The Death of Magnus Kep
It was ages since I'd seen him,
So I felt quite out of step
With the old Etruscan sculptor
That I knew as Magnus Kep,
He was brooding in an alley
By an old Byzantine store,
Then he saw me, and he beckoned,
And we walked along the shore.
He was hunting there for marble,
For his studio in Graz,
But we stopped in at a wine bar
And we sampled their Shiraz,
And he told me things he'd never said
To anyone before,
About why he searched the Holy Land,
And ruins, by the score.
'I can see their shapes within each block
Of marble, ' he had said,
'And I know that they are waiting
To be freed, because they're dead,
But they lived so long ago that they
Are patient, in despair,
Though their limbs are still as supple,
And there's fragrance in their hair.'
I was sure the heat had got to him,
His eyes had fairly gleamed,
And I thought his mind disordered,
But I listened to his theme,
He was looking for the marble
That contained the wanton form
Of a pornographic priestess
He had glimpsed the year before.
'She was lying in the harbour,
At the bottom of the sea,
Only fifteen feet of water
Separated her from me,
She had lived a thousand years
Before the walls had tumbled in
To the harbour, where she frolicked
In the service of the king.'
Then we stopped and peered over
At the slight and gentle swell,
Down and through the clear water,
There were pillars, where they fell,
There were blackened slabs of marble lying
Scorched, as if by fire,
Where the mighty Alexander
Burned the city known as Tyre!
'Can you see her there? ' he pointed,
And I saw a marble slab,
Lying half upon a pillar,
It was worn, and dull and drab,
'Do you see that haughty forehead,
Do you see her pointed breasts? '
But I only saw a weathered stone,
He conjured all the rest.
We parted, and I heard that he
Had raised that mighty stone,
Had shipped it back to Graz where he
Could work on it alone,
The seasons came and went before
I thought to follow on,
And asked about his sculpture then,
His eyes had fairly shone.
He led me to the basement and
He showed me through the door,
He'd chiseled out just half of it,
That nearest to the floor,
The woman's legs were parted and
Inviting to the king,
Her vulva gaping proudly like
Some fertile offering.
It took my breath away, I stood
And scanned those supple thighs,
Like frankincense and myrrh they were
A balm upon my eyes,
I saw that she was locked in there,
The sculptor hadn't lied,
He'd simply chipped the stone away
And there she was, inside!
I asked him then, 'How long before
We get to see her face? '
He said it didn't matter, he
Would try to lend her grace,
'She's painted like a whore, ' he said,
'Back then, it was the thing,
Her duty was to paint her face
To please her lord, the king! '
For months I sat and wondered how
She'd looked, as she emerged,
She'd lain in stone three thousand years
When Kep had felt the urge
To chisel from her marble vault
Her buttocks, waist and thighs,
Reveal again to living men
The wonder of their eyes!
I never saw Kep whole again,
Confusing? Yes, I know!
They said they'd had to lay him out
Down at his studio.
His head was in a basket, where they'd
Shown him disrespect,
To free him from the fingers she
Had gripped... around his neck!
2 July 2010
poem by David Lewis Paget
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Related quotes
Unintelligent Design
An hour a day,
sometimes more,
I chipped away
with mallet and chisel
on a block of marble
I found in Carrara
and shipped to New York
on the deck of a trawler.
I offered the marble
to a famous sculptor
who told me he works
in granite only
so I grabbed his beret
and one of his smocks
and said I'd sculpt
the block myself
with whittling skills
picked up as a kid
from a drunken uncle
named Whittling Sid.
Several weeks later,
to my surprise,
I finished the bust
of a chimpanzee
simply by wielding
mallet and chisel
the way I wield
pencil and eraser
when hewing a poem.
Working with marble
or working with words,
a sculptor or poet
proves less is more
by chipping away
until something emerges
upright and walking
with a soul of its own.
poem by Donal Mahoney
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The best artist has that thought alone Which is contained within the marble shell; The sculptor's hand can only break the spell To free the figures slumbering in the stone.
quote by Michelangelo
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Loitering with a Vacant Eye
Loitering with a vacant eye
Along the Grecian gallery,
And brooding on my heavy ill,
I met a statue standing still.
