Seele Im Raum
It sat between my husband and my children.
A place was set for it—a plate of greens.
It had been there: I had seen it
But not somehow—but this was like a dream—
Not seen it so that I knew I saw it.
It was as if I could not know I saw it
Because I had never once in all my life
Not seen it. It was an eland.
An eland! That is why the children
Would ask my husband, for a joke, at Christmas:
“Father, is it Donner?” He would say, “No, Blitzen.”
It had been there always. Now we put silver
At its place at meals, fed it the same food
We ourselves ate, and said nothing. Many times
When it breathed heavily (when it had tried
A long useless time to speak) and reached to me
So that I touched it—of a different size
And order of being, like the live hard side
Of a horse’s neck when you pat the horse—
And looked with its great melting tearless eyes
Fringed with a few coarse wire-like lashes
Into my eyes, and whispered to me
So that my eyes turned backward in their sockets
And they said nothing—
many times
I have known, when they said nothing,
That it did not exist. If they had heard
They could not have been silent. And yet they heard;
Heard many times what I have spoken
When it could no longer speak, but only breathe—
When I could no longer speak, but only breathe.
And, after some years, the others came
And took it from me—it was ill, they told me—
And cured it, they wrote me: my whole city
Sent me cards lilac-branches, mourning
As I had mourned—
and I was standing
By a grave in flowers, by dyed rolls of turf,
And a canvas marquee the last brown of earth.
It is over.
It is over so long that I begin to think
That it did not exist, that I have never—
And my son says, one morning, from the paper:
“An eland. Look, an eland!”
—It was so.
Today, in a German dictionary, I saw elend
And the heart in my breast turned over, it was—
It was a word one translates wretched.
It is as if someone remembered saying:
“This is an antimacassar that I grew from seed,”
And this were true.
And, truly,
One could not wish for anything more strange—
For anything more. And yet it wasn’t interesting ...
—It was worse than impossible, it was a joke.
And yet when it was, I was—
Even to think that I once thought
That I could see it to feel the sweat
Like needles at my hair-roots, I am blind
—It was not even a joke, not even a joke.
Yet how can I believe it? Or believe that I
Owned it, a husband, children? Is my voice the voice
Of that skin of being—of what owns, is owned
In honor or dishonor, that is borne and bears—
Or of that raw thing, the being inside it
That has neither a wife, a husband, nor a child
But goes at last as naked from this world
As it was born into it—
And the eland comes and grazes on its grave.
This is senseless?
Shall I make sense or shall I tell the truth?
Choose either—I cannot do both.
I tell myself that. And yet it is not so,
And what I say afterwards will not be so:
To be at all is to be wrong.
Being is being old
And saying, almost comfortably, across a table
From—
from what I don’t know—
in a voice
Rich with a kind of longing satisfaction:
“To own an eland! That’s what I call life!”
poem by Randall Jarrell
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Related quotes
What Mother Told Me
My hands on her bosom
And eyes on the virgin statue
She made me swear
I will lock my thighs until the price has been paid
Once paid for I will open my thighs for my husband
And wriggle my waist even when it hurts
I will bear children until my husband tires
Once born I must never neglect my husband
For the children's sake
Even when their voices break the still night
I will ensure my husband's food is eternally hot
Even when he has sworn enmity with the farm
And abhors the smell of a busy kitchen
I will prepare his bath water even if to wash
The mingled sweat of another from his body
And the spit of a strange woman from his mouth
I will not raise my voice to curse my husband
Even when he flogs me with bamboo
I must swallow my cry and sing when it hurts
On the eve of my daughter's wedlock
I will place her hands on my bosom
And make her look at the virgin statue
And swear to be slave to her husband
As your mother's mothers were to theirs
Today is the day before I make your descendant swear
Today I vomit all the cries I have swallowed
Today I stand naked raising my voice of revocation
Tomorrow my daughter departs home
From the curse of marital slavery
poem by Olalekan Joseph Ajayi
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As a World Would Have It
ALCESTIS
Shall I never make him look at me again?
