deepundergroundpoetry.com
girl from angel alley
little by little she gathers the words
a few pennies in her beggar’s cup
some droplets in a gutter’s puddle
she collects tears in a glass syringe
she writes a few lines
which cannot be called a poem
she has no knowledge of poetry
but she writes
there is a place not here
tiffany place to be happy
to not be hungry and pretty like audrey
I will go past the line where the sun melts
I will take my cap and my crayons
and I will go
she sleeps on the stairs of a derelict building
washes the dust from her face at a dripping hydrant
she may find a meal at a fruit stand
in the crowded sidewalk markets
when the fruit seller turns away
and she writes
hold my hand before I go
hug me tight hug me tight
make me blue like the moon
or make me the color of shadows
her words have no meaning except to her
but in their meager beauty
she has defined some absurd art
many rains fall
from big big sky
but she is so tiny
god cannot find her…
(Art from 'Les Miserables')
Published 20th Jun 2016
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likes 15
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The author encourages honest critique.
Anonymous
- Edited 20th Jun 2016 9:25pm
20th Jun 2016 9:24pm
Sir, darling,babe
.. long time lover of harshness
and flowers
you love sucker punching my heart,
you love waltzing inside my soul
do ye not?
Hold out your cup for the liquored
tears, here taste.
-
.. long time lover of harshness
and flowers
you love sucker punching my heart,
you love waltzing inside my soul
do ye not?
Hold out your cup for the liquored
tears, here taste.
-
Ahhh . . . "her words have no meaning except to her"
No indeed her words are clear and to the point my
friend, she merely wants to better her world and is
a bit envious (how can we blame her) about other
people who have not the slightest idea about her
way of life. Good write, John.
No indeed her words are clear and to the point my
friend, she merely wants to better her world and is
a bit envious (how can we blame her) about other
people who have not the slightest idea about her
way of life. Good write, John.
20th Jun 2016 9:54pm
I'm reminded of the cumming's line
"not even the rain has such small hands".
How beautiful the melody of pain
upon the streets of despair - like that
of a dying bird.
"not even the rain has such small hands".
How beautiful the melody of pain
upon the streets of despair - like that
of a dying bird.
21st Jun 2016 00:35am
"
she sleeps on the stairs of a derelict building
washes the dust from her face at a dripping hydrant
she may find a meal at a fruit stand
in the crowded sidewalk markets
when the fruit seller turns away
and she writes"
beautiful true to life poetry John..
love Crim
she sleeps on the stairs of a derelict building
washes the dust from her face at a dripping hydrant
she may find a meal at a fruit stand
in the crowded sidewalk markets
when the fruit seller turns away
and she writes"
beautiful true to life poetry John..
love Crim
Anonymous
21st Jun 2016 00:43am
Sir John, I think we can all find meaning in her words as it's in the in between...That's where we all place it, yes? Loved this as always...With love always - Taryn xoxo
21st Jun 2016 7:45am
As long as she knows, and as long as you know her, God needn't have an idea.
Anonymous
21st Jun 2016 8:33am
I just adore the depth in this, start to finish, if I quoted my fav lines, I'd just copy and paste the whole thing.
21st Jun 2016 9:49pm
You words convey an inner strength that takes me back to the songs of Joni Mitchell
1st Jul 2016 7:00am
6th Jul 2016 10:46pm
This so deeply true. And so obvious that I never even considered that the poet's words always matter most, sometimes only, to the poet
Fantastic, Sir
Fantastic, Sir
