"arctics" poems - Hello Poetry

In Worcester, Massachusetts, I went with Aunt Consuelo to keep her dentist's appointment and sat and waited for her in the dentist's waiting room. It was winter. It got dark early. The waiting room was full of grown-up people, arctics and overcoats, lamps and magazines. My aunt was inside what seemed like a long time and while I waited and read the National Geographic (I could read) and carefully studied the photographs: the inside of a volcano, black, and full of ashes; then it was spilling over in rivulets of fire. Osa and Martin Johnson dressed in riding breeches, laced boots, and pith helmets. A dead man slung on a pole "Long Pig," the caption said. Babies with pointed heads wound round and round with string; black, naked women with necks wound round and round with wire like the necks of light bulbs. Their ******* were horrifying. I read it right straight through. I was too shy to stop. And then I looked at the cover: the yellow margins, the date. Suddenly, from inside, came an oh! of pain --Aunt Consuelo's voice-- not very loud or long. I wasn't at all surprised; even then I knew she was a foolish, timid woman. I might have been embarrassed, but wasn't. What took me completely by surprise was that it was me: my voice, in my mouth. Without thinking at all I was my foolish aunt, I--we--were falling, falling, our eyes glued to the cover of the National Geographic, February, 1918. I said to myself: three days and you'll be seven years old. I was saying it to stop the sensation of falling off the round, turning world. into cold, blue-black space. But I felt: you are an I, you are an Elizabeth, you are one of them. Why should you be one, too? I scarcely dared to look to see what it was I was. I gave a sidelong glance --I couldn't look any higher-- at shadowy gray knees, trousers and skirts and boots and different pairs of hands lying under the lamps. I knew that nothing stranger had ever happened, that nothing stranger could ever happen. Why should I be my aunt, or me, or anyone? What similarities boots, hands, the family voice I felt in my throat, or even the National Geographic and those awful hanging ******* held us all together or made us all just one? How I didn't know any word for it how "unlikely". . . How had I come to be here, like them, and overhear a cry of pain that could have got loud and worse but hadn't? The waiting room was bright and too hot. It was sliding beneath a big black wave, another, and another. Then I was back in it. The War was on. Outside, in Worcester, Massachusetts, were night and slush and cold, and it was still the fifth of February, 1918.

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Elizabeth Bishop

In The Waiting Room

In Worcester, Massachusetts, I went with Aunt Consuelo to keep her dentist's appointment and sat and waited for her in the dentist's waiting room. It was winter. It got dark early. The waiting room was full of grown-up people, arctics and overcoats, lamps and magazines. My aunt was inside what seemed like a long time and while I waited and read the National Geographic (I could read) and carefully studied the photographs: the inside of a volcano, black, and full of ashes; then it was spilling over in rivulets of fire. Osa and Martin Johnson dressed in riding breeches, laced boots, and pith helmets. A dead man slung on a pole "Long Pig," the caption said. Babies with pointed heads wound round and round with string; black, naked women with necks wound round and round with wire like the necks of light bulbs. Their ******* were horrifying. I read it right straight through. I was too shy to stop. And then I looked at the cover: the yellow margins, the date. Suddenly, from inside, came an oh! of pain --Aunt Consuelo's voice-- not very loud or long. I wasn't at all surprised; even then I knew she was a foolish, timid woman. I might have been embarrassed, but wasn't. What took me completely by surprise was that it was me: my voice, in my mouth. Without thinking at all I was my foolish aunt, I--we--were falling, falling, our eyes glued to the cover of the National Geographic, February, 1918. I said to myself: three days and you'll be seven years old. I was saying it to stop the sensation of falling off the round, turning world. into cold, blue-black space. But I felt: you are an I, you are an Elizabeth, you are one of them. Why should you be one, too? I scarcely dared to look to see what it was I was. I gave a sidelong glance --I couldn't look any higher-- at shadowy gray knees, trousers and skirts and boots and different pairs of hands lying under the lamps. I knew that nothing stranger had ever happened, that nothing stranger could ever happen. Why should I be my aunt, or me, or anyone? What similarities boots, hands, the family voice I felt in my throat, or even the National Geographic and those awful hanging ******* held us all together or made us all just one? How I didn't know any word for it how "unlikely". . . How had I come to be here, like them, and overhear a cry of pain that could have got loud and worse but hadn't? The waiting room was bright and too hot. It was sliding beneath a big black wave, another, and another. Then I was back in it. The War was on. Outside, in Worcester, Massachusetts, were night and slush and cold, and it was still the fifth of February, 1918.

