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I like to shop, but I don't like to go out to dances.

quote by Etta James
Added by Lucian Velea
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The Video Shop

The local factorys been pulled down
By an overseas corporation
Now all of my brothers are looking around
For alternative occupation
I was sitting by the telly with my brother, kenny
When suddenly the penny dropped
While all of my brothers are sitting at home
Ive got a bank loan and Ive opened up my very own
Video shop
Video shop
At the video shop
I can fly, fly you away
Comedy and tragedy are all sitting on my shelf
And if youve got a fantasy
For a small rental fee
You can set yourself free
At my video shop
At my video shop
At the video shop
I can fly, fly you away
At the video shop
Let me fly, fly you away
From all of the depression in you head
Caused by all the living in the red
Ive got a bootleg version of citizen kane
A second hand copy of psycho
Ive taped them off the telly so you shouldnt complain
And theres no guarantee youll get your money back again
From my video shop
My video shop
If you want to escape, I can rent you a tape
To relieve your situation
If you feel a bit low, I got a good peep show
cos everybody knows almost anything goes
At my video shop
At my video shop
One fifty a day and Ill fly, fly you away
Its nothing to pay to fly far, far away
I can help you through that lonely night
Ive got technicolour, black and white
I can guide you through those empty days
Make you smile and take your blues away
O let me fly you away
At my video shop
Fly, fly you away
Another factorys been knocked down
But nobody ever complains
And all of my brothers are customers now
We all play video games
I can see it in the eyes of all the lonely wives

[...] Read more

song performed by Kinks
Added by Lucian Velea
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The Song

When I came here I came here
I just came here to find
That one little girl
That is hidden behind
That old mill that old mill
That old mill out back
She's in that field In that field
In that field out back

And she dances and dances
Without anything wrong
She just dances and dances
To that same old song
Behind closed doors
She can't feel that much joy
As tears and tears pour
As tears and tears pour
But as she dances
She dances with stars the above
She's small but she can reach out
That far into love
And when everything's wrong
She will still be dancing
To her favorite song her favorite song.

You'd believe that girl
But not her world.
Or see her face
When she cries everyday
Or know what to do
When you know what she's been through
And I can't believe
Now what I see

Cause she dances and dances
Without anything wrong
She just dances and dances
To that same old song
Behind closed doors
She can't feel that much joy
As tears and tears pour
As tears and tears pour
But as she dances
And dances with stars above
She's small but she can reach out
That far into love
And when everything's wrong
She will still be dancing
To her favorite song.

[...] Read more

poem by Mystykka Mysterious
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Shop, she shops!

Once she constantly smiled
Bought cloths and jewelry that gave her style

Shop, shop, shop
She shopped till she dropped
Shop, shop, shop
She just could not seem to stop

Her credit was on top
Her spending way rocket up
She paid with cash or credit card
This Lady was absolutely shopping mad
Shoping malls!
Markets stalls!
Shoes, clothing, and handbags she bought all year long
Spend, spend and spend daily was her beloved song

Shop, shop, shop
She now shops like a flop
Shop, shop, shop
This lady has now put a stop

Today is different shopping expedition
This time spending with supervision
No more that crazy spending addiction

Her credit card is cut
Her goods seized, the whole lot
Today she spends, her pockets hurt!

She has become street wise
Haggling with each price
She has become precise
About what she needs and not what is nice

Shop, shop, shop
She shops like a flop
Shop, shop, shop
Her spending has taken a big drop!
This lady has now put a stop to shop!

Copyright 2006 - Sylvia Chidi

poem by Sylvia Chidi
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Shop

So, friend, your shop was all your house!
Its front, astonishing the street,
Invited view from man and mouse
To what diversity of treat
Behind its glass—the single sheet!

What gimcracks, genuine Japanese:
Gape-jaw and goggle-eye, the frog;
Dragons, owls, monkeys, beetles, geese;
Some crush-nosed human-hearted dog:
Queer names, too, such a catalogue!

