Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Rustles and bustles
Of a lovely morning breeze
That shines crystal rays.
Haiku
judy smith Apr 2017
So you know you’re looking at two very different styles of dress, here. But precisely what decades? When did that waistline move back down? What details are the defining touches of their era? How long were women actually walking around with bustles on their backsides?

Lydia Edwards’s How to Read a Dress is a detailed, practical, and totally beautiful guide to the history of this particular form of clothing from the 16th to the 20th centuries. It tracks the small changes that pile up over time, gradually ******* until your great-grandmother’s closet looks wildly different than your own. As always, fashion makes for a compelling angle on history—paging through you can see the shifting fortunes of women in the Western world as reflected in the way they got dressed every morning.

Of course, it’ll also ensure that the next lackadaisically costumed period piece you watch gives you agita, but all knowledge has a price.

I spoke to Edwards about how exactly we go about resurrecting the history of an item that’s was typically worn until it fell apart and then recycled for scraps; our conversation has been lightly trimmed and edited for clarity.

The title of the book is How to Read a Dress. What do you mean by “reading” a dress?

Basically what I mean is, when you are looking at a dress in an exhibition or a TV show, reading it in terms of working out where the inspirations or where certain design choices come from. Being able to look at it and recognize key elements. Being able to look at the bodice and say, Oh, the shape of that is 1850s, and the design relates to this part of history, and the patterning comes from here. It’s looking at the dress as an object from the top down and being able to recognize different elements—different historical elements, different design elements, different artistic elements. “Read” is probably the best word to use for that kind of approach, if that makes sense.

It must send you around the bend a little bit, watching costume adaptations where they’re a bit slapdash. The one I think of is the Keira Knightley Pride and Prejudice, which I actually really enjoy, but I know that one’s supposed to have all over the place costuming-wise.

Yeah, it does. I mean, I love the BBC Pride and Prejudice one, because they kept very specifically to a particular era. But I can see what they did with the Keira Knightley one—they were trying to keep it 1790s, when the book was written, as opposed to when it was published. But they’ve got a lot of kind of modern influences in there and they’ve got a lot of influences from 30, 40 years previously, which is interesting to an audience and gives an audience I suppose more frames of reference, more areas to think about and look at. So I can see why they did that. But it does make it more difficult if you’re trying to accurately decode a garment. It’s harder when you’ve got lots of different eras going on there, but it makes it beautiful and interesting for an audience.

The guide spans the 16th to the 20th century. Why start with the 16th century?

Well, partly because it’s where my own interest starts, in terms of my research and the areas I’ve looked at. But more importantly in terms of audience interest, we get a lot of TV shows, a lot of films in recent years—things like The Tudors—that type of era seems to be something that people are interested in. That time is very colorful and very interesting to people.

And also because in terms of thinking about the dress as garment, obviously people wore dresses in medieval times, but in terms of it being something that specifically women wore, distinct from men’s clothes, I really think we start to see that more in the 15th, 16th century onwards.

Where do you go to get the historical information to put together a book like this? What do you use as your source material? Because obviously the thing about clothing is that it has to stand up to a lot of wear and tear and a lot of it doesn’t survive.

This is the other thing about the 16th century stuff—there’s so little surviving. That’s why that chapter was a lot shorter and also that’s why I used a lot of artworks rather than surviving garments, just because they don’t exist in their entirety.

But wherever possible, you go to the garments themselves in museum collections. And then if that’s proving to be difficult, you go to artworks or images, but always bearing in mind the artist will have had their own agenda, so they won’t necessarily be accurate of what people were actually wearing. So then you have to go and look up written source material from the time—say, diaries. I like using letters that people have written to each other over the centuries, describing dress and what they were wearing on a daily basis. Novels can be good, as well.

Also the scholarship that has come before, the secondary sources, works by people like Janet Arnold, Aileen Ribeiro. Really well researched scholarly books where people have used primary sources themselves and put their own interpretation on it can be really, really helpful. Although you take some of it with a pinch of salt, and you put your own interpretation on there, as well.

But always to the dress itself wherever possible.

What are some of the challenges you face, or the constraints on our ability to learn about the history of fashion?

Well, the very practical issue of trying to see garments—some of them I did see here in Australia, but a lot of them were in the States, in Canada, in New Zealand, so it’s hard to physically get there to see them. And often, even when you can get to the museum, garments are out on loan to other exhibitions or other museums. That’s a practical consideration.

But also, especially when I’m talking about using artworks and things, which can be really helpful when you’re researching, but as I’ve said they do come from a place where there’s more interpretations and more agendas. So if someone’s done a portrait and there’s a beautiful 1880s dress in it, that could have been down to the whims of the person who was wearing it, or the artist could have changed significantly the color or style to suit his own taste. Then you have to do extra research on top of that, to make sure that what you are seeing is representative.

It’s a fascinating area. There’s a lot of challenges, but for me, that’s what makes it really exciting as well. But it’s really that question of being able to trust sources and knowing what to use and what not to use in order to make things clear for the audience.

Obviously many of these dresses were very expensive and took a lot of labor and it wasn’t fast fashion—people didn’t just give it away or toss it when it fell out of season. A lot of times, you did was you remade it. When you’re looking at a dress that’s been remade, how do you extract the information that you need as a historian out of it?

I love it when something like that comes up. I’ve got a couple of examples in the book.

Well, it can be quite challenging, because often when you’re first looking at a piece it’s not obvious that it’s been remade. But if you’re lucky enough to look inside it and actually hold it and turn it round different angles, there’ll be things like the placement of a seam, or you’ll see that the waist has been moved up or down according to the fashion. And that’s often obvious when you’re looking inside. You can see the way the skirt’s been attached. Often you can tell if a skirt’s been taken off and then reattached using different pleats, different gatherings; that can give you a hint that it’s then been remade to fit in with a different fashionable ideal.

One of the key ways is fabric. You can often see, especially in early 19th century dresses when they’ve been made of these beautiful 18th century silks and brocades. That’s nice because it’s the first obvious clue that something’s been remade or that an old dress has been completely taken apart and it’s just the fabric that’s been used. I find it particularly interesting when the waist has been moved or the seams have been taken off or re-sewn in a different shape or something like that. It can be subtle but once your knowledge base grows, that’s one of the most fascinating areas that you can look at.

You page through the book and you watch these trends unfold and there are occasional sea changes will happen fairly quickly, like when the Regency style arises. But how much change year-to-year would a woman have seen? How long would it take, just as a woman getting dressed in the morning, to see styles just radically alter? Would you even notice?

Well, this is the thing—I think it’s very easy, when we’re looking back, to imagine that in 1810 you’d be wearing this dress and then all the frills and the frouf would have started to come in the late 1810s and the 1820s, and suddenly you would have had a whole new wardrobe. But obviously, unless you were the very wealthiest women and you had access to dressmakers who had the absolute newest patterns and newest fabrics then no, you wouldn’t have seen a massive change. You wouldn’t have afforded to be able to have the newest things as they came in. You would have maybe remade dresses to make them maybe slightly more in line with a fashion plate that you might have seen, but you wouldn’t have had access to new information and new fashion plates as soon as they came. To be realistic, there would have been very little change on a day to day level.

But I think also, for us now—it’s hard to see it without hindsight, but we feel like we’re fairly fluid in wearing the same kind of styles, but obviously when we look back in 20 years, we’ll look at pictures of us and see greater changes than we’re now aware. Because it happens on a slow pace and it happens on such a subconscious level in some ways.

But actually, yeah, it’s to do with economics, it’s to do with availability. People living in towns where they couldn’t easily get to cities—if you were living in a country town a hundred miles away from London, there’s no way that you would have the resources to see the most recent fashion plates, the most recent ideas that were developing in high society. So it was a very slow process in reality.

If you have a lot of money you can change out your wardrobe quicker and wear the latest styles. And so the wealthiest people, their clothes were what in a lot of case stood the best chance of surviving and being in modern collections. So how do we know what working women would have worn or what middle class women would have worn?

Yeah, this is hard. I do have some more middle class examples, because we’re lucky in that we do have quite a few that have survived, especially in smaller museums and historical collections, where people have had clothes sitting in their attics for years and have donated them, just from normal families over the years.

But, working women, that’s much more difficult. We’re lucky from the 19th century because we have photographic evidence. But really a lot of it will come down to written descriptions, mainly letters, diaries, not necessarily that the people themselves would have kept, but there’s examples of people that worked in cotton mills, for instance, and people that ran the mills and their families and wives and friends who had written accounts of what the women there were wearing. Also newspaper accounts, particularly of people who would go and do charity work and help the poor. They often wrote quite detailed descriptions of the people that they were helping.

