"nightdress" poems
My First Day at Hogwarts
On a Saturday morning,
I woke up in pain.
Perched on top of my head,
Was an owl shaking its mane.
As I focused my glance,
the owl got clearer.
There was something clutched in its beak;
a pale yellow letter.
When I opened it,
words started to bloom,
Mr Y. Vartak,
The inner bedroom.
‘You have a place
in Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry,
Points will be taken for wrong,
and awarded for bravery.’
I showed it to my parents,
Who were not at all surprised.
They were in fact very happy,
I am a wizard I realized!
We took a plane to London,
Visit Diagon Alley.
In a hurry to buy my first wand,
robes and stationery.
It was the first of September,
so we hurried to Kings Cross.
We got to platform nine and three quarters,
after struggling through the chaos.
I had everything in my trunk,
I had nothing more to get.
My parents surprised me,
by giving me an owl as a pet.
I got a seat in the Hogwarts Express,
and put my robes,
There was a boy opposite me,
he was juggling bewitched globes.
We got off the train,
At Hogsmeade Station.
There was an amazing castle,
that was beyond my imagination.
We rowed across the lake,
sitting on boats,
It was getting colder,
so we pulled on our coats
We entered the hall,
Full of eyes.
There was a roof above us,
that represented the vast skies.
There was a dusty hat,
in the middle of a stage,
It had a rip near the brim,
so it looked older than its age.
A professor named Minerva,
Put that hat on my head.
The rip opened like a mouth,
Interesting is what it said.
The Sorting Hat as it was called,
said that he had to think some more,
After a while it yelled:
‘He’ll go in GRYFFINDOR!’
I joined the Gryffindor,
at the Start-Of-Term Feast.
We were so involved I talking,
we cared for our sleep the least.
After the feast, we departed,
for Gryffindor Common Room,
Outside the portrait hole, there was,
a shiny black broom.
I changed from my robes to my nightdress,
lay down watching the dying ember.
My eyelids were getting heavy,
I walked into a deep slumber.
This poem is written by me,
Yash Singh.
Specially written for my favourite,
Joanne Kathleen Rowling.
Sep 8, 2019
Sep 8, 2019 at 7:20 AM UTC
It was you, Atthis, who said
"Sappho, if you will not get
up and let us look at you
I shall never love you again!
"Get up, unleash your suppleness,
lift off your Chian nightdress
and, like a lily leaning into
"a spring, bathe in the water.
Cleis is bringing your best
purple frock and the yellow
"tunic down from the clothes chest;
you will have a cloak thrown over
you and flowers crowning your hair...
"Praxinoa, my child, will you please
roast nuts for our breakfast? One
of the gods is being good to us:
"today we are going at last
into Mitylene, our favorite
city, with Sappho, loveliest
"of its women; she will walk
among us like a mother with
all her daughters around her
"when she comes home from exile..."
But you forget everything
3.5k
Drown me in self pity
Fill me with gravel and confetti
And I won't scream and shout, or tell anyone about the sarcastic soliloquy
Dance me into a state of disbelief
Your unsteady heartbeat,
will without fuss or pout
Tell everyone about you and me.
Aug 16, 2014
Aug 16, 2014 at 11:51 PM UTC
It was the boys’ bath night
and you had bathed
and were drying yourself
with the white towel
they had given you
when the bathroom door flew open
and Anne stood there one-legged
in her pink flowered nightdress
perching on her crutches like a hawk
her eyes bright and dark
a smile lingering on her lips
well ****** me
she said
what a sight
for a girl’s lovesick eyes
and she entered the bathroom
and pushed the door shut
behind her with her bottom
almost uncrutching herself
in the process
you pulled the towel
tight around you
and stared at her
it’s the boys’ bath night
you muttered
girls aren’t allowed in
while boys bath
she moved over
to the mirror
and gazed at herself
you’re right
she said
I’m not a boy
I’m a tight titted girl
and she laughed
and crutched herself
over towards you
making you flatten yourself
against the wall
gripping the towel with one hand
and holding her back
with the other
and she leaned down
and kiss the back of your hand
then looked you deep in the eyes
what have you got hidden
behind that towelling skirt then?
