Childhood Memory
The sun shines alone in the afternoon,
And quietly the tone of the honey-bees wavers off.
In the garden the sisters' voices whisper -
There the boy listens in the wooden shed,
Still fevering over book and picture.
Weary the linden-trees wilt immersed in the blue.
A heron hangs motionless drowned in the ether,
By the fence fantastic shadow-shapes play.
The sisters go quietly into the house,
And soon their white clothes glimmer
Vaguely from bright rooms,
And confused the bushes' bluster dies down.
The boy strokes the cat's hair,
Bewitched by the mirror of her eyes.
An organ-sound far away on the hill
Lifts wonderfully into heaven.
poem by Georg Trakl
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Related quotes
On the Edge of an Old Well
Dark interpretation of the water: broken forehead in the mouth of the night,
The boy's bluish shadow sighing in black pillows,
The rustling of the maple, steps in the old park,
Chamber concerts which fade on a spiral staircase,
Perhaps a moon which quietly climbs the steps.
The gentle voices of the nuns in the decayed church,
A blue tabernacle which slowly opens,
Stars which fall on your bony hands,
Perhaps a walk through abandoned rooms,
The blue tone of the flute in the hazel bushes - very quietly.
poem by Georg Trakl
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An enviromental Poem
In your garden, in your house
Tip-toe quietly like a mouse.
You never know what you might find
A squirrel, a dog, or an animal of a different kind!
Out in the bushes, behind the trees
Get down quietly on your knees.
You might see an ant going back to its nest,
Or maybe a robin with its bright red breast.
In the greenhouse where lots of things grow
There are more than just plants in there, you know!
If you look closely you will see lots of things,
Maybe a ladybird with its transparent wings!
In your garden, in your house
Tip-toe quietly like a mouse.
You never know what you might find
A squirrel, a dog, or an animal of a different kind!
poem by Bethan Linscott
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Quietly Sad
So quietly sad
Can’t breathe
Just want to talk
To anyone who listens
So quietly sad
Knees into chest
Crocheted beanie
Hair of blue rivers
Time only reveals
Discernible truths
And covers what never was
And the end will be what is
So quietly sad
poem by Marijke McKinney
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I Will Wait
Behind the tomato fence
I sit as quietly as Sunday
waiting for her to come
and hum me Camelot,
where I have won a showdown
with the red wasps that stole
her ruby nectar.
But the only sound I hear
are the flirty chirps of sparrows,
and the only thing I feel
is air.
Still, I will wait
behind the tomato fence,
sitting as quietly as Sunday
for her to come
and hum me Camelot.
And when I catch sight of her
I know I'll gasp just like I always do.
She steals my heart away in chunks you see,
but she will blow me off
not even noticing I am here
worshiping her shimmer.
Still, I will wait
behind the tomato fence,
sitting as quietly as Sunday
for her to come
and hum me Camelot.
Meanwhile fragrant basil
smiles my mood,
and rosemary is drying.
There is an eye full of brightest brilliant blue,
and a crescent of white moon dying.
Here I will wait
behind the tomato fence,
sitting as quietly as Sunday
for her to come
and hum me Camelot.
poem by Sara Fielder
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Passing Through.
World
We are Armageddon bound.
Yet I
Can hear the sweetest sound.
That whisper from Heaven
Is still ringing true.
Our army must keep marching
We are just passing through.
Friends and family
We lose along the way.
Yet,
people,
Life really is the shortest play.
Look behind the cloud
For the sky of blue.
And shout it out loud
We are just passing through.
World
All your tin gods will pass.
Don't throw stones
If you live in a house of glass.
The first now
Will later be the last.
And if you think that power and money
Are the be all and end all honey.
Check your bible where love is the rule.
Bang bang the mighty fall!
Brothers ans sisters
We all have blisters
Toiling for things that will burn.
When Jesus did ascend
He left a ticket of return.
So brush the devil out of your hair
And wait for the rush
Of that fanfare.
He's booked the best rooms
For me and you.
Don't stop the world to get off
If life is black and blue.
Man, keep cruising through the bruising
Hang on until Heaven
We are all just passing through.
poem by Kevin East
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Devotion
Not lost from my young years
Is silent devotion to a sound of bells,
To all churches' dusking altars
And their blue domes heaven-wide.
