For Osip Mandelstam
And the town is frozen solid in a vice,
Trees, walls, snow, beneath a glass.
Over crystal, on slippery tracks of ice,
the painted sleighs and I, together, pass.
And over St Peter’s there are poplars, crows
there’s a pale green dome there that glows,
dim in the sun-shrouded dust.
The field of heroes lingers in my thought,
Kulikovo’s barbarian battleground.
The frozen poplars, like glasses for a toast,
clash now, more noisily, overhead.
As though it was our wedding, and the crowd
were drinking to our health and happiness.
But Fear and the Muse take turns to guard
the room where the exiled poet is banished,
and the night, marching at full pace,
of the coming dawn, has no knowledge.
poem by Anna Akhmatova
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Ending [Final]
The memories invade my brain
As crows in poplars build their nest,
While clouds go by and come again,
Like smoke, above the lake and plain,
And never rest.
It's gone the autumn with its shine
Of faded green an vivid gold,
With purple grapes, which look so fine,
And now the park, my soul divine,
Are bare and cold.
The frozen lake will be resigned
When the last leaf falls to the ground
And wind through branches gently blows,
So that you know you left behind
A field of snow, which makes no sound,
And wailing crows.
poem by Al. O. Teodoreanu, translated by Octavian Cocoş
Submitted by anonym
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The Snow
The voice of the tree gets frozen
and the snow falls on the heart of the winter
it has been broken
as always
but the craziness of lover and poet goes on
if the surreal dreams
touches the corridor
of my reality
I promise
I will not ask much from winter
an eternal coldness may be
it is naked
as always
no warmth
no warmth
Dear,
snow is falling everywhere
on the streets
on the trees, rooftops
and on the mirror
an ivory white
something....
and I'm breathing in
the dust of the snow
like I breathe the poetry of Mayakovosky
It pains
the long night
a broken naked winter
no! you can't be so heartless
neither I can...
Dear,
I have been like a pale winter
where snow is covering
my city of Veronese
but my frozen hand is trying to write
your name on it...!
poem by Jyotishman Debnath
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Frozen
Frozen
By: Adam M. Snow
Memories frozen and gone,
like sands in broken time,
'gainst the blackest of dawn,
yet cold with no love sublime.
To be alone in ice of despair,
with hearts cold and frozen.
There's nothing left to bear,
for all who are chosen.
Like frost in the wind,
chilling a lonely being,
leaving nothing to mend,
like a ghost without seeing.
Dreams now cold like ice,
falling to pieces,
not once but twice,
as the days decreases.
What else is there to know,
with everything oh so cool?
Like being ghost in the snow,
and you being the fool.
All's now cold like a winter's night,
like little breezes dusk and shiver,
and with unpleasant delight,
with fear all is quiver.
Staring now out a hoar frost window,
alone, cold and wilted,
with your sufferings and woe,
waiting to strike you dead.
All's now cold hearted,
like frozen in ice,
as all's departed,
and you're the sacrifice.
poem by Adam M. Snow
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Song Of The Evergreens
Listen to the briskly whistling winter evergreen
Whispering through the frozen morning light
And tell me whats to come
Saying my time is near
Never fear
I close each year
Im winter
Reminding me to trade my t-shirts for my woven wools
Trade my sandals for my skis
Whispered warnings in the wind
Saying soon come the dancing snowflakes
Theyre kissing every tree
Theyre kissing you and me
Please hurry
Falling
Dazzling dancing diamonds from the sky
Prisms
Rainbow sparkled flurries in our eyes
Whipping across the frozen crystal meadow
Pond of ice
Race the snow
Well build a warming fire there
And cuddle close and wine and dine
The setting sun
The morning light will find us high
Shooting down the glistening mountain side
Screaming through the whispering pines
The freedom of each day
Will cleanse our minds
I can hardly wait for winter
I can hardly wait for the snow
I can hardly hardly wait for winter
I can hardly wait for the snow
Snow snow snow snow snow snow snow snow
Snow snow snow snow snow snow snow snow
Snow snow snow snow snow snow snow snow
Snow snow snow snow snow snow snow snow
Snow snow snow snow snow snow snow snow
Snow snow snow snow snow snow snow snow
Snow snow snow snow snow snow snow snow
Snow snow snow snow snow snow snow snow
Snow snow snow snow snow snow snow snow
Snow snow snow snow snow snow snow snow
Snow snow snow snow snow snow snow snow
Snow snow snow snow snow snow snow snow
Snow snow snow snow snow snow snow snow
Snow snow snow snow snow snow snow snow
song performed by by Chicago
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Far In a Western Brookland
Far in a western brookland
That bred me long ago
The poplars stand and tremble
By pools I used to know.
