Young
A thousand doors ago
when I was a lonely kid
in a big house with four
garages and it was summer
as long as I could remember,
I lay on the lawn at night,
clover wrinkling over me,
the wise stars bedding over me,
my mother's window a funnel
of yellow heat running out,
my father's window, half shut,
an eye where sleepers pass,
and the boards of the house
were smooth and white as wax
and probably a million leaves
sailed on their strange stalks
as the crickets ticked together
and I, in my brand new body,
which was not a woman's yet,
told the stars my questions
and thought God could really see
the heat and the painted light,
elbows, knees, dreams, goodnight.
poem by Anne Sexton
Submitted by Dan Costinaş
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Related quotes
My Home
This is the place that I love the best,
A little brown house, like a ground-bird's nest,
Hid among grasses, and vines, and trees,
Summer retreat of the birds and bees.
The tenderest light that ever was seen
Sifts through the vine-made window screen--
Sifts and quivers, and flits and falls
On home-made carpets and gray-hung walls.
All through June the west wind free
The breath of clover brings to me.
All through the languid July day
I catch the scent of new-mown hay.
The morning-glories and scarlet vine
Over the doorway twist and twine;
And every day, when the house is still,
The humming-bird comes to the window-sill.
In the cunningest chamber under the sun
I sink to sleep when the day is done;
And am waked at morn, in my snow-white bed,
By a singing bird on the roof o'erhead.
Better than treasures brought from Rome,
Are the living pictures I see at home--
My aged father, with frosted hair,
And mother's face, like a painting rare.
Far from the city's dust and heat,
I get but sounds and odors sweet.
Who can wonder I love to stay,
Week after week, here hidden away,
In this sly nook that I love the best--
This little brown house like a ground-bird's nest?
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Hamlet Micure
In a lingering fever many visions come to you:
I was in the little house again
With its great yard of clover
Running down to the board-fence,
Shadowed by the oak tree,
Where we children had our swing.
Yet the little house was a manor hall
Set in a lawn, and by the lawn was the sea.
I was in the room where little Paul
Strangled from diphtheria,
But yet it was not this room --
It was a sunny verandah enclosed
With mullioned windows,
And in a chair sat a man in a dark cloak,
With a face like Euripides.
He had come to visit me, or I had gone to visit him --
I could not tell.
We could hear the beat of the sea, the clover nodded
Under a summer wind, and little Paul came
With clover blossoms to the window and smiled.
Then I said: "What is 'divine despair,' Alfred?"
"Have you read 'Tears, Idle Tears'?" he asked.
"Yes, but you do not there express divine despair."
"My poor friend," he answered, "that was why the despair
Was divine."
poem by Edgar Lee Masters
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Woman Is Fire
There was a time when Woman went out of house, house of wax was left by Woman, Woman with waxen complexion I was, I was fiery Woman, Woman's body was a wax, Woman's eyes a flammable paraffin, what Woman's mouth was: withered red apples when Woman was fired out of house. House was invisible when Woman took a fire lamp and went to cheer in the smell of fallen apples, scattered around house, our moldy house. In the cold night Woman molded her body in a candle mould to revive old fire and saw Man that gathered apple stalks from moldy apple trees. It was a lonely man, Man that made a fire with waxed paper and moldering apple stalks. Man that sat outdoors on a moldy wooden bench by that fire and drunk applejack.
Woman saw Man, Man that felt Woman's looks through apple shaped embers bursting out of fire when wet apple leaves dried. Fire was a necessity for Man, for Man made his living being a fire-eater. The fire-eater wanted fire that gives birth, of fireworks, exploding fire. Man moved a long green apple stalk through fire to burn fire more. Man took a dropp and swallowed it. Man took another dropp and spat it into the fire. Suddenly Man realized what he needed and waxed on a piece of paper: fire must drink applejack for fire is becoming moldy, and he spat what he drunk mingled with apple-tasting spit. House is moldy too, Woman remembered and woman's heart became a rotten apple.. Fire was quenching as Woman closed her eyelids, apple peels, longing for house. House may be moldy, but house is not empty. Woman molded house the like, house full of candle lights and fireflies. Woman left Man's fire quenched and remained an apple scented candle. House melts easily and hardens quickly, Woman too. Woman abandoned Man not to be melt. That is old fire in Woman, as she stalks on apple waxed earth toward house.
poem by Afrodita Nikolova
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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She Shrieked Outside
She shrieks in broad daylight,
Opening her wounds, to the day.
