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All My Pretty Ones - Poem by Anne Sexton

Father, this year's jinx rides us apart
where you followed our mother to her cold slumber;
a second shock boiling its stone to your heart,
leaving me here to shuffle and disencumber
you from the residence you could not afford:
a gold key, your half of a woolen mill,
twenty suits from Dunne's, an English Ford,
the love and legal verbiage of another will,
boxes of pictures of people I do not know.
I touch their cardboard faces. They must go.

But the eyes, as thick as wood in this album,
hold me. I stop here, where a small boy
waits in a ruffled dress for someone to come…
for this soldier who holds his bugle like a toy
or for this velvet lady who cannot smile.
Is this your father's father, this Commodore
in a mailman suit? My father, time meanwhile
has made it unimportant who you are looking for.
I'll never know what these faces are all about.
I lock them into their book and throw them out.

This is the yellow scrapbook that you began
the year I was born; as crackling now and wrinkly
as tobacco leaves: clippings where Hoover outran
the Democrats, wiggling his dry finger at me
and Prohibition; news where the Hindenburg went
down and recent years where you went flush
on war. This year, solvent but sick, you meant
to marry that pretty widow in a one-month rush.
But before you had that second chance, I cried
on your fat shoulder. Three days later you died.

These are the snapshots of marriage, stopped in places.
Side by side at the rail toward Nassau now;
here, with the winner's cup at the speedboat races,
here, in tails at the Cotillion, you take a bow,


here, by our kennel of dogs with their pink eyes,
running like show-bred pigs in their chain-link pen;
here, at the horseshow where my sister wins a prize;
Now I fold you down, my drunkard, my navigator,
my first lost keeper, to love or look at later.


I hold a five-year diary that my mother kept
for three years, telling all she does not say
of your alcoholic tendency. You overslept,
she writes. My God, father, each Christmas Day
with your blood, will I drink down your glass
of wine? The diary of your hurly-burly years
goes to my shelf to wait for my age to pass.
Only in this hoarded span will love persevere.
Whether you are pretty or not, I outlive you,
bend down my strange face to yours and forgive you.
Anne Sexton

Latest Urdu Poetry

Gaahe-gaahe ab yehi ho kya,
Tum se mil kar bohat khushi ho kya,

Mil rahi ho barre tapaak ke sath

Elaaj dard-e-dil tum se maseeha ho nahin sakta,
Tum acha kar nahin sakte, main acha ho nahin sakta.

Guzar Gya WO Zamana K Jab Hum Talabgaar They Tery Faraz

Ab Tu Kabah B Ho Ja To Sajda Na Kerain Ge

Not one corner of a foreign field
But a span as wide as Europe;
An appearance of a titan's grave,

Khaloos Ki Barish Se Kaho Zara Zor Se Barsay, ,
Nafraton Ke Aainon Pe Barri Dhool Jami Hai, , , , ,

Badan Ki Garm Aanch Se Meri Aarzu Ko Aag De
Mera Josh Behak Uthey, Mera Haal Bhi Ajeeb Ho

Hum Neend Ke Ziada Shoqeen To Nahi ‘Faraz’,

Kuch Khwab Na Dekhain To Guzara Nahi Hota…!

Tu shairi k har hunar se waqif hay
Main harf harf zakham tu tehreer kar mujhay

Νew is the Υear, Νew are the Ηopes, Νew is Τhe resolution, Νew are Τhe spirits, Αnd new are

The river hemmed with leaning trees
Wound through its meadows green;
A low, blue line of mountains

Charagh-e-zindagi ko aik jhonkay ki zarurat hai. . !

Tumhain mri qasam hai zara phir daman ko leh

Weight him down, O side-stars, with the great weightings of
the end.
Seal him there. He looked in

Hum hi main thi na koi baat yaad na tum ko aa sake,
Tum ne humen bhulaa diya hum na tumhe bhulaa sa

Rach gayi khushbu mein gul-andaam*, saman brr*,
Tikti nahin nazar ke ussay dekhun nazar bhar,
Woh

Kisi ghareeb qabeelay ki aabru ki tarah..

Hamaara dard,
Kisi dard main shumaar nahi...

kitni mushkil se kati kal ki meri raat na pooch
dil se nikli hui honton me dabi baat na pooch

wo

Oh, there are eyes that he can see,
And hands to make his hands rejoice,
But to my lover I must be

Ek Bar Suno Kuch Aisa Hua!
Wo Mujhko Mila
Main Usko Mila
Izhar Hua, Iqrar Hua
Wo Dost Bana

Parson, these things in thy possessing
Are better than the Bishop's blessing.
A Wife that makes co

ORPHEUS with his lute made trees
And the mountain tops that freeze
Bow themselves when he did

Urdu Poetry

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