"winterson" poems - Hello Poetry

Ek die lieplapper Fladder in die wind Soos ń herfs betaste blaar Wat in die dwarrelwinde Tolbos en die reels Van swaartekrag verag My kop is op ń blok gesit Soos die twee vir ń stywers Wat inner kompaste volg Na waar die hart mag lei Sterk oppad na iewers Maar word deur nikse En nerense verlydelik gefly My V formasie vervorm , vlieg vêr vooruit Tot waar ek sig verloor Van veilige jolheid. Ek verkoop my vryvlieg siel Aan die voëlwip en sy wag Onbewus van die somer Wat oor die waters op my wag. Ekt my siel verkoop aan Die winterson... Prysgegee, môre se geluk Die stofwolk op die Horison Môre trap jy oor my Windverstrooide oorblyfsels En neurie ń afskeidslied In jou binnenste. Jy koester dalk ń traan Of twee. Vir die gees van ń herfsblaar lieplapper Wat in selfverwyt besterwe

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Apr 29, 2014

Apr 29, 2014 at 8:09 PM UTC

pieter-andries-christiaan

Lieplappers in die herfs

Ek die lieplapper Fladder in die wind Soos ń herfs betaste blaar Wat in die dwarrelwinde Tolbos en die reels Van swaartekrag verag My kop is op ń blok gesit Soos die twee vir ń stywers Wat inner kompaste volg Na waar die hart mag lei Sterk oppad na iewers Maar word deur nikse En nerense verlydelik gefly My V formasie vervorm , vlieg vêr vooruit Tot waar ek sig verloor Van veilige jolheid. Ek verkoop my vryvlieg siel Aan die voëlwip en sy wag Onbewus van die somer Wat oor die waters op my wag. Ekt my siel verkoop aan Die winterson... Prysgegee, môre se geluk Die stofwolk op die Horison Môre trap jy oor my Windverstrooide oorblyfsels En neurie ń afskeidslied In jou binnenste. Jy koester dalk ń traan Of twee. Vir die gees van ń herfsblaar lieplapper Wat in selfverwyt besterwe

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My muse, my muse, She’s here right now She just took a shower and her hair is still wet. She's wearing a bathrobe, she walks up to the bed and sits When she crosses one leg over the other I catch a flash of her thighs Inviting thighs, long legs She has pretty feet And pretty ankles, I always look at feet. She has delicate wrists She has long thumbs, here she is Now leafing through a magazine With those long thumbs, Long fingernails. Her shoes are on the floor, shoes that she wore last night They've fallen over on the carpet, My eyes find my way back to her She seems to have found something interesting in the magazine Here she is, concentrated on it, her back is straight In this light, this natural light, Without make up, She looks impossibly lovely, Renoir would paint her. I get out of bed and walk into the shower. There’s something strangely intimate About taking a shower in a girl’s bathroom, Shampoo bottles and hair conditioners all around me Water cascading down my bare chest Recollecting and replaying scenes from the night before: Unbuttoning her jeans, pulling them off Seeing her Hello Kitty underwear And laughing, and thinking it was cute And saying, umm… so how old are you again? Humour always works, yes, humour always works. I love ********** this girl. It seems as though I'm always ********** her. At night in the living room, on the sofa Unfastening her stockings and slowly rolling them off, Next her skirt, then her underwear… Sweet parting flesh I begin thinking of how it’ll be, how it’ll go down She's always in something classy, But man, it seems as though I'm always ********** her. Sometimes I strip everything off her body, But I ask her to leave her earrings and heels on; they confirm her nakedness Hoop earrings Red lipstick Red heels I lie in the middle of the bed, lights are dim, she climbs onto the bed Curls up between my legs, begins by kissing on my stomach... Great lovers lie in hell, the poet says. Great lovers lie in hell. I'm falling asleep afterwards, but not her *** invigorates me,* she says, tying her hair in a ponytail This girl, she has the effect of lighting a matchstick in the dark. She lays beside me and begins to read Jeanette Winterson And just before I succumb to a deep slumber I remember something and tell her, Baby, baby, baby, your Morse code interferes with my heartbeat.

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Nov 3, 2013

Nov 3, 2013 at 4:45 PM UTC

llahi-fuego

My Muse

My muse, my muse, She’s here right now She just took a shower and her hair is still wet. She's wearing a bathrobe, she walks up to the bed and sits When she crosses one leg over the other I catch a flash of her thighs Inviting thighs, long legs She has pretty feet And pretty ankles, I always look at feet. She has delicate wrists She has long thumbs, here she is Now leafing through a magazine With those long thumbs, Long fingernails. Her shoes are on the floor, shoes that she wore last night They've fallen over on the carpet, My eyes find my way back to her She seems to have found something interesting in the magazine Here she is, concentrated on it, her back is straight In this light, this natural light, Without make up, She looks impossibly lovely, Renoir would paint her. I get out of bed and walk into the shower. There’s something strangely intimate About taking a shower in a girl’s bathroom, Shampoo bottles and hair conditioners all around me Water cascading down my bare chest Recollecting and replaying scenes from the night before: Unbuttoning her jeans, pulling them off Seeing her Hello Kitty underwear And laughing, and thinking it was cute And saying, umm… so how old are you again? Humour always works, yes, humour always works. I love ********** this girl. It seems as though I'm always ********** her. At night in the living room, on the sofa Unfastening her stockings and slowly rolling them off, Next her skirt, then her underwear… Sweet parting flesh I begin thinking of how it’ll be, how it’ll go down She's always in something classy, But man, it seems as though I'm always ********** her. Sometimes I strip everything off her body, But I ask her to leave her earrings and heels on; they confirm her nakedness Hoop earrings Red lipstick Red heels I lie in the middle of the bed, lights are dim, she climbs onto the bed Curls up between my legs, begins by kissing on my stomach... Great lovers lie in hell, the poet says. Great lovers lie in hell. I'm falling asleep afterwards, but not her *** invigorates me,* she says, tying her hair in a ponytail This girl, she has the effect of lighting a matchstick in the dark. She lays beside me and begins to read Jeanette Winterson And just before I succumb to a deep slumber I remember something and tell her, Baby, baby, baby, your Morse code interferes with my heartbeat.