I thought, "And he who owns the wealth
Which blocks the window's vastitude,
—Ah, could I peep at him by stealth
Behind his ware, pass shop, intrude
On house itself, what scenes were viewed!

"If wide and showy thus the shop,
What must the habitation prove?
The true house with no name a-top—
The mansion, distant one remove,
Once get him off his traffic-groove!

"Pictures he likes, or books perhaps;
And as for buying most and best,
Commend me to these City chaps!
Or else he's social, takes his rest
On Sundays, with a Lord for guest.

"Some suburb-palace, parked about
And gated grandly, built last year:
The four-mile walk to keep off gout;
Or big seat sold by bankrupt peer—
But then he takes the rail, that's clear.

"Or, stop! I wager, taste selects
Some out o' the way, some all-unknown
Retreat: the neighborhood suspects
Little that he who rambles lone
Makes Rothschild tremble on his throne!"

Nowise! Nor Mayfair residence
Fit to receive and entertain,—
Nor Hampstead villa's kind defence
From noise and crowd, from dust and drain,—
Nor country-box was soul's domain!

Nowise! At back of all that spread
Of merchandize, woe's me, I find

[...] Read more

poem by Robert Browning from Pacchiarotto (1876)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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The Indian Dances

The Indian culture is most diverse,
So are the Indian dances to traverse;
There are many Indian Classical dances,
And so are the many regional Folk dances.

A physical and visual form is dance,
It appropriates the spectator to a trance;
The colourful attire enchants the audience,
And the different ornaments amuse their sense.

The Natya Sastra by Sage Bharata was propounded,
And the Indian Classical dance on a grammar founded;
Indian culture with four Vedas itself prides,
And with Natya Sastra known as the fifth Veda, it strides.

Dances were originally performed in a temple,
Mainly to entertain Gods and Godesses and people;
Accompanying were the drums, flute and other instruments,
To synchronize with the music and the dancers ‘ movements.

The Classical dances are spiritual in content,
The Folk dances are of joy and celebration intent;
Elements of Indian dances are Mudra and Abhinaya—
The dancer's interpretation of words set to music and laya.

Many dance forms depict the moods -Navarasas,
Which are the various emotions or nine rasas;
They are Hasya, Krodha, Bhibasta, Bhaya, Santha,
And Veeram, Karuna, Adbhuta and Shoka:

Which are Happiness, Anger, Disgust, Fear, Serenity,
And Courage, Compassion, Wonder, and Sorrow respectively.
Many are the reputed Indian dance styles,
So are the many dance forms of details.

The Indian dance forms, that are popular—
Bharathanatyam of Tamil Nadu: Manipuri of Manipur:
Garba of Gujarat: Kuchupudi of Andhra Pradesh:
Bhangra of Punjab: Kathak of Uttar Pradesh:

Gaudiya Nritya of West Bengal: Lavani of Maharashtra:
Kathakali and Mohini Attam of Kerala: Oddissi of Oddisha:
Indian dances play their parts in many realms of arts—
In Poetry, Architecture, Literature and Sculpture of sorts.

Dancers with their beautiful art give us a profound feeling,
Making them appealing and our hearts stealing!

poem by Chandra Thiagarajan
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Everybody Dance (The Dance Of The Dead)

As the sun sinks upon the horizon,
As the dark night creeps in,
The dead dance.
On the streets they roam,
Silent,
Alone.
Everybody dances,
The saints and the sinners,
Everybody dances,
To the sound of the rhythm,
Everybody dances,
The dance of the dead.

The dance of the dead goes on,
And on,
Never stops,
Never slows,
Time does not matter to the dead.
Everybody dances,
The poor and the rich,
Everybody dances,
To the cries to the babies,
Everybody dances,
The dance of the dead.

As your time goes up,
The dead dance into your room,
Filled with silent movements,
They twirl with grace,
And style
And ease.
They reach out their hands,
And you take it,
And join the dance of the dead.
Everybody dance,
The young and the old,
Everybody dance,
The music is playing,
Everybody dance,
To the dance of the dead.