I look at him, I look my life at him,
I tell him all I know the way to tell,
But there he stays the same.
Shall I never make him speak one word to me?
Shall I never make him say enough to show
My heart if he be glad? Be glad? … ah! God,
Why did they bring me back?
I wonder, if I go to him again,
If I take him by those two cold hands again,
Shall I get one look of him at last, or feel
One sign—or anything?
Or will he still sit there in the same way,
Without an answer for me from his lips,
Or from his eyes,—or even with a touch
Of his hand on my hand?…
“Will you look down this once—look down at me?
Speak once—and if you never speak again,
Tell me enough—tell me enough to make
Me know that you are glad!
“You are my King, and once my King would speak:
You were Admetus once, you loved me once:
Life was a dream of heaven for us once—
And has the dream gone by?
“Do I cling to shadows when I call you Life?
Do you love me still, or are the shadows all?
Or is it I that love you in the grave,
And you that mourn for me?
“If it be that, then do not mourn for me;
Be glad that I have loved you, and be King.
But if it be not that—if it be true …
Tell me if it be true!”
Then with a choking answer the King spoke;
But never touched his hand on hers, or fixed
His eyes on hers, or on the face of her:
“Yes, it is true,” he said.
“You are alive, and you are with me now;
And you are reaching up to me that I—
That I may take you—I that am a King—
I that was once a man."
So then she knew. She might have known before;
Truly, she thought, she must have known it long
Before: she must have known it when she came
From that great sleep of hers.
She knew the truth, but not yet all of it:
He loved her, but he would not let his eyes
Prove that he loved her; and he would not hold
His wife there in his arms.
So, like a slave, she waited at his knees,
And waited. She was not unhappy now.
She quivered, but she knew that he would speak
Again—and he did speak.
And while she felt the tremor of his words,
He told her all there was for him to tell;
And then he turned his face to meet her face,
That she might look at him.
She looked; and all her trust was in that look,
And all her faith was in it, and her love;
And when his answer to that look came back,
It flashed back through his tears.
So then she put her arms around his neck,
And kissed him on his forehead and his lips;
And there she clung, fast in his arms again,
Triumphant, with closed eyes.
At last, half whispering, she spoke once more:
“Why was it that you suffered for so long?
Why could you not believe me—trust in me?
Was I so strange as that?
“We suffer when we do not understand;
And you have suffered—you that love me now—
Because you are a man.… There is one thing
No man can understand.
“I would have given everything?—gone down
To Tartarus—to silence? Was it that?
I would have died? I would have let you live?—
And was it very strange?”
poem by Edwin Arlington Robinson
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Suppose She Cannot Live By Trust
She married him for love alone he seemed a charming man
And she told her friends the World's greatest husband is my Stan
But love is blind or so they say which in her case is so true
And there is more far more to love than saying I love you.
He told her he loved her many times but words not hard to say
And after eight months of marriage he left her for some one new life often is that way
His little son who turned three in early February
He has not met and it would seem he has no desire to see.
With a married man she is having a clandestine affair
The husband of a friend of her's though with her one secret she will not share
That her husband with her is having his quiet bit on the side
By such secrets when they are leaked friendships have been destroyed.
What her ex husband has done to her to her friend she now do
Suppose she cannot live by trust if trust she never knew
Suppose she could find a single man to fulfil her sexual need
But she does not need one without ties for her that to love might lead.
And that to hurt again could lead by love she has been hurt before
And the burned child she dreads the fire she won't go back for more
She plays tennis with her lover's wife but to her she never say
Your husband he made love to me in my bedroom yesterday.
poem by Francis Duggan
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The devil wears high heels
The devil wears high heels
and nobody will be able,
to convince me differently.
As a joke I heard a girl say:
she’s evil,
but there was truth to it.
I saw the colour change in her eyes
and heard her voice rise a pitch or two:
Excuses, excuses get the job done yesterday
were the instructions for today.
