Correspondences
Nature is a temple whose living colonnades
Breathe forth a mystic speech in fitful sighs;
Man wanders among symbols in those glades
Where all things watch him with familiar eyes.
Like dwindling echoes gathered far away
Into a deep and thronging unison
Huge as the night or as the light of day,
All scents and sounds and colors meet as one.
Perfumes there are as sweet as the oboe's sound,
Green as the prairies, fresh as a child's caress,
- And there are others, rich, corrupt, profound
And of an infinite pervasiveness,
Like myrrh, or musk, or amber, the excite
The ecstasies of sense, the soul's delight.
poem by Charles Baudelaire
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Traffic Lights
Who invented these beautiful colors?
Red, Amber and Green.
And I watch how they stop when Red appears?
When Amber winks they are very uneasy
And they fly in the Green light sign like a journey to heaven.
Night is still young and I count my weekend wage
Thinking of my loved ones.
They are very far away.
When the Green smiles with me to take my soul away from all these burdens?
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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Night and Day
I painted a picture of the day
Nature in her sweet tranquil
Her beauty was dazzling in every way
By her sun upon the hill!
I made her grasses the color green
Blue the color of the sea
In pink and red her flowers sheen
In brown, her rocks sit solitary
I painted a picture of the night
But nature has lost her spark
I colored her beauty in black and white
What glory is there in the dark?
I made her sky with dotted light
Of stars in their endless space
But there was no color to make her bright
But the moon with her golden face
I placed both pictures side by side
Media of dark and light
The night to nature, a time to hide
The day her sweet delight
Were i to vote between these two
I will give all to the day
I will paint in her a perfect view
I will have her all the way!
But wait! There is more than meet the eyes
For things are not all we see
For all stuffs are made of good and ills
Beyond our phylosophy
The day i painted with color bright
Is marred with worries and woes
And just a covering with colors and light
Of all beneath her throes.
Now, the night in her dreaded sight
When half the world is asleep
Is an illusion, a passage of day to night
Whereon i sleep free and deep
Free from all worldly pain indeed
That by day plagued every soul
And away from mortals lust and greed
Is a man's life long goal
I cannot choose one, the other bid farewell
In both, all things are one
So i kept the day, and the night as well
For both made me a man! !
poem by Okonkwo Osamedua. Allen
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A Lover's Melody or And from the Oboe Came a Pretty Sound
And from the oboe came a pretty sound
The crescendo called love
From the bell that was his lover's heart
More beautiful than anything
Vivaldi could compose
True, she was an oboe
Alone, in an orchestra of drums, saxophones, and pianos
But she met a guitar
A beautifully carved acoustic instrument
That made a sound like no other
She'd ever heard
Together they made sweet, sweet music
The love-struck oboe wanted to stay
With the guitar, cut a deal, and
Make some records
But, alas, the guitar
Was completely unaware
Of the melody the oboe was playing
From the oboe came a pretty sound
And the guitar, he sung back
Of the returned love
The oboe was looking for,
It was a tune of lament—sad and slow
For he knew he could not give her
What she desired
So he set himself on fire
And from the guitar came a descend
When the oboe found her lover she
picked up what was left of he
and put it in a box of oak
and sailed it off to sea
the oboe knew no sad songs
but she wanted to sing him a tune
so on the beautiful sunset on June
she hummed him what she knew…
…and from the oboe came a pretty sound
poem by Alecia Carroll
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Bach
Moonlight plays like cellos with violins
Clouds light up with mystic Aura
This summer night is quiet and calm
Joy is profound hope, deep like the sea
Child like authenticity floods my soul
Bach at times seems very profound
Green grass, silhouettes of grand trees
Earth mingles with spirit and soul
What is being? A complicated question
How do I define music, beauty, gentleness
Sensitivity seems to be in the angel realm
I cannot accept we just live and die
I am rational and logical; it is not enough
We know right from wrong, we laugh, cry
We have a conscience, we feel love
I feel my eternal soul in my temporal body
Just being here has become dazzling
I wonder if Bach felt inspired like this?
poem by Joseph Narusiewicz
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Nature is a temple in which living columns sometimes emit confused words. Man approaches it through forests of symbols, which observe him with familiar glances.
quote by Charles Baudelaire
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Eyes of Green
Green eyes fresh like spring make feelings grow,
Green eyes free like prairies make hearts run.
