En.Citatepedia^®.ro

Beauty And The Bird

SHE fluted with her mouth as when one sips,
And gently waved her golden head, inclin'd
Outside his cage close to the window-blind;
Till her fond bird, with little turns and dips,
Piped low to her of sweet companionships.
And when he made an end, some seed took she
And fed him from her tongue, which rosily
Peeped as a piercing bud between her lips.
And like the child in Chaucer, on whose tongue
The Blessed Mary laid, when he was dead,
A grain,—who straightway praised her name in song:
Even so, when she, a little lightly red,
Now turned on me and laughed, I heard the throng
Of inner voices praise her golden head.

poem by Dante Gabriel Rossetti
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Encore

The singer stood in a blaze of light,
And fronted the flowery throng;
Her lips parted with her greeting smile,
Her soul soared out in her song.
Now hovering like an imprisoned bird
With is plainings thrilling nigh,
Then faintly sweet, as the reapers hear
A lark afar in the sky;

And forth like thunder the praises broke,
And the singer bowed and smiled,
And flowers fell fast in a scented storm--
But she was not to be wiled.
'Shall I throw my gifts to this fickle throng?'
She thought with a bitter sigh.
'What do they care for my simple song?'
As she courtesied a glad good-by.

The singer sat in her lonely room,
As the stars peeped out of the haze,
And her voice poured forth in its sweetest gush,
Though none was beside to praise--
Till she saw a form to her window creep
And crouch by its misty pane,--
An old dame wept at the wondrous song
That gave back her youth again!

The singer stirred not, nor made a sign
That she saw where the listener stood,
But once and again she raised her voice
And poured out its golden flood,
And only ceased when the minster bells
Shook out their evening clang--
Then one thanked God for the song she heard,
And one for the song she sang.

poem by Anonymous Americas
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Lord from my tongue, my mouth

Lord from my tongue, my mouth
and lips let there be
gently words,

from my tongue let there be
formed inspiring
words like rose petals

let my mouth open
like a beautiful morning breaking
between two shadows of
hills

let my lips give a smile
as sweet as that of a
kitten

let this poem be as sweet
as a flying kiss
gently so gently
landing on hers

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Kissing is a rehearsal.

I managed to kiss her on lips.
Lips unlocked, my tongue slipped in.
It darted through lips and about
Her mouth, touching her tongue on tip
Then at bottom and at corners,
Sucking the tongue and swallowing the juice
Till she got fire at her bottom.
Resistance gone, she surrendered.

Kissing is just a rehearsal.
Her mouth stands for her lower one.
Man's tongue stands for his under part.
The tongue signals the man's prowess.
09.08.2012

poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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The Song

There is a song in my head.
It won't allow me to rest.
I still feel the melody playing in my breast.
The melody, the memory of your touch.
The harmony, the joy of my thighs and my lips,
As we welcomed you.
There is no music; I long for you,
Our dance and the movement of your hips.
The taste of you still lingers on the tip of my tongue.
We both sung this our beautiful song.
The senses have not forgotten you.
The song in my head, its like none I have heard.
It needs the music, that only you can play,
Gently on my back with your finger tips
Oh please give me peace.
Let us sing this song, I long for release.
There is a song in my head….

poem by Monciana Edmondson
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Tongues

the tongue
of my body
is in the nerves

the tongue
of my soul
in the heart

the tongue of
my mind
in the head

the tongue
of truth and deceits
in the mouth

the tongue of
the World (Creation)
in the words
of God

poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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The Abbot Of Innisfallen

The Abbot of Innisfallen
awoke ere dawn of day;
Under the dewy green leaves
went he forth to pray.
The lake around his island
lay smooth and dark and deep,
And wrapt in a misty stillness
the mountains were all asleep.
Low kneel'd the Abbot Cormac
when the dawn was dim and gray;
The prayers of his holy office
he faithfully 'gan say.
Low kneel'd the Abbot Cormac
while the dawn was waxing red;
And for his sins' forgiveness
a solemn prayer he said:
Low kneel'd that holy Abbot
while the dawn was waxing clear;
And he pray'd with loving-kindness
for his convent-brethren dear.
Low kneel'd that blessed Abbot
while the dawn was waxing bright;
He pray'd a great prayer for Ireland,
he pray'd with all his might.
Low kneel'd that good old Father
while the sun began to dart;
He pray'd a prayer for all men,
he pray'd it from his heart.
His blissful soul was in Heaven,
tho' a breathing man was he;
He was out of time's dominion,
so far as the living may be.

