The Swan
Without sound, under the mirror of the lake deep and calm,
The swan hunts the waves with its large webbed feet
And glides. Its downy sides resemble
April snow melting in the sun;
But, firm and of matt white, vibrant in the zephyr breeze,
Its large wings spread just like a sailing boat.
He raises his beautiful neck above the reeds,
Diving, proceeding rising over the waters,
Its gracious curve like a profile of Acanthus,
And hides his black beak in his sparkling throat.
Soon along the pines, staying in the shade and peace,
He glides, and, letting the dense grass
Drag behind him like a comet's tail,
He walks with a stately and languishing allure;
The grotto, where the poet listens drawn by his senses
And by waters evoking tears of an eternal absence,
Pleases him: he prowls there; a willow leaf
Falling in silence brushing his shoulders;
Soon, he takes to the open air, and, far from the dark wood,
Superb, striking toward the sky,
He chooses to display his celebrated whiteness,
Dazzling at the place where the sun can admire him.
Then, when the banks of the waters are no longer distinguishable,
At the time when all form is a confused spectre,
Where the horizon turns brown, with a long red streak,
Then, when neither rush nor gladiolus stir,
So that the tree-frogs croak in the serene air
And when the glow worm shines in the moonlight,
The bird in the dark lake, where beneath is reflected
The splendour of a milk white and violet night,
Like a silver vase among diamonds
Sleeps, head under its wing, between two firmaments.
poem by Sully Prudhomme, translated by David Paley
Submitted by Dan CostinaÅŸ
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The Black Swan
When the swans turned my sister into a swan
I would go to the lake, at night, from milking:
The sun would look out through the reeds like a swan,
A swan's red beak; and the beak would open
And inside there was darkness, the stars and the moon.
Out on the lake, a girl would laugh.
"Sister, here is your porridge, sister,"
I would call; and the reeds would whisper,
"Go to sleep, go to sleep, little swan."
My legs were all hard and webbed, and the silky
Hairs of my wings sank away like stars
In the ripples that ran in and out of the reeds:
I heard through the lap and hiss of water
Someone's "Sister . . . sister," far away on the shore,
And then as I opened my beak to answer
I heard my harsh laugh go out to the shore
And saw - saw at last, swimming up from the green
Low mounds of the lake, the white stone swans:
The white, named swans . . . "It is all a dream,"
I whispered, and reached from the down of the pallet
To the lap and hiss of the floor.
And "Sleep, little sister," the swan all sang
From the moon and stars and frogs of the floor.
But the swan my sister called, "Sleep at last, little sister,"
And stroked all night, with a black wing, my wings.
poem by Randall Jarrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Lake Marie
Chorus:
We were standing
Standing by peaceful waters
Standing by peaceful waters
Whoa wah oh wha oh
Whoa wah oh wha oh
Many years ago along the illinois-wisconsin border
There was this indian tribe
They found two babies in the woods
White babies
One of them was named elizabeth
She was the fairer of the two
While the smaller and more fragile one was named marie
Having never seen white girls before
And living on the two lakes known as the twin lakes
They named the larger and more beautiful lake, lake elizabeth
And thus the smaller lake that was hidden from the highway
Became known forever as lake marie
Repeat chorus:
Many years later I found myself talking to this girl
Who was standing there with her back turned to lake marie
The wind was blowing especially through her hair
There was four italian sausages cooking on the outdoor grill
And man, they was ssssssssizzlin
Many years later we found ourselves in canada
Trying to save our marriage and perhaps catch a few fish
Whatever seemed easier
That night she fell asleep in my arms
Humming the tune to louie louie
Aah baby, we gotta go now.
Repeat chorus:
The dogs were barking as the cars were parking
The loan sharks were sharking the narcs were narcing
Practically everyone was there
In the parking lot by the forest preserve
The police had found two bodies
Nay, naked bodies
Their faces had been horribly disfigured by some sharp object
Saw it on the news on the tv news in a black and white video
You know what blood looks like in a black and white video?
