The Story
The woman came home to find her husband and children sitting around the table
as they'd done so many nights, the lamp on the sideboard casting its usual glow
over the rough wood, some flowers the children had picked in a blue vase,
the youngest daughter's drawing of a horse tacked beside the window
with its burlap drape. They sat around the table with their severed heads set before them
on the woven placemats, and each one's arms had been lifted so the hands
rested on top of the hair, thick hair of her husband she'd wrapped around
her fingers, fine hair of her two daughters, and the baby's soft, barely visible wisps
over the small skull the baby's hands were tiny, they'd had to nail them in place,
and this is where I begin to hate the man who told the story, who made me see
not just their deaths but the soldiers standing around afterwards, the arc
of the hammer as it comes down and drives in what I now can't forget;
the best I can do is to think of Christ, so I can somehow bear the nails,
so I can carry them to you, and maybe I'm no better than the soldiers to do that.
I'm asking you to walk into your own house, to see a child's head
bent over her homework as she scissors pictures from a magazine,
the bright or dark hair she brushes impatiently out of her eyes.
I don't know why I need to say this, or what good or evil it does. I want
the old, acceptable story of suffering, the cross become icon, holy blood
in the chalice. I want not to know what I know as I turn back to my life,
my friends who love me, as I set the table with candles and glasses for wine
and later put my hands in my lover's hair; he enters me, we fall together
onto the bed, he bites my nipples as hard as I can stand it and then harder,
and still it's pleasure I feel, we are given this, too; I tell it to myself over
and over as we make love like animals deep in the forest, far from any village,
caring nothing for the world, ravenous for each other, crying out
while workmen slowly hack a road toward us, while the machines come on.
poem by Kim Addonizio
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Related quotes
Her
I was a laughing child
That did not know and
Did not fathom
Time was catching up with me when
Everywhere behind me
Whether looking towards the future or
Leaving the past behind,
Her eyes, hazel in the daylight’s shadow and
Her hair, thick, with wisps of gray,
Would frame her countenance,
So young and beautiful, and
Her hands, thin, delicate and pristine, as
Those of an artist…
Rain would fall in torrents the day
I decided no longer to fear the
Raucous sounds about our home-
She would bake bread and sing tunes,
Leaving me to wonder why
She had stayed in bed for days and nights past-
Those days went by quickly as
The second hand spun around the clock
Above the kitchen table- under which
I would play-
Though always in solitude,
I was an Indian, a princess or
On the best of days a queen-
It was a wonder that
Years later
I was the same laughing child
Weeping tears of despair,
Dark shadows cast upon the walls of
My bedroom would
Obliterate any sunlight left in our lives…
Her eyes, hazel in the daylight’s shadows,
Now tear filled as her hair,
Now gray in the dark of the world outside …
Her laughter, now was transforming to deadly silence;
Flowers stood limply in a vase in the middle of the kitchen table where
She would sit, her head resting between her hands-
Long and thin as those of an artist,
Wrinkled, now, years later-
A tear cascading down her cheek-
I hardly understood
Life’s meaning-
My life was far from under that same table-
My world so very small,
But all mine and mine alone-
I had picked those flowers-
Wilted dandelions- and a single rose
From father’s garden-
Though always alone,
Never laughing, never weeping,
Never smiling-
At night, stars were falling and
My thoughts were screaming
“Come back! Come back! ”
That was the moment I first heard them-
The unfamiliar voices-
She would sit at the same table,
Not noticing the dandelions, but only the rose-
The second hand spun as quickly around the clock as
My world was spiraling out of control-
And she would sit on the edge of her
Wrought iron framed queen sized bed
Her head resting in her hands
Still long, thin and like those of an artist-
Frozen
Still…
poem by Claudia Krizay
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Your Hair Dreams
Your hair
(fine as a baby’s fine)
so soft
softly
your hair
falls asleep
before the rest
of you.
Your hair
dreams of being
stroked
caressed.
The rest of you
follows suit
& soon
all of you
is sleeping.
Your hair
dreaming of my hands.
Your body
dreaming of my hands.
Dream & Reality
merging.
poem by Dónall Dempsey
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Want More Hair?
