The Way You Look Tonight

Here is a poem I had to write for my creative writing class. We had to use vivid imagery to capture a moment that expresses our admiration for someone we've known or a striking character. This is the first poem I've written in a long time and it isn't perfect, but I'm pretty proud of it. 

The Greatest Generation

The house smelled like death and Red Door

When she came in for the first time that week.

There were no wet tissues in her hands

But they could not have been far away.

Still radiantly beautiful in her seventies

A lock of hair always exposed under the blonde wig

She has worn for almost twenty years now.

Nights after everyone left,

Quiet hymns and gentle talking

Drifted from the bedroom she helped decorate.

Bittersweet laughter rose and fell like tanked oxygen.

Soft, plump fingers rolled silver strands

In rubber curlers that were a vibrant green and yellow

Fifty years ago.

Children of the Depression never throw out good curlers.

For dinner she poured Gerber peas into a blue china bowl

And held each spoonful to her best friend’s lips

Careful not to go too fast

It had been a while since her granddaughters were that little.

Sinatra sang “The Way You Look Tonight”

While she chose a delicate bottle of lotion.

Everyone wants to smell like vanilla

Everyone wants fresh pajamas

Won’t you please arrange it? Cause I love you…

Both could not fight back the tears

When she dipped a purple washcloth into warm water

And one great lady washed the feet of another.

A last act of humility, to honor and prepare

In case tonight was the night.

One day it will be her turn to lie and wait.

For now, she dreams handsome angels

Who look like the sweethearts they sent off to war

Are tearing up that hospital bed. 

My grandmother, Frances, on the far left and her beautiful best friend and caretaker Laura, on the far right. I only hope I am blessed with a friendship like theirs in my life. 

Hurry Up Now Darling

Hurry
BY: MARIE HOWE

We stop at the dry cleaners and the grocery store
and the gas station and the green market and
Hurry up honey, I say, hurry,
as she runs along two or three steps behind me
her blue jacket unzipped and her socks rolled down.

Where do I want her to hurry to? To her grave?
To mine? Where one day she might stand all grown?
Today, when all the errands are finally done, I say to her,
Honey I'm sorry I keep saying Hurry--
you walk ahead of me. You be the mother.

And, Hurry up, she says, over her shoulder, looking
back at me, laughing. Hurry up now darling, she says,
hurry, hurry, taking the house keys from my hands.

You never question your own beliefs and reasoning more than in the presence of a child.
Photo by Viktor Garsater 

I Would've Asked you Everything

THIS IS ADVICE FOR SOMEONE ELSE
BY: CARLY TWO
I thought I could tell
by your laugh, but
maybe not.

Sorry about that.

I thought I could tell
by your clothes,
but that's shallow.

And you make me nervous.

I thought it was your taste in movies.
You mentioned one of my favorites.

Sorry I assumed you'd like me because we had all the same interests.

Then I thought
I should talk to you,
but you didn't seem like
the type of person
who was good at talking to strangers.
I'm not that type of person either.

But if I did, I would've asked you everything.

This girl is amazing. I strongly urge you to visit Carly's profile on hello poetry! Even if you are not a poetry person you will enjoy it.

Photo from Fanny Latour-Lambert

Excerpt from Tennyson's Ulysses

I am a part of all that I have met;
Yet all experience is an arch wherethrough
Gleams that untravelled world, whose margin fades
For ever and for ever when I move.
How dull it is to pause, to make an end,
To rust unburnished, not to shine in use!
As though to breathe were life. Life piled on life
Were all too little, and of one to me
Little remains: but every hour is saved
From that eternal silence, something more,
A bringer of new things; and vile it were
For some three suns to store and hoard myself,
And this grey spirit yearning in desire
To follow knowledge like a sinking star,
Beyond the utmost bound of human thought...

We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven; that which we are, we are;
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

Today was for him. Thanks for everything you taught me Ed!

You need more love in your bones.

