house of dust poem

. . We sleep, we w . If he had kissed me,That would have—well, I don't know; but he didn't . . ', 'He tells you she is there, and loves him still,—

. .Goldfish swim in a bowl, glisten in sunlight,Dilate to a gorgeous size, blow delicate bubbles,Drowse among dark green weeds. .Well, you believe one must have faith, in some sort,If one's to talk through this dark world contented.But is the world so dark? .She saw him look reproachfully at her coffin.And then she closed her eyes and walked againThose nightmare streets that she had walked so often:Under an arc-lamp swinging in the windShe stood, and stared in through a drug-store window,Watching a clerk wrap up a little pill-box.But it was late.

. . .With a smoking ghost of shame . .One is struck down and hurt, we crowd about him,We bear him away, gaze after his listless body;But whether he lives or dies we do not know.One of us sings in the street, and we listen to him;The words ring over us like vague bells of sorrow.He sings of a house he lived in long ago.It is strange; this house of dust was the house I lived in;The house you lived in, the house that all of us know.And coiling slowly about him, and laughing at him,And throwing him pennies, we bear awayA mournful echo of other times and places,And follow a dream . . I.The sun goes down in a cold pale flare of light.The trees grow dark: the shadows lean to the east:And lights wink out through the windows, one by one.A clamor of frosty sirens mourns at the night.Pale slate-grey clouds whirl up from the sunken sun.And the wandering one, the inquisitive dreamer of dreams,The eternal asker of answers, stands in the street,And lifts his palms for the first cold ghost of rain.The purple lights leap down the hill before him.The gorgeous night has begun again. 'So many times, in doubt, she ran between them!—Through windy corridors of darkening end.Here she could stand with one dim light above herAnd hear far music, like a sea in caverns,Murmur away at hollowed walls of stone.And here, in a roofless room where it was raining,She bore the patient sorrow of rain alone.Your words were walls which suddenly froze around her.Your words were windows,—large enough for moonlight,Too small to let her through.Your letters—fragrant cloisters faint with music.The music that assuaged her there was you.How many times she heard your step ascendingYet never saw your face!She heard them turn again, ring slowly fainter,Till silence swept the place.Why had you gone? . . and wandered . .

.Do all I say with care,And she you love may come to you when you call her . And the earth still raw above him.And I was sweeping the carpet in their hall.In number four—the room with the red wall-paper—Some chorus girls and men were singing that song'They'll soon be lighting candlesRound a box with silver handles'—and hearing them sing itI started to cry. 'These were the phrases . .Time is dissolved, it blows like a little dust:Time, like a flurry of rain,Patters and passes, starring the window-pane.Once, long ago, one night,She saw the lightning, with long blue quiver of light,Ripping the darkness . .The face smiles closer to hers, she tries to leanBackward, away, the eyes burn close and strange,The face is beginning to change,—It is her lover, she no longer desires to resist,She is held and kissed.She closes her eyes, and melts in a seethe of flame . . They laugh at time, dissembling;Or coil for a victim and do not talk at all.X. 'She turns again, and smiles . .And someone walking alone; and someone sayingThat all must end, for the time had come to go . It was long ago.I walked in the streets for a long while, hearing nothing,And returned to see it again. . It was long ago . . She would live forever.Leaves flew past her window along a gust . . .She combed her hair. Ph.D. students who contributed texts and organized public programs: Daisy Atterbury, Iris Cushing, Elizabeth Donato, Christopher Green, Alexei Grinenko, Joseph Henry, Debra Lennard, Bess Rowen, Hallie Scott, Gillian Sneed, Kaegan Sparks, Rachel Valinsky, Ian Wallace. The exhibition publication includes texts by Ph.D. students in English, Art History, and Theatre at The Graduate Center connecting their research interests on this project to their dissertation topics. . .

.Upward and downward, past him there, we stream.One has death in his eyes: and walks more slowly.Death, among jonquils, told him a freezing secret.A cloud blows over his eyes, he ponders earth.He sees in the world a forest of sunlit jonquils:A slow black poison huddles beneath that mirth.Death, from street to alley, from door to window,Cries out his news,—of unplumbed worlds approaching,Of a cloud of darkness soon to destroy the tower.But why comes death,—he asks,—in a world so perfect?Or why the minute's grey in the golden hour?Music, a sudden glissando, sinister, troubled,A drift of wind-torn petals, before him passesDown jangled streets, and dies.The bodies of old and young, of maimed and lovely,Are slowly borne to earth, with a dirge of cries.Down cobbled streets they come; down huddled stairways;Through silent halls; through carven golden doorways;From freezing rooms as bare as rock.The curtains are closed across deserted windows.Earth streams out of the shovel; the pebbles knock.Mary, whose hands rejoiced to move in sunlight;Silent Elaine; grave Anne, who sang so clearly;Fugitive Helen, who loved and walked alone;Miriam too soon dead, darkly remembered;Childless Ruth, who sorrowed, but could not atone;Jean, whose laughter flashed over depths of terror,And Eloise, who desired to love but dared not;Doris, who turned alone to the dark and cried,—They are blown away like windflung chords of music,They drift away; the sudden music has died.And one, with death in his eyes, comes walking slowlyAnd sees the shadow of death in many faces,And thinks the world is strange.He desires immortal music and spring forever,And beauty that knows no change.IX. . . Dust if you Must was not written by Georgy, it was written by my mother in law mrs Rose Milligan from Lancaster in Lancashire, England The poem was first published in the September 15th – 21st edition of The Lady (magazine) in 1998. .A friend of mine took hasheesh once, and saidJust as he fell asleep he had a dream,—Though with his eyes wide open,—And felt, or saw, or knew himself a partOf marvelous slowly-wreathing intricate patterns,Plane upon plane, depth upon coiling depth,Amazing leaves, folding one on another,Voluted grasses, twists and curves and spirals—All of it darkly moving . .He held his breath to hear,And smiled for shame, and drank a cup of wine,And held a candle, and searched her faceThrough all the little shadows, to see what secretMight give so warm a grace . .

