The Truth is Blind
The light fell from the window and the day was done
Another day of thinking and distractions
Love wrapped in its wings passed by and coal-black Hate
Paused on the edge of the cliff and dropped a stone
From which the night grew like a savage plant
With daggers for its leaves and scarlet hearts
For flowers - then the bed
Rose clocklike from the ground and spread its sheets
Across the shifting sands
Autumnal breath of mornings far from here
A star veiled in grey mist
A living man:
The snapping of a dry twig was his only announcement. The two men, who had tied their boat to a branch that grew out over the water's edge, and were now moving up through the rank tropical vegetation, turned sharply.
He raised his eyes and saw the river's source
Between their legs - he saw the flaming sun
He saw the buildings in between the leaves
Behind their heads that were as large as globes
He heard their voices indistinct as rain
As faint as feathers falling
And he fell
The boat sailed on
The masts were made of straw
The sails were made of finest silken thread
And out of holes on either side the prow
Gushed endless streams of water and of flame
In which the passengers saw curious things:
The conjurer, we are told, 'took out of his bag a silken thread, and so projected it upwards that it stuck fast in a certain cloud of air. Out of the same receptacle he pulled a hare, that ran away up along the thread; a little beagle, which when it was slipped at the hare pursued it in full cry; last of all a small dogboy, whom he commanded to follow both hare and hound up the thread. From another bag that he had he extracted a winsome young woman, at all points well adorned, and instructed her to follow after hound and dogboy.'
She laughed to see them gazing after her
She clapped her hands and vanished in thin air
To reappear upon the other bank
Among the restless traffic of the quays
Her silhouette against the dusty sky
Her shadow falling on the hungry stones
Where sat the pilot dressed in mud-stained rags
He knocked the fragile statue down
And ate her sugar head
And then the witnesses all gathered round
And pointed at the chasm at his feet:
Clouds of blue smoke, sometimes mixed with black, were being emitted from the exhaust pipe. The smoke was of sufficient density to be an annoyance to the driver following the vehicle or to pedestrians.
The whispering of unseen flames
A sharp taste in the mouth.
poem by David Gascoyne
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Related quotes
O Lady, Leave Thy Silken Thread
O Lady, leave thy silken thread
And flowery tapestrie:
There's living roses on the bush,
And blossoms on the tree;
Stoop where thou wilt, thy careless hand
Some random bud will meet;
Thou canst not tread, but thou wilt find
The daisy at thy feet.
'Tis like the birthday of the world,
When earth was born in bloom;
The light is made of many dyes,
The air is all perfume;
There's crimson buds, and white and blue—
The very rainbow showers
Have turn'd to blossoms where they fell,
And sown the earth with flowers.
There's fairy tulips in the east,
The garden of the sun;
The very streams reflect the hues,
And blossom as they run:
While Morn opes like a crimson rose,
Still wet with pearly showers;
Then, lady, leave the silken thread
Thou twinest into flowers!
poem by Thomas Hood
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When The Leaves Come Falling Down
I saw you standing with the wind and the rain in your face
And you were thinking bout the wisdom of the leaves and their grace
When the leaves come falling down
In september when the leaves, come falling down
And at night the moon is shining on a clear, cloudless sky
And when the evening shadows fall Ill be there by your side
When the leaves come falling down
In september when the leaves, come falling down
Follow me down, follow me down, follow me down
To the place beside the garden and the wall
Follow me down, follow me down
To the space before the twilight and the dawn
Oh, the last time I saw paris in the streets, in the rain
And as I walk along the boulevards with you, once again
And the leaves come falling down
In september, when the leaves come falling down
Follow me down, follow me down, follow me down
To the place between the garden and the wall
Follow me down, follow me down
To the space between the twilight and the dawn
And as Im looking at the colour of the leaves, in your hand
As were listening to chet baker on the beach, in the sand
When the leaves come falling down,
Woe in september, when the leaves come falling down
Oh when the leaves come falling down
Yeah in september when the leaves come falling down
When the leaves come falling down
In september, when the leaves come falling down
When the leaves come falling down in september, in the rain
When the leaves come falling down
When the leaves come falting down in september, in the rain
When the leaves come falling down
song performed by by Van Morrison
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Smoke
Smoke
From the Saga Island smoke rose. flames and rivers ran full of
icy water; the modern Vikings had been beaten and shamed.
Cold winter, summer roses are grey and leaves on trees have
taken on an autumnal hue. Clouds of ashes drifting south day
is night the world has lost it colour and cinemas only show
black& white movies.