I'd love
I think
more hair
more hair
like a big
old grizzly bear
more hair makes
you manly
more hair
makes you tough
more hair feels
like carpet
more hair keeps
you rough
more hair
for pretty ladies
to rub their faces on
more hair for
guys to jealous of
and more locks that can
be flung
I think more hair would be awesome
but I wouldn't wanna overdo it
because too much hair would make
me like a little furry blanket
and I couldn't cover both of us
just you and that ain't fair
more hair!
poem by John W. McEwers
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Jenn
Jenn is the one that i always will love
through thick and thin we been through it all
i still love her like i always will
her eyes are brown and beautiful
when i look into them i see us and the future we have
i see us standing with a baby with her eyes
her hair is long soft and brown
when i touch it it feels so soft and i don't wanna let go of snuggling her
when i feel her hair i feel our baby's hair as soft as it's mothers
its eyes and hair they share
i will always love jenn forever and more
our future together is getting bright once more
i will tell you something today that will ashtonish you
if you don't already know
I love you jenn until the day i die
I wanna be with you now more then ever and again
poem by Roberto Camtoe
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Terrapin
==============================
Smashing Pumpkins - Terrapin
==============================
I really love you, and I mean you,
The star above you, crystal blue
Well, oh baby, my hair's on end about you
I wouldn't see you, and I love to,
I fly above you, yes I do,
Well, oh baby my hair's on end about you
Floating, bumping, noses dodge a tooth
The fins a luminous
Fangs all 'round the clown is dark
Below the boulders hiding
All the sunlight's good for us
Cause we're the fishes, and all we do
The move about is all we do
Well oh baby my hair's on end about you
I really love you, and I mean you,
The star above you, crystal blue
Well, oh baby, my hair's on end about you
Well, oh baby, my hair's on end about you
song performed by by Smashing Pumpkins
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Your dressing table in the hall
In the house in fifth avenue
I put a small pink white marble table
below a mirror in the corridor
with a bowl with flowers standing on it
that acted as your dressing table
and as a place of display
where I saw your face smiling back at me
while you were doing your hair
teasing with curling tongs
or reflections of the rows of paintings
with the wood floor fading into the distance
and now that mirror and table
is probably still there,
but you are living alone
in that big house
and will never again
smile back into my face.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Braiding
1.
We two sit on our bed, you
between my legs, your back to me, your head
slightly bowed, that I may brush and braid
your hair. My father
did this for my mother,
just as I do for you. One hand
holds the hem of you hair, the other
works the brush. Both hands climb
as the strokes grow
longer, until I use not only my wrists,
but my arms, then my shoulders, my whole body
rocking in a rower's rhythm, a lover's
even time, as the tangles are undone,
and brush and bare hand run the thick,
fluent length of your hair, whose wintry scent
comes, a faint, human musk.
2.
Last night the room was so cold
I dreamed we were in Pittsburgh again, where winter
persisted and we fell asleep in the last seat
of the 71 Negley, dark mornings going to work.
How I wish we didn't hate those years
while we lived them.
Those were days of books,
days of silences stacked high
as the ceiling of that great, dim hall
where we studied. I remember
the thick, oak tabletops, how cool
they felt against my face
when I lay my head down and slept.
3.
How long your hair has grown.
Gradually, December.
4.
There will come a day
one of us will have to imagine this: you,
after your bath, crosslegged on the bed, sleepy, patient,
while I braid your hair.
5.
Here, what's made, these braids, unmakes
itself in time, and must be made
again, within and against
time. So I braid
your hair each day.
My fingers gather, measure hair,
hook, pull and twist hair and hair.
Deft, quick, they plait,
weave, articulate lock and lock, to make
and make these braids, which point
the direction of my going, of all our continuous going.
And though what's made does not abide,
my making is steadfast, and, besides, there is a making
of which this making-in-time is just a part,
a making which abides
beyond the hands which rise in the combing,
the hands which fall in the braiding,
trailing hair in each stage of its unbraiding.
6.
Love, how the hours accumulate. Uncountable.
The trees grow tall, some people walk away
and diminish forever.
The damp pewter days slip around without warning
and we cross over one year and one year.
poem by Li-Young Lee
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Along Came a Spider
Three small children played under the trees,
giggling as the crimson leaves
floated down onto their soft, innocent hands.
They ran about after eacher other
until they collapsed on the roots
holding the forest together
and their breath came out as a flutter,
their giggles came out in bursts,
and their hair stuck to moist skin.
They were tired.
They decided to go hom for their supper,
as they knew that their mothers would worry.
But, along came a spider.
This spider was no monster.
It was no towering beast coming
to attack the children. To do them harm.
