A book bazaar
I was in Manhattan in a book bazaar with lots of bargains, none interested me.
I kept my eyes wandering around not really knowing where to look,
At the strolling people or at the static street shelves books
It is just like being in a Zoo
Here too you do not know who
You may meet or see when passing thru
An anchor women from a famous channel
She looked so much prettier down the street
In a stealthy walk trying to hide her notoriety
I could not believe how they can do such a budged make up
In a channel with such fame fashion and prestige
In the screen she looked more like total disaster and fatigue
Through all the colors which the sun bestows
And among every character of form and face,
The Swede, the Russian mixed with Albanian
The Frenchman and the Spaniard from the remote south
The Indian; Moors, Malays and their neighbors
The Tartar and the Chinese, none would miss the event
All humans gathered around the scent
Even the African Ladies in white muslin gown
Followed what the winds carried for miles on
Oh what a blanket of colors what a blank confusion
True epitome of what the mighty city is herself,
To thousands upon thousands of her sons,
Living amid the same perpetual whirl of
Trivial objects, melted and reduced
To one identity, by differences
That have no laws, no meanings, and no conclusion
Tossing and dodging in symbols of eternity,
Of first, and last, of midst,
And the one without end
Like anthill on the plain
Of too busy world before you will flow
Endless stream of human ants and moving things
Your everyday appearance, as it strikes
With wonder heightened, or sublimed by awe
Or vexed by internal gnaw
Strangers of all ages encounter your pace
The quick dance of colors, lights, and forms
The deafening din the broken roar
The comers and the goers; face to face
Face after face; the string of dazzling wares
Shop after shop, with symbols, blazoned names
And all the tradesman’s overhead:
For instance here, fronts of houses, like title-page,
With letters inscribed from top to toe,
Stationed above the door, like guardian saints;
There the instance of allegoric shapes, female and male,
Or physiognomies of real men,
Land warriors, kings, or admiral of the sea,
The attractive head of nowadays current celebrity
Some quack-doctor, famous in his day
The brag lines of a fortune teller
A palm reader or other benefactors of any sort
Enough, the mighty concourse I surveyed
With no other thinking
Just take the right turn into a quiet street
Then the magnificent cathedral in fifth avenue
The images at its lofty wall never lose their magnetic power
Always enthralling the eyes of pedestrian
But on its back stairs among hidden nooks
A homeless find shelter a piece of dry bread with of soup
Copy rights 2010
All rights reserved
Related quotes
A walk in Manhattan
Faces that float in rivers of people I meet; I see and pass
Throngs thrust through bustling city, buzzing noise and broken roar
Faces that come and go; faces I see and lose in windows glass
All portraits new I will never see again; I have never seen before
Strangers of all ages and all human specimans encounter my pace
The comers and the goers, marches of face to face
Parades of face after face in string of dazzling colors ware
An endless human streams too busy world to stop and stare
An ant hill city of maddening crowd’s ignoble strife
With sober ambitions without boundaries into all four winds to stray
Along cool sequestered decorum of life
All morals bent with insentient apathy out of way
People in rows, crowds in queues, clans in knots
The famous the anonymous, the have and the have not
Diamonds and ashes in street ashrays
while corners vendors and nooks players reciting their pray
Have you ever imagined how much you can tell
In the instantaneous encounter of human eyes
In ants path where no words are exchanged like soundless tale
You have the brief glimpse of a moment to pierce one's fragile disguise
Hurry, capture, net the rushing secrets of joy, agony and indifferent fatigue
Feeling crying, characters shining from all garments, styles and hidden places
A strode of strives and struggles in all passing faces
Walking, rushing ecstasy of success and the scare of failure and critic
On brandished high heels fashion ladies treat
With the rhythm of sculptured legs on stone walk beat
Tall on burnished hooves astute lawyers; vain confidence that the world fate
Is in their crocodiles leather-ed suitcase encapsulate
In this worlds of stage a middle age woman passes upon whom I gaze
The measures she takes to hide her waning beauty leave me amaze
She is all wrapped in colorful deceit and counterfeit labors
That so immodesty displays nature’s gone favors
With its fallacious arguments of colors and elaborate cloth
Is to the senses cunning counterfeit and cynic loath
Rushing people in elongated avenues; restless streets flocks
I froze for a moment in trepidation and fear of thee
In the meeting of our eyes lock in streets shaded oaks
I can tell, you can tell, as much, so much of me
copy rights 2010
English Sons
One, two, three, four
Girl, on the edge flippin off the lamp
Therell be an end darling to your endless night
On the other side of the street.
