Improvisations: Light And Snow: 02
I stood for a long while before the shop window
Looking at the blue butterflies embroidered on tawny silk.
The building was a tower before me,
Time was loud behind me,
Sun went over the housetops and dusty trees;
And there they were, glistening, brilliant, motionless,
Stitched in a golden sky
By yellow patient fingers long since turned to dust.
poem by Conrad Potter Aiken
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Improvisations: Light and Snow
I
The girl in the room beneath
Before going to bed
Strums on a mandolin
The three simple tunes she knows.
How inadequate they are to tell how her heart feels!
When she has finished them several times
She thrums the strings aimlessly with her finger-nails
And smiles, and thinks happily of many things.
II
I stood for a long while before the shop window
Looking at the blue butterflies embroidered on tawny silk.
The building was a tower before me,
Time was loud behind me,
Sun went over the housetops and dusty trees;
And there they were, glistening, brilliant, motionless,
Stitched in a golden sky
By yellow patient fingers long since turned to dust.
III
The first bell is silver,
And breathing darkness I think only of the long scythe of time.
The second bell is crimson,
And I think of a holiday night, with rockets
Furrowing the sky with red, and a soft shatter of stars.
The third bell is saffron and slow,
And I behold a long sunset over the sea
With wall on wall of castled cloud and glittering balustrades.
The fourth bell is color of bronze,
I walk by a frozen lake in the dun light of dusk:
Muffled crackings run in the ice,
Trees creak, birds fly.
The fifth bell is cold clear azure,
Delicately tinged with green:
One golden star hangs melting in it,
And towards this, sleepily, I go.
The sixth bell is as if a pebble
Had been dropped into a deep sea far above me . . .
Rings of sound ebb slowly into the silence.
IV
On the day when my uncle and I drove to the cemetery,
Rain rattled on the roof of the carriage;
And talkng constrainedly of this and that
We refrained from looking at the child's coffin on the seat before us.
When we reached the cemetery
We found that the thin snow on the grass
Was already transparent with rain;
And boards had been laid upon it
That we might walk without wetting our feet.
V
When I was a boy, and saw bright rows of icicles
In many lengths along a wall
I was dissappointed to find
That I could not play music upon them:
I ran my hand lightly across them
And they fell, tinkling.
I tell you this, young man, so that your expectations of life
Will not be too great.
VI
It is now two hours since I left you,
And the perfume of your hands is still on my hands.
And though since then
I have looked at the stars, walked in the cold blue streets,
And heard the dead leaves blowing over the ground
Under the trees,
I still remember the sound of your laughter.
How will it be, lady, when there is none left to remember you
Even as long as this?
Will the dust braid your hair?
VII
The day opens with the brown light of snowfall
And past the window snowflakes fall and fall.
I sit in my chair all day and work and work
Measuring words against each other.
I open the piano and play a tune
But find it does not say what I feel,
I grow tired of measuring words against each other,
I grow tired of these four walls,
And I think of you, who write me that you have just had a daughter
And named her after your first sweetheart,
And you, who break your heart, far away,
In the confusion and savagery of a long war,
And you who, worn by the bitterness of winter,
Will soon go south.
The snowflakes fall almost straight in the brown light
Past my window,
And a sparrow finds refuge on my window-ledge.
This alone comes to me out of the world outside
As I measure word with word.
VIII
Many things perplex me and leave me troubled,
Many things are locked away in the white book of stars
Never to be opened by me.
The starr'd leaves are silently turned,
And the mooned leaves;
And as they are turned, fall the shadows of life and death.
Perplexed and troubled,
I light a small light in a small room,
The lighted walls come closer to me,
The familiar pictures are clear.
I sit in my favourite chair and turn in my mind
The tiny pages of my own life, whereon so little is written,
And hear at the eastern window the pressure of a long wind, coming
From I know not where.
How many times have I sat here,
How many times will I sit here again,
Thinking these same things over and over in solitude
As a child says over and over
The first word he has learned to say.
