Your Picture
It's with your laughing picture that I'm living now,
You whose wrists are so slender and crackle at the joints,
You who wring your hands yet are unwilling to go,
You whose guests stay for hours sharing sadness and joys.
You who'll run from the cards and Rakoczy bravura,
From the glass of the drawing-room and from the guests
To the keyboard on fire, unable to endure
Bones and roses and dice and rosettes and the rest.
You will fluff up your hair, and a reckless tea-rose,
Smelling of cigarettes, pin to your bright-red sash,
And then waltz to your glory, your sadness and woes
Tossing off like a scarf, beaming, breathless and flushed.
You will crumple the skin of an orange and swallow
Cooling morsels again and again in your haste
To return to the hall, to the whirling and mellow
Lights, and air with the sweet sweat of fresh waltzes laced.
Defying steam and scorching breath
The way a whirlwind dies,
The way a murid faces death
With wide unflinching eyes.
Know all: not mountains' noise and hush,
And not a purebred steed-
The reckless roses in your sash
Are riding at full speed.
No, not the clatter of the hoofs
And not the mountains' hush,
But only she who stands aloof
With flowers in her sash.
And only that is really It
What makes our ears ring,
And what the whirlwind-chasing feet,
Soul, tulle and silk sash bring.
Until sides split the jokes are cracked,
We're rolling in the aisles,
The envy of the romping sacks-
Until somebody cries.
poem by Boris Pasternak
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Related quotes
The Sash
The first ones were attached to my dress
at the waist, one on either side,
right at the point where hands could clasp you and
pick you up, as if you were a hot
squeeze bottle of tree syrup, and the
sashes that emerged like axil buds from the
angles of the waist were used to play horses, that
racing across the cement while someone
held your reins and you could feel your flesh
itself in your body wildly streaming.
You would come home, a torn-off sash
dangling from either hand, a snake-charmer—
each time, she sewed them back on with
thicker thread, until the seams of
sash and dress bulged like little
knots of gristle at your waist as you walked, you could
feel them like thumbs pressing into your body.
The next sash was the one Thee, Hannah!
borrowed from her be-ribboned friend
and hid in a drawer and got salve on it,
salve on a sash, like bacon grease on a snake,
God's lard on the ribbon a Quaker girl
should not want, Satan's jism on
silk delicate as the skin of a young girl's genital.
When Hannah gave up satin her father
told her she was beautiful
just as God made her. But all sashes
lead to the sash, very sash of
very sash, begotten, not made, that my
aunt sent from Switzerland—
cobalt ripple of Swiss cotton with
clean boys and girls dancing on it.
I don't know why my mother chose it to
tie me to the chair with, her eye just
fell on it, but the whole day I
felt those blue children dance
around my wrists. Later someone
told me they had found out
the universe is a kind of strip that
twists around and joins itself, and I believe it,
sometimes I can feel it, the way we are
pouring slowly toward a curve and around it
through something dark and soft, and we are bound to
each other.
Anonymous submission.
poem by Sharon Olds
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Nonsense Verses
1
THE Window has Four little Panes:
But One have I;
The Window-Panes are in its sash,—
I wonder why!
2
My Feet they haul me 'round the House:
They hoist me up the Stairs;
I only have to steer them and
They ride me everywheres.
3
Remarkable truly, is Art!
See—Elliptical wheels on a Cart!
It looks very fair
In the Picture up there;
But imagine the Ride when you start!
4
[Pg 58]I'd rather have fingers than Toes;
I'd rather have Ears than a Nose:
And as for my hair,
I'm glad it's all there,
I'll be awfully sad when it goes!
5
I wish that my Room had a floor;
I don't so much care for a Door,
But this walking around
Without touching the ground
Is getting to be quite a bore!
poem by Gelett Burgess
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Roses In Madrid
Roses, Senors, roses!
Love is subtly hid
In the fragrant roses,
Blown in gay Madrid.
Roses, Senors, roses!
Look, look, look, and see
Love hanging in the roses,
Like a golden bee!
Ha! ha! shake the roses--
Hold a palm below;
Shake him from the roses,
Catch the vagrant so!
High I toss the roses
From my brown palm up;
Like the wine that bubbles
From a golden cup.
