The Tropics
LOVE we the warmth and light of tropic lands,
The strange bright fruit, the feathery fanspread leaves,
The glowing mornings and the mellow eves,
The strange shells scattered on the golden sands,
The curious handiwork of Eastern hands,
The little carts ambled by humpbacked beeves,
The narrow outrigged native boat which cleaves,
Unscathed, the surf outside the coral strands.
Love we the blaze of color, the rich red
Of broad tiled-roof and turban, the bright green
Of plantain-frond and paddy-field, nor dread
The fierceness of the noon. The sky serene,
The chill-less air, quaint sights, and tropic trees,
Seem like a dream fulfilled of lotus-ease.
poem by Douglas Brooke Wheelton Sladen
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
Comfortable Light
Most comfortable Light,
Light of the small lamp burning up the night,
With dawn enleagued against the beaten dark;
Pure golden perfect spark;
Or sudden wind-bright flame,
That but the strong-handed wind can urge or tame;
Chill loveliest light the kneeling clouds between,
Silverly serene;
Comfort of happy light,
That mouse-like leaps amid brown leaves, cheating sight;
Clear naked stars, burning with swift intense
Earthward intelligence;--
Sensitive, single
Points in the dark inane that purely tingle
With eager fire, pouring night's circles through
Their living blue;
Dark light still waters hold;
Broad silver moonpath trodden into gold:
Candle-flame glittering through the traveller's night--
Most comfortable light....
And lovelier, the eye
Where light from darkness shines unfathomably,
Light secret, clear, shallow, profound, known, strange,
Constant alone in change:--
Not that wild light that turns
Hunted from dying eyes when the last fire burns;
O, not that bitter light of wounded things,
When bony anguish springs
Sudden, intolerable;
Nor light of mad eyes gleaming up from hell....
Come not again, wild light! Shine not again,
Hill-flare of pain!
But thou, most holy light....
Not the noon blaze that stings, too fiercely bright,
Not that unwinking stare of shameless day;
But thou, the gray,
Nun-like and silent, still,
Fine-breathed on many an eastern bare green hill;
Keen light of gray eyes, cool rain, and stern spears;
Sad light, but not to tears:--
--O, comfort thou of eyes
Watching expectant from chill northern skies,
Excellent joy for lids heavy with night--
Strange with delight!
poem by John Freeman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Tin Man
Sometimes late when things are real
And people share the gift of gab between themselves
Some are quick to take the bait
And catch the perfect prize that waits among the shelves
But oz never did give nothing to the tin man
That he didnt, didnt already have
And cause never was the reason for the evening
Or the tropic of sir galahad.
So please believe in me
When I say Im spinning round, round, round, round
Smoke glass stain bright color
Image going down, down, down, down
Soapsuds green like bubbles
Oh, oz never did give nothing to the tin man
That he didnt, didnt already have
And cause never was the reason for the evening
Or the tropic of sir galahad
So please believe in me
When I say Im spinning round, round, round, round
Smoke glass stain bright color
Image going down, down, down, down
Soapsuds green like bubbles
No, oz never did give nothing to the tin man
That he didnt, didnt already have
And cause never was the reason for the evening
Or the tropic of sir galahad
So please believe in me
song performed by by America
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Mildura
Where the sunlight, burning down,
Lights her luscious orange groves,
Lights the river and the town;
Where the placid Murray roves;
Where each shining summer gives
Life to loveliness serene;
Here the tropic lady lives
'Mid her almost tropic scene.
Palm trees spreading to the sun,
Dusk of lemon, sheen of vine;
Vitamin and vigour won
And imprisoned, till the wine,
Gushing from the purple grape
In the press, allows again
Golden sunlight to escape
These the dower of her domain.
Gay and glad and vigorous,
Winning wealth from summertime,
Glorious gifts she gleans for us
Dwellers in a colder clime;
Conjuring from her kindly earth
Golden fruits to give men joy
Well this lady knows the worth
Of her Arcadian employ.
Tropic lady! Well she knows
Whence her brave abundance comes.
