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Gladtobemom
December 18th, 2008, 10:50 PM
Do you know of some poetry that features hair, or extoles it's virture?

Gladtobemom
December 18th, 2008, 10:52 PM
"Kisses are sweetest under covering hair"
by John Barlas (1860 – 1914)
(aka Evelyn Douglas)

And whispers in its woven twilight best;
As flowery boughs above the chirping nest
Make sweet and sacred all the darkened air
Wherein abide the soft-secluded pair,
And know in the warm fragrance where they rest
The small heart beating in the downy breast
Each of its mate:--a Paradise they share.
This is a longing of the human heart
After that dream, an Eden all for two,
Some lonely island 'mid the ocean's blue
Where Love may sport, and laugh, and kiss apart.
Therefore it was a moment past I drew
Thine hair about mine eyes, Eve that thou art.

--------------------------
I think this is a beautiful sonnet.

Silver & Gold
December 18th, 2008, 11:07 PM
I like this one.

My Mothers Hair
by Nguyen Quang Thieu

One of your hairs fell out last night:
A piece of your life was gone without a sound.
I know a difficult day is coming,
My heart, pierced, utters a quiet cry.

Let my childhood smile again in the sun
And turn me into an innocent little head-louse
So I can crawl through the jungle of your hair
And sing a song of darkness in its fragrance.

Under your fingernail-roof I'll sleep in my house;
In my black dream Ill water your black trees.
I'll pick black fruits, and hair-jungle bees
Will bring me black poems to be opened.

How will I live, without your hair?
How will I breathe, without its fragrance?
How will I survive, when I am discovered
By ghosts of wooden combs combing your hair?

Let me wear shoes made of dawn-flowers
And crawl without a sound into your sleep.
Ill take the place of the hair thats gone
And sing of hair-clouds flying from night to day.

Cryspatus
December 18th, 2008, 11:15 PM
Comete
Les Murray

Uphill in Melbourne on a beautiful day
a woman is walking ahead of her hair.
Like teak oiled soft to fracture and sway
it hung to her heels and seconded her
as a pencilled retinue, an unscrolling title
to ploughland, edged with ripe rows of dress,
a sheathed wing that couldn't fly her at all,
only itself, loosely, and her spirits.
A largesse
of life and self, brushed all calm and out,
its abstracted attempts on her mouth weren't seen,
not its showering, its tenting. Just the detail
that swam in its flow-lines, glossing about—
as she paced on, comet-like, face to the sun.

misstwist
December 19th, 2008, 08:11 AM
The Sleeping Beauty portion of Tennyson's "The Day Dream."

THE SLEEPING BEAUTY

I.

Year after year unto her feet,
She lying on her couch alone,
Across the purple coverlet,
The maiden’s jet-black hair has grown,
On either side her tranced form
Forth streaming from a braid of pearl:
The slumbrous light is rich and warm,
And moves not on the rounded curl.

II.

The silk star-broider’d coverlid
Unto her limbs itself doth mould
Languidly ever; and, amid
Her full black ringlets downward roll’d,
Glows forth each softly-shadow’d arm
With bracelets of the diamond bright:
Her constant beauty doth inform
Stillness with love, and day with light.

III.

She sleeps: her breathings are not heard
In palace chambers far apart.
The fragrant tresses are not stirr’d
That lie upon her charmed heart.
She sleeps: on either hand upswells
The gold-fringed pillow lightly prest:
She sleeps, nor dreams, but ever dwells
A perfect form in perfect rest.

spidermom
December 19th, 2008, 09:30 AM
Early In The Morning by Li-Young Lee

While the long grain is softening
in the water; gurgling
over a low stove flame, before
the salted Winter Vegetable is sliced
for breakfast, before the birds,
my mother glides an ivory comb
through her hair, heavy
and black as calligrapher's ink.

She sits at the foot of the bed.
My father watches, listens for
the music of comb
against hair.

My mother combs, pulls her hair back
tight, rolls it
around two fingers, pins it
in a bun to the back of her head.
For half a hundred years she has done this.
My father likes to see it like this.
He says it is kempt.

But I know
it is because of the way
my mother's hair falls
when he pulls the pins out.
Easily, like the curtains
when they untie them in the evening.[/quote]

Lady Verity
December 19th, 2008, 09:36 AM
See the entire back-catalogue of The Greatest Man Who Ever Lived, my historical husband: Dante Gabriel Rossetti. Total hair freak. Loved the stuff. The longer the better.

I love him deeply. :p

jel
December 19th, 2008, 09:41 AM
She let her sunlit tresses fly
tangled and golden in the air.
Unmeasurable light was in her eyes
how fine they were, and now that look is rare.

Her kindness showed in tender glances,
wind-flushed cheeks. At least that's how it seemed.
I was walking tinder, I took chances.
The next part might be something that I dreamed:

A fiery lightness in her bearing,
a voice that wasn't mortal — it was song,
a sort of angel presence she was wearing.

