"sidelong" poems
It's elementary, my dear
This bittersweet affection that I feel
From one boy to the next I grew
Ladder rungs of broken hearts
First grade
Blonde hair and disarming smile
Recess games and hallway passes
A note in a diary and minutes spent giggling
Never talking, always watching
Fourth grade
Glasses frame of brown hair and thin shoulders
Curious enigma to come and go
A bit more literate diary entrees
One year of crossed legs and shy smiles
Fifth grade
A growing tree of lean muscle and blue eyes
Short brown hair and a charming grin
Side by side on a rubber track
Gray skies and sweet goodbyes
A bright dance floor and a shattered heart
Miserable nights and heartbreak songs
Seventh grade
Long dark hair and chocolate eyes
This spring has brought a strange surprise
Wiry muscle and soft cheeks
Once admired, then adored
An ongoing thrum of sweet affection
Sidelong glances and gym class stares
New discoveries and quiet realization
Girl can love girl
Tenth grade
A firecracker packed with mysterious boys
And an enigmatic girl
A bomb in the summer sky
Spelling new names, new faces, new hearts
A whisper of 'I love you' at long last returned
Names carved on my ribs and pulling my lips
A tightened chest never felt so good
Sep 11, 2014
Sep 11, 2014 at 9:53 PM UTC
School is over. It is too hot
to walk at ease. At ease
in light frocks they walk the streets
to while the time away.
They have grown tall. They hold
pink flames in their right hands.
In white from head to foot,
with sidelong, idle look—
in yellow, floating stuff,
black sash and stockings—
touching their avid mouths
with pink sugar on a stick—
like a carnation each holds in her hand—
they mount the lonely street.
6.2k
In Worcester, Massachusetts,
I went with Aunt Consuelo
to keep her dentist's appointment
and sat and waited for her
in the dentist's waiting room.
It was winter. It got dark
early. The waiting room
was full of grown-up people,
arctics and overcoats,
lamps and magazines.
My aunt was inside
what seemed like a long time
and while I waited and read
the National Geographic
(I could read) and carefully
studied the photographs:
the inside of a volcano,
black, and full of ashes;
then it was spilling over
in rivulets of fire.
Osa and Martin Johnson
dressed in riding breeches,
laced boots, and pith helmets.
A dead man slung on a pole
"Long Pig," the caption said.
Babies with pointed heads
wound round and round with string;
black, naked women with necks
wound round and round with wire
like the necks of light bulbs.
Their ******* were horrifying.
I read it right straight through.
I was too shy to stop.
And then I looked at the cover:
the yellow margins, the date.
Suddenly, from inside,
came an oh! of pain
--Aunt Consuelo's voice--
not very loud or long.
I wasn't at all surprised;
even then I knew she was
a foolish, timid woman.
I might have been embarrassed,
but wasn't. What took me
completely by surprise
was that it was me:
my voice, in my mouth.
Without thinking at all
I was my foolish aunt,
I--we--were falling, falling,
our eyes glued to the cover
of the National Geographic,
February, 1918.
I said to myself: three days
and you'll be seven years old.
I was saying it to stop
the sensation of falling off
the round, turning world.
into cold, blue-black space.
But I felt: you are an I,
you are an Elizabeth,
you are one of them.
Why should you be one, too?
I scarcely dared to look
to see what it was I was.
I gave a sidelong glance
--I couldn't look any higher--
at shadowy gray knees,
trousers and skirts and boots
and different pairs of hands
lying under the lamps.
I knew that nothing stranger
had ever happened, that nothing
stranger could ever happen.
Why should I be my aunt,
or me, or anyone?
What similarities
boots, hands, the family voice
I felt in my throat, or even
the National Geographic
and those awful hanging *******
held us all together
or made us all just one?
How I didn't know any
word for it how "unlikely". . .
How had I come to be here,
like them, and overhear
a cry of pain that could have
got loud and worse but hadn't?
The waiting room was bright
and too hot. It was sliding
beneath a big black wave,
another, and another.
Then I was back in it.
The War was on. Outside,
in Worcester, Massachusetts,
were night and slush and cold,
and it was still the fifth
of February, 1918.
