"sidewise" poems - Hello Poetry

470 I am alive—I guess— The Branches on my Hand Are full of Morning Glory— And at my finger’s end— The Carmine—tingles warm— And if I hold a Glass Across my Mouth—it blurs it— Physician’s—proof of Breath— I am alive—because I am not in a Room— The Parlor—Commonly—it is— So Visitors may come— And lean—and view it sidewise— And add “How cold—it grew”— And “Was it conscious—when it stepped In Immortality?” I am alive—because I do not own a House— Entitled to myself—precise— And fitting no one else— And marked my Girlhood’s name— So Visitors may know Which Door is mine—and not

0

26.9k

Emily Dickinson

I am alive—I guess

470 I am alive—I guess— The Branches on my Hand Are full of Morning Glory— And at my finger’s end— The Carmine—tingles warm— And if I hold a Glass Across my Mouth—it blurs it— Physician’s—proof of Breath— I am alive—because I am not in a Room— The Parlor—Commonly—it is— So Visitors may come— And lean—and view it sidewise— And add “How cold—it grew”— And “Was it conscious—when it stepped In Immortality?” I am alive—because I do not own a House— Entitled to myself—precise— And fitting no one else— And marked my Girlhood’s name— So Visitors may know Which Door is mine—and not

24

Two, of course there are two. It seems perfectly natural now—— The one who never looks up, whose eyes are lidded And balled¸ like Blake's. Who exhibits The birthmarks that are his trademark—— The scald scar of water, The **** Verdigris of the condor. I am red meat. His beak Claps sidewise: I am not his yet. He tells me how badly I photograph. He tells me how sweet The babies look in their hospital Icebox, a simple Frill at the neck Then the flutings of their Ionian Death-gowns. Then two little feet. He does not smile or smoke. The other does that His hair long and plausive ******* ************ a glitter He wants to be loved. I do not stir. The frost makes a flower, The dew makes a star, The dead bell, The dead bell. Somebody's done for.

0

6.2k

Sylvia Plath

Death & Co.

Two, of course there are two. It seems perfectly natural now—— The one who never looks up, whose eyes are lidded And balled¸ like Blake's. Who exhibits The birthmarks that are his trademark—— The scald scar of water, The **** Verdigris of the condor. I am red meat. His beak Claps sidewise: I am not his yet. He tells me how badly I photograph. He tells me how sweet The babies look in their hospital Icebox, a simple Frill at the neck Then the flutings of their Ionian Death-gowns. Then two little feet. He does not smile or smoke. The other does that His hair long and plausive ******* ************ a glitter He wants to be loved. I do not stir. The frost makes a flower, The dew makes a star, The dead bell, The dead bell. Somebody's done for.

31

Go to sleep—though of course you will not— to tideless waves thundering slantwise against strong embankments, rattle and swish of spray dashed thirty feet high, caught by the lake wind, scattered and strewn broadcast in over the steady car rails! Sleep, sleep! Gulls’ cries in a wind-gust broken by the wind; calculating wings set above the field of waves breaking. Go to sleep to the lunge between foam-crests, refuse churned in the recoil. Food! Food! Offal! Offal! that holds them in the air, wave-white for the one purpose, feather upon feather, the wild chill in their eyes, the hoarseness in their voices— sleep, sleep . . . Gentlefooted crowds are treading out your lullaby. Their arms nudge, they brush shoulders, hitch this way then that, mass and surge at the crossings— lullaby, lullaby! The wild-fowl police whistles, the enraged roar of the traffic, machine shrieks: it is all to put you to sleep, to soften your limbs in relaxed postures, and that your head slip sidewise, and your hair loosen and fall over your eyes and over your mouth, brushing your lips wistfully that you may dream, sleep and dream— A black fungus springs out about the lonely church doors— sleep, sleep. The Night, coming down upon the wet boulevard, would start you awake with his message, to have in at your window. Pay no heed to him. He storms at your sill with cooings, with gesticulations, curses! You will not let him in. He would keep you from sleeping. He would have you sit under your desk lamp brooding, pondering; he would have you slide out the drawer, take up the ornamented dagger and handle it. It is late, it is nineteen-nineteen— go to sleep, his cries are a lullaby; his jabbering is a sleep-well-my-baby; he is a crackbrained messenger. The maid waking you in the morning when you are up and dressing, the rustle of your clothes as you raise them— it is the same tune. At table the cold, greeninsh, split grapefruit, its juice on the tongue, the clink of the spoon in your coffee, the toast odors say it over and over. The open street-door lets in the breath of the morning wind from over the lake. The bus coming to a halt grinds from its sullen brakes— lullaby, lullaby. The crackle of a newspaper, the movement of the troubled coat beside you— sleep, sleep, sleep, sleep . . . It is the sting of snow, the burning liquor of the moonlight, the rush of rain in the gutters packed with dead leaves: go to sleep, go to sleep. And the night passes—and never passes—