East the smoke is black and smells of cordite and bulldozed
buildings. Poor Palestine it is not a state, but a dream, which
trashed people try to make into a reality. Moslems, Christians
and righteous Jews, the world belongs to us, to have peace
there must be fairness. Oops! Before my eyes another house is
razed to the ground, dust is blinding me.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Lover's Gifts LXX: Take Back Your Coins
Take back your coins, King's Councillor. I am of those women you
sent to the forest shrine to decoy the young ascetic who had never
seen a women. I failed in your bidding.
Dimly day was breaking when the hermit boy came to bathe in
the stream, his tawny locks crowded on his shoulders, like a
cluster of morning clouds, and his limbs shining like a streak of
sunbeam. We laughed and sang as we rowed in our boat; we jumped
into the river in a mad frolic, and danced around him, when the sun
rose staring at us from the water's edge in a flush of divine
anger.
Like a child-god, the boy opened his eyes and watched our
movements, the wonder deepening till his eyes shone like morning
stars. He lifted his clasped hands and chanted a hymn of praise in
his bird-like young voice, thrilling every leaf of the forest.
Never such words were sung to a mortal woman before; they were like
the silent hymn to the dawn which rises from the hushed hills. THe
women hid their mouths with their hands, their bodies swaying with
laughter, and a spasm of doubt ran across his face. Quickly came
I to his side, sorely pained, and, bowing to his feet, I said,
"Lord, accept my service."
I led him to the grassy bank, wiped his body with the end of
my silken mantle, and, kneeling on the ground, I dried his feet
with my trailing hair. When I raised my face and looked into his
eyes, I thought I felt the world's first kiss to the first woman,
-Blessed am I, blessed is God, who made me a woman. I heard him say
to me, "What God unknown are you? YOur touch is the touch of the
Immortal, your eyes have the mystery of the midnight."
Ah, no, not that smile, King's Councillor, -the dust of
worldly wisdom has covered your sight, old man. But this boy's
innocence pierced the mist and saw the shining truth, the woman
divine....
The women clapped their hands, and laughed their obscene
laugh, and with veils dragged on the dust and hair hanging loose
they began to pelt him with flowers.
Alas, my spotless sun, could not my shame weave fiery mist to
cover you in its folds? I fell at his feet and cried, "Forgive me.
" I fled like a stricken deer through shade and sun, and cried as
I fled, " Forgive me. " The women's foul laughter pressed me like
a cracking fire, but the words ever rang in my ears, " What God
unknown are you?"
poem by Rabindranath Tagore
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A Song From "The Player Queen"
MY mother dandled me and sang,
"How young it is, how young!'
And made a golden cradle
That on a willow swung.
"He went away,' my mother sang,
"When I was brought to bed,'
And all the while her needle pulled
The gold and silver thread.
She pulled the thread and bit the thread
And made a golden gown,
And wept because she had dreamt that I
Was born to wear a crown.
"When she was got,' my mother sang,
I heard a sea-mew cry,
And saw a flake of the yellow foam
That dropped upon my thigh."
How therefore could she help but braid
The gold into my hair,
And dream that I should carry
The golden top of care?
poem by William Butler Yeats
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From The Banks Of Ganga: V
I open my eyes
Non-light on the Ganga
Breaking into dawn
A la Kubja stood as if waiting
For me to open my eyes
Kabhie Krishna ko dekha?
Chalo meri saath!
Like a mute animal
I follow her into a chamber
Where a marble Krishna welcomed me
How long did I sit in His presence?
Hare Rama hare rama
Rama Rama Hare hare
Hare Krishna Hare Krishna
Krishna Krishna Hare Hare
My own chanting
Reverberating in my ears
There flowed Ganga
In bright sunlight…
poem by Indira Babbellapati
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The Old Army Blanket
Coarse and ruff quite often thread bare
The soldier did not seem to care
Let the enemy try to take if he dare;
Coarse and ruff quite often thread bare
Driving rain or snow wearing his blanket
Coarse and ruff quite often thread bare.
Being a soldier he could expect no better fare,
Coarse and ruff, quite often thread bare
His fight done, read over with a prayer
Wrapped in the old grey Army blanket
Coarse and ruff quite often thread bare.
