Don't let the windows of your home be so small that the light of the sun cannot enter your rooms.
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Wistfully Watching
They explore the world
through windows,
church windows,
school windows,
two up, two down windows,
castle windows,
large windows,
small windows.
They see it all,
from blameless to guilty,
from noble to treacherous,
through windows.
From skyscraper windows,
to basement flat windows,
from paupers windows,
and palace windows
they watch, absorb, suck it in.
Later when they have grown
they will remember,
try to empathise,
rationalise
decipher the coded metaphors,
but some day
they will be demoralised
by the windows of life.
There they sit __ wistfully watching __
the children
of our times.
poem by Ruth Walters
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Hard Days On In At The Rehab For Drunken Poets, An Opera Of Sorts, circa 1981
They can't all be like these, I guess.
The days are good, though, when they are.
The formula is simple really -
We take our ragged bones out of rented rooms for long walks.
You point out between bricks the rainbows in windows, the dirt
now become your dirt, your genius for transformations.
I ram my own by now trite and hackneyed points
home over and over, but it works on days like these.
Reprise. Then cold beer in the dying light of
a gray bar. The stage is set. Laughter over the
wear on those other faces as we shudder behind
our own, the usual exchange of wind.
Full darkness mutes the swarm and it begins.
Curtain up.
Back inside our rooms, last castrati on the radio.
Enter winter under the door crack.
This becomes an event,
the retelling in high C;
'...I guess it's just as well we speak
this way in America and call it poetry.'
See. I'm ramming it again.
Cold breaks my concentration.
It's moving up my legs like hemlock.
Poetry should do the same.
OK. I'll get serious. A brief libretto: :
Today sweet Molly with the black eye
and the cut on her breast cried then
decided to return home to Bud who
beats her when she's drunk. I tried to
talk her out of going but she was going
and she went. Scherzo here. Interlude.
Johnny didn't come home but drank a beer
after court, walked down Highway 25 to see
his little girl, called to say he was sorry for
being late. 'You can't come back, Johnny.
You been drinking again.' Coloratura. And gravel.
Joe vomited honey and banana in bed, a real mess.
I caught most of it in a trash can held up to his head.
He roared when he wretched.
'I've vomited more years than I've lived them' he said, shaking.
'I'm a damned drunk and I'll die a damned drunk.'
poem by Warren Falcon
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Nobody Home
I can tell by the way
There aint no lights in the windows
And by the way your curtains hang
Yeah, I know which way the wind blows
I said no, I said no, I said no, nobody home
Nobody home, nobody home
You went away, what a heavy load
You must have took it with you
Down and out, to no thanks to boat
But no one can get ya
I said no, I said no, I said no, aint nobody home
Nobody home, nobody home
I said nobody, nobody home
From the way that you act
I guess you havent been there
By the look in your eyes
Theres nobody been there
I said no, I said no, I said no, nobody home
Nobody home, nobody home
I said nobody, nobody, nobody home
Nobody home, nobody home
I said no, I said no, I said no no no, nobody home
Nobody home, nobody home
I said nobody, nobody home
Nobody home, nobody home
Aint nobody home, nobody home,
Nobody home
Nobody home
Nobody home
Nobody home
song performed by by Electric Light Orchestra
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Bowery Afternoon
Drab discoloration
Of faces, façades, pawn-shops,
Second-hand clothing,
Smoky and fly-blown glass of lunch-rooms,
Odors of rancid life…
Deadly uniformity
Of eyes and windows
Alike devoid of light…
Holes wherein life scratches -
Mangy life
Nosing to the gutter's end…
Show-rooms and mimic pillars
Flaunting out of their gaudy vestibules
Bosoms and posturing thighs…
Over all the Elevated
Droning like a bloated fly.
poem by Lola Ridge
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Smells Like Home!
windows wet,
fog over.
pale light,
seeps through.
spirit takes flesh,
flesh stays hungry.
fingertip prayers,
small moments eternal.
hand on the plow,
your earth smells
like home!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Marriage
Marriage for Esme began as a wide open room
with windows that let in the sunshine
and curtains so light and airy
they floated on the breeze.
Her husband's blue eyes would sparkle
with just a hint of mischief
and fun that they intrigued her,
made him special.
Then in the second year on her birthday
it seemed the room had grown dusty,
the curtains seemed dull,
the windows small.
