Another Wicked Page 'O Poetry
featuring the art of
www.bimsan.net
(if you like what you see here, you should check out his other work!
 

On this page you will find some of my favorite works, published and acknowledged by their peers,
or posthumously.
I wish I could thank them,
especially Truman Capote for the inspiration.

IF you are the author or family member of the author of any of these poems,
AND you do not wish the acclaim, or attention of having your work(or that of your family member) published here
Let me know, with proof that you have that right, and I'll remove the offending piece.
Remember, this page is in tribute of these authors.

The Highwayman

 And dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable wicket creaked
 Where Tim the hostler listened; his face was white and peaked;
 His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like moldy hay,
 But he loved the landlords daughter,
 The landlord's red-lipped daughter,
 Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say -
"One kiss, my bonnie sweetheart, I'm after a prize to-night,
 But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light;
Yet, if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,
 Then look for me by moonlight,
                     Watch for me by moonlight,
I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way."
 He rose upright in the stirrups; he scarce could reach her hand,
 But she loosened her hair i' the casement! His face burnt like a brand
 As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast;
And he kissed its waves in the moonlight
                    (Oh, sweet, black waves in the moonlight!)
Then he tugged at his rein in the moonlight, and galloped away to the west.
 He did not come in the dawning; he did not come at noon;
And out of the tawny sunset, before the rise o' the moon,
 When the road was a gipsy's ribbon, looping the purple moor,
 A red coat troop came marching -
       Marching - marching -
King George's men came marching, up to the old inn-door.
They said no word to the landlord, they drank his ale instead,
But they gagged his daughter and bound her to the foot of her narrow bed;
Two of then knelt at her casement, with muskets at their side!
There was death at every window;
      And hell at one dark window;
For Bess could see, through her casement, the road that he would ride.
They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest;
They had bound a musket beside her, with the muzzle beneath her breast!
"Now keep good watch!" and they kissed her.  She heard the dead man say -
Look for me by moonlight;
     Watch for me by moonlight;
I will come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way!                                   
She twisted her hands behind her; but all the knots held good!
She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood!
They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years,
Till, now, on the stroke of midnight,
     Cold, on the stroke of midnight,
The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!
The tip of one finger touched it; she strove no more for the rest!
Up, she stood up to attention, with the muzzle beneath her breast,
She would not risk their hearing: she would not strive again;
For the road laid bare in the moonlight;
     Blank and bare in the moonlight;
And the blood of her veins in the moonlight throbbed to her lovers refrain.
Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot! Had they heard it? The horse-hoofs ringing clear;
Tlot-tlot, tlot-tlot, in the distance?  Were they deaf that they did not hear?
Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill,
The highwayman came riding,
     Riding, riding!
The redcoats looked to their priming!  She stood up, straight and still!
Tlot-tlot, in the frosty silence!  Tlot-tlot, in the echoing night!
Nearer he came and nearer!  Her face was like a light!
Her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath,
Then her finger moved in the moonlight,
     Her musket shattered the moonlight,
Shattered her beast in the moonlight and warned him - with her death.                                                        
                                                          
He turned; he spurred to the Westward; he did not know who stood
Bowed, with her head o'er the musket, drenched with her own red blood!                                               
Not till the dawn he heard it, his face grew grey to hear
How Bess, the landlord's daughter
     The landlords black-eyed daughter,
Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.
                                                              
Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky,
With the white road smoking behind him, and his rapier brandished high!
Blood-red were his spurs in the golden noon, wine red was his velvet coat,
When they shot him down on the highway,
     Down like a dog on the highway,
And he lay in his blood on the highway, with a bunch of lace at his throat.                                                              
      
And still of a winters night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,
When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
A highwayman comes riding-
     Riding - riding -
A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.
Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard;
And he taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred;
He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlords black-eyed daughter,
     Bess, the landlords daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.
                                                       Alfred Noyes 

She Walks In Beauty

George Gordon, Lord Byron

She walks in Beauty, like the night
    Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that's best of dark and bright
    Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
Thus mellowed to that tender light
    Which Heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less,
    Had half impaired the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
    Or softly lightens o'er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express,
    How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.

And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,
    So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
    But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
    A heart whose love is innocent!

The Condor

          Truman Capote


Like the mighty Condor,
It's vulture wings
Against a copper sky.
 I have waited and watched
For my prey!
My victim is immortality-
To be something and be remembered-
Is that not, too, your idle dream?
For in remembrance we hold life itself
Cupped tenderly in aged hands.
You say-"He's a fool and a dreamer."
I laugh, and let my laughter,
Like a bright and terrible knife
Go tearing through your hearts!
For you know and I know,
No matter how young, how old,
We are only waiting,
Waiting to see our names in
Scriptures of stone.
So it is today and so it will be tomorrow!


The End of the Raven

-- by Edgar Allen Poe's Cat

from Poetry for Cats by Henry Beard

On a night quite unenchanting, when the rain was downward slanting,
I awakened to the ranting of the man I catch mice for.
Tipsy and a bit unshaven, in a tone I found quite craven,
Poe was talking to a Raven perched above the chamber door.
"Raven's very tasty," thought I, as I tiptoed o'er the floor,
"There is nothing I like more"

Soft upon the rug I treaded, calm and careful as I headed
Towards his roost atop that dreaded bust of Pallas I deplore.
While the bard and birdie chattered, I made sure that nothing clattered,
Creaked, or snapped, or fell, or shattered, as I crossed the corridor;
For his house is crammed with trinkets, curios and weird decor -
Bric-a-brac and junk galore.

Still the Raven never fluttered, standing stock-still as he uttered,
In a voice that shrieked and sputtered, his two cents' worth -
"Nevermore."

While this dirge the birdbrain kept up, oh, so silently I crept up,
Then I crouched and quickly lept up, pouncing on the feathered bore.
Soon he was a heap of plumage, and a little blood and gore -
Only this and not much more.

"Oooo!" my pickled poet cried out, "Pussycat, it's time I dried out!

Never sat I in my hideout talking to a bird before;
How I've wallowed in self-pity, while my gallant, valiant kitty
Put and end to that damned ditty" - then I heard him start to snore.
Back atop the door I clambered, eyed that statue I abhor,
Jumped - and smashed it on the floor.
 


 
 

Untitled

e.e.cummings
somewhere i have never traveled
gladly beyond any experience
your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture
are things which enclose me
for which i cannot touch
because they are too near
your slightest look easily will unclose me (
though i have closed myself as fingers
) you open always petal by petal myself
as Spring opens (
touching, skillfully, mysteriously)
her first rose
or if your wish be to close me
i and my life will shut very beautifully,
suddenly, as when
the heart of this flower imagines the snow,
carefully everywhere, descending.
nothing which we are to perceive in this world
equals the power of your intense fragility,
whose texture compels me with
the colour of its countries
rendering death and forever
with each breathing
(i do not know what it is about you
that closes and opens;
only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody, not even the rain
has such small hands.

The Greatest Evil

.....And yet, among the jackals, panthers, hounds
The monkeys, serpents, vultures, scorpions
The beasts which howl and growl and crawl and scream
And in our heinous zoo of sins abound
There's one more hideous, evil, obscene!
Though it makes no great gesture, no great cry
It would lay waste the earth quite willingly
And in a yawn engulf creation
Boredom! Its eyes with tears unwilling shine
It dreams of scaffolds, smoking it's cheroot.
Reader, you know this monster delicate,
Double faced reader, kinsman, brother mine.