A January Morning
The glittering roofs are still with frost; each worn
Black chimney builds into the quiet sky
Its curling pile to crumble silently.
Far out to westward on the edge of morn,
The slender misty city towers up-borne
Glimmer faint rose against the pallid blue;
And yonder on those northern hills, the hue
Of amethyst, hang fleeces dull as horn.
And here behind me come the woodmen's sleighs
With shouts and clamorous squeakings; might and main
Up the steep slope the horses stamp and strain,
Urged on by hoarse-tongued drivers—cheeks ablaze,
Iced beards and frozen eyelids—team by team,
With frost-fringed flanks, and nostrils jetting steam.
poem by Archibald Lampman
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The City
Beyond the dusky corn-fields, toward the west,
Dotted with farms, beyond the shallow stream,
Through drifts of elm with quiet peep and gleam,
Curved white and slender as a lady's wrist,
Faint and far off out of the autumn mist,
Even as a pointed jewel softly set
In clouds of colour warmer, deeper yet,
Crimson and gold and rose and amethyst,
Toward dayset, where the journeying sun grown old
Hangs lowly westward darker now than gold,
With the soft sun-touch of the yellowing hours
Made lovelier, I see with dreaming eyes,
Even as a dream out of a dream, arise
The bell-tongued city with its glorious towers.
poem by Archibald Lampman
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The Hunter’s Song
RISE! Sleep no more! ’T is a noble morn:
The dews hang thick on the fringed thorn,
And the frost shrinks back, like a beaten hound,
Under the steaming, steaming ground.
Behold, where the billowy clouds flow by,
And leave us alone in the clear gray sky!
Our horses are ready and steady.—So, ho!
I ’m gone, like a dart from the Tartar’s bow.
Hark, hark!—Who calleth the maiden Morn
From her sleep in the woods and the stubble corn?
The horn,—the horn!
The merry, sweet ring of the hunter’s horn.
Now, thorough the copse, where the fox is found,
And over the stream, at a mighty bound,
And over the high lands, and over the low,
O’er furrows, o’er meadows, the hunters go!
Away!—as a hawk flies full at its prey,
So flieth the hunter, away,—away!
From the burst at the cover till set of sun,
When the red fox dies, and—the day is done!
Hark, hark!—What sound on the wind is borne?
’T is the conquering voice of the hunter’s horn.
The horn,—the horn!
The merry, bold voice of the hunter’s horn.
Sound! Sound the horn! To the hunter good
What ’s the gulley deep or the roaring flood?
Right over he bounds, as the wild stag bounds,
At the heels of his swift, sure, silent hounds.
O, what delight can a mortal lack,
When he once is firm on his horse’s back,
With his stirrups short, and his snaffle strong,
And the blast of the horn for his morning song?
Hark, hark!—Now, home! and dream till morn
Of the bold, sweet sound of the hunter’s horn!
The horn,—the horn!
O, the sound of all sounds is the hunter’s horn!
poem by Barry Cornwall
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An Autumn Landscape
No wind there is that either pipes or moans;
The fields are cold and still; the sky
Is covered with a blue-gray sheet
Of motionless cloud; and at my feet
The river, curling softly by,
Whispers and dimples round its quiet gray stones.
Along the chill green slope that dips and heaves
The road runs rough and silent, lined
With plum-trees, misty and blue-gray,
And poplars pallid as the day,
In masses spectral, undefined,
Pale greenish stems half hid in dry gray leaves.
And on beside the river's sober edge
A long fresh field lies black. Beyond,
Low thickets gray and reddish stand,
Stroked white with birch; and near at hand,
Over a little steel-smooth pond,
Hang multitudes of thin and withering sedge.
Across a waste and solitary rise
A ploughman urges his dull team,
A stooped gray figure with prone brow
That plunges bending to the plough
With strong, uneven steps. The stream
Rings and re-echoes with his furious cries.
Sometimes the lowing of a cow, long-drawn,
Comes from far off; and crows in strings
Pass on the upper silences.
A flock of small gray goldfinches,
Flown down with silvery twitterings,
Rustle among the birch-cones and are gone.
This day the season seems like one that heeds,
With fixed ear and lifted hand,
All moods that yet are known on earth,
All motions that have faintest birth,
If haply she may understand
The utmost inward sense of all her deeds.
poem by Archibald Lampman
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The Killing Frost
There is an enchantment in the Killing Frost
It's the most magical night of the year
When the abundant blooms of Summer
Are put to sleep by Frost's frozen tears.
The Killing Frost arrives here silently
Flying in ahead of Winter's incoming wrath
Covering all things that are of the earth
Putting to sleep all flora in her path.
