Ghosts of a Lunatic Asylum
Here, where men's eyes were empty and as bright
As the blank windows set in glaring brick,
When the wind strengthens from the sea -- and night
Drops like a fog and makes the breath come thick;
By the deserted paths, the vacant halls,
One may see figures, twisted shades and lean,
Like the mad shapes that crawl an Indian screen,
Or paunchy smears you find on prison walls.
Turn the knob gently! There's the Thumbless Man,
Still weaving glass and silk into a dream,
Although the wall shows through him -- and the Khan
Journeys Cathay beside a paper stream.
A Rabbit Woman chitters by the door --
-- Chilly the grave-smell comes from the turned sod --
Come -- lift the curtain -- and be cold before
The silence of the eight men who were God!
poem by Stephen Vincent Benet
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Related quotes
Ghosts Of A Lunatic Asylum
Here, where men's eyes were empty and as bright
As the blank windows set in glaring brick,
When the wind strengthens from the sea - and night
Drops like a fog and makes the breath come thick;
By the deserted paths, the vacant halls,
One may see figures, twisted shades and lean,
Like the mad shapes that crawl an Indian screen,
Or paunchy smears you find on prison walls.
Turn the knob gently! There's the Thumbless Man,
Still weaving glass and silk into a dream,
Although the wall shows through him - and the Khan
Journeys Cathay beside a paper stream.
A Rabbit Woman chitters by the door -
- Chilly the grave-smell comes from the turned sod -
Come - lift the curtain - and be cold before
The silence of the eight men who were God!
poem by Stephen Vincent Benet
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Walls
Walls of stone and walls of brick,
Some walls thin and some walls thick,
Walls so high and walls so low,
Walls to hide and walls to show.
Walls quite short and walls quite tall,
Some walls, last well, some walls fall,
Walls for comfort, walls of hate,
Walls for security, walls ornate.
Some as a barricade, some to support,
Walls of wood and walls of iron wrought,
Walls as a barrier, walls to enclose,
Some are to sit on, some to lean and doze.
Walls we build ourselves, these aren't good,
Walls for privacy, walls that have stood,
So many years through weather foul or fine,
Walls, that are yours, walls that are mine.
Brick by brick they are built to last,
Whether built now or in the past,
They shelter us from so many things,
And shield us from whatever this life brings.
poem by Ernestine Northover
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Echo
Come to me in the silence of the night;
Come in the speaking silence of a dream;
Come with soft rounded cheeks and eyes as bright
As sunlight on a stream;
Come back in tears,
O memory, hope, love of finished years.
O dream, how sweet, too sweet, too bitter sweet,
Whose wakening should have been in Paradise,
Where souls brimfull of love abide and meet;
Where thirsting longing eyes
Watch the slow door
That opening, letting in, lets out no more.
Yet come to me in dreams, that I may live
My very life again though cold in death:
Come back to me in dreams, that I may give
Pulse for pulse, breath for breath:
Speak low, lean low
As long ago, my love, how long ago.
poem by Christina Georgina Rossetti (1893)
Submitted by anonym
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Cat is Also a Chick (nonsense poem)
Who is knocking at the door?
Can't you see I'm not at home?
Only yesterday you come
We shall eat for breakfast rum.
Glass is crawling on the wall,
It is wooden like a brick.
Let it crawl, let it fall!
Cat is also a chick.
Brick is crawling on the wall.
It is hairy like a tram.
Let it crawl, let it fly!
We don't need that reddish tie.
Now a camel is on the wall.
All its knees with tar it washed.
And a horse, being lovely squashed,
Eats the sun seeds on a ball.
©Larisa Rzhepishevska
The 12th of March,2012
poem by Larisa Rzhepishevska
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Random Nonsense
Who is knocking at the door?
Can't you see I'm not at home?
Only yesterday you come
We shall eat for breakfast rum.
Glass is crawling on the wall,
It is wooden like a brick.
Let it crawl, let it fall!
Fly is also a chick.
