Irony
Always, sweetheart,
Carry into your room the blossoming boughs of cherry,
Almond and apple and pear diffuse with light, that very
Soon strews itself on the floor; and keep the radiance of spring
Fresh quivering; keep the sunny-swift March-days waiting
In a little throng at your door, and admit the one who is plaiting
Her hair for womanhood, and play awhile with her, then bid her depart.
A come and go of March-day loves
Through the flower-vine, trailing screen;
A fluttering in of doves.
Then a launch abroad of shrinking doves
Over the waste where no hope is seen
Of open hands:
Dance in and out
Small-bosomed girls of the spring of love,
With a bubble of laughter, and shrilly shout
Of mirth; then the dripping of tears on your glove.
poem by David Herbert Lawrence
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Related quotes
Just March(ing) Along..
When Winter begins
to lose His touch
and his buddy Jack Frost
don't hang 'roun as much..
The days will be one day
all sunny and warm
then by morning wake up
to a winter snow storm
March isn't winter
spring, summer or fall.
March seems to be marching
into changing it all.....
March is a beginning.
March is a end.
Winters defeater (the spring time leader)
March is marching spring in...
poem by Connetta Jean
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Your Laughter
Take bread away from me, if you wish,
take air away, but
do not take from me your laughter.
Do not take away the rose,
the lance flower that you pluck,
the water that suddenly
bursts forth in joy,
the sudden wave
of silver born in you.
My struggle is harsh and I come back
with eyes tired
at times from having seen
the unchanging earth,
but when your laughter enters
it rises to the sky seeking me
and it opens for me all
the doors of life.
My love, in the darkest
hour your laughter
opens, and if suddenly
you see my blood staining
the stones of the street,
laugh, because your laughter
will be for my hands
like a fresh sword.
Next to the sea in the autumn,
your laughter must raise
its foamy cascade,
and in the spring, love,
I want your laughter like
the flower I was waiting for,
the blue flower, the rose
of my echoing country.
Laugh at the night,
at the day, at the moon,
laugh at the twisted
streets of the island,
laugh at this clumsy
boy who loves you,
but when I open
my eyes and close them,
when my steps go,
when my steps return,
deny me bread, air,
light, spring,
but never your laughter
for I would die.
poem by Pablo Neruda
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O You Beautiful Flower
O you beautiful flower
Of pinkish and white
Earth blossoming shower
In spring’s new light
Ground is your embrace
With the sun radiance
Each bud is of grace
And splendor appearance
Light wind singing bell
Will swing your sprout
Like a sway carrousel
In its movement about
A dance of new spring
In meadows of green
To ground now sing
Of budding fresh scene
Rose-tinted so fine
Under blueness of sky
Your growth in sunshine
Now mounting so high
O you beautiful flower
Of pinkish and white
Earth sweetest endower
And spring’s delight
poem by Peter S. Quinn
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Lost Spring
I was born, once, in a spring,
When the mountains bloomed,
And the snows melted;
That very spring in March.
The skies filled with the song of birds,
The air with the fragrance of flowers,
The water shone like diamonds;
That very spring in March.
Oh I wish, I wish, to go back,
Once more to my childhood,
To that lost paradise;
That very spring in March.
poem by Alina Luiz
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Obsession (revised)
to believe that there are heights to my own glory
is no longer possible.
On that day in that room, where they wear
all their thick glasses, their hands have already done
what should not have been done.
I was weak, and my mouth did not open.
They kill every poem i had in my palms.
They were doves.
They said they were bats.
Black bats.
No, i said they are the whitest doves i have.
They are even angels.
They were laughing.
Some giggled.
And they
said, 'Crucify him, crucify him! '
IT was an obsession.
That i have butterflies on my hair.
That there were
red roses in my fingers.
There were none, in fact.
What i had are mere words.
Syllables of my survival.
When i left that room, i did not admit that it was my mistake.
Far from that,
i look again at my hands in the mirror,
and i saw
vines, fragile tendrils, and they are so alive, like
dragonflies.
One understands somehow, that we write, not because we want
to have a brand, a name, a tattoo
a heart, a rose, an arrow, blood dripping
NO. That is not so. We write because we are here and our fingers
are always incomplete.
