At Eleusis
I, at Eleusis, saw the finest sight,
When early morning's banners were unfurled.
From high Olympus, gazing on the world,
The ancient gods once saw it with delight.
Sad Demeter had in a single night
Removed her sombre garments! and mine eyes
Beheld a 'broidered mantle in pale dyes
Thrown o'er her throbbing bosom. Sweet and clear
There fell the sound of music on mine ear.
And from the South came Hermes, he whose lyre
One time appeased the great Apollo's ire.
The rescued maid, Persephone, by the hand
He led to waiting Demeter, and cheer
And light and beauty once more blessed the land.
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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The Metaphor
Enticed I was from Venus yonder
Ephemeral music brought by Apollo
Eager Mars I was for Demeter
Eerie I felt, hands to bolo
Astonished to you I merely stutter
Abacinated I was through my sorrow
Adynamia of mine, the song you utter
Apay mine lust was trip to inferno.
poem by Ellirie Aviles
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Demeter At Dusk
At dusk Demeter
becomes afraid
for baby Persephone
lost in that hell
which she herself created
with her love.
Excess of love-
the woman's curse,
the curse of loving
that which causes pain,
the curse of bringing forth
in pain,
the curse of bearing,
bearing always pain.
Demeter pauses, listening for her child-
this fertile goddess
with her golden hair, bringing forth
wheat and fruit and wildflowers
knee-high.
This apple-breasted goddess
whose sad eyes
will bless the frozen world,
bring spring again-
all because she once
walked through the night
and loved a man, half-demon,
angel tongued,
who gave her
everything she needed to be wise:
a daughter,
hell's black night,
then endless
spring.
poem by Erica Jong
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Interruption
We interrupt the work of the gods,
hasty and inexperienced beings of the moment.
In the palaces of Eleusis and Phthia
Demeter and Thetis start good works
amid high flames and dense smoke. But
always Metaneira rushes from the king's
chambers, disheveled and scared,
and always Peleus is fearful and interferes.
poem by Constantine P. Cavafy
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Electric Light
When the great Bulwer's pen did trace
The history of the coming race
His hero to us he hath unfurled
The glories of his new found world.
This bold traveller be did venture
Far below our world's centre ;
He entered through an ancient mine
And to us doth new world define.
Once all was discord and fierce jars,
Continuous engaged in wars
Till they discovered great vrill power,
Then wars did cease from that same hour.
Mighty bolts from it were hurled ;
Would soon have laid waste the world ;
So for world's preservation
At once they stopped desolation.
All wars by them are now despised
Unfit for nation civilized ;
Their peaceful glories they do sing
And fly on artificial wing.
Great blazing artificial light
It ever burns both day and night,
For they have neither sun nor moon,
But radient, always 'tis high noon.
When we beheld the glorious sight,
High in the air did shine so bright ;
It seemed that it could banish night,
Great refulgent electric light.
But after all, 'tis children's play,
Compared with the great orb of day,
Or when the moon it doth shine bright,
And stars do beautify the night.
poem by James McIntyre
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The Light Through The Morning Window
THE LIGHT THROUGH THE MORNING WINDOW
The light through the morning window
The small leaves of the light green tree
The pale sky waiting behind everything
The night which is gone now.
All these failures one after the other,
Other names other destinies, greater than mine
The single singing I cannot hear
The great prophecies I will not realize.
Others who are more to me
Even than I am to myself.
The morning
The morning again
Words again
Trying to live again
A poem again perhaps.
In a life of many days
In which each small day
Its own struggle
And each night
A night which ends
With morning light.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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The Wavering Grain
Just as smoke from the fire
rises to the canopy of pine,
my eyes believe,
'thine beauty is mine.'
Observing the embers,
as they flash and die.
Through the air,
so clear and fine.
My eyes conceive.
'thine beauty is mine.'
These sights alone,
have led me to the road,
covered in gravel,
isolated in it's own
Walking past the house of the owner,
down to the river,
I studder.
For even in darkness,
a cerulean sky is above.
With a snowflake shape light,
made with stars through the night.
Gazing upon further,
a shooting star,
then,
no longer.
Like a flicker,
through a shutter,
until I have come to find,
tis not divine,
'thine beauty is mine'
And on my path back home,
a road tempts me,
but not my own.