Brick is crawling on the wall.
It is hairy like a tram.
Let it crawl, let it fly!
We don't need that reddish tie.
Now a camel is on the wall.
All its knees with tar it washed.
And a horse, being lovely squashed,
Eats the sun seeds on a ball.
©Larisa Rzhepishevska
The 12th of March,2012
poem by Larisa Rzhepishevska
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Walls Of Red Wing
Oh, the age of the inmates
I remember quite freely:
No younger than twelve,
No older n seventeen.
Thrown in like bandits
And cast off like criminals,
Inside the walls,
The walls of red wing.
From the dirty old mess hall
You march to the brick wall,
Too weary to talk
And too tired to sing.
Oh, its all afternoon
You remember your home town,
Inside the walls,
The walls of red wing.
Oh, the gates are cast iron
And the walls are barbed wire.
Stay far from the fence
With the lectricity sting.
And its keep down your head
And stay in your number,
Inside the walls,
The walls of red wing.
Oh, its fare thee well
To the deep hollow dungeon,
Farewell to the boardwalk
That takes you to the screen.
And farewell to the minutes
They threaten you with it,
Inside the walls,
The walls of red wing.
Its many a guard
That stands around smilin,
Holdin his club
Like he was a king.
Hopin to get you
Behind a wood pilin,
Inside the walls,
The walls of red wing.
The night aimed shadows
Through the crossbar windows,
And the wind punched hard
To make the wall-siding sing.
Its many a night I pretended to be a-sleepin,
Inside the walls,
The walls of red wing.
As the rain rattled heavy
On the bunk-house shingles,
And the sounds in the night,
They made my ears ring.
til the keys of the guards
Clicked the tune of the morning,
Inside the walls,
The walls of red wing.
Oh, some of usll end up
In st. cloud prison,
And some of usll wind up
To be lawyers and things,
And some of usll stand up
To meet you on your crossroads,
From inside the walls,
The walls of red wing.
song performed by by Bob Dylan
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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There Is Nothing To Write
WELL, FACE THE BLANK WALL
STARE TO THIS BLANK WALL
THERE IS NOTHING TO THIS BLANK WALL
IT IS BLANK
IT IS EMPTY
IT IS A HINDRANCE TO WHAT I WANT TO SEE
IT IS AN OBSTRUCTION
TO WHAT I WANT TO BECOME
THIS WALL
THIS WALL IS MY JAIL
MY PRISON
MY BLINDNESS
THIS WALL MUST BE TORN
THIS WALL MUST BE BOMBED
THIS BLOCK
THIS WEARINESS OF THE HEART
THIS TIREDNESS OF THE SOUL
THIS MALADY OF BEING NOTHING
THIS HAVING NOTHING AT ALL
THERE IS NOTHING TO WRITE
THERE IS NOTHING
THERE IS
now i will write about something
from above
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The lonesome walls
The lonesome walls
~
It shows me no mercy
No care or thought given
Just the empty walls about me
And the silence which fills them
All thoughts are a dream
A prelude to some fantasy
That may never come to pass
How alone I feel this night
My heart beats heavy
Although there is no care
I have seen from this world
Just the lonely, the empty nights
And passions burn to excite
Each fanciful dream
In the quiet and empty hour
There is no mercy shown
No care or thought given
Just the empty wall about me
poem by Matthew Holloway
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The House Of Dust: Part 01: 07: Midnight; bells toll, and along the cloud-high towers
Midnight; bells toll, and along the cloud-high towers
The golden lights go out . . .
The yellow windows darken, the shades are drawn,
In thousands of rooms we sleep, we await the dawn,
We lie face down, we dream,
We cry aloud with terror, half rise, or seem
To stare at the ceiling or walls . . .
Midnight . . . the last of shattering bell-notes falls.
A rush of silence whirls over the cloud-high towers,
A vortex of soundless hours.
'The bells have just struck twelve: I should be sleeping.
But I cannot delay any longer to write and tell you.
The woman is dead.