But in terms of actual garments, yeah, it’s very difficult. Certainly 18th century and before, it’s really, really hard to get hold of anything that gives you a really good idea of what they wore. But in the 18th century—it’s quite interesting, because then we get examples of separate pieces of clothing worn by the upper classes, like a skirt with a jacket, which was actually a lower middle class style initially and then it became appropriated by the upper classes. And then it became much fancier and trimmed and made in silks and things. So then, we can see the inspiration of the working classes on the upper classes. That’s another way of looking at it, although of course that’s much more problematic.

It’s interesting how in several cases you can see broader historical context, or other stories happening through clothes. Like you point out that the rise of the one-piece dresses is due to the rise of mantua makers, who were women who were less formally trained who were suddenly making clothing. Are there any other interesting stories like that, that you noticed and thought were really fascinating?

There’s a dress in the book that a woman made for her wedding. I think she was living on her own, or she was living with a servant and her mother or something. She made the dress and then turned up to her wedding and traveled quite a long way to get there, and when she arrived, the groom and all the guests weren’t there. There was nobody. So she went away and came back again a week later, and everyone was there. And the reason that no one was there before was that a river had flooded in the direction that they were all coming from. She had obviously no way of finding out about this until after the fact, and we have this beautiful dress that she spent ages making and had obviously gone to a lot of effort to try and work out what the latest styles were, to incorporate it into her wedding dress.

Things like that, I find really interesting, because they talk so much about human and social history as well as fashion history, and the garment is the main way we have of keeping these stories alive and remembering them and looking into the kind of life and world these people lived, who made these garments.

Over the centuries, how does technology affect fashion? Obviously, we think of the industrial revolution as really speeding up the pace of fashion. But are there other moments in the history of fashion where technology shapes what women end up wearing?

One example is where I talk about the Balenciaga dress from the early 1950s—with a bubble hem and a hat and she would have worn these beautiful pump shoes with it—with the introduction of the zipper. Which just made such a huge difference, because it suddenly meant you’d have ease and speed of dressing. It meant that you didn’t have to worry about more complicated ways of fastening a garment. I think the zipper made a massive change and also in terms of dressmaking at home, it was a really quick and simple way that people had of being able to create quite fashionable styles on a budget and with ease and speed at home.

Also, of course, once women’s dress started to become simpler and they did away with the corset and underwear became a lot less complicated, that made dressing a lot easier, that made the introduction of the bias cut and things that sit very closely to the natural body much more widely used and much more fashionable.

I would say the introduction of machine-made lace as well, particularly from the late 19th, early 20th century onwards where it was so fashionable on summer dresses and wedding dresses. It just meant that you could so much more easily add this decadent touch to a garment, because lace would have been so much more expensive before then and so time-consuming to make. I think that made a huge difference in ordinary women being able to attain a kind of luxury in their everyday dress.

That actually makes me think of something else I wanted to ask you, which is you point out in your intro the way we casually use this word “vintage.” I think about that with lace. Lace is described as being a “vintage” touch but it’s very much this question of when, where, who, why—it’s a funny term when you think about it, the way we use it so casually to describe so much.

Oh, yes. It’s crazy. I used to work in a wedding dress shop and I used to make historically inspired wedding dresses and things. And brides used to come in and say, “Oh, I want something vintage.” But they didn’t really know what they meant. Usually what they meant is they wanted something with a bit of lace on it, or with some sort of pearls or beading. I think it’s really inspired by whatever is trending at the time. So, you know, Downton Abbey became vintage. I think ‘50s has always been kind of synonymous with the word vintage. But what it means is huge,
TS Feb 2020
Trigger warning : aggressive ****** encounters, ****, violence

Walking down an empty street in London, I‌ was drawn to a crumbling, empty church. It's as if ‘decay’ was written on the walls. A sight unseen, I‌ just had to explore. It looks as though no one has been there for years, decades, or maybe even centuries. Wooden trim adorned the boarded up windows and an altar like a hidden stage lay in the very front. Layers of dust coated the floor. Two balconies towered over either side of the altar and what was left of the chairs sat facing the front of the church. The room was almost a half circle, drawing the attention to the front altar. The ceilings seemed to rise for miles and the windows cast haunted shadows on the floor. Everything is dingy and dull in color, as if it was a forgotten coloring book page that has faded overtime. As I tiptoed across the floor, I inspected each little thing almost in search of a lost treasure.

The energy is strange, almost as if it had been frozen in a paradox of time. Everything was left as if they fled in a hurry, untouched by the passing of years. What was it about this place that I was drawn to? What community used to worship here? What happened to them that left this church in this state. I‌ wasn’t sure I would find out the answer to any of these questions until I‌ spotted a dusty old book on a table by the door. Inside was a language I‌ did not know and notes scrawled on the page margins in pencil. “Gratias agimus tibi propter Princeps tenebris, princeps infernum.” it read. Was this latin? That might make sense as many of the Christian religions’ texts derived from the latin language. Since google is a thing now and we have an infinite access to so much information, I decided to give it a go.

‘We worship thee prince of the darkness, ruler of hell.’

I don’t think this was a Christian church…

As I‌ read these words aloud, a whisper seemed to escape from the walls around me. Carefully, I continued to explore, making sure to not disturb anything. Toward the back of the room was a wall trimmed in wainscoting dusted in a faded brown stain. A large hole was torn through a space on the bottom and a faint light flickered from inside. Was I not the only one here?

Next thing I‌ knew, I‌ was on my hands and knees, crawling through this hole. Why am I not able to control myself? I‌ should have left the instant I‌ read the inscription.‌ Something tells me that someone wants me to be here. Through cobwebs and rodent dung, I‌ reached an opening and stood up. It was a room with dirt walls and floor. There was a single oil lamp lit on a desk across the room. The furniture was skewed about and a questionable, almost luminescent red powder on the floor across the room. When I‌ got closer, I‌ also noticed the shards of glass spread on the ground around the powder. I reached down to touch the powder. I‌n the blink of an eye, I‌ was across the room, wondering what had happened. Before I‌ could even form a full thought, there was movement from the hole in the wall I‌ had just climbed through. A‌ little boy appeared, no older than 8, dressed in ***** wool trousers and a half tucked in, stained linen shirt. He wore a newsboy hat on his head that had certainly seen better days. On his shoulder was a worn bag which looked to be carrying something heavy.

“Hi there. My name is Anna. Are you lost?”

He walked by me as if I‌ were a ghost.

He was looking around, almost searching for something.

“Wh-what are you looking for?”

He made his way to the desk in the corner with the oil lamp and laid his bag down on the chair. He looked under and around with a near disappointed look. What was he trying to find? His eyes suddenly widened and he darted toward a nearby bookshelf, pulling down a crystal decanter from the top shelf. It was full of that same ghastly powder I saw before!‌ I‌ turned to look at that spot on the floor, only to find it clear and no broken glass scattered. To my surprise, the decanter came hurdling across the room, right passed my head, and smashed into the wall. I‌ turn quickly to see the little boy and he was gone. I blink and again am across the room where I‌ was before. I‌ shake my head and rub my eyes. What just happened? I‌ should really get out of here - I don’t think its safe to be here.

I‌ turned to leave but caught a glimpse of the little boy’s bag on the chair. Why was this still here? Why wouldn’t he take it with him? I‌ had to see what was inside. I picked up the bag and pulled each item out; a rock-hard loaf of bread nearly mummified, a small black book on elementary mathematics, a very old key, and sort of spherical item wrapped in a brown cloth.

I‌ removed the cloth to reveal a black clouded crystal ball. As soon as my hands touched its surface, I blinked and I‌ was out in the main room of the church with at least 30 people lingering around their chairs talking. I was no longer holding the ball, and everything had a bit brighter of a color to it. The room was still dark but the windows were not boarded up. There still lie some rubble on the ground but much less than before.

“Uhm, hello? Who are you? What is happening?”

I reached out to one of the people and they said nothing - they didn’t even acknowledge my existence. Everyone was dressed in very old clothing. Corsets, bustles, and shiny leather shoes. It was as if I stepped into a chapter of a victorian era book.
Despite the demeanor of the patrons, their clothes were still a little worn, torn, *****, and drab. Everyone carried on their conversations in a reasonable tone until a bell rang - everyone found a seat.

A lanky gentleman appeared at the altar in black clothing and spoke to the crowd.

“My fellow followers of Lucifer, I‌ beseech thee to bow down in worship to our almighty prince. He hath lead us to the depths of the fire and bestowed on us the power to destroy life itself.”

Each person knelt down and faced the ground in what I‌ would assume is reverence.

“For over a thousand years, this temple has held a dark mass for our dark lord, in which we show our dedication to his unholiness in the form of a sacrifice. Who among you has brought a gift to Satan himself?”

