Away Above A Harborful
Away above a harborful
of caulkless houses
among the charley noble chimneypots
of a rooftop rigged with clotheslines
a woman pastes up sails
upon the wind
hanging out her morning sheets
with wooden pins
O lovely mammal
her nearly naked breasts
throw taut shadows
when she stretches up
to hang at last the last of her
so white washed sins
but it is wetly amorous
and winds itself about her
clinging to her skin
So caught with arms
upraised
she tosses back her head
in voiceless laughter
and in choiceless gesture then
shakes out gold hair
while in the reachless seascape spaces
between the blown white shrouds
stand out the bright steamers
to kingdom come
poem by Lawrence Ferlinghetti
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Related quotes
In the White
In the white, early morning
I hang my face
over her head
and kiss the flesh above her brow.
I hang my neck, a bow in the air
and kiss the tiny, tickling hairs above her brow.
In the white light of morning
I hang myself over her
and kiss the flesh of her skull
Her white skull
sleeps in the early morning as I hang myself
to kiss her.
I hang myself to kiss her
as she sleeps in the white, early morning.
She does not wake to my touch.
I hang myself above her
on the white bow
of early morning.
She does not wake to my hanging.
The window is cracked and taped.
The outside air is cold, forceful.
I bend myself
above her sleeping body
to kiss her, gently on the brow.
To kiss her gently on the brow
I hang myself.
poem by Chavisa Woods
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Sandwriting
Sandwriting
Leave your name and
Let the wind
And high tide
Take it away
Each white gold grain
That made up your name
Take it away
Sandwriting
Write your lover's monogram
Upon the cool damp
White gold grain
say this is who I am
Yes this is all you are my friend
Some shapes upon the sand
Of white gold grain
Washed and blown away
With the memory of your name
Take it away
Go tell the story
To the wind and sea
What ever became of you and me
Each letter of love
That had its golden day
A love song
Without goodbye
Take it away
Sandwriting
song performed by by Chris Rea
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Tryin To Throw Your Arms Around The World
6.00 in the morning
Youre the last to hear the warning
Youve been trying to throw your arms around the world
Youve been falling off the sidewalk
Your lips move but you cant talk
Tryin to throw your arms around the world
Im gonna run to you...run to you...be still
Im gonna run to you...run to you...woman I will
Sunrise like a nosebleed
Your head hurts and you cant breathe
You been tryin to throw you arms around the world
How far you gonna go
Before you lose your way back home?
Youve been trying to throw your arms around the world
Im gonna run to you...run to you...woman be still
Im gonna run to you...run to you...woman I will
I dreamed that I saw dali
With a supermarket trolley
He was trying to throw his arms around a girl
He took an open top beetle
Through the eye of a needle
He was tryin to throw his arms around the world
Im gonna run to you...run to you...woman be still
Im gonna run to you...run to you...woman I will
Nothin much to say I guess
Just the same as all the rest
Been trying to throw your arms around the world
A woman needs a man
Like a fish needs a bicycle
When youre tryin to throw your arms around the world
Im gonna run to you...run to you
Im gonna run to you...run to you
Im gonna run to you...run to you
Woman be still...woman be still
Be still...woman be still
Woman I will
song performed by by U2
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Grandeur And The Majesties Of Nature
the sea will always be there
always surfaces moving and sometimes
i ask if it is just the wind that
creates in it
that baby's curly hair
between the sea and this mountain
is the neutral shore
white thighs of a woman spreading her legs
to every manly wave
even to the feminine winds from
far amorous skies
love and lust with always be here
these players of the games that nature
plays upon us
when we watch a mountain come out
from the fog
wearing the white hair of snow caps
when we see heights
that move us into an awe
and then we begin to mentions so many names
of God.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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You are caught in moments
You are caught in moments
in passion like a kite pulling,
where you hang in wild winds
in a frolicking flight and still you are scared,
every moment is emphasized.
You are caught in moments
at your own insistence
want to pull me down in yearning
where you hang in wild winds
but sometimes it’s as if you are longing,
want to shelter against me,
you are caught in moments
want to break away in the song of the wind,
still you leave an impression
where you hang in wild winds,
you are searching in impulse and desire
with nails that you put into my back,
you are caught in moments
where you hang in wild winds.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Go With The Momentum
When I was a child I remember vividly,
This young woman reaching for sheets to hang...