0

4k

William Carlos Williams

A Goodnight

Go to sleep—though of course you will not— to tideless waves thundering slantwise against strong embankments, rattle and swish of spray dashed thirty feet high, caught by the lake wind, scattered and strewn broadcast in over the steady car rails! Sleep, sleep! Gulls’ cries in a wind-gust broken by the wind; calculating wings set above the field of waves breaking. Go to sleep to the lunge between foam-crests, refuse churned in the recoil. Food! Food! Offal! Offal! that holds them in the air, wave-white for the one purpose, feather upon feather, the wild chill in their eyes, the hoarseness in their voices— sleep, sleep . . . Gentlefooted crowds are treading out your lullaby. Their arms nudge, they brush shoulders, hitch this way then that, mass and surge at the crossings— lullaby, lullaby! The wild-fowl police whistles, the enraged roar of the traffic, machine shrieks: it is all to put you to sleep, to soften your limbs in relaxed postures, and that your head slip sidewise, and your hair loosen and fall over your eyes and over your mouth, brushing your lips wistfully that you may dream, sleep and dream— A black fungus springs out about the lonely church doors— sleep, sleep. The Night, coming down upon the wet boulevard, would start you awake with his message, to have in at your window. Pay no heed to him. He storms at your sill with cooings, with gesticulations, curses! You will not let him in. He would keep you from sleeping. He would have you sit under your desk lamp brooding, pondering; he would have you slide out the drawer, take up the ornamented dagger and handle it. It is late, it is nineteen-nineteen— go to sleep, his cries are a lullaby; his jabbering is a sleep-well-my-baby; he is a crackbrained messenger. The maid waking you in the morning when you are up and dressing, the rustle of your clothes as you raise them— it is the same tune. At table the cold, greeninsh, split grapefruit, its juice on the tongue, the clink of the spoon in your coffee, the toast odors say it over and over. The open street-door lets in the breath of the morning wind from over the lake. The bus coming to a halt grinds from its sullen brakes— lullaby, lullaby. The crackle of a newspaper, the movement of the troubled coat beside you— sleep, sleep, sleep, sleep . . . It is the sting of snow, the burning liquor of the moonlight, the rush of rain in the gutters packed with dead leaves: go to sleep, go to sleep. And the night passes—and never passes—

56

328 A Bird came down the Walk— He did not know I saw— He bit an angle-worm in halves And ate the fellow, raw, And then he drank a Dew From a convenient Grass, And then hopped sidewise to the Wall To let a Beetle pass— He glanced with rapid eyes That hurried all abroa— They looked like frightened Beads, I thought— He stirred his velvet head Like one in danger, Cautious, I offered him a Crumb, And he unrolled his feathers And rowed him softer home— Than Oars divide the Ocean, Too silver for a seam— Or Butterflies, off Banks of Noon, Leap, plashless as they swim.