And in the third year, without a doubt
the sun had gone down on her
and the room held a chill
like her aching heart.
By the fifth year, she'd aged,
her eyes had shadows, her skin had paled
and the room seemed small
with no windows at all.
She had shriveled, was withdrawn,
she'd sit in the corner of the room humming,
rocking back and forth, back and forth,
back and forth........
poem by Ruth Walters
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Late, Late, So Late
Late, late, so late! and dark the night and chill!
Late, late, so late! but we can enter still.
Too late, too late! ye cannot enter now.
No light had we: for that we do repent;
And learning this, the bridegroom will relent.
Too late, too late! ye cannot enter now.
No light: so late! and dark and chill the night!
O, let us in, that we may find the light!
Too late, too late: ye cannot enter now.
Have we not heard the bridgegroom is so sweet?
O, let us in, tho' late, to kiss his feet!
No, no, too late! ye cannot enter now."
poem by Alfred Lord Tennyson
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Empty Heart To Enter
To enter the heart where answers lie,
You must give your weaknesses away.
This has redness as blood is red,
And we legitimately drive our stored fluids
With the one organ to marry with others.
To enter this prison we ascend a flight of stairs,
And reenter the building through the sky.
My fee for this commodity is slight,
My accusation is limited by the small risks.
To enter the heart of another person
Relies upon the skill with which you enter.
poem by Naveed Akram
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People Think
People think, that they can play
With their fate without doubt.
They could cry - 'Me! ' - and next day
Will be all the best and farther...
People think, that fate and torments
Are the superstitious tales
Of some crazy gone from boredom,
All that they may be called a nonsense.
People think that 'I' has weight in
The World of creatures and in Being...
Looking with their eyes from windows
Of their rooms, so small in real.
poem by Lyudmila Purgina
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Bigot Sunshine
Big wings
And small waters
Carry me back home
Small minds
Stand protected under bigot sunshine
I'm not alone
But I'm far from home
You can never go home again
You can never go home again
Main street
Standing naked on the Fourth of July
Down stream
All the maniacs on my face they spy
I'm not alone
But I'm far from home
You can never go home again
You can never go home again
You can never act the way that you did back then
I'm not alone
But I'm far from home
You can never go home again
You can never go home again
You can never act the way that you did back then
You can never act the way that you did back then
When you were just a little boy
song performed by by Tonic from Lemon Parade
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Visit To The Asylum
Once from a big, big building,
When I was small, small,
The queer folk in the windows
Would smile at me and call.
And in the hard wee gardens
Such pleasant men would hoe:
"Sir, may we touch the little girl's hair!"—
It was so red, you know.
They cut me coloured asters
With shears so sharp and neat,
They brought me grapes and plums and pears
And pretty cakes to eat.
And out of all the windows,
No matter where we went,
The merriest eyes would follow me
And make me compliment.
There were a thousand windows,
All latticed up and down.
And up to all the windows,
When we went back to town,
The queer folk put their faces,
As gentle as could be;
"Come again, little girl!" they called, and I
Called back, "You come see me!"
poem by Edna St. Vincent Millay
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Villa Pauline
But, ah! before he came
You were only a name:
Four little rooms and a cupboard
Without a bone,
And I was alone!
Now with your windows wide
Everything from outside
Of sun and flower and loveliness
Comes in to hide,
To play, to laugh on the stairs,
To catch unawares
Our childish happiness,
And to glide
Through the four little rooms on tip-toe
With lifted finger,
Pretending we shall not know When the shutters are shut
That they still linger
Long, long after.
Lying close in the dark
He says to me: "Hark,
Isn't that laughter?"
poem by Katherine Mansfield
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Unemployment Shame
Rows and rows of boxes
All of them the same
With rooms and rooms of people
Each without a name
Hearts that beat, though breaking
And smiles that mask the pain
Of fading hopes of sunshine
Through windows drenched with rain.
Once lovers, now not speaking
Except to lay the blame
For broken dreams and the poverty
Of unemployment shame.
