Atavism
I was always afraid of Somes's Pond:
Not the little pond, by which the willow stands,
Where laughing boys catch alewives in their hands
In brown, bright shallows; but the one beyond.
There, where the frost makes all the birches burn
Yellow as cow-lilies, and the pale sky shines
Like a polished shell between black spruce and pines,
Some strange thing tracks us, turning where we turn.
You'll say I dreamed it, being the true daughter
Of those who in old times endured this dread.
Look! Where the lily-stems are showing red
A silent paddle moves below the water,
A sliding shape has stirred them like a breath;
Tall plumes surmount a painted mask of death.
poem by Elinor Morton Wylie
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Related quotes
Water so Deep and Profound
Water so sinuous and devious,
And as mystifying as you.
Water is always hiding its true self,
Never in one form.
Water can be the shimmer,
Reflecting off the light of the pond,
Making the pond seem magnificent.
Water can be the rushing sound,
As it escapes the secretive pond,
And runes down into the vast ocean,
Seeking adventure and unfound dreams.
Water can be the feeling of calmness,
As it sits there, overlooking the pond,
With wonder and seeing how it made it what it is.
Water so supple and wondrous,
The pond is born from the water.
Water so deep and profound,
Just like you,
The pond so incomplete without water,
Just like your family.
poem by Music Galore
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I Could Have Told You
THAT YELLOW
SOLO LEAF floating on a very clear pond,
was it last summer?
will it really matter when someone is finally gone?
will the wind remember?
will the deep water of the pond be always true to its clarity and peace?
that yellow leaf that sank on the very clear pond on one peaceful day
will someone still remember?
i think, i will,
if i, too, shall live
longer than
you.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Lavender Pond
Never a swallow wets his wing
In Lavender Pond from Spring to Spring;
Never a lily, pure and chill,
Holds her cup for the dews to fill;
Never a willow, gnarled and hoar,
Bends his bough to a reedy shore;
Never a fragrant flower spike blows there,
Never a lordly King-staff grows there,
Slender and straight where sedges shiver
And glistening Mayflies glance and quiver,
In Lavender Pond by London River.
But the Baltic barques the come and go
With their old pump-windmills turning slow,
And the tall Cape Horners rest and ride
Like stately swans on the murky tide,
And the ocean tramps all red and rusted,
Worn and weathered and salt-encrusted,
Gather and cluster near and far,
Derrick and funnel, mast and spar,
From many a port of old renown,
And lonely wharf where the booms float down,
To Lavender Pond by London Town.
And keen and strong is the wind that comes
To the dingy streets of the Deptford slums,
Strong and keen with the scent it steals
Off piled-up acres of Kalmar deals,
Spruce and cedar and baulks of pine;
Red with resin and drenched with brine,
Sawn from the boles that once did stand
Rank on rank in a virgin land,
Where the cougar prowls through the silent glades
In the forest depths of the far Cascades . . .
And the gulls go flying, the gulls go crying,
And the wind's sob and the water's sighing
Croon to the ships an old sea ditty
In Lavender Pond by London city.
poem by Cicely Fox Smith
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Maya
little brown birds with grey beaks and a patch of black
on their heads
three of them
drinking water on a pond of water created
by the little rain this morning
as i go near them
they all look at me and then in a sudden
they all fly away leaving some ripples in the
muddled pond
i never think of them as my enemies
they all leave at once
i do not have a gun
or a club or a slingshot
what i have in my hands are rice grains, nothing but rice grains
yes, rice grains for all of them
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Judith and You and A Morning Mist
The morning mist
that hung over
the pond (or your lake
as Judith called it)
had moved away
by the time she came
and stood next to you
wrapped up in her
Sunday best
waiting until the time
for the bus to take
you both to sing
in the church
her breath flowing out
on the air
like cigarette smoke
her eyes focused
on the skin
of the still water
I dreamt of you
last night
she said
you and I
were snuggled
together in my bed
having made love
you watched
a magpie take flight
over the water
nice
wish I could
have been there
in person
you said
more breath
left her lips
and rose upwards
maybe next time
you can
she said
turning her head
spreading her lips
into a smile
just be my luck
your mother
will invade the dream
and catch us
you said
yes
Judith said
that would
spoil the dream
some what
there was a mist
over the pond earlier
you said
it looked beautiful
she turned
and stared
over the water
I missed that
as you missed
making love to me
in my dream
she whispered
drawing closer
her hands
taking hold
of yours
what did you
dream about?