A petite, young, beautiful woman rose and approached the altar. Her head bowed in reverence and a veil over her head, she held out her arms. The man took a small item wrapped in a brown cloth from her and set it on the altar. They continued their ritual by spreading what I imagine was blood along the edge of the altar in a circle. As the man worked, the crowd of people mumbled in unison like a prayer. I watched from the side, trying to understand why I‌ was here and why no one would speak with me.

“Ma’am, what is this place?” I‌ asked a nearby worshiper. She said nothing.
“Excuse me,” I‌ nudge a young man to her left, “what is everyone doing?” He did not even look at me.

The mass continued in latin and I‌ watched quietly in confusion.

Nearly an hour passed and the mass seemed over. The people start chatting away as they had before and the gentleman at the front makes his way to the back wall where the hole was before. The young woman stopped him and asked to speak. I follow them to the back of the church. The gentleman quietly opens a door hidden in the wall right where the hole was and they walk in. I sneak in with them as the gentleman closes the door.

“Elizabeth, I am glad you came today. I was starting to worry that your faith was wavering. You haven’t seemed yourself lately since that human left.” the gentleman addressed the young woman as she sat in the chair by the desk. Everything was neater now and the furniture was placed in a purposeful way, much like a room in a house.

“Jonathan was the love of my life, Cain. I miss him every day. I don’t wish to go on in this world any longer.” Elizabeth squawked back with tears in her eyes.

Cain goes to comfort her, sits with her, and holds her in his arms as she sobs gently. He offers her his handkerchief and she accepts gracefully.
“Darling, you have so much more to give here. Lucifer needs your fortitude and dedication. But most of all, I need you.” He says, wiping a tear from her cheek.

As she rests her head on his shoulder, I look around the room. The powder is no longer on the floor and the decanter is on the table. I turn my attention back to the couple and I‌ see him kiss her softly. She turns away,
“Cain, please…” she whimpers, “I am not ready for this yet.” Cain nods and stands up. He walks across the room to a metal bowl with a pitcher and pours a glass of water.

“You should leave, Elizabeth.” he states without making eye contact. “You have no business being here if you will continue to cohort with humans. You have been given a dark gift that you are wasting away. You have been made beautiful to be a glorious gift to our community and you have disgraced us by your unfaithfulness.”

Shocked, Elizabeth stands and walks toward him with more tears in her eyes, “Cain, you know I‌ love you. I‌ want to stay with the community, to contribute and prove my worth. Please give me a chance.” she sobs.

He takes her in his arms and calmly says, “Elizabeth, you know what you must do. You know your purpose. You are the source of intimacy in this coven. You are our only hope to offer what we have to Lucifer.”

Elizabeth sighs and softly agrees. She looks defeated, tired, sad. I just want to wrap my arms around her and tell her it will be okay. I‌ blink back tears from my eyes. As I open them, I‌ am back in the main room surrounded by people. Cain is standing at the altar beside Elizabeth who is dressed in a beautiful black lace gown and veil. Cain lifts the veil from her face and kisses her neck. Her expression unchanged, still flooded with defeat. Cain starts to unbutton her gown. What is happening? Why are all these people watching this? She doesn’t look happy… why is no one stopping this? Cain starts to aggressively remove her clothing until she is standing bare and vulnerable in front of the crowd.

“What are you doing?!” I‌ scream.
“Leave her alone!” I‌ run to the front to try and stop them but I‌ am invisible.

As Cain removes his trousers, Elizabeth stands there calmly but with deep sadness in her eyes. He motions to the altar and Elizabeth lays down. Cain climbs on top of her and starts to penetrate. He begins aggressively … well there is no other word for it besides ****. He is ****** her. Her eyes fill with tears but she blinks them back. He gains speed until he finally ******* inside her. She blankly stares at the ceiling and a single tear rolls down the side of her face, landing in her now unkempt hair.
Why? Why did this happen? What is going on? Why did no one stop this?
A man in the crowd stands up and walks to the front. When he reaches the altar, he begins to undress.

No.

Not again. There is no way. Why would they be doing this? Why is no one stopping this?!

Man after man after man violates Elizabeth while she lays silently on the stone altar. I am sobbing now. Why am I‌ powerless? Why can’t I‌ stop this? Why is this happening?

What seems like hours pass of this horror and Elizabeth finally stands up. She puts her gown back on and replaces her veil. Cain stands beside her and grabs her hand. He recites something in latin then repeats in English, “The marriage of the many.” They begin a ceremony similar to a wedding but instead of a groom, on the altar lies the decanter of powder.
The ceremony continues and I can hear Elizabeth faintly sobbing, “Jonathan…” she whispers. She blinks back her tears and looks up. She sees him standing by the door, tears off her veil and runs to him. He was not there. Men from the crowd drag her back to the altar. She is screaming, “I‌ won’t marry him! Jonathan has my heart. I‌ would rather die than give myself over to Lucifer!” Cain hits her across the face leaving a throbbing red mark.

She cradles her face from the pain as Cain yells,
“Don’t you dare disgrace us! You are the ultimate sacrifice to our king and you must obey!”

Cain drags her back to the altar and chains her down. He pulls a knife from his belt and lifts it in the air yelling, “To thee I‌ offer, oh king of hell, this sacrifice of violated innocence. Come forth and bestow your gifts upon us as we offer her to you.” I‌ lunge forward to try and stop him. Just as he is about to plunge the knife in her chest, the decanter on the altar opens and the powder bursts into the air. A loud voice bellows through the church,

“You dare disgrace this innocence. An offer of such little worth hath no result for a coven such as yours.” A strong gust of wind throws Cain against the wall. The blow kills him instantly. The crowd bursts into chaos. Elizabeth, still chained to the altar, is hysterically sobbing and trying to break free. From the cloud of wind, a man walks toward her. He is tall with dark features. He has deep black eyes and a chiseled jaw line and body. He walks to her. Elizabeth looks up and is speechless. The man crouches down to unchain her and kindly helps her up.
“They hath defiled you, oh innocence. For this they shall burn.” He speaks in a deep voice. He extends his hand and half of the crowd turns to ash. He looks into her eyes and kisses her neck.