It simply scurried past them,
and somewhere in their human nature,
the children were told to follow.
The children did as they were told.
To a feast the children came, following this spider,
and grinned at a tiny table set for a hundred-
each guest sat in his chair.
Their friend, the spider, took his seat and awaited
his applause, for he had brought,
as the party knew,
their dinner, fresh and soft.
And so the insects climbed the children;
they giggle as the tiny feet
caressed their untainted skin,
and the children ran in circles
with their new tiny friends,
until the insects could hold on no longer
and the children were safe at home.
poem by Zoe Guillory
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Dummy Song
Louis Armstrong--Dummy Song
I'll take the legs from some old table
I'll take the arms from some old chair
I'll take the neck from some old bottle
And from a horse I'll take the hair
I'll take the hands and face from some old clock
And baby when I'm through
I'll get more loving from the dum-dum-dummy
Than I ever got from you
Get me some legs get me a chair
And a bottle, too
Give a horse give me some time
And baby when I'm through
I'll take the legs from some old table
I'll take the arms from some old chair
I'll take the neck from some old bottle
And from a horse I'll take the hair
I'll take the hands and face from some old clock
And baby when I'm through
I'll get more loving from the dum-dum-dummy
Than I ever got from you
I get more loving from the dum-dum-dummy
Than I ever got from you
Yeah Mama get more loving
From a dummy than I get from you
song performed by by Louis Armstrong
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Suffocation
Last night I had the weirdest dream
I dreamt that I was lying in bed
With this girl whose hair was
As black as the night and as
Thick as a forest,
And her hair, her hair was
Smothering me
Or at least, I thought it was
Her hair,
Until I noticed it was her hands
Running over my face,
My lips
My eyes
My cheeks.
As hot as the desert
And smooth as silk
But pressing down
Pressing me into my pillow
Until I could see nothing
But the pink of her skin
And I thought,
Im gunna die
Those hands are gunna
Kill me
Until I realized really,
It wasn’t hands,
But lips,
Sucking the air from mine
Engulfing my last breath
And drawing it into her being
And I thought, well,
At least lips are
A nice way to go
Until finally I came
To my goddamn senses
And I realized,
I realized it wasn’t her lips
But the words coming
From those sweet lips
That was suffocating me
And it was “I love you”
I was choking on
Not her hair, hands or lips
At all.
poem by Nick Downer
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Refugio's Hair
In the old days of our family,
My grandmother was a young woman
Whose hair was as long as the river.
She lived with her sisters on the ranch
La Calera--The Land of the Lime--
And her days were happy.
But her uncle Carlos lived there too,
Carlos whose soul had the edge of a knife.
One day, to teach her to ride a horse,
He made her climb on the fastest one,
Bareback, and sit there
As he held its long face in his arms.
And then he did the unspeakable deed
For which he would always be remembered:
He called for the handsome baby Pirrín
And he placed the child in her arms.
With that picture of a Madonna on horseback
He slapped the shank of the horse's rear leg.
The horse did what a horse must,
Racing full toward the bright horizon.
But first he ran under the álamo trees
To rid his back of this unfair weight:
This woman full of tears
And this baby full of love.
When they reached the trees and went under,
Her hair, which had trailed her,
Equal in its magnificence to the tail of the horse,
That hair rose up and flew into the branches
As if it were a thousand arms,
All of them trying to save her.
The horse ran off and left her,
The baby still in her arms,
The two of them hanging from her hair.
The baby looked only at her
And did not cry, so steady was her cradle.
Her sisters came running to save them.
But the hair would not let go.
From its fear it held on and had to be cut,
All of it, from her head.
From that day on, my grandmother
Wore her hair short like a scream,
But it was long like a river in her sleep.