He did his duty few could compare,
Coarse and ruff, quite often thread bare
poem by Derrick Fernie
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Rainbow Snow
Rainbow snow
Once I saw rainbow snow falling like a carpet woven by angels
with time on their lily pale hands. A white winter hare sat on
its haunches taking in this strange sight. There are men with
shotguns lurking in the woods, farmers who wait for spring to
plough dark soil and plant spuds.
The hare made a jump of death, now a stew and the braves spit
pellets on a plate. Snow ate the rainbow and I saw heavy boots,
the hare looked small. In the forest a big tree soundless fell and
a squirrel lost its winter larder. Red fur on saintly snowfall;
do they eat squirrels in Norway?
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Lord Krishna
O my Lord! O my Krishna!
Hare Krishna! Hare Krishna!
You are the embodiment of love
you are the divine joy,
you are protector of the religion
all pain and sin, you destroy.
Hare Krishna! Hare Krishna!
Wicked and cruel king Kansa
put your parents in prison.
You released them from jail
appeared as Vishnu's incarnation.
Hare Krishna! Hare Krishna!
As child you led cow herds
had great love for your mother
Grown with magic of your flute
as hero loved by peers and others
Hare Krishna! Hare Krishna!
Kansa sent sinful Putana to kill you
by feeding breast's poisoned milk.
She herself was met to her end
you sucked blood, failed her trick.
Hare Krishna! Hare Krishna!
He was desperate to kill my Lord
So he sent many other demons.
You defeated all of the demons
killed his wicked men one by one.
Hare Krishna! Hare Krishna!
Supported villagers and cattle,
lifted mountain to make shelter,
You killed poisonous snake in river
where cattle used to drink water.
Hare Krishna! Hare Krishna!
Always blessed, who followed your path
taught Arjuna lessons of truth and war.
You turned result of Mahabharat war
into the victory of righteous Pandwas.
Hare Krishna! Hare Krishna!
You come on earth again and again
to save it; in various incarnations.
Without you my Lord! I am nothing
in this universe, nothing can happen.
O my Lord! O my Krishna!
Hare Krishna! Hare Krishna!
poem by S.D. Tiwari
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The Golden Boat
Clouds rumbling in the sky; teeming rain.
I sit on the river bank, sad and alone.
The sheaves lie gathered, harvest has ended,
The river is swollen and fierce in its flow.
As we cut the paddy it started to rain.
One small paddy-field, no one but me -
Flood-waters twisting and swirling everywhere.
Trees on the far bank; smear shadows like ink
On a village painted on deep morning grey.
On this side a paddy-field, no one but me.
Who is this, steering close to the shore
Singing? I feel that she is someone I know.
The sails are filled wide, she gazes ahead,
Waves break helplessly against the boat each side.
I watch and feel I have seen her face before.
Oh to what foreign land do you sail?
Come to the bank and moor your boat for a while.
Go where you want to, give where you care to,
But come to the bank a moment, show your smile -
Take away my golden paddy when you sail.
Take it, take as much as you can load.
Is there more? No, none, I have put it aboard.
My intense labour here by the river -
I have parted with it all, layer upon layer;
Now take me as well, be kind, take me aboard.
No room, no room, the boat is too small.
Loaded with my gold paddy, the boat is full.
Across the rain-sky clouds heave to and fro,
On the bare river-bank, I remain alone -
What had has gone: the golden boat took all.
poem by Rabindranath Tagore
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1.06 Little By Little Does The Trick
Even the smallest does count,
Little or small has its sound,
A dropp of water or a stick,
A thin thread or a brick.
[14] - 1
Drops of water fill the ocean,
Small bricks make a house,
Together sticks or thin thread,
Show strength and load do bear.
[15] - 1
Alone it is difficult to stand,
Unity gives strength that's grand,
It is the small - little by little,
Doing tricks - strength from brittle.
[16] - 1
poem by Munnan Misra
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As the Edge of the Moon
I have stained my soul with scarlet colors, thus this work
The ballad of merlot and mandolins, the bliss is midnight blue
The deep black is but her hungry delight
Thus I dye her desires a darker scarlet within the foils of my flesh
As the edge of the moon watched over our swallowing dance
Evening had long settled into the wit of the light and slow rain
Distinct in the thought of our lust consuming the blackberry wine
As the bottle overflowed throughout the frolic of our ecstasy
Her heart is but scarlet colored, her kisses are like tight fisted flowers
Her gentle hands in the threshold and the deep suite waters
The sharp love that blots my soul somewhat like her devilish shadow
Thereafter, my emotions are stained with her sweet scarlet
The bare bedroom in the pulp and the deep black music
As I come to bed where she lays sweet and in favor
I have stained my soul with her scarlet color, thus this work
Evening having settled into the song as the edge of the moon
poem by Jason PraTT
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I Remember You As You Were
I remember you as you were in the last autumn.
