Towns in Colour
I
Red Slippers
Red slippers in a shop-window, and outside in the street, flaws of grey,
windy sleet!
Behind the polished glass, the slippers hang in long threads of red,
festooning from the ceiling like stalactites of blood, flooding the eyes
of passers-by with dripping colour, jamming their crimson reflections
against the windows of cabs and tram-cars, screaming their claret and salmon
into the teeth of the sleet, plopping their little round maroon lights
upon the tops of umbrellas.
The row of white, sparkling shop fronts is gashed and bleeding,
it bleeds red slippers. They spout under the electric light,
fluid and fluctuating, a hot rain - and freeze again to red slippers,
myriadly multiplied in the mirror side of the window.
They balance upon arched insteps like springing bridges of crimson lacquer;
they swing up over curved heels like whirling tanagers sucked
in a wind-pocket; they flatten out, heelless, like July ponds,
flared and burnished by red rockets.
Snap, snap, they are cracker-sparks of scarlet in the white, monotonous
block of shops.
They plunge the clangour of billions of vermilion trumpets
into the crowd outside, and echo in faint rose over the pavement.
People hurry by, for these are only shoes, and in a window, farther down,
is a big lotus bud of cardboard whose petals open every few minutes
and reveal a wax doll, with staring bead eyes and flaxen hair,
lolling awkwardly in its flower chair.
One has often seen shoes, but whoever saw a cardboard lotus bud before?
The flaws of grey, windy sleet beat on the shop-window where there are only
red slippers.
II
Thompson's Lunch Room - Grand Central Station
Study in Whites
Wax-white -
Floor, ceiling, walls.
Ivory shadows
Over the pavement
Polished to cream surfaces
By constant sweeping.
The big room is coloured like the petals
Of a great magnolia,
And has a patina
Of flower bloom
Which makes it shine dimly
Under the electric lamps.
Chairs are ranged in rows
Like sepia seeds
Waiting fulfilment.
The chalk-white spot of a cook's cap
Moves unglossily against the vaguely bright wall -
Dull chalk-white striking the retina like a blow
Through the wavering uncertainty of steam.
Vitreous-white of glasses with green reflections,
Ice-green carboys, shifting - greener, bluer - with the jar of moving water.
Jagged green-white bowls of pressed glass
Rearing snow-peaks of chipped sugar
Above the lighthouse-shaped castors
Of grey pepper and grey-white salt.
Grey-white placards: 'Oyster Stew, Cornbeef Hash, Frankfurters':
Marble slabs veined with words in meandering lines.
Dropping on the white counter like horn notes
Through a web of violins,
The flat yellow lights of oranges,
The cube-red splashes of apples,
In high plated `epergnes'.
The electric clock jerks every half-minute:
'Coming! - Past!'
'Three beef-steaks and a chicken-pie,'
Bawled through a slide while the clock jerks heavily.
A man carries a china mug of coffee to a distant chair.
Two rice puddings and a salmon salad
Are pushed over the counter;
The unfulfilled chairs open to receive them.
A spoon falls upon the floor with the impact of metal striking stone,
And the sound throws across the room
Sharp, invisible zigzags
Of silver.
III
An Opera House
Within the gold square of the proscenium arch,
A curtain of orange velvet hangs in stiff folds,
Its tassels jarring slightly when someone crosses the stage behind.
Gold carving edges the balconies,
Rims the boxes,
Runs up and down fluted pillars.
Little knife-stabs of gold
Shine out whenever a box door is opened.
Gold clusters
Flash in soft explosions
On the blue darkness,
Suck back to a point,
And disappear.
Hoops of gold
Circle necks, wrists, fingers,
Pierce ears,
Poise on heads
And fly up above them in coloured sparkles.
Gold!
Gold!
The opera house is a treasure-box of gold.
Gold in a broad smear across the orchestra pit:
Gold of horns, trumpets, tubas;
Gold - spun-gold, twittering-gold, snapping-gold
Of harps.
The conductor raises his baton,
The brass blares out
Crass, crude,
Parvenu, fat, powerful,
Golden.
Rich as the fat, clapping hands in the boxes.
Cymbals, gigantic, coin-shaped,
Crash.
The orange curtain parts
And the prima-donna steps forward.
One note,
A drop: transparent, iridescent,
A gold bubble,
It floats . . . floats . . .
And bursts against the lips of a bank president
In the grand tier.
IV
Afternoon Rain in State Street
Cross-hatchings of rain against grey walls,
Slant lines of black rain
In front of the up and down, wet stone sides of buildings.
Below,
Greasy, shiny, black, horizontal,
The street.
And over it, umbrellas,
Black polished dots
Struck to white
An instant,
Stream in two flat lines
Slipping past each other with the smoothness of oil.