We press our palms on our chest and we say
Look i love myself, and this all i got.
Let me write and let it all be about me.Not for those thick glasses
Inside that room.Their rules are not mine.
I have mine only to give.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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March
Tenderly stepping on the last snow
The first of March is coming.
Spring will release the love arrow,
Beautiful songs of love humming.
The feeling of spring is known to all,
It happens every coming year.
My loving spring has no wall,
Its sounds I can clearly hear.
March is a harbinger of changes.
It smiles happily together with me.
Its grace has the wide ranges:
New natures wonders we'll see.
March - without experience at all,
Hastens through the dew or snow,
Like a young and naïve girl,
Afraid her gratefulness to show.
March will surely find its way.
It's free, it's swift, affectionate.
April will come, and then May.
What a fantastic natures state!
Larisa Rzhepishevska (Odessa, Ukraine)
poem by Larisa Rzhepishevska
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Sunset in March
The Spring has come to us again,
flowers are dancing in the rain,
the morning sky returns to blue,
sunset in March, a magic view.
A crocus bloom, blue pearl of Spring
smiles as the robins sing and sing,
watching the skies, I'm singing too,
sunset in March, a magic view.
The lake is waiting for old boats,
a sound of hope so freely floats,
the music that our souls pursue,
sunset in March, a magic view.
There is no time like Spring, indeed,
a heart renewed for worlds in need,
may all our wishes dreams come true,
sunset in March, a magic view.
poem by Marius Alexandru (March 2022)
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March
Were I young again
and the month of March
were upon me
I'd skip down the road,
do a march to March,
sing a tune to March
dance a dance to March,
risk a prance to March,
strut and grind and do
a break dance to March.
Hop, skip and jump to March,
just like a the girl I used to be,
once upon a time in March,
when my cheeks had high colour
and my hopes were high.
poem by Ruth Walters
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Snow drops
From today, March 1st,
this sunny day, to 8th of March
Most women of my Land
Will smile and pray
Inside their hearts
For One they Love! !
The much loved man
Will hear woman's call..
There he is! !
As in her secret thoughts
At her own door:
Holding a bunch of
gentle little Snow Drops..
She gets those sweet flowers
then he's paid instead
only one warm and sweetest kiss!
But! ! For the spring to come
he needs a thousand! !
So, now get ready: His time to pray..
She has to kiss him
nine hundred ninety nine
times again..
Let's hope she'll hear..
Get it done..
Or..
Spring will never ever
come..
..
So, may I say my my pray:
For man to give the loved ones what they wish
and women give men a bit more then a much
too little- tiny kiss! !
poem by Elena Sandu
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Happy Marriage
A little bit confused was beautiful Spring,
She had to choose for life a bridegroom.
Who will give her a wedding ring?
Three men wanted to be her happy and bloom.
March, April and May vied with each other.
About their great love they quietly talked.
April was for Spring like a brother,
With March she just often liked to walk.
Timid March gave her beautiful primroses,
Out of snowdrops he made a wreath,
He didn't want to know any losses,
He promised her the whole world's wealth.
Delicate and sweet was April.
He gave her a necklace of brilliant drops.
The life with him could be stable, - he said,
She'd be rich and would get good crops.
A wonderful May pleaded Spring:
You are my love! Take my wedding ring!
Be quick, Spring! Be my wife!
We'd be happy together the whole life.
And Spring trusted the handsome May.
Without any delay she sewed the white dress,
For the veil she took the apples blossoms.
That was her best and the happiest day.
The whole world was whirling in the dance.
May was getting married with Spring!
The Earth was full of love and romance,
Happiness to all this marriage would bring.
©Larisa Rzhepishevska (Odessa, Ukraine)
28th of March,2012
poem by Larisa Rzhepishevska
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Transcription of Organ Music
The flower in the glass peanut bottle formerly in the
kitchen crooked to take a place in the light,
the closet door opened, because I used it before, it
kindly stayed open waiting for me, its owner.
I began to feel my misery in pallet on floor, listening
to music, my misery, that's why I want to sing.
