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HANI  May 2019
wednesdays.
HANI May 2019
there are a lot of stories happened
in wednesdays.
i met you for the first time
in wednesday.
we become close
because of wednesday.

since then,
wednesday's became my favorite day.
in wednesday,
i see your laugh.
in wednesday,
i laugh because of you.
in wednesday,
we talk much.
but also in wednesday,
we met for the last time.
this is my very first poetry after a lot of modification. so, i had a crush back then in high school and this poetry is dedicated for him no matter he sees it or not.
hobo sweater Nov 2014
middle of the week.
a little further than Monday, a little closer to Friday.
in between all the school days.

I am so tired
tired in a Wednesday morning
I just want to get back
to bed and sleep til
Friday greets me

hell week.
the week approaching
the dreadful exams
the week where
students are tortured
and suffer
the week with no guarantee
of sleep and relaxation
but only stress.

I'm so fed up
with the things I'm
supposed to do
many things to be
nervous about
stressing about
complaining about
but it seems that Im
running out of care
to do them

I just want to get this
to get over with
Wednesday
please,
carry me to friday
8TH-OCT-2014 05:58 AM
Angelique Aug 2018
he buys flowers for her on Wednesdays
not because he's supposed to or
even if her last petal falls and she's
in need of a few more
but because Wednesdays are for her
she deserves ever last flower
on every single day
but ill stick to our Wednesdays
and buy her flowers meant for more
Nigel Morgan Nov 2012
A story in three movements after the painting by Mary Elwell*
 
 I

She’s out. Changed her frock, left me a list and her letters on the hall table. I heard the door bang. She was in a hurry. Wednesday afternoon she’s often in a hurry. I don’t know where she goes, but she’s usually back about 9.0, and Mr Fred has his tea by himself. I come in here when she’s out and I’ve done the necessary. It’s a big house and apart from Janet and Elsie in the mornings I look after the place, and her when necessary. She’ll call me into her bedroom to tell me what she wants done with her laundry. She’s fussy, but she can afford to be. She has two wardrobes, what I call her Mrs Fred clothes and her ‘Mrs Knight’ clothes. They’re quite different; like she’s two different people. When she paints she’s someone I don’t know at all – she looks like a *****. She doesn’t belong in this room anyway when she paints. She has her studio in the attic and doesn’t even let Mr Fred in there. I don’t go in there. I’ve never got further than the door. She doesn’t want anyone to see what goes on in there. Oh, I see the pictures when they’re finished. She places them on Mr Fred’s easel in the drawing room and spends hours pacing up and down looking at them. She pulls up a chair and sits there. She doesn’t like being interrupted when she’s doing that. I like to come in here when she’s out. It’s a lady’s bedroom. I don’t think Mr Fred comes in here very often. She likes to go to him when she does, which isn’t often. When I first came here they were always in each other’s bedrooms, but she keeps herself to herself now except when Mrs Knight comes.
 
II
 
 When I was a young man I often used to look up from Walkergate at the windows of this room. You can’t miss them really as you walk towards the Bar. I coveted this house you know. Marrying Mary suddenly made that a possibility. When Holmes died and left her his fortune it came on the market and I said lightly one afternoon – she was in my studio in London – I see Bar House is up for sale. Yes, she said, we could buy it. I think she knew I wasn’t going to get anywhere in London, and she wanted to go back to Yorkshire.  She was from the first going to be her own person having been Holmes’ for ten years – an older man, dull and old. She felt by marrying me, an artist, her desire to be solitary, self-absorbed, would be understood. I don’t often come in here. She comes to me, usually to talk at the end of the day. She doesn’t sleep well, never has. We don’t, well you know, it was all about friendship, companion-ship I suppose, and money. She had it. I didn’t. You know the light in this room is so wonderful in the afternoon – like honey. I like to sit on her bed and think of the days when I would wake in this room. There were two beds here then. She’d be sitting at her writing table in her blue gown. She liked to get up with the dawn and write long letters to her friends, mainly Laura of course. After that first sitting she began writing to me, all about her love of painting and how Alfred had never encouraged her, and would I help her, advise her? She wanted to go to Paris and be in some Impressionist’s atelier. I soon realised in Paris I was never going to be a great artist or a modern painter. There’s one picture from that time . . . only one; that girl from the theatre, Amelie. I’d seen Degas and thought . . . no matter, I could never match her letters. I was always a disappointment. I still am. I would sit down at my desk with one of her letters  - she wrote to me almost every day - and think ‘I’ll just deal with that enquiry from Alsop’s’, and then I’d find another pressing letter, or I’ll look at my accounts, and all my good intentions would be as nothing. If I’d really loved her I would have written I’m sure. It takes time to write, to think what to say. It’s time I always felt I couldn’t allow myself. Painting was more than enough, and more important than letters to Mary. She wanted to talk to me, and wanted me to talk back. So she talks to Laura now, who returns her ‘talk’ with equally long letters – with sketches and caricatures of people she’s met or ‘observed’. Occasionally, I catch sight of one of these illustrated letters on the sitting room sofa, placed inside a book she is reading. I have a box of Mary’s letters, and when she’s away I look at them and read her quiet words – what she’s seen, what she’s read, what she hoped  we might become.
 
