Swan Dive
The windows were open
The night air was cold,
The curtains were blowing
Like ribbons of gold,
We stood there forever
Both Henry and me,
The night his wife dived
Off the balcony.
We looked at each other
We each shook our head,
And waited to hear if
The poor girl was dead,
I looked at my watch
It was just after three,
When Gwendoline dived
Off the balcony.
I waited a moment, then:
'What did I say?
Was that a faux pas about
You in Calais?
Or did she take umbrage
When I poured the tea?
Is that why she jumped
Off the balcony? '
'Don't think for a moment,
Old chap, ' he had said,
'I thought she had mumbled
And stumbled to bed!
She'd said she had someone
Tomorrow to see,
So why would she dive
Off the balcony? '
We walked very gingerly
Out through the door,
And peered on down from
The fifty-sixth floor,
I thought I could see a small
Splat by a tree,
Just where she had dived
Off the balcony.
Could that be your Gwendoline,
There on the ground?
That's funny, she dived all
That way, made no sound!
Not one little scream -
Did you hear? ' - 'Not me! '
When Gwendoline dived
Off the balcony.
The police galloped up
By the lift, through the doors,
'That splat in the courtyard, sir,
Could it be yours? '
Then Henry admitted that
It could well be,
His wife, who had dived
Off the balcony!
They made us go down with
A bucket and mop:
'Clean up every vestige,
Remove every drop!
You can't go round leaving
Wives haphazardly,
Whenever they dive
Off the balcony! '
They made us feel humble,
We lowered our heads,
I picked up her armpits,
He mopped up her legs,
But bits of her weren't where
In truth, they should be,
When Gwendoline dived
Off the balcony.
Much later he told me that
Wives one and two,
Had left in the very same way,
I said, 'True? '
It seems Gwendoline had been
Wife number three,
Who'd taken a dive
Off the balcony.
Now Henry has married
Again, number four,
He's moved his apartment down
To the ground floor,
He locks all his windows
And tells Stephanie,
'Don't ever you dive like
Wives one, two and three! '
3 June 2009
poem by David Lewis Paget
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Related quotes
A Miracle for Breakfast
At six o'clock we were waiting for coffee,
waiting for coffee and the charitable crumb
that was going to be served from a certain balcony
--like kings of old, or like a miracle.
It was still dark. One foot of the sun
steadied itself on a long ripple in the river.
The first ferry of the day had just crossed the river.
It was so cold we hoped that the coffee
would be very hot, seeing that the sun
was not going to warm us; and that the crumb
would be a loaf each, buttered, by a miracle.
At seven a man stepped out on the balcony.
He stood for a minute alone on the balcony
looking over our heads toward the river.
A servant handed him the makings of a miracle,
consisting of one lone cup of coffee
and one roll, which he proceeded to crumb,
his head, so to speak, in the clouds--along with the sun.
Was the man crazy? What under the sun
was he trying to do, up there on his balcony!
Each man received one rather hard crumb,
which some flicked scornfully into the river,
and, in a cup, one drop of the coffee.
Some of us stood around, waiting for the miracle.
I can tell what I saw next; it was not a miracle.
A beautiful villa stood in the sun
and from its doors came the smell of hot coffee.
In front, a baroque white plaster balcony
added by birds, who nest along the river,
--I saw it with one eye close to the crumb--
and galleries and marble chambers. My crumb
my mansion, made for me by a miracle,
through ages, by insects, birds, and the river
working the stone. Every day, in the sun,
at breakfast time I sit on my balcony
with my feet up, and drink gallons of coffee.
We licked up the crumb and swallowed the coffee.
A window across the river caught the sun
as if the miracle were working, on the wrong balcony.
poem by Elizabeth Bishop
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It was just a typical London flat, but it was in a great neighborhood. It was across from the Playboy Club, diagonally. From one balcony you could read the time from Big Ben, and from the other balcony you could watch the bunnies go up and down.
quote by Harry Nilsson
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Standing Beside Fay One Saturday.
