En.Citatepedia^®.ro

The End Of March

For John Malcolm Brinnin and Bill Read: Duxbury


It was cold and windy, scarcely the day
to take a walk on that long beach
Everything was withdrawn as far as possible,
indrawn: the tide far out, the ocean shrunken,
seabirds in ones or twos.
The rackety, icy, offshore wind
numbed our faces on one side;
disrupted the formation
of a lone flight of Canada geese;
and blew back the low, inaudible rollers
in upright, steely mist.

The sky was darker than the water
--it was the color of mutton-fat jade.
Along the wet sand, in rubber boots, we followed
a track of big dog-prints (so big
they were more like lion-prints). Then we came on
lengths and lengths, endless, of wet white string,
looping up to the tide-line, down to the water,
over and over. Finally, they did end:
a thick white snarl, man-size, awash,
rising on every wave, a sodden ghost,
falling back, sodden, giving up the ghost...
A kite string?--But no kite.

I wanted to get as far as my proto-dream-house,
my crypto-dream-house, that crooked box
set up on pilings, shingled green,
a sort of artichoke of a house, but greener
(boiled with bicarbonate of soda?),
protected from spring tides by a palisade
of--are they railroad ties?
(Many things about this place are dubious.)
I'd like to retire there and do nothing,
or nothing much, forever, in two bare rooms:
look through binoculars, read boring books,
old, long, long books, and write down useless notes,
talk to myself, and, foggy days,
watch the droplets slipping, heavy with light.
At night, a grog a l'américaine.
I'd blaze it with a kitchen match
and lovely diaphanous blue flame
would waver, doubled in the window.
There must be a stove; there is a chimney,
askew, but braced with wires,
and electricity, possibly
--at least, at the back another wire
limply leashes the whole affair
to something off behind the dunes.
A light to read by--perfect! But--impossible.
And that day the wind was much too cold
even to get that far,
and of course the house was boarded up.

On the way back our faces froze on the other side.
The sun came out for just a minute.
For just a minute, set in their bezels of sand,
the drab, damp, scattered stones
were multi-colored,
and all those high enough threw out long shadows,
individual shadows, then pulled them in again.
They could have been teasing the lion sun,
except that now he was behind them
--a sun who'd walked the beach the last low tide,
making those big, majestic paw-prints,
who perhaps had batted a kite out of the sky to play with.

poem by Elizabeth Bishop
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The Kite The Wind Took As If A Poem

You bought the kit,
couldn’t wait for Mum to clear the table
to spread its bits and pieces out

didn’t your Dad help you? Yes, of course –
those were the good times..
‘your Dad’… do we ever really realise
they had a life of their own,
not merely extras in the drama
of your life?

the wooden struts cut to length,
the careful, don’t hurry Michael cotton wound
around the glue, and then more glue,
put the top back on again Michael
or you’ll be sorry when you come to use it again…
what’s again, in a boy’s life? …

that special waterproofed paper
finally in place; Mum’s hair-dryer
cautiously used to tauten
the bright kite’s sail
not too near Michael,
read the instructions…

it’s alive now, the kite,
the two of you waiting
to learn about wind, even
what you thought a mere light breeze…

what strength! on that first outing
on the beach or in the park;
the mere light breeze
which as your kite sailed up there in the sky,
dipping, soaring around the other kites
like a half learned, half graceful dance
which the wind wrote

but you did not listen fully to:
a sudden pull of wind, a parting
somewhere between string and kite…

no longer your kite; now
it’s the wind’s kite
sailing off into the blue
to meet the clouds perhaps

was it your Dad, after
he too had been silent-sad,
or was it Mum as she wiped your face who said

the wind, the sky, loved it too much
to give it back

and so with poems.
Throw away the box and stuff
but keep the glue, it may, like memory,
come in useful
next time

and so with poems.
The wind, the sky,
deserve them for their own;
they can go further, faster, they’re more strong
than you;

let go the string, now, as it falls to earth;
watch the bright kite
till it's out of sight;
was it ever yours?

