Taking Off Emily Dickinson's Clothes
First, her tippet made of tulle,
easily lifted off her shoulders and laid
on the back of a wooden chair.
And her bonnet,
the bow undone with a light forward pull.
Then the long white dress, a more
complicated matter with mother-of-pearl
buttons down the back,
so tiny and numerous that it takes forever
before my hands can part the fabric,
like a swimmer's dividing water,
and slip inside.
You will want to know
that she was standing
by an open window in an upstairs bedroom,
motionless, a little wide-eyed,
looking out at the orchard below,
the white dress puddled at her feet
on the wide-board, hardwood floor.
The complexity of women's undergarments
in nineteenth-century America
is not to be waved off,
and I proceeded like a polar explorer
through clips, clasps, and moorings,
catches, straps, and whalebone stays,
sailing toward the iceberg of her nakedness.
Later, I wrote in a notebook
it was like riding a swan into the night,
but, of course, I cannot tell you everything -
the way she closed her eyes to the orchard,
how her hair tumbled free of its pins,
how there were sudden dashes
whenever we spoke.
What I can tell you is
it was terribly quiet in Amherst
that Sabbath afternoon,
nothing but a carriage passing the house,
a fly buzzing in a windowpane.
So I could plainly hear her inhale
when I undid the very top
hook-and-eye fastener of her corset
and I could hear her sigh when finally it was unloosed,
the way some readers sigh when they realize
that Hope has feathers,
that reason is a plank,
that life is a loaded gun
that looks right at you with a yellow eye.
poem by Billy Collins
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Related quotes
Eyes Wide Open
Your eyes are wide open, but yet you don’t see
All the love I have inside of me.
Eyes wide open, but you don’t look around
You don’t open your ears, you don’t hear a sound.
Eyes wide open but the beauties that surround you
Do not seem to exist.
Is it that your eyes on you are playing tricks?
Eyes wide open and yet you have a blank stare.
Have you closed off your mind?
Or you just don’t care.
What can I do to remove that haze
So that on my face you can gaze.
If I hold you tenderly in my arms
And kiss those beautiful eyes.
Will they move? Will they cry?
What must I do so that you can see
That our love was meant to be.
They say that you went deep inside yourself
To hide the hurt and pain
But without your love “ I am the same”.
Eyes wide open. Did they just glance at me?
Is it because your heart is finally free?
I see a tear forming in your eyes
Emotions being let out that you tried to hide.
Eyes wide open- now they are mine
I can see your love for the very first time.
poem by Louis Rams
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Conversation
We smile at each other
and I lean back against the wicker couch.
How does it feel to be dead? I say.
You touch my knees with your blue fingers.
And when you open your mouth,
a ball of yellow light falls to the floor
and burns a hole through it.
Don't tell me, I say. I don't want to hear.
Did you ever, you start,
wear a certain kind of dress
and just by accident,
so inconsequential you barely notice it,
your fingers graze that dress
and you hear the sound of a knife cutting paper,
you see it too
and you realize how that image
is simply the extension of another image,
that your own life
is a chain of words
that one day will snap.
Words, you say, young girls in a circle, holding hands,
and beginning to rise heavenward
in their confirmation dresses,
like white helium balloons,
the wreathes of flowers on their heads spinning,
and above all that,
that's where I'm floating,
and that's what it's like
only ten times clearer,
ten times more horrible.
Could anyone alive survive it?
The Stone
"And will you cut a stone for him,
To set above his head?
And will you cut a stone for him--
A stone for him?" she said.
Three days before, a splintered rock
Had struck her lover dead--
Had struck him in the quarry dead,
Where, careless of a warning call,
He loitered, while the shot was fired--
A lively stripling, brave and tall,
And sure of all his heart desired . . .
A flash, a shock,
A rumbling fall . . .
And, broken 'neath the broken rock,
A lifeless heap, with face of clay,
And still as any stone he lay,
With eyes that saw the end of all.