In one of the community spaces used,
To hang and dry washed clothes.
And I wondered to myself,
While watching from our second floor three room apartment.
Shared by my sister and parents...
If those sheets hung,
Were hand washed.
'I like it.
This is a touching personal interest story,
We can introduce during the next debate.
And remember...
To look right into the camera,
As your lower lip begins to quiver.'
What about a tear?
Let me repeat it again.
With a tear at the end.
'Only from the left eye.
That's when we give you a closeup.
Then begin to lower your head.'
Don't you think,
That would be overly dramatic?
'Of course it is.
But we have to go with the momentum.
That last debate and your appearance,
Left everyone stunned.
Go deeper emotionally.
It will guarantee another win.
Take a ten minute break.
And we will begin again from the top.'
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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And the sky bright blue...
And the sky bright blue,
white clouds paint the empty spaces
where the thick wall, delimited
the transition overhead of the fig trees.
Palms begging the white Colour
And all, too quiet,
the breeze savours the summer heat.
I spent sleepless nights,
refreshes skin sweat heavily
wetting between the sheets
that were complaining.
And every morning, at sunrise,
spectacular as a Carriage, the horizon is approaching
carrying the heat pain.
poem by Luca Menin
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Flapping Sails Of The White Winds
let us
let us all be
white sails blown by the wind in one direction
flapping, flapping winds, flapping wings of a white bird towards the endless sea.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Clean white sheets
Clean white sheets upon my bed
cradle my body but not my head.
My head's never cradled. It's too full.
It's too noisy. There is no lull.
I wash them routinely every week.
If I hung them outside the neighbors would speak.
Their words would complement the sight
of clean white sheets I use at night.
But they don't know how I'm awake
and how those sheets never give me a break.
I make the bed up and I think
'If only I could catch a wink.'
I'd praise those sheets on every day
and finally I'd be able to say.
'Clean white sheets upon my bed
you've found a way to cradle my head.'
poem by Edwina Reizer
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Chagrin
Caught still as Absalom,
Surely the air hangs
From the swayless cloud-boughs
Like hair of Absalom
Caught and hanging still.
From the imagined weight
Of spaces in a sky
Of mute chagrin my thoughts
Hang like branch-clung hair
To trunks of silence swung,
With the choked soul weighing down
Into thick emptiness.
Christ, end this hanging death,
For endlessness hangs therefrom !
Invisibly branches break
From invisible trees:
The cloud-woods where we rush
(Our eyes holding so much),
Which we must ride dim ages round
Ere the hands (we dream) can touch,
We ride, we ride-before the morning
The secret roots of the sun to tread-
And suddenly
We are lifted of all we know,
And hang from implacable boughs.
poem by Isaac Rosenberg
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The Alley
Because you are four years old
the candle is all dressed up in a new frill.
And stars nod to you through the hole in the curtain,
(except the big stiff planets
too fat to move about much,)
and you curtsey back to the stars
when no one is looking.
You feel sorry for the poor wooden chair
that knows it isn’t nice to sit on,
and no one is sad but mama.
You don’t like mama to be sad
when you are four years old,
so you pretend
you like the bitter gold-pale tea—
you pretend
if you don’t drink it up pretty quick
a little gold-fish
will think it is a pond
and come and get born in it.
It’s hot in our street
and the breeze is a dirty little broom
that sweeps dust into our room
and bits of paper out of the alley.
You are not let to play
with the children in the alley
But you must be very polite—
so you pass them and say good day
and when they fling banana skins
you fling them back again.
There is no one to play with
and the flies on the window
buzz and buzz…
…you can pull out their legs
and stick pins in their bodies
but still they buzz…
and mama says:
When Nero was a little boy
he caught flies on his mama’s window
and pulled out their legs
and stuck pins in their bodies
and nobody loved him.
Buzz, blue-bellied flies—
buzz, nasty black wheel
of mama’s machine—
you are the biggest fly of all—
you have the loudest buzz.
I hear you at dawn before the locusts.
But I like the picture of the Flood
and the little babies getting drowned….
If I were there I would save them,
but as I can’t save them
I like to watch them
getting drowned.
When mama buys of Ling Ho,
he smiles very wide
and picks her the largest loquots.
The greens-man gave her a cabbage
and she held it against her black bodice
and said what a beautiful green it was
and put it on the table
as though it had been a flower.