poem by Michael Shepherd
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Dillard Sissman

The buzzards wheel slowly
In wide circles, in a sky
Faintly hazed as from dust from the road.
And a wind sweeps through the pasture where I lie
Beating the grass into long waves.
My kite is above the wind,
Though now and then it wobbles,
Like a man shaking his shoulders;
And the tail streams out momentarily,
Then sinks to rest.
And the buzzards wheel and wheel,
Sweeping the zenith with wide circles
Above my kite. And the hills sleep.
And a farm house, white as snow,
Peeps from green trees -- far away.
And I watch my kite,
For the thin moon will kindle herself ere long,
Then she will swing like a pendulum dial
To the tail of my kite.
A spurt of flame like a water-dragon
Dazzles my eyes --
I am shaken as a banner!

poem by Edgar Lee Masters
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Kite Song

I flew a kite, I held on tight to its string.
Each time I go anywhere, I held on tight.
In the middle of the night I woke up in fright,
Thinking maybe in my dream I let go of my kite.
When I was in a restaurant, talking to my friends,
Watching their mouths move faster and faster.
I thought of the kite that was flying in the sky
And made sure that my hand was holding the string.
That was a long time ago,
Many skies went by since then.
Now my hands stopped holding anything
And Ive learnt to take a walk instead.
Then one day in the evening light,
I saw something strange shining bright.
The sky was dark, with swarms of larks,
And in the midst of it all, yes, it was my kite.
How did the kite get there, Ill never know,
Floating away among the clouds to where nobody knows.
I held my gun with both my hands,
Slowly aiming at the shining dot.
The shot went off, the dot blew off,
Since then Ive never seen the kite again.

song performed by by Yoko Ono
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Tuesday In Amsterdam (Adam Solo)

A picture of Amsterdam
Bare trees under glass
Framed in the grey and white afternoon light
Of a winter long passed
When I was a riser
To Dublin I'd roam
She was a bareback rider
Some miles from home
Come back to me
Come back to me
Come back to me
Come back to me
Shes a carnival diver
Hung in the sky
Cutting through time like a memory
Strung on a wire
Now the color of anything
Fades in the air
She is the film of a book
Of the story of the smell of her hair
Come back to me
Come back to me
Come back to me
Come back to me
When everythings over
And everythings clear
When everyones older
And no one is here
I try to remember
A girl on a wire
Tumbling and diving above Stevens Green
Like a kite in the air
Come back to me
Come back to me
Come back to me
Come back to me
Oh come back to me
Come back to me
Come back to me
Come back to me yeah
Come back to me
Come back to me
Come back to me

song performed by by Counting Crows
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Flying High

My oh my!
What a gorgeous day to fly
Let's release that puffer kite
High in the crystal clear blue sky

We're running out of string
Send that kid on his bike
To the hobby shop to get more
What do you mean, what for?

Why, to fly that kite
Beyond the clouds, earth and universe
The wind is perfect today
We can do this beyond the moon and stars

oops! string broke over passing cars
Where is it now?
Where the past kite fliers now fly
My, oh my!
How high, this kite did, fly

poem by Matt Mondschein
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On The Dunes

Drive along the sea
Far from the citys twitch and smoke
To a misty beach
Thats where my life became a joke
On the dunes
On the dunes
(became a joke on the dunes)
Where rents are high
And seabirds cry
On the dunes
As you spoke you must have known
It was a kind of homicide
I stood and watched my happiness
Drift outwards with the tide
On the dunes
On the dunes
(homicide on the dunes)
It wasnt fair
Its brutal there
On the dunes
Pretty boats
Sweeping along the shore
In the faltering light
Pretty women
With their lovers by their side
Its like an awful dream
I have most every night
In the summer all the swells
Join in the search for sun and sand
For me its just a joyless place
Where this loneliness began
On the dunes
On the dunes
(loneliness on the dunes)
Im pretty tough
But the wind is rough
On the dunes

song performed by by Steely Dan
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Ebb Tide

When the long day goes by
And I do not see your face,
The old wild, restless sorrow
Steals from its hiding place.