Elizabeth looks to the ceiling with tears in her eyes and mutters, “Please don’t hurt me…”
“Why would I hurt the most purest gifts my father has given the world?” He says as he holds her face. “I have removed the human from your life to clear your path to glory. In my father’s spite, we will be betrothed tonight. You shall rule hell beside me and bear my children.”
She sobs, “You … you killed him? I loved him!”
“Girl, you know nothing of love.” He says flatly. She looks at him in surprise, tears still falling down her cheeks. Chaos is still roaring around them as the crowd tried to escape the hellfire. “These filthy creatures are not worthy of your power. You belong to me now.” She tries to break free of his grip but he is far too strong for her. He lifts her up and lays her on the altar and begins to overtake her as she cries.
I stand to the side helplessly. Sobbing with her. I close my eyes and wish it over. I‌ want to leave now. I can’t take this.
Silence. I open my eyes to the sudden stillness and there sits a pregnant Elizabeth in a dark, empty church. Tears are gently running down her face and I realize that I‌ have not yet seen her with a smile on her face. Lucifer appears to her and holds her in his arms. I can’t hear anything. They are speaking but there is no sound. He lays her down and she yells - she is in labor. A small bundle wrapped in a cloth is delivered and the dark lord holds it in his hands and looks down calmly. Elizabeth stands up behind him with anger in her eyes. She pulls a knife from her cloak and plunges it in his neck. He drops the child but Elizabeth reaches to catch it just in time. She runs to the door with the cloth in her arms and slams the door behind her. A furious Satan rips the knife from his neck and runs to the door. He slams on it with his fists and yells. I‌ still cannot hear.
I blink and see Elizabeth on the steps of a church, crying softly. She gently lays the bundle on the door step and runs away. A woman appears at the door and picks it up, cradling it in her arms.
I‌ blink and see Elizabeth back in the church, holding the decanter and stealthy creeping around the corners. She turns around and Lucifer is standing there.
“You have betrayed me. All freedoms have been stripped from you. You will no longer sit beside me and rule hell. You will be caged and retained for only reproduction. You WILL bear my children and I‌ shall take them from you, never to be seen again. This will continue until I‌ have used the last of you and then you will be destroyed.” He exclaims angrily.
Elizabeth stands straight up, holds the decanter in her hand and yells, “I‌ banish thee, Satan, to the confines of this prison. You shall never again walk the face of this earth.”‌ As she opens the lid, the dark lord plunges the knife she used on him into her chest. A gust of wind engulfs him into the decanter. Elizabeth drops to the floor. A‌ knife in her chest, she struggles to put the top on the decanter. She crawls to the wall where the door once was. She begins to peel away the pieces of the wall weakly. She works in pain for what seems like hours until she makes it into the room. She drags herself over to the bookshelf and hoists herself up. She places the decanter up as far up as she can and tries to cover it with a cloth. As she reaches, she falls. Upon hitting the ground, she fades into dust.
I‌ stood there silently, shocked. This woman. I feel like I‌ know her. She is so strong and brave. I‌ am in awe and also in tears. I‌ collapse to the ground in the dust she left behind. I‌ mourn her, her hardships, her life. She deserved so much more.
I open my eyes and I‌ see a little girl, maybe 5 or 6 years old enter the room. She looks around. I yell, “Leave!‌ This place is dangerous!‌”
Bewildered by the things around her, she wanders to the bookshelf. She looks so much like Elizabeth. Could this be? Could it be her daughter? She is holding a small bag. She sits down at the desk and opens it. Its her lunch. She begins to eat and continue looking around. She sees the light from the oil lamp gleam off the crystal decanter. Excited, she pushes the chair up against the bookcase and climbs up. On her tippy toes, she manages to reach the decanter. She sits back down and twirls it around, moving the powder from one side to the other. A small amount of powder escapes in a puff. You can hear a whisper, “Victoria…” I‌ hear. She hears it too.
“Hello? Who’s there?” she squeaks. She puts the decanter down and walks around. She turns around to return to her lunch and is greeted by Lucifer himself, though she doesn’t know this. He is weak. The remainder of his strength lies in the decanter. He can’t speak. He grabs her and yells - she screams and breaks away from his grasp. She takes off in the other direction and crawls back through the hole. She looks behind her then darts toward the door. He is standing there in front of the door. He waves his hand and the large metal door bolts shut. She stops dead in her tracks, stares at him for a moment, then takes off.
Frantically running through the church, Victoria is trying to find any means of escape. Tears in her eyes, she evades Lucifer’s grasp several times. The windows are boarded up, the doors are bolted, and it seems there is no way out. Suddenly a little gleam of light comes from above. The balcony. She starts toward the wall and begins to climb up the trim as quickly as she can. Lucifer is close behind, yelling but unable to speak words to her. She reaches for the balcony and pulls herself up.
Suddenly I‌ am outside on the balcony and Victoria is reaching for the railing. She is reaching for the light. She is reaching for me. She looks into my eyes and yells, “Help me! Please!” and extends her hand. Surprised that she can see me, I reach out to grasp her hand but before I‌ can get her, she is pulled screaming back into the church. I‌ lunge forward to pull her back but land on the floor of the back hidden room breathing heavily. I stand up and dust myself off. I am in the middle of the powder and glass that was on the floor. I grab the book I‌ found and start to run for the door. I‌ can’t get caught by him, he will **** me. A thousand things are running through my mind. I crawl through the hole and head toward the door. Something compels me to look back as I pull open the door.
There he stood.
Staring at me.
“Daughter, fear not. I will find you and we will rule together with your sister.” He says.
Daughter? Sister? Who am I?
Trigger warning : aggressive ****** encounter, ****, violence
a bilingual rensaku

       1

píosa eile coiréil
            caite i dtír:
                        bhog sé – portán sligreach



another piece of coral
            washed up on the beach:
                        it moves – hermit crab





            2

spéir gan teimheal –
            ar aghaidh leis arís
                        ag máirseáil, portán sligreach



cloudless sky –
            off again on his marches
                        hermit crab



            3

tost ... airgeadaíonn an ghealach
            an gaineamh faoina luíonn
                        na huibheacha turtar

silence ... the moon silvers
            the sand that hides
                        turtle eggs



          







            4

iompaíonn a lí
            ar an ré chródhearg
                        teitheann na réaltaí



a blood-red moon
            changes colour
                        putting all the stars to flight



            5

cruth an choiréil ******>            cruth réaltbhuíne
                                                            i gcéin



the shape of this coral
            shape of a distant
                                                            galaxy



            6

oileáin á nochtadh
            is ag leá
an mar seo a cruthaíodh an domhan?



islands coming
            and going
is this how the world was made?













            7

ní gá iarraidh orthu –
            seolann na crainn phailme
                        bríos chugainn



cooling breeze
            from palm trees –
                        without asking



            8

an féileacán fiú
            glacann scíth
                        san ámóg



even the butterfly
            takes a rest
                        in the hammock





            9

taoi foirfe, i ngach slí,
a mhuiscít; mar sin féin
fan amach uaim



you are perfect in every way
mosquito; nonetheless
buzz off







            10

spléachadh ar thurtar
            a shúile
is a bhfuil feicthe acu



glimpse of a turtle
            his eyes
and what they have seen



            11

lorg bídeach chosa an éin
            ag díriú de shíor
ar ghaineamh gan chríoch



faint imprint of a bird’s feet
            pointing                       pointing
towards infinite sands





            12

isteach i bpoll sa ghaineamh
            rud a bhí róthapaidh
                        le hainmniú



into a hole in the sand
            something  too quick
to be named





            13

níl faic ar na gaobhair
ach brostaíonn an chearc a hál
an cosán anonn





nothing in sight
yet the hen bustles her clutch
across the path





            14

féar mara
            itheann na turtair é
                        seachas sin, n’fheadar



sea grass
            turtles eat it
                        apart from that, who knows















            15

linnte geala
            domhainchiúnais
                                    a réaltaí, na himíg’!



bright pools
            of deep silence –
                        no, stars, don’t go!



            16

nach toilltach!
            ar luas an tsolais, nach mór,
                        scairt an choiligh



how penetrating!
            almost at the speed of light
                        **** crow





            17

an lá á ghlaoch
            chun beochta acu
                        coiligh nach bhfeictear



calling the day
            to life –
                        invisible cockerels









            18
          
domhan fo thoinn
            cruinniú gearr
                        leis an mballach Napoléon



underwave world
            short meeting
                        with the Napoleon wrasse





            19

guth dearg an choiligh
            dathaíonn spéir
                        na maidine



a ****’s red voice
            painting
                        the morning sky





            20

coiréal inchinne cnapánaí
            gealas na réaltaí-
                        gan smaointe



knobby brain coral
            starglow -
                        no thoughts





            21



coiligh ag freagairt dá chéile
            eatarthu leátar
                        an ré



***** echoing one another
            between them they dissolve
                        the moon





            22

cos léi amuigh –
            tá an chuileog rómhór
                        do bhéal an gheiceo





one leg hangs out –
            the fly is too big
                        for the gecko’s mouth



            23



anáil chiúnaithe
            na cruinne: is ansin
                        scairt an choiligh





the stilled breath
            of the universe: then
                        cockcrow





            24

éisc ar crochadh
            faoin ngrian –
                        muir gan mhonabhar