She died—you know the way. Just as we planned.
Smiling, with open sunlit eyes.
Smiling upon the outstretched fatal hand . . .'
He folds his letter, steps softly down the stairs.
The doors are closed and silent. A gas-jet flares.
His shadow disturbs a shadow of balustrades.
The door swings shut behind. Night roars above him.
Into the night he fades.
Wind; wind; wind; carving the walls;
Blowing the water that gleams in the street;
Blowing the rain, the sleet.
In the dark alley, an old tree cracks and falls,
Oak-boughs moan in the haunted air;
Lamps blow down with a crash and tinkle of glass . . .
Darkness whistles . . . Wild hours pass . . .
And those whom sleep eludes lie wide-eyed, hearing
Above their heads a goblin night go by;
Children are waked, and cry,
The young girl hears the roar in her sleep, and dreams
That her lover is caught in a burning tower,
She clutches the pillow, she gasps for breath, she screams . . .
And then by degrees her breath grows quiet and slow,
She dreams of an evening, long ago:
Of colored lanterns balancing under trees,
Some of them softly catching afire;
And beneath the lanterns a motionless face she sees,
Golden with lamplight, smiling, serene . . .
The leaves are a pale and glittering green,
The sound of horns blows over the trampled grass,
Shadows of dancers pass . . .
The face smiles closer to hers, she tries to lean
Backward, away, the eyes burn close and strange,
The face is beginning to change,—
It is her lover, she no longer desires to resist,
She is held and kissed.
She closes her eyes, and melts in a seethe of flame . . .
With a smoking ghost of shame . . .
Wind, wind, wind . . . Wind in an enormous brain
Blowing dark thoughts like fallen leaves . . .
The wind shrieks, the wind grieves;
It dashes the leaves on walls, it whirls then again;
And the enormous sleeper vaguely and stupidly dreams
And desires to stir, to resist a ghost of pain.
One, whom the city imprisoned because of his cunning,
Who dreamed for years in a tower,
Seizes this hour
Of tumult and wind. He files through the rusted bar,
Leans his face to the rain, laughs up at the night,
Slides down the knotted sheet, swings over the wall,
To fall to the street with a cat-like fall,
Slinks round a quavering rim of windy light,
And at last is gone,
Leaving his empty cell for the pallor of dawn . . .
The mother whose child was buried to-day
Turns her face to the window; her face is grey;
And all her body is cold with the coldness of rain.
He would have grown as easily as a tree,
He would have spread a pleasure of shade above her,
He would have been his father again . . .
His growth was ended by a freezing invisible shadow.
She lies, and does not move, and is stabbed by the rain.
Wind, wind, wind; we toss and dream;
We dream we are clouds and stars, blown in a stream:
Windows rattle above our beds;
We reach vague-gesturing hands, we lift our heads,
Hear sounds far off,—and dream, with quivering breath,
Our curious separate ways through life and death.
poem by Conrad Potter Aiken
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What looks in (windows and rain)
Rain upon windows…
Dark bedroom walls
Shimmering pastel mists
down shadowed halls
Windows of ebon black…
and cold Crystal light
Transparently solid through
Both dark and night
Seemingly liquid… in rivulets
Of slithers of rains
Silver sheet of mercury
Over fevered panes
Half seen reflections
enshroud the palpable dark
And imagined…(or real) things
Seem to quiver, dance and spark
Leaves strike... then flee
Tossed by cold fingers of wind
Tree branches rap upon the glass
as if wanting to come in
Pull covers o’er your head
Scrinch closed your eyes e’er so tight
Tis only windows they are…
So no real reason for fright
But… for what looks back in…
Through your windows tonight
poem by David Whalen
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Four Poetic Points For The Neighborhood To Ponder
i
it is that particular moment
when your tongue tastes the skin of the wind
and it shall tell you too about its long
and unfinished journey
it is this intimacy with the hands of the wind
the talk that both of you do more often under the moon
ii
it is when you sit on the floor
your back rests on the wall
it is this intimacy of self-talking upon itself
when the wall begins to respond
when the floor finally makes its comments
iii
the neighborhood begins to doubt you
but you have no doubt about yourself or the floor's sincerity
or the door's indulgence
or the intimacy with the wind and the wall
which offers you a buffer between emptiness and
chaos
eventually everything has come
smooth and natural
well folded like the waves
well covered like the mist on the tree tops
iv
what you have to serve to all these inquisitors
is an empty glass upon an imaginary tray
which they still have to figure out
why you are serving them the perfect drops of silence
for all their thirsts.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Christmas Eve
Glitter twinkled at my fingertips.
