Smorgan at the Don
Without a note of music
Or ancient ballad to recite
All throats too dry to sing
Dried of sound and spit by fear
Of lice, disease, the ring of weaponry
Without the prospect of discharge
From terror of unspeakable dark nights
Or a moment of release
From service to the deathly iron head
The logic of extinction, sacrifice
Without a golden finger for my hair
Ears shattered by tin hymns of motherhood
The comfort homilies of rabid men
Who die upon the front lines up ahead
Or cut down the deserters from behind
In every hour that passed for sleep
I saw the Volga burn, the city turned
To barren stars. His men descend
To caves, armed with what's left
Of teeth and fingers, gouging holes
Crouched inside protective smoke.
Then suddenly the earth awoke and shook.
I thought of my young distant cousin G.,
Whose fathers paid to sail the ship
Resting in his island air force base
On sheets, plied with one egg a week
The comfort of his crew, only
A one-in-three death rate
And of our enemy, Nazi in times of war
Christian between, like us, before we came
New men of sense, of international clay
Boyish at heart, whose heart itself is led
To place its thin white body on the fence
At night between the volleys, mortar rounds
Horizon flares, we write on scraps and bark
To those whose home devotions
We cannot quite embrace
Nor yet withstand, tracing despair
With what remains of one good hand
Without a book of poems, however slim
Approved or banned, the dawn approaches
With no sign or prayer
I write as if this action were the last
To be survived, clearly aware
An unsound verse could silence me
Or keep my voice alive.
poem by Frank Bana
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
Why Do I Write
I write from my sadness
I write from the madness
I write because I have something to say
I write to pass the day
I write only from the heart
I write for sometimes I am not that smart
Whatever is in head just comes out on paper (in this case a word document) , and I go with the flow
Write to let my mind go
I follow my hand to where ever it takes me
I write all the things that I can see
I write when I am happy, but not as much
I write from my heart that you can touch
I write because I’d go insane
I am driven to write quell my pain
At times I feel alone so I write what I am feeling
I write for it is self-healing
Confident not so I write it all away
I write and write to pass the day
I write to comfort my soul that cries out in the night
I write for love is always out of sight
I write so I don't have to cry any more
I write for I have no one to adore
I write so someone somewhere will hear my plea
I write for someone is out there for me
I am lost and I the clown
I write to turn my frown upside down
I write to embrace the sadness I hide inside
I write with my heart opened wide
I write to silence the ghost
I write for I’ve been let down by the one I loved the most
I write through the stormy weather
I write for I am light as a feather
I am not a writer nor am I a poet
I write for the grief I do know it
I will write until I draw my last breath
I write because I'll die a lonely death
I have to write for strangers delight
I write because I have to write
I write for my own happiness
I write to relieve my stress
I write because I have no other choice
I write as if I was writing a letter
I write because I can’t do any better
I write because I am afraid not to
I write for this is what I do
I write for I give a damn
I write just because I am
poem by Wilfred Mellers
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Scarlet Fever
I stood outside the Lucky Star
Staring at the flashing sign
It read: come on in and watch young
Scarlet's body come alive
Let her dance for you and catch your spell
You'll swear you can believe her
Be careful not to catch the scarlet fever.
So I paid my fare and walked down front
And found an empty chair
As I settled in young scarlet took the ribbons from her hair
The moves her body made while the music played
Were the likes I've never seen
And she became the envy of my dreams.
One by one her teasing movements
Brought the crowd out of their seats
And all at once young scarlet
Danced straight up in front of me
From the moment that her eyes found mine
I've never been the same
Scarlet locked another heart upon her chain.
Now I get scarlet fever every time I see her
But she's a night club teaser
Not paid to notice me
Yes, I get scarlet fever
If she knew how much I need her
She'd place her hand in my hand
And dance away with me.
She looked 25 but I was told
That she was just 16
She had a way of making a man believe
She danced for only him
As she tantalized I fantasized
And felt the sound of my heart beat
And every night I'd dream
She'd fall in love with me.
Then one night while driving in
My eyes begun to tear
'Cause the sign outside the Lucky Star
Said: scarlet isn't here
She'd left that day to find a life
Of bigger and better things
And she left behind my chain of broken dreams.