0

3.7k

Emily Dickinson

A Bird came down the Walk

328 A Bird came down the Walk— He did not know I saw— He bit an angle-worm in halves And ate the fellow, raw, And then he drank a Dew From a convenient Grass, And then hopped sidewise to the Wall To let a Beetle pass— He glanced with rapid eyes That hurried all abroa— They looked like frightened Beads, I thought— He stirred his velvet head Like one in danger, Cautious, I offered him a Crumb, And he unrolled his feathers And rowed him softer home— Than Oars divide the Ocean, Too silver for a seam— Or Butterflies, off Banks of Noon, Leap, plashless as they swim.

21

By-the-why, Joker I know your gaming. Making sidewise rules You waggle the stakes. Shame, shame on your head And to your careless smirk. You’ve gnawed and ground Until my outline’s blurred… Sisters, pull me up! From this deathly fairground.

0

Feb 2, 2014

Feb 2, 2014 at 5:56 PM UTC

t-todd

Spun

By-the-why, Joker I know your gaming. Making sidewise rules You waggle the stakes. Shame, shame on your head And to your careless smirk. You’ve gnawed and ground Until my outline’s blurred… Sisters, pull me up! From this deathly fairground.

10

957 As One does Sickness over In convalescent Mind, His scrutiny of Chances By blessed Health obscured— As One rewalks a Precipice And whittles at the Twig That held Him from Perdition Sown sidewise in the Crag A Custom of the Soul Far after suffering Identity to question For evidence’t has been—

0

1.4k

Emily Dickinson

As One does Sickness over

957 As One does Sickness over In convalescent Mind, His scrutiny of Chances By blessed Health obscured— As One rewalks a Precipice And whittles at the Twig That held Him from Perdition Sown sidewise in the Crag A Custom of the Soul Far after suffering Identity to question For evidence’t has been—

13

I Have This New Problem. This New Self Crippling. Self Doubt. Slithering It's Way Inside Me. You See I Have This New Problem. This New Tick, Tick, Tick This New Something - Standing Sidewise In The Back Of My Mind, That Makes Me Insane. I N S A N E Instability Like Crumbling Cinderblocks. Convinced That My Muse Will Leave Me. Get Fed Up With My Messy Bedroom And 5 Hour A Night Sleep Schedule. Decide I Don't Appreciate Her Enough. She'd Write A Love Song About Leaving Me. The Red Lipstick She'd Wear And Yellow Cab That Would Take Her Away. Nauseous. Like Sick To My Stomach. Like Dizzyingly Drowsy, Like Taking Four Hour Naps Between Work, School, Homework, And This Thing Called Obligation, This Thing Called Obligation, This Thing Called Obligation. Obligated To Myself. Redefined By A Number On A Score Sheet, Let it Tell Me I Wasn't Worth The Effort Anymore. Let It Tell Me To Give Up. Let It Wake Me Up At 3 am To Write This. Sanity, Like The Thing I'm Sure I Must Have Misplaced. Like Anxiety. Like This Inability To Stop Eating Myself Alive, Separating Fingertip From Skin, Biting Down To The Quick, So Everything I Touch, Hurts Me. Like Telling Myself No. Like Staying Awake Seventeen Hours, And Seventeen Assignments Later, Like Seventeen Years Of This. Like Enough Already. ** I Said Enough.**

