Najczęściej czytane ▸
Personal development
I make my death grow
into a room for others
in a narrow pit
there is no play
I must claim liberty
like a dancer
Wiersze na temat: dancer
Wiersze na temat „dancer” na Poets.by.
Validation
i'll write and create and twiddle my thumbs
until they're nothing but nubs
because just like the dancer
with bloodied feet
i crave to be told self-destruction is
beautiful
The Dancers
It is because
I fear to wake them
behind the bolted door
of dreams.
The starving eyes,
the fragile ribs,
hollow gourds
on Shiva's belt.
They dance as
he dances
upon the
withered plain.
It is because
I fear to
name them.
The night whispers
She Plans Her Funeral
Bring to me then all passionate, crimson flowers
And lay them on my breast.
They shall be symbols of the love-lit hours —
And Love is best.
Folk who believe in Immortality,
Why should they pass in panoply of woe?
I would be linked with colour and ecstacy
That day I go.
Linked with glad dancers, their white limbs set free,
And rhythmical through veils of filmy green,
With children, rose-flushed with a mystic glee —
All these I mean
To leave as wishes for my funeral day.
But, lest I burden those I leave behind,
Let me add, hastily, that any way
They care to manage —
The Dancer
I WILL not dance :
I say I will not dance.
Your audience, pah, let them go home again,
Sleek, ugly pigs. Am I to hop and prance
As long as they will pay,
And posture for their eyes, and lay
My womanhood before them ? Let them drain
Their porter pots and snuffle — I'll not stay.
For he is dead :
I tell you he is dead.
My God, did you not hear me say it
Twice already ? I held his groaning head
In these remembering arms,
And cursed the charms
That could not stop his going. Must I bay it
Like a dog to you ? Quit your alarms !
The Harlem Dancer
Applauding youths laughed with young prostitutes
And watched her perfect, half-clothed body sway;
Her voice was like the sound of blended flutes
Blown by black players upon a picnic day.
She sang and danced on gracefully and calm,
The light gauze hanging loose about her form;
To me she seemed a proudly-swaying palm
Grown lovelier for passing through a storm.
Upon her swarthy neck black shiny curls
Luxuriant fell; and tossing coins in praise,
The wine-flushed, bold-eyed boys, and even the girls,
Devoured her shape with eager, passionate gaze;
But looking at her falsely-smiling face,
I knew her self was not in that strange place.