C’mon,
Everybody dance,
Soldiers and lovers,
Oh,
Everybody dance,
To sound they cry,
So,
Everybody dance,
To the dance of the dead,

[...] Read more

poem by Charlie F. Kane
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Sobre Horizontes

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soccer babes paint
soccer baby crib bedding
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soccer babes renee
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soccer background for myspace
soccer backgrounds myspace
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soccer backpack with mesh ball pocket
soccer backpack with embroidered name
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soccer backgrounds for myspace
soccer back injury
soccer background net
soccer background codes
soccer back packs
soccer background graphics
soccer back pack bags

[...] Read more

poem by Rwetewrt Erwtwer
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Hardware Shop

There's nothing so becomes a man
as a local hardware shop - it expands
the horizons of his home improvement, and
brings harmony to his home life as
those little jobs get done;
and although these days a car-trip
would take you to an out-of-town
with wider variety and lower price,
there is greater delight in detailed chat
with that little man around the corner
who's been there since - oh, you knew his father.
He's got it; or will get it; you chat; come out feeling good;
there's order in the world. Things get done.

But they're a dying breed. We had two - didn't know
just how lucky we were until Mr and Mrs Tidy
(how many Tidy generations of hardware had there been?)
with their two shops run together - he in one, she in the other - and
he identified just what it was you wanted; she
knew just where they kept it - suddenly they went, still sprightly young, to
a well-deserved retirement, after a life of virtue.
They exuded some sort of spiritual strength
between them; as if your purchase had
a hint of allegory in some non-conformist book of life.

Which left the other hardware shop. I hoped
that their departure would encourage his own trade
but it was not to be. The stage set of his shop is perfect -
behind the obligatory front-of-shop basics, put out
each day - camping gas, the bags of dried manure,
plastic bins of every size -
the shop is filled in every nook and cranny, leading to
a further vista of boxed shelves, a hint of aisle on aisle
to joy the DIY-er's heart - and
that faintly oily, metallic, woody, dusty, smell - the precious essence
of a hundred years in that same shop, of visits by
a century of proud home owners, treasuring their addiction..

but this is a man upon whom no tidy destiny, no spiritual path
has fallen. Enter his crammed shop with hope, of the friendly chat
that from the furthest depths, produces just the size
of split boggle ring of finest brass that you were looking for,
and what do you get? Twenty minutes of sad-smiled, patient
explanation of why he hasn't got it; couldn't get it,
because they'd want an order of two dozen. It's only done
in industrial sizes anyway. And the supplier's changed hands
and you'll need to change the whole system to metric.

You should have known - for it was always so:

[...] Read more

poem by Michael Shepherd
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Walk To The Shop

I’m going for a walk
I’m going for a walk to the shop
I’m walking to the shop
I sweat as I walk to the shop
I’m walking to the sweat shop
I’m working at the sweat shop
I work at a sweat shop

I’ll be back in an hour
I’ll be back in hours
I’ll be back in 16 hours
I’ll be back from work in 16 hours
I’ll be back from my 16 hour shift
I work a 16 hour shift

I need to go to the supermarket
I need to go to the supermarket to buy food
I need to buy food
I need to spend my wages on food
I need to spend all of my wages on food
All of my wages is just a few pence
For my wages I only have a few pence
I only get paid a few pence

I’ll be home soon
I’ll be back to my home soon
I’ll be back to my house in this town soon
I’ll be back to my house in this shanty town soon
I’ll be back to my hut in this shanty town soon
I live in this shanty town
I live in a shanty town

I am wearing my pair of Nike running shoes
I have a pair of Nike running shoes
I have lots of pairs of Nike running shoes
I am surrounded by lots of pairs of Nike running shoes
I make lots of pairs of Nike running shoes
I make Nike running shoes
I make your Nike running shoes.