I went to break the news to her:
And I could hear my own heart beat
With dread of what my lips might say;
But some poor fool had sped before;
And, flinging wide her father's door,
Had blurted out the news to her,
Had struck her lover dead for her,
Had struck the girl's heart dead in her,
Had struck life, lifeless, at a word,
And dropped it at her feet:
Then hurried on his witless way,
Scarce knowing she had heard.
And when I came, she stood alone--
A woman, turned to stone:
And, though no word at all she said,
I knew that all was known.
Because her heart was dead,
She did not sigh nor moan.
His mother wept:
She could not weep.
Her lover slept:
She could not sleep.
Three days, three nights,
She did not stir:
Three days, three nights,
Were one to her,
Who never closed her eyes
From sunset to sunrise,
From dawn to evenfall--
Her tearless, staring eyes,
That, seeing naught, saw all.
The fourth night when I came from work,
I found her at my door.
"And will you cut a stone for him?"
She said: and spoke no more:
But followed me, as I went in,
And sank upon a chair;
And fixed her grey eyes on my face,
With still, unseeing stare.
And, as she waited patiently,
I could not bear to feel
Those still, grey eyes that followed me,
Those eyes that plucked the heart from me,
Those eyes that sucked the breath from me
And curdled the warm blood in me,
Those eyes that cut me to the bone,
And cut my marrow like cold steel.
And so I rose and sought a stone;
And cut it smooth and square:
And, as I worked, she sat and watched,
Beside me, in her chair.
Night after night, by candlelight,
I cut her lover's name:
Night after night, so still and white,
And like a ghost she came;
And sat beside me, in her chair,
And watched with eyes aflame.
She eyed each stroke,
And hardly stirred:
she never spoke
A single word:
And not a sound or murmur broke
The quiet, save the mallet stroke.
With still eyes ever on my hands,
With eyes that seemed to burn my hands,
My wincing, overwearied hands,
She watched, with bloodless lips apart,
And silent, indrawn breath:
And every stroke my chisel cut,
Death cut still deeper in her heart:
The two of us were chiselling,
Together, I and Death.
And when at length my job was done,
And I had laid the mallet by,
As if, at last, her peace were won,
She breathed his name, and, with a sigh,
Passed slowly through the open door:
And never crossed my threshold more.
Next night I laboured late, alone,
To cut her name upon the stone.
poem by Wilfred Wilson Gibson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
You lay naked on the bed
You lay naked on the bed,
stretched out on your back,
with the room’s window open wide
as if you are trying to catch the breeze,
while the sun is touching the mountain top
the last time in the late afternoon
and I see your breasts moving up and down
while you breathe, where you lay with legs wide open
where sunlight is falling on the little hairs
totally unaware of your shame,
so as if you are only a little girl
while you sleep on
and I draw a light coverlet over you,
before the dusk catches you
with a sudden chilliness.
poem by Gert Strydom
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Away into the wide world
My golden ginger yellow eyed cat
went away
and it’s three days
that he’s already gone.
I wonder where
he is wandering
and miss
his praying eyes
and the gifts
that he brings to me.
It’s as if his white and black friend
knows something,
but not how
to express it
and at times
jumps from a tree
and comes to call me
and I cannot
find Musso anywhere.
It’s for him another thing
to have to move
and for the first time
to be locked out
and not being allowed
in the house
but choices I do not have
in connection with this
but to have
my animals still
or to say forever goodbye.
With the first rain
the dog Sasja
is wet at the window
and Musso
is busy
splashing water from his fur
and in my heart
and in my soul
there is a knife
that cuts right through me
while I hear
them moaning and wailing
and sometimes,
I also want
to go away into the wide world.
Still I pray for him
and do not want him
to suffer somewhere
and I wish
to have him back again.