Still in marble stone stood he,
And stedfastly he looked at me.
"Well met," I thought the look would say,
"We both were fashioned far away;
We neither knew, when we were young,
These Londoners we live among."
Still he stood and eyed me hard,
An earnest and a grave regard:
"What, lad, drooping with your lot?
I too would be where I am not.
I too survey that endless line
Of men whose thoughts are not as mine.
Years, ere you stood up from rest,
On my neck the collar prest;
Years, when you lay down your ill,
I shall stand and bear it still.
Courage, lad, 'tis not for long:
Stand, quit you like stone, be strong."
So I thought his look would say;
And light on me my trouble lay,
And I stept out in flesh and bone
Manful like the man of stone.
poem by Alfred Edward Housman
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The Doer Of Good
It was night-time and He was alone.
And He saw afar-off the walls of a round city and went towards the
city.
And when He came near He heard within the city the tread of the
feet of joy, and the laughter of the mouth of gladness and the loud
noise of many lutes. And He knocked at the gate and certain of the
gate-keepers opened to Him.
And He beheld a house that was of marble and had fair pillars of
marble before it. The pillars were hung with garlands, and within
and without there were torches of cedar. And He entered the house.
And when He had passed through the hall of chalcedony and the hall
of jasper, and reached the long hall of feasting, He saw lying on a
couch of sea-purple one whose hair was crowned with red roses and
whose lips were red with wine.
And He went behind him and touched him on the shoulder and said to
him, 'Why do you live like this?'
And the young man turned round and recognised Him, and made answer
and said, 'But I was a leper once, and you healed me. How else
should I live?'
And He passed out of the house and went again into the street.
And after a little while He saw one whose face and raiment were
painted and whose feet were shod with pearls. And behind her came,
slowly as a hunter, a young man who wore a cloak of two colours.
Now the face of the woman was as the fair face of an idol, and the
eyes of the young man were bright with lust.
And He followed swiftly and touched the hand of the young man and
said to him, 'Why do you look at this woman and in such wise?'
And the young man turned round and recognised Him and said, 'But I
was blind once, and you gave me sight. At what else should I
look?'
And He ran forward and touched the painted raiment of the woman and
said to her, 'Is there no other way in which to walk save the way
of sin?'
And the woman turned round and recognised Him, and laughed and
said, 'But you forgave me my sins, and the way is a pleasant way.'
And He passed out of the city.
And when He had passed out of the city He saw seated by the
roadside a young man who was weeping.
And He went towards him and touched the long locks of his hair and
said to him, 'Why are you weeping?'
And the young man looked up and recognised Him and made answer,
'But I was dead once, and you raised me from the dead. What else
should I do but weep?'
poem by Oscar Wilde
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Saints
They raise up saints
in the religions I've known.
And then they carve them
in white marble stone.
What have they done
to deserve such praise?
Have they done anything more
than our poor earthly slaves?
It seems to me
that they're so far away.
Why do people pray to them
every single day?
Sainthood is saved
for holy ones,
not sisters, brothers and sons,
who may not be holy
but give up their lives.
Their white marble stone
never ever survives.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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A Monument For The Soldiers
A monument for the Soldiers!
And what will ye build it of?
Can ye build it of marble, or brass, or bronze,
Outlasting the Soldiers' love?
Can ye glorify it with legends
As grand as their blood hath writ
From the inmost shrine of this land of thine
To the outermost verge of it?
And the answer came: We would build it
Out of our hopes made sure,
And out of our purest prayers and tears,
And out of our faith secure:
We would build it out of the great white truths
Their death hath sanctified,
And the sculptured forms of the men in arms,
And their faces ere they died.
And what heroic figures
Can the sculptor carve in stone?
Can the marble breast be made to bleed,
And the marble lips to moan?
Can the marble brow be fevered?
And the marble eyes be graved
To look their last, as the flag floats past,
On the country they have saved?
And the answer came: The figures
Shall all be fair and brave,
And, as befitting, as pure and white
As the stars above their grave!
The marble lips, and breast and brow
Whereon the laurel lies,
Bequeath us right to guard the flight
Of the old flag in the skies!
A monument for the Soldiers!
