"bootsoles" poems - Hello Poetry

Somebody is shooting at something in our town -- A dull pom, pom in the Sunday street. Jealousy can open the blood, It can make black roses. Who are the shooting at? It is you the knives are out for At Waterloo, Waterloo, Napoleon, The **** of Elba on your short back, And the snow, marshaling its brilliant cutlery Mass after mass, saying Shh! Shh! These are chess people you play with, Still figures of ivory. The mud squirms with throats, Stepping stones for French bootsoles. The gilt and pink domes of Russia melt and float off In the furnace of greed. Clouds, clouds. So the swarm ***** and deserts Seventy feet up, in a black pine tree. It must be shot down. Pom! Pom! So dumb it thinks bullets are thunder. It thinks they are the voice of God Condoning the beak, the claw, the grin of the dog Yellow-haunched, a pack-dog, Grinning over its bone of ivory Like the pack, the pack, like everybody. The bees have got so far. Seventy feet high! Russia, Poland and Germany! The mild hills, the same old magenta Fields shrunk to a penny Spun into a river, the river crossed. The bees argue, in their black ball, A flying hedgehog, all prickles. The man with gray hands stands under the honeycomb Of their dream, the hived station Where trains, faithful to their steel arcs, Leave and arrive, and there is no end to the country. Pom! Pom! They fall Dismembered, to a tod of ivy. So much for the charioteers, the outriders, the Grand Army! A red tatter, Napoleon! The last badge of victory. The swarm is knocked into a cocked straw hat. Elba, Elba, bleb on the sea! The white busts of marshals, admirals, generals Worming themselves into niches. How instructive this is! The dumb, banded bodies Walking the plank draped with Mother France's upholstery Into a new mausoleum, An ivory palace, a crotch pine. The man with gray hands smiles -- The smile of a man of business, intensely practical. They are not hands at all But asbestos receptacles. Pom! Pom! 'They would have killed me.' Stings big as drawing pins! It seems bees have a notion of honor, A black intractable mind. Napoleon is pleased, he is pleased with everything. O Europe! O ton of honey!

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7.8k

Sylvia Plath

The Swarm

Somebody is shooting at something in our town -- A dull pom, pom in the Sunday street. Jealousy can open the blood, It can make black roses. Who are the shooting at? It is you the knives are out for At Waterloo, Waterloo, Napoleon, The **** of Elba on your short back, And the snow, marshaling its brilliant cutlery Mass after mass, saying Shh! Shh! These are chess people you play with, Still figures of ivory. The mud squirms with throats, Stepping stones for French bootsoles. The gilt and pink domes of Russia melt and float off In the furnace of greed. Clouds, clouds. So the swarm ***** and deserts Seventy feet up, in a black pine tree. It must be shot down. Pom! Pom! So dumb it thinks bullets are thunder. It thinks they are the voice of God Condoning the beak, the claw, the grin of the dog Yellow-haunched, a pack-dog, Grinning over its bone of ivory Like the pack, the pack, like everybody. The bees have got so far. Seventy feet high! Russia, Poland and Germany! The mild hills, the same old magenta Fields shrunk to a penny Spun into a river, the river crossed. The bees argue, in their black ball, A flying hedgehog, all prickles. The man with gray hands stands under the honeycomb Of their dream, the hived station Where trains, faithful to their steel arcs, Leave and arrive, and there is no end to the country. Pom! Pom! They fall Dismembered, to a tod of ivy. So much for the charioteers, the outriders, the Grand Army! A red tatter, Napoleon! The last badge of victory. The swarm is knocked into a cocked straw hat. Elba, Elba, bleb on the sea! The white busts of marshals, admirals, generals Worming themselves into niches. How instructive this is! The dumb, banded bodies Walking the plank draped with Mother France's upholstery Into a new mausoleum, An ivory palace, a crotch pine. The man with gray hands smiles -- The smile of a man of business, intensely practical. They are not hands at all But asbestos receptacles. Pom! Pom! 'They would have killed me.' Stings big as drawing pins! It seems bees have a notion of honor, A black intractable mind. Napoleon is pleased, he is pleased with everything. O Europe! O ton of honey!

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my natural eye, and your new hip moon and your hips, sharp hip bones and forgetting that I could use somebody— you never forget the floor with imperceptible scratches our bootsoles tracking cold sand and— where we buried the key you never forget I like when you sneak glances at my paper, at my tongue I miss the shudder in my knees when we passed the City skyline it was better than the first time you never forget

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Jun 16, 2012

Jun 16, 2012 at 4:48 PM UTC

cr1090

Someone Like You

my natural eye, and your new hip moon and your hips, sharp hip bones and forgetting that I could use somebody— you never forget the floor with imperceptible scratches our bootsoles tracking cold sand and— where we buried the key you never forget I like when you sneak glances at my paper, at my tongue I miss the shudder in my knees when we passed the City skyline it was better than the first time you never forget

14

if the world were to turn upside down i'd climb to the bottoms of the trees and let myself fall fall fall fall until i reached you, galaxies away i'd land upon your bootsoles to see where you had been and hope to find thoughts of me wedged between the treads then i'd dive into your skin through buttonholes of your shirt and nestled above your buried heart, i dig but cannot find a beat

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Mar 2, 2013

Mar 2, 2013 at 9:57 AM UTC

jessica-belle

Untitled

if the world were to turn upside down i'd climb to the bottoms of the trees and let myself fall fall fall fall until i reached you, galaxies away i'd land upon your bootsoles to see where you had been and hope to find thoughts of me wedged between the treads then i'd dive into your skin through buttonholes of your shirt and nestled above your buried heart, i dig but cannot find a beat

16

if you want me, look for me under your bootsoles do you realize that when dead we are all the same? dirt under a sole or maybe the dirt that lets a tree grow

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Mar 17, 2021

Mar 17, 2021 at 6:55 PM UTC

xo_ritxa_xo

do you realize?

if you want me, look for me under your bootsoles do you realize that when dead we are all the same? dirt under a sole or maybe the dirt that lets a tree grow

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