Like a four-sided wedge
The Custom House Tower
Pokes at the low, flat sky,
Pushing it farther and farther up,
Lifting it away from the house-tops,
Lifting it in one piece as though it were a sheet of tin,
With the lever of its apex.
The cross-hatchings of rain cut the Tower obliquely,
Scratching lines of black wire across it,
Mutilating its perpendicular grey surface
With the sharp precision of tools.
The city is rigid with straight lines and angles,
A chequered table of blacks and greys.
Oblong blocks of flatness
Crawl by with low-geared engines,
And pass to short upright squares
Shrinking with distance.
A steamer in the basin blows its whistle,
And the sound shoots across the rain hatchings,
A narrow, level bar of steel.
Hard cubes of lemon
Superimpose themselves upon the fronts of buildings
As the windows light up.
But the lemon cubes are edged with angles
Upon which they cannot impinge.
Up, straight, down, straight - square.
Crumpled grey-white papers
Blow along the side-walks,
Contorted, horrible,
Without curves.
A horse steps in a puddle,
And white, glaring water spurts up
In stiff, outflaring lines,
Like the rattling stems of reeds.
The city is heraldic with angles,
A sombre escutcheon of argent and sable
And countercoloured bends of rain
Hung over a four-square civilization.
When a street lamp comes out,
I gaze at it for fully thirty seconds
To rest my brain with the suffusing, round brilliance of its globe.
V
An Aquarium
Streaks of green and yellow iridescence,
Silver shiftings,
Rings veering out of rings,
Silver - gold -
Grey-green opaqueness sliding down,
With sharp white bubbles
Shooting and dancing,
Flinging quickly outward.
Nosing the bubbles,
Swallowing them,
Fish.
Blue shadows against silver-saffron water,
The light rippling over them
In steel-bright tremors.
Outspread translucent fins
Flute, fold, and relapse;
The threaded light prints through them on the pebbles
In scarcely tarnished twinklings.
Curving of spotted spines,
Slow up-shifts,
Lazy convolutions:
Then a sudden swift straightening
And darting below:
Oblique grey shadows
Athwart a pale casement.
Roped and curled,
Green man-eating eels
Slumber in undulate rhythms,
With crests laid horizontal on their backs.
Barred fish,
Striped fish,
Uneven disks of fish,
Slip, slide, whirl, turn,
And never touch.
Metallic blue fish,
With fins wide and yellow and swaying
Like Oriental fans,
Hold the sun in their bellies
And glow with light:
Blue brilliance cut by black bars.
An oblong pane of straw-coloured shimmer,
Across it, in a tangent,
A smear of rose, black, silver.
Short twists and upstartings,
Rose-black, in a setting of bubbles:
Sunshine playing between red and black flowers
On a blue and gold lawn.
Shadows and polished surfaces,
Facets of mauve and purple,
A constant modulation of values.
Shaft-shaped,
With green bead eyes;
Thick-nosed,
Heliotrope-coloured;
Swift spots of chrysolite and coral;
In the midst of green, pearl, amethyst irradiations.
Outside,
A willow-tree flickers
With little white jerks,
And long blue waves
Rise steadily beyond the outer islands.
poem by Amy Lowell
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Related quotes
Bunny Slippers (TM) (For Will)
Bunny slippers,
Bunny slippers,
Pitter patter feet,
Running down the hallway,
Seeing who they meet.
Bunny slippers,
Bunny slippers,
Running all night long,
Curious feet,
Can really do no wrong.
poem by Aisha Sherazi
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Pink Slippers
She always wore pink slippers
They were her signature footwear
When one pair wore out completely
She quietly produced another
The neighbours thought it strange
But no one dared comment on them
If pink slippers were what she wanted
Then who were they to question her
Then one day realisation dawned
She had made it her goal in life
To make women aware of their rights
Pink slippers were the right reminder
When she died the female population
Of the town was seen sporting them
They believed that it was the only way
To pay tribute to her who had just died
She had used a simple but colourful way
To teach them that if they wanted success
They needed to display sisterly togetherness
And sporting pink slippers was just one method
poem by Sandra Martyres
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Thebez
The rubber-slippers is for summer and,
The wooden-slippers is for winter;
But learn from my muse and try to overcome the electric shock! !
For, i am Thebez from the thick black forest.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Black Slippers: Bellotti
At the table beyond us
With her little suede slippers off,
With her white-stocking'd feet
Carefully kept from the floor by a napkin,
She converses:
'Connaissez-vous Ostende?'
The gurgling Italian lady on the other side of the
restaurant
Replies with a certain hauteur,
But I await with patience,
To see how Celestine will re-enter her slippers.