True Love
BY CARLY TWO
It’s all right, zombie husband.
I didn’t like the dog.
Or the twins.
Seriously, all they did was cry.
It’s like, “shut up, already”,
You know?


Your Call
BY CARLY TWO
You've got a beautiful soul, you know
but you need more love in your bones.
I can't help but notice, you're starved. 
Your mouth waters and your lips crack 
in fact, I feel your heart grumble like a stomach. 
And it's not my business, but listen, 
this kitchen is big enough for a dance.
And I'm not sayin' me, 
I'm just sayin'.

Non-pretentious poetry for my generation complete with Zombies. Yes. I can dig it.

To see more of Carly's wonderful poetry, visit her profile at hellopoetry.

As Dulcet as a Cello Played

"Go down Peachtree...", or The Unexpected Charm of a Georgia Accent

BY: JOHN MAHONEY

That sweet southern accent
     drops from those honeyed lips
          every word an invitation

charm and wit in timbral loveliness
     sweet messenger of delight
          manners amounting to flirtation

as dulcet as a cello played
     by hands most dexterous
         assured a sprightliness enriched

conversation metered as a life
     where passion boils so near the
         surface of certainty bewitched

Lovely poem. Maybe I'm just biased because I have a Georgia accent and live on Peachtree Court ;) I think this video fits well with the poem too. You can read more of John Mahoney' poems on Hello Poetry.

Gotta love the Kings

And, of course, they were royal...

Royalty
BY: ARTHUR RIMBAUD

On a brilliant morning, in a city of lovely people,
A wonderful man and a wonderful woman
Were shouting out loud, in the middle of town:
  "Oh my friends... I want her to be queen!"
  "I want to be a queen!"
She kept on laughing and trembling,
While he talked to his friends about revelations,
And tribulations at an end.
They laughed and they leaned close to one another.
And, of course, they were royal...
All morning long, when scarlet draperies hung upon all the houses,
And even in the afternoon,
When they appeared at the edge of the gardens of palms.

 Photo by Fanny Latour-Lambert

Accept all happiness from me

It May Not Always Be so; And I Say
BY E.E. CUMMINGS
It may not always be so; and I say
that if your lips, which I have loved, should touch
another's, and your dear strong fingers clutch
his heart, as mine in time not far away;
if on another's face your sweet hair lay
in such a silence as I know, or such
great writhing words as, uttering overmuch,
stand helplessly before the spirit at bay;

If this should be, I say if this should be-
you of my heart, send me a little word;
that I may go unto him, and take his hands,
saying, Accept all happiness from me.
Then shall I turn my face, and hear one bird
sing terribly afar in the lost lands.

Still from the film Nu

I Exist

A Man Said to the Universe
BY STEPHEN CRANE

A man said to the universe:
"Sir I exist!"
"However," replied the universe,
"The fact has not created in me
A sense of obligation."

When Thou Art Gone

TO -
BY PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY

Music, when soft voices die,
Vibrates in the memory--
Odors, when sweet violets sicken,
Live within the sense they quicken.
Rose leaves, when the rose is dead,
are heaped for the beloved's bed;
And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone
Love itself shall slumber on.

Image from The Dream Walking Society

And I sunned it with my smiles

A Poison Tree

BY WILLIAM BLAKE

I was angry with my friend:

I told my wrath, my wrath did end.

I was angry with my foe:

I told it not, my wrath did grow.

And I watered it in fears

Night and morning with my tears,

And I sunned it with my smiles

And with soft deceitful wiles.

And it grew both day and night,

Till it bore an apple bright,

And my foe beheld it shine,

And he knew that it was mine, --

And into my garden stole

When the night had veiled the pole;

In the morning, glad, I see

My foe outstretched beneath the tree.

I was messing around on different poetry sites today and this one greatly stood out to me. You don't usually see many poems about revenge. Pain, love, melancholy? Yes. But revenge? No. Thought I'd share it with you all on this rainy night in Georgia!