she asked
an empty bed
and cold sheets
and a space
where you should
have been
you said
she smiled
and said
I couldn't be
in both beds
at once could I?
once more
there was the rising
of her breath
you couldn't tell her
you'd seen
an image
of her death.
poem by Terry Collett
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The Old pond
the brook stream out to the valley that looks
old and clumsy, where the old pond
rooted the crystallized water mixed with
droplets of rain
sweet melody flows with therapeutic chime
echo the silent moment of day; calling the
little Dragonfly to catch the beautiful flower of
Lilies as the jiggle frog spare high notes for
a choral rendition of song to lie
window looks open wide and see the monsoon
rain wait to play, now the moon wind has
just come as swing the twig of the sun down to
jump into the pool and the beautiful frog enjoy
its stay
fall back the roof that leak, the sun has reach the
meadow and say goodbye, leaving the pond
a sweet memory for everyone, the old that
return the new to become the only one pond
as you water the old shadow of the new glory; the
point has yet to flame the beginning of the new
and wonderful cloth of shinning vessel of
crystallize spirit living in you
witness the frog in the old pond; same melody
sang as the water flows into the stream of unending
face of today..........be on your way
poem by Antonio Liao
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The Village Pond
Here, there, women, children and men
Talk animatedly, little water waves disrupted by scooping
Water vessels, the faded green water lilies, shoved aside.
Cows moo, the goats bleat,
School children scramble for a spill,
The edges, slippery and muddy, non of a bother.
The gold, liquid of life, simmers under the hot sun,
Though, shrinking in size, by every draw,
The earth is bare, the pond tags their hope.
Here in the pond, they see, sigh and fall
The feminine and masculine bodies attract
The gossip, filters, confirmed, a new life sees dawn.
Wild tree fruits, like monsters surround the village pond
I'm told the fruits, purify the village pond
Lives ruled, made to see day, Honor to the village pond.
poem by Charles Jagongo Ogola
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The Fishes' Message, Poet: Sohrab Sepehri
I went to the pond
Hoping to see the reflection of my loneliness in the water
There was no water in the pond.
The fishes were saying:
'"It is not the trees' fault at all.
It was a sultry summer noon,
The bright son of water, sat by the pond's edge
And the eagle of the sun dived down and lifted him up & up in the air.
To hell with our not reaching any oxygen from water.
And the glitter has left our scales all together.
Instead, that big light,
The reflection of that red carnation in the water
Whose heart, if the wind was blowing, would beat behind the layers of neglect,
was our eyes.
It was a window to the confession of paradise.
If you see God in the palpitations of the garden,
Make an effort and tell him that the fishes'' pond is dry.'"
The wind was going to visit the plane tree,
I was going to visit God.
poem by Mehraneh Hosseini
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Saturday In The Town Square
The women gather are dressed to the nines;
Floral designs of cornpetal blue and lace
Adorning their cool blouses.
A black pit holding fire
Smoulders and is left to burn, on the side,
Offering smoke to the pellucid air.
A newly made gallows stands,
And a very tall man in a tall hat,
With an axe and a black mask,
Takes his place-
He is in charge.
A large crowd gathers, talkative
And unashamed, in a hurry though.
They lead out shackled red-faced Rudy who
Looks like he has a belly full of gin,
But he really has a gut full of regret.
Exactly at eleven the tall man
In the black mask chops the rope around Rudy's neck.
Dropping hard and snapping his neck.
He uncleans his pants quietly.
What a fine thing for a town to do
On a bright crystal Saturday morn;
They split into two groups,
Some laughing loudly,
Some shouting and hollering for more.
At last the fire is out
And no more smoke sullens the square;
The next day being Sunday,
The day of peace, forgiveness, prayer.
poem by Stan Petrovich
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On A Cape May Warbler Who Flew Against My Window
She's stopped in her southern tracks
Brought haply to this hard knock
When she shoots from the tall spruce
And snaps her neck on the glass.
From the fall grass I gather her
And give her to my silent children
Who give her a decent burial
Under the dogwood in the garden.
They lay their gifs in the grave:
Matches, a clothes-peg, a coin;
Fire paper for her, sprinkle her
With water, fold earth over her.
