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The Spirit's Depths

Not in the crisis of events
Of compass'd hopes, or fears fulfill'd,
Or acts of gravest consequence,
Are life's delight and depth reveal'd.
The day of days was not the day;
That went before, or was postponed;
The night Death took our lamp away
Was not the night on which we groan'd.
I drew my bride, beneath the moon,
Across my threshold; happy hour!
But, ah, the walk that afternoon
We saw the water-flags in flower!

poem by Coventry Patmore
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The Angel In The House. Book I. Canto VIII.

Preludes.

I Life of Life
What's that, which, ere I spake, was gone:
So joyful and intense a spark
That, whilst o'erhead the wonder shone,
The day, before but dull, grew dark?
I do not know; but this I know,
That, had the splendour lived a year,
The truth that I some heavenly show
Did see, could not be now more clear.
This know I too: might mortal breath
Express the passion then inspired,
Evil would die a natural death,
And nothing transient be desired;
And error from the soul would pass,
And leave the senses pure and strong
As sunbeams. But the best, alas,
Has neither memory nor tongue.

II The Revelation
An idle poet, here and there,
Looks round him; but, for all the rest,
The world, unfathomably fair,
Is duller than a witling's jest.
Love wakes men, once a lifetime each;
They lift their heavy lids, and look;
And, lo, what one sweet page can teach,
They read with joy, then shut the book.
And some give thanks, and some blaspheme
And most forget; but, either way,
That and the Child's unheeded dream
Is all the light of all their day.

III The Spirit's Epochs
Not in the crises of events,
Of compass'd hopes, or fears fulfill'd,
Or acts of gravest consequence,
Are life's delight and depth reveal'd.
The day of days was not the day;
That went before, or was postponed;
The night Death took our lamp away
Was not the night on which we groan'd.
I drew my bride, beneath the moon,
Across my threshold; happy hour!
But, ah, the walk that afternoon
We saw the water-flags in flower!

IV The Prototype
Lo, there, whence love, life, light are pour'd,
Veil'd with impenetrable rays,
Amidst the presence of the Lord
Co-equal Wisdom laughs and plays.
Female and male God made the man;
His image is the whole, not half;
And in our love we dimly scan
The love which is between Himself.

V The Praise of Love
Spirit of Knowledge, grant me this:
A simple heart and subtle wit
To praise the thing whose praise it is
That all which can be praised is it.

Sarum Plain.

I
Breakfast enjoy'd, 'mid hush of boughs
And perfumes thro' the windows blown;
Brief worship done, which still endows
The day with beauty not its own;
With intervening pause, that paints
Each act with honour, life with calm
(As old processions of the Saints
At every step have wands of palm),
We rose; the ladies went to dress,
And soon return'd with smiles; and then,
Plans fix'd, to which the Dean said ‘Yes,’
Once more we drove to Salisbury Plain.
We past my house (observed with praise
By Mildred, Mary acquiesced),
And left the old and lazy grays
Below the hill, and walk'd the rest.

II
The moods of love are like the wind,
And none knows whence or why they rise:
I ne'er before felt heart and mind
So much affected through mine eyes.
How cognate with the flatter'd air,
How form'd for earth's familiar zone,
She moved; how feeling and how fair
For others' pleasure and her own!
And, ah, the heaven of her face!
How, when she laugh'd, I seem'd to see
The gladness of the primal grace,
And how, when grave, its dignity!
Of all she was, the least not less
Delighted the devoted eye;
No fold or fashion of her dress
Her fairness did not sanctify.
I could not else than grieve. What cause?
Was I not blest? Was she not there?
Likely my own? Ah, that it was:
How like seem'd ‘likely’ to despair!

III
And yet to see her so benign,
So honourable and womanly,
In every maiden kindness mine,
And full of gayest courtesy,
Was pleasure so without alloy,
Such unreproved, sufficient bliss,
I almost wish'd, the while, that joy
Might never further go than this.
So much it was as now to walk,
And humbly by her gentle side
Observe her smile and hear her talk,
Could it be more to call her Bride?
I feign'd her won; the mind finite,
Puzzled and fagg'd by stress and strain
To comprehend the whole delight,
Made bliss more hard to bear than pain.
All good, save heart to hold, so summ'd
And grasp'd, the thought smote, like a knife,
How laps'd mortality had numb'd
The feelings to the feast of life;
How passing good breathes sweetest breath;
And love itself at highest reveals
More black than bright, commending death
By teaching how much life conceals.

