Cruelty and Love
What large, dark hands are those at the window
Lifted, grasping in the yellow light
Which makes its way through the curtain web
At my heart to-night?
Ah, only the leaves! So leave me at rest,
In the west I see a redness come
Over the evening's burning breast --
For now the pain is numb.
The woodbine creeps abroad
Calling low to her lover:
The sunlit flirt who all the day
Has poised above her lips in play
And stolen kisses, shallow and gay
Of dalliance, now has gone away
-- She woos the moth with her sweet, low word,
And when above her his broad wings hover
Then her bright breast she will uncover
And yeild her honey-drop to her lover.
Into the yellow, evening glow
Saunters a man from the farm below,
Leans, and looks in at the low-built shed
Where hangs the swallow's marriage bed.
The bird lies warm against the wall.
She glances quick her startled eyes
Towards him, then she turns away
Her small head, making warm display
Of red upon the throat. Her terrors sway
Her out of the nest's warm, busy ball,
Whose plaintive cries start up as she flies
In one blue stoop from out the sties
Into the evening's empty hall.
Oh, water-hen, beside the rushes
Hide your quaint, unfading blushes,
Still your quick tail, and lie as dead,
Till the distance covers his dangerous tread.
The rabbit presses back her ears,
Turns back her liquid, anguished eyes
And crouches low: then with wild spring
Spurts from the terror of the oncoming
To be choked back, the wire ring
Her frantic effort throttling:
Piteous brown ball of quivering fears!
Ah soon in his large, hard hands she dies,
And swings all loose to the swing of his walk.
Yet calm and kindly are his eyes
And ready to open in brown surprise
Should I not answer to his talk
Or should he my tears surmise.
I hear his hand on the latch, and rise from my chair
Watching the door open: he flashes bare
His strong teeth in a smile, and flashes his eyes
In a smile like triumph upon me; then careless-wise
He flihgs the rabbit soft on the table board
And comes towards me: ah, the uplifted sword
Of his hand against my bosom, and oh, the broad
Blade of his hand that raises my face to applaud
His coming: he raises up my face to him
And caresses my mouth with his fingers, smelling grim
Of the rabbit's fur! God, I am caught in a snare!
I know not what fine wire is round my throat,
I only know I let him finger there
My pulse of life, letting him nose like a stoat
Who sniffs with joy before he drinks the blood:
And down his mouth comes to my mouth, and down
His dark bright eyes descend like a fiery hood
Upon my mind: his mouth meets mine, and a flood
Of sweet fire sweeps across me, so I drown
Within him, die, and find death good.
poem by David Herbert Lawrence
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Related quotes
Snap-Dragon
She bade me follow to her garden where
The mellow sunlight stood as in a cup
Between the old grey walls; I did not dare
To raise my face, I did not dare look up
Lest her bright eyes like sparrows should fly in
My windows of discovery and shrill 'Sin!'
So with a downcast mien and laughing voice
I followed, followed the swing of her white dress
That rocked in a lilt along: I watched the poise
Of her feet as they flew for a space, then paused to press
The grass deep down with the royal burden of her:
And gladly I'd offered my breast to the tread of her.
'I like to see,' she said, and she crouched her down,
She sunk into my sight like a settling bird;
And her bosom crouched in the confines of her gown
Like heavy birds at rest there, softly stirred
By her measured breaths: 'I like to see,' said she,
'The snap-dragon put out his tongue at me.'
She laughed, she reached her hand out to the flower
Closing its crimson throat: my own throat in her power
Strangled, my heart swelled up so full
As if it would burst its wineskin in my throat,
Choke me in my own crimson; I watched her pull
The gorge of the gaping flower, till the blood did float
Over my eyes and I was blind --
Her large brown hand stretched over
The windows of my mind,
And in the dark I did discover
Things I was out to find:
My grail, a brown bowl twined
With swollen veins that met in the wrist,
Under whose brown the amethyst
I longed to taste: and I longed to turn
My heart's red measure in her cup,
I longed to feel my hot blood burn
With the lambent amethyst in her cup.
Then suddenly she looked up
And I was blind in a tawny-gold day
Till she took her eyes away. So she came down from above
And emptied my heart of love . . .
So I helf my heart aloft
To the cuckoo that fluttered above,
And she settled soft.