poem by Alberto Ríos
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Fall In Love With Me
Pop/bowie/sales/sales
You look so good to me
Here in this old saloon
Way back in west berlin
A bottle of white wine
White wine and you
A table made of wood
And how I wish you would
Fall in love with me
You look so good to me
Standing out in the street
With your cheap fur on
Or maybe your plastic raincoat
And your plastic shoes
They look good too
Standing in the snow
Youre younger than you look
Fall in love with me
Fall in love with me
How I wish you would
A table made of wood
And a bottle of white wine
And you-and a bottle of
White wine and you
And when youre standing
In the street and its cold
And it snows on you
And you look younger
Than you really are
I wish you would
Fall in love with me
I wish you would
Fall in love with me
I wish you would
Fall in love with me
I wish you would
Fall in love with me
Yeah
The way your eyes are black
The way your hair is black
The way your heart is young
Theres just a few like you
Just the kind I need
To fall in love with me
Oh and you look so good
Yes you look so good
A bottle of white wine
A cigarette and you
Here in this saloon
White wine and you
I wish youd fall in love with me
I wish youd fall in love with me
cause theres
Just a few like you
So young and real
Theres just a few like you
So young and real
Fall in love with me
Fall in love with me
Fall in love with me
Fall in love with me
I wish you would
You look so good
When youre young at heart
Theres just a few like you
Youre young at heart
Wont you
Come to this old saloon
Come to my waiting arms
A table made of wood
And I will look at you
cause youre so young and pure
And youre young at heart
Youre young at heart
A bottle of white wine
And when youre tumbling down
You just look better
When youre tumbling down
You just look finer
song performed by by Iggy Pop
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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While Hair Brushing
Juliette drags the brush
through her hair you have
to brush it at least one
hundred times her mother
had said years ago and say
a prayer each time you get
it through and maybe God
will bless you and as she sits
and brushes her hair she
remembers her mother standing
over her when she was a child
and the hair was as long then
as it is now and oh God she
says how I hated it the knots
and tangles and the number of
times I used to cry each time
she pauses in front of the mirror
the brush held mid air sometimes
when she brushes her hair and
stares in the mirror she sees him
there looking at her as he did back
then watching her every move
his dark eyes greedily drinking
her in and once he placed his
hands around her waist and kissed
her neck how she cringed his spittle
still there her uncle his breath his
hands touching always when she
was alone and once when undressing
he came in and stared and said he
thought she was becoming a beautiful
young girl now she brushes her hair
again the brush stiff and heavy gripped
in her hand and as she stares into the
mirror heavy with times and care she
thinks she sees him still staring still there.
poem by Terry Collett
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Hairbrush
how i wish my fingers were the bristles
or my breath were the wind when it whistles
thru your hair, thru your hair
i wish you'd hold me in your hands
and let me skate thru all the strands
of your hair, of your hair
i could style it anyway you like it
i could brush it straight or even spike it
au contraire! au contraire!
or i would wait patiently in my box
until next i would comb the locks
of your hair, of your hair
i would braid it tight, tousle, and tease!
or pull it back in a ponytail, if you please;
if you dare, if you dare
how often is it a man confesses
that he wish to run barefoot thru the tresses
of your hair, of your hair?
you may think me a little touch'd
but can i tell you just how much
i hate your hairbrush?
this obsession may be zealous
but can i tell you just how jealous
i am of your hairbrush? !
poem by Rev. Dr. A. Jacob Hassler
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An Invitation.
She invited Joey
to her apartment
on the second floor
and as she opened the door
her dog came
barking along the hall
Shut up Bonaparte
she said
Go away
and the mutt walked back
with its tail
between its legs
to its basket
under the table
and she ushered Joey in
and closed the door behind her
and said
What would you like to drink?
tea coffee coke beer?
Coke will be fine
he said
and she told him
to go sit in the lounge
and once he sat down
he looked around the room
and on the small table
by the sofa where he sat
was a photograph of her
and her husband
taken on their wedding day
she dressed in white
and smiling
and he in a black suit
like a hit man
in a mobster movie
and she came in
with his coke
and set it on the table
by the sofa
and then went out again
swaying her behind
which made him smile
then she was back
with a tall glass
of white wine
and she set it down
on the table beside him
and sat down
and began talking
about the night
he had met her
and her husband
in the bar in town
and how she had invited
him over to meet her husband
and he had bought them
both a drink
and while her husband
talked to his friend
she had flirted with him
and made him laugh
and how after that
they'd all meet
on Friday evenings
in the same bar
and her husband
had invited him
to their place
to play chess
and he remembered
how he used to play chess
holding off letting
her husband win
so he could stay longer
and see her more often
and then she leaned over
to get her drink
and she put one hand
on his thigh
and reached over
for her wine
and he smelt her scent
and the brush of her hair
as she leaned over him
and having her glass
she leaned back
her hand still resting
on his thigh
and that look of mischief
burning in her eye.
poem by Terry Collett
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The Iron Cross
THEY pass, with heavy eyes and hair,
Before the Christ upon the Cross,
The Nations, stricken with their loss,
And lifting faces of despair.