0

May 14, 2013

May 14, 2013 at 1:00 AM UTC

leah-rae

Standardized Test Preparation

I Have This New Problem. This New Self Crippling. Self Doubt. Slithering It's Way Inside Me. You See I Have This New Problem. This New Tick, Tick, Tick This New Something - Standing Sidewise In The Back Of My Mind, That Makes Me Insane. I N S A N E Instability Like Crumbling Cinderblocks. Convinced That My Muse Will Leave Me. Get Fed Up With My Messy Bedroom And 5 Hour A Night Sleep Schedule. Decide I Don't Appreciate Her Enough. She'd Write A Love Song About Leaving Me. The Red Lipstick She'd Wear And Yellow Cab That Would Take Her Away. Nauseous. Like Sick To My Stomach. Like Dizzyingly Drowsy, Like Taking Four Hour Naps Between Work, School, Homework, And This Thing Called Obligation, This Thing Called Obligation, This Thing Called Obligation. Obligated To Myself. Redefined By A Number On A Score Sheet, Let it Tell Me I Wasn't Worth The Effort Anymore. Let It Tell Me To Give Up. Let It Wake Me Up At 3 am To Write This. Sanity, Like The Thing I'm Sure I Must Have Misplaced. Like Anxiety. Like This Inability To Stop Eating Myself Alive, Separating Fingertip From Skin, Biting Down To The Quick, So Everything I Touch, Hurts Me. Like Telling Myself No. Like Staying Awake Seventeen Hours, And Seventeen Assignments Later, Like Seventeen Years Of This. Like Enough Already. ** I Said Enough.**

36

******** ever look... i can't believe i'm doing this... ever notice the . . . . . constellation? when i'm in a good mood, do i seriously need to be listening to the bangles and reading a dolly alderton article? reliving this 1980s feminism death-trap of: anything but useless professions? guess not... i'll be entrenched for 30 years before my student debt is written, and i'm not expected to work the supermarket shelving troop when i could be working a chemistry plant job up in Scotland... sidewise lambda... or a V... which makes W a double-u... not a double o - and certainly not what it looks like: vv... cheap choke joke... what does BMW stand for? Black Man's Wagon... funny, eh? i didn't think so either... USNA! USNA! **** it... might as well revive the old USSR... united stastes of north america... figured... for me USA! USA! is a football chant... i'm liking this new acronym pause... with the added letter... **** you have to think of something with the long lost USSR long gone, dusted and buried... plus it's befitting... with that's current happening... Silicon Curtain: a little of censorship here, a little censorship there... happy campers... all the way! like i said before: i'm star-gazing: you have to be, ******** me!

0

Sep 23, 2018

Sep 23, 2018 at 8:23 PM UTC

removed.polaroid-scrabble

i hate being a sentimental drunk

******** ever look... i can't believe i'm doing this... ever notice the . . . . . constellation? when i'm in a good mood, do i seriously need to be listening to the bangles and reading a dolly alderton article? reliving this 1980s feminism death-trap of: anything but useless professions? guess not... i'll be entrenched for 30 years before my student debt is written, and i'm not expected to work the supermarket shelving troop when i could be working a chemistry plant job up in Scotland... sidewise lambda... or a V... which makes W a double-u... not a double o - and certainly not what it looks like: vv... cheap choke joke... what does BMW stand for? Black Man's Wagon... funny, eh? i didn't think so either... USNA! USNA! **** it... might as well revive the old USSR... united stastes of north america... figured... for me USA! USA! is a football chant... i'm liking this new acronym pause... with the added letter... **** you have to think of something with the long lost USSR long gone, dusted and buried... plus it's befitting... with that's current happening... Silicon Curtain: a little of censorship here, a little censorship there... happy campers... all the way! like i said before: i'm star-gazing: you have to be, ******** me!

65

The little thing's I do not share, the little things I keep inside. To hear you sing to your car radio, to hear your passion, to watch you drive. As the lights of the rode caress your face, I see your eyes flicker to me, and you make a sidewise smile as you notice my gaze. I study you, like I do the **** models I draw for hours on end. Memorizing every curve, every dip, every line. When you tell me you love me you don't just with your lips, but with your eyes, with your body, with your sole. I feel as we are intertwined under the covers our sole are somehow combined. Like hydrogen and oxygen we create life, like potassium permanganate and glycerol we ignite like Potassium Chlorate and Sulfur we explode into a show so stunning it lights up the faces of everyone around us. Your kiss, when the world is swirling around us and I make myself sick with worry, you can make it stop. You hold my face in my hands and keep everything else out, if just for a second, we're alone. When you look at me with the saddest eye to ever grace this Earth, I do not wonder why you worry, but I wonder what would ever make you think I would leave, I could leave. Yet sometimes I worry the same. You, with all of your love. You, with all of your flaws. You sometimes forget how to "relationship," but you never forget me. You, you hit walls when your angry, but I will always be here to bandage your wounds. You, sometimes can't vocalise everything you mean properly, but you don't need to, because I know, and I feel it too. You, run off and get yourself in so much trouble, but I keep you in line, and you teach me how to step outside them sometimes. These little thing I take note of and never share, I wonder what little things you keep of me.