Some frickings slipped out
as the day ran on
and I heard an O Christ or two
and I want to misuse you,
was part of the normal speech
as if the basic conditions of employment act
is totally null and void.
To receive two days work an hour
before closing time
that she wants at the end of the day
must be a joke,
but the devil wears high heels
and I saw it
in a pinstripe woman’s suit
trying to do a man’s job
and decency and integrity
was long gone
and every thing turned around
the self, the ego and here and now
and with those that kissed her feet
she was nice and sweet
and with the rest
the devil wears high heels.
poem by Gert Strydom
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A Grieving Widow
From the cemetery in Cameron Street she's a short walk away
And often at her husband's grave for his soul she does pray
An old miner of the black coal two years ago he died
Soon she will go to join him to lay forever by his side.
Her husband in his mid seventies when the Reaper for him came
And without her one true soul mate life for her not the same
They migrated to Wonthaggi in their early twenties in nineteen fifty three
He was her childhood sweetheart back home in Italy.
The saddest time of her life has been the last two years
She still grieves for her husband for him she still shed tears
Even at the mention of his name the tears come to her eyes
The stonger the bond of love is the sadder the goodbyes
Her son and daughter in Wonthaggi to her they live quite near
And stories of her old Homeland her grand kids love to hear
She tells them of the happy times their grand dad and her did know
When they were young in Italy so many years ago.
At her husband's grave in Cameron Street she says a silent prayer
A woman in her mid seventies with a silvery head of hair
And tears are welling in her eyes at her memories of the past
But no one lives forever and nothing ever last.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Booby Prize Or A Fine Romance? 2
Yesterday I wrote a joke poem,
Booby Prize Or A Fine Romance,
it told the story of how I met my wife,
all those years ago.
Yes, it was at her first husband’s funeral,
and yes a group of us
met a couple weeks later in a coffee bar,
but no it was not the drawing of a straw,
it was that I volunteered,
which I guess was lucky for me,
because on the 12th of September this year
we celebrate our 37th Wedding Anniversary.
Her first husband was a friend,
but he was a womaniser.
He met his dead in a suicide pact
with a fourteen-year-old girl.
He left a wife and two small children,
without a thought or care,
a month before Christmas that year.
Some said I was brave
to take on a ready-made family.
I do not think I was brave,
but very lucky that day.
We have had our ups and downs
like all families do,
but I would not change a bit of it.
The greatest gifts I received that day,
was a family for a lonely life,
and tolerance through trouble and strife.
Therefore, it is with thanks to them,
I am the man I am today.
poem by David Harris
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Berwick's Fairest
The fairest one in Berwick when she was in her prime
But that was fifteen years ago and that's going back in time
She may be only forty but she has put on weight
And the one who once had many suitors goes un-noticed of late.
Her primary school going sons of ten and eleven she raises them on her own
And she works hard for to make ends meet and better times she's known
Three years back her husband left her for another and child support to her doesn't pay
And for her children and her own survival she must battle all the way.
Ever since her husband left her she's left her body go into disrepair
And of how she looks to others she seem to no longer care
She has put on twenty kilos and much gray in her brown hair
And for one only in her mid life she is showing much wear and tear.
That she was Berwick's fairest might seem hard to realize
For if you had known her in her prime day her you may not recognize
And for one who looked quite attractive up to a decade ago
She has aged so very quickly and the hard life on her show
poem by Francis Duggan
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My husband
You're my husband
What I'll never meet
You're my husband
What I'll neve see close to me
You're my husband
With whom I'll never speak
The nicest words for you
Will never be heard
My tender caress
Will never be felt
My love to You will shine in dark
And no one will feel it
'Cause I want to give it
Only for you, my honey
You'll never call me your baby
No one tender word for me
I'll never read from your lips
Could You tell me
Why is it so?
poem by Linda Sonrisa
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Somewhere In the Beyond
I'm not going to be anyone's part-time anything!
Today folks are nutts.
They've allowed their children to be disrespectful and cuss.
Demand attention with their ignorance.
And I'm expected to condone this?
