Marburg
I quivered. I flared up, and then was extinguished.
I shook. I had made a proposal - but late,
Too late. I was scared, and she had refused me.
I pity her tears, am more blessed than a saint.
I stepped into the square. I could be counted
Among the twice-born. Every leaf on the lime,
Every brick was alive, caring nothing for me,
And reared up to take leave for the last time.
The paving-stones glowed and the street's brow was swarthy,
From under their lids the cobbles looked grim,
Scowled up at the sky, and the wind like a boatman
Was rowing through limes. And each was an emblem.
Be that as it may, I avoided their glances,
Averted my gaze from their greeting or scowling.
I wanted no news of their getting and spending.
I had to get out, so as not to start howling.
The tiles were afloat, and an unblinking noon
Regarded the rooftops. And someone, somewhere
In Marburg, was whistling, at work on a crossbow,
And someone else dressing for the Trinity fair.
Devouring the clouds, the sand showed yellow,
A storm wind was rocking the bushes to and fro,
And the sky had congealed where it touched a sprig
Of woundwort that staunched its flow.
Like any rep Romeo hugging his tragedy,
I reeled through the city rehearsing you.
I carried you all that day, knew you by heart
From the comb in your hair to the foot in your shoe.
And when in your room I fell to my knees,
Embracing this mist, this perfection of frost
(How lovely you are!), this smothering turbulence,
What were you thinking? 'Be sensible!' Lost!
Here lived Martin Luther. The Brothers Grimm, there.
And all things remember and reach out to them:
The sharp-taloned roofs. The gravestones. The trees.
And each is alive. And each is an emblem.
I shall not go tomorrow. Refusal -
More final than parting. We're quits. áll is clear.
And if I abandon the streetlamps, the banks -
Old pavingstones, what will become of me here?
The mist on all sides will unpack its bags,
In both windows will hang up a moon.
And melancholy will slide over the books
And settle with one on the ottoman.
Then why am I scared? Insomnia I know
Like grammar, by heart. I have grown used to that.
In line with the four square panes of my window
Dawn will lay out her diaphanous mat.
The nights now sit down to play chess with me
Where ivory moonlight chequers the floor.
It smells of acacia, the windows are open,
And passion, a grey witness, stands by the door.
The poplar is king. I play with insomnia.
The queen is a nightingale I can hear calling.
I reach for the nightingale. And the night wins.
The pieces make way for the white face of morning.
poem by Boris Pasternak
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Related quotes
A ballad that we do not perish
Those who sailed at dawn
but will never return
left their trace on a wave--
a shell fell to the bottom of the sea
beautiful as lips turned to stone
those who walked on a sandy road
but could not reach the shuttered windows
though they already saw the roofs--
they have found shelter in a bell of air
but those who leave behind only
a room grown cold a few books
an empty inkwell white paper--
in truth they have not completely died
their whisper travels through thickets of wallpaper
their level head still lives in the ceiling
their paradise was made of air
of water lime and earth an angel of wind
will pulverize the body in its hand
they will be
carried over the meadows of this world
poem by Zbigniew Herbert
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Here Comes Yet Another Day
Here comes yet another day, creeping through my window.
Drank myself to sleep last night, beer stains on my pillow.
I gotta pull my things together,
The night can last forever.
Here comes a new dawn, here comes a new day
Tune up start to play, just like any other day.
Cant stop, cant be late, mustnt make the people wait.
Cant even comb my hair or even change my underwear,
Here comes a new dawn, here comes a new day,
Tune up start to play, just like any other day.
There goes another night, here comes another flight,
Cant stop gotta go, here comes yet another show.
Gotta pack up my clothes, brush my teeth, blow my nose.
No time to use the john, gotta keep a rollin on.
Here comes a new day, here comes a new stage,
Tune up start to play, just like any other day.
Made a lot of conversation, talked a lot of weather,
I hope we meet again some day, and spend some time together.
No time for affection,
Im moving in a new direction.
Here comes a new dawn, here comes a new day,
Tune up start to play, just like any other day.
Cant stop, cant be late, mustnt make the people wait.
Cant stop to comb my hair or even change my underwear.
See that morning break, oh lord, here comes yet another day,
Here comes a new dawn, here comes a new day
Tune up start to play, just like any other day.
song performed by by Kinks
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Three Maidens
There were three maidens met on the highway;
The sun was down, the night was late:
And two sang loud with the birds of May,
O the nightingale is merry with its mate.