It was Saturday morning
and Fay stood beside you
on the balcony of the flats
looking over the Square
she pointed at the baker
and his horse drawn cart
down by the wall below
my daddy says he's Jewish
she said
those who asked
for the death of Christ
you followed the baker
as he made his way to the stairs
carrying his bread basket
I don't think he was involved
you said watching the baker
until he disappeared up the stairs
she looked right over the balcony
gripping the brick wall
with her hands
I don't think he's Jewish at all
she said letting her feet
dropp back on the floor
and it doesn't matter if he is
I think he's a nice man
she added
looking at you
with her bright blue eyes
and you gazed at her
standing there
her flowered dress
colourful and coming
just below her knees
her battered sandals
having seen
better days
and her fair hair
tied into a ponytail
at the back
she looked over
the balcony again
I like to feed his horse
with sugar cubes
I get from home
she said thoughtfully
you lean over the balcony
beside her
your elbow touching hers
the pulse of her being
vibrating into your arm
you imagine
don't your parents mind
you taking their sugar?
you asked
she looked guiltily away
they don't know
she said softly
daddy would punish
if he knew
she paused and then said
you won't tell them will you?
the baker came along
the balcony behind you both
whistling happily
of course not
you said
taking in her
trembling jaw line
her blue eyes
and her lips slightly open
her words gone
it's a nice day
the baker called
yes
you both replied
I don't think he's Jewish
she said
anyway.
poem by Terry Collett
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6 degrees Celsius
-6 degrees Celsius.
from my balcony,
yes, the atlas
of my balcony,
with the music
of the masters
pouring forth
from within,
I follow the stars
direction Norway
and Sweden
while around the corner
one looks towards Iceland
and 'those islands'.
Kleve is just across the way
and Paris and Brussels
down the road.
this is my mainland!
poem by John O'connell
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From a Great Height.
Beneath her balcony he’d sing
and promise love eternally.
The maiden spurned his offering.
She knew of his philandering.
But undeterred he’d nightly sing.
Experienced in the ways of maids.
He knew she would be listening
to hear his mandolin tinkling.
Eventually she would relent
appear upon the balcony.
Although she doubted his intent.
By trial and experiment.
He’d found that curiosity
A fatal weakness in young maids
would bring her to the balcony.
It always worked successfully.
It always had done in the past.
This maid was made of sterner stuff.
She vowed tonight would be the last
and down upon his head she cast.
The contents of her chamber pot.
Which served to dampen his ardour
Attar of roses it was not.
Although he deserved what he got.
I felt some little sympathy
to see him so discomfited.
To be drenched unexpectedly
in his intended victims pee.
A message that he’d not forget.
This lady was no easy prey.
The chamber pot she had upset
Has soaked him in Eau de Toilet.
He quickly hurried from the scene.
His pride damaged beyond repair.
His parting comments were obscene.
At least I thought they must have been..
No longer does the troubadour
Sing below her balcony
Sweet serenades about amour
No one has seen him any more.
07/09/2009
http: // blog.myspace.com/poeticpiers
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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So this is all a game
So this is all a game
I put my name tag on
You look at my face
Complete
And you are there lurking
From a balcony
Looking at me
I am real. I am the specimen.
You are all wearing masks
In a balcony of
Darkness
I am real.
And you all laughed so hard
“How can this real guy be so stupid? ”
The bastards are still alive.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Once Again In The Southwest Balcony
what connects me to you
and this southwest balcony?
it's the same balcony
it's the same sky
and the chair too is the same...
you know, this late summer evening
the lightly-cast sky over the balcony
moved to descend on me sitting
as usual insulated in the accustomed chair
that typical cool early summer evening breeze
came swinging in fits only after
caressing the capricious clouds
it brushed past my forlorn cheeks
setting ablaze the memories i tightly
gift-wrapped and kept securely
in a tiny wicker-basket in my heart
the same passing cloud this time
released trillion needles of rain drops
even on my eye lids making it difficult for me
through the blurred vision there appeared
your persona once on the cloud
once between the real big rain drops
unique to a summer shower
alluring and eluding my grasp
an unknown destination beckoned me
between you and me
did i miss my way?
