The Unseen Playmate, by Robert Louis Stevenson

[elenbarathi.livejournal.com]

The Unseen Playmate

When children are playing alone on the green,
In comes the playmate that never was seen.
When children are happy and lonely and good,
The Friend of the Children comes out of the wood.

Nobody heard him, and nobody saw,
His is a picture you never could draw,
But he's sure to be present, abroad or at home,
When children are happy and playing alone.

He lies in the laurels, he runs on the grass,
He sings when you tinkle the musical glass;
Whene'er you are happy and cannot tell why,
The Friend of the Children is sure to be by!

He loves to be little, he hates to be big,
'Tis he that inhabits the caves that you dig;
'Tis he when you play with your soldiers of tin
That sides with the Frenchmen and never can win.

'Tis he, when at night you go off to your bed,
Bids you go to sleep and not trouble your head;
For wherever they're lying, in cupboard or shelf,
'Tis he will take care of your playthings himself!

by Robert Louis Stevenson

request + yusef komunyakaa

[fleaux.livejournal.com]

Hi poetry lovers,

I'm looking for poems dealing with jealousy/envy. If you know of and share any, I will appreciate it! <3 In return, here's a poem by Yusef Komunyakaa. It's from his most recent collection,The Chameleon Couch.

Ode to the Guitar

The strings tremble & traverse
back up through that other
strong muscle singing blood
& guilt. Press a finger down,
& the message changes into blame
& beauty, into the scent of a garden
rising from peat moss & brimstone …
the frets & shaped neck worked
& caressed into a phantom limb
of hope. Does it have anything to do
with how the player’s shoulder blades
curve out as if bowing over an altar
or how the doors of day & night
spring open, made to bridge
differences? Chance is fretted
till love moans swell in a gourd
hanging on an unknotted vine.
The strings hum inside stone,
undoing all the bright hooks
of promise stitched into silk
& printed cloth. Each note
true as a bone turning to dust,
suspended like an old belief
blooming from hush & blues
cries on the horizon. Catgut
& wood breathe together till
there’s a beckoning left
quivering in the dark.

"Sudden Journey," Tess Gallagher

[switchercat.livejournal.com]

Maybe I’m seven in the open field—
the straw-grass so high
only the top of my head makes a curve
of brown in the yellow. Rain then.
First a little. A few drops on my
wrist, the right wrist. More rain.
My shoulders, my chin. Until I’m looking up
to let my eyes take the bliss.
I open my face. Let the teeth show. I
pull my shirt down past the collar-bones.
I’m still a boy under my breast spots.
I can drink anywhere. The rain. My
skin shattering. Up suddenly, needing
to gulp, turning with my tongue, my arms out
running, running in the hard, cold plenitude
of all those who reach earth by falling.