"narrowest" poems
Dry land,
quiet land
of night's
immensity.
(Wind in the olive groves,
wind in the Sierra.)
Ancient
land
of oil lamps
and grief.
Land
of deep cisterns.
Land of death without eyes
and arrows.
(Wind on the roads.
Breeze in the poplar groves.)
Village
Upon a barren hill,
a Calvary.
Clear water
and century-old olive trees.
In the narrow streets,
men hidden under cloaks,
and on the towers
the spinning vanes.
Forever
spinning.
Oh, village lost
in the Andalucia of tears!
Dagger
The dagger
enters the haert
the way plowshares turn over
the wasteland.
No.
Do not cut into me.
No.
Like a ray of sun,
the dagger
ignites terrible
hollows.
No.
Do not cut into me.
No.
Crossroads
East wind,
a street lamp
and a dagger
in the heart.
The street
quivers like
tightly pulled
string,
like a huge, buzzing
horsefly.
Everywhere,
I see a dagger
in the heart.
Ay!
The cry leaves shadows of cypress
upon the wind.
(Leave me here, in this field,
weeping.)
The whole world's broken.
Only silence remains.
(Leave me here, in this field,
weeping).
The darkened horizon's
bitten by bonfires.
(I've told you already to leave me
here, in this field,
weeping.)
Surprise
He lay dead in the street
wit ha dagger in his chest.
Nobody knew who he was.
How the streep lamp flickered!
Mother of god,
how the street lamp
faintly flickered!
It was dawn. Nobody
could look up, wide-eyed,
into the glare.
And he lay dead in the street
with a dagger in his chest,
and nobody knew who he was.
Soleá
Wearing black mantillas,
she thinks the world is tiny
and the heart immense.
Wearing black mantillas.
She thinks that tender sighs
and cries disappear
into currents of wind.
Wearing black mantillas.
The door was left open,
and at dawn the entire sky
emptied onto her balcony.
Ay, yayayayay,
wearing black mantillas.
Cave
From the cave
come endless sobbings.
(Purple
over red.)
The gypsy
calls forth the distance.
(Tall towers
and mysterious men.)
In an unsteady voice
his eyes wander.
(Black
over red.)
And the white-washed cave
trembled in gold.
(White
over red.)
Encounter
For you and I
aren't ready
to find each other.
You... as you well know.
I loved her so much!
Follow the narrowest path.
I have
holes
in my hands
from the nails.
Can't you see how
I'm bleeding to death?
Don't look back,
go slowly,
and pray as I do
to San Cayetano
for you and I
aren't ready
to find each other.
Dawn
Bells of Cordoba
in the early morning.
Bells of Granada
at dawn.
You are felt by all the girls
who weep to the tender,
weeping Solea.
The girls
of upper Andalucia,
and of lower.
You girls of Spain,
with tiny feet
and trembling skirts,
who've filled the crossroads
with crosses.
Oh, bells of Cordoba
in the early morning,
and, oh, the bells of Granada
at dawn!
5.9k
**Angel Come
Angel Come; Come with a Whisper,
With tongues of Mysta
Come in the Night,
And bring us the Light
Come unto Mystery,
To elude our Misery
Angel Come- Angel Go**
*Angel Come
Come Like a River
To Inhale this Fever
Overshadow me with Shivers,
To see me thus Thither
Like a river Glorious,
In a secret Joyous
Angel Come; Angel Go*
**Angel Come
Remould my emotions,
To fit my Devotions
Come into the Dark;
And get rid of the Black
Encamp me in your Palms,
To wrap me in your Arms
Angel Come- Angel Go**
*Angel Come
Come into my Subconscious;
Awaken my Unconscious
Come like an arrowing Rain,
Invade my narrowest Pain
Let me hide my face in You;
For I seek a space in You
Angel Come: Angel Go*
Ovi Odiete©
Aug 23, 2016
Aug 23, 2016 at 2:35 PM UTC
One glossy raven perched, stately,
atop a snowy hill, Unearthly Long flowing wings, hanging down the slope, framing the hill
on the face of which,
were interposed two glacial ponds of blue.
Between these pools ran a simple strip of sloped marble,
But at the base of this was the most gentle depression in the snow.
In disbelief I observed two rows of strawberries, blossoming,
heavy laden with the richest red.
