While Lounging In A Chair
While lounging in a chair, I looked up at the ceiling
Where, teasing my imagination,
A circle hangs above the quiet lamp,
And spins just like a ghostly shadow.
Within the flicker there's a trace of autumn sunset:
As if, above the rooftop and the garden,
Unable to fly off, afraid to land,
Dark flocks of blackbirds circle. . .
No, it's not wings I hear, but hooves at the front gate!
I hear the trembling hands . . .
How chill the pallor of a lovely face!
How bitter parting's whisper! . .
Lost and in silence, I survey the distant road
Beyond the dimming garden,-
While the impatient flock of blackbirds,
Unsheltered, circles still.
poem by Afanasy Afanasyevich Fet
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Rooftop Garden
Sitting in our rooftop garden
Looking down below
Sitting in our rooftop garden
Waiting for the sun
Isnt it lovely watching
A plane go by
What a lovely couple
Are you and i
Sitting in our rooftop garden
A few drops of rain
The lights in the city blinking on
Just the same
No sugar in my coffee
Hows your tea
In our rooftop garden
Above the city
Lets not see any letters
Lets not answer the phone
Lets just pretend that
Theres no one at home
In our rooftop garden
In our rooftop garden
In our rooftop garden
Up on the roof
song performed by by Lou Reed
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Thirteen Blackbirds Looking at a Man
I
It is calm.
It is as though
we lived in a garden
that had not yet arrived
at the knowledge of
good and evil.
But there is a man in it.
II
There will be
rain falling vertically
from an indifferent
sky. There will stare out
from behind its
bars the face of the man
who is not enjoying it.
III
Nothing higher
than a blackberry
bush. As the sun comes up
fresh, what is the darkness
stretching from horizon
to horizon? It is the shadow
here of the forked man.
IV
We have eaten
the blackberries and spat out
the seeds, but they lie
glittering like the eyes of a man.
V
After we have stopped
singing, the garden is disturbed
by echoes. It is
the man whistling, expecting
everything to come to him.
VI
We wipe our beaks
on the branches
wasting the dawn's
jewellery to get rid
of the taste of a man.
VII
Nevertheless,
which is not the case
with a man, our
bills give us no trouble.
VIII
Who said the
number was unlucky?
It was a man, who,
trying to pass us,
had his licence endorsed
thirteen times.
IX
In the cool
of the day the garden
seems given over
to blackbirds. Yet
we know also that somewhere
there is a man in hiding.
X
To us there are
eggs and there are
blackbirds. But there is the man,
too, trying without feathers
to incubate a solution.
XI
We spread our
wings, reticulating
our air space. A man stands
under us and worries
at his ability to do the same.
XII
When night comes
like a visitor
from outer space
we stop our ears
lest we should hear tell
of the man in the moon.
XIII
Summer is
at an end. The migrants
depart. When they return
in spring to the garden,
will there be a man among them?