Shadows, shadows thats exactly what it looks like
All the love we shared between her and me was slammed
Slammed up against the banks of old lake marie, marie
We were standing
Standing by peaceful waters
Standing by peaceful waters
Whoa wah oh wha oh
Whoa wah oh wha oh
Whoa wah oh wha oh
Whoa wah oh wha oh
Standing by peaceful waters
Peaceful waters
Standing by peaceful waters
Peaceful waters
Standing by peaceful waters
Peaceful waters
Standing by peaceful waters
Peaceful waters
Aah baby, we gotta go now
song performed by by John Prine
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Ships Passing In Night Born
ships are sailing upon turn tide flowing river waters
light is dance happy mellow yellows closing long day
soon sunset will add flame reds fingers yellow gold
sun sets sinks into still sea upon horizon home shores
dust light fades shadows creep in stealth murky images
suddenly black dawns night deep darkness speaks in glory
starlight sparkles upon enchanted waters river ebbs flows
passage across bar out into ocean waves rocks emotions
soon short journeys made upon ocean waters salts senses
watch shoreline beach grey sands invisible stretch wet away
waters dark painted ocean oil black sparkles in flow waves
beach sands perfume night with residue heat breeze vapours
poem by Terence George Craddock
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The ravens of Ecclesbourne
The dark shadow of a large corvus
A mere crow,
No'a bird far larger far more supreme,
The harbinger of doom so they say
As if cast from some dark dream.
The raven'
Mystical bird of days of yore,
Glides over me to find a resting place on the cliff
Just beyond the rugged shore.
The silence only broken by their occasional deep croak
A voice far deeper than of any crow that I have heard before.
Like some dark spirit
Free from the confines of the historical tower,
Their dark shadows only eclipsed
By the black clouds of a passing shower.
I stand and watch in fascination
Of their arial acrobatics high above,
Their dark shadows cross and re cross
As if dancing in mutual love.
The stately raven
A bird of legend and steeped in folk law,
Casts a shadow over the grey winter cliffs
A place where the raven reigns supreme and free forever more.
poem by Gordon Butchers
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Chocolate Hills
A young bird sat on tree branch,
looks here and there,
as if nothing to do
Confused whether to scream
out of woods,
fly somewhere else,
explore someplace else,
where nev’r been too
So rose I,
began to travel
fear within me,
spread my wings,
careful I,
predators hidden somewhere
And as I looked down below,
calm blue seas,
waves moving backward,
as I mov’d forward
empty white horizon beyond,
Few miles more,
green field appeared,
verdure all about,
so cool to sight,
flowers abound,
what earth’s beauty,
cracked aloud I
Few miles more,
cast me down,
sharp an’ clear,
couldn’t believe,
what’s down there.
What makes diff'rent from others?
taste buds perspires,
waters actually,
hills of chocolate, no wonder,
believe it or not,
Hover'd over once more,
twice more,
investigated the more,
then dropped over,
an’wonder’d still
Admires the brown scenery,
the once green grass perhaps,
convinced to golden brown,
by white hot sun,
oh, miracle n’ the making
Mud thrown about by naughty titans,
or formed tear liked,
from young love in despair,
as legend once told, .
Countless dark chocolate hills,
queue in rows,
all in same sizes, shapes,
packed like kisses,
ready for sale to touring men
The long hot summer,
shou'd have meltdown an’ simmer,
but none there is
Comes next wet season,
electric green grass,
resurrected life once more,
chocolate no more,
but insist to remain there,
broccoli liked lookin’ this time,
at this hour sellin’ still to touring few,
Novice I young falcon,
returns the next hot rising,
to witness again,
the turnin’ golden leaf,
of the ten world’s wonders,
the chocolate hills
poem by Noel Horlanda
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The lake [Lacul]
Heavy piles of clouds advance,
Following an unseen way,
And because of their slow dance
The lake's face is color gray.
Near the water, full of grief,
The sad poplar, lone and bare,
Wailing for its withered leaf
Bends and trembles in the air.
Waves go by and seem to gloat
Move with low, but constant speeds,
And they rock an empty boat,
Which is lost among the reeds.
How I wish this very year
In a starry night of May
On your waters deep and clear
With my love to float away,
Listening with a gentle bow
The waves' stories and their lore...