Each gentle bite of these more delicious than the last.
I continued my survey,
down to a long narrow hill of the freshest snow.
Here I came upon a wide expanse, a plain,
two long, slender berms extended at opposite sides.
But this was no true plain, and all the better for that,
For two equal mounds of snow enchanted the landscape.
The setting sun cast a pink light at the peak of each pale globe,
So beautiful I wept.
As I passed between their valley the snowy distance continued.
I observed an infinitesimal sloping on the Western and Eastern edges.
This expanse, perfect of any true blemish, was punctuated by the shallowest little empty pond at its narrowest width; which only served to enhance the beauty.
The length of this snowed plain was far greater than its width, the edges slowly creeping into the narrowest part before flaring out to a wide expanse.
And there in the lowlands was The Delta,
to the side of which extended two of the longest and most shapely tapering ridges I had ever observed;
each ending with graceful peaks.
But that Delta!
Though snowy, the darkest , shortest scrub had capped its mound.
At the apex of The Delta was a precipice,
on its face a cavern, pink walls glistening with wetness,
at the caverns base, a cave.
Its tunnel, with walls ribbed, was warm and humid despite the landscape of snow.
This is the landscape I cherish most.
May 28, 2018
May 28, 2018 at 9:50 PM UTC
You ought to know Mr. Mistoffelees!
The Original Conjuring Cat—
(There can be no doubt about that).
Please listen to me and don’t scoff. All his
Inventions are off his own bat.
There’s no such Cat in the metropolis;
He holds all the patent monopolies
For performing suprising illusions
And creating eccentric confusions.
At prestidigitation
And at legerdemain
He’ll defy examination
And deceive you again.
The greatest magicians have something to learn
From Mr. Mistoffelees’ Conjuring Turn.
Presto!
Away we go!
And we all say: OH!
Well I never!
Was there ever
A Cat so clever
As Magical Mr. Mistoffelees!
He is quiet and small, he is black
From his ears to the tip of his tail;
He can creep through the tiniest crack,
He can walk on the narrowest rail.
He can pick any card from a pack,
He is equally cunning with dice;
He is always deceiving you into believing
That he’s only hunting for mice.
He can play any trick with a cork
Or a spoon and a bit of fish-paste;
If you look for a knife or a fork
And you think it is merely misplaced—
You have seen it one moment, and then it is gawn!
But you’ll find it next week lying out on the lawn.
And we all say: OH!
Well I never!
Was there ever
A Cat so clever
As Magical Mr. Mistoffelees!
His manner is vague and aloof,
You would think there was nobody shyer—
But his voice has been heard on the roof
When he was curled up by the fire.
And he’s sometimes been heard by the fire
When he was about on the roof—
(At least we all heard that somebody purred)
Which is incontestable proof
Of his singular magical powers:
And I have known the family to call
Him in from the garden for hours,
While he was asleep in the hall.
And not long ago this phenomenal Cat
Produced seven kittens right out of a hat!
And we all said: OH!
Well I never!
Did you ever
Know a Cat so clever
As Magical Mr. Mistoffelees!
2.5k
In the narrowest of lanes
I found the sweet shop.
Behind dusty crumbling glasses
dozed the old keeper
smelling of sugar, milk and sweat
over fossils of Paleolithic sweets
on a time machine from the century
he never was
to a millennium he doesn't bother about
clinging onto clay by pottery
not succumbing to synthetic
counting not on android
but accounting on parchment
with the art of finger's arithmetic
most intricately scribbled with pencil
announcing progress is a trouble
not designed for the simple
and contentment has no more nitty-gritty
than price and quantity.
Over his head
spiders worked and reworked
from the ceiling to the glass
as have been doing
since Carboniferous.
