Wilfrid Wilson Gibson Head Poems

  • 1.
    What large, dark hands are those at the window
    Lifted, grasping in the yellow light
    Which makes its way through the curtain web
    At my heart to-night?
    ...
  • 2.
    My hands were hot upon a hare,
    Half-strangled, struggling in a snare, -
    My knuckles at her warm wind-pipe,
    When suddenly, her eyes shot back,
    ...
  • 3.
    [Scene: The big tent-stable of a travelling circus. On the ground near the entrance GENTLEMAN JOHN, stableman and general odd-job man, lies smoking beside MERRY ANDREW, the clown. GENTLEMAN JOHN is a little hunched man with a sensitive face and dreamy eyes. MERRY ANDREW, who is resting between the afternoon and evening performances, with his clown's hat lying beside him, wears a crimson wig, and a baggy suit of orange-coloured cotton, patterned with purple cats. His face is chalked dead-white, and painted with a set grin, so that it is impossible to see what manner of man he is. In the back-ground are camels and elephants feeding, dimly visible in the steamy dusk of the tent.]


    Gentleman John:
    ...
  • 4.
    Stuck in a bottle on the window-sill,
    In the cold gaslight burning gaily red
    Against the luminous blue of London night,
    These flowers are mine: while somewhere out of sight
    ...
  • 5.
    In dream, again within the clean, cold hell
    Of glazed and aching silence he was trapped;
    And, closing in, the blank walls of his cell
    Crushed stifling on him ... when the bracken snapped,
    ...
  • 6.
    All night I lay on Devil's Edge,
    Along an overhanging ledge
    Between the sky and sea:
    And as I rested 'waiting sleep,
    ...
  • 7.
    "And will you cut a stone for him,
    To set above his head?
    And will you cut a stone for him--
    A stone for him?" she said.
    ...
  • 8.
    The biggest crane on earth, it lifts
    Two hundred ton more easily
    Than I can lift my heavy head:
    And when it swings, the whole world shifts,
    ...
  • 9.
    I

    Your face was lifted to the golden sky
    Ablaze beyond the black roofs of the square
    ...
Total 9 Head Poems by Wilfrid Wilson Gibson

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Edgar Albert Guest Poem
The Killing Place
 by Edgar Albert Guest

We're hiking along at a two-forty pace
We 're making life seem like a man-killing race,
With our nerves all on edge and our jaws firmly set
We go rushing along; with our brows lined with sweat
And our cheeks pale and drawn every minute we dash,
And the goal that we 're after is merely more cash.

We 're out for the money, the greenbacks and gold,
...

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