58

“The tower is my body, the cage is my skull, and the spirit singing to comfort itself is me. But I am not comforted, I am alone. **** me.” Sexing The Cherry - Jeannette Winterson The boy who came from the sea was born In 1989 with eleven hyenas and a powdered grace and an IV in one of Those sad street lights One mid-morning all the neon light flickering from last night’s Tired and under-sexed collision of bodies on mercury. The mother beget the sea while she was dancing and All the exotic and fancy things that come with it Is written on the newspaper She dangled back and forth in the chandelier while giving birth and a gun in her Hand: the whole world was in her hands. Blood and flesh debris are pink as shore and pale as rubies like Exploding stars. People begin to ask you: “How’d you stay alive?” The mother’s nightly arrival at that city burns the sorrows of all the light bulbs: “Help me please” typed on a marquee. If you sing the birth of your death, everyone will sing: lie down, don’t cry be alive again. The sea born seemingly dead already returning back to hell, only can be restored by The mother’s lovingly touch but the touch of hers burns the sea When she is barely warm. Cold-hearted angels will rescue you and you’ll be free- Only for tonight. The sea, sized milk carton box and the mother drives south this year. People filled to watch the sea but it radiates they can’t be near you. No one will save you.

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May 29, 2015

May 29, 2015 at 3:27 AM UTC

kai-relota

This is not a poem.

“The tower is my body, the cage is my skull, and the spirit singing to comfort itself is me. But I am not comforted, I am alone. **** me.” Sexing The Cherry - Jeannette Winterson The boy who came from the sea was born In 1989 with eleven hyenas and a powdered grace and an IV in one of Those sad street lights One mid-morning all the neon light flickering from last night’s Tired and under-sexed collision of bodies on mercury. The mother beget the sea while she was dancing and All the exotic and fancy things that come with it Is written on the newspaper She dangled back and forth in the chandelier while giving birth and a gun in her Hand: the whole world was in her hands. Blood and flesh debris are pink as shore and pale as rubies like Exploding stars. People begin to ask you: “How’d you stay alive?” The mother’s nightly arrival at that city burns the sorrows of all the light bulbs: “Help me please” typed on a marquee. If you sing the birth of your death, everyone will sing: lie down, don’t cry be alive again. The sea born seemingly dead already returning back to hell, only can be restored by The mother’s lovingly touch but the touch of hers burns the sea When she is barely warm. Cold-hearted angels will rescue you and you’ll be free- Only for tonight. The sea, sized milk carton box and the mother drives south this year. People filled to watch the sea but it radiates they can’t be near you. No one will save you.

26

THE BELL GOES FOR THE END OF HISTORY her head all algebra trigonometry and Heaney and...boys...boys...boys her mind crept nearer & nearer...him longing just to touch his... she watched a trickle of sweat make its way down his neck imagined herself licki..ing...it...off it is the end of WW1 thank heaven for that she watches him....mmmm...stretch...yawn his name surrounded by doodled hearts and flowers her first poem....ahem...HYMN TO HIM she had eyes only for him he had eyes only for Siobhan Winterson she hated Siobhan Winterson oh my God oh my God oh he just looked. . . . . .past me oh please oh please oh please look at me he doesn't give her a second look she cries herself asleep dreams of him requiting her unrequited love years years later two kids and a divorce later HYMN TO HIM in a battered shoebox she reads her 13 year old self sobs her heart out

0

Sep 7, 2019

Sep 7, 2019 at 5:47 AM UTC

donall-dempsey

THE BELL GOES FOR THE END OF HISTORY

THE BELL GOES FOR THE END OF HISTORY her head all algebra trigonometry and Heaney and...boys...boys...boys her mind crept nearer & nearer...him longing just to touch his... she watched a trickle of sweat make its way down his neck imagined herself licki..ing...it...off it is the end of WW1 thank heaven for that she watches him....mmmm...stretch...yawn his name surrounded by doodled hearts and flowers her first poem....ahem...HYMN TO HIM she had eyes only for him he had eyes only for Siobhan Winterson she hated Siobhan Winterson oh my God oh my God oh he just looked. . . . . .past me oh please oh please oh please look at me he doesn't give her a second look she cries herself asleep dreams of him requiting her unrequited love years years later two kids and a divorce later HYMN TO HIM in a battered shoebox she reads her 13 year old self sobs her heart out

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