Built of a people's love,
And blazoned and decked and panoplied
With the hearts ye build it oft
And see that ye build it stately,
In pillar and niche and gate,
And high in pose as the souls of those
It would commemorate!
poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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Rock, Stone, Sand, Wind, Time, Eternity
the sculptor,
called to the great task; through
the huge columns, ringing echoes even with a sandal’s tread,
the stone chamber,
the assembled court, gold, enamelled blue,
eyes everywhere, walls, men,
the Pharoah’s presence:
‘show me as I am:
man as lion,
king of the living and the dead;
show me as eternity’
the frail old man in heavy robes,
the courtiers nodding, smirking…
more men than men could count
whipped to task under a burning noonday sun;
behind, a half-built pyramid;
slaves chipped away the ancient bedrock
according to the careful measurements,
blocking out the figure, until the day
the sculptor himself – and older now –
mounts the scaffold to begin chipping
the face of time that meets eternity.
‘time says nothing but I told you so’;
which Pharaoh died before his monument?
five thousand years before our own stone dreams,
how many years of scaffolding?
a temple hollowing between its long, long paws.
was it looked upon with awe, or
as meaningless to children,
to their children’s children,
as the frozen gesturing bronzes of our public squares? they,
running off around the back of it
to clamber onto its stone tail?
the night wind already piling up the drifting sand,
night wind in palm leaves whispering of metaphor,
green shores lost under dunes of time;
wind and sand sculpting their own unanswered question:
what is the reason we should ask of time?
what is the question whose answer is timelessness?
poem by Michael Shepherd
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David, the marble sculpture....
the human
male sculpture of David
stands tall
naked to the tourist
amazed
to the greatness of
the marble
body
was it the story of this
man whose stone did not
miss Goliath?
was it the genius of his
creator who mastered
the curves and
balance via
the marble and the
chisel?
or is it this unending feeling
of the tourist
still unsatisfied about what
is lustful and
beautiful?
if you have seen and touched
it by now you must
have understood
what it is to be naked
admired
and then abandoned
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Never Tell A Woman Yes
Oh my, my, my-
In a dusty caravan
Was a girl with a golden tan
And she asked me if I was headed to the east
I politely stepped a side and said I did not need a ride
That Id rather take my chances with the heat
Well, when she turned and walked away
I saw my big mistake
There were jewels on her body oh-so-rare
Had it been another day I just might have rode away
With that woman riding off to god-knows-where
So the years they came and went
And found me living in a tent
Far above a little marble stream
And it may have been the light that shone out through the night
That attracted the hand scratching on my screen
When I cautiously looked out through the night
There was no doubt
That the owner of that hand was that girl
So I bid her do come in
And Ill open up a tin
If youll tell me bout your trip around the world
Well, she said,if you think back
To the first time that we passed
Im sure youll picture me in all my jewles
It was shortly after then that I ran into another man
And I asked him the same question I asked you
But now he he didnt refuse
And he took off of both his shoes
And climbed abord mu east-bound caravan
In the twinkling of the night
He knocked me off the side
And left me there for dead upon the sand
And I thought I was done
Lying naked in the sun
When much to my surprise, who should pass?
But this old friend of yours
He said he knew you from the wars
And I told him that I thought youd headed west
Well, he said he should have known
cause you like to be alone
And thats the time I knew you were my one
So I asked him for a ride
Just to get here by your side
And stay here above this stream
Out of the sun
Well, we sat quite for a while
And I began to smile
Well its strange but I dont care
And some nights when Im at rest
I wonder if Id said, yes
Would she have come to me from God knows where
Or would I have been the one to leave her lying in the sun
And then ended up with only precious stones
Or would the woman in my arms be giving me her charms
If the answer that I gave her wasnt no
song performed by by Monkees
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Temple - What Makes It Of Worth
You may delve down to rock for your foundation piers,
You may go with your steel to the sky
You may purchase the best of the thought of the years,
And the finest of workmanship buy.
You may line with the rarest of marble each hall,
And with gold you may tint it; but then
It is only a building if it, after all,
Isn't filled with the spirit of men.
You may put up a structure of brick and of stone,
Such as never was put up before;
Place there the costliest woods that are grown,
And carve every pillar and door.
