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Pulling strings
At the office, a play
with puppets. But
like puppets we do expect
a letting go.
Poemas sobre el tema: puppet
Poemas sobre el tema «puppet» en Poets.by.
Nonviolence
I answer a word as red as war
with play. We can act
like puppets, or be
content to be.
Modern Times
times pass
only for show
in this wonder-starved country
among levers and puppets
their music is one gear peaking
cruel and high
Parts unknown
I am an ordinary person
ingenuity is better than thinking
the puppet-plays I act in give me new parts
a late foot a head full of order
that absence of joy I perceive as art
though I contrive to have no room for it
Strung along
The good foot is put
into a suspense of joy:
out and up. Am I
a lunk to think
my life as a puppet
is pleasant,
among mere sticks
knocking the strings?
Puppeteer
they stripped me of everything
so now i can't help but pull the strings
of others
Puppet
Once upon a time,
In a world not unlike your own,
There existed a puppeteer.
He was a happy man,
And he loved to put on shows
For children who would wander by.
Using puppets he created
With his own two hands,
He would tell stories
Of the olden days,
When knights roamed
Looking for dragons to slay.
One night, he was making a new puppet
For his show the next day.
It was his proudest work,
And he was excited to show it off.
Dripping
i could feel it from the moment I saw you
you would suck me in
mix me up
and rip me up like paper
you left me screaming
wishing for the end
clinging to hope that hung off the side
of ever standing cliffs
overlooking the sea of misfortune
and yet I was still on your string
you could yank my limp body back whenever you were bored with you latest puppet
and for the rest of eternity
I shall keep the string
it shan't fray
it shan't knot or twist
and I will make sure it is safe
Pierrot Objects
They have made me an airy apology
For the crude insistence of their flesh!
They have made me twist my tongue
Into fickle nonchalance!
With a languid impudence
I have tarried underneath the moon,
While the haggard reticence
Of their lives forgot itself within me!
Well, I am rebelling
At the men who make me
Their grimacing marionnette!
Let them find another dancing-teacher
For their dull, unruffled fears.
I am off to tear my black and white
Into shreds, within a valley
Where nakedness and colours do not need
The Puppet Player
Sometimes it seems as though some puppet player
A clenched claw cupping a craggy chin,
Sits just beyond the border of our seeing,
Twitching the strings with slow sardonic grin.
Little Ivory Figures Pulled with String
Is it the tinkling of mandolins which disturbs you ?
Or the dropping of bitter-orange petals among the coffee-cups ?
Or the slow creeping of the moonlight between the olive-trees ?
Drop ! drop ! the rain
Upon the thin plates of my heart.
String your blood to chord with this music,
Stir your heels upon the cobbles to the rhythm of a dance-tune.
They have slim thighs and arms of silver ;
The moon washes away their garments ;
They make a pattern of fleeing feet in the branch shadows.
And the green grapes knotted about them
Burst as they press against one another.
The rain knocks upon the plates of my heart.
They are crumpled with its beating.
Would you drink only from your brains, Old Man ?