poem by Ronald Stuart Thomas
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A night at a garden
A river crossing in the forest gloom ground
Brings me down from a hill secluded and tall
The garden roses that once we stroll
Is empty and forgetful of you and me
And lost it seems in troubles that circle endlessly around
Here at the head of a tinkling fall
The rivulet at the chasm trying to pass its way to the sea
The rivulet struggles the mounting rocks at the fall
As I do to hear you once again whisper
In odor and in color
“Be among the roses tonight”
Come into the garden of roses love
For the frightening black bat night has flown
Come into the secret garden dove
I am here at the gate but the moon alone
And the woodbine spices are wafted abroad
And the musk of the roses in the night air is blown
For the breeze down the bank bay moves
And the garden of love is as high
Being to faint in the din of a remote horse hooves
On a bed of daffodils sky
To faint in the light of the rising sun I love
To faint waiting in its light and die
copy rights 2010
Gulf Coast Highway
(nanci griffith)
Gulf coast highway, he worked the rails
He worked the rice fields with their cold dark wells
He worked the oil rigs in the gulf of mexico
The only thing weve owned is this old house here by the road
And when he dies he says hell catch some blackbirds wing
And we will fly away to heaven
Come some sweet blue bonnet spring
She walked through springtime when I was home
The days were sweet, our nights were warm
The seasons changed, the jobs would come
The flowers fade, and this old house felt so alone
When the work took me away
And when she dies she says shell catch some blackbirds wing
And she will fly away to heaven
Come some sweet blue bonnet spring
Highway 90, the jobs are gone
We kept our garden, we set the sun
This is the only place on earth blue bonnets grow
And once a year they come and go
At this old house here by the road
And when we die we say well catch some blackbirds wing
And we will fly away to heaven
Come some sweet blue bonnet spring
Yes when we die we say well catch some blackbirds wing
And we will fly away together
Come some sweet blue bonnet spring
song performed by by Emmylou Harris
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Circle Dream
[ buck/drew/gustafson/augustyniak/merchant ]
[ percussion: paulinho da costa ]
I dreamed of a circle, I dreamed of a circle round.
And in that circle I had made were all the worlds unformed and unborn yet.
A volume, a sphere that was the earth, that was the moon, that did revolve around my room.
I dreamed of a circle, I dreamed of a circle round.
And in that circle was a maze, a terrible spiral to be lost in.
Blind in my fear, I was escaping just by feel.
But at every turn my way was sealed.
I dreamed of a circle, I dreamed of a circle round.
And in that circle was a face.
Her eyes looked upon me with fondness.
Her warmth coming near, calling me sweetness, calling me dear.
But I whispered, no, I cant rest here.
I dreamed of a circle, I dreamed of a circle round.
song performed by by 10000 Maniacs
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird
I
Among twenty snowy mountains,
The only moving thing
Was the eye of the blackbird.
II
I was of three minds,
Like a tree
In which there are three blackbirds.
III
The blackbird whirled in the autumn winds.
It was a small part of the pantomime.
IV
A man and a woman
Are one.
A man and a woman and a blackbird
Are one.
V
I do not know which to prefer,
The beauty of inflections
Or the beauty of innuendoes,
The blackbird whistling
Or just after.
VI
Icicles filled the long window
With barbaric glass.
The shadow of the blackbird
Crossed it, to and fro.
The mood
Traced in the shadow
An indecipherable cause.
VII
O thin men of Haddam,
Why do you imagine golden birds?
Do you not see how the blackbird
Walks around the feet
Of the women about you?
VIII
I know noble accents
And lucid, inescapable rhythms;
But I know, too,
That the blackbird is involved
In what I know.
IX
When the blackbird flew out of sight,
It marked the edge
Of one of many circles.
X
At the sight of blackbirds
Flying in a green light,
Even the bawds of euphony
Would cry out sharply.
XI
He rode over Connecticut
In a glass coach.
Once, a fear pierced him,
In that he mistook
The shadow of his equipage
For blackbirds.
XII
The river is moving.
The blackbird must be flying.
XIII
It was evening all afternoon.
It was snowing
And it was going to snow.
The blackbird sat
In the cedar-limbs.
poem by Wallace Stevens
Submitted by Dan Costinaş
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Within The Circle
Within the Circle
Around the burned down stable, near
the oak that was struck by lightning,
there is a silence within the stillness.
I can hear screams of stabled mules
running in circles trampling each other
into a bloody mass and falling beams.
Within the circle sheltered by whispering
leaves I can hear rattling of chains and
the forest afar sings of endless sorrow.
