Boat In Spring On Ruoya Lake
Thoughtful elation has no end:
Onward I bear it to whatever comes.
And my boat and I, before the evening breeze
Passing flowers, entering the lake,
Turn at nightfall toward the western valley,
Where I watch the south star over the mountain
And a mist that rises, hovering soft,
And the low moon slanting through the trees;
And I choose to put away from me every worldly matter
And only to be an old man with a fishing-pole.
poem by Qiwu Qian, translated by Witter Bynner
Submitted by Dan Costinaş
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Your Fishing Pole
There is something about you, something in your soul
something that seems to surround your fishing pole….
You moved to the coast, now that’s no lie
And we had a hard time with that little goodbye
But no need for heartache, no need to console
You had your boat and your fishing pole.
You know everyday you go out to fish
it’s like a genie granting every little wish
every time that bobber goes out of control
we know you are happy with your fishing pole.
Now on birthdays it’s special out on the water
I hear if you’re there, they’ll jump for the slaughter
You’ll be piling them in like your lucks on a roll
Reeling them in with your fishing pole
So today of all days take heed and relax
Pack up a cooler with drinks and some snacks
put on your shoes and go take a stroll
Down to your boat with your fishing pole.
poem by Kathleen J. Shields
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Scraps of Cloud in Rosy Dusk
Scrap rosy cloud evening rays west lake good
Flower bank duckweed sandbar
Ten qing ripple peaceful
Wild bank without person boat self line
West south moon on float cloud scatter
Veranda railing cool born
Lotus scent clear
Water face wind come wine face sober
Scraps of cloud in rosy dusk- West Lake is good.
Flowers on the bank, duckweed on sand,
A hundred acres of peaceful ripples,
On the overgrown bank, no man- just the stroke of a boat.
South-west, across the moon, scattered clouds are drifting.
Cool rises at the terrace rail,
Lotus flowers' scent is clear,
Wind from the water's face makes the wine face sober.
poem by Ouyang Xiu
Submitted by Dan Costinaş
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Sonnet. The lake and star
The mountain lake, o'ershadowed by the hills,
May still gaze heavenward on the evening star,
Whose distant light its dark recesses fills,
Though boundless distance must divide them far;
Still may the lake the star's bright image bear,
Still may the star, from its blue ether dome,
Shower down its silver beams across the gloom,
And light the wave that wanders darkly there.
Star of my life! thus do I turn to thee
Amid the shadows that above me roll;
Thus from thy distant sphere thou shinest on me;
Thus does thine image float upon my soul,
Through the wide space that must our lives dissever
Far as the lake and star, ah me! forever.
poem by Anne Lynch Botta from Poems (1848)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Sestina: Here in Katmandu
We have climbed the mountain.
There's nothing more to do.
It is terrible to come down
To the valley
Where, amidst many flowers,
One thinks of snow,
As formerly, amidst snow,
Climbing the mountain,
One thought of flowers,
Tremulous, ruddy with dew,
In the valley.
One caught their scent coming down.
It is difficult to adjust, once down,
To the absense of snow.
Clear days, from the valley,
One looks up at the mountain.
What else is there to do?
Prayer wheels, flowers!
Let the flowers
Fade, the prayer wheels run down.
What have they to do
With us who have stood atop the snow
Atop the mountain,
Flags seen from the valley?
It might be possible to live in the valley,
To bury oneself among flowers,
If one could forget the mountain,
How, never once looking down,
Stiff, blinded with snow,
One knew what to do.
Meanwhile it is not easy here in Katmandu,
Especially when to the valley
That wind which means snow
Elsewhere, but here means flowers,
Comes down,
As soon it must, from the mountain.
poem by Donald Justice
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A Moon Mystery!
Auspicious or not, crescent Moon is always precious to poets;
Waxing and waning Moons have different effects of superstition;
Crescent Moons good or bad are ever poets’ great inspiration!
Crescent Moon is a basket for carrying flowers of Stars in it;
Crescent Moon is the boat that travels on the ocean of Sky;
Crescent Moon is a fine jewel decorating Lord Siva’s tresses!
