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Baltic Fog Notes

Seven days all fog, all mist, and the turbines pounding through high seas.
I was a plaything, a rat’s neck in the teeth of a scuffling mastiff.
Fog and fog and no stars, sun, moon.
Then an afternoon in fjords, low-lying lands scrawled in granite languages on a gray sky,
A night harbor, blue dusk mountain shoulders against a night sky,
And a circle of lights blinking: Ninety thousand people here.
Among the Wednesday night thousands in goloshes and coats slickered for rain,
I learned how hungry I was for streets and people.

I would rather be water than anything else.
I saw a drive of salt fog and mist in the North Atlantic and an iceberg dusky as a cloud in the gray of morning.
And I saw the dream pools of fjords in Norway … and the scarf of dancing water on the rocks and over the edges of mountain shelves.
Bury me in a mountain graveyard in Norway.
Three tongues of water sing around it with snow from the mountains.

Bury me in the North Atlantic.
A fog there from Iceland will be a murmur in gray over me and a long deep wind sob always.

Bury me in an Illinois cornfield.
The blizzards loosen their pipe organ voluntaries in winter stubble and the spring rains and the fall rains bring letters from the sea.

poem by Carl Sandburg
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song performed by by George Strait
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Water Anew

From mountain high to valley low, the warmth of springs thaw runoff comes clear cold water from the melting snow.

Spring rain, cool and clear, mist and fog, early morning's dew, creeks, rivers, lakes renew.
Though mud stained from the thaw, the water soon will clear, life sustaining, life anew.

With summer weather comes light or heavy rains, sprinkle, mist or fog, life sustaining, life anew.

With autumn arrives the cold, then frost, soon after winter follows, sleet and snow, water turns to ice.
Though covered with ice and winters snow, the water in creeks, rivers and lakes renew until springs thaw, the water still flows.

Whether spring, summer, autumn or winter, water, life sustaining, life anew.

poem by Alvin Schaut
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The Mushera Fog

It steals down the mountain the Mushera fog
Across the mountain road and cloaks Togher Bog
On damp and wet days in Winter and the latter Fall
The traffic goes up and down road at a crawl
From the high road a steep dropp down the mountain side
And to drive fast there in the fog is a wish for suicide
But what a beautiful drive on a pleasant Spring day
When the hawthorns are in their white flowers of the May
A beautiful view of the countryside for miles around
As you drive up and down the high road on the higher ground
But from mid Fall to early Spring on damp weather of low cloud
The high Mushera road is cloaked in a gray shroud
As the low clouds of rain down the mountain side blow
For to cloak Togher Bog and the valley below.

poem by Francis Duggan
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A Warm August Day In Old Duhallow

A warm August day in old Duhallow far north of here and miles away
And swallows high o'er sunlit meadows scenting sweetly of mown hay
And songbirds silent on the hedgerows in Summer you seldom hear them sing
they always pipe their finest in the prime months of the Spring.

A warm day in August in the fields of Knocknagree
And old gray faced rook is cawing on high branch of elm tree
And the magpie he is chattering as into the grove he fly
From once seen and heard he's one that's not hard to identify.

A warm day by Clara mountain by the old Town of Millstreet
And the skylark is not singing o'er the bracken in the heat
In the warm days of late Summer he doesn't feel the urge to fly
High above the sunlit mountain for to carol in the sky.

A warm day in August and the drains of water dry
And the old man says often in August I've seen water flowing bank high
And the long range weather forecast is the weather will be fine
And that at least another fortnight of warm days and sunshine.

