Craft
When, having finished, I shall move my armchair,
The page will gasp, awakened from the strain.
Delirious, she is half asleep at present,
Obedient to suspense and to the rain.
The heaviness of burnt-out ships has numbed her,
Prostrated, weighted down her senseless form;
You cannot dupe this one by false pretences-
It is the poet who will keep her warm.
I told her at an hour (its secret shudder
Vouchsafed by fancy) when the winter will
Light up green screeching ice, fed up with waiting
Behind an office worker's window sill,
And clocks in banks and other public places,
While drinking in the snow and outside's dark,
Will suddenly jump up and strike-their faces
Crossed by the clockhands at the 'seven' mark-
At such a deep, at such a fateful hour,
I made the page wake up and take her chance,
To put on hood and scarf, and venture out to
Descendants, strangers, shaking off her trance.
poem by Boris Pasternak
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Related quotes
Friendship’s Black And White
Romance is writ for me with many names
Of fair loved faces, each page a design
Blazoned and tinctured, this with saffron flames
Enshrining fancy, that with opaline
Rays of mad hopes, half sunlight, half moonshine,
This last with the sole gold of passionate blames
Enjoyed and harvested and made divine
By Love's long memory far outlasting Fame's.
--Leave it untouched, the rose--sweet manuscript.
Youth lies asleep in it, its spellbound knight.
Turn not the leaves lest he should wake dismayed.
This page alone stands open, unequipped
Of any hue save friendship's black and white,
Named with one name that needs not be afraid.
poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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Wind And Window Flower
Lovers, forget your love,
And list to the love of these,
She a window flower,
And he a winter breeze.
When the frosty window veil
Was melted down at noon,
And the cagèd yellow bird
Hung over her in tune,
He marked her through the pane,
He could not help but mark,
And only passed her by,
To come again at dark.
He was a winter wind,
Concerned with ice and snow,
Dead weeds and unmated birds,
And little of love could know.
But he sighed upon the sill,
He gave the sash a shake,
As witness all within
Who lay that night awake.
Perchance he half prevailed
To win her for the flight
From the firelit looking-glass
And warm stove-window light.
But the flower leaned aside
And thought of naught to say,
And morning found the breeze
A hundred miles away.
poem by Robert Frost
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A monologue on 'nothing in particular
Well you know,
It always begins like this
'The day starts'
Half an hour early for me
Clocks set hour an hour early
The day begins
Well morning starts
With a break of sunlight
Flooding through the cracks
In the blinds
In summer it is always much earlier
Than the pre set time on the alarm clock
Which is primed to go off
Half an hour earlier
Inevitably
The light wakes me at sunrise
Which often occurs around five o'clock
Like some cruel trick
I am woken exactly an hour or is it half an hour
Before my alarm clock goes off, half an hour earlier?
Which is set to go off half an hour early
But that never happens in the summer
The lie in ends up a sleep over
In winter this is a different matter again
With no light
So there I am at five in the morning
exactly or, approximately the time
The sun is meant to set
[bar a second or to or maybe a minute
behind or ahead of prediction]
There I am WIDE AWAKE
No lie in
No chance of sleeping
Again
Exept at the WRONG TIME!
Then I recover
Five minutes behind schedule
pull the blind
make a cup of tea
giving myself exactly
thirty minutes
Before drinking it
to get ready for work
Flossing does not happen until
A much later time
There is a ten minute interval
For toast and tea
And tidying away
My watch is set five minutes ahead
Or maybe three minutes
I leave on time
In time for the bus that leaves
Two minutes early
The next one arrives ten minutes late
The driver
Has donated his brain to medical science
Thirty years prior to his death
Give or take a couple of hours or minutes
He slips into a slow coma behind the steering wheel
The world is in slow motion
Catatonia eclipses the traffic
I am now on time
To be late
despite all my carefully timed efforts
Now that was just the beginning of the morning
yvette smith
poem by Yvette Smith
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Half An Hour Of Your Happiness
Your heart is in my hand
I am looking after half an hour of your happiness
I am imagining your sad smile
It seems you depend on me too much
I can feel your heart beating
I am putting it into your half an hour of happiness
It is in a safe place in my hand
It seems you depend on me too much
The rhythm of your heart is getting faster
It is happy in your half an hour of happiness
They are in my shaking unsteady hand
It seems you depend on me too much
Your heart wants to jump out of the cage
Called your half an hour of happiness
I am holding them with both hands and trembling
It seems you depend on me too much
Your heart has gone crazy and I do not know why
I wonder if it will survive your half an hour of happiness
I open my hands and I see two embraced hearts
It seems I depend on you too much
poem by Jankovic Zoran
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The World's Twilight
The hour has come.
