Hand
If I break my hand
Will anyone care
If I hang myself
Will anyone care
I know they wont they dont give a fuck what I do
Say
Or how I act
I say fuck you
They say right back
I wanna punch the shit out of something but I dont
Poems on the topic: hand
Poems on the topic “hand” on Poets.by.
'Out, Out--'
The buzz-saw snarled and rattled in the yard
And made dust and dropped stove-length sticks of wood,
Sweet-scented stuff when the breeze drew across it.
And from there those that lifted eyes could count
Five mountain ranges one behind the other
Under the sunset far into Vermont.
And the saw snarled and rattled, snarled and rattled,
As it ran light, or had to bear a load.
And nothing happened: day was all but done.
Call it a day, I wish they might have said
To please the boy by giving him the half hour
That a boy counts so much when saved from work.
His sister stood beside them in her apron
To tell them ‘Supper.’ At the word, the saw,
As if to prove saws knew what supper meant,
Grace
They do not always sit with an easy grace,
the aging: in afternoon light, even in October,
cracks invade her clear skin,
showing in relief, and he knows dismay,
seeing her, his own once simple face
crowding itself, as when a life within
doors runs out of thought. Yet, sober
as this renders him, he will not turn away
from her to seek some easier play:
there is no win or lose, no hunt, no race,
no battle. His eyes would disrobe her,
for she is to him more than she has been,
and he would know all, even here,
as passers pass, not seeing what his eyes see;
but he will wait on her clear sign
that this is welcome, even from his gaze,
Nineteen
How beautiful
your hands, tapping
my door, thirty
years ago.
Your heart knocked,
a fist against
my ribs. You
have been dead
half those years.
Tenacious
I told you that ‘tenacious’ meant tough.
A few days later we went out to eat
and you described your steak as tenacious.
That didn’t sound quite right – a person
can be tenacious, but an inanimate slab of flesh,
surely, can’t. I spent the rest of the meal
absorbed in this. Then as we held hands
on the way back, you told me about everything;
about what happened and what he did.
I felt your hand in mine, and knew
that you were still alive. You can call
a piece of meat tenacious if you want.
Damn it, you can do whatever you like.
You can recreate the very foundations of Being.
If you want to call your steak tenacious,
then who am I to object?
The Gulls
You forgot
to remove
his hands
still stroking
your breasts
in slow circles
like gulls,
white bellies tight,
as you
so naked
tried to light
a smile.
Love-songs, at Once Tender and Informative VI
She gave me her heart —
Oh, the sweetness of it!
She gave me her hand —
The petiteness of it!
She gave me herself —
Oh, the wonder of it !
I gave her myself —
Oh, the blunder of it!
Minna XXIV
We blew a luminous confusion of thoughts
Upon the silence of our souls,
Staining it to little, weeping tints.
Our hands pressed serpentine pain into each other
And stroked it away to twilights of relief.
Our lips shook before the tread of coming words,
But closed again, finding no need for them.
Minna XVI
Two walls, dizzy with rain-touch
And suffused with gauzily amorous sunlight,
Creep over a hill and meet.
And so our foreheads touch.
Silence between our hands grows into clasped music
Sprinkling our finger-tips with attenuated chords of touch.
Our hearts weave low songs to this accompaniment:
So low that even silence cannot hear.
Young Woman
So we have a face
Cupped by tender insolences,
Half repenting insolences
Teasing their own angers.
Then, a tense exuberance
Brushes them away
And burns a humbly erect
Queen upon her face.
This happens in the space
Between a frown and indecision.
Her face becomes forlornly wild,
And a beggarly impatience
Hovers into furtive shame.
All the supplely intricate flame
Vanishes, and leaves no mark.
Her eyes are violently dark
Hands
Your hands, your hands,
Fall upon mine as waves upon the sands.
O, soft as moonlight on the evening rose,
That but to moonlight will its sweet unclose,
Your hands, your hands,
Fall upon mine, and my hands open as
That evening primrose opens when the hot hours pass.
Your hands, your hands,
They are like towers that in far southern lands
Look at pale dawn over gloom-valley'd miles,
White temple towers that gleam through mist at whiles.
Your hands, your hands,
With the south wind fall kissing on my brow,
And all past joy and future is summed in this great "Now!"
Fragment
The breath of life imbued those few dim days!
Yet all we had was this,--
A flashing smile, a touch of hands, and once
A fleeting kiss.
Blank futile death inheres these years between!
Still naught have you and I
But frozen tears, and stifled words, and once
A sharp caught cry.
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