En.Citatepedia^®.ro

Horses

Those lumbering horses in the steady plough,
On the bare field - I wonder, why, just now,
They seemed terrible, so wild and strange,
Like magic power on the stony grange.

Perhaps some childish hour has come again,
When I watched fearful, through the blackening rain,
Their hooves like pistons in an ancient mill
Move up and down, yet seem as standing still.

Their conquering hooves which trod the stubble down
Were ritual that turned the field to brown,
And their great hulks were seraphims of gold,
Or mute ecstatic monsters on the mould.

And oh the rapture, when, one furrow done,
They marched broad-breasted to the sinking sun!
The light flowed off their bossy sides in flakes;
The furrows rolled behind like struggling snakes.

But when at dusk with steaming nostrils home
They came, they seemed gigantic in the gloam,
And warm and glowing with mysterious fire
That lit their smouldering bodies in the mire.

Their eyes as brilliant and as wide as night
Gleamed with a cruel apocalyptic light,
Their manes the leaping ire of the wind
Lifted with rage invisible and blind.

Ah, now it fades! It fades! And I must pine
Again for the dread country crystalline,
Where the blank field and the still-standing tree
Were bright and fearful presences to me.

poem by Edwin Muir
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Standin In My Light

(ian hunter)
Well I finally found you out
All through your mess of dreams
You wont make it to the night
And your standing in my light
You know youve been bad for me
You aint got the weight to hate
But you aint no pretty sight
And your standing in my light
Move over cause your standing in my light
Move over cause your standing in my light
Move over cause your standing in my light (yeah)
Move over cause your standing in my light
Now when your old man beats the drums
Gotta run run run thats dumb
A little less ego a little more fight
Move over cause your standing in my light
Things go bad and the risks get high
Sweeping dead bodies cross an open sky
You took my pictures from your walls
Aint gonna trade with the pain of the new york dolls
Move over cause your standin in my
(move over cause your standin in my)
Move over cause your standin in my
(move over cause your standin in my)
Move over cause you standin in my
(move over cause your standin in my)
Move over cause you standing in my light
Move over cause your standing in my light
Move over cause your standing in my light
Move over cause your standing in my light
Move over cause your standing in my light
Move over cause your standing in my light yeah.......alright
Move over cause your standing in my light
I wish you luck on your very last chance
Cause I knew you blew it at the song and dance
You froze my feelings, but thats alright
And your standing in my light

song performed by by Ian Hunter
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Horses in the desert

Out of the desert
I saw them come thundering by
wild, unconfined horses
with hooves glittering in the sun,
bodies muscled as if created
by a god,
heads held high
as if watching the sky,
manes unkempt, but swept back
and lifted swishing streaming tails
by the speed of their run.

poem by Gert Strydom
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White Horses

We stare at the rocks and shoreline
As if time itself has fled,
For the sea once lapped at our laughter
When he would go on, ahead;
But the seasons change in the counting
And the laughter fades from the eye,
He went ahead at the parting
Caught up in his own bleak tide.

Your hair turned white in the mourning
Your songs all died in your throat,
Your eyes turned wild, and haunting
As I looked for some antidote;
But age crept up and caught you
In a season of sad neglect,
We sit at the shore in silence
And think of some deep regret.

For the waves roll in like thunder
And the foam now caps the crest
And your wild, white hair blows ever
And your eyes are dim, distressed;
I hold your hand in silence
In hopes that you’ll speak of him,
But you take a breath, and mutter
“White horses are coming in! ”

And over the heads of breakers
Where the foam breaks loose at the rip
I fancy the manes of horses
Are tossed at the breaker’s tip;
And shoulders pound at the rollers
While hooves flash white in the tide
And your dim grey eyes reflect them,
As you cry at their foam-flecked ride.

White horses, caught at the breakers
With manes of wild, white hair
They run at the shallow waters
In the hopes that he’ll be there,
Their eyes are dim at the mourning
As the rollers set them free,
You smile at the heads a-tossing:
“White horses – coming for me.”

28 November 1994

poem by David Lewis Paget
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The Hillman’s Lass

OVER the field where the grass is cool,
(Follow the road who must !)
With a song for the beech and the brown pool,
And the noiseless tread in the dust,
With a laugh for the lazy hours that go,
And the folk who pass us by.
(The trees they grow so broad, so low,
They shut me from the sky.)

Here be strawberries wild and sweet,
(Follow the road who may !)
And here's a rest for a bairn's feet
And a kiss at the close o' day.
And here's a cloud from the shining sea
Like a white moth in the night.
(On the edge o' the barley field, may be
The stars would show more bright.)