My day is barren and broken,
Bereft of light and song,
A sea beach bleak and windy
That moans the whole day long.

To the empty beach at ebb tide,
Bare with its rocks and scars,
Come back like the sea with singing,
And light of a million stars.

poem by Sara Teasdale
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On This Beach...

Life is a beach.
There are jellyfish. And sea urchins…the painful bumps along the road that we all encounter in life. On this beach.
In life..and on a beach there is warm water-like times, when we are happy, and have good times and enjoy living. On this beach.
We also have times, like a beach, when we have cold water times; when we are sad, or upset about losing someone or something. On this beach.
There are rough times, the same way the sea has rough water that pounds angrily against the shore. On this beach.
Life, like the sea, has high and low times, or tides. There is low tide when you think u can no longer go on, that life has done too much damage to you. Then the tide comes back in…and you are reminded that life goes on. Life gets better. You cannot give up on life, like you can’t give up on a beach because of a rough day or low tides. On this beach.
Life has sharks. Maybe not the same sharks from a beach, but they are there. They are the people that thrive on your pain and tears and hardship, the same way a shark sustains itself through brutal killing of unaware seals who don’t know what is coming or how bad it is. The sharks are there. Waiting. For someone…for you…like an unsuspecting seal, to come along and unknowingly become trapped in their lies and hurt. On this beach.
Life…has good times. Wonderful times where the only thoughts you have are about how much life is worth living and how much you love life. It is like the clear, cool blue water on a beautiful day at the beach. On this beach.
Life has those amazing people….akin to the beachgoers on a sandy shore…just along for the ride…to enjoy the good…and pack up and leave when it rains or something goes wrong. But there are the surfers..the daredevils…going back into the fear and love of the sea….of life. They risk the sharks, and jellyfish, and rough water and low and high tides, not because they are invincible, but because they know about the good that is to be had in this world. On this beach.
Life is so comparable to a beach…most importantly in that it has sand like a beach. Billions upon billions of unique grains of sand, like the 7 billion different people in this world, on this beach.

poem by Dark Fallout
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Kite

Come up and be a kite
Beelzebub is aching in my belly-o.
My feet are heavy and Im rooted in my wellios.
And I want to get away and go
From all these mirror windows.
I look at eye level, it isnt good enough.
And then I find it out when I take a good look up.
Theres a hole in the sky with a big eyeball
Calling me:
Come up and be a kite,
On a diamond flight!
A diamond kite, a diamond kite.
Ooh, what a diamond!
A diamond kite
On a diamond flight.
Over the lights, under the moon.
Over the lights, under the moon.
Over the moon, over the moon!
I feel a rush along my body, like a bullet.
Im 2-d after a push-and-pull feeling.
And I want to get back to safe home:
I love the homeland dome.*
I got no limbs, Im like a feather on the wind.
Well, Im not sure if I want to be up here, at all.
And Id like to be back on the ground,
But I dont know how to get down--down--down!
Come up and be a kite,
On a diamond flight!
A diamond kite, a diamond kite.
Ooh, what a diamond!
A diamond kite
On a diamond flight.
Over the lights, under the moon.
Over the lights, under the moon.
Over the moon, over the moon!

song performed by by Kate Bush
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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With the Tide

Somewhere I read, in an old book whose name
Is gone from me, I read that when the days
Of a man are counted, and his business done,
There comes up the shore at evening, with the tide,
To the place where he sits, a boat—
And in the boat, from the place where he sits, he sees,
Dim in the dusk, dim and yet so familiar,
The faces of his friends long dead; and knows
They come for him, brought in upon the tide,
To take him where men go at set of day.
Then rising, with his hands in theirs, he goes
Between them his last steps, that are the first
Of the new life—and with the ebb they pass,
Their shaken sail grown small upon the moon.
Often I thought of this, and pictured me
How many a man who lives with throngs about him,
Yet straining through the twilight for that boat
Shall scarce make out one figure in the stern,
And that so faint its features shall perplex him
With doubtful memories—and his heart hang back.