IV
But happier passions these subdued,
When from the close and sultry lane,
With eyes made bright by what they view'd,
We emerged upon the mounded Plain.
As to the breeze a flag unfurls,
My spirit expanded, sweetly embraced
By those same gusts that shook her curls
And vex'd the ribbon at her waist.
To the future cast I future cares;
Breathed with a heart unfreighted, free,
And laugh'd at the presumptuous airs
That with her muslins folded me;
Till, one vague rack along my sky,
The thought that she might ne'er be mine
Lay half forgotten by the eye
So feasted with the sun's warm shine.

V
By the great stones we chose our ground
For shade; and there, in converse sweet,
Took luncheon. On a little mound
Sat the three ladies; at their feet
I sat; and smelt the heathy smell,
Pluck'd harebells, turn'd the telescope
To the country round. My life went well,
For once, without the wheels of hope;
And I despised the Druid rocks
That scowl'd their chill gloom from above,
Like churls whose stolid wisdom mocks
The lightness of immortal love.
And, as we talk'd, my spirit quaff'd
The sparkling winds; the candid skies
At our untruthful strangeness laugh'd;
I kiss'd with mine her smiling eyes;
And sweet familiarness and awe
Prevail'd that hour on either part,
And in the eternal light I saw
That she was mine; though yet my heart
Could not conceive, nor would confess
Such contentation; and there grew
More form and more fair stateliness
Than heretofore between us two.

poem by Coventry Patmore
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Fears For Fears

Death promises nothing for me
And I don't expect nothing from death
Either than pain and sorrows
Fears for fears
Live in me
When I walk late at night on the road
Because I never know what can happen to me
But I believe that God is always on my side
Fears for fears
I will never trust the promises of a lazy man
Fears for fears
I will drink the one
With my food
So that I can give gheers to my God
Fears for fears
I don't fear the thunder or lightning
Fears for fears
The pond is home to all ducks
Because all the ducks lives in the pond
Swimming away
Fears for fears
What more can I give to God
Than myself
Fears for fears
The paths are not clear of the snow
In the winter
In the city where I live
Fears for fears
The harbour is so quiet during the winter
Because no boats are in the harbour during the winter
And everything sleeps away in the harbour
Also the night comes early during the winter months
But summer is different
Because the light shines all day
Fears for fears
Our bodies are made of water
And we need water to survive in this heat

poem by Aldo Kraas
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Bow Before My Death

I lie beneath the flame this night,
I bow before my death,
He takes my hand,
And holds me close,
Death embraces me,
He says the time has come,
Beginning now meets end,
He says the fires taken me,
And now it's time to walk,
Walk the path of fates sweet song.

I lie beneath the flame this night,
I bow before my death,
The fires stripped me of my sins,
Humility my pride,
Now death guides me through the dark,
And speaks to me kind words,
'The pain has stopped,
It won't come back,
Your senses now are cleansed,
The soul has been washed clean',
He says the end is pleasure.

I lie beneath the flame this night,
I bow before my death,
Death's a man clothed in blue jeans,
A white shirt stained with blood,
Death holds a knife,
Death slits my throat,
Death is the end of my beginning.

I lie beneath the flame this night.

I bow before my death.

poem by Holly Heron
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The Gardener X: Let Your Work Be, Bride

Let your work be, bride. Listen, the
guest has come.
Do you hear, he is gently shaking
the chain which fastens the door?
See that your anklets make no loud
noise, and that your step is not over-
hurried at meeting him.
Let your work be, bride, the guest
had come in the evening.
No, it is not the ghostly wind, bride,
do not be frightened.
It is the full moon on a night of
April; shadows are pale in the court-
yard; the sky overhead is bright.
Draw your veil over your face if
you must, carry the lamp to the door
if you fear.
No, it is not the ghostly wind, bride,
do not be frightened.
Have no word with him if you are
shy; stand aside by the door when you
meet him.
If he asks you questions, and if
you wish to, you can lower you eyes
in silence.
Do not let your bracelets jingle
when, lamp in hand, you lead him in.
Have no words with him if your are
shy.
Have you not finished you work yet,
bride? Listen, the guest has come.
Have you not lit the lamp in the
cowshed?
Have you not got ready the offering
basket for the evening service?
Have you not put the red lucky
mark at the parting of your hair, and
done your toilet for the night?
O bride, do you hear, the guest has
come?
Let your work be!

poem by Rabindranath Tagore
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Dancing Moon (not in poetic order)

it was a beautiful starlit night
as the moon danced across the water.
like a ballerina upon a stage.
dazzling, hypnotizing, mesmerizing.
every move a work of art.

the ripples across the water
like her toes touching the stage.
ever so gently, like a butterfly upon a flower.

all of these things is what i saw.
on this beautiful night
'oh what a glorious sight'.

the moon played its tricks upon the water
as each wave came closer to the shore.