she said
and you gripped the towel tighter
with both hands
and she menacingly moved
one hand cautiously towards the towel
her armpits gripping
the crutches tightly
as she moved
you shouldn’t be in here
you said
I’m not in there yet
she laughed and grabbed
the towel away with a force
that took her and the towel
toppling to the bathroom floor
where she lay
like an overturned beetle
you stood naked
your hands covering
what your father
called your toolbox
gazing down at her struggling
to get up
well don’t just stand there
like a prize parrot
help pick me up
she said
and so with one hand covering
you knelt down to help lift her up
but then she pulled you
down beside her
and laughed
and her laughter echoed
around the walls
but then she paused
and put a hand
over her mouth
hearing Sister Bridget’s
nearby footsteps
and noisy calls.
Mar 15, 2012
Mar 15, 2012 at 3:16 AM UTC
*"No one's gonna take my soul away
I'm living like Jim Morrison...
In the land of Gods and Monsters
I was an angel"*
Lana Del Rey
Innocence lost, made her crazy
her smile forced, living twisted lies
bitter sweet memories, captured
in death defying detail
waken by the same song bird
who only blessed hope in the
darkness of a new dawn,
singing from the soul,
with filtering movements across
a chipped wood window ledge
enough to keep this young girls
heart in place, making her sad
even cry, with solitude, mixed
with an urgent sense of joy
a window ledge looking out
to grand oak trees, squirrels
playful in flight,
shaken autumnal leaves drop
whispering stories
to the blue **** chaffinch, swallows
a lowly stray cat jumps
chases leaves that swirl
mini tornados, whistling winds
chasing his tail
a thief of his prey he captures
a baby bird of first flight
racing off into bushes
hiding his feed for the day
A cacophony of deafening
sounds forces their noise
up the narrow stairwell
pounding feet; her father
he frightens the song bird
away, and a silence forms
In her nightdress
Emily grabs the soft torn eared
teddy, lays flat to the dusty
wooden floor and hides
under the four poster bed
silent as a ghost
she is filled with the same
fear, she faces each
and every
day.
© Sia Jane
Jan 13, 2014
Jan 13, 2014 at 12:30 PM UTC
The gauzy nightdress caresses her thighs
as her bare arms, trembling feet defy
the gnawing, gnashing wind.
The world hangs below,
teetering on the edge of a cliff.
She turns, back to the open air;
taxicabs panic below her.
She tilts, arms whirling like pinwheels,
and falls into freedom.
Serenity, it seems, is found in flying,
if only for a moment.
Feb 4, 2012
Feb 4, 2012 at 12:25 AM UTC
The second poem in the series by my alter ego, Count Orlok the wicked Vampyr
O how the moon peeps out gaily from behind a pink cloud,
Its light shining wanly on the grave of my fat neighbour,
That ugly old **** Bert Higgenbottom, follower of silly old Jesus,
As my vampyr fangs glisten in the ***** moonlight.
Ding! **** The midnight bell tolls like the clappers
And I rise fully ***** to begin the horrid task
Which I have been putting off for months:
The ritual defilement of his mouldy corpse.
What a shock to discover his nightdress-clad body
Lying next to his collection of Doris Day LPs;
Thus I turn the putrid plump corpse over carefully
Before sodomising it with my mighty circumcised ****
Yucch! It's a grim job but someone's got to do it.
Jan 20, 2015
Jan 20, 2015 at 7:31 AM UTC
The ballet stage was not a place for me
Late at night this child not too bright,
Stepped out
All forlorn
In long nightdress
Frilled all round
With red candlestick
And there on stage
At Sadlers Wells
She did propose
To dance composed
But having not an ounce
Of spatial sensé
Missed the placement of her feet
And at the end
As the audience clapped
She curtsied with her back
So none could see
This shining star
With her
candlestick
A flame
Just
The long and flowing hair
Which got her further
By far
This beautiful
Falling flower.
