In The East
Like the wild organs of the winter storm
Is the people gloomy rage,
The purple billow of battle
Of stars leaf-stripped.
With broken brows, silvery arms
The night beckons to dying soldiers.
In the autumnal ash-tree’s shade
The ghosts of the killed are sighing.
Thorny wilderness surrounds the town.
From steps that bleeds the moon
Drives off dumbfounded women.
Wild wolves have burst through the gate.
poem by Georg Trakl
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Related quotes
On The Eastern Front
The ominous anger of masses of men
Is like the wild organ of the winter storm,
The purple surge of battle,
Leafless stars.
With broken eyebrows and silver arms
The night waves to dying soldiers.
In the shade of the ash tree of autumn
The souls of the slain are sighing.
A thorny desert surrounds the city.
The moon chases the shocked women
From the bleeding stairways.
Wild wolves have broken through the door
poem by Georg Trakl
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Dying Words Of Stonewall Jackson
"Order A. P. Hill to prepare for battle."
"Tell Major Hawks to advance the Commissary train."
"Let us cross the river and rest in the shade."
The stars of Night contain the glittering Day
And rain his glory down with sweeter grace
Upon the dark World's grand, enchanted face --
All loth to turn away.
And so the Day, about to yield his breath,
Utters the stars unto the listening Night,
To stand for burning fare-thee-wells of light
Said on the verge of death.
O hero-life that lit us like the sun!
O hero-words that glittered like the stars
And stood and shone above the gloomy wars
When the hero-life was done!
The phantoms of a battle came to dwell
I' the fitful vision of his dying eyes --
Yet even in battle-dreams, he sends supplies
To those he loved so well.
His army stands in battle-line arrayed:
His couriers fly: all's done: now God decide!
-- And not till then saw he the Other Side
Or would accept the shade.
Thou Land whose sun is gone, thy stars remain!
Still shine the words that miniature his deeds.
O thrice-beloved, where'er thy great heart bleeds,
Solace hast thou for pain!
poem by Sidney Lanier
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The autumnal princess...
One step further to the winter
Two steps further to the spring
The autumnal princess danced
On the silvery feathered wind
Like a lotus flower of pearl
She coverts the sleepy world
And soothes the mirrored stars
In reflective blue stone hearts
By piecing snowdrops of pearl
The oracle amethyst of her eye
Divides a world of brittle pleasure
An autumnal garden of treasure;
That within her lips of autumns gold
-is wrought to rest the woodlands fold
And on her pallid breast that humbles not
Shall be tarried a harvest moon forgot.
poem by Mark Heathcote
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Heart
The wild heart grew white in the forest;
Dark anxiety
Of death, as when the gold
Died in the grey cloud.
An evening in November.
A crowd of needy women stood at the bare gate
Of the slaughterhouse;
Rotten meat and guts fell
Into every basket;
Horrible food.
The blue dove of the evening
Brought no forgiveness.
The dark cry of trumpets
Tr a v e l l e d i n t h e golden branches
Of the soaked elms,
A frayed flag
Smoking with blood,
To w h i c h a m a n l i s t e n s
In wild despair.
All your days of nobility, buried
In that red evening!
Out of the dark entrance hall
The golden shape
Of the young girl steps
Surrounded by the pale moon,
The prince’s court of autumn,
Black fir trees broken
In the night’s storm,
The steep fortress.
O heart
Glittering above in the snowy cold
poem by Georg Trakl
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on that sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
poem by Dylan Thomas
Submitted by Dan Costinaş
Vote! | Copy! | In Romanian
Between me and the Silvery Moon
In between me
and the silvery moon
There is my dreams of you
For whom I swoon
The stars and the moon
They whisper at night
As we embrace each other
Beneath their silvery light
They watch as we dance
Our eyes in a silvery gaze
The stars twinkle to the moon
Lost in a romantic haze
All my dreams come true
When for you I swoon
In between me
and the silvery moon
poem by Priya Patel
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Ghosts
Some ghosts are women,
neither abstract nor pale,
their breasts as limp as killed fish.
Not witches, but ghosts
who come, moving their useless arms
like forsaken servants.
Not all ghosts are women,
I have seen others;
fat, white-bellied men,
wearing their genitals like old rags.
Not devils, but ghosts.
This one thumps barefoot, lurching
above my bed.
But that isn't all.
Some ghosts are children.