Empty cupboards and drunken sleep
Are all part of the game
But hungry babies wake them still
On mornings all the same.
poem by Jane Solanrobertson
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Overbird
O = Once upon the midnight enter hurry
V = Verily the hurry worry enter scurry
E = Eerily or early bird of enter Poe
R = Raven is only one huge enter Crow
B = Better to see them from the
distance of the hour glasses with
thick lenses enter Tommy use your eye
I = Intense discussion rules get broken
enter time to turn the worm over
enter into the night
R = Roman Judges rule nothing enter Rome
not one stone standing of the Jewish enter
temple now
D = Describe the Vulture in the Temple its
got wings of darkness its got red eye
with long black enter nose this time
this poem enter perfect prose
poem by Charles Hice
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Windows
Windows open vistas for us
Windows - of hearts, of minds or of eyes
Windows - which might open outward
Or inward
They bring the light on the other end to this end.
Windows converse
They open the alphabetical locks of our lips
When night weaves nets of darkness on windows
Life-spans speak out in whispers from abysses of pain
Windows then perforce remain silent
Suffer days of tongue-tied laws
Nights of oppression
And epochs of tyranny
Windows are self same stories of dreams
Of centuries
Mute testimony of chasms
Court yards and ruined houses
Evidence of rusted eons rattling with exhaustion
in tyrant time's primordium continuity
Windows have the heart of a woman
They open their body's wings of each clime
With a little waft of wind
With fragrance, sunlight, rain or moon beams.
They blow away paper-light images
And waste away life in uncharted desires.
When butterflies fly in front of windows
Eyes glued to window panes become tearful
With noontide memories.
Evenings look forward to a wayfarer passing by
When they're covered with climbers
holding forth red and white flowers
They fill closed fists with the touch of fire-flies.
Windows often insist on being kept open
They're surprised to watch cloud, birds
And the blue sky's expanse
If they're kept shut
They're afraid of the life breath of
Walls and rooms getting strangulated.
They're afraid of dwellers forsaking their houses
They also feel life's desertion
They also feel despondent
Windows are human beings!
Poem by: Naseer Ahmed Nasir
Translated from the original Urdu into English by Satyapal Anand.
Copyrights (C) All rights reserved.
poem by Naseer Ahmed Nasir
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Closedown
The incunabula of television,
Crystal palace, lipstick and clipped tones,
Muffin the Mule, then finally the flicks
crammed into tubes, inferior Bibles, cloned,
invaded all our evenings. Television
will kill the cinema! doom-pundits cried,
erroneously. We, mesmerised, pie-eyed,
in small square post-utility sitting rooms,
witnessed the small square triumph of the box,
Stevenson's toy theatre, exaggerating life.
Coach became pumpkin at eleven o'clock,
rooms shrank, books closed, bare remnants of the plot.
Goodnight. Remember to switch off your set.
The screen collapsed into a small white dot.
Split Screen (Red Squirrel Press)
poem by Sally Evans
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Why
Why
did I like
the highways
and the byways
with their
cheap
lodgings
so very much?
I liked
to look out
through
the frosted
windows
from
the heated
rooms.
(8-25-'97)
poem by Sangnam Nam
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This day had sunlight
Light shone through small windows
My office was a stable
The beast of burdens´ air reminds me
That my work is not yet done.
tanka by Oskar Hansen
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The Windows
In these dark chambers here what weary days
I spend, walk up and down as in a maze
To find the windows.----Only to unclose
One of these windows will be some relief.---
But somehow windows this room hasn’t got,
Or I can’t find them. Perhaps I’ better not.
Perhaps the light would be another grief.
What fresh surprises ther might be, who knows?
poem by Constantine P. Cavafy
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Rosie Won't You Please Come Home
Rosie wont you please come home?
Mama dont know where youve been.
Rosie wont you please come home?
Your rooms clean and no ones in it.
Oh my rosie, how I miss you,
You are all the world to me.
Take a look and see if you like it,
If you like it please come back.
Rosie wont you please come home?
Since youve joined the upper classes,
You dont know us anymore.
Live and let your troubles pass.
Rosie, rosie, will you write and tell me,
If you dont want to come back?
I would sacrifice all I have
To have a happy home once more.
Rosie wont you please come home?
Two long years have passed away.
Since you tried to change your life,
Christmas wasnt quite the same.
Rosie, rosie, got any answers?
You are miles across the sea,
And Ill bake a cake if you tell me
You are on the first plane home.
Rosie wont you please come home?
Mama dont know where youve been.
Rosie wont you please come home?
Your rooms clean and no ones in it.
Oh my rosie, how I miss you,
You are all the world to me.
Take a look and see if you like it,
If you like it please come back.
Oh rosie, will you please come back?
song performed by by Kinks
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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