En.Citatepedia^®.ro

The Dark Valley

n pines a migration of crows flutters away

And green evening fogs rise

And like in dream a sound of violins

And maids run to the dance in the inn.

One hears laughter and shouts of drunkards,

A shower goes through old yews.

In deathly pale window panes

The shadows of the dancers scurry past.

It smells of wine and thyme

And lonely calling resounds through the forest.

The beggars listen on the steps

And begin to pray senselessly.

A deer bleeds to death in the hazel bushes.

Dully gigantic tree arcades sway,

Overloaded by icy clouds.

Lovers rest embraced by the pond.

poem by Georg Trakl
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

In the Evening

A blue brook, path and evening along decayed huts.

Behind dark shrubbery children play with blue and red balls;

Some swap the forehead and the hands rot in the brown foliage.

In bony stillness the heart of the lonely one shines,

A small boat rocks on blackish waters.

Through dark woods hair and laughter of brown maids flutters.

The shadows of the old people cross the flight of a small bird;

Mystery of blue flowers on their temples.

Others sway on black benches in the evening wind.

Golden sighs quietly expire in the bleak branches

Of the chestnut; a sound of dark cymbals of summer,

When the strangeress appears on the decayed staircase.

poem by Georg Trakl
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Night Song

Summer
Not a bit of breeze
Neon signs are shining
Through the tired trees
Lovers
Walking to and fro
Every one has someon
And a place to go
Listen
Hear the clouds go past
They don't even see me
Flying by so fast
Moving
Going who knows where
Only thing I know is
I'm not going there
Where do you go
When you feel that your brain is on fire?
Where do you go
When you don't even know what it is you desire
Listen
Laughter everywhere
Hear it
Life is in the air
And night comes
And the town awakes
Sound of children calling
And the squeal of brakes
Music
By the lonely sung
When you can't help wondering
Where do I belong?

song performed by by Nina Simone
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!

The House Of Dust: Part 02: 05: Retrospect

Round white clouds roll slowly above the housetops,
Over the clear red roofs they flow and pass.
A flock of pigeons rises with blue wings flashing,
Rises with whistle of wings, hovers an instant,
And settles slowly again on the tarnished grass.

And one old man looks down from a dusty window
And sees the pigeons circling about the fountain
And desires once more to walk among those trees.
Lovers walk in the noontime by that fountain.
Pigeons dip their beaks to drink from the water.
And soon the pond must freeze.

The light wind blows to his ears a sound of laughter,
Young men shuffle their feet, loaf in the sunlight;
A girl's laugh rings like a silver bell.
But clearer than all these sounds is a sound he hears
More in his secret heart than in his ears,—
A hammer's steady crescendo, like a knell.
He hears the snarl of pineboards under the plane,
The rhythmic saw, and then the hammer again,—
Playing with delicate strokes that sombre scale . . .
And the fountain dwindles, the sunlight seems to pale.

Time is a dream, he thinks, a destroying dream;
It lays great cities in dust, it fills the seas;
It covers the face of beauty, and tumbles walls.
Where was the woman he loved? Where was his youth?
Where was the dream that burned his brain like fire?
Even a dream grows grey at last and falls.

He opened his book once more, beside the window,
And read the printed words upon that page.
The sunlight touched his hand; his eyes moved slowly,
The quiet words enchanted time and age.

'Death is never an ending, death is a change;
Death is beautiful, for death is strange;
Death is one dream out of another flowing;
Death is a chorded music, softly going
By sweet transition from key to richer key.
Death is a meeting place of sea and sea.'

poem by Conrad Potter Aiken
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Counterpoint: Two Rooms

He, in the room above, grown old and tired;
She, in the room below, his floor her ceiling,
Pursue their separate dreams. He turns his light,
And throws himself on the bed, face down, in laughter.
She, by the window, smiles at a starlight night.

His watch—the same he has heard these cycles of ages—
Wearily chimes at seconds beneath his pillow.
The clock upon her mantelpiece strikes nine.
The night wears on. She hears dull steps above her.
The world whirs on. New stars come up to shine.

His youth—far off—he sees it brightly walking
In a golden cloud .... wings flashing about it....
Darkness
Walls it around with dripping enormous walls.
Old age, far off—or death—what do they matter?
Down the smooth purple night a streaked star falls.

She hears slow steps in the street; they chime like music,
They climb to her heart, they break and flower in beauty,
Along her veins they glisten and ring and burn.
He hears his own slow steps tread down to silence.
Far off they pass. He knows they will never return.

