Clair de Lune
Powder and scent and silence. The young dwarf
Shoulders his lute. The moon is Levantine.
It settles its pearl in every glass of wine.
Harlequin is already at the wharf.
The gallant is masked. A pressure of his thumb
Communicates cutaneous interest.
On the smooth upward swelling of a breast
A small black heart is fixed with spirit gum.
The thieving moment is now. Deftly, Pierrot
Exits, bearing a tray of fruits and coins.
A monkey, chained by his tiny loins,
Is taken aboard. They let their moorings go.
Silence. Even the god shall soon be gone.
Shadows, in their cool, tidal enterprise,
Have eaten away his muscular stone thighs.
Moonlight edges across the empty lawn.
Taffeta whispers. Someone is staring through
The white ribs of the pergola. She stares
At a small garnet pulse that disappears
Steadily seaward. Ah, my dear, it is you.
But you are not alone. A gardener goes
Through the bone light about the dark estate.
He bows, and, cheerfully inebriate,
Admires the lunar ashes of a rose,
And sings to his imaginary loves.
Wait. You can hear him. The familiar notes
Drift toward the old moss-bottomed fishing boats:
“Happy the heart that thinks of no removes.”
This is your nightmare. Those cold hands are yours.
The pain in the drunken singing is your pain.
Morning will taste of bitterness again.
The heart turns to a stone, but it endures.
poem by Anthony Evan Hecht
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Related quotes
Waiting for you
Waiting for you
Waiting by the strand of the sea, the sand
cold and wet, the moon in silence guards my path,
the wait is tedious and long for I feel is not in vain,
the tide was rising in a rather slow motion, I could
smell the scent of the ocean, a scent I can't see.
Countless of stars in the sky each with a unique gallant,
the air fondly indulged my face, and a tranquil
feeling drew me to a state of peace, a cadence voice
singing like angels in the wind. A thousand years may
pass me by, counting the grains of sand, endless till
I fade away with them, I'll walk the shore with freezing
toes, with no hands to hold me warm. I'm still here near
the moon, near the waves that call your name,
they hear my heart, they keep the secret I pour in tears,
I wait here still and weary with my head up with a
little left of my happy heart…
poem by Elenushka Toledo
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Threepenny Pierrot
Threepenny pierrot - we love you
Threepenny pierrot - loves us too
Pockets of gladness, gay time eyes
Comical hero, threepenny pierrot
Happy little feet that dance all day
Lonely little heart with lots to say
Stepping footprints on your mind
Offering thoughts of columbine
Bang the drum and blow the bugle call
Pierrot takes the stage to play for all
For heres a life his fortune rules
Forsaken by his columbine
Threepenny pierrot - we love you
Threepenny pierrot - loves us too
Pockets of gladness, gay time eyes
Comical hero, threepenny pierrot
To tap his feet to greet dear harlequin
The hearts of folks so keenly hard to win
A patchwork frame of tears and wine
The nectar for cruel columbine
The part of three and leaves the stage forlorn
Puppets cold, their faces sad and drawn
Relive each trial of rise and fall
The love which lacks between us all
Threepenny pierrot - we love you
Threepenny pierrot - loves us too
Pockets of gladness, gay time eyes
Comical hero, threepenny pierrot
Threepenny pierrot - we love you
Threepenny pierrot - loves us too
Pockets of gladness, gay time eyes
Comical hero . . . . . . threepenny pierrot
song performed by by David Bowie
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Heart Turns To Stone
The days and nights you sit around wondering where can
She be
Hoping that she might appear, out of nowhere
But you fail to see
All the hurt inside, the wounded pride
Ooh what she went through for you
You cheated and lied, as her love slowly died
And her heart just broke in two
When she was with you, all along
Behind you right or wrong
She tried to hold on, hold on
But you went too far, and shes gone
And now its over and her heart turns to stone
No time for pity, when her heart turns to stone
She cries a little as her heart turns to stone
Shes that kind of woman
Shell do fine on her own
What you thought was a game
A game you were winning
Wouldnt go your way
Now youve lost what you had