Copyright © Jan Oskar Hansen
poem by Oskar Hansen
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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In The Yard Behind The Church
In the yard, behind the church
Where butterflies and blackbirds search
For a safe place to rest the night away
We will go down to the brook
And sit upon the overlook
Then forget about the troubles of the day
We will walk among the graves of
Men long dead with Presidents' names and
Listen to the water flow softly by
I will kiss you on the lips now
And as the sky grows dark we'll strip down
And let the water wash away all lies
In the yard, behind the church
Where butterflies and blackbirds perch
On gravestones as the garden's growing dim
We will lay down on the ground
And put our cheeks against the dirt down
Where it no longer matters where you've been
song performed by by Eels
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Bird's Bargain
'O spare my cherries in the net,'
Brother Benignus prayed; 'and I
Summer and winter, shine and wet,
Will pile the blackbirds' table high.'
'O spare my youngling peas,' he prayed,
'That for the Abbot's table be;
And every blackbird shall be fed;
Yea, they shall have their fill,' said he.
His prayer, his vow, the blackbirds heard,
And spared his shining garden-plot.
In abstinence went every bird,
All the old thieving ways forgot.
He kept his promise to his friends,
And daily set them finest fare
Of corn and meal and manchet-ends,
With marrowy bones for winter bare.
Brother Benignus died in grace:
The brethren keep his trust, and feed
The blackbirds in this pleasant place,
Purged, as dear heaven, from strife and greed.
The blackbirds sing the whole year long,
Here where they keep their promise given,
And do the mellowing fruit no wrong.
Brother Benignus smiles in heaven.
poem by Katharine Tynan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Moving On Alone
dark silence flies like a little bird
and hovers on the fields
of our beings,
it drops some of its feathers
in the hollow spaces of our
chosen galaxy
the land listens
and so be quiet,
on this day, be firm.
look at them, the brightest star beside the moon's
half-circle
they have no wings
but they are slowly moving
or are we just
being deceived
between two horizons, a man stands and
settles on his slender shadow
he touches his face and then he is gone
in space, into the hole of his universe
i stand alone on the sands of my past
i dare not question
or breathe or moan
or step backward
i am still, and then my eyes close
under the silence of the trees.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Parting Hour
Not yet, dear love, not yet: the sun is high;
You said last night, 'At sunset I will go.'
Come to the garden, where when blossoms die
No word is spoken; it is better so:
Ah! bitter word 'Farewell.'
Hark! how the birds sing sunny songs of spring!
Soon they will build, and work will silence them;
So we grow less light-hearted as years bring
Life's grave responsibilities - and then
The bitter word 'Farewell.'
The violets fret to fragrance 'neath your feet,
Heaven's gold sunlight dreams aslant your hair:
No flower for me! your mouth is far more sweet.
O, let my lips forget, while lingering there,
Love's bitter word 'Farewell.'
Sunset already! have we sat so long?
The parting hour, and so much left unsaid!
The garden has grown silent - void of song,
Our sorrow shakes us with a sudden dread!
Ah! bitter word 'Farewell.'
poem by Olive Custance
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A Pleasant Day For July
In the cool sun of mid Winter a gentle northern breeze
Is whispering in the parkland on the gum and wattle trees
The leaves are quietly stirring as the branches gently sway
And the sparrows are chirping on a pleasant Winter's day.
Going by the weather forecast heavy rain is on the way
The calm before the storm as some are known to say
But we won't be complaining as we do need lots of rain
To add to the Town reservoir and bring life to the creek and drain.
A pleasant day for July in the Southern Winter of the year
The sweet flute of the magpie is a joyful thing to hear
The blackbirds in the garden gathering material for their nest
And Spring is not that distant the Season many love best.