What hour?
The two worlds are combining
What worlds?
The worlds of light and dark
Somethings are only visible in the dark or light
The dark, heartless people can't survive in the light
the heartless are trying to kill you,
run to the light
No light may shine on it.
Any lit room is safe
protect your light
Watch your light
let it burn in the night
expect the unexpected
The hour has come
What hour?
Light and dark are combining
Its the hour of Twilight
A very scary and gloomy sight to see
escepially when someone takes it away.
Every world is cut in half
It has a light side and a dark side
Choose what side you will be on.
Always watch your light
poem by Natalie Vail
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Ode to a Blank Page
Ode to a blank page
It’s blue seemingly thin lines flying across the page
Each producing a small space to place your thoughts on
Next lies the taunting red margin
Baring how sparsely you’ve done
You can strike the page with a single blow
Leaving a mark that did no good
Ode to a blank page
Why do you stare?
Taunting and shrieking in my ear
Emptiness fills the page
The blanks intimidate even the strong
How strong it is
To give a cut even to the toughest skin
Ode to a blank page
You know I’m jealous
How I despise all your characteristics
poem by Rachele ...duhh
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40 Past Midnight
Well Im waiting standing on the corner
And its coming 40 past the hour
In the midnight lonely freezing hour
With my insides churning in the gutter
And Im waiting 40 past midnight
Catching rain in the soda light
Wont you come & call me to your window
Please dont leave me waiting on the corner
We could have the best time if you lighten up your life
With my pockets holey in the inside
With my bus ride rolling in the gutter
But if you would only light your lamp ligh
Then I would be here than any other
Well Im waiting 40 past midnight
Catching cold in the pouring rain
Wont you come & take me to your door
So I can take myself home again
When Im waiting standing on the corner
And the soda light begins to flicker
And its getting 40 past the hour
And I think I wont see what I figure
Well Im waiting freezing on the inside
Staring up at your window pane
If you wont come see me this evening
I can see myself here again
song performed by by Ocean Colour Scene
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Poor Boy's Bagatelle
My birthday heralds my first decade of life
The air I breathe clings frozen like an insulting knife,
Icing the inside of the old snow white window panes,
The bed bugs do not stir snug under the iron bed frames,
Fattened in the still of the night by the handy supermarket of me,
I awake, my outside world not a single tree.
The winter’s dawn hurls her strength at the gates,
Of the batteries of terrace homes rattling slates,
Felling chimney pots, as the north wind doth blow,
Coating the cobblestones with sleets of snow.
I move the orange box my makeshift bedside table,
To exit the tiny bedroom, fly down the wooden steps quite able,
Still dark I pull the gas lamp chain and with match I strike,
A warm glow brings the only room old fashioned light.
On top a silk red scarf mum’s card sits
She knows my wish my teeth do grit
With no man of house three shillings hard to find,
But poverties life can sometimes be kind,
I pull the scarf off this oblong thing then well,
There it was this old well worn beautiful bagatelle.,
A few nails a miss with a shiny steel ball,
Some numbers askew where it would fall,
In lifetimes hindsight this was my plasma TV,
My i pod, computer, and mobile phone rolled into one.
I felt the luckiest boy under the sun,
I knew I could really really tell,
I would always love this wonder bagatelle,
What luck to live next door to old ‘Ned’ the ‘Rag an bone man’,
Who found my beautiful bagatelle and loaded it onto his
Wheeler dealer of a pram.