[Note: I found him this afternoon (after writing the poem) in the storm water drain next to the road, from where he couldn’t get out. He replied when I called him and I had to lift and move concrete blocks with a crowbar to get him out.]
poem by Gert Strydom
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Orchard Road
Writers: leo sayer & alan tarney
To tell the truth its really such a sad affair
Standing here waiting in the cold night air
But Ive got to make this call
cause my heart is breaking.
I hear the bips drop a coin in the slot
Has it been that long
I thought youd forgotten me
Well I know that its getting late
But I just couldnt wait
Will I have the nerve to say
I just wanna come back
You shouldnt just go away
I just wanna come back
Ive been struck by such a bad luck
I need a place a little happiness and some love
I think I can see it now
Now let me paint the picture
Its twelve oclock and the curtains are drawn
Theyre counting sheep down in orchard road
Youre hanging on the telephone line tonight
And I wish I could be in orchard road
Not much been happening here
I think Ive got a job
Theyre gonna call me next week
And Ill be working out of town
But it sure beats hanging around
Whats that? tomorrow at two
Youre kidding me -- no
Is it allright with you
I dont know what to say
Itll be like a holiday
When you say youre all alone
Makes me wanna come back
And this house is not a home
I just gotta go back
Its twelve ten when I put down the phone
The moons shining down on orchard road
And Im feeling like a schoolboy again and tonight
Ill see you in my dreams of orchard road
Its funny but I thought Id never go back
I think sometimes I might loose track
But I remember you and the things we do
And I want it back.
In orchard road youve got my heart
I left it in your doorway
In orchard road a welcome back
Is waiting there just for me
In orchard road the sun will shine
Again I know I know
In orchard road you keep my love
Just waiting there for me
Its eight oclock and the dawns arrived
In orchard road its breakfast time
I climb in my car and I turn the key and Im gone
I am coming home
To orchard road
Im coming home
song performed by by Leo Sayer
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Looking Upon A Child
looking upon a child i compress my years
like how i keep the lines confined inside my palms.
i stop for while following where the child goes.
his hands are buds, his feet as small as a saki cup.
his eyes as innocent as an oil lamp waking on a dark night.
his hair are soft and silky like a kitten fur
his sounds like the arrival of morning on the grass.
i hold his tiny hands and i am back to my senses.
he calls my name, but i am no longer there.
i am back to my room. It is as crowded as a storehouse
with papers and books and chairs and used clothes hanging
on the beams and walls. Some old figurines bathed with dusts.
Some dried spittle on the floor. Some unopened off-white pages
filled with age.
i wonder, despite this crowd of things and thoughts,
despite the fullness of the wind from the window
there is still the wide vacancy of space. Inside the heart longs.
Inside the sound howls. Inside something so faint shouts.
It is the sound of the child still calling my name.
It is looking for me and i am never complete.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Crossroads
The second half of my life will be black
to the white rind of the old and fading moon.
The second half of my life will be water
over the cracked floor of these desert years.
I will land on my feet this time,
knowing at least two languages and who
my friends are. I will dress for the
occasion, and my hair shall be
whatever color I please.
Everyone will go on celebrating the old
birthday, counting the years as usual,
but I will count myself new from this
inception, this imprint of my own desire.
The second half of my life will be swift,
past leaning fenceposts, a gravel shoulder,
asphalt tickets, the beckon of open road.
The second half of my life will be wide-eyed,
fingers shifting through fine sands,
arms loose at my sides, wandering feet.
There will be new dreams every night,
and the drapes will never be closed.
I will toss my string of keys into a deep
well and old letters into the grate.
The second half of my life will be ice
breaking up on the river, rain
soaking the fields, a hand
held out, a fire,
and smoke going
upward, always up.
poem by Joyce Sutphen
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Pastoral
The Dove walks with sticky feet
Upon the green crowns of the almond tree,
Its feathers smeared over with warmth
Like honey
That dips lazily down into the shadow ...