Catch the roses, Senors,
Light on finger tips;
He who buys red roses,
Dreams of crimson lips!
Tinkle! my fresh roses,
With the rare dews wet;
Clink! my crisp, red roses,
Like a castanet!
Roses, Senors, roses,
Come, Hidalgo, buy!
Proudly wait my roses
For thy rose's eye
Be thy rose as stately
As a pacing deer;
Worthy are my roses
To burn behind her ear.
Ha I ha! I can see thee,
Where the fountains foam,
Twining my red roses
In her golden comb!
Roses, Donnas, roses,
None so fresh as mine,
Pluck'd at rose of morning
By our Lady's shrine.
Those that first I gather'd
Laid I at her feet,
That is why my roses
Still are fresh and sweet.
Roses, Donnas, roses!
Roses waxen fair!
Acolytes my roses,
Censing ladies' pray'r!
Roses, roses, roses!
Hear the tawny bull
Thund'ring in the circus--
Buy your arms full.
Roses by the dozen!
Roses by the score!
Pelt the victor with them--
Bull or Toreador!
poem by Isabella Valancy Crawford
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Rain, rain, rain
Rain, rain, rain
Why it cannot be another rain
The one that comes down
Whirling and smashing under a gust
With force with joy and with thrust
Bouncing from leaf to leaf
From earlobe to earlobe
Shines like a pearl
In the vermilion lap of a rose
And in the morning sun
A playful rabbit will chase
The vapor of its breath
On a lush green turf
Rain, rain, rain
Exits and ends are not joyful trend
Mortality, a monster ambushing life
Lurks our essential being
Craves its victims young and fresh
Devour like fire any piece of beauty to ash
Prey on any joy of ever
This horror of feeling, this dreadful sadness descended on me
Like a night on an owl
To rough and to shake me with dreadful foul
All things are hushed with the falling rain, nature’s self lay dead
The mountains seem to nod their dawn drowsy head
The little birds in dreams their songs not repeat
And sleeping flowers beneath the night-dew sweat
Even lust, Envy and hate sleep, yet loves denies
Rest to my soul and slumber to my eyes
Oh Dear, lay your trouble head to rest
Calm the palpitations in the breast
God renders our fortune sweet
If we aid him with our bravery and wits
copy rights 2010
Whirlwind
Orbison/dees
Youre the figure of a woman
Youre the mind of a child
A pretty whirlwind
You dont know just what youre doing
When you love me with your smile
A lovely whirlwind
A whirlwind of warm desire
Whirlwind, burning fire woman, realize
That the devil in disguise, is a whirlwind
Born to be running wild and free
Whirlwind
Born to make fools of guys like me
You pick me up like a whirlwind
You put me down like a whirlwind
Each time you touch me Im trouble-bound
Whirl,whirl,whirlwind, whirl,whirl,whirlwind
Whirl,whirl,whirlwind, whirl,whirl,whirlwind
Whirlwind
song performed by by Roy Orbison
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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* * *
I hold my skirt, sash untied
and stand before the window with unpainted eyebrows.
Silk clothes fly open so easily.
If my skirt opens, I’ll blame the spring wind!
Ode to Sadness
Sadness, scarab
with seven crippled feet,
spiderweb egg,
scramble-brained rat,
bitch's skeleton:
No entry here.
Don't come in.
Go away.
Go back
south with your umbrella,
go back
north with your serpent's teeth.
A poet lives here.
No sadness may
cross this threshold.
Through these windows
comes the breath of the world,
fresh red roses,
flags embroidered with
the victories of the people.
No.
No entry.
Flap
your bat's wings,
I will trample the feathers
that fall from your mantle,
I will sweep the bits and pieces
of your carcass to
the four corners of the wind,
I will wring your neck,
I will stitch your eyelids shut,
I will sew your shroud,
sadness, and bury your rodent bones
beneath the springtime of an apple tree.
poem by Pablo Neruda
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The House on the Hill
The house on the hill is standing still
though the paint has cracked and flaked.
The slates have withstood the test of time,
though discoloured and sun baked.
Three windows are carrying subsidence cracks,
and the curtains have had their day.
The guttering is hanging loose against the roof
and the drainpipe has come away.
The wooden porch is showing it’s age,
and the sash windows appear seized.