Cut me a flute where the reeds are brown.
(Follow the road who will !)
O, I'll dress you fair in a green gown
And a cloak that is finer still.
Your sleeves shall be o' the fairies' lawn,
Your shoon as red as the rose.
(Do you think that the wind which wakes at dawn
Will bring us a breath o' the snows ?)

O, the world's wide, and the world is long.
(Follow the road who may !)
And here's a lilt of the wild song
The Romany pipers play.
And 'Mine,' it sings, 'is the moon's shield,
And the cloak o' the cloud is mine.'
(Do you think that the lowland clover field
Is sweet as the upland pine ?)

poem by Marjorie Lowry Christie Pickthall
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A Fallow Field

I have kept this fallow field
When I must be a horseman,
A keeper of wills and minds
With no shadows, no designs.
Their hooves are planted
In the field so young in taste.
A fool clasps its mind
When evil shadows must be;
It must be the stallions
That bring joy to the very heart.
I am burdened by the boaster
Of this fallow field.

poem by Naveed Akram
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Trauma Of Time

Time Fades The Smile, Not The Pain.
Time Drains The Water Not The Damage From The Rain.
Time Fades The Tomorrow Not The Yesterday.
Time Fades The Cuts But The Scars Never Go Away.
Time Fades The Sweetness Not All The Things Sour.
Time Fades Those Few Precious Moments But Not The Crippling Hour.
Time Fades The Sun, Not It’s Brutal Remains.
Time Fades The Photographs Not There Stains.
Time Fades The Lessons Not All The Things That I’ve Learned.
Time Puts Out The Fire But Not The Days I Burned.
Time Fades The Colors Not The Glaring White.
Time Fades The Bruises Not The Darkness In The Night.
Time Fades The Happiness Not The Tears.
Time Fades The Triumphs Not The Fears.
Time Fades The Storm Not The Ocean.
Time Fades The Memories Not The Emotion.
Time Fades The Dreams Not The Nightmare.
Time Fades The Hand Not The Times You Weren’t There.
Time Fades The Beauty Not The Gloom.
Time Fades The Doors And Windows Not The Empty Room.
Time Fades The Love Not The Empty Lie.
Time Fades The Hello But Never The Goodbye.

poem by Bridgid Patrick
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Inkerman. The Battle Field by Moonlight.

Above the vale of Inkerman,
Calmly the moon's rays fell,
Revealing as by light of day,
That deep and lonely dell;
Tchernaya's waters as a band
Of silver graceful flowed,
But who can paint the ghastly scene,
Which those bright rays disclosed!
Thickly as leaves around the path
Through copse and brush-wood dense,
Lay piles of dead and wounded men,
Slain in that fierce defense.
The fearful moan, the struggles fierce,
The hoarse and gurgling cry
Comes on the night wind sweeping past,
Of mortal agony!

Around were groups of comrades true,
To succour those who still
From bloody contest breathing lay,
Upon that fatal hill.
Their slippery fearful way they take
Through paths beslimed with gore,
Ne'er on those Crimean hills had moon
Such sight revealed before.

But who are these with noiseless tread,
Who hurry fearful by,
Now fling them down beside the dead,
With soul-despairing cry,
As trembling, with wild eager gaze,
They search with sickening dread,
And the moon's rays too sure reveal,
Their husband with the dead!

Yet one redeeming feature still
Those moonbeams yet displayed,
Of men who with their British hearts
Their enemies forgave.
And tended gently, lovingly,
Their cruel bitter foe,
Who never yet had quarter given
To our brave men laid low.

For even then, above their heads,
Came murd'rous bullets sent
Among our brave and gallant men,
On mercy's errand bent;
And some there were who fiendish slew,
With their last parting breath,
The very hand which tended them,
Upon that field of death.

poem by Caroline Hayward
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The Potato Harvest

A high bare field, brown from the plough, and borne
Aslant from sunset; amber wastes of sky
Washing the ridge; a clamour of crows that fly
In from the wide flats where the spent tides mourn
To yon their rocking roosts in pines wind-torn;
A line of grey snake-fence, that zigzags by
A pond and cattle; from the homestead nigh
The long deep summonings of the supper horn.
Black on the ridge, against that lonely flush,
A cart, and stoop-necked oxen; ranged beside
Some barrels; and the day-worn harvest-folk,
Here emptying their baskets, jar the hush
With hollow thunders. Down the dusk hillside
Lumbers the wain; and day fades out like smoke.

poem by Sir Charles George Douglas Roberts
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Pessimism

I

WHILE baby Spring sticks daisies in her hair,
Or Summer laughs with flushed triumphant face
We crush our heart rebellious at earth's grace,
And smile 'How, like the season, life is fair!'
But when the last leaf falls in the dull air,
And skies grow pale, and fields lie lost a space,
Ere their first furrow ploughs begin to trace,
And pastures shiver desolate and bare--

Oh, then one breathes; at last free from the sway
Of selfish spring--from summer's insolent reign,
One dares to speak the truth--how all life's way
Is blank as autumn skies made grey with rain,
Most blank when most the glad year bade forbear
To mar her grace with our unveiled despair.

