En.Citatepedia^®.ro

Florida

The state with the prettiest name,
the state that floats in brackish water,
held together by mangrave roots
that bear while living oysters in clusters,
and when dead strew white swamps with skeletons,
dotted as if bombarded, with green hummocks
like ancient cannon-balls sprouting grass.
The state full of long S-shaped birds, blue and white,
and unseen hysterical birds who rush up the scale
every time in a tantrum.
Tanagers embarrassed by their flashiness,
and pelicans whose delight it is to clown;
who coast for fun on the strong tidal currents
in and out among the mangrove islands
and stand on the sand-bars drying their damp gold wings
on sun-lit evenings.
Enormous turtles, helpless and mild,
die and leave their barnacled shells on the beaches,
and their large white skulls with round eye-sockets
twice the size of a man's.
The palm trees clatter in the stiff breeze
like the bills of the pelicans. The tropical rain comes down
to freshen the tide-looped strings of fading shells:
Job's Tear, the Chinese Alphabet, the scarce Junonia,
parti-colored pectins and Ladies' Ears,
arranged as on a gray rag of rotted calico,
the buried Indian Princess's skirt;
with these the monotonous, endless, sagging coast-line
is delicately ornamented.

Thirty or more buzzards are drifting down, down, down,
over something they have spotted in the swamp,
in circles like stirred-up flakes of sediment
sinking through water.
Smoke from woods-fires filters fine blue solvents.
On stumps and dead trees the charring is like black velvet.
The mosquitoes
go hunting to the tune of their ferocious obbligatos.
After dark, the fireflies map the heavens in the marsh
until the moon rises.
Cold white, not bright, the moonlight is coarse-meshed,
and the careless, corrupt state is all black specks
too far apart, and ugly whites; the poorest
post-card of itself.
After dark, the pools seem to have slipped away.
The alligator, who has five distinct calls:
friendliness, love, mating, war, and a warning--
whimpers and speaks in the throat
of the Indian Princess.

poem by Elizabeth Bishop
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A Bird Sanctuary (Vedanthangal-TamilNadu, India)

The calls of birds
Of hues varied
lull all to sleep.
Vedanthangal(Shelter of the Hunters) ,
the rain fed tank,
is the haven for
Cormorants,
the Night Herons,
the Darters, Ducks
Grey Pelicans
and the Moor Hens….

Birds from continents diverse
nest on the Kadamba Trees,
feed, breed and fly around,
dip in water, catch fish
and hop to the trees in glee.

O, that sadist hurls a fish above
and takes it back within its bills!
The world of birds has a lot to teach.
The black, white and grey birds perch side by side.

Birds, plants and animals
give man his essential needs.
But he cuts their throats to fill his bellies.
---

poem by Rajendran Muthiah
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Shades Of Grey

If you start here late no one will know what you did
No the streets are straight its the soul thats crooked
Ive been treated fine Ive been treated elegantly
But Im not one for bathing in the waters of plenty
East is east west is west
And bowery is screaming while delancey rests
Well Im south of the skating but Im north of the cash
I could sure use the money but Im ashamed to ask
The traffic has buried all of last nights rain
The words are all different but the accent is the same
The sun is white and the moon is gray
And the river is black blue and green
The young are young and the old are old
And there are no shades of gray in between
Theres at least ten different strains of smoke in the air
And my prints are on them all to prove I was there
And I love the curses but Im not one for the trenches
And I do love the walking but thank God for the benches
Its hard to tell where green begins and the city gray stops
I guess the trees all bought their armor at second hand shops
My second had is working but the minute hand is broke again
I know time will pass but I dont know when
The sun is white and the moon is gray
And the river is black blue and green
The young are young and the old are old
And there are no shades of gray in between
And there are no shades of gray in between
I know the great ones have been here but where I cant tell
Theres dreams here a plenty but theyre being withheld
And Im more impressed with the closed doors than the ones that are open
The whole place tells time by a tower clock thats broken
The pigeons are ravens and the gulls are vultures
And trash is art and cash is culture
The sun is white and the moon is gray
And the river is black blue and green
The young are young and the old are old
And there are no shades of gray in between
There are no shades of gray in between
There are no shades of gray in between

song performed by by Eagle Eye Cherry
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Incantation

A white well
In a black cave;
A bright shell
In a dark wave.