fish hung out
            to dry
                        murmurless sea





            25

ina gceann is ina gceann
ciúnaíonn tonnta
                        roimh réaltaí



one by one
            waves become placid
                        for the stars





            26

scáil an turtair
            nó féar mara
                        b'fhéidir



turtle shadow
            or sea grass
                        maybe





            27

línte reatha -
an t-iasc séabrach
ag scríobh ar uisce



fleeting lines -
the zebra fish
writing on water











            28

hurlamaboc

            francach

                        in airde sa chrann cnó cócó



hullabaloo

            a rat

aloft in the coconut tree
Poets from all over the world are invited to submit their original poems to Mombasa poetry anthology 2016.These anthology is organized by the Kenyan society of poets and literary scholars. It is out of literary and cultural recognition of the historical fact that Mombasa and its environs is home man, it is an indisputable home to all types of people in all their capacities and stations. It is historically evident that, at least a European, an African, Asian, Indian, American, Australian or Chinese have a home in Mombasa. This has been the case from as early as 7 AD. When the Oman Arabs landed at the east African coast in the moon-son wind driven dhows.
This anthology will be published Kenya, as a print version latest by December 2016, under the title, ANTHEM OF HOPE.   The anthology will have a collection of 2000 poems, written in English, or written in any other language but accompanied with a translation to English, each poet is allowed to submit three poems, a poem must not exceed 500 words, all poems must be submitted as one document of MS word attachment, the font types to be used are times Romans, the size is 12. The poem can be in any style without having creativity of the poet being decimated by traditional literary canonicity, but as long as the poem will be addressing and not limited to the following themes in relation to Mombasa;
1) Mombasa city, other towns Around Mombasa like Kisumayu, Lamu, Kibino,Hola, Mpeketon, Bamburi, Malindi, Watamu, Gede, Matsangoni, kilifi, Vipingo, Takaungu, Mtwapa, Shimo la tewa, Bamburi, Likoni,ukunda,wa,msambweni,lunga Lunga,Vanga , Shimoni, Tanga,msofala, Dar salam and Zanzibar, as well as Mariakani and Voi,taita,taveta and Arusha,
2) Mombasa people, The miji-kenda,arabs,European, bajuni, Indians, and any other in relation to Mombasa
3) Mombasa features like the Indian ocean, likon ferry, fort jesus,beaches,vasco da Gama pillar, nyali bridge,Makupa cause way and any other feature,
4) Mombasa populations; Christians, muslim,LGBTI,drug addicts, the deaf, blind, scrotal elephantiasis victims,dwarfs,jinis and any other in realtion to Mombasa,
5) Mombasa fauna and flora, kilifi trees, mango trees, palm wine tree, crow birds, cats, flies, vultures,snakes,pythons Mombasa
6) Mombasa cultures,womenfolk,weddings, music, donkey-games, stick-games and any other in relation to Mombasa,
7) Mombasa city dynamics, hustles,bustles,Al-shabab, job seeking, youths and behaviour and any other theme ,
8 ) Overall themes to be addressed under the Mombasa city context are; Indian ocean and poetry, family, human rights, climate change, security , poverty, pollution, globalization,migration,corruption,cosmopolitanism,culture,langua­ge,war,refuges,natural resources and any other them pertinent to Mombasa
******, racist, prejudicial or any hate perpetrating poems will not be published, For the poets that will have their poems published there will be a ceremony of spoken word and poetry reading from the published poems in early December  2016 ( exact date will be communicated) on the white sands beach at Sarova hotel.
The last day for submission of your poems is July 31st 2016, the notification about your poem being accepted and yet to be published is 31st august 2016.
Submit your poems along with a bio note of not more than 500 words to the email mombasapoetryanthology@yahoo.com, along with a serial number and a scanned copy of the slip for payment of the handling fees of Kenya shillings 500 or 5 US dollars for the three poems. The account to pay in is Standard Chartered Bank (Kenya) account number; 0100310788200 the swift code is; SCBLKENX and bank code is 02
Five winning poets will be prized in the following order; the first poet will win 5000 US dollars, second poet will win 4000 US dollars, the third will win 3000 US dollars, 2000 US dollars, and lastly 1000 US dollars.
Each published poet will get two copies of the anthology free of charge. Further questions for clarification about the Mombasa Poetry anthology can be emailed mombasapoetryanthology@yahoo.com
She worked in the market
She sold flowers and jewellery
but, nobody there knew her name

With fifty young vendors
Of flowers and jewellery
Each teenaged young girl looked the same

No one remembered the smiling blue eyes
The child like lilt to her voice
No one remembered the smiling blue  eyes
Or the way that she blushed for the boys
No one remembered the smiling blue eyes
They all could be one and the same
No one remembered the smiling blue  eyes
or her hair, or her smile or her name

She was hitch hiking home
From the market one night
A car pulled on up for a ride

He told her he'd take her
If she needed a lift
It was cold,  so the girl  got inside

No one remembered the smiling blue eyes
The child like lilt to her voice
No one remembered the smiling blue  eyes
Or the way that she blushed for the boys
No one remembered the smiling blue eyes
They all could be one and the same
No one remembered the smiling blue  eyes
or her hair, or her smile or her name


No one has seen her
She's been gone for three days
She never arrived at her home

Nobody saw him
All cars look the same
And besides he was travelling alone

No one remembered the smiling blue eyes
The child like lilt to her voice
No one remembered the smiling blue  eyes
Or the way that she blushed for the boys
No one remembered the smiling blue eyes
They all could be one and the same
No one remembered the smiling blue  eyes
or her hair, or her smile or her name


The market still bustles
With sellers of flowers
Where everyone looks, shops or buys

But, something is missing
A young girl is gone
The girl with the smiling blue eyes

No one remembered the smiling blue eyes
The child like lilt to her voice
No one remembered the smiling blue  eyes
Or the way that she blushed for the boys
No one remembered the smiling blue eyes
They all could be one and the same
No one remembered the smiling blue  eyes
or her hair, or her smile or her name
Alyanne Cooper Jun 2011
The world outside bustles
As everyone rustles
Through their busy lives.
She sits outwardly still and calm
But waiting for some balm
To come soothe her tired soul.

Soothe the sting and burn
Of having to relearn
How to live and go on.
Soothe the fear and pain
Of having to refrain
From saying what she wants to really say.

If only they knew
If only they saw
The little child
That hides within.

If only they heard
If only they sensed
The trembling babe
That cries at night.

But a grown woman
Has perfected the art
Of painting on masks.
The lines, the colors,
So perfectly drawn on
To hide the imperfect reality.

So the world bustles
With everyones' rustles
Of living their own lives.
And she...
She waits, paralyzed.
Jon Tobias Nov 2012
On the end table by the bed
A tiny Styrofoam cup
Full of unwrapped candy

In child’s writing
All caps and struggle

HAPPY HALLOWEEN
I AM SORRY
MOM

It is hard to stay angry
When you have an imagination

I picture her at a round table
******* a hospital bracelet

There are other people with her
Some have construction paper
Some have glue
There is glitter
And painted fingertips

I still get homesick
For places I have never been to
Sometimes miss people
I never even knew

There is a city inside my chest
It bustles
Pre pollution
But ***** is still legal

I have made homes there
You have a home here
In a city with
No hospitals
No graveyards
Just a cul-de-sac that starts at my throat
And double loops along my lungs
So many streets
My chest x-rays look like upside-down trees without the leaves

And when you leave
There is a house
Inside the city inside my chest
That stays empty forever

So much left behind
There is no room for anger to stay long

It exits like forgiveness
When you’ve given up all hope
When you can only reimagine so much

Some of these homes are condemned

Though it is hard to stay angry
Glynis Kearney Jun 2010
As a rainbow sends down a colourful hue,
a wasp swirls around in a puddle of dew
and lost in the hollow...somewhere within
an imp practices magic his planning to spin
an ocean of flowers bow down in their praise
as a dung beetle carries his load through a maze
and far in the distance a nightingale sings
happy in the warmth that the sunshine brings
a giggle of fairies and Will o' the Wisp
a dragonfly makes his way through the mist
a butterfly dances on the wings of a breeze
a waterfall hides behind the shade from the trees
a ladybird whistles about as she plays
a squirrel bustles through the place where she stays.....

...yet in all this beauty and clandescent touch
it's lost on me ~ I've grown up too much!
© Glynis Kearney 2005
Lunatide Oct 2014
Scintillating atoms, a world all a glow
Energy in motion as it bustles too and fro.

A drum and beat all it's own, every living being just marching in perfect tone.

Electrical impulses and frequencies high and low.
  
A ferver of vibrations this earth that we know,

Time progresses onward, life ebbs and flows.

Energy neither created nor destroyed, only changing form.

Maybe life is  more a circular pattern than a linear path of time
Kait Marie Mar 2012
Recluse
beneath congestion of cigarette smoke
and spirits
a crippled voice
deteriorates
His mornings are bleak;
Rise
to the sink
to the shower
to the wardrobe
to the door
to meet the day


Slacks, overcoat, and loafers
topped off with some novelty tie
from the local drug store
He coasts along the brick-stone walk-ways
careful not to place his feet upon
cracks or cross a path with a black cat

A superstitious man he is
a white rabbits foot tucked beneath
his ankle socks
a turkey wishbone key-chain clanging against
his satin-lined pocket
and a four-leaf clover preserved in
saran-wrap pinned against his chest

With each stride
he nears the corner market
and purchases a pack of Perdomo
along with a bottle of unlabeled *****
concealing it bellow the buttons of the coat
He then exchanges with the cashier and exists

His journey leads him around the block
and passed pedestrians
only to be reunited with his stoop
The cold concrete is inviting
he sets himself in
on the third step
and prods his pockets
removing his lite and Perdomo's
for better
use
aflame they go
between crackled lips

Greeted with the sour beverage
his face molds like dry leather
crinkles and all
in reaction to the addicting
bitterness

His eyes pick out people from a crowd
the business man who hurries on by
to important to give a hoot
the youth of who laugh in mockery
yet to prideful to admit they're foolish
the tourist twisting the map above their face
searching corner streets a sign
the woman who bustles her child through
avoiding contact
with the man
who sits on the stoop

Not person goes by that
he wishes he were
he is perfect
perfectly content
in his subliminal life