You may fill it with splendors of quarry and mine,
With the glories of brush and of pen —
But it's only a building, though ever so fine,
If it hasn't the spirit of men.
You may build such structure that lightning can't harm,
Or one that an earthquake can't raze;
You may build it of granite, and boast that its charm
Shall last to the end of all days.
But you might as well never have builded at all,
Never cleared off the bog and the fen,
If, after it's finished, its sheltering wall
Doesn't stand for the spirit of men.
For it isn't the marble, nor is it the stone
Nor is it the columns of steel,
By which is the worth of an edifice known;
But it's something that's living and real.
poem by Edgar Albert Guest
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Marble Tulip Juicy Tree
[studio version appears on "god ween satan: the oneness"]
Great...it would be the greatest thing
I don't know you you are, i don't know who you want to be
When i carbonate the test tube, then you won't see me
I've got a twin cab diesel combo, it takes me where i want to go
And all the nuphies are happy, they know of a fungus that grow
So when you see hoecke's mind screw don't come running to me
'cause i will scream and set aflame marble tulip juicy tree
Marble tulip juicy tree -- it's where i want to be
When i gnaw on the tulip it'll wish that it was me
Every morning i put my shoes on and i think about she
Who controls the four seasons inhaling kitties in the see
It's like a noodle in a salad -- little birdy wants to be set free-ee
I drill the corpse lobe with my mommy -- marble tulip juicy tree
So this song's about the loving thing that you are to me
Just stay away from my adenoids and marble tulip juicy tree
Marble tulip juicy tree -- it's where i want to be
When i gnaw on the tulip it'll wish that it was me
Look now i hold the world in my hands
Whoo, seems like awakened trance
Up on the hill, down by the river
By the ocean across the field
By the word of the boognish
I said, "lordy, lord, lord, i'm comin' home"
In a dream, said he was coming
Boognish was risin'
Up from the mist.......
[more inaudible ranting]
Whoo!
song performed by by Ween
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Karma
He looked down over the valley,
Over the verdant green and trees,
And suddenly felt so humbled
That he sighed, and fell to his knees,
He'd only been out a single day
With the world before him spread,
So still he could hear those prison gates
As they'd clanged behind, in his head.
He'd finished his twenty seven years
He'd paid society's due,
Locked in a cell of eight by ten
For the things that he'd had to do,
He'd shown no mercy to Annabel,
No more to the Widow Peak,
He'd drowned them, just as he meant to do
When they'd met, in less than a week.
He thrilled at the thought of their staring eyes
As he held them down in the bath,
Watching their lives leach out of them,
Just as he'd done with Kath,
There'd been so many, he'd not confessed
But been convicted for two,
The other ten would have got him life
Without reprieve, if they knew.
He went to live in the valley
Rented a cottage under the trees,
Owned by a man called Anderson
Who'd visited him for years,
He'd said he knew of a valley where
He could start his life again,
He'd said, ‘Now here is your second chance,
Back in the world of men! '
He wandered round in the cottage
Took in the bathroom at a glance,
Took in the nice deep marble tub
With a smirk and a rub of his hands,
The village was just a walk away
But he'd give it a day or two,
Then check for a widow or single girl
At the store, as he wandered through.
He spent the night reminiscing
Thinking of all those staring eyes,
Of Kristen Poole, that silly young fool
That he'd fed with outrageous lies,
Her mouth had flapped like a goldfish
As she fought in a bleak despair,
But nearly a foot of water lay
Between her face and the air.
And who was that girl, that Marigold,
That he'd met in the Shop ‘n Save?
He'd thought that her name was Sanderson,
She didn't know how to behave,
She'd said her brother looked out for her
Would interfere with her fun,
But once in a bath of water,
It would only be fun for one.
He lay and stared at the ceiling as
He felt quite suddenly cold,
The name of his mentor Anderson
Came creeping back to his soul,
He heard the rushing of water
Off in the distance, up on the heights,
And made his way to the village
Lying in darkness, deep in the night,
The cottages all were empty
So was the chapel, totally bare,
The door of the shop was open
Nothing but garbage left in there,
He turned and ran up the village street
But the thunder was hard at his heels,
When a wall of water, ten feet high
Rushed over the verdant fields.