A white rose
Black brambles hood;
Smooth bright snows
In a dark wood.

A flung white glove
In a dark fight;
A white dove
On a wild black night.

A white door
In a dark lane;
A bright core
To bitter black pain.

A white hand
Waved from dark walls;
In a burnt black land
Bright waterfalls.

A bright spark
Where black ashes are;
In the smothering dark
One white star.

poem by Elinor Morton Wylie
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At the zoo

There are street hawkers
selling their wares
next to a wall build
of rocks and stone
on all sides of the entrance.

Carved wooden walking sticks
african faces in black wood,
grass brooms, pottery,
hats and t-shirts
and African drums
and paintings line the sidewalk.

Light pink flamingos
parade next to their dark brown pool
and walk among long palm trees
while they call to each other.

Some white swans
drift on a lake in the park
and catch something to eat
with dipping heads
from the dark water.

a Couple of elephant throw
red-brown sand
over themselves
and their pleated skin
looks like rough sandpaper
and at the back
there’s an old white farmstead
with a green roof
and some hay
for them to eat.

Some spotted Hyenas
swim in a stream
and their dark brown
dots stand out
against their light coats.

There’s some long walkways
going through gardens
that stretch into the distance..

Just the head and back
of a lonely Hippopotamus
rises from a dark brown pool
and it drifts with its nose
under the water
in the direction
of some other Hippopotamuses.

Some bridges run
over the small stream
of the Apies river
which splash over rocks.

a Blue crane
combs its blue-grey coat
next to a striped Kudu cow
that grazes on the green grass
with the Kudu bull watching
the visitors.

a Big brown bear
walks up a rock slope
and splashes in cold pool.

Some Impalas are gathering
on a rocky slope
and a narrow path
stretches up the wooded hill.

A Tiger lies sleeping
under a tree
and two black-backed jackals
stand grinning next to each other.

There are yellow-gold lions
that hides in the long green grass
and a slim female
with two cubs
steps out and watches
and the big male
comes out with a twisting tail
and roars menacing at the crowd
while one of the keepers
are giving them meat.

There’s a great view of the buildings
of Pretoria from the top
of the hill
and some high rises
and towers jump up
into the sky.

I take a cable car
for the long way down
and see the Union buildings
far in the distance
and miniature animals
flash by on the bottom.

A Leopard growls
when I leave the cable car
and I hear the calls
of some black Chacma Baboons.

Some African Buffalo
stand grazing like cattle
and a Rhino
lies stretched out
on the grass.

Some of the gamekeepers
are feeding a giraffe
and it stretches its neck
over a high wall
and time catches me
and something of the animals
stays with me
when I walk back to the car.

poem by Gert Strydom
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The Lost Embassy

THE lilies lean to the white, white rose,
The sweet limes send to the blossomed trees,
Soft kisses borne by the golden bees--
And all the world is alive, awake,
And glad to the heart for the summer's sake.

From her tower window the Princess leant,
Where the white light butterflies came and went;
She dropped soft kisses by twos and threes:
'White butterflies mine, will you carry these
To my Prince in prison? for they, who knows,
May break the spell that has held him close
And wake him and win him to stand up free
And laugh--in the sun--with me!'

White lilies, gold in the golden sun,
White Princess, gold in your golden gown--
Far off lies the sad, enchanted town!
Bright wings, light wings, white wings that tire,
Though they carry the flower of the heart's desire--
Will you trust to these, too white, too slight
To bring back the fruit of heart's delight?

All round and about the spell-bound town
The ways are dusty, the woods are brown;
There are no green coverts, no welcoming flowers
For little weary butterfly wings,
No dew, no lilies, no glad live things.
'Neath the sky of steel and the brazen sun
White wings, kiss-laden, dropped one by one:
By twos and threes they dropped by the way,
And only one reached the grim, gray tower
Where, witched from his kingdom, the poor Prince lay--
One poor tired butterfly, smirched and gray
With the dust of the town and the weary way,
And it lit on the Prince's hand and died.
'Bright wings, light wings, white wings,' he cried
'You, only you, might have lived and borne
My prayer to my love in her tower forlorn,
And brought back the kiss that could set me free--
She might have broken the spell that lies
On my foolish heart and my foolish eyes--
But no live butterflies come my way!'