PS. A true memory from a page of my childhood
poem by Ken e Hall
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Upon the Hour
Upon the Hour
By: Adam M. Snow
My wake draws nearer upon the hour;
Call upon, thy upper power.
I wait the time for truth be told,
When the world itself grows cold.
I lie here asleep to tell,
Of this life in worldly hell.
Beware my love of time be told,
Of thy child growing old;
And when your life becomes a knurled,
I will be a whore for the cold world.
poem by Adam M. Snow
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A Poet's Mind To You
The drinking of wine and the eating of meat,
Your red stew is sweet and your lovely meat is tasty;
But incline your ear to me and come to me,
For i am like the spider with a poet's mind to you.
The mystery name of Saturn is like a message to you,
For the watchmen upon the walls of love are all asleep;
So wake up my love and live now with the truth around you.
The heavens are higher than the earth and like,
A poet's mind to you at this side of the river;
But wake up and be aware of the things around you,
And like my thoughts and my mind towards you!
Why do you labour for that which will not satisfy you?
Oh dyed garments of Bozrah! !
For the healing prophetess is at hand;
And i will see you when the rain comes in.
Swell with joy and hope for your dreams,
For all the trees will clap their hands when you succeed!
But the pagan symbols through the deep are about to stop you,
And like the intiation rites for a chief in your homeland.
This is a poet's mind to you,
But Herod's birthday brought the head of john on a plate;
And my ways and thoughts will surely wake you up one day.
You are upon a lofty and a high mountain without a clue,
And as a young man marries a virgin girl;
But like Pharaoh's birthday with a dream,
The rain came down like the snow in the winter time.
Why should you spend money on what is not bread?
And like the lightening which is accompanied by the rain;
For your red stew is very sweet and your meat is very tasty,
But the watchmen upon the walls of love are all asleep.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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A Winter's Tale
Yesterday the fields were only grey with scattered snow,
And now the longest grass-leaves hardly emerge;
Yet her deep footsteps mark the snow, and go
On towards the pines at the hills’ white verge.
I cannot see her, since the mist’s white scarf
Obscures the dark wood and the dull orange sky;
But she’s waiting, I know, impatient and cold, half
Sobs struggling into her frosty sigh.
Why does she come so promptly, when she must know
That she’s only the nearer to the inevitable farewell;
The hill is steep, on the snow my steps are slow—
Why does she come, when she knows what I have to tell?
poem by David Herbert Lawrence
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A Winter Message
A flake of snow in flurry thro’ the air
Had landed as a kiss upon my cheek:
A secret message, just for me to share;
To take to heart but never dare to speak
About or presuppose to other eyes
Your open feelings – distant though they are.
And so, upon your lips, my OWN surprise:
A flake of snow returned from me afar.
Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2010
winter winter winter winter icy winter
winter winter winter winter icy winter
winter winter winter winter icy winter
winter winter winter winter icy winter
poem by Mark R Slaughter
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The Write Place for M lady Chitra
The river here runs slow and deep
The banks on either side are steep
and covered well with foliage.
Through which small creatures slyly creep.
The price of life is vigilance
they can’t afford to take a chance
The brambles form an airy cage
through which they cast a wary glance.
Instinctively they know to hide
for danger lurks on every side
They have no choice they must forage.
It’s tantamount to suicide.
Just one mistake and they will die.
Predators can strike from the sky.
so suddenly and silently
The oldest rules of all apply
to prey and to each predator
Nature red in tooth and claw.
An old but very true adage
which will remain for evermore.
The river flows on placidly
quite unaware apparently
of happenings upon life’s stage..
In undisturbed tranquillity.
The river here runs deep and slow
A favourite place I choose to go
To scribble words upon a page.
my pencil moving to and fro.
My presence does not cause upset
they do not see me as a threat.
Until I move to turn my page.
Though I try not to, I forget.
I watch the watchers watching me.
I pique their curiosity
I find it difficult gauge
who watches who the most closely.
Towards the closing of the day
I have to go but they will stay
safe hidden in the foliage.
From which they very rarely stray.
15/07/2009
http: // blog.myspace.com/poeticpiers
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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The Other Side of the Page
I pass to the other side of the page.