And your back to the beginning
Its the price you have to pay
When she was with you, all along
Behind you right or wrong
She tried to hold on, hold on
But you went too far, and shes gone
And now its over and her heart turns to stone
No time for pity, when her heart turns to stone
She cries a little as her heart turns to stone
Shes that kind of woman
Shell get by on her own
She hides the pain
But her heart turns to stone
No time for pity
When her heart turns to stone
She cries sometimes
As her heart turns to stone
Shes that kind of woman
Shell get by on her own
Yeah its over
And her heart turns to stone
Dont look for pity now
When her heart turns to stone
Listen to her cry
Listen to her cry
Shes a woman now
Ooh its a sad thing to see
To see a heart turn to stone
The heart of a woman
A heart turned to stone
song performed by by Foreigner
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Don’t Walk Across Those Empty Fields
That smell of roses too deep for a sigh
Just cross your heart it’s all that yields
Fingertips sealing the signs of the sky
Too many of them shall fall on your breast
The ribs are too thin for a shelter bone
Too many will scar the skin on your chest
And you will wish you’d never been born
The moonlight bruises the light morning air
Drunk lips scatter whispers on the glass brims
The moonlight cuts the sunlight in your hair
Mercy you’ll be freed in the first of sunbeams
poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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Whispers of sileNce
Whispers of silence-
Whispers, Rising like a wave-
In unison, In defiance.
Whispers, Rising to a single scream- Sanity’s grave…
Endless screaming whispers, In the silence- Waves,
Pounding the mind.
A tainted conscience-
In remorseful bind.
Longing for inner silence…
Black today, And black tomorrows-
Prisoners bound, Within dark sorrows…
Repenting our malice- Seeking redemptive solace.
A cold wind blows- Our soul shudders.
Within our shadows of regret- None shall covet us.
For silence, Our mind solemnly utters…
Spirits full of woe.
A tainted conscience.
Cries, Pleading, That this pain, None else know.
Longing for inner silence-
Inner peace-
That these screaming whispers, In the silence cease…
poem by InNer WhisPers
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The Guardian and BloodRose
BloodRose,
Rose of my love,
My love for Dark moon,
Dark as my heart,
Black as my soul,
And gave me my rose.
The rose of blood,
With petals soft and black,
Never as a rose so beautiful,
Grown not in light,
But under a dark moon lit sky.
Guardian,
Yes a guardian of BloodRose,
With teeth long and sharp,
Claws hard as diamonds,
Scales as dark as night.
My dear sweet guardian,
Guardian black as my heart,
Fire in your eyes,
Shadows in your soul,
A dragon of the dark moon.
A single rose,
With petals so fare,
As dark as my heart,
I now hold in my hand,
The rose of blood.
You are my darkness,
Fear of this love,
This love for you,
Love for darkness,
The cold shadows in my heart
That makes me yearn for you.
Now as you lay dying,
I hold a single rose,
The rose you gave me,
And as I hold it tight,
The thorns slice my hand,
Covered with blood,
My blood.
I have one fear,
The fear of death,
Symbol of my lost love,
Rose as dark as me,
Laying in a pool of blood,
Blood from me.
As I lay dying,
I remember my name,
BloodRose,
I am the rose of blood,
And I died of my own creation.
A creation of perfect beauty,
Petals dark black,
Thorns like small daggers,
Grown from my love,
My love for a dragon,
A dragon as dark as my heart.
Even in my death,
I think of you,
And the rose you gave me,
The rose that killed me,
The Rose of Blood.
poem by Nicolette Gonzalez
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Whispers In The Silence
Whispers in the silence-
Whispers, Rising like a wave-
In unison, In defiance.
Whispers, Rising to a single scream- Sanity’s grave…
Endless screaming whispers, In the silence- Waves, Pounding the mind.
A tainted conscience-
In remorseful bind.
Longing for inner silence…
Black today, And black tomorrows-
Prisoners bound, Within dark sorrows…
Repenting our malice- Seeking redemptive solace.
A cold wind blows- Our soul shudders- Our souls bleed.
Within our shadows of regret- None shall covet us.
For silence, Our minds solemnly plead…
Spirits full of woe.