But still get scarlet fever
In my mind I still see her
Out there dancing somewhere
To another fool like me.
Yes, I get scarlet fever every time I see her
But she's a night club teaser
Not paid to notice me
Yes, I get scarlet fever
If she knew how much I need her
She'd place her hand in my hand
And dance away with me...
song performed by by Kenny Rogers
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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My home away from home
When through earth's dusty path i roam
Nightfall let me return home!
For within its four wall shall i find
Warmth and comfort of every kind!
But when worldly ventures doth beckon
That far away from home i shall finally begone
Let me paint thy face upon the canvas of my heart
And write on its page, few lines of thy sweetest part
For when the world shall curse me to hate
And every journey seems a little too late
When travel sore i find no resting place
Search among crowds and see no memorable face
Then those lines of thy sweet part i verse my poem,
Shall be my comfort, my home away from home!
©Allen
poem by Okonkwo Osamedua. Allen
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Dawning
Each morning he would take a pick-ax to the Dawn, machete strokes anchored from the Decending Sickle Moon he, like Night, would show up with blood-red streaks on his ax and hack away at carving another day from a reluctant horizon, which flattened itself away trying not give him another day, trying indeed to conceal, Light and Hope from him.
All he had had to be fought for, pick-axed from scrabble ground and each day the sweaty effort his efforts had to be breach-born into the Light from the Dark.
Till that day, pick-ax in hand, he failed.
He failed to bring even a meager dawn and he sat despondent thinking this was the end, the end of all had come to this.
Sitting at his side Despair whispered to him, 'Are you seeing that this is end? Are you willing to embrace me, kiss me on the mouth? '
Despair was beautiful and a part of him loved her so. Some many times he had lain with her, no wallowed in her arms and found comfort there.
Here she was again, at his side, telling him to lay his head in her lap, take some comfort there and once again some part him asked 'What is the use?
Depression and Despair twin sisters these two were more familiar to him than his own family who for the most part were unaware of his turmoil, his daily travals, his agonies.
And he took a deep breath ready to succumb when music came. Some one was playing music. He looked up to see the twins wide-eyed, their eyes betraying fear, and yes, Despair.
He looked around to see who was making the music when suddenly it stopped as she rose from the Pick-Ax Dawn walking, no floating toward them, a slight musical strain in the air as Despair and Depresson stared at her apparition waning in the growing light each looking from him to her, both finally saying as they left, 'We'll be near if you need us.'
She of the dawning light drew nearer and stopped twenty feet in front of him falling silent.
He said 'Who are you? '
poem by Lonnie Hicks
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Guitar And Pen
You're alone above the street somewhere
Wondering how you'll ever count out there
You can walk, you can talk, you can fight
But inside you've got something to write
In your hand you hold your only pen
Never spend your guitar or your pen
Your guitar or your pen
Your guitar or your pen
Your guitar or your pen
Your guitar or your pen
When you take up a pencil and sharpen it up
When you're kicking the fence and still nothing will budge
When the words are immobile until you sit down
Never feel they're worth keeping, they're not easily found
Then you know in some strange unexplainable way
You must really have something
Jumping, thumping, fighting, hiding away
Important to say
When you sing through the verse and you end in a scream
And you swear and you curse cos the rhyming ain't clean
But it suddenly comes after years of delay
You pick up your guitar and you can suddenly play
When your fingers are bleeding and your knuckles are white
Then you can be sure, you can open the door
Get up of the floor tonight
You have something to write
When you wanna complain there's no one can stop you
But when your music proclaims there's no one can top you
You are wearing your heart on your jumping feet
You've got a head start away from the street
But is that what you want, to be rich and be gone
Could be there's just one thing left in the end
Your guitar and your pen
When you sing to your Mum and you hum and you croon
And she says that she'd like it with more of a tune
And you smash your guitar at the end of the bed
Then you stick it together and start writing again
And you know that it won't be too long till your back -
song performed by by Who
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Tonight I can write the saddest lines
Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
Write, for example,'The night is shattered
and the blue stars shiver in the distance.'