II

NOT Spring--too lavish of her bud and leaf--
But Autumn, with sad eyes and brow austere,
When fields are bare, and woods are brown and sere,
And leaden skies weep their exhaustless grief.
Spring is so much too bright, since Spring is brief.
And in our hearts is autumn all the year,
Least sad when the wide pastures are most drear,
And fields grieve most robbed of the last gold sheaf.

For when the plough goes down the brown wet field,
A delicate doubtful throb of hope is ours--
What if this coming Spring at last should yield
Joy, with her too profuse unasked-for flowers?
Not all our Springs of commonplace and pain
Have taught us now that autumn hope is vain.

poem by Edith Nesbit
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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
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The Night Before The Mowing

ALL shimmering in the morning shine
And diamonded with dew,
And quivering in the scented wind
That thrills its green heart through,--
The little field, the smiling field,
With all its flowers a-blowing,
How happy looks the golden field
The day before the mowing!

All still 'neath the departing light,
Twilight, though void of stars,
Save where, low westering, Venus hides
From the red eye of Mars;
How quiet lies the silent field
With all its beauties glowing;
Just stirring,--like a child asleep,--
The night before the mowing.
Sharp steel, inevitable hand,
Cut keen, cut kind! Our field
We know full well must be laid low
Before its wealth it yield:
Labor and mirth and plenty blest
Its blameless death bestowing:
And yet we weep, and yet we weep,
The night before the mowing.

poem by Dinah Maria Mulock Craik
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Clouds

The clouds as I see them, rising
urgently, roseate in the
mounting of somber power

surging in evening haste over
roofs and hermetic
grim walls—

Last night
As if death had lit a pale light
in your flesh, your flesh
was cold to my touch, or not cold
but cool, cooling, as if the last traces
of warmth were still fading in you.
My thigh burned in cold fear where
yours touched it.

But I forced to mind my vision of a sky
close and enclosed, unlike the space in which these clouds move—
a sky of gray mist it appeared—
and how looking intently at it we saw
its gray was not gray but a milky white
in which radiant traces of opal greens,
fiery blues, gleamed, faded, gleamed again,
and how only then, seeing the color in the gray,
a field sprang into sight, extending
between where we stood and the horizon,

a field of freshest deep spiring grass
starred with dandelions,
green and gold
gold and green alternating in closewoven
chords, madrigal field.

Is death’s chill that visited our bed
other than what it seemed, is it
a gray to be watched keenly?

Wiping my glasses and leaning westward,
clearing my mind of the day’s mist and leaning
into myself to see
the colors of truth

I watch the clouds as I see them
in pomp advancing, pursuing
the fallen sun.

poem by Denise Levertov
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De Profundis

There is a stubble field on which a black rain falls.
There is a tree which, brown, stands lonely here.
There is a hissing wind which haunts deserted huts---
How sad this evening.

Past the village pond
The gentle orphan still gathers scanty ears of corn.
Golden and round her eyes are gazing in the dusk
And her lap awaits the heavenly bridegroom.

Returning home
Shepherds found the sweet body
Decayed in the bramble bush.

A shade I am remote from sombre hamlets.
The silence of God
I drank from the woodland well.

On my forehead cold metal forms.
Spiders look for my heart.
There is a light that fails in my mouth.

At night I found myself upon a heath,
Thick with garbage and the dust of stars.
In the hazel copse
Crystal angels have sounded once more.

Translated by Jurek Kirakowski

Anonymous submission.

poem by Georg Trakl
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Dark Fire

Fire, dark and burning bright
Bright as day, yet, gives no light
In the shadows of the night
Take away immortal sight
Blind soul eyes with black twilight
Banish day and burn the night
Remove sin from Heavens sight
Fire, twist and taint the once pure light
Heaven fought against your might
In the end, He lost the fight
Pure souls surrender to the evil light
As shadows move to reign the night
Angel's wings flutter in fearful flight
In the shadow of your light
Fire, sweet and sin filled bane
Make the devil go insane
As you burn his skin with acid rain
His screams are songs wrought in pain
His wake of Hell’s dark fire wanes
Death and pain are what he gains
Shadows of the devil’s bane
Wash away his sin with His holy name
Fire of the dragon’s heart
Don’t let us tear the world apart

poem by Amanda Swain
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Love Field