She re-enters them with a groan.
poem by Ezra Pound
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One Princess to Another
Sleeping Beauty stroked
Her blonde hair
And sighed and
Longed for the woods
Snow White stared
At her reflection
And watched as
Her face aged and her life faded
Cinderella pulled at
Her long dress
And looked at
The glass shoes of enslavement
And then Cinderella
Found Sleeping Beauty
And asked:
“Did we ever have a choice? ”
Sleeping Beauty went
To Snow White
And told her:
“I hate my life.”
Then they went
Home to the princes
Who owned them
Because they were the first to kiss them
Cinderella broke her glass slippers
And ran away from the prince
With a nice teacher from the village
Leaving behind a note and glass slippers
Sleeping Beauty
Bore her prince a son
Before she turned to the woods
And never came out again
Snow White took
A poison apple from the
Wicked Witch’s dungeon and bit down into it
And died this time
poem by Elizabeth Rebel
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Rich Mans Spiritual
Gonna but me a long white robe
Yes lord to help me home
Im gonna buy me a long white robe
Yes lord to get me home
And when I get my heavenly gown
And I lay my burden down
Im gonna get me a long white robe to get me home
Im gonna buy me two golden slippers
Yes lord to walk me home
Im gonna buy me two golden slippers
Yes lord to walk me home
And when I get my slippers of gold
Then the lord will have my soul
Im gonna get me two golden slippers to get me home
Im gonna buy me two wings of silver
Yes lord to fly me home
Im gonna buy me two wings of silver
Yes lord to fly me home
And when I get my silvery wings
Then an angel choir will sing
Im gonna get me two wings of silver to get me home
Im gonna buy me a poor mans trouble
Yes lord to help me home
Im gonna buy me a poor mans trouble
Yes lord to help me home
And when I get my trouble and woe
Then homeward I will go
Im gonna get a little trouble and woe to get me home
Im gonna find me a smilin angel
Yes lord to lead me home
Im gonna get me a smilin angel
Yes lord to lead me home
And when he takes me by the hand
I know the lord will understand
Im gonna get me a smilin angel to lead me home
Im gonna get me a smilin angel to lead me home
song performed by by Gordon Lightfoot
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Mister Arrogance AKA S.S. Bernardo...
Same old slippers?
Same old rice?
Same Old glimpse
Of Paradise? ;
Your pride
Became paramount-
Your arrogance
Egregious, indeed
Such hauty contempt
Will get you nowhere
Your disdain enhanced
By your: 'burn are dough' greed;
Perhaps, you are making
Nu plans...
No, they will not include me-
SO, let those led slippers carry you...
Blister free to your own family tree! ;
You can check out your families monies
Be sure to keep sonny boy around to score
Hook up with a crooked lawyer or two...
From maybe, Virginia or Baltimore;
Try to pass on the snow use!
Thanks to you all-it damaged my heart!
Good luck Mister Arrogance-you'll need it!
Drinking, drugging and fraud is not very smart! ! ! ;
Thank You Everyone
But most of all God!
poem by Theodora Onken
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Nursery Times- Cinderella
I think Cinderella was a fella!
Nooo, I think you are trying to trick us.
Well, who the heck do you know,
But a fool ‘fairy' fellow,
Who would go dancing in glass slippers?
poem by Neil Milliner
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Shangri-la
Now that youve found your paradise
This is your kingdom to command
You can go outside and polish your car
Or sit by the fire in your shangri-la
Here is your reward for working so hard
Gone are the lavatories in the back yard
Gone are the days when you dreamed of that car
You just want to sit in your shangri-la
Put on your slippers and sit by the fire
Youve reached your top and you just cant get any higher
Youre in your place and you know where you are
In your shangri-la
Sit back in your old rocking chair
You need not worry, you need not care
You cant go anywhere
Shangri-la, shangri-la, shangri-la
The little man who gets the train
Got a mortgage hanging over his head
But hes too scared to complain
cos hes conditioned that way
Time goes by and he pays off his debts
Got a tv set and a radio
For seven shillings a week
Shangri-la, shangri-la, shangri-la, shangri-la, shangri-la, shangri-la
And all the houses in the street have got a name
cos all the houses in the street they look the same
Same chimney pots, same little cars, same window panes
The neighbors call to tell you things that you should know
They say their lines, they drink their tea, and then they go
They tell your business in another shangri-la
The gas bills and the water rates, and payments on the car
Too scared to think about how insecure you are
Life aint so happy in your little shangri-la
Shangri-la, shangri-la la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la
Put on your slippers and sit by the fire
Youve reached your top and you just cant get any higher
Youre in your place and you know where you are
In your shangri-la
Sit back in your old rocking chair
You need not worry, you need not care
You cant go anywhere
Shangri-la, shangri-la, shangri-la, shangri-la, shangri-la, shangri-la
song performed by by Kinks
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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When the road is long, even slippers feel tight.
The two of us
We were ragged
We played in the street
We never had enough to eat.
We had conkers for toys
and strings in our knickers.
We went barefoot,
we never had slippers.