It seemed that I and the morning world
Were pressed cup-shape to take this reiver
Bird who was weary to have furled
Her wings on us,
As we were weary to receive her:
This bird, this rich
Sumptuous central grain,
This mutable witch,
This one refrain,
This laugh in the fight,
This clot of light,
This core of night.
She spoke, and I closed my eyes
To shut hallucinations out.
I echoed with surprise
Hearing my mere lips shout
The answer they did devise.
Again, I saw a brown bird hover
Over the flowers at my feet;
I felt a brown bird hover
Over my heart, and sweet
Its shadow lay on my heart.
I thought I saw on the clover
A brown bee pulling apart
The closed flesh of the clover
And burrowing into its heart.
She moved her hand, and again
I felt the brown bird hover
Over my heart . . . and then
The bird came down on my heart,
As on a nest the rover
Cuckoo comes, and shoves over
The brim each careful part
Of love, takes possession and settles down,
With her wings and her feathers does drown
The nest in a heat of love.
She turned her flushed face to me for the glint
Of a moment. 'See,' she laughed, 'if you also
Can make them yawn.' I put my hand to the dint
In the flower's throat, and the flower gaped wide with woe.
She watched, she went of a sudden intensely still,
She watched my hand, and I let her watch her fill.
I pressed the wretched, throttled flower between
My fingers, till its head lay back, its fangs
Poised at her: like a weapon my hand stood white and keen,
And I held the choked flower-serpent in its pangs
Of mordant anguish till she ceased to laugh,
Until her pride's flag, smitten, cleaved down to the staff.
She hid her face, she murmured between her lips
The low word 'Don't!' I let the flower fall,
But held my hand afloat still towards the slips
Of blossom she fingered, and my crisp fingers all
Put forth to her: she did not move, nor I,
For my hand like a snake watched hers that could not fly.
Then I laughed in the dark of my heart, I did exult
Like a sudden chuckling of music: I bade her eyes
Meet mine, I opened her helpless eyes to consult
Their fear, their shame, their joy that underlies
Defeat in such a battle: in the dark of her eyes
My heart was fierce to make her laughter rise . . .
Till her dark deeps shook with convulsive thrills, and the dark
Of her spirit wavered like water thrilled with light,
And my heart leaped up in longing to plunge its stark
Fervour within the pool of her twilight:
Within her spacious gloom, in the mystery
Of her barbarous soul, to grope with ecstasy.
And I do not care though the large hands of revenge
Shall get my throat at last -- shall get it soon,
If the joy that they are lifted to avenge
Have risen red on my night as a harvest moon,
Which even Death can only put out for me,
And death I know is beter than not-to-be.
poem by David Herbert Lawrence
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The Story
They met each other in the glade –
She lifted up her eyes;
Alack the day! Alack the maid!
She blushed in swift surprise.
Alas! Alas! the woe that comes from lifting up the eyes.
The pail was full, the path was steep –
He reached to her his hand;
She felt her warm young pulses leap,
But did not understand.
Alas! Alas! the woe that comes from clasping hand with hand.
She sat beside him in the wood –
He wooed with words and sighs;
Ah! love in spring seems sweet and good,
And maidens are not wise.
Alas! Alas! the woe that comes from listing lovers’ sighs.
The summer sun shone fairly down,
The wind blew from the south;
As his blue eyes gazed in eyes of brown,
His kiss fell on her mouth.
Alas! Alas! the woe that comes from kisses on the mouth.
And now the autumn time is near,
The lover roves away,
With breaking heart and falling tear,
She sits the livelong day.
Alas! Alas! for breaking hearts when lovers rove away.
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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The Alligator Bride
The clock of my days winds down.
The cat eats sparrows outside my window.
Once, she brought me a small rabbit
which we devoured together, under
the Empire Table
while the men shrieked
repossessing the gold umbrella.
Now the beard on my clock turns white.
My cat stares into dark corners
missing her gold umbrella.
She is in love
with the Alligator Bride.
Ah, the tiny fine white
teeth! The Bride, propped on her tail
in white lace
stares from the holes
of her eyes. Her stuck-open mouth
laughs at minister and people.
On bare new wood
fourteen tomatoes,
a dozen ears of corn,
six bottles of white wine,
a melon,
a cat,
broccoli
and the Alligator Bride.