06:30 PM, Wed, Oct 19, 2016, . . The days, the nights, flow one by one above us, The hours go silently over our lifted faces, We are like dreamers who walk beneath a sea. . . 'I bound her to me in all soft ways,I bound her to me in a net of days,Yet now she has gone in silence and said no word.How can we face these dazzling things, I ask you?There is no use: we cry: and are not heard. . Poetry is nothing but healthy speech. . .Dead, and long turned to dust .

.Sometimes, I say, I'm just like John the Baptist—You have my head before you . 'This is the moment' (so you would say, in silence)When suddenly we have had too much of laughter:And a freezing stillness falls, no word to say.Our mouths feel foolish . . I am indebted to Lafcadio Hearn for the episode called "The Screen Maiden" in … How would it end?Would he return to-morrow?

Streaming one by one over trees and towers, .. . 'Dust', it said, 'dust . . . Hands reach up to tear me.

Not as she did, but as all spirits love . I dropped great beams to the dusty street. In 1968, the computer-generated poem was translated into a physical structure when Knowles received a Guggenheim fellowship to build a house in Chelsea, New York.

The trees grow dark: the shadows lean to the east: And lights wink out through the windows, one by one. Rise and glimmer and fall . .He would not yield, he thought, and walk more slowly,As if he knew for certain he walked to death:But with his usual pace,—deliberate, firm,Looking about him calmly, watching the world,Taking his ease . . . . And then a great black spider,—Tarantula, perhaps, a hideous thing,—It crossed the room in one tremendous leap.Here,—as I coil the stems between two leaves,—It is as if, dwindling to atomy size,I cried the secret between two universes . He yields us our desire. . Just then he came alongAnd stopped on the stairs and turned and looked at me,And took the cigar from his mouth and sort of smiledAnd said, 'Say, what's the matter?' A poem, entitled Daylight and Dust. . ' My father was a clown,My mother was a gypsy out of Egypt;And she was gotten with child in a strange way;And I was born in a cold eclipse of the moon,With the future in my eyes as clear as day. . NIGHTMARE'Draw three cards, and I will tell your future . . . . .She leaned to the surly languor of lazy music,Leaned on her partner's arm to rest.The violins were weaving a weft of silver,The horns were weaving a lustrous brede of gold,And time was caught in a glistening pattern,Time, too elusive to hold . Well, no matter!This is the sort of thing you'll see of me,If you look hard enough. . What would he say?

The glittering wheels in wheels of time are broken The poet—what was his name—? 06:30 PM – . Over remembered tower and wall, For all the days hereafterWhat have we saved—what news, what tune, what play? .

'Perhaps I misconstrue you: you mean only,'How deathly pale my face looks in that glass .

. . Which in the flesh you called your son . . . . . 'And so they go . . . . 06:30 PM, Wed, Sep 14, 2016, . . There is no comment submitted by members.. © Poems are the property of their respective owners. or is it pink, to-day? My brain will fail.Here, where the walls go down beneath our picks,These walls whose windows gap against the sky,Atom by atom of flesh and brain and marbleWill build a glittering tower before we die . No customers were there,—Pitiless eyes would freeze her secret in her!And then—what poison would she dare to ask for?And if they asked her why, what would she say?VII. Young and strong and beautiful . . About the exhibition Alison Knowles’s computerized poem of 1967, The House of Dust and her subsequent built structures of the same name are the focus of this presentation. Copyright © 2008 - 2020 . Forgives and is forgiven . . 'Ask him why he did the thing he did! . 06:30 PM – And laid aside . .One, who held the ether-cone, remembersHer dark blue frightened eyes.He heard the sharp breath quiver, and saw her breastMore hurriedly fall and rise.Her hands made futile gestures, she turned her headFighting for breath; her cheeks were flushed to scarlet,—And, suddenly, she lay dead.And all the dreams that hurried along her veinsCame to the darkness of a sudden wall.Confusion ran among them, they whirled and clamored,They fell, they rose, they struck, they shouted,Till at last a pallor of silence hushed them all.What was her name? . . .A cold clear April evening .

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