Not angels, but ghosts;
curling like pink tea cups
on any pillow, or kicking,
showing their innocent bottoms, wailing
for Lucifer.
poem by Anne Sexton
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Wild Child
im a wild child
thats what they say
im a wild child
till my dying day
im a wild child
and you wont regret
cuz ill bring a party
that youll never forget
they say that im crazy
that ill never calm down
so you better watch out
when i come to your town
dont listen dont care
you cant controle me
if you know whats good for you
just let me be
cuz im a wild child
thats what they say
im a wild child
till my dying day
im a wild child
and im neva gonna change
im an uncontrolable beast
that you just cant cage
when i was younger they used to
lock me in my room
hoping and praying
that ill calm down soon
they dont understand
that im neva gona stop
i just broke free
somone call a cop
cuz im a wild child
thats what they say
im a wild child
till my dying day
im a wild child
im hell on wheels
dont diss it dont play
till you know how it feels!
poem by Helena Dombrowski
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Tree
The weathered tree stripped bare
broken branches hang still
as though to scar its nature
no birds nest here any more
a thing of beauty has passed
into a beauty of another kind
colourless in the backdropp of sky
roots rise and fall into the ground
etchings of forgotten loves
remain as eternal memories
no lovers shade here now
the tree stands as though defiant
unwilling to relinquish to time
that which grew so tall
not dead, perhaps dying
stripped and broken it stands
the weathered tree
a work of life's true beauty
poem by Matthew Holloway
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
By the Pool of the Third Rosses
I heard the sighing of the reed
In the grey pool in the green land,
The sea-wind in the long reeds sighing
Between the green hill and the sand.
I heard the sighing of the reeds
Day after day, night after night;
I heard the whirring wild ducks flying,
I saw the sea-gull's wheeling flight.
I heard the sighing of the reeds
Night after night, day after day,
And I forgot old age, and dying,
And youth that loves, and love's decay.
I heard the sighing of the reeds
At noontide and at evening,
And some old dream I had forgotten
I seemed to be remembering.
I hear the sighing of the reeds:
Is it in vain, is it in vain
That some old peace I had forgotten
Is crying to come back again?
poem by Arthur Symons
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Bad Boys
(coverdale/sykes)
I know you, you know me
Im the black sheep of the family,
Im in an out of trouble
Im the talk of the town
I get wild in the street
When the sun goes down
I steal around, like a thief in the night
Dancing til the break of day
Bad boys,
Running undercover of moonlight
Bad, bad boys,
Getting wild in the street,
Wild in the city
I see you, you see me
Just a black street boy in society
With high-heeled women full of champagne an lies,
Getting wild in the street
til the hot sunrise
Stealing round like a thief in the night
Dancing til the break of day
Bad boys,
Running undercover of moonlight
Bad, bad boys,
Getting wild in the street,
Wild in the city,
Wild in the city,
Wild in the city
Bad, bad boys,
Running undercover of moonlight
Bad, bad boys,
Getting wild in the street,
Wild in the city
I know you, you know me
Im the black sheep of the family,
Im in an out of trouble
Im the talk of the town
I get wild in the street
When the sun goes down
I dont care what the people think,
I cant hear what the people say,
I steal around like a thief in the night
Dancing til the break of day
Bad, bad boys,
Running undercover of moonlight
Bad, bad boys,
Getting wild in the street,
Bad, bad, bad boys,
Running undercover of moonlight
Bad, bad boys,
Getting wild in the street,
Wild in the city
Undercover of moonlight...
song performed by by Whitesnake
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Safe
Wild wintry wind, storm through the night,
Dash the black clouds against the sky,
Hiss through the billows seething white,
Fling the rock-surf in spray on high.
Hurl the high seas on harbour bars,
Madden them with thy havock-shriek
Against the crimson beacon-stars --
Thy rage no more can make me weak.
The ship rides safely in the bay,
The ship that held my hope in her --
Whirl on, wild wind, in thy wild fray,
We hear our whispers through the stir.
poem by Augusta Davies Webster
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Purple Sage
Purple sage is a beautiful thing,
Flowering in violet,
In winter or spring.
The leaves vary from silver to green,
It grows wild in Texas,
Of the wild it's the king.
Flowers are white, purple, or pink,
But only the purple,
Makes you mind stop and think.
Songs and stories, have come down through time,
Of the purple sage,
In it's inhospitable climes.
If your'e ever in Texas, come check it out,
Cause the purple sage,
Is what Texas is about.
11/15/10 Alton Texas
poem by Juan Olivarez
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Tears
Tears! tears! tears!
In the night, in solitude, tears;
On the white shore dripping, dripping, suck'd in by the sand;
Tears--not a star shining--all dark and desolate;
Moist tears from the eyes of a muffled head:
--O who is that ghost?--that form in the dark, with tears?