The night wind revolves in the sky and sings.
Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.
Through nights like this one I held her in my arms
I kissed her again and again under the endless sky.
She loved me sometimes, and I loved her too.
How could one not have loved her great still eyes.
Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
To think that I do not have her. To feel that I have lost her.
To hear the immense night, still more immense without her.
And the verse falls to the soul like dew to the pasture.
What does it matter that my love could not keep her.
The night is shattered and she is not with me.
This is all. In the distance someone is singing. In the distance.
My soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.
My sight searches for her as though to go to her.
My heart looks for her, and she is not with me.
The same night whitening the same trees.
We, of that time, are no longer the same.
I no longer love her, that's certain, but how I loved her.
My voice tried to find the wind to touch her hearing.
Another's. She will be another's. Like my kisses before.
Her voide. Her bright body. Her inifinite eyes.
I no longer love her, that's certain, but maybe I love her.
Love is so short, forgetting is so long.
Because through nights like this one I held her in my arms
my sould is not satisfied that it has lost her.
Though this be the last pain that she makes me suffer
and these the last verses that I write for her.
poem by Pablo Neruda
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Just For A Moment
I want to come home and find you sleeping
Slipping under the cover
Feeling the cool cotton sheets on my skin
I hear your breathing
Then you notice my presence
Just for a moment
Molding my body to your back
Carefully not to disturb you
Skin on skin - your skin on my skin
Your warmth is invading my senses
My hand trailing lightly along your arm
Just for a moment
Setting my heart by your heartbeat
You are the one I come home to
My fingers slightly brushing the hair on your thigh
Resting on your hip
I kiss your shoulder Good Night
Just for a moment
Turning around
I feel your movement
Now you - molding your body against mine
Skin on skin
Your hand trailing lightly along my arm
Just for a moment
Intoxicated by your touch I feel you
We awake together
Letting go of our weariness
Collide, struggle, unfold, explode, release
Breathe, laugh, wind down
Until we fall to sleep - holding each other
Just for a moment
© 2011
poem by Kristina Louisa Carr
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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My Skeleton, My Rival
Interesting that I have to live with my skeleton.
It stands, prepared to emerge, and I carry it
with me—this other thing I will become at death,
and yet it keeps me erect and limber in my walk,
my rival.
What will the living see of me
if they should open my grave but my bones
that will stare at them through hollow sockets
and bared teeth.
I write this to warn my friends
not to be shocked at my changed attitude
toward them, but to be aware
that I have it in me to be someone
other than I am, and I write to ask forgiveness
that death is not wholesome for friendships,
that bones do not talk, have no quarrel with me,
do not even know I exist.
A machine called skeleton will take my place
in the minds of others when I am dead
among the living, and that machine
will make it obvious that I have died
to be identified by bones
that have no speech, no thought, no mind
to speak of having let themselves be carried
once around in me, as at my service
at the podium or as I lay beside my love
or when I held my child at birth
or embraced a friend or shook a critic's hand
or held a pen to sign a check or book
or wrote a farewell letter to a love
or held my penis at the bowl
or lay my hand upon my face at the mirror
and approved of it.
There is Ignatow, it will be said,
looking down inside the open grave.
I'll be somewhere in my poems, I think,
to be mistaken for my bones, but There's Ignatow
will be said. I say to those who persist,
just read what I have written.
I'll be there, held together by another kind
of structure, of thought and imagery,
mind and matter, love and longing, tensions
opposite, such as the skeleton requires
to stand upright, to move with speed,
to sit with confidence, my friend the skeleton
and I its friend, shielding it from harm.
poem by David Ignatow
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Do not read my poems…. [for YOU ]
Do not read my poems…
After I am dead
As a lament, a wail
An elegy, a requiem
Do not read my poems…
After I am gone
When no more I can
Hear your velvet voice.