31mar2010
19.40hrs
poem by Indira Babbellapati
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Don Juan's Serenade
Darkness descends
on Alpujara's golden land.
My guitar invites you,
come out my dear!
Whoever says that there are others
who can be compared to you,
whoever burns for your love,
I challenge them all to a duel!
Now the moon
has set the sky alight,
come out, Nisetta, oh come out, Nisetta,
on to your balcony, quickly!
From Seville to Granada
in the silence of the nights,
one can hear the sound of serenades
and the clashing of swords.
Much blood, many songs,
pour forth for the lovely ladies;
and I, for the loveliest one of all
am ready to give my song and my blood.
Now the moon
has set the sky alight,
Come out, Nisetta, oh come out, Nisetta,
on to your balcony, quickly!
poem by Aleksey Konstantinovich Tolstoy
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direct from Orlando
at the balcony
he smokes his cigar hiding from the view
of his wife who is washing the dishes after we had dinner
over stuffed squid and
fish fillet
what i like is the rice
i evaded the hide and seek of what i think is still harsh
direct from Orlando
lost business
unpaid mortgage
bad economy
they blame it on
bad economy
as he smokes
circles form above his head
and from time to time he peeks at the side of the door
seeing to it that no one sees him
i am not that dumb
to know that there is a big problem
the reason why they are back
i like the sauce
the chili that runs like a jagged knife inside my mouth
he is jobless
and does the laundry and kitchen works
children had to quit school and start to work
to pay the heater and the water
snow is cold, it is colder now
meanwhile i glanced at the sunset
the balcony overlooks the bay of Dapitan
once a hero and a white woman made love there
we knew the ending
it was sad.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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a pessimistic view from a balcony in Paris
A Pessimistic view from a Balcony in Paris
Fine rain, open umbrella, sitting on the balcony of a hotel
overlooking Haussmann – Saint Lazare. A throng of people
and cars, but something as changed, people drinks Starbuck
coffee and eat burgers on the hoof. Old restaurants are
closing or converted to fast-food joints. I sigh and drink from
a bottle of Bordeaux to avoid getting rainwater in my wine.
This place together with rue d’Amsterdam used to be where
the posh people lived and now, safe for the ruddy scrap yard
tower, this could have been downtown New York.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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The Changes At The Un
I spent my youth with a gun and a dog in the fields of Clare,
Hunting rabbits and pheasants and ducks and fast running hare,
So the long tail feathers of the cock pheasants, I knew well,
Then I became a member Canadian navel personnel.
At the UN in the mid 50s looking down from balcony,
A pheasant feather in a lady’s hat amid UN pageantry,
Sitting down there at the Irish desk but she didn’t care,
That the face on the balcony came all the way from County Clare.
But those were the days when the UN had a very good name,
Not like nowadays when so many tend to viciously complain,
But that was very long ago and I was much younger then,
Am I the only one who noticed the change, now among the old men?
JAN 19th,2011
poem by James Bredin
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Balcony
Balcony
By Ashraf Gohar Goreja
Sweet laughter, melodic and dulcet chatters
Evaporating smell of blooming fragrance
Confining beauties, descended from the blue havens
Afternoon hours of sobering rest
But this somber, lonely street was alive with zest.
Devout friends, their glamour and laughter in the balcony
Unimaginable saga of adventuring love
Conferred onto those passing by strangers
Who never pay heed to inducing allure
Merely, this enchanting mise en scene is demure
Copyright: June 30th,2003.