Far off, on a smooth dark road, he hears them faintly.
The road, like a sombre river, quietly flowing,
Moves among murmurous walls. A deeper breath
Swells them to sound: he hears his steps more clearly.
And death seems nearer to him; or he to death.

What's death?—she smiles. The cool stone hurts her elbow,
The last few raindrops gather and fall from elm-boughs,
She sees them glisten and break. The arc-lamp sings,
The new leaves dip in the warm wet air and fragrance,
A sparrbw whirs to the eaves and shakes its wings.

What's death—what's death ? The spring returns like music ;
The trees are like dark lovers who dream in starlight;
The soft grey clouds go over the stars like dreams.
The cool stone wounds her arms to pain, to pleasure.
Under the lamp a circle of wet street gleams.
And death seems far away—a thing of roses,
A golden portal where golden music closes,
Death seems far away;
And spring returns, the countless singing of lovers,
And spring returns to stay....

He, in the room above, grown old and tired,
Flings himself on the bed, face down, in laughter,
And clenches his hands, and remembers, and desires to die.
And she, by the window, smiles at a night of starlight....
The soft grey clouds go slowly across the sky.

poem by Conrad Potter Aiken
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Meet Me in the Green Glen

Love, meet me in the green glen,
Beside the tall elm-tree,
Where the sweetbriar smells so sweet agen;
There come with me.
Meet me in the green glen.

Meet me at the sunset
Down in the green glen,
Where we've often met
By hawthorn-tree and foxes' den,
Meet me in the green glen.

Meet me in the green glen,
By sweetbriar bushes there;
Meet me by your own sen,
Where the wild thyme blossoms fair.
Meet me in the green glen.

Meet me by the sweetbriar,
By the mole-hill swelling there;
When the west glows like a fire
God's crimson bed is there.
Meet me in the green glen.

poem by John Clare
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

The House Of Dust: Part 04: 04: Counterpoint: Two Rooms

He, in the room above, grown old and tired,
She, in the room below—his floor her ceiling—
Pursue their separate dreams. He turns his light,
And throws himself on the bed, face down, in laughter. . . .
She, by the window, smiles at a starlight night,

His watch—the same he has heard these cycles of ages—
Wearily chimes at seconds beneath his pillow.
The clock, upon her mantelpiece, strikes nine.
The night wears on. She hears dull steps above her.
The world whirs on. . . .New stars come up to shine.

His youth—far off—he sees it brightly walking
In a golden cloud. . . .Wings flashing about it. . . . Darkness
Walls it around with dripping enormous walls.
Old age—far off—her death—what do they matter?
Down the smooth purple night a streaked star falls.

She hears slow steps in the street—they chime like music;
They climb to her heart, they break and flower in beauty,
Along her veins they glisten and ring and burn. . . .
He hears his own slow steps tread down to silence.
Far off they pass. He knows they will never return.

Far off—on a smooth dark road—he hears them faintly.
The road, like a sombre river, quietly flowing,
Moves among murmurous walls. A deeper breath
Swells them to sound: he hears his steps more clearly.
And death seems nearer to him: or he to death.

What's death?—She smiles. The cool stone hurts her elbows.
The last of the rain-drops gather and fall from elm-boughs,
She sees them glisten and break. The arc-lamp sings,
The new leaves dip in the warm wet air and fragrance.
A sparrow whirs to the eaves, and shakes his wings.

What's death—what's death? The spring returns like music,
The trees are like dark lovers who dream in starlight,
The soft grey clouds go over the stars like dreams.
The cool stone wounds her arms to pain, to pleasure.
Under the lamp a circle of wet street gleams. . . .
And death seems far away, a thing of roses,
A golden portal, where golden music closes,
Death seems far away:
And spring returns, the countless singing of lovers,
And spring returns to stay. . . .

He, in the room above, grown old and tired,
Flings himself on the bed, face down, in laughter,
And clenches his hands, and remembers, and desires to die.
And she, by the window, smiles at a night of starlight.
. . . The soft grey clouds go slowly across the sky.

poem by Conrad Potter Aiken
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

To Angela (2nd Version)

1

A lonely destiny in abandoned rooms.

A soft insanity gropes on wallpapers,

On windows, reddish beds of geraniums,

Daffodils also and more chaste in wasting away

As alabaster which gleams in the garden.

In blue veils India 's mornings smile.

Their sweet incense scares away the stranger's worries,

Sleepless night by the pond because of Angela.

His pain rests hidden in an empty mask,

Thoughts which steal away blackly in the darkness.

The thrushes laugh all around from soft throats.

2

In the crossway surrounded by spiky grass

The mowers crouch tiredly and drunk with poppy,

The sky has sunk very heavy on them,

The milk and desolation of long midday bells.