The room closed down on me, I expected the presence
of the Creator, I saw my gray painted walls and
ceiling, they contained my room, they contained
me
as the sky contained my garden,
I opened my door
The rambler vine climbed up the cottage post,
the leaves in the night still where the day had placed
them, the animal heads of the flowers where they had
arisen
to think at the sun
Can I bring back the words? Will thought of
transcription haze my mental open eye?
The kindly search for growth, the gracious de-
sire to exist of the flowers, my near ecstasy at existing
among them
The privilege to witness my existence-you too
must seek the sun...
My books piled up before me for my use
waiting in space where I placed them, they
haven't disappeared, time's left its remnants and qual-
ities for me to use--my words piled up, my texts, my
manuscripts, my loves.
I had a moment of clarity, saw the feeling in
the heart of things, walked out to the garden crying.
Saw the red blossoms in the night light, sun's
gone, they had all grown, in a moment, and were wait-
ing stopped in time for the day sun to come and give
them...
Flowers which as in a dream at sunset I watered
faithfully not knowing how much I loved them.
I am so lonely in my glory--except they too out
there--I looked up--those red bush blossoms beckon-
ing and peering in the window waiting in the blind love,
their leaves too have hope and are upturned top flat
to the sky to receive--all creation open to receive--the
flat earth itself.
The music descends, as does the tall bending
stalk of the heavy blssom, because it has to, to stay
alive, to continue to the last drop of joy.
The world knows the love that's in its breast as
in the flower, the suffering lonely world.
The Father is merciful.
The light socket is crudely attached to the ceil-
ing, after the house was built, to receive a plug which
sticks in it alright, and serves my phonograph now...
The closet door is open for me, where I left it,
since I left it open, it has graciously stayed open.
The kitchen has no door, the hole there will
admit me should I wish to enter the kitchen.
I remember when I first got laid, H.P. gra-
ciously took my cherry, I sat on the docks of Prov-
incetown, age 23, joyful, elevated in hope with the
Father, the door to the womb wasopen to admit me
if I wished to enter.
There are unused electricity plugs all over my
house if I ever needed them.
The kitchen window is open, to admit air...
The telephone--sad to relate--sits on the
floor--I haven't had the money to get it connected--
I want people to bow when they see me and say
he is gifted with poetry, he has seen the presence of
the Creator
And the Creator gave me a shot of his presence
to gratify my wish, so as not to cheat me of my yearning
for him.
poem by Allen Ginsberg
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More on March
March, that in-between month,
like a woman turning hot and cold,
not wanting to commit.
March is a b.itch.
Can't say I'm impressed by March
but prefer it to February,
that non month, best ignored,
or gotten over with real quick.
March is a better month than that,
nearer to Spring
as evenings grow warm
and girls do their thing.
Kicking and screaming
I step back from a December dawn.
Time marches on
as old age beckons.
Damn it, I will not wrinkle.
poem by Ruth Walters
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Blue Dove
The Blue Dove Legend.
says it's born every hundred years,
Blue Doves are true,
and brings love.
They say if the Blue Dove,
lands on your porch, or
near you, only good fortune,
for ever you'll have
Love always will be,
deep in your heart, so touching,
you with other down trodden
people, for you to reach.
An open heart to others,
a gift you will have.
Blue Doves are true
so if you see one,
do not flee.
Blue Doves are hatched,
in a nest of two
one white, one blue,
mother cuddles
with ever loving care,
she knows this little thing,
is so special and true.
The day that Blue Dove flees the nest,
and flys into the unknown
some lucky soul their fortune,
will change.
Blue Doves may be just,
a legend, but if you,
do see one, hope it comes,
your way, to bring hope,
love, life and better days.
Blue dove, does bring,
true love, and many happy
days, so watch out, look,
search the skys, Blue
Dove may be coming,
your way.
wrote 1-17-07
March...A Springtime Tease
Just a touch of Springtime
Only a spritzle or a pat
That's all of Spring
That March will bring
You can bet your butt
On that!
