Tall Nettles
TALL nettles cover up, as they have done
These many springs, the rusty harrow, the plough
Long worn out, and the roller made of stone:
Only the elm butt tops the nettles now.
This corner of the farmyard I like most:
As well as any bloom upon a flower
I like the dust on the nettles, never lost
Except to prove the sweetness of a shower.
poem by Edward Thomas
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Related quotes
Settled in Nettles
I remember climbing nettles-
Nettles climbing our wooden fence,
The excitement of touching,
The thrill of the blisters-
The red and the oozing
Beneath my long sleeves.
I remember nettle necklaces
Burning the fingers that linked
The green leaves- big green leaf
To big green leaf- How
My neck had red blotches
Itchy and sore. I scratched
And then bled and then wore fluffy scarves.
I remember Justin Whiles
Who scrunched up his face and bit
On his lip and tied me with rope
And dragged the green nettles
Over my skin and asked, 'Why
Did we do this again? '
And now in my cabinets are nettles
In jars- jar after jar- big glass
Jars, brimming with nettles,
Their thick green leaves.
And sometimes the night
Gets quiet and cold
And I walk to my cabinets
And pull down the jars
And pull out the nettles
And bite on the leaves
And bite and then chew
And then swallow the leaves-
Leaf after leaf-
Jar after jar-
Till the night's not so silent.
Till I throw up green mulch
In my hands.
poem by Alicia Adams
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Of The Boy and Butterfly
Behold, how eager this our little boy
Is for a butterfly, as if all joy,
All profits, honours, yea, and lasting pleasures,
Were wrapped up in her, or the richest treasures
Found in her would be bundled up together,
When all her all is lighter than a feather.
He halloos, runs, and cries out, 'Here, boys, here!'
Nor doth he brambles or the nettles fear:
He stumbles at the molehills, up he gets,
And runs again, as one bereft of wits;
And all his labour and his large outcry
Is only for a silly butterfly.
Comparison
This little boy an emblem is of those
Whose hearts are wholly at the world's dispose.
The butterfly doth represent to me
The world's best things at best but fading be.
All are but painted nothings and false joys,
Like this poor butterfly to these our boys.
His running through nettles, thorns, and briers,
To gratify his boyish fond desires,
His tumbling over molehills to attain
His end, namely, his butterfly to gain,
Doth plainly show what hazards some men run
To get what will be lost as soon as won.
poem by John Bunyan
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Leaders grasp nettles.
quote by David Ogilvy
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Even clever hens sometimes lay their eggs among nettles.
dawn nettles
at each tip
the day's light
haiku by John Tiong Chunghoo
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Love is like dew that falls on both nettles and lilies.
dawn nettles
at each tip
the day's light
haiku by John Tiong Chunghoo
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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If you throw nettles into your neighbors garden you will find them growing in your own.
Love is a garden full of flowers and marriage is a field of stinging nettles.
The Tin-Whistle Player
'Tis long since, long since, since I heard
A tin-whistle played,
And heard the tunes, the ha'penny tunes
That nobody made!
The tunes that were before Cendfind
And Cir went Ireland's rounds
That were before the surety
That strings have given sounds!
And now is standing in the mist,
And jigging backward there,
Shrilling with fingers and with breath,
A tin-whistle player!
He has hare's eyes, a long face rimmed
Around with badger-grey;
Aimless, like cries of mountain birds
The tunes he has to play
The tunes that are for stretches bare,
And men whose lives are lone
And I had seen that face of his
Sculptured on cross of stone,
That long face, in a place of graves
With nettles overgrown.
poem by Padraic Colum
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Nettles Between (From,134 Picture Poems)
nettles between
the red juniper trees
in the grasses crossing
childhood streets
along times
remembered
enjoyed days
poem by Peter S. Quinn
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Knotty Pine
Shes my knotty pine
She leans with the wind
She cries turpentine
Sometimes she nettles me
But I dont mind
Only now and then
When her branches lean beneath the snow
Shes knotty but nice
Reaching for the sky
She dont like snow n ice
To leave things as they stand
Is my advice
Shes been good to me
So I tend to go there when I can
Shes my knotty pine
Such a pretty scene
She tries to be kind
She gives birds a home
And shelters them
In her coat of green
Shes as green as evergreen can be
Shes a real delight
When little breezes call
To ruffle up her skin
All her sap runs free
And sticks to me
Hidden deep within
I will be her slave eternally
Shes my knotty pine
She leans with the wind
She crys turpentine
Sometimes she nettles me
But I dont mind
Only now and then
When her branches lean beneath the snow
song performed by by Gordon Lightfoot
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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About Lies
Because the buses were stopped in front of the railing
because the dolls in the lighted shop windows gesticulated
because the girl with the bicycle lingered outside the drugstore
because the carpenter broke the glass door of the beer hall
because the child was alone in the elevator with a stolen pencil
because the dogs had abandoned the seaside villas
because the rusty grater had been covered over by nettles
because the sky was ashen with a red fish
because the horse on the mountain was more alone than the star
because these and those both were hunted
because of this, only because of this, I told you lies.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The myrtle is always a myrtle, though it be among nettles.