IX
This girl gave her heart to me,
And this, and this.
This one looked at me as if she loved me,
And silently walked away.
This one I saw once and loved, and never saw her again.
Shall I count them for you upon my fingers?
Or like a priest solemnly sliding beads?
Or pretend they are roses, pale pink, yellow, and white,
And arrange them for you in a wide bowl
To be set in sunlight?
See how nicely it sounds as I count them for you --
'This girl gave her heart to me
And this, and this, . . . !
And nevertheless, my heart breaks when I think of them,
When I think their names,
And how, like leaves, they have changed and blown
And will lie, at last, forgotten,
Under the snow.
X
It is night time, and cold, and snow is falling,
And no wind grieves the walls.
In the small world of light around the arc-lamp
A swarm of snowflakes falls and falls.
The street grows silent. The last stranger passes.
The sound of his feet, in the snow, is indistinct.
What forgotten sadness is it, on a night like this,
Takes possession of my heart?
Why do I think of a camellia tree in a southern garden,
With pink blossoms among dark leaves,
Standing, surprised, in the snow?
Why do I think of spring?
The snowflakes, helplessly veering,,
Fall silently past my window;
They come from darkness and enter darkness.
What is it in my heart is surprised and bewildered
Like that camellia tree,
Beautiful still in its glittering anguish?
And spring so far away!
XI
As I walked through the lamplit gardens,
On the thin white crust of snow,
So intensely was I thinking of my misfortune,
So clearly were my eyes fixed
On the face of this grief which has come to me,
That I did not notice the beautiful pale colouring
Of lamplight on the snow;
Nor the interlaced long blue shadows of trees;
And yet these things were there,
And the white lamps, and the orange lamps, and the lamps of lilac were there,
As I have seen them so often before;
As they will be so often again
Long after my grief is forgotten.
And still, though I know this, and say this, it cannot console me.
XII
How many times have we been interrupted
Just as I was about to make up a story for you!
One time it was because we suddenly saw a firefly
Lighting his green lantern among the boughs of a fir-tree.
Marvellous! Marvellous! He is making for himself
A little tent of light in the darkness!
And one time it was because we saw a lilac lightning flash
Run wrinkling into the blue top of the mountain, --
We heard boulders of thunder rolling down upon us
And the plat-plat of drops on the window,
And we ran to watch the rain
Charging in wavering clouds across the long grass of the field!
Or at other times it was because we saw a star
Slipping easily out of the sky and falling, far off,
Among pine-dark hills;
Or because we found a crimson eft
Darting in the cold grass!
These things interrupted us and left us wondering;
And the stories, whatever they might have been,
Were never told.
A fairy, binding a daisy down and laughing?
A golden-haired princess caught in a cobweb?
A love-story of long ago?
Some day, just as we are beginning again,
Just as we blow the first sweet note,
Death itself will interrupt us.
XIII
My heart is an old house, and in that forlorn old house,
In the very centre, dark and forgotten,
Is a locked room where an enchanted princess
Lies sleeping.
But sometimes, in that dark house,
As if almost from the stars, far away,
Sounds whisper in that secret room --
Faint voices, music, a dying trill of laughter?
And suddenly, from her long sleep,
The beautiful princess awakes and dances.
Who is she? I do not know.
Why does she dance? Do not ask me! --
Yet to-day, when I saw you,
When I saw your eyes troubled with the trouble of happiness,
And your mouth trembling into a smile,
And your fingers pull shyly forward, --
Softly, in that room,
The little princess arose
And danced;
And as she danced the old house gravely trembled
With its vague and delicious secret.
XIV
Like an old tree uprooted by the wind
And flung down cruelly
With roots bared to the sun and stars
And limp leaves brought to earth --
Torn from its house --
So do I seem to myself
When you have left me.
XV
The music of the morning is red and warm;
Snow lies against the walls;
And on the sloping roof in the yellow sunlight
Pigeons huddle against the wind.