Damp has taken the north and west sides,
and left the other sides to the breeze.
I am surprised that it is still here
after the turmoil it has faced.
Supernatural happenings and occurrences
have plagued this once charming place.
poem by Orlando Belo
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Gloire de Dijon
When she rises in the morning
I linger to watch her;
She spreads the bath-cloth underneath the window
And the sunbeams catch her
Glistening white on the shoulders,
While down her sides the mellow
Golden shadow glows as
She stoops to the sponge, and her swung breasts
Sway like full-blown yellow
Gloire de Dijon roses.
She drips herself with water, and her shoulders
Glisten as silver, they crumple up
Like wet and falling roses, and I listen
For the sluicing of their rain-dishevelled petals.
In the window full of sunlight
Concentrates her golden shadow
Fold on fold, until it glows as
Mellow as the glory roses.
poem by David Herbert Lawrence
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Just a Horse
A friend died recently
Our hearts filled with remorse
Some may not understand
They’ll say, “He was just a horse”
Broke his heart to sell Apache
But when Dad died he was forced
Three hundred and fifty dollars
“If you want just a horse”
For my daughter, a new chapter
In her growing up course
Her heart and eyes burned bright
Yet, “he was just a horse”
In the arena, through the poles
Riding natures own source
Mounted on her lithe steed
“Yes, he was just a horse”
A queen in the parade
With a crown and sash, of course
Riding regally through the cheering crowd
Noble and proud, “but just a horse”
In the corral or just around the pasture
Listening to her gentle discourse
Love applied with a curry brush
For an animal “who was just a horse”
God created all the animals
Before he created man in due course
Gave humanity all his best
God’s own plan, but “never just a horse”
A hall of mirrors...
She said—she'd love me forever.
And that she always would.
That our two hearts—thoughts
"Could bond; the stars for good".
It wasn't harmony: From
The outset—that is true!
For her my sweetheart, I'
"Watch's as infants, do".
Out of the sash-window
Or that—skylight in the soul,
In reflections, light...
"Entwined—we're made whole".
Halves of the locket...
Combined, clasped.
Is what we now—became!
"In each other's grasp".
But soon these mirrors
Broke like shards of glass...
A hall of mirrors...?
"With no-truths—Alas"...
The lights ebbing darkness...
Shone on, all their paths.
But; know all hearts—break!
"Drown in hollow—baths".
poem by Mark Heathcote
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Angel And Beauty
An angel with butterfly wings,
gossamer touch of beautiful things.
A satin sash and golden rings,
life is a wonderful thing.
The scarlet touch as sunset dies,
behold the world is full of lies.
The angel spreads its wings and flies,
to everyone’s breathless sighs.
The shadow of reason clouds our mind.
Where are we in ageless time?
Oh, behold my wonderful find,
the reason for living given in this sign.
Step back from this perilous world,
and let the beauties at your feet unfold.
Gaze upon the wealth untold,
of arms stretched out for you to hold.
Look around at things you’ve done,
at pleasures you have found,
and seek the soft and sandy ground,
where lies the happy children sounds.
poem by David Harris
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La Paloma in London
About Soho we went before the light;
We went, unresting six, craving new fun,
New scenes, new raptures, for the fevered night
Of rollicking laughter, drink and song, was done.
The vault was void, but for the dawn's great star
That shed upon our path its silver flame,
When La Paloma on a low guitar
Abruptly from a darkened casement came--
Harlem! All else shut out, I saw the hall,
And you in your red shoulder sash come dancing
With Val against me languid by the wall,
Your burning coffee-colored eyes keen glancing
Aslant at mine, proud in your golden glory!
I loved you, Cuban girl, fond sweet Diory.
poem by Claude McKay
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The Black Monkey
My Babbles has a nasty knack
Of keeping monkeys on her back.
A great big black one comes and swings
Right on her sash or pinny strings.
It is a horrid thing and wild
And makes her such a naughty child.
She comes and stands beside my chair
With almost an offended air
And says:--"Oh, Father, why can't I?"
And stamps her foot and starts to cry--
I look at Mother in dismay...
What little girl is this, to-day?
She throws about her nicest toys
And makes a truly dreadful noise
Till Mother rises from her place
With quite a Sunday churchy face
And Babbles silently is led
Into the dark and her own bed.