3.5k
Gazing up at the sky with that stupid grin on my face
Radiant with undisguised joy
I said
Thank you for hanging out with me.
I didn’t mean that
Not exactly
And I don’t believe you think I did-
I think you saw through me
Completely.
You looked at me sidelong
And I blushed,
Having just seen
Forests and deserts and oceans in your eyes
Having just seen the world all wrapped up in a person
Looking at me
And been
Overwhelmed.
See?-
I can’t just say
What I mean.
Especially not when what I mean is
Thank you
For ever being near me in this world.
Thank you for the nights I’ve given up sleep
To sit and watch the light seep through my curtains, lost in the strange beauty of your dreams and thoughts and ideas.
Thank you for your art
That digs its way into my heart and takes root there
Making me vibrant inside.
Thank you for those times I’ve spent
Happily close to you
The warmth like sunlight that spreads through me whenever I see you.
Thank you for the beauty I notice in the world
When I think about you-
The broken glass on my street
Suddenly like fallen stars.
The little weeds that push valiantly up through the cracks
Like mighty trees.
The lights spilling over the pavement
Like dawn.
Thank you for
The chance to feel
Alive.
Thank you for knowing me.
Thank you for letting me in.
Thank you for letting me in even though you know me.
Thank you for the image of an odd, smart, wonderful little kid
Asking mom what color her A was.
Thank you for the tenderness that brought to my heart.
Thank you for your stories and your courage and your wit.
Thank you for looking at me with gentleness.
Thank you for giving me some of your time.
Thank you for your passions, your dark, angry moments,
The beautiful, bitter hurt you carry inside of you and let me witness like a storm at sea
But always shelter me from being touched by.
Thank you for being the kind of person
Who struggles to understand being loved
But does not rage against it.
Thank you for being kind.
Thank you for being complicated.
Thank you for being strong, and insightful, and wicked, and bold.
Thank you for hoping I’ll be happy.
Thank you for making me happy.
Thank you for the moments when I can look at your face in full
Its captivating beauty
The little thoughts that pass across it like clouds across the sky
Mischief and vulnerability and laughter and pain all mingling in your eyes.
When I look at you like that I feel like I might belong somewhere someday.
Thank you for being sarcastic, and humble, and sweet, all at once, all the time.
The truth is that when I said thank you for hanging out with me,
I really meant
Thank you
For being.
I meant thank you, thank you, thank you
For ever being born.
But,
After all,
You can’t just say that.
Sep 23, 2018
Sep 23, 2018 at 2:23 AM UTC
School is over. It is too hot
to walk at ease. At ease
in light frocks they walk the streets
to while the time away.
They have grown tall. They hold
pink flames in their right hands.
In white from head to foot,
with sidelong, idle look—
in yellow, floating stuff,
black sash and stockings—
touching their avid mouths
with pink sugar on a stick—
like a carnation each holds in her hand—
they mount the lonely street.
2.7k
I remember the neckcurls, limp and damp as tendrils;
And her quick look, a sidelong pickerel smile;
And how, once startled into talk, the light syllables leaped for her,
And she balanced in the delight of her thought,
A wren, happy, tail into the wind,
Her song trembling the twigs and small branches.
The shade sang with her;
The leaves, their whispers turned to kissing,
And the mould sang in the bleached valleys under the rose.
Oh, when she was sad, she cast herself down into such a pure depth,
Even a father could not find her:
Scraping her cheek against straw,
Stirring the clearest water.
My sparrow, you are not here,
Waiting like a fern, making a spiney shadow.
The sides of wet stones cannot console me,
Nor the moss, wound with the last light.
If only I could nudge you from this sleep,
My maimed darling, my skittery pigeon.
Over this damp grave I speak the words of my love:
I, with no rights in this matter,
Neither father nor lover.
