
{t} (hi! I am celia cruz)
{s} y estoy aqui con wyclef, celebrando carnival; azucar!!)
{t} (and Im here with wyclef celebrating carnival; azucar!!)
[singing] guantanamera
[wyclef] we out here in miami just shining
[singing] guajila, guantanamera
[wyclef] worldwide
[singing] guan-tana-mera
[wyclef] bout to bring it to you in stereo
[singing] guajila voy, de na meda
Yo soy un hombre sincero
[wyclef] that was then, this is now
Welcome to the carnival, the arrival... cmon!
[singing] de donde crecen las palmas
[wyclef jean]
Spanish harlem!
Oahh-eee-ohh!
Boogie down bronx! oahh-eee-ohh!
Manhattan! oahh-eee-ohh!
Back to staten!
Oahh-eee-ohh!
[wyclef sings, then raps]
Guantanamera
Hey yo Im standing at the bar with a, cuban cigar
Guajila, guantanamera
Hey, yo, I think shes eyeing me from afar
Guan-tana-mera...
Guajila guan-tana-mera...
Verse one: wyclef jean
Yo, I wrote this in haiti, overlooking cuba
I asked her whats her name, she said, guantanamera
Remind me of an old latin song, my uncle used to play
On his old forty-five when he used to be alive
She went from a young girl, to a grown woman
Like a virgin, so she sex with no average mahn
Peep the figure, move like a caterpillar
Fly like a butterfly, let your soul feel her glide
Pac woman better yet space invader
If your name was chun-li, wed be playin street fighter
Penny for your thoughts, a nickel for your kiss
A dime if you tell me that you love me
Chorus:
Guantanamera
Hey yo, Im standin at the bar with a, cuban cigar
Guajila, guantanamera

[...] Read more

song performed by Wyclef Jean
Added by Lucian Velea
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I even smoke in bed. Imagine smoking a cigar in bed, reading a book. Next to your bed, there's a cigar table with a special cigar ashtray, and your wife is reading a book on how to save the environment.

quote by Raul Julia
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The Pretty Lady

He asked the lady in the train
If he might smoke: she smiled consent.
So lighting his cigar and fain
To talk he puffed away content,
Reflecting: how delightful are
Fair dame and fine cigar.

Then from his bulging wallet he
A photograph with pride displayed,
His charming wife and children three,
When suddenly he was dismayed
To hear her say: 'These notes you've got,--
I want the lot.'

He scarcely could believe his ears.
He laughed: 'The money isn't mine.
To pay it back would take me years,
And so politely I decline.
Madame, I think you speak in fun:
Have you a gun?'

She smiled. 'No weapon have I got,
Only my virtue, but I swear
If you don't hand me out the lot
I'll rip my blouse, let down my hair,
Denounce you as a fiend accurst . . .'
He told her: 'Do your worst.'

She did. Her silken gown she tore,
Let down her locks and pulled the cord
That stopped the train, and from the floor
She greeted engineer and guard:
'I fought and fought in vain,' she cried.
'Save me,--I'm terrified!'

The man was calm; he stood aloof.
Said he: 'Her game you understand;
But if you doubt, behold the proof
Of innocence is in my hand.'
And as they stared into the car
They saw his logic in a flash . . .
Aloft he held a lit cigar
With two inches of ash.

poem by Robert William Service
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Lost Change

He stood outside
the newspaper stand
on Michigan & Chicago,
the morning winter chill
made him put on his gloves.
He lit a cigar and said
good morning to three
Walgreens female workers
smoking outside in the cold.
“ It’s almost Old Style time, ”
he proclaimed and handed
a magazine with warm beauty
on its cover to a middle age
office worker who quickly
placed it in a briefcase
and continued to walk.
“ Ain’t it too early for beer, ”
said the redhead between inhales.
“ It’s never to early for Old Style…”
The ladies laughed,
died out their cigarettes
and went back to work.
He kept smoking his cigar
as he sold another newspaper
to a passerby who gave him
exact coins and told him
to keep the change.
He looked down
at the two quarters
in the palm of his glove
and took a long drag
pulled the cheap cigar
from his ample mouth
exhaled and yelled,
“and you too have a wonderful day…”
His shift was coming to an end
while most were just starting.
He knew that soon he would
be home drinking an Old Style,
thinking about the redhead
while counting lost change
he did manage to keep.