Never a kiss or one Goodnight,
Never a glimpse of candle light.
Oh, how the monkey simply flies!
Oh, how poor Babbles calls and cries,
Runs from the room with might and main,
"Father dear, I am good again."
When she is sitting on my knee
Snuggled quite close and kissing me,
Babbles and I, we think the same--
Why, that the monkey never came
Only a terrible dream maybe...
What did she have for evening tea?
poem by Katherine Mansfield
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My grandfather Frank Lloyd Wright wore a red sash on his wedding night. That is glamour!
quote by Anne Baxter
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Love Sonnets Of Proteus. Part II: To Juliet: XLVII
THE SAME CONTINUED
I see you, Juliet, still, with your straw hat
Loaded with vines, and with your dear pale face,
On which those thirty years so lightly sat,
And the white outline of your muslin dress.
You wore a little fichu trimmed with lace
And crossed in front, as was the fashion then,
Bound at your waist with a broad band or sash,
All white and fresh and virginally plain.
There was a sound of shouting far away
Down in the valley, as they called to us,
And you, with hands clasped seeming still to pray
Patience of fate, stood listening to me thus
With heaving bosom. There a rose lay curled.
It was the reddest rose in all the world.
poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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A Countryman's Wooing
THE MAIDEN.
How fell sage Helen? through a swain like thee.
DAPHNIS.
Nay the true Helen's just now kissing me.
THE MAIDEN.
Satyr, ne'er boast: 'what's idler than a kiss?'
DAPHNIS.
Yet in such pleasant idling there is bliss.
THE MAIDEN.
I'll wash my mouth: where go thy kisses then?
DAPHNIS.
Wash, and return it-to be kissed again.
THE MAIDEN.
Go kiss your oxen, and not unwed maids.
DAPHNIS.
Ne'er boast; for beauty is a dream that fades.
THE MAIDEN.
Past grapes are grapes: dead roses keep their smell.
DAPHNIS.
Come to yon olives: I have a tale to tell.
THE MAIDEN.
Not I: you fooled me with smooth words before.
DAPHNIS.
Come to yon elms, and hear me pipe once more.
THE MAIDEN.
Pipe to yourself: your piping makes me cry.
DAPHNIS.
A maid, and flout the Paphian? Fie, oh fie!
THE MAIDEN.
She's naught to me, if Artemis' favour last.
DAPHNIS.
Hush, ere she smite you and entrap you fast.
THE MAIDEN.
And let her smite me, trap me as she will!
DAPHNIS.
Your Artemis shall be your saviour still?
THE MAIDEN.
Unhand me! What, again? I'll tear your lip.
DAPHNIS.
Can you, could damsel e'er, give Love the slip?
THE MAIDEN.
You are his bondslave, but not I by Pan!
DAPHNIS.
I doubt he'll give thee to a worser man.
THE MAIDEN.
Many have wooed me, but I fancied none.
DAPHNIS.
Till among many came the destined one.
THE MAIDEN.
Wedlock is woe. Dear lad, what can I do?
DAPHNIS.
Woe it is not, but joy and dancing too.
THE MAIDEN.
Wives dread their husbands: so I've heard it said.
DAPHNIS.
Nay, they rule o'er them. What does woman dread?
THE MAIDEN.
Then children-Eileithya's dart is keen.
DAPHNIS.
But the deliverer, Artemis, is your queen.
THE MAIDEN.
And bearing children all our grace destroys.
DAPHNIS.
Bear them and shine more lustrous in your boys.
THE MAIDEN.
Should I say yea, what dower awaits me then?
DAPHNIS.
Thine are my cattle, thine this glade and glen.
THE MAIDEN.
Swear not to wed, then leave me in my woe?
DAPHNIS.
Not I by Pan, though thou should'st bid me go.
THE MAIDEN.
And shall a cot be mine, with farm and fold!
DAPHNIS.
Thy cot's half-built, fair wethers range this wold.
THE MAIDEN.
What, what to my old father must I say?
DAPHNIS.
Soon as he hears my name he'll not say nay.
THE MAIDEN.
Speak it: by e'en a name we're oft beguiled.
DAPHNIS.
I'm Daphnis, Lycid's and Nomaea's child.
THE MAIDEN.