I work in a sweat shop
I work a 16 hour shift
I only get paid a few pence
I live in a shanty town
I make your Nike running shoes

poem by Andy Lore
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Proud Music Of The Storm

PROUD music of the storm!
Blast that careers so free, whistling across the prairies!
Strong hum of forest tree-tops! Wind of the mountains!
Personified dim shapes! you hidden orchestras!
You serenades of phantoms, with instruments alert,
Blending, with Nature's rhythmus, all the tongues of nations;
You chords left us by vast composers! you choruses!
You formless, free, religious dances! you from the Orient!
You undertone of rivers, roar of pouring cataracts;
You sounds from distant guns, with galloping cavalry! 10
Echoes of camps, with all the different bugle-calls!
Trooping tumultuous, filling the midnight late, bending me powerless,
Entering my lonesome slumber-chamber--Why have you seiz'd me?

Come forward, O my Soul, and let the rest retire;
Listen--lose not--it is toward thee they tend;
Parting the midnight, entering my slumber-chamber,
For thee they sing and dance, O Soul.

A festival song!
The duet of the bridegroom and the bride--a marriage-march,
With lips of love, and hearts of lovers, fill'd to the brim with
love; 20
The red-flush'd cheeks, and perfumes--the cortege swarming, full of
friendly faces, young and old,
To flutes' clear notes, and sounding harps' cantabile.

Now loud approaching drums!
Victoria! see'st thou in powder-smoke the banners torn but flying?
the rout of the baffled?
Hearest those shouts of a conquering army?

(Ah, Soul, the sobs of women--the wounded groaning in agony,
The hiss and crackle of flames--the blacken'd ruins--the embers of
cities,
The dirge and desolation of mankind.)

Now airs antique and medieval fill me!
I see and hear old harpers with their harps, at Welsh festivals: 30
I hear the minnesingers, singing their lays of love,
I hear the minstrels, gleemen, troubadours, of the feudal ages.

Now the great organ sounds,
Tremulous--while underneath, (as the hid footholds of the earth,
On which arising, rest, and leaping forth, depend,
All shapes of beauty, grace and strength--all hues we know,

[...] Read more

poem by Walt Whitman
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103 ~ Dances With The Moon

'At night the moon became
a woman's face.
I met the Spirit of Music.'
-Jim Morrison from Wilderness

Come my love, 'tis a glorious evening!
The moon is full, there's a million gleamings.
Let's get ourselves to an open field and lie,
kiss and wander through the bright-black sky.

Come spirits fill our breath with rose reeds.
Leave us here to soak in splendor of moon beams.
In Night's tender arms let us be wrapped,
me and my love, because my love
materials me affection in earthly stuff.

step in...slide into some light shoes
hold on...rest your hand on my balloon
launching...lifting off for better views
soon we...we'll be dancing on the moon

my love...my one true love,
she sings o'er the dunes
velvet...a velvet blanket
she dances with the moon
dances with the moon

Oh! my love, I'll never love one
more than she, the Night.
She holds me forever
in her celestial-glow eyes,
but she hides so far away,
this untouchable She,
so don't worry, for I'll love you,
as long as moon beams soak me.

you sing...into the soft winds
hold on...keep in mind always this tune
launching...lifting off for never-ends
then we...we'll be dancing on the moon

my love...my one true love,
she sings o'er the dunes
velvet...a velvet blanket
she dances with the moon
dances with the moon

my love...my one true love,
she sings on sad tunes
she know's...know I'll never

[...] Read more

poem by Stan Pelfrey
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Tale XIX

THE CONVERT.

