Poetics 9...
beyond this house
where we live
more or less
ten meters away
lies my neighbor's house
painted white
with a blue roof
and magenta windows
some walls are made
of glass
honesty there is peace
among us
who are still on unspeakable
terms
on good fences
higher than ever
we have become
perfect neighbors
there is independence
when fire breaks
we are ready with our own
pails already
filled with stinking water
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Shattered windows, Colors of white
Across the street is a new house with a room painted red, with no holes of white.
Next to me, a house purple, with its color pealing off, with holes of black and white
At the end of the street, an old house once yellow, what now remains white.
The sound of a hammer building a house, entering a place with a color unknown.
On the street,
Windows covered with ice
Some shine with light.
Some broken
Some fixed
Some lost, out of sight.
A house, two blocks from here.
Shines with lights of yellow, red, and green everywhere.
A wall keeping the wind from blowing anywhere.
The house next door, at the dawn of the day.
Paints its room black, and peals the color away.
The wall crumbles.
The wind blows across the colors of yellow, red and green
Breaks all the windows.
Turns the yellow to blue, red to black, and green to white.
The house two blocks away.
Adds a line of yellow red and green everyday.
To allow the house of blue, black and white to shine for us some day.
poem by Linda ErikssonBique
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Into White
I built my house from barley rice
Green pepper walls and water ice
Tables of paper wood, windows of light
And everything emptying into white.
A simple garden, with acres of sky
A brown-haired dogmouse
If one dropped by
Yellow delanie would sleep well at night
With everything emptying into white.
A sad blue eyed drummer rehearses outside
A black spider dancing on top of his eye
Red legged chicken stands ready to strike
And everything emptying into white.
I built my house from barley rice
Green pepper walls and water ice...
And everything emptying into white
song performed by by Cat Stevens
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Exile House
EXILE HOUSE
Our tiled roof dripped
and the four walls threatened to fall apart
but we were to go home soon,
We grew papayas
in front of our house
chillies in our garden
and changmas for our fences,
then pumpkins rolled down the cowshed thatch
calves trotted out of the manger,
grass on the roof,
beans sprouted and
climbed the vines,
money plants crept in through the window,
our house seems to have grown roots.
The fences have grown into a jungle,
now how can I tell my children
where we came from?
Changmas – a tree usually planted for fences; flexible and flourishing
poem by Tenzin Tsundue
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House of fire (Lyrics)
House of fire
House of fire, yeah
Let's build a house of fire, baby
Not one of wood or stone
Walk thru my door of desire, baby
Come on in and make it your home
Don't need a window to watch you, baby
Don't need no roof overhead
Don't need no key to unlock ya, baby
I'll use my lovin'instead
I won't tire
Take me higher
Building a house of fire, baby
Buildin'it with our love
We are buildin'a house of fire every time we touch
House of fire
House of fire
We ain't gotta pay rent now, baby
No landlord to throw us out
I want to play in your garden, baby
When you want it give me a shout
I won't tire
Take me higher
Building a house of fire, baby
Buildin'it with our love
We are building a house of fire every time we touch
We are building this house together, baby
Standing on solid ground
We are building a house of fire
That you can't tear down
Brick by brick the flames get higher
Build it strong with our desire
Building a house of fire, baby
Building it with our love
We are building a house of fire every time we touch
We are building this house together, baby
Standing on solid ground
We are building a house of fire
That you can't tear down
Building a house of fire, baby
Building it with our love
We are building a house of fire every time we touch
poem by Satan's Sibling
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A letter which never sended
Last night I was a dream
About your house
Were the roof leaks everywhere
A green-painted house dull
I walk to the room
To the kitchen
To the front
The water to flood (inundate) on the floor
The water rose higher and higher
Flow to the visiting room
I walk to bend (bow, stop) and to walk on tiptoe,
I walk on tiptoe to avoid The water flood
Everywhere, from the front to backyard
I walk on zig-zag
Head made a low bow
To avoid the bird excrement
Much of bird cage hanged
On the roof
when the water to flood (inundate) increasing highest
to their food’ knee, -you still cook in the kichen
in the bend of the dull wall and moss-covered/mildewed
The water flood increasing and increasing on the foots
to the broken chairs
to wet, dampen the books which to scatter, spread everywhere
I could stop to find your mother anymore
she likes to codle me (to observe by holding in the hand)
when I was child: “She said, I just could walk
run around the kitchen, along the corridor
and riding the pedicab cycle
near the thing being dired/the wash
while playing the little car.”