Said they to the youngest, Why walk you there so still?
The land is dark, the night is late:
O, but the heart in my side is ill,
And the nightingale will languish for its mate.
Said they to the youngest, Of lovers there is store;
The moon mounts up, the night is late:
O, I shall look on man no more,
And the nightingale is dumb without its mate.
Said they to the youngest, Uncross your arms and sing;
The moon mounts high, the night is late:
O my dear lover can hear no thing,
And the nightingale sings only to its mate.
They slew him in revenge, and his true-love was his lure;
The moon is pale, the night is late:
His grave is shallow on the moor;
O the nightingale is dying for its mate.
His blood is on his breast, and the moss-roots at his hair;
The moon is chill, the night is late:
But I will lie beside him there:
O the nightingale is dying for its mate.
poem by George Meredith
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~Insomnia~
No sight
Insomnia
I dream
I'm awake
I sleep
Mingle between both
Insomnia
Blurry
Fuzzy
Awake all night
I'm not alone
Insomnia
No sleep
I'm tired
Dusk is death
Dawn is suicide
Insomnia
Less sleep
I'm awake more
Time slips
Lake of sleep
Insomnia
Rain of dreams
Lucid yet unclear
I reach
Grasp nothing
Insomnia
Awake
Asleep
Both
Same time
Insomnia
poem by Andrew John Morra
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The Sequel to a Reminiscence
Not in the street and not in the square,
The street and square where you went and came;
With shuttered casement your house stands bare,
Men hush their voice when they speak your name.
I, too, can play at the vain pretence,
Can feign you dead; while a voice sounds clear
In the inmost depths of my heart: Go hence,
Go, find your friend who is far from here.
Not here, but somewhere where I can reach!
Can a man with motion, hearing and sight,
And a thought that answered my thought and speech,
Be utterly lost and vanished quite?
Whose hand was warm in my hand last week? . .
My heart beat fast as I neared the gate--
Was it this I had come to seek,
"A stone that stared with your name and date;"
A hideous, turfless, fresh-made mound;
A silence more cold than the wind that blew?
What had I lost, and what had I found?
My flowers that mocked me fell to the ground--
Then, and then only, my spirit knew.
The Land of the Exile
Mother, the light has grown grey in the sky; I do not know what
the time is.
There is no fun in my play, so I have come to you. It is
Saturday, our holiday.
Leave off your work, mother; sit here by the window and tell
me where the desert of Tepantar in the fairy tale is.
The shadow of the rains has covered the day from end to end.
The fierce lightning is scratching the sky with its nails.
When the clouds rumble and it thunders, I love to be afraid
in my heart and cling to you.
When the heavy rain patters for hours on the bamboo leaves,
and our windows shake and rattle at the gusts of wind, I like to
sit alone in the room, mother, with you, and hear you talk about
the desert of Tepantar in the fairy tale.
Where is it, mother, on the shore of what sea, at the foot of
what hills, in the kingdom of what king?
There are no hedges there to mark the fields, no footpath
across it by which the villagers reach their village in the
evening, or the woman who gathers dry sticks in the forest can
bring her load to the market. With patches of yellow grass in the
sand and only one tree where the pair of wise old birds have their
nest, lies the desert of Tepantar.
I can imagine how, on just such a cloudy day, the young son
of the king is riding alone on a grey horse through the desert, in
search of the princess who lies imprisoned in the giant's palace
across that unknown water.
When the haze of the rain comes down in the distant sky, and
lightning starts up like a sudden fit of pain, does he remember his
unhappy mother, abandoned by the king, sweeping the cow-stall and
wiping her eyes, while he rides through the desert of Tepantar in
the fairy tale?
See, mother, it is almost dark before the day is over, and
thee are no travellers yonder on the village road.
The shepherd boy has gone home early from the pasture, and men
have left their fields to sit on mats under the eaves of their
huts, watching the scowling clouds.
Mother, I have left all my books on the shelf-do not ask me
to do my lessons now.
When I grow up and am bid like my father, I shall learn all
that must be learnt.
But just for today, tell me, mother, where the desert of
Tepantar in the fairy tale is.
poem by Rabindranath Tagore
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A Nightingale Sang In Berkeley Square
That certain night, the night we met,
There was magic abroad in the air.
There were angels dining at the ritz,
And a nightingale sang in berkeley square.
