The Alleys
I was welcome in a palace when the ball was at my feet,
I was petted in a garden and my triumph was complete.
But for me above the alleys there forever shone a star,
Where the third-rate public houses and the dens of Venus are.
Where the third-rate public houses
And the fourth-rate lodging houses,
And the rag-shops and the pawn-shops and the dens of Venus are.
I was born among the alleys, bred in darkness and in doubt,
And I wrote the truth in blindness and I struggled up and out;
And the world was fair before me and the way was wide and plain,
But the spirit of the alleys ever dragged me back again.
’Tis a madness I inherit
And a blind and reckless spirit.
Oh! the spirit of the alleys ever drags me down again!
There were fair girls in the garden where the spring came in a day,
But the barmaids in the alleys know a wider world than they.
There were wise men in the palace who were born to rule the earth,
But the wrecks amongst the alleys know the world for what it’s worth.
To the pewter from the chalice,
To the slum from the palace,
Aye! the wrecks sunk in the alleys know the world for what it’s worth!
Poets who have done with puzzling—men who talk but dare not think—
Men who might have moulded nations had it not been for the drink!
Wicked stories full of humour—shafts of wit that seldom miss,
Shot from blighted lips of women that the bravest dare not kiss?
Let the worst girl lead the revels
Of the reckless alley devils!—
Pure and virtuous women often, often drive men down to this.
In the days of mental torture when my life was all a hell,
It was down amongst the alleys that I learnt the tales I tell,
From the black-sheep out from England, from the boozer in from Bourke,
From the tired haggard women bending over needle-work:
Tales of wrongs, that fire the spirit,
Tales of more than human merit,
Told in quiet tones and measured, bending over needle-work.
Oh! the pathos and the humour of the shifts of poverty,
Oh! the sympathy of drunkards, wit and truth and charity,
Oh! the worn-out working women and the lives that they endure,
And the hard and callous kindness of the poor unto the poor!
(Where they blame not—those who labour—
And the prostitute’s a neighbour)
Ah! the humour and the courage and the kindness of the poor!
There is fire down in the alleys that has smouldered very long;
There is hatred in the alleys born of centuries of wrong;
And no prayer wins to heaven like a prayer from the slums,
And the thrones of empire totter when the alleys beat their drums.
(Ah! the world is very rotten!
But my sins shall be forgotten
And my work shall be remembered when the alleys beat their drums.)
It is down amongst the alleys, in the alleys dull and damp,
They find kindness in a scoundrel, they find good points in a scamp.
It is down amongst the alleys, now my star has ceased to shine,
I find sympathy with sinners and can hide what shame is mine,
For we trust and shield each other
And a sinner is a brother—
There are souls amongst the alleys who were lost the same as mine.
And if you should some day miss me, and should care to wonder why,
Ask for me amongst the alleys by the name they knew me by:
Mind your head and pick your footsteps for you’ll grope in alley gloom,
And the stairs are steep and narrow where they’ll lead you to a room.
What if floors are foul and dusty
And the air is close and musty?
In the days when I was noble then I wrote in such a room.
You will see a chair and table dimly shown by candle light,
And the pen I dropped for ever from the last line I shall write;
And some poor attempts at comfort, and a bottle—and maybe
You will find a bad girl crying over what is left of me:
Call no friends—I shall not need them;
Call no priests—I shall not heed them—
Let the bad girl do the praying over what is left of me.
poem by Henry Lawson
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The Women of the Town
It is up from out the alleys, from the alleys dark and vile—
It is up from out the alleys I have struggled for a while—
Just to breathe the breath of Heaven ere my devil drags me down,
And to sing a song of pity for the women of the town.
Johnnies in the private bar room, weak and silly, vain and blind—
Even they would shrink and shudder if they knew the hell behind,
And the meanest wouldn’t grumble when he’s bilked of half-a-crown
If he knew as much as I do of the women of the town.
For I see the end too plainly of the golden-headed star
Who is smiling like an angel in the gilded private bar—
Drifting to the third-rate houses, drifting, sinking lower down
Till she raves in some foul parlour with the women of the town.