The color of bubble gum,
the consistency of petroleum jelly,
wickedness oozes
from the palm of my left hand.
My cat licks it.
I watch the Alligator Bride.
Big houses like shabby boulders
hold themselves tight
in gelatin.
I am unable to daydream.
The sky is a gun aimed at me.
I pull the trigger.
The skull of my promises
leans in a black closet, gapes
with its good mouth
for a teat to suck.
A bird flies back and forth
in my house that is covered by gelatin
and the cat leaps at it
missing. Under the Empire Table
the Alligator Bride
lies in her bridal shroud.
My left hand
leaks on the Chinese carpet.
poem by Donald Hall
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Damn Dark Brown Eyes
Let me start with one corner
The other corner is wide
In between there’s whole world
The truth, the lies and the skies
The mountains high and blue sky
I can see it all through the reflection of light
The beauties of it describes
What’s the world with a smile that’s so bright
Oh! Your damn dark brown eyes
Tells the story of your innocence with no surprise
The whole world is beautiful if I look through those eyes
You have lovely damn dark brown eyes
The darkest small round thing in between your eyes
Rotates around as you don’t keep watching tight
Then those dark brown things which covers your eyes
Feels like a ocean with a deep divine
Whenever I stare at your damn dark brown eyes
I feel to get more and more inside
The ocean looks so deep and waves so strong
And all those pixels describes that you have something inside
Oh! Your damn dark brown eyes
Makes me feel to swim inside
Yes, I am floating in my imagination
How would be the ocean inside your eyes
When you smile, I can feel it from your eyes
It tells everything that I desire to find
It makes you lovely as lovely as you are always with a smile
Cause you’ve got that damn dark brown eyes.
poem by Rajib Paudyal
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Love and Sleep
Love and Sleep
Lying asleep between the strokes of night
I saw my love lean over my sad bed,
Pale as the duskiest lily's leaf or head,
Smooth-skinned and dark, with bare throat made to bite,
Too wan for blushing and too warm for white,
But perfect-coloured without white or red.
And her lips opened amorously, and said -
I wist not what, saving one word - Delight.
And all her face was honey to my mouth,
And all her body pasture to mine eyes;
The long lithe arms and hotter hands than fire
The quivering flanks, hair smelling of the south,
The bright light feet, the splendid supple thighs
And glittering eyelids of my soul's desire.
poem by Algernon Charles Swinburne
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Oh! Lisa With These Lovely Eyes
Lisa with the dark brown eyes
So please tell my soul to sympathize,
We shall cry forever in overcast skies
Lisa with the dark brown eyes,
Lisa with the dark brown eyes
Heartbroken heart spoken, not taken back
To change a mind so is lifes dream
Lisa with the dark brown eyed
Lisa with the dark brown eyes
That blends your butter scotch face insight
Smiles which brings sparkles to my mind
Lisa with the dark brown eyes
Lisa with the dark brown eyes
Many pre thoughts of your strays hypnotize
French, African, English culture dies
Lisa with the dark brown eyes
Lisa with the dark brown eyes
She dabbles her life in fiction trash
her soul with curious follies
Lisa with the dark brown eyes
Lisa with the dark brown eyes
Loneliness, has come far a sad. sad day
Emptiness in your mind and heart pay
Lisa with the dark brown eyes
Lisa with the dark, dark, brown eyes
You walk the world in beauty forgotten
They speak about you something forbidden
Lisa with the dark, dark, brown eyes
Lisa with the dark, dark, brown eyes
Your body your mind so whole same so
Your gave birth and I wish I could understand, understand
Lisa with the dark dark raven eyes
Lisa with the dark dark brown eyes
Curiosity is so special time flies, my sighs
Persuaded a fool to be wise, so wise how wise
Lisa with the dark dark brown eyes.