Feb 20, 2017
Feb 20, 2017 at 9:04 AM UTC
The picture frame is slanted
Because every time I tried to make it straight again
I remember the moment
In the photograph
When it was
You and I
Suddenly
I remember all the things
You weren't
In all the things
That were
And I see the start of my
Misery
The clothes are hanging out
In the sun
And i watched as the same light that dried them
Resembled
The spark we once had
But that wasnt the only spot
In the house
The house of flaw and misunderstandings
The house that still echoed "i love you"'s
That you didn't mean
That wasnt the only spot
That reminded me of where it all went wrong
Because upstairs
My blanket is messy
I spent
Night after night
Thinking of when it would cover the both of us again
In the living room
I have gifts left unopened
Because I spent the entire Christmas morning
Thinking
Of what I could give back to you
And even the narrowest corner
In the abandoned attic
My guitar seemed only to have five strings
And I wondered
How
Could something incomplete
Still
Sound so beautiful
But our love
Wasn't like that
I had to remind myself time in
And time out
That bluberries don't start out ripe
There was a time your porcelain teeth
Bit into the plump berry
And it didnt quite taste right
But you kept chewing even with your face
Splattered with the unripe juice
This
Is what it was like
This
Is what we were like
Because our love was a lot like the time
I ran out of acrylic paint
But the watercolors I replaced them with
Made every other picture
Blurry
Oct 5, 2013
Oct 5, 2013 at 12:59 PM UTC
My waking time
in the narrowest part of the creek
chases spots in the shadows
a streak between bushes
thirsty tongue lapping green opal
cautious cotton on the fallen leaves
the priceless prowler in the morn mist
or in the dusk
the graceful glory
in the hinterland of my heart.
May 22, 2018
May 22, 2018 at 9:45 AM UTC
I first would like to apologize for getting rather mad,
calling you a stupid *****
and saying it was a “hit and run” to the police,
also in hindsight spitting at you was not cool.
I feel bad about it now,
and it will haunt me for a while,
or at least until something else comes up.
You shattered my wings,
granted they were glass wings and
when you’re throwing yourself through the narrowest possible canyons
getting hit is almost certain still, it *****
the wind out of you, even if just for a second.
I love jumping through
canyons daring gravity to do its worst, but I was playing by the rules,
respecting nature
or at least I planned on not breezing by the sides as much.
I guess its habit now, to risk getting shattered for
the freedom of movement in a restricted space.
I swear when I hit the ground I was ready to walk away
I was intact.
Ready
to continue on my way and saying “yeah I’m fine”,
learn nothing and find smaller canyons.
but when I saw the bird you hit, my brain
sprinted for the worst.
That knocked the wind out of me.
Instantly I thought it was completely ******
and while I still do have my wings,
you shattered part of my glass illusion.
Thank god for repair shops.
You see you own the skies your kind controls
the canyons walls, make them zig then zag that way.
Sure their are bigger gods,
but they only show up from time to time. I’m part of the skies
but my only possible responsibility is to not
hit the birds.
The rules say I need to act like you,
but the rulers let us fly our own ways.
The bigger gods understand or just don’t care.
So next time just know that the rules
are not the ones in physics textbooks, those are
often confusing and require years worth of reading,
of understanding billions of acceptions of knowing what
the hell centripetal force is, and being able to solve painful
multi variable calculus problems
the way physics actually works is what happens when
the winds take glass
and you, being a god got careless and broke the laws of physics.
Mar 24, 2015
Mar 24, 2015 at 12:12 PM UTC
Yet if some voice that man could trust
Should murmur from the narrow house,
'The cheeks drop in; the body bows;
Man dies: nor is there hope in dust:'
Might I not say? 'Yet even here,
But for one hour, O Love, I strive
To keep so sweet a thing alive:'
But I should turn mine ears and hear
The moanings of the homeless sea,
The sound of streams that swift or slow
Draw down AEonian hills, and sow
The dust of continents to be;
And Love would answer with a sigh,
'The sound of that forgetful shore
Will change my sweetness more and more,
Half-dead to know that I shall die.'
O me, what profits it to put
And idle case? If Death were seen
At first as Death, Love had not been,
Or been in narrowest working shut,
Mere fellowship of sluggish moods,
Or in his coarsest Satyr-shape
Had bruised the herb and crush'd the grape,
And bask'd and batten'd in the woods.
1.3k
#7 from Geo-Bestiary
O that girl, only young men
dare to look at her directly
while I manage the most side-long of glances:
olive-skinned with a Modigliani throat,
lustrous obsidian hair, the narrowest
of waists and high french bottom, ample
******* she tries to hide in a loose blouse.
Though Latino her profile is from a Babylonian
frieze and when she walks with her small white dog
with brown spots she fairly floats along,
looking neither left nor right, meeting no one's
glance as if beauty was a curse. In the grocery
store when I drew close her scent was jacaranda,
the tropical flower that makes no excuses.