And sometimes crows flutter up in the rye.

With fruit and horrors the hot earth grows.

In golden brilliance, o childish gesture

Of lust and its hyacinthine silence,

When bread and wine nurtured by the flesh of the earth

Show Sebastian in dream their spirituality.

Angela's spirit belongs to gentle clouds.

3

The fruits which round red in branches,

The angel's lips which show her sweetness,

Like nymphs who bend over springs

In restful viewing for long hours,

The green-gold, long hours of the afternoon.

However, sometimes the spirit returns to fight and game.

In golden clouds a battle melee of flies

Surges over putrefaction and abscesses.

A demon ponders thunderstorms in the sultriness,

In the grave's shadow of sad cypresses.

Then the first lightning falls from black flues.

4

The willow-copses' whisper in the evening;

A rain resounds in flute sounds.

Motionless birds hang in the evening!

And here Angela's rest in the dim branches;

The poet is this beauty's priest.

Painful pondering in the dark coolness.

Balmy puddles scent with poppy and incense

By the edge of the forest and gloom's shadow

Angela's joy and the games of the stars

The night embraces the languishing of lovers.

The edge of the forest and gloom's shadow.

poem by Georg Trakl
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Never I leave you in Pain

hustle get me sad
pondering a voice form the echo of a
distance level of dream, wild bird shout for laughter
until the sound of the wind blow
knock down the pillow
of tears in the
bedside step i fall

rise dear soul your gone yet!
capture of the past
journey, felt the thundering pond of joy,
thou nothing sip the crystal whisperer
of your pray in the nightfall
that calm down the angry
sea

raise upon the stargazer
as the stream of the heart beacon
the sounding cymbals of the
angels of the oracle of
dream you wish, stand passive
the fall great the meaning
of survive

hail on the clouds that never cried
wondering the wisdom of time
of the lasting echo of the past,
i pray... Farewell dear flesh

poem by Antonio Liao
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

To Johnanna

Often I hear your steps

Ring through the alley.

In the small brown garden

The blueness of your shadow.

In the dawning bower

I sat in silence with the wine.

A dropp of blood

Sank from your temple

Into the singing glass

Hour of unending gloom.

From stars a snowy wind

Blows through the foliage.

Any death, the night

The pale man suffers.

Your purple mouth

Dwells a wound in me.

As if I came from the green

Fir hills and legends

Of our homeland,

Which we long forgot -

Who are we? Blue lament

Of a mossy forest spring,

Where the violets

Secretly scent in spring.

A peaceful village in summer

Once sheltered the childhood

Of our race,

Dying off now at the evening-

Hill the white grandchildren

We dream the terror

Of our nightly blood

Shadows in stony city.

poem by Georg Trakl
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Untitled: The Blue Night

The blue night has softly risen on our foreheads.

Quietly our putrid hands touch

Sweet bride!

Our countenance became pale, moony pearls

Melted in green pond-ground.

Petrified ones, we contemplate our stars.

O painful! Culprits wander in the garden

The shadows in wild embrace,

So that tree and animal sank about them in immense anger.

Soft harmonies, when we ride

through the still night in crystalline waves

A rosy angel steps from the graves of the lovers.

poem by Georg Trakl
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Empty Spaces

In a room long left vacant, he sits at the window looking out, cobwebs adorn the room like Christmas decorations. The window glass dirty from neglect.
In his reverie he hears the joy now past, sounds of fun and laughter. Long gone but not forgotten.
A movement in the corner of his eye, a glimpse of a reflection in the window pane, but he learnt long ago not to focus on them as they would vanish.
Darkness falls and the moon rises over the garden and casts it glow on her face, she has returned to him again this evening to bestow her smile on him, her lips move, no sound, but words perfect, fall upon his ears.
Without him turning she stands beside him, slips her hand in his, just to let him know.

poem by Robert Green
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Silence

Over the forests the moon

Gleams pale, makes us dream,

The willow by the dark pond

Weeps soundlessly in the night.

A heart extinguishes - and placidly

The fogs flood and rise -

Silence, silence!

poem by Georg Trakl
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Dream Variations

To fling my arms wide
In some place of the sun,
To whirl and to dance
Till the white day is done.
Then rest at cool evening
Beneath a tall tree
While night comes on gently,
Dark like me-
That is my dream!

To fling my arms wide
In the face of the sun,
Dance! Whirl! Whirl!
Till the quick day is done.
Rest at pale evening...
A tall, slim tree...
Night coming tenderly
Black like me.

poem by Langston Hughes
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Appreciative Audience.