A tainted conscience.
Cries, Pleading, That this pain, None else know.
Longing for inner silence-
Inner peace-
That these screaming whispers, In the silence cease…
poem by Philip Alarie
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The moss that loves the stone
It is the moss that loves the stone
Most. No matter what or when, the
Moss somehow manages to stay
Even without a why, they say.
But the moss keeps on sticking
To the body of the stone that
Keeps its nonminding stiffness.
It is cold, it is hard, it is unfeeling
At all. It is the moss that keeps its
Love. It sticks with it, rain or shine.
It rolls with it. It stays with it even
In the desert, even it if means its
Own death. It is the moss that sticks
To the stone. It is its true lover.
In the river, the water has ordered
The moss to leave. It ordered the stone
To crush it. The moss cannot be
Removed. It covered the stone.
It is loving it whole.The stone has
Become the moss, and the stone
Is gone.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Pierrot
Pierrot stands in the garden
Beneath a waning moon,
And on his lute he fashions
A fragile silver tune.
Pierrot plays in the garden,
He thinks he plays for me,
But I am quite forgotten
Under the cherry tree.
Pierrot plays in the garden,
And all the roses know
That Pierrot loves his music, --
But I love Pierrot.
poem by Sara Teasdale
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The Stone That You Love
you are unique
for having loved a stone
how did the stone
entice you?
are you seduced by
its silence?
are you tempted by
its solitude?
you take the pain
poking the stone to
your heart
and you bleed
you rub the stone
in the skin of your body
hoping that someday
the stone may have
feelings and
love you
but this is all useless
the stone is a stone is a stone
and there is no love
in its blank stare
there is no softness in its
belly
i ponder upon this
and come to think of it
you and the stone
are the same
on this hardheadedness
this futility
this numbness
this suffering without end
the stone can never give
a part of its cracks
it will never part with its
dust
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Absence
My cup is empty to-night,
Cold and dry are its sides,
Chilled by the wind from the open window.
Empty and void, it sparkles white in the moonlight.
The room is filled with the strange scent
Of wistaria blossoms.
They sway in the moon's radiance
And tap against the wall.
But the cup of my heart is still,
And cold, and empty.
When you come, it brims
Red and trembling with blood,
Heart's blood for your drinking;
To fill your mouth with love
And the bitter-sweet taste of a soul.
poem by Amy Lowell
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Monkeys
sorry i treated you the way
i did usurping the monkey
in you that dies to jump about,
life once so clearly spelt out
the monkey that caught my heart
years ago with its perpetual winking eyes -
a hundred times a minute
in its curiosity of the world
the money that crafted a net in my heart
sorry that i had nearly suffocated
your monkey and thanks for
shaking me into realisation
i have chained your monkey
blown away its vital K
all these life struggles to jump
a step over the others have
nearly turned us into a creature
carved of stone - a huge black boulder,
so cold and impenetrable
we could look into each other
without getting to the vital core
always overwhelmed by a
chilling towering stone
only the warm lively monkey
would give a life back to us
the only creature i could fall for solace
i would trade with anything
to put back the K in you so that
our life would be fun and warm
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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Morning
Its the same old situation
Same old faces, but a different town
Nowhere to run and nowhere to hide
Im dancing with the shadows,
In a cold moonlight.
And I cant wait until the morning
I cant wait another minute, hour day or night,
I cant wait until the morning,
You know it wont feel so cold.
Its 5 am, and I just got into bed
And the heart of the city is almost gone,
And I know what is right
And I know what is wrong
Im dancing with the shadows,
In a cold moonlight.
And I cant wait until the morning
I cant wait another minute, hour day or night,
I cant wait until the morning,
You know it feels so cold.
Sometimes in between my dreams at night,
I walk alone Im going underground.
And in the distance I can hear a crowd.
It makes me wonder what its all about.
All about...
All about
Its the same old consolation,
Different faces in the same old town,
Nowhere to run to
Nowhere to hide,
Theyre dancing with the shadows,
In a cold moonlight
And I cant wait until the morning
I cant wait another minute, hour day or night,
I cant wait until the morning,
You know it feels so cold
song performed by by Wet Wet Wet
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Old Fires
The fire burns low
Where it has burned ages ago,
Sinks and sighs
As it has done to a hundred eyes
Staring, staring
At the last cold smokeless glow.