Anyone standing in that orchard.So filled with peace and sleep,
Would hardly have noticed the hill
Nearby
With its three strange wooden arms
Lifted above a throng of motionless people
- Above the helmets of Pilate's soldiers
Flashing like silver teeth in the sun.
poem by Kenneth Patchen
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Mirror
Between the woods the afternoon
Its fallen in a golden swoon,
The sun looks down from quiet skies
To where a quiet water lies,
And silent trees stoop down to the trees.
And there I saw a white swan make
Another white swan in the lake;
And, breast to breast, both motionless,
They waited for the wind's caress. . .
And all the water was at ease.
poem by Alan Alexander Milne
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Dressing the Doll
THIS is the way we dress the Doll:—
You may make her a shepherdess, the Doll,
If you give her a crook with a pastoral hook,
But this is the way we dress the Doll.
Chorus
Bless the Doll, you may press the Doll,
But do not crumple and mess the Doll!
This is the way we dress the Doll.
First, you observe, her little chemise,
As white as milk, with ruches of silk;
And the little drawers that cover her knees,
As she sits or stands, with golden bands,
And lace in beautiful filagrees.
Chorus
Now these are the bodies: she has two,
One of pink, with rouches of blue,
And sweet white lace; be careful, do!
And one of green, with buttons of sheen,
Buttons and bands of gold, I mean,
With lace on the border in lovely order,
The most expensive we can afford her!
Chorus
Then, with black at the border, jacket
And this—and this—she will not lack it;
Skirts? Why, there are skirts, of course,
And shoes and stockings we shall enforce,
With a proper bodice, in the proper place,
(Stays that lace have had their days
And made their martyrs); likewise garters,
All entire. But our desire
Is to show you her night attire,
At least a part of it. Pray admire
This sweet white thing that she goes to bed in!
It ’s not the one that ’s made for her wedding:
That is special, a new design,
Made with a charm and a countersign,
Three times three and nine times nine:
These are only her usual clothes.
Look, there ’s a wardrobe! gracious knows
It ’s pretty enough, as far as it goes!
So you see the way we dress the Doll:
You might make her a shepherdess, the Doll,
If you gave her a crook with pastoral hook,
With sheep, and a shed, and a shallow brook,
And all that, out of the poetry-book.
Chorus
Bless the Doll, you may press the Doll,
But do not crumple and mess the Doll!
This is the way we dress the Doll;
If you had not seen, could you guess the Doll?
poem by William Brighty Rands
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Hymn
I got holy children to show me the light
Singing hallelujah, brother how bout you.
Yeah, we got a holy scriptures here that prove us to be right,
In believing out loud what we wish to be true.
I got stoned out neighbors to take me in tow
Singin close your eyes, singin open wide.
Watch the world fall away below, let the winter wind blow;
And where will we hide when it comes from inside?
Oh, hear me now, hear me now, hear me now,
Hear me now, hear me now, hear me now,
Hear me now, listen I got sweet, sweet music inside.
Is a child inside me was alone in the night
Now has come to me, love has set my soul free.
Is a man and a woman stand alone in the night;
Here is reason to be like sun on the sea.
song performed by by James Taylor
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Over His Latte.
He's only just sat down
in the cafe when she enters
and stands at the counter
waiting to be served. He lets
his latte settle. Allows his
eyes to scrutinize. The waitress
serves the woman in the white
hat and black dress. He notes
her fine figure, the low cut at
the neck, the thin straps over
shoulders. He tries to breathe
in from where he sits her perfume,
but it doesn't come. The woman
orders an espresso and says it
with an Italian accent. He follows
her with his eyes as she walks
to a table alone. She looks like a
girl Modigliani would have painted.
She looks at her watch and then
around the room of the cafe.
She crosses her legs, one over
the other, thigh revealed. He sips
his latte. Wipes his lips with the
back of his hand. Bad habit, mother
would have slapped his hand as a
child once. The waitress delivers
the woman's coffee; he notes the
waitress's fine behind, the hands
serving, the legs touching together.