The smoke rises and falls
from his throat
he wheezes
averting from his train of thought
it wasn't important either way
Amy Perry Dec 2016
Maniacally,
The days and nights
Bleed together
Into a time frame
The insane
Tap into
That's a lot like infinity.
Vampiracally,
The years of
Infinity
Bleed together
Into an abysmal
Spiral
Of insanity.
Supernaturally,
Are our states of being.
How well
We blend in
With a dismal
Arrangement
Of plain people
In trains,
Checking their wrists
For the time
As they travel
Physically.
Naturally,
The three of us
Are bound to meet
At some point.
Tapping into
Hidden goldmines
Of psychological
Nuggets
That gleam
With prosperity,
As everything
Melts together
Again.
Everything is sacred.
Everything is connected.
Mining
For hidden connections
Ought to excavate
Feelings of wonder.
The caverns filled
With complex crystals
Of energetic
Freethought
Have long been
Paved over
By trains and
Linear brains
Improving on their
Transistors.
Maniacally and
Vampiracally,
The days and nights
Bleed together,
While the world below
Bustles about;
We appear to be
Just like one of them.
We may even check
Our watch.
Our conditions
Are congruent
In that they are
Nothing less than
Supernatural.
abp
Chris Jul 2015
~

A crowded city street,
strolling a narrow sidewalk,
your hand in mine
Pastel neon lights paint the buildings
in soothing colors,
softening sharp edges,
creating a wonderland
on this warm summer night

A small bistro, street side tables
candle light and tablecloths
tiny dancing flames on white linen
igniting your smile as we take a seat
amidst the din of taxi cabs
racing to find the sunset,
lover’s fare put to good use
in backseat desires

Two glasses of Pinot,
fine crystal offerings
as are your eyes, glistening,
dark chocolate petals
calling me in, hypnotized
free falling into your heart  
as I drink them in slowly,
tasting every tantalizing gaze

A toast to us, touching glasses,
touching hearts, changing lives
as I wonder what I have done
to deserve this dream, you and me,
no one else exists, the city bustles
unnoticed as we sip the fruits
of our love on an enchanting evening
hoping it never ends…
Good night beautiful
Jack Piatt Aug 2012
She’s swinging from a different home plate
Our dictionaries don’t have enough words for her
She needs more
But not from here
Cause she’s not from here
She’s from everywhere we’re not
And when she writes
We are well aware of it
She spears me through the heart with her lines
But the last word never fails to politely cauterize
So her poetry leaves a mark
Fascia tattoos from Planet M
Messages sinking deeper in
Underneath everything human
Into the soul’s skin

That’s the reach of her pen
(Down below the circus of our understanding)

She lives down there, and sends postcards up
In the form of poetry

Dear so and so,
“there is a hole in your belly.

this is where those precious things fall that you drop”

Dear Mariah,
I know, I know
But I can’t seem to keep my hands dry

Knowing she will just sigh
And keep writing her poetry post cards
Postmarked “upstairs”

As the circus bustles and bangs above
I am sure she takes breaks
And comes up
For cotton candy
(blue/orange - yellow/purple)
of course
This is written for mariah, who you can find right here on hello poetry at ...
http://hellopoetry.com/-mariah/
Check her out and you will see what I mean :)
Mel Feb 2016
The car rattles along and the cityscape comes into sight. The city bustles with life and I watch the never-ending whirlwind of characters in a motion picture show. The flickers of city light diffuses and casts a shine on the photographic opportunities.
I see you and how you are oblivious to your own enchanting and radiant soul.
You are more stunning than the stars, yet also unattainable and heartbreakingly beautiful to gaze upon. I hope someday you achieve your goal of happiness and that you meet someone truly worthy of you. All I want to do is embrace you, ease your pain, carry your sorrows and share your joys. However, I know that I will never have the privilege.

I sense something on the horizon that beckons and pulls me in. Do I resist or investigate the call? I hope that in the future, I don’t instigate a further parting of ways. The only thing that would compel me to do that would be if that I were to cause you great harm emotionally in some way, intentionally or not. I will endeavor to the best of my ability not to. But like everyone else I’ve ever known, I might still push you away.

You are so wonderful to me but how am I even worth of being a part of your life? I don’t understand and I’ll try not to disappear. Honestly, you would be better off if I did.
In the future we might walk right past each other and in a flash we become strangers again. Sadly, all of our history and time together have ceased to be. Of course, I will inevitably be the one to blame. Oh Darling but it was worth the while.
Francie Lynch Nov 2017
An open Rosary,
Sprawled on the table
Has the shape of Eire.
Towns joined like beads
On winding, rope roads.
At the end of the main street
In Shercock, Lough Egish,
Or a thousand other towns,
Looms the church spire,
God's rod.
The square still bustles on Wednesdays.
The smithy's forge
Now lights up a Paddy Power;
The Euro Store sells needles and thread
Where once a seamstress sat;
Shish Kabobs on flat bread sell
Where the butcher's counter displayed the day's cut.
But scrape away the paint
And attend to the devotion and mystery
Of small town Erin;
Where only the pubs maintain names
Decade after decade.
There, on the wall, see the rebels
Enjoying a football match,
And the crowd, laughing,
Has their backs.
Eire, Erin: Ireland
Isabelle Feb 2017
•••
*City sounds, city lights
Chaos, hustles and bustles
Amidst the busy street
I saw you, only you
In a world of deafening sounds
And blinding lights
There was you, only you
And in a world where people come and go
You choose to stop and stay
You ask me to stop and not let go
And in the name of love, I did
Another raw poem. With reference to https://m.facebook.com/ThePhilippineSTAR/photos/a.134754620011561.30607.134752476678442/757664594387224/?type=
His spring was short, and he wore it
damp and dreary with query bulbs lightly
weaved in a soiled waistcoat. He will be
ready for summer.

His summer comes modest, not hot
enough for milking. Answers flower few,
so he dons a leaf-cushioned jacket
and waits for the fall.

His fall arrives late, too sweetly
burning assents of decay. Cracks branch thin,
and he slaps on a sappy topcoat,
with dread of winter.

His winter bustles with a bite,
but its nibbles and noms are blessedly
brief. He sighs, "It's a shame my seasons
can only be four."
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 3.0 License.
Allie Savioli May 2010
The billboards advertise it;
The mental pollution
That's obtained in a New York minute
Is mind-blowing.

A fast-paced world bustles by
Outside a taxi cab window.
It's rush hour,
And the car horns scream pleas of chaos.

Busy bodies litter the streets.
As they dissipate, they are soon replaced
Like the car exhaust
That's always lingering in the air.
The house that I rented was falling down,
I picked up the place for a song,
There weren’t many rooms that were liveable,
The plumbing and wiring were wrong,
I lit up a paraffin lantern there
To lighten the dark and the gloom,
But while still exploring, I thought I heard
A voice in the upstairs room.

I hadn’t been up in the loft ‘til then,
I’d not even mounted the stairs,
The rooms were a midden of broken toys
Of lopsided tables and chairs,
I carted the worst of them out the back,
The fire that I set lit the gloom,
Again from a window above me there
Was the voice in the upstairs room.

I couldn’t make out a word that it said
It grumbled and mumbled and moaned,
I stood and I listened and scratched my head
And to tell you the truth, I groaned.
I didn’t know what lay above me there
A squatter, a thief or a ghost,
A thief didn’t matter, a squatter I’d scatter
What worried me most was a ghost.

I went and I stood by the bottom stair
Looked up, with a feeling of doom,
The voice was whispering somewhere there,
‘You’d better be leaving here soon!’
‘The only one leaving this place is you,
Whatever, whoever you are!’
‘The only way you will be rid of me
Is by putting the lid on the jar.’

I plucked up the courage and took the stairs,
Was running, but two at a time,
The dust was heavy and thick up there,
Whipped up as I started to climb,
A haze was suffused in the room at the back
Where the window was beaming in light,
And there at a ghostly harpsichord
Was sitting a woman in white.

I stood stock still as she started to play
Bach’s Little Prelude in C,
The notes hung quivering, shivering in
The haze of the air by me,
I saw right through the woman, the dress
And the harpsichord to the wall,
There was no substance that I could see,
No substance to them at all.

The music stopped, she was looking at me
And she let out a long, loud sigh,
‘I’ve only played for two hundred years
To some visitors, passing by.
It’s never the same as it was at court
With the crinolines, bustles and lace,
And most have fled when the music played,
Without ever seeing my face.’

I looked at the jar on the mantelpiece,
A Funeral Urn with its store,
And ash was spilling, leaving a trace
With the lid that lay on the floor,
I bent to touch it and pick it up
But the woman had let out a cry,
‘I pray sir, never replace the lid,
For then I would surely die.’

I placed the lid on the Funeral Urn,
Turned back to look at her face,
The room was empty, the harpsichord
Had gone, not leaving a trace.
There was no sign of the woman in white
And the haze had faded away,
I turned and slowly descended the stairs
With a feeling of vague dismay.