2.7k
Scandalous, you running in your underwear
Droplets like dew, dripping from your hair
If you didn't think it was odd
I would try to catch them
We dried on that rock lying lazy in the sun
Sidelong glances at each other, one on one
Neither of us could stand to look too long
As if the vacuums of our eyes
Would create some black hole
You spoke and the little hairs
On the back of my neck
Stood in applause
Your hand brushed my hand
Goosebumps rippled from that point and
Through my body,
Alerting everything,
Like electricity
I was instantly alive
Jan 24, 2013
Jan 24, 2013 at 10:27 AM UTC
...You, dearest vagary, aplomb--were
brought to bear.
Vicissitude of memory which is the
dispersion of identity.
Of a time, and of a place--you, a
mellifluous bronze dusk poured upon
a meadow, a solitary immersion, a
moment that harnesses the whole of
the earth, as you are...dearest vagary.
You were afforded as by the citizenry
of the air, lent by an intercontinental
wind.
An undying eloquence featured for all
time--the swaying bud blown to bloom.
You...the beautification of possibility,
its matrices never left in want.
As in withstanding place the round is
made, and remade about you, the whole
of the earth.
Thus, you've no confounding words...
have you?
Thus, this sidelong expenditure that you may--
shall breach the earth you shall.
Feb 23, 2015
Feb 23, 2015 at 11:09 AM UTC
a slip of stones...your sidelong glance,
an entire mountain to break our fall.
i want to tell you--as i tell you when
night doesn't know what's happening.
with the ritual of breath and its savage
exasperation.
you push from behind my eyes, and i
yours.
it's from there i hold words to your face
that pale, so i can live and die by comparison.
rocking forward and backward, side to side...
i can't undress and clothe enough.
i scratch at this split heart, and offer it a
crushing embrace when it breaks open.
it's you baby, it's you...the culmination of my
poetry--this final intensity.
i don't care about the next poem anymore,
the one i'm in is the god of your country.
i'm content to roam...waiting for you to come out
into a clearing.
Aug 4, 2018
Aug 4, 2018 at 1:01 AM UTC
Nymph of the downward smile and sidelong glance!
In what diviner moments of the day
Art thou most lovely?—when gone far astray
Into the labyrinths of sweet utterance,
Or when serenely wandering in a trance
Of sober thought? Or when starting away,
With careless robe to meet the morning ray,
Thou sparest the flowers in thy mazy dance?
Haply 'tis when thy ruby lips part sweetly,
And so remain, because thou listenest:
But thou to please wert nurtured so completely
That I can never tell what mood is best;
I shall as soon pronounce which Grace more neatly
Trips it before Apollo than the rest.
1.7k
I try not to let anyone catch me gazing at you
But it’s like gravity has shifted.
I drink in the sight of you,
Any moment when I can look at your face.
When people are around I force myself to ignore you
But that makes you loom larger,
A force so powerful my heart aches,
And it is an agony to turn away, to pretend I don’t feel a pull strong enough to dizzy me-
Just one more second
Just one more glance
As if you’ll be gone if I wait too long.
In those rare moments when I can look at you without fear
I’m surprised you don’t see the tenderness in my face,
A gentleness I am ashamed of
Because it is both
Unmistakable
And traitorous.
The artist in me notices the curve of your jaw
The softness of your mouth
The depth behind your black rimmed eyes.
I could paint until my hands bled and not capture the hypnotic grace you wear like a mantle.
I truly don’t think you have any sense of it.
The other day I walked into the room, glancing into the shadows
And stopped short.
I covered for it quickly, but what halted me wasn’t surprise at seeing someone in the chair there,
It was awe.
You could have stepped out of a painting of the fallen angels and chosen that armchair as your throne.
Soft light poured over the green velvet of the cushions, stopping only to frame your face in shadow.
Your eyes glittered in the dimness
As you glanced up at me,
And I could have left the Garden
Aflame
For your gaze alone.
Just then,
I know I would have.
It is dangerous to look at someone the way
I know
I look at you.
Beauty isn’t the word
You’re something more
Something harsher
Something deeper
Something
More complete,
And when I look at you-
Sidelong
Hoping nobody will notice
Hoping that you won’t find me out
But drawn there by a force I can’t resist-
When I look at you,
I know that Heaven and Hell are only words
But I feel
Both
In my very skin.