The music of evening is attenuated and thin --
The moon seen through a wave by a mermaid;
The crying of a violin.
Far down there, far down where the river turns to the west,
The delicate lights begin to twinkle
On the dusky arches of the bridge:
In the green sky a long cloud,
A smouldering wave of smoky crimson,
Breaks in the freezing wind: and above it, unabashed,
Remote, untouched, fierly palpitant,
Sings the first star.
poem by Conrad Potter Aiken
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Sometimes I am amazed of the magic that is done
It all started with something insignificant
Like dust,
Sticking on a window pane, and I want it
Dusted off, it is dirt, it is unwanted,
And I do not even know what to do next
About such
Insignificance and feelings of simply
Trying to get rid of dust immediately,
But then, I begin to think about this
Dust, this me, this dust in me,
Some dusts on my feet, some dusts on
My forehead, and some dusts in my ears,
Some dusts in my eyes so obstructive
Of what I really am, and I know what to do next,
The bulb lighting in my head in a sudden,
I touch the dust,
I feel the dust with my fingers, and I am crazy enough
I taste the dust on my window pane,
And I shiver,
I am shaking to its taste, the taste of nothingness
If was from dust that I really come,
I now remember,
It will be to dust that I shall return,
I am now reminded,
And the dust that I used to see
As dirt, as something so insignificant, is now,
A magical patch, glistening, so filled with meaning,
I am nothing but dust; I am biting the dust,
I am very insignificant, in that window pane, at first.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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An Old Dusty Guitar
I walked into a shop one day,
in a dusty corner stood an old guitar.
Dust was playing its only refrain now;
no one took much notice
of it standing there
with several broken strings
looking worn and forlorn.
As I stood and looked at it, I
wondered what stories it could tell.
Were you played by someone famous,
and how many footlights did it see? On the other hand,
were you just strummed by someone
dreaming of stardom out of reach?
How far did this dreamer get, oh, old dusty guitar.
How much I would love to hear your story,
but I have to leave much to my regret,
but if your still hear tomorrow,
and I have enough money.
You will no longer be
an old dusty guitar,
for you will belong to me.
poem by David Harris
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September
1 The golden-rod is yellow;
2 The corn is turning brown;
3 The trees in apple orchards
4 With fruit are bending down.
5 The gentian's bluest fringes
6 Are curling in the sun;
7 In dusty pods the milkweed
8 Its hidden silk has spun.
9 The sedges flaunt their harvest,
10 In every meadow nook;
11 And asters by the brook-side
12 Make asters in the brook,
13 From dewy lanes at morning
14 The grapes' sweet odors rise;
15 At noon the roads all flutter
16 With yellow butterflies.
17 By all these lovely tokens
18 September days are here,
19 With summer's best of weather,
20 And autumn's best of cheer.
21 But none of all this beauty
22 Which floods the earth and air
23 Is unto me the secret
24 Which makes September fair.
25 'T is a thing which I remember;
26 To name it thrills me yet:
27 One day of one September
28 I never can forget.
poem by Helen Hunt Jackson
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Its Been A Long Long Time
Its been a long time...
Since I held you tight.
Its been a long time...
Everyday in this fight.
Its been a long...long...time.
Its been a long time...
Since I've had a kiss.
Its been a long time...
You're pretty blue eyes I miss.
Its been a long...long...time.
Its been a long time...
This Iraqi tour.
Its been a long time...
I miss you so and more.
Its been a long...long...time.
Its been a long time...
Hot days with freezing nights.
Its been a long time...
Sunburned face, mosquito bites.
Its been a long...long...time.
Its been a long time...
Had a real bad day.
Its been a long time...
Lost some soldiers today.
Its been a long...long...time.
Its been a long time...
I suffer everyday.
Its been a long time...
For me to be away.
Its been a long...long...time.
Its been a long time...
For me to be alone.
Its been a long time...