A warm August day in Duhallow and the farmer in short sleeves
And the temperatures quite pleasant around 25 degrees
Still it can't be very long now till the cool winds of change blow
And the Paps and Caherbarnagh will be in their hats of snow.

poem by Francis Duggan
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song performed by by Jimmy Buffett
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Take The Water To The Mountain

Take the water to the mountain;
Take the river to the sea.
Let the forest be salvation
Long before it needs to be.
Take the water to the mountain;
Let your body flow upstream.
Let it cascade off your shoulders;
Be the body of your dreams.
Take the water to the mountain;
Let the sun shine on your ground.
You decide your every movement;
Let the water to the land.
Take the water to the mountain;
Cross the great divide of love.
Give to nature all you can give;
Let the mother know your heart.
Take the water to the mountain;
Lets become alive again.
Holy water, holy mountain,
Holy river, holy tree.
Pica!

song performed by by Yes
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Take The Water To The Mountain

song performed by by Yes
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Songs Of The Sky

In a sky of layered clouds,
dawn becomes a rainbow,
moving through the spectrum
toward the day.

In a sky of always blue,
no clouds ride the wind:
the sun burns brightly,
high and hot and long.

In a sky of may grays,
clouds crash, explode and roar;
rain-filled winds sweep across the prairie.

In a sky of many blues,
clouds dance on the wind;
and endless and quixotic
Rohrschach test.

In a sky of always gray,
no clouds seem to move;
overcast blots out imagination.

In a sky of cold, cold blue,
gray clouds scrape the treetops;
harbingers of winter storms to come.

Beneath a sky of darkening gray,
the prairie grasses rustle
on the small, forgotten farms
of what could've been
and was.

In a sky of mottled gray,
cold rains fall, now and then;
the seasons struggle
for control of April.

In a sky of broken gray,
cold winds precede the rains;
and before long
the darkened clouds re-gather.

In a sky as clear as glass,
and blue from top to bottom,
sultry days of August
slowly drift into September.

In a twi-lit noon-time sky,
this annular eclipse
leaves us just a
ring around the moon.

In a sky of many clouds,
sunset's an inferno;
ablaze, in this,
my father's final twilight.

In a sky that slowly burns,
the clouds of fire fade
and leave a darker beauty
to hold the night.

poem by William Kruse
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Rain in the Mountains

The Valley's full of misty cloud,
Its tinted beauty drowning,
The Eucalypti roar aloud,
The mountain fronts are frowning.
The mist is hanging like a pall
From many granite ledges,
And many a little waterfall
Starts o’er the valley’s edges.

The sky is of a leaden grey,
Save where the north is surly,
The driven daylight speeds away,
And night comes o’er us early.

But, love, the rain will pass full soon,
Far sooner than my sorrow,
And in a golden afternoon
The sun may set to-morrow.

poem by Henry Lawson
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The Foxfire Suite

This song appears on three albums, and was first released on the different directions album, and has also been released on the gift you are and the john denver collection - rocky mountain high a
.
Spring is alive
Spring is alive
In carolina
Deep in the forest
Where the foxfire glows
High on a mountain
Down in a holler
Thunder and lightning
So it goes
Over a hundred years ago
We came to carolina
Far across the water
Its a long hard road
With little more than courage
We came seeking independence
A little less than nothin
Is a heavy load
From the heather of the highlands
We have found the smokie mountains
Hard work and simple ways
And life is good
Life is good
Spring is alive
In carolina
Deep in the forest
Where the foxfire glows
High on a mountain
Down in a holler
Thunder and lightning
So it goes
You are
You are every morning sunrise
You are every rain
You are every peal of laughter
You are every cry of pain
You are all the summer flowers
You are all the falling leaves
You are everyone rejoicing
You are everyone who greaves
You are all my unknown secrets
You are all my hidden fears
You are known in lovers kisses
You are seen in childhood tears
You are where the stars are shining
You are where the rainbow ends
You are why the war is over
You are how the peace begins
Whisper the wind
Whisper the wind over the water
Whisper the wind all through the night
Whisper the wind along the canyon
Whisper the wind into the night
Whisper the wind brothers and sisters
Whisper the wind all the same
Whisper the wind love one another
Whisper the wind your precious name
Spring is alive (reprise)
Spring is alive
In carolina
Deep in the forest
Where the foxfire glows
High on a mountain
Down in a holler
Thunder and lightning
So it goes
Over a hundred years ago
We came to carolina
Far across the water
Its a long hard road
With little more than courage
We came seeking independence
A little less than nothin
Is a heavy load
From the heather of the highlands
We have found the smokie mountains
Hard work and simple ways
And life is good
Life is good
Spring is alive
In carolina
Deep in the forest
Where the foxfire glows
High on a mountain
Down in a holler
Thunder and lightning
So it goes
Words and music by john denver

song performed by by John Denver
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Fury Of Hating Eyes