Do not read my poems…
Alone without me
To comment along
And read with you
But, do read my poems
When I beside you lie
With my head resting
On your supporting arm
Listening to you read
In whisper, in kisses
In silence, in love
In sleep, in dream
Watching you feel
Every word I wrote
I’ll close my eyes - Love
Brush aside my hair
With your breathe
Which half veils my face
Sleepless fevered I wrote
Read me my poems
Now sing me a lullaby
Rock me to sleep
On your broad chest
Diving into your eyes
A thousand times
I am refreshed
By your smile
I’ll write on you a poem
Traced by my fingertips
To be etched in your heart
And burnt into your soul!
So, do not read my poems…
poem by Angelina Pandian
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Comfort Me
Comfort me while I'm alone.
Bring me courage that I can own.
There is no comfort while there's fear.
For fear's not gone. It's always near.
Comfort me so I may sleep.
In my slumber let me keep
dreams of peaceful times ahead,
calmness while I'm in my bed.
Comfort me, oh God of all.
Keep me still so I don't fall
into thoughts dark and bleak.
Lift my spirits while I speak
With my pen that's close to me.
Let my words be there and be
the focus of my thoughts for now.
For they're the comfort I seek, somehow.
poem by Edwina Reizer
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Nothing But Death
There are cemeteries that are lonely,
graves full of bones that do not make a sound,
the heart moving through a tunnel,
in it darkness, darkness, darkness,
like a shipwreck we die going into ourselves,
as though we were drowning inside our hearts,
as though we lived falling out of the skin into the soul.
And there are corpses,
feet made of cold and sticky clay,
death is inside the bones,
like a barking where there are no dogs,
coming out from bells somewhere, from graves somewhere,
growing in the damp air like tears of rain.
Sometimes I see alone
coffins under sail,
embarking with the pale dead, with women that have dead hair,
with bakers who are as white as angels,
and pensive young girls married to notary publics,
caskets sailing up the vertical river of the dead,
the river of dark purple,
moving upstream with sails filled out by the sound of death,
filled by the sound of death which is silence.
Death arrives among all that sound
like a shoe with no foot in it, like a suit with no man in it,
comes and knocks, using a ring with no stone in it, with no
finger in it,
comes and shouts with no mouth, with no tongue, with no
throat.
Nevertheless its steps can be heard
and its clothing makes a hushed sound, like a tree.
I'm not sure, I understand only a little, I can hardly see,
but it seems to me that its singing has the color of damp violets,
of violets that are at home in the earth,
because the face of death is green,
and the look death gives is green,
with the penetrating dampness of a violet leaf
and the somber color of embittered winter.
But death also goes through the world dressed as a broom,
lapping the floor, looking for dead bodies,
death is inside the broom,
the broom is the tongue of death looking for corpses,
it is the needle of death looking for thread.
Death is inside the folding cots:
it spends its life sleeping on the slow mattresses,
in the black blankets, and suddenly breathes out:
it blows out a mournful sound that swells the sheets,
and the beds go sailing toward a port
where death is waiting, dressed like an admiral.
Translated by Robert Bly
poem by Pablo Neruda
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Sail Into Tomorrow
(john farrar)
If a ship of dreams bid me come, would I board it?
If I had their gold in my hands, would I hoard it?
If I knew the trials I must face, would I carry on at all?
Sail into tomorrow, living day to day
Thats all I can afford to do and all Ill ever pay
Is a song to sing to thank you for making me alive
And a prayer to bring me comfort--lord help us to survive
If his pretty eyes shone my way, would I leave you?
If I wasnt sure he would stay, would I deceive you?
If I had to melt you with promises, would they stand or fall?
Sail into tomorrow, living day to day
Thats all I can afford to do and all Ill ever pay
Is a song to sing to thank you for making me alive
And a prayer to bring you comfort--lord help us to survive
If time should call me a fool, would I laugh or would I care?
Sail into tomorrow, living day to day
Thats all I can afford to do and all Ill ever pay
Is a song to sing to thank you for making me alive
And a prayer to bring you comfort--lord help us to survive
song performed by by Olivia Newton-John
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Terrible Night
In the sweetest moment
of the night,
when sleep and dreams would
relieve and encompass
conscious thoughts.
I heard a sound.
I was awaken by the sound.
The sound came from the
door and it was lighter than
the tick of the clock.
I rested on the wall.