To the dingy beer-stained parlour all day long the outcasts come—
Draggled, dirty, bleared, repulsive, shameless, aye, and rotten some—
They have sold their bodies and would sell their souls for drink to drown
Memories of wrong that haunt them—haunt the women of the town.
I have seen the haunting terror of the ‘horrors’ in their eyes,
Heard them cry to Christ to help them as the mansoul never cries,
While the smirking landlord listened with a grin or with a frown.
Oh, they suffer hell in drinking, do the women of the town.
I have known too well, God help me! to what depths a man can sink,
Sacrificing wife and children, fame and honour, all for drink.
Deeper, deeper sink the women, for the veriest drunken clown
Has his feet upon the shoulders of the women of the town.
There’s a heavy cloud that’s lying on my spirit like a pall—
’Tis the horror and injustice and the hopelessness of all—
There’s the love of one for ever that no sea of sin can drown,
And she loves a brute, God help her! does the woman of the town.
O my sisters, O my sisters, I am powerless to aid;
’Tis a world of prostitution, it is business, it is trade,
And they profit from the brewer and the smirking landlord down
To the bully and the bludger, on the women of the town.
Oh, the heart of one great poet* called to heaven in a line—
Crying, ‘Mary, pity women!’—You have whiter souls than mine.
And if in the grand Hereafter there is one shall wear a crown—
For the hell that men made for her—’tis the Woman of the Town.
poem by Henry Lawson
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Wind Rising in The Alleys
Wind rising in the alleys
My spirit lifts in you like a banner streaming free of hot walls.
You are full of unspent dreams….
You are laden with beginnings….
There is hope in you… not sweet… acrid as blood in the mouth.
Come into my tossing dust
Scattering the peace of old deaths,
Wind rising in the alleys,
Carrying stuff of flame.
poem by Lola Ridge
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Deep Ways
Deep alleys, clammy alleys, and black butchers
Find childlike hearts in their hearts tonight.
Bewildered by the changing of the seasons,
We link the bend of the road to astounding success.
Chilly storms bewilder me after the cloudy mayhem,
Bespeaking a dark rain of cheerfulness afterwards.
Boil it after the sense of extinguishment orders
Our own sense, the very heavenly sense.
poem by Naveed Akram
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Written Out [1]
Sing the song of the reckless, who care not what they do;
Sing the song of a sinner and the song of a writer, too—
Down in a pub in the alleys, in a dark and dirty hole,
With every soul a drunkard and the boss with never a soul.
Uncollared, unkempt, unshaven, sat the writer whose fame was fair,
And the girls of the streets were round him, and the bullies and bludgers there;
He was one of themselves and they told him the things that they had to tell—
He was studying human nature with his brothers and sisters in hell.
He was neither poor nor lonely, for a place in the world he’d won,
And up in the heights of the city he’d a thousand friends or none;
But he knew that his chums could wait awhile, that he’d reckon with foes at last,
For he lived far into a future that he knew because of the past.
They remembered the man he had been, they remembered the songs he wrote,
And some of them came to pity and some of them came to gloat:
Some of them shouted exulting—some whispered with bated breath
That down in a den in the alleys he was drinking himself to death.
Thus said the voice of the hypocrites—and the true hearts sighed with pain,
‘Oh! he never will write as he used to write! He never will write again;’
A poet had written his epitaph in numbers of sad regret,
And the passing-notice was pigeon-holed, and the last review was set.
But the strength was in him to rise again to a greater height, he knew,
For the sake of the friends who were true to him and the work that he had to do;
He was sounding the depths that he had to know, he was gathering truths for his craft,
And he heard the chatter of little men—and he turned to his beer and laughed.
poem by Henry Lawson
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Concrete
Dedicated to I.B. and K.L.
