Written by
Judith Skillman |
After they passed beneath us I could tell
more would be coming, beneath the sand,
under the bejeweled sky, under the first
layer of earth where water exists
in flutes and eddies.
I lay there with you,
not wanting to leave your side even
for them, the miraculous creatures of sex
and sediment, the ones who obey currents
and ladders, blindly seeking out their own
individual deaths, their pink flesh peeling
against the rocks.
I saw the spool of eggs,
endless possibilities that would not be.
How they labored to breathe the air that night,
caught under our queen-sized bed, the male
and the female, Silvers and Kings whose pale
eyes saw into the lidless dark.
I could tell
they loved each other without speech, circling
there apart from water, and I remembered
a snippet from a French film in which a woman
masturbates with a fish, and thought how progressive
I had become in retrospect.
There we were,
left behind by the tides, deserted by
the institution of wind on a night
so soundless it could have been our first
night together, before we became victims
of those slippery, dirty, messy words.
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Written by
Sylvia Plath |
Clownlike, happiest on your hands,
Feet to the stars, and moon-skulled,
Gilled like a fish.
A common-sense
Thumbs-down on the dodo's mode.
Wrapped up in yourself like a spool,
Trawling your dark, as owls do.
Mute as a turnip from the Fourth
Of July to All Fools' Day,
O high-riser, my little loaf.
Vague as fog and looked for like mail.
Farther off than Australia.
Bent-backed Atlas, our traveled prawn.
Snug as a bud and at home
Like a sprat in a pickle jug.
A creel of eels, all ripples.
Jumpy as a Mexican bean.
Right, like a well-done sum.
A clean slate, with your own face on.
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Written by
Donald Justice |
Jane looks down at her organdy skirt
As if it somehow were the thing disgraced,
For being there, on the floor, in the dirt,
And she catches it up about her waist,
Smooths it out along one hip,
And pulls it over the crumpled slip.
On the porch, green-shuttered, cool,
Asleep is Bertram that bronze boy,
Who, having wound her around a spool,
Sends her spinning like a toy
Out to the garden, all alone,
To sit and weep on a bench of stone.
Soon the purple dark must bruise
Lily and bleeding-heart and rose,
And the little cupid lose
Eyes and ears and chin and nose,
And Jane lie down with others soon,
Naked to the naked moon.
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Written by
William Butler Yeats |
(version of The Hero, The Girl And The Fool)
When all works that have
From cradle run to grave
From grave to cradle run instead;
When thoughts that a fool
Has wound upon a spool
Are but loose thread, are but loose thread;
When cradle and spool are past
And I mere shade at last
Coagulate of stuff
Transparent like the wind,
I think that I may find
A faithful love, a faithful love.
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Written by
Rg Gregory |
schnyder schnyder
the bouncing spider
had a song
wound up inside her
she'd had it taped
on a silken spool
this was the song
she sang as a rule
o little fly
come be my friend
i have fly's gold
for you to spend
i'll wrap you in silks
to make you pretty
if you refuse
then more's the pity
the silk-voice warbled
through the wood
the best bird-song
didn't seem so good
but no flies came
they were too fly
looking through the song
to the web's black eye
o schnyder schnyder
the bouncing spider
who had a song
wound up inside her
passed through hunger
to the edge of death
the wood stopped growing
and held its breath
one day the silken
web was still
and curious flies
came to find how ill
the spider was – but
becoming too daring
many got stuck
in the silken snaring
but schnyder schnyder
the bouncing spider
who had a song
wound up inside her
presented thus
with a feast of flies
cried weakly in anger
i despise i despise
such dull victims
that have no ear
for the silken song
i keep in here
but when in silence
this web is wrapped
stupid and nosey
they all get trapped
and the web grew slack
in the dying wood
the poor flies wriggled
but it did no good
and schnyder schnyder
the bouncing spider
who had a song
wrapped up inside her
spun into herself
to disappear
he was lost to the world
for many a year
but whether she meant it
or it was a fearful tangle
she came out one night
in the african jungle
she was in a tree
quite close to the sun
in the topmost branch
her web was spun
its silken strands
in the sun's gold rays
dazzled her neighbours
into fulsome praise
and soon the jungle
was wrapt in a sound
(as the bouncing spider's
song unwound)
whose piercing beauty
brought dew to the eyes
of every creature
but the jungle flies
no one could tell
what the song might mean
the song and the web
made so rare a screen
and schnyder schnyder
the bouncing spider
who had a song
wound up inside her
wove her sad magic
both day and night
the moon and the sun
never shone so bright
and after the rains
had moistened the jungle
it wore the spider
like a jewelled bangle
the jungle flies though
soon went mad
unable to hear
a song so sad
they buzzed and bashed
uncontrollably
every tree bore signs
of their mortality
it couldn't be guessed
on what the spider fed
no victim was lured
into the sparkling web
yet schnyder schnyder
the bouncing spider
who had a song
wound up inside her
never stopped singing
and the jungle grows
to this very day
in the song's sad throes
but don't go looking
for the bouncing spider
who has a song
wound up inside her
what you can't see
you can always dream
what's song to one
is another's scream
and each one is born
with a touch of fly
that can't tell beauty
from a spit in the eye
and schnyder schnyder
the bouncing spider
who has a song
wound up inside her
with intolerable sheen
puts the price too high
love me or fear me
be enchanted or die
|
Written by
Ella Wheeler Wilcox |
Here in my office I sit and write
Hour on hour, and day on day,
With no one to speak to from morn till night,
Though I have a neighbour just over the way.
Across the alley that yawns between
A maiden sits sewing the whole day long;
A face more lovely is seldom seen
In hall or castle or country throng.
Her curling tresses are golden brown;
Her eyes, I think, are violet blue,
Though her long, thick lashes are always down,
Jealously hiding the orbs from view;
Her neck is slender, and round, and white,
And this way and that way her soft hair blows,
As there in the window from morn till night,
She sits in her beauty, and sings and sews.
And I in my office chair, lounge and dream,
In an idle way, of a sweet 'might be, '
While the maid at her window sews her seam,
With never a glance or a thought for me.
Perhaps she is angry because I look
So long and so often across the way,
Over the top of my ledger-book;
But those stolen glances brighten the day.
And I am blameless of any wrong; -
She is the transgressor, by sitting there
And making my eyes turn oft and long
To a face so delicate, pure and fair.
Work is forgotten; the page lies clean,
Untouched by the pen, while hours go by.
Oh, maid of the pensive air and mien!
Give me one glance of your violet eye.
Drop your thimble or spool of thread
Down in the alley, I pray, my sweet,
Or the comb or ribbon from that fair head,
That I may follow with nimble feet;
For how can I tell you my heart has gone
Across the alley, and lingers there,
Till I know your name, my beautiful one?
How could I venture, and how could I dare?
Just one day longer I'll wait and dream,
And then, if you grant me no other way,
I shall write you a letter: 'Maid of the seam,
You have stolen my property; now give pay,
Beautiful robber and charming thief!
Give me one glance for the deed you've done.
'
Thus shall I tell you my loss and grief,
Over the alley, my beautiful one.
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