I would like to bury
all the hating eyes
under the sand somewhere off
the North Atlantic and suffocate
them with the awful sand
and put all their colors to sleep
in that soft smother.
Take the brown eyes of my father,
those gun shots, those mean muds.
Bury them.
Take the blue eyes of my mother,
naked as the sea,
waiting to pull you down
where there is no air, no God.
Bury them.
Take the black eyes of my love,
coal eyes like a cruel hog,
wanting to whip you and laugh.
Bury them.
Take the hating eyes of martyrs,
presidents, bus collectors,
bank managers, soldiers.
Bury them.
Take my eyes, half blind
and falling into the air.
Bury them.
Take your eyes.
I come to the center,
where a shark looks up at death
and thinks of my heart
and squeeze it like a doughnut.
They'd like to take my eyes
and poke a hatpin through
their pupils. Not just to bury
but to stab. As for your eyes,
I fold up in front of them
in a baby ball and you send
them to the State Asylum.
Look! Look! Both those
mice are watching you
from behind the kind bars.

poem by Anne Sexton
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Special Natures

The day is founded on relishes,
The night causes special natures.
Openly, the gusts of wind bury the day with the night,
And all of nature flows with mild pain;
Let the nature of the day be that of storms
Freezing from ice to flowing water.
The water is the nature of night and day,
Storms are the pools we ask to be absent.
Water is a faithful companion and fuel
That we admire for all of the time.

poem by Naveed Akram
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Bury Me With It

We were shootin' at a mound of dirt.
Well nothing was broken, nothing was hurt.
But I probably really should have been at work.
But if my freetime's gone, would you promise me this?
That you will please bury me with it?
Please bury me with it!
Well sure as planets come, I know that they end.
And if I'm here when that happens, will you promise me this my friend?
Please bury me with it!
I just don't need none of that Mad Max bullshit.
Well the suit got tight and it split at the seams.
But I kept it out of habit and I kept it really clean.
But if it's getting' faded, if it's runnin' outta thread,
Could you just do this for me my friend?
And please just please bury me with it?
Please bury me with it!
Well we moved to the left and moved to the right.
And sure as hell we stayed out almost every single night.
But if the party's over, if the fun has to end,
could you do this for me my friend?
Would you just please bury me with it?
Please bury me with it!
Good news for people who love bad news.
We've lost the plot and we just can't choose.
We are hummingbirds who are just not willing to move.
And there's good news for people who love bad news.
We are hummingbirds who've lost the plot and we will not move.
We have good news for anyone who loves bad news.
We were aiming for the moon. We were shooting at the stars.
But the kids were just shooting at the busses and the cars.
So don't drink the water, don't you breathe the air.
If it's gotten to that point then I have to declare:
That you please bury me with it!
Please bury me with it!
Well fads they come and fads they go.
And God I love that rock and roll!
Well the point was fast but it was too blunt to miss.
Life handed us a paycheck, we said, "We worked harder than this!"
Please bury me with it!
Please bury me with it!
We are hummingbirds who are just not going to move.
And there's good news for people who love bad news.
We are hummingbirds who've lost the plot and we well not move.
We have great news for anyone who loves bad news.

song performed by by Modest Mouse
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Dig Your Grave

song performed by by Modest Mouse
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Unwed Fathers