You had a rabbit
and I had a cat,
you had long socks,
some didn't have that.
We had green fields
in the summertime.
We had fresh air
as good as wine.
We had each other,
you and I.
But above all else
no matter what,
we had love
and that's a lot.
poem by Ruth Walters
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For a Daughter Who Leaves
A woman weaves
her daughter's wedding
slippers that will carry
her steps into a new life.
The mother weeps alone
into her jeweled sewing box
slips red thread
around its spool,
the same she used to stitch
her daughter's first silk jacket
embroidered with turtles
that would bring luck, long life.
She remembers all the steps
taken by her daughter's
unbound quick feet:
dancing on the stones
of the yard among yellow
butterflies and white breasted sparrows.
And she grew, legs strong
body long, mind
independent.
Now she captures all eyes
with her hair combed smooth
and her hips gently
swaying like bamboo.
The woman
spins her thread
from the spool of her heart,
knotted to her daughter's
departing
wedding slippers.
poem by Janice Mirikitani
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There's magic in the air - Pantoum
There's magic in the air
When Cinderella dreams;
Glass slippers may appear,
As odd as it may seem.
When Cinderella dreams
Of jaunty men on horses;
As odd as it may seem
For magic reigns, of courses
Of jaunty men on horses,
She dreams, in her little bed,
For magic reigns, of courses;
And it dances through her head.
She dreams, in her little bed
He has come to take her hand,
And it dances through her head;
She'll be Queen of the little land.
He has come to take her hand,
Glass slippers may appear;
She'll be Queen of the little land:
There's magic in the air
poem by Patti Masterman
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It's easier to put on slippers than to carpet the whole world.
quote by Al Franken
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Walk with your slippers until you can find your shoes.
Old Dreams Are Simple
rubber slippers on my feet
for christmas
fried chicken wing on the table
a cup of white rice
a glass of water
gazing at the stars and the moon
cool winds and shadows of tree
silvery river
a wooden boat and a paddle
with you
beside me
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Escape
When the silence is as taut as a violin string
the rest awaits as you climb past the invitation
of an open window, your day in shopping bags
that redden the joints of your hands, as if you
wait helpless at a busy junction, the heavy trucks
that throw warmth and grit in your face,
this is graceless, like worn slippers under a hospital bed
or an unread letter full of secrets, next to a glass full
of whiteness, rooms full of old cameras and shavers,
as if everything could be started, not just this
ring of concerned faces and mumbles at doorways,
you cannot leave as an angel, you are full of broken glass.
poem by Leslie Philibert
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Cinderella
Cinderella in the street
In a ragged gown,
Sloven slippers on her feet,
Shames our tidy town;
Harsh her locks of ashen grey,
Vapour vague her stare,
By the curb this bitter day
Selling papers there.
Cinderella once was sweet,
Fine and lily fair,
Silver slippers on her feet,
Ribands in her hair;
Solid men besought her hand,
Tart was she as quince,
Living in a fairy land,
Waiting for a Prince.
Days went by and years went by,
Wistful wan was she;
Heedless of a mother's sigh,
Of a lover's plea;
On her lips a carol gay,
In her heart a dream -
Soon the Prince would come her way,
Gallant and agleam.
Then at last she learned the truth,
How her hope was vain;
Gone her beauty, gone her youth,
Leaving want and pain.
See! she's waiting all alone;
Hark! you hear her cry
Papers by the cold curb-stone,
Begging you to buy.
Winter winds are waxing chill,
Clouds rack overhead;
Cinderella will be ill,
Bye and bye be dead.
Yet she kept her vision clear,
To Romance was true,
Holding him forever dear
Whom she never knew.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Cinderellas of to-day
Take no chance of loss;
When a good guy comes your way,
Nail him to the cross.
Let some ordinary cuss
Your coy heart convince;
Never miss the nuptial bus
Waiting for a Prince.
poem by Robert William Service
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Same old slippers, Same old rice, Same old glimpse of paradise.
quote by William James Lampton
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Horses and Men in Rain
Let us sit by a hissing steam radiator a winter's day, gray wind pattering frozen raindrops on the window,
And let us talk about milk wagon drivers and grocery delivery boys.
Let us keep our feet in wool slippers and mix hot punches--and talk about mail carriers and
messenger boys slipping along the icy sidewalks.
Let us write of olden, golden days and hunters of the
Holy Grail and men called "knights" riding horses in the rain, in the cold frozen rain for ladies they loved.
A roustabout hunched on a coal wagon goes by, icicles drip on his hat rim, sheets of ice wrapping
the hunks of coal, the caravanserai a gray blur in slant of rain.
Let us nudge the steam radiator with our wool slippers and write poems of Launcelot, the hero, and
Roland, the hero, and all the olden golden men who rode horses in the rain.
poem by Carl Sandburg
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