Pretend it does not exist?
As I'm being set up for someone's romantic tryst?
And I'm told one is going to bring her husband...
While the other wants her lover to film all of this?
And if I want...
I will get paid on the side?
'Dear Father can You hear me?
I know this is a joke!
And You are somewhere in the 'beyond'...
Cracking up and splitting your sides!
But if You can see my face, Dear Wonderful One...
Not a smile do I make or can fake! '
Excuse me...
You want me to do what?
I only act nutts.
But I do not need a date,
With those who truly are!
And besides...
I am WELL into my...30's!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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A Husband...
A husband should be
Loyal and honest
A husband should be
Strong and protective
A husband should be
Loving and romantic
A husband should be
Patient and understanding
A husband should know
When enough is enough
A husband should know
When to fight and when to cry
A husband should know
all your goals and dreams
A husband should know
your strengths and well as your weaknesses
A husband needs to be a true man
A husband needs to love you unconditionally
A husband needs to know your heart is forever his
poem by Sarah Holmes
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A Tribute to Our Beloved Mom, ‘STELLA’
(On The Occasion of her Sad Demise …)
Our mom is not alive anymore, oh!
She’s gone to be with God forever, so;
She had a sudden exit from the earth;
Nevertheless, it was a peaceful, death.
Last time I met her, she looked quite healthy;
She was already aged more than ninety;
Her talk and attitude had us impressed;
But in her heart of hearts, she was distressed.
She’d thought, her time had come to say ‘Good-bye’;
She lived as if she was ready to die;
She had prepared for this for quite a while;
She lived in fear of God but fearless style.
Her life was exemplary from the start;
She loved to live but knew she must depart;
She lived a simple life through sheer God’s will;
She kept her cool and wasn’t seriously ill.
We thank Thee God for taking her away!
We thank Thee for keeping her till this day;
To us, she looked so great, almost a Fay;
Her love, we children can never repay!
She looked after herself until the last;
She knew the present, future and the past;
She lived in high spirits, never downcast;
She walked and wrote and spoke so very fast.
We wondered if she was a living saint!
She was a workaholic all her life;
She was so smart in everything she did;
She kept her sanity until the end.
All children loved her very much by heart;
A tower of strength and good advice, she stayed;
She kept so calm in face of trying times;
She prayed the Holy rosary always!
She was the link to all our relatives;
She was beloved in all family circles;
She worked from dawn till dusk, until mid-night;
She was up in the morning ’fore the rest.
Oh, what a fine mother and wife, she was!
Oh, what a nice grand-mother, sibling too!
She was some kind of living library;
She consoled anyone who sought her aid.
Her will-power surprised us very much;
Her words of kindness had a magic touch;
She spoke effortlessly and heard our woes;
She loved all friends, strangers and even foes!
We feel so happy; yet, we want to cry!
We feel so sad but ecstatic as well;
We know our mother no more lives with us;
The loss is irreparable and true!
She left the world on Tuesday, St.Antony’s day!
That was the name of dad, her husband too;
She was so brave until the very last;
Today the earth’s star ‘Stella’ is heavened!
She was a lamp so bright atop life’s hill;
She lived by Word of God and by God’s will;
She served as example to all around;
Her life was founded upon holy ground!
She loved to serve the Almighty always;
She loved her children, husband, all her days;
Her love for God was firm and steadfast too;
For sake of God, her duties, she would do!
She’ll guide her children from her newer place;
In death, she wore a holy, smiling face;
She’s now a blessing for the human race;
Amongst women, she showed she was an ‘ace’!