Yea, the light on your portrait and the light in your face
And youll be looking for another pretty place
Baby, this side of the street.
Well, keep dreaming baby that your desire brings and girl
I know the sadness that you find in things, its true
Well, baby if you cant take the heat, what can I do?
Well, you and your poetry and your boku (? !) world
Behind the face you hide the face of a modern girl
On the other side of the street.
Yea, youve got the look as if you owe the world
Therefore, you go out there and say what you can earn
On the wrong side of the street.
Well, you tire of every day bringing the same and so you
Go out looking for some strange new games
Well, pretty soon you dont know the score anymore.
All right now........... (guitar break)
I know the danger that your desire brings
And I know the strangeness that youll find
Wait and it will seem straighter for you and for me.
Well, turn on the end and baby turn off the lamps
Therell be an end darling to this endless night
On the other side of the street.
Yea, and everyday - well- it just brings the same
You started looking for some very strange new games
On the wrong side of the street.
Well, you and your desires lead to confusion
Well, walk away as I dont follow your illusions
And see, open your eyes and see, girl.
All right..........
song performed by by Bruce Springsteen
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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English Sons (aka 'English Night')
One, two, three, four
Girl, on the edge flippin off the lamp
Therell be an end darling to your endless night
On the other side of the street.
Yea, the light on your portrait and the light in your face
And youll be looking for another pretty place
Baby, this side of the street.
Well, keep dreaming baby that your desire brings and girl
I know the sadness that you find in things, its true
Well, baby if you cant take the heat, what can I do?
Well, you and your poetry and your boku (? !) world
Behind the face you hide the face of a modern girl
On the other side of the street.
Yea, youve got the look as if you owe the world
Therefore, you go out there and say what you can earn
On the wrong side of the street.
Well, you tire of every day bringing the same and so you
Go out looking for some strange new games
Well, pretty soon you dont know the score anymore.
All right now........... (guitar break)
I know the danger that your desire brings
And I know the strangeness that youll find
Wait and it will seem straighter for you and for me.
Well, turn on the end and baby turn off the lamps
Therell be an end darling to this endless night
On the other side of the street.
Yea, and everyday - well- it just brings the same
You started looking for some very strange new games
On the wrong side of the street.
Well, you and your desires lead to confusion
Well, walk away as I dont follow your illusions
And see, open your eyes and see, girl.
All right..........
song performed by by Bruce Springsteen
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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True Colors
This evening really came as some surprise
It showed me just how little faith
I think back when you couldnt criticize
You sure were glad to see my face
True colors, giving away your lies
True colors, seeing them in your eyes
True colors, giving away your lies
True colors, seeing them in your eyes, eyes
For you the tables turned full circle now
And all those people you call friends
See who defends you when youre down again
Dont count on money-spinners then
True colors, maybe youll see them then
True colors, twisting the knife again
True colors, maybe youll see them then
True colors, twisting the knife again
You did what you wanted to do
I lived to fight another day
I know that I want you to do
Just pack your bags and get away
song performed by by Asia
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A dark chilly dreary morning
It is a dark chilly dreary morning
Sun delayed over city with gray sky in mourning
The throng of comers and goers in my face flits and fleets
And will not let me be
I walk passing eave-drops lofty fall
And the yellow vapors choke
The great city subway sounding wide
The day comes suddenly at last- A dull red ball
Wrapped in drifts of lurid smoke
On the misty East river tide
I loath the city of solitude in squares and in streets
And the faces of stutters that one meets
Empty aloof hearts arrogant introvert souls with no love for me
I crave to crawl, to crouch to creep
Into some under street cafe’ deep
And there to weep and weep and weep
My whole soul out for you in silent grief
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I Am.... (Namaste)
i heard your soul whimper
from across the miles,
in the dead of night,
when you thought no one cared.
i saw the light in your eyes,
when you fed the hungry child,
and brushed the dirt from his face
with hands that trembled.
i felt the tears,
that you couldnt cry...
as you buried your only son,
killed in their wars.
i smelled the fear in your body,
but tasted the grit and determination,
as they beat you to the street
for protesting their greed.