I may be right, I may be wrong,
But Im perfectly willing to swear
That when you turned and smiled at me,
A nightingale sang in berkeley square.
The moon that lingered over londontown
Poor puzzled moon, he wore a frown.
How could he know that we two were so in love?
The whole darn world seemed upside down.
The streets of town were paved with stars,
It was such a romantic affair.
And as we kissed and said goodnight,
A nightingale sang in berkeley square.
~interlude~
When dawn came stealing up, all gold and blue
To interrupt our rendez-vous,
I still remember how you smiled and said,
Was that a dream? or was it true?
Our homeward step was just as light
As the dancing of fred astaire,
And like an echo far away
A nightingale sang in berkeley square.
song performed by by Nat King Cole
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Nightingale Sang In Berkeley Square
When two lovers meet in Mayfair, so the legends tell,
Songbirds sing; winter turns to spring.
Every winding street in Mayfair falls beneath the spell.
I know such enchantment can be, 'cos it happened one evening to me:
That certain night, the night we met,
There was magic abroad in the air,
There were angels dining at the Ritz,
And a nightingale sang in Berkeley Square.
I may be right, I may be wrong,
But I'm perfectly willing to swear
That when you turned and smiled at me
A nightingale sang in Berkeley Square.
The moon that lingered over London town,
Poor puzzled moon, he wore a frown.
How could he know we two were so in love?
The whole darn world seemed upside down
The streets of town were paved with stars;
It was such a romantic affair.
And, as we kissed and said 'goodnight',
A nightingale sang in Berkeley Square
When dawn came stealing up all gold and blue
To interrupt our rendezvous,
I still remember how you smiled and said,
"Was that a dream or was it true?"
Our homeward step was just as light
As the tap-dancing feet of Astaire
And, like an echo far away,
A nightingale sang in Berkeley Square
I know 'cos I was there,
That night in Berkeley Square.
song performed by by Rod Stewart
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Where Does The Wind Go
Where does the wind go on cold, cold nights
Out of the sight of the bright sunlight,
Under the gaze of the glowing moon,
When all the world is tired and sleeping;
Moaning and carrying on something fierce
Could it be that the wind is weeping?
Where does the wind hide it's broken heart,
Out on the lake, around the boat
And even when no one’s there to hear,
Does the wind ever look for an alibi
When it's so quiet, you can hear your breath,
But the wind only heaves one threadbare sigh?
Where is the place wind could stay it's breeze;
So fidgety, flighty and full of glee
Holding it's breath till the doors fell in;
The windows all cracking their window jams,
Saving it all for a winter's storm
When the trees bend as low as they can.
poem by Patti Masterman
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Morning Song Of Senlin
It is morning, Senlin says, and in the morning
When the light drips through the shutters like the dew,
I arise, I face the sunrise,
And do the things my fathers learned to do.
Stars in the purple dusk above the rooftops
Pale in a saffron mist and seem to die,
And I myself on a swiftly tilting planet
Stand before a glass and tie my tie.
Vine leaves tap my window,
Dew-drops sing to the garden stones,
The robin chips in the chinaberry tree
Repeating three clear tones.
It is morning. I stand by the mirror
And tie my tie once more.
While waves far off in a pale rose twilight
Crash on a white sand shore.
I stand by a mirror and comb my hair:
How small and white my face!—
The green earth tilts through a sphere of air
And bathes in a flame of space.
There are houses hanging above the stars
And stars hung under a sea. . .
And a sun far off in a shell of silence
Dapples my walls for me. . .
It is morning, Senlin says, and in the morning
Should I not pause in the light to remember God?
Upright and firm I stand on a star unstable,
He is immense and lonely as a cloud.
I will dedicate this moment before my mirror
To him alone, and for him I will comb my hair.
Accept these humble offerings, cloud of silence!
I will think of you as I descend the stair.
Vine leaves tap my window,
The snail-track shines on the stones,
Dew-drops flash from the chinaberry tree
Repeating two clear tones.
It is morning, I awake from a bed of silence,
Shining I rise from the starless waters of sleep.
The walls are about me still as in the evening,
I am the same, and the same name still I keep.
The earth revolves with me, yet makes no motion,
The stars pale silently in a coral sky.
In a whistling void I stand before my mirror,
Unconcerned, I tie my tie.