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i. impressions shapes and sounds, the shady-lane trees, the yellow balloons of the skies icy arctics, the pink feathers of the soil. ii. surreal as the shifting day, turquoise and angular, bright sky drowned in the cold, brisk air, language of love and air, base note of love. iii. love, impressions of light and dark, soft brush stroke of sea-blue, air the colour of lips. iv. witching night, darkling clouds pressed to the sky, love, settling like a mist. v. sweet lips sipped, incredible sky of our dreams, drawn close like the pillowy clouds.

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Apr 4, 2017

Apr 4, 2017 at 7:02 AM UTC

beth-fwoah-dream

love poem

i. impressions shapes and sounds, the shady-lane trees, the yellow balloons of the skies icy arctics, the pink feathers of the soil. ii. surreal as the shifting day, turquoise and angular, bright sky drowned in the cold, brisk air, language of love and air, base note of love. iii. love, impressions of light and dark, soft brush stroke of sea-blue, air the colour of lips. iv. witching night, darkling clouds pressed to the sky, love, settling like a mist. v. sweet lips sipped, incredible sky of our dreams, drawn close like the pillowy clouds.

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Summer rain, melting Arctics and the lipids lining the nerves in your brain. These are the metrics of our times. Mere resolve is not enough to take care along the highway—you need wheels and prayer. When you realize there’s no there there that’s a scary day. End there. August, the extinction is terrifying. Quiet, too quiet. 100% humidity, not a single insect flying. Summer morning, summer evening, sighing the sighs of purgatory—grief without pain, death without dying. I’ve chosen the safety of these mountains and the beauty of their mists—such perfection which anyone can have for the asking. All you need to know is the names of things. Conflict, coercion, war, strife. Flying high in April, shot down over Germany. Have a good day. That’s life. Fix yr brakes. When I hit a pothole my fillings sing. Anything’s possible, it’s impossible to know what will happen until it’s happened. You can’t know what you’re doing until it’s done and even then you stare in wonder unmoved yet moved by the stillness a pure goodness, bone stillness, potential energy. You can practice it in the city or the desert. The wilderness or the mirror over your dresser.

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Dec 2, 2019

Dec 2, 2019 at 12:25 PM UTC

robert-ronnow

My Giant

Summer rain, melting Arctics and the lipids lining the nerves in your brain. These are the metrics of our times. Mere resolve is not enough to take care along the highway—you need wheels and prayer. When you realize there’s no there there that’s a scary day. End there. August, the extinction is terrifying. Quiet, too quiet. 100% humidity, not a single insect flying. Summer morning, summer evening, sighing the sighs of purgatory—grief without pain, death without dying. I’ve chosen the safety of these mountains and the beauty of their mists—such perfection which anyone can have for the asking. All you need to know is the names of things. Conflict, coercion, war, strife. Flying high in April, shot down over Germany. Have a good day. That’s life. Fix yr brakes. When I hit a pothole my fillings sing. Anything’s possible, it’s impossible to know what will happen until it’s happened. You can’t know what you’re doing until it’s done and even then you stare in wonder unmoved yet moved by the stillness a pure goodness, bone stillness, potential energy. You can practice it in the city or the desert. The wilderness or the mirror over your dresser.

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I will explore the Earth. Ascend the cliffs, descend the seas. Travel with the sun to the west, continuing to the east. Flee heat to the arctics, follow to the tropics. I'll run in the deserts, jump into the oceans. I'll run in the jungles, and dive into the skies. Disappear from home to appear in the wild. To see, to hear. To smell, to taste. To feel, to live. I will explore the Earth.

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Mar 17, 2014

Mar 17, 2014 at 11:54 AM UTC

markthegr8

I Will Explore

I will explore the Earth. Ascend the cliffs, descend the seas. Travel with the sun to the west, continuing to the east. Flee heat to the arctics, follow to the tropics. I'll run in the deserts, jump into the oceans. I'll run in the jungles, and dive into the skies. Disappear from home to appear in the wild. To see, to hear. To smell, to taste. To feel, to live. I will explore the Earth.

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From Americas rocky mountain tops To the Himalayan snow capped peaks These are the things of nature That all of us should keep Australias barren outback Englands green and pleasant hills Nature free for all mankind Who seek her gentle thrills From the Amazon tropic forests To the arctics icy wastes Things of natural beauty When traveled at natures pace The azure blue seas of the Pacific isles Cruel dark seas of the southern cape Placed there by natures hand To be respected without hate Drab plumage of the desert vulture Bright birds of Paradise Birds of every colour Birds of every size Scorpions of the desert sands And the grey atlantic seals Both there for a reason As only nature can reveal Think about the lion The African king of beasts The soft eyed Chinese panda That our children find so cute Mountain tops and hidden valleys Vast lakes and rolling seas All put there by natures hand But not to be abused Animals, reptiles, birds Put there for me and you They should be studied in the wild Not trapped inside a zoo We cannot alter history Or repair the damage we have caused But we can stop the mass destruction Of the world that's mine and yours... Also around the world in fourty lines