As the late Autumn sun sinks below the horizon
On this Special Night of the year
Plants which were all alive this past morn will be no more
It's time to make way for Winter's Cheer.
Everything Frost kisses will be put to eternal repose
Adorned by Frost's magical breath during the night
All will be dripping in Diamonds in the Morn
With which to dazzle by soft Morning's light.
Winter will be arriving shortly now
And Frost will take her leave
To make way for fluttering snowflakes
Which will come to dance during the long Winter's Eve.
poem by Christine A Kysely (29 December 2010)
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the Golden Horn Of Istanbul
THE ‘GOLDEN HORN’ OF
ISTANBUL
It is an inlet arm from the Bosphoros Strait,
Which stretches inwards towards the west;
And curves up like a deer’s horn, -
Known to the world as the ‘Golden Horn’!
It separates the old Istanbul’s historic city,
From its modern counterpart in the north;
Forming the world’s longest natural harbor,
A waterway almost 7.5 km long!
The harbor was once the Naval Headquarters
of the Byzantine Empire!
When a heavy chain guarded the inlet’s
entrance;
Stretching across the mouth of the ‘Horn’ entire;
From the Old City to the Galata Tower! *
The old city stands on seven hillocks, once
known as the ‘City of Seven Hills’;
And top of every rise, a temple, or a mosque
or a monument is seen, -
With its steeples, towers and minarets, the city
stands solemnly still!
Each building here has a story to tell;
In 1453 to the Ottoman Turks the city fell!
As I stood ruminating on one such high rise,
And saw the sun going down in the west;
The inlet waters appeared bathed in gold,
Glittering in the sun’s setting rays!
And at that moment I realized, as I looked at
the inlet nice and long,
How aptly it has been named, as the inlet of
‘The Golden Horn’!
-Raj Nandy
New Delhi
13 May 09
(*Galata Tower is located at the entrance of
the inlet- in the northern half of the city.
‘The Golden Horn’ waterway divides the
city of Istanbul into northern & southern
halves!)
Sunset
From this windy bridge at rest,
In some former curious hour,
We have watched the city's hue,
All along the orange west,
Cupola and pointed tower,
Darken into solid blue.
Tho' the biting north wind breaks
Full across this drifted hold,
Let us stand with iced cheeks
Watching westward as of old;
Past the violet mountain-head
To the farthest fringe of pine,
Where far off the purple-red
Narrows to a dusky line,
And the last pale splendours die
Slowly from the olive sky;
Till the thin clouds wear away
Into threads of purple-gray,
And the sudden stars between
Brighten in the pallid green;
Till above the spacious east,
Slow returned one by one,
Like pale prisoners released
From the dungeons of the sun,
Capella and her train appear
In the glittering Charioteer;
Till the rounded moon shall grow
Great above the eastern snow,
Shining into burnished gold;
And the silver earth outrolled,
In the misty yellow light,
Shall take on the width of night.
poem by Archibald Lampman
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Football Fans
We're Glenavon loyal true
Football fans in royal blue,
Hear us see us clap our hands
Hear us see us in the stands.
Saturday on football day
It's Mourneview park for for us,
Saturday the games away
We pile onto the bus.
We fly our flags big banner's long
Shout our voice we sing our song.
We're the best fans ever seen
All our pride play on the green.
Our team manager he's the man
Our team manager has a plan
The plans for all the team in blue
To win the league and see it through.
poem by Gerald Follis Lurgan
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A Brave Refrain
When snow is here, and the trees look weird,
And the knuckled twigs are gloved with frost;
When the breath congeals in the drover's beard,
And the old pathway to the barn is lost;
When the rooster's crow is sad to hear,
And the stamp of the stabled horse is vain,
And the tone of the cow-bell grieves the ear--
O then is the time for a brave refrain!
When the gears hang stiff on the harness-peg,
And the tallow gleams in frozen streaks;
And the old hen stands on a lonesome leg,
And the pump sounds hoarse and the handle squeaks;
When the woodpile lies in a shrouded heap,
And the frost is scratched from the window-pane
And anxious eyes from the inside peep--
O then is the time for a brave refrain!
When the ax-helve warms at the chimney-jamb,
And hob-nailed shoes on the hearth below,
And the house-cat curls in a slumber calm,
And the eight-day clock ticks loud and slow;
When the harsh broom-handle jabs the ceil
'Neath the kitchen-loft, and the drowsy brain
Sniffs the breath of the morning meal--
O then is the time for a brave refrain!