To day i find your mother
In the overcast house
A green-painted house dull
Dull painted
Dark and overcast
The water to flood (inundate) on the floor
Everywhere
Just I found your mother walking stick
And her articial foot
poem by Prasetya Utama
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Whatev’r Did I Get in Return?
I climbed the roof, replacing broken tiles
And many times I’d slipped;
I went to stores by walking many miles,
But I couldn’t be tight-lipped.
I dug the water channels for the trees,
And swept the ground so clean;
I prayed to God to maintain our home’s peace,
So cruel life had been!
I climbed the trees and plucked mangos, drum-sticks;
And put the fences up;
I paved the floors and built the walls with bricks
Life gave a bitter cup!
I washed the clothes, pots, pans and cleaned cob-webs,
And performed house-hold chores;
But never could prevent the way life ebbs,
I painted windows, doors.
So many things I’d done in my childhood
Whatev’r did I get in return?
And now I slog for my family’s good,
I continue to learn.
But this is how we spend our wretched life,
On earth since we’ve been born;
Alone we must be in joy, grief and strife,
Our earthly life’s forlorn.
And yet, our childhood life was good,
Despite all heavy odds;
And cooking was by fire-wood,
We got both love and rods.
And yet I loved the yesterday,
God showed me my own way;
And how I hate each new birthday,
Live, we must, come what may.
Copyright by Dr John Celes 22-1-2007
poem by John Celes
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The Old House Of My Grandfather
sometimes as i walk early morning
when the suns starts to climb up on the hill
i think of grandfather's house
old, and spacious on top of a hill
overlooking his farm where his carabaos graze
his goat and cows and ducks teem,
oh, those were the years of bounty
and there was no worry,
about what to eat what to do
where to go,
times changed, and now we are always on a race
taking much work, and buying lots of things
sometimes we regret, taking and throwing
going and then returning
apparently, for no purpose and without meaning,
we live in a new house now with glass windows
and iron grill and high and thick walls and fences
we speak less, we move more,
we laugh less, we discuss more,
the old house of grandfather was burned in 1968.
this new house burns all day, and there is no fireman coming.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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If your roof is made of glass, don't throw stones at your neighbor's house.
From The Terrace
White house
brown roof
windows with outsretched arms
speak to my eyes
urging acceptance
Walls lift roof to gray sky
breeze flowing through the columns
floor, not for walking
but for ascending
request my steps
to be uplifted
Arches curve upwards
and downwards
dancing like the waves
invite me to join
all is in place
all agog with excitement
My soul flutters
knees buckle
and answer no
to House built with greed
not sweat of labour
Here I stay
on the terrace
watching house
not Home
blocks and roof
not sweat and contentment
poem by Mark Nwagwu
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Westernized Neighbors
the house has a garden
at the center is the fountain
beside the walls
are birdhouses
she loves to accommodate and
feed them
the house has two parts
and there is a steeple chase
and a tower
which he painted white
at the top is the cross
symbolic of their religion
there are only two of them in this house
which they built using
their retirement funds
at night all the lights are on
any robber can have doubts
since there is a dog beside the gate
made of steel
they are so enclosed
and no one gets in
the neighbors say, (and i do not
like saying this either)
they have become
westernized which if translated simply means
(no racism intended)
selfishness, arrogance and
'it is none of their business! ! '
which means that
they are no longer part of the whole
estranged from their own color
their very own
roots, their village.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Astonishing Forest
Where the house filled with living
The house continuously giving
Where the house filled with nature
The house filled with adventure
Anything can survive
With the nature it provides
Where the house filled with grass
The house filled with hedges, bushes and plants
Canopy trees be it rain or shine
Will be there for you at any time
Where the green house filled with fresh air
Will shelter you in the heavy rain
O the house of beauty
O the house of sound
So much variety is yet to be found
poem by Sehar Zaman
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Doll's House
The music comes on with the lights,
the little opera of emptiness begins, the little
dance of no one there —
just the rooms exhibited,
furniture in them like ideas,
a stage set waiting for action out of the blue.