But next day we boiled and ate it with salt.
It was our dinner.
Christmas day
I found Janie on my pillow.
Janie is made of rubber.
Her red and blue jacket won’t come off.
Christmas dinner was green and white
chicken and lettuce and peas
and drops of oil on the salad
smiley and full of light
like the gold on the lady’s teeth.
But mama said politely
Thank you, we are dining out.
She wouldn’t let you take one pea
to put in the hole where the whistle was
at the back of Janie’s head,
so Janie should have some dinner
So you went to the park with biscuits
and black tea in a bottle.
You feel very sad
when you climb on the fence
to watch mama out of sight.
The women in the alley
poke their heads out of doorways
and watch her too.
You know her
by the way she holds her shoulders
till she is only a speck
in a chain of specks—
till she is swallowed up.
But suppose
that day after day
you were to watch for her face
and it didn’t come back?
Suppose
it were to drop out of the string of white faces
like the pearl out of my chain
I never found again?
Mabel minds you while mama is out,
she washes while she sings
Three blind mice!
they all run away from the farmer’s wife
who cut off their tails
with a carving knife—
Wind blows out Mabel’s sheets,
way you blow in a bag before you burst it.
Wind has a soapy smell.
It’s heavier’n sun
that lies all over you without any weight
and makes you feel happy
and crinkly like bubbling water.
There’s no sun on the empty house—
sly-looking house—
you can’t see in its windows
that watch you out of their corners.
Perhaps there’s a big spider there
spinning gray threads over the windows
till they look like dead people’s faces….
Jimmie says:
Jimmie’s hair is white as a white mouse.
His lashes are gold as mama’s wedding ring
and his mouth feels cool and smooth
like a flower wet with rain.
You wouldn’t believe Jimmie was different…
till he showed you….
Blind wet sheets
flapping on the lines…
sun in your eyes,
dark gold sun
full of little black spots,
you have to blink and blink…
round eyes of Jimmie….
Jimmie’s blue jumper…
blue shadow of wall…
all the world holding still
as when a clock stops…
streets still… people still…
no streets… no people…
only sky and wall…
sun glaring bright as God
down at you and Jimmie…
shadow like a purple cloth
trailing off the wall…
Wild wet sheets
flapping in the wind…
big slippered feet flapping too…
big-balloon-face
rushing up the alley…
houses closing up again…
windows looking round…
… Mabel pulls you in the gate and shakes you
and tells you not to tell your mama…
And you wonder
if God has spoiled Jimmie.
poem by Lola Ridge
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Polly strips His bed
Polly strips back the sheets
where Master George has lain.
She folds the white sheets and
lays them on a chair. She lies
her head on the pillow where
his head has been. She sniffs
and smells him. Closing her eyes
she imagines she's there beside
him and he has her in his arms,
his lips against her flushed cheek.
She imagines they are in bed
together when dawn's light breaks
through the shutters and Susie
the other maid enters and wide
eyed she mouths a huge round O.
She opens her eyes; the pillow
is vacant beside her head, just
a small indentation where he had
laid his head the night before.
She fingers into the pocket of her
white apron a few black hairs she's
discovered on the white pillowcase.
She strips off the pillowcases and
puts them with the sheets. The bed
is now stripped of all coverings
and is left to air. She imagines as
she stands that he is still there,
laid out unclothed, skin all bare.
But in reality she knows he has
gone of to war as he has before.
She hopes he will return alive
and in one piece; no missing
limps or blind or gassed as some
have been she's read; but most of all
she dreads him laid out cold and damp
in some foreign field lying still and dead.
poem by Terry Collett
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Stepping Into Something New This Summer
white sea spreading before me
so silky
tiny ripples of the wind
from a far
bringing some stories
from the other island
some leaves fall from
the pitogo tree
some flowers pink and white
lay on the shore
white sands of silence
and peace
soft whispers of the winds
seeping in my skin
i am barefoot
i am naked down to the waist
i am waiting
for the sun to descend upon the bosom
of the horizon
i am dreaming of palm trees
soft winds
of summer
a door opens in my mind
i get in
stepping into something new this summer
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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I shall not die for thee
FOR thee, I shall not die,
Woman of high fame and name;
Foolish men thou mayest slay
I and they are not the same.
Why should I expire
For the fire of an eye,
Slender waist or swan-like limb,
Is't for them that I should die?