Sep 14, 2018
Sep 14, 2018 at 12:21 AM UTC
Blame us for these who were cradled and rocked in our chaos;
Watching our sidelong watching, fearing our fear;
Playing their blind-man's-bluff in our gutted mansions,
Their follow-my-leader on a stair that ended in air.
1.7k
For as long as I can remember, I've heard the whispers. The silent 'but's, the sidelong sighs, and the backhanded compliments that go in smooth and rip out ragged.
I believe everyone has undeniable self-truths. One of my truths is that I am fat. It took me twenty years to come to the conclusion that this truth was not something to be ashamed or afraid of. Unfortunately, my mother doesn't agree.
It's not wholly her fault; she was raised to be ashamed of her body and the bodies of women in general. We were taught that tolerance equals love but not necessarily acceptance. My body was something to tolerate. I loved my body in the way I loved my pesky little brother, mostly because I was told I must.
My mother's body language whispered to my pre-teen insecurities, "You're beautiful...but", or "I'm not saying you have to lose weight...but", or "You're perfect the way God made you, I just wish that...". She taught me to be ashamed and afraid of the way my body was developing, "I wish you hadn't filled out so fast, that you wouldn't wear that shirt because it brings attention to the fact that you have the chest of a twenty something at thirteen." "That skirt shows too much skin and that shirt was cut too low, don't wear a tank top because the boys will think of you as **** first and intelligent second."
There's nothing wrong with being the fat smart girl, although I have noticed that it's never 'smart fat girl' because being fat is evidently more important than intelligence. Being fat isn't bad. Being smart is a super good thing. The problem arises when the fat smart girl is taught that she must whisper. When you don't tell that girl that being beautiful has nothing to do with what others think of you and that she is absolutely allowed to have an opinion of her own, she won't find her voice until she can't hear yours anymore.
I have whispered all my life. I don't wear brightly colored nail polish so that you won't notice that my hands stutter. I whisper with my body language. I whispered "no" when he went too far. I whispered when I wanted to scream.
And I wondered why no one ever heard me.
Aug 29, 2013
Aug 29, 2013 at 11:16 AM UTC
Alice walks with
the thin maid
to the stables, holding
the thin hand with
red knuckles, the
mild limp crossing
the narrow path like
a wounded ship. Do
you like the horses,
then? the maid asks,
bringing the eyes
upon the child,
holding tight the
pale pink hand.
Alice nods, yes,
I like the black one,
like its dark eyes
and coat. The maid
eyes the pinafore,
the hair tidy and neat,
the shiny shoes, the
tiny hand in hers.
Have you ridden
any yet? the maid
asks. No, not allowed
as yet, Alice says,
feeling the red thumb
rub the back of her
hand. Shame, the maid
says, perhaps soon.
Alice doesn't think so,
neither her father nor
the new nanny will
permit that; her mother
says she may, but that
amounts to little, in
the motions of things.
She can smell the
horses, hay and dung.
The red hand lets her
loose. The stable master
stares at her, his thick
brows bordering his
dark brown eyes,
conker like in their
hardness and colour.
Have you come to
look at the horses?
he says, holding a
horse near to her.
She nods, stares
at the horse, brown,
tall, sweating,
loudly snorting.
The maid stares
at the horse, stands
next to the child,
hand on the arm.
You're not to ride
them yet, he says,
but you can view,
I'm told. Alice runs
her small palm down
the horse's leg and
belly, warm, smooth,
the horse indifferent,
snorting, moving the
groom master aside.
The maid holds the
child close to her.
Be all right, he won't
harm, he says, smiling.
He leads the horse away,
the horse swaying to
a secret music, clip-
clop-clip-clop. Alice
watches the departing
horse. Come on, the
maid says, let's see
the others and lifts
the child up to view
the other horse in the
stable over the half
open door, then along
to see others in other
half doors. Alice smiles
at the sight and smells
and sounds. She senses
the red hands holding
her up, strong yet thin,
the fingers around her
waist. Having seen them
all, the maid puts her
down gently. Ain't that
good? the maid says.