Hugged myself with a
preambulating heart
that has refuse comfort
because of the quiet sound.
The sound came again.
This time it was rapid.
Sinking me deep in fear,
enveloping me with goose pimple.
Suddenly, the sound stopped.
I stared at the door,
awaiting my fate.
For the night is still young and
deep within i long for dawn.
I waited.
There was nothing. Every
thing was quiet, too quiet.
Except sound from my beating
heart and tickling clock.
My eyes were wide open.
I focused on the door while
my thoughts move to and fro
my past and present deeds.
Oh Lord i cry, forgive me.
Time passed by.
The cock crow, immediately
i had a staggering courage.
I walked slowly to the door,
with immerse fear, i opened it.
With great sigh, i was relieved
though i had lost my sleep.
All this while, i have been
denied a good night by my
neighbour's dog, who was
found sleeping close to my door.
poem by Enebeli Ifyprada
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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In the thought of you
In the thought of you
~
What comfort to the night
The thought of you does bring
What warmth to the heart
When I hold you imagining
The embrace of two lovers
Fully entwined in each other
Lost in a solitary look
Where two eyes are bound
How beautiful it all does seem
To ease the mind at night
I sleep with a smile in place
While I picture your company
What more could I ask
Than to be present with you
To share in a moment of time
To find a comfort in the night
Only found in the thought of you
poem by Matthew Holloway
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Tales Of A Wayside Inn : Part 2. The Musician's Tale; The Ballad of Carmilhan - IV.
And now along the horizon's edge
Mountains of cloud uprose,
Black as with forests underneath,
Above their sharp and jagged teeth
Were white as drifted snows.
Unseen behind them sank the sun,
But flushed each snowy peak
A little while with rosy light
That faded slowly from the sight
As blushes from the cheek.
Black grew the sky,--all black, all black;
The clouds were everywhere;
There was a feeling of suspense
In nature, a mysterious sense
Of terror in the air.
And all on board the Valdemar
Was still as still could be;
Save when the dismal ship-bell tolled,
As ever and anon she rolled,
And lurched into the sea.
The captain up and down the deck
Went striding to and fro;
Now watched the compass at the wheel,
Now lifted up his hand to feel
Which way the wind might blow.
And now he looked up at the sails,
And now upon the deep;
In every fibre of his frame
He felt the storm before it came,
He had no thought of sleep.
Eight bells! and suddenly abaft,
With a great rush of rain,
Making the ocean white with spume,
In darkness like the day of doom,
On came the hurricane.
The lightning flashed from cloud to cloud,
And rent the sky in two;
A jagged flame, a single jet
Of white fire, like a bayonet_
That pierced the eyeballs through.
Then all around was dark again,
And blacker than before;
But in that single flash of light
He had beheld a fearful sight,
And thought of the oath he swore.
For right ahead lay the Ship of the Dead,
The ghostly Carmilhan!
Her masts were stripped, her yards were bare,
And on her bowsprit, poised in air,
Sat the Klaboterman.
Her crew of ghosts was all on deck
Or clambering up the shrouds;
The boatswain's whistle, the captain's hail,
Were like the piping of the gale,
And thunder in the clouds.
And close behind the Carmilhan
There rose up from the sea,
As from a foundered ship of stone,
Three bare and splintered masts alone:
They were the Chimneys Three.
And onward dashed the Valdemar
And leaped into the dark;
A denser mist, a colder blast,
A little shudder, and she had passed
Right through the Phantom Bark.
She cleft in twain the shadowy hulk,
But cleft it unaware;
As when, careering to her nest,
The sea-gull severs with her breast
The unresisting air.
Again the lightning flashed; again
They saw the Carmilhan,
Whole as before in hull and spar;
But now on board of the Valdemar
Stood the Klaboterman.
And they all knew their doom was sealed;
They knew that death was near;
Some prayed who never prayed before,
And some they wept, and some they swore,
And some were mute with fear.
Then suddenly there came a shock,
And louder than wind or sea
A cry burst from the crew on deck,
As she dashed and crashed, a hopeless wreck,
Upon the Chimneys Three.