To an organ's tune at evening,
To wide squares fading in darkness,
And to a fountain that splashes, softly and quietly
And sweetly, like unintelligible children's babbling.
I see myself dreaming silently, folding the hands,
And whispering prayers forgotten for a long time,
And early gloom sombering my glance.
Since a woman's picture gleams
Out of confused shapes, wreathed by sinister grief,
And pours into me the chalice of nefarious shudders.
poem by Georg Trakl
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I like blue
I like blue
and my motorbike is that colour
and some of the clothes that I wear.
If I am happy,
my eyes changes colour from grey
to bright blue.
The lavender bushes in our garden,
are rather blue
than purple to me.
When the sun sets behind the hillock
there’s a wonderful scent in the early evening air,
that comes from the blue bushes.
a Blue sky with a hot sun
can do miracles to me
and I cannot get enough of summer,
but Monday or any other day
must please stay away
from that colour.
poem by Gert Strydom
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For my sisters
The women I call sisters
Are always there
The women I call sisters
Will always care
The women I call sisters
Can make me smile when times are blue
The women I call sisters
Are always very true.
The women I call sisters
By choice, are my best of friends
The women I call sisters
Will be there with me till the world ends
The women I call sisters
Are blessings from God above
The women I call sisters
Are sisters that I'll always love.
poem by Trinette Naidoo
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Helian
In the spirit’s solitary hours
It is lovely to walk in the sun
Along the yellow walls of summer.
Quietly whisper the steps in the grass; yet always sleeps
The son of Pan in the grey marble.
At eventide on the terrace we got drunk on brown wine
The red peach glows under the foliage.
Tender sonata, joyous laughter.
Lovely is this silence of the night.
On the dark plains
We gather with shepherds and the white stars.
When autumn rises
The grove is a sight of sober clarity.
Along the red walls we loiter at ease
And the round eyes follow the flight of birds.
In the evening pale water gathers in the dregs of burial urns.
Heaven celebrates, sitting in bare branches.
In hallowed hands the yeoman carries bread and wine
And fruit ripens in the peace of a sunny chamber.
Oh how stern is the face of the beloved who have taken their passage.
Yet the soul is comforted in righteous meditation.
Overwhelming is the desolated garden‘s secrecy,
As the young novice has wreathed his brow with brown leaves,
His breath inhales icy gold.
The hands touch the antiquity of blueish water
Or in a cold night the sisters’ white cheeks.
In quiet and harmony we walk along a suite of hospitable rooms
Into solitude and the rustling of maple trees,
Where, perhaps, the thrush still sings.
Beautiful is man and emerging from the dark
He marvels as he moves his arms and legs,
And his eyes quietly roll in purple cavities.
At suppertime a stranger loses himself in November’s black destitution;
Under brittle branches he follows a wall covered under leprosy.
Once the holy brother went here,
Engrossed in the tender music of his madness.
Oh how lonely settles the evening-wind.
Dying away a man‘s head droops in the dark of the olive tree.
How shattering is the decline of a family.
This is the hour when the seer’s eyes are filled
With gold as he beholds the stars.
The evening’s descend has muffled the belfry‘s knell in silence;
Among black walls in the public place,
A dead soldier calls for a prayer.
Like a pale angel
The son enters his ancestor’s empty house.
The sisters have traveled far to the pale ancients.
At night, returned from their mournful pilgrimage,
He found them asleep under the columns of the hallway.
Oh hair stained with dung and worms
As his silver feet stepped on it
And on those who died in echoing rooms.
Oh you palms under midnight’s burning rain,
When the servants flogged those tender eyes with nettles,
The hollyhock’s early fruit
Beheld your empty grave in wonder.
Fading moons sail quietly
Over the sheets of the feverish lad,
Into the silence of winter.
At the bank of Kidron a great mind is lost in musing,
Under a tree, the tender cedar,
Stretched out under the father’s blue eyebrows,
Where a shepherd drives his flock to pastures at night.
Or there are screams which escape the sleep;
When an iron angel approaches man in the grove,
The holy man’s flesh melts over burning coals.
Purple wine climbs about the mud-cottage,
Sheaves of faded corn sing;
The buzz of bees; the crane’s flight.
