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L'Ennemi (The Enemy)

Ma jeunesse ne fut qu'un ténébreux orage,
Traversé çà et là par de brillants soleils;
Le tonnerre et la pluie ont fait un tel ravage,
Qu'il reste en mon jardin bien peu de fruits vermeils.

Voilà que j'ai touché l'automne des idées,
Et qu'il faut employer la pelle et les râteaux
Pour rassembler à neuf les terres inondées,
Où l'eau creuse des trous grands comme des tombeaux.

Et qui sait si les fleurs nouvelles que je rêve
Trouveront dans ce sol lavé comme une grève
Le mystique aliment qui ferait leur vigueur?

— Ô douleur! ô douleur! Le Temps mange la vie,
Et l'obscur Ennemi qui nous ronge le coeur
Du sang que nous perdons croît et se fortifie!

The Enemy

My youth has been nothing but a tenebrous storm,
Pierced now and then by rays of brilliant sunshine;
Thunder and rain have wrought so much havoc
That very few ripe fruits remain in my garden.

I have already reached the autumn of the mind,
And I must set to work with the spade and the rake
To gather back the inundated soil
In which the rain digs holes as big as graves.

And who knows whether the new flowers I dream of
Will find in this earth washed bare like the strand,
The mystic aliment that would give them vigor?

Alas! Alas! Time eats away our lives,
And the hidden Enemy who gnaws at our hearts
Grows by drawing strength from the blood we lose!

— Translated by William Aggeler

The Enemy

My youth was but a tempest, dark and savage,
Through which, at times, a dazzling sun would shoot
The thunder and the rain have made such ravage
My garden is nigh bare of rosy fruit.

Now I have reached the Autumn of my thought,
And spade and rake must toil the land to save,
That fragments of my flooded fields be sought
From where the water sluices out a grave.

Who knows if the new flowers my dreams prefigure,
In this washed soil should find, as by a sluit,
The mystic nourishment to give them vigour?

Time swallows up our life, O ruthless rigour!
And the dark foe that nibbles our heart's root,
Grows on our blood the stronger and the bigger!

— Translated by Roy Campbell

The Ruined Garden

My childhood was only a menacing shower,
cut now and ten by hours of brilliant heat.
All the top soil was killed by rain and sleet,
my garden hardly bore a standing flower.

From now on, my mind's autumn! I must take
the field and dress my beds with spade and rake
and restore order to my flooded grounds.
There the rain raised mountains like burial mounds.

I throw fresh seeds out. Who knows what survives?
What elements will give us life and food?
This soil is irrigated by the tides.

Time and nature sluice away our lives.
A virus eats the heart out of our sides,
digs in and multiplies on our lost blood.

— Translated by Robert Lowell

The Enemy

I think of my gone youth as of a stormy sky
Infrequently transpierced by a benignant sun;
Tempest and hail have done their work; and what have I? —
How many fruits in my torn garden? — scarcely one.

And now that I approach the autumn of my mind,
And must reclaim once more the inundated earth —
Washed into stony trenches deep as graves I find
I wield the rake and hoe, asking, 'What is it worth?'

Who can assure me, these new flowers for which I toil
Will find in the disturbed and reconstructed soil
That mystic aliment on which alone they thrive?

Oh, anguish, anguish! Time eats up all things alive;
And that unseen, dark Enemy, upon the spilled
Bright blood we could not spare, battens, and is fulfilled.

— Translated by Edna St. Vincent Millay

L'Ennemi

my youth was all a murky hurricane;
not oft did the suns of splendour burst the gloom;
so wild the lightning raged, so fierce the rain,
few crimson fruits my garden-close illume.

now I have touched the autumn of the mind,
I must repair and smooth the earth, to save
my little seed-plot, torn and undermined,
guttered and gaping like an open grave.

and will the flowers all my dreams implore
draw from this garden wasted like a shore
some rich mysterious power the storm imparts?

— o grief! o grief! time eats away our lives,
and the dark Enemy gnawing at our hearts
sucks from our blood the strength whereon he thrives!