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Sep 2, 2015

Sep 2, 2015 at 6:20 AM UTC

joe-cole

**The Way It Should Be**

From Americas rocky mountain tops To the Himalayan snow capped peaks These are the things of nature That all of us should keep Australias barren outback Englands green and pleasant hills Nature free for all mankind Who seek her gentle thrills From the Amazon tropic forests To the arctics icy wastes Things of natural beauty When traveled at natures pace The azure blue seas of the Pacific isles Cruel dark seas of the southern cape Placed there by natures hand To be respected without hate Drab plumage of the desert vulture Bright birds of Paradise Birds of every colour Birds of every size Scorpions of the desert sands And the grey atlantic seals Both there for a reason As only nature can reveal Think about the lion The African king of beasts The soft eyed Chinese panda That our children find so cute Mountain tops and hidden valleys Vast lakes and rolling seas All put there by natures hand But not to be abused Animals, reptiles, birds Put there for me and you They should be studied in the wild Not trapped inside a zoo We cannot alter history Or repair the damage we have caused But we can stop the mass destruction Of the world that's mine and yours... Also around the world in fourty lines

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From ambivalence to ferocity, she Touching everything at times Gently her soft hair over Follicles and skin through Reeds in marshes and then Grassy planes Across thresholds To the leaves of autumn From antipodes to tropics From arctics to alps Even the immovable Will feel her And they too Will tremble MChallis @ 2015

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Nov 4, 2015

Nov 4, 2015 at 10:43 PM UTC

martin-challis

Wind

From ambivalence to ferocity, she Touching everything at times Gently her soft hair over Follicles and skin through Reeds in marshes and then Grassy planes Across thresholds To the leaves of autumn From antipodes to tropics From arctics to alps Even the immovable Will feel her And they too Will tremble MChallis @ 2015

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Today was a good day. I had one worry; it died. My soul lost weight; my heart Found its way back up From the bottom of my belly. That, and the sun Shone all day. We're not spoiled with that Here in the semi-arctics. I didn't go hungry for a Split-second. I laughed until I cried Several times at work. Every face I saw on the street Had a feeling of friendliness To it. With days like these; who needs Dreams? I'll sleep like a fat, old cat tonight. Content and unafraid Of tomorrow.

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May 19, 2014

May 19, 2014 at 10:18 AM UTC

sgholter

Today

Today was a good day. I had one worry; it died. My soul lost weight; my heart Found its way back up From the bottom of my belly. That, and the sun Shone all day. We're not spoiled with that Here in the semi-arctics. I didn't go hungry for a Split-second. I laughed until I cried Several times at work. Every face I saw on the street Had a feeling of friendliness To it. With days like these; who needs Dreams? I'll sleep like a fat, old cat tonight. Content and unafraid Of tomorrow.

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Am I really trapped, or is it a prison of my mind? I try to run, but my body stops moving. My mind wanders across the planet, I can sense the vast wilderness. A need to experience it all comes over me. Yet I stay imprisoned here. Caught in a cage forged by force. Too strong for me to break, too small for me to ignore. It is what I want, but so far I can't. Unsuccessful; I punish myself. In vain, I try, I push, I pull, but my brain beats my brawns. I'm stuck, entrapped. If I had the strength, I'd tear apart the shackles, the shackles that keep me locked away. If i had the courage, I'd break off the chains, I would explore the Earth. Ascend the cliffs, descend the seas. Travel with the sun to the west, continuing to the east. Flee heat to the arctics, follow to the tropics. I'd run in the deserts, jump into the oceans. I'd run in the jungles, and dive into the skies. Disappear from my grave and appear in the world. To see, to hear. To smell, to taste. To feel, to live. Never again in fear.

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Mar 17, 2014

Mar 17, 2014 at 11:53 AM UTC

markthegr8

Trapped

Am I really trapped, or is it a prison of my mind? I try to run, but my body stops moving. My mind wanders across the planet, I can sense the vast wilderness. A need to experience it all comes over me. Yet I stay imprisoned here. Caught in a cage forged by force. Too strong for me to break, too small for me to ignore. It is what I want, but so far I can't. Unsuccessful; I punish myself. In vain, I try, I push, I pull, but my brain beats my brawns. I'm stuck, entrapped. If I had the strength, I'd tear apart the shackles, the shackles that keep me locked away. If i had the courage, I'd break off the chains, I would explore the Earth. Ascend the cliffs, descend the seas. Travel with the sun to the west, continuing to the east. Flee heat to the arctics, follow to the tropics. I'd run in the deserts, jump into the oceans. I'd run in the jungles, and dive into the skies. Disappear from my grave and appear in the world. To see, to hear. To smell, to taste. To feel, to live. Never again in fear.