In the evening the souls of the resurrected gather on rocky paths.
Lepers behold their image in dark water;
Or they lift the hemp of their dung soiled attire,
And weep to the soothing wind, as it drifts down from the rosy hill.
Slender maidens grope their way through the narrow lanes of night;
They hope for the gracious shepherd.
Tenderly, songs ring out from the huts on weekend.
Let the song pay homage to the boy,
To his madness to his white eyebrows and to his passage,
To the decaying corpse, who opened his blue eyes.
Oh how sad is this reunion.
The stairs of madness in black apartments –
The matriarch’s shadow emerged under the open door
When Helian’s soul beheld his image in a rosy mirror;
And from his brow bled snow and leprosy.
The walls extinguished the stars
And the white effigies of light.
From the carpet rise skeletons, escaping their graves,
Fallen crosses sit silent on the hill,
The night’s purple wind is sweet with frankincense.
Oh ye broken eyes over black gaping jaws,
When the grandson in the solitude
Of his tender madness muses over a darker ending,
The blue eyelids of the silent god sink upon him.
poem by Georg Trakl
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Sisters Of Avalon
Felt someone calling me into the howling of the wind.
I heard the reflection of a sound echoing through my skin...
and a distant drum rumbling under ground gently guides me on...
through my wild heart... whispering to me
the Sisters of Avalon... Sisters of Avalon... Sisters of Avalon... Sisters of Avalon
She is awakening in dark swells and mystery.
Unbridled night mares powerful and running free.
You could still hear her cries
reverberating through the trees...
for the trampled flowers
song performed by by Cyndi Lauper from Sisters Of Avalon
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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House Of Many Rooms
The sound of the clock ticking
How this old house creeps
Another storm tonight approaches
So restless I can't sleep
Dark filled big long rooms
Portrait of a lady in view
Corridor that never seems to end
From a distance I thought I seen you
House Of Many Rooms
The sound of heavy rain falling
Feelings sourround of another place
An oval mirror hangs on the wall
And there I thought I seen your face
The smell of wild flowers
A gentle breeze blows from outside
Heavy laced dark curtains
A vision of you before my eyes
House Of Many Rooms
poem by Suelynn Walters
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The Linden Avenue
A house of unimagined beauty
Is set in parkland, cool and dark;
Gates with an arch; then meadows, hillocks,
And oats and woods beyond the park.
Here, with their crowns each other hiding,
Enormous linden trees engage
In dusky, quiet celebration
Of their two hundred years of age.
And underneath their vaulted branches,
Across the regularly drawn
Symmetric avenues, grow flowers
In flower-beds upon a lawn.
Beneath the trees, on sandy pathways,
Not one bright spot relieves the dark,
Save-like an opening in a tunnel-
The distant entrance of the park.
But now the blossom-time is starting,
The walled-in linden trees reveal
And spread about within their shadow
Their irresistible appeal.
The visitors, in summer clothing,
While walking on the crunchy sand,
Breathe in unfathomable fragrance
Which only bees can understand.
This gripping scent is theme and subject,
Whereas-however well they look-
The flower-beds, the lawn, the garden,
Are but the cover of a book.
The clustered, wax-bespattered flowers
On massive trees, sedate and old,
Lit up by raindrops, burn and sparkle
Above the mansion they enfold.
poem by Boris Pasternak
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Sisters are always drying their hair. Locked into rooms, alone, they pose at the mirror, shoulders bare, trying this way and that their hair, or fly importunate down the stair to answer the telephone.
quote by Phyllis McGinley
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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My Heart... So Blue
Ive got her picture
Its there on the wall
I cant remember why
I keep it at all
The doors are cold and
All the windows seem grey
I write the book
Theres so much more I should say
Wave goodbye
See my heart...so blue
Wave goodbye
See my heart...so blue
And now its over
I write it all down
No one to notice
One less face in the crowd
Our eyes are open
When it suits us to say
Dear God in heaven
Show no mercy to me
Wave (wave) goodbye
See my heart...so blue
Wave (wave) goodbye
Lost for you
I shed no tears
And theres no reason for shame
A small consolation
Hides a stone with her name
Just a victim
Still the light shines all bright
Ive got her picture
Think Ill hold it tonight
Wave goodbye
See my heart...so blue
Wave goodbye
See my heart...so blue
Wave (wave) goodbye
See my heart...so blue
Wave (wave) goodbye
Lost for you
song performed by by Erasure
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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At Night
The wind is singing through the trees to-night,
A deep-voiced song of rushing cadences
And crashing intervals. No summer breeze
Is this, though hot July is at its height,
Gone is her gentler music; with delight
She listens to this booming like the seas,
These elemental, loud necessities
Which call to her to answer their swift might.
