"lamplighter" poems
I am a little prince
Living on a planet
Far too small for you to see
Here is a million stars
But a single flower
To spend all the sunsets with.
Bussinessmen and Tippler's words
They sound as I'm left by birds
With a friend to
Forever last.
And if I could make you mine
You say there's one last goodbye
For you and me
To get past.
What if I didn't care
Would the tress out-grow me?
And sheeps eat my little rose?
Being old is to count
Everything that matters
Grown-ups they're all too weird.
A lamplighter lights the fire
A man lives by his desire
A prince has tamed a fox
'cause his heart is enough.
But now I have to leave
To my little planet
I think someone there needs me.
May 18, 2014
May 18, 2014 at 10:21 AM UTC
Even the one
who lights the world
can succumb to the darkness inside.
We become blind
and see only the light.
The darkness can easily hide.
So you've scattered yourself
to the billions of stars that
blanket the billowing night
to help hold at bay
the darkness that preys
on the strong
and the weak
and the rich
and the poor
and the brilliant
and dull ones
alike.
You gave of yourself
with such ferocity of truth.
You fought with all of your might.
So thank you, old friend
for sharing your gift
and rest now
in peaceful twilight.
Aug 12, 2014
Aug 12, 2014 at 2:01 AM UTC
Artists and models,
pimps and prostitutes,
writers and muses,
the noted and the nameless,
in stark black and white.
Under the street lamp,
A stout woman with a dangling cigarette,
her shadow trailing into the dark.
I need a warm place to stay tonight.
On the banks of the Seine,
The lamplighter, making his rounds,
creates the mystery of night
Stairs leading down the hill,
into the fog, into the night.
Gas lamps lighting the way,
for someone who is yet to come.
Lovers in a brightly lit cafe,
sharing a drink and a kiss,
a stolen moment,
oblivious to all else.
Rain and the street glistens
adorned by umbrella blossoms.
Long shadows cast by a rainy city garden.
Matisse and his models.
The Four Arts Ball,
Henry Miller, Picasso,
The Follies-Bergere,
The master himself,
eye to camera,
cigarette dangling,
snap-brim in place,
calf length overcoat on a Parisian street,
recording life as it passes by
A time machine, a graphic history,
all is there for us.
The Paris of our dreams.
Nov 15, 2021
Nov 15, 2021 at 10:50 AM UTC
Pink bubbles
blue water
earth abstractables
fire the lamplighter.
Great depths
its steam like fountain
unique heat
sheer wall faces.
But, today that lake went dry
almost empty
no longer boiling
grey water
that smelt like sulphur.
This is what happens
when evertime you are afraid to fail.
Let the determination
boil inside you.
And boy will you steam success.
May 10, 2014
May 10, 2014 at 4:02 PM UTC
We are just two people;
Who found,
Eachother.
They tell me there are 7 billion people
On the planet Earth.
That's nine zero's
And for whatever it's worth,
I am glad to have found a Phantom
Among all these births.
There is more people than I'll ever know
But they'll never have their own lamplighter.
The sunrises and sunsets
Makes things a little brighter.
They never pass without a glance,
From your letter-writer.
The world around me is so full
With this, and that, and this!
But at least when I am in your arms,
I needn't exist.
The luxury of not being
It is simply utter bliss.
Though these words are odd-sounding
They are all for you.
You keep my heart pounding,
One out of 7 billion (plus two.)
Though us Phantoms aren't abounding
At least you came through.
Some would call this astounding!
Nevertheless-
We are just two people;
Who found,
Eachother.
Jun 11, 2013
Jun 11, 2013 at 6:39 AM UTC
We are just two people;
Who found,
Eachother.
They tell me there is 7 billion people
On the planet Earth.
That's nine zero's
And for whatever it's worth,
I am glad to have found a Phantom
Among all these births.
There is more people than I'll ever know
But they'll never have their own lamplighter.
The sun rises and sets
And makes things a little brighter.
They never pass without a glance,
From your letter-writer.
The world around me is so full
With this, and that, and this!
But at least when I am in your arms,
I needn't exist.
The luxury of not being
It is simply utter bliss.
Though these words are odd-sounding
They are all for you.
You keep my heart pounding,
One out of 7 billion (plus two.)
Though us Phantoms aren't abounding
At least you came through.
Some would call this astounding!
Nevertheless-
We are just two people;
Who found,
Eachother.
Jun 11, 2013
Jun 11, 2013 at 6:38 AM UTC
my grandad on my mother's side
was a lamplighter
so sad that these memories should die
that in some small way
helped to make me
Mar 18, 2024
Mar 18, 2024 at 8:38 PM UTC
Ah my lamplighter-
I do my best to escape this place
And imagine
You, here,
Or I, with you.
I pull down the sleeves of your jacket
Covering my hands
That I may raise them to my face and breathe in your scent.