My window seen in the wind is grand,
More than a plain sight of abundance.
We shriek collectively, like an animal of the grass,
To mixtures a care is made by the dozen, we just shriek.
A man is again in white light, black nights will perish
Due to the heat of the day’s sun, a strange flame of a film.
He will not occupy me, this masculine star, this microscopic orange,
Always awesome, bouncing in light of the stars.
He shrieked due to blindness, answering my suggestion
Made by my son and daughter, in the house, in there.
poem by Naveed Akram
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Thru The Window
Thru the window, I slip away
Into the darkness, time has come
I must use caution, summer nights are here, Ill race for the shadows, Ill make a trail
No one can follow, and all I feel
Is the breeze rushin by my face
Runnin free thru the night in the street
Like it best when I feel the heat
I know my babys waitin just for me
Creepin, thru her neighborhood
I hope nobody, has seen or heard
My intentions, are driven by this flame inside
I see her light on, her silhouettes
In the window, shes waiting for
My arrival, on this summer night
Runnin free thru the night in the street
Like it best when I feel the heat
Runnin free thru the night in the street
I know my babys waiting just for me
Runnin free thru the night in the street
I like it best when I fell the heat, oh yeah
Thru her window, she slips away
I hear her heartbeat
High emotion, takes us where weve never been before
song performed by by Reo Speedwagon
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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bacolod 2011 May
(at kasai's resto)
little Tina i remember
was the one affectionate
with the white
kitten
that she saves from the
window in grandma's house
i have seen compassion
in her eyes
how did she grow to be
a woman
reserved, decent
and compassionate
to the little world
where she is
in now?
her mother who has
white hairs
smiles when Tina says
that marriage
can always wait
as she has still other
things to do
with
the present kittens
at the house
of the door
of her old house
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Elegy V
In summer's heat and mid-time of the day
To rest my limbs upon a bed I lay,
One window shut, the other open stood,
Which gave such light, as twinkles in a wood,
Like twilight glimpse at setting of the sun,
Or night being past, and yet not day begun.
Such light to shamefast maidens must be shown,
Where they must sport, and seem to be unknown.
Then came Corinna in a long loose gown,
Her white neck hid with tresses hanging down:
Resembling fair Semiramis going to bed
Or Layis of a thousand wooers sped.
I snatched her gown, being thin, the harm was small,
Yet strived she to be covered there withal.
And striving thus as one that would be chaste,
Betrayed herself, and yeilded at the last.
Stark naked as she stood before mine eye,
Not one wen in her body could I spy.
What arms and shoulders did I touch and see,
How apt her breasts were to be pressed by me.
How smooth a belly under her waist saw I?
How large a leg, and what a lusty thigh?
To leave the rest, all liked me passing well,
I clinged her naked body, down she fell,
Judge you the rest, being tired she bade me kiss,
Jove sent me more such afternoons as this.
Fairy Stars
My uncle Dan
was a Harlem Man
danced extra light on his feet
smiles like radiant sun
talked up close to ya
comfortable with himself
and you could always
smell his cologne.
The ladies loved him;
loved that laugh of his
he always had flattery for them
often given.
Uptown.
down town
he never came to the house
what without a gift;
loved us 'chilings'
soft candy
and wild stories
which always had a point.
'Time was' he'd say'
'that there was a meadow
over that way
till they paved it over'
'Your grandmother-
why she came from 500 acres
in the deep south-
til they taxed her family out.
Had to leave the land;
she still bitter
and put out.
We all
here
in this family
immigrants
and runaways
most free,
some slaves.
'Now'
he'd say
'don't trade
plantation slave
for city slave
get your own business.