The Abbot of Innisfallen
arose upon his feet;
He heard a small bird singing,
and O but it sung sweet!
It sung upon a holly-bush,
this little snow-white bird;
A song so full of gladness
he never before had heard.
It sung upon a hazel,
it sung upon a thorn;
He had never heard such music
since the hour that he was born.
It sung upon a sycamore,
it sung upon a briar;
To follow the song and hearken
this Abbot could never tire.
Till at last he well bethought him;
he might no longer stay;
So he bless'd the little white singing-bird,
and gladly went his way.

But, when he came to his Abbey,
he found a wondrous change;
He saw no friendly faces there,
for every face was strange.
The strange men spoke unto him;
and he heard from all and each
The foreign tongue of the Sassenach,
not wholesome Irish speech.
Then the oldest monk came forward,
in Irish tongue spake he:
'Thou wearest the holy Augustine's dress,
and who hath given it to thee?'
'I wear the Augustine's dress,
and Cormac is my name,
The Abbot of this good Abbey
by grace of God I am.
I went forth to pray, at the dawn of day;
and when my prayers were said,
I hearken'd awhile to a little bird,
that sung above my head.'
The monks to him made answer,
'Two hundred years have gone o'er,
Since our Abbot Cormac went through the gate,
and never was heard of more.
Matthias now is our Abbot,
and twenty have pass'd away.
The stranger is lord of Ireland;
we live in an evil day.'
'Days will come and go,' he said,
'and the world will pass away,
In Heaven a day is a thousand years,
a thousand years are a day.'
'Now give me absolution;
for my time is come,' said he.
And they gave him absolution,
as speedily as might be.
Then, close outside the window,
the sweetest song they heard
That ever yet since the world began
was utter'd by any bird.
The monks look'd out and saw the bird,
its feathers all white and clean;
And there in a moment, beside it,
another white bird was seen.
Those two they sang together,
waved their white wings, and fled;
Flew aloft, and vanish'd;
but the good old man was dead.
They buried his blessed body
where lake and green-sward meet;
A carven cross above his head,
a holly-bush at his feet;
Where spreads the beautiful water
to gay or cloudy skies,
And the purple peaks of Killarney
from ancient woods arise.

poem by William Allingham
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Our Bird In Your Cage

we have this bird
we both own it and love it and care for it
our bird
and you have this cage
that you only own
golden, new and strong and as you say it
so reliable
that when our bird is in that cage
it will be safe
and cannot escape

we feed this bird together
and give it water and birdseeds
and a place of twigs and swing
where the bird can play
and perch upon
like it is on a tree

days and years
we keep this bird in your cage
and we see it is dying
and wanting to be free

yet you say, this sickness is just temporary
time heals what has wounded it
and shall forget the power of its wings

days and more years
we keep this bird in your cage
and i have not listened at all
to the sad song of that bird
her waning chirps
her weakened wings
her way of losing hold to the dreams of its wings

today we see this bird is dead
but you have no sadness at all
you say, you will buy another bird
again to be kept in your cage

i could have told you
i am the bird in your cage and i too have forgotten the power of
my wings

i could have told you, i have long died
and have forgotten what freedom is, what love is, what i am

in the first place. How can i ever tell you?
you are my cage.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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To Mary In Summer

LAY your head here, Mary,
Lay your head here,
While the blown grass, Mary,
With timid voice and wary,
Sings in your ear:—
The grass which round us, Mary,
Shuts like a nest;
By your dear limbs, dear Mary,
Lighter than limbs of Faery,
Daintily press'd.
Back with it all though, Mary,
Back and aside;
The wind comes this way, Mary,
And here the trees are airy
And the skies are wide.
What do your eyes fear, Mary,
So grave and soft?
I love to see them, Mary,
In whimsical vagary
Lifted aloft.
Mary, Mary, Mary,
Laugh in my face:
You know now, my own Mary,
No eyes can laugh so rarely
Or grant such grace.
Your cheek is pale now, Mary,
And red, by turns.
Why should the hand be chary
Of that to give which, Mary,
The heart so yearns?
Give me your hand, ah Mary,
Give me your hand:
In city or in prairie
There is none kinder, Mary,
From land to land.
Your lips to my lips, Mary,
Your lips to mine:
High up in Hebe's dairy
No milk so sweet, my Mary,
On earth no wine.
Lay your head here, Mary,
Lay your head here;
While my heart now, Mary,
The pleasant tune to vary,
Beats in your ear.

