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Reproductive system
my heart is a beautiful fat woman in childbed
and I am the bed
I increase in any place
where I want to live all in one place
Poemas sobre el tema: birth
Poemas sobre el tema «birth» en Poets.by.
Unbirthed
in the absence of light I will eat
a mouthful of money
the undone child is ready
to fall down again
By any other name
This rose at her door
called me to know her,
the day very pleasant,
though the way bad
and I a newborn,
my head aching.
Before Orpheus
that moth
and the mess he caused
a citizen of pretense
to my mother and talk
I was born.
Running in
Birth is mundane, a mere formality
A realization of dreams, or of lust.
In the nurse’s arms, swaddled in clothes,
The baby screams, or whimpers with eyes shut.
This is it; you have bought it, my lad.
Formalities over, the manager stands up
The key in his cupped palms.
Theatrical, he pauses as if in a short prayer
And drops it into your open palm.
In her flowered dress, hair braided
Arm resting around the baby on her left
Proof of my manhood, her motherhood
She looks at him, at me, in gratitude and love.
I stand a little apart, look uncomprehending
At the beast, silent; glittering chrome
Massive tyres, sweeping handlebars
Birth Song
In the year of the ninth moon's passage
when the cradle was full of love
of the flood of eyes of the big rock's kick
and love cut open
wrecked distances
And time / was it?/ a still breath's bundle
stood on head in the air by the heels
and squealed in a clenched-fisted silence
at the sea and the ship's bottom fallen
and the milk rock pendulum of a breast fed it breath
and keels of the closed-in rocked-in stockinged sea
made a lap the world --
bounced you on pigeon-toed columns of feedings
what happening-to-life your selflessness
to self-possession would dispossess the same questioning
you in your time it knocks
He-Who-Came-Forth
Somehow nineteen years ago
clumsily passionate
I drew into me the seed
of a man -
and bore it, cast it out
man-seed that grew
and became a person
whose subtle mind and quick heart
though I beat him, hurt him,
while I fed him, loved him,
• now stand beyond me, out in the world
beyond my skin
beautiful and strange as if
I had given birth to a tree.
Calendar
My grandmother had a true calendar,
a meaningful, eventful one.
“You were born four moons
after the heavy flooding
which killed half of the town,
twelve moons before
the communists dynamited the church.
It was just two moons after
the grapes were ripened,”
she used to say to me.
As a child, until I began school,
I knew nothing of the fact
that I was born on 1st October, 1963.
If I tell you my birthday
with the current calendar,
I tell you nothing about myself.
Hail and Farewell
With tears and a faithful heart and brave mirth,
Once on a time you watched to welcome me.
Waiting and weariness and agony
Until the last were what you thought me worth.
But wearier than the months that wait for birth
Are those that wait for death— How shall I be
Still while you are so still? How shall I see
Unbrokenhearted your slow steps from earth?
So the white watchers gather near to hark
The soul's approach, the heralding of the horn,
And so they strain and listen for the tread
Of the free soul retreating down the dark —
Mothers who wait for children to be born,
Children who wait for mothers to be dead.
Indian Weavers
Weavers, weaving at break of day,
Why do you weave a garment so gay? . . .
Blue as the wing of a halcyon wild,
We weave the robes of a new-born child.
Weavers, weaving at fall of night,
Why do you weave a garment so bright? . . .
Like the plumes of a peacock, purple and green,
We weave the marriage-veils of a queen.
Weavers, weaving solemn and still,
What do you weave in the moonlight chill? . . .
White as a feather and white as a cloud,
We weave a dead man's funeral shroud.
Poems in Praise of Practically Nothing XII
You're a pure spirit ; you're air and water ;
You're nobody's son and nobody's daughter;
In short, you're still in the state pre-natal —
A strange condition, but seldom fatal —
Well, anyhow, you're a harmless atom,
Content to stay in your own stratum;
You do not drink or play the horses.
Or interfere with natural forces,
Indulge in moods or whims erratic,
Which cause the flu, and sometimes, static : —
A perfect type of the homo non est.
You're unobtrusive, kind and honest,
As upright as an ear of corn—
And what thanks do you get for it all? You're born!
The Birth-Night
The eerie fingers of the rain
All day have stroked my window-pane,
While all the day and all the night
Elves have been grinding, keen and bright,
Weird, tiny knives of nerves and wits.
Upon my heart an Elf-king sits ...
A cruel, Lilliputian mite ...
And by my breath he flies a kite
Of hope in life or hope in death.
He tugs and scowls with all his might ...
The kite depends on my frail breath.
I watch the earthly colours bright,
Painted upon that fluttering kite.
Little boys fly gay kites
And play with marbles ...
Little boys laugh and shout