Black lashes like deep winter or wide spread plains
Draw out fresh, free, green eyes.
poem by Drew Zoromski
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Today... 'Bundle of Myrrh
An endless source of delight and comfort is He
a Bundle of Myrrh is my beloved to me.
Such love and affection upon me He bestows
all sweetness and tenderness my Lord Jesus shows.
Clasped to my bosom as we rest all through the night
near to my heart held in the warmth of His delight.
Whispering sweet words of love as His eyes meet mine
lost in deep ecstasy with Jesus my Divine
(see also the additional information below in the Poet's box)
Mother's Opinion
Mother's opinion is that we're too young to be old
And mother's opinion is we should never do what we are told
And mothers reactions are the same as they were before
And mothers anterior she gave us all of this and much more
And mothers superior, she's been through all this before
She's got a lot of things she wants to tell you
Like who you are and what you've came here for
Mothers reaction hasn't changed much since the war
And mothers opinion is the same as it was before
And mothers anterior she's got a lot of tricks up her sleeve
And mothers superior, gave us everything that we need
And mother superior, she's been through all this before
She's got a lot of things she wants to tell you
Like who you are and what you've came here for
I say hey, it sounds familiar, but it just doesn't sound the same
I say hey, it sounds familiar, but just a million miles away, hey, hey, hey
And mothers reactions are the same as they were before
And mothers anterior she gave us all of this and much more
I say hey, it sounds familiar, but it just doesn't sound the same
I say hey, it sounds familiar, just a million miles away, hey, hey, hey
It sounds familiar, but it doesn't sound the same
It sounds familiar, just a million miles away, away!
It sounds familiar, but it doesn't sound the same
It sounds familiar, just a million miles away
It sounds familiar, but it doesn't sound the same
It sounds familiar, just a million miles away
It sounds familiar, but it doesn't sound the same
It sounds familiar, just a million miles away
It sounds familiar, but it doesn't sound the same
It sounds familiar, just a million miles away, away
song performed by by Men Without Hats
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Moon's Minion
Thine eyes are like the sea, my dear,
The wand'ring waters, green and grey;
Thine eyes are wonderful and clear,
And deep, and deadly, even as they;
The spirit of the changeful sea
Informs thine eyes at night and noon,
She sways the tides, and the heart of thee,
The mystic, sad, capricious Moon!
The Moon came down the shining stair
Of clouds that fleck the summer sky,
She kissed thee, saying, 'Child, be fair,
And madden men's hearts, even as I;
Thou shalt love all things strange and sweet,
That know me and are known of me;
The lover thou shalt never meet,
The land where thou shalt never be!'
She held thee in her chill embrace,
She kissed thee with cold lips divine,
She left her pallor on thy face,
That mystic ivory face of thine;
And now I sit beside thy feet,
And all my heart is far from thee,
Dreaming of her I shall not meet,
And of the land I shall not see!
poem by Andrew Lang
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Nature, we neglect
I hear some one calling me from deep,
it is not the footstep heard in sound sleep,
but yes a deep call and sound familiar,
Neither shout from liar nor it from cavalier,
I sense it so pleasing and sweet,
As if the music strike the ear and meet,
waves pass and create a bubbles in water,
noise stop, echoes down as down the shutter,
Days hustle and bustle to a stop,
breathe a fresh air and bath with soap
Time to go and listen music pop,
harvest the season and bring back crop,
But still have no joy and peace,
life so apart and turn into piece,
Enjoy I not the reality and love,
As the birds, ducks, fishes and dove,
Advent of winter body so freeze,
flowers smell more and air so breeze,
even slight moon light glitter the sky,
body feel light and thoughts may fly,
Cocks and cuckoo’s bring more cheers,
Never you get it fresh from beers,
for a moment you forget your dears,
no more calls and no more hears,
With strong wind, lightening and storms,
earth fall apart and come out new worms,
ponds full and rivers make flow,
sky may over cast but heavy with glow,
All these does not deter and frighten,
more vigour, strength and life brighten,
stress, worries, hopes, despair soften
new lease of life and rise hope often,
Respond to call crisis never deepen,
futility, despair worries not happen,
So I hear gently and respond her call,
face I ground and hear through wall,
I fail to see why nature so kind,
Joy I search but never find,
hatred, mistrust but not love mild,
Why are we so cruel and wild?