Waxing crescent Moon with a Star is very auspicious to Islamites;
Thus silent beauty in the Western Sky encourages worn out souls;
But the waning crescent Moon in the Eastern Sky was a fun on tour!
What a beautiful sight the waning crescent Moon in the Eastern Sky!
On a sudden bus travel in plains I happened to see this in a cold night
Making me wonder as I used to wonder at the Western crescent Moon!
Moon is still a mystery though many rockets are sent there for probes
As the dark side of the Moon is still a dark matter for millions of years!
poem by Ramesh T A
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Breeze
An early evening summer breeze
Gently glides over my bare skin,
And suddenly without warning
I am utterly aware that everything touches everything
again and again -
For just a brief moment
I stand outside of all boundaries,
A mist in my eyes
Realizing life -like warmth in the air- is all around me -
In reverence I can only watch
As the soft wind glows,
With the light of life it has gleaned
While passing through my soul -
The breeze moves along,
Leaving me, back to me;
Yet the feeling of connectedness lingers on,
With an understanding of things, I cannot see -
poem by Smoky Hoss
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Harmless Gossip
An avenue of stately trees
whose branches meet high overhead
exchanging gossip with the breeze.
This is the way that rumours spread.
When lovers stroll beneath the moon.
The trees observe their every move.
They dance to day to the same tune
their forbears danced to when in love.
Though fashions change, some things do not.
The trees have seen it all before.
All that they’ve seen is not forgot
but added the their growing store
of gossip which the trees then share
with every passing breeze that blows.
The trees will spread it everywhere
to all and sundry I suppose.
Be very careful what you do.
Although no one can see.
Know that the trees are watching you
and they will share quite happily.
Everything that they have seen
with any breeze that happens by.
With consequences unforeseen
By trees and breeze or you and I.
When strolling in a moon lit glade
Beware the moons soft silver rays.
That stir the blood of man and maid
to think this is the time and place.
19/09/2009
http: // blog.myspace.com/poeticpiers
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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The Shepherd's Lament
ON yonder lofty mountain
A thousand times I stand,
And on my staff reclining,
Look down on the smiling land.
My grazing flocks then I follow,
My dog protecting them well;
I find myself in the valley,
But how, I scarcely can tell.
The whole of the meadow is cover'd
With flowers of beauty rare;
I pluck them, but pluck them unknowing
To whom the offering to bear.
In rain and storm and tempest,
I tarry beneath the tree,
But closed remaineth yon portal;
'Tis all but a vision to me.
High over yonder dwelling,
There rises a rainbow gay;
But she from home hath departed
And wander'd far, far away.
Yes, far away bath she wander'd,
Perchance e'en over the sea;
Move onward, ye sheep, then, move onward!
Full sad the shepherd must be.
poem by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Portulacca
As soon as I open my eyes,
I quietly rush to the balcony,
And watch with bated breath
As the Sun rises.
Dainty Portulacca come to life,
As if to say Hi.
In their vibrant hues and colours:
Yellow pink, red and orange flowers,
In small pots lined in a row,
Full of light and glow.
Enchanted, I watch them for a while
And feel happy and smile.
As I gently spray them with showers,
I am filled with a sense of wonder.
How these delicate flowers can be so sturdy,
And keep blooming despite hot dry winds,
Which makes us humans wilt,
I thought with a little guilt.
It’s really thoughtful of God,
To send these flowers when it’s so hot.
As the heat becomes too much to bear
These pretty flowers fill me with cheer.
poem by Mamta Agarwal
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Fishing On The Susquehanna In July
I have never been fishing on the Susquehanna
or on any river for that matter
to be perfectly honest.
Not in July or any month
have I had the pleasure -- if it is a pleasure --
of fishing on the Susquehanna.
I am more likely to be found
in a quiet room like this one --
a painting of a woman on the wall,
a bowl of tangerines on the table --
trying to manufacture the sensation
of fishing on the Susquehanna.