Fondly dedicated to (late) Mrs. Stella Antoniswamy, CBE
By all her children, grand-children and their spouses
Copyright by Dr John Celes 27-04-2010
poem by John Celes
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Military wives- The silent ranks
I wear no uniforms no blue or army greens I am in the military ranks rarely seen I have no rank upon my shoulders salutes i do not give the military world is the place i live I'm not in the chain of command orders i do not get my husband is the one who does this i cannot forget I'm not the one who fires the weapon who put my life on the line though my job is just as tough I'm the one that's left behind my husband is a patriot a brave prideful man and the call to serve his country not all can understand behind the lines i see the thing needed to keep this country free my husband make the sacrifice but so do our children and i I love the man i married soldiering is his life I stand in the silent ranks know as the military wives
poem by Charity Howard
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Learning from Her Painful
There is a widow
She is very old
She lives in a hut
with her third - sick son
Her skin and her old eyes
can not hide her painful heart
But she try to smile and
she try to make her face
look very fresh
She has a dream
A commonly dream
After Her husband passed away
for many years ago
She wants to make her children
Three gentleman and one girl
get a good education and
get a good job
But the happy moment
seems so far away go from her
She find her children with unhappy situation
Her eyes look sad
She is my mom
I feel guilty to find her become like this
But, i also a helpless woman
who needs to help a sick husband
Mom, i am sorry to make you feel this
Just pray for us, your children
So in your old days
we can make you smile again
Lord, please hear her pray
Happy To Live On Her Own
For twenty years married to a horrible man
In human years that does seem quite a long span
Her son and her daughter eighteen and nineteen
One might say that her better days she has seen.
A woman who does know about male abuse
Her husband when drunk often beat her though that's not an excuse
For such criminal behaviour to his beautiful wife
Some women with men have a terrible life.
He was not a good husband and a rotten dad
Herself and their children he did treat so bad
That he has left her for another she does feel quite glad
Though for his new woman she feels a bit sad.
She knows all about the anger of a man
And to marry again it is not in her plan
Some hard times in life one can say she has known
And now she is happy to live on her own.
poem by Francis Duggan
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My Husband
It is true:
My husband
has never
taken out
the garbage
from our little house
in the suburbs.
My husband
has never
taken our children
out for the night
to trick-or-treating
as I sit
on the porch in a witch hat.
My husband
has never
come home from
a long day
to a special meal
I have prepared
just for him.
My husband
has never
told me he loves me
beside a warm fire
on our honeymoon.
But he will.
poem by Erica Francis
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O Children!
O Children why do you make mockery of the old?
What gives you that audaciousness to be bold?
Hasn’t anyone spoken, have you not been told?
Your time for maturing, you cannot put on hold
Silent children, speak quietly
Silent children, speak gently
Address me not rudely
I speak to you all fondly
I see you all; I have been there before
Like a thief I want to creep
Back on the other side of age’s door
Today I weep, I weep and I weep
O Eternal youth thou cannot keep!
O Children, Children, Why the innocence?
With a deceptive facial display that is intense
I see through you all, I see the entire pretence
You say you are sorry, it’s a lie, I can sense
O Children why do you seek to grow so fast?
Your flowering youth is not meant to last
Before long it will wrinkle away into the past
Soon you shall become a mere outcast
In the land of youth and that is the truth
poem by Sylvia Chidi
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A Fathers Torment
We hide in the shadows in obscurity
We are the fathers of the children that you see
Women are the life line, that we all know.
Since the beginning of conception and
Throughout our lives, we have to thank them
For becoming our mothers and our wives.
Men plant the seed, but on the woman’s
tube the children do feed.
Without the female there is no life
So as men we have to think twice.
At times though, we feel empty and forgotten
For all that we do in a child’s life.
When we play games with them, teach them
And give them moral support
It is something that is given, not something that is bought.
We will go back into the shadows when our hearts
Are about to burst, and this is what makes the pain so much worse.
They say that a man is not supposed to cry
But you and I know that’s an old fashioned lie.
We bleed, we cry, we feel heartache too
We are human, this is what we do.
Any man can be a father, but every man can not be a dad.
And I look upon that, and it makes me very sad.
This child has our blood and we helped to give it life
But there is no credit given to the husband, ” just the wife“.
We may be just the father, but we share in their lives too.
All we ask is recognition of the things that we do.
I recall at your birth, when I walked into the delivery room
Your eyes called me, like a mystical, magical tune.