 III

I often stand at the door, even today when I’m in a rush, to gaze at my room before going out and leaving it to itself. I love it so in the afternoons when the sun takes hold of it, illuminates it. You know each item of furniture has its own story; my mother’s quilt on my bed, the long mirror from Alfred’s house; my writing box given to me by my Godmother on my 21st; the little blue vase by my wash stand – that back street shop in Venice, my first visit. I stand at the door and think, well, just what do I think? Perhaps I just rest for a moment at the sight of myself reflected in these ‘things’, my possessions, my chosen decoration, the colours and tones and shapes and positions of objects that surround my daily life. My precious pictures; some important gifts, others all about remembrance, a few from my childhood, my first marriage – Alfred was very generous. The silver vase on my writing table glows with delphiniums from the garden – and a single rose from Laura. And today we will meet, as we do on alternate Wednesdays, to drink tea in the Station Hotel, arriving on our different trains from our different lives. This friendship sustains me, and more than she will ever know. She is so resolute, so gifted as an artist. She is a painter. She has imagination, whereas as I just see and record. She puts images together that carry stories. That RA **** – that’s Laura you know – and the painter is me – and wearing a hat for goodness sake! Me paint in a hat! I remember her going through my wardrobe to dress me for that picture. Why the hat? I kept asking. But she made me look as I’ve always wanted to look in a picture – as though I was a real artist and not a wealthy woman who ‘plays’ at painting. Fred’s portraits say nothing to me, whereas Laura’s make me feel weak inside. I remember her trying out that pose in front of my long mirror. ‘Will this do?, she would say, ‘Or this? All I could look at were her long, long fingers, imagining her touch on my arm when she kissed me goodbye.
Elaenor Aisling Nov 2021
He feels the ache
Mostly on Wednesdays
The limp emptiness, gaping
Like the sleeves of the forgotten jacket in the back of his closet.
The scent of his cologne is gone now
But in the morning, dressing,
He still thumbs the supple shell of the leather—
He hasn’t looked
But he is sure
He has worn a light spot into the left sleeve.
How many uptown nights
Under the harsh lights of the metro car
Did he reach for his arm
the taught muscle under the sleeve like warm stone
Feel the stitches over the pad of his thumb,
Before he placed a hand on his.

On Wednesdays,
He treats himself to takeout
From the corner store,
The creamy peanut sauce on bedraggled vegetables
Is enough to drown out the hunger
But between the bites of rice and curry
He still craves the
homemade broccoli cheddar soup and fresh bread,
Humming echoing in the kitchen in time to the rhythm of the chopping knife
A peck on the cheek
And the brush of his hands passing him the steaming bowl, warm and dry from washing.
His stomach growls.

He doesn’t smoke anymore
But he lapses
Mostly on Wednesdays
When the love-sick moon is visible
Between the high rises
A night like the one he left
Biting winter, the way icy concrete pierces bare feet
He sits in the open window sill,
Smoke flows into the dark like memory
the smell of nicotine
stirring relief and regret
It all feels
the same.
Nis Dec 2018
Dying is a drag,
but I'd take it any day over being alive,
especially on wednesdays.
Life ***** on wednesdays.
Caught nowhere
between here and there,
you stumble,
you doubt if you're going back or forward,
whether you die or you are born;
but yet,
time keeps moving
and you can't fall behind.
Time keeps moving
between birth and death,
one way only,
no refounds.
Natasha  Sep 2014
Wednesdays
Natasha Sep 2014
Face like the button on my shirt he undoes with his teeth.

Autumn shortly, middle of the week

Your voice a charming, warm day at the beach.