There is little doubt
that others have been fishing
on the Susquehanna,
rowing upstream in a wooden boat,
sliding the oars under the water
then raising them to drip in the light.
But the nearest I have ever come to
fishing on the Susquehanna
was one afternoon in a museum in Philadelphia,
when I balanced a little egg of time
in front of a painting
in which that river curled around a bend
under a blue cloud-ruffled sky,
dense trees along the banks,
and a fellow with a red bandana
sitting in a small, green
flat-bottom boat
holding the thin whip of a pole.
That is something I am unlikely
ever to do, I remember
saying to myself and the person next to me.
Then I blinked and moved on
to other American scenes
of haystacks, water whitening over rocks,
even one of a brown hare
who seemed so wired with alertness
I imagined him springing right out of the frame.
poem by Billy Collins
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Misty River
This morning
Me in this Misty River
All the happiness
I am feeling inside myself
Misty River
The mist is coming
From this Misty River
There are clouds
In the sky
And the mist
Is caused by the condensation
Of the heat mixed in the cold water
Misty River
I am in a fishing boat
That boat is moving slowly in this
Misty river
It is early in the morning
I am eating my breakfast in the fishing boat in the middle of this
Misty River
I hear the birds singing early in the morning
In this Misty River
There must be trees because the sound of the birds is coming from the Branches
Misty River
So peaceful
It looks so different with the mist
No one is around but me
With my fishing boat
And the beautiful sound of the birds
It is so nice
To have a place to come to
Where I can
Hear the sound of the birds
And be left alone
With no one disturbing me
Misty River
This is my special place
And by afternoon
No clouds I will see
The birds are beautiful
Their song is just beautiful like mother nature intended it to be
If nobody else appreciates this Misty River
I do
Misty River
I will die for you
Misty River
I will shed my tears for you
I have been coming here for so long now
Misty River
poem by Aldo Kraas
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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In The South Western Grampians
In the South Western Grampians of Victoria the Summer hills are brown
And from Casterton to Hamilton the roadway winds up and down
The creeks are barely flowing the roadside drains are dry
And the sun is brightly shining in the clear afternoon sky.
In the South Western Grampians the weather mostly fine
And many days of warm weather and beautiful sun shine
An undulating Countryside and hardly any green
With so few groves and woodlands and few trees to be seen.
Through the South Western Grampians one may travel far and wide
But one won't see many houses in that brown old Countryside
A farming population and few people one see
In the South Western Grampians far Inland from the sea.
On the hills of the South Western Grampians there once were many trees
Where the Indigenous tribes in the Dreamtime lived and had their Coroborees
But now open to the weather those old hills look brown and bare
And the only sound the buzzing of the bush flies in the warm Summer air.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Persephone's Slave
A solar flare losing it's effect...
A white dwarf has lost its light...
You've set sail on a boat in the Night,
a boat that sails the seas on the sun bright.
Come, watch with me from our Mountain high,
watch the boat burn and die.
Watch the phantoms flee and fly.
Watch your body turn to dust
as I leave the miasma of your lust
and see the destrucion of your bust
in the Hall of Life.
Enjoy your time with black Death's wife.
Be her companion, be her slave,
and know I'll never visit your grave.
poem by Soren Valentine
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Starry Sky
As I look into the sky
I see the stars and wonder why
I see the big bear and little bear
I see the other constellations up there
The little dipper, the big dipper
The dog star, the north star
Morning star,and evening star
The moon and the sun for light
And the milky way so white
And then I tell myself
Yes, God flung them in the sky
He knew his stuff, He put them way up high.
poem by Virginia Hightower
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Other Side of You
I say black and you say white
I turn to the left, you move to the right
No matter what I do
I'm always on the other side of you
I'm always on the other side of you
I want to play but you like to fight
I rise in the morning, you hide in the night
No matter what I do
I'm always on the other side of you
Like paralell lines, so near yet so far
Like North Pole and South Pole, we're oceans apart
I'm always on the other side of you
You let go, I try to connect
You always remember, I try to forget
I'm always on the other side of you.
song performed by by Nazareth, music by Manny Charlton (1986)
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Nostalgia
Surrounding mountains are like virgins.