As if the angles themselves had sent
songbirds. Singing softly.
The Christmas lights became stars
as the sun sunk into sleep.
The smell of cold and gumbo
clung to the air as we huddled on the floor.
Paper was torn as each pair of hands
opened their box of Mystery.
I shed a silent tear
when I tore my silver paper
and undid my blue ribbon
and found an empty box.
I closed it gently. Thanked the donor.
Turned to see a strange child
sitting on the floor
beside me.
Her clear blue eyes stared
at the empty tree.
Emotionless.
I touched her thick fire hair.
She did not blink.
I put my box in her hands.
She smiled at me,
kissed my cheek,
left.
The box safe in her soft palms.
Never to be seen again.
poem by Zoe Guillory
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The Rain Comes Sobbing to the Door
The night grows dark, and weird, and cold; and thick drops patter on the pane;
There comes a wailing from the sea; the wind is weary of the rain.
The red coals click beneath the flame, and see, with slow and silent feet
The hooded shadows cross the woods to where the twilight waters beat!
Now, fan-wise from the ruddy fire, a brilliance sweeps athwart the floor;
As, streaming down the lattices, the rain comes sobbing to the door:
As, streaming down the lattices,
The rain comes sobbing to the door.
Dull echoes round the casement fall, and through the empty chambers go,
Like forms unseen whom we can hear on tip-toe stealing to and fro.
But fill your glasses to the brims, and, through a mist of smiles and tears,
Our eyes shall tell how much we love to toast the shades of other years!
And hither they will flock again, the ghosts of things that are no more,
While, streaming down the lattices, the rain comes sobbing to the door:
While, streaming down the lattices,
The rain comes sobbing to the door.
The tempest-trodden wastelands moan - the trees are threshing at the blast;
And now they come, the pallid shapes of Dreams that perished in the past;
And, when we lift the windows up, a smothered whisper round us strays,
Like some lone wandering voice from graves
that hold the wrecks of bygone days.
I tell ye that I ~love~ the storm, for think we not of ~thoughts~ of yore,
When, streaming down the lattices, the rain comes sobbing to the door?
When, streaming down the lattices,
The rain comes sobbing to the door?
We'll drink to those we sadly miss, and sing some mournful song we know,
Since they may chance to hear it all, and muse on friends they've left below.
Who knows - if souls in bliss can leave the borders of their Eden-home -
But that some loving one may now about the ancient threshold roam?
Oh, like an exile, he would hail a glimpse of the familiar floor,
Though, streaming down the lattices, the rain comes sobbing to the door!
Though, streaming down the lattices,
The rain comes sobbing to the door!
