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Morning Twilight

Reveille was sounding on barrack-squares,
and the wind of dawn blew on lighted stairs.
It was the hour when a swarm of evil visions
torments swarthy adolescents, when pillows hum:
when, a bloodshot eye, throbbing and quivering,
the lamp makes a reddened stain on the morning:
when the soul, by dull sour body, bowed down,
enacts the struggle between lamp and dawn.
Like a tearful face that the breeze wipes dry,
the air’s filled with the frisson of things that fly,
and man is tired of writing, woman with loving.
The chimneys, here and there, began smoking.
The women of pleasure, with their bleary eyes,
and gaping mouths, were sleeping stupefied:
poor old women, with chilled and meagre breasts,
blew the embers, then fingers, roused from rest.
It was the hour, when frozen, with money scarcer,
the pains of women in childbirth grew fiercer:
and like a sob cut short by a surge of blood
a cock-crow far away broke through the fog:
a sea of mist bathed the buildings, dying men,
in the depths of the workhouse, groaned again
emitting their death-rattles in ragged breaths.
Debauchees, tired by their efforts, headed for rest.
Shivering dawn in a robe of pink and green
made her way slowly along the deserted Seine,
and sombre Paris, eyes rubbed and watering,
groped for its tools, an old man, labouring.

poem by Charles Baudelaire
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Related quotes

I'M TIRED OF WOMEN...by talile ali

I'M TIRED OF WOMEN
I'M TIRED OF STRIFE
TIRED OF LOVING
TOO HIGH OF A PRICE

I'M TIRED OF SMOOTCHIN
I'M TIRED OF HUGS
I'M TIRED OF EYE GLANCES
I WANT MORE OF THOSE SHRUGS

ALL OF YOU WOMEN
THINK MEN ARE SO BLIND
TREAT US ALL LIKE CATTLE
TO MILK AND ENTWINE
I TIRED OF DEALIN WITH DUCKED UP WOMEN

I'M SIGNING OFF WOMEN
GIVEN THEM UP INSTEAD
I'D RATHER BE SANE NOW
DON'T WANNA BE DEAD

SO IF YOU'RE ATTRACTED
TO ME WHILE IM OUT
I'M TELLING YOU WOMEN
AS LOUD AS I CAN SHOUT

I'M TIRED OF YOU WOMEN
OF ALL THE ABUSE
OF ALL THE LOST MOMENTS
OF ALL THE SPENT TRUTHS

DON'T WANNA BE YOUR CONFIDANT
DON'T WANNA BE YOUR FRIEND
STAY AWAY FROM ME WOMEN
YOUR DESIRE WILL BE MY END

SO AS I MARCH ON
STAY OUTTA MY WAY
I'M TIRED OF YOU WOMEN
GET AWAY FROM ME,
OK?

poem by Talile Ali
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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At Dawn

At dawn…
The time when I feel all alone
When everybody is asleep
And are still catching some zzzz’s

At dawn…
The hour when the place is quiet
When I’m almost dumb and deaf
And silence is all I can hear

At dawn…
The break when my mind’s unloaded
When my body is free from pains
And my heart is filled with wonder

At dawn…
Each day with a date with God
I spend this quiet time in grace
Thanking Him for the night that passed

At dawn…
I pray to our Almighty Lord above
Praising Him for who He is-
An awesome and wonderful God

At dawn…
I plead for His help so I could do
All the tasks that I have to make
At dawn, and for the rest of the day

poem by Rose de Ramar
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Scent Of The Lover....

i am still water, moonlit and waiting.
i am the crucifix made of fingers,
the letter written in blood.
the fool tripping over windmills,
the beacon from a distant shore.
dust in the corner, dew on the grass,
the eyes of the racoon,
the bat hanging upside down.
the whisper of moss,
the depths of the cave.
the pine tree fallen across the path.
i am the kiss long silent,
the iron skillet, the tin cup.
i am the body of the wind,
without beginning or end.
i am the child alone,
and the woman abused.
the angry man, and the broken glass.
i am the farmhouse deserted,
the voices of ghosts.
i am the spirits of slaves,
who call in the night.
i am the cock and the dawn,
the howl of the dog.
the pilgrim beaten and robbed,
and left for dead.
i am the cry of childbirth,
and the shout of death....
i am the scent of the lover,
that stains your soul!