0

Dec 25, 2013

Dec 25, 2013 at 2:15 AM UTC

alyssa-mcwilliams

The Little Things

The little thing's I do not share, the little things I keep inside. To hear you sing to your car radio, to hear your passion, to watch you drive. As the lights of the rode caress your face, I see your eyes flicker to me, and you make a sidewise smile as you notice my gaze. I study you, like I do the **** models I draw for hours on end. Memorizing every curve, every dip, every line. When you tell me you love me you don't just with your lips, but with your eyes, with your body, with your sole. I feel as we are intertwined under the covers our sole are somehow combined. Like hydrogen and oxygen we create life, like potassium permanganate and glycerol we ignite like Potassium Chlorate and Sulfur we explode into a show so stunning it lights up the faces of everyone around us. Your kiss, when the world is swirling around us and I make myself sick with worry, you can make it stop. You hold my face in my hands and keep everything else out, if just for a second, we're alone. When you look at me with the saddest eye to ever grace this Earth, I do not wonder why you worry, but I wonder what would ever make you think I would leave, I could leave. Yet sometimes I worry the same. You, with all of your love. You, with all of your flaws. You sometimes forget how to "relationship," but you never forget me. You, you hit walls when your angry, but I will always be here to bandage your wounds. You, sometimes can't vocalise everything you mean properly, but you don't need to, because I know, and I feel it too. You, run off and get yourself in so much trouble, but I keep you in line, and you teach me how to step outside them sometimes. These little thing I take note of and never share, I wonder what little things you keep of me.

52

**** me sidewase-- sidewise apparently, i can't get a word in between these red dots and Red snakes biting at my letters's ankles At least when I'm pen ning I have the option to ignore that im an ******* You **** gobbling weak kneed slack jawed fool Alright Alright let's take it easy I'm simply trying to help No one would ever doubt your genius But your spelling can certainly take a little Critazisms? Is that how you Spelt? Dont patronize me **** it

0

Apr 3, 2019

Apr 3, 2019 at 8:38 PM UTC

john-paul-richard

My Constant Battle With Autocorrect

**** me sidewase-- sidewise apparently, i can't get a word in between these red dots and Red snakes biting at my letters's ankles At least when I'm pen ning I have the option to ignore that im an ******* You **** gobbling weak kneed slack jawed fool Alright Alright let's take it easy I'm simply trying to help No one would ever doubt your genius But your spelling can certainly take a little Critazisms? Is that how you Spelt? Dont patronize me **** it

12

I may not be the best friend My presence is seasonal I skinny dip in chaos time and time again Coming out stronger. Sharper. Tempered by my own humility I may not be the best friend I forget to call and check in Knowing you’ll find me when you need me For my hearts radar is always pinging With possibility of real connection I may not be the best friend Social cues go largely unnoticed Preferring my sidewise reality To the ingrained cattle calls of Lemmings marching ever on I may not be the best friend For shallow waters and empty hearts Hiding behind strangling walls You feel are your protection Keeping you in, and life out I may not be the best friend For my warning label does not read Fragile! Handle with care. It simply declares in red bold letters ‘Bravery Required’