Then she's gone. Just the woman
in the white hat to study. The way
she lifts the small white cup to her
mouth, her fingers holding delicately,
as if afraid to break. Get a life Brody
would say if he were there. But he's not;
he's away with that girl from the office,
having a lay. The woman in the hat
stares at him, her eyes devour, her lips
part like legs before sex. She looks boringly
away. He sips more latte. He doesn't like
her white hat or black dress anyway.
poem by Terry Collett
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
London Interior
Autumn is in the air,
The children are playing everywhere.
One dare not open this old door too wide;
It is so dark inside.
The hall smells of dust;
A narrow squirt of sunlight enters high,
Cold, yellow.
The floor creaks, and I hear a sigh,
Rise in the gloom and die.
Through the hall, far away,
I just can see
The dingy garden with its wall and tree.
A yellow cat is sitting on the wall
Blinking toward the leaves that fall.
And now I hear a woman call
Some child from play.
Then all is still. Time must go
Ticking slow, glooming slow.
The evening will turn grey.
It is sad in London after two.
All, all the afternoon
What can old men, old women do?
It is sad in London when the gloom
Thickens, like wool,
In the corners of the room;
The sky is shot with steel,
Shot with blue.
The bells ring the slow time;
The chairs creak, the hours climb;
The sunlight lays a streak upon the floor.
poem by Harold Monro
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Jonathan Houghton
There is the caw of a crow,
And the hesitant song of a thrush.
There is the tinkle of a cowbell far away,
And the voice of a plowman on Shipley's hill.
The forest beyond the orchard is still
With midsummer stillness;
And along the road a wagon chuckles,
Loaded with corn, going to Atterbury.
And an old man sits under a tree asleep,
And an old woman crosses the road,
Coming from the orchard with a bucket of blackberries.
And a boy lies in the grass
Near the feet of the old man,
And looks up at the sailing clouds,
And longs, and longs, and longs
For what, he knows not:
For manhood, for life, for the unknown world!
Then thirty years passed,
And the boy returned worn out by life
And found the orchard vanished,
And the forest gone,
And the house made over,
And the roadway filled with dust from automobiles --
And himself desiring The Hill!
poem by Edgar Lee Masters
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Cloth Doll and the Weeping Wallow(recitation to sorrow)
She straddled over the lake
as she approached the only existing living hell
as she approached the lonely
she opened her violet eyes
eyes made of three buttons of a dress
lace dress
beauty
half-burnt dress
I can inhale the smell
of seared fabric
and my soul with sorrowful compassion can follow
the threadbare fringes as they creep painfully and woefully
across her skin
and across the ground
where she leaned
but refused to kiss
I can inhale the sadness
emitting through her skin
I can repel the darkness
but she said it is the only way
she needs, to see
the only way she needs
to breathe
"I can see. And I can breathe. Through darkness.
As they are blind. And breathless. Before the light."
Enigmatic contraction of her muscles
around her smile
around her cloth lips
when they slowly open
to utter a cry
and I can look inside her third eye
where I can lay and cry
inside her white third eye
that remains closed
closely-guarded eye
embraced and warm
by a secret lullaby
by a frozen sorriness
by a woebegone loneliness
it is not her
but she has to live
in her third non-violet eye
Within her beauty and her pride
the cloth doll prepares to die
behind a weird smile
die
she prepares to die
among the lonely
She twiddled once before the sadly plaintive weeping wallow
with her girlish legs
like sticks
she twiddled
once
twice
in front of the weeping tree
"dance with me"
and she touched her dress like a noble lady
with hands soft and skinny, inconsolable and gently graceful
considerate and lonely
hands
gentle and frozen
And the weeping wallow leaned
and gratefully murmured a trite elegy
yet moving like death
yet motionless like death
like death
She stands still
and as she stands still
among the lonely
ice cubes fall off the waving tree
"I am not alone"
said the sallow
"stay with me
or I shall never be."