She is out of her element forever
Who was air's high-spirited daughter;
What guardian wings can I conjure
Over my own young, their migrations?
The children retreat indoors.
Shadows flicker in the tall spruce.
Small birds flicker like shadows--
Ghosts come nest in my branches.
poem by Eamon Grennan
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Silent Death
Silent death holds my breath
Stalks me from above the trees
There is no breeze
When death walks in my shoes
Silent, cautious, confident
A brilliant business man
Silent death’s cold embrace
Makes me dizzy
He is always busy
But has time for me
Silent death drowns my body
He isn’t sorry
Silent death looks at me
Underneath the water
My eyes dilated
Catch a glimpse
poem by Double A P SS
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The Camp of Souls
1 My white canoe, like the silvery air
2 O'er the River of Death that darkly rolls
3 When the moons of the world are round and fair,
4 I paddle back from the 'Camp of Souls.'
5 When the wishton-wish in the low swamp grieves
6 Come the dark plumes of red 'Singing Leaves.'
7 Two hundred times have the moons of spring
8 Rolled over the bright bay's azure breath
9 Since they decked me with plumes of an eagle's wing,
10 And painted my face with the 'paint of death,'
11 And from their pipes o'er my corpse there broke
12 The solemn rings of the blue 'last smoke.'
13 Two hundred times have the wintry moons
14 Wrapped the dead earth in a blanket white;
15 Two hundred times have the wild sky loons
16 Shrieked in the flush of the golden light
17 Of the first sweet dawn, when the summer weaves
18 Her dusky wigwam of perfect leaves.
19 Two hundred moons of the falling leaf
20 Since they laid my bow in my dead right hand
21 And chanted above me the 'song of grief'
22 As I took my way to the spirit land;
23 Yet when the swallow the blue air cleaves
24 Come the dark plumes of red 'Singing Leaves.'
25 White are the wigwams in that far camp,
26 And the star-eyed deer on the plains are found;
27 No bitter marshes or tangled swamp
28 In the Manitou's happy hunting-ground!
29 And the moon of summer forever rolls
30 Above the red men in their 'Camp of Souls.'
31 Blue are its lakes as the wild dove's breast,
32 And their murmurs soft as her gentle note;
33 As the calm, large stars in the deep sky rest,
34 The yellow lilies upon them float;
35 And canoes, like flakes of the silvery snow,
36 Thro' the tall, rustling rice-beds come and go.
37 Green are its forests; no warrior wind
38 Rushes on war trail the dusk grove through,
39 With leaf-scalps of tall trees mourning behind;
40 But South Wind, heart friend of Great Manitou,
41 When ferns and leaves with cool dews are wet,
42 Bows flowery breaths from his red calumet.
43 Never upon them the white frosts lie,
44 Nor glow their green boughs with the 'paint of death';
45 Manitou smiles in the crystal sky,
46 Close breathing above them His life-strong breath;
47 And He speaks no more in fierce thunder sound,
48 So near is His happy hunting-ground.
49 Yet often I love, in my white canoe,
50 To come to the forests and camps of earth:
51 'Twas there death's black arrow pierced me through;
52 'Twas there my red-browed mother gave me birth;