The winds are cold and the skies are gray,
And all the lilies died yesterday;
The Princess leans from her steel-wrought tower
To watch for her butterflies hour by hour.
Poor little Princess, you watch in vain!
Butterflies die where the green wood browns,
And kisses sent to enchanted towns
Never come home again.

poem by Edith Nesbit
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Poncé De Léon

By a black wharf I stood lately,
When the night was at its noon;
Keen, malicious stars were shining,
And a wicked, white-faced moon.

And I saw a stately vessel,
Built in fashion quaint and old;
From her masthead, in the moonlight,
Hung a flag of faded gold.

Black with age her masts and spars were,
Black with age her ropes and rails;
Like a ghost through cere-cloths gazing
Shone the white moon through her sails.

Not a movement stirred the stillness,
Not a sound the silence broke,
Save alone the livid water
Lapping round her sides of oak.

Then to her unseen commander
Spake I, as to one I knew—
“Don Juan Poncé de Léon,
I have waited long for you.

“Take me with you, I implore you!
Take me with you on your quest
For the Fount of Youth Eternal,
For the Islands of the Blest.”

Then above the bulwarks ancient
I beheld a head arise;
And the moon with ghastly glimmer
Lit its sad and hollow eyes.

“Grieved am I, señor, and sorry,”
Very courteously it said,
“That I may not take you with me—
But I only take the Dead.

“These alone may dare the voyage,
These alone sail on the quest
For the Fount of Youth Eternal,
For the Islands of the Blest.”

poem by Victor James Daley
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Study in Red

Red - and blue
And oh so true
Hot - jazz - flash
And gold-toned sax
Relaxed and breaking through.
Red - and gray
City day and night
Passed through - righteously
To passing few who
Come in bright.

Red - and black
Man in red velvet jacket
Smooth and sharp and
Laugh - dark - hello
For come and go.

Red - and white
Lady in black
Jacket - so right
And new and playing
Bright white and black
With who can do it
Righteous and true.

Red - and gold
All love is sold
And time enfolds
Dreams of morning horn
To forewarn a passing few.

Of hot - jazz - flash
And midnight past
Believing in no true
Sound but Red
And blue.

poem by Christine Natale
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The Two Swans

There's a big park just close to where we live —
Trees in a row
And shaggy grass whereon the dead leaves blow.
And in the middle round a great lagoon
The fair yachts sail
In loveliness that makes the water pale.
Last night I went to walk along the road
Beside the park
And feel the kisses of the wintry dark.
It's the best place to watch the evening come
For mists are there
And lights and shadows and the lake is fair
And last night looking up I saw two swans
Fly overhead
With long black necks and their white wings outspread.
Above the houses citywards they went,
An arrowy pair
In secret — white and black and dark and fair.

poem by Lesbia Harford
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Rwanda 1994

The Kagera River rises in Burundi blue
It sweeps down from the highlands green.

But then why the river runs red?
Why does it look so sinister?

It hauls the bodies of the dead
Its currents carry your sister.

The Kagera River rises in Burundi green
It flows wild to Lake Victoria blue.

But then why the river runs red?
There is no change in the weather.

Yet on the waters float the dead
The currents carry your father.

The Kagera River rises in Burundi white
It drags trees and elephant grass green.

But then why the river runs red?
The day sunny like another.

Yet the streams tow and haul the dead
The currents carry your brother.

The Kagera River rises in Burundi blue
It flows through Rwandan gorges green.

But then why the river runs red?
Why does the village camp smother?