Be an 'enter-pre-newr'
Knew the stars
and summer nights'
would have us all look up:
'Now see that fairy princess there
right there between those five stars
that's God looking over all little girls
and those stars are God's fairy saints.
If ever you need
just look up
and they'll be there watching there;
ready to take care of you.
Each night
go to the window
be sure to say goodnight to 'em'
He died in my sophomore year.
I traveled to Chicago to say goodbye.
He had asked all the women he loved
to leave a white rose on his casket.
And white roses were there
everywhere, everywhere
as far as the eye could see
and that included a long-stemmed white rose
from me;
lovingly placed;
remembering
those fairy saints;
and Uncle Dan
looking up
all bright-eyed
saying;
'Now say goodnight;
they can hear you.
I believe to this day
he was right.
poem by Lonnie Hicks
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Elegies, Book One, 5
In summer’s heat and mid-time of the day
To rest my limbs upon a bed I lay,
One window shut, the other open stood,
Which gave such light as twinkles in a wood,
Like twilight glimpse at setting of the sun
Or night being past, and yet not day begun.
Such light to shamefaced maidens must be shown,
Where they may sport, and seem to be unknown.
Then came Corinna in a long loose gown,
Her white neck hid with tresses hanging down:
Resembling fair Semiramis going to bed
Or Laïs of a thousand wooers sped.
I snatched her gown, being thin, the harm was small,
Yet strived she to be covered therewithal.
And striving thus as one that would be cast,
Betrayed herself, and yielded at the last.
Stark naked as she stood before mine eye,
Not one wen in her body could I spy.
What arms and shoulders did I touch and see,
How apt her breasts were to be pressed by me?
How smooth a belly under her waist saw I?
How large a leg, and what a lusty thigh?
To leave the rest, all liked me passing well,
I clinged her naked body, down she fell,
Judge you the rest: being tired she bad me kiss,
Jove send me more such afternoons as this
poem by Christopher Marlowe
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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In Summer's Heat
In summer's heat and mid-time of the day,
To rest my limbs upon a bed I lay,
One window shut, the other open stood,
Which gave such light as twinkles in a wood
Like twilight glimpse at setting of the sun,
Or night being past and yet not day begun.
Such light to shamefaced maidens must be shown,
Where they may sport, and seem to be unknown.
Then came Corinna in a long, loose gown,
Her white neck hid with tresses hanging down,
Resembling fair Semiramis going to bed,
Or Lais of a thousand wooers sped.
I snatched her gown, being thin the harm was small,
Yet strived she to be covered therewithal,
And, striving thus as one that would be chaste,
Betrayed herself, and yielded at the last.
Stark naked as she stood before mine eye,
Not one wen in her body could I spy.
What arms and shoulders did I touch and see?
How apt her breasts were to be pressed by me?
How smooth a belly under her waist saw I?
How large a leg, and what a lusty thigh?
To leave the rest, all liked me passing well;
I clinged her naked body, down she fell.
Judge you the rest. Being tired, she bade me kiss.
Jove send me more such afternoons as this.
The Threshold Stone
WHEN I went to live in the little house,
That stands on the hilltop alone,
What touched me most of all
Was neither roof nor wall,
But the smooth, worn face of its old threshold stone.
For when I entered that little house,
With its four rooms cool in the heat,
And its windows clean and bright,
There it lay, new-washed and white,
With its tale of the coming and the going of feet.
Then I lost count of time in that little house,
And the world and its things all about,
And I hearkened there, alone,
To the footfalls on that stone,
Of the young coming in and the old going out.
And the folk that had dwelt in that little house,
They were mute, spectre-mute, at my side —
The young man, strong and bold,
And the grey man, wise and old,
And the little, pinched woman and the new-made bride.
Oh, often in haste to that little house
Came love in the night-time alone,
And dallied there a while,
With a little, wistful smile,
And with feather-weight feet on the old threshold stone.
And men hurried home to that little house
When the round of the daytime was o'er
With its worry, heat and noise,
And kissed their girls and boys,
And the patient little mothers that waited at the door.