They'd opened the sluices at the dam
To flood the Valley at night,
To turn it into a reservoir
For a city that lay nearby,
The villagers had been gone for a month
But they stood and they watched the tide,
Flooding their tiny cottages
While Anderson laughed, and cried!
11 November 2012
poem by David Lewis Paget
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Now You Are Put To Rest
I
They opened his abdomen
found what they were not looking for
though half-expected
to see
polyps enormous cancerous mush
in lieu of
and the rest that had given out on him
They said: if we had known we wouldn't have torn into his
tripes
to see
even the sample test told us as much
but we did it for him
he so wanted it done
now we merely have to wait and see
just how long it would take him to conk out
without solid food to pass
from his newly-grafted conduite
He was completely in their hands
and hung on to their lips their every nod
their plans for him
and the use he had for their
apprentis chirugiens sorciers
He kept his anger for his friends family telephone operators
the aide-soignantes
those he could intimidate with his age
for he didn't know what they knew
they wouldn't feel the hurt the slight
for long
the rankling umbrage sans riposte
He didn't mind all the inconvenience
the constant waking to pass water
the secluded room without tv
without his wife to take it out on
without the means to exude
his usual referee's contempt of rules
In their hands he was the meek inept thing
pleading with his eyes
his whole body bent to their gaze
of wonder
of why he would so question going
now then or even a little later
II
You had said when I kidded you
'After all I'm not going to be far away'
Now you are put to rest
In a place dug and slabbed for you alone
As if you were not going to rest for good
with all the others
It is a place to a side in the pebble-strewn sidewalk
against the wall
your feet to the east
all the other feet to the south
As of a general standing to a salute from his army
There was no sight of you
The golden chocolatish-pink of your casket
made more glittering the cross
I couldn't guess if you would have wanted the Church's ornament
then the feeling of being out-of-place
thoughts of you in a cloud
We talked in suppressed tones
about you of you
trying to be polite and succeeding among uneasy fellows
here and there some unwanted details slipped in through nervousness
yet none felt your hand tremble on the racket
You were the master of the court
as now you mastered your going by the low sleek slate-grained marble
in sharply polished angular correctness
amidst shy upright cypresses and neatly cut passageways of chipped
stone
We sprinkled your tomb with Church water
Neither rain nor snow you remember could keep you from finishing
your game
Already as we turned in a column the voices now louder in the distance
They were arranging the roughly hewn stone slabs
before the marble thickened your bed
You may at last be at rest
with no one to challenge you to a test of strength
your referee's whistle holding its un-disputable silence
You came with the spring
Now you go in cheery spring
Your sollicitous voice still lingers in our courts
You knew us all by name and style at play
long before we met under your critical gaze
poem by T. Wignesan
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The Blue Scarf
Pale, with the blue of high zeniths, shimmered over with silver, brocaded
In smooth, running patterns, a soft stuff, with dark knotted fringes,
it lies there,
Warm from a woman's soft shoulders, and my fingers close on it, caressing.
Where is she, the woman who wore it? The scent of her lingers and drugs me!
A languor, fire-shotted, runs through me, and I crush the scarf down
on my face,
And gulp in the warmth and the blueness, and my eyes swim
in cool-tinted heavens.
Around me are columns of marble, and a diapered, sun-flickered pavement.
Rose-leaves blow and patter against it. Below the stone steps a lute tinkles.
A jar of green jade throws its shadow half over the floor. A big-bellied
Frog hops through the sunlight and plops in the gold-bubbled water of a basin,
Sunk in the black and white marble. The west wind has lifted a scarf
On the seat close beside me, the blue of it is a violent outrage of colour.
She draws it more closely about her, and it ripples beneath
her slight stirring.
Her kisses are sharp buds of fire; and I burn back against her, a jewel
Hard and white; a stalked, flaming flower; till I break to
a handful of cinders,
And open my eyes to the scarf, shining blue in the afternoon sunshine.
How loud clocks can tick when a room is empty, and one is alone!
poem by Amy Lowell
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On A Recently Finished Statue
Said Sculptor to immaculate marble-'Show
Thine essence; into necessary space
Most pure describe thine unshaped Purity!'