There are horses neighing on far-off hills
Tossing their long white manes,
And mountains flash in the rose-white dusk,
Their shoulders black with rains. . .
It is morning. I stand by the mirror
And surprise my soul once more;
The blue air rushes above my ceiling,
There are suns beneath my floor. . .
. . . It is morning, Senlin says, I ascend from darkness
And depart on the winds of space for I know not where,
My watch is wound, a key is in my pocket,
And the sky is darkened as I descend the stair.
There are shadows across the windows, clouds in heaven,
And a god among the stars; and I will go
Thinking of him as I might think of daybreak
And humming a tune I know. . .
Vine-leaves tap at the window,
Dew-drops sing to the garden stones,
The robin chirps in the chinaberry tree
Repeating three clear tones.
poem by Conrad Potter Aiken
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Insomnia
Im running in quicksand
Somethings haunting me
The guilty past Ive buried
My mind wont let me sleep
Ill do anything for peace - I keep waking up
A solemn oath I make
Cross my heart please let me sleep - I keep waking up
How much more do I take
My head is talking to me
I dont know what it needs
But the loudest voice
Is the one I heed
Insomnia, my swollen bloodshot eyes
Insomnia, awake till morning light
Insomnia, stirring deep inside
Insomnia, somebody turn out the lights
I cant sleep - insomnia
Im twisting and turning - I keep waking up
The madness I must tame
My candle is burning - I keep waking up
Both ends again today
The whole house is creaking
I know theyre out there
The things kept from sight
I beg to the shadows
I cant sleep
Insomnia, footsteps on the walk
Insomnia, I hear someone knock
Insomnia, I wish it was a dream
Insomnia, can you hear me scream
song performed by by Megadeth
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Ancestral Dwelling
Dear to my heart are the ancestral dwellings of America,
Dearer than if they were haunted by ghosts of royal splendour;
These are the homes that were built by the brave beginners of a nation,
They are simple enough to be great, and full of a friendly dignity.
I love the old white farmhouses nestled in New England valleys,
Ample and long and low, with elm-trees feathering over them:
Borders of box in the yard, and lilacs, and old-fashioned Howers,
A fan-light above the door, and little square panes in the windows,
The wood-shed piled with maple and birch and hickory ready for winter,
The gambrel-roof with its garret crowded with household relics, --
All the tokens of prudent thrift and the spirit of self-reliance.
I love the look of the shingled houses that front the ocean;
Their backs are bowed, and their lichened sides are weather-beaten;
Soft in their colour as grey pearls, they are full of patience and courage.
They seem to grow out of the rocks, there is something indomitable about them:
Facing the briny wind in a lonely land they stand undaunted,
While the thin blue line of smoke from the square-built chimney rises,
Telling of shelter for man, with room for a hearth and a cradle.
I love the stately southern mansions with their tall white columns,
They look through avenues of trees, over fields where the cotton is growing;
I can see the flutter of white frocks along their shady porches,
Music and laughter float from the windows, the yards are full of hounds and horses.
They have all ridden away, yet the houses have not forgotten,
They are proud of their name and place, and their doors are always open,
For the thing they remember best is the pride of their ancient hospitality.
In the towns I love the discreet and tranquil Quaker dwellings,
With their demure brick faces and immaculate white-stone doorsteps;
And the gabled houses of the Dutch, with their high stoops and iron railings,
(I can see their little brass knobs shining in the morning sunlight);
And the solid houses of the descendants of the Puritans,
Fronting the street with their narrow doors and dormer-windows;
And the triple-galleried, many-pillared mansions of Charleston,
Standing sideways in their gardens full of roses and magnolias.
Yes, they are all dear to my heart, and in my eyes they are beautiful;
For under their roofs were nourished the thoughts that have made the nation;
The glory and strength of America came from her ancestral dwellings.
poem by Henry Van Dyke
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Unexpected
Dim looked the stars then disappeared
Behind the clouds pale moon appeared.
Like a damsel after a shower,
Combed hair on face lower.
The clouds passed the sky cleared,
The stars and moon again appeared.
As fairy moving away her hair,
Her face appeared so clean and fair.
Things looked calm the night waning,
The clouds gathered anew the planning.
A shawl the sky wore again,
The bitter breeze again began.
On chest of earth fell flakes of snow,
No dawn joy, no life's flow.