It hauls the corpses of the dead
The currents carry your mother.

poem by Paul Hartal
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Shades Of Gray

If you start here late, no one will know what you did
No, the streets are straight, it's the soul that's crooked
I've been treated fine,
I've been treated elegantly
But I'm not one for bathing in the waters of plenty
East is East,
West is West
And The Bowery is screaming while Delancey rests
Well, I'm south of the skating, but
I'm north of the cash
I could sure use the money but
I'm ashamed to ask
The traffic has buried all of last night's rain
The words are all different but the accent is the same
The sun is white, and the moon is gray
And the river is black, blue and green
The young are young, and the old are old
There are no shades of gray in between
There's at least ten different strains of smoke in the air
And my prints are on them all, to prove I was there
And I love the curses, but I'm not one for the trenches
Yes I do love the walking , but that God for the benches
It's hard to tell where green begins, and the city gray stops
I guess the trees all bought their armor at second hand shops
My second hand is working, but the minute hand broke again
I know time will pass, but I don't know when
The sun is white, and the moon is gray
And the river is black, blue and green
The young are young, and the old are old
And there are no shades of gray in between
And there are no shades of gray in between
I know the great ones have been here, but where I can't tell
There's dreams here a plenty, but they're being witheld
And I'm more impressed with the closed doors
Than the ones that are open
The whole place tells time by a tower clock that's broken
The pigeons are ravens, and the gulls are vultures
And trash

song performed by by Eagle Eye Cherry
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A spring evening

Outside the irises flower yellow and purple
and I haven’t seen a red one yet
and there are some pink and white blossoms
on the fruit trees
and the streetlights burn continually
glowing orange-yellow
all day and all night
as if the municipality
does not know how to do things right
and in the fading evening light
the moon is full and white
and the evening star is already shining bright
and a hot breeze sweeps in
through the open windows
and I wonder when the first spring rain
is going to fall
and in the distance I see thunder
crashing down
in blue-white flashes, but the storm
is blown away and again the sky is clear
and the black speckled by stars.

poem by Gert Strydom
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I am a man of black and white

I am a man of black and white,
my name is written on the gates of the sky.
i am a man of black and white
my origin is united, yet two apart.

I speak the language of the whites,
but lost in the language of the blacks.
i am a man of black and white,
my resemblance is same with the blacks.

I am a man of black and white,
i was brought up in the land of the whites.
i am a man of black and white,
my home is in the south-east, in the abode of my black dad.

I am a man of black and white,
i love the aspirations of life.
i am a man of black and white,
although two apart, we are united as one.

poem by Randy Micheal
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Poem (‘In The Stump of The Old Tree...’)

In the stump of the old tree, where the heart has rotted out, there is a hole the length of a man’s arm, and a dank pool at the bottom of it where the rain gathers, and the old leaves turn into lacy skeletons. But do not put your hand down to see, because

in the stumps of old trees, where the hearts have rotted out, there are holes the length of a man’s arm, and dank pools at the bottom where the rain gathers and old leaves turn to lace, and the beak of a dead bird gapes like a trap. But do not put your hand down to see, because

in the stumps of old trees with rotten hearts, where the rain gathers and the laced leaves and the dead bird like a trap, there are holes the length of a man’s arm, and in every crevice of the rotten wood grow weasel’s eyes like molluscs, their lids open and shut with the tide. But do not put your hand down to see, because

in the stumps of old trees where the rain gathers and the trapped leaves and the beak and the laced weasel’s eyes, there are holes the length of a man’s arm, and at the bottom a sodden bible written in the language of rooks. But do not put your hand down to see, because

in the stumps of old trees where the hearts have rotted out there are holes the length of a man’s arm where the weasels are trapped and the letters of the rook language are laced on the sodden leaves, and at the bottom there is a man’s arm. But do not put your hand down to see, because

in the stumps of old trees where the hearts have rotted out there are deep holes and dank pools where the rain gathers, and if you ever put your hand down to see, you can wipe it in the sharp grass till it bleeds, but you’ll never want to eat with it again.

Contemporary Poetry and Prose, 7 (Nov. 1936), 129.

poem by Hugh Sykes Davies
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Smoke

Smoke

From the Saga Island smoke rose. flames and rivers ran full of
icy water; the modern Vikings had been beaten and shamed.
Cold winter, summer roses are grey and leaves on trees have
taken on an autumnal hue. Clouds of ashes drifting south day
is night the world has lost it colour and cinemas only show
black& white movies.