The geezer's heart swells stupidly to the dampish
promise. I walk too often in the cold shadow
of the mountain wall up in the arroyo behind the house.
Empty pages are dry ice, numbing the hands and heart.
If I weep I do so in the shower so that no one,
not even I can tell. To see her is to feel
time's cold machete against my grizzled neck,
puzzled that again beauty has found her home in threat.
Apr 16, 2015
Apr 16, 2015 at 7:47 AM UTC
Sitting in the narrowest cabin
half made of glass half fiberglass
it could be for a death or a birth
Corridors full of standing people side by side as if
They will talk all night but
Sun has set down already and
We have crossed the villages
The bazaars
My devouring eyes
Its now time to sink down
Dim lights
here and there
I have seen a praying man for his cup of meal
presenting this to his own
All gods sit on the road side
Dim lights here and there
The last match has blown out
by the wind alas
alas i cannot write
Write no more
alas
We'll go althogether so
Patience's silence
Change
Change
to a hymn
of surrounder
We'll go Altogether so
towards
The land of the kings
The sun
will rise for us
in a desert
Like a dream
and maybe a dream
Yes we'll go altogether so
Until dawn
...
but for now
I will just watch the stars
from where i lie
and listen to a song
...
Feb 23, 2017
Feb 23, 2017 at 9:18 AM UTC
the squelch of the Maenads' feet
danced grass into mud.
their murderous waters breaking--
carrying Orpheus' head in their bellies.
their glazed masks of perspiration became
stuck to weedy tresses of hair--loose as the
plucked strings of Orpheus' lyre.
their droplets of sweat premixed with blood.
Dionysus obliterating memories of irreversible
inebriation between his teeth--grape clusters
downing his chin like a handfed babe.
Orpheus' harmonic Sparagmos--where the
eidolon of every G*d reverberates an uppermost
image.
as Orpheus' head meandered, crashed & tumbled
thru the River Hebros--his lyre stayed by this throat.
playing dismemberment.
the goat song of tragedy.
undercurrents of Hades saturating Hebros with the
narrowest name of water--leading out to...
Dec 3, 2023
Dec 3, 2023 at 2:36 AM UTC
Love perches upon the narrowest
branch of the tallest willow,
whispering an alluring dream.
Swaying away from longing arms
in a dance intended to sear forever,
visions within a teased mind.
Reality strikes ruthlessly
I stand here on impotent earth,
as the dream hides -- rooted in hard dirt.
But with reality comes a strange peace of mind.
No longer fearing love’s mocking truth,
I am freed to embrace its callous cynicism.
Making truth whatever I will it to be.
© S.Loeding
All Rights Reserved
Nov 25, 2015
Nov 25, 2015 at 6:41 PM UTC
You. You were, are & will be my "first" to alot of things. I love you & you love me more. But I loved you in pieces and you insisted in loving me whole. You frightened me. The idea of you insisting in fixing me made me want to crawl away into the narrowest corner to never be heard from. You taped my wounds but knew you'd leave cracks. It wasn't enough. You glued my parts but nothing holds on forever. Once you began to sew, I pushed away. That meant safety. Assurance. That meant being fixed & I did not want that in fear the scar would grow cover & soon fade & I would be forced to forget about my struggles and pain. I did not want to feel safe. I did not want assurance of your love. I wanted to live on the edge & always know you "chose" to love me all over again, every single morning. I wanted you to love me & all my broken parts but maybe just one at a time.
Nov 10, 2013
Nov 10, 2013 at 11:40 AM UTC
It’s okay to take risks
Here,
This dreaming threshold
Where we wander with the spirits.
You can balance upon
The narrowest ledge,
Cross catwalks
Hanging a hundred feet
Above boiling oceans of
Lava plains.
You can’t
Get hurt
Here
Go ahead,
Stick your
Hand in that strange crevice,
Put your whole arm in,
Feel around,
Discover a new mystery.
You’re safe here.
This place is magic
And you and I can actually tread
On the shimmering patterns.
You’ll know when it’s time to jump,
To leap off the edge,
To careen down to the earth.
You’ll feel it coming,
Feel it building.