Wealth, where her broad river flows,
Bordered by its spreading gums;
Comes with waters winding down
From the cold lands of the east,
Suffering her sun-kissed town
To spread for us a kingly feast.
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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What is the color of love?
What is the color of love?
I'll paint it with RED.
Do you ask me why? Because.....
Red roses are the symbol of love,
Red sunrises are the symbol of life.
What is the color of love?
I think I'll paint it with ORANGE.
I'll give it to you by the segments.
It looks so naive but....
You have to believe.
What is the color of love?
And now I'll paint it with YELLOW.
It's the sunshine of the bright day.
It's the color of flowers in spring.
What is the color of love?
I'll better paint it with GREEN.
'Green grass of home...',
Green leaves, green piece...
What is the color of love?
I think I'll paint it with BLUE.
It's the color of the sky,
It's the color of freedom,
It's the color of seas and oceans
It's the color of the devotions.
What is the color of love?
It is sometimes dark blue
When the ocean is angry
When someone's love is not true.
What is the color of love?
May be it is VIOLETTE?
Don't try to guess
As I'd like here to confess:
It's a RAINBOW!
Larisa R(Odessa, Ukraine)
poem by Larisa Rzhepishevska
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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North and South
O sweet are tropic lands for waking dreams!
There time and life move lazily along.
There by the banks of blue-and-silver streams
Grass-sheltered crickets chirp incessant song,
Gay-colored lizards loll all through the day,
Their tongues outstretched for careless little flies,
And swarthy children in the fields at play,
Look upward laughing at the smiling skies.
A breath of idleness is in the air
That casts a subtle spell upon all things,
And love and mating-time are everywhere,
And wonder to life's commonplaces clings.
The fluttering humming-bid darts through the trees
And dips his long beak in the big bell-flowers,
The leisured buzzard floats upon the breeze,
Riding a crescent cloud for endless hours,
The sea beats softly on the emerald strands--
O sweet for quiet dreams are tropic lands!
poem by Claude McKay
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Mayfair
Mayfair strange in the morning light,
Mayfair strange in the summer night,
Mayfair strangest in the afternoon.
Mayfair stretching far above,
Full of fame but lacking love,
Could it be we see the mayfair moon?
Mayfair strange across the park,
In the day or in the dark,
Theres no need to walk or even run.
Mayfair faces clean and nice,
But beauty here is cold as ice,
Could it be we see the mayfair sun?
Mayfair strange at every hour,
Hidden frowns with mystic power,
Starry heights and golden throne,
Down below youre on youre own.
Mayfair strange for passers-by,
Sights of wonder for the eye,
Could it be theyll pass by again?
Mayfair calling far and near,
For even trees are wealthy here,
Could it be we hear the mayfair rain?
song performed by by Nick Drake
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Strange Fruit
Southern trees bear a strange fruit
Blood on the leaves and blood at the root
Black bodies swinging in the southern breeze
Strange fruit hanging from the poplar trees
Pastoral scene of the gallant south
The bulging eyes and the twisted mouth
Scent of magnolia sweet and fresh
Then the sudden smell of burning flesh.
Here is a fruit for the crow to pluck
For the rain to wither, for the wind to suck
For the sun to rot, for the trees to drop
Here is a strange and bitter crop.
song performed by by Ub40
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Strange Fruit
Southern trees bear a strange fruit
Blood on the leaves, blood at the root
Black bodies swinging in the southern breeze
Strange fruit hanging from the poplar tree.
Pastoral scene of the gallant South
The bulging eyes, and the twisted mouth
Scent of magnolia, cool and fresh
And the smell of the burning flesh.
Here is the fruit for the crows to pluck
For the rain to gather, for the wind to suck
For the sun to rot, for a tree to drop
Here is a strange and bitter crop.