poem by Eric Cockrell
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Darkest Hour Is Just Before Down

(ralph stanley)
The sun is slowly sinkin
The days almost gone
Still darkness falls around us
And we must journey on
The darkest hour is just before dawn
The narrow way leads home
Lay down your soul at jesus feet
The darkest hour is just before dawn
Like a shepherd out on the mountain
A-watchin the sheep down below
Hes coming back to claim us
Will you be ready to go
The darkest hour is just before dawn
The narrow way leads home
Lay down your soul
Let jesus in
The darkest hour is just before dawn
The darkest hour is just before dawn

song performed by by Emmylou Harris
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Darkest Hour Is Just Before Dawn

(ralph stanley)
The sun is slowly sinkin'
The day's almost gone
Still darkness falls around us
And we must journey on
The darkest hour is just before dawn
The narrow way leads home
Lay down your soul at jesus' feet
The darkest hour is just before dawn
Like a shepherd out on the mountain
A-watchin' the sheep down below
He's coming back to claim us
Will you be ready to go
The darkest hour is just before dawn
The narrow way leads home
Lay down your soul
Let jesus in
The darkest hour is just before dawn
The darkest hour is just before dawn

song performed by by Emmylou Harris
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Naked Body In The River

i put you in the river
naked,

perfect body for my
feast at night till dawn

and then i sleep in
the morning

too tired
these loving eyes

still dead about you
someone beyond

the touch of my fingers
naked body

so beautiful but
it has no eyes

and hence
cannot see me.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Women - the bad ones

Women are like cats
so pretty and devious all in the same way.
When they want something they'll come a purring.
All want to be fussed over like with Daddy.

I used to bend over backwards to help women
Now I don't give a shit.
I used to respect them but all of its waste of time.
Used to buy a drink
Now they drink it and run off to next poor sucker.
But now some motherf****r is getting them back
spiking their drinks and having their way.

I am not as sick as them.
I just tired of being stabbed in the heart.
Once bitten, twice shy.
A saying so true.
Now women just make me blue.

When I had money, they'd line up to get some.
Got tired of golddiggers and whores
Its left me with a bad taste.
Loving someone - not worth it.
Love is bullshit.
Can't find anyway to love me for who I am.
The only woman who is genuine
was the one who brought me to life.

I can't spare time or effort on today's women
they are a waste of time.
If you want respect,
your earn it otherwise go wallow in your own bullshit.

My own company is better.
I have waste my money on shoes or makeup
I just wish you would fucking shut up.
You women you cry for equality
But even good guys like me are sick to death.
Of your campaign.

God may have us equal
But i dont see that now.
I feel nothing for women
I'm all dried out.

poem by Ibrar Siddiqi
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International Women's Day,2012

There are some things women should do,
As men simply cannot;
There are things that women can do,
But not as well as men.

There are some things women shouldn't do,
For they are harmful, sin;
There are many just women do,
Much better than most men.

Empow'r women and uplift them,
And make their plight better;
This half of human populace
If better, world's better.

Let poverty not strike women;
Remove their hunger pangs;
Give them all equal rights like men,
Save them from awful gangs.

Women are teachers naturally
For every child that's born;
They nurse their babies and protect,
Till dusk, from every dawn.

Women have beauty and contours
And for men, fit partners;
Women need love and care like all:
They aren't bought from a stall!

'Happy International Women's Day,2012'

poem by John Celes
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The Last Ode

Nov. 27, 8 B.C. Horace, BK. V. Ode 31

As watchers couched beneath a Bantine oak,
Hearing the dawn-wind stir,
Know that the present strength of night is broke
Though no dawn threaten her
Till dawn's appointed hour--so Virgil died,
Aware of change at hand, and prophesied

Change upon all the Eternal Gods had made
And on the Gods alike--
Fated as dawn but, as the dawn, delayed
Till the just hour should strike--

A Star new-risen above the living and dead;
And the lost shades that were our loves restored
As lovers, and for ever. So he said;
Having received the word...

Maecenas waits me on the Esquiline:
Thither to-night go I....
And shall this dawn restore us, Virgil mine
To dawn? Beneath what sky?

poem by Rudyard Kipling
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Hamlet soliliquy insomnia

'To sleep, or, not to sleep?