Sun is far away.
The birds are flying to their nests
when the Sun goes down.
All the ships cast off to their own destinations
and the Harbour is quiet as a widow.
A seagull rests on an isolated crane
and waiting for a fishing boat to come.
Evening star peeps
Moon is far away
I finished my work and returned to my billet
thinking of my loved ones.
Where are they now?
They too very far away.
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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Safe Place
There exists someplace a mountain, golden hued and a forest of
Trees, their branches sturdy and long-
Trying to reach the heavens where
Stars dance in the moonlit hours and
Gulls fly, their bodies casting shadows
Against the topaz-blue creek below-
Beautiful in their innocence-
Here gentle breezes would rustle tall grasses, and
Rain never falls upon this magical kingdom of nature-
I feel as if I can almost touch the rising sun that shines
Brightly over fields of dew-kissed grass upon
This blissful, faraway place where
I am alone and omnipotent at the end of my journey to
Escape the pain of veracity-
Having found a safe empire in my solitude-
Far from the nightmares of reality-
Though sadly- only in my fondest reverie;
There exists a mountain golden hued where
I can, along with the trees, their branches sturdy and long-
Reach the heavens during moonlit hours and
Dance with the stars in this blissful, far away place-
Here, in my dream state I have hitched a ride upon the tail of a shooting star, and
Looking down upon the topaz-blue creek below-
My tears would fall as would raindrops making flowers and grass grow tall-
I would weep tears of dismay because I find that I cannot escape what is real-
I have found the world to be a dangerous place and as the sun rises
All that I can do is to watch the gulls soar across the sky
Amazingly spectacular in their flight for freedom, as they
Journey further into the sky until they disappear behind clouds of misfortune-
When the sun sets, my spirit awakens,
Finding myself standing atop that same golden hued mountain alone while
The moon rises above the trees and I can imagine safe places
In the universe beyond the stars with hope that before the sun rises at
The dawning of another day, once again my fantasies shall carry me away to where
I can once again hear the gulls calling amidst a gentle breeze and
There are no more tears left for me to cry-
I have escaped reality forever, though only within a dream?
poem by Claudia Krizay
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The Gardener XXI: Why Did He Choose
Why did he choose to come to my
door, the wandering youth, when the
day dawned?
As I come in and out I pass by him
every time, and my eyes are caught by
his face.
I know not if I should speak to him
or keep silent. Why did he choose to
come to my door?
The cloudy nights in July are dark;
the sky is soft blue in the autumn; the
spring days are restless with the south
wind.
He weaves his songs with fresh
tunes every time.
I turn from my work and my eyes
fill with the mist. Why did he choose
to come to my door?
poem by Rabindranath Tagore
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Passion's Pride
Alone.........I sit
By the fishing hole
Didn't bring don't need
...No fishing pole
Just want to catch
A breath of air
..And reconcile
Distraught..despair
..For in my slumber
Though wide awake
Passion's pride
Fueled my mistake
..And now..so alone am I
By the fishing hole
Didn't bring..don't need
...No fishing pole
Author's note:
.....Just the way life is.........sometimes.....
poem by James B. Earley
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A Ship Sails up to Bideford
A ship sails up to Bideford;
Upon a western breeze,
Mast by mast, sail over sail,
She rises from the seas,
And sights the hills of Devon
And the misty English trees.
She comes from Eastern islands;
The sun is in her hold;
She bears the fruit of Jaffa,
Dates, oranges and gold;
She brings the silk of China,
And bales of Persian dyes,
And birds with sparkling feathers
And snakes with diamond eyes.
She’s gliding in the starlight
As white as any gull;
The east is gliding with her
In the shadows of her hull.
A ship sails up to Bideford;
Upon a western breeze,
With fruits of Eastern summers
She rises from the seas,
And sights the hills of Devon
And the misty English trees.
poem by Herbert Asquith
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