There, in the windless night-time,
The wanderer, marvelling why,
Halts on the bridge to hearken
How soft the poplars sigh.
He hears: no more remembered
In fields where I was known,
Here I lie down in London
And turn to rest alone.
There, by the starlit fences,
The wanderer halts and hears
My soul that lingers sighing
About the glimmering weirs.
poem by Alfred Edward Housman
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A total lunar eclipse poem
total darkness on a wedding night
except the flickering candle that
plays out out his anxiety to take
a peek of the moon (bride)
the sun (father) has afforded him
he would tilt the veil to let the light
of a hundred moons shine through her face
he would look at her the way an eclipse has
cleared the path for the moon to shine
the full moon that turns into a crescent
to be shrouded in his bossom so that
it glows a warm and sweet orange
and she will peek into his face the way
the eclipse reveals the secrets of the full moon
first a crescent and then its full splendour,
a husband at last to light the way to her future days
###in the old days in China a man would only know how his wife looked
like on the wedding night and vice versa. the eclipse looks very much
the way a chinese man tilt the veil over the head of wife as he takes a peek of her face.
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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Here's to the Maiden of Bashful Fifteen
Here's to the maiden of bashful fifteen;
Here's to the widow of fifty;
Here's to the flaunting extravagant quean,
And here's to the housewife that's thrifty.
Chorus
Let the toast pass,--
Drink to the lass,
I'll warrant she'll prove an excuse for the glass.
Here's to the charmer whose dimples we prize;
Now to the maid who has none, sir:
Here's to the girl with a pair of blue eyes,
And here's to the nymph with but one, sir.
Chorus
Let the toast pass,--
Drink to the lass,
I'll warrant she'll prove an excuse for the glass.
Here's to the maid with a bosom of snow;
Now to her that's as brown as a berry:
Here's to the wife with her face full of woe,
And now to the damsel that's merry.
Chorus
Let the toast pass,--
Drink to the lass,
I'll warrant she'll prove an excuse for the glass.
For let 'em be clumsy, or let 'em be slim,
Young or ancient, I care not a feather;
So fill a pint bumper quite up to the brim,
And let us e'en toast them together.
Chorus
Let the toast pass,--
Drink to the lass,
I'll warrant she'll prove an excuse for the glass.
poem by Richard Brinsley Sheridan
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5. Snow Fun
I remember in the fifties when the snow fell very quick
Like big cornflakes crunchy crisp and sparkling white
I remember ground was frozen and it settled very thick
It kept falling down like sheets throughout the night
I remember in the morning as we opened our front door
To a solid wall of snow that filled the frame
I remember how we shouted when it fell upon the floor
Then we tried the back to find that just the same
I remember pipes were frozen no more water solid ice
Not a dropp it was as dry as it could be
I remember all the kids thought the snow was very nice
And our parents making plans to get us free
I remember how the snow fell and dad rushing at the door
Diving forward like a badger in fine fettle
I remember fresh white snow makes a lovely cup of tea
When you scoop it up and boil it in the kettle
I remember it took ages before he found a route
Near exhausted with his face now glowing red
I remember many tunnels making lots of different chutes
We all made with tools that dad got from our shed
poem by David Threadgold (2008)
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Crazy Mary
she lived on a curve in the road, in an old tar-paper shack
On the south side of the town, on the wrong side of the tracks
Sometimes on the way into town we'd say:
"mama, can we stop and give her a ride?"