That is the question

Whether it is nobler in the mind

To heave the leaded unslept eyes of sleep

Adrift in that uncertain hour

Between the hem of dawn

And sombre headed night

Or drink the hemlock of dispair

And sleep herewith eternally

In some far distant land?

I, but there's the rub

For in that sleep of death

What dreams may come?

When we have shuffled off our mortal duvets

Must give us pause,

And wrench thus the heavy eyed soul of heaven

With a careful prayer

And thus without relent

Allow the troubled heart and troubled thoughts

No rest but beckon in the coming dawn

With one last stretch

One final yawn

Alas I melt and thaw into a dew!

yvette smith march 09

poem by Yvette Smith
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Granny

Through every nook and every cranny
The wind blew in on poor old Granny
Around her knees, into each ear
(And up nose as well, I fear)

All through the night the wind grew worse
It nearly made the vicar curse
The top had fallen off the steeple
Just missing him (and other people)

It blew on man, it blew on beast
It blew on nun, it blew on priest
It blew the wig off Auntie Fanny-
But most of all, it blew on Granny!

poem by Spike Milligan
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The Loving Tree

Three women walked upon a road,
And the first said airily,
“Of all the trees in all the world
Which is the loving tree?”

The second said, “My eyes have seen
No tree that is not fair;
But the Orange tree is the sweetest tree,
The loving blood is there.”

And the third said, “In the green time
I knew a loving tree
That gave a drink of the blood-red milk,
It was the Mulberry.”

Then the first one said, “Of all the trees
No sweetest can I name;
Ask her who yonder slowly comes—
That woman lean and lame.”

Grief like a hideous suckling hung
Along her hollow breast,
Pain was upon her as she walked,
And as she stooped to rest.

“Why will you question so?” she said,
“Is it to mock at me?
For how should I, who walk in Hell,
Know of a loving tree?

“My eyes are not as woman's eyes,
They hope not east or west:
Dull Famine my bed-mate is,
And Loneliness my guest.

“ 'Tis not the most delicious flower
That leaves the scent of Spring,
Nor is it yet the brightest bird
That loads his heart to sing.

“A tree may dance in the white weather
Or dream in a blue gown,
A tree may sing as a sweetheart
To bid the stars come down:

“Some trees are slim and lovable
And some are sleek and strong,
But the tree that has the cripple's heart
Will know the cripple's song.

“The sweetest death is the red death
That comes up nakedly,
And the tree that has the foiled heart
It is the loving tree.

“While ever lip shall seek for lip,
While ever light shall fall,
The tree that has the ruined heart
Is tenderest of all.

“Oh, ye may have your men to kiss,
And children warm to hold,
But the heart that had the hottest love
Was never yet consoled.”

The women three walked on their way,
Their shamed eyes could see
How well the tree with the foiled heart
Is still the loving tree.

poem by John Shaw Neilson
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Sonnet Of Motherhood XXIV

How many holy women mothered me
And brought me to perfection for this hour,
When from my being all the living power
Of sweetest woman should at last flow free?
Aeons on Aeons on a loving knee
Some woman rocked me in her scented bower,
Till my soul bloomed an everlasting flower
Calling with fragrance to a singing bee.

You came. You saw me. And because in you
A myriad mothers all their love had spread,
Those holy women since the dawn of day
Gave you the promise of a master true…
Dearest, that bee unto the flower was wed
When your song fitted with my humble lay.

poem by Zora Bernice May Cross
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Come.....come Along Now

COME...before the roses fade
Come... in the middle of the night
COME..stealhily..silently..gently and in feminine style
before the fire extinguishes slowly and slowly
COME..in the serenity of dawn
COME shivering and as wet as you are
COME as you are
C OME..before the moon goes over the windows
COME..without hesitating in the dark roads
COME slowly..do not run
Without tackling anyone
COME without quarrelling with the police teams
COME without causing any troubles
COME...secretly
COME... before I come
COME now...come along now
Come before ı say come
COME before my song ends
COME when I say come
COME along..come along now..come now
COME before everything sleeps..before the sleeping time
COME before our pillows wrinkle
COME before our brandy gets sour and go worse
COME before the day meets with dawn
COME before your feet stumble
COME before our lusts and emotı ons tumble and go down..
Ahmet KAYA..Translatı on Metin SAHIN

poem by Metin Sahin
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The Gardener LXXXIII: She Dwelt on the Hillside