Alice smiles, yes, love
them, she says. She
feels the thin hand, hold
her pale pink one again,
as they make their way
back to the house, the
slow trot of the limping
gait, the maid's thumb
rubbing her hand, smiling
through eyes and lips,
the morning sun blessing
their heads through the
trees and branches above.
if only, Alice thinks, looking
sidelong on at the thin
maid's smile, her father
did this, and showed such love.
Dec 15, 2013
Dec 15, 2013 at 11:54 AM UTC
sidelong wakesleep
her face halved
in periwinkle sheets
one sun stripe
zips down the room
partioning the dark
toes yawn
under the sheets
inadvertently scratching me
her breath
so much more (or less)
than i could ever poet
Feb 6, 2017
Feb 6, 2017 at 4:55 PM UTC
In the end,
you've only managed to pull the trigger first.
And yet,
knowing full well the consequences,
I struck on,
hoping that someday my love would fall true.
It was my mistake.
How was I to know
— a man bereft of possessions and purpose —
that you
— glorious, important, so very very tired —
required more than:
a single glance,
a sidelong smile,
a tender touch,
a silent moment...
These things no longer exist,
or, at least,
if they do,
I have no idea how to find them with you.
Sep 6, 2012
Sep 6, 2012 at 7:08 AM UTC
(In this poem, the authors alternate stanzas.)
AUTUMN'S CALL
In the stray
sweetness of yarrow
and starlings’ trill by dusk
rejoin the fading
without regret
as the foot worn grass will
receive morning’s frost.
And whenever that green yarrow fades
then I fade
in the dry husk
of this autumn of fire
this autumn of smoke and regrets.
Wake in sidelong sun
light half hidden
days under curtains
of violet and scarlet
leaves so soon
will bury the moss
inch by inch.
But I
being the beast that I am
will burrow through the moss
past every encumbrance
beyond hope and fear
and finally find the freedom of one
sweet day
in October
the air still
not a sound
but leaves settling
into the detritus of dreams.
Aug 31, 2017
Aug 31, 2017 at 6:08 PM UTC
Living life on a slant.
Things keep slipping
Just out of reach,
Looking like they are far,
Too far to be here or there.
Everything is unobtainable,
People seem like they
Plot against what you
Want for them and for your life.
Smiles seem crooked,
Sidelong glances lengthen,
And frowns look fake.
Nothing is clear when
The only perspective is
Sideways.
May 5, 2014
May 5, 2014 at 5:58 PM UTC
Weathered grasslands called to pass
Sidelong glances drifting past
Echoed corridors lined with dreams
Forgotten places endless scenes
Why now called the summer flower
Willow tree bends to earth’s power
Rainbows arching cross blue sky
Lightning flashes slowly passing by
As if in answer prophets cry
Unread books on roads gone awry
Speaking of faith so many try
Eagles swirl alone up high
Tongues there spoken far and wide
As white mans sailing ships sails set high
Reaching new lands to supply
The different things he bring they cry
Born of welcome to white ghosts
Never fearing their new hosts
Times they pass and things they've seen
The destruction of their race no dream
Generation’s blame and lies
No so many white men cries
Cities built cross-sacred sites
Blots on landscape once so nice
Whatever happened to the Blackman’s rights
(GE2014) (C) Reserved
Aug 28, 2014
Aug 28, 2014 at 7:07 AM UTC
10/3/2014
at high noon, and
i think, high tide
She looked up at the shy pisces sun, which is never brilliant,
tripped over a brick, traced her long shadow on the sidewalk
with her finger in the air
and i had to remind her I was standing right behind.
she'd say "right, that you are" I was tempted to
add that I wasn't quite sure about that.
I noticed our shadows were contorted, stretched
like papyrus,
I was remembering how she'd announce at times with no
order: "I am happy" or "I'm sad" while watching T.V.
or walking down the lane.
But now she didn't quite seem to say much.
And I was always asking "Amy you happy? Amy you sad?
Amy you OK? Amy you fine?" Amy you ok? Amy you ok? Amy you ok? Going well? Fine?
It was like that
we held hands in a modern art museum is how we met
"It's a good picture," she had noted of "My Grandparents, My Parents and Me".
