"landau" poems - Hello Poetry

DAAR ZIJN GEEN PILLEN TEGEN Ik durf nauwelijks te kijken naar de vrouw die strompelt over de stoep, gedrongen adagio steunend — er is zoveel angst ik zou een schema kunnen schetsen van het grote verval we zijn weldra allemaal van vroeger-weet-je-nog. De bruiloft is voorbij, de zomer afgelopen. Leven, leg dat maar eens uit. Dit boek is bijna halverwege. Daar zijn geen pillen tegen, zei mijn arts.

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Nov 30, 2018

Nov 30, 2018 at 12:05 AM UTC

henslo42

I Don’t Have a Pill for That - Deborah Landau

DAAR ZIJN GEEN PILLEN TEGEN Ik durf nauwelijks te kijken naar de vrouw die strompelt over de stoep, gedrongen adagio steunend — er is zoveel angst ik zou een schema kunnen schetsen van het grote verval we zijn weldra allemaal van vroeger-weet-je-nog. De bruiloft is voorbij, de zomer afgelopen. Leven, leg dat maar eens uit. Dit boek is bijna halverwege. Daar zijn geen pillen tegen, zei mijn arts.

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DE SNEEUW VINDT HAAR EINDE OP EEN WARM GAZON EN WAT OVERBLIJFT De diepste indruk maakt een dik pak sneeuw. Rustig residu die middag, opziend naar een wonderblauwe hemel. Sneeuw biedt je weer een lijf, zet je een hoed op, begraaft je in haar tweede natuur, met een schijnsel van sepia, lekkend schemerblauw. De sneeuw friemelt aan je voegen, wil naar binnen. In de sneeuw ben je engelachtig en zij is niet beangstigend, zij lijkt ons veeleer te omarmen en te beschermen op onze weg door de stad Zelfs middelbaar ben je weer even kind. De sneeuw vangt ons met haar gepeperde adem en geeft frisse lucht. Zij komt en gaat en komt weer terug Zij hoopt zich op zonder hoop op duurzaamheid & wenst niet te blijven. De sneeuw, ik benijd haar, dat zij zal verdwijnen laat haar koud Zij is haar eigen landschap, met haar coole witkalk creëert ze een albasten pracht trekt zich dan terug zonder klacht.

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Feb 28, 2019

Feb 28, 2019 at 12:08 AM UTC

henslo42

The Snow Goes to the Gallows of a Warm Grass and What Survives - Deborah Landau

DE SNEEUW VINDT HAAR EINDE OP EEN WARM GAZON EN WAT OVERBLIJFT De diepste indruk maakt een dik pak sneeuw. Rustig residu die middag, opziend naar een wonderblauwe hemel. Sneeuw biedt je weer een lijf, zet je een hoed op, begraaft je in haar tweede natuur, met een schijnsel van sepia, lekkend schemerblauw. De sneeuw friemelt aan je voegen, wil naar binnen. In de sneeuw ben je engelachtig en zij is niet beangstigend, zij lijkt ons veeleer te omarmen en te beschermen op onze weg door de stad Zelfs middelbaar ben je weer even kind. De sneeuw vangt ons met haar gepeperde adem en geeft frisse lucht. Zij komt en gaat en komt weer terug Zij hoopt zich op zonder hoop op duurzaamheid & wenst niet te blijven. De sneeuw, ik benijd haar, dat zij zal verdwijnen laat haar koud Zij is haar eigen landschap, met haar coole witkalk creëert ze een albasten pracht trekt zich dan terug zonder klacht.

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Do you remember that ride through the park in the landau and we talked of that poor man who was locked up in Spandau? I didn't know then that prisons are made out out of tears and in the passing of years I have imprisoned myself locked up my soul and am just playing this role of a man. Can you think back to the snack in the cafe when all you wanted to say was something to hurt as if my blood wouldn't spurt when you cut me so deep did you keep that moment for me did you think I would be in bits,decimated you underestimated as you usually did but you got rid of me told me to go as if you only knew what the future would hold. Well I'll tell you this, the future is when you get calloused and old when your stomach's so big you have to fold it in and hold your tongue the future's no fun but the fun that you had at my expense was expended in mortgages paid to those dowagers how you have aged. How I once raged at the iniquity before I began to see the light of what's right and now in your night of the day that you had are you happy or sad? Do I care if you answer does a moth love the flame? it was never the same after you.