poem by Henry Kendall
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Red Brick Dream
Red brick dream
Windows scream
As the rusting north star shines above
And drops its iron beams
Crashing down upon the rooves of swindon town
I heard the engines dying breath
Castles and kings all starved to death
I dropped the coronation cup
Sshh, please dont wake them up from
Red brick dream
Red brick dream
Buttons gleam
By the light of the furnace pouring
Molten memories
Splashing down upon the rooves of swindon town
The men of muscle piston rods
Who forged the horses of the gods
The made the town a set of chains
And sleeping it remains in
Red brick dream
song performed by by Xtc
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Red Brick Dream
Red brick dream
Windows scream
As the rusting north star shines above
And drops its iron beams
Crashing down upon the rooves of swindon town
I heard the engines dying breath
Castles and kings all starved to death
I dropped the coronation cup
Sshh, please dont wake them up from
Red brick dream
Red brick dream
Buttons gleam
By the light of the furnace pouring
Molten memories
Splashing down upon the rooves of swindon town
The men of muscle piston rods
Who forged the horses of the gods
The made the town a set of chains
And sleeping it remains in
Red brick dream
song performed by by Xtc
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Sick And Twisted Mind In A Rhyme
A sick and twisted mind,
turned by time,
becomes a new story in a twisted rhyme
Come along and read it don't cost a dime
Little Red Ridding Hood
Walking through the woods
The wolf,
mouth drooling,
up to good
Now Little Red dropped a piece of candy
With a jump and sprawl,
her face was in his jaws.
He started shaking breaking her neck,
skin started to tear apart,
and the muscles started to bleed.
The wolf was walking off with her head in his mouth,
Rage in his eyes
He was suprised that
he did succeed.
A sick and twisted mind,
turned by time,
becomes a new story in a twisted rhyme
Come along and read it, it don't cost a dime
Hansel and Gretel got left on a bridge,
scary place,
chilly like a fridge,
Owls howling in the moonlight.
They're so scared,
But they see a bright light,
The ginger bread house,
In it an old witch quiet as a mouse,
As they walk up,
She walks out
Now she invites them to eat the couch
While their back is turned she grabs an axe
Now from behind their skulls are cracked
she starts chopping wack wack wack,
Into the stew their meat goes,
it is so yummy to an old raggity hoe
A sick and twisted mind,
turned by time,
becomes a new story in a twisted rhyme
Come along and read it don't cost a dime
Jack told Jill to come play a game,
When they got up the hill,
He stabbed a knife in her brain,
Her eyes fled in the back of her head.
He pushed her down the well
her body falling dead
A sick and twisted mind,
turned by time,
becomes a new story in a twisted rhyme
Come along and read it don't cost a dime
Alice fell down a rabbit hole into a scary room,
blood on the walls
a wicked gloom
and on the floor
a dead white rabbit
the red queen loves it
killing is her habit
Alice opens the door
the queen was waiting now
Alice can't feel anymore
The cheshire cat watching the gore
He licks the blood of the dead
Then disappears with nothing said.
A sick and twisted mind,
turned by time,
becomes a new story in a twisted rhyme
Come along and read it don't cost a dime
(I Know Gruesome Sorry,
Just trying to make something
cooler than just love poems.
Just added a second part.
Sick and Twisted Mind In a Rhyme II.
If y'all liked this one,
check it out.)
poem by Matthew Petranovich
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The Future Of Hands
All winter
The trees held up their silent hives
As if they mattered.
But on one main street of bars and lights,
I watched a woman who had begged for days
Throw all the coins back, insulted,
Into the crowd,
And then each cheap stone on her necklace,
As if they were confetti
At a bitter wedding,
And then her stained blouse.
I smiled, then, at her dignity.
But when the night came
With only its usual stars to show,
She was applauded and spat on,
Or those passing stepped around her,
Avoiding her body
As if it had become private, or pure.
When the police arrived,
Sniveling about the cold day she had chosen
To strip,
Her face was a brown jewel,
And I knew the hands
Of the police would have to close now,
On this body abandoned to wind,
Just as her hands closed, finally,
On wind that would have nothing
To do with her,
And never had.
*
I know that wind
Had nothing to do with longing.
I have seen that, even in the eyes
Of girls across a lunch counter--
A desire to be anywhere that wasn't
Texas, and waiting on tables--
Their eyes making a pact
With the standing, staring wheat
About to be turned back into the black soil
That spreads everywhere when no one is watching.
And writing this,
I stare at my hands,
Which are the chroniclers of my death,
Which pull me into this paper
Each night, as onto a bed of silk sheets,
And the woman gone.
After two hours of work,
I do not know if there ever was a woman.
I watch the flies buzz at the sill.