ENVOI
When the skillet seethes, and a blubbering hot
Tilts the lid of the coffee-pot,
And the scent of the buckwheat cake grows plain--
O then is the time for a brave refrain!
poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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Bullocky Bill
FROM a river siding, the railway town,
Or the dull new port there three days down,
Forward and back on the up-hill track,
With a creak of the jinker, a ringing crack,
Slow as a funeral, sure as steam,
Bullocky Bill and his old red team.
Ploughing around by the ti-tree scrub,
Four wheels down to the creeping hub,
Swaying they go, with their heads all low,
Bally, and Splodger, and Spot, and Jo.
Men in the ranges much esteem
Bullocky Bill and his old red team.
Worming about where the tall trees spring,
Surging ahead when the clay bogs cling;
A rattle of lash and of language rash
On the narrow edge of immortal smash.
He’d thread a bead or walk a beam,
Bullocky Bill with his old red team.
Climbing a ridge where the red stars ride;
Straddling down on the other side,
With a whistle and grind, and a scramble blind,
And a thundering gum-tree slung behind.
But they always get there, hill or stream,
Bullocky Bill and his old red team.
Engines or stamps for the mines about,
Tools for the men who are leading out;
Tucker, and boose, and the latest news
Back where the bunyip stirs the ooze.
Pioneers with the best we deem
Bullocky Bill and his old red team.
poem by Edward George Dyson
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I'm not trying to get back on a team, but I have tried to stay in shape just in case a team needs a point guard. A championship team. I wouldn't go to any other team.
quote by Tim Hardaway
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Tower
One, from his high bright window in a tower,
Leans out, as evening falls,
And sees the advancing curtain of the shower
Splashing its silver on roofs and walls:
Sees how, swift as a shadow, it crosses the city,
And murmurs beyond far walls to the sea,
Leaving a glimmer of water in the dark canyons,
And silver falling from eave and tree.
One, from his high bright window, looking down,
Peers like a dreamer over the rain-bright town,
And thinks its towers are like a dream.
The western windows flame in the sun's last flare,
Pale roofs begin to gleam.
Looking down from a window high in a wall
He sees us all;
Lifting our pallid faces towards the rain,
Searching the sky, and going our ways again,
Standing in doorways, waiting under the trees . . .
There, in the high bright window he dreams, and sees
What we are blind to,-we who mass and crowd
From wall to wall in the darkening of a cloud.
The gulls drift slowly above the city of towers,
Over the roofs to the darkening sea they fly;
Night falls swiftly on an evening of rain.
The yellow lamps wink one by one again.
The towers reach higher and blacker against the sky.
poem by Conrad Potter Aiken
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The House Of Dust: Part 01: 02: One, from his high bright window in a tower
One, from his high bright window in a tower,
Leans out, as evening falls,
And sees the advancing curtain of the shower
Splashing its silver on roofs and walls:
Sees how, swift as a shadow, it crosses the city,
And murmurs beyond far walls to the sea,
Leaving a glimmer of water in the dark canyons,
And silver falling from eave and tree.
One, from his high bright window, looking down,
Peers like a dreamer over the rain-bright town,
And thinks its towers are like a dream.
The western windows flame in the sun's last flare,
Pale roofs begin to gleam.
Looking down from a window high in a wall
He sees us all;
Lifting our pallid faces towards the rain,
Searching the sky, and going our ways again,
Standing in doorways, waiting under the trees . . .
There, in the high bright window he dreams, and sees
What we are blind to,—we who mass and crowd
From wall to wall in the darkening of a cloud.
The gulls drift slowly above the city of towers,
Over the roofs to the darkening sea they fly;
Night falls swiftly on an evening of rain.
The yellow lamps wink one by one again.
The towers reach higher and blacker against the sky.
poem by Conrad Potter Aiken
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The Frost Spirit
He comes, - he comes, - the Frost Spirit comes!
You may trace his footsteps now
On the naked woods and the blasted fields
And the brown hill's withered brow.
He has smitten the leaves of the gray old trees
Where their pleasant green came forth,
And the winds, which follow wherever he goes,
Have shaken them down to earth.
He comes, - he comes, - the Frost Spirit comes!
From the frozen Labrador,
From the icy bridge of the northern seas,
Which the white bear wanders o'er,
Where the fisherman's sail is stiff with ice,
And the luckless forms below
In the sunless cold of the lingering night
Into marble statues grow!
He comes, - he comes, - the Frost Spirit comes!
On the rushing Northern blast,
And the dark Norwegian pines have bowed
As his fearful breath went past.
With an unscorched wing he has hurried on,
Where the fires of Hecla glow
On the darkly beautiful sky above
And the ancient ice below.
He comes, - he comes, - the Frost Spirit comes!