i shook with the cold lonliness
of your tiny cell,
where they left you
with no identity or hope...
your freedom taken
for standing up for freedom,
your human rights taken
for defending human rights.
i am the song,
and the hymn of you.
i bathe in your light,
i drink your darkness.
i taste the colors of your skin,
and they all taste the same.
i feel your fears,
your desires, and your dreams.
i am the farmer, the mill worker,
i stand in your factory lines.
i am the activist, the doubter,
the good and the evil.
i feel the blows you've taken,
i can name your scars.
i've slept with your failures,
and buried your mistakes.
i am the love of your hidden names,
i walk by your sides,
know your steps and your sweat.
i am the good things you've done,
and yes, even the bad!
i am the triumph, and i am the loss.
i am the breath of god,
that fills your bodies....
you are the flesh and bones
and the feet of my dreams!
i am the sacred, the magnificent,
the simple, and the mundane...
all living within
every moment you live!
i am the song,
and the hymn of you.
i am the work
that only you can do.
i am the dance, the drive,
the passion, and the chance...
you are the words
that only god can express!
namaste!
poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Henry George
(Melbourne)
I CAME to buy a book. It was a shop
Down in a narrow quiet street, and here
They kept, I knew, these socialistic books.
I entered. All was bare, but clean and neat.
The shelves were ranged with unsold wares; the counter
Held a few sheets and papers. Here and there
Hung prints and calendars. I rapped, and straight
A young Girl came out through the inner door.
She had a clear and simple face; I saw
She had no beauty, loveliness, nor charm,
But, as your eyes met those grey light-lit eyes
Like to a mountain spring so pure, you thought:
'He'd be a clever man who looked, and lied!'
I asked her for the book. . . . We spoke a little.
Her words were as her face was, as her eyes.
Yes, she'd read many books like this of mine:
Also some poets, Shelley, Byron too,
And Tennyson, but 'poets only dreamed!'
Thus, then, we talked, until by chance I spoke
A phrase and then a name. 'Twas 'Henry George.'
Her face lit up. O it was beautiful,
Or never woman's face was! 'Henry George?'
She said. And then a look, a flush, a smile,
Such as sprung up in Magdalenè's cheek
When some voice uttered Jesus, made her angel.
She turned and pointed up the counter. I,
Loosing mine eyes from that ensainted face,
Looked also. 'Twas a print, a common print,
The head and shoulders of a man. She said,
Quite in a whisper: 'That's him, Henry George!'
Darling, that in this life of wrong and woe,
The lovely woman-soul within you brooded
And wept and loved and hated and pitied,
And knew not what its helplessness could do,
Its helplessness, its sheer bewilderment —
That then those eyes should fall, those angel eyes,
On one who'd brooded, wept, loved, hated, pitied,
Even as you had, but therefrom had sprung
A hope, a plan, a scheme to right this wrong,
And make this woe less hateful to the sun —
And that pure soul had found its Master thus
To listen to, remember, watch and love,
And trust the dawn that rose up through the dark:
O this was good
For me to see, as for some weary hopeless
Longer and toiler for 'the Kingdom of Heaven'
To stand some lifeless twilight hour, and hear,
There in a dim-lit house of Lazarus,
Mary who said: 'Thus, thus he looked, he spake,
The Master!' — So to hear her rapturous words,
And gaze upon her up-raised heavenly face!
poem by Francis William Lauderdale Adams
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Strangers Eyes
All alone, a rainy night
No one around but I fell someone watching me
I look around, the street is bare nobody there
I wonder what it could be
As I turned to walk away
Suddenly I saw his face
Never minding that we were alone
Didnt care about the time, at the moment I was felling fine
I was looking into strangers eyes
(he caught me by surprise)
They looked right through me
(he looking into my eyes)
Never knew
Never, ever thought that love could be
(thats when he came)
He came and captured me
Like a scene out of a dream, I cant believe it
Kind of strange and familiar
But in his eyes I get a sign, I get a feeling
I get the feeling he knows me
Maybe I could stay a while, maybe I could make you smile
I dont have much to do
Maybe we could walk awhile
Maybe, maybe we could talk awhile
Cant help looking into strangers eyes
I was looking into strangers eyes
(he caught me by surprise)
They looked right through me
(he looked into my eyes)
Never knew
Never, ever thought that love could be
(thats when he came)
He came and captured me
How was I to know this would happen
Thought I didnt know I would meet this stranger
Its the kind of thing that dreams are made of
And I keep thinking about strangers eyes
I was looking into strangers eyes
(he caught me by surprise)
They looked right through me
(he looked into my eyes)
Never knew
Never, ever thought that love could be
(thats when he came to me)
He came and captured me
song performed by by Vanessa Williams
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Dont You Think It's Time?