And it sounds as if, or nay,
that the sound of life
has refrained from it today.
But I choose not to go,
for thine beauty is mine
and this night has allowed it to be so.
Plain and plentiful,
the wavering grain.
Breathes and recedes.
Through morning dew,
summer heat,
and magenta sky.
-
As dusk approaches-
its breathing subsides,
but it does not die.
For like I,
the grain,
plain and plentiful,
finds solace
in the night sky.
poem by Joseph Ostapiuk
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Love Sonnet 68: I Stormed Dreamland To Rescue A Princess,
I stormed Dreamland to rescue my princess,
Imprisoned by a dragon that breathed fire,
With Thor's hammer aiding in the process,
Which caused more sleep than would Apollo's lyre;
Hermes' sandals took us out in no time,
But Princess wanted a Stiletto style,
She said, that fashion, to gods, is sublime;
What if high-heeled sandals make Hermes rile?
As monster birds might yet catch us in flight,
Princess throw off her clothes for diversion;
No trouble flying in the darkest night,
But to land in the midst of procession;
...So, to avert any landing drama,
...We declared she was... Lady Godiva.
poem by Reyvrex Questor Reyes
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On Some Rose Leaves Brought From The Vale Of Cashmere
Faded and pale their beauty, vanished their early bloom,
Their folded leaves emit alone a sweet though faint perfume,
But, oh! than brightest bud or flower to me are they more dear,
They come from that rose-haunted land, the bright Vale of Cashmere.
Cashmere! a spell is in that name! what dreams its sound awakes
Of roses sweet as Eden’s flowers, of minarets and lakes,
Of scenes as vaguely, strangely bright as those of fairy land,
Springing to life and loveliness ’neath some enchanter’s wand!
Cashmere! poetic in its name, its clear and brilliant skies
That seem to clothe earth, flower and wave in their own lovely dyes;
Poetic in its legend lore, and spell more dear than all,
Enshrined in poet’s inmost heart, the home of “Nourmahal.”
Yes, there oft fell her fairy feet, there shone the glances bright,
That won for her the glorious name of harem’s queen and light;
There, as she wandered ’mid its bowers, her royal love beside,
She taught him to forget all else save her, his beauteous, bride.
Cashmere! what would this heart not give to see thy favored earth,
So rich in nature’s peerless gifts, in beauty’s dazzling worth,
Rich in a name that in mine ear from childhood’s hour hath rung,
The land of which impassioned Moore with such sweet power hath sung.
Yet, were I there, oh! well I know the time would surely come
When my yearning heart would turn again to my far Canadian home,
Longing to look once more upon its wintry wastes of snow,
And the friends whose hearts throb like mine own, with friendship’s changeless glow.
poem by Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon
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Dancing Under The Pale Moonlight
I want to dance with you under the pale moonlight,
I want to see beyond the dark and embrace the light,
Under the heavens we dance in the darkness of night,
I want to dance with you under the pale moonlight,
I want to take your hand and together we can embrace the stars,
Because with you the world is ours,
I want to take your hand and hold it into mine,
I want to take you into the realm of paradise that lies inside my mind,
Together we dance in a land non relative to the dread of shortened time,
Up in the pale heavens, together in the form of stars forever we’ll shine,
In the darkness of reality I want to make u mine,
So take my hand and close your eyes as we enter the land of sublime,
Take my hand and let’s dance forever and ever,
For happiness in eternity lasts in the most the discrete endeavor,
From the burden of reality take my hand and close your and let the divide sever,
Ease your mind into mine and let’s be free forever.
poem by Kurt Kacich
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The Little HandMaiden
The King's son walks in the garden fair-
Oh, the maiden's heart is merry!
He little knows for his toil and care,
That the bride is gone and the bower is bare.
Put on garments of white, my maidens!
The sun shines bright through the casement high-
Oh, the maiden's heart is merry!
The little handmaid, with a laughing eye,
Looks down on the king's son, strolling by.
Put on garments of white, my maidens!
'He little knows that the bride is gone,
And the Earl knows little as he;
She is fled with her lover afar last night
And the King's son is left to me.'
And back to her chamber with velvety step
The little handmaid did glide,
And a gold key took from her bosom sweet,
And opened the great chests wide.