And the cloth doll caressed the rugose trunk of her desperate friend
and crooned those words
sweetly and carefully
cordially and heartlessly
words that brought the morn
wreathed in the veil of the deathly dusk
"we shall accept solitude
we shall accept death"
and carefully again,
she grinned
and whispered to her desperate enemy
"my dear lonely sallow
as you mournfully dance to the echo of the wind
as you painfully straggle though your waving against the sun
your mind shall not be shallow
but let your heart lay dead as it should be"
And the cloth doll leaned upon the lake
and repeated her purified sin
and as she waved back to the crying tree
to the sniveler
she knew her mind should never again be awake
she shall let it sleep
her mind should sleep
so sleep cloth doll
lean upon your lament
and sleep
Melancholia
and grief
but lean upon your melancholia
and just fall asleep…
poem by Katerina Val
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Windows
Looking from outside into an open window one never sees as much as when one looks through a closed window. There is nothing more profound, more mysterious, more pregnant, more insidious, more dazzling than a window lighted by a single candle. What one can see out in the sunlight is always less interesting than what goes on behind a windowpane. In that black or luminous square life lives, life dreams, life suffers.
Across the ocean of roofs I can see a middle-aged woman, her face already lined, who is forever bending over something and who never goes out. Out of her face, her dress, and her gestures, our of practically nothing at all, I have made up this woman's story, or rather legend, and sometimes I tell it to myself and weep.
If it had been and old man I could have made up his just as well.
And I go to bed proud to have lived and to have suffered in some one besides myself.
Perhaps you will say "Are you sure that your story is the really one?" But what does it matter what reality is outside myself, so long as it has helped me to live, to feel that I am, and what I am?
poem by Charles Baudelaire
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Meet You There
Now you're gone
I wonder why you left me here
I think about it on and on again
I know you're never coming back
But I hope that you can hear me
I'm waiting to hear from you
Until I do
You're gone away
I'm left alone
A part of me is gone
And I'm not moving on
So wait for me
I know the day will come
I'll meet you there
No matter where life takes me to
I'll meet you there
And even if I need you here
I'll meet you there
I wish I could have told you
The words I kept inside
But now I guess it's just too late
So many things remind me of you
I hope that you can hear me
I miss you
This is goodbye
One last time
And where I go you'll be there with me
Forever you'll be right here with me
I'll meet you there
No matter where life takes me
I'll meet you there
And even if I need you
I'll meet you there
song performed by by Simple Plan from No Helmets No Pads...Just Balls
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
How Do We Write Happiness?
hair blown by the wind the two of us in the morning meadows
laughing and light as the air that carries us to the sea
you hold my hand you lead me you pull the kite with you
colors of blue and white spreading in the skies
you tie the kite on a tree and we lay ourselves on the grass
softness is you and my heart beats the notes of our love song
we sit side by side we feel we own this wide world
we hear the birds sing we listen to the flow of the river
we see how free are the fish riding on the currents
we look at each other's eyes, then we by instinct close
what was once open, we go inside us, gently our lips touch
there is so much color when our eyes closed
it tastes so sweet that our souls are like tongues licking
the sweetest honey on our skins on our whole bodies
we write happiness not in the usual words that they use
the ink is invisible the pen moves not with the hand but
with the heart with the soul
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
360
hair blown by the wind the two of us in the morning meadows
laughing and light as the air that carries us to the sea
you hold my hand you lead me you pull the kite with you
colors of blue and white spreading in the skies
you tie the kite on a tree and we lay ourselves on the grass
softness is you and my heart beats the notes of our love song
we sit side by side we feel we own this wide world
we hear the birds sing we listen to the flow of the river
we see how free are the fish riding on the currents
we look at each other's eyes, then we by instinct close
what was once open, we go inside us, gently our lips touch
there is so much color when our eyes closed
it tastes so sweet that our souls are like tongues licking
the sweetest honey on our skins on our whole bodies
we write happiness not in the usual words that they use
the ink is invisible the pen moves not with the hand but
with the heart with the soul
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!