"guesthouse" poems
I Peered Out Of The Room Windows,
I Was In This Desolate Guesthouse,
It Was A Comfortable Rest House,
And Here I Was In Anticipation,
Angel Or Whosoever Was Awaited,
Will She Pop Into My Vision Here Too,
Was It Only A Seasick Mind's Illusion?
Was All That Really Just An Illusion,
Thinking This I Prepared For Bed,
Then I Felt A Flute Was Playing,
Looked Into Sound's Direction,
All I Saw Then Was Foggy Night,
My Own Reflection Was Also Visible,
Slightly If Not Entirely Can Be Seen.
I Recalled The First Night At The Sea,
She Did Appear On The Towed Raft,
A Beautiful Mermaid I Had Seen,
Now I Did Remember It Clearly,
My Face Was No Longer Mine,
Yes It Was The Beautiful Face Of Hers,
She Wasn't Sad As I Did Remember.
She Was Smiling So Very Divinely,
Her Brown Eyes Stared So Cutely,
More Divine Felt She Was Really,
I Thought That It Was So Early,
My Pocket Watch Showed Three,
I Took My Eyes Off And Went To Bed,
Then & There She Was Lying For Me.
I Again Let My Mind Play Games,
Never Did Imagine Turning Mad,
Now I Was Not Feeling As Bad,
Neither I Wanted To Break It,
Nor It Felt Like One Anymore,
This Was The Dream I Loved To Live,
As If The Boon Was Presented To Me.
She Smiled As I Sat On The Bed,
I Asked Her, "Are You Real?"
"Yes, Just As Your Thoughts,"
I Then Stared At Her Lips,
She Then Touched Me Again,
Hands As Soft As That Night At Sea,
I Just Felt Like Opposing Her Touch.
I Blankly Smiled And Thought,
'My Thoughts Are Surely Real,'
Then I Just Let Her Guide Me,
The Moon Shone So Bright,
It Just Felt Really So Very Right,
Resigning I Just Let My Illusion Win,
It's Love We Were Sharing, Not A Sin.
Apr 25, 2015
Apr 25, 2015 at 6:35 AM UTC
the Himalayas rise
there is snow on the peaks
I watch it from my bed
I gaze and gaze at it
in the morning
as a little village girl goes by
sniffling with cold
I too am cold
it is chilly here in Tosh in May
but a young Israeli boy
took off his shirt
and stood on the fencepost of the guesthouse dancing
down was the deep green valley
all of us watched in admiration
the next day I went down to the waterfall
which from here is a beautiful whisper in the air
there are donkeys and a path
and pretty houses on the other side of the valley
and everywhere there are people smoking hash and relaxing
in the cafes and the guesthouses
it is almost like a pilgrimage smokers keep coming
and sit around smoking talking
I pull down my woollen cap my arms and back
feel the chill despite a thick sweater
despite a blanket and a four inch thick quilt
I roll my joints and smoke them alone
sometimes smoke them with others
I look at the hills and the valleys and the wooden houses
I look at the white peaks glowing in the sun
and talk about CCR and stained glass art with Michael from Norfolk
who’s going down the valley to another village for a party tonight
with his young Spanish friend
I talk about Bombay with Puneet and Manya from Kanpur
who’ve come here on a Bullet
Hash Heaven Manya says reading my mind as the joint passes on
to the four engineering interns from Delhi
and all the time I sip on ginger lemon honey
for my sore throat until on the last day it disappears
unlike the young Israeli girl’s pink laptop in a pink cover
found by the part time caretaker in the garden on a pink chair
she left behind last night because it was too dark
come again the guesthouse boys say to me as I pay them
what a scene I think how cool as I begin to leave the village
down the dung-clotted stone steps nodding to the smokers coming in.
Jun 7, 2017
Jun 7, 2017 at 11:13 PM UTC
Kina poetry på gjesthuset en kveld i regn (Norwegian)
Korean poetry about a guesthouse one evening of rain.
Høstregn senker seg over gjestehuset
kaldt utafor, rolig natt med lampe
trist inni meg, sorgfull i rom
i hjertet en munk som mediterer.
Autumn rain sinks over the guesthouse
it's cold outside, night is calm with a lamp
of sadness inside me, a room of mourning
in my heart a monk who meditates.
Ch 'oe Ch'iwon. Korea
also by him with my attempts at translation:
Høstvind bare sang bittert
knapt en venn kjenner min lyd
regnet siler ute i mørket
fra lampen min går hugen langt.
Autumn's wind sings bitterly
hardly a friend knows my voice
rain pours down out in the dark
from my lamp memory travels far
Dec 23, 2015
Dec 23, 2015 at 2:27 AM UTC
I woke early
this morning in Lisbon
before the birds chirped
the traffic shattered
the silent room in the
Sao Bento Guesthouse
and the old tram
struggled, groaned up
the steep hill
She stirred beside me
even and measured breaths
I turned on the white light
and read Pessoa
and Florbella Espanca
poets of the past
of the hilled city
split poetic personalities
the one
she, the other,
a killer of
her self
"Abre os elhos e encara a vida!"*
advice not taken
today we'll walk those hills
ride those trams
and eat seafood along the Tagus
as we ignore
the passing
of our lives
*open your eyes and face your life
Dec 29, 2020
Dec 29, 2020 at 3:38 PM UTC
I helped a fat man find a denim jumpsuit in the guest house down the road
when I was working at some department store
dreading the thought of helping someone not beautiful like me
but my boss she has quick little feet,
she caught me as I slinked to the other side
¨You will be perfect¨ she said
so I smiled and said
¨of course¨.
