Narcissus
Since the great, glad greeting of dawn from the eastern hills
Triumphant ran with a shout to the woods below,
With the song in his ears of the clearly clamoring rills
He has lain, like a man of snow,
Slender and straight as the joyous immortals are made,
Born of woman, but born with the grace of a god.
Unheeded airs, caressingly cool, have played
With his hair, and the nymphs have trod
Close to his side, and have kissed him, waiting to flee—
But Narcissus, what recketh he?
In the pool where the lithe fish flashes and slips
From his covert to snap at the careless, fluttering flies,
Narcissus has seen the curve of his drooping lips,
And, like mirrored miniature heavens, his shining eyes.
And a flush like a dew-dipped rose has dyed the pool,
He has laid his cheek to the ripples cool;
Brow touches brow, lips lips, and his eyes of violet roam
Down through the crystal depths. In the darkening dome
The stars shine forth from their faint, far ways,
Trimming their lamps; and, from the purple haze,
The moon, cloud-veiled, her circle just complete,
Wan as a travail-spent mother, plants her feet
On the carpeted hills, and fearful of change
Seeks her reflected face in the sea’s southward range—
But Narcissus, what recketh he?
Narcissus, Narcissus, where is thy boyish bloom,
Thy long, slim form that lay beside the pool,
And the lips cold smiling to their smiling image cool?
Narcissus!
Only a strange, indefinite perfume,
And a dim white spot in the night when soft airs blow;
A flower, bending, bending low
Its petals and its yellow heart to where the waters flow;
Its scent the winds have borne
Through the pearl-gray east to the arms of morn,
To faint and to die in the wakening light—
But of time’s swift flight, the dawn, and the noon, and the night,
The sun’s gold glory, the moon’s white mystery,
Narcissus, what recketh he?
poem by Guy Wetmore Carryl from The Garden of Years and Other Poems (1896)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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The Disciple
When Narcissus died the pool of his pleasure changed from a cup of
sweet waters into a cup of salt tears, and the Oreads came weeping
through the woodland that they might sing to the pool and give it
comfort.
And when they saw that the pool had changed from a cup of sweet
waters into a cup of salt tears, they loosened the green tresses of
their hair and cried to the pool and said, 'We do not wonder that
you should mourn in this manner for Narcissus, so beautiful was
he.'
'But was Narcissus beautiful?' said the pool.
'Who should know that better than you?' answered the Oreads. 'Us
did he ever pass by, but you he sought for, and would lie on your
banks and look down at you, and in the mirror of your waters he
would mirror his own beauty.'
And the pool answered, 'But I loved Narcissus because, as he lay on
my banks and looked down at me, in the mirror of his eyes I saw
ever my own beauty mirrored.'
poem by Oscar Wilde
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A Pool
a pool lies at the foot of a hill
there is a bush of mushing green
beside a rotten tree are mushrooms
birds drink here and then sing
a crystal pool where Narcissus
rests and stays for a while
at the side of the bank are white stones
a frog licks a fly
drinking upon a dropp of sperm
Narcissus is sleeping
soundly upon a grass
under a tree
it is windy.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Narcissus
A boy, Narcissus long ago lived in Greece
Perfect of body, dark hair fine as fleece
The face of an angel, no one could deny
Fair skin, large eyes as blue as the sky
A nymph for a mother, his father a god
Who ruled over all rivers, narrow 'n broad
Narcissus, loved by Apollo the most handsome of men
Would ascend Mount Olympus, to sojourn now 'n then
He dined with Zeus and with gods great and small
As demigods might at an extravagant Grand Ball
One day Narcissus sat in repose by a clear water pond
Looked down at his image and at once grew fond
Of the beauty neath him so at once he did fall
In love with himself, to the exclusion of all
Eyes only for self, this youth did briefly enjoy
But soon grew deluded and sad lonely boy
He faded, withered and would soon die
He lay on his back gazing up at the sky
Saw the form of Apollo looking down from above
A smile on his face, radiating warmth and pure love
Narcissus left his body, his spirit did rise,
No more burdened by beauty, he saw with new-eyes
Looked down at the earth so far below
Saw where he once lay, a flower did grow
A flower devoid of vanity, stately and sound
Blooming, seeding, spreading, soon to be found
By all who love beauty that speaks to one’s heart
Narcissus!