poem by Klayne Mario Burton
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Take This Body
Take this body, my love,
my body, my love,
feel my knees and my arms,
feel my fingers on your hair,
cold fingers, sad fingers,
kiss my mouth, my love,
ever so gently
caressing my chest and stroking my hair,
play with it-whatever is left of it-
I'm sad, my love,
and as I hear you laugh,
I feel the water around my eyes,
my brown eyes, the eyes of a poet,
the eyes of a stranger-
I'm a stranger, my love,
I'm a stranger in a strange land
of secret kisses and lovelorn faces,
of cold bodies huddled together,
hiding behind stiff dresses
and tightly fitting jeans,
I'm a stranger to a kiss,
I'm a stranger to a moist mouth
and a playful tongue,
I'm a stranger to a warm breast,
I stand here bespectacled and confused,
scratching my scraggly beard,
forcing a faint smile-
there is so much pain, my love,
right here in the palm of my hand,
right here in the lump of my throat,
right here in the tightness of my chest,
I'm strung like an instrument
with shrunken testicles
and immobilized toes-
see me tremble, my love,
see me shed a tear
onto this dusty world-
I'm with you, my love,
I'm with you alone,
I'm with you in embrace
of tender passion,
I'm in love with you
and that's why
I'm full of
tears.
poem by Alexander Shaumyan
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Do Not Worry
Take your right hand,
Palm facing up,
And line your fingers
With your teeth.
Hold firmly onto the roof of your mouth.
Do the same with your left hand,
But grip your chin.
Move your hands in opposite directions
Until you hear your jaw cracking
Against the pressure
You put yourself through.
Let your face relax
Back into place.
Let your elastic skin
Rubber-band back into the folds
Sagging over the shadows on your face.
Let it cover your wrinkles
And worry lines.
Then, try again.
Try to unfold your head.
Open it like a book.
Expose your throat to the wind
To let it blow the words
You couldn't speak away.
Split your lips at the seams,
So that a smile may spread its way
Across your rigid cheeks.
Do not worry when your skull
Whacks against your back
And ricochets into the air.
Do not worry when your jaw
Slaps and swings at your chest
By the light current of the breeze.
Do not worry when your blood
Spills all over,
Drenching the dirty ground
And the eyes of everyone
As they watch you
Pull yourself apart.
Do not worry.
poem by Tim Stensloff
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Africa child
You stay in one
of a group of shacks
on the other side
of the cleared borderline
where bleating goats
are eating
leaves from the thorn bushes.
You run inquisitive past
some pecking chickens
and your large brown and white eyes
are watching me,
when I take the LMG with the other hand
and get some hot water
out of a green water bottle.
Your hands are dirty caked with mud
and you wear a dirty white t-shirt
and tattered torn pants,
but there’s a smile
that spread past your ears
when I give an energy bar
and a dogbiscuit to you.
You push a car built from wire
along my boot tracts
and talk in your own language
as far as we go
and there’s wonder
in your big eyes,
when I take the catapult from you
and shoot the bird
which you are aiming at for some time,
with one shot
out of the sky.
You bring the bird to me
and I indicate
that you must take it
and you are still happier
and just before
I leave with my troops,
you pick up a stick
and point at the bush
before you draw your finger
across your throat.
I still hear your childish laughter
and see you disappear in the distance,
while we walk with another route
circling around those bushes.
Later another military patrol
detonated some landmines there
and there where no child,
to walk with them
and it was only
another forsaken native village.
poem by Gert Strydom
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The Vigil
THE rain is falling on the roof,
And no sound else disturbs the wife,
Except the trees and winds at strife,
Now near at hand and now aloof;
But listening, leaning evermore,
She waits a knock upon the door.
Her hair is braided round her head;
Her eyes are large and fierce and bright;
Her shapely throat is soft and white;
And on her mouth there burns the red
Of that rich, storied gem that shone
Upon the breast of Prester John.
Upon the couch her husband lies.
How is it that he lies so still?
Why sleeps he there so pale and chill,
The lamplight on his lidded eyes?
Has she not fire, and more than fire
To thrill his flesh with hot desire?
Anon she lifts her rounded arms
As though to feel that she is free;
And her large eyes exultantly
Light up, as when the dawn-glow charms
With roseate lights that gleam and glance
Twin pools to sudden radiance.
The rain is falling on the roof;
Yet, though her ears are open wide,
There is no other sound outside —
No fall of foot, nor tramp of hoof.
And on his couch with lidded eyes
The husband, cold and pallid, lies.
The midnight sky is wild and black
And drenches earth with ceaseless tears;
And now it seems to her she hears
Hoof-strokes upon the sodden track;
And now she rises, sweet as sin,
To let the late night-strayer in.
The lamplight gleams upon his face,
And glistens on his reddened spur;
He stretches out his arms to her
And folds her in a rude embrace. . . .