And lo this Image! As a bubble blown,
Swiftly her charms, dilating, went through all
The zones of sphered Perfection, till the stone
Smiled as to speak. Some coming thought half-shown
Forms on her parting lips, so that her face
Is as a white flow'r whence a drop of dew,
White with the fragrant flow'r, inclines to fall.
'Oh Everlasting Silence keep her so!
Immortalise this moment, lest she grow
To such a living substance as can die!'
He cried. Consent Eternal heard his cry.
poem by Sydney Thompson Dobell
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The House Of Dust: Part 02: 06: Adele And Davis
She turned her head on the pillow, and cried once more.
And drawing a shaken breath, and closing her eyes,
To shut out, if she could, this dingy room,
The wigs and costumes scattered around the floor,—
Yellows and greens in the dark,—she walked again
Those nightmare streets which she had walked so often . . .
Here, at a certain corner, under an arc-lamp,
Blown by a bitter wind, she stopped and looked
In through the brilliant windows of a drug-store,
And wondered if she dared to ask for poison:
But it was late, few customers were there,
The eyes of all the clerks would freeze upon her,
And she would wilt, and cry . . . Here, by the river,
She listened to the water slapping the wall,
And felt queer fascination in its blackness:
But it was cold, the little waves looked cruel,
The stars were keen, and a windy dash of spray
Struck her cheek, and withered her veins . . . And so
She dragged herself once more to home, and bed.
Paul hadn't guessed it yet—though twice, already,
She'd fainted—once, the first time, on the stage.
So she must tell him soon—or else—get out . . .
How could she say it? That was the hideous thing.
She'd rather die than say it! . . . and all the trouble,
Months when she couldn't earn a cent, and then,
If he refused to marry her . . . well, what?
She saw him laughing, making a foolish joke,
His grey eyes turning quickly; and the words
Fled from her tongue . . . She saw him sitting silent,
Brooding over his morning coffee, maybe,
And tried again . . . she bit her lips, and trembled,
And looked away, and said . . . 'Say Paul, boy,—listen—
There's something I must tell you . . . ' There she stopped,
Wondering what he'd say . . . What would he say?
'Spring it, kid! Don't look so serious!'
'But what I've got to say—IS—serious!'
Then she could see how, suddenly, he would sober,
His eyes would darken, he'd look so terrifying—
He always did—and what could she do but cry?
Perhaps, then, he would guess—perhaps he wouldn't.
And if he didn't, but asked her 'What's the matter?'—
She knew she'd never tell—just say she was sick . . .
And after that, when would she dare again?
And what would he do—even suppose she told him?
If it were Felix! If it were only Felix!—
She wouldn't mind so much. But as it was,
Bitterness choked her, she had half a mind
To pay out Felix for never having liked her,
By making people think that it was he . . .
She'd write a letter to someone, before she died,—
Just saying 'Felix did it—and wouldn't marry.'
And then she'd die . . . But that was hard on Paul . . .
Paul would never forgive her—he'd never forgive her!
Sometimes she almost thought Paul really loved her . . .
She saw him look reproachfully at her coffin.
And then she closed her eyes and walked again
Those nightmare streets that she had walked so often:
Under an arc-lamp swinging in the wind
She stood, and stared in through a drug-store window,
Watching a clerk wrap up a little pill-box.
But it was late. No customers were there,—
Pitiless eyes would freeze her secret in her!
And then—what poison would she dare to ask for?
And if they asked her why, what would she say?
poem by Conrad Potter Aiken
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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That One Time, When I Saw Her Eyes
I caught a glimpse once,
A long silent stare
Amidst the sickly sunshine blare
Of the green marble starlight show.
The stone lifted and all was gone
Amidst that sultry stare,
Body and soul submerged
Into the midnight pupil
Centered in that
Green marble starlight
Caught within said awkward stare.
Yes, that shell, that silly schoolyard show
So succumb to the
Might of that mystic
Green marble starlight
Glow
And all was right, yes all was right,
If only for a second
Until her shell stood up to go.