She dwelt on the hillside by edge
of a maize-field, near the spring that
flows in laughing rills through the
solemn shadows of ancient trees. The
women came there to fill their jars,
and travellers would sit there to rest
and talk. She worked and dreamed
daily to the tune of the bubbling
stream.
One evening the stranger came down
from the cloud-hidden peak; his locks
were tangled like drowsy snakes. We
asked in wonder, "Who are you?"
He answered not but sat by the
garrulous stream and silently gazed at
the hut where she dwelt. Our hearts
quaked in fear and we came back home
when it was night.
Next morning when the women
came to fetch water at the spring by
the deodar trees, they found the doors
open in her hut, but her voice was gone
and where was her smiling face?
The empty jar lay on the floor and her
lamp had burnt itself out in the
corner. No one knew where she had
fled to before it was morning--and the
stranger had gone.
In the month of May the sun grew
strong and the snow melted, and we
sat by the spring and wept. We
wondered in our mind, "Is there a
spring in the land where she has gone
and where she can fill her vessel in
these hot thirsty days?" And we
asked each other in dismay, "Is there
a land beyond these hills where we
live?"
It was a summer night; the breeze
blew from the south; and I sat in her
deserted room where the lamp stood
still unlit. When suddenly from
before my eyes the hills vanished like
curtains drawn aside. "Ah, it is
she who comes. How are you, my
child? Are you happy? But where
can you shelter under this open sky?
And, alas! our spring is not here to
allay your thirst."
"Here is the same sky," she said,
"only free from the fencing hills,--
this is the same stream grown into a
river,--the same earth widened into
a plain." "Everything is here," I
sighed, "only we are not." She
smiled sadly and said, "You are in
my heart." I woke up and heard the
babbling of the stream and the rustling
of the deodars at night.

poem by Rabindranath Tagore
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When Dawn Arrives

He hums tonight through his streets,
My unlatched window the tune repeats,
The kerb-crawling car winds down to a stop.
A few seconds mumble then whisks him off.
Sick and tired of abuse,
Controlled signs of hysteria,
But like when dawn arrives,
He remembers his leisure.
He runs tonight through his block,
A crack in the curtain is unlocked.
No meeting with a mother or greeting a friend
A sharp-looking boot-jack with some time to spend.
Sick and tired of abuse,
Controlled signs of hysteria,
But like when dawn arrives,
He remembers his leisure.
He cries tonight
Through his manner
I can see his conscience
Get the better
From a door-way stepped in
Shadowed leather
Exchanging handshakes for money
And pleasure.
He crawls tonight through his scum,
From my dirty window his bodys numb.
Beneath the street-lamp tilts shoulders bent,
Then meets his pick-up who pays his rent.
Sick and tired of abuse,
Controlled signs of hysteria,
But like when dawn arrives,
He remembers his leisure.
His pleasure

song performed by by Madness
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Paris

My Paris is a land where twilight days
Merge into violent nights of black and gold;
Where, it may be, the flower of dawn is cold:
Ah, but the gold nights, and the scented ways!

Eyelids of women, little curls of hair,
A little nose curved softly, like a shell,
A red mouth like a wound, a mocking veil:
Phantoms, before the dawn, how phantom-fair!

And every woman with beseeching eyes,
Or with enticing eyes, or amorous,
Offers herself, a rose, and craves of us
A rose's place among our memories.

poem by Arthur Symons
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Requiescit