— Translated by Lewis Piaget Shanks

The Enemy

My youth was nothing but a black storm
Crossed now and then by brilliant suns.
The thunder and the rain so ravage the shores
Nothing's left of the fruit my garden held once.

I should employ the rake and the plow,
Having reached the autumn of ideas,
To restore this inundated ground
Where the deep grooves of water form tombs in the lees.

And who knows if the new flowers you dreamed
Will find in a soil stripped and cleaned
The mystic nourishment that fortifies?

—O Sorrow—O Sorrow—Time consumes Life,
And the obscure enemy that gnaws at my heart
Uses the blood that I lose to play my part.

Translated by William A. Sigler

poem by Charles Baudelaire
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Related quotes

The Enemy

My youth was nothing but a black storm
Crossed now and then by brilliant suns.
The thunder and the rain so ravage the shores
Nothing's left of the fruit my garden held once.

I should employ the rake and the plow,
Having reached the autumn of ideas,
To restore this inundated ground
Where the deep grooves of water form tombs in the lees.

And who knows if the new flowers you dreamed
Will find in a soil stripped and cleaned
The mystic nourishment that fortifies?

—O Sorrow—O Sorrow—Time consumes Life,
And the obscure enemy that gnaws at my heart
Uses the blood that I lose to play my part.

Translated by William A. Sigler

Submitted by Ryan McGuire

poem by Charles Baudelaire
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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In the Garden, With My Father

It is spring.
As in my garden, I stand.
In the garden -
My father is there;
... though long since gone...
He IS there.
I tend to the weeds,
The veggies and flowers...
He is there.

I never understood him
(as I should have, could have) ...
Until now,
Here, in the garden.
Where I, like he, work the soil.
I've come just recently
(these last few years)
To enjoy and love my garden so.
- I am not as surprised afterall, as I would have thought,
To find him here.
Here, in the garden.
He loved his garden very much.......
I - at that early age of restless youth - had no use
For such slow moving things.

But now, I see, and myself move, at a much slower pace.
Therefore, it is him I am here and now able to see,
In the garden.
Watching it all grow, so peacefully.

It is somewhat sad, that now,
When I can no longer tell him,
I understand.
For I have come to find... I love the garden too,
Just as much as he;
And we both always will.
My father - standing in the garden -
I now know.
After all these long years.
And I've missed him so;
But, how wonderful to find,
He IS here...
In the garden, our garden,
Always, with me.

poem by Smoky Hoss
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Autumn in the Garden

When the frosty kiss of Autumn in the dark
Makes its mark
On the flowers, and the misty morning grieves
Over fallen leaves;
Then my olden garden, where the golden soil
Through the toil
Of a hundred years is mellow, rich, and deep,
Whispers in its sleep.

'Mid the crumpled beds of marigold and phlox,
Where the box
Borders with its glossy green the ancient walks,
There's a voice that talks
Of the human hopes that bloomed and withered here
Year by year,--
Dreams of joy, that brightened all the labouring hours,
Fading as the flowers.

Yet the whispered story does not deepen grief;
But relief
For the loneliness of sorrow seems to flow
From the Long-Ago,
When I think of other lives that learned, like mine,
To resign,
And remember that the sadness of the fall
Comes alike to all.

What regrets, what longings for the lost were theirs!
And what prayers
For the silent strength that nerves us to endure
Things we cannot cure!
Pacing up and down the garden where they paced,
I have traced
All their well-worn paths of patience, till I find
Comfort in my mind.

Faint and far away their ancient griefs appear:
Yet how near
Is the tender voice, the careworn, kindly face,
Of the human race!
Let us walk together in the garden, dearest heart,
Not apart!
They who know the sorrows other lives have known
Never walk alone.

poem by Henry Van Dyke
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For An Autumn festival

The Persian's flowery gifts, the shrine
Of fruitful Ceres, charm no more;
The woven wreaths of oak and pine
Are dust along the Isthmian shore.

But beauty hath its homage still,
And nature holds us still in debt;
And woman's grace and household skill,
And manhood's toil, are honored yet.

And we, to-day, amidst our flowers
And fruits, have come to own again
The blessings of the summer hours,
The early and the latter rain;

To see our Father's hand once more
Reverse for us the plenteous horn
Of autumn, filled and running o'er
With fruit, and flower, and golden corn!