But others, rising as they see the sail
Increase upon the sunset, hasten down,
Hands out and eyes elated; for they see
Head over head, crowding from bow to stern,
Repeopling their long loneliness with smiles,
The faces of their friends; and such go forth
Content upon the ebb tide, with safe hearts.

But never to worker summoned when his day was done
Did mounting tide bring in such freight of friends
As stole to you up the white wintry shingle
That night while they that watched you thought you slept.
Softly they came, and beached the boat, and gathered
In the still cove under the icy stars,
Your last-born, and the dear loves of your heart,
And all men that have loved right more than ease,
And honor above honors; all who gave
Free-handed of their best for other men,
And thought their giving taking: they who knew
Man's natural state is effort, up and up—
All these were there, so great a company
Perchance you marvelled, wondering what great ship
Had brought that throng unnumbered to the cove
Where the boys used to beach their light canoe
After old happy picnics—

But these, your friends and children, to whose hands,
Committed, in the silent night you rose
And took your last faint steps—
These led you down, O great American,
Down to the Winter night and the white beach,
And there you saw that the huge hull that waited
Was not as are the boats of the other dead,
Frail craft for a brief passage; no, for this
Was first of a long line of towering transports,
Storm-worn and ocean-weary every one,
The ships you launched, the ships you manned, the ships
That now, returning from their sacred quest
With the thrice-sacred burden of their dead,
Lay waiting there to take you forth with them,
Out with the ebb tide, on some farther quest.

poem by Edith Wharton
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We walked on the beach

We walked on the beach
my shadow and I.
Rocks protruded
out of the sand
and a big ship passed by.

The tide was high
and the angry sea crashed
and slapped spray
upon the rocks.

a Strong wind scratched
me with buckets full of sand
and I wondered what had happened
to a perfect day at the beach,
but later the wind died down.

a Single gull surfed the air
and suddenly it wasn’t there
and only the green sea,
the white-hot sun,
surf crashing on the beach
and I remained.

poem by Gert Strydom
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Low-Tide

These wet rocks where the tide has been,
Barnacled white and weeded brown
And slimed beneath to a beautiful green,
These wet rocks where the tide went down
Will show again when the tide is high
Faint and perilous, far from shore,
No place to dream, but a place to die,—
The bottom of the sea once more.
There was a child that wandered through
A giant's empty house all day,—
House full of wonderful things and new,
But no fit place for a child to play.

poem by Edna St. Vincent Millay
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I Opened The Casements Of My House

I opened the casements of my house
Onto the wild, wild sea
The billows were on it austere and free
The sea-wind with every house-corner neighed
And with the bending palms in the garden played
At dice or in the games of life at will
And still the casements opened and opened
As if by magic trance or guided else
By a thousand small invisible goblin-hands
That from the sea-main seemed to fly and come
Over the billows austere and free
As the sea-wind with every house-corner neighed
And with the bending palms in the garden played
Beyond, beyond the vista low and large
A plain of beach sand lapped by the waves
And here and there an oasis of sweet palms
That bent their olive heads in the winds’ waffling
And coming and going over the sea.
Where the white billows raged saliva-like
Or like bent god-thrones cool and flexible
In that long windy plain, in that salt sea
Upon the which my magic casements opened
That day, that long and windy day of life
The sea-wind with every house-corner neighed
And with the bending palms in the garden played
And that was long ago, not days or months,
But years, whole years and now my hair
Is turning fast to white and my breath shorter goes
Than it was then that long and windy day
The sea-cliff raged all white like the salt sea
And hid unseen the waves in the inlet small
All hidden from the eyes of curious men
Waxed green and green – ah! it is so to-day
And still
Long windy days come oft and come as go:
And the sea-wind with every house-corners neighs
And with the bending palms in the garden plays.

poem by Emmanuel George Cefai
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My grand son's pastel drawing

Siluna! Who sent me a drawing.
'Grandpa here's you! .'
A little house
By a Coconut tree
An old man with a beard
And he holds a string
A Red kite in the sky.
I replied him;
'Thank you very much for your lovely drawing my Sonny!
And I was searching in the pale sky
Your departed brother who left us
Without saying a Good bye!
And I added one more kite in Orange color
Flies in the mysterious sky without a string!