You were the grey beret and the still heart.
In your eyes the flames of the twilight fought on.
And the leaves fell in the water of your soul.
Clasping my arms like a climbing plant
the leaves garnered your voice, that was slow and at peace.
Bonfire of awe in which my thirst was burning.
Sweet blue hyacinth twisted over my soul.
I feel your eyes traveling, and the autumn is far off:
Grey beret, voice of a bird, heart like a house
Towards which my deep longings migrated
And my kisses fell, happy as embers.
Sky from a ship. Field from the hills:
Your memory is made of light, of smoke, of a still pond!
Beyond your eyes, farther on, the evenings were blazing.
Dry autumn leaves revolved in your soul.
poem by Pablo Neruda
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Hari Chrishna
People with light orange cloaks
comes pass in a jolly procession.
There are two hitting drums
and one sings over a loudspeaker horn
and I see a few
getting rattling noises out of cymbals
that makes the people
on the sidewalk stand still
while the small group of people
draws attention and pass.
It’s a shrill “hare krishna hare krishna
krishna krishna hare hare
hare rama hare rama
rama rama hare hare”
that goes right through you
and I wonder
what the strange words
are exactly saying
and I hear how the drums
keeps the earthly rhythm
and it’s like a street circus
that disappears in the distance
while they disappear behind buildings.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Stravinsky's Three Pieces
First Movement
Thin-voiced, nasal pipes
Drawing sound out and out
Until it is a screeching thread,
Sharp and cutting, sharp and cutting,
It hurts.
Whee-e-e!
Bump! Bump! Tong-ti-bump!
There are drums here,
Banging,
And wooden shoes beating the round, grey stones
Of the market-place.
Whee-e-e!
Sabots slapping the worn, old stones,
And a shaking and cracking of dancing bones;
Clumsy and hard they are,
And uneven,
Losing half a beat
Because the stones are slippery.
Bump-e-ty-tong! Whee-e-e! Tong!
The thin Spring leaves
Shake to the banging of shoes.
Shoes beat, slap,
Shuffle, rap,
And the nasal pipes squeal with their pigs' voices,
Little pigs' voices
Weaving among the dancers,
A fine white thread
Linking up the dancers.
Bang! Bump! Tong!
Petticoats,
Stockings,
Sabots,
Delirium flapping its thigh-bones;
Red, blue, yellow,
Drunkenness steaming in colours;
Red, yellow, blue,
Colours and flesh weaving together,
In and out, with the dance,
Coarse stuffs and hot flesh weaving together.
Pigs' cries white and tenuous,
White and painful,
White and -
Bump!
Tong!
Second Movement
Pale violin music whiffs across the moon,
A pale smoke of violin music blows over the moon,
Cherry petals fall and flutter,
And the white Pierrot,
Wreathed in the smoke of the violins,
Splashed with cherry petals falling, falling,
Claws a grave for himself in the fresh earth
With his finger-nails.
Third Movement
An organ growls in the heavy roof-groins of a church,
It wheezes and coughs.
The nave is blue with incense,
Writhing, twisting,
Snaking over the heads of the chanting priests.
`Requiem aeternam dona ei, Domine';
The priests whine their bastard Latin
And the censers swing and click.
The priests walk endlessly
Round and round,
Droning their Latin
Off the key.
The organ crashes out in a flaring chord,
And the priests hitch their chant up half a tone.
`Dies illa, dies irae,
Calamitatis et miseriae,
Dies magna et amara valde.'
A wind rattles the leaded windows.
The little pear-shaped candle flames leap and flutter,
`Dies illa, dies irae;'
The swaying smoke drifts over the altar,
`Calamitatis et miseriae;'
The shuffling priests sprinkle holy water,
`Dies magna et amara valde;'
And there is a stark stillness in the midst of them
Stretched upon a bier.
His ears are stone to the organ,
His eyes are flint to the candles,
His body is ice to the water.
Chant, priests,
Whine, shuffle, genuflect,
He will always be as rigid as he is now
Until he crumbles away in a dust heap.
`Lacrymosa dies illa,
Qua resurget ex favilla
Judicandus homo reus.'