Here men sat
Lonely and watched the golden grate
Turn at length black;
Heard the cooling iron crack:
Shadows, shadows,
Watching the shadows come and go.
And still the hiss
I hear, the soft fire's sob and kiss,
And still it burns
And the bright gold to crimson turns,
Sinking, sinking,
And the fire shadows larger grow.
O dark-cheeked fire,
Wasting like spent heart's desire,
You that were gold,
And now crimson will soon be cold--
Cold, cold,
Like moon-shadows on new snow.
Shadows all,
They that watched your shadows fall.
But now they come
Rising around me, grave and dumb....
Shadows, shadows,
Come as the fire-shadows go.
And stay, stay,
Though all the fire sink cold as clay,
Whispering still,
Ancestral wise Familiars--till,
Staring, staring,
Dawn's wild fires through the casement glow.
poem by John Freeman
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Turns and Movies: Violet Moore and Bert Moore
He thinks her little feet should pass
Where dandelions star thickly grass;
Her hands should lift in sunlit air
Sea-wind should tangle up her hair.
Green leaves, he says, have never heard
A sweeter ragtime mockingbird,
Nor has the moon-man ever seen,
Or man in the spotlight, leering green,
Such a beguiling, smiling queen.
Her eyes, he says, are stars at dusk,
Her mouth as sweet as red-rose musk;
And when she dances his young heart swells
With flutes and viols and silver bells;
His brain is dizzy, his senses swim,
When she slants her ragtime eyes at him. . .
Moonlight shadows, he bids her see,
Move no more silently than she.
It was this way, he says, she came,
Into his cold heart, bearing flame.
And now that his heart is all on fire
Will she refuse his heart's desire?--
And O! has the Moon Man ever seen
(Or the spotlight devil, leering green)
A sweeter shadow upon a screen?
poem by Conrad Potter Aiken
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Violet Moore and Bert Moore
He thinks her little feet should pass
Where dandelions star thickly grass;
Her hands should lift in sunlit air
Sea-wind should tangle up her hair.
Green leaves, he says, have never heard
A sweeter ragtime mockingbird,
Nor has the moon-man ever seen,
Or man in the spotlight, leering green,
Such a beguiling, smiling queen.
Her eyes, he says, are stars at dusk,
Her mouth as sweet as red-rose musk;
And when she dances his young heart swells
With flutes and viols and silver bells;
His brain is dizzy, his senses swim,
When she slants her ragtime eyes at him. . .
Moonlight shadows, he bids her see,
Move no more silently than she.
It was this way, he says, she came,
Into his cold heart, bearing flame.
And now that his heart is all on fire
Will she refuse his heart's desire?-
And O! has the Moon Man ever seen
(Or the spotlight devil, leering green)
A sweeter shadow upon a screen?
poem by Conrad Potter Aiken
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Stone Garden
In this still
Winter chill
Upon this sharp
Dewy morn
Beyond the
Broken stone
Path
And the Red
Rose Thorn
Shadows are
Dancing
Still moonlight
'Neath an arched
Vine clad door
I have been
Lying here much
As a cold stone
Upon the winter
Floor
All of this time
Awaited
This path
You and i
Have traveled
Ivy vines have
Grown o'er
Tangled mangled
Raveled
At last though my
Thought empty
As dawns light
Revealed
My faint heart
Beat quickens
From all of the
Years
We've concealed
The cold stone
Has cracked open
For you alone
Planted the seeds
Love it springs
Forth my beloved
A floral Spring
Garden for thee
poem by Theodora Onken
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Meeting Among the Mountains
The little pansies by the road have turned
Away their purple faces and their gold,
And evening has taken all the bees from the thyme,
And all the scent is shed away by the cold.
Against the hard and pale blue evening sky
The mountain's new-dropped summer snow is clear
Glistening in steadfast stillness: like transcendent
Clean pain sending on us a chill down here.