Ashraf Gohar goreja
poem by Ashraf Gohar Goreja
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Good Neighbour
OH..the good neighbour, we could not find you very easily
we long for in a long year your serene comforting balcony
we stood wineless in the middle of the burning hot plain
all over wearied and our lips dry, cracked and drain
we began our journey towards you when the gypcies were migrating
we stopped on the places flowing brooks and picked up roses in the morning
we drew our cart to slopes with two horses
now we have come to you difficultly on the ungreased axles
there is the most fleshy sheep from our herd
the most fresh and live yogurt from the newly tinned bucket
we prepared the most delicious cheese in the furry-bag for you
we all have come full..it is our turn, the year to offer to you
oh the good neighbour, at last we have found and reached you
let us celebrate this and dance the black sea folk dance horon immediately
before you sweep up and all clean your september balcony
Nedret GURCAN... Translation metin sahin
poem by Metin Sahin
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Curiosity Killed The Cat
I remember so well
Watching a cat at the balcony,
Reaching for my caged canary.
He purred and taunted the canary
And flailed his persnickety paws
In a mad flurry of jousts.
The wind waltzed over the cage
And the dwindling of it
Made the cat’s head writhe from
One flourish after another.
He purred, whirred and gave
Out sighs of desperation
But still he was stern in his feline physique
That smoldered of poise and starvation.
One mad summer, while the Sun
Took photographs of his exhausted self,
The cat finally grasped the beam of
The cage - the canary sang of consummation.
But the next riddle was how to
Open the cage where the canary sat.
The canary continued to croon the
Symphonies of a cat preparing
His canine fangs, his woebegone claws
To consume the canary -
But what the cat did not understand
Was that the canary was bastioned
Adroitly behind these rusting pillars.
The wind gains force, and its savagery
Was ready for a bastinado.
The wind darted across the lingering
Body of the cat as it was hectic
With frantically opening the cage,
Poor cat fell from the balcony,
Plummeted into the city
He made no sound,
Only impressions upon the cage
As the untouched canary
Sang of deceit.
poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr
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Jolie
Boudleaux and felice bryant
Jolie...
Jolie, jolie my cherie
Pretty little french girl I met in paris
Jolie cute as she could be
Throwing me her kisses from her balcony
She had come hither eyes
And charm from her head to her feet
Really my jolie was neat
Golly my jolie was sweet
Jolie, jolie my cherie
Wish I had my jolie over here with me
She had come hither eyes
And charm from her head to her feet
Really my jolie was neat
Golly my jolie was sweet
Jolie, jolie my cherie
Wish I had my jolie over here with me
Wish I hadnt left her over in paris
On her balcony
Jolie my cherie
Jolie, jolie, jolie, jolie...
song performed by by Roy Orbison
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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After The Fall
In an anonymous rendezvous
Where the forbidden lovers repair
Theyre burning down another damn candle
Theyre melting the tables and chairs
Beneath them applause from the balcony
Whenever they accomplished making love
Other times they thought they heard laughter
Coming from the balcony above
Chorus
She lies to his right and she carelessly recites
All of her brand new appetites
She seems brittle and small, it dont sound like her at all
Since she came back to him after the fall
She said you never visit the countryside
So Ive made you a country to order
She put up a little tent in the bedroom
Crickets played on a tape-recorder
The ceiling was festooned with phosphorous stars
She noticed his skin turning cold
Burning all his clothes on the bonfire
Relax she whispered and tightened the blindfold
Chorus
Youve changed but not for the better babe
Id tell you why but whats the use
cos its the same kind of pity
A drunkard gives as his excuse
You were sharp and ideal as a bobby pin
Now your eyes are deserted and quiet
We both look like those poor shattered mannequins
Thrown through the window in the riot
She lies in his arms and without any qualms
Revels in shallow delights
She seems brittle and small, it dont sound like her at all
Since she came back to him after the fall
song performed by by Elvis Costello
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Superficiality goes from the door to the balcony.