Well-born indeed: and not less so am I.
DAPHNIS.
I know-Menalcas' daughter may look high.
THE MAIDEN.
That grove, where stands your sheepfold, shew me please.
DAPHNIS.
Nay look, how green, how tall my cypress-trees.
THE MAIDEN.
Graze, goats: I go to learn the herdsman's trade.
DAPHNIS.
Feed, bulls: I shew my copses to my maid.
THE MAIDEN.
Satyr, what mean you? You presume o'ermuch.
DAPHNIS.
This waist is round, and pleasant to the touch.
THE MAIDEN.
By Pan, I'm like to swoon! Unhand me pray!
DAPHNIS.
Why be so timorous? Pretty coward, stay.
THE MAIDEN.
This bank is wet: you've soiled my pretty gown.
DAPHNIS.
See, a soft fleece to guard it I put down.
THE MAIDEN.
And you've purloined my sash. What can this mean?
DAPHNIS.
This sash I'll offer to the Paphian queen.
THE MAIDEN.
Stay, miscreant-some one comes-I heard a noise.
DAPHNIS.
'Tis but the green trees whispering of our joys.
THE MAIDEN.
You've torn my plaidie, and I am half unclad.
DAPHNIS.
Anon I'll give thee a yet ampler plaid.
THE MAIDEN.
Generous just now, you'll one day grudge me bread.
DAPHNIS.
Ah! for thy sake my life-blood I could shed.
THE MAIDEN.
Artemis, forgive! Thy eremite breaks her vow.
DAPHNIS.
Love, and Love's mother, claim a calf and cow.
THE MAIDEN.
A woman I depart, my girlhood o'er.
DAPHNIS.
Be wife, be mother; but a girl no more.
Thus interchanging whispered talk the pair,
Their faces all aglow, long lingered there.
At length the hour arrived when they must part.
With downcast eyes, but sunshine in her heart,
She went to tend her flock; while Daphnis ran
Back to his herded bulls, a happy man.
poem by Theocritus
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Roses On White Lace
I saw you in your wedding gown
The prettiest dress
I came into the room that night
And made such a mess
In my own way, I lovingly kiss the bride
With your ring in your hand
Your eyes and your mouth open wide
In my eyes
Blood drops look like roses on white lace
They won't wash away
In my mind they're roses on white lace
Straight from the heart
So dead upon the bed
You hurt me in the deepest way
I'm crippled inside
I took your evil skin away
It's all cut and dried
I saw you tonight and carefully took your hand
With some smears on my cheeks
I knew that you would understand
In my eyes
Blood drops look like roses on white lace
They won't wash away
In my mind they're roses on white lace
Straight from the heart
So dead upon the bed, still searching for your head
They're never gonna find your face
It's hidden away
I found a very special place where you used to play
In my own way, I lovingly kiss the bride
With your ring in your hand
Your eyes and your mouth open wide
In my eyes
Blood drops look like roses on white lace
They won't wash away
In my mind they're roses on white lace
Straight from the heart
Blood drops look like roses on white lace
Crimson and sweet, stained on the sheet
Roses on white lace, pretty in red, dripping and wet
Roses on white lace, spilled on the walls, dark in the hall
song performed by by Alice Cooper
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Blue Roses
The pains of love are evident
from the buttonholes I see.
They are always adorned
with blue roses.
The smiles have disappeared,
sadness glows in their eyes
and always there to see
are blue roses.
Blue Roses and the ache in their heart.
Blue roses and sadness they cannot conceal.
Blue roses the colour of their day
now that love has gone astray.
6 October 2011
poem by David Harris
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A Rainy Day
Slipping through the open sash.
Cool wet freshness
draws me from the depth
of my slumber's darkness.
The gentle cadence
of falling rain.
Its soft pelt splashing
upon the window pane.
Coursing down
the glass transparency.
Rivulets of wetness
distort the world outside I see
A canopy of leaves
keeps dry a nest
of fledgling birds.
While they rest.
Bright golden sun
now hidden away.
By gray clouds
whose visit pay.
The rain they bring
falls on dry earth.
To cleanse and quench
coax forth rebirth.
On a rainy day
the world I see.
Quiet soft gentle
A world of peace to me.
poem by Kurt Hearth
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