poem by Charles Lara
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Happiness? A good cigar, a good meal, a good cigar and a good woman - or a bad woman; it depends on how much happiness you can handle.

quote by George Burns
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Maybe it's like becoming one with the cigar. You lose yourself in it; everything fades away: your worries, your problems, your thoughts. They fade into the smoke, and the cigar and you are at peace.

quote by Raul Julia
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Puff hard the love

Lit the cigar
Let it burn
Puff it hard
And Long
To
Set
It
On
Fire
To
Get
Pleasure
Till
The
Butt
Within
Minutes
It
Will
Finish
To
Ash.
Love and life
Fire and cigar
Do not they flock together,
As birds of same feather?

poem by Abdul Wahab
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A Lame Man

A lame man from Lagos

married the princess of Madagascar

and went to Hawaii for honeymoon

with a Havana cigar aburning

And a spark from the cigar flew

transported by some uncanny crew

wafted by the waves of the cosmic wind

till it blew up Troy and Hiroshima

in a flash

A lame man from Lagos married the princess

of Madagascar

Hah HA

poem by Dr. Ramesh Chandra Mukhopadhyaya
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Focus (Life Poem)

After three drinks, I sit and focus
On the night in Santo Domingo,
Like Greene’s Honorary Consul,
It is “the right measure” for me,
Beckett reads Beckett remembering.
Where he strips man’s inexhaustible
Search for meaning to bare bones.

These thoughts aided by a smooth
Handmade cigar and Carlos Primero,
I wonder as I focus on this scrap of
Scribbles should I keep it, or leave it
On the table, for some tramp to read,
While he smokes the dog-end of
What was a reasonably good cigar?

poem by Ian Beckett
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Dahlia

Dahlia and I were taking a bath
And dahlia was smoking a cigar
And she said to me
I bet youve never taken a bath
With a girl smoking a cigar before
And she told me all about her car accident
She was overdosed on valium
And she made an attempt to cross the west side highway
Dahlia, I know Ive done you wrong
Dahlia, I know Ive done you wrong
Dahlia, I know Ive done you wrong
But dahlia, you know youve done me wrong too
She wore an old camel t-shirt
With some magic of its own
And we listened to the stones
Sucking cherry charms blowpops
Sucking cherry charms blowpops

song performed by Phish
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Prince Hohenstiel-Schwangau, Saviour of Society

Epigraph

Υδραν φονεύσας, μυρίων τ᾽ ἄλλων πόνων
διῆλθον ἀγέλας . . .
τὸ λοίσθιον δὲ τόνδ᾽ ἔτλην τάλας πόνον,
. . . δῶμα θριγκῶσαι κακοῖς.

I slew the Hydra, and from labour pass'd
To labour — tribes of labours! Till, at last,
Attempting one more labour, in a trice,
Alack, with ills I crowned the edifice.