But no,
even the fire in the hearth is neon, warms no one,
the drawers in the painted chests,
are filled with nothing,
the tables loaded with miniature, fake, repasts.
It’s night outside, about to snow, the dollhouse lights are on:
you’re in the dark,
watching the dollhouse like a thief,
pilfering its pockets for a clue to your own life,
wafted over by smells of cooking, and silence.
Inside the dark
a flute starts to play, imaginary people come in at the door:
invited to stay, they take off their coats,
tea is made in a miniature pot — oh,
it’s good I hear you say, let’s have crumpets too, and we put them on,
you and I, they’re almost crumbs but we toast them,
and what kind of jam do you want, I say, on top of the butter,
and you say raspberry,
and I give it to you, reader,
I give it to you and we both eat.
Outside the big house it’s snowing.
Applied frost creeps up the sides of the doll house windows,
the fake fireplace glows electric,
our toy dog sleeps on the rug —
a hush falls over this small house inside the big house,
we sleep in it…
I sleep, you sleep, he sleeps, she sleeps…
it sleeps, the real,
a sleep so delicious, we can dream in it,
as in a delirium, without sound…
windows opening into windows,
shoes never walked in at the door
that we slip on.
poem by Ioanna Carlsen
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A House
rusty galvanized iron
as roof
barely a third of the space
mixed with the
nipa shillings
this is the house
by the side of the sea
with bamboo slats
as walls
the sea is not calm today
the bamboo fences are shaky
to the strong wind
i am inside a house of glass
i see all these
but i hear nothing
leaves of the jackfruit are blown
to the other side of the
fenced area
beyond this frame of mind
i cannot say anything
i am caged.
Our vision is caged.
We do not see
the whole picture
and people think that
we are wrong
that we are blind.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Who Understands Me But Me
They turn the water off, so I live without water,
they build walls higher, so I live without treetops,
they paint the windows black, so I live without sunshine,
they lock my cage, so I live without going anywhere,
they take each last tear I have, I live without tears,
they take my heart and rip it open, I live without heart,
they take my life and crush it, so I live without a future,
they say I am beastly and fiendish, so I have no friends,
they stop up each hope, so I have no passage out of hell,
they give me pain, so I live with pain,
they give me hate, so I live with my hate,
they have changed me, and I am not the same man,
they give me no shower, so I live with my smell,
they separate me from my brothers, so I live without brothers,
who understands me when I say this is beautiful?
who understands me when I say I have found other freedoms?
I cannot fly or make something appear in my hand,
I cannot make the heavens open or the earth tremble,
I can live with myself, and I am amazed at myself, my love, my beauty,
I am taken by my failures, astounded by my fears,
I am stubborn and childish,
in the midst of this wreckage of life they incurred,
I practice being myself,
and I have found parts of myself never dreamed of by me,
they were goaded out from under rocks in my heart
when the walls were built higher,
when the water was turned off and the windows painted black.