East the smoke is black and smells of cordite and bulldozed
buildings. Poor Palestine it is not a state, but a dream, which
trashed people try to make into a reality. Moslems, Christians
and righteous Jews, the world belongs to us, to have peace
there must be fairness. Oops! Before my eyes another house is
razed to the ground, dust is blinding me.

poem by Oskar Hansen
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Pearls Girl

Rioja. rioja. reverend al green.
Deep blue morocco. the water on stone.
The water on concrete. the water on sand.
The water on fire. smoke.
The wind. the salt. the bride boat coming.
Dave in the water. old man.
Einstein on top of his house. white deep blue
Andalusia red yellow red yellow black car.
Red light. far. black place. walls. blue chair.
Morocco. hamburg. paris.
The pieces of the puzzle are waiting.
The water of the dark boats gliding.
The bride boats gone out to sea and
Dave is floating. dave is floating.
And old man einstein crazy in his attic.
Crazy.
White room. sun room. shadow room.
Night transmitting cars across the room.
These things sent to dance across the room.
Eye watching from your bed. returning to you.

song performed by by Underworld
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Sexy Woman

white clouds
blue sea
green long island
on the shallow waters
a woman faces me
white bra
white panty

(two piece)

at the middle
the water touches
the center of her
being

the grass of her earth
is wet

she walks away
dripping

her hair is long and curly
black

she does not own me.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Just My Luck

"Dear someone, you know you are now and after
For so long I lone and suffer
Hunting and seeking for more than tender
The closer I get, the more it hinder
In my dream only I can imagine
To turn fate into magic
I've had a taste of various varieties
Black, white, diamond and gold
Black, white, green and blue
Black, white, young and old
With the wish of having something new
Know you are now then be my new
Know you are after and wish you flew
Along with me because you thought you knew"
I lost my dairy to a stranger
She read the words and fell in love

poem by Kwasi Boakye
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Bright Colors

bright colors hang
on a horizontal pole

a white bench a red
pail and purple clouds

yellow sand black
sea grass and lavender
shadows umbrellas

on alternate orange and
white and saffron and

yellow green and crimson
blue sea with white foams

escape from a shrinking world
to the sea breeze and solitude

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Can I Dry Clean?

washing the clean linen in dirty water,
makes the clothes to be dirty and colored,
white clothe will invite the color of contrast,
color of the water that it is dipped into.

When we think of the ills and manipulate with evils,
the souls that are born white, will be colored,
when we wash the evil thoughts in evil solutions,
our souls will be soiled, colored and in illusion.

believing the color that we possess is the brightest,
If it is the brightest of white, as white is pure,
then it is all right, even if we are in other colors,
don't worry, it can be bleached to white.

White and black are two extreme colors,
with extreme characters and properties,
when the white reflects everything as good actions,
the black absorbs everything as the mother nature.

Between these two colors,
there are thousands of colors,
blending of seven colors of rain bow,
where we live and be happy and sorrow.

Washing the clean linen of any color,
in the water of dirt and sediment,
will make the linen dirty and soiled,
Where shall we find the clean water,
to wash our dirty souls of multiple colors?

poem by Veeraiyah Subbulakshmi
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July The First

The grey roos sheltering beneath the pine trees it is a wet and a wintery Winter's day
Yet in the rain the magpie he is piping on a high branch of a tall mountain gray
And yet the weather is not cold or chilly it does not seem a bad start to July
The Winter sun by the rain is hidden and overcast looking the morning sky
The Southern Winter I feel is far more pleasant than the Southern Summer at least the weather never gets too cold
That I do find mild Winter days a bit chilly has to be proof I must be getting old
On the Winter flowering trees the red wattlebirds are calling they have a certain hoarseness in their cry
And the pied currawongs the dark crow sized birds their karrawang notes are uttering as through the park from tree to tree they fly,
The white cockatoos in the drizzling rain are squawking from other birds them one cannot mistake
They are at their noisiest in the gloam of evening and in the early morning at daybreak
Three species of white cockatoo the sulphur crested and long billed and short billed corella by voice and appearance from each other not hard to identify
They live in large flocks and to each other nearby,
The rain drizzling down from a sky that's gloomy gray
But for July the first it is mild enough for a Winter's day.

poem by Francis Duggan
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