Love, music, light all fast scatter,
what you gain now, all that matter,
Never we tried nor lost cause,
Time may tell when we near pause
poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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Sibyl
THIS is the glamour of the world antique:
The thyme-scents of Hymettus fill the air,
And in the grass narcissus-cups are fair.
The full brook wanders through the ferns to seek
The amber haunts of bees; and on the peak
Of the soft hill, against the gold-marged sky,
She stands, a dream from out the days gone by.
Entreat her not. Indeed, she will not speak!
Her eyes are full of dreams; and in her ears
There is the rustle of immortal wings;
And ever and anon the slow breeze bears
The mystic murmur of the songs she sings.
Entreat her not: she sees thee not, nor hears
Aught but the sights and sounds of bygone springs.
poem by John Howard Payne
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Green Things Growing
O the green things growing, the green things growing,
The faint sweet smell of the green things growing!
I should like to live, whether I smile or grieve,
Just to watch the happy life of my green things growing.
O the fluttering and the pattering of those green things growing!
How they talk each to each, when none of us are knowing;
In the wonderful white of the weird moonlight
Or the dim dreamy dawn when the cocks are crowing.
I love, I love them so - my green things growing!
And I think that they love me, without false showing;
For by many a tender touch, they comfort me so much,
With the soft mute comfort of green things growing.
And in the rich store of their blossoms glowing
Ten for one I take they're on me bestowing:
Oh, I should like to see, if God's will it may be,
Many, many a summer of my green things growing!
But if I must be gathered for the angel's sowing,
Sleep out of sight awhile, like the green things growing,
Though dust to dust return, I think I'll scarcely mourn,
If I may change into green things growing.
poem by Dinah Maria Mulock Craik
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Taking Time
i tried to ask myself what are days for
they always equate it with walking and the nights
always with sleep. Some have taken the courage
to redefine the colors.
black need not be dark, and white need
not be waking,
sleep would be pink at times
and twilight blue.
i do most of the thinking at night
when everyone hides in the darkness of their sleep.
there are colors and sounds and scents.
and i begin to love the variations,
the aberrations have become adventures
and no one in the house knows
no one understands what is happening to my
eyelids, my mouth does not speak
and my eyes,
having seen much, have desired days
to be the place for the dead,
the white mausoleums, the scents of the flowers
for the weary.
i sleep and dream at noontime and
nobody is there anymore to
mind. I am alone and i have began to love
this moment.
my day is dark. my night is light.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Van Gogh Ceilings
The colors of our nights
flow in different hues
blood reds on the satin sheets
deep dark blues of gentle breathing
candle light soothing;
the smells of body scents
and perfume;
August's most heated nights
the sweep of enfolding arms
the over head fan twirls
over gentle writhings
healing tremblings
as we two
spin away into
Perfection's Consumated Dream
where breathless love mates
with sensual overwhelmng
sighs seductive breathings
making it oh so clear
why
we humans were placed here
to make love and children
in the colors of our night
hot pinks
ravishing reds
and deep blues.
I look into your eyes
reflecting back to me
the nights perfection
come real
and if never again
to be seen
this time alone would be enough
to paint Van Gogh
colors and stars
on our bed room ceiling
forever
on this
Starry Starry Night
poem by Lonnie Hicks
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Van Gogh Nights
The colors of our nights
flow in different hues
blood reds on the satin sheets
deep dark blues of gentle breathing
candle light soothing;
the smells of body scents
and perfume;
August's most heated nights
the sweep of enfolding arms
the over head fan twirls
over gentle writhings
healing tremblings
as we two
spin away into
Perfection's Consumated Dream
where breathless love mates
with sensual overwhelmng
sighs seductive breathings
making it oh so clear
why
we humans were placed here
to make love and children
in the colors of our night
hot pinks
ravishing reds
and deep blues.