How can it be the husband lies
So still, with heavy-lidded eyes?
Perchance he neither sees nor hears,
And sleeps unmoved by chance or change.
And yet. . . .and yet, it seems so strange —
If he be dead there should be tears.
Not love nor smiles, nor midnight bliss,
Nor mouths that marry in a kiss.
The loud winds thrust upon the door,
The raindrops plash against the roof,
The trickles from a waterproof
Make little pools upon the floor;
No foe between, no more apart,
They stand, heart throbbing back to heart.
Anon she says: 'He died this morn.
He did not die a whit too soon;
Life's day, alas, makes towards its noon.
He should have died when love was born.
He should have died long since. And now
Kiss me again — my mouth, my brow!'
poem by Roderic Quinn
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The Night Dionne Warwick Sang.
Dionne Warwick was singing
you'll never get to Heaven
if you break my heart
over the small white
transistor radio
under the covers
of the bed after
having made love
to your girlfriend
and you both snuggled there
she running a finger
down your spine
and you kissing
one of her small breasts
and the transistor crackled
and the voice on the radio
went in and out of tune
and you said
hush Sweetie Pie
or the others
will hear you
and she put a hand
over her mouth
to stifle the giggles
and the smell of lilac
and sweating bodies
filled your nose
and the singing
made you sway
and you sensed
the flesh warm
and sweet
beneath you
and you listened
for the sound of others
maybe along the hall
or moving in their sleep
and her lips
kissed your ear
and her tongue
reached right in
and you thought that
paradise
that music
the warm flesh
the kisses
and her tongue
easing itself
in and out
of your ear
and the moon lit up
in the corner
of the window
bright and angel like
over the top
smiling glow
and you and she
in the bed
and you opened
your eyes
and you were alone
it had all been
a dream in your head.
poem by Terry Collett
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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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The Fisher's Wife
A long, low waste of yellow sand
Lay shining northward far as eye could reach,
Southward a rocky bluff rose high
Broken in wild, fantastic shapes.
Near by, one jagged rock towered high,
And o'er the waters leaned, like giant grim,
Striving to peer into the mysteries
The ocean whispers of continually,
And covers with her soft, treacherous face.
For the rest, the sun was sinking low
Like a great golden globe, into the sea;
Above the rock a bird was flying
In dizzy circles, with shrill cries,
And on a plank floated from some wreck,
With shreds of musty seaweed
Clinging to it yet, a woman sat
Holding a child within her arms;
A sweet-faced woman--looking out to sea
With dark, patient eyes, and singing to the child,
And this the song she in the sunset sang:
Thine eyes are brown, my beauty, brown and bright,
Drowned deep in languor now, the angel Sleep
Is clasping thee within her arms so white,
Bearing thee up the dreamland's sunny steep.
Oh, baby, sleep, my baby, sleep.
Thy father's boat, I see its swaying shroud
Like a white sea-gull, swinging to and fro
Against the ledges of a crimson cloud,
A tiny bird with flutt'ring wing of snow.
Oh, baby, sleep, my baby, sleep.
Thy father toils beyond the harbor bar,
And, singing at his toil, he thinks of thee;
Lit by the red lamp of the evening star
Home will he come, will come to thee and me,
Oh, baby, sleep, my baby, sleep.
His cabin shall be bright with flowers sweet,
The table shall be set, the fire shall glow,
We'll wait within the door, his coming steps to greet,
And if my eye be sad, he will not know--
Oh, baby, sleep, my baby, sleep.
He will not pause to ponder things so slight,
He is not one a smile to prize or miss;
Yet he would shield us with a strong arm's might,
And he will meet us with a loving kiss--
Oh, baby, sleep, my baby, sleep.
But would I could forget those other days
When if with gayer gleam mine eyes had shone,
Or shade of sorrow, gentlest eyes would gaze
With tender questioning into my own.
Oh, baby, sleep, my baby, sleep.
Thine eyes are brown--thou hast thy father's eyes,
But those, my darling, those were clear and blue,
Ah, me! how sorrowfully that sea-bird cries,
Cries for its mate, oh, tender bird and true;
My, baby, sleep, my baby, sleep.