And the quiet lake shall feel
The torpid touch of his glazing breath,
And ring to the skater's heel;
And the streams which danced on the broken rocks,
Or sang to the leaning grass,
Shall bow again to their winter chain,
And in mournful silence pass.
He comes, - he comes, - the Frost Spirit comes!
Let us meet him as we may,
And turn with the light of the parlor-fire
His evil power away;
And gather closer the circle 'round,
When the firelight dances high,
And laugh at the shriek of the baffled Fiend
As his sounding wing goes by!
poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
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5. Be Warned
Blue lights flashing
People dashing
Squealing brakes
Cars are crashing
Early warnings
None came late
No one noticed
Wouldn’t wait
Frost last night
Then came rain
Froze on top
Then frost again
Blinkered drivers
Half asleep
Saw no warning
Speeds to keep
Foot down hard
Started sliding
Now in an ambulance
They are riding
poem by David Threadgold (2008)
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Frost
Frost covers fallen bridges,
As it does the ones that stand.
The whiteness settles overywhere.
It's gone when I touch your hand.
The morning is when we see the frost,
Yet we know it came the night before.
I've been awake, still it has come;
Quiet and cold to our locked door.
We have watched frost go.
Have you ever seen it start,
As it wanders up the gulch
And slinks into our hearts?
Then there's always morninig,
Or you suppose ther'll always be.
The sun the frost is melting
As we go on, you and me.
We need to talk more when it's forming,
Not just be glad when it's gone,
For, unlike flowers, we seen to wither,
Warmed only by the dawn.
poem by Tom J. Mariani
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O City, Look the Eastward Way
O CITY, look the Eastward way!
Beyond thy roofs of shadowy red and grey
Floats like a lily on the airy stream,
Radiant and vast, a cloud,
Around whose billowy head
Splendour from out the glooming West is shed
As if it were not ever to take flight,—
And on its edge of gleam
In the clear blue of waning afternoon,
Faint as a spirit slipping from the shroud,
Faint, and yet gathering light,
The Moon.
O city, dream and pray!
This is thy evensong at close of day.
poem by Enid Derham
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Black Harry's Team
No soft-skinned Durham steers are they,
No Devons plump and red,
But brindled, black and iron-grey
That mark the mountain-bred;
For mountain-bred and mountain-broke,
With sullen eyes agleam,
No stranger's hand could put a yoke
On old Black Harry's team.
Pull out, pull out, at break of morn
The creeks are running white,
And Tiger, Spot and Snailey-horn
Must bend their bows by night;
And axles, wheels, and flooring boards
Are swept with flying spray
As shoulder-deep, through mountain fords
The leaders feel their way.
He needs no sign of cross or kirn
To guide him as he goes,
For every twist and every turn
That old black leader knows.
Up mountains steep they heave and strain
Where never wheel has rolled,
And what the toiling leaders gain
The body-bullocks hold.
Where eagle-hawks their eyries make,
On sidlings steep and blind,
He rigs the good old-fashioned brake---
A tree tied on behind.
Up mountains, straining to the full,
Each poler plays his part---
The sullen, stubborn, bullock-pull
That breaks a horse's heart.
Beyond the farthest bridle track
His wheels have blazed the way;
The forest giants, burnt and black,
Are ear-marked by his dray.
Through belts of scrub, where messmates grow
His juggernaut has rolled,
For stumps and saplings have to go
When Harry's team takes hold.
On easy grade and rubber tyre
The tourist car goes through,
They halt a moment to admire
The far-flung mountain view.
The tourist folk would be amazed
If they could get to know
They take the track Black Harry blazed
A Hundred Years Ago.
poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
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Early Works - The Edge Of Winter
The edge of winter
colours blanket the ground
bare trees with skeleton arms
out stretch to catch the wind
sky grey and clouded
wind with biting chill
scarves tightly tied
around necks of passing strangers
roofs white from first frost
cars aside the road will not start
batteries flat not antifreeze
fires chimneys plumes
rosy cheeks, icy breath.
The edge of winter here.
Date unknown
poem by David Harris
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Beginnings
I found you
Right before
My very eyes
And i wasn't looking;
Like a bolt out of
The blue
Lagoon reflecting
Through still waters
That run deep
Like baby blue skies selecting
Are your magnetic eyes
That have frozen
Me into a misty blue velvet trance
A spellbound glance
Enticed by you
Out of the blue
Borne to be ever true
Me and you and our misty blue romance
Straight from: The***Attic Of My Heart
June 7,2009
poem by Theodora Onken
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Which is the strongest?
Team A beat team B,
Team B beat team C
And team C, team A
None is the strongest.
Time is the strongest
12.02.2008
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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