The storm and night were passed, the light
To streak the east began;
The cabin-boy, picked up at sea,
Survived the wreck, and only he,
To tell of the Carmilhan.
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Iron Cross
THEY pass, with heavy eyes and hair,
Before the Christ upon the Cross,
The Nations, stricken with their loss,
And lifting faces of despair.
What is the prayer they pray to Him,
Christ Jesus on the Iron Cross?
The Christ, neglected, dark with moss,
Whose hands are pierced, whose face is grim.
Is it forgiveness for great sin
They plead before the Iron Cross?
Or for some gift of gold or dross?
Or battle lost, that they would win?
With eyes where hate and horror meet,
They pass before the Iron Cross,
The Cross, that ancient words emboss,
Where hangs the Christ with nail-pierced feet.
His hair is fallen on his face.
His head hangs sidewise from the Cross —
The Crucified, who knows all loss,
And had on Earth no resting place.
'O world of men,' he seems to say,
'Behold me on your Iron Cross!
To me why kneel and tell your loss?
Why kneel to me and weep and pray?
'Have I not taught you to forgive?
And bade you from my Iron Cross
Believe, and bear your grief and loss,
That after death you too may live?
'You have not followed at my call!
You keep me on this Iron Cross,
And pray me keep you from all loss,
And save and comfort you withal.—
'You ask for love, and hate the more! —
You keep me on this Iron Cross!—
Restore to me my greater loss,
The brotherhood of rich and poor.'
They pass, with weary eyes and hair,
Before the Christ upon the Cross —
The Nations, wailing of their loss,
And lifting faces of despair.
poem by Madison Julius Cawein
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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I Write The Songs
Ive been alive forever,
And I wrote the very first song.
I put the words and the melodies together,
I am music,
And I write the songs.
I write the songs that make the whole world sing.
I write the songs of love and special thing s.
I write the songs that make the young girls cry.
I write the songs, I write the songs.
My home lies deep within you,
And Ive got my own place in your sole.
Now, when I look out through your eyes,
Im youg again, even though Im very old.
Chorus
Oh my music makes you dance
And gives your spirit to take a chance,
And I wrote some rock n roll so you can move.
Music fills your heart,
Well, thats a real fine place to start.
Its from me its for you,
Its from you, its from me,
Its a world wide symphony.
Chorus
I am music, and I write the songs.
song performed by by Barry Manilow
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Hand Wielding the Pen and Gun
I write poems by this hand
which helped my mother
to crush the grains in a stone mortar
by raising and hitting down with the pestle
before the grinding mills came to a nearby town.
I write poems by this hand
which got wounds swinging the hammer
to hit hard on rods to make holes into the rock
in our deep well, and filled them, with explosives
to blow off and find the burst of water.
I write poems by this hand
which drove the bulls cracking the whip
while ploughing and moving the cart
and drawing water from the well in leather sacks,
before the electrons flew through the wires to my village.
I write poems by this hand
which uprooted for wages the groundnut plants
beside the ghats from morn till dark on school holidays,
when the lack of rains shrivelled
our crops at our village.
I write poems by this hand
which made the eyes of professors wet
by scribbling short stories in my classical tongue.
I write poems by this hand
which quenched my thirst and of the kin
fetching waters from the falls in the hills
where herbs with healing powers grow.
I write poems by this hand
which feels restless to wield the gun
on seeing the coffins of our soldiers
taken to the graveyard in silence `
overwhelming with rage and fire.
---------
poem by Rajendran Muthiah
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Comfort In Sound
We fall right in and suffer the sins
Try to pull things round when the air starts to thin
We nurse regrets, restricted in our own belief
A new disease
We shake new hands, the victims of fate
We tread new ground misfortune conveys
You tear yourself apart
Wishing to be born again
A different man
(chorus)
Comfort in sound
Its all around
Ease back the strain
Come heal your pain
Comfort in sound
Its all around you now
Comfort in sound
We suffer love together as one
An empty heart with nowhere to turn
We find ourselves looking back another way
A brand new day
(chorus)
Comfort in sound
Its all around
Ease back the strain
Come heal your pain
Comfort in sound
Its all around you now - yeah
Solution gone, emotions ablaze
A life so strong just faded away
You find yourself searching for a quick release
A new belief
(chorus)
Comfort in sound
Its all around
Ease back the strain
Come heal your pain
Comfort in sound
Its all around you now
Comfort in sound
song performed by by Feeder
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Beauty of Death XIV
Part One - The Calling
Let me sleep, for my soul is intoxicated with love and
Let me rest, for my spirit has had its bounty of days and nights;
Light the candles and burn the incense around my bed, and
Scatter leaves of jasmine and roses over my body;
Embalm my hair with frankincense and sprinkle my feet with perfume,
And read what the hand of Death has written on my forehead.