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Jun 2, 2013

Jun 2, 2013 at 1:55 PM UTC

john-edward-smallshaw

Barometers

Do you remember that ride through the park in the landau and we talked of that poor man who was locked up in Spandau? I didn't know then that prisons are made out out of tears and in the passing of years I have imprisoned myself locked up my soul and am just playing this role of a man. Can you think back to the snack in the cafe when all you wanted to say was something to hurt as if my blood wouldn't spurt when you cut me so deep did you keep that moment for me did you think I would be in bits,decimated you underestimated as you usually did but you got rid of me told me to go as if you only knew what the future would hold. Well I'll tell you this, the future is when you get calloused and old when your stomach's so big you have to fold it in and hold your tongue the future's no fun but the fun that you had at my expense was expended in mortgages paid to those dowagers how you have aged. How I once raged at the iniquity before I began to see the light of what's right and now in your night of the day that you had are you happy or sad? Do I care if you answer does a moth love the flame? it was never the same after you.

34

MARTIN LANDAU HAS PASSED AWAY THIS TAPE WILL SELF DESTRUCT HE WAS THE ORIGINAL ETHAN HAWK WHEN DISGUISES WERE A MUST WHEN SPACE TRAVEL WAS IN THE FUTURE WE HAD SPACE 1999 MARTIN LANDAU WAS THE LEAD A GREAT ACTOR OF HIS TIME LIVE LONG AND PROSPER SPOK USE TO SAY LANDAU TURNED THIS ROLE DOWN ONLY IF HE KNEW WHAT STAR TREK WOULD BE A CULT FOLLOWING AND SO PROFOUND.

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Jul 17, 2017

Jul 17, 2017 at 11:18 PM UTC

mark-riordan

MARTIN LANDAU

MARTIN LANDAU HAS PASSED AWAY THIS TAPE WILL SELF DESTRUCT HE WAS THE ORIGINAL ETHAN HAWK WHEN DISGUISES WERE A MUST WHEN SPACE TRAVEL WAS IN THE FUTURE WE HAD SPACE 1999 MARTIN LANDAU WAS THE LEAD A GREAT ACTOR OF HIS TIME LIVE LONG AND PROSPER SPOK USE TO SAY LANDAU TURNED THIS ROLE DOWN ONLY IF HE KNEW WHAT STAR TREK WOULD BE A CULT FOLLOWING AND SO PROFOUND.

12

He only appears in the pouring rain When all the gutters are clogged, I asked if anyone knew his name They said, but my ears were blocked. There wasn’t a thing you could hear out there For the water, bubbling through, The rain’s refrain in a noisy drain, The thunder and lightning too. You’d see his shadow on distant walls Thrown there by a gaslight flare, And catch the shape of his stovepipe hat Flitting both here and there, They say he’s waiting for dollymops Just as they’re starting to run, As night is chasing the day away And rain’s blotting out the sun. Then rumour has it, the Ripper’s back We’re waiting for blood and gore, We’re tense, awaiting the first attack, For that’s what the Ripper’s for. They say he chews on his victim’s bones Then eats their liver and all, The streets will fill with their awful groans As blood will spatter a wall. And then the sound of a horses hooves Pulling a Landau coach, Its wheels a-rattle on cobblestones Just as he cuts their throats, Perhaps he’ll lure them to take a ride In that black, square box on wheels, Then all that slashing goes on inside, God knows how a razor feels. We sit and muse in the Hemlock Inn A dollymop on our laps, And feed the terror they feel within Filling in most of the gaps. They turn to us for protection then So we gain their favours cheap, And keep on telling those same old tales Til the bawds curl up, and weep. Whenever the fog and the mist are thick And the lamplight’s just a glow, We make our way to the Hemlock Inn Where the skirts are raised, you know, Then say his shadow’s been seen again Just to make the bawds all shriek, ‘He’s getting ready to pounce, and then…’ He’ll be there again, next week. David Lewis Paget