She bound her hair with a band of blue,
And a garland of lilies sweet;
And put on her delicate silken shoes,
With roses at her feet.
She clad her body in spotless white,
With a girdle as red as blood.
The glad white raiment her beauty bound,
As the sepels blind the bud.
And round and round her white neck she flung
A necklace of sapphires blue;
On one white finger of either hand
A shining ring she drew.
And down the stairway and out of the door
She glided, as soft and light,
As an airy tuft of a thistle seed
Might glide through the grasses bright.
And into the garden sweet she stole-
The little birds carolled loud-
Her beauty shone as a star might shine
In the rift of the morning cloud.
The King's son walked in the garden fair,
And the little handmaiden came,
Through the midst of a shimmer of roses red,
Like a sunbeam through a flame.
The King's son marvelled, his heart leaped up,
'And art thou my bride?' said he,
'For, North or South, I have never beheld
A lovelier maid than thee.'
'And dost thou love me?' the little maid cried,
'A fine King's son, I wis!'
And the king's son took her with both his hands,
And her ruddy lips did kiss.
And the little maid laughed till the beaded tears,
Ran down in a silver rain.
'O foolish King's son!' and she clapped her hands,
Till the gold rings rang again.
'O King's son, foolish and fooled art thou,
For a goodly game is played:
Thy bride is away with her lover last night,
And I am her little handmaid.'
And the King's son sware a great oath, said he-
Oh, the maiden's heart is merry!
'If the Earl's fair daughter a traitress be,
The little handmaid is enough for me.'
Put on garments of white, my maidens!
The King's son walks in the garden fair-
Oh, the maiden's heart is merry!
And the little handmaiden walketh there,
But the old Earl pulleth his beard for care.
Put on garments of white, my maidens!
poem by Archibald Lampman
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The Muse And The Poet
The Muse said, Let us sing a little song
Wherein no hint of wrong,
No echo of the great world need, or pain,
Shall mar the strain.
Lock fast the swinging portal of thy heart;
Keep sympathy apart.
Sing of the sunset, of the dawn, the sea;
Of any thing or nothing, so there be
No purpose to thy art.
Yea, let us make, art for Art's sake.
And sing no more unto the hearts of men,
But for the critic's pen.
With songs that are but words, sweet sounding words,
Like joyous jargon of the birds.
Tune now thy lyre, O Poet, and sing on.
Sing of
THE DAWN
The Virgin Night, all languorous with dreams
Of her belovèd Darkness, rose in fear,
Feeling the presence of another near.
Outside her curtained casement shone the gleams
Of burning orbs; and modestly she hid
Her brow and bosom with her dusky hair.
When lo! the bold intruder lurking there
Leaped through the fragile lattice, all unbid,
And half unveiled her. Then the swooning Night
Fell pale and dead, while yet her soul was white
Before that lawless Ravisher, the Light.
The Muse said, Poet, nay; thou hast not caught
My meaning. For there lurks a thought
Back of thy song.
In art, all thought is wrong.
Re-string thy lyre; and let the echoes bound
To nothing but sweet sound.
Strike now the chords
And sing of
WORDS
One day sweet Ladye Language gave to me
A little golden key.
I sat me down beside her jewel box
And turned its locks.
And oh, the wealth that lay there in my sight.
Great solitaires of words, so bright, so bright;
Words that no use can commonize; like God,
And Truth, and Love; and words of sapphire blue;
And amber words; with sunshine dripping through;
And words of that strange hue
A pearl reveals upon a wanton's hand.
Again the Muse:
Thou dost not understand;
A thought within thy song is lingering yet.
Sing but of words; all else forget, forget.
Nor let thy words convey one thought to men.
Try once again.
Down through the dusk and dew there fell a word;
Down through the dew and dusk.
And all the garments of the air it stirred
Smelled sweet as musk;
And all the little waves of air it kissed
Turned gold and amethyst.
There in the dew and dusk a heart it found;
There in the dusk and dew
The sodden silence changed to fragrant sound;
And all the world seemed new.
Upon the path that little word had trod,
There shone the smile of God.
The Muse said, Drop thy lyre.
I tire, I tire.