I cannot tell his story. He was one
To whom the riddle of our human life
Was strangely put, and who, because of that
And that he could not read it, died. But a short hour
Before he passed, the woman who stood by,
Weeping as once she had wept to see him born,
Tired with her watching looked into his face
And saw the heavy eyelids dropping down
Loaded with sleep. And she, for all her tears,
Bent for the hundredth time to ease his bed.
And, as she almost touched him, smoothing out
The ruffled pillows, close into her ear
He whispered, never lifting up his eyes:
``No matter now. I shall be soon asleep.''
And then, as if he would pursue the thought
A little way as once he loved to do,
And yet too weak to catch it, he went on:
``And what a trouble it has been to keep
This pillow smooth! And in a little while
It will not want another touch; and then--
This aching head of mine will have done with thought.
Thought! Thought!'' But loud the aged woman sobbed,
``Poor soul, poor gentleman.'' So they remained
For a brief space, the goodwife standing there
Knotting her wrinkled hands and he hard by
Upon the bed and breathing heavily.
For he seemed sunk again in that dull trance
Through which men often pass away from life,
When death, as the lion does, has shaken his prey
And he lies numb and dumb and powerless.

She listened. He was telling slowly over
The names of those whom he had loved in youth.
Many were strange to her; and then there came
One she knew well. She started at the sound
She had not heard for years, and bending near
Heard him repeat it twice. She whispered hoarsely:
``Have you no word for her?''--yet stopped again
Because his eyes were open. Doubtingly
They wandered to her own and seemed to say
``Who, and what is it that you ask?'' And she
Spoke it again. He seemed to catch the name
And said it after her, but like a child
Which knows not what it speaks; and afterwards:
``Ah! Bridget, I have quite forgot that story,
And now, in half an hour, it is not long,
I shall have clean forgotten the name too.''
She cried, ``Oh Sir, it is a life too late.
Would God you had forgot it long ago!''

The tears stole slowly down her withered cheeks
And fell upon his hands. She did not move
While he went murmuring on: ``'Tis very well
Thus to forget. And what a wonder too
It now is''--and there came a sudden light
Into his eyes--``that one should ever care
To recollect a single day of life.
I used to think and plan and plot and scheme
How I might build my life in such a way
That I should take fine memories to my grave.
And now what a small matter 'tis to know
How the years went, when death in half an hour
Is all that is left of them! No matter now,
But only to sleep sound in any bed
And have no dreams.'' His eyes grew dim again
As he ceased speaking. And the woman knew
That he was dying. ``He is gone,'' she said.
And then she started muttering half aloud
``They cannot pass without the sacraments,
These gentle--folks.'' And so she hurried out.

The dying man smiled. When they came again,
She whispered in his ear, and looking down
Saw him still smiling; so she lit in haste
A candle by the bed and knelt aside.
They put the holy oils upon his hands,
Which closed upon the fingers of the priest.
The priest bent over him and laid his ear
To the half--open mouth and presently,
Thinking he heard some words, gave absolution.
But, when they would have gone on with the rest,
They found that he was dead. They buried him
With some small pomp to comfort the old dame,
Who said her master was a gentleman
And must be followed with a mourning coach
And mutes and weepers. There was no one else.

His name is cut upon a stone. His dreams
Were written on Time's hem; and Time has fled
And taken him and them. The grass is green
Upon his grave. I cannot doubt he sleeps.

poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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Only Woman Bleed

Man's got his woman to take his seed
He's got the power - oh
She's got the need
She spends her life through pleasing up her man
She feeds him dinner or anything she can
She cries alone at night too often
He smokes and drinks and don't come home at all
Only women bleed
Only women bleed
Only women bleed
Man makes your hair gray
He's your life's mistake
All you're really lookin' for is an even break
He lies right at you
You know you hate this game
He slaps you once in a while and you live and love in pain
She cries alone at night too often
He smokes and drinks and don't come home at all
Only women bleed
Only women bleed
Only women bleed
Only women bleed
Only women bleed
Only women bleed
Only women bleed
Black eyes all of the time
Don't spend a dime
Clean up this grime
And you there down on your knees begging me please come
Watch me bleed
Only women bleed
Only women bleed
Only women bleed
Only women bleed
Only women bleed
Only women bleed
Only women bleed

song performed by by Alice Cooper
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Only Women Bleed

Man's got his woman to take his seed
He's got the power - oh
She's got the need
She spends her life through pleasing up her man
She feeds him dinner or anything she can

She cries alone at night too often
He smokes and drinks and don't come home at all

Only women bleed
Only women bleed
Only women bleed

Man makes your hair gray
He's your life's mistake
All you're really lookin' for is an even break
He lies right at you
You know you hate this game
He slaps you once in a while and you live and love in pain