A pleasant day for July with just a slight chill in the air
And even in the southern Winter days such as this are rare
The first of September the calendar Spring's first day
In time does not seem distant barely six weeks away.
poem by Francis Duggan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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I Went High
I went high
Only to fly
Touched the peak
But felt unable to speak
She caught my hand
To show as if to be a friend
Pushed back to the ground
To dream about beautiful end
She is sky
So you can only try
You can't touch
But only in dream as such
She is willing
But her silence is killing
She says 'no' and 'yes'
But where and how to trace
She is lovely and beautiful
But may not make me successful
She has kind smile
I have to wait meanwhile
She may come round
Only to be found
So near and whisper
'Come on dear' I am near
Hear me and act
This is fact
I love you but can't
So feel no sad and react
I can give you my wings
You can relax and sing
Remember me and my face
There is lot more yet in race
poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Return
The grass was gray with the moonlit dew,
The stones were white as I came through;
I came down the path by the thirteen yews,
Through the blocks of shade that the moonlight hews.
And when I came to the high lych-gate
I waited awhile where the corpses wait;
Then I came down the road where the moonlight lay
Like the fallen ghost of the light of day.
The bats shrieked high in their zigzag flight,
The owls' spread wings were quiet and white,
The wind and the poplar gave sigh for sigh,
And all about were the rustling shy
Little live creatures that love the night -
Little wild creatures timid and free.
I passed, and they were not afraid of me.
It was over the meadow and down the lane
The way to come to my house again:
Through the wood where the lovers talk,
And the ghosts, they say, get leave to walk.
I wore the clothes that we all must wear,
And no one saw me walking there,
No one saw my pale feet pass
By my garden path to my garden grass.
My garden was hung with the veil of spring -
Plum-tree and pear-tree blossoming;
It lay in the moon's cold sheet of light
In garlands and silence, wondrous and white
As a dead bride decked for her burying.
Then I saw the face of my house
Held close in the arms of the blossomed boughs:
I leaned my face to the window bright
To feel if the heart of my house beat right.
The firelight hung it with fitful gold;
It was warm as the house of the dead is cold.
I saw the settles, the candles tall,
The black-faced presses against the wall,
Polished beechwood and shining brass,
The gleam of china, the glitter of glass,
All the little things that were home to me -
Everything as it used to be.
Then I said, 'The fire of life still burns,
And I have returned whence none returns:
I will warm my hands where the fire is lit,
I will warm my heart in the heart of it!'
So I called aloud to the one within:
'Open, open, and let me in!
Let me in to the fire and the light -
It is very cold out here in the night!'
There was never a stir or an answering breath -
Only a silence as deep as death.
Then I beat on the window, and called, and cried.
No one heard me, and none replied.
The golden silence lay warm and deep,
And I wept as the dead, forgotten, weep;
And there was no one to hear or see -
To comfort me, to have pity on me.
But deep in the silence something stirred -
Something that had not seen or heard -
And two drew near to the window-pane,
Kissed in the moonlight and kissed again,
And looked, through my face, to the moon-shroud, spread
Over the garlanded garden bed;
And--'How ghostly the moonlight is!' she said.
Back through the garden, the wood, the lane,
I came to mine own place again.
I wore the garments we all must wear,
And no one saw me walking there.
No one heard my thin feet pass
Through the white of the stones and the gray of the grass,
Along the path where the moonlight hews
Slabs of shadow for thirteen yews.
In the hollow where drifted dreams lie deep
It is good to sleep: it was good to sleep:
But my bed has grown cold with the drip of the dew,
And I cannot sleep as I used to do.
poem by Edith Nesbit
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Clique
clique
like a camera's snappy sound
you get a face on paper
you remember
pain.
clique
you hear the sound of clapping hands
exhorting the fame within your circle.
each to his name, his bias, and prejudice.
the bold line is drawn.
outside, they move around their circles too.
they're not sad.
those excluded, too, know how to find
themselves
they have their own feet and hands
their sticks
and carrots too,
to munch
in accordance with their own kind
the way how their teeth
are designed
their mouths spouting invectives
against those
not towing the line
'we have our guidelines' the ugliest of them all say that.
i, too, draw a circle of my existence.
in keeping myself in
i keep them out too.
there i take my own bed and pillow
and blanket.
to have a nice sleep alone.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Jesus in the suburb
There’s a strange man
standing outside at the garden gate
on the other side of the mailbox
and he is dressed in a uniform
and looks somewhat familiar
but I cannot place him
and funny enough
the dogs are quiet
and to peaceful to my fancy
as if they
know him from somewhere
and I wonder what a traffic cop
is doing outside at the garden gate
and I am half irritated
when I open the front door,
but his uniform is somewhat strange
and looks like a flying suit
that a pilot would wear.