We’ll carry you up,
And if you trust us
To hold you up,
If you really believe it,
Then you’ll
Fly.
Oct 14, 2011
Oct 14, 2011 at 12:25 AM UTC
soft expectations
surrendering to rage’s sweetness
that’s my eyes on your words
I said, oh God I’ll get to
through the narrowest, silent, anguishing
so that when I’m there, I’m really there
Sep 14, 2018
Sep 14, 2018 at 8:38 PM UTC
Pride and ego will devour your manners,
Smirk at someones depression,
i know thats what youre craving for.
smoke and ashes blurs your horizon,
The gossips that brightens your focus,
Now Follow the narrowest path and it'll lead you to hell or a greener pasture
Feel the thrill of sanity and success.
Get drunk with sobriety and throw the excess
Make your brain ****** with your own lucid ideas.
on how will it work out
For i, has been removed from me and nothing matters coz we don't exist
Nov 2, 2017
Nov 2, 2017 at 8:40 AM UTC
Then all the nations of birds lifted together
the huge net of the shadows of this earth
in multitudinous dialects, twittering tongues,
stitching and crossing it. They lifted up
the shadows of long pines down trackless slopes,
the shadows of glass-faced towers down evening streets,
the shadow of a frail plant on a city sill—
the net rising soundless as night, the birds' cries soundless, until
there was no longer dusk, or season, decline, or weather,
only this passage of phantasmal light
that not the narrowest shadow dared to sever.
And men could not see, looking up, what the wild geese drew,
what the ospreys trailed behind them in silvery ropes
that flashed in the icy sunlight; they could not hear
battalions of starlings waging peaceful cries,
bearing the net higher, covering this world
like the vines of an orchard, or a mother drawing
the trembling gauze over the trembling eyes
of a child fluttering to sleep;
it was the light
that you will see at evening on the side of a hill
in yellow October, and no one hearing knew
what change had brought into the raven's cawing,
the killdeer's screech, the ember-circling chough
such an immense, soundless, and high concern
for the fields and cities where the birds belong,
except it was their seasonal passing, Love,
made seasonless, or, from the high privilege of their birth,
something brighter than pity for the wingless ones
below them who shared dark holes in windows and in houses,
and higher they lifted the net with soundless voices
above all change, betrayals of falling suns,
and this season lasted one moment, like the pause
between dusk and darkness, between fury and peace,
but, for such as our earth is now, it lasted long.
Oct 18, 2017
Oct 18, 2017 at 9:11 PM UTC
the ripe winds
perch upon the threads of
western disturbance
trading through the
vastness of liquid turmoil
flowing and cutting
across the narrowest
of vengeance
that has laid upon
this land flourishing
under a disguise:
of mere nothingness and
certain similarity;
for who knows
what converses with the
frigid north
and talks to the
passes of the mighty
peaks of middle Asia
walking past the grandeur
of the Himalayas, and it's
many ancient towns
where no other
has been of any importance
whatsoever
there in the sweet solace
of solitude and crisp sunrises
i find myself dreaming
of the tranquil winds, and
ancient passageways:
far from Nazareth and
the cradle of men
where the old brick
roads now sleep in dusk
and there's nothing
left to conquer
built upon the spectacular
-- on this olden earth
i find myself yearning
for little things.
Nov 5, 2021
Nov 5, 2021 at 8:04 AM UTC
Beyond the beyond
I believe I have seen
That existence itself
Is a dream in a stream
Drifting to shores
Of what does it all mean
Are we nothing but sand
In a recurrent theme
Could we be everything
But still be so blind
Universal potential
To limit the mind
To what this is now
As less than divine
Such beautiful creatures
Of Nature's design
The peak of the climb
To be free of this chain
To desire for not
But this infinite brain
This hunger for wisdom
Is all we need gain
We can bask in the sun
Of reptilian pain
Let it flow through each vein
As the warming ignites
A meltdown of global
And personal blights
To sharing this land
To end civil plights
And still save the world
From its dying last rites
In the narrowest sites
Of the hunters of gold
Armed to the teeth
With the things that they hold
In small heads and hands
In hearts of sheer cold
They see Mother Earth
As a ***** to be sold
It's polluting my soul
To a coal ash despair
But I'm only one man
Why the **** should I care?