Though I dwell now no more in that little house
That stands on the hilltop alone,
Yet this I got from it —
This human story writ
On the smooth, worn face of its old threshold stone.
Though they take stone from stone in that little house,
Making litter of all it has been.
Yet they shall not destroy
All the grief, all the joy,
All the youth, all the love that its threshold has seen.
poem by Roderic Quinn
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Heat Of Summer, Heated Love.
Summer's heat can swelter and melt...
As summer's heat may simmer as weld.
Some summer's heat can burn as long...
This summer's heat can impel a song.
Summer's heat can cook and bake...
Summer's heat of life can take.
Boil and broil a heart so hot...
A summer's heat can break that romanceful knot.
This heat of summer can smoulder and rot.
Anger's heat, heats up my libido's furnace...
This love of summer can invoke to heart, a loving furnish.
Love of summer brings to mind, a resurgance of love...
Summer's sun may bathe one and all with heat fro' above.
Summer's heat can bring to beaches and swimming pools...
Visions of women in bikinied thongs, these things my eyes do love.
poem by Michael Gale
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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In the long night
In the long night
The long, long night
How bright
The light of passion shines!
The summer heat
How obstinate
It is:
Yet in the night
The long, long night
How bright
The light of passion shines!
And winter frost
And neighing wind
Behind the window panes
And doors:
And the shrill call
Of nightingales
In Spring:
No difference will make:
For
In the long, long night
How bright
The light of passion shines!
poem by Emmanuel George Cefai
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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To Cut A Long Story Short
Soldier is turning
See him through white light
Running from strangers
See you in the valley
War upon war
Heat upon heat
To cut a long story short
I lost my mind
Sitting on a park bench
Years away from fighting
To cut a long story short
I lost my mind
Standing in the dark
Oh I was waiting for man to come
I am beautiful and clean
And so very very young
To be standing in the street
To be taken by someone
Questions questions
Give me no answers
Thats all they ever give me
Questions questions
Oh look at the strange boy
He finds it hard existing
To cut a long story short
I lost my mind
song performed by by Spandau Ballet
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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It Is Late
it is late and the sun is setting
the orange and red are diminishing
the blackness spreads like a diffusion
of our sorrow and pain
soon there will be the closing of the windows
of the house
the locking of doors of the ground floors
and some prayers mumbled from lips
to lighted candles on altars of saints
and angels
soon there will be stories
from mother
and songs too
and then in the quiet
of the stars and the moon and the sky
soon there will
be sleep
under white mosquito nets
the light from the lamp
is blown away
and we smell the smoke
coming from the
loved ones
long dead
we end the games that we play
and we are silent
we yawn and close our eyes
and now ready
as we enter the doors of
our dreams
in there
there may be chases and running too
i am sure somehow we just take a look
unspeakably
things are hazy and we do not remember
anymore
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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I Remember, I Remember
I Remember, I Remember
I remember, I remember
The house where I was born,
The little window where the sun
Came peeping in at morn;
He never came a wink too soon
Nor brought too long a day;
But now, I often wish the night
Had borne my breath away.
I remember, I remember
The roses red and white,
The violets and the lily cups--
Those flowers made of light!
The lilacs where the robin built,
And where my brother set
The laburnum on his birthday,--
The tree is living yet!
I remember, I remember
Where I was used to swing,
And thought the air must rush as fresh
To swallows on the wing;
My spirit flew in feathers then
That is so heavy now,
The summer pools could hardly cool
The fever on my brow.
I remember, I remember
The fir-trees dark and high;
I used to think their slender tops
Were close against the sky:
It was a childish ignorance,
But now 'tis little joy
To know I'm farther off from Heaven
Than when I was a boy.
poem by Thomas Hood
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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I Hate To See A House
I hate
To see a house
Visibly falling
To its knees
I hate
To see a house
Its body trembling
And breaking
A house thats homeless
A house
With loneliness
Upon its face
No window
Is its eyes
No door
Is its mouth
Its body fully
Infested
Faced with old age
And its demise!
poem by Dorsey Baker
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Outside My Picture Window
It has been said that there is a world outside my picture window and
Beyond the trees I see everyday and the sky, sometimes overcast and
Other days, when the sun rises early- I can see the sky and have often wondered if
There exists another world within our universe- I know that
There exists a world inside of my mind and
My pupils are the windows into which
People would look if I were to venture outward?