Soft moonlight filters through the trees
Which seem to dance to melodies
Created by the gentle breeze.

The shadows on the ground dance too
Or to my eyes they appear to
Disintegrate then form anew.

Sometimes the clouds blot out the light
The shadows gain a brief respite.
Rejoin the darkness of the night.

But clouds move on and when they do
And once again moonlight shows through.
The trees will dance, the shadows too.

The sun will rise to start the day.
The dancing shadows hide away
But where they hide no man can say.

The sun completes his daily quest.
Journeying from east to west.
Then sinks below the sea to rest.

The moon will rise she rules the night
Then once again to my delight
She bathes the trees in silver light.

The melodies played by the breeze
Will re awake the sleeping trees.
To dance again with practiced ease.

Beneath the trees reluctantly
the shadows still dance gracefully.
I watch in silence gratefully.

I know they do not dance for me
And I am privileged to see
The shadows dance under the trees.

Friday,23 September 2011
http: // blog.myspace.com/poeticpiers

poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Summer Sonata

Rotten fruits smell stunning.

Bushes and trees sound sunnily,

Swarms of black flies sing

On the brown forest glade.

In the pool's deep blueness

The light of weed-fires blazes.

Hear sudden love cries whirring

From yellow flower walls.

Butterflies chase themselves for a long time;

Drunkenly my shadow dances

On sultry meadows of thyme.

Brightly ecstacized blackbirds trill.

Clouds show stiff breasts,

And wreathed by foliage and berries

Under dark pines you see

A skeleton play the violin grinning.

poem by Georg Trakl
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

The Ballroom-A Pantoum

'And gilded couples all in whirling trance
Follow holiday revel begun long since.'
-Sylvia Plath, 'Cinderella'

The orchestra begins a new melody.
The crystal chandelier dims; red velvet curtains part.
Guests sip white wine and champagne, and
scores of couples begin to dance.

The crystal chandelier dims; red velvet curtains part
as the violins and cellos play their song.
Scores of couples begin to dance:
Men in tuxedoes, and ladies in scarlet gowns.

As the violins and cellos play their song,
dancers twirl on the white marble floor.
Men in tuxedoes and ladies in scarlet gowns
fill the grand palace hall with applause.

Dancers twirl on the white marble floor;
guests sip white wine and champagne and
fill the grand palace hall with applause.
The orchestra begins a new melody.

poem by Kimberly Kastner
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

He Mourns For The Change That Has Come Upon Him And His Beloved, And Longs For The End Of The World

DO you not hear me calling, white deer with no horns?
I have been changed to a hound with one red ear;
I have been in the Path of Stones and the Wood of Thorns,
For somebody hid hatred and hope and desire and fear
Under my feet that they follow you night and day.
A man with a hazel wand came without sound;
He changed me suddenly; I was looking another way;
And now my calling is but the calling of a hound;
And Time and Birth and Change are hurrying by.
I would that the Boar without bristles had come from the West
And had rooted the sun and moon and stars out of the sky
And lay in the darkness, grunting, and turning to his rest.

poem by William Butler Yeats
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Moon And Stars Above

A candle flickers
as the night breeze descends
casting shadows on the wall
of things we never saw.
They dance to the gentle rhythm
created by the breeze
as the clouds of evening
begin to gather in the sky.
Young lovers walk under
the moon and stars above
to kiss and cuddle in profusion
under the nearest tree.
Slowly night closes in
as the night chorus serenade
the young lovers
under the moon and stars above.
All too soon, they are parted
as night turns into day
and they have to wait again
until the night chorus signal
another close of day.

6 September 2008

poem by David Harris
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

In Wine Country

The sun paints courtyard and walls with autumn,

The fruit stacked in heaps all around,

Before them poor children cower.

A gust thins out old linden-trees.

Through the gate a golden shower rains

And the women blessed with child

Tiredly rest on rotten benches.

Drunkards swing glasses and jugs.

A hoodlum lets his fiddle sound

And smocks swell lustfully in the dance.

Roughly brown bodies embrace.

From windows empty eyes gaze.

Stench rises from the fountain's mirror.

And black, decayed, departed

The hills of vines dusk all around.

A migration of birds glides swiftly southwards.

poem by Georg Trakl
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Violins of Major D

Summer wine after the sighing rains
Soothed by Brahms
Hear the song of the cardinals
Night gleans shadows from the pines
Lend your heart to the voice of praise
Forward into what the almighty already knows
I see enough from my past to feel love
My life is still a miracle
The violins of major D benevolent with grace

poem by Joseph Narusiewicz
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!