poem by Dante Gabriel Rossetti
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A Kissing Mouth

something's pressing to my lips
something's trying to kiss me
mouths clash
saliva splash
stains my face red
i can't feel
anything
just a funny smell

something pulls my lips apart
something hot and wet and fast's
kissing me
and i'd scream
but for an alien tongue
i can't hear
anything
just a funny sound

my head's getting light
i try to struggle
but only hit my own mouth
the tongue between my lips
is so poisonously sweet

something's pressing to my lips
something's kissing me
mouths sing
depths unseen
and hope for a better world
i can't say
anything
just a simple chain of words

poem by Max Kuvaev
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I Am Your Child

Released on the japanese version of euphoria.
Was it something I did
Was it something I said
Was the vision you had
Just a voice in your head
Can you run through the flames
Can you see through the haze
Is this the end of your world
Or just one of your days
Ive yet to taste it on my tongue
I get so dangerous on my own
I am your child, the one you need
The love you crave, the mouth you feed
The more you give, the more I take
I am your child, I could be your last mistake
Would you call it untrue
Would you call it a sin
With the burden of proof
Breathing under my skin
Like a ghost from the past
Im the face in the crowd
And the name that you scream
When youre dreaming out loud
Ive yet to taste it on my tongue
I get so dangerous on my own
I am your child, the one you need
The love you crave, the mouth you feed
The more you give, the more I take
I am your child, I could be your last mistake
Ive yet to taste it on my tongue
I get so dangerous on my own
I am your child, the one you need
The love you crave, the mouth you feed
The more you give, the more I take
I am your child, I could be your last mistake
I am your child, the one you need
The love you crave, the mouth you feed
The more you give, the more I take
I am your child, I could be your last mistake
I am your child, I could be your last mistake
I am your child, I could be your last mistake
I am your child, I could be your last mistake

song performed by by Def Leppard
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Ceremony After A Fire Raid

I

Myselves
The grievers
Grieve
Among the street burned to tireless death
A child of a few hours
With its kneading mouth
Charred on the black breast of the grave
The mother dug, and its arms full of fires.

Begin
With singing
Sing
Darkness kindled back into beginning
When the caught tongue nodded blind,
A star was broken
Into the centuries of the child
Myselves grieve now, and miracles cannot atone.

Forgive
Us forgive
Us your death that myselves the believers
May hold it in a great flood
Till the blood shall spurt,
And the dust shall sing like a bird
As the grains blow, as your death grows, through our heart.

Crying
Your dying
Cry,
Child beyond cockcrow, by the fire-dwarfed
Street we chant the flying sea
In the body bereft.
Love is the last light spoken. Oh
Seed of sons in the loin of the black husk left.

II

I know not whether
Adam or Eve, the adorned holy bullock
Or the white ewe lamb
Or the chosen virgin
Laid in her snow
On the altar of London,
Was the first to die
In the cinder of the little skull,
O bride and bride groom
O Adam and Eve together
Lying in the lull
Under the sad breast of the head stone
White as the skeleton
Of the garden of Eden.

I know the legend
Of Adam and Eve is never for a second
Silent in my service
Over the dead infants
Over the one
Child who was priest and servants,
Word, singers, and tongue
In the cinder of the little skull,
Who was the serpent's
Night fall and the fruit like a sun,
Man and woman undone,
Beginning crumbled back to darkness
Bare as nurseries
Of the garden of wilderness.

III

Into the organpipes and steeples
Of the luminous cathedrals,
Into the weathercocks' molten mouths
Rippling in twelve-winded circles,
Into the dead clock burning the hour
Over the urn of sabbaths
Over the whirling ditch of daybreak
Over the sun's hovel and the slum of fire
And the golden pavements laid in requiems,
Into the bread in a wheatfield of flames,
Into the wine burning like brandy,
The masses of the sea
The masses of the sea under
The masses of the infant-bearing sea
Erupt, fountain, and enter to utter for ever
Glory glory glory
The sundering ultimate kingdom of genesis' thunder.

poem by Dylan Thomas
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Love-Doubt

Yearning upon the faint rose-curves that flit
About her child-sweet mouth and innocent cheek,
And in her eyes watching with eyes all meek
The light and shadow of laughter, I would sit
Mute, knowing out two souls might never knit;
As if a pale proud lily-flower should seek
The love of some red rose, but could not speak
One word of her blithe tongue to tell of it.

For oh, my Love was sunny-lipped and stirred
With all swift light and sound and gloom not long
Retained; I, with dreams weighed, that ever heard
Sad burdens echoing through the loudest throng
She, the wild song of some May-merry bird;
I, but the listening maker of a song.

poem by Archibald Lampman
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The Temple

WHAT of Louvain and of Rheims
Made for God by man? What then?
Here be temples more than man's
Wrought by God for His own men.