*To our deceased loving Grandson Prabashwara, one day we too come to that reserved place and definitely we bring this poem for you!

poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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In A Time Of Dearth

Before me,
On either side of me,
I see sand.
If I turn the corner of my house,
I see sand,
Long, brown
Lines and levels of flat
Sand.

If I could only see a caravan
Heave over the edge of it:
The camels wobbling and swaying,
Stepping like ostriches,
With rocking palanquins
Whose curtains conceal
Languors and faintnesses,
Muslins tossed aside,
And a disorder of cushions.
The swinging curtains would pique and solace me.
But I only see sand,
Long, brown sand -
Sand.

If I could only see a herd of Arab horses
Galloping,
Their manes and tails pulled straight
By the speed of their going;
Their bodies sleek and round
Like bellying sails.
They would beat the sand with their fore feet,
And scatter it with their hind feet,
So that it whirled in a cloud of orange,
And the sun through it
Was clip-edged, without rays, and dun.
But I only see sand,
Long, brown, hot sand -
Sand.

If I could only see a mirage,
Blue-white at the horizon,
With palm-trees about it;
Tall, windless palm-trees, grouped about a-glitter.
If I could strain toward it,
And think of the water creeping round my ankles,
Tickling under my knees,
Leeching up my sides,
Spreading over my back.
But I only feel the grinding beneath my feet.
And I only see sand,
Long, dry sand,
Scorching sand -
Sand.

If a sand-storm would only come
And spit against my windows,
Snapping upon them, and ringing their vibrations;
Swirling over the roof;
Seeping under the door-jamb;
Suffocating me and making me struggle for air.
But I only see sand -
Sand lying dead in the sun.
Lines and lines of sand -
Sand.

I will paste newspapers over the windows to shut out the sand;
I will fit them into one another, and fasten the corners.
Then I will strike matches
And read of politics and murders and festivals
Three years old.
But I shall not see the sand any more,
And I can read
While my matches last.

poem by Amy Lowell
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I Go Back To The House For A Book

I turn around on the gravel and go back to the house for a book, something to read at the doctor's office, and while I am inside, running the finger of inquisition along a shelf, another me that did not bother to go back to the house for a book heads out on his own, rolls down the driveway, and swings left toward town, a ghost in his ghost car, another knot in the string of time, a good three minutes ahead of me — a spacing that will now continue for the rest of my life.

poem by Billy Collins
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Dead Starfish

washed up

on the beach
high tide’s brief wasting
a minute more, a minute less
the beach holds
sand secrets

to take or to give
back and forth we go

but time does not wait
as the last wave recedes
the next plunges forth
and wipes the slate
pebble and foam completely

clean.

(Previously published in The Oracular Tree, June 2003)

poem by Laurence Overmire
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Nonsense Alphabet

A was an ant
Who seldom stood still,
And who made a nice house
In the side of a hill.
Nice little ant!

B was a bat,
Who slept all the day,
And fluttered about
When the sun went away.
Brown little bat!

C was a camel:
You rode on his hump;
And if you fell off,
You came down such a bump!
What a high camel!

D was a duck
With spots on his back,
Who lived in the water,
And always said 'Quack!'
Dear little duck!

E was an elephant,
Stately and wise:
He had tusks and a trunk,
And two queer little eyes.
Oh, what funny small eyes!

F was a fish
Who was caught in a net;
But he got out again,
And is quite alive yet.
Lively young fish!