0

Nov 18, 2017

Nov 18, 2017 at 10:50 AM UTC

Fumbletongue

Ships of all kind

I may not be the best friend My presence is seasonal I skinny dip in chaos time and time again Coming out stronger. Sharper. Tempered by my own humility I may not be the best friend I forget to call and check in Knowing you’ll find me when you need me For my hearts radar is always pinging With possibility of real connection I may not be the best friend Social cues go largely unnoticed Preferring my sidewise reality To the ingrained cattle calls of Lemmings marching ever on I may not be the best friend For shallow waters and empty hearts Hiding behind strangling walls You feel are your protection Keeping you in, and life out I may not be the best friend For my warning label does not read Fragile! Handle with care. It simply declares in red bold letters ‘Bravery Required’

25

I remember my own Conceiving, Stridulation of a loosen springs Of jalopy parked somewhere in the rear Of an upper level of a parking on the Skirts of town forgotten by me but Remembrance still is vivid as if I am Creeping on my four to to the shaking Out of tune a little vehicle with lights out Both rear and front and litters of used Condoms with ***** filling and leaking From its rubber carcass and butts Smothered though some flickering still In the darkness of night on the skirt of The forgotten town where misty and Panting glass was to and fro to and fro Up and down and sidewise with a chance Limb or feet splattered against sideways Windows leaving a print of sole with All its interlaces and wrinkles and crinkles And toes with torn flannel out of passion Or just lost on the skirts of the town Forgotten by Everyone but me where I am standing Watching my own conceiving by monster Of a doubled backs back in the car in the Town where lights of out but reek was There as if inherent in the very concrete And all blocks and bricks and levels and Tiers and I remember there my own Conceiving as I was standing there on my Own four and creeping up to swaying Lizzie and getting on my hind double And approaching the panted and misty Window with my both eyes reflecting And glancing back at me at which a Moment ever I arise with sweat A-dripping down my temples and back And cheeks and arms and breast And wall in front of me in the dark Town forgotten by everyone but me in the Car where I remember was my own Conceiving

0

Dec 1, 2019

Dec 1, 2019 at 3:51 AM UTC

s-i-n

I remember my own conceiving

I remember my own Conceiving, Stridulation of a loosen springs Of jalopy parked somewhere in the rear Of an upper level of a parking on the Skirts of town forgotten by me but Remembrance still is vivid as if I am Creeping on my four to to the shaking Out of tune a little vehicle with lights out Both rear and front and litters of used Condoms with ***** filling and leaking From its rubber carcass and butts Smothered though some flickering still In the darkness of night on the skirt of The forgotten town where misty and Panting glass was to and fro to and fro Up and down and sidewise with a chance Limb or feet splattered against sideways Windows leaving a print of sole with All its interlaces and wrinkles and crinkles And toes with torn flannel out of passion Or just lost on the skirts of the town Forgotten by Everyone but me where I am standing Watching my own conceiving by monster Of a doubled backs back in the car in the Town where lights of out but reek was There as if inherent in the very concrete And all blocks and bricks and levels and Tiers and I remember there my own Conceiving as I was standing there on my Own four and creeping up to swaying Lizzie and getting on my hind double And approaching the panted and misty Window with my both eyes reflecting And glancing back at me at which a Moment ever I arise with sweat A-dripping down my temples and back And cheeks and arms and breast And wall in front of me in the dark Town forgotten by everyone but me in the Car where I remember was my own Conceiving

36

Spectrum reflection A blessing disguise What's out is what's in Swivel sidewise Molehill mountains Storms in teacups All muss and fuss A far off close-up A wing and a prayer A chance and a dance Face and Embrace The mighty expanse

0

Oct 16, 2017

Oct 16, 2017 at 2:19 PM UTC

Fumbletongue

Cipher

Spectrum reflection A blessing disguise What's out is what's in Swivel sidewise Molehill mountains Storms in teacups All muss and fuss A far off close-up A wing and a prayer A chance and a dance Face and Embrace The mighty expanse

12