No talking on the telephone.
Its been a long...long...time.
Its been a long time...
Since you heard me say...
Baby, my sweet darling...
I'm leaving Iraq today!
poem by Philip Lore
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The Lost Embassy
THE lilies lean to the white, white rose,
The sweet limes send to the blossomed trees,
Soft kisses borne by the golden bees--
And all the world is alive, awake,
And glad to the heart for the summer's sake.
From her tower window the Princess leant,
Where the white light butterflies came and went;
She dropped soft kisses by twos and threes:
'White butterflies mine, will you carry these
To my Prince in prison? for they, who knows,
May break the spell that has held him close
And wake him and win him to stand up free
And laugh--in the sun--with me!'
White lilies, gold in the golden sun,
White Princess, gold in your golden gown--
Far off lies the sad, enchanted town!
Bright wings, light wings, white wings that tire,
Though they carry the flower of the heart's desire--
Will you trust to these, too white, too slight
To bring back the fruit of heart's delight?
All round and about the spell-bound town
The ways are dusty, the woods are brown;
There are no green coverts, no welcoming flowers
For little weary butterfly wings,
No dew, no lilies, no glad live things.
'Neath the sky of steel and the brazen sun
White wings, kiss-laden, dropped one by one:
By twos and threes they dropped by the way,
And only one reached the grim, gray tower
Where, witched from his kingdom, the poor Prince lay--
One poor tired butterfly, smirched and gray
With the dust of the town and the weary way,
And it lit on the Prince's hand and died.
'Bright wings, light wings, white wings,' he cried
'You, only you, might have lived and borne
My prayer to my love in her tower forlorn,
And brought back the kiss that could set me free--
She might have broken the spell that lies
On my foolish heart and my foolish eyes--
But no live butterflies come my way!'
The winds are cold and the skies are gray,
And all the lilies died yesterday;
The Princess leans from her steel-wrought tower
To watch for her butterflies hour by hour.
Poor little Princess, you watch in vain!
Butterflies die where the green wood browns,
And kisses sent to enchanted towns
Never come home again.
poem by Edith Nesbit
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Dienda
How like the fall
To be gone in a day
Just as the leaves had turned gold
I was drawn to the sound
That the wind carried down
From an open window pane
And oh, how like a song
Or a sad melody
To linger long after the end
And the harmony rings
With the promise of spring
On a Brooklyn street
How like the fall to be gone in a day
Just as the trees had turned gold
I was drawn to this sound
That some fingers had found
But now the winter seems to stay too long
How like a song
Or a sad melody
To linger long after it's gone
Though the window is closed
And the questions it posed
On a Brooklyn street
How like the spring
To return in a day
When everything seems to be new
But here's someone who's hoping
The window is open
On that Brooklyn street again
And oh, how like a song
Or a sweet melody
To linger long after it's gone
Let the harmony ring
With the promise of spring
On a Brooklyn street
song performed by by Sting
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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For a Daughter Who Leaves
A woman weaves
her daughter's wedding
slippers that will carry
her steps into a new life.
The mother weeps alone
into her jeweled sewing box
slips red thread
around its spool,
the same she used to stitch
her daughter's first silk jacket
embroidered with turtles
that would bring luck, long life.
She remembers all the steps
taken by her daughter's
unbound quick feet:
dancing on the stones
of the yard among yellow
butterflies and white breasted sparrows.
And she grew, legs strong
body long, mind
independent.
Now she captures all eyes
with her hair combed smooth
and her hips gently
swaying like bamboo.