April will be more fruitful
With showers, flowers and such
But March is just a springtime tease
Promising way too much
March is like a Model T
As a month it should be retired
It's only got enough Spring, you see
To make your butt feel tired.
poem by David Whalen
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Spring Did Begin (Rondelet)
Spring did begin
with lovely flowers blossoming,
spring did begin
with cheerful insects rushing in
with small butterflies fluttering
with joyful lovely birds that sing,
spring did begin.
poem by Gert Strydom
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The Perfect Playmate
Roger Charles Noel Bellingham. Before Ypres, March 4th, 1915
The Perfect Playmate, whither does he stray
That now no more his feet come up this way
That rang so blithe upon the nursery floor?
Wild games and laughter! Now the little son
Listens and longs, and his small world's undone.
The Perfect Playmate will return no more.
Who else made holidays of rainy days?
Who told such marvels by the firelight blaze?
King of misrule when Christmas frosts were hoar.
But now the black-gowned mother's tears will flow
Whether her little son be good or no.
The Perfect Playmate will return no more.
Who built the sands, dug deep, was never loth
Nor ever tired: was strong enough for both:
Home on his shoulders a small drowsy head bore;
Was ever smiling. The boy keeps apart
A gay young smiling father in his heart.
The Perfect Playmate will return no more!
No more, no more! Himself a boy he goes
Beyond the uttermost peaks, the eternal snows:
Light on his young brown head from an open door.
His youth unwithered, smiling all the way,
Into the land of youth, the Spring of Day.
The Perfect Playmate will return no more.
poem by Katharine Tynan
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Be My Sweetheart
Sweetheart, be my sweetheart
When birds are on the wing,
When bee and bud and babbling flood
Bespeak the birth of spring,
Come, sweetheart, be my sweetheart
And wear this posy-ring!
Sweetheart, be my sweetheart
In the mellow golden glow
Of earth aflush with the gracious blush
Which the ripening fields foreshow;
Dear sweetheart, be my sweetheart,
As into the noon we go!
Sweetheart, be my sweetheart
When falls the bounteous year,
When fruit and wine of tree and vine
Give us their harvest cheer;
Oh, sweetheart, be my sweetheart,
For winter it draweth near.
Sweetheart, be my sweetheart
When the year is white and old,
When the fire of youth is spent, forsooth,
And the hand of age is cold;
Yet, sweetheart, be my sweetheart
Till the year of our love be told!
poem by Eugene Field
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By my sweetheart
Sweetheart, be my sweetheart
When birds are on the wing,
When bee and bud and babbling flood
Bespeak the birth of spring,
Come, sweetheart, be my sweetheart
And wear this posy-ring!
Sweetheart, be my sweetheart
In the mellow golden glow
Of earth aflush with the gracious blush
Which the ripening fields foreshow;
Dear sweetheart, be my sweetheart,
As into the noon we go!
Sweetheart, be my sweetheart
When falls the bounteous year,
When fruit and wine of tree and vine
Give us their harvest cheer;
Oh, sweetheart, be my sweetheart,
For winter it draweth near.
Sweetheart, be my sweetheart
When the year is white and old,
When the fire of youth is spent, forsooth,
And the hand of age is cold;
Yet, sweetheart, be my sweetheart
Till the year of our love be told!
poem by Eugene Field
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Spring Song III
HERE'S the Spring-time, Sweet!
Earth's green gown is new,
Lambs begin to bleat,
Doves begin to coo,
Birds begin to woo
In the wood and lane;
Sweet, the tale is true
Spring is here again!
I have been discreet
All the winter through;
Now, before your feet,
Blossoms let me strew.
Flowers, as yet, are few;
Will my lady deign
Take this flower or two?
Spring is here again
Make the year complete,
Give the Spring her due!
All the flowers entreat,
All the song-birds sue.
'Twixt the green and blue
Let Love wake and reign,
Let me worship you--
Spring is here again!
poem by Edith Nesbit
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False Spring
False Spring
End of September is a strange interlude
in Algarve´s countryside.
Flowers suddenly bloom and yellow grass
turns green, for a few weeks it looks like
spring before sinking back to winter gloom.
The cork tree, dark and nude its dress has
has been turned into bottle stoppers and
and no leaves protect its misery.
Still it is looking inwards pretend not to be
there while waiting for spring, when
my almond three strews pink snow flakes
on the sandy lane and life begins again.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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