Scattered in the rain and frost,
Marred of beauty, there they be,
Temples of the Holy Ghost,
Broken, ruined piteously.

Bodies all so finely wrought,
Cunning deftness shaped them well;
These, God's ultimate, loving thought
For His Spirit's citadel.

Beautiful from head to foot,
Young, dear darlings all unflawed
For their mother's kiss. What brute
Dares deface the image of God?

Oh, the Temple's down! all marred
Gay and golden boys must lie:
Bitter-sweet as spikenard
Is the old name we called them by.

Hush! God's Temple in its fall
Breaks to set the spirit free
From the golden cage and thrall.
Into heaven-winged liberty.

From the cage the bird is flown,
Sings so high above our sphere.
Hush,--be never a sigh or moan:
The fledged bird flies without fear.

All our loves are gathered in,
Every gay and golden lad;
On new raiment, white and clean,
They behold God and are glad.

poem by Katharine Tynan
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Sonnet: The Tongue

Tongue, the muscle belly in the mouth’s floor!
That grandmothers used to narrate folklore;
With sensors to taste the food that we eat,
And speak fluently with neighbors who cheat.

The boneless tongue gives creatures satiety;
In misdemeanor, speaks words so nasty;
The tongue-tied man cannot speak out too well;
The one with a long tongue argues like hell.

The tongue can emit both a soothing word,
And also cut like a double-edged sword;
The tongue helps one to sing a sweet song,
And touch one’s nose-tip whenever too long.

The tongue can start a war or conclude it;
Some stars use it for their kissing habit.

poem by John Celes
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White Chocolate

White chocolate when i taste it,
It makes me think of you,
It's melting upon my tongue gently,
And remembers me of your sensual lips.

White chocolate is like a dream,
Something that i can not control,
A deep temptation of my body,
To have a piece melting in my mouth.

White chocolate eating it's like visiting heaven,
Lingering on my tongue delicious, creamy, soft,
I crave the sweet melting sensation of it,
It's like your sensual lips are kissing me.

White chocolate is giving me the passion feeling,
When touching my lips with every bite,
It's like a crazy pleasure on my tongue,
It makes me feel so beautiful and alive.

poem by Cristina Teodor
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Hummingbird

The hummingbird thumbs
A flower of thought
In its tongue
Of Indian ink

It sips and spills
A thousand souls
Before it spills
Its own,

And piercing the wind
Like a mountain peak
With the weaving
Of a soul to keep;

This little bird brings us
Sweet pressed blooms
To incense us for hours
In the glory of love

poem by Mark Heathcote
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South Of Eden

1) nowhere to go on this hot afternoon turn on the fan lay down in my room
I cant believe in this town Im still here
No lover in sight, the mirage disapppears
Turn down the misic turn down the bed
Cause the drink I had this morning, went straight to my head, and I feel like a dream
Chorus -
Baby Im a real steal half price looking for a deal ?
Im golden all around, golden all around
2) in the middle of infinity in the heart of your eyes
I see 100 angels living 100 lives
In the dark of the night when youre alone in your bed
Do you ever think of me, am I a ghost in your head
Chorus -
Cause...baby
Golden all around golden all around-]
Bridge - round, all around, all around
3) found a park in the middle of town flat on my back no one around
The sky grew dark and the sun disappeared and down came rain of sweet lovers tears
Hitched a ride south of eden with a dog dusty and beaten
Speed so fast spinning in my head, and he turned to me and said...
Chorus -
...he said, baby Im a real steal
Half price looking for a deal
Im golden all around, golden all around...2x
Golden all around
Golden all around

song performed by by Zuba
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Tease

You really like me I can tell
To hug and to kiss you do love as well
Am I attracted to you?
For that I do not know
Maybe in time to come, a mind game though

I pull her near, fairest amongst
And deep breathes from her nostrils heard
She touches me close as tilted her head
Into my eyes stared
Gently she strokes
She would not speak
And blinks, not in these times of pleasure
A little parted her glittering lips
And her crimson tongue out lurks
Drawn near and her dilated eyes she close
I smell her neck and into her ears whispers
A peck on her forehead I can only afford

poem by Nicholas Boateng
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Love-Laurel

Ah! that God once would touch my lips with song
To pierce, as prayer doth heaven, earth’s breast of iron,
So that with sweet mouth I might sing to thee,
O sweet dead singer buried by the sea,
A song, to woo thee, as a wooing siren,
Out of that silent sleep which seals too long
Thy mouth of melody.
For, if live lips might speak awhile to dead,
Or any speech could reach the sad world under
This world of ours, song surely should awake
Thee who didst dwell in shadow for song’s sake!
Alas! thou canst not hear the voice of thunder,
Nor low dirge over thy low-lying head
The winds of morning make.