I rode with you in the city
and in my mind I was sleeping on his shoulder
the time to smile has passed for us
it’s gone, it’s but that doesn’t mean it’s over
I have said I loved
so many things, so many people in my life
my soul aches to this day to find
some truth inside those empty lies
but there are still the echoes
they travel through the alleys and bend
as we write in the concrete
love lies at the rainbow’s end
I walked with you on sidewalks
in places I had never seen
I trusted you with my heartfelt words,
my predictions, and my dreams
I have said I needed
so many things, so many people in my life
I hope that one day I will find
some truth hidden beneath the strife
and there are still the echoes
they travel through the alleys and bend
as we write in the concrete
love lies at the rainbow’s end
does nothing matter?
will nothing last?
can’t something be in the future
instead of in the past?
can’t I just breathe in
familiar air
in a familiar place
so I don’t have to wonder where?
there are still the echoes
they travel through the alleys and bend
as we write in the concrete
love lies at the rainbow’s end
can I hold on to anything?
are memories enough?
you write in the concrete
what is love?
poem by Jade Leven
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2-Lost Words
In the dark alleys of my mind
They run about.
Sometimes lost, sometimes found.
Sometimes emerging faintly through the dark
Sometimes vanishing in thin air.
They emerge, only to half-disappear.
Only the sounds of laughter left behind,
Perhaps tiny footprints here and there.
As I sit to recreate these
In dark silent dead nights
On blank non-reflective sheets
Less than half-the-words stare up-
Rest are lost beyond recovery
In the dark alleys of my mind.
poem by Shreya Chatterjee
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Hostel
I rang the bell…
Impatient and dour
From the stride
In the drunken alleys
Deluged by the moon
Searching for a place,
A stale room
Inept and incomparable
To the grandest places
Stashed in the foliage
Of sunken pockets
Of gnarled hallways
A place
Where I am found
Welcomed
Nursed
Injected with fire
Bloated and ballooned
To take flight
Because, after all
The fray will end
And there will not be
Another vacancy…
I rang the bell
And ran away,
Astray,
Breathing death
Back to solitude
Back to the alleys
Less the places
Where I found myself.
poem by Norman Santos
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Alleys In The Sky
There are alleys in the sky
And the alleys are in the back of the houses
That God built
So that people could live in the sky
Across from the houses in the sky
Is a huge park
And in that park the kids can play soccer
On the grass
But the grass is always cut at the park in the sky
By God's personal gardener
And God's gardener doesn't use any pesticide on the grass or on the Trees
So the sky is a pesticide free zone that was declared by God
And God is happy to live in a pesticide free world
Also there are no cars in the sky
And the people who live in the sky ride horses
Because horses doesn't pollute the sky like cars do
And the horses are white
Like the clouds.
poem by Aldo Kraas
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Day Is Done
nuclear fission, sins of omission,
hide your eyes, buy the lies!
hearts gone numb, minds struck dumb,
the flesh dies, stink and flies.
roll down the window, just past tomorrow,
trading souls, fighting for control.
politicians kiss and tell, on the road to hell,
the fire gone cold, nothing left to hold.
broken down, running on empty.
packs of wolves roam the cities.
children's bodies down in the alleys,
nowhere to run, day is done!
nowhere to run, day is done!
the curse of invasion, profitable occasions.
fly the flag, drums and bodybags.
different shades and colors, forgotten brothers,
it's easier to kill, than it is to feel!
the cries and the voices, ghosts of our choices,
rome burns, with every turn!
poverty's needle, almost inconceivable,
blood on the hands, blood on the hands.
broken down, running on empty.
packs of wolves roam your cities.
children's bodies down in the alleys,
nowhere to run, day is done!
nowhere to run, day is done!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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I had been lost deep into the big city (free verse pantoum)
I had been lost deep into the big city,
in alleys circling almost endless around me
with only the fuel fumes
hanging almost cuddling around.
In alleys circling almost endless around me
I could not find my way in the darkness
hanging almost cuddling around,
I could not even see the stars.
