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Amy Lowell
The noise of the city sounds below me.
It clashes against the houses
And rises like smoke through the narrow streets.
It polishes the marble fronts of houses.
Grating itself against them.
And they shine in the lamplight
And cast their echoes back upon the asphalt of the streets.
But I hear no sound of your voice.
The city is incoherent — trivial.
And my brain aches with emptiness.
busy morning
at home in the almost
midnight ear
up and off her busy din again
the late bus home
O fly
a rant is all din
and no ear
the din of the night
bus home
a child christened—
her simple noise
and wrangling about
Here we are: a strange
dry din
again in
the afternoon
again in
the night.
A lute done in gold, this din
everything out
of order was pleased with:
my discovered love.
Loud is the room when your trying to work
Loud are your thoughts whenever it hurts
Loud are the voices that are calling you names
Loud is the silents with a hole through your brain
cars driving past my window at 3 am
the noise disturbing the white sheet spread across the suburbs
waking up the babies
causing second-lasting fear for the adults
teenagers weeping under their dirty bedsheets stop for a moment to listen
to the rumbles
what about the driver?
were they driving home from the night shift?
or was it so much more?
were they driving to a body beneath their feet?
were they bawling, just wanting to get to sleep?
each noise early mornings is like a ripple in the water
it cause so much
but is over in a matter of seconds
I can't hear anything
it's all just white noise
but I needed groceries
everyone is looking at me
like
it
was
me
that murdered
her.
Let the place of the solitaires
Be a place of perpetual undulation.
Whether it be in mid-sea
On the dark, green water-wheel,
Or on the beaches,
There must be no cessation
Of motion, or of the noise of motion,
The renewal of noise
And manifold continuation;
And, most, of the motion of thought
And its restless iteration,
In the place of the solitaires,
Which is to be a place of perpetual undulation.