Some to our Hero have a hero's name
Denied, because no father's he could claim;
Nor could his mother with precision state
A full fair claim to her certificate;
On her own word the marriage must depend -
A point she was not eager to defend:
But who, without a father's name, can raise
His own so high, deserves the greater praise;
The less advantage to the strife he brought,
The greater wonders has his prowess wrought;
He who depends upon his wind and limbs,
Needs neither cork nor bladder when he swims;
Nor will by empty breath be puff'd along,
As not himself--but in his helpers--strong.
Suffice it then, our Hero's name was clear,
For call John Dighton, and he answer'd 'Here!'
But who that name in early life assign'd
He never found, he never tried to find:
Whether his kindred were to John disgrace,
Or John to them, is a disputed case;
His infant state owed nothing to their care -
His mind neglected, and his body bare;
All his success must on himself depend,
He had no money, counsel, guide, or friend;
But in a market-town an active boy
Appear'd, and sought in various ways employ;
Who soon, thus cast upon the world, began
To show the talents of a thriving man.
With spirit high John learn'd the world to

brave,
And in both senses was a ready knave;
Knave as of old obedient, keen, and quick,
Knave as of present, skill'd to shift and trick;
Some humble part of many trades he caught,
He for the builder and the painter wrought;
For serving-maids on secret errands ran,
The waiter's helper, and the ostler's man;
And when he chanced (oft chanced he) place to lose,
His varying genius shone in blacking shoes:
A midnight fisher by the pond he stood,
Assistant poacher, he o'erlook'd the wood;
At an election John's impartial mind
Was to no cause nor candidate confined;
To all in turn he full allegiance swore,
And in his hat the various badges bore:
His liberal soul with every sect agreed,
Unheard their reasons, he received their creed:

[...] Read more

poem by George Crabbe
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Pawn Shop Aint No Place For A Wedding Ring

A pawn shop aint no place for a wedding ring
Six months from now what will that money mean?
You shop around looking for memories, somehow
The satisfaction dont come that easy
Its a shame you werent satisfied with me
Youre the saddest thing Ive ever seen
A pawn shop aint no place for a wedding ring
Six months from now what will that money mean?
You shop around looking for memories, somehow
The satisfaction dont come that easy
Its a shame you werent satisfied with me
Youre the saddest thing Ive ever seen
A pawn shop aint no place for a wedding ring
Six months from now what will that money mean?
You shop around looking for memories
The satisfaction dont come that easy
Its a shame you werent satisfied with me
Youre the saddest thing Ive ever seen

song performed by Whiskeytown
Added by Lucian Velea
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The Hammers

I

Frindsbury, Kent, 1786

Bang!
Bang!
Tap!
Tap-a-tap! Rap!
All through the lead and silver Winter days,
All through the copper of Autumn hazes.
Tap to the red rising sun,
Tap to the purple setting sun.
Four years pass before the job is done.
Two thousand oak trees grown and felled,
Two thousand oaks from the hedgerows of the Weald,
Sussex had yielded two thousand oaks
With huge boles
Round which the tape rolls
Thirty mortal feet, say the village folks.
Two hundred loads of elm and Scottish fir;
Planking from Dantzig.
My! What timber goes into a ship!
Tap! Tap!
Two years they have seasoned her ribs on the ways,
Tapping, tapping.
You can hear, though there's nothing where you gaze.
Through the fog down the reaches of the river,
The tapping goes on like heart-beats in a fever.
The church-bells chime
Hours and hours,
Dropping days in showers.
Bang! Rap! Tap!
Go the hammers all the time.
They have planked up her timbers
And the nails are driven to the head;
They have decked her over,
And again, and again.
The shoring-up beams shudder at the strain.
Black and blue breeches,
Pigtails bound and shining:
Like ants crawling about,
The hull swarms with carpenters, running in and out.
Joiners, calkers,
And they are all terrible talkers.
Jem Wilson has been to sea and he tells some wonderful tales
Of whales, and spice islands,
And pirates off the Barbary coast.
He boasts magnificently, with his mouth full of nails.
Stephen Pibold has a tenor voice,
He shifts his quid of tobacco and sings:

[...] Read more

poem by Amy Lowell
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Down the Sweet Shop