I look into your eyes
reflecting back to me
the nights perfection
come real
and if never again
to be seen
this time alone would be enough
to paint Van Gogh
colors and stars
on our bed room ceiling
forever
on this
Starry Starry Night
poem by Lonnie Hicks
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Sestina
I saw my soul at rest upon a day
As a bird sleeping in the nest of night,
Among soft leaves that give the starlight way
To touch its wings but not its eyes with light;
So that it knew as one in visions may,
And knew not as men waking, of delight.
This was the measure of my soul's delight;
It had no power of joy to fly by day,
Nor part in the large lordship of the light;
But in a secret moon-beholden way
Had all its will of dreams and pleasant night,
And all the love and life that sleepers may.
But such life's triumph as men waking may
It might not have to feed its faint delight
Between the stars by night and sun by day,
Shut up with green leaves and a little light;
Because its way was as a lost star's way,
A world's not wholly known of day or night.
All loves and dreams and sounds and gleams of night
Made it all music that such minstrels may,
And all they had they gave it of delight;
But in the full face of the fire of day
What place shall be for any starry light,
What part of heaven in all the wide sun's way?
Yet the soul woke not, sleeping by the way,
Watched as a nursling of the large-eyed night,
And sought no strength nor knowledge of the day,
Nor closer touch conclusive of delight,
Nor mightier joy nor truer than dreamers may,
Nor more of song than they, nor more of light.
For who sleeps once and sees the secret light
Whereby sleep shows the soul a fairer way
Between the rise and rest of day and night,
Shall care no more to fare as all men may,
But be his place of pain or of delight,
There shall he dwell, beholding night as day.
Song, have thy day and take thy fill of light
Before the night be fallen across thy way;
Sing while he may, man hath no long delight.
poem by Algernon Charles Swinburne
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Dolores
IS he well blessed who has no eyes to scan
The woeful things that shadow all our life:
The latent brute behind the eyes of man,
The place and power gained and stained by strife,
The weakly victims driven to the wall,
The subtle cruelties that meet us all
Like eyes from darksome places? Blessed is he
Who such sad things is never doomed to see!
The crust of common life is worn by time,
And shines deception, as a thin veneer
The raw plank hides, or as the frozen mere
Holds drowned men embedded in its slime;
The ninety eat their bread of death and crime,
And sin and sorrow that the ten may thrive.
O, moaning sea of life! the few who dive
Beneath thy waters, faint and short of breath,
Not Dante-like, who cannot swim in death
And view its secrets, but must swiftly rise,—
They meet the light with introverted eyes,
And hands that clutch a few dim mysteries!
Our life a harp is, with unnumbered strings,
And tones and symphonies; but our poor skill
Some shallow notes from its great music brings.
We know it there; but vainly wish and will.
O, things symbolic! Things that mock our sense—
Our five-fold, pitiable sense—and say
A thousand senses could not show one day
As sight infinite sees it; fruitful clay,
And budding bough, and nature great with child
And chill with doom and death—is all so dense
That our dull thought can never read thy words,
Or sweep with knowing hand thy hidden chords?
Have men not fallen from fair heights, once trod
By nobler minds, who saw the works of God,
The flowers and living things, still undefiled,
And spoke one language with them? And can we,
In countless generations, each more pure
Than that preceding, come at last to see
Thy symbols full of meaning, and be sure
That what we read is all they have to tell?
poem by John Boyle O'Reilly
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The Last Envoy
THIS wind, that through the silent woodland blows,
O'er rippling corn and dreaming pastures goes
Straight to the garden where the heart of spring
Faints in the heart of summer's earliest rose.
Dimpling the meadow's grassy green and grey,
By furze that yellows all the common way,
Gathering the gladness of the flowering broom,
And too persistent fragrance of the may--
Gathering whatever is of sweet and dear,
The wandering wind has passed away from here,
Has passed to where within your garden waits
The concentrated sweetness of the year.