children have rights,
women have rights.
lovers have rights.
people of all religions,
and even atheists have rights.
people of all colors,
speaking every language have rights.
trees and rivers have rights.
cats and dogs have rights.
cattle have rights,
homeless people have rights.
prisoners have rights.
democrats and republicans have rights,
even socialists have rights.
the jobless have rights,
old people have rights...
and the hungry have
the right to be fed!
damnit! dont you think it's time?
poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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I am the Journey Man
Look up Journey Man in the dictionary. This is written in blank verse: 11 beats.
Incidentally I am the Journey Man
Cooperatively trumpeting along
Passing gray houses and small minded people
Blowing out colors painting the street bright tints.
I am the oil runny and sharp smelling new
Reflecting colors of the rainbow in me
Decorating every street with my stain
I know I am a greasy beautiful thing.
poem by Incidental Music
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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True Colors
You with the sad eyes
Don't be discouraged
Oh I realize
It's hard to take courage
In a world full of people
You can lose sight of it all
And the darkness inside you
Can make you feel so small
But I see your true colors
Shining through
I see your true colors
And that's why I love you
So don't be afraid to let them show
Your true colors
True colors are beautiful
song performed by by Cyndi Lauper from True Colors
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Colors Of Life
See the colors of life
The colors of dreams
The colors of life
Wherever you go
Wherever you may go
Trust in hope, trust in your real friends
Planet colors alive, you hold it in your hands
Realize you have to open your eyes
And Ive learned everything has always two sides
You're not alone
The world is one family
You're not alone
Find your way to be free
You're not alone
Love is the hope to survive
You're not alone
See the colors of life
See the colors of life
See the colors of life
See the colors of dreams
They are wild and free
See the colors around
See the colors around
The colors you have found
See the colors of life
See the colors of life
The colors of dreams
The colors of life
The colors of life
The colors of dreams
The colors of life
There's a land, there's a place in your heart
Tolerance is the key to make a better start
I've been waiting for my lessons of life
And I've learned everything has always two sides
song performed by by DJ Bobo
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The city of joy
The city of joy, my city, my home
My city of love, my Troy, my Rome
Rags and riches both, and stories unfurl
Swanky Park Street to a slogan splattered wall
Serpentine lanes and alleys quite dark
Book stores in *College Street and also **“STAR MARK”
The young city vibes in south ***“KOL’s” clubs
Night outs frisky at Entertainment hubs
A city living somewhere down
The annals of time
Survives here still
Somehow sublime
Household chores done
Housewives Chatter
On the terrace, drying hair
Mundane little matters
Youths gather in groups
And have ****“ADDA” seasons
“BANDH” called or Sunday
Whatever may be the reasons
Moving on to the fast lane
Life just zooms past
Miss the “WORKING CLASS” train
And you’ll finish last
The city’s changing forever and on
Shedding skins of eras bygone
A new face is shining bright
Flooding nights with dazzling lights
*****VIP road and traffic jams
The Love affair with the ‘trams’
Grandeur married a heart beat true
And that’s how my Kolkata grew!
===================================== ========
*College Street ->> a place wer u can get almost evry kindsa books
**Star mark ->> a book mall
***KOL ->> Short form of Kolkata
****Adda ->> wen a group chatter on endlessly...we call it Adda
*****VIP Road one of the most important roads in Kolkata..the most busy too....
poem by Saurabh Som
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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John Brown
John brown went off to war to fight on a foreign shore.
His mama sure was proud of him!
He stood straight and tall in his uniform and all.
His mamas face broke out all in a grin.
Oh son, you look so fine, Im glad youre a son of mine,
You make me proud to know you hold a gun.
Do what the captain says, lots of medals you will get,
And well put them on the wall when you come home.
As that old train pulled out, johns ma began to shout,
Tellin evryone in the neighborhood:
Thats my son thats about to go, hes a soldier now, you know.
She made well sure her neighbors understood.