-Pablo Neruda
On the other side of the page
where the last days go,
where the lost poems go,
where the forgotten dreams
breaking up like morning fog
go
go
go
I am preparing myself for death.
I am teaching myself emptiness:
the gambler's hunger for love,
the nun's hunger for God,
the child's hunger for chocolate
in the brown hours
of the dark.
I am teaching myself love:
the lean love of marble
kissed away by rain,
the cold kisses of snow crystals
on granite grave markers,
the soul kisses of snow
as it melts in the spring.
On the other side of the page
I lie making a snow angel
with the arcs
of my arms.
I lie like a fallen skier
who never wants to get up.
I lie with my poles, my pens
flung around me in the snow
too far to reach.
The snow seeps
into the hollows of my bones
& the calcium white of the page
silts me in like a fossil.
I am fixed in my longing for speech,
I am buried in the snowbank of my poems,
I am here where you find me
dead
on the other side of the page.
poem by Erica Jong
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Eveleen's Bower
Oh! weep for the hour,
When to Eveleen's bower,
The Lord of the Valley with false vows came;
The moon hid her light,
From the heavens that night,
And wept behind her clouds o'er the maiden's shame.
The clouds pass'd soon
From the chaste cold moon,
And heaven smiled again with her vestal flame;
But none will see the day,
When the clouds shall pass away,
Which that dark hour left upon Eveleen's fame.
The white snow lay
On the narrow path-way,
When the Lord of the Valley cross'd over the moor;
And many a deep print
On the white snow's tint
Show'd the track of his footstep to Eveleen's door.
The next sun's ray
Soon melted away
Every trace on the path where the false Lord came;
But there's a light above,
Which alone can remove
That stain upon the snow of fair Eveleen's fame.
poem by Thomas Moore
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The Little Girl's Song
Do not mind my crying, Papa, I am not crying for pain.
Do not mind my shaking, Papa, I am not shaking with fear;
Tho' the wild wild wind is bideous to hear,
And I see the snow and the rain.
When will you come back again,
Papa, Papa?
Somebody else that you love, Papa,
Somebody else that you dearly love
Is weary, like me, because you're away.
Sometimes I see her lips tremble and move,
And I seem to know what they're going to say;
And every day, and all the long day,
I long to cry, 'Oh Mamma, Mamma,
When will Papa come back again?'
But before I can say it I see the pain
Creeping up on her white white cheek,
As the sweet sad sunshine creeps up the white wall,
And then I am sorry, and fear to speak;
And slowly the pain goes out of her cheek,
As the sad sweet sunshine goes from the wall.
Oh, I wish I were grown up wise and tall,
That I might throw my arms round her neck
And say, 'Dear Mamma, oh, what is it all
That I see and see and do not see
In your white white face all the livelong day?'
But she hides her grief from a child like me.
When will you come back again,
Papa, Papa?
Where were you going, Papa, Papa?
All this long while have you been on the sea?
When she looks as if she saw far away,
Is she thinking of you, and what does she see?
Are the white sails blowing,
And the blue men rowing,
And are you standing on the high deck
Where we saw you stand till the ship grew gray,
And we watched and watched till the ship was a speck,
And the dark came first to you, far away?
I wish I could see what she can see,
But she hides her grief from a child like me.
When will you come back again,
Papa, Papa?
Don't you remember, Papa, Papa,
How we used to sit by the fire, all three,
And she told me tales while I sat on her knee,
And heard the winter winds roar down the street,
And knock like men at the window pane,
And the louder they roared, oh, it seemed more sweet
To be warm and warm as we used to be,
Sitting at night by the fire, all three?
When will you come back again,
Papa, Papa?
Papa, I like to sit by the fire;
Why does she sit far away in the cold?
If I had but somebody wise and old,
That every day I might cry and say,
'Is she changed, do you think, or do I forget?
Was she always as white as she is to-day?
Did she never carry her head up higher?'
Papa, Papa, if I could but know!
Do you think her voice was always so low?
Did I always see what I seem to see
When I wake up at night and her pillow is wet?
You used to say her hair it was gold-
It looks like silver to me.