The woman
spins her thread
from the spool of her heart,
knotted to her daughter's
departing
wedding slippers.
poem by Janice Mirikitani
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An Ode to Autunm
Death becomes beauty when autumn
Kisses the forest trees
Creating a sea of brilliant colours
As far as the eye can see
Summer dies that fall may live
A death be not all in vain, for we
Welcome fall with its harvest bounty
Knowing summer will once more shortly reign
For autumn is the time trees they weep
Their treasure of red and yellow golden leaves
Whilst Jack Frost paints his icy portraits nightly
Upon any window canvas he can see
Autumn is a magical time
T'which we are truly blessed
Of all the seasons that come and go
Tis fall I like the best
poem by John A. Hancock
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To William Theodore Peters On His Renaissance Cloak
The cherry-coloured velvet of your cloak
Time hath not soiled: its fair embroideries
Gleam as when centuries ago they spoke
To what bright gallant of Her Daintiness,
Whose slender fingers, long since dust and dead,
For love or courtesy embroidered
The cherry-coloured velvet of this cloak.
Ah! cunning flowers of silk and silver thread,
That mock mortality? the broidering dame,
The page they decked, the kings and courts are dead:
Gone the age beautiful; Lorenzo's name,
The Borgia's pride are but an empty sound;
But lustrous still upon their velvet ground,
Time spares these flowers of silk and silver thread.
Gone is that age of pageant and of pride:
Yet don your cloak, and haply it shall seem,
The curtain of old time is set aside;
As through the sadder coloured throng you gleam;
We see once more fair dame and gallant gay,
The glamour and the grace of yesterday:
The elder, brighter age of pomp and pride.
poem by Ernest Christopher Dowson
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To A Butterfly (2)
I'VE watched you now a full half-hour,
Self-poised upon that yellow flower;
And, little Butterfly! indeed
I know not if you sleep or feed.
How motionless!---not frozen seas
More motionless! and then
What joy awaits you, when the breeze
Hath found you out among the trees,
And calls you forth again !
This plot of orchard-ground is ours;
My trees they are, my Sister's flowers;
Here rest your wing when they are weary;
Here lodge as in a sanctuary!
Come often to us, fear no wrong;
Sit near us on the bough!
We'll talk of sunshine and of song,
And summer days, when we were young;
Sweet childish days, that were as long
As twenty days are now.
poem by William Wordsworth
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A Long Time Gone
Seems like forever and time left to spare
When I look out the window
And still youre not there
Youre a long time gone
Such a long time gone
Tearing down memories bitter and sweet
Smashing away til its all obsolete
Youre a long time gone, long time gone
Such a long time gone, long time gone
Youre a long time gone
Do I wonder why
Every day that i
Think about you still
And I always will
Did so much for me
Now I think I see
This I do believe
Feels more like a dream
Looked at the weeds in the broken concrete
Before the bulldozers waltzed in and killed the old street
Youre a long time gone, long time gone
Such a long time gone, long time gone
Door steps that shone in a bright summer sky
Lay shattered and wasted since our last goodbye
Youre a long time gone, long time gone
Such a long time gone, long time gone
Youre a long time gone
Do I wonder why
Every day that i
Think about you still
And I always will
Youre a long time gone
Did so much for me
Now I think I see
This I do believe
Feels more like a dream
Youre a long time gone
Do I wonder why
Youre a long time gone
You never did
I never said goodbye
Youre a long time gone
song performed by by Electric Light Orchestra
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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How Long Will Be Too Long
Words: michael w. smith and wayne kirkpatrick
Music: michael w. smith
(tell me) how long will we grovel at the feet of wealth and power
(tell me) how long will we bow down to that golden calf
How long will be too long
(tell me) how long will we curtsy to the whims of new religion
How long will we water down the truth
til truth is no more
How long will be too long
Chorus:
The power of faith and love
Can change the stuff were made of
But still we wait
(tell me) how long will be too long
(tell me) how long will we drink from the chalice of indifference
Neither be hot or be cold
Can a sober soul know
How long will be too long
Chorus:
Is there not more to us
Than cursed dust to dust
I feel my hope fading
How long will be too long
How long will be too long
(tell me) how long will we travel from the ways that God intended
Wont it all tumble down if his holy wrath comes
How long will be too long
Chorus:
The power of faith and love
Can change the stuff were made of
When will it be too late
How long will be too long
How long will be too long
How long will be too long
song performed by by Michael W. Smith
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Tale Of A Blue Butterfly
Long, long ago,
There was a tale of a blue butterfly,
That live in a silvery cage,
Up at the cold attic,
Silhouetted against the wall,
Surrounded by eerie silent,
Lost in the unknown time.
