"pupas" poems - Hello Poetry

How far is it? How far is it now? The gigantic gorilla interior Of the wheels move, they appall me --- The terrible brains Of Krupp, black muzzles Revolving, the sound Punching out Absence! Like cannon. It is Russia I have to get across, it is some was or other. I am dragging my body Quietly through the straw of the boxcars. Now is the time for bribery. What do wheels eat, these wheels Fixed to their arcs like gods, The silver leash of the will ---- Inexorable. And their pride! All the gods know destinations. I am a letter in this slot! I fly to a name, two eyes. Will there be fire, will there be bread? Here there is such mud. It is a trainstop, the nurses Undergoing the faucet water, its veils, veils in a nunnery, Touching their wounded, The men the blood still pumps forward, Legs, arms piled outside The tent of unending cries ---- A hospital of dolls. And the men, what is left of the men Pumped ahead by these pistons, this blood Into the next mile, The next hour ---- Dynasty of broken arrows! How far is it? There is mud on my feet, Thick, red and slipping. It is Adam's side, This earth I rise from, and I in agony. I cannot undo myself, and the train is steaming. Steaming and breathing, its teeth Ready to roll, like a devil's. There is a minute at the end of it A minute, a dewdrop. How far is it? It is so small The place I am getting to, why are there these obstacles ---- The body of this woman, Charred skirts and deathmask Mourned by religious figures, by garlanded children. And now detonations ---- Thunder and guns. The fire's between us. Is there no place Turning and turning in the middle air, Untouchable and untouchable. The train is dragging itself, it is screaming ---- An animal Insane for the destination, The bloodspot, The face at the end of the flare. I shall bury the wounded like pupas, I shall count and bury the dead. Let their souls writhe in like dew, Incense in my track. The carriages rock, they are cradles. And I, stepping from this skin Of old bandages, boredoms, old faces Step up to you from the black car of Lethe, Pure as a baby.

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3.6k

Sylvia Plath

Getting There

How far is it? How far is it now? The gigantic gorilla interior Of the wheels move, they appall me --- The terrible brains Of Krupp, black muzzles Revolving, the sound Punching out Absence! Like cannon. It is Russia I have to get across, it is some was or other. I am dragging my body Quietly through the straw of the boxcars. Now is the time for bribery. What do wheels eat, these wheels Fixed to their arcs like gods, The silver leash of the will ---- Inexorable. And their pride! All the gods know destinations. I am a letter in this slot! I fly to a name, two eyes. Will there be fire, will there be bread? Here there is such mud. It is a trainstop, the nurses Undergoing the faucet water, its veils, veils in a nunnery, Touching their wounded, The men the blood still pumps forward, Legs, arms piled outside The tent of unending cries ---- A hospital of dolls. And the men, what is left of the men Pumped ahead by these pistons, this blood Into the next mile, The next hour ---- Dynasty of broken arrows! How far is it? There is mud on my feet, Thick, red and slipping. It is Adam's side, This earth I rise from, and I in agony. I cannot undo myself, and the train is steaming. Steaming and breathing, its teeth Ready to roll, like a devil's. There is a minute at the end of it A minute, a dewdrop. How far is it? It is so small The place I am getting to, why are there these obstacles ---- The body of this woman, Charred skirts and deathmask Mourned by religious figures, by garlanded children. And now detonations ---- Thunder and guns. The fire's between us. Is there no place Turning and turning in the middle air, Untouchable and untouchable. The train is dragging itself, it is screaming ---- An animal Insane for the destination, The bloodspot, The face at the end of the flare. I shall bury the wounded like pupas, I shall count and bury the dead. Let their souls writhe in like dew, Incense in my track. The carriages rock, they are cradles. And I, stepping from this skin Of old bandages, boredoms, old faces Step up to you from the black car of Lethe, Pure as a baby.

68

How far is it? How far is it now? The gigantic gorilla interior Of the wheels move, they appall me --- The terrible brains Of Krupp, black muzzles Revolving, the sound Punching out Absence! Like cannon. It is Russia I have to get across, it is some was or other. I am dragging my body Quietly through the straw of the boxcars. Now is the time for bribery. What do wheels eat, these wheels Fixed to their arcs like gods, The silver leash of the will ---- Inexorable. And their pride! All the gods know destinations. I am a letter in this slot! I fly to a name, two eyes. Will there be fire, will there be bread? Here there is such mud. It is a trainstop, the nurses Undergoing the faucet water, its veils, veils in a nunnery, Touching their wounded, The men the blood still pumps forward, Legs, arms piled outside The tent of unending cries ---- A hospital of dolls. And the men, what is left of the men Pumped ahead by these pistons, this blood Into the next mile, The next hour ---- Dynasty of broken arrows! How far is it? There is mud on my feet, Thick, red and slipping. It is Adam's side, This earth I rise from, and I in agony. I cannot undo myself, and the train is steaming. Steaming and breathing, its teeth Ready to roll, like a devil's. There is a minute at the end of it A minute, a dewdrop. How far is it? It is so small The place I am getting to, why are there these obstacles ---- The body of this woman, Charred skirts and deathmask Mourned by religious figures, by garlanded children. And now detonations ---- Thunder and guns. The fire's between us. Is there no place Turning and turning in the middle air, Untouchable and untouchable. The train is dragging itself, it is screaming ---- An animal Insane for the destination, The bloodspot, The face at the end of the flare. I shall bury the wounded like pupas, I shall count and bury the dead. Let their souls writhe in like dew, Incense in my track. The carriages rock, they are cradles. And I, stepping from this skin Of old bandages, boredoms, old faces Step up to you from the black car of Lethe, Pure as a baby.