Sometimes we did but her hands flew from her side
Wild eyed, crazy mary
Down along the road, past the parson's place
The old blue car we used to race
Little country store with a sign tacked to the side
Said "no l-o-i-t-e-r-i-n-g allowed"
Underneath that sign always congregated quite a crowd
Take a bottle, drink it down, pass it around
Take a bottle, drink it down, pass it around
Take a bottle, drink it down, pass it around
One night thunder cracked mercy backed outside her windowsill
Dreamed i was flying high above the trees, over the hills
Looked down into the house of mary
Bare bulb on, newspaper-covered walls, and mary rising up above it all
Next morning on the way into town
Saw some skid marks, and followed them around
Over the curve,through the fields, into the house of mary
That what you fear the most, could meet you halfway
That what you fear the most, could meet you halfway
Take a bottle, drink it down, pass it around
Take a bottle, drink it down, pass it around
Take a bottle, drink it down, pass it around
song performed by by Pearl Jam
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Cryogenic for M' Lady Catrina Heart
A frozen rose whose colour glows
beneath a crystal coat of ice.
How artistically it shows
a vision fit for paradise.
Still pleasing to the eyes of those
who see it shine amidst the frost.
Catatonic, comatose,
the only beauty it has lost.
Perfume appealing to the nose.
Its scented beauty frozen too.
Without its scent it’s still a rose
Although coated in frigid dew
But it will last until the thaw
then disappear for evermore.
7-Jan-09
Http: // blog.myspace, com/poeticpiers
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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The Red House
On the wide fields the water gleams like snow,
And snow like water pale beneath pale sky,
When old and burdened the white clouds are stooped low.
Sudden as thought, or startled near bird's cry,
The whiteness of first light on hills of snow
New dropped from skiey hills of tumbling white
Streams from the ridge to where the long woods lie;
And tall ridge-trees lift their soft crowns of white
Above slim bodies all black or flecked with snow.
By the tossed foam of the not yet frozen brook
Black pigs go straggling over fields of snow;
The air is full of snow, and starling and rook
Are blacker amid the myriad streams of light.
Warm as old fire the Red House burns yet bright
Beneath the unmelting snows of pine and larch,
While February moves as slow, as slow
As Spring might never come, never come March.
Amid such snows, by generations haunted,
By echoes, memories and dreams enchanted,
Firm when dark winds through the night stamp and shout,
Brightest when time silvers the world all about,
That old house called _The Heart_ burns, burns, and still
Outbraves the mortal threat of the hanging hill.
poem by John Freeman
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Christmas Eve
Tis Christmas Eve with all the splendor of
Christmas lights gleaming through crystal
Glasses placed strategically among clusters
Of soft white cotton snow.
The room is filled with a scent of fresh pine,
Enjoyed by all who sit to dine
We reach our glasses in a toast to Jesus
And thank him for his grace
We celebrate this joyous Christmas Eve
with Jesus at the head of our table
poem by Melvina Germain
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The Tendril’s Faith
Under the snow in the dark and the cold,
A pale little sprout was humming;
Sweetly it sang, ‘neath the frozen mold,
Of the beautiful days that were coming.
“How foolish your songs, ” said a lump of clay,
“What is there, I ask, to prove them?
Just look at the walls between you and the day,
Now, have you the strength to move them? ”
But under the ice and under the snow
The pale little sprout kept singing,
“I cannot tell how, but I know, I know,
I know what the days are bringing.”
“Birds, and blossoms, and buzzing bees,
Blue, blue skies above me,
Bloom on the meadows and buds on the trees,
And the great glad sun to love me.”
A pebble spoke next: “You are quite absurd.”
It said, “with your song’s insistence;
For I never saw a tree or a bird,
So of course there are none in existence.”
“But I know, I know, ” the tendril cried,
In beautiful sweet unreason;
Till lo! from its prison, glorified,
It burst in the glad spring season.
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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The Symmetries of Flowers in Concrete for M
The Symmetries of Flowers in Concrete for M
stopping at the new bus stop
on Broadway and Penn
(cold gray morning)
three great metal daises
have sprung up from the ground
over night though hard frozen concrete
put up by construction
workers no doubt
concocted by some two-bit
commercial hack artist
who received healthy
government grant
while welfare mom who waits for bus
with children who go without
light turns green
I drive across town to deposit
two books into library deposit box
I have come early so I could miss you
but would accept my blind
luck and equally blind
happiness if you had been
here but you weren't
after I dropp the books
into slot I climb
back up ice banks of snow
across the street to my car
leaving behind books
leaving behind you
leaving behind heart
last vestiges of a mundane childhood
follow me into the Grande AM
I wipe away tears from under glasses
and negotiate my turn
on Thirteenth Avenue.
poem by R. James Sterzinger
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The Wood-Pile
Out walking in the frozen swamp one gray day,
I paused and said, "I will turn back from here.