You have seen better days, dear? So have I —
And worse too, for they brought no such bud-mouth
As yours to lisp "You wish you knew me!" Well,
Wise men, 't is said, have sometimes wished the same,
And wished and had their trouble for their pains.
Suppose my Œdipus should lurk at last
Under a pork-pie hat and crinoline,
And, latish, pounce on Sphynx in Leicester Square?
Or likelier, what if Sphynx in wise old age,
Grown sick of snapping foolish people's heads,
And jealous for her riddle's proper rede, —
Jealous that the good trick which served the turn
Have justice rendered it, nor class one day
With friend Home's stilts and tongs and medium-ware,—
What if the once redoubted Sphynx, I say,
(Because night draws on, and the sands increase,
And desert-whispers grow a prophecy)
Tell all to Corinth of her own accord.
Bright Corinth, not dull Thebes, for Lais' sake,
Who finds me hardly grey, and likes my nose,
And thinks a man of sixty at the prime?
Good! It shall be! Revealment of myself!
But listen, for we must co-operate;
I don't drink tea: permit me the cigar!
First, how to make the matter plain, of course —
What was the law by which I lived. Let 's see:
Ay, we must take one instant of my life
Spent sitting by your side in this neat room:
Watch well the way I use it, and don't laugh!
Here's paper on the table, pen and ink:
Give me the soiled bit — not the pretty rose!
See! having sat an hour, I'm rested now,
Therefore want work: and spy no better work
For eye and hand and mind that guides them both,
During this instant, than to draw my pen
From blot One — thus — up, up to blot Two — thus —
Which I at last reach, thus, and here's my line
Five inches long and tolerably straight:

[...] Read more

poem by Robert Browning (1871)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Part II

So, they ring bell, give orders, pay, depart
Amid profuse acknowledgment from host
Who well knows what may bring the younger back.
They light cigar, descend in twenty steps
The 'calm acclivity,' inhale—beyond
Tobacco's balm—the better smoke of turf
And wood fire,—cottages at cookery
I' the morning,—reach the main road straitening on
'Twixt wood and wood, two black walls full of night
Slow to disperse, though mists thin fast before
The advancing foot, and leave the flint-dust fine
Each speck with its fire-sparkle. Presently
The road's end with the sky's beginning mix
In one magnificence of glare, due East,
So high the sun rides,—May's the merry month.
They slacken pace: the younger stops abrupt.
Discards cigar, looks his friend full in face.

"All right; the station comes in view at end;
Five minutes from the beech-clump, there you are!
I say: let's halt, let's borrow yonder gate
Of its two magpies, sit and have a talk!
Do let a fellow speak a moment! More
I think about and less I like the thing—
No, you must let me! Now, be good for once!
Ten thousand pounds be done for, dead and damned!
We played for love, not hate: yes, hate! I hate
Thinking you beg or borrow or reduce
To strychnine some poor devil of a lord
Licked at Unlimited Loo. I had the cash
To lose—you knew that!—lose and none the less
Whistle to-morrow: it's not every chap
Affords to take his punishment so well!
Now, don't be angry with a friend whose fault
Is that he thinks—upon my soul, I do—
Your head the best head going. Oh, one sees
Names in the newspaper—great this, great that,
Gladstone, Carlyle, the Laureate:—much I care!
Others have their opinion, I keep mine:
Which means—by right you ought to have the things
I want a head for. Here's a pretty place,
My cousin's place, and presently my place.
Not yours! I'll tell you how it strikes a man.
My cousin's fond of music and of course
Plays the piano (it won't be for long!)
A brand-new bore she calls a 'semi-grand,'
Rosewood and pearl, that blocks the drawing-room.
And cost no end of money. Twice a week
Down comes Herr Somebody and seats himself.
Sets to work teaching—with his teeth on edge—

[...] Read more

poem by Robert Browning from The Inn Album (1875)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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The Stand-Ins

In the dream
the swastika is neon
and flashes like a strobe light
into my eyes, all colors,
all vibrations
and I see the killer in him
and he turns on an oven,
an oven, an oven, an oven,
and on a pie plate he sticks
in my Yellow Star
and then
then when it is ready for serving—
this dream goes off into the wings
and on stage The Cross appears,
with Jesus sticking to it
and He is breathing
and breathing
and He is breathing
and breathing
and then He speaks,
a kind of whisper,
and says . . .
This is the start.
This is the end.
This is a light.
This is a start.
I woke.
I did not know the hour,
an hour of night like thick scum
but I considered the dreams,
the two: Swastika, Crucifix,
and said: Oh well,
it doesn't belong to me,
if a cigar can be a cigar
then a dream can be a dream.
Right?
Right?
And went back to sleep
and another start.

poem by Anne Sexton
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