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Jun 28, 2015

Jun 28, 2015 at 10:23 PM UTC

david-lewis-paget

The Shadow Makers

He only appears in the pouring rain When all the gutters are clogged, I asked if anyone knew his name They said, but my ears were blocked. There wasn’t a thing you could hear out there For the water, bubbling through, The rain’s refrain in a noisy drain, The thunder and lightning too. You’d see his shadow on distant walls Thrown there by a gaslight flare, And catch the shape of his stovepipe hat Flitting both here and there, They say he’s waiting for dollymops Just as they’re starting to run, As night is chasing the day away And rain’s blotting out the sun. Then rumour has it, the Ripper’s back We’re waiting for blood and gore, We’re tense, awaiting the first attack, For that’s what the Ripper’s for. They say he chews on his victim’s bones Then eats their liver and all, The streets will fill with their awful groans As blood will spatter a wall. And then the sound of a horses hooves Pulling a Landau coach, Its wheels a-rattle on cobblestones Just as he cuts their throats, Perhaps he’ll lure them to take a ride In that black, square box on wheels, Then all that slashing goes on inside, God knows how a razor feels. We sit and muse in the Hemlock Inn A dollymop on our laps, And feed the terror they feel within Filling in most of the gaps. They turn to us for protection then So we gain their favours cheap, And keep on telling those same old tales Til the bawds curl up, and weep. Whenever the fog and the mist are thick And the lamplight’s just a glow, We make our way to the Hemlock Inn Where the skirts are raised, you know, Then say his shadow’s been seen again Just to make the bawds all shriek, ‘He’s getting ready to pounce, and then…’ He’ll be there again, next week. David Lewis Paget

49

Partners no crime, innocents, time served deserves an extension we pretend that others do not exist, stare our way through each day until we get home and then it's the telephone and the world is okay but I take a ride in the landau listen to Spandau ballet really? yes, it's just a matter of no fact at all. Walk tall, mum said, as I hid under the bed, always monsters to fight wrongs to fix, right? nearly midnight and no Oasis what's this, music of the solo mind? Walkman no talk man makes Jack a bull dog or something that hides in dark corners. Still dozing my way through the thoughts and each day I am dozing some more, it's slightly not keyed in the code is not right the dots don't line up or it could be my eyesight. 'if you haven't got a penny a halfpenny will do' then they decimalised the system and the scheme fell through, what about you? do you collect stamps? get cramps? forget your name? I am one of the same among many cloned, declawed even as I roared my defiance and we should not place any reliance on the material things nor spirituality punctuality or any eventuality that eventually will occur share nothing even thoughts have shadows that show up in ultra violet light wrong or am I right? This is broadcast by the 'last of the Mohicans', 'should have kept my hair on, white eyes speaks with forked tongue, bet he eats his peas with it' thank God for madness she is the mistress of sanity and the goddess of poetry.

0

Jan 7, 2017

Jan 7, 2017 at 4:17 AM UTC

john-edward-smallshaw

They got me that time

Partners no crime, innocents, time served deserves an extension we pretend that others do not exist, stare our way through each day until we get home and then it's the telephone and the world is okay but I take a ride in the landau listen to Spandau ballet really? yes, it's just a matter of no fact at all. Walk tall, mum said, as I hid under the bed, always monsters to fight wrongs to fix, right? nearly midnight and no Oasis what's this, music of the solo mind? Walkman no talk man makes Jack a bull dog or something that hides in dark corners. Still dozing my way through the thoughts and each day I am dozing some more, it's slightly not keyed in the code is not right the dots don't line up or it could be my eyesight. 'if you haven't got a penny a halfpenny will do' then they decimalised the system and the scheme fell through, what about you? do you collect stamps? get cramps? forget your name? I am one of the same among many cloned, declawed even as I roared my defiance and we should not place any reliance on the material things nor spirituality punctuality or any eventuality that eventually will occur share nothing even thoughts have shadows that show up in ultra violet light wrong or am I right? This is broadcast by the 'last of the Mohicans', 'should have kept my hair on, white eyes speaks with forked tongue, bet he eats his peas with it' thank God for madness she is the mistress of sanity and the goddess of poetry.