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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Neoptolemos
I will not be able to choose, my options extorted,
it was an entity my solitude to alter or to wean,
and it was a solitude inspiring her, one assorted,
all losses were upon my path, like Hydras, mean..
A seed from a pomegranate, a bond of valence,
to absorb her in the Under Dome a wed of Hades..
Demeter to sow in grief, a salty drops surveillance,
her throes for a daughter taken, by Sirene maids.
Nyx followed a deathly horse, Plutons ghostly canter,
and Persephone astounding, the best wane of dark,
bouquet of bluish roses, her noble smile to banter,
a mortal Adonis, his half life of death, her solemn mark..
Drum Drum, the horses hoofs, persist to elongate
our distances.. A lost perception of my souls' domain
to be with her and alertly, invade of Plutons gates
to Hades; where Cerberus seeks of my life's drains..
Was I predestined just to receive her absolute denial?
An Iliad hero of principles, my eternity's adventures,
All of my labors for Persephone glory, and my trial..
redemption of me to err in Demeter's green pastures..
poem by Giorgio Veneto
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Narcissus
A boy, Narcissus long ago lived in Greece
Perfect of body, dark hair fine as fleece
The face of an angel, no one could deny
Fair skin, large eyes as blue as the sky
A nymph for a mother, his father a god
Who ruled over all rivers, narrow 'n broad
Narcissus, loved by Apollo the most handsome of men
Would ascend Mount Olympus, to sojourn now 'n then
He dined with Zeus and with gods great and small
As demigods might at an extravagant Grand Ball
One day Narcissus sat in repose by a clear water pond
Looked down at his image and at once grew fond
Of the beauty neath him so at once he did fall
In love with himself, to the exclusion of all
Eyes only for self, this youth did briefly enjoy
But soon grew deluded and sad lonely boy
He faded, withered and would soon die
He lay on his back gazing up at the sky
Saw the form of Apollo looking down from above
A smile on his face, radiating warmth and pure love
Narcissus left his body, his spirit did rise,
No more burdened by beauty, he saw with new-eyes
Looked down at the earth so far below
Saw where he once lay, a flower did grow
A flower devoid of vanity, stately and sound
Blooming, seeding, spreading, soon to be found
By all who love beauty that speaks to one’s heart
Narcissus!
You're now of Earth’s landscape, no longer apart
poem by Ray Lucero
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In My Sky At Twilight
In my sky at twilight you are like a cloud
and your form and colour are the way I love them.
You are mine, mine, woman with sweet lips
and in your life my infinite dreams live.
The lamp of my soul dyes your feet,
the sour wine is sweeter on your lips,
oh reaper of my evening song,
how solitary dreams believe you to be mine!
You are mine, mine, I go shouting it to the afternoon's
wind, and the wind hauls on my widowed voice.
Huntress of the depth of my eyes, your plunder
stills your nocturnal regard as though it were water.
You are taken in the net of my music, my love,
and my nets of music are wide as the sky.
My soul is born on the shore of your eyes of mourning.
In your eyes of mourning the land of dreams begin.
poem by Pablo Neruda
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Beata Solitudo
What land of Silence,
Where pale stars shine
On apple-blossom
And dew-drenched vine,
Is yours and mine?
The silent valley
That we will find,
Where all the voices
Of humankind
Are left behind.
There all forgetting,
Forgotten quite,
We will repose us,
With our delight
Hid out of sight.
The world forsaken,
And out of mind
Honour and labour,
We shall not find
The stars unkind.
And men shall travail,
And laugh and weep;
But we have vistas
Of Gods asleep,
With dreams as deep.
A land of Silence,
Where pale stars shine
On apple-blossoms
And dew-drenched vine,
Be yours and mine!
poem by Ernest Christopher Dowson
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Sonnet 23
XXIII
Methought I saw my late espoused saint
Brought to me, like Alcestis, from the grave,
Whom Jove's great son to her glad husband gave,
Rescued from death by force, though pale and faint.
Mine, as whom washed from spot of child-bed taint
Purification in the Old Law did save,
And such, as yet once more I trust to have
Full sight of her in Heav'n without restraint,
Came vested all in white, pure as her mind:
Her face was veiled, yet to my fancied sight
Love, sweetness, goodness, in her person shined
So clear, as in no face with more delight.