Love Mary ***
Mar 21, 2018
Mar 21, 2018 at 6:53 PM UTC
when i was a little girl
i sat at my window every night
and dreamed about flying away
then i would tuck myself into bed
and dream until the next day
then one night as i sat on the sill,
the moon and stars were shining so bright
i flung that window open,
grabbed a bouquet of balloons,
and set off on my flight.
the wind carried me, in my nightdress
up, up, up
to the stars and the moon
with my little toes dangling below me,
away i went with my birthday balloons.
i flew over my neighbor's house,
then over the twinkling lights of the city.
i flew over rivers, lakes and trees.
from up there, everything looked so pretty.
i flew over farmlands with cows and chickens
then over parks with beautiful fountains,
then i crossed over great, wide oceans
and floated over snow-capped mountains.
i never wanted to touch the ground
so i continued on my way.
if you look up in the sky you just might see me
flying with my balloon bouquet.
Aug 22, 2016
Aug 22, 2016 at 7:48 PM UTC
--painting by Chris Brodahl at the Seattle Art Museum
Legs bent over the chair,
her pants wrinkle as she moves
rippling
My face tilts back and I close my eyes;
she bends her fingers over the table
like she’s playing piano.
Images cross over and I can’t keep track,
lost in eyes pasted over fingers
lips glued onto hairlines.
And still she moves,
staying silent but shifting
rippling
I had a dream the other night
of a farmland in grayscale,
black and white movies in my head.
My mother in her pink cotton nightdress;
bluebirds mocking me from their roost in a tree
And still this silent farmhouse, soft in its slumber.
But I can’t move when I’m asleep,
and she can’t move when she’s awake
We’re perfect in each other’s hands
I wait until her eyes are closed
and then I kiss her, her eyelids fluttering
rippling, as if to say hello.
Jan 3, 2012
Jan 3, 2012 at 6:00 PM UTC
The psychiatrist looks young
he seems Italian
she sits opposite
looking at his eyebrows
thick
but not too much so
and his lips opening
and closing as he speaks
but she isn’t listening
she’s wondering
if he’s married
where about he lives
what size his house is
how he looks undressed
he leans forward
his words slower now
as if he thinks her
imbecilic or maybe deaf
he emphasizes his words
his Italian accent
coming through
o what wonderful eyes
what flesh
his 9.0’clock shadow
gives a blue tinged
to his skin
he gestures with hands
opening them outward
like some trader
selling her something dodgy
she can smell his aftershave
it invades her nose
makes her nerves tingle
her knees touch
she lets them spread
beneath the desk
to the limits
her nightdress allows
he sits back in his chair
his words back
to fast speed
over her head
his gestures
are by fingers now
pointing and twirling
his eyes dark
intense like Nietzsche’s
she thinks
she leans forward
air pushing
between her thighs
as she spreads
her legs
as much as possible
under his desk
life’s one big adventure
she thinks
one big dare
she puts her elbows
on his desktop
wearing no underwear
but he doesn’t know
it doesn’t show
but if it did
what then?
what would he say or do?
the window is open
the sky a bright blue.
Feb 1, 2013
Feb 1, 2013 at 3:26 AM UTC
Life changing
the Blitz bomb
took my sight
and my legs.
Clive gone too
at Dunkirk.
I recall
our last kiss
as the train
left London.
I sit in
this darkness.
Hospital
smells around
and voice sounds.
Morning Grace
a voice says.
My blind eyes
turn around
to the sound.
Who is it?
I enquire.
Doctor Clay
I have come
to see you
and see how
your stumps are
the voice says.
They're painful
I tell him.
Nurse we need
Grace to be
lying down.
Between them
they lift me
on the bed.
Fingers lift
my nightdress
and unwrap
bandages.
Fresh air hits
the leg stumps.