What is the prayer they pray to Him,
Christ Jesus on the Iron Cross?
The Christ, neglected, dark with moss,
Whose hands are pierced, whose face is grim.
Is it forgiveness for great sin
They plead before the Iron Cross?
Or for some gift of gold or dross?
Or battle lost, that they would win?
With eyes where hate and horror meet,
They pass before the Iron Cross,
The Cross, that ancient words emboss,
Where hangs the Christ with nail-pierced feet.
His hair is fallen on his face.
His head hangs sidewise from the Cross —
The Crucified, who knows all loss,
And had on Earth no resting place.
'O world of men,' he seems to say,
'Behold me on your Iron Cross!
To me why kneel and tell your loss?
Why kneel to me and weep and pray?
'Have I not taught you to forgive?
And bade you from my Iron Cross
Believe, and bear your grief and loss,
That after death you too may live?
'You have not followed at my call!
You keep me on this Iron Cross,
And pray me keep you from all loss,
And save and comfort you withal.—
'You ask for love, and hate the more! —
You keep me on this Iron Cross!—
Restore to me my greater loss,
The brotherhood of rich and poor.'
They pass, with weary eyes and hair,
Before the Christ upon the Cross —
The Nations, wailing of their loss,
And lifting faces of despair.
poem by Madison Julius Cawein
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Portrait Of An Old Woman On The College Tavern Wall
Oh down at the tavern
the children are singing
around their round table
and around me still.
Did you hear what it said?
I only said
how there is a pewter urn
pinned to the tavern wall,
as old as old is able
to be and be there still.
I said, the poets are tere
I hear them singing and lying
around their round table
and around me still.
Across the room is a wreath
made of a corpse's hair,
framed in glass on the wall,
as old as old is able
to be and be remembered still.
Did you hear what it said?
I only said
how I want to be there and I
would sing my songs with the liars
and my lies with all the singers.
And I would, and I would but
it's my hair in the hair wreath,
my cup pinned to the tavern wall,
my dusty face they sing beneath.
Poets are sitting in my kitchen.
Why do these poets lie?
Why do children get children and
Did you hear what it said?
I only said
how I want to be there,
Oh, down at the tavern
where the prophets are singing
around their round table
until they are still.
poem by Anne Sexton
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Beautiful (2)
Black hair falls from her bun
As I lay my hands on her back
She tenses up just a little bit
Then relaxes as I come nearer
I push my hands deep into her back
As she smiles and looks just a little
To see me smiling back at her
I see her blush and turn back
I smell the perfume she wears
As my hands climbs through her hair
Burning passion reaping us both
As she grabs my hand from her neck
And puts it slowly into her hand
Then with a sigh I hold it in mine
This sweet love finer than wine
i can only call this but one very thing
Beautiful
poem by Branden Aeling
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Bed of Lavender and Lilac
It is my extraordinary pleasure
To feel the hem
Of her blue dress
As the sunlight dances
On her soft, shoulder-length hair
In the delicate afternoon.
I have child-like eagerness
To kiss her wine-touched lips
In the magical moment of desire
When I place my hands
On her sweet and girlish hips
And I begin to slowly taste
The warmth and passion
Of her exciting perfumed skin.
I will transform myself
Into the most perfect lover
She ever undressed with
In a room full of flowers;
She will not forget
When our bodies met
On a bed of lavender and lilac.
poem by Uriah Hamilton
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The Witch's Life
When I was a child
there was an old woman in our neighborhood whom we called The Witch.
All day she peered from her second story
window
from behind the wrinkled curtains
and sometimes she would open the window
and yell: Get out of my life!
She had hair like kelp
and a voice like a boulder.
I think of her sometimes now
and wonder if I am becoming her.
My shoes turn up like a jester's.
Clumps of my hair, as I write this,
curl up individually like toes.
I am shoveling the children out,
scoop after scoop.
Only my books anoint me,
and a few friends,
those who reach into my veins.
Maybe I am becoming a hermit,
opening the door for only
a few special animals?
Maybe my skull is too crowded
and it has no opening through which
to feed it soup?
Maybe I have plugged up my sockets
to keep the gods in?
Maybe, although my heart
is a kitten of butter,
I am blowing it up like a zeppelin.
Yes. It is the witch's life,
climbing the primordial climb,
a dream within a dream,
then sitting here
holding a basket of fire.
poem by Anne Sexton
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