Oh, of my truest love well worthy he,
And near was I, ah, nearest to his heart;
But ships are parted on the dreary sea
Swept by the waves, forever swept apart--
Oh, baby, sleep, my baby, sleep.
And sometimes sad-eyed women sighing say,
Sweet love is lost, all that remains is rest,
So in their weakness they are lured to lay
Their head upon some strong and loving breast.
Oh, baby, sleep, my baby, sleep.
Our cabin stands upon the dreary sands,
And it is sad to be alone, alone.
But on my bosom thou hast lain thy hands,
Near to me art thou, near, my precious one--
My, baby, sleep, my baby, sleep.
The red light faded as she sung,
A chill breeze rose and swept across the sea,
She drew her cloak still closer round the child,
And turned toward the cabin;
As she went a faint glow glimmered
In the east, and slowly rose--
The silver crescent of the moon.
Another, paler light, than the warm sunset glow,
But clear enough to guide her home.
poem by Marietta Holley
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Alive Again
I'm all alone,
It's dark in here,
And for some reason,
I'm filled with fear,
All I remember,
Is walking 'cross the street,
And the bright headlights,
That knocked me off my feet,
I'm in so much pain,
I see a white light,
The light's so warm,
And so bright,
I start walking,
Towards the light,
But then I hear,
A familiar voice,
More start to join it,
They plead in my ears,
They tell me to stay,
With them now here,
I start to walk back,
The pain is intense,
But I don't want to leave,
I want to stay here,
I see someone now,
She holds out her hand,
I can't see her face,
But I do trust her,
I grab her hand,
She leads me away,
I see another light,
It's softer this time,
We stop at the light,
I want to walk through,
The bright light it beckons,
But I don't want to go,
She doesn't come with me,
But I see her face,
She's an old friend,
That died before me,
I tell her goodbye,
She smiles and waves,
I walk through the light,
And everything fades,
I open my eyes,
A friend's holding my hand,
They seem so relieved,
I'm alive again.
poem by Kelly Aragon
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Fragoletta
O LOVE! what shall be said of thee?
The son of grief begot by joy?
Being sightless, wilt thou see?
Being sexless, wilt thou be
Maiden or boy?
I dreamed of strange lips yesterday
And cheeks wherein the ambiguous blood
Was like a rose’s—yea,
A rose’s when it lay
Within the bud.
What fields have bred thee, or what groves
Concealed thee, O mysterious flower,
O double rose of Love’s,
With leaves that lure the doves
From bud to bower?
I dare not kiss it, lest my lip
Press harder than an indrawn breath,
And all the sweet life slip
Forth, and the sweet leaves drip,
Bloodlike, in death.
O sole desire of my delight!
O sole delight of my desire!
Mine eyelids and eyesight
Feed on thee day and night
Like lips of fire.
Lean back thy throat of carven pearl,
Let thy mouth murmur like the dove’s;
Say, Venus hath no girl,
No front of female curl,
Among her Loves.
Thy sweet low bosom, thy close hair,
Thy strait soft flanks and slenderer feet,
Thy virginal strange air,
Are these not over fair
For Love to greet?
How should he greet thee? what new name,
Fit to move all men’s hearts, could move
Thee, deaf to love or shame,
Love’s sister, by the same
Mother as Love?
Ah sweet, the maiden’s mouth is cold,
Her breast-blossoms are simply red,
Her hair mere brown or gold,
Fold over simple fold
Binding her head.
Thy mouth is made of fire and wine,
Thy barren bosom takes my kiss
And turns my soul to thine
And turns thy lip to mine,
And mine it is.
Thou hast a serpent in thine hair,
In all the curls that close and cling;
And ah, thy breast-flower!
Ah love, thy mouth too fair
To kiss and sting!
Cleave to me, love me, kiss mine eyes,
Satiate thy lips with loving me;
Nay, for thou shalt not rise;
Lie still as Love that dies
For love of thee.
Mine arms are close about thine head,
My lips are fervent on thy face,
And where my kiss hath fed
Thy flower-like blood leaps red
To the kissed place.
O bitterness of things too sweet!
O broken singing of the dove!
Love’s wings are over fleet,
And like the panther’s feet
The feet of Love.
poem by Algernon Charles Swinburne
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Pantomime – Red Skelton and His Cat
The old man comes cautiously down
The stairs to the kitchen.