It envelops me,
And all at once;
I can imagine kissing your cheek
Your hands
Your lips
And then I'm counting you like spaces on a board game.
I like it there.
Before long someone speaks my name,
Following with concern.
"Are you okay?"
I quietly say that I am well.
(And quietly don't say
That I am missing your dreamed up arms already.)
Cuddled into your jacket,
I study the lights above
So harsh.
So cold.
My lamplighter would never allow such a thing
If he knew.
But never mind that.
I sit here, Phantom as can be
And I stop existing again-
It's the best way to miss you.
Jul 10, 2013
Jul 10, 2013 at 3:04 AM UTC
Had I lived in Victorian era
I would've been a lamplighter
I like poking holes
in the darkness
Jun 29, 2015
Jun 29, 2015 at 1:02 PM UTC
Back in the days of the old gas lamps
When the streets were lit, but dim,
A young lamplighter would tour the streets
And the houses, looking in,
The flickering flame of each lamp would light
The windows in the dark,
He’d see what he wasn’t meant to see
In the light of each flickering spark.
He saw what he thought was an angel
Through a window in Lygon Street,
Sitting in front of a mirror,
Looking down, and washing her feet.
Her hair trailed over her shoulders like
Some golden ears of corn,
Then she looked up, and her bright blue eyes
Made him feel he was new-born.
Her lips were set in a steady pout
And were red and ripe to kiss,
Her brows were raised as she looked his way
And his heart felt instant bliss,
While she looked through her window pane
At the face of an angel boy,
Who, breathing mist on her window glass
Had scribbled his name there, ‘Roy’.
Their eyes had locked with each other when
He framed his lips in a kiss,
And she stood up and approached him,
Then she put her lips to his,
They stayed so long that the glass had warmed
But the mist spread round about,
Till neither could see the other it
Had blotted each vision out.
Then every night he had lingered there
With his taper to her lamp,
And shivered out on the footpath for
The nights were getting damp,
He hoped that she would be sitting where
She had sat, before the kiss,
But nothing had moved within that room
From that day until this.
He didn’t know but she’d had to go
To stay on her uncle’s farm,
To breathe the purer air out there
Than the fog that did her harm,
She still spat blood in her handkerchief
But she thought about the boy,
Who’d kissed her once through a window pane
And the thought still brought her joy.
David Lewis Paget
Dec 30, 2016
Dec 30, 2016 at 1:58 AM UTC
out of the darkness
emerged a lamplighter
shedding his bright glow
Dec 28, 2016
Dec 28, 2016 at 6:33 PM UTC
Oil
Coal
Burning soul
Take me through
A field so bright
Almost red
As firelight
If our feet burn
I won't be
Without a smile
A silly yearn
For steps untamed
A head so light
Helium maimed
Delight
Delight
My head so bright
Torn apart
By candlelight
Lamplighter
Lamplighter
I'd rather have a campfire
Swooning
Under this broken moon
Nail and hammer and...
Candlelight
Lamplight
Campfire
Field bright
Little love
From dawn
To night
I purge
this
Surge
of
Blacklight blood
In hopes
To see
With unity
Jun 30, 2019
Jun 30, 2019 at 12:10 AM UTC
Dear Readers, thses are my few old memories of Calcutta from my early childhood days, after having reached the milestone on the road side reading 77. Hope you like it ! Best wishes, - Raj, New Delhi.
REMINISCENCE OF A SENIOR SEPTUAGENARIAN
I was born in the early forties during those black and
white days,
When those big old valve radios and gramophones
records played.
The British flag was flying over Calcutta, the city of
my birth.
That first old capital of British India with its horse
and buggy, crowded buses, and tram cars.
The main streets got washed with water hoses from
high pressured hydrants every morning,
And the lamplighter with his ladder lighted the
street gas lights every evening.
Radiograms were a status symbol, and transistor
radios had come decades later.
With rickshaws pulled manually by poor old
rickshaw pullers!
Juke Box played popular songs (during our school
days in the fifties) in ice cream parlors.
Whoever even thought of a TV or a mobile phone,
during those happy hours!
For the Bongs the theatres of north Calcutta was a
classical source of entertainment.
Eye ball contact was meaningful with a hug and a
hand shake, - life remained fully extroverted.
Unlike our present highly advanced Corona days!
No wonder I love that great old South Indian serial
titled the ‘Malgudi Days’!
Like our old songs, those golden days shall forever
remain cherished and nostalgic;
And as a part of a senior citizen’s waking dream!
Now please smile, take a selfie with your I-phone,
and go to sleep!
-Raj Nandy, New Delhi.
May 27, 2020
May 27, 2020 at 3:19 AM UTC
Each and every
morning, the lamplighter
lights the lanterns
of our hearts,
casting shadows that
penetrate our souls,
awakening our emotions.
And, each and
every morning, our
eyes are opened
Apr 3, 2018
Apr 3, 2018 at 4:56 PM UTC