So strange
So strange
song performed by by Sting
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Bright Side
Water of peace beyond the seagulls
Blue horizons that blossom like roses
Dream like hope in crinoline bouquets
Leave the dragons of purging
Leave the spirals of rhetoric
Time has golden clouds of sharing
Walk in safe armor
Light has conquered all fear
Hands with joy
Rivers glisten with stars
Awake in the forests of reality
Shells on the shore of love
Visions of geraniums
Lady slippers on the bogs
Peonies in the gentle breeze
Let your neighbor hear of rainbows
Reap the love given to all
Open the corner of your eye
Bright golden swords gleam
Fruit lush with pruned hope
Seek and you will find
The flowers are always growing
I'm living on the bright side
poem by Joseph Narusiewicz
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Poinciana
(simon/bernier)
Blow...tropic wind...
Sing a song...through the trees.
Trees...sigh to me...
Soon my love...i will see.
Poinciana,
Your branches speak to me of love.
Pale moon is casting shadows from above.
Poinciana,
Somehow I feel the jungle beat
Within me, there grows a rhythmic, savage
Beat.
Love is everywhere, its magic perfume fills the air.
To and fro, you sway, my hearts in time,
Ive learned to care.
Poinciana,
Though skies may turn from blue to gray,
My love will live for ever and a day.
Blow....tropic wind,
Sing a song through the trees.
Trees...sigh to me
Soon my love... I will see.
Poinciana...
song performed by by Nat King Cole
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Strange Fruit
Lewis allen
Southern trees bear strange fruit,
Blood on the leaves and blood at the root,
Black bodies swinging in the southern breeze,
Strange fruit hanging from the poplar trees.
Pastoral scene of the gallant south,
The bulging eyes and the twisted mouth,
Scent of magnolias, sweet and fresh,
Then the sudden smell of burning flesh.
Here is fruit for the crows to pluck,
For the rain to gather, for the wind to suck,
For the sun to rot, for the trees to drop,
Here is a strange and bitter crop.
song performed by by Billie Holiday
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Strange Magic
Youre sailing softly through the sun
In a broken stone age dawn.
You fly so high.
I get a strange magic,
Oh, what a strange magic,
Oh, its a strange magic.
Got a strange magic,
Got a strange magic.
Youre walking meadows in my mind,
Making waves across my time,
Oh no, oh no.
I get a strange magic,
Oh, what a strange magic,
Oh, its a strange magic.
Got a strange magic,
Got a strange magic.
Oh, Im never gonna be the same again,
Now Ive seen the way its got to end,
Sweet dream, sweet dream.
Strange magic,
Oh, what a strange magic,
Oh, its a strange magic.
Got a strange magic,
Got a strange magic.
Its magic, its magic, its magic.
Strange magic,
Oh, what a strange magic,
Oh, its a strange magic.
Got a strange magic.
Strange magic strange magic
Oh, what a strange magic strange magic
Oh, its a strange magic.
Got a strange magic.
Strange magic strange magic
Oh, what a strange magic strange magic
Oh, its a strange magic.
Got a strange magic,
Got a strange magic,
You know I got a strange magic,
Yeah, I got a strange magic,
Oo-o-o-oo, strange magic. (fade)
song performed by by Electric Light Orchestra
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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My Strange Land
I hold the memory of us in my hand
and drift away to a distant land
Candy trees and sherbet sand
As I hold the memory in my hand
I close my eyes and drift away
to a better happier day
A day when I could laugh away
The demons of this darker day
I drift away in a sea of dreams
where nothing is quite as it seems
Purple dragons, childhood dreams
Nothing quite as it seems
I embrace the strange new sights
flying candy Christmas lights
It's okay these child like sights
Fireworks explode in bright white light
In my head things are strange
reality is not in range
where everything is fine yet, strange
Gumballs on the firing range
I wish I could understand
Take you to this distant land
where I live each day now understand
Don't be scared of me in my strange land.
poem by Tamsin Burnett
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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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
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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With The Quandongs
IF you happen to visit the Western Plains
When the summer is young and green,
You can see the green of the quandong leaves
With the quandong fruit between.
The fruit is the size of a plum, perhaps,
And red as your own blood's hue;
And it falls to the ground at the touch of the wind
Like a drop of crimson dew.
The wide plains lie with half-shut eyes
At peace in a golden swoon,
And the lizards drink their full of rest
Abask in the drowsy noon.