She was a thing from heaven. If I'm wrong
I'd just as soon not know.
To heal the wound you don't unstring the bow.

Francesco Petrarca (1304-1374)

heidi w.
December 19th, 2008, 10:09 AM
Shakespeare Sonnet

My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun"


My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red than her lips' red:
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damask'd, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks;
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak,--yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound;
I grant I never saw a goddess go,
My mistress when she walks, treads on the ground;
And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
As any she belied with false compare.

After my Shakespeare College Prof read this aloud to the class, he glanced up and said, "Now, is there any woman here who wouldn't want this written about her?"

We all cooed .... oooo yes.

Despite the fact that this woman is clearly not much to look at, the sonnet is about someone recognizing the woman's inner beauty and that all the outer is actually more beautiful because of the interior. This must be some woman! And this is some man to, in our terminology, "Get It".



heidi w.

heidi w.
December 19th, 2008, 10:17 AM
Hairbrush


how i wish my fingers were the bristles
or my breath were the wind when it whistles
thru your hair, thru your hair

i wish you'd hold me in your hands
and let me skate thru all the strands
of your hair, of your hair

i could style it anyway you like it
i could brush it straight or even spike it
au contraire! au contraire!

or i would wait patiently in my box
until next i would comb the locks
of your hair, of your hair

i would braid it tight, tousle, and tease!
or pull it back in a ponytail, if you please;
if you dare, if you dare

how often is it a man confesses
that he wish to run barefoot thru the tresses
of your hair, of your hair?

you may think me a little touch'd
but can i tell you just how much
i hate your hairbrush?

this obsession may be zealous
but can i tell you just how jealous
i am of your hairbrush? !

Rev. Dr. A. Jacob Hassler

_____________
This ones fun!

Your hair is wild, as wild as hare,
it's wild as hare and wiles a hare,
it wiles one here and wills one here,
it wills one hers and wells one hers,
it wells up hurt and walls up hurt,
it walls up heart and wails through heart,
it wails apart and sails apart,
it sails a-port and souls at port,
it's souls' rapport and holds rapport,
its heeds outpoured and hills appeared,
and hills appealed and hulls once peeled
and hurls impaled

and hers are pale and her a pile
and higher a pile and higher a while
and higher is willed. Your hair is wild.

http://www.tlg.uci.edu/~opoudjis/Poems/hair.html
no author mentioned...

_______________
My Redheaded Mother

Hazel eyes, flaming coils
Steaming cauldron, temper boils
Freckles visit heated sun
Ballet competition won

I loved my mother. . .

Once a girl with bobby socks
Teased by boys her red-hot locks
When temper ruled, her Irish flared
To cross her path? Only father dared

I feared my mother. . .

From her I see my freckled nose
For her, I hold one ballet pose
From her, my moods do flare and wane
For her, I wear my scarlet mane

So like my mother. . . Miss you always

---e.a. Clausen
http://www.dougbarber.com/red/Poetry/poetry.html


heidi w.

AutumnSky
December 19th, 2008, 10:19 AM
I'm tangled,
like the curls of my love's hair,
like a snake encharmed,
I turn and twist.
What is this knot,
this dizzy maze, this snare?
All I know:
if I'm not tangled here,
I don't exist.
-Rumi

BittSweetCherry
December 23rd, 2008, 09:15 AM
Porphyria's Lover
Robert Browning

The rain set early in tonight,
The sullen wind was soon awake,
It tore the elm-tops down for spite,
and did its worst to vex the lake:
I listened with heart fit to break.

When glided in Porphyria; straight
She shut the cold out and the storm,
And kneeled and made the cheerless grate
Blaze up, and all the cottage warm;
Which done, she rose, and from her form
Withdrew the dripping cloak and shawl,
And laid her soiled gloves by, untied
Her hat and let the damp hair fall,
And, last, she sat down by my side
And called me. When no voice replied,
She put my arm about her waist,
And made her smooth white shoulder bare,
And all her yellow hair displaced,
And, stooping, made my cheek lie there,
And spread, o'er all, her yellow hair,
Murmuring how she loved me...


The ending's not so happy.

Tapioca
December 23rd, 2008, 09:41 AM
And the Hair Poem by the late great George Carlin:

I'm aware some stare at my hair.
In fact, to be fair,
Some really despair of my hair.
But I don't care,
Cause they're not aware,
Nor are they devonaire.
In fact, they're just square.

They see hair down to there,
Say, "Beware" and go off on a tear!
I say, "No fair!"
A head that's bare is really nowhere.
So be like a bear, be fair with your hair!
Show it you care.
Wear it to there.
Or to there.
Or to there, if you dare!

My wife bought some hair at a fair, to use as a spare.
Did I care?
Au contraire!
Spare hair is fair!
In fact, hair can be rare.
Fred Astair got no hair,
Nor does a chair,
Nor a chocolate eclair,
And where is the hair on a pear?
Nowhere, mon frere!

So now that I've shared this affair of the hair,
I'm going to repair to my lair and use Nair, do you care?