His eyes chocolate, melting treat-
yet cool to the core

I bet your sugar tastes so sweet.
Love the fall
Mateuš Conrad May 2017
some people might cite you that slavery had disappeared,
not to my knowledge,
         it was a wednesday at my local supermarket,
and there was only one male in the place, a manager,
and only women stacking shelves and sitting at the tills...
it really looked like all the men were laid off...
         well... what with the export of manual labour
to china... what sort of man would want to stack shelves
for a lifetime? it's not exactly coal-mining,
it's not something his body is used to doing...
                   he stacks supermarket shelves,
       and then watches modern day "gladiators"
break the sweat and have a lean body...
                                              women can stack supermarket
shelves...
                  men? they need physical ambition...
     women can have that, when being pregnant...
then this old strytoczała "******" of a woman tries
to encompass small-talk with my purchase...
    - would you like me to pack your bags?
- no no, i'm fine...      
               all i have is a rucksack, a bottle of ***,
a bottle of ms. pepsi. and a bottle of ale...
                 i can't do small-talk, i never know why people
would even bother with it... it's easily disposable...
       but it's a wednesday in my local supermarket,
and there's only the male manager, and the rest of the employees
are female...
                    imagine seeing men moaning like women
in the easy-sector of physical exertion...
       there's absolutely no reward for them!
                             what the **** are they doing?
     something akin to housework, knitting, or gardening,
arranging "flowers" / packaging in the most satisfying formation...
    have they all left for australia to work in the outback?
i wish they had...
              i buy my *****, a fat employee is buying
sugar snacks and ready-made meals...
                and i'm thinner than he is... even though i know
that alcohol bloats you up a bit...
                 but what sort of men are you breeding?
in india they'd be called the untouchables...
                 in england? they're called the disposables.
oh slavery hasn't died... it just evolved, morphed...
    it's called a 0 hour contract...
         and you know what that is? right?
        you're aiming at: poodle!
                             you earn an hour's worth of employment
whenever they want you to come in for work,
and if they don't want your labour? you're back
at zee-ρ: yep... 0. like kant said: 0 = negation...
     western societies lied about a need for labour...
    forget the hegelian master & slave relation...
      it's more        parasite & host these days...
        am i a social justice... thingy?
                                isn't it a form of slavery?
the worst kind... it's not like you have to be constantly present,
like house-service, and have a constant form of "employment"...
the new whip is the clock that has no synchronisity
with, any form of responsibility...
          if this isn't slavery, guided by spontaneity,
then i'd rather be an african-american in the south prior
to the civil war... at least i'd be fed, day by day with some
sort of rigour, some sort of structure...
         where are all the men gone to?
     so you think a strong chimp mating with a weak woman
will provide a strong chimp?
     just another ****** working a 0-hours contract...
come here poodle... pooh pooh... come back on friday
    and work 5 hours... we might call you back in 4 days to
work 7 hours...
                      **** me... and i thought my jokes were bad...
but this 0-hour contract "innovation"...
    you're basically opening a can of worms, or at least
summoning the spirit of pandora...
       you're really summoning a bunch of crazy *******...
  and that's not even islam...
               islam is going to be a softcore version of violence
these ******* will be programmed into...
    you're going to be talking ***** films, ******* gang rapes...
i know i would, be reduced to that sort of level
if i was on a 0-hour contract... fair enough if you're a woman...
but take metallurgy from men, or other types of production
that makes their physical strength utilised to an exertion
that competes with athletes... and you take that away...
  they either get fat... or they go mad...
    and that's mad in the casual sense of exercising violence...
but of course you sold us out to the chinese...
       and if you try to retract that "chess" move now?
well... we number a few millions... they have a billion willing
conscripts to overwhelm these lands....
       the german third *****? that's candy-floss compared
with what might come.
    but yeah... thank you very much... i'm with the dodo project;
and my my, ain't this spiced ***, just fine?
Victoria G Sep 2012
On Tuesday morning

I discovered

That I had missed your late night call

And I found that I didn’t care at all

But then the next day I was tricked by your enjoining smiles

And I pretend to love you for a while

It’s now Thursday afternoon

And you don’t recognize me

So I think to myself who is he?

But the entire thing is a tragedy

You and I acting out our daily roles

Letting the heat dissipate from the coals

Of the hypothetically imaginary flame

Of a possible love affair

One we knew wasn’t there

And it’s a whole month of Sundays

Yet we still haven’t talked

But I’ve memorized the way you walk

The thread connecting you and I

Is woven together with Wednesdays and lies

As deceptively delicate as a spider’s web

Let’s try again and close our eyes.
Ashley Williams Jan 2015
The perfect night,
Full of light, not flight--
With dreams of olives!
(And feta in our sights!)

The drinks,
The dancing,
Rock n' Roll--
Naked Munchkin fantasy
Stole my soul!

I miss you my sweets,
It's been too long a week.
I'm pining for Cookout,
Divergent, and Wednesdays wearing Pink.

— The End —