But still she tells the same tale that she told,
She sings the same songs when I sit on her knee,
And the house goes on as it went long ago,
When we lived together, all three.
Sometimes my heart seems to sink, Papa,
And I feel as if I could be happy no more.
Is she changed, do you think, Papa,
Or did I dream she was brighter before?
She makes me remember my snowdrop, Papa,
That I forgot in thinking of you,
The sweetest snowdrop that ever I knew!
But I put it out of the sun and the rain:
It was green and white when I put it away,
It had one sweet bell and green leaves four;
It was green and white when I found it that day,
It had one pale bell and green leaves four,
But I was not glad of it any more.
Was it changed, do you think, Papa,
Or did I dream it was brighter before?
Do not mind my crying, Papa,
I am not crying for pain.
Do not mind my shaking, Papa,
I am not shaking for fear;
Tho' the wild wild wind is hideous to hear,
And I see the snow and the rain.
When will you come back again,
Papa, Papa?
poem by Sydney Thompson Dobell
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Sea Of Secrets
Im sinking in
To a sea of secrets
Warm and green
Down and down
Back to times and places never seen
Now and then
I can wake and I remember
Just one secret thing
Through the rain
I can keep a candle burning
Under the skin of the world
Its sinking in
No need for fear of drowning
Drift away
These monsters here
Are only faces I dont wear by day
Now and then
I can wake, and in the mirror
Demons turn to friends
Through the pain
I can dig a little deeper
Under the skin of the world
song performed by by Joe Jackson
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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An Unturned Page
Each morning we awake
to greet a brand new day.
Each night we go to bed
and the day just fades away.
Everyday in our lives
is like an unturned page
and we are merely puppets
on its enormous stage.
We are guided along paths,
shown the right way to go
as the unturned page get written on
from dawn t dusk
by someone’s guiding hand.
When they’ve finished writing,
we go to bed at night
and sleep until the morning light.
Then a new unturned page appears
waiting for us to travel on.
1 June 2008
poem by David Harris
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Write in the quiet hour
Write in the quiet hour
~
while the world still sleeps
a wind blows gently cooling
light eases into darkness
thoughts stir into focus
those names and faces
those far distant places
somewhere to be
someone to see
the world still asleep
a day is beginning
write in the quiet hour
poem by Matthew Holloway
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Really Love The Rain
I really love the rain, I really love the rain,
cast your clouds, hide us from it all, wash away these stains
it's my gift, it's my present, I’d spend an hour walking in it's presence.
It's exactly how I feel man, it's exactly how I feel Ya...,
I really love the rain man…, I really love the rain ya....
I spent all day at work now I’ll spend all night in bed, so
I can get up and do it again cause, I really need that rent cause,
I really need that bread cause, I’m tired of going hungry. I’m
tired of needing help, I just want to live a moment for myself.
As selfish as that seems, I just really need that moment
so I can see my options clearly. So I hope the sky's not clearing,
cause I really love the rain man…
I really love the rain ya…, I really love the rain-
a little shower to calm my mind, a gentle mist and a slight
Breeze, bit of dew drips off the trees.
puddles form but not to your knees, no ones missing
no one bleeds. it's exactly how I feel man.., it's exactly how I feel
ya..., I really love the rain man…, I really love the rain ya...
For my anger there's a storm, let the lightning crash and burn.
There's my hatred, there's my rage, there's no way I could turn the page.
Stumbling in my clumsy ways, I’d probably set the book a blaze.
Let it rain oh, let it rain, show all my emotions, empty all my pain.
Man I really love the rain ya..., I really love the rain.
Its my drug it makes my day, like a pill I’d pop all day.
Run and jump and laugh and play, I’ll stay and dance don't go away.
Man I really love the rain ya..., I really love the rain.
Its my drug it makes my day, like a pill I’d pop all day.
I sit and cry and wonder why, who I am or why I’m here?
man this life just isn’t fair, but at least I have the rain.
it's exactly how I feel man..., it's exactly how I feel ya…,
I really love the rain man..., I really love the rain ya...,
poem by Charles Carrelli
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