Down through the clay there comes no sound of these;
Down in the grave there is no sign of Summer,
Nor any knowledge of the soft-eyed Spring;
But Death sits there, with outspread ebon wing,
Closing with dust the mouth of each new-comer
To that mute land, where never sound of seas
Is heard, and no birds sing.

Now thou hast found the end of all thy days
Hast thou found any heart a vigil keeping
For thee among the dead—some heart that heard
Thy singing when thou wert a brown, sweet bird
Gray Æons gone, in some old forest sleeping
Beneath the seas long since? in Death’s dim ways
Has thy heart any word?

For surely those in whom the deathless spark
Of song is kindled, sang from the beginning
If life were always? But the old desires—
Do they exist when sad-eyed Hope expires?
How live the dead? what crowns have they for winning?
Have they, to warm them in the dreamless dark,
For sun earth’s central fires?

Are the dead dead indeed whom we call dead?
Has God no life but this of ours for giving?—
When that they took thee by each well-known place,
Stark in thy coffin with a cold white face,
What thought, O Brother, hadst thou of the living?
What of the sun that round thee glory shed?
What of the fair day’s grace?

Is thy new life made up of memories
Or dreams that lull the dead, bright visions bringing
Of Spring above! Are thy days short or long?
Thou who wert master of our singing throng
Mayhap in death thou hast not lost thy singing,
But chauntst unheard, beside the moaning sea,
A solitary song.

The chance spade turns up skulls. God help the dead
And thee whose singing days have all passed over—
Thee, whom the gold-haired Spring shall seek in vain
When at the glad year’s doors she stands again,
Remembering the song-garlands thou hast wove her
In years gone by: but all these years have fled
With all their joy and pain.

My soul laughed out to hear my heart speak so,
And sprang forth skyward, as an eagle, hoping
To look upon thy soul with living eyes,
Until it came to where our dim life dies,
And dead suns darkly for a grave are groping
Through cycles of immeasurable woe,
Stone-blind in the blind skies.
The stars walk shuddering on that awful verge
From which my soul, with swift and fearless motion,
Clove the black depths, and sought for God and thee;
But God dwells where nor stars nor suns there be—
No shore there is to His Eternal Ocean;
A thousand systems are a fringe of surge
On that great starless sea.

And thou wert not. So that, with weary plumes,
My soul through the great void its way came winging
To earth again. “What hope for him who sings
Is there?” it sighed. “Death ends all sweetest things.”
When lo! there came a swell of mighty singing,
Flooding all space, and swift athwart the glooms
A flash of sudden wings.

Dreamer of dreams, thy songs and dreams are done.
Down where thou sleepest in earth’s secret bosom
There is no sorrow and no joy for thee,
Who canst not see what stars at eve there be,
Nor evermore at morn the green dawn blossom
Into the golden king-flower of the sun
Across the golden sea.
But haply there shall come in days to be
One who shall hear his own heart beating faster,
Plucking a rose sprung from thy heart beneath,
And from his soul, as sword from out its sheath,
Song shall leap forth where now, O silent master,
On thy lone grave beside the sounding sea,
I lay this laurel-wreath.

poem by Victor James Daley
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The Golden Idol

Well, theyve made a golden idol of the girl you used to be
Hangin bangles on your branches like a lonely christmas tree.
Yeah, theyve dressed you fit for killin in your thrillin new disguise
Nailin artificial spangles to the diamonds in your eyes
In that golden coach that turns into a bed,
You better make it, gal, before you wake up dead.
cause theyll paint your burning beauty with a coat of shiny lies
And theyll blind you with their wine so you wont even realize
til you watch the face youre washing disappearing down the drain
And youre staring in your mirror going privately insane
And that golden crown theyve pushed down on your head
You better make it, gal, before you wake up dead.
Look around them golden sidewalks that youre walking on today
And youll see that lonely gutter just a careless step away
And that altar that theyre building you dont even understand
cause youre dazzled by the flashing of the daggers in their hands.
Youll be dancing in the darkness when their music disappears
And the jangle of your chains will be the only sound you hear
til your broken bodys bleeding on an altar made of stone
And youve sacrificed your soul to please a world thats sick and wrong
And you never heard a single word I said.
Aww, make it, gal, before you wake up dead.

song performed by by Kris Kristofferson
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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