For weeks I scrubbed and I tended that house,
Installed all my goods and wares,
But often found I was listening for
The sound of that voice upstairs.
So I crept in there on a winter’s eve
And I slipped the lid off the jar,
Went silently down the stairs again
Still listening, from afar.

The harpsichord struck a strident note
And it woke me up in my chair,
Then suddenly she began to sing
In a voice that was sweet and fair.
I only cover the Funeral Urn
If the vicar is passing by,
But sometimes sit at the head of the stairs
Just to hear the woman sigh.

David Lewis Paget
mims Jan 2014
I hope you know
I always choose
to miss a couple of hours of sleep
just to make our timezones meet
and get a glimpse
of a pixelated you.

I hope you know that amidst
the rustles and bustles of bicycles
moving and flying around
my playground
I sneak into a quiet spot
just to send you a text message to know how my day is going.

It's my choice to make you feel like I am just there :)
Renee Joan Brown May 2012
The light dims and the dead raise their glasses
To the wine of wasted, blood-streaked tears
That permeate my mind. I lift my hand and reach
For them, but I am left with dripping dark
As the spirits of my dead emotions seek release.

As freelance feelings take their leave, am I human?
The thought of thatching shattered glasses
Brings back the dead, their forming tears
Mysteriously absent. And so they reach
The clammy, clotted, ****** hands through dark
Eyes; I scream that they might release.

But will the cold hands pity, and me release?
The light has fled the black irises: inhuman
Fusion of animation and empty glasses
In their eyes, like mine. Dry, lacking tears
That life gives. She bustles in the kitchen, reaches
For the saffron. But their souls remain dark.

And my sorrowing saffron soul is poisoned dark.
Let me go! I sigh release.
I am not human.
I am broken glass.
A fading fear of tears,
A soul outside my reach.

I am no fool; I do not claim to reach
Outside the world of dreaded dark
In which I live without release.
The creeping hands of Death are human,
As I am. Cast aside my riveting rose glasses
That rivers may run swift in my trailing tears.

Finally, the tears.
My own icy hand does reach
And wipes away the shifting dark.
The dead, as always, seek the just release,
But they are not human.
They do not wear my eyes, my glasses.

So raise the glass to my trying tears,
I reach and find no dark.
My feeling now released, I say that I am human.
My first complete Sestina. It's much darker than the poetry I usually write.
Lyn-Purcell Aug 2020

Wine flows bright and red
From daybed, she hears Pisa
Her kingdom bustles


New day, new haiku! ^^
This one is for Sterope [aka Asterope]
Sterope is known to be the wife of King Oenomaus of Pisa [His name somewhat alludes to wine hence the first line, and the kingdom is mentioned in the second].
One more Sister to go and that'll be the end of the Pleiades! ^^
Anyway, thank you all for growing followers, I'm forever humbled and grateful for the support🙏🌹💜
Here's the link for the growing collection:
https://hellopoetry.com/collection/132853/the-women-of-myth/
Be back tomorrow with another one!
Much love,
Lyn 💜
Reanna Horsley Apr 2014
Sitting at the station, smoke fills my lungs and drifts away like memories of you.
Waiting for the train to peak around the never ending bend of tracks, I wait for not just a train but an escape.
I wait and wait until the rise of the moon.
I have places to go and plans to make.
One step at a time, isn't that how the saying goes?
I couldn't tell you, my steps are never going anywhere, it seems.
I wait for signs of trains and I wait to see the steam.
The big iron black, as black as the night you left.
Now I'm leaving too.
I look across the tracks and see inside a dinner.
The couples drinking coffee look nice, but baby, we were finner.
All that is behind me now, like the train tracks that are spit out as the train bustles me anywhere, everywhere, hopefully away from myself.
At least I'm leaving you, my dear, I'll pretend I was never left.
I await this train, it's down the track, you'll never stop me now.
I climb aboard, the engine roars and the conductor blows the whistle.
I flick that cigarette aside.
Never coming back.
SH Dec 2011
a lonely nightingale
laments tunelessly at midnight,
a stiff tone echoing in this empty shop.
the metal resonates with sympathy.

outraged by her clamouring:
bribed her food pellets for silence.
she croons less unbearably now,
but with the same wistful eyes.

she beckons with her broken beak,
she longs for life beyond a cage,
watches my relenting eyes,
the sympathy residing in me.

to free or not to free this child?
i think her life deserves much more.
with a tinge of hesitance and of worry:
a lonely nightingale i free

she bustles in the shop with freedom,
her wings still unaccustomed to air.
her croon has sprouted into an anthem,
she circles the cage and bids goodbye

until she reached the window ,
and is re-greeted by cold metal grilles:
reminded of endless entrapment…
she finds herself still contained.

the way i see it,
she will never be free
until she lies
in the arms of death.

sympathetic human i am,
i picked a nearby tool of freedom,
plunged it into her heart,
and freed her eternally.
The poem here discusses the concept of freedom controversially.
Eriko Jul 2015
for all the things labeled  
in the exterior mirages
of turpentine reeking layers
worn lavishly by red lipstick
and silver tailored suits,

light illuminating marble counter tops
dusted by the next-thousand-block immigrant
the mother of four beautiful children
she clashes with the detriment of money

which filters back to champagne of that red lipstick,
the silver tailored suit a million floors above
encased within their own skeleton
they peel their skin so not to feel a thing

stuffed in a daycare tabooed because of its door handle
touched by mothers working wage to meet end's meet
children skipping their shoes
on the stains of the concrete underneath their feet
and not realizing a thing

the mother bustles through
alone but surrounded by grease
seething into the cracks of her heels
while her children grows by the tick
into the template configured by society

the smear of red lipstick
the wrinkle in the silver tailored suit
the system of trickle down economy
have gone down the throats of so many lives
as a diluted joker waving a flag sewn with white  

this age of decadence
chooses to blind its kin
reality has been remodeled
into a Hollywood basement
Danny O'Sullivan May 2013
There's no such thing as incognito
(I + Outside = Eyes) when
Beetles stall with headlights like lamps
And street-bustles are littered with head-lights.
(colours x two = terror)
Current thoughts buzz hidden by swarms
Of awkward car crashes on side roads.
(specimen + street = analysed 'I')
Skin stretches tight dried out under
X rays and equations.
(expressions as such hit like irony
a certain lens is needed = answers)
my answer is not incognito.
****** on by bonny dogs
and soaked by the fog
that clipped back the grass round its base
and the face of it
was a lamp that lit up the dark.
Standing soulfully lame
with a name quite generic
and in a cobbled street so specific to the
Lancashire town.

As night comes down across the Pennines
and the lads on the late shift go back down the mines
the warm light remembers more times than it cares too
now old
past its prime
it stands a monument to the time
when ladies in bustles
bustled past
casting shadows it seemingly grows
or is that my imagination?
John F McCullagh Dec 2011
A simple curved stone bench
Set in a rustic niche.
Outside, this city bustles,
here, time passes by the inch.
There’s a fine array of roses
and stone tablets on the wall.
The inscription is in Irish,
It tells of a rise and fall.
As I sit, quiet, here
Near the bronze children of Lir
The reflecting pool brims full
of my races’ gathered tears.
In Dublin,Ireland , there is a park at the foot of O'Connell Street near Parnel square dedicated to the men and women of the Easter rising of 1916. The bronze statute " the Children of Lir" commemorates the martyrs in the cause of Irish independence. I have written of that time in my poem "The Easter Rising". Yeats visited the topic more successfully in "Easter, 1916". Of course he was there and he knew them personally.
O'Reily Jan 2015
Prolong the intro,
Secure its simple harness,
Inject a bit of colour,
Bring light out of its darkness,
Still I don't think, they like me.

Each morning is silent,
The wind no more less violent,
Acres of space that walk divines,
Walk on by it passes off time,
But still I don't think, they like me.

Afternoon bakes without purpose,
Standing in a queue street bustles,
Next please the black dressed ref whistles,
When something dozen align,
I don't think, they like me.

All that energy used up from a curVe nostril,
A smoke screen tunnel home a miracle,
I'm surplus to need in quarantine I just feel,
Another day lost with keys on the table,
Intuit style I don't think, they like me.

All these thoughts became an Ariel view,
So fresh from a melon the last picture of you,
Loves July and December,
The flower of summer, the snowdrops of winter,
They walk on by and still I don't think, they like me.

O'Reily@11012015
The Georgian Manor in Ripon Town
Had seen far better days,
The chimney pots had fallen down
And the windows, scarred and crazed,
The paint had peeled from the cedar door
And the ivy climbed untamed,
From the days of the aristocracy
The house was re-arranged.