I had looked sidelong to its neighbor, a picture of a trashcan
trying to desperately scream about some societal ill
lost in translation forever.
I had already given up when she had given me a 'goodday'
I didn't care about seeing her anymore
but it still hurt.
My name? Jane. Bryant Jane. Born a man
or at least Earth Planet tells me my parts belong to a boy, whatever that is.
In second grade kids teased me and I went by my middle name
as a form of protest against them.
Looking back, I was feeding them.
Or was i starving them?
I read once the name Jane is considered bad luck
in English royal life
I entertained this just as I did my taut masculinity
this 'girl' Amy found it cute. but
remember how i had ended up asking for her opinion on everything in the end?
because she would not say it on her own volition?
Jan 7, 2015
Jan 7, 2015 at 6:18 PM UTC
Whenever I visit the savage side
there's a hangover to be had,
drunk from the darkness
of uninhibited desire.
The streets there are familiar
but the characters have changed.
Not much human left in their eyes
as they glance sidelong at me,
sizing me for hunter or for meat.
I pull my trenchcoat tighter,
stand a little straighter
and emphasize each step,
staring them down one by one
with eyes hardened by
the memories of when
these streets were my home.
Feb 1, 2011
Feb 1, 2011 at 7:29 AM UTC
from the cold road: houses visible (without wires)
entrenched in white snow: sherd forest archaeology.
car parked, bananas and bars packed, we hike.
a magnesium flame painting, freezing. a collage. a frenzy.
now, various floaters organized in armies playing war
or grazing, flamingo legs embalmed and crooked
and cooked, charred and glazed in a kiln, kin amid
the cold air, the ground is a movie screen.
the sun, sidelong, bruises our pilgrimage
and lays shadows in place to dissect and incise.
light like a plague, a pear flesh, a frozen swarm of locusts.
the forest opens, we reach aforementioned rural shantytown.
those houses when we parked and hiked to them
were not houses, they were barns, the windows, doors
all were painted in detail on pieces of plywood,
some big movie set gone missing (headline: *found!
deceptive, chipping curtains hung out in the cold*).
Dec 26, 2016
Dec 26, 2016 at 5:47 PM UTC
There’s a guy I know
Who’s into spirits,
And not the liquid kind.
He stares sidelong at the world,
Twists his head from side to side.
Imagine what he might find.
Vampires drink wine in Soho,
Sipping from fluted necks
In late night **** stores.
Werewolves run Hyde park ragged,
Robed in riches turned to rags,
If only in the lunar mind.
Police pigs snuffling
Through street trash,
Hunting for him shaped treats.
Televisions watching
His living room and recording
Names and faces of all his kind.
The media he scorns,
Puppet masters pulling strings
For their puppet masters.
The government and the media
Are in it together he opines,
Waving a rag with that in mind.
Aliens control the government,
Sinking sinuous senses
Through simian skulls;
Prodding, poking, pulling
Political factions to provoke
A return of the fleet they left behind.
Codes in hoods hide in churches,
Linking mathematical shapes
To chain centuries of history;
Statues wink and leer at
Myopic armchair men and women
Hunting for the doom of mankind.
Millions of rubes bought over
Shop counters using nonesuch
To sell their souls for trinkets;
Illuminati design adverts,
Flashing commercials;
****** for the public in mind.
Big name pharmaceutical
Selling death at a point
For the sake of profit over parent;
Buying stats to lie to the mass,
Doctors demanding dummies
Despite the way the stars aligned.
Taken for a ride,
We queue with tickets in hand
Waiting for our turn on the rails.
Lie on lie on lie.
He sleeps with one eye on the sky.
Tracking cameras on a road sign.
This guy I know,
He thinks too much.
I don’t mind.
Feb 27, 2015
Feb 27, 2015 at 4:02 PM UTC
she talks about things she believes I wish I could do
I don't ask but she shows me her portfolio
casually sidelong I say between sips
"I am not running anyone over
But if you're in my way I will hit you"
and her expression changes from puzzlement to anger
I take another sip and flip her off
Mar 3, 2016
Mar 3, 2016 at 1:11 AM UTC