Photo from Igor + Andre

The rain is full of ghosts tonight

What Lips My Lips Have Kissed, and Where and Why

BY: EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY

 

What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why,

I have forgotten, and what arms have lain

Under my head till morning; but the rain

Is full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh

Upon the glass and listen for reply,

And in my heart there stirs a quiet pain

For unremembered lads that not again

Will turn to me at midnight with a cry.

Thus in the winter stands the lonely tree,

Nor knows what birds have vanished one by one,

Yet knows its boughs more silent than before:

I cannot say what loves have come and gone,

I only know that summer sang in me

A little while, that in me sings no more.

 

Image from the Dream Walking Society

 

The Affair

by Alan Riddell

i  i  i  i  i  i  i  i  i  i  i  i  i  i  i  i  i  i  i  i  i
i  i  i  i  i  i  i  i  i  i  u i  i  i  i  i  i  i  i  i  i
i  i  i  i  i  i  i  i  i  u u u i  i  i  i  i  i  i  i  i
i  i  i  i  i  i  i  i  u u u u u i  i  i  i  i  i  i  i
i  i  i  i  i  i  i u u u u u u u  i  i  i  i  i  i  i
i  i  i  i  i  i u u u u u u u u u  i  i  i  i  i  i
i  i  i  i  i u u u u u u u u u u u  i  i  i  i  i
i  i  i  i  u u u u u u u u u u u u u i  i  i  i
i  i  i u u u u u u u u u u u u u u u  i  i  i
i  i  u u u u u u u u u u u u u u u u u i  i
i  u u u u u u u u u u u u u u u u u u u i
i  i u u u u u u u u u u u u u u u u u  i  i
i  i  i u u u u u u u u u u u u u u u  i  i  i
i  i  i  i u u u u u u u u u u u u u  i  i  i  i
i  i  i  i  i u u u u u u u u u u u  i  i  i  i  i
i  i  i  i  i  i u u u u u u u u u  i  i  i  i  i  i
i  i  i  i  i  i  i u u u u u u u  i  i  i  i  i  i  i
i  i  i  i  i  i  i  i u u u u u  i  i  i  i  i  i  i  i
i  i  i  i  i  i  i  i  i u u u  i  i  i  i  i  i  i  i  i 
i  i  i  i  i  i  i  i  i  i u  i  i  i  i  i  i  i  i  i  i
i  i  i  i  i  i  i  i  i  i  i  i  i  i  i  i  i  i  i  i  i


Read it aloud, it will all make sense...

When she brings her melancholy close to me...

SELF-PORTRAIT

BY CHASE TWICHELL

I know I promised to stop

talking about her,

but I was talking to myself.

The truth is, she’s a child

who stopped growing,

so I’ve always allowed her

to tag along, and when she brings

her melancholy close to me

I comfort her. Naturally

you’re curious; you want to know

how she became a gnarled branch

veiled in diminutive blooms.

But I’ve told you all I know.

I was sure she had secrets,

but she had no secrets.

I had to tell her mine.

 

 
Chase Twichell, "Self Portrait" from Dog Language (Copper Canyon Press, 2005). www.coppercanyonpress.org

I have not been as others were

"ALONE"

EDGAR ALLAN POE

 

From childhood’s hour I have not been

As others were—I have not seen

As others saw—I could not bring

My passions from a common spring—

From the same source I have not taken

My sorrow—I could not awaken

My heart to joy at the same tone—

And all I lov’d—I lov’d alone—

Then—in my childhood—in the dawn

Of a most stormy life—was drawn

From ev’ry depth of good and ill

The mystery which binds me still—

From the torrent, or the fountain—

From the red cliff of the mountain—

From the sun that ’round me roll’d

In its autumn tint of gold—

From the lightning in the sky

As it pass’d me flying by—

From the thunder, and the storm—

And the cloud that took the form

(When the rest of Heaven was blue)

Of a demon in my view—

 

Alone by Buaiansayapanomali

 

There is something so intriguing about the poetry of Poe, don't you agree? 