The round breasts, the fresh skin,
Cheeks crimson, hair so long and rich;
Indeed, indeed, I shall not die,
Please God, not I, for any such.
The golden hair, the forehead thin,
The chaste mien, the gracious ease,
The rounded heel, the languid tone,—
Fools alone find death from these.
Thy sharp wit, thy perfect calm,
Thy thin palm like foam o' the sea;
Thy white neck, thy blue eye,
I shall not die for thee.
Woman, graceful as the swan,
A wise man did nurture me.
Little palm, white neck, bright eye,
I shall not die for ye.
poem by Douglas Hyde
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A Satin Sheet and Pleatings
The satin sheets allowed us to use for sails
the billowy white pillow cases
where on your hair splayed
as if blown there by the wind;
I took my long breath amazed
at the sight
while being the oarsman stroking my oar
sailing your body sleek
and you my propeller moving me
we both breathing
both contributing to the gathering water spout;
where thrashing waves explode beneath;
where crests and troughs
meet
where finally all oxygen is inhaled.
Tremendous expirations
blow-an indoor summer breeze-
until there is beneath us
only the glassy, calm sea
on our satin sheets
pleated and unpleated
marking our love-making there.
poem by Lonnie Hicks
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The White-Washed Sea
White bread and white maids,
Marmalade and sugar tarts: stick me
High atop the citrus tree,
Like a paper airplane, paper nose pointing
The way to the white-washed sea:
Pretty dolls and forget-me-nots,
Ivory beavers slapping dams,
Lover-boys in snowy trams making their
Procession to the white-washed sea:
Tourists there, Mickey-Mouse, and fricassee,
Conquistadors jounced on vanilla poles,
Saints and crosses like Spanish scarecrows on
Concrete atolls, bleed anemically towards
The white-washed sea: Hills of windmills are
Picaresque, lovely cherries on her white washed-
Breasts, bones of birds and pica ninnies;
Aunts sing cantos at their nieces nurseries,
Pale and freckled and on their knees,
Girls who’d been roller-skating as if on foam,
Stop and pray to the white-washed sea;
Pick themselves up, adjusting their silky delicates,
Before rolling home, to sit cross-legged smoking
Candied cigarettes and gossiping underneath the
Sky’s crenulated dome, eyes so lost and hopeless,
All fair and so lonely, yet well-perceived,
Searching for some solutions across the white-washed sea.
poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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The Little Girl's Song
Do not mind my crying, Papa, I am not crying for pain.
Do not mind my shaking, Papa, I am not shaking with fear;
Tho' the wild wild wind is bideous to hear,
And I see the snow and the rain.
When will you come back again,
Papa, Papa?
Somebody else that you love, Papa,
Somebody else that you dearly love
Is weary, like me, because you're away.
Sometimes I see her lips tremble and move,
And I seem to know what they're going to say;
And every day, and all the long day,
I long to cry, 'Oh Mamma, Mamma,
When will Papa come back again?'
But before I can say it I see the pain
Creeping up on her white white cheek,
As the sweet sad sunshine creeps up the white wall,
And then I am sorry, and fear to speak;
And slowly the pain goes out of her cheek,
As the sad sweet sunshine goes from the wall.
Oh, I wish I were grown up wise and tall,
That I might throw my arms round her neck
And say, 'Dear Mamma, oh, what is it all
That I see and see and do not see
In your white white face all the livelong day?'
But she hides her grief from a child like me.
When will you come back again,
Papa, Papa?
Where were you going, Papa, Papa?
All this long while have you been on the sea?
When she looks as if she saw far away,
Is she thinking of you, and what does she see?
Are the white sails blowing,
And the blue men rowing,
And are you standing on the high deck
Where we saw you stand till the ship grew gray,
And we watched and watched till the ship was a speck,
And the dark came first to you, far away?
I wish I could see what she can see,
But she hides her grief from a child like me.
When will you come back again,
Papa, Papa?
Don't you remember, Papa, Papa,
How we used to sit by the fire, all three,
And she told me tales while I sat on her knee,
And heard the winter winds roar down the street,
And knock like men at the window pane,
And the louder they roared, oh, it seemed more sweet
To be warm and warm as we used to be,
Sitting at night by the fire, all three?
When will you come back again,
Papa, Papa?
Papa, I like to sit by the fire;
Why does she sit far away in the cold?