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Salty rain begins Gliding its way down trunks Getting lost in fabric leaves Or resting gently on cheeks Basking in the heat of skins Molten bean soup Housing shoals of **** And Silken soy islands Habituated by scallion trees Brewing the perfect flavor group Then a beam above A blinding light Followed by silver Crashing with all might With the grace of a bellied dove The crash pays homage to Moses Splitting tectonic plates Paving a path to the scoop The stew child ascends And the gap below closes Into the cave it goes Entry barred a serpent slithers Corralling refuges back to nest The only ritual it knows The rain is dense A body is a temple This temple a sauna Coated in scorched poison It yearns for a cleanse Watered Calvary sweeps in Purging vile spice With soothing touch But glass only holds so much And the cure is left thin Slamming the clear dome Icebergs swish In a desolate tomb But a savior passes by Returning sea to the arctics home Hope is restored Now it’s time to desecrate Pangea resumes It won’t stop Until bowl is fully toured

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Aug 10, 2025

Aug 10, 2025 at 4:42 PM UTC

Punyo

Mapo Tofu

Salty rain begins Gliding its way down trunks Getting lost in fabric leaves Or resting gently on cheeks Basking in the heat of skins Molten bean soup Housing shoals of **** And Silken soy islands Habituated by scallion trees Brewing the perfect flavor group Then a beam above A blinding light Followed by silver Crashing with all might With the grace of a bellied dove The crash pays homage to Moses Splitting tectonic plates Paving a path to the scoop The stew child ascends And the gap below closes Into the cave it goes Entry barred a serpent slithers Corralling refuges back to nest The only ritual it knows The rain is dense A body is a temple This temple a sauna Coated in scorched poison It yearns for a cleanse Watered Calvary sweeps in Purging vile spice With soothing touch But glass only holds so much And the cure is left thin Slamming the clear dome Icebergs swish In a desolate tomb But a savior passes by Returning sea to the arctics home Hope is restored Now it’s time to desecrate Pangea resumes It won’t stop Until bowl is fully toured

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maybe you are right maybe we are not meant for each other i tried my best to stay but you keep pushing me away you shoved me with your cold, cold attitude like winter in the arctics i realized there is no use for me to chase after you any longer the longer i stay the more it hurts maybe i am not good enough for you what am i? just a speck of dust in your galaxy lost in your orbit trying to find my way home so now, i decided to stop chasing after you thank you for the memories thank you for the chance to hold you in my arms even if it's only for a while so goodbye, i hope you find a better man.

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Apr 21, 2019

Apr 21, 2019 at 10:53 AM UTC

arcanedave

Arctic Winter

maybe you are right maybe we are not meant for each other i tried my best to stay but you keep pushing me away you shoved me with your cold, cold attitude like winter in the arctics i realized there is no use for me to chase after you any longer the longer i stay the more it hurts maybe i am not good enough for you what am i? just a speck of dust in your galaxy lost in your orbit trying to find my way home so now, i decided to stop chasing after you thank you for the memories thank you for the chance to hold you in my arms even if it's only for a while so goodbye, i hope you find a better man.

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Act I: One Giant pines are dancing carelessly Soon, it will flow all over me and we'll be united in indifferent coldness of snow flurries of winter gusts Act II: Letter to Santa Dear Santa, Please ask North Pole winds to take me to arctics where my thoughts would freeze and my soul would rest in peace Coldest regards, Lotus Act III: Wolves Night is descending Something moves among trees humming, hissing, and howling just like an angry beast It finds the demons inside me they are circling around me their eyes impatient waiting for their feast In a moment of weakness they will attack me tear me apart salty sweat and ****** mist

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Oct 13, 2017

Oct 13, 2017 at 8:34 PM UTC

reza-mahani

Winter in Three Acts

Act I: One Giant pines are dancing carelessly Soon, it will flow all over me and we'll be united in indifferent coldness of snow flurries of winter gusts Act II: Letter to Santa Dear Santa, Please ask North Pole winds to take me to arctics where my thoughts would freeze and my soul would rest in peace Coldest regards, Lotus Act III: Wolves Night is descending Something moves among trees humming, hissing, and howling just like an angry beast It finds the demons inside me they are circling around me their eyes impatient waiting for their feast In a moment of weakness they will attack me tear me apart salty sweat and ****** mist

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