What shapeless lump is that, bent, crouch'd there on the sand?
Streaming tears--sobbing tears--throes, choked with wild cries;
O storm, embodied, rising, careering, with swift steps along the
beach;
O wild and dismal night storm, with wind! O belching and
desperate! 10
O shade, so sedate and decorous by day, with calm countenance and
regulated pace;
But away, at night, as you fly, none looking--O then the unloosen'd
ocean,
Of tears! tears! tears!
poem by Walt Whitman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
I Go Wild
You whipped me I'm hurting
Abused me for certain
And slavery should not exist
Is this what I get a poison kiss
Without you I'm dead meat
I'm a raggedy dog dying in the street
Of a God-forsaken shanty town
Where gangs of children are hunted down
I go wild when you're in my face
I go wild when I taste your taste
I go wild and I go insane
I get sick--somebody stop this pain
You left me I'm braindead
I'm feeling nothing strapped to my bed
On life support tubes in my nose
Tubes in my arms shot full of holes
I go wild act like a goat
And I get sick
song performed by by Rolling Stones from Voodoo Lounge
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Grey Wolves Grey
The Russian march is soft and slow,
Through dust and heat, or slush and snow,
When the Russian skies hang grey and low
To the frontiers far where the Russians go;
And they march to-night and they march to-day
Like the grey wolves grey, like the grey wolves grey.
Nor song nor sound their track reveals,
Save the ceaseless “clock” of the waggon wheels;
But a rift in the mist shows a glint of sun
On the long, dark shape of a toiling gun;
And they strain by night and they drag by day
To a distant goal, like the grey wolves grey.
As the horses toil at the ends of trains,
And the ends of roads on the Blacksoil Plains.
And Ivan digs in the frozen clay,
And he rolls the logs a bed to lay
For a gun that’s five hundred miles away,
But as sure to come as the grey wolves grey.
He is marching on with a purpose grand,
For brother Slav in another land;
Whose tongue, perchance, he cannot understand.—
But he knows the cry from the far-away,
And he smells the blood like the grey wolves grey.
And Ivan’s wife in her den at home,
While hunger looms and his lean wolves come—
With her grey-black bread like the Darling mud,
And her tea-bricks bound with the bullock’s blood—
She shields her cubs by night and day
Like the crouching sluts of the grey wolves grey.
And I march with Ivan where’er he be,
With the foreign blood that is strong in me,
And the love and the hate that is fantasy,
Like the ghosts of a father’s memory.
With the blood that is strange to us to-day
As the strange wild blood of the grey wolves grey.
Grey wolves,
Grey wolves—
The strange wild blood of the grey wolves grey.
poem by Henry Lawson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
His Song
it is natural that he can be mistaken
as the mad man
at noon he demands that all street lights
be switched on
he says the town is as dark as the night
without the stars and the moon
he proclaims that God is killed by
all these self-righteous people of his town
that God is crucified again and that there
is no Veronica who wipes the blood
from his brow
his song is the song of doubt
he says it is the only certain thing
there is only Nothing
and Nietzche is coming over to strengthen
those that never killed him
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Four little giraffes
Four little giraffes
Stare at a broken hinge
A broken hinge in the door
They sat and pondered
How were they going to fix that hinge?
That broken hinge which was in the door
They were no bob the builder
But surely they could fix it just as well
They hammered and they wrenched
All day and all night long
And with hooves wiping sweat off from brows
And purple tongues slurping up some water by the gallon
Soon that broken hinge was no longer a broken hinge
Yes indeed
They surely weren’t bob the builder
But they sure were one thing
Great hooves for feet, purple tongued hard workers
poem by Storm Pedersen
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Nocturnal Lament
The night has risen over the rumpled forehead
With beautiful stars
By the hill, where you lay petrified by pain,
A wild animal in the garden rankled your heart.
A fiery angel,
You lie with broken breast on stony field,
Or in the forest a nocturnal bird's
Unending lament
Always repeating in thorny night branches.
poem by Georg Trakl
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Temagami
Far in the grim Northwest beyond the lines
That turn the rivers eastward to the sea,
Set with a thousand islands, crowned with pines,
Lies the deep water, wild Temagami:
Wild for the hunter's roving, and the use
Of trappers in its dark and trackless vales,
Wild with the trampling of the giant moose,
And the weird magic of old Indian tales.
All day with steady paddles toward the west
Our heavy-laden long canoe we pressed:
All day we saw the thunder-travelled sky
Purpled with storm in many a trailing tress,
And saw at eve the broken sunset die
In crimson on the silent wilderness.
poem by Archibald Lampman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!