If I had but somebody wise and old,
That every day I might cry and say,
'Is she changed, do you think, or do I forget?
Was she always as white as she is to-day?
Did she never carry her head up higher?'
Papa, Papa, if I could but know!
Do you think her voice was always so low?
Did I always see what I seem to see
When I wake up at night and her pillow is wet?
You used to say her hair it was gold-
It looks like silver to me.
But still she tells the same tale that she told,
She sings the same songs when I sit on her knee,
And the house goes on as it went long ago,
When we lived together, all three.
Sometimes my heart seems to sink, Papa,
And I feel as if I could be happy no more.
Is she changed, do you think, Papa,
Or did I dream she was brighter before?
She makes me remember my snowdrop, Papa,
That I forgot in thinking of you,
The sweetest snowdrop that ever I knew!
But I put it out of the sun and the rain:
It was green and white when I put it away,
It had one sweet bell and green leaves four;
It was green and white when I found it that day,
It had one pale bell and green leaves four,
But I was not glad of it any more.
Was it changed, do you think, Papa,
Or did I dream it was brighter before?
Do not mind my crying, Papa,
I am not crying for pain.
Do not mind my shaking, Papa,
I am not shaking for fear;
Tho' the wild wild wind is hideous to hear,
And I see the snow and the rain.
When will you come back again,
Papa, Papa?
poem by Sydney Thompson Dobell
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White Houses
Crashed on the floor when i moved in
This little bungalow with some strange new friends
Stayed up too late, and I'm too thin
We promise each other it's till the end
Now we're spinning empty bottles, it's the fives of us
With pretty-eyed boys girls die to trust
I can't resist the day oh no i can't resist the day
And Jenny screams out and it's no pose
'Cause when she dances she goes and goes
Beer through the nose on an inside joke
And I'm so excited I haven't spoken
And she's so pretty and she's so sure
Maybe I'm more clever than a girl like her
The summer's all in bloom
The summer's ending soon
It's all right
And it's nice not to be so alone
But I hold on to secrets in white houses
Maybe I'm a little bit over my head
I come undone at the things he said
He's so funny in his bright red shirt
we were all in love and we all got hurt
I sneak into his car's cracked leather seat
The smell of gasoline in the summer heat
Boy we're going way too fast
It's all too sweet to last...
It's alright and i put myself in his hands
but i hold on to secrets in White Houses
Love or something ignites in my veins
and i pray it never fades in white houses
My first time
Hard to explain
Rush of blood, oh
And a little bit of pain
On a cloudy day
It's more common than you think
He's my first mistake
Maybe you were all faster than me
We gave each other up so easily
These silly little wounds will never mend
I feel so far from where I've been
So I go and I will not be back here again
I'm gone as the day is fading on white houses
I lie, put my injuries all in the dust
In my heart is the 5 of us in white houses
And you, maybe you'll remember me
What I gave is yours to keep
In white houses
In white houses
In white houses.
song performed by by Vanessa Carlton
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Coming In To Harbour
Well I dreamed I saw you sailing in upon a sleek white schooner
You were slipping over shallow water
You were coming into harbour, you were coming into harbour
With the wind in all your sails
You were carrying a cargo that was richer than riches
More gold than gold and much more real than real
New born babe in your arms and his cool blue eyes gazed up
Yes his cool eyes gazed upon a fresh world, one yet to be made
I was standing on the shoreline looking out over the sea
And I saw your white sail appearing on the horizon
I was standing on the shoreline just looking out over the sea
And I saw your white sail appearing on the horizon
You were coming into harbour, you were coming into harbour
In the bright light, the bright light, longer than the 20th century
song performed by by Waterboys
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Poetic Heart
this poetic heart bleeds,
but you will never see blood,
there is pain, pulsating
and pricking, needles and pins
without the cushion, but there is not
a sense of bother, it is here,
and it is there, and it is everywhere,
the body does not complain
to this routine, of self-genuflection,
this is it, and it is familiar, like
old friends meeting again
with white hair and wrinkled
faces, it is full, and it knows
what emptiness is, it releases
air, it deflates, it becomes too light,
it becomes a blank sheet of
white paper. Words
write themselves. Thoughts land
like doves. It is wide like an
open sea.The winds are cool.
And seagulls begin to fly low.
Catching fishes.
Sea caps and lonely sails.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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