The trees and roofs were clothed in white,
Thus harsh became a pleasant night.
poem by Jahan zaib
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Playground
I climb up, spending daylight
Slide down drunken on the other side
Some sweet girl, playing my wife,
Runs off with a boy whose bike shell ride
Playground (its a playground)
Marked by the masters and bruised by the bullies in the
Playground (its a playground)
Never stop rehearsing, rehearsing for the big square world
Bells will ring, door flings open
Hare and greyhound in the old kiss chase
Youve been caught, game has ended
Smack on kisser from her slap on face
Playground (its a playground)
Were marked by the masters and bruised by the bullies in the
Playground (its a playground)
Never stop rehearsing, rehearsing for the big square world
Watch the leaves all tear away (one by one)
Leaving you but lined like an exercise book
What did your report once say (know the one)
This boy must try harder to please
From down on his knees
Playground, playground, playground, playground, playground,
Playground, playground, playground
Brain gets bent, heart gets broken
You cant jump off once the page is turned
School is out but never over
Thats the only lesson you can learn
Playground (its a playground)
Were marked by the masters and bruised by the bullies in the
Playground (its a playground)
Never stop rehearsing, rehearsing for the big square
Playground (its a playground)
Go for the high jump if you let em push you in the
Playground (its a playground)
Theres no escaping, escaping from their big square world
You may leave school, but it never leaves you
song performed by by Xtc
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Bombsite Conversation.
Fay sat beside you
on the concrete stairs
of Banks House
looking out
into the Square
where young girls
played skip rope
or boys having toy guns
reenacted WW2
taking no prisoners
firing noisy cap guns
and Fay said
where shall we go?
where do you want to go?
you said
away from the noisy guns
and skip rope games
she replied
and so you both got up
and went out
into the Square
and down the slope
the morning sun
blessing your heads
she in her summery dress
of yellow and orange flowers
white socks and sandals
and you in your grey tee shirt
and jeans and battered
black shoes
and you walked up
Meadow Row
between the houses
on either side until you turned right
by the public house
and onto the bombsite
behind the greengrocer store
and there you both sat
on the remains of a wall
looking around the ruins
and wild flowers
growing between bricks
and broken concrete blocks
and Fay said
I wonder who lived here
when the bombs fell?
what did they feel?
you studied her fair hair
tied in a bow
her blue eyes
scanning the scene
the white and yellow flowers
the weedy green
scared I guess
you said
I would be
she said
my mum said
she hid under
the dining room table
with her niece
where she lived
when the bombs fell
and there was the sound
of bombs falling
and explosions
and bangs
and people calling
and children crying
you said
Fay put her arm
under yours
and squeezed it tight
and lay her head
on your shoulder
and she whispered
I'm glad we
weren't here then
glad we were born
after the War
me too
you said
and she squeezed
your arm tightly
some more.
poem by Terry Collett
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Come, Pretty School-Girl!
On this rolling planet ever have you seen
A home so like a palace waiting for its queen? --
A dwelling place so fair,
So fill'd with treasures rare,
As the little white cottage on Evergreen Square?
Come, pretty school girl! lay your books aside;
Yes graduate tomorrow -- tomorrow be my bride;
My fortune share,
And reign queen there,
In the little white cottage on Evergreen Square.
Red as are the roses climbing on its wall,
Your cheeks of richer crimson shall out-bloom them all.
Your eyes (beyond compare)
A brighter gleam shall wear,
In the little white cottage on Everygreen Square.
Flow'rs of rarest fragrance all the year shall bloom,
And singing birds make music in your chosen room.
Come, breathe its balmy air!
Come, charm away my care,
In the little white cottage on Everygreen Square.
poem by Henry Clay Work
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A November Night
There! See the line of lights,
A chain of stars down either side the street --
Why can't you lift the chain and give it to me,
A necklace for my throat? I'd twist it round
And you could play with it. You smile at me
As though I were a little dreamy child
Behind whose eyes the fairies live. . . . And see,
The people on the street look up at us
All envious. We are a king and queen,
Our royal carriage is a motor bus,
We watch our subjects with a haughty joy. . . .
How still you are! Have you been hard at work
And are you tired to-night? It is so long
Since I have seen you -- four whole days, I think.