I followed these signs
like an old tracker and followed the tracks deep into myself
followed the blood-spotted path,
deeper into dangerous regions, and found so many parts of myself,
who taught me water is not everything,
and gave me new eyes to see through walls,
and when they spoke, sunlight came out of their mouths,
and I was laughing at me with them,
we laughed like children and made pacts to always be loyal,
who understands me when I say this is beautiful?
poem by Jimmy Santiago Baca
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Expectedly
houses are strong
and well insulated
in your
hinterland
but mine is on top
of the hill
kissed by the sun
it is open to the
air
they come and go
and come again
this is the house without
doors and stairs
a house deprived of
windows
and peeping holes
and cracks and
slits
this is the house of the
sun
the earth loves it
its body attached
to the grass
it has no pillars
but trees
no roof but clouds
no walls but spaces
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Wake Up The House
I seem to walk on ice
Some things make me think twice
When I get that resistance
Like having freedom with my hands tied
Ive censored whats inside way too long
I cant live so black and white
Somebody listen
Somebody say whats on your mind
Ive got the wheels of the reckless
Im gonna scream on the edges
Wake up the house start the clock work
Turn on the lights anybody home
Break all the glass on my windows
Wake up the house so Im not alone
Disturb this neighborhood
Maybe itll do some good
You know what Im missing
When everybodys asleep at night
Somebodys got to tlak
Might as well be my job yeah
Maybe somebodys listening
You know Ive censored this heart too long
Ive got the wheels of the restless
Im gonna scream on the edges
Wake up the house start the clock work
Turn on all the lights anybody home
Break all the glass on my windows
Wake up the house so Im not alone
I cant live so black and white
You know what Im missing
Somethings making me think twice
Is anybody listening
Repeat chorus
song performed by by Vonda Shepard
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Here In My House
Here in my house.
My dreams are filled in the here and now.
Here in my house.
Things seem so estranged.
Life's closer to being changed.
Where I live there is a numbness.
There's an emptiness waiting to be undone.
Here in my house.
I need peace and solitude.
I want the happy interlude.
Where's the happiness?
Why the sappiness?
Here in my house.
I want a lover to feed me.
Come and take me to bed.
Save my room for my heart to be filled.
Here in my house.
Outside, life torments and plays with the wind.
You get caught up in the bum rush.
When love comes, it hurts too much.
You don't want to let go.
Here in my house.
Let's sweep away our cares.
Find a place to get our anger out.
Constructively, with every whimp of passion.
Love rules out your heart.
That what love does.
Here in my house.
You want it too much.
Here in my house.
poem by Raven Brent
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A House called Lonely (A Trilogy in three parts)
There is a street in every town that owns a house
called lonely. Then when your just passing by you might
just say, 'if only.
If only could mean a life time of thoughts but it does'nt cure
a lonely house and all its faults.
Boarded up windows and tiles gone from the roof, graffiti
painted by a rebelious youth.
Such a lonely house and an oh such a tired one,
one that has lost all it's fun.
Stairs and rafters all gone to pot all that is left
is wood worm and dry rot.
No children playing in the garden, it's just a house condemend
by the council without no pardon. Poor lonely house someones
forgotton dream, now describing lifes social scene.
This lonely house stands in the way because their building
a By Pass or a new motorway.
The house called lonely could be any where, in the town, the
country or city square.
Even in your street there's a house called lonely just waiting
for you to say 'if only'
poem by Sylvia Spencer
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Little House Made Out Of Logs
I was raised in a little house
Made out of logs
Had a dirt chimney
Made from moss
Cut out windows
No glass at all
Little house
Made out of logs
Never swept any floor
Made out of dirt
You don't see any more
Kerosene lamps
Water from the spring
Makes me thirsty again
Raised on potatoes and cornbread
Wood stove was all we had
Never thought much about the holidays
Just a season for another time and place
Can't forget how I was raised
Makes you learn to appreciate
I could do the same in time
Little log house
On my mind
poem by Monette Paul
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It was a small white house
It was a small white house
near to a hillock
with a red painted plate roof
and it felt somehow
as if I had been there before.
The red steps onto the polished porch
shone as if it had just been polished
but there was something
in that glowing sheen
reminding me of a day in childhood gone
when I was cornered on that veranda
and cold water from a hosepipe
splashed all over me
from where my smaller brother
was spraying me
and I didn’t want to go into the house,
much too scared that he would follow me.
poem by Gert Strydom
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