She got a letter once in a while and her face broke into a smile
As she showed them to the people from next door.
And she bragged about her son with his uniform and gun,
And these things you called a good old-fashioned war.
Oh! good old-fashioned war!
Then the letters ceased to come, for a long time they did not come.
They ceased to come for about ten months or more.
Then a letter finally came saying, go down and meet the train.
Your sons a-coming home from the war.
She smiled and went right down, she looked everywhere around
But she could not see her soldier son in sight.
But as all the people passed, she saw her son at last,
When she did she could hardly believe her eyes.
Oh his face was all shot up and his hand was all blown off
And he wore a metal brace around his waist.
He whispered kind of slow, in a voice she did not know,
While she couldnt even recognize his face!
Oh! lord! not even recognize his face.
Oh tell me, my darling son, pray tell me what they done.
How is it you come to be this way?
He tried his best to talk but his mouth could hardly move
And the mother had to turn her face away.
Dont you remember, ma, when I went off to war
You thought it was the best thing I could do?
I was on the battleground, you were home . . . acting proud.
You wasnt there standing in my shoes.
Oh, and I thought when I was there, god, what am I doing here?
Im a-tryin to kill somebody or die tryin.
But the thing that scared me most was when my enemy came close
And I saw that his face looked just like mine.
Oh! lord! just like mine!
And I couldnt help but think, through the thunder rolling and stink,
That I was just a puppet in a play.
And through the roar and smoke, this string is finally broke,
And a cannon ball blew my eyes away.
As he turned away to walk, his ma was still in shock
At seein the metal brace that helped him stand.
But as he turned to go, he called his mother close
And he dropped his medals down into her hand.
song performed by by Bob Dylan
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Letter To The Woman Who Stopped Writing Me Back
I wanted you to be the first to know - Harper & Row
has agreed to publish my collected letters to you.
The tentative title is Exorcist in the Gym of Futility.
Unfortunately I never mailed the best one,
which certainly was one of a kind.
A mutual friend told me that when I quit drinking,
I surrendered my identity in your eyes.
Now I'm just like everybody else, and it's so funny,
the way monogamy is funny, the way
someone falling down in the street is funny.
I entered a revolving door and emerged
as a human being. When you think of me
is my face electronically blurred?
I remember your collarbone, forming the tiniest
satellite dish in the universe, your smile
as the place where parallel lines inevitably crossed.
Now dinosaurs freeze to death on your shoulder.
I remember your eyes: fifty attack dogs on a single leash,
how I once held the soft audience of your hand.
I've been ignored by prettier women than you,
but none who carried the heavy pitchers of silence
so far, without spilling a drop.
poem by Jeffrey McDaniel
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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We Do What We Can
Downstairs they're playing Kenton
The house set to swing
I lay in my bed
And listen to everything
Cause Leo's in rare form tonight
His trombone sings so sweet
This is the room
Where they all come to meet
He said
I do what I can
I live for the moment
And that's who I am
Yeah that's who I am
And isn't it good
If we could freeze moments in time
We all would
But I do what I can
I do what I can
Downstairs he's playing Kenton
The Magnavox sighs
But oh how the music has changed
In all of our lives
He says "nobody listens
To modern jazz"
And I'll never have what those guys have
He says
I do what I can
I work for a living
And that's who I am
Yeah that's who I am
And it's good to be alive
But everything's different since Leo died
I do what I can
Is this the end of the modern world
What could it mean for a young girl
Who sees the pain on his face
He does what he can
The procession on the TV screen
What could it possibly mean for a man
Who's come this far just to turn around
Could there still be life in Kenton's swing
With the Kennedys gone and everything
Those sad rows of houses with their optimistic colors
Democrat grandparents and draft-dodging brothers
Riots down the street and discontented mothers
We do what we can
Downstairs it's quiet
Less alive somehow
Somehow he was everything that I am now
And he says
I do what I can
I work for a living
And that's who I am
And that's who I am
But it's good to be alive
And these are the choices
We make to survive
You do what you can
song performed by by Sheryl Crow from Tuesday Night Music Club
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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God's obssession with Geometry
you may not be all knowing
but it does not mean you
would not know the all knowing
for instance the fact that he is
obssessed with geometry
the lines you see everywhere
in the the butterflies, the birds,
the insects, animals
what do they have in common?