My heart is crowded full of foolish thoughts
Like early flowers in an April meadow,
And I must give them to you, all of them,
Before they fade. The people I have met,
The play I saw, the trivial, shifting things
That loom too big or shrink too little, shadows
That hurry, gesturing along a wall,
Haunting or gay -- and yet they all grow real
And take their proper size here in my heart
When you have seen them. . . . There's the Plaza now,
A lake of light! To-night it almost seems
That all the lights are gathered in your eyes,
Drawn somehow toward you. See the open park
Lying below us with a million lamps
Scattered in wise disorder like the stars.
We look down on them as God must look down
On constellations floating under Him
Tangled in clouds. . . . Come, then, and let us walk
Since we have reached the park. It is our garden,
All black and blossomless this winter night,
But we bring April with us, you and I;
We set the whole world on the trail of spring.
I think that every path we ever took
Has marked our footprints in mysterious fire,
Delicate gold that only fairies see.
When they wake up at dawn in hollow tree-trunks
And come out on the drowsy park, they look
Along the empty paths and say, "Oh, here
They went, and here, and here, and here! Come, see,
Here is their bench, take hands and let us dance
About it in a windy ring and make
A circle round it only they can cross
When they come back again!" . . . Look at the lake --
Do you remember how we watched the swans
That night in late October while they slept?
Swans must have stately dreams, I think. But now
The lake bears only thin reflected lights
That shake a little. How I long to take
One from the cold black water -- new-made gold
To give you in your hand! And see, and see,
There is a star, deep in the lake, a star!
Oh, dimmer than a pearl -- if you stoop down
Your hand could almost reach it up to me. . . .
There was a new frail yellow moon to-night --
I wish you could have had it for a cup
With stars like dew to fill it to the brim. . . .
How cold it is! Even the lights are cold;
They have put shawls of fog around them, see!
What if the air should grow so dimly white
That we would lose our way along the paths
Made new by walls of moving mist receding
The more we follow. . . . What a silver night!
That was our bench the time you said to me
The long new poem -- but how different now,
How eerie with the curtain of the fog
Making it strange to all the friendly trees!
There is no wind, and yet great curving scrolls
Carve themselves, ever changing, in the mist.
Walk on a little, let me stand here watching
To see you, too, grown strange to me and far. . . .
I used to wonder how the park would be
If one night we could have it all alone --
No lovers with close arm-encircled waists
To whisper and break in upon our dreams.
And now we have it! Every wish comes true!
We are alone now in a fleecy world;
Even the stars have gone. We two alone!
poem by Sara Teasdale
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Shattered windows, Colors of white
Across the street is a new house with a room painted red, with no holes of white.
Next to me, a house purple, with its color pealing off, with holes of black and white
At the end of the street, an old house once yellow, what now remains white.
The sound of a hammer building a house, entering a place with a color unknown.
On the street,
Windows covered with ice
Some shine with light.
Some broken
Some fixed
Some lost, out of sight.
A house, two blocks from here.
Shines with lights of yellow, red, and green everywhere.
A wall keeping the wind from blowing anywhere.
The house next door, at the dawn of the day.
Paints its room black, and peals the color away.
The wall crumbles.
The wind blows across the colors of yellow, red and green
Breaks all the windows.
Turns the yellow to blue, red to black, and green to white.
The house two blocks away.
Adds a line of yellow red and green everyday.
To allow the house of blue, black and white to shine for us some day.
poem by Linda ErikssonBique
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Cliff House
When the sun has set in the wintertime
And I'm all alone in this grey old house,
I bolt the shutters and pull the blinds
And set a spark to the candlewax;
The wind runs howling about the eaves,
The shutters chatter, the wind-cock spins,
The breakers clatter and clash below
As my world returns to me, widdershins.
It's then that I hear my mother's voice
So faint at first in the storm outside,
She sighs and moans, and I hear her plead
The length and breadth of the countryside.
Her voice soughs out from the aspens near,
Quivers in ferns and rocks, as if
No year that followed has spent her need
For still she sobs at the edge of the cliff.
Her voice comes whispering under the door
I plug my ears and I cry out loud:
'Leave me, mother, you worked your will,
You earned your fee of a graveyard shroud! '
Still she mutters and moans for him
The shape that darkened our outer door,
Whenever my father was not around
I'd hear his steps on the oaken floor.
Then I'd be sent to my lonely room
And told to play as she locked me in,
Her eyes were bright and her tone was gay
As she breathless, left for her wayward sin.
I heard them laugh in the room above,
The steady beat as they rocked the bed,
And then he'd bellow, and she would scream
As I pulled the covers right over my head.