His fingers
examine
what is left
of my legs.
They're healing
very well
he tells me.
Soon we will
have someone
sort you out
for new legs
he informs.
I thank him.
He goes off
and the nurse
(small fingered)
now attends
to some fresh
bandages.
As her fingers
touch my thighs
I recall
Clive touching
me there too
that last time
before he left
for the War.
I stare out
into dark
cold spaces
and a far
away shore.
Mar 10, 2017
Mar 10, 2017 at 9:12 AM UTC
I dreamt it snowed
Nectar and powdered sugar,
Dusting nature's lips.
I recall the kiss from her
Not-so-innocent curiosity,
Come-hither in her arched brow.
How the morning breeze
Grew wanton,
Lifting her nightdress,
Until naked she pirouetted about
The cloister garth.
I dreamt of flowering moonlight
And his potent stem,
Filling her
With stars and shivers,
As she burst, for goodness sake,
From all the little blissful parties
Drumming her garden wall.
I dreamt of fecundity
And funnel cakes,
Soft and sweet and round,
Her milk a spring,
Laden with gift of life.
Intuitive opaque areolae,
The shape of things to come,
The very ones from which
She'll nurse their young.
Nov 11, 2019
Nov 11, 2019 at 6:52 PM UTC
I am a holder of dolls,
said Monica,
I keep them in my arms
in light and dark,
I sleep with one
in my bed at night,
her fuzzy hair
tickles my face,
my dreams are of
my mother's cries,
her anguish over
the men who come.
I am the bearer
of her smacks,
her voice vibrates
in my ears,
her hand marks
colour my skin.
My window looks out
on fish shop below,
the baker's shop
on the left,
on narrow
Meadow Row,
the bomb sites
on either side.
My mother's men
come and go,
they make her
laugh or cry,
they sleep beside her
in her double bed,
I hear their voices
in the dark,
the sounds of giggles
or weeping,
the slapping of hands
on flesh,
the darkness brings me
bogeymen and shadows.
One of the men,
crept to my bed,
removed my doll,
touched my leg,
lifted my nightdress,
our little secret
he whispered to me,
the darkness swallowed him
up, the dirtiness left
in his wake.
I am the sleeper
of light sleep,
I listen for the sound
of creeping feet,
for the door **** to move ,
for the door to open,
for the hands to touch,
for the secrets kept.
From my window I see
the children at play
on the grass below,
with toy guns,
bows and arrows,
dolls and prams,
they look for me
to join in,
to enter their games,
the boys seek me
as their cowgirl moll,
they ride their invisible
horses across the plains,
shooting out
their cowboy dreams.
I watch the sky darken,
the moon a silver coin,
the clouds
puffs of smoke,
my mother
calls me to meals,
the table and chairs,
old and stained,
her man friend
drinks and smokes,
makes silly remarks,
***** jokes,
me he pinches
(under the table)
or secretly pokes.
I am the holder of dolls,
they are my true companions,
they never complain,
they share my dreams,
they share my pains.
From my window
I see Benedict play,
he alone knows
of my plight,
he my knight
in cowboy shirt
and jeans,
my teller of tales,
my listener of woes,
he buys me
sweets or chips
after our games,
walks me home
with his 6 shooter gun
resting in the holster
by the side of his leg,
his cowboy hat
slanted to one side.
He keeps my secrets,
holds my hand
over busy roads,
eyes the men
my mother brings home,
guns them down
in our shared dreams.
I kiss his cheek
as a kind of thanks,
he blows me a kiss
from his open palm
as he rides
the bomb site plains,
he knows my fears
of the men
and my mother's smacks
and the pains,
he stares at my mother
with his hazel eyes,
his steady stare,
he alone likes me,
he alone is there.
Oct 14, 2013
Oct 14, 2013 at 7:37 AM UTC
I am back on the ward
after Philip took me out
to dinner in a restaurant
with the others
Nurse Kavel
undresses me for bed
I look at where
I think she is
with my blind eyes
was I good?