But the way you're looking now,
My dear lake, I do like more!
poem by George Topîrceanu, translated by Octavian Cocoş
Submitted by anonym
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On the Marshy Pastures
A man who walks in the black wind; the dry reeds
rustle quietly
Through the silence of the marshy pastures. In
the grey skies
A migration of wild birds move in ranks
Catty-corner over dark waters.
Insurgence. In the collapsing houses
Decay is fluttering out with black wings;
Crippled-up birches breathe heavily in the wind.
Evening in empty roadhouses. The longing for home
settles about
The delicate despair of the grazing flocks,
Vision of the night: toads plunge from silver waters.
poem by Georg Trakl
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Girl Under The Weeping Willow Tree (Oasis)
Almost
Softly
touching the ground.
The weeping willow branch
gracefully bends,
calm
and peaceful.
A cascading
oasis
for the girl
nestled beneath
her branches.
Strong is the trunk
on which she leans.
Solid
and
faithful,
on that
she can
depend.
She gazes out
at the beautiful waters
of the lake
surrounding her
and a hue of orange
from the setting sun
on the waters
captures her eye.
Peace.
Strength.
Calm serenity.
Joy.
She desires
these good gifts
from the Lord.
And she knows
He is faithful.
And she smiles.
poem by Julie A Smith
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Rising Of The Storm
THE lake's dark breast
Is all unrest,
It heaves with a sob and a sigh.
Like a tremulous bird,
From its slumber stirred,
The moon is a-tilt in the sky.
From the silent deep
The waters sweep,
But faint on the cold white stones,
And the wavelets fly
With a plaintive cry
O'er the old earth's bare, bleak bones.
And the spray upsprings
On its ghost-white wings,
And tosses a kiss at the stars;
While a water-sprite,
In sea-pearls dight,
Hums a sea-hymn's solemn bars.
Far out in the night,
On the wavering sight
I see a dark hull loom;
And its light on high,
Like a Cyclops' eye,
Shines out through the mist and gloom.
Now the winds well up
From the earth's deep cup,
And fall on the sea and shore,
And against the pier
The waters rear
And break with a sullen roar.
Up comes the gale,
And the mist-wrought veil
Gives way to the lightning's glare,
And the cloud-drifts fall,
A sombre pall,
O'er water, earth, and air.
The storm-king flies,
His whip he plies,
And bellows down the wind.
The lightning rash
With blinding flash
Comes pricking on behind.
Rise, waters, rise,
And taunt the skies
With your swift-flitting form.
Sweep, wild winds, sweep,
And tear the deep
To atoms in the storm.
And the waters leapt,
And the wild winds swept,
And blew out the moon in the sky,
And I laughed with glee,
It was joy to me
As the storm went raging by!
poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Eyes Of Mr D (Part 4)
Entering the flat
the Constable found no one there.
He searched every room,
nothing, only the fired gun on a note
left on the table.
He had noticed the back window
was left slightly ajar.
He picked up the note
and quickly read it through,
then put it in his pocket
along with the gun.
He smiled to the neighbour
as he left the flat.
He told her to lock it;
Mr D would be coming back.
At the car he got in
saying that,
they had to go back
to the station.
He sat on a bench
near the waters edge.
The white walking stick
resting between his legs.
He could not look at his watch,
as that would give the game away.
A blind man is not supposed to see,
so he had no idea of the time.
All he could tell
that day was turning into night.
He stood up;
he had to stretch his legs.
He moved along to
the bench by the bridge.
The dark waters of the lake,
lapped against the shore.
Then he heard the footsteps
walking across the wooden bridge.
He knew by the sound
they were of a woman’s shoe.
He did not look up
to see who it was,
just listened, as they got closer,
until they were in front of him.
He could now see her face,
under the light of the moon.
Her hair was dark,
and danced on her shoulders.
He wanted to say something,
but though he better not.
The killer could be lurking,
in the bushes somewhere,
waiting for his chance,
when he thought
the coast was clear.
She stopped and stood,
near the waters edge;
she watched the moon’s silver finger
dance on the breeze-ruffled waves.
He sat unnoticed except
for his white walking stick.
The blind could see nothing
at least that is what he hoped
anyone passing would think.