G was a goat
Who was spotted with brown:
When he did not lie still
He walked up and down.
Good little goat!

H was a hat
Which was all on one side;
Its crown was too high,
And its brim was too wide.
Oh, what a hat!

I was some ice
So white and so nice,
But which nobody tasted;
And so it was wasted.
All that good ice!

J was a jug,
So pretty and white,
With fresh water in it
At morning and night.
Nice little jug!

K was a kite
Which flew out of sight,
Above houses so high,
Quite into the sky.
Fly away, kite!
L was a lily,
So white and so sweet!
To see it and smell it
Was quite a nice treat.
Beautiful lily!

M was a man,
Who walked round and round;
And he wore a long coat
That came down to the ground.
Funny old man!

N was a net
Which was thrown In the sea
To catch fish for dinner
For you and for me.
Nice little net!

O was an orange
So yellow and round:
When it fell off the tree,
It fell down to the ground.
Down to the ground!

P was a polly.
All red, blue, and green,--
The most beautiful polly
That ever was seen.
Poor little polly!
Q was a quail
With a very short tail;
And he fed upon corn
In the evening and morn.
Quaint little quail!

R was a rabbit,
Who had a bad habit
Of eating the flowers
In gardens and bowers.
Naughty fat rabbit!

S was the sugar-tongs,
Nippity-nee,
To take up the sugar
To put in our tea.
Nippity-nee!

T was a tortoise,
All yellow and black:
He walked slowly away,
And he never came back.
Torty never came back!

U was an urn
All polished and bright,
And full of hot water
At noon and at night.
Useful old urn!

V was a veil
With a border upon it,
And a ribbon to tie it
All round a pink bonnet.
Pretty green veil!

W was a watch,
Where, in letters of gold,
The hour of the day
You might always behold.
Beautiful watch!

Y was a yew,
Which flourished and grew
By a quiet abode
Near the side of a road.
Dark little yew!

Z was a zebra,
All striped white and black;
And if he were tame,
You might ride on his back.
Pretty striped zebra!

poem by Edward Lear
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The Entropy of Pleasure

By the time you walk up to the ocean
the wave has already disappeared,
replaced by another wave, another sadness
as in passion or the light dying at dusk

or the shell split under your foot, another
scar made in the sand. You can't remember
exactly what you need to remember. White fluttering
wings arrive in the sweet grass like letters

from someone you loved who has abandoned you
for another city. And all the signs
read 'Dangerous Currents', 'Sea Forest'.
It's so difficult to keep track of the tracks
that are leading to unexpected places.

Change is a way we can't easily follow,
the water disappearing; even the dunes
have shifted and right when you are about to lose
your way into the wild oats, shuddering,
there are the stars in the center of sand dollars

that make you remember what you spend is spent,
the entropy of pleasure a wave's body
you can't hold in your hands for long. You
know the only way out is landmarks

you can't even imagine, the way we are drawn,
pulled by the tides, the first step
into happiness, its dangerous pleasure,
licked by the water's green flames

poem by Geraldine Connolly
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Shattered windows, Colors of white

Across the street is a new house with a room painted red, with no holes of white.
Next to me, a house purple, with its color pealing off, with holes of black and white
At the end of the street, an old house once yellow, what now remains white.
The sound of a hammer building a house, entering a place with a color unknown.

On the street,
Windows covered with ice
Some shine with light.
Some broken
Some fixed
Some lost, out of sight.

A house, two blocks from here.
Shines with lights of yellow, red, and green everywhere.
A wall keeping the wind from blowing anywhere.
The house next door, at the dawn of the day.
Paints its room black, and peals the color away.

The wall crumbles.
The wind blows across the colors of yellow, red and green
Breaks all the windows.
Turns the yellow to blue, red to black, and green to white.

The house two blocks away.
Adds a line of yellow red and green everyday.
To allow the house of blue, black and white to shine for us some day.

poem by Linda ErikssonBique
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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