He takes the last step
That isn't there -
A bone shuddering stop.
Pausing, he searches the dark room
For the dangling light cord,
And moves toward
The center of the room -
Carefully.
It's unfortunate as the cat
Is discovered sitting in the middle of the floor.
As the old man steps on its tail,
It howls it great pain -
Startling the old man.
Finally, after groping the empty air,
He finds the cord.
Pulling it; he is
Blinded by the sudden light -
Causing him to cover his eyes.
Looking about the room.
He sees, in the corner,
The offended cat.
He ask for forgiveness -
Stoops to pet and caress.
He stands, with apparent pain,
Moves to the kitchen counter,
Sees a number of cans,
That must be cat food –
And selects one.
He shows the can to the cat;
Returns to the counter and
Taking a hand-cranked opener
He begins -
To open it with great difficulty.
Finally opened,
He places the lid on the counter,
Raises the can to his nose,
Smiles appreciately, bends and -
Offers the cat a smell.
Bracing his back he stands.
Takes a spoon,
From the counter,
And bends over the cat's dish. -
Placing a portion in the dish.
Pushing the cat away,
He adds a second helping.
Then, thinking he has
added too much, -
He spoons a bit back into the can.
Standing again with difficulty,
He straightens his back,
And once more sniffs the can.
Raises the spoon -
And takes a small bite.
Liking what he finds,
He turns his back to the cat,
And eats
All that remains -
Then wipes his mouth on his sleeve.
Guiltily he looks back at the cat,
Seeing there is liquid in the can,
He once again bends low
Over the cat and its dish -
And pours the remaining liquid into the cat's dish.
He stands,
Places a hand to his aching back,
Wipes his mouth on his sleeve,
Places the spoon and can on the counter -
And steps to the center of the room.
He pulls the light cord;
The room is dark.
From the darkness
You hear, -
'Good night and God Bless.'
poem by Sidi J. Mahtrow
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Second Part: Misleading An Idea Like A Blind Man
my left hand touches the right side of my neck
rubbing it and then slides its fingers to my ear
i open my mouth to signify that i long for sleep
i put my hands on top of my unwashed hair
the day's schedule is hectic like the way a juggler pleases our eyes
i open my mouth letting the wall see my egg white
teeth and then i close my mouth again
sipping air inside my lungs
my eyes are like heavy clouds low to the ground
becoming fog to the grass
i am sleepy
but i do not want to sleep
i am teasing time since it has no
underwear
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A Shower
Water flowing down his black-haired head like the Greeks'
Streaming past his dark eyebrows and his deep eyes
Down his sharp nose and past his smooth cheeks
Dripping down his lush lips, past the mouth's rise
Water flowing down his strong jaws and steady chin
Streaming past his thick neck into the collar bones it trips
Down his biceps and sculptured arms that cause a din
Dripping down his hands and delicate fingertips
Water flowing down his broad shoulders
Streaming past his chest and slender warm back
Down his muscled stomach and thighs, hard as boulders
Dripping down his knees to his calves, which can bare a whack
Water flowing down his ankles to his firm feet
Creating a pool of pure liquid on the ground
Down his hard body, the water so sweet
The liquid dripping around him, so profound!
poem by Monalno Kim
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Dead To The Living
Work while it is day: the night cometh, when no man can work.
IN the childhood of April, while purple woods
With the young year's blood in them smiled,
I passed through the lanes and the wakened fields,
And stood by the grave of the child.
And the pain awoke that is never dead
Though it sometimes sleeps, and again
It set its teeth in this heart of mine,
And fastened its claws in my brain:
For it seemed so hard that the little hands
And the little well-loved head
Should be out of reach of my living lips,
And be side by side with the dead--
Not side by side with us who had loved,
But with these who had never seen
The grace of the smile, the gold of the hair,
And the eyes of my baby-queen.
Yet with trees about where the brown birds build,
And with long green grass above,
She lies in the cold sweet breast of earth
Beyond the reach of our love;
Whatever befalls in the coarse loud world,
We know she will never wake.
When I thought of the sorrow she might have known,
I was almost glad for her sake. . . .
Tears might have tired those kiss-closed eyes,
Grief hardened the mouth I kissed;
I was almost glad that my dear was dead
Because of the pain she had missed.