You're now of Earth’s landscape, no longer apart
poem by Ray Lucero
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A Flower To Auroville Mother-47
Daffodil(Narcissus, Narcissus spp.)
Astounded..for this the first look..
Surpassed a celestial above even
And all those angelic dreams in lock
In real eclat from my heart open
Knew not you were trumpetting soft
In gentle pats my sleeping dreams
Banding me whole your leafy belt
Tapping my vision your florescence
So your yellow, your white so bright
Orange or pink or red timely coronas
Bulbed deep in my soul just now light
In solitary bliss a field of blossoms
And those of a poet's words worth
'In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye'
All true so to salute Wordsworth
poem by Indira Renganathan
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On a great coxcomb
(recovering from an Indisposition)
Narcissus (as Ovid informs us) expir'd,
Consum'd by the flames his own beauty had fir'd;
But N---o (who like him is charm'd with his face,
And sighs for his other fair-self in the glass)
Loves to greater excess than Narcissus---for why?
He loves himself too much to let himself die.
poem by Ann Eliza Bleecker from The Posthumous Works of Ann Eliza Bleecker
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Birch Tree
The birch tree in winter
Leaning over the secret pool
Is Narcissus in love
With the slight white branches,
The slim trunk,
In the dark glass;
But,
Spring coming on,
Is afraid,
And scarfs the white limbs
In green.
poem by Arthur Seymour John Tessimond
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Spring
Now the bright crocus flames, and now
The slim narcissus takes the rain,
And, straying o'er the mountain's brow,
The daffodilies bud again.
The thousand blossoms wax and wane
On wold, and heath, and fragrant bough,
But fairer than the flowers art thou,
Than any growth of hill or plain.
Ye gardens, cast your leafy crown,
That my Love's feet may tread it down,
Like lilies on the lilies set:
My Love, whose lips are softer far
Than drowsy poppy petals are,
And sweeter than the violet!
poem by Andrew Lang
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Caught who Court Death
Without the blessing of the Gods
with Death you wed.
Yet suicide remains at odds
with those who fear to greet the sods,
who Heaven's gates slam on the dead.
The dead anticipated not,
wait, arms outspread.
Fell leaves their souls which, half-forgot,
skirl, skittles in windy melting pot.
Paradise keeps tabs on age.
Narcissus, dead,
must wait in turn Who turns the page.
No joys, except that in his rage
he'll [s]wallow, outrage his own cage.
If of his face he took much heed,
unless he fed
in fount of Youth, to drown, what need?
On half-life echo, fippled reed,
why haste with such ill gotten speed,
last words repeating? Thus I plead,
Echo swift sped
tell me, beneath the tumbleweed,
art dove or parrot pedigreed?
You, ever lazy, somehow dare
his words to shred, -
Narcissus love, his fretful prayer,
to offer up he did not care.
Death valley sees him stray, despair,
Narcissus dead.
Echo, alive, plays on the air.
The self-same song unites them there,
they would have made a happy pair!
poem by Raymond Radiguet, translated by Jonathan Robin
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Balade
(from the French of Wenceslas, Duke of Brabant and Luxembourg, who died in 1384.)
I cannot tell, of twain beneath this bond,
Which one in grief the other goes beyond,---
Narcissus, who to end the pain he bore
Died of the love that could not help him more;
Or I, that pine because I cannot see
The lady who is queen and love to me.