The fat man had a fat beard and was already wearing a fat denim jumpsuit.
I agreed he needed a new one because this was an old one but the department store´s clothes were too small.
Someone had disorganized the guesthouse.
The clothes were in heaps on the floor, the fat man was happy enough to find fat jumpsuits his size so I let him meander and take deep sighs.
I began to like this fat man as I watched him slide on his belly across the floor, I saw in him beauty I hadn´t see before,
¨maybe¨I thought ¨we all deserve more¨
before he was gone.
you recieve no commision once you wake up.
Feb 23, 2011
Feb 23, 2011 at 9:59 AM UTC
It was the year
man first walked
on the moon
but the third year running
you and your brother
walked the streets
of Edinburgh
and stayed
at the guesthouse
where the Yank guy
told you how
he was mugged
in some bog
at Waverly Station
I was in the stall
on the seat
when there was a banging
on the door
and someone yelled
open up I’m going to puke
so I did the
Yank said
and some guy
stole the wallet
from my pant’s pocket
and ran off
your brother sat
at the breakfast table
bemused
why did you open
the door?
you asked
well I guess I thought
it would help
the Yank said
holding his coffee cup
with both hands
you know
kind of threw me
off course
I’d have told the guy
to go puke elsewhere
your brother said
but he seemed desperate
the Yank said
looking at your brother
with a Humphrey Bogart gaze
won’t do that again
he said
sipping his coffee
you studied the guy’s plump face
his bulky frame
his sausage size fingers
the gold ring
on his third
right hand finger
his I LOVE AMERICA tee-shirt
his blue shorts
no matter
guess we all learn
from our mistakes
you said
next time
someone bangs
on the bog door
tell them
go puke on the floor
the Yank nodded his head
his Bogart impression
faded
to a saggy dog face
and you thought
gazing at
his blonde hair
there
but for the grace of God
go I
and your brother smiled
and winked a blue eye.
May 12, 2013
May 12, 2013 at 3:21 PM UTC
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Nov 25, 2015
Nov 25, 2015 at 10:19 PM UTC
A trip to the Balkans
with family in tow
and Cycle Albania
to light up the show!
There was Erlis and Rimi
(and Junid to track)
an itinerary
that would not look back!
First stop, Tirana
in the downtown core
with cafes and bars
and music galore
There were hints in the air
of a Communist cast
which the vibrant city
had long moved past
A shuttle to Ohrid
and cruise of the lake
the flora and fauna
left no mistake
Lunch on the terrace
and a trip to St. Naum
the monastery
…so peaceful, and calm
We plateaued to Korçë
through a patchwork of farms
the herdsmen and sheep
held so much charm
A tour through the city
with cultural notes
the cobble stone streets
beyond reproach
A climb through the mountains
in thundering rain
to the Sotire Farm
what a lovely domain!
There were goats and donkeys
and kindly old dogs
but the favorite of all
were the scampering hogs!
We slept like babies
and left in the morn
through the high pine forest
and fields of corn
Down through the mountains
and rivers and streams
the “Presidential Descent”
was an absolute scream!
A freshly paved stretch
(roughly 17k!)
Jaglin was off
and on her way!
A guesthouse for lunch
in the village of Benje
the evening’s Raki
would have its revenge!
To the sanctuary pools
(across the Ottoman bridge)
the healing and soothing
of miracle ridge
Into the valley
and over the gorge
to Gjirokastër
where roots were forged
Alleys and walk ways
and tight quiet streets
castles and churches
that met no defeat
A storybook city
with an historic past
we savored the buildings
and white wall cast
Off to Sarandë
…the Ionian coast!
a rustic old ferry
and ruins, with ghosts
The site of Butrint
“...from a world gone by”
we travelled in time
with a lullaby
Corfu at a distance
Himarë in reach
we swam in the ocean
and drank on the beach
Himarë to Vlorë
a spectacular day!
7 turns to the top
what a view of the bay!
Hairpins and kickbacks
so tranquilly warm
“...*the thighs are burning
like a lightning storm*!”
Lunch at the peak
and down to Vlorë
picking up speed
and a mighty roar!
Winds off the shoreline
sun at a high
the smells and sounds
as seabirds fly
The final stretch
with the finish in view
we crossed the line
…The Peloton Crew!
Sep 11, 2022
Sep 11, 2022 at 11:54 AM UTC
My top hat
full of thick liquid.
It looks like the sun
dazzled itself to nausea,
through the window of
desperate fingerprints
- to my precious
black, top hat.
I can feel
under my body, the ***** marks
people left before
me, when grunting and
******* and crying.
The ***** at the reception,
filled crosswords and smoked
two at a time,
told I will enjoy my time
at their guesthouse
- with teeth, that could
make dentists despise
their job.
In the closet, my clothes
dropped from the hanger
- guess they have given up.
I'm still considering,
using my precious
top hat.
Mar 13, 2018
Mar 13, 2018 at 1:30 PM UTC
a guillotine
vs. a guilt
i don't believe that
i have anything
to truly regret
but guilt
is so appealing
i don't believe that
execution is still
widely used
but death by society
is still oh so feasible.
have you ever
felt homeless?
i have
living like a
stranger in
a glass guesthouse.
but then i took
a baseball bat to the
transparent walls
and now
i just feel
homeless.
what shows the true
color of a house as a home
is the number eyes watching
through the windows
is a home someplace
out of the cold and rain
or is a home someplace
outside of icy critical pain?
a house
vs. a home.
Aug 26, 2016
Aug 26, 2016 at 8:26 PM UTC