The little corner shop
full of special treats
Chocolate, bottles of Pop,
and jars and jars of sweets.
With pocket money in hand
given to me by my Dad
sometimes a little bit extra
if he heard I'd been a good lad.
I really loved that little shop
it was every young boys dream
you could get everything you'd want
Football Cards, Toys, and Ice-Cream.
My dad used the shop as well
he'd pop in to buy his fags
and Mum did her weekly shop
she'd get me to help her with the bags.
Then along came the big supermarket
the little shop began to lose it's trade
so sadly it had to close it's doors
an end of an era again I'm afraid.
But I'll always remember the little shop
stood there at the bottom of our lane
yes it may have only been small
but it had more style than any supermarket chain!

poem by Kevin Halls
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The Art of the Lathe

Leonardo imagined the first one.
The next was a pole lathe with a drive cord,
illustrated in Plumier's L'art de tourner en perfection.
Then Ramsden, Vauconson, the great Maudslay,
his student Roberts, Fox, Clement, Whitworth.

The long line of machinists to my left
lean into their work, ungloved hands adjusting the calipers,
tapping the bit lightly with their fingertips.
Each man withdraws into his house of work:
the rough cut, shearing of iron by tempered steel,
blue-black threads lifting like locks of hair,
then breaking over bevel and ridge.
Oil and water splash over the whitening bit, hissing.
The lathe on night-shift, moonlight silvering the bed-ways.

The old man I apprenticed with, Roy Garcia,
in silk shirt, khakis, and Florsheims. Cautious,
almost delicate explanations and slow,
shapely hand movements. Craft by repetition.
Haig and Haig behind the tool chest.

In Diderot's Encyclopaedia, an engraving
of a small machine shop: forge and bellows in back,
in the foreground a mandrel lathe turned by a boy.
It is late afternoon, and the copper light leaking in
from the street side of the shop just catches
his elbow, calf, shoe. Taverns begin to crowd
with workmen curling over their tankards,
still hearing in the rattle of carriages over cobblestone
the steady tap of the treadle,
the gasp and heave of the bellows.

The boy leaves the shop, cringing into the light,
and digs the grime from his fingernails, blue
from bruises. Walking home, he hears a clavier—
Couperin, maybe, a Bach toccata—from a window overhead.
Music, he thinks, the beautiful.
Tavern doors open. Voices. Grab and hustle of the street.
Cart wheels. The small room of his life. The darkening sky.

I listen to the clunk-and-slide of the milling machine,
Maudsley's art of clarity and precision: sculpture of poppet,
saddle, jack screw, pawl, cone-pulley,
the fit and mesh of gears, tooth in groove like interlaced fingers.
I think of Mozart folding and unfolding his napkin
as the notes sound in his head. The new machinist sings Patsy Cline,
I Fall to Pieces. Sparrows bicker overhead.
Screed of the grinder, the bandsaw's groan and wail.

[...] Read more

poem by B.H. Fairchild
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Strange But True 2 - Footsteps On The Stairs

I was a store man in an engineering factory,
during the early 1960’s when this story took place.
The company had rented and old tailor shop
as an extra storeroom just down the road.
It was time to do a stock take,
in the shop there on my own.
I had been in the building many times before on my own.
That day seemed no exception.
The building had three floors,
the ground floor, and the first floor
where I would be working and the second floor,
which had at one time been a flat.
I was seventeen at the time.

Therefore, I began my work
and began counting the stock,
when from the floor above I could hear
what sounded like a woman’s shoes
pacing around on the wooden floor.
My heart began to beat faster,
as I knew I was the only one in the building.
I said to myself if whatever it was
began to descend the stairs, I was going to be gone.
Then it happened,
my dread.
The footsteps reached the stairs
and began to descend.
I dropped what I was doing,
and down to the ground floor ran.
Once outside I locked the only entrance door
and ran back to the factory,
swearing I would not go back there anymore.
A supervisor saw the fear within me.
It took him an hour to calm me down.