Nay--for Narcissus, in the forest pond
Seeing his image, made entreaty fond,
'Beloved, comfort on my longing pour':
So for a while he soothed his passion sore;
So cannot I, for all too far is she---
The lady who is queen and love to me.
But since that I have Love's true colours donned,
I in his service will not now despond,
For in extremes Love yet can all restore:
So till her beauty walks the world no more
All day remembered in my hope shall be
The lady who is queen and love to me.
poem by Sir Henry Newbolt
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November Narcissus
Four white fingers break ground
Lime green nails hunger scratch heaven
Each set bulbous...pots silver three
Narcissus blind to looking glass delight
Gold glory comes creeping night
poem by Boink Boink
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Seduction
The Lily swayed coquettishly,
And the Rose,
Whom the murky night had left
Drunk with dew,
Was fired with desire,
And the passion burned his cheeks.
He bent lover-like
Over the virgin Lily,
And his green arms,
Quivering amorously in the breeze,
Slipped 'round her dainty waist,
And her lithe body shook with emotion.
She raised her drooping head,
And held her fresh young lips to his!
The lustful Rose
Now strained her close,
And the virgin Lily struggled
As though she were being violated,
Yet, yielding graciously the next instant,
Swung wantonly against her lover!...
Suddenly they quiet grew,
And slowly disentangled
Leaf from leaf,
And drew apart,
The Violets, quidnuncs every one,
Had looked on all the while
And passed the scandal to the Larks;
Narcissus, becoming inflamed,
Embraced himself
With quite unnatural ardor.
But the ravished Lily
Hung her head in shame
And tried to hide
The tiny bits of gold
That lay sprinkled
Here and there
Along her happy petals.
poem by Harold Greenthal
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Not Having Obtained The Much Needed Kiss
she is hugless and i am briefless
she is far away from the clutches of my arms
i send my pic hugging the air
she responds by saying she is feeling hot and sexy in there
i send another pic
i am kissing my own lips. How dare? How could i ever do such thing?
Narcissus. Jesus!
she responds, you are a good model for organic farming,
i look like shit. She ends it.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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With Madness Like to Mine
NOT one is filled with madness like to mine
In all the taverns! my soiled robe lies here,
There my neglected book, both pledged for wine.
With dust my heart is thick, that should be clear,
A glass to mirror forth the Great King's face;
One ray of light from out Thy dwelling-place
To pierce my night, oh God! and draw me near.
From out mine eyes unto my garment's hem
A river flows; perchance my cypress-tree
Beside that stream may rear her lofty stem,
Watering her roots with tears. Ah, bring to me
The wine vessel! since my Love's cheek is hid,
A flood of grief comes from my heart unbid,
And turns mine eyes into a bitter sea!
Nay, by the hand that sells me wine, I vow
No more the brimming cup shall touch my lips,
Until my mistress with her radiant brow
Adorns my feast-until Love's secret slips
From her, as from the candle's tongue of flame,
Though I, the singèd moth, for very shame,
Dare not extol Love's light without eclipse.
Red wine I worship, and I worship her--
Speak not to me of anything beside,
For nought but these on earth or heaven I care.
What though the proud narcissus flowers defied
Thy shining eyes to prove themselves more bright,
Yet heed them not! those that are clear of sight
Follow not them to whom all light's denied.
Before the tavern door a Christian sang
To sound of pipe and drum, what time the earth
Awaited the white dawn, and gaily rang
Upon mine ear those harbingers of mirth:
'If the True Faith be such as thou dost say,
Alas! my Hafiz, that this sweet To-day
Should bring unknown To-morrow to the birth!'
poem by Shams al-Din Hafiz
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Moonlight Sestina
While reading Li Po, I fall
Asleep, and dream of the moon
My body lies on white
Cool sheets, flooded in a pool
Of moonlight. Lost in a dream
I lie in light, floating.
Like a full moon floating
On waves, I feel the fall
And rise, the tide of these dream
Currents. Closer, the moon
Approaches to my pool
Of flesh, shining me white.