In an appalachian, greyhound station
She sits there waiting, in a family way
Goodbye brother, tell mom I love her
Tell all the others, Ill write someday
Chorus:
From an teenage lover, to an unwed mother
Kept undercover, like some bad dream
While unwed fathers, they cant be bothered
They run like water, through a mountain stream
In a cold and gray town, a nurse says lay down
this aint no playground, and this aint home
Someones children, out having children
In a gray stone building, all alone
On somewhere else bound, smokey mountain greyhound
She bows her head down, hummin lullabies
your daddy never, meant to hurt you ever
he just dont live here, but youve got his eyes
Repeat chorus:
Well, they run like water,
Through a mountain stream

song performed by by John Prine
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Meet Me On The Mountain

I remember it well, that day last spring,
When the snow lay deep on the mountain trails.
It was winters last showin and our last fling
Before returning to our lives in the valley.
We pretended we were lost in the wilderness,
And I pretended to be your guide.
Our love was a play and you were the actress.
We were two lonely people living out a dream.
Oh, baby meet me on the mountain
When the winter is dying
And the snow lay deep on the mountain trails.
Maybe its the spring putting thoughts in our heads.
But baby meet me on the mountain
When the winter lays her head to rest.
As the morning came, the feelings faded.
They melted away with the dew.
And if it hurt, I never felt it,
cause I knew that youd be leavin me soon.
Come on, baby meet me on the mountain
When the winter is dying
And the snow lay deep on the mountain trails.
Maybe its the spring putting thoughts in our heads.
But baby meet me on the mountain
When the winter lays her head to rest.

song performed by by Reo Speedwagon
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Ossian’s Grave

PREHISTORIC MONUMENT NEAR CUSHENDALL
IN ANTRIM
Steep up in Lubitavish townland stands
A ring of great stones like fangs, the shafts of the stones
Grown up with thousands of years of gradual turf,
The fangs of the stones still biting skyward; and hard
Against the stone ring, the oblong enclosure
Of an old grave guarded with erect slabs; gray rocks
Backed by broken thorn-trees, over the gorge of Glenaan;
It is called Ossian's Grave. Ossian rests high then,
Haughtily alone.
If there were any fame or burial or monument
For me to envy,
Warrior and poet they should be yours and yours.
For this is the pure fame, not caged in a poem,
Fabulous, a glory untroubled with works, a name in the north
Like a mountain in the mist, like Aura
Heavy with heather and the dark gray rocks, or Trostan
Dark purple in the cloud: happier than what the wings
And imperfections of work hover like vultures
Above the carcass.
I also make a remembered name;
And I shall return home to the granite stones
On my cliff over the greatest ocean
To be blind ashes under the butts of the stones:
As you here under the fanged limestone columns
Are said to lie, over the narrow north straits
Toward Scotland, and the quick-tempered Moyle. But written
reminders
Will blot for too long a year the bare sunlight
Above my rock lair, heavy black birds
Over the field and the blood of the lost battle.
Oh but we lived splendidly
In the brief light of day
Who now twist in our graves.
You in the guard of the fanged
Erect stones; and the man-slayer
Shane O'Neill dreams yonder at Cushendun
Crushed under his cairn;
And Hugh McQuillan under his cairn
By his lost field in the bog on Aura;
And I a foreigner, one who has come to the country of the dead
Before I was called,
To eat the bitter dust of my ancestors;
And thousands on tens of thousands in the thronged earth
Under the rotting freestone tablets
At the bases of broken round towers;
And the great Connaught queen on her mountain-summit
The high cloud hoods, it creeps through the eyes of the cairn,

We dead have our peculiar pleasures, of not
Doing, of not feeling, of not being.
Enough has been felt, enough done, Oh and surely
Enough of humanity has been. We lie under stones
Or drift through the endless northern twilights
And draw over our pale survivors the net of our dream.
All their lives are less
Substantial than one of our deaths, and they cut turf
Or stoop in the steep
Short furrows, or drive the red carts, like weeds waving
Under the glass of water in a locked bay,
Which neither the wind nor the wave nor their own will
Moves; when they seem to awake
It is only to madden in their dog-days for memories of dreams
That lost all meaning many centuries ago.