It flapped its wings hopelessly,
Around the dusty cage,
Its magnificent colour getting paler and fader,
Under the screened window,
And its spirit slipped away,
Inch by inch into the thin air.
But I do not know,
The ending of this tale,
And only the blue butterfly,
And HE who know it to the very end.
Wasp
When the honey, fruit and flowery tablecloth were whisked from the table in one sweep, it flew off with a start. Entangled in the suffocating smoke of the curtains, it buzzed for a long time. At last it reached the window. It beat its weakening body repeatedly against the cold, solid air of the pane. In the last flutter of its wings drowsed the faith that the body’s unrest can awaken a wind carrying us to longed-for worlds.
You who stood under the window of your beloved, who saw your happiness in a shop window—do you know how to take away the sting of this death?
poem by Zbigniew Herbert
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Butterflies For Breakfast? (Life Poem)
Butterflies before you sit the final exam,
Butterflies before you go for a job interview,
Butterflies before you ask her out on a date,
Butterflies before you kiss her for the first time,
Butterflies before you propose two will be one,
Butterflies before you meet her family,
Butterflies before you see her all in white,
Butterflies before you make that big speech,
Butterflies before you see that your baby is OK,
Butterflies before you get news from the doctor,
Butterflies before you lose your job again,
Butterflies before you face any little crisis,
But -
No butterflies for breakfast.
poem by Ian Beckett
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A Day In Your Lifetime...
make a day
like an embroidered
handkerchief
personalized for your
favorite kid
the colors mix
blue sky
golden sunrise
green fields of hay
shimmering
glossy streams
at the left side
there is a red breasted bird
chirping
all silk
smooth so smooth like
your love.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Forever Is A Long Time
Today I read in a book that some are meant to live forever
Theres also a nightmare where our dying has no end
If I let my will surrender and my flesh be crucified
In his name my sins will be sublime
Forever is a long long time
Its said love is a gift thats given if were true believers
Just make your body and your soul his receivers
In this world those golden rules
May seem like theyre made for fools
Puppets on a string that blessing can bring
Forever is a long long time
Forever is a long long time
But now the wine has turned sour after all these years of fighting
So many wars but still his kingdom is not striking
Pray for your enemy
And love without agony
Always ready for his day to come
Forever is a long long time
Forever is a long time
song performed by by Yngwie Malmsteen
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Forever Is A Long Time
Today I read in a book that some are meant to live forever
Theres also a nightmare where our dying has no end
If I let my will surrender and my flesh be crucified
In his name my sins will be sublime
Forever is a long long time
Its said love is a gift thats given if were true believers
Just make your body and your soul his receivers
In this world those golden rules
May seem like theyre made for fools
Puppets on a string that blessing can bring
Forever is a long long time
Forever is a long long time
But now the wine has turned sour after all these years of fighting
So many wars but still his kingdom is not striking
Pray for your enemy
And love without agony
Always ready for his day to come
Forever is a long long time
Forever is a long time
song performed by by Yngwie Malmsteen
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Afternoon View When The Office Is About To Close
from my window
you must have probably heard me about saying the same thing all over again
but i will say it again
the sea is very calm like a sky blue silk spread on the floor
the horizon is pale white like the color of shyness
at a distance there is a boat
the man just spread the fish net
a tiny bird hops from one dry twig to another
another leaf on the other branch falls because it is bound to fall
yellow leaves, those dead ones
caught by the fingers of the grasses below
and then the sound of sirens comes
it is now time to go
now my heart sings with joy
for another night perhaps with the stars high on the roof of my house
in my solitude.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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