53 There I, in the light of a young man's dawn,
54 Won the lily heart of dusk 'Springing Fawn.'
55 And love is a cord woven out of life,
56 And dyed in the red of the living heart;
57 And time is the hunter's rusty knife,
58 That cannot cut the red strands apart:
59 And I sail from the spirit shore to scan
60 Where the weaving of that strong cord began.
61 But I may not come with a giftless hand,
62 So richly I pile, in my white canoe,
63 Flowers that bloom in the spirit land,
64 Immortal smiles of Great Manitou.
65 When I paddle back to the shores of earth
66 I scatter them over the white man's hearth.
67 For love is the breath of the soul set free;
68 So I cross the river that darkly rolls,
69 That my spirit may whisper soft to thee
70 Of thine who wait in the 'Camp of Souls.'
71 When the bright day laughs, or the wan night grieves,
72 Come the dusky plumes of red 'Singing Leaves.'
poem by Isabella Valancy Crawford
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Paint It
I see a red door and I want it painted black
No colors anymore, I want them to turn black
I see the girls walk by dressed in their summer clothes
I have to turn my head until my darkness goes
I see a line of cars and they are painted black
With flowers and my love both never to come back
I see people turn their heads and quickly look away
Like a new born baby it just happens every day
I look inside myself and see my heart is black
I see my red door and its heading into black
Maybe then Ill fade away and not have to face the facts
Its not easy facing up when your whole world is black
I wanna see it painted painted, painted black, oh baby
I wanna see it painted painted, painted black, oh baby
No more will my green sea go turn a deeper blue
I could not foresee this thing happening to you
If I look hard enough into the setting sun
My love will laugh with me before the morning comes
I wanna see it painted, painted black, oh
Black as night, black as coal
I wanna see the sun blotted from the sky
Painted, painted, painted black oh baby
Painted painted, painted black
song performed by by Vanessa Carlton
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Most Of What I Have Is
Anger, bull anger, dragon anger
Tiger anger,
Strong anger of twisters,
For the one I truly and truly love,
The desert and the volcanic ash
The ungiving, the unyielding
It is like,
A dead pond
Murky, brackish water,
It is the dwelling of
A porcupine-fish, just that,
It does not even swim
Or tried learning the art
Of swimming
It is my pain
This is my pain that I painted
On a piece of paper
One dark line in black
At the end at the rightmost tip
Is the red
Tip of iron-hot jagged-edge acetylene torch fire
It is aimed in my head in my heart
It is anger
That is angry to itself
And so everything in this pond dies,
The moss, the lilies,
The tadpoles the catfish the last catfish
Of this pond
Died the other day the frogs Stopped croaking since
The toads found warts on their throats
It is anger
A blizzard
Burst my eardrums
She may sing the songs
Of love to my deaf
Ears
Perforated Eardrums of anger
It is anger That keeps me alive
Its only desire Is to kill This anger this looseness
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Blonde curly head
When you run joyous into the garden
the whole world lies open before you
while it's autumn, leaves are stripped from branches
and you look great-eyed at the small lizard
where it hides in a small hole in the wall,
and you notice a pool with big Koi fish
that watches you from beneath the water of the pond
and then you try to touch and feel
with your small hands and the water is cool,
while you catch a small frog
and press that animal against your cheek,
while it feels as if eternity is lingering there
and suddenly it jumps from your wet hands
as a strange wet thing.
poem by Gert Strydom
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The Laughng Toad
The smell of lavander
Bees humming rounds its tall soft tips
The water flowing over the rock
Trickles down my eyes
Shallow ripples; koi pond's surafce.
Chlorinated water; unlucky toad's fate
I saved it! I saved it!
Released from pool to pond
Where he shall be
Free to bathe
Laugh as toad's laugh
Returning in pride
I search for him
Make sure he is clean and laughing
All I see is the resident frog
A gluttoned frog
Two protruding legs
Of my laughing toad
Raised upwards to the heavens
Jutting from the fatted
Frogs mouth.
I emancipated; hence enslaved
Intentions dont determine
Outcome.
poem by Vincent Cibelli
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Aunt Edna and Her Black Mask
Your Aunt Edna
had asthma
and she carried around
a big black
asthmatic mask
which frightened
the life out of you
especially when
she put it over
her mouth and nose
and her eyes went
big and dark
and she said
it's ok Tony
nothing to worry about
it's to help me breathe
and she managed
to laugh
and you kind of relaxed
and watched
as she sat down
and closed her eyes
and breathed in
and her breath
came back
of its own accord
and then she put
the mask down
and she was herself again
and her dark hair
was curled and wavy
and she looked like
an actress when
she wasn't gasping
for breath
and didn't have
that awful mask
over her face
and some days
she took you
to the park nearby
and watched you
run and play
or sat with you
on a bench
when she needed
to catch her breath
and you liked the park
with its tall trees
and wide green spaces
and the green
painted railings
that went all around
and there was that
gateway you went in
and you remember dogs
running and their owners
throwing sticks or balls
but you just sat
with Aunt Edna
as she put on her mask
to find her breath
and you and she
not knowing then
that hiding behind
the asthma
was ugly Mr Death.
poem by Terry Collett
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The Duck Pond
There's a pond at the centre of the village green,
Where ducks, moorhen and coot can be seen.
It's a feature which adds to the character and charm.
When sat by the pond, you feel a real sense of calm.
Pond-skaters and other small insects on the water skate:
The surface tension supporting their miniscule weight.