Once more the liberal year laughs out
O'er richer stores than gems or gold;
Once more with harvest-song and shout
Is Nature's bloodless triumph told.

Our common mother rests and sings,
Like Ruth, among her garnered sheaves;
Her lap is full of goodly things,
Her brow is bright with autumn leaves.

Oh, favors every year made new!
Oh, gifts with rain and sunshine sent
The bounty overruns our due,
The fulness shames our discontent.

We shut our eyes, the flowers bloom on;
We murmur, but the corn-ears fill,
We choose the shadow, but the sun
That casts it shines behind us still.

God gives us with our rugged soil
The power to make it Eden-fair,
And richer fruits to crown our toil
Than summer-wedded islands bear.

Who murmurs at his lot to-day?
Who scorns his native fruit and bloom?
Or sighs for dainties far away,
Beside the bounteous board of home?

Thank Heaven, instead, that Freedom's arm
Can change a rocky soil to gold,--
That brave and generous lives can warm
A clime with northern ices cold.

And let these altars, wreathed with flowers
And piled with fruits, awake again
Thanksgivings for the golden hours,
The early and the latter rain!

poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
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Flowers In The Rain

Woke up one morning half asleep
With all my blankets in a heap
And yellow roses gathered all around me;
The time was still approaching four
I couldnt stand it anymore
Saw marigolds upon my eider down.
Im just sitting watching flowers in the rain
Feel the power of the rain making the garden grow,
Im just sitting watching flowers in the rain
Feel the power of the rain keeping me cool.
So I lay upon my side with all the windows opened wide
Couldnt pressurize my head from speaking
Hoping not to make a sound I pushed my bed into the grounds
In time to catch the sight that I was seeking.
Im just sitting watching flowers in the rain
Feel the power of the rain making the garden grow,
Im just sitting watching flowers in the rain
Feel the power of the rain keeping me cool.
If this perfect pleasure has the key
Then this is how it has to be
If my pillows getting wet
I dont see that it matters much to me.
I heard the flowers in the breeze make conversation with the trees
Believed to leave reality behind me
With my commitments in a mess my sleep has gone away depressed
In a world of fantasy youll find me.
Im just sitting watching flowers in the rain
Feel the power of the rain making the garden grow,
Im just sitting watching flowers in the rain
Feel the power of the rain keeping me cool.

song performed by by Electric Light Orchestra
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Flowers Bloom Like People

The flowers in the garden strike blue,
Just like lovely you.
These flowers at the forefront speak loud,
Opening the doors to what is allowed.
Never do we release so many scents
As this day. This day, we march like gents.

Just like roses we announce,
We sometimes ponder and pounce.
In effect we denounce our leaders,
Leading the committee of readers.
These are the authority of the dance
Of flowers, in our garden of chance.

From this garden I walk into fields,
Then streets are with us, no more hayfields.
The green garden was behind now and then,
With innocence at its side, compared again.
A ghostly swamp is not our task,
Merely we dine in pleasure and mask.

For we arrive in the city streets,
Walking is an objective so much it cheats.
We are some, they are many,
This conundrum augments the penny,
For if they are greater than us,
We shall be greater with words to discuss.

Flowers, we claim, are at our heads,
They do swear to keep beds;
Our heads also keep them, one after the other,
The rooms to occupy are more than our mother.
The soil is so endangered by us,
Flowers keep great ideas in dirtiness.

The gardeners work forever this way,
Shaking the soil with their day.
May our sleeping hours prove to be higher
Than all of nature’s, still we can tire.
Flower the world with our march,
The march continues to arch.

May fatigue be the enemy of our protest,
This riot we create, and then be assessed.
What we are is not your concern,
The bushes and plants have a turn.
Their laziness requires religious thought,
We need to think better than today as sought.

Let the population know what we have forsaken,
The streets should be empty and obedient with abortion.
The walkers are right, just totally right,
An abduction causes us a different light.
They take away some flowers from the garden,
The garden of Us, we are the garden to pardon.

