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Dirge
Cauld, cauld she lies where snaws are deep
And bitter blaws the muirland win',
And over her grave the icy stars
Are keepin' watch abune.
But braw, O braw, the blooms that deck
The grave where he that lo'ed her lies,
And saftly blaws the simmer breeze,
And cloudless are the skies.
poem by William Gay
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The Boy with Fire in His Eyes
The boy with fire in his eyes
Stands there waiting.
It is his soul inside;
It keeps him standing.
And if ever the fire goes out,
He will freeze in the cold.
It is his heat
And all that keeps him living.
Or if it never is put to use,
It will consume him;
He will burn to the ground
His ashes left behind.
But if the fire blazes,
If kindled, kept and carried,
If the boy with fire in his eyes
Finds life inside that fire,
His fire will light the world,
Will pierce the mist,
A fire to drive the dark away
Forever and ever more.
poem by Daniel Nairn
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Bonie Peg-a-Ramsay
Cauld is the e’enin blast,
O’ Boreas o’er the pool,
An’ dawin’ it is dreary,
When birks are bare at Yule.
Cauld blaws the e’enin blast,
When bitter bites the frost,
And, in the mirk and dreary drift,
The hills and glens are lost:
Ne’er sae murky blew the night
That drifted o’er the hill,
But bonie Peg-a-Ramsay
Gat grist to her mill.
poem by Robert Burns
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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The Poet Finds....
The poet finds whatever the moon could not see,
The poet finds whatever the earth does not know,
The poet finds whatever the sun could not see,
The poet finds whatever others do not know,
The poet finds whatever the stars could not see,
So why do the heathen rage and the people plot vanity? !
For she who is pregnant is closer to us,
And the hart pants after streams of water.
Your tears have been your food night and day,
And like your inner self in the lan dof your muse;
But the poet finds whatever the sun could not see.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Highland Mary
YE banks, and braes, and streams around
The castle o’ Montgomery!
Green be your woods, and fair your flowers,
Your waters never drumlie:
There Simmer first unfauld her robes,
And there the langest tarry;
For there I took the last Farewell
O’ my sweet Highland Mary.
How sweetly bloom’d the gay, green birk,
How rich the hawthorn’s blossom,
As underneath their fragrant shade,
I clasp’d her to my bosom!
The golden Hours on angel wings,
Flew o’er me and my Dearie;
For dear to me, as light and life,
Was my sweet Highland Mary.
Wi’ mony a vow, and lock’d embrace,
Our parting was fu’ tender;
And, pledging aft to meet again,
We tore oursels asunder;
But oh! fell Death’s untimely frost,
That nipt my Flower sae early!
Now green’s the sod, and cauld’s the clay
That wraps my Highland Mary!
O pale, pale now, those rosy lips,
I aft hae kiss’d sae fondly!
And clos’d for aye, the sparkling glance
That dwalt on me sae kindly!
And mouldering now in silent dust,
That heart that lo’ed me dearly!
But still within my bosom’s core
Shall live my Highland Mary.
poem by Robert Burns
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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There Is More Between Us Going
in that island
we had it all
our hands grope
with what is more
our bodies rub
the heat like flint stones
making fire
in a few days
and night
under the light of the moon
we shall find that there is something
more going between us
something that we cannot forget
beyond the flesh
and the bone of our contentions
i hate to say it
but it is love and i hate to accept it
that i am weak
on this particular aspect
i must pack and leave
the soonest before my heart breaks
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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aN INTRUSION IN THREE COLOURS
RED ZIPPED IN FROM OUTTA THE CAULD WIND WINTER EVENINGTIDY
SET ON RUDDY RED CHEEKS
big red lips in a library, shouted
'DEW MINDEE IF i take a pew from outta the cauld winter windy eventidee? '
mockingly...shockingly
BLUE BLURTED OUT IN A CONCERT FROMA RAW BACK CHESTY COUGH SPILL
'Helpee me I needy some air! '
White pressed in from the white shade of pale window
And shrouded the circus of dark mournerS in a ray of
Hopeful light
Spun x rays shone froma top set of dentures on the left hand
sideboard by the bed of the dead man's head
Indicated he had mad his final ascension to heavenly spheres
poem by Yvette Smith
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Fundamental of Liar Chapter X: Smile and Lie
things I should never know
smile and lie
and it's all done
no one finds the call
behind the beauty of liar
secret crossed the fire
touch it clever
smile and lie
and the case is closed
how the truth's always shy to come
hide the spot so you never get caught
smile and lie
close your mark, paint it white
reality needs that lips
taste sugar and vinegar
make it cruel but elegant
no one finds the call
behind the beauty of liar
secret crossed the fire
touch it clever
smile and lie
the way has not forbidden
poem by Maria Sudibyo
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Dirty old fire
Fire in my hair
Fire in my eyes
Fire between my thighs
Thank you for the fire
Fire gone and burned down my house
Fire deflowered me
Fire drew me in
Fire on the television
Fire dancing in the nude
Fire the best liar of them all
Thank you Fire
poem by Lindsay Crosby
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Waly, Waly
O waly, waly, up the bank,
O waly, waly, down the brae.
And waly, waly, yon burn side,
Where I and my love wont to gae.
I leaned my back unto an aik,
An' thocht it was a trustie tree,
But first it bow'd and syne it brak,
Sae my true love did lichtly me.
O waly, waly, but love is bonnie
A little time while it is new,
But when it's auld it waxes cauld,
And fades away like morning dew.
O wherefore should I busk my head,
O wherefore should I kame my hair,
For my true love has me forsook,
And says he'll never love me mair.
Now Arthur's Seat shall be my bed,
The sheets shall ne'er be pressed by me,
St. Anton's well shall be my drink,
Since my true love has forsaken me.
Martinmas wind, when wilt thou blaw,
And shake the green leaves off the tree!
O gentle Death, when wilt thou come?
For of my life I am wearie!
'Tis not the frost that freezes fell,
Nor blawing snaw's inclemencie,
'Tis not sic cauld that makes me cry,
But my love's heart's grown cauld to me.
When we came in by Glasgow toun
We were a comely sicht to see;
My love was clad in the black velvet,
And I mysel in cramasie.
But had I wist before I kist
That love had been sae ill to win,
I'd locked my heart in a case of gold,
And pinned it wi' a siller pin.
Oh, oh! if my young babe were born,
And set upon the nurse's knee;
And I myself were dead and gane,
And the green grass growing over me!
poem by Andrew Lang
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Little said is soonest mended.
quote by Miguel de Cervantes
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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He that comes last to the pot is soonest wroth.