Waving their heads, the long, lush, green reeds,
Provide partial shelter for a fish as it feeds.
A frog pops its head up and looks around,
Then slips back under the water with a plopping sound.
Darting this way and that, are beautiful blue dragonflies:
Their motion so quick, they're gone in the blink of an eye.
There's sweet gallingale, marsh marigold and watercress,
But, for me, the pretty pink water lilies are by far the best.
poem by Angela Wybrow
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The Huskers
IT was late in mild October, and the long autumnal rain
Had left the summer harvest-fields all green with grass again;
The first sharp frosts had fallen, leaving all the woodlands gay
With the hues of summer's rainbow, or the meadow flowers of May.
Through a thin, dry mist, that morning, the sun rose broad and red,
At first a rayless disk of fire, he brightened as he sped;
Yet, even his noontide glory fell chastened and subdued,
On the cornfields and the orchards, and softly pictured wood.
And all that quiet afternoon, slow sloping to the night,
He wove with golden shuttle the haze with yellow light;
Slanting through the painted beeches, he glorified the hill;
And, beneath it, pond and meadow lay brighter, greener still.
And shouting boys in woodland haunts caught glimpses of that sky,
Flecked by the many-tinted leaves, and laughed, they knew not why;
And school-girls, gay with aster-flowers, beside the meadow brooks,
Mingled the glow of autumn with the sunshine of sweet looks.
From spire and barn looked westerly the patient weathercocks;
But even the birches on the hill stood motionless as rocks.
No sound was in the woodlands, save the squirrel's dropping shell,
And the yellow leaves among the boughs, low rustling as they fell.
The summer grains were harvested; the stubblefields lay dry,
Where June winds rolled, in light and shade, the pale green waves of rye;
But still, on gentle hill-slopes, in valleys fringed with wood,
Ungathered, bleaching in the sun, the heavy corn crop stood.
Bent low, by autumn's wind and rain, through husks that, dry and sere,
Unfolded from their ripened charge, shone out the yellow ear;
Beneath, the turnip lay concealed, in many a verdant fold,
And glistened in the slanting light the pumpkin's sphere of gold.
There wrought the busy harvesters; and many a creaking wain
Bore slowly to the long barn-floor is load of husk and grain;
Till broad and red, as when he rose, the sun sank down, at last,
And like a merry guest's farewell, the day in brightness passed.
And lo! as through the western pines, on meadow, stream, and pond,
Flamed the red radiance of a sky, set all afire beyond,
Slowly o'er the eastern sea-bluffs a milder glory shone,
And the sunset and the moonrise were mingled into one!
As thus into the quiet night the twilight lapsed away,
And deeper in the brightening moon the tranquil shadows lay;
From many a brown old farm-house, and hamlet without name,
Their milking and their home-tasks done, the merry huskers came.
Swung o'er the heaped-up harvest, from pitchforks in the mow,
Shone dimly down the lanterns on the pleasant scene below;
The growing pile of husks behind, the golden ears before,
And laughing eyes and busy hands and brown cheeks glimmering o'er.
Half hidden, in a quiet nook, serene of look and heart,
Talking their old times over, the old men sat apart;
While up and down the unhusked pile, or nestling in its shade,
At hide-and-seek, with laugh and shout, the happy children played.
Urged by the good host's daughter, a maiden young and fair,
Lifting to light her sweet blue eyes and pride of soft brown hair,
The master of the village school, sleek of hair and smooth of tongue,
To the quaint tune of some old psalm, a husking-ballad sung.
poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
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Strange Times
Long time ago, back in the mist of time
Back when the crystal waters flowed
There was a world
So strange and so beautiful
All life would flourish and would grow
Years went by, time just fell away
Love was worshiped like the sun
But as we arrive at the house of the water sign
Were living in strange times
Strange times
Strange times
What do we need
What do we hunger for
Who holds the secrets, who will know
Temples of greed
In ruins on the river bed
Wastelands that lived before the snow
Time stands still
As we race through the universe
On our way to the sun
And as we arrive at the house of the water sign
Were living in strange times
Strange times,
Strange times
Its you and I forever
We wont be afraid
Even if the stars are falling down, down, down, down, down
Falling down
Time stands still as we race through the universe
On our way to the sun
And as we arrive at the house of the water sign
Were living in strange times
Strange times,
Strange times
(repeat)
song performed by by Moody Blues
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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