So much mystery surrounding his tortured mind.

I am thy fool in the morning

THE PARADOX

PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR

 

I am the mother of sorrows,

   I am the ender of grief;

I am the bud and the blossom,

   I am the late-falling leaf.

I am thy priest and thy poet,

   I am thy serf and thy king;

I cure the tears of the heartsick,

   When I come near they shall sing.

White are my hands as the snowdrop;

   Swart are my fingers as clay;

Dark is my frown as the midnight,

   Fair is my brow as the day.

Battle and war are my minions,

   Doing my will as divine;

I am the calmer of passions,

   Peace is a nursling of mine.

Speak to me gently or curse me,

   Seek me or fly from my sight;

I am thy fool in the morning,

   Thou art my slave in the night.

Down to the grave will I take thee,

   Out from the noise of the strife;

Then shalt thou see me and know me—

   Death, then, no longer, but life.

Then shalt thou sing at my coming,

   Kiss me with passionate breath,

Clasp me and smile to have thought me

   Aught save the foeman of Death.

Come to me, brother, when weary,

   Come when thy lonely heart swells;

I’ll guide thy footsteps and lead thee

   Down where the Dream Woman dwells.

 

Image by Anti-conformity

 

The Captain's Verses

I went to Borders in search of the greatest works of Lorca and their one copy had been bought.  Here's the deal: when you are in the mood for bilingual poetry books by Hispanic poets, you are in the mood. There is no denying it, no ordering offline or coming back later. No. Quiero poemas. Ahora. Then mis ojos saw this...

I am one of those people that judges books by their covers and this is a beautiful one. Doesn't it just beg to be picked up? Why the lines? Why the font and the color blue? Why such a modern cover for the words of a poet from the earlier half of the twentieth century? And then, unable to not be the owner of such a work of art, I bought it. Now I am the owner of the art on the outside and the art on the inside. Success!

IF YOU FORGET ME

PABLO NERUDA

I want you to know one thing:
You know how this is:
if I look
at the crystal, at the red branch
of the slow autumn at my window,
if I touch near the fire
the impalpable ash or the wrinkled body of the log,
everything carries me to you,
as if everything carries me to you,
as if everything that exists,
aromas, lights, metals,
were little boats that sail
towards those isles of yours that wait for me.

Well, now,
if little by little you stop loving me
I shall stop loving you little by little.

If suddenly you forget me
do not look for me
for I shall already have forgotten you.

If you  think it long and mad,
the wind of banners that passes through my life,
and you decide to leave me at the shore
of the heart where I have roots,
remember that on that day, at that hour,
I shall lift my arms and my roots will set off to seek another land.

But if each day, each hour,
you feel that you are destined for me
with implacable sweetness,
if each day a flower climbs up to your lips to seek me,
ah my love, ah my own,
in me all that fire is repeated,
in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,
my love feeds on your love, beloved,
and as long as you live it will be in your arms
without leaving mine.

Of The Thing Sung

THESE POEMS, SHE SAID
BY ROBERT BRINGHURST

These poems, these poems,
these poems, she said, are poems
with no love in them. These are the poems of a man
who would leave his wife and child because
they made noise in his study. These are the poems 
of a man who would murder his mother to claim
the inheritance. These are the poems of a man
like Plato, she said, meaning something I did not
comprehend but which nevertheless
offended me. These are the poems of a man
who would rather sleep with himself than with women,
she said. These are the poems of a man
with eyes like a drawknife, with hands like a pickpocket's
hands, woven of water and logic
and hunger, with no strand of love in them. These
poems are as heartless as birdsong, as unmeant
as elm leaves, which if they love love only
the wide blue sky and the air and the idea
of elm leaves. Self-love is an ending, she said,
not a beginning. Love means love
of the thing sung,  not of the song or the singing.
These poems, she said...
                                         You are, he said,
beautiful.
                That is not love, she said, rightly.