Every time I am caught
With my back to someone's camera
I look aghast
Refusing to believe, to accept
That the unfamiliar posterior of a human head
With dirty grey wisps of hair
Like an odd-looking horseshoe
Stuck on a hairless scalp
That reflects the light of the camera flash
Is really me
Hiding behind an anterior
I thought I knew all my life -
A view of myself that I will never see
With my own eyes...
I could use a million different things to describe you
I could use all the cliches
but they won't do you justice
your blue eyes don't look like the ocean
rather like the colour of the certain lake from a childhood memory
your brown hair isn't like sweet chocolate
it is the exact colour that makes my heart well up to big in my chest
you're so much more than descriptions
or any poems could relate to
there is something about you that isn't like the other people in literature
your eyes are a different blue
your hair is a different brown
your laugh is a different sound
nobody will ever understand the magic that you propell
for simple words could never be you
Good looks
Does not a king make
Nice hair
A smile
Does not a king make
Cute lips
An accent
White teeth
Does not a king make
So then
Tell me
What does?
I think it had something to do with the way she smiled
She often did so when reading a book, or looking at a friends text
She would look around, hoping no one caught her in the act
I, however, have always been there
I think it had something to do with the way she laughed
She would throw her head back, having absolutely no cares in the world
Her whole body would darken like a paler shade of red
I have always laughed with her mind
I think it had something to do with her dark blue hair
Her confidence grew as her hair became much like the deep ocean tides
She began to hold her head up higher to the high sky
These changes I noticed the most
I think that until now, you thought this was a love poem
comb fragility from your hair
as your white steel breasts break the contours
of silvered glass/
Let your mouth move me over rooftops of raininfinitely,
tongue of rose/
nail me
to a cross of down/
i lie long mornings
and sample the bird roosting in my tangle
called hair
left there by hands
to confuse my awaking
i am reminded of your pillow and the smell
it caught from you
Ah, sweet young blood, that makes the heart
So full of joy, and light,
That dying children dance with it
From early morn till night.
My dreams were blossoms, hers the fruit,
She was my dearest care;
With gentle hand, and for it, I
Made playthings of her hair.
I made my fingers rings of gold,
And bangles for my wrist;
You should have felt the soft, warm thing
I made to glove my fist.
And she should have a crown, I swore,
With only gold enough
To keep together stones more rich
Than that fine metal stuff.
The dandelion stares
In the yellow sunlight.
How very still it is!
When it is old and grey,
I blow its white hair away,
And leave it with a bald head.
A HUNDRED strange things
Looked in at the door;
There went a soft foot
Across the old floor.
Oh, lovely and lost,
It was you who were there.
Wrapped round in the cloak
Of your golden long hair!
The house grew as sweet
As a just-lit flower.
On the edge of the rain.
In an April hour.
Wrapped round in the cloak
Of your golden long hair.
Oh, lovely and lost.
It was you who were there!
Brigidin Ban of the lint-white locks,
What was it gave you that flaxen hair,
Long as the summer heath in the rocks?
What was it gave you those eyes of fire,
Lip so waxen and cheek so wan?
Tell me, tell me, Brigidin Ban,
Little white bride of my heart's desire.
Was it the Good People stole you away,
Little white changeling, Brigidin Ban?
Carried you off in the ring of the dawn,
Laid like a queen on her purple car,
Carried you back 'twixt the night and the day;
Gave you that fortune of flaxen hair,
Gave you those eyes of wandering fire,
Lit at the wheel of the southern star;
Gave you that look so far away,
Violet mystery,
Ringleted gold,
Whiteness of whiteness,
Wherefore so cold?
Silent you sit there--
Spirit and mould--
Darkening the dream
That must never be told!
Bind up, bind up your dark bright hair
And hide the smouldering sunken fire.
Let it be held no more than fair,
Nor yourself guess how rare, how rare
Its movement, colour and deep fire.
Your eyes they have their consciousness,
Your lips their grave reflective smile,
Your hands their cunning for distress:
Your hair has only beauteousness
And hid flame for its only guile.
That glowing hair on shoulders white
Is pride past sum: take care, take care!
Even to dream of wish'd delight
Too much perturbs the ebb of night--
Bind up, bind up your burning hair!