it was like thousands of fireflies
scooting across the water
all in perfect order.

the moon was above
the moon was below
'oh what a magnificent show'.

so when you see a full moon on a starlit night
go out and enjoy this sight.

poem by Louis Rams
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Oh When Will Autumn Moon and Spring Flowers End

Spring flower autumn moon what time finish?
Past events know so many
Small tower last night again east wind
Old country cot bear recollect moon bright at
Carve balustrade marble steps must still remain
Simply red face change
For gentleman can be how much sorrow?
Just like a river spring water to east flow
Oh when will autumn moon and spring flowers end?
How many past events I've known.
The east wind buffeted my room again last night,
I cannot bear to remember the bright moon of the old country.
The marble steps and carved balustrades must still be there,
The people's rosy cheeks are all that's changed.
How much sorrow can one man have to bear?
As much as a river of spring water flowing east.

poem by Li Yu
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Santa Fe Recipes

... Its hotter than a Cat on a Hot Tin Roof
...Sizzling like a Friday Afternoon...
Heated like the Passion of the Summer Sun
...Brillant like the Glow...
When day is near done
...Radiant like the Moon Beams...
On a Once In A Blue moon Night
...Its a rare glistening-scorching...
'Well Done'...Of a afternoon of delight!

poem by Theodora Onken
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The Bent Flower

There once was a flower,
Who, at an untimely hour,
Began to crook to one side.

The poor little flower,
Would no longer tower,
In the field full of green grass and snow.

But from yonder came a man,
With nothing but a pan,
And sat by the badly bent flower.

And the man sat with the flower day and night,
Helping it get through its plight,
But came the following day.

That within an hour,
The man who sat with the flower,
Was gone like night during day.

poem by Tro Missaelian
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Poems in Vain

I lay on the bed, write a poem by my tears
the paper was my hair and the pen was a finger
good night, sweet dreams, sleep along and think of me
sleepless night, sweetest dream, stay awake for me

you are the compass to find the right way
I won't say i'm a captain but that is the way

when the night is calling me
suicide is controlling me
I'll come to fight when the moon falls apart
I'll dance at night when the nightmares all goes away
poems in vain

I won't let myself get back to what I was before
before the night goes down take a look into my face
cry my darling sure you're getting much better than me

use your compass to find the right way
I say i'm a captain and this is the right way

I can't forget those nights as i'm waiting on the cold deck
waiting in the cold for death with my broken open arms

when the night is calling me
suicide is controlling me
I'll come to fight when the moon falls apart
I'll dance at night when the nightmares all goes away
poems in vain

poem by Mohammed Hassan
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Our life, our destiny

All our life is full of temptations,
aggravations, sensations, relations…,
good and bad morals,
trifling quarrels, insults,
disappointments and losses,
the worn out clothes,
treacheries and complaints,
events we can’t prevent,
some things we can’t withstand,
stresses and shocks,
difficulties to open some locks,
unpleasant deeds
skillfully collected on the threads.
All our life is the urge towards light,
the fight with ignorance and harm,
ability to look for a charm.
Having knotted our weakness
we search for strength and happiness.
All our life is full of flights,
big and small victories
and memories of beautiful days,
lilac blossom Mays,
memories of happy years,
love that suddenly appears,
meetings with our friends.
That’s life! Full of events,
events which are full of happiness and worries,
sometimes with lots of hurries,
hopes and disappointments,
mopes and compliments,
loves and hates,
Fool’s mates,
truth and lie,
black and white,
day and night.
They all walk together
not caring about the weather.
All our life is a pattern of events.
Slowly but surely,
trying to find a harmony,
they make our destiny.

Larisa R (Odessa, Ukraine)

poem by Larisa Rzhepishevska
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We Are To Play The Game Of Death

WE are to play the game of death to-night, my bride and I.
The night is black, the clouds in the sky are capricious, and the waves are raving at sea.
We have left our bed of dreams, flung open the door and come out, my bride and I.
We sit upon a swing, and the storm winds give us a wild push from behind.
My bride starts up with fear and delight, she trembles and clings to my breast.
Long have I served her tenderly.
I made for her a bed of flowers and I closed the doors to shut out the rude light from her eyes.
I kissed her gently on her lips and whispered softly in her ears till she half swooned in languor.
She was lost in the endless mist of vague sweetness.
She answered not to my touch, my songs failed to arouse her.
To-night has come to us the call of the storm from the wild.
My bride has shivered and stood up, she has clasped my hand and come out.
Her hair is flying in the wind, her veil is fluttering, her garland rustles over her breast.
The push of death has swung her into life.
We are face to face and heart to heart, my bride and I.

poem by Rabindranath Tagore
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