Your eyes searched me out like a rooster for the rising sun
And looking in your eyes, I knew you was the one.
This is a fathers torment that I guess we all go through.
But without your love and dependence, what am I going to do.
I love you more than you’ll ever know
Look in my eyes, and there it will show.
And to your mother she must know:
The key number in this world is TWO, without me there is no you.
poem by Louis Rams
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A Holiday
The Wife
The house is like a garden,
The children are the flowers,
The gardener should come methinks
And walk among his bowers,
Oh! lock the door on worry
And shut your cares away,
Not time of year, but love and cheer,
Will make a holiday.
The Husband
Impossible! You women do not know
The toil it takes to make a business grow.
I cannot join you until very late,
So hurry home, nor let the dinner wait.
The Wife
The feast will be like Hamlet
Without a Hamlet part:
The home is but a house, dear,
Till you supply the heart.
The Xmas gift I long for
You need not toil to buy;
Oh! give me back one thing I lack –
The love-light in your eye.
The Husband
Of course I love you, and the children too.
Be sensible, my dear, it is for you
I work so hard to make my business pay.
There, now, run home, enjoy your holiday.
The Wife (turning)
He does not mean to wound me,
I know his heart is kind.
Alas! that man can love us
And be so blind, so blind.
A little time for pleasure,
A little time for play;
A word to prove the life of love
And frighten care away!
Tho’ poor my lot in some small cot
That were a holiday.
The Husband (musing)
She has not meant to wound me, nor to vex –
Zounds! but ‘tis difficult to please the sex.
I’ve housed and gowned her like a very queen
Yet there she goes, with discontented mien.
I gave her diamonds only yesterday:
Some women are like that, do what you may.
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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Bottled Up Horny Christian
3
times
in
4
years &
1 of those times brought on the little boy whom she spends most of her time taking care of these days
(that is, after all, the reason her man married her-for her child rearing capability)
and she thinks this second sexless marriage
brings with it the security that the first marriage did not
(first guy & her went at it like bunnies until he started finding other bunnies as well) -
the making of constant whoopee that came with the first guy
is secretly missed,
even if she wasn't the only one that had been tickling his pickle-
still, it is hard to ignore the long stretches of time that her "faithful" husband is gone
with his phone turned off,
or just left on the kitchen table, as if he had been out of the house in an awful rush &
when the baby is asleep &
she's masturbating alone
(well, she still has "jesus, " right? -that strapping young fictional character) ,
she wonders just what she did
for "god" to condemn her in such a way,
as certainly this choice was hers alone,
but everyone that raised her told her that if she followed the ways of the bible,
that if she didn't cheat on her husband &
that if she was a good wife,
then things would be ok for her-that "god" would provide-
but would "god" provide her orgasms?
she knows that if she even so much as asks where her husband has been
that said good christian man will make her wish that she hadn't &
that is why she doesn't-
instead, she just moans alone by the grace of "god, " until she gets off &
then feels guilty about having had any pleasure at all-
she knows that when the next time rolls around that the family goes to church,
that she will look good playing the roll of the dutiful wife,
wound tight in her gingham dress & smiling at her husband
who is smiling at some other church whore-
all the time pent up & about to explode from such relentless sexual
craving, wondering if she'll ever have sex again,
telling her close friends that she doesn't even think about it much,
that her hands are full with the baby-
putting on the best show of her life, daily,
she obviously missed her true calling in life-
she would've made a great actress.
poem by Andrew Delapruch
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Pretty woman
Pretty woman.
But wife is beautiful.
Pretty woman is hot.
But wife is the sexiest.
Pretty woman is just for sex.
But a wife is to make love.
Wife is a forbidden fruit.
To you and all.
and wife is more caring.
Be at home and by her husband.
and wife is the husband diamond.
And the husband love making love to her.
That no other women can.
Make him feel so good.
and her husband always in love.
With her.
And wife is the husband success.
Loving and warm full happiness.
She bears our children. And
She is the most gifted darling.
poem by See Fee Lee
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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