(2011)
Samvel Aleksanyan © All Rights Reserved
Heart Of Stone
A broken wing, and a broken bone
Of a bird, that met a stone
Lied helpless And was bit despair
Looked above If god was there.
Short of food And short of breath
Was silently waiting For his death
Asked his wings If they could fly.
Yes they said why don't you try
He gathered his strength and wiped his tears.
And soon he stood Without his fears
His eyes stared at the Dark blue sky
But just then when he was about to fly
they grabbed his neck they grabbed it hard
with all his strength he could move a yard
and yes those hands did hurt his bone
he had met a heart of stone
some ugly hands and a beautiful bird.
He cried for help But no one heard.
His wings were flawed And his muscles were stiff.
He begged them to throw him off a cliff
oh dumb bird, don't you get,
look at you, it's a stone you met.
To this, the half dead bird replied
So what, if I die
Just for once I ll meet the air.
And also see if god was there.
Stories of wisdom, that were once told
But now this world had been so cold.
He wished if those blind eyes could see.
The bird was dead though his soul was free.
poem by Kanav Justa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Mary and Gabriel
Young Mary, loitering once her garden way,
Felt a warm splendour grow in the April day,
As wine that blushes water through. And soon,
Out of the gold air of the afternoon,
One knelt before her: hair he had, or fire,
Bound back above his ears with golden wire,
Baring the eager marble of his face.
Not man's nor woman's was the immortal grace
Rounding the limbs beneath that robe of white,
And lighting the proud eyes with changeless light,
Incurious. Calm as his wings, and fair,
That presence filled the garden.
She stood there,
Saying, 'What would you, Sir?'
He told his word,
'Blessed art thou of women!' Half she heard,
Hands folded and face bowed, half long had known,
The message of that clear and holy tone,
That fluttered hot sweet sobs about her heart;
Such serene tidings moved such human smart.
Her breath came quick as little flakes of snow.
Her hands crept up her breast. She did but know
It was not hers. She felt a trembling stir
Within her body, a will too strong for her
That held and filled and mastered all. With eyes
Closed, and a thousand soft short broken sighs,
She gave submission; fearful, meek, and glad. . . .
She wished to speak. Under her breasts she had
Such multitudinous burnings, to and fro,
And throbs not understood; she did not know
If they were hurt or joy for her; but only
That she was grown strange to herself, half lonely,
All wonderful, filled full of pains to come
And thoughts she dare not think, swift thoughts and dumb,
Human, and quaint, her own, yet very far,
Divine, dear, terrible, familiar . . .
Her heart was faint for telling; to relate
Her limbs' sweet treachery, her strange high estate,
Over and over, whispering, half revealing,
Weeping; and so find kindness to her healing.
'Twixt tears and laughter, panic hurrying her,
She raised her eyes to that fair messenger.
He knelt unmoved, immortal; with his eyes
Gazing beyond her, calm to the calm skies;
Radiant, untroubled in his wisdom, kind.
His sheaf of lilies stirred not in the wind.
How should she, pitiful with mortality,
Try the wide peace of that felicity
With ripples of her perplexed shaken heart,
And hints of human ecstasy, human smart,
And whispers of the lonely weight she bore,
And how her womb within was hers no more
And at length hers?
Being tired, she bowed her head;
And said, "So be it!"
The great wings were spread
Showering glory on the fields, and fire.
The whole air, singing, bore him up, and higher,
Unswerving, unreluctant. Soon he shone
A gold speck in the gold skies; then was gone.
The air was colder, and grey. She stood alone.
poem by Rupert Brooke (1912)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Red Rose, Black Stone
As we kissed and you closed your eyes
I heard you whisper this is not goodbye;
please don’t grieve, I’m now free from pain,
and in another life we’ll be as one again.
I’ve placed this red rose on your marble stone,
it leaves me full of tears and I feel so alone.
It should have been me lying there in your grave,
you were my inspiration, so full of life and brave.
We both knew that you were much stronger than I,
it’s so unfair that you were the one to die.
Your hunger for life grew with every passing day,
but then you became ill and faded away.
Now you have gone and I remain here,
full of anguish, and selfish tears.
My reason for living has been taken away
and without you I’m lost in an empty day
poem by Orlando Belo
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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