I just don't want to be the damsel in distress. I'll scream on the balcony, but you've got to let me do a little action here.
quote by Kirsten Dunst
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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When Weightlessness Weighed...
i sit in the balcony
of the the fifth floor and
touch the sky above
and feel the waters below
i see the horizon
gradually fading into oblivion
the only constant
seemed the sky
on which people walked
lo, a bit of sky descended
into my lap
i remained transfixed
weightlessness weighed
heavily...
poem by Indira Babbellapati
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The Terrorist
I lived in a block of service flats
Right next to a power grid,
The endless hum made my mind go numb
And infected all I did.
I couldn't sleep as the hum grew loud
At night, in the wind and rain,
Even the walls vibrated, and
They rattled the window-panes.
I pulled the pillow up over my head,
I tried sleeping upside down,
I rammed thick towels under the doors
Lay wide awake, and frowned.
I tried complaints to the Power Co.
Who laughed, and said, 'We'll see...
If anyone else complains, we might
Build a whole new facility! '
He grinned, and I took a poke at him
Right over the counter top,
They called the guard and he tossed me out,
And threatened to call a cop.
My life was falling apart by then
I staggered back to my pad,
I hadn't slept for a month or so,
I thought I was going mad!
I'd just got back to the balcony
When I stopped myself, mid-stride,
For out from the next door flat, a man
Peered out, then went inside,
He slammed the door in a hurry then
As soon as he saw me there,
I heard him whisper as I walked by
In Arabic - I declare!
A swarthy man with a big black beard,
Dressed in a chequered shirt,
There'd never been anyone living there,
I knew that for a cert,
I wondered if he was squatting there,
Remembered to lock my door,
I didn't want midnight visitors calling
Waiting for me to snore.
Late that night I heard his footsteps
Out on the balcony,
I peered on out through the blinds, and saw
He stood with his back to me,
But in his hands was a strange device,
With wires and a dial, I swear,
A bomb, I thought, and began to tremble
'What if he puts it there? '
The grid was next to the balcony
Supplied this side of town,
The power to the local Army Base
Would go, if the grid went down,
As in a flash, I realised
The man was a terrorist,
'You never can trust a man with a beard'
I'd read in the yellow press.
For days I saw him come and go,
My eyes hung out of my head,
I wasn't thinking too straight, or I
Would have phoned the police, instead.
But I thought I could catch him unawares,
And maybe, get a reward,
I'd be in the papers - 'There's the Man -
Put a Terrorist to the Sword! '
I crept about, disguised myself,
Peered in through his window there,
Three men were sat at the table,
They were all dark skinned, not fair,
They each had a big black bushy beard
And the table was covered in tools,
Some copper wire and a big black box -
'They think that we're bloody fools! '
'They think that we're bloody fools, ' I said,
As I turned to walk away,
I hid at the end of the balcony
'Til the sun went down that day,
They came on out, just after dark,
Leant over and touched the grid,
Fitted some wire and a big black box
Then went somewhere, and hid.
I waited 'til all was quiet there,
Then ripped off their copper wires,
Picked up their big black box and smashed it,
Down on the concrete tiles,
It was then that I heard an alarm go off
And lights were flashing blue,
An army of cops said - 'Down on your knees!
That's right; we're talking to you! '
They drove me down to the station then,
And took my fingerprints,
They wouldn't tell me the charges, just
Stood round me, dropping hints,
'You're going down for a long, long time,
We've had you on our list,
You're a trouble-maker, born and bred,
A typical terrorist! '
I caught a glimpse of myself just then
In a mirror on the wall,
I hadn't shaved for a month or so,
So bearded, gaunt and tall,
I wore my dirty chequered shirt,
I think that did me down,
They thought that I was the culprit
Not the saviour of the town!
The three guys were technicians, so
They said, when they'd simmered down,
Indian Techs who worked for them,
The Power Co. in town,
They'd had a complaint about the grid
And had come to check the hum,
They'd brought some special meter box -
I felt myself go numb!
I copped six hundred hours in court,
And a fifteen thousand fine,
That box was worth a million quid
They told me at the time,
I wear a beard and sunnies now
So nobody sees my face,
I live in a new apartment and
I've given up complaints!
15 January 2009
poem by David Lewis Paget
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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