May we string new words,
Extract blessing from our birds.
The garden is polite like a stage,
Acting will never grow or enrage.
The nature of substances is grand,
Like that of this very land.

Lazy flowers shout too hard,
That is why they droop and be charred.
They wilt and slowly drop,
Like us as we come to the top.
Life is about the riots of flowers,
We marched up and down, with powers.

poem by Naveed Akram
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A Little Bit of Garden

We need no crown or sceptre,
for now that it is spring,
just a little bit of garden-
and every man's a king!

A little breadth of border,
a little patch of grass,
above it all the April sky
where soft the south winds pass.

A spade and rake for comrades,
the smell of rain-wet mould,-
and every time we turn a clod
we turn a mint of gold.

A little bit of garden,
with daffodils a-swing,
and tulip-flowers whose crimson flags
are only flown for spring.

Shy blossoming primroses,
forget-me-nots of blue,
and here a blade and there a blade
of green things peeping through.

Who seeks for crown or sceptre
when every man's a ming
whose patch of cottage garden
has felt the feet of Spring!

poem by William Henry Ogilvie
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Sustenance for Friend Penny

Across the valley echoing
I hear a sound like distant drums.
It is the day of reckoning.
The storm god comes, the storm god comes.

His silver lances pierce the ground
and lightning streaks across the sky.
The thunder growls a fearsome sound.
The sun seared earth no longer dry.

The pouring rain is merciless,
the earth absorbs it thirstily
Its needs appears to be endless
The downpour stops quite suddenly.

The sun resumes his reign again.
There is no water to be seen,
it is as if there’d been no rain
but now the land is turning green.

The rain has reached the dormant seeds
Which wait in patience for their turn
the rainfall has fulfilled their needs
Now grasses and the flowers return.

The soil no longer sere and brown
but clad in multi coloured hues
of flowers which have quickly grown.
It is impossible to choose

which flower that you like the best.
Amongst the riotous display
each striving to outdo the rest
and does in fact in its own way..

Although the flowering seasons short.
The plants mature at lightning speed.
Producing seeds of every sort.
Which will survive until the day

the storm God will return again
to bless with rain the dry hard pan.
Reintroduce the flowers reign
all part of nature’s master plan.

(5-Nov-07)

poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Autumn Rain

While I sit here and ponder
I don’t see I’m drowning in my pain,
I was blinded by the sorrow
My tears have left a pool and a stain,

My heart was left broken
My mind was in a darkened haze
I’m sitting here dwelling in my final phase
Far away from my glory days

Ingrained in my mind
Are deep memories of pain,
The days of yesteryear bridges never fade away
A painful tragedy like thunder in my veins

But never are they washed away by the rain,
They embody me and so are here to stay
I lost myself so long ago
There’s no one I can blame

Autumn rain falls on me with
An eternal sunrise that never climbs
Autumn rain coming down
Another shattered soul in the lost and found

I feel I’m vanishing, vanishing gone
In autumn rain
I feel I’m vanishing, vanishing gone
In autumn rain

poem by Daniel Richards
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Fairytale Rains

For long there’s no rain, for long
The dying soil stretches its tongue
Towards the firmament, begging on its knees
‘Rain, come rain, even if a little, please’!
It’s eons since the clouds squeezed out
The last drops, knowing they’re all in vain
No yield would come of them, no sprout
Horrified they wilted to be never back again!

The race progressed with their grim toil
Forgetting rain is born in the soil
Dreaming of a distant thunder
Yearning the clouds to come asunder!

My grandpa told me a fairytale
That once on earth the rain fell
It washed the body and made souls clean
Lives shot up to make the earth green!

poem by Pradip Chattopadhyay
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Our Marriage Is Our Garden