On winter nights she would pace the floor,
Impatient then, and she'd peer outside,
Men with torches were on the beach
And I'd hear them curse at the rising tide.
But then I'd peek through my window shades
To see them marching up over the hill,
Carrying barrels and flagons of wine
To the village, seen from my window-sill.
She caught me once and she screamed in fright,
'You never, never must look, you see!
Those men are phantoms, they're only ghosts
From wrecks aground on the outer key.'
Then later came the knock at the door,
I saw the shadow, the wide brimmed hat,
And as she turned the key in the lock,
I heard her whisper, and sigh: 'Oh Jack! '
I asked her once who the stranger was
Who came so late, it was awful queer,
'It's always dark when he comes to call,
He never comes when my father's here.'
My mother grimaced, and turned quite pale
Then said, 'he brings us our victuals, son,
Tea and coffee, sugar and salt,
And a bushel of wheat and barleycorn.'
One day, a team of Revenue Men
Were waiting there in the cove below,
A gale was blowing, the breakers crashed,
I woke when the early rooster crowed.
Then lights and men in a mad melee
And a gun went off and a scream of pain,
I watched as they marched them over the hill,
A line of phantoms encased in chain.
My mother ran from the open door,
Out to the windswept cliff she fled,
I heard her moan as she looked on down
At the figure that lay on the beach, stone dead.
My father followed her, looking grim
As he stood behind in the driving rain,
But mother fell to her knees, and wailed
Like a banshee whirled in a pit of pain.
I left the window, I crossed the room,
I took the stairs at a run that day,
The door lay open to morning gloom
I raced on out in the pouring rain.
But over toward the edge of the cliff
I could see my father, looking down,
Mother lay on the beach below, while
All my father could do was frown.
I'll never know if she jumped that day
To join the shape that lay dead on the beach,
Or whether my father pushed her there,
A love long dead, that was out of reach.
He cried no tears, that I recall
When they buried them both in a hillside grave,
But followed them after a year and a day,
Slashed his throat in the old church nave.
Years have gone, and I prowl the house,
Perched on the edge of this dreadful cliff,
I dare not leave, for my mother's cries
Blow in and out from the storm swept reef.
But late on wintry nights the sound
Of those heavy steps on the oaken floor,
A shadow passes my room at night
And my mother sighs, and I hear no more.
poem by David Lewis Paget
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Snow-White (Part 4)
While the queen's dogs were howling into the broken night to throw away
The forces, the queen was preparing the poison for the Snow White's birthday.
The poison was melted into blood and dew by that queen with innocent eyes.
Her beggars jumped over the moon for a ritual dance of a princess, who dies.
Her crows were flying in the wind being so proud of what they have done,
Her dress could hide the truth so well, with her mask she enjoyed the fun.
''I'm having bodice laces for sale, '' she said knocking on the dwarfs' door.
Then, she pulled the laces so tight that Snow-White fell down on the floor.
The sun hid behind the sea of clouds not to see the Snow White's death,
The dwarfs came home and found her on the floor without having breath.
They cut the bodice laces in two and Snow White could come back to life,
''She will give you poison to drink in sips and you will die without any strife.''
‘'Mirror, on the wall, who in this land is fairest of all? '' Queen wanted to know.
‘'You, my queen, are fair; it is true, '' replied the bad mirror through its glow.
''But beyond the seven mountains, in the dwarfs' house, Little Snow-White
Is a thousand times fairer than you, moreover, her future is extremely bright! '
She poisoned a comb and went out to knock again on the Snow White's door,
When she stuck the comb into the girl's hair, the girl fell down on the floor.
When the seven dwarfs returned home, they drowned in their own despair,
But she opened her eyes, when Liar pulled the poisoned comb from her hair.
‘'Mirror, on the wall, who in this land is fairest of all? '' Queen wanted to know.
‘'You, my queen, are fair; it is true, '' replied the bad mirror through its glow.
''But beyond the seven mountains, in the dwarfs' house, Little Snow-White
Is a thousand times fairer than you, moreover, her future is extremely bright! '
Everything was grey, while the queen was saying her mystic words aloud,
Inside her dark castle's granite walls, even the signs of time were not allowed.
Only lonesome birds and souls were flying there above a big fragile shroud,
Only craggy faces and weary eyes could be seen there in a demonic crowd.
poem by Marieta Maglas
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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