And in your leafed enclosure as you stood,
Training your flowers to new beatitude--
Ah! did you guess the wind that kissed your hair
Had kissed my forehead in this solitude--
Had kissed my lips, and gathered there the heat
It breathed upon your mouth, my only sweet--
Had gathered from my eyes the tender thought
That drooped your eyes, and stirred your pulses' beat?
You only thought the sun's caress too warm
That lay upon your bosom and your arm;
You did not guess the wind had brought from me
The unacknowledged fancy's fire and charm--
You only said, 'Too strong these sunlit skies,
More dear the moments when the daylight dies!'
And then you dreamed of meetings by your gate
In sanctity of sunset and moonrise.
To-night, when he shall come and meet you there,
To kiss your lips and hands and eyes and hair,
To light with love and hope youth's waiting shrine--
Think of my love, and my assured despair!
To-night the wind will rob the languid flowers
Of secret scents kept close through daylit hours;
It will blow coolly over dewy lawns,
Where the laburnums fall in silent showers.
I, too, shall learn a secret then--shall wrest
Life's hidden things from out her languorous breast,
Shall learn the way that leads away from life
Into the land where nothing lives but rest.
You will not know that the cold air you prize,
After the stormy sweetness of his sighs,
Is cold from blowing through a moonlit wood
Over the hollow where a dead man lies!
poem by Edith Nesbit
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Deep Green Eyes
Deep green eyes
Haunt me so
Deep green eyes
Torture my soul
Everywhere I go
Every time I sleep
See them in my thoughts
Burning through my soul
Deep green eyes
Why do you follow me so
Deep green eyes
Soul of my soul
Deep green eyes
Thought of my thoughts
Burrow through my core
Deep green eyes
Tell me so
Deep green eyes
Who do you own
Country Child
I’m country child, spurn town defiled, pollution makes me wild.
When Spring’s waft breeze soft tickles trees, from beaten tracks I keep,
with heart beguiled by creatures wild, through woodland dim and deep
my way make mid the forest hid with self am reconciled.
From city guil[e]d, souls’ stress, soles riled, I’ve strayed, at peace abide
with sun and shade on woodland glade, in valley, mountain steep,
delight each sense with joy intense, - a harvest rich to reap
from Spring which rings till Autumn brings its fruits by bushels piled.
I fly with bee from tree to tree’s bright blossom pink and white.
No cities know pure streams, dawn’s glow, air fresh and fragrant where
there is no smoke, where folk won’t yoke each other to despair.
Suburban spite, skyscrapers’ height, can’t quite convince as right.
Imagine plight of elf or sprite confined too tight! Maid, knight
stroll hand in hand through leafy land in freedom everywhere,
no asking why, nor spoke reply, we’d need, nor seek, nor care,
for spirit mild of open child soars through delight, finds flight.
Love’s love’s invite, both greet the light when dawn’s first flush is born
with badger, bird, with lowing herd, we’d sit and stare, take time,
no clocks absurd, no siren whirred, should compromise love’s rhyme,
so haste with me to taste joys free, no more to fee in pawn.
Lets brave the wind with hair unpinned, love at first sight ‘tis styled,
eyes seeking eyes flush fresh surprise through morning, noon and night.
As seasons flow all reasons go, know heights, no lows, excite
summations which together stitch two into one beguiled.
Nature’s Child
Oh, I’m a child of the country, spurning city defiled and grim,
my heart’s beguiled by creatures wild, and the woodlands deep and dim.
When the warm south winds fall, soothing, from the ferny forest’s feet,
come the nightingales’ songs each even, in madrigals mild and sweet.
For I am a child of the country, Spring orchards soften my sight
when the bees fly to the blossomed boughs, whose buds lie pink and white.
Then hand in hand in the sunlight stroll my soul’s betrothed and I,
nor need we words to question, nor words to heed reply.
Yes I am a child of the country, longing for lush fields at dawn,
where the air feels fresh and fragrant, when sun’s first faint flush is born,
then thrush appeals to starling: ‘Fie, forsake thy stealing way! ’
and the badger cubs, and the birds, and I, welcome the break of day!
poem by Jonathan Robin
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