Oh but we lived splendidly
In the brief light of day,
You with hounds on the mountain
And princes in palaces,
I on the western cliff
In the rages of the sun:
Now you lie grandly under your stones
But I in a peasant's hut
Eat bread bitter with the dust of dead men;
The water I draw at the spring has been shed for tears
Ten thousand times,
Or wander through the endless northern twilights
From the rath to the cairn, through fields
Where every field-stone's been handled
Ten thousand times,
In a uterine country, soft
And wet and worn out, like an old womb
That I have returned to, being dead.

Oh but we lived splendidly
Who now twist in our graves.
The mountains are alive;
Tievebuilleagh lives, Trostan lives,
Lurigethan lives;
And Aura, the black-faced sheep in the belled heather;
And the swan-haunted loughs; but also a few of us dead
A life as inhuman and cold as those.

poem by Robinson Jeffers
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Joy

Though joy is better than sorrow joy is not great;
Peace is great, strength is great.
Not for joy the stars burn, not for joy the vulture
Spreads her gray sails on the air
Over the mountain; not for joy the worn mountain
Stands, while years like water
Trench his long sides. 'I am neither mountain nor bird
Nor star; and I seek joy.'
The weakness of your breed: yet at length quietness
Will cover those wistful eyes.

poem by Robinson Jeffers
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Bury Me Now!

bury me now,
at the feet of your freedom.
bury me now,
in the bowl of your hunger.
bury me now,
in the healing balm.
bury me now,
in the hand that comforts.
bury me now,
at the foot of the birthing bed.
bury me now,
in the march for peace.
bury me now,
let my body be the bridge.
bury me now,
and give names to the faces!

poem by Eric Cockrell
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On Hearing A Grey Shrike Thrush

The grey shrike thrush on branch of mountain gray
At twilight of a most Unspring like day
On October eve made damp by drizzling rain
And grey bird sing his same song o'er again

And freshening wind has breath of winter sting
Seems more like Winter now than middle Spring
And wind driven rain fall from the darkening sky
And still the gray thrush pipes his notes of joy.

I wonder why he sing so merrily
On low down branch of noble gray gum tree
Could it be that he can tell from inner eye
That tomorrow's weather will be warm and dry? .

Or could he sing that in some nearby tree
His wife on nest shelter new family
And he tell his neighbours this my territory
And I'm now a dad 'oh lucky happy me'? .

And why he sing should it matter anyway
His song at close of wet October day
The weather dreary for the time of year
But grey thrush's notes sweet music to the ear.

poem by Francis Duggan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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En.Citatepedia^®.ro

Baltic Fog Notes

Related quotes

Stars On The Water

Water Anew

The Mushera Fog

A Warm August Day In Old Duhallow

Stars On The Water

Take The Water To The Mountain

Take The Water To The Mountain

Songs Of The Sky

Rain in the Mountains

The Foxfire Suite

The Fury Of Hating Eyes

Special Natures

Bury Me With It

Dig Your Grave

Unwed Fathers

Meet Me On The Mountain

Ossian’s Grave

Joy

Bury Me Now!

On Hearing A Grey Shrike Thrush

En.Citatepedia®.ro

Baltic Fog Notes

Related quotes

Stars On The Water

Water Anew

The Mushera Fog

A Warm August Day In Old Duhallow

Stars On The Water

Take The Water To The Mountain

Take The Water To The Mountain

Songs Of The Sky

Rain in the Mountains

The Foxfire Suite

The Fury Of Hating Eyes

Special Natures

Bury Me With It

Dig Your Grave

Unwed Fathers

Meet Me On The Mountain

Ossian’s Grave

Joy

Bury Me Now!

On Hearing A Grey Shrike Thrush

En.Citatepedia^®.ro