No, I will go on farther -- and we shall see."
The hard snow held me, save where now and then
One foot went through. The view was all in lines
Straight up and down of tall slim trees
Too much alike to mark or name a place by
So as to say for certain I was here
Or somewhere else: I was just far from home.
A small bird flew before me. He was careful
To put a tree between us when he lighted,
And say no word to tell me who he was
Who was so foolish as to think what he thought.
He thought that I was after him for a feather --
The white one in his tail; like one who takes
Everything said as personal to himself.
One flight out sideways would have undeceived him.
And then there was a pile of wood for which
I forgot him and let his little fear
Carry him off the way I might have gone,
Without so much as wishing him good-night.
He went behind it to make his last stand.
It was a cord of maple, cut and split
And piled -- and measured, four by four by eight.
And not another like it could I see.
No runner tracks in this year's snow looped near it.
And it was older sure than this year's cutting,
Or even last year's or the year's before.
The wood was gray and the bark warping off it
And the pile somewhat sunken. Clematis
Had wound strings round and round it like a bundle.
What held it though on one side was a tree
Still growing, and on one a stake and prop,
These latter about to fall. I thought that only
Someone who lived in turning to fresh tasks
Could so forget his handiwork on which
He spent himself, the labor of his ax,
And leave it there far from a useful fireplace
To warm the frozen swamp as best it could
With the slow smokeless burning of decay.
poem by Robert Frost
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sligo dream of Lorca
I dream of lorca
as the hills are lit by dawn.
The Sligo landscape into view,
the farmers wife with porridge
the breakfast makes.
The farmers early breakfasting
for sheep hills to be tended,
the cows awaken in the dawn,
the son in Boston breaks the
mother distant heart,
the field yields slow.
The outline of the trees,
seen at night as shadow,
into life will come at day,
as Lorca dies beneath the blows
as Christ three times he falls.
As he falls the frosted dawn,
the yearning pining of the sligo
hill comes into view beneath
the slow sun start.
I dream of lorca as he falls beneath
the blow of ignorance, beneath
the meadow copse and field of Spain.
Though vines cry and grapes bleed.
And green is the land,
where to school by the gate he would have passed
to learning,
and the farmer eats the toast and egg,
the day is cast,
and into shape the dream emerges
from the falling down,
the falling down of Lorca,
in another place
brings in the light of day.
poem by Bernard Kennedy
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In France
The poplars in the fields of France
Are golden ladies come to dance;
But yet to see them there is none
But I and the September sun.
The girl who in their shadow sits
Can only see the sock she knits;
Her dog is watching all the day
That not a cow shall go astray.
The leisurely contented cows
Can only see the earth they browse;
Their piebald bodies through the grass
With busy, munching noses pass.
Alone the sun and I behold
Processions crowned with shining gold --
The poplars in the fields of France,
Like glorious ladies come to dance.
poem by Barry Cornwall
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Bombarded!
Our town
Full of laughter
Full of joy
Full of happiness
Full of life, it was.
In a flash of seconds,
Our town
Full of cries
Full of misery
Full of sympathy
And as silent as glass, now.
No one to be seen walkin'
No houses or trees standin'
Except the miraculous, little church
Standing tall, proud and lonely.
poem by Arsiema Berhane
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In France
The poplars in the fields of France
Are golden ladies come to dance ;
But yet to see them there is none
But I and the September sun.
The girl who in their shadow sits
Can only see the sock she knits ;
Her dog is watching all the day
That not a cow shall go astray.
The leisurely contented cows
Can only see the earth they browse ;
Their piebald bodies through the grass
With busy, munching noses pass.
Alone the sun and I behold
Processions crowned with shining gold
The poplars in the fields of France,
Like glorious ladies come to dance.
poem by Frances Darwin Cornford
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Metric Figure
There is a bird in the poplars!
It is the sun!
The leaves are little yellow fish
swimming in the river.
The bird skims above them,
day is on his wings.
Phoebus!
It is he that is making
the great gleam among the poplars!
It is his singing
outshines the noise
of leaves clashing in the wind.
poem by William Carlos Williams
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