There were flats and a communal kitchen
But no carpets on the floor,
The walls were damp and the paper peeled
In strips, from the old décor,
When Jennifer took an upstairs flat
She shuddered, ‘It won’t be long.’
But things in her life had taken a turn
With everything going wrong.

She lay on the iron poster bed
And she cried herself to sleep,
Ever since her engagement went
All she could do was weep,
The future, bleak and forbidding now
Held nothing but fear and tears,
It yawned ahead in her misery,
An aeon of wasted years.

At night, the gloom would descend, a pall
Would settle upon her room,
She’d lie awake to the mutterings
That seemed to come from the tomb,
The manor had once been bright and gay
With Lords and Earls, and Dames
Plucking at hammered dulcimers
While playing their wooing games.

And standing off in the corner was
A wardrobe, made of teak,
The doors were locked, there wasn’t a key
It was just some old antique,
Or that was what she had thought at first
‘Til her interest fired her mind,
And she levered open the doors one night
To see what there was to find.

She found there what was a treasure trove
Of gowns and hoods and capes,
Of silken skirts with their bustles,
Party masques for their escapades,
Muslin dresses and bodices
That Jennifer gaped to see,
That ladies wore all those years before,
And whalebone corsetry.

She felt a hidden excitement while
Surveying the gorgeous past,
And then an ineffable sadness that
Such grandeur didn’t last,
The woman that wore these party gowns
Was laid in an ancient grave,
Along with her beaus and suitors all,
The clothes alone were saved.

One night she weakened, and tried them on,
They seemed like a perfect fit,
Over the laced up corsets when
She donned a satin slip,
She chose a gown with a turquoise hue
With a bustle of ribbon and lace,
While the gas lamp that had never worked
Lit up, to reflect her face.

Then music wafted under her door
From a dulcimer and lute,
A wistful song from an old spinette
And a Love song from a flute,
She thrilled to enter the passage where
The gas lamps, in a row,
Played their light on the central stair
And the dancing, down below.

She floated to the head of the stair
As her gown trailed on behind,
And wondered as she descended what
Enchantment she would find,
The dancers stopped, and they looked at her
As she joined them on the floor,
And one said, ‘Here is the Faery Queene,
We’d best make fast the door.’

A fine young man in a tailcoat came
And he bent to kiss her hand,
From white cravat to his doeskin boots
He was quickly in command,
He whirled her breathless, into the throng
As the dancers wheeled and spun,
Risen up for this one enchant
That her dressing had begun.

But after one in the morning she
Began to fear and doubt,
The tapers happened to flicker and
The gas lamps all went out,
The dancers started to fade away
To return to where they came,
‘Til only she and the young man stood
In the glare of a single flame.

‘They’re happy now that you brought them back
Though the hours were swiftly spent,
They sleep again in their graves where they
Have aeons to repent.’
‘But what of you, must you join them there,’
As she clung to him the more,
‘Not I,’ he said, ‘for I’m not yet dead,
I live in the flat next door!’

David Lewis Paget
sked Jun 2013
I come from a city
That the angel of death
Had touched
With its shadow

The homes
Lay broken
Abandoned
Torn to pieces
By decay
By ware
Tear

It was a city
Once so great
Bustling with cars
People
Well paved roads
Large buildings
With one of the strongest economies
That a city could have

But that was a thing of the past
That ended long ago
Now the city bustles with desperate
People
Broken roads
Run down buildings
Barely latching on to the money that it has
It is the one of the worst hellholes
That a city could have

I live in the rubble
Surrounded by wires
Steel
Brick
Dirt
I heard it was once
A massive building
Where manufacturing was conducted
But that's over and done with now

My family was
Once prosperous
My father rich
My mother satisfied
They bought me gifts
I lost those gifts
And they could easily be replaced
Now the gifts are gone
And can never be replaced

My clothes are torn
Grime starting from
My toes covering all
Of my face
Body
Teeth missing and rotten
With decay

I sleep in
This miserable *******
Doing nothing all day
But find food
Ward off scavengers
*******
And sleep

One night
I slept in the corner shadow
Of a warehouse in the rubble
And experienced a vision

It was of a raven-haired angel
Dressed fully in black
With black glistening eyes
She was clean
Untouched by grime
And had a sweet smell
That had not come in my senses
For a long time

She put her soft hands
On my grimy face
And immediately
The grime had melted away
She dressed me
In fine clothes
And for once
Comforted me
Told me that everything
Is going to be ok

She touched my face again
And said with those sparkling eyes
That her name is Chicago
And that she wants me to live
In a paradise that she built
She told me
She will lead me there
Where I will be safe
Where this desolation and decay
Will not be

She prepared me with
Fresh clothes and fresh food
And promised me
That if I journey
She will provide more
She kissed me
On the top of my head
And I felt a satisfaction
I had not felt in years

In the morning I awoke
Packed the provisions
I was given by the angel
And set off
Alone
Away from the desolate city
In hopes of finding
The paradise that Chicago built
Lexi May 2020
I will watch my ways
and keep my tongue from the delights of this world.
I will put a muzzle on my mouth
as long as she dwells within.
Show me, my life's end
and the number of my days.
Each mans life is but a breath
man is a mere phantom as he goes to and fro;
He bustles about, but only in vain.
Your invasion consumes me
You rebuke and discipline me
You **** every last breath out of me.
Slowly trapping me, until i become  no more.
Look away from me, that i may rejoice again
before i depart and am no more.
In the drizzle I rushed as usual I was late
The 9oclock bus I had to catch at any rate
If I missed this one I had to think of a ruse
Explain late attendance make a good excuse.

It’s those moments that bring woes to men
Perils linger on the way waiting to happen
Throwing caution to wind as I blindly strode
My feet hit a cobble lying middle on the road.

The sudden pain halted me made me emit a groan
I cursed under my breath the god-forsaken stone
Abused the unseen fate that had thrown it my way
Caused me such suffering conspired to spoil the day.

But there wasn’t much time to vent more my wrath
I kicked it out of way so none else could cross its path
Hurriedly limped along for I couldn’t afford to miss
The 9oclock bus that would reach me to office.

In the bustles of life it was a small incident
Other things occupied me I forgot the event
Till one evening I saw it on a corner of the street
The stone smeared with vermillion away from unwary feet.

The cobble placed under a banyan tree had men gathered around
It lay there in austere dignity they had found it a secured ground
I asked one in the crowd ‘how came here this stone? ’
‘You can call it a miracle it’s there naturally grown’.

‘Now it’s going to stay here none can force it a shift,
It’s God among us in disguise to give our spirit a lift’
In the face of that belief I dared not on his face say
‘So this is your God who I kicked on the other day! ’

One Sunday as I was busy with the off-day’s pressing chore
I heard a din outside urgent knockings on the door
*‘It can’t be like this to leave the deity without a roof on his head
Please donate as much as you can a temple is needed to be made’.
conceived from a humorous Bengali short story
Megan Sherman Jul 2018
This life - is like a liquor - sweet
Intoxicating bliss
‘Tis to be a poet
To see sunshine as a kiss
To see the trees as folk of Earth
And ocean - as world’s blood
That keeps her ever living
That sweet - mysterious - flood
Life is an amazement
To her - I am stupefied in awe
She bustles in the tenements
Behind - beyond - every door
Norbert Tasev Mar 2021
I would have to cling to impenetrable, eternal lights as an eternally hopeful little child so that the many thorn-offs would not reach me! Addicted to snuggling up to Infinity and believing in the healing magic of roe deer, that there may be another way out! The hidden Existant casts light out of the fog and the fingertip blade gap of gladiolus hurts the cups of my heart! Many times his hooded mists close to Being, and the Well of Nothing demands more thirstily! As a volatile butterfly, joy sins with someone else! Shelter should already be found for the volatile moment!
 
Fire-eyed cheap-soul chirping is the computing compromise! Falling stars are still running in the trajectory of my life, as a richly fertile stream, my crater tears immediately flood! I deliberately hide my smile to the Beloved who can still comfort me! - I feel like in the junk market of emotions, like petty faithful bustles and “some” can come up again at any time! I would still cling to the cooling beauties of the Universe! I listen to the confused drum beats of my heart in my whispering ears; I always understand the impending danger!
 
Suicide leading to suicide should not be considered if unresolved troubles are towering over us! "I should believe in myself that cherishing, friendly hands always reach out to me, and Honesty can surely take it for granted!" A single piece of stone The law of my being is often unable to shout, though many times it would be good to shout out loud so that others can understand listening to rocks can be melodic even from the blood throbbing in us! False or hostile to the human Word, meaningless envy nest in still-budded gazes and rapes daily

— The End —