I ask
yes you did
very well
she says
her fingers remove
the red dress
and pull it over my head
then I sit there
semi undressed
balancing on the bed
feeling with my fingers
the aching leg stumps
legs hurt?
She says
yes a bit
I say
she finishes ********** me
then puts on my nightdress
I am on my back
staring into darkness
as she rubs my stumps
and unfolds the bandages
then re-bandages
them slowly
she talks about
the night out
and how well I did
were people
looking at me?
I ask
of course
she says
but they couldn't see
your leg stumps under
the red dress
then she has done
and is gone
and I lie alone
looking at darkness
I try to put together
the various words
and conversations
that went on
around me
putting lips to faces
that I couldn't see.
Jun 27, 2016
Jun 27, 2016 at 3:28 AM UTC
It’s the fifth hotel room
in as many days
the fifth morning waking
and standing there
by the window
watching her sleep
and he thinks
no one sleeps
like she does
no one seems to enjoy
sleep like she does
as if she were born to it
and he lets his eyes
rest on her
for a few moments
lets them move
over her lying there
wanting to climb
back in bed
and make love to her
but not while she’s sleeping
of course
although he did
years before
with some other woman
that plump one
who had drunk herself
into a slumber
and had said
before she had nodded off
we must make love
and so he had
but it had been no fun
it had no satisfaction
he recalls
taking in
the sleeping woman
before him how
she barely seems to breathe
as she sleeps
and he moves closer
and puts his ear
near to her
careful not to let
his breath wake her
his warm breath
stir her awake
she is moody if woken
before time
will sulk over breakfast
down stairs
in the hotel restaurant
with a face like thunder
sitting at the table
staring down
at her cereal bowl
picking at the food
sipping coffee
no best to let her sleep
he thinks as he moves away
takes in her red night dress
the one he’d bought
in Chicago
and the store girl
had looked at him
as he stood there
with it in his hands
and smiled
and the girl had
a kind of **** smile
one of those smiles
that seemed to say
wish we were an item
wish that red nightie
was for me
but it wasn’t
and he left the store
with it wrapped up
in a neat package
and gave it to her
just before
they came away
and her eyes opened up
when she saw it
and she’s worn it
the last five nights
and it has soaked her up
into its cloth now
her perfume
her perspiration
her skin touching it
and it enfolding her
like a mother
and o look at her
sleeping there
he says to himself
look how she sleeps
her red hair
matching her nightdress
o he wants to hold her
and kiss her
and feel her close
o how he wants
to enter her
and explode within her
she lets out
a soft sigh
he stands still
his hand in his pockets
she breathes out
one long sigh
if only she would wake
he muses
his tongue
at the corner
of his mouth
if only she would turn now
and say
come on
come and make love to me
but she doesn’t
she moves her leg
her toes move
her buttocks twitch
her fingers scratch an itch
wake up Sweetheart
he mumbles
wake up
his disappointed self says
wake up you *****
Feb 2, 2013
Feb 2, 2013 at 2:43 AM UTC
A song
my eyes, your face.
an evening, mellowed down.
my arms around your neck
your hands tickling on my waist.
worn out t-shirt and old nightdress.
A perfect date.
Mar 1, 2019
Mar 1, 2019 at 2:47 AM UTC
At swim,
girl waits with gun.
She's a half-formed thing,
having entered into it
motherless.
The fault in our stars,
the night sky with exit wounds,
is left to the grace of
a god of such small things:
fabulous disarray,
perilous notions.
It's a common tale
in tragic literature,
but here it now floats.
The red tide washing
back onto shore
as granules of sugar,
sweet as petrified honey
in the hallowed out trees:
in which we begin
to not understand.
The sea breaks its back,
lingering like the wet gossamer
of her nightdress,
covered with the scent
of stillbirth,
and the illimitable
shut-in trials:
they arrive in waves,
she weeps every time they're "borne."