He finally persuaded me
to accompany him back to the shop,
so he could prove to me that there was nothing there.
We would search the shop from top to bottom.
I reluctantly agreed.
The first floor that we checked was the one
where I heard the noise.
It was an empty space;
there was nothing there at all,
only wooden floorboards covered with a layer of dust.
No footprints to indicate someone had been walking there.
Everywhere we searched,
but nothing could we find.
Eventually he said what I heard was only in my mind.
A couple of months went by

[...] Read more

poem by David Harris
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Candy Shop (Lyrics)

Intro: 50 Cent
Yeah...
Uh huh
So seductive

Chorus:
[50 Cent]
I take you to the candy shop
I'll let you lick the lollypop
Go 'head girl, don't you stop
Keep going 'til you hit the spot (woah)
[Olivia]
I take you to the candy shop
Boy one taste of what I got
I'll have you spending all you got
Keep going 'til you hit the spot (woah)

Verse 1: 50 Cent
You got it your way, how do you want it
You gon' back that thing up or should i push up on it
Temperature rising, okay lets go to the next level
Dance floor jam packed, hot as a teakettle
I'll break it down for you now, baby it's simple
If you be a nympho, I'll be a nympho
In the hotel or in the back of the rental
On the beach or in the park, it's whatever you into
Got the magic stick, I'm the love doctor
Have your friends teasin you 'bout how sprung I gotcha
Wanna show me how you work it baby, no problem
Get on top then get to bouncing round like a low rider
I'm a seasons vet when it come to this shit
After you work up a sweat you can play with the stick
I'm tryin to explain baby the best way I can
I melt in your mouth girl, not in your hands (ha ha)

Chorus:
[50 Cent]
I take you to the candy shop
I'll let you lick the lollypop
Go 'head girl, don't you stop
Keep going 'til you hit the spot (woah)
[Olivia]
I'll take you to the candy shop
Boy one taste of what I got
I'll have you spending all you got
Keep going 'til you hit the spot (woah)

Bridge: 50 Cent & Olivia
Girl what we do (what we do)
And where we do (and where we do)

[...] Read more

poem by Aaron Dacey
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Visits to St Elizabeths

This is the house of Bedlam.

This is the man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.

This is the time
of the tragic man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.

This is a wristwatch
telling the time
of the talkative man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.

This is a sailor
wearing the watch
that tells the time
of the honored man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.

This is the roadstead all of board
reached by the sailor
wearing the watch
that tells the time
of the old, brave man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.

These are the years and the walls of the ward,
the winds and clouds of the sea of board
sailed by the sailor
wearing the watch
that tells the time
of the cranky man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.

This is a Jew in a newspaper hat
that dances weeping down the ward
over the creaking sea of board
beyond the sailor
winding his watch
that tells the time
of the cruel man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.

This is a world of books gone flat.
This is a Jew in a newspaper hat
that dances weeping down the ward
over the creaking sea of board
of the batty sailor
that winds his watch

[...] Read more

poem by Elizabeth Bishop
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Our Stars Inside

I wouldn't leave the stars inside if I were you
Such a watchful styles mingling that way

Let eyes blink at Malawian dances
The inside stars giggling and wriggling fot daisy
And emerge the auxiliary bait begrudge

Desperately the tradition is equipped with such drums
Warming the hoods with golden countenance drugs
These innocent incentives sizzling at their base
These stars the steps nurtured by the groaning lightening
Our only stars of the innermost exposure of mighty

Our northern corridor here you are with Mapenenga
Giving a chance of joining the frizzling steps in constable parade
And beeping up with Saza, these men and whites only
Absorb completely your whole some and deep your loveliness
Vimbuza along side this wildness may take you up
To our curled history of the innermost dam

These stars inside the big dances in the middle age
These dances, Malawian tools to way back
Restored from our beginning
In the ever known dances, piercing eyes

The southern stas, there, giving out their will
Dressed in a blue mothers' tongue
And rise up high to feed your souls

These capacious stars you can mind
Learn to watch our dances before you set off
Only a visit satisfy eyes in the discovery book

poem by Paul Mwenelupembe
Added by Poetry Lover
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