such an overpowering exquisite
range of shapes and patterns
the obssession develops into
creating things to carry and
dance with those mindboggling,
at times, eerie, alluring and simply
ingenious and haunting designs
his favourite should be the shape of a ball
all things important are crowned with a roundness
that conveys his fondness for them
it starts from your two eyeballs, then the earth
then the sun, the whole planetary system
even the way they move, circular lines
the rest of his geometric insanity,
you have to run for them in the butterflies,
the birds, the molluscs, the shells,
each earth particle, the crystals
and did i say our very own face.
every line on the face makes us another person
you need not be all knowing
but that does not mean you
would not know the all knowing
his preference, his dos and donts
the way he talks in symbols using
things around us, and the cycle of things
his obssession with geometry
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The gloom of an hour
I have at times gnawing fears that my days may soon cease to be
Before my quill has exhausted itself in teeming my brain,
Before my high-piled books, in character, and in gallantry
Hold like rich wheat, the full ripened grain;
When I behold, upon the night's vault starred face,
Huge cloudy symbols of a high youthful and fresh romance,
This blessed moon lending its sheen where I shall never trace
Its shadows, with the magic hand of zeal, rapture and chance;
And when I feel the air of a fair creature in the gloom of an hour,
That I shall never look upon or company my kinsmen more,
Never have relish in the fiery power and emotional tower
Of unreflecting love; youth on echoing dunes of an isolated shore
Of this stage wide world a human stands alone, and thinks
Where are all love moments and banners of praise
The human soul they try to cherish and to raise
No answer; his love collapses forgotten; his fame to nothingness sinks.
Copy rights 2010
All rights reserved.
Street Memories
I would look down that desolate street
Where you and I would meet.
In my eyes I see you walking towards me
And my heart would skip a beat.
I’d see the smile upon your face
And feel the tenderness of your embrace.
I’d hear your laughter echoing in my ears
Which would take away the tears.
This street of memories stays in my mind
For my love for you leaves me blind.
The store fronts that we would go into
To get out of the rain.
And look at the children with their
Noses against the window panes.
This street which is walked by every one
Will never tell the things we’ve done.
When we opened up a fire hydrant
So that the children could play
Then we laughed and ran away.
The day that we looked to see
If any cops were around
And tried to fry eggs on the ground.
And when we tied a frank on our dogs tail
He would go in circles and start to wail.
Then we would give him his favorite treat
A cold ice cream to beat the heat.
These are the things I recall
As I look down this street.
This street where you and I would meet!
poem by Louis Rams
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Old Town Types No. 23 - Little Miss Mix
In a rather tiny building at the bottom of the street,
With a green door and a window small and very neat,
With its shock of beads and button-cards, cottons, bones and braid,
Miss Mix, the village dressmaker, plied a modest trade.
The front shop, with its counter, was a miniature affair,
And trivial the business that was conducted there.
But the back room - the workroom - 'Hours from Nine to Six' -
Was a vestal shrine whose priestess was little Miss Mix.
Tho' man had never gazed within, the sanctum held, 'twas known,
A wealth of female mysteries, for female eyes alone:
Dress-dummies, skirt-stands, a host of fashion fads,
Hip improvers, buckram shapes, curious bustle-pads.
But Mr Mole, who owned a store, and sold things ready-made,
Was oft-times strangely bitter over Miss Mix and her trade.
'A tittle-tattle factory!' said he. 'A gossip-shop!
With its babbling cotton-biters. Why, the thing had ought to stop.'
And many another male declared that Mr Mole was right -=
Chiefly husbands - for the charges of Miss Mix were never light.
And, tho' they talked in that back room of fashion, style and cost,
Many characters were shattered, many reputations lost
As scraps of spiteful sibilants came drifting thro' that door:
'A hussy dear!' ... 'Such goings on!' ... 'And I heard something more.' ...
And many an unsuspecting wench was hounded to her doom
In mousey little Miss Mix's little back room.
When last I saw the old town, nigh twenty years ago,
Its street was little altered, its tempo still was slow;
But where the wee dressmaker's shop in old days used to stand
A 'modern' shop-front glittered, very 'arty,' very grand.
Now Miss Mix was known as Sarah in the days when I was young,
And her trade was 'Plain Dressmaking'; but now a shingle swung
All done in fancy wrought-iron, with twirls and scrolls and tricks:
'Costumiere. Parisian Modes. Direction: Sara Miques.'
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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