From the glare of waxing white,
Gauze curtains – breeze floating -
Shield this rippling pool,
Become a waterfall,
And break the mirror moon-
Light through wet prisms, I dream.
Is this Shechinah? my dream
Self asks. At once the cold white
Chills me to ice. The moon
Swells until it's a floating
City, waiting to fall -
Atlantis – in the pool.
I yearn to be that pool
Skin, transparent as dream.
Instead I fear the moon fall:
I cannot part the white
Sea of thighs, Still floating
Whole, I cry to the moon:
“I am not ready, Moon”
Silence shimmers my pool,
But brightness fades, Floating
Away. Then from the dream
I emerge, weeping white
Tears that shine like star-fall.
Li Po's moon plunge sank dream
Deep. Whirlpool of lunar white
Drowns us; floating, we fall.
poem by Lillian Susan Thomas
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Clair de Lune
In the moonlit room your face,
Moonlight-coloured, fainting white,
And the silence of the place
Round about us in the night,
And my arms are round about you
In the silence of the night.
Lips that are not mine to kiss,
Lips how often kissed in vain,
Broken seal of memories,
Where the kisses come again
That the lips of all your lovers
Laid upon your lips in vain;
Eyes that are not mine to keep
In the mirror of mine eyes,
Where I tremble lest from sleep
Other ghosts should re-arise;
Why enthrall me with your magic,
Haunting lips, triumphant eyes?
For the silence of the night
Swims around me like a stream,
And your eyes have caught the light
Of a moon-enchanted dream,
And your arms glide round about me,
And I fade into a dream.
poem by Arthur Symons
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~Spring Clues~
...A billowing, babbling brook
A winding moss and Stone Pebbled Lane
...Country-side Pastoral Visuals
Sprinklets of Soft March rain...
...Fields of Narcissus
Their Bulbs are in full Bloom...
... Spectrum-Yellow Butter-Golden...
Colours carry us on to June...
poem by Theodora Onken
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A Song
Steal from the meadows, rob the tall green hills,
Ravish my orchard's blossoms, let me bind
A crown of orchard flowers and daffodils,
Because my love is fair and white and kind.
To-day the thrush has trilled her daintiest phrases,
Flowers with their incense have made drunk the air,
God has bent down to gild the hearts of daisies,
Because my love is kind and white and fair.
To-day the sun has kissed the rose-tree's daughter,
And sad Narcissus, Spring's pale acolyte,
Hangs down his head and smiles into the water,
Because my love is kind and fair and white.
poem by Lord Alfred Douglas
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The mirror
what wonder you give, where everybody, looks at you with
a very smiling beauty, a feeling of something, where
every one have never experience being one in your
dream of ecstasy
you have though us to looks young, dazzling charm, where
every hearts be calmed, you always play like an angel, who
brings us to the wonderland
telling the truth is what you want, even an ugly duckling you
turn into handsome one, in your might, the kingdom becomes
lonely. such alluring power you posses, comes to envy
where even death you deceive, life it gives you preserve, and
turned terrible happening into a happy one, in every home you
are there sheltering their faces as it gone, your the magic
where everybody wants, in the land we fondly called
Annabel Lee
life is a mirror, where we wanted too, of the Narcissus's we all
knew, doubt no one for in our faces, never changes, though
each one, wants to be pieces
if only we knew, even ugly faces we want to be pretty, at home
we wanted to be, little mind always thing of easy, just to lure
others that we are better than thee
the tale is ready to unlock the secret of majestic beauty, for
a thousand years Narcissus is lock in the mirror he will be free,
now try your luck in the mirror you see and see what happen
to your whole family.... be aware!
poem by Antonio Liao
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Late Loved--Well Loved
He stood beside her in the dawn
(And she his Dawn and she his Spring),
From her bright palm she fed her fawn,
Her swift eyes chased the swallow's wing:
Her restless lips, smile-haunted, cast
Shrill silver calls to hound and dove:
Her young locks wove them with the blast.