Then from the darkness, he emerged.
A mask of death he wore.
He moved quietly up behind the woman,
extended his hands out to her neck.
To be concluded……
poem by David Harris
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A Fixation
between two islands
of my life
i set upon a swim
this middle portion
of clear calm waters
it is not deep
no storms not even a wave
it is crystal clear
and beneath
a white sandy floor
some fish lick my legs
and tickle my pelvis
some sea grass massage
the soles of my feet
and so i like it here
and i am not going somewhere
or anywhere
the other island
which they call eternal bliss
for a while
can wait
it is between day and night
it is between heaven and earth
it is between life and death
it is what you call
my sinfulness.
in here i am very happy
and that is all enough for me
the sky blue waters are so cool
& the surroundings simply beautiful
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Swans
Two swans sit alone on a lake
Looking so peaceful,
Poised on the tranquil waters.
The air around them is calm,
A gentle breeze wafting,
Gliding through their white feathers.
They are caressed by the pine scents
And the delicate balance
Of their surroundings.
The sky above is blue,
Almost cloudless and clear,
But a few pillows float overhead.
The trees stand tall beside the lake,
Watching the swans
Swim on the surface.
They swim majestically,
Beautifully,
In the recreational park.
Under their webbed feet,
Abandoned garbage sifts—
The collected lost trinkets of lazy people.
Twenty feet from the lake,
There is a parking lot
Filled with automobiles
With rust crusting on the hood
And near the synthetic rubber tires.
The people that own the cars
Are feeding the geese bleached white Wonder bread.
They leave their Coke bottles
And Doritos bags on the ground,
Ready to be carried away by the wind.
The swans watch the people.
Later, one of them
Will stick its neck
Into the plastic hole
Of a Coke bottle container
And choke
And choke
And choke
And choke.
It will die.
The other swan will watch,
Helpless and screaming,
Unable to do anything.
Some people will watch,
In awe,
Some excited.
poem by Tim Stensloff
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Imitation Of Spenser
Now Morning from her orient chamber came,
And her first footsteps touch'd a verdant hill;
Crowning its lawny crest with amber flame,
Silv'ring the untainted gushes of its rill;
Which, pure from mossy beds, did down distill,
And after parting beds of simple flowers,
By many streams a little lake did fill,
Which round its marge reflected woven bowers,
And, in its middle space, a sky that never lowers.
There the king-fisher saw his plumage bright
Vieing with fish of brilliant dye below;
Whose silken fins, and golden scales' light
Cast upward, through the waves, a ruby glow:
There saw the swan his neck of arched snow,
And oar'd himself along with majesty;
Sparkled his jetty eyes; his feet did show
Beneath the waves like Afric's ebony,
And on his back a fay reclined voluptuously.
Ah! could I tell the wonders of an isle
That in that fairest lake had placed been,
I could e'en Dido of her grief beguile;
Or rob from aged Lear his bitter teen:
For sure so fair a place was never seen,
Of all that ever charm'd romantic eye:
It seem'd an emerald in the silver sheen
Of the bright waters; or as when on high,
Through clouds of fleecy white, laughs the cœrulean sky.
And all around it dipp'd luxuriously
Slopings of verdure through the glossy tide,
Which, as it were in gentle amity,
Rippled delighted up the flowery side;
As if to glean the ruddy tears, it tried,
Which fell profusely from the rose-tree stem!
Haply it was the workings of its pride,
In strife to throw upon the shore a gem
Outviewing all the buds in Flora's diadem.
poem by John Keats
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Chocolate in the Rain
Dark clouds
loom in the sky;
now the sound of thunder -
breaks the stillness of the evening air.
A flash of lightning
lights up the dark sky.
A light drizzle at first -
and then a heavy downpour.
My heart revels…
at the beautiful sight
of the white rain
outside my window.
And my mouth waters as I see...
a large slab of dark chocolate on the table.
Is this not a little unfair
that it should be just sitting there?
So I decide to nibble on it…
and marvel at its bitterness.
As I watch the falling rain, I tell myself
I shall eat as long as it continues to rain.
But it rains for a couple of hours
and the chocolate is no longer there.