I wonder what he wants
and without talking he asks
do you know me?
There’s a bright like
shining like the sun
out of his loving eyes
and His hands has the marks
of old wounds
that has healed
and I wonder what He is doing
at the door of a sinful fool like me
and I open the gate wide
and He walks in.
poem by Gert Strydom
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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There was a Child Once
There was a child once.
He came to play in my garden;
He was quite pale and silent.
Only when he smiled I knew everything about him,
I knew what he had in his pockets,
And I knew the feel of his hands in my hands
And the most intimate tones of his voice.
I led him down each secret path,
Showing him the hiding-place of all my treasures.
I let him play with them, every one,
I put my singing thoughts in a little silver cage
And gave them to him to keep...
It was very dark in the garden
But never dark enough for us. On tiptoe we walked
among the deepest shades;
We bathed in the shadow pools beneath the trees,
Pretending we were under the sea.
Once--near the boundary of the garden--
We heard steps passing along the World-road;
O how frightened we were!
I whispered: "Have you ever walked along that road?"
He nodded, and we shook the tears from our eyes....
There was a child once.
He came--quite alone--to play in my garden;
He was pale and silent.
When we met we kissed each other,
But when he went away, we did not even wave
poem by Katherine Mansfield
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Circle Of Fear
Heartache's knocking on the door
shadows dance outside her window
Tears keep falling on the floor
as the world around her crumbles
If you wanna save her
then first you'll have to save yourself
if you wanna free her from the hurt
then don't do it with your pain
if you wanna see her smile again
don't show her you're afraid
cause your circle of fear is the same
love can be as cold as grave
a one way ticket to endless sorrow
an empire of gentle hate
today without tomorrow
If you wanna save her
then first you'll have to save yourself
if you wanna free her from the hurt
then don't do it with your pain
if you wanna see her smile again
don't show her you're afraid
cause your circle of fear is the same
it's the circle of regret
the circle of hate
the circle of death
your circle of fear is the same
your circle of fear is the same
If you wanna save her
then first you'll have to save yourself
if you wanna free her from the hurt
then don't do it with your pain
if you wanna see her smile again
don't show her you're afraid
cause your circle of fear is the same
your circle of fear is the same
your circle of fear is the same
your circle of fear is the same
your circle of fear is the same
song performed by by H.I.M.
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I value my garden more for being full of blackbirds than of cherries, and very frankly give them fruit for their songs.
quote by Joseph Addison
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Imagination
I have come to indecision
Someone is pushing me
All the cities, subways, rivers
No direction left for me
I have lost my way home early
I dont care cause I wont stay there
All I hear is this silent whisper
Will you be here again
Imagination takes the shadows away
Everyday Ive been without you
Imagination keeps the shadows away
Everday I stay without you
Too many times, without you
I have seen your eyes in purple
I have seen your eyes in blue
All the flowers, tears and faces
All the days I spent with you
Again and again Ive been escaping
Ive been lost in the dark I fear
Can you hear this silent whisper
Will you be here again
Imagination takes the shadows away
Everyday Ive been without you
Imagination keeps the shadows away
Everday I stay without you
Too many times, without you
Choose and change you say
How can you let this run away
See the storms through your broken window
See the beauty of the falling rain
Everyday Ive been without you
Everyday shadow follows me
Cant you see you left your traces
In too many faces
Imagination takes the shadows away
Everyday Ive been without you
Imagination keeps the shadows away
Everday I stay without you
Too many times, without you
song performed by by Xymox
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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