There is only the whir of a wing, perchance,
To startle the sleeping lands;
But the quandong trees, all green and red,
Are a-twinkle with little hands.
Oh, many a tress has turned to grey,
And many a song grown mute
Since Rita and Meg and Trixie and I
Went gathering quandong fruit.
And there we were on the plains alone
In the hush of a drowsy air —
Rita and Meg with roguish eyes
And Trixie with wayward hair.
A far mirage of mingled sun and dream
Was born of the noontide sleep,
And the rifled fruit of the quandongs lay
At our feet in a ruddy heap.
I know that the quandong's burning fruit
Still reddens the drowsy air;
That Trixie is grown and sometime wed,
And Rita is grave and fair.
I know that Meg of the roguish eyes,
Though ten long years be sped,
Still plucks the fruit of the quandong trees
When the quandong fruit is red.
I know — and I know to my loss, alas! —
That I stand where the winds blow cold,
And search, with others, another tree
For its scanty fruit of gold.
poem by Roderic Quinn
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Dreamer, Say
Dreamer, say, will you dream for me
A wild sweet dream of a foreign land,
Whose border sips of a foaming sea
With lips of coral and silver sand;
Where warm winds loll on the shady deeps,
Or lave themselves in the tearful mist
The great wild wave of the breaker weeps
O'er crags of opal and amethyst?
Dreamer, say, will you dream a dream
Of tropic shades in the lands of shine,
Where the lily leans o'er an amber stream
That flows like a rill of wasted wine,--
Where the palm-trees, lifting their shields of green,
Parry the shafts of the Indian sun
Whose splintering vengeance falls between
The reeds below where the waters run?
Dreamer, say, will you dream of love
That lives in a land of sweet perfume,
Where the stars drip down from the skies above
In molten spatters of bud and bloom?
Where never the weary eyes are wet,
And never a sob in the balmy air,
And only the laugh of the paroquet
Breaks the sleep of the silence there?
poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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Slower Than Turtles
Bright lights strange as windows
We run like suns of Neptune
Shine like diamonds in moonlight
Relax sweetie I am only a dream
Mellow as a jazz drummer
Essentials are like ripe fruit
Let it flow and go where it goes
All this organized walls
Let's drive to New Orleans
We’ll talk along the way
I love the way a sax talks
Hendrix could make his guitar laugh
Language is slower than turtles
poem by Joseph Narusiewicz
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Strange Feeling
A strange feeling comes in a strange way in a strange package
In a strange color in a strange structure with a strange feature
With a strange nature with a strange behavior
Inside me which I can feel but can't express
As it stands at a distance far away making me helpless.
It breaks in,
Before holding to mold
It goes out
I put a tricky trap
To catch but it tactfully traps the trap
And very fast catches me up.
But it never becomes my very own
Or leaves me to live peacefully alone
It has been doing what it does and doesn't change.
It does always derange me, what a strange?
poem by Abdul Wahab
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Strange Fruit
(l. allan)
Southern trees bear a strange fruit
Blood on the leaves and blood at the roots
Black bodies swingin in the southern breeze
Strange fruit hangin from the poplar trees
Pastoral scene of the gallant south
The bulging eyes and twisted mouth
Scent of magnolias sweet and fresh
And the sudden smell of burning flesh
Here is the fruit
For the crows to pluck
For the rain to gather
For the wind to suck
For the sun to rot
For the tree to drop
Here is a strange and bitter crop
song performed by by Diana Ross
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Dream, a Dream
A dream, A dream,
another dream.
A dream of you,
A dream of love,
A dream of you and me,
we had such chemistry,
If only you could see.
A dream we danced in the moonlight,
A dream we made love til the mornings bright light,
A dream, A dream,
Where my true feeling burst,
A dream, A dream
Makes me feel more hurt.
A dream, A dream,
of true love,
over and over,
over and over,
A dream, A dream
where we are together,
A dream, A dream,
why can't it be real,
A dream, A dream,
where really connect,
A dream, A dream
that I can't reject,
A dream, A dream,
and another dream,
Why can't it be real?
Why can't you love me?
poem by Matthew Petranovich
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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