Chirst on the Cross! -- his beautiful young man's body
Has fallen dead upon the nails, and hangs
White and loose at last, with all the pain
Drawn on his mouth, eyes broken at last by his pangs.
And slowly down the mountain road, belated,
A bullock wagon comes; so I am ashamed
To gaze any more at the Christ, whom the mountain snows
Whitely confront; I wait on the grass, am lamed.
The breath of the bullock stains the hard, chill air,
The band is across its brow, and it scarcely seems
To draw the load, so still and slow it moves,
While the driver on the shaft sits crouched in dreams.
Surely about his sunburnt face is something
That vexes me with wonder. He sits so still
Here among all this silence, crouching forward,
Dreaming and letting the bullock take its will.
I stand aside on the grass to let them go;
-- And Christ, I have met his accusing eyes again,
The brown eyes black with misery and hate, that look
Full in my own, and the torment starts again.
One moment the hate leaps at me standing there,
One moment I see the stillness of agony,
Something frozen in the silence that dare not be
Loosed, one moment the darkness frightens me.
Then among the averted pansies, beneath the high
White peaks of snow, at the foot of the sunken Christ
I stand in a chill of anguish, trying to say
The joy I bought was not too highly priced.
But he has gone, motionless, hating me,
Living as the mountains do, because they are strong,
With a pale, dead Christ on the crucifix of his heart,
And breathing the frozen memory of his wrong.
Still in his nostrils the frozen breath of despair,
And heart like a cross that bears dead agony
Of naked love, clenched in his fists the shame,
And in his belly the smouldering hate of me.
And I, as I stand in the cold, averted flowers,
Feel the shame-wounds in his hands pierce through my own,
And breathe despair that turns my lungs to stone
And know the dead Christ weighing on my bone.
poem by David Herbert Lawrence
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Adam
A tree of blood soaks the morning
where the newborn woman groans.
Her voice leaves glass in the wound
and on the panes, a diagram of bone.
The coming light establishes and wins
white limits of a fable that forgets
the tumult of veins in flight
toward the dim cool of the apple.
Adam dreams in the fever of the clay
of a child who comes galloping
through the double pulse of his cheek.
But a dark other Adam is dreaming
a neuter moon of seedless stone
where the child of light will burn.
poem by Federico García Lorca
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These Words Turn Homeward
These words turn homeward
toward you, my dark wood,
because of all assignations of the night
you are West, you are dream and secret
you, deeper than jewels, sweeter
than the taste of stars
in the eyes of wounded black berries.
You, longing and lucidity,
singing in the last of the shadows
of the sacred trees for the unattainable
that summons me to you.
Endless, the farewell, endless
the dusk the nightbirds follow
after the swallows
have danced for the stars
in an aerial display of their own.
You, my star field, my wildflower,
whose skin is the skin of lunar waterlilies
and the tide at the tips of my fingers.
My new moon, my despair,
my solitude, my silence, my absence
which among these thousand lonely lakes
has looked upon you and seen
as I have seen in your incomprehensible eyes
how unfathomable they are to themselves
in your depths, your death,
the fullness of your abiding evanescence.
the quiet intimacies
that have just crept up on me
over these intervening years
that have done nothing
but linger in the moment
as if you would always be there
and could be found nowhere else
but now forever in this doorway
this broken window into my heart
to let go of
over and over and over again
like the rain, this stone, that leaf,
the wraith of your breath
hovering like a thin autumn mist
always at a distance over the harvested fields.
O diminished one, subtle one, free,
how is it you can inspire me still
though your ashes were given back to the stars
like a message for their eyes only
so many years ago that time itself
has upgraded all my starmaps
and made you alone, far one, bright one,
this lonely holy road that’s walking me home
as if my final destination, like yours, like you
were everywhere in whatever direction I turn
to ask the next star, where you’ve gone,
has it seen you, has it heard
was it too soon, was it too early
is it too late, too perilous, too absurd
for the morning to return you
like a singing bird to a green bough
to the dead branch that lost the moon
like its only blossom
on the rootless tree
that it took you from
when it took you from me?
poem by Patrick White
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