*
Or, if I sleep,
I must choose between two dreams.
In one of them, my hands move calmly
Over a woman's waist, or lift
In speech the way birds rise or settle
Over a marsh, over nesting places.
In the other dream,
There are no nesting places,
The birds are white, and scavenging.
They lift negligently over the town in wind,
Like paper, like the death of paper.
They dip and rise
As if there had never been a heaven.
Beneath them, it is summer.
It is the same town I was born in.
And in its one bar
The man selling illegal human hair from Mexico,
The hair of brides mixed
With the hair of the dead,
Argues all day over the price.
poem by Larry Levis
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The Great Empty
closed!
out of business!
building for rent,
or sale!
22 vacant buildings on one street!
small-town America.
even the sidewalks are deserted...
except for paper cups,
and cigarette butts blowing
in the breeze...
empty windows,
boarded up doors....
the echo of voices
from the past,
from another day...
lost to the great empty!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Thru These Walls
I can hear thru these walls
I can hear it when theyre foolin around
I can hear thru these walls
And I hear evry sign, evry sound
I can hear thru these walls
In the dark with the shades pulled down
Evry word that they say
Evry noise they make feels its coming my way
My favrite moment
Putting the glass up next to the wall
Imagination
Tho I see nothing, I hear it all
Putting my sign up
Do not disturb me, speak or shout, inside out
Oh mind my clothes, theyre all laid out
I can see thru my windows
I can see the girls and the boys
I can see thru my windows
And I can imagine the noise
I can see thru my windows
I can see them playing with toys
Oh I hope it wont end
If I promise not to touch, just be a friend
Life is so lonely
I dont get high off just being me
I like pretending
Wanting to touch them, wanting to see
Its only normal
Creeping behind you, now dont shout, cos its alright
They keep the windows locked and the door shut tight
Oo Im feeling like Im locked in a cage
No way in, no way out, and it gets so lonely
Am I really asking a lot
Just to reach out and touch somebody
cos when I look thru my windows or open my door
I can feel it all around me
I can hear thru these walls
I can hear it when theyre foolin around
I can hear thru these walls
And I hear evry sight, evry sound
I can hear thru these walls
In the dark with the shades pulled down
Evry word that they say
Evry noise they make feels its coming my way
Ah yeah...
song performed by by Phil Collins
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Insomniac Who Drew The Head Of A Sheep Wildly On A White Paper
the insomniac's heart is bleeding. she is in pain tonight like the other past night.
she thinks she is dying right on her own bed. changing positions. finding the right way to sleep. she could not find it. she is lost in the darkness of this loneliness. she goes naked towards the refrigerator to get a cold glass of water.
ice cubes. water rushing to the glass. clicking sound of glass and another glass.
coldness rushing to her esophagus. Coldness multiplying in her burning heart. her blankets burning. She could not sleep tonight. She gets a white paper, a pen and begings to scribble her life: wildly, some lines run. Shaping the head of a sheep. one. two. three. four. five. Five eyes. She stops. She needs five eyes to see everything. Awake. The ceiling where the lizards grow to become alligators on the plywood swamp. No grasses but cobwebs of sleepy spiders.
Five Jacks are hidden on the ears. On the ears are hairs of corn. Blonde. On the nose are paper clips. With them, she is cruel. Then she hides a bull inside her pharynx, the one that shits inside her mouth. She stinks. The bull makes a call for desire. For lust. She closes it with the prison wall of her teeth and gums and lips. Her lips are sealed now. All the five eyes are open throughout the night. Looking for love. Love is not found. Her heart bleeds. Stains of blood penetrate the white paper.
She had not slept for five nights. She will add another five eyes. She knows
if this happens again and again, she will die. She pretends that she is strong.
She will not forget these nights. Preludes to her death. She writes some hieroglyphics all over the empty spaces of the white paper. She will not forget
what each line and curve and sharp edges mean. She codes them. She writes the date 9.2.2008.
She does not put her name. It is enough that no one knows and remembers.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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