I now wonder -
why I ate it all without a care!
01 June 2010
6: 40 pm
poem by Gita Ashok
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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To the Ottawa
Dear dark-brown waters full of all the stain
Of sombre spruce-woods and the forest fens,
Laden with sound from far-off northern glens
Where winds and craggy cataracts complain,
Voices of streams and mountain pines astrain,
The pines that brood above the roaring foam
Of La Montagne or Les Erables; thine home
Is distant yet, a shleter far to gain.
Aye still to eastward, past the shadowy lake
And the long slopes of Rigaud toward the sun,
The mightier stream, thy comrade, waits for thee,
The beryl waters that espouse and take
Thine in thei deep embrace, and bear thee on
In that great bridal journey to the sea.
poem by Archibald Lampman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A silence.
In this silence
there is not the hush of a breeze,
not the purr of a cat,
not the hum of summer bees
and not the wiping of feet on a mat.
In this silence
there is the absence of fear,
the quenching of thirst
and the quiet eating of hungry bread.
In this silence there is the wise old look that says so much.
This silence is and is not
the lapping of gentle waters on the shores of a lonely lake.
This silence is not
the cries of gulls hovering
above the cliffs of eternal seas.
poem by John O'connell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The City In The Sea
Lo! Death has reared himself a throne
In a strange city lying alone
Far down within the dim West,
Where the good and the bad and the worst and the best
Have gone to their eternal rest.
There shrines and palaces and towers
(Time-eaten towers that tremble not!)
Resemble nothing that is ours.
Around, by lifting winds forgot,
Resignedly beneath the sky
The melancholy waters he.
No rays from the holy heaven come down
On the long night-time of that town;
But light from out the lurid sea
Streams up the turrets silently-
Gleams up the pinnacles far and free-
Up domes- up spires- up kingly halls-
Up fanes- up Babylon-like walls-
Up shadowy long-forgotten bowers
Of sculptured ivy and stone flowers-
Up many and many a marvellous shrine
Whose wreathed friezes intertwine
The viol, the violet, and the vine.
Resignedly beneath the sky
The melancholy waters lie.
So blend the turrets and shadows there
That all seem pendulous in air,
While from a proud tower in the town
Death looks gigantically down.
There open fanes and gaping graves
Yawn level with the luminous waves;
But not the riches there that lie
In each idol's diamond eye-
Not the gaily-jewelled dead
Tempt the waters from their bed;
For no ripples curl, alas!
Along that wilderness of glass-
No swellings tell that winds may be
Upon some far-off happier sea-
No heavings hint that winds have been
On seas less hideously serene.
But lo, a stir is in the air!
The wave- there is a movement there!
As if the towers had thrust aside,
In slightly sinking, the dull tide-
As if their tops had feebly given
A void within the filmy Heaven.
The waves have now a redder glow-
The hours are breathing faint and low-
And when, amid no earthly moans,
Down, down that town shall settle hence,
Hell, rising from a thousand thrones,
Shall do it reverence.
poem by Edgar Allan Poe
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A Bread and Butter Letter
THERE is a willow grows beside a pool;
Its long gray branches sweep the marble rim;
And from those waters shadowy and cool,
The stars shine, large and dim.
From open valleys filled with little lakes
All through the night a hundred breezes blow,
All through the night the little willow makes
A whispering soft and low.
Here in the dusty street there are no trees
To whisper, and the sky is dark and gray,
And yet I see the stars, I feel the breeze,
So far, so far away.
poem by Alice Duer Miller
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Children of Lir
Out upon the sand-dunes thrive the coarse long grasses;
Herons standing knee-deep in the brackish pool;
Overhead the sunset fire and flame amasses
And the moon to eastward rises pale and cool.
Rose and green around her, silver-gray and pearly,
Chequered with the black rooks flying home to bed;
For, to wake at daybreak, birds must couch them early:
And the day's a long one since the dawn was red.
On the chilly lakelet, in that pleasant gloaming,
See the sad swans sailing: they shall have no rest:
Never a voice to greet them save the bittern's booming
Where the ghostly sallows sway against the West.