You nailed me
You nailed me
To the garden fence with a kiss,
Translucent-blood then wet my lids
Like sunlight after a heavy-shower.
Apple-fresh the goblet-cup opened
Its olive pores of greenwood.
I held you, too tightly at first limb for limb.
Then o'er the oil and water mixed, before parting?
"Virginity is a yellow bruise that grapples
Like a naked swimmer" inherently drowning…
Expounding: for some forbidden fruit.
It's now then you gaze at me as though
Your Eden had already over grown…
Chopping backward at some underpass
Your eyes droop like summer scorched nettles…
That reveals me as an unremitting, wilderness.
Even now the air!
Still pollenates that long-off aspersed-seed.
Even now—when your garden fence
No-longer beckons me into that over-leap
The nature of the slug,
Is still here abundant to smother and cling.
Yes, it was right then I too did not live up to you…
For you was a flower of the golden meadow
And I, I was a flower of the woodland-vine.
You were a primrose and I a jungle climbing fig
In memories bound up of your distant sunlight
poem by Mark Heathcote
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Three Variants
1
When in front of you hangs the day with its
Smallest detail-fine or crude-
The intensely hot cracking squirrel-sounds
Do not cease in the resinous wood.
The high line of pine-trees stands asleep,
Drinking in and storing strength,
And the wood is peeling and drip by drip
Is shedding freckled sweat.
2
From miles of calm the garden sickens,
The stupor of the angered glen
Is more alarming than an evil
Wild storm, a frightful hurricane.
The garden's mouth is dry, and smells of
Decay, of nettles, roofing, fear…
The cattle's bellowing is closing
Its ranks. A thunderstorm is near.
3
On the bushes grow the tatters
Of disrupted clouds; the garden
Has its mouth full of damp nettles:
Such - the smell of storms and treasures.
Tired shrubs are sick of sighing.
Patches in the sky increase. The
Barefoot blueness has the gait of
Cautious herons in the marshes.
And they gleam, like lips that glisten,
When the hand forgets to wipe them:
Supple willow-switches, oak-leaves,
And the hoofprints by the horsepond.
poem by Boris Pasternak
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Rusty Angels
They say you came from heaven but I know thats not the truth,
Cause I dont think an angel could look anything like you,
Your eyes are made from sapphires and your heart is made from stone,
You gotta be the closest thing to hate Ive ever known,
And if I didnt know better Id say you had come alone to the party.
Oh yeah.
The light is always shining, but you swear that its gone black,
The tide is always turning, but youre never looking back,
If I didnt know better Id say times were pretty bad,
Because rusty angels they cant fly,
Rusty angels gonna die, yeah,
Rusty angels they cant fly,
Rusty angels gonna die, gonna die.
The gifts you bring are fire, and your dreams they turned to dust,
Your flying days are over, and your wings have turned to rust.
If I didnt know better, Id say all you had is lost,
Because rusty angels they cant fly,
Rusty angels gonna die, yeah,
Rusty angels they cant fly,
Rusty angels gonna die, gonna die.
If you swallow just a little pride, you might find a little love inside,
Open up and let somebody in, cause if you need somebody,
You know its not a sin.
Rusty angels they cant fly, rusty angels gonna die, yeah,
Rusty angels they cant fly, no, rusty angels gonna die,
Gonna die, yeah, you cant fly, oh no,
Gonna die, oh yeah, you cant fly, oh no.
song performed by by Black Sabbath
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Weeds and Buttercups
It was overgrown, full of weeds and Buttercups,
like a neglected old woman, time had taken its toll.
I walked along its verges, avoiding stinging nettles,
my toes sunk into wet grass where worms heads turned.
A huge Buddleia leaned on a dirty wall, aloof,
like silence when silence scorns.
Old cans of pop, no bubble, no fizz
lay discarded amongst the brambles beside a child's ball.
There was the fork, the spade, an old rake
ignoring each other, never used, going rusty,
but as I looked up, I saw the Magnolia, a queen, of queens
rising, majestically, above it all.
poem by Ruth Walters
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Braggart
With careful step to keep his balance up
He reels on warily along the street,
Slabbering at mouth and with a staggering stoop
Mutters an angry look at all he meets.
Bumptious and vain and proud he shoulders up
And would be something if he knew but how;
To any man on earth he will not stoop
But cracks of work, of horses and of plough.
Proud of the foolish talk, the ale he quaffs,
He never heeds the insult loud that laughs:
With rosy maid he tries to joke and play,--
Who shrugs and nettles deep his pomp and pride.
And calls him 'drunken beast' and runs away--
King to himself and fool to all beside.
poem by John Clare
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