Oh, if I could but have died a child
With a white child-soul like hers,
As pure as the wind-flowers down in the copse,
Where the soul of the spring's self stirs;
Or if I had only done with it all,
And might lie by her side unmoved!
I envied the very clods of earth
Their place near the child I loved!
And my soul rose up in revolt at life,
As I stood dry-eyed by her grave,
When sudden the grass of the churchyard sod
Rolled back like a green smooth wave;
The brown earth looked like the brown sea rocks,
The tombstones were white like spray,
And white like surf were the curling folds
Of the shrouds where the dead men lay;
For each in his place with his quiet face
I saw the dead lie low,
Who had worked and suffered and found life sad,
So many sad years ago.
Unchanged by time I saw them lie
As when first they were laid to rest,
The tired eyes closed, the sad lips still,
And the work-worn hands on the breast.
There were some who had found the green world so grey,
They had left it before their time,
And some were little ones like my dear,
And some had died in their prime;
And some were old, they had had their fill
Of bitter unfruitful hours,
And knew that none of them, none, had known
A flower of a hope like ours!
Through their shut eyelids the dead looked up,
And without a voice they said:
'We lived without hope, without hope we died,
And hopeless we lie here dead;
And death is better than life that draws
Pain in, as it draws in breath,
If life never dreams of a coming day
When life shall not envy death.
Through the dark of our hours and our times we lived,
Uncheered by a single ray
Of such hope as lightens the lives of you
Who are finding life hard to-day;
With our little lanterns of human love
We lighted our dark warm night--
But you in the chill of the dawn are set
With your face to the eastern light.
Freedom is waiting with hands held out
Till you tear the veil from her face--
And when once men have seen the light of her eyes,
And felt her divine embrace,
The light of the world will be risen indeed,
And will shine in the eyes of men,
And those who come after will find life fair,
And their lives worth living then!
Will you strive to the light in your loud rough world,
That these things may come to pass,
Or lie in the shadow beside the child,
And strive to the sun through the grass?'
'My world while I may,' I cried; 'but you
Whose lives were as dark as your grave?'
'We too are a part of the coming light,'
They called through the smooth green wave.
Their white shrouds gleamed as the flood of green
Rolled over and hid them from me--
Hid all but the little hands and the hair,
And the face that I always see.
poem by Edith Nesbit
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Hands of the Betrothed
Her tawny eyes are onyx of thoughtlessness,
Hardened they are like gems in ancient modesty;
Yea, and her mouth’s prudent and crude caress
Means even less than her many words to me.
Though her kiss betrays me also this, this only
Consolation, that in her lips her blood at climax clips
Two wild, dumb paws in anguish on the lonely
Fruit of my heart, ere down, rebuked, it slips.
I know from her hardened lips that still her heart is
Hungry for me, yet if I put my hand in her breast
She puts me away, like a saleswoman whose mart is
Endangered by the pilferer on his quest.
But her hands are still the woman, the large, strong hands
Heavier than mine, yet like leverets caught in steel
When I hold them; my still soul understands
Their dumb confession of what her sort must feel.
For never her hands come nigh me but they lift
Like heavy birds from the morning stubble, to settle
Upon me like sleeping birds, like birds that shift
Uneasily in their sleep, disturbing my mettle.
How caressingly she lays her hand on my knee,
How strangely she tries to disown it, as it sinks
In my flesh and bone and forages into me,
How it stirs like a subtle stoat, whatever she thinks!
And often I see her clench her fingers tight
And thrust her fists suppressed in the folds of her skirt;
And sometimes, how she grasps her arms with her bright
Big hands, as if surely her arms did hurt.
And I have seen her stand all unaware
Pressing her spread hands over her breasts, as she
Would crush their mounds on her heart, to kill in there
The pain that is her simple ache for me.
Her strong hands take my part, the part of a man
To her; she crushes them into her bosom deep
Where I should lie, and with her own strong span
Closes her arms, that should fold me in sleep.
Ah, and she puts her hands upon the wall,
Presses them there, and kisses her bright hands,
Then lets her black hair loose, the darkness fall
About her from her maiden-folded bands.
And sits in her own dark night of her bitter hair
Dreaming—God knows of what, for to me she’s the same
Betrothed young lady who loves me, and takes care
Of her womanly virtue and of my good name.
poem by David Herbert Lawrence
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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