Apr 1, 2020
Apr 1, 2020 at 10:09 AM UTC
Magdalene undresses
ready for bed,
her da had moaned about
the record playing on and on,
can you play nothing else?
it's getting on my fecking nerves,
Mary had been at the coffee bar,
spoke about Sister Bridget
and the priest and things said and done,
Mary smelt of scent
(her ma's no doubt)
and Magdalene loves it,
she folds the dress
over the chair by her bed,
red flowers on white cloth,
Ma's choice not mine,
Mags utters, soon be leaving
fecking school, good job too,
get a job, earn me own,
not have Da saying
you cost me with
your clothes and such,
Mary touched my hand
along by the church,
felt its warmth,
Martha has this thing
about crucifixes,
Magdalene muses,
putting on her nightdress,
pink and flannelette,
eyeing the sacred heart of Jesus
on the wall, Ma's da bought it,
staring down eyes on me,
Mags muses, covering up
and getting into bed,
I'll belt you
if you get lippy
her da had said over supper,
just saying,
well don't,
not your place to speak
Da had said,
dark eyed,
his heavy hand on the table,
Mary Mary quite contrary,
the pillow's soft,
scent smell,
wish Mary was here,
Da's voice downstairs
loud and brash,
Ma's voice talking back,
that time he whacked me one
for talking to the boy
outside the store,
lights out,
head resting,
dreams beginning,
if only,
hug me Mary,
hug me tight,
dream on,
night night.
Dec 28, 2015
Dec 28, 2015 at 3:53 AM UTC
We're back from dinner,
and that piano recital
she wanted to go see
some pianist
at some hall
in the City
playing Chopin
and Ravel.
She's unwrapping herself
from the small coat
she was wearing
and puts it on a chair
in our hotel room
and stands there
swaying some.
Fingers, that pianist's fingers
how they moved
over the black
and white keys,
Abela says,
she gestures
with her fingers
in mid air,
didn't he play well?
Yes he did,
I say,
watching her movement,
best get you
ready for bed.
What bed already?
why the night is young,
she replies,
get to bed yourself,
I'm not ready for sleepy byes.
She wanders drunkenly
over to the window
and stares out:
what a fine night it is,
she says.
I walk over to her
and stand nearby:
bed is best for you,
I say.
What?
O I see
you want your ***
don't you
want your ***
before I pass out.
She turns and gazes at me:
no I want you into bed
so you don't fall down
or sleep on the floor
as you did
the other night,
I say.
I didn't sleep
on the floor,
I slept in the bed,
she says.
She walks swaying
to the bed and sits down:
there you are, I’m on the bed,
happy now
Mr **** Man?
She says,
looking at me
or past me.
Sure, but into bed
is best,
I say.
O Benny, you're such
a worrier,
here give me a kiss
and then turn
on that radio,
I want music,
she says.
I kiss her,
then go to the radio
and switch it on,
and Mahler come on
his 5th symphony.
O Mahler,
she says,
depressing ****
here get me
out of these clothes.
I go to her
and begin to unzip
her dress
and she sits there
swaying.
Haven't you
unzipped me yet?
God I never felt
so useless.
I take off the dress
by lying her down
and pulling the dress
down over her feet,
and she lies there
********* the air
in a conductor pose,
then I sit her up
and put on her nightdress,
a thin thing of blue
and over her head
and get her arms in
and pull down.
She just sits there
and stares:
what about
my underclothes?
Going to leave
those on ?
Don't you want
them off?
She says.
If you want them off,
I can,
I say.
She lies on the bed
and gazes at the light shade
a white thing
gathering dust.
I take off her underwear
and get her into bed
and her head on the pillow.
There go to sleep,
I say,
I’ll sleep on the sofa,
best that way,
I say.
Sleep alone then,
lover boy,
forget the ***
she says.
Her eyes close
and I go to the sofa,
trying to sleep,
but only doze.
Sep 13, 2016
Sep 13, 2016 at 6:50 AM UTC