To the flush'd, azure shrine above,
The light boughs o'er her golden head
Toss'd em'rald arm and blossom palm.
The perfume of their prayer was spread
On the sweet wind in breath of balm.
'Dawn of my heart,' he said, 'O child,
Knit thy pure eyes a space with mine:
O chrystal, child eyes, undefiled,
Let fair love leap from mine to thine!'
'The Dawn is young,' she smiled and said,
'Too young for Love's dear joy and woe;
Too young to crown her careless head
With his ripe roses. Let me go--
Unquestion'd for a longer space,
Perchance, when day is at the flood,
In thy true palm I'll gladly place
Love's flower in its rounding bud.
But now the day is all too young,
The Dawn and I are playmates still.'
She slipped the blossomed boughs among,
He strode beyond the violet hill.
Again they stand (Imperial noon
Lays her red sceptre on the earth),
Where golden hangings make a gloom,
And far off lutes sing dreamy mirth.
The peacocks cry to lily cloud,
From the white gloss of balustrade:
Tall urns of gold the gloom make proud,
Tall statues whitely strike the shade,
And pulse in the dim quivering light
Until, most Galatea-wise--
Each looks from base of malachite
With mystic life in limbs and eyes.
Her robe, (a golden wave that rose,
And burst, and clung as water clings
To her long curves) about her flows.
Each jewel on her white breast sings
Its silent song of sun and fire.
No wheeling swallows smite the skies
And upward draw the faint desire,
Weaving its myst'ry in her eyes.
In the white kisses of the tips
Of her long fingers lies a rose,
Snow-pale beside her curving lips,
Red by her snowy breast it glows.
'Noon of my soul,' he says, 'behold!
The day is ripe, the rose full blown,
Love stands in panoply of gold,
To Jovian height and strength now grown,
No infant he, a king he stands,
And pleads with thee for love again.'
'Ah, yes!' she says, 'in known lands,
He kings it--lord of subtlest pain;
The moon is full, the rose is fair--
Too fair! 'tis neither white nor red:
'I know the rose that love should wear,
Must redden as the heart had bled!
The moon is mellow bright, and I
Am happy in its perfect glow.
The slanting sun the rose may dye--
But for the sweet noon--let me go.'
She parted--shimm'ring thro' the shade,
Bent the fair splendour of her head:
'Would the rich noon were past,' he said,
Would the pale rose were flush'd to red!'
Again. The noon is past and night
Binds on his brow the blood red Mars--
Down dusky vineyards dies the fight,
And blazing hamlets slay the stars.
Shriek the shrill shells: the heated throats
Of thunderous cannon burst--and high
Scales the fierce joy of bugle notes:
The flame-dimm'd splendours of the sky.
He, dying, lies beside his blade:
Clear smiling as a warrior blest
With victory smiles, thro' sinister shade
Gleams the White Cross upon her breast.
'Soul of my soul, or is it night
Or is it dawn or is it day?
I see no more nor dark nor light,
I hear no more the distant fray.'
''Tis Dawn,' she whispers: 'Dawn at last!
Bright flush'd with love's immortal glow
For me as thee, all earth is past!
Late loved--well loved, now let us go!'
poem by Isabella Valancy Crawford
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Lines To A Reviewer
Alas, good friend, what profit can you see
In hating such a hateless thing as me?
There is no sport in hate where all the rage
Is on one side: in vain would you assuage
Your frowns upon an unresisting smile,
In which not even contempt lurks to beguile
Your heart, by some faint sympathy of hate.
Oh, conquer what you cannot satiate!
For to your passion I am far more coy
Than ever yet was coldest maid or boy
In winter noon. Of your antipathy
If I am the Narcissus, you are free
To pine into a sound with hating me.
poem by Percy Bysshe Shelley
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