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Aug 7, 2013

Aug 7, 2013 at 10:35 PM UTC

nonetheless

Getting there

How far is it? How far is it now? The gigantic gorilla interior Of the wheels move, they appall me --- The terrible brains Of Krupp, black muzzles Revolving, the sound Punching out Absence! Like cannon. It is Russia I have to get across, it is some was or other. I am dragging my body Quietly through the straw of the boxcars. Now is the time for bribery. What do wheels eat, these wheels Fixed to their arcs like gods, The silver leash of the will ---- Inexorable. And their pride! All the gods know destinations. I am a letter in this slot! I fly to a name, two eyes. Will there be fire, will there be bread? Here there is such mud. It is a trainstop, the nurses Undergoing the faucet water, its veils, veils in a nunnery, Touching their wounded, The men the blood still pumps forward, Legs, arms piled outside The tent of unending cries ---- A hospital of dolls. And the men, what is left of the men Pumped ahead by these pistons, this blood Into the next mile, The next hour ---- Dynasty of broken arrows! How far is it? There is mud on my feet, Thick, red and slipping. It is Adam's side, This earth I rise from, and I in agony. I cannot undo myself, and the train is steaming. Steaming and breathing, its teeth Ready to roll, like a devil's. There is a minute at the end of it A minute, a dewdrop. How far is it? It is so small The place I am getting to, why are there these obstacles ---- The body of this woman, Charred skirts and deathmask Mourned by religious figures, by garlanded children. And now detonations ---- Thunder and guns. The fire's between us. Is there no place Turning and turning in the middle air, Untouchable and untouchable. The train is dragging itself, it is screaming ---- An animal Insane for the destination, The bloodspot, The face at the end of the flare. I shall bury the wounded like pupas, I shall count and bury the dead. Let their souls writhe in like dew, Incense in my track. The carriages rock, they are cradles. And I, stepping from this skin Of old bandages, boredoms, old faces Step up to you from the black car of Lethe, Pure as a baby.

62

People have butterflies In their stomach they say, When something tickles their heart away. They say something dances in there, That something gets them all red . That is how they know When something is good for their heart, The butterflies, I suppose is a sign of love -captured in their heart, Making their way around, The butterflies dances to someone else's songs And the world they live in Gets brighter. People say They have butterflies In their stomach, When someone tickles their heart But all I feel is a burn As if acid churns up my soul. It rises in my guts to my heart Perhaps to burn the love Or the fingers perhaps that tickles it, Perhaps because the butterflies in my stomach are dead! In others they remain dormant In mine they just died for living too long In hope but no fingers to carve their world. Maybe they died in their pupas Suffocated by all the strangling hands, Or maybe they flew away In search of someone in the past. But the acid I feel Is their ashes still ablaze, I guess that is what is most probable That they died long ago, Been stuck there for too long Held hostage by my fear And burnt by the matches People unknowingly rubbed along. And so every time something, Every time you tickle my heart, I guess it is good for it, Fire burns in my stomach, Rises up my guts And I run to throw up, To throw it all away. I don't think I am made to tickle. I have fire in my heart, It burns everything away And I have carcasses of wings to clean up!

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Apr 5, 2017

Apr 5, 2017 at 11:20 AM UTC

shanath

Dead Butterflies

People have butterflies In their stomach they say, When something tickles their heart away. They say something dances in there, That something gets them all red . That is how they know When something is good for their heart, The butterflies, I suppose is a sign of love -captured in their heart, Making their way around, The butterflies dances to someone else's songs And the world they live in Gets brighter. People say They have butterflies In their stomach, When someone tickles their heart But all I feel is a burn As if acid churns up my soul. It rises in my guts to my heart Perhaps to burn the love Or the fingers perhaps that tickles it, Perhaps because the butterflies in my stomach are dead! In others they remain dormant In mine they just died for living too long In hope but no fingers to carve their world. Maybe they died in their pupas Suffocated by all the strangling hands, Or maybe they flew away In search of someone in the past. But the acid I feel Is their ashes still ablaze, I guess that is what is most probable That they died long ago, Been stuck there for too long Held hostage by my fear And burnt by the matches People unknowingly rubbed along. And so every time something, Every time you tickle my heart, I guess it is good for it, Fire burns in my stomach, Rises up my guts And I run to throw up, To throw it all away. I don't think I am made to tickle. I have fire in my heart, It burns everything away And I have carcasses of wings to clean up!

51

May the butterflies of this world return to us once more when the spring provides her heat we will no longer hide Eastern winds of far away lands flying in unknown shores their cellophane wings of light need to return and chide Once they adorned our many flowers here in Canada now they are a memory of yesterday's summer gaze I cling to the hope that tomorrow I won't need algebra to count the flutter of their wings, like yonder days I'll know them by the colors of their flight and groove that April has arrived with her rainy cascade all the trees will suspire as they soften their moves garnished once again, with butterflies of every shade I know that when the season wakes we are going to see Monarchs, European skippers, and frosted elfin too as the warmer shades and colors meld into the sea we will begin to spot the pupas, and butterflies anew.

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Mar 11, 2021

Mar 11, 2021 at 7:07 AM UTC

Loretta

Butterflies Of Every Shade

May the butterflies of this world return to us once more when the spring provides her heat we will no longer hide Eastern winds of far away lands flying in unknown shores their cellophane wings of light need to return and chide Once they adorned our many flowers here in Canada now they are a memory of yesterday's summer gaze I cling to the hope that tomorrow I won't need algebra to count the flutter of their wings, like yonder days I'll know them by the colors of their flight and groove that April has arrived with her rainy cascade all the trees will suspire as they soften their moves garnished once again, with butterflies of every shade I know that when the season wakes we are going to see Monarchs, European skippers, and frosted elfin too as the warmer shades and colors meld into the sea we will begin to spot the pupas, and butterflies anew.

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