But O, as to embrace me she inclined,
I waked, she fled, and day brought back my night.
poem by John Milton
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Sinfonia Eroica
(To Sylvia.)
My Love, my Love, it was a day in June,
A mellow, drowsy, golden afternoon;
And all the eager people thronging came
To that great hall, drawn by the magic name
Of one, a high magician, who can raise
The spirits of the past and future days,
And draw the dreams from out the secret breast,
Giving them life and shape.
I, with the rest,
Sat there athirst, atremble for the sound;
And as my aimless glances wandered round,
Far off, across the hush'd, expectant throng,
I saw your face that fac'd mine.
Clear and strong
Rush'd forth the sound, a mighty mountain stream;
Across the clust'ring heads mine eyes did seem
By subtle forces drawn, your eyes to meet.
Then you, the melody, the summer heat,
Mingled in all my blood and made it wine.
Straight I forgot the world's great woe and mine;
My spirit's murky lead grew molten fire;
Despair itself was rapture.
Ever higher,
Stronger and clearer rose the mighty strain;
Then sudden fell; then all was still again,
And I sank back, quivering as one in pain.
Brief was the pause; then, 'mid a hush profound,
Slow on the waiting air swell'd forth a sound
So wondrous sweet that each man held his breath;
A measur'd, mystic melody of death.
Then back you lean'd your head, and I could note
The upward outline of your perfect throat;
And ever, as the music smote the air,
Mine eyes from far held fast your body fair.
And in that wondrous moment seem'd to fade
My life's great woe, and grow an empty shade
Which had not been, nor was not.
And I knew
Not which was sound, and which, O Love, was you.
The Blindman
Here I stand with banners bleeding
staring into night’s dark secrets.
A world beyond the mortal kind
that has repelled its time,
where creatures from nightmares passed
gaze out to stare at me.
Here I stand my eyes awaking
to the prey of morning light.
Demons from their restless bed
rise for glory in this time,
but who will stop this wretched band
only the sight of one Blindman.
Here I stand with lies repeating
waiting for a spiritual time.
Crazed with glory’s mantle
the demons from the frightful night
begin to take their ground
until the moonlight strikes.
Here I stand still reeling
at the sound of silence bound
and there before me stands
a Blindman with eyes wide open
facing the dreaded demon band.
They stop and begin retreating.
Here I stand with voices cheering
across this empty battleground.
No more slaves to time we make
as our demons vanish back to air.
And the Blindman walks alone
seeing things for the first time round.
Here I stand with things ever greening,
no shades of darkness to dispel.
Watching an awaking dawning light
and a glow of new things growing
across the ground of darkness
where a Blindman spoke to the light,
and our perpetual demons fell.
3 September 2011
poem by David Harris
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Sonnet XLIII
The candor of the gods is in thy gaze,
The strength of Diane in thy virgin hand,
Commanding as the goddess might command,
And lead her lovers into higher ways.
Aye, the gods walk among us in these days,
Had we the docile soul to understand;
And me they visit in this joyless land,
To cheer mine exile and receive my praise.
For once, methinks, before the angels fell,
Thou, too, did follow the celestial seven
Threading in file the meads of asphodel.
And when thou comes here, lady, where I dwell,
The place is flooded with the light of heaven
And a lost music I remember well.
poem by George Santayana
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A Constant Lover Lamenteth.
SINCE fortune's wrath envieth the wealth
Wherein I reigned, by the sight
Of that, that fed mine eyes by stealth
With sour, sweet, dread, and delight ;
Let not my grief move you to moan,
For I will weep and wail alone.
Spite drave me into Boreas' reign,
Where hoary frosts the fruits do bite,
When hills were spread, and every plain
With stormy winter's mantle white ;
And yet, my dear, such was my heat,
When others froze, then did I sweat.
And now, though on the sun I drive,
Whose fervent flame all things decays ;
His beams in brightness may not strive
With light of your sweet golden rays ;
Nor from my breast his heat remove
The frozen thoughts, graven by Love.
Ne may the waves of the salt flood
Quench that your beauty set on fire ;
For though mine eyes forbear the food,
That did relieve the hot desire ;
Such as I was, such will I be ;
Your own ; what would ye more of me ?
poem by Henry Howard
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