Above the grey pillars the roof is in darkness.
poem by Amy Lowell
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The Caterpillar
Dangling down its silken thread,
A caterpillar came;
From atop a branch of tree,
After her feeding game.
Little did it think that there,
A leafy twig green stood,
While it began to descend down,
Dancing across the air.
It jumped in fright upwards from where
It attempted to fall;
The leafy branch too followed it,
And formed a bottom wall.
The Caterpillar sensed the leaves,
And found them succulent;
Alighting gently upon it,
It romped home happily!
Copyright by Dr John Celes 4-5-2008
poem by John Celes
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The Contentment
i delight seeing the boat leave
the smoke is in our side
thick black smoke seemingly like
hands still reaching
for the abandoned land
as though it is
attached to the shore and
the old buildings
i wonder sometimes why i
delight in departures
why i at the same promise myself
that this is the only land i have
and i will be
staying here forever
at night i am in love
too much in love to the silence of
my solitude
from here where i stand beside
this window looking at the shadow of that boat
i am happier
simplifying and filtering my thoughts
sipping the joy of the moment
i do not dream of more
i ask nothing.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A Builder's Lesson
'HOW shall I a habit break?'
As you did that habit make.
As you gathered, you must lose;
As you yielded, now refuse.
Thread by thread the strands we twist
Till they bind us neck and wrist;
Thread by thread the patient hand
Must untwine ere free we stand.
As we builded, stone by stone,
We must toil unhelped, alone,
Till the wall is overthrown.
But remember, as we try,
Lighter every test goes by;
Wading in, the stream grows deep
Toward the center's downward sweep;
Backward turn, each step ashore
Shallower is than that before.
Ah, the precious years we waste
Leveling what we raised in haste;
Doing what must be undone
Ere content or love be won!
First across the gulf we cast
Kite-borne threads, till lines are passed,
And habit builds the bridge at last!
poem by John Boyle O'Reilly
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The Rope
(stephanie davis)
In waters calm I sailed from shore
To see what I might see
And having never sailed before
I drifted aimlessly
A warm breeze rocked my boat until
In slumber I fell sound
But woke to find the light grown dim
And dark clouds gathering round
In haste I worked at turning back
But now the wind blew wrong
And when the night came cold and black
My strength was almost gone
But with one last small thread of hope
I bowed my head to pray
Then through the dark I saw a rope
And heard a calm voice say
Grab the rope
Hold it tight
In the distance
Shines a light
Neither fear
Nor feel alone
There is one
Wholl lead you home
I heard my heart beat loud and fast
But did as I was told
And with the rosey dawn at last
Dry land I did behold
I kissed the sandy banks and swore
My sailing days were through
But should I ever stray from shore
I know now what to do
Grab the rope
Hold it tight
In the distance
Shines a light
Neither fear
Nor feel alone
There is one
Wholl lead you home
Grab the rope
Hold it tight
In the distance
Shines a light
Neither fear
Nor feel alone
There is one
Wholl lead you home
song performed by by Martina Mcbride
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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In The Valley
Said the yellow-haired Spirit of Spring
To the white-footed Spirit of Snow,
“On the wings of the tempest take wing,
And leave me the valleys, and go.”
And, straightway, the streams were unchained,
And the frost-fettered torrents broke free,
And the strength of the winter-wind waned
In the dawn of a light on the sea.
Then a morning-breeze followed and fell,
And the woods were alive and astir
With the pulse of a song in the dell,
And a whisper of day in the fir.
Swift rings of sweet water were rolled
Down the ways where the lily-leaves grew,
And the green, and the white, and the gold,
Were wedded with purple and blue.
But the lips of the flower of the rose
Said, “where is the ending hereof?
Is it sweet with you, life, at the close?
Is it sad to be emptied of love?”
And the voice of the flower of the peach
Was tender and touching in tone,
“When each has been grafted on each,
It is sorrow to live on alone.”
Then the leaves of the flower of the vine
Said, “what will there be in the day
When the reapers are red with my wine,
And the forests are yellow and grey?”
And the tremulous flower of the quince
Made answer, “three seasons ago
My sisters were star-like, but since,
Their graves have been made in the snow.”
Then the whispering flower of the fern
Said, “who will be sad at the death,
When Summer blows over the burn,
With the fierceness of fire in her breath?”
And the mouth of the flower of the sedge
Was opened to murmur and sigh,
“Sweet wind-breaths that pause at the edge
Of the nightfall, and falter, and die.”
poem by Henry Kendall
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