Beyond the sky, and beyond the sun-
Beyond that world inside my mind,
I would never know where there exists a place for me-
Last night outside of my window
I could see the stars- stars mean different things to different people as
Does the sun, the trees and this whole world outside-
The world inside my mind revolves about
The sun that shines upon my own horizon and
As for this world outside, all I can do is look- and to
See a tree, perhaps a single cloud and the grass that grows-
I have shut my mind to the people who live beyond
The trees, clouds and the grass that I can see-
That window opens to the world inside of my thoughts-
I have just shut and pulled the curtain to discourage all intruders-
I am lying by my window in total darkness now as I place my hand over my eyes,
Shutting out reality and now I can see mountains, flowering trees and
A creek flowing in which I can see my reflection and
I am running upon the grass that grows beneath my feet-
I believe I heard music playing inside the fortress of my mind-
It has been said there is a world outside and I have pulled the curtain
To the window once opened to veracity-
Darkness has never looked as beautiful as I am safe here in my solitude-
Even when the stars are shining and the sky is such a magnificent sight to see-
No place is as exquisite as the creek that runs through my inner space and
The sun inside the world of my thoughts that shines upon my horizon?
The stars are far away and all that is real, though just outside my picture window
I perceive as too far away for me to reach- I would touch the stars and I could be a dove
That can lift my wings and fly away from all that threatens, but only inside my dreams-
Children sing songs and read fairy tales and they believe and I believe that
The sun shines light upon their worlds and
Someday their dreams shall blossom as has mine and shall become their homes-
Home is the safe place inside a person's mind, not within the madding crowd that
Exists outside my picture window- even if the stars are always there- and
That unique and special sun shall just keep on shining upon the world of my dreams….
poem by Claudia Krizay
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Open House
Please
Come over to 81st street Im in the apartment
Above the bar
You know you cant miss it, its across from the subway
And the tacky store with the mylar scarves
My skins as pale as outdoors moon
My hairs silver like a tiffany watch
I like lots of people around me but dont kiss hello
And please dont touch
Its a czechoslovakian custom my mother passed on to me
The way to make friends andy is invite them up for tea
Open house
Open house
Ive got a lot of cats, heres my favorite
Shes lady called sam
I made a paper doll of her, you can have it
Thats what I did when I had st.vitus dance
Its a czechoslovakian custom my mother passed on to me
Give people little presents so they remember me
Open house
Open house
Someone bring the vegetables
Someone please bring heat
My mother showed up yesterday
We need something to eat
I think I got a job today they want me to draw shoes
The ones I drew were old and used
They told me to draw something new
Open house
Open house
Fly me to the moon
Fly me to a star
But there are no stars in the new york sky
Theyre all on the ground
You scared yourself with music, I scared myself with paint
I drew 550 different shoes today, it almost made me faint
Open house
Open house
Open house
Open house
song performed by by Lou Reed
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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0029 This night, this night of endless miracle
On this Mediterranean night with its light breeze
scented with the sun-warmed herbs
drifting down from cooling, stony hills,
a million stars you’ve never seen before
shine on a million crickets singing
as if from eternity to eternity
and you cannot say, and there’s
no need to say, which is which;
the trembling of the stars,
the susurration of cicadas,
join as in endless praise
of the imagination of their maker
who made imagination too
and though the cicadas, singing, may never know
that the stars they sing to
are shining from a thousand years ago
and though the stars may never know
that the cicadas that they shine upon
are a thousand years here from their now,
it’s all known, to the mind that made the vines
that made the grapes that made the wine
singing in my veins tonight
like cicadas susurrating in the starlight
as you hear them now
this night, this night of endless miracle
poem by Michael Shepherd
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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