I could not find my way in the darkness
with only the fuel fumes,
I could not even see the stars:
I had been lost deep into the big city.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Shred's of Light
Being blinded by my life
I take the back city alleys
Avoiding the harsh concrete jungle
Of highways and byways of past valleys
Too much-too soon-way too soon
Negative heart beats-a rapid fire stream
Adrenalin of fear fuels my heart to go
Needing flight but near impossible dream
I take off swiftly running instead
Pebbles they stick underneath my feet
Lead into an opposite direction
Into frays of questionable beings deceit
Holed up in hobbles of cardboard
An addict is jonesing near by me
Cries in the night strung out alarming
A break in my armour near complete
Turning around toward the Psalms of David(Verse23)
Facing the music is now a done deal
Out of the back city alleys i ardently leap
Into the light of the world's real
Facing up to all of my mistakes
Making amends in an unblinding light
No longer afraid or without clear sight
I stoically and bravely face the night
Of my life
poem by Theodora Onken
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Research is the process of going up alleys to see if they are blind.
quote by Marston Bates
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Not Mine
All my life to pretend this world of theirs is mine
And to know such pretending is disgraceful.
But what can I do? Suppose I suddenly screamed
And started to prophesy. No one would hear me.
Their screens and microphones are not for that.
Others like me wander the streets
And talk to themselves. Sleep on benches in parks,
Or on pavements in alleys. For there aren't enough prisons
To lock up all the poor. I smile and keep quiet.
They won't get me now.
To feast with the chosen—that I do well.
Translated by Robert Hass
poem by Czeslaw Milosz
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The social sciences were for all those who had not yet decided what to do with their lives, and for all those whose premature frustrations led them into the sterile alleys of confrontation.
quote by Peter Ustinov
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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It means working harder to do the research but I don't really mind - I don't think I have what it takes to chase criminals through back alleys and wade through blood at crime scenes.
quote by Jeffery Deaver
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Carpe Noctem
you seize the day
but let me have the nights
where i am unknown to you
i won't let you know
what happiness lurks
in the dark alleys
of my soul
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Then I Will Abide...
when justice no longer has a color,
and is not defined by economic status,
religious or sexual preference,
then i will abide by your laws!
when freedom is as real in the alleys,
the dumpsters, and on the streets
as it is in your brick houses,
then i will believe in your freedom.
when all men and women,
of all colors and ages,
are treated with equal dignity
and with respect,
then i will stand for your equality.
when each of you can look
into the eyes of your neighbor,
and see God...
then i will abide in your humanity!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Sails Flapped
The sails flapped over us,
The moments were dropping,
It was wrong to be pessimistic,
In ordinary human events.
Our housekeeper was away,
One hand hovering our ship,
The other a source everlasting bliss.
We were done reading the houses,
Down fields, across alleys.
The sea was our glove twisted,
Its integrity seemed to be absent.
Down into the sea we dropped,
Over us a calculation or goings on.
We were to swim further than this,
For my eyes were seeing doubly well
Now that storms aroused the passion.
poem by Naveed Akram
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The Value of Rubies
Virtuous woman
Valued beyond rubies
Till time and wear
and truth and tear
steals the light
Better for value are you
women of ill repute
in dimly lit
alleys and taverns
Who, when paid:
Tells you they love you
When you know they don't
Tells you to trust them
When you know you can't
Tells you this matters
When you know it doesn't
Though who tells you
they stay
by the hour
till time is up
and do
and you sit in bed
smoking
watching
her ass
as she leaves
Glowing ember
turning to ashes
flickers, fails
and finally
dies.
poem by Carsten Thomsen
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Layover
Making love in the sun, in the morning sun
in a hotel room
above the alley
where poor men poke for bottles;
making love in the sun
making love by a carpet redder than our blood,
making love while the boys sell headlines
and Cadillacs,
making love by a photograph of Paris
and an open pack of Chesterfields,
making love while other men- poor folks-
work.
That moment- to this. . .
may be years in the way they measure,
but it's only one sentence back in my mind-
there are so many days
when living stops and pulls up and sits
and waits like a train on the rails.
I pass the hotel at 8
and at 5; there are cats in the alleys
and bottles and bums,
and I look up at the window and think,
I no longer know where you are,
and I walk on and wonder where
the living goes
when it stops.
poem by Charles Bukowski
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