68

L'habit râpé Vivent les bas de soie et les souliers vernis ! La chaise dépaillée Dieu dit aux bons fauteuils : fauteuils, je vous bénis ! Le poêle froid Comme un grand feu qui flambe et pétille en décembre Vous illumine l'âme en empourprant la chambre ! Le verre plein d'eau Ma foi, j'aime le vin. La soucoupe pleine de poussière Moi, j'aime le café. L'écuelle de bois C'est charmant de crier : garçon ! Perdreau truffé, Bordeaux retour de l'Inde, et saumon sauce aux huîtres ! Le carreau cassé Une fenêtre est belle alors qu'elle a des vitres. Le gousset vide Que l'usurier hideux, poussif, auquel tu dois, Agite un vieux billet de banque en ses vieux doigts, Fût-il gris comme un chantre et crasseux comme un diacre, Vénus vient toute nue en sa conque de nacre. Le lit de sangle Un édredon, c'est doux. L'écritoire Arétin, plein d'esprit, Vit content ; sous ses pieds il a quand il écrit Un charmant tapis turc qui réchauffe sa prose. Le trou de la serrure J'estime une portière épaisse, et, verte ou rose, Laissant voir, dans les plis du satin ouaté, Un mandarin qui prend une tasse de thé. Un papier timbré Verrès est riche et grand ; devant lui nul ne bouge. Le miroir fêlé Sur un frac brodé d'or j'aime un beau cordon rouge. L'escabeau boiteux Quel bonheur de courir à la croix de Berny Sur quelque ardent cheval plein d'un souffle infini, Démon aux crins épars né des vents de l'Ukraine ! La semelle percée Quelle joie ! En hiver, rouler au Cours-la-Reine, Quand le soleil dissout les brouillards pluvieux, Dans un landau qui fait blêmir les envieux ! Le plafond troué Et, tandis qu'au dehors siffle le vent féroce, Contempler, à travers les glaces du carrosse, Le ciel bleu, rayonnant d'une douce clarté ! Le ciel bleu Paix ! Comptez vous pour rien cette sérénité De marcher le front haut, et de se dire : en somme, Je mange du pain noir, mais je suis honnête homme ! Le 17 novembre 1853.

0

330

Victor Hugo

Voix dans le grenier

L'habit râpé Vivent les bas de soie et les souliers vernis ! La chaise dépaillée Dieu dit aux bons fauteuils : fauteuils, je vous bénis ! Le poêle froid Comme un grand feu qui flambe et pétille en décembre Vous illumine l'âme en empourprant la chambre ! Le verre plein d'eau Ma foi, j'aime le vin. La soucoupe pleine de poussière Moi, j'aime le café. L'écuelle de bois C'est charmant de crier : garçon ! Perdreau truffé, Bordeaux retour de l'Inde, et saumon sauce aux huîtres ! Le carreau cassé Une fenêtre est belle alors qu'elle a des vitres. Le gousset vide Que l'usurier hideux, poussif, auquel tu dois, Agite un vieux billet de banque en ses vieux doigts, Fût-il gris comme un chantre et crasseux comme un diacre, Vénus vient toute nue en sa conque de nacre. Le lit de sangle Un édredon, c'est doux. L'écritoire Arétin, plein d'esprit, Vit content ; sous ses pieds il a quand il écrit Un charmant tapis turc qui réchauffe sa prose. Le trou de la serrure J'estime une portière épaisse, et, verte ou rose, Laissant voir, dans les plis du satin ouaté, Un mandarin qui prend une tasse de thé. Un papier timbré Verrès est riche et grand ; devant lui nul ne bouge. Le miroir fêlé Sur un frac brodé d'or j'aime un beau cordon rouge. L'escabeau boiteux Quel bonheur de courir à la croix de Berny Sur quelque ardent cheval plein d'un souffle infini, Démon aux crins épars né des vents de l'Ukraine ! La semelle percée Quelle joie ! En hiver, rouler au Cours-la-Reine, Quand le soleil dissout les brouillards pluvieux, Dans un landau qui fait blêmir les envieux ! Le plafond troué Et, tandis qu'au dehors siffle le vent féroce, Contempler, à travers les glaces du carrosse, Le ciel bleu, rayonnant d'une douce clarté ! Le ciel bleu Paix ! Comptez vous pour rien cette sérénité De marcher le front haut, et de se dire : en somme, Je mange du pain noir, mais je suis honnête homme ! Le 17 novembre 1853.

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