Trust me, my blood boiled up in a moment, and my face went as red with the anguish of it as the rose with the dewdrops. Hold off and begone, or you’ll befoul me!’ Telling this tale she spit thrice in her bosom, and all the while eyed me from top to toe, and mowed at me and leered at me and made much she-play with her pretty looks, and anon did right broadly, scornfully, and disdainfully laugh at me. Lord, how you look! Lord, how you talk! Lord, how you antic! Your lips are wet and your hands black, and you smell rank. I will not have such as thee to kiss my pretty lips, nay, not in his dreams. When I would have kissed her sweetly, Eunica fleered at me and flouted me saying, ‘Go with a mischief! What? kiss me miserable clown like thee? I never learned your countrified bussing my kissing is in the fashion o’ the town. Stylistic considerations belie the tradition which ascribes it to Theocritus.
This spirited poem is a monologue, but preserves the mime-form by means of dumb characters, the shepherds of line 19. Whereat his mother laughing, ‘What?’ cries she, ‘art not a match for a bee, and thou so little and yet able to make wounds so great?Ī neatherd, chafing because a city wench disdains him, protests that he is a handsome fellow, and that Gods have been known to make love to country-folk, and calls down upon her the curse of perpetual celibacy. In pain and grief he blew on his hand and stamped and leapt upon the ground, and went and showed his hurt to Aphrodite, and made complaint that so a little a beast as a bee could make so great a wound. When the thievish Love one day was stealing honeycomb from the hive, a wicked bee stung him, and made all his finger-tips to smart. This little poem probably belongs to a later date than the Bucolic writers, and was brought into the collection merely owing to its resemblance to the Runaway Love of Moschus. Fragments IDYLLS 19 - 25, TRANSLATED BY J. So if he makes your bright eyes cry Or makes your poor head spin, That scoundrel you see Is not really me He's the coo-coo Who's wearing my skin.C. Doin' things and sayin' things I'd never do or say, Ticklin' the children And kickin' the men And Dancin' the ladies away. Now wearing my feet He runs through the street In a most disgraceful way.
Skin stealer poem skin#
And while I slept a coo-coo came As naked as could be And put on the skin And screwed on the head That once belonged to me. This evening I unzipped my skin And carefully unscrewed my head, Exactly as I always do When I prepare myself for bed. Here's the poem text in full, and the accompanying site I saw it on so you can see the illustration that goes with it (it's #9). " A biiiiggg part of getting sober, however, has been being brutally honest and accepting that that actually WAS me, and not making anymore excuses for it. It was like normal me went to bed and lost my head and something else-something awful-took my place "exactly as I always. On the website, it's billed as a kind of creepy Halloween poem, but when I read it, I just see how drunk me used to be. I found this poem of his, "The Skin Stealer." But I wanted to share a poem with her, so I looked up one of my favorite poets from when I was a kid: Shel Silverstein.
I didn't have many people to share with or poems that spoke to me, so I opted out (most of the people on my email list would roll their eyes and I didn't really want to get 20 poems from nowhere anyway). My friend sent around a chain email today, wanting to share poems.
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