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Lessons
Hands ought
to play. Three times
this week we speak,
my instrument and I, neck
to strings.
Poems on the topic: string
Poems on the topic “string” on Poets.by.
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?
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
invisible strings
The invisible strings that held her together
Were slowly breaking apart
And unravelling the mess she kept inside
Dangerously close to her heart.
She felt the tears at the rim of her eyes
Threatening to spill and break free
But she blinked them back as hard as she could
Out of fear somebody would see.
She wanted to appear like she had it together
So she tried to put on a show
But the pressure she placed on herself was too great
And the invisible strings let go.
String
String
Puffed by
Imaginary wind
Ribbed with notes
Takes on flesh like water
Says, "See you later"
Through the window of the door
Popular sentiments pull through
And survive the past
Tall buildings
Make themselves comfortable
In the lump afternoon sky
And church music
Softly walks into the mucus
To a Friend Whose Work Has Come to Nothing
Now all the truth is out,
Be secret and take defeat
From any brazen throat,
For how can you compete,
Being honour bred, with one
Who, were it proved he lies,
Were neither shamed in his own
Nor in his neighbours' eyes?
Bred to a harder thing
Than Triumph, turn away
And like a laughing string
Whereon mad fingers play
Amid a place of stone,
Be secret and exult,
Because of all things known
That is most difficult.
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.
The Harp
I HAVE a harp of many strings
But two are enough for me :
One is for love and one for death;
And what would the third one be?
Before I learn another note
I may forget and go,
So while my hand is light and sure
I play on the strings I know.
Describe a feeling — we’ll find a poem
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