'Sister,' saith the gray swan, 'Sister, I am weary,'
Turning to the white swan wet, despairing eyes;
'O' she saith, 'my young one! O' she saith, 'my dearie !'
Casts her wings about him with a storm of cries.
Woe for Lir's sweet children whom their vile stepmother
Glamoured with her witch-spells for a thousand years;
Died their father raving, on his throne another,
Blind before the end came from the burning tears.
Long the swans have wandered over lake and river;
Gone is all the glory of the race of Lir:
Gone and long forgotten like a dream of fever:
But the swans remember the sweet days that were.
Hugh, the black and white swan with the beauteous feathers,
Fiachra, the black swan with the emerald breast,
Conn, the youngest, dearest, sheltered in all weathers,
Him his snow-white sister loves the tenderest.
These her mother gave her as she lay a-dying;
To her faithful keeping; faithful hath she been,
With her wings spread o'er them when the tempest's crying,
And her songs so hopeful when the sky's serene.
Other swans have nests made 'mid the reeds and rushes,
Lined with downy feathers where the cygnets sleep
Dreaming, if a bird dreams, till the daylight blushes,
Then they sail out swiftly on the current deep.
With the proud swan-father, tall, and strong, and stately,
And the mild swan-mother, grave with household cares,
All well-born and comely, all rejoicing greatly:
Full of honest pleasure is a life like theirs.
But alas ! for my swans with the human nature,
Sick with human longings, starved for human ties,
With their hearts all human cramped to a bird's stature.
And the human weeping in the bird's soft eyes.
Never shall my swans build nests in some green river,
Never fly to Southward in the autumn gray,
Rear no tender children, love no mates for ever;
Robbed alike of bird's joys and of man's are they.
Babbles Conn the youngest, 'Sister, I remember
At my father's palace how I went in silk,
Ate the juicy deer-flesh roasted from the ember,
Drank from golden goblets my child's draught of milk.
Once I rode a-hunting, laughed to see the hurry,
Shouted at the ball-play, on the lake did row;
You had for your beauty gauds that shone so rarely.'
'Peace' saith Fionnuala, 'that was long ago.'
'Sister,' saith Fiachra, 'well do I remember
How the flaming torches lit the banquet-hall,
And the fire leapt skyward in the mid-December,
And among the rushes slept our staghounds tall.
By our father's right hand you sat shyly gazing,
Smiling half and sighing, with your eyes a-glow,
As the bards sang loudly all your beauty praising. '
'Peace,' saith Fionnuala, 'that was long ago.'
'Sister,' then saith Hugh 'most do I remember
One I called my brother, one, earth's goodliest man,
Strong as forest oaks are where the wild vines clamber,
First at feast or hunting, in the battle's van.
Angus, you were handsome, wise, and true, and tender,
Loved by every comrade, feared by every foe:
Low, low, lies your beauty, all forgot your splendour.'
'Peace,' saith Fionnuala, 'that was long ago.'
Dews are in the clear air and the roselight paling;
Over sands and sedges shines the evening star;
And the moon's disc lonely high in heaven is sailing;
Silvered all the spear-heads of the rushes are.
Housed warm are all things as the night grows colder,
Water-fowl and sky-fowl dreamless in the nest;
But the swans go drifting, drooping wing and shoulder
Cleaving the still water where the fishes rest.
poem by Katharine Tynan
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The Reflection of God
Thoughts are like ripples,
gently flowing over
the surface of the mind.
Deep inside us
we bear the image of God,
the ripples of thought break that image
into fragments.
It is as if you are looking in
a lake full of ripples-
It is a full moon night,
and the lake is reflecting
the beautiful moon.
But the lake is full of ripples
You cannot gather the moon together;
the moon goes on splitting
into a thousand fragments.
The whole lake seems to be
spread over by the moon-
the silvery beauty, softly broken apart;
many a fragments is seen floating-
all around.
Then the wind stops,
the ripples disappear:
those fragments start falling into one moon.
The silver that was spread
all over the lake,
now becomes more concentrated
into one place - into one moon.
When the lake
is completely without ripples,
the moon is reflected perfectly.
God is reflected perfectly
when there is no ripple in you.
poem by Nazmul Haque
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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