Let me rest in the arms of Slumber, for my open eyes are tired;
Let the silver-stringed lyre quiver and soothe my spirit;
Weave from the harp and lute a veil around my withering heart.
Sing of the past as you behold the dawn of hope in my eyes, for
It's magic meaning is a soft bed upon which my heart rests.
Dry your tears, my friends, and raise your heads as the flowers
Raise their crowns to greet the dawn.
Look at the bride of Death standing like a column of light
Between my bed and the infinite;
Hold your breath and listen with me to the beckoning rustle of
Her white wings.
Come close and bid me farewell; touch my eyes with smiling lips.
Let the children grasp my hands with soft and rosy fingers;
Let the ages place their veined hands upon my head and bless me;
Let the virgins come close and see the shadow of God in my eyes,
And hear the echo of His will racing with my breath.
Part Two - The Ascending
I have passed a mountain peak and my soul is soaring in the
Firmament of complete and unbound freedom;
I am far, far away, my companions, and the clouds are
Hiding the hills from my eyes.
The valleys are becoming flooded with an ocean of silence, and the
Hands of oblivion are engulfing the roads and the houses;
The prairies and fields are disappearing behind a white specter
That looks like the spring cloud, yellow as the candlelight
And red as the twilight.
The songs of the waves and the hymns of the streams
Are scattered, and the voices of the throngs reduced to silence;
And I can hear naught but the music of Eternity
In exact harmony with the spirit's desires.
I am cloaked in full whiteness;
I am in comfort; I am in peace.
Part Three - The Remains
Unwrap me from this white linen shroud and clothe me
With leaves of jasmine and lilies;
Take my body from the ivory casket and let it rest
Upon pillows of orange blossoms.
Lament me not, but sing songs of youth and joy;
Shed not tears upon me, but sing of harvest and the winepress;
Utter no sigh of agony, but draw upon my face with your
Finger the symbol of Love and Joy.
Disturb not the air's tranquility with chanting and requiems,
But let your hearts sing with me the song of Eternal Life;
Mourn me not with apparel of black,
But dress in color and rejoice with me;
Talk not of my departure with sighs in your hearts; close
Your eyes and you will see me with you forevermore.
Place me upon clusters of leaves and
Carry my upon your friendly shoulders and
Walk slowly to the deserted forest.
Take me not to the crowded burying ground lest my slumber
Be disrupted by the rattling of bones and skulls.
Carry me to the cypress woods and dig my grave where violets
And poppies grow not in the other's shadow;
Let my grave be deep so that the flood will not
Carry my bones to the open valley;
Let my grace be wide, so that the twilight shadows
Will come and sit by me.
Take from me all earthly raiment and place me deep in my
Mother Earth; and place me with care upon my mother's breast.
Cover me with soft earth, and let each handful be mixed
With seeds of jasmine, lilies and myrtle; and when they
Grow above me, and thrive on my body's element they will
Breathe the fragrance of my heart into space;
And reveal even to the sun the secret of my peace;
And sail with the breeze and comfort the wayfarer.
Leave me then, friends - leave me and depart on mute feet,
As the silence walks in the deserted valley;
Leave me to God and disperse yourselves slowly, as the almond
And apple blossoms disperse under the vibration of Nisan's breeze.
Go back to the joy of your dwellings and you will find there
That which Death cannot remove from you and me.
Leave with place, for what you see here is far away in meaning
From the earthly world. Leave me.
poem by Khalil Gibran
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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