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45 Mercy Street - Poem by Anne Sexton

In my dream,
drilling into the marrow
of my entire bone,
my real dream,
I'm walking up and down Beacon Hill
searching for a street sign -
namely MERCY STREET.
Not there.

I try the Back Bay.
Not there.
Not there.
And yet I know the number.
45 Mercy Street.
I know the stained-glass window
of the foyer,
the three flights of the house
with its parquet floors.
I know the furniture and
mother, grandmother, great-grandmother,
the servants.
I know the cupboard of Spode
the boat of ice, solid silver,
where the butter sits in neat squares
like strange giant's teeth
on the big mahogany table.
I know it well.
Not there.

Where did you go?
45 Mercy Street,
with great-grandmother
kneeling in her whale-bone corset
and praying gently but fiercely
to the wash basin,
at five A.M.
at noon
dozing in her wiggy rocker,
grandfather taking a nap in the pantry,
grandmother pushing the bell for the downstairs maid,
and Nana rocking Mother with an oversized flower
on her forehead to cover the curl
of when she was good and when she was...
And where she was begat
and in a generation
the third she will beget,
me,
with the stranger's seed blooming
into the flower called Horrid.

I walk in a yellow dress
and a white pocketbook stuffed with cigarettes,
enough pills, my wallet, my keys,
and being twenty-eight, or is it forty-five?
I walk. I walk.
I hold matches at street signs
for it is dark,
as dark as the leathery dead
and I have lost my green Ford,
my house in the suburbs,
two little kids
sucked up like pollen by the bee in me
and a husband
who has wiped off his eyes
in order not to see my inside out
and I am walking and looking
and this is no dream
just my oily life
where the people are alibis
and the street is unfindable for an
entire lifetime.

Pull the shades down -
I don't care!
Bolt the door, mercy,
erase the number,
rip down the street sign,
what can it matter,
what can it matter to this cheapskate
who wants to own the past
that went out on a dead ship
and left me only with paper?

Not there.

I open my pocketbook,
as women do,
and fish swim back and forth
between the dollars and the lipstick.
I pick them out,
one by one
and throw them at the street signs,
and shoot my pocketbook
into the Charles River.
Next I pull the dream off
and slam into the cement wall
of the clumsy calendar
I live in,
my life,
and its hauled up
notebooks.
Anne Sexton

Latest Urdu Poetry

Usko Sajne Ya Sanwarne Ki Zarorat Hi Nahi, ,
Us Pe Jachti Hai Haya Bhi Kisi Zaiwar Ki Tarhan, , , ,

I
Go on, high ship, since now, upon the shore,
The snake has left its skin upon the floor.
Key

The subtle beauty of this day
Hangs o'er me like a fairy spell,
And care and grief have flown aw

Abhi to karna parre ga safar dobara mujhe,
Abhi kare nahin araam ka ishaara mujhe,
Lahuu me aayega

Sarhaney rakh key soti hon !!
Tera Hijar _______ apna Sabar !!
سرھانے رکھ کے سوتی

A woman's face with Nature's own hand painted
Hast thou, the master-mistress of my passion;
A woma

Mohabbat Mein Dil Ka Tutna Tum Kabhi Nahi Jaan Paoge,
Agar Hoti Logon Mein Wafa Toh Aaj Hum udas Na

Qariib maut kha.Dii hai zaraa Thahar jaao
Qazaa se aa.Nkh la.Dii hai zaraa Thahar jaao

Thakii th

Kuch Alag tha khny ka andaaz Un ka
K suna bhi kuch nahi kaha bhi kuch nahi

Kuch is tarha bikhary

Kashti bhi nahin badli dariyaa bhi nahin badla,
Aur doobne walon ka jazbaa bhi nahin badla,
Tasvee

hawas bala ki mohabbat hamein bala ki hai
kabhi buton ki KHushamad kabhi KHuda ki hai
kisi ko ch

Chalo Hussain (R.A) Ki Taqleed Bhi Kare Koi,
Ke Sirf Soog Manany Se Kuch Nahi Hoga…
Utho Ke Hu

Ab yeh sochoon to bhanwar zehen main parr jate hain,
Kaise chehre hain jo milte hi bicharr jatay ha

Lab Pay Aati Hai Dua Ban Ke Tamanna Meri
Zindagi Shama Ki Soorat Ho Khudaaya Meri

Daur Duniya Ka

Mulaaiim haath siyaah-Zzulf surmaie-Nen aur gulaabi-hont

Qattal BaQi hai Auzaar to sub Poorey ha

Kya lage raat ke phir dil mein samaya koi
Raat bhar phirta hai is sheher mein saya koi
Fikr yeh th

Ruswa Karegi Ye Nami Jo Chashm-e-Tar Me Hai.....
Pee Jaa Ashak, Ay Aankh!
K Baat Abi Ghar Ki Gha

A born salesman,
my father made all his dough
by selling wool to Fieldcrest, Woolrich and Faribo

O LADY amorous,
Merciless lady,
Full blithely play'd ye
These your beguilings.
So with an ur

Bhala Kiya Parh Liya Apne Hathoon Ki Lakeeron Main,
K Uss Ki Bakhshish K Itne Charchay Hain Faqeer

Urdu Poetry

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