Our marriage is our garden.
I want our garden to be beautiful.
With lush green grass,
With fragrant and colourful flowers.
A place of solace.
A place of peace.
A place of love.
Our garden must be watered.
Not watered too much.
As that would saturate the ground.
Not watered too little.
As that would leave the plants wilted.
And our grass barren.
But regularly.
So the flowers can stand tall
It must be weeded.
It must be maintained.
It must be loved.
We will plant seeds in our garden.
For new life makes any garden more beautiful and diverse.
We can harvest the fruit trees, but our harvest is limited
If we eat all the fruit too quick,
Then we must wait until the next harvest to eat again.
If we don't pick the fruit when it is right, it will spoil.
Our harvest is for our family.
If I eat all the fruit myself, then they will starve.
If we eat too much we will get sick.
If we eat what we are supposed to, then we will be healthy.
If we do not monitor the fruit,
Then someone might eat more than their share.
If we do not stand guard in our garden,
A thief might come into the garden to steal our fruit.
The fruit for our family.
For their garden must be barren and their crops have spoiled.
Our garden will stand the test of all seasons.
As all gardens do.
Another garden will also experience the same seasons.
Just at different times.
All gardens face rain.
All gardens get sun.
It is the rain that nourishes the garden and helps it's life to grow.
But our garden must be maintained regularly.
Only artificial things require no maintenance.
The artificial has no life.
It is fake, it is plastic.
Our garden needs to be real.
So life may grow and continue to grow.
So one day our children can enjoy a garden of their own.
For them and their children.
May their garden be overflowing with life and love.
And be the most beautiful garden in the world.

poem by Ryan Lee Morris
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Rain, rain falling

Rain, rain falling
from a thunder clad sky
with rockets, projectiles and blood
and the oncoming enemy
almost everywhere
in ironclad armour

coming to the day
of their slaughter
receiving sizzling thunder
to the tune
of howitzers, rocket trucks,
armoured cars and tanks
and rifle machineguns
and the Lomba River runs red
while there’s havoc everywhere
and the venom of vomit
fills my mouth
while I struggle to breathe
in the face
of annihilation
of a deadly enemy.

[Reference: Rain by Dikobe wa Mogale.]

poem by Gert Strydom
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Garden

O painter of the fruits and flowers,
We own wise design,
Where these human hands of ours
May share work of Thine!

Apart from Thee we plant in vain
The root and sow the seed;
Thy early and Thy later rain,
Thy sun and dew we need.

Our toil is sweet with thankfulness,
Our burden is our boon;
The curse of Earth's gray morning is
The blessing of its noon.

Why search the wide world everywhere
For Eden's unknown ground?
That garden of the primal pair
May nevermore be found.

But, blest by Thee, our patient toil
May right the ancient wrong,
And give to every clime and soil
The beauty lost so long.

Our homestead flowers and fruited trees
May Eden's orchard shame;
We taste the tempting sweets of these
Like Eve, without her blame.

And, North and South and East and West,
The pride of every zone,
The fairest, rarest, and the best
May all be made our own.

Its earliest shrines the young world sought
In hill-groves and in bowers,
The fittest offerings thither brought
Were Thy own fruits and flowers.

And still with reverent hands we cull
Thy gifts each year renewed;
The good is always beautiful,
The beautiful is good.

poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
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On Autumn´s Earth

This is the beginning
Now carry me away
On to the faraway new day
That now is born to play

Yes this is the beginning
Moments dreamed and found
Everything in its singing
That comes again around

Flowers on autumn´s earth
Reaching their own goal
Times of days and worth
Each their together role

Flowers on autumn´s earth
Reaching their own goal
Times of days and worth
Each their together role
On autumn´s earth

Yesterdays were all turning
In their beat´s echo heart
Forever in lay and burning
Poles and miles apart
Flames of their color giving
All that came from within
Days their dreams own living
As worlds take their spin

Flowers on autumn´s earth
Reaching their own goal
Times of days and worth
Each their together role

Flowers on autumn´s earth
Reaching their own goal
Times of days and worth
Each their together role
On autumn´s earth

Swept away in their call
Dreams that were carried on
Love songs of colors fall
Until their moments are gone
You and I had our calling
Dreams that were not to be
Now like autumn earth's falling
All that we had is now free

Flowers on autumn´s earth
Reaching their own goal
Times of days and worth
Each their together role

Flowers on autumn´s earth
Reaching their own goal
Times of days and worth
Each their together role
On autumn´s earth

Flowers on autumn´s earth
Reaching their own goal
On autumn´s earth

poem by Peter S. Quinn
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On Autumns Earth