Because I can choose
To just live on a prayer
Or become the answer
That takes us all there
Apr 15, 2017
Apr 15, 2017 at 2:35 AM UTC
In the darkest of nights even Moon
- it’s face reduced to the narrowest
crescent - hides behind thick
clouds of reluctant silence, a miser
failing to part with one droplet
of encouraging smile. Lonely
apathy rules supreme, solitary,
in the nocturnal palace
of insensitivity, indifference,
heartlessness. Silent night. Unholy night.
Sleepless night. Seeing Ursa Major –
I imagine that Big Bear waving.
And I remain one Little Bear. There
above Polaris I see her Holy Ghost –
the nurturing glance pulsates
to this hour. Six decades of life
humming her lullabies have kept
that young boy captive by caring
offers of coffee sips expertly brewed
in the calming warmth of tight hugs.
The love and compassion that you
planted still grows, still blooms.
And yes, a mother is eternally missed.
Mar 4, 2021
Mar 4, 2021 at 8:44 AM UTC
At any given time
Brushing my teeth with my eyes clothes
Letting your soul leak out onto my skin
"This is crazy," I thought for the first time,
Singing vintage music in your beat-up convertible
I was in a good mood
Maybe it was John Mayer
Or my second Doctor Pepper
Or the cliff to the left of us
You were behind the wheel, and for the first time, I was not afraid of falling
Maybe there was a hurricane
I've never seen one before, I wouldn't know
All I know is that we came out kicking, and dancing
Like you had carried an old record player the whole way
Nothing but your grace keeping it dry
My heartbeat perfectly in tune to your footsteps
My soul, your rhythm
"My hands, your bones"
Your car breaking down on the narrowest stretch of that road,
As it does
Laughing at the sports cars driving too carefully on the pass
Leaning against your scrap heap in the middle of the road
"Totaled?" I asked
"Nah. But I'll sell it to someone who knows how to fix it."
Knowing that axel grease would make a perfect cologne, but you preferred pine
Let me be perfectly clear: we were not in love
Love would be complicated
Splitting hairs and asking about feelings
Your soul would be afraid to touch me, and your soul made me feel vibrant
We were nothing but real
I don't feel lucky
You would have found me if I were invisible
You were looking for a girl in hiking boots with her ball gown
Dancing to the tune caused by flickering stars on and off instead of the orchestra
And I don't know how many of us there really are anymore
Girls who aren't afraid to ruin their clothes and can still use a compass
The tow truck came at the just the wrong time
When you jokingly dipped me over the side of the road, like you were going to let go
But I've already explained- I was not afraid of heights
You were a sturdy harness maintained by a practiced climber
Any sort of chaos was braided into the ropes which made them stronger
We were laughing as we both crammed into single passenger seat of the truck and inched down the mountain
Jan 11, 2018
Jan 11, 2018 at 12:31 PM UTC
Our woodland was filled with beggars, maniacs and perverts
But we never had to seek help or find protection
Haven’t known any god or demon to blame
So I embraced their congenital malfunctions,
And mine too
We were surrounded by piles of innocent propagandas
Assorted with some grossly exaggerated honesty
Fortunately enough –
Cleanliness would be the beggars’ top criterion
And mine too
A tiny venomous needle was always the maniac’s favourite weapon
He whispered in the ear,
“Run! Run!! Run!!!
Through the narrowest alleys of your dumb mind!”
The perverts took pauses, often and peculiarly
From the run, from the salacious dances, from their thirst
We’d know we were in the wrong time again
I’d know I had to close my eyes to feel the pain, again
Unfortunately enough –
They liberate your soul
Only to suffocate it with their bare hands
Mar 27, 2019
Mar 27, 2019 at 2:38 AM UTC
Static with words that speak the familiar,
Narrowest thoughts spoken so many ways,
Bare novel spark in the particular,
A tireless writer with nothing to say.
A thousand new words are no less banal,
When a writer is content just to be,
When the compulsion to write is his all,
He writes with no responsibility.
To lose that will is to lay down my pen,
To no longer betray the written word,
Writing not a thing until the moment when,
Something new inside deserves to be heard.
Unique thought must precede what is written,
Needing to write is to seek depths to plumb,
That awesome task with which I am smitten,
Is never to be, but always become.
Dec 30, 2018
Dec 30, 2018 at 10:55 PM UTC