Above the tossing trees shines down a star,
Quietly bright; this wild, tumultuous joy
Quickens nor dims its splendour. And my mind,
O Star! is filled with your white light, from far,
So suffer me this one night to enjoy
The freedom of the onward sweeping wind.
poem by Amy Lowell
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Big Sisters Clothes
Sheep to the slaughter oh I thought this must be love
All your sons and daughters in a strangle hold with a kid glove
Shes got eyes like saucers oh you think shes a dish
She is the blue chip that belongs to the big fish
Chorus:
But its easier to say I love you,
Than yours sincerly I suppose
All little sisters like to try on big sisters clothes
Big sisters clothes
The sport of kings, the old queens heart
The prince in darkness stole some tart
And its in the papers, its in the charts
Its in the stop press before it all starts.
With a hammer on the slap and tickle under grisly garments
With all the style and finesse of the purchase of armaments
Compassion went out of fashion
Thats all your concern meant
Sweat it out for thirty seconds on home improvements
Chorus
song performed by by Elvis Costello
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Witnessing Dawn: The Beekeeper
Clouds erupt to obscure a solemn sky
No longer do I hear the buzz of bees
Today, all things on Earth awoke to die
I watch and wait amidst my ancient trees
What motive has brought this holocaust on?
Technology and time brought us no gain.
Night is soon broken by man’s violent dawn
The tempest brings with it an ashen rain
Trees and hills blossom with a bright glimmer
Creatures all over settle and grow still
The land is immersed in a dead shimmer
A foul flare of smoke rolls over my hill
My heart truly lacks time to freeze with fright
As my eyes are filled with this lethal light
poem by Philip Kirk
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Sometimes sisters
sisters can SOMETIMES be a great thing
but except when she tells me i can't sing
if you have a older sis you know...that kind of thing
Sometimes they can be cruel
they can even sometimes rule
but you know they all like to make fun of you at school
sometimes sisters can be bright
sometimes they like to turn out the light
because they know that it gives you fright
they love to play hide and seek
but when they seek
they peek
so thats the end of sisters
until they get misters
or you give them blisters!
poem by Nicole Skillings
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The Final Painting
The white cloud passed over the land
there is sea always round the land
the sky is blue always above the cloud
the cloud in the blue continues to move
- nothing is limited by the canvas or frame -
the white cloud can be pictured like any
other clouds or like a fist of wool
or a white fur rose
The white cloud passes a shadow across
the landscape and so there is a passing greyness
The grey and the white both envelop
the watcher until he too is drawn into the picture
It is all a journey from a room through a door
down stairs and out into the street
The cloud could possess the house
The watchers have a mutual confidence
with the approaching string of white clouds
It is beyond spoken words what they are
silently mouthing to the sky
There was no mystery in this - only the firm
outline of people in overcoats on a hillside
and the line of clouds above them
The sky is blue The cloud white with touches
of grey - the rest - the landscape below -
can be left to the imagination
The whole painting quietly dissolved itself
into its surrounding clouds
poem by Lee Harwood
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Summer Dawn
In the green ether suddenly a star flickers
And in the hospital they smell the morning.
The thrush trills crazily hidden in the bush
And cloister bells go dreamlike and far.
A statue towers in the square, lonely and slender
And in the courtyard red flowerbeds dawn.
The air around wooden balconies shakes with sultriness
And flies quietly reel around the stench.
The silver curtain there before the window hides
Entwined limbs, lips, tender breasts.
A hard hammering echoes from the tower scaffold
And the moon decays white in the firmament.
A ghostly dream-chord hovers away
And monks plunge from the church gates
And stride lost in the infinite.
In the sky a bright summit lifts.
poem by Georg Trakl
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