You lie so unfolded
In a love field
With your contempt for any modesty
In a love field
In a love field
In a love field
You yield with your lips still sealed
In a love field
Lost in a sea of imaginary women
Everything youd want
From the dawn to the dimming
Breath comes sharp and heart beats faster
In a love field
Cold ground for a pillow
Under a blanket of stars
In a love field
In a love field
In a love field
Headlights that startled
This embrace of hours
In a love field
In a crooked house
Where things can be arranged
You think youre different from the rest
But you dont see how youve changed
Under an archway
On a road of white linen
In a love field
Feel the anxious rhythm of a functional stranger
In a love field
In a love field
In a love field
Shes so tense but its never mentioned
In a love field

song performed by by Elvis Costello
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Erat Hora

‘Thank you, whatever comes.' And then she turned
And, as the ray of sun on hanging flowers
Fades when the wind hath lifted them aside,
Went swiftly from me. Nay, whatever comes
One hour was sunlit and the most high gods
May not make boast of any better thing
Than to have watched that hour as it passed.

poem by Ezra Pound
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Storm

Strange weather Im having inside my head,
This crazy atmosphere puts my mind to bed,
But the storm in my skin is the fire where youve been,
My waking eyes watch this life begin.
Here comes the storm again, love is a hurricane,
And every day that I live I will live for the rain,
Electrify me, magnify me, feel the thunder rolling through me,
Oh so mysterious, the shape of my dreams,
Love is the sky falling in.
Here comes the storm again, here comes the hurricane,
And this life that I live, I will give to the rain,
Here comes the storm again!
Light patterns to a field of light, they move and live for the rain.
Here comes the storm again, here comes the hurricane,
And this life that I live, I will give to the rain,
Here comes the storm again! again!
Here comes the storm again, bring on the clouds again,
Love is a hurricane, and I live for the rain,
I live for the rain!

song performed by by Grace Jones
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Tree in a Field

There once was a tree,
A tree alone in a field.
And as that tree grew
It got bigger than all 'round.
And people would often stop
Just to look at that tree,
That tree in a field.
Till one day one person,
Went and cut down that tree,
That tree in a field.
And you know what?
That tree learned one thing
Don't stand too tall too fast,
Or someone just might
Cut you down.

poem by Matthew Tener Wade
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Thinking Of A Friend At Night

In this evil year, autumn comes early...
I walk by night in the field, alone, the rain clatters,
The wind on my hat...And you? And you, my friend?

You are standing--maybe--and seeing the sickle moon
Move in a small arc over the forests
And bivouac fire, red in the black valley.
You are lying--maybe--in a straw field and sleeping
And dew falls cold on your forehead and battle jacket.

It's possible tonight you're on horseback,
The farthest outpost, peering along, with a gun in your fist,
Smiling, whispering, to your exhausted horse.
Maybe--I keep imagining--you are spending the night
As a guest in a strange castle with a park
And writing a letter by candlelight, and tapping
On the piano keys by the window,
Groping for a sound...

--And maybe
You are already silent, already dead, and the day
Will shine no longer into your beloved
Serious eyes, and your beloved brown hand hangs wilted,
And your white forehead split open--Oh, if only,
If only, just once, that last day, I had shown you, told you
Something of my love, that was too timid to speak!

But you know me, you know...and, smiling, you nod
Tonight in front of your strange castle,
And you nod to your horse in the drenched forest,
And you nod to your sleep to your harsh clutter of straw,
And think about me, and smile.
And maybe,
Maybe some day you will come back from the war,
and take a walk with me some evening,
And somebody will talk about Longwy, Luttich, Dammerkirch,
And smile gravely, and everything will be as before,
And no one will speak a word of his worry,
Of his worry and tenderness by night in the field,
Of his love. And with a single joke
You will frighten away the worry, the war, the uneasy nights,
The summer lightning of shy human friendship,
Into the cool past that will never come back.

Translated by James Wright

Submitted by Holt

poem by Hermann Hesse
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Dead Of Winter

Standing in the dark outside the house
Breathing the cold and sterile air
Well I was thinking how it must feel
To see that little light
And watch it as it disappears
And fades into
And fades into the night
So I know youre going pretty soon
Radiation sore throat got your tongue
Magic markers tattoo you
And show it whare to aim
And strangers break their promises
You wont feel any
You wont feel any pain
And the streets are jammed with cars
Rockin their horns
To race to the wire
Of the unfinished line
Thought that Id forget all about the past
But it doesnt let me run too fast
And I just wanna stand outside
And know that this is right
And this is true
And I will not
Fade into
Fade into the night
Standing here in the dark

song performed by by Eels
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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