The Scions of Spring
The iron gates lay broken,
The fire bricks scattered and pitched
Where once the setting’s fierce roar
now silence.
Once while the chimneys billowed the stench and smoke of slaughter.
In the background the sounds of trains and shouting men.
Fierce dogs strained at tethers from urine stained alcoves.
While jack boots thudded on brick paved causeways,
behind the panic of bare feet and ragged breath,
the rutting continued.
like salmon swimming up the sweet stream, the rutting went on,
behind shipping crates, in mountains of excelsior, and beneath the points
of fixed bayonets, in straw heaps of barns and sheds.
Years after the grates lay frozen and the stench of the dead night
gave way to the lilt of peach blossoms, we lay on a plaid blanket together,
staring into each other’s eyes, conjuring the scions of spring,
caught in the gyre of the helix.
poem by George Murdock
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Related quotes
Hello My Old Friend
Early morning day is dawning
Cooling towers and factory gates
Dirty streets and laughing people
Skinny dogs and beer crates
Hello my old friend
Hello my old friend
Sad canals green black water
Somewhere bicycles and beds
Wet and windy afternoons
And pigeons coo in garden sheds
Hello my old friend
Hello my old friend
High-rise tower blocks with panoramic
Views of trains and coal
Tiehead railway tracks tread faithfully
The gas works to behold
Hello my old friend
Hello my old friend
Just to see the sunset
Pretty rainbows over your majestic towers
To feel your earth beneath my feet
Here I could stand for hours and hours
(young girls sing fara jacka in the background)
Big machines that once were champions
Turn to dust under the sky
Broken windows choking chimneys
Factory walls for miles and miles
By bye my old friend
By bye my old friend
Just to see the sunset
Pretty rainbows over your majestic towers
To feel your earth beneath my feet
Here I could stand for hours and hours
song performed by by Electric Light Orchestra
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Nimal
Two scions sprung among the fennels of the countryside
They bid their own welcome because fennels say little to scions
These scions were of a sturdy stock themselves
Though new compared to the old stiff necked forrest
They were wise beyond their years
The scions grew as the seasons passed
Some slender stalks bowed their heads and withered
Others rigidly weathered the storms of cloud and stream
One day in the spring the fennels of the highest stalk
Noticed a shadow of leaf and trunk across their tethers
The scions had grown rapdily as the days had passed
The scions were tall, evergreen and entwined
They would never bow their heads as the fennels
Or become uprooted by cold rivulets
They had grown intrepid and wise
Knowing that
Persistence is the mother of success
And passion is her handmaiden.
poem by George Murdock
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The Valley of Dreadful Night
He hid in the fields and hedgerows,
And skirted the towns by night,
He lay in the barns of deserted farms
To sleep, when the time was right.
He always kept one step ahead
Of the pack that would hunt him down,
And stole his food in the neighbourhood
Of the cottages, far from town!
He thought of his love, his Jenny,
And gave out a savage cry,
He'd found her lying with Jack Malone
Like a pig, in a rutting sty,
He'd plunged the dagger into the heart
Of his love, and his one delight,
Then watched the fire leach out of her eyes
To the Valley of Dreadful Night!
Malone, he'd left as a warning,
His throat slit ear to ear,
No more was the great philanderer
To bed any woman here,
He propped him up at the old crossroads,
He nailed his corpse to a tree,
And left a sign: ‘I was caught in crime,
Now look what's happened to me! '
His nights, they were black and broken
By dreams that troubled his sleep,
For Jenny would seem to be woken
From the depths of a bottomless creek,
She raged in his shallow nightmares,
What she said would leave him agape:
‘I never loved any man but you,
It was simply a case of rape! '
Then he moaned and cried in confusion,
And he wept ‘til he lay awake,
With his tear-stained face now broken,
With the loss of his heartfelt hate,
And he mourned the loss of his Jenny,
The girl with the wide, bright eyes,
And he cursed himself for a felon,
And the life that he now despised!
They found him there in the morning,
They beat, and bound him in chain,
Then dragged him off to the magistrates
As he sank in his pit of pain.
The judge put on the dread black cap
And thundered the words that he said:
‘I have no choice but to sentence you
To be hanged by the neck, ‘til dead! '
The sun, it was barely rising,
He could hear the birds from his cell,
Fluttering up in the willow tree
By the gallows, his personal hell,
They looped the rope down over his neck
And he said: ‘It's only right! '
As he crashed down into a dreamless sleep
In the Valley of Dreadful Night!
16 April 2012
poem by David Lewis Paget
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Oblivion
thunder and lightning, gunfire,
the stench of death...
we race towards oblivion,
cant feel, cant get our breath!
drum beat and shadows,
lost in the blinding heat.
dead poets and childrens' bodies,
rubble beneath our feet.
smoke fills the air-
trees fall, rivers run dry.
fighting over a loaf of bread,
and the last bowl of rice.
ghoulish gasoline prophets
ring the bell, count the cost...
old people put out on the streets,
now all is over, all is lost.
forgotten faces lost in the roar,
demons dance on unmarked graves.
the bell of freedom rains down fire,
while we hide like fugitives in caves.
and the sound of the wheels,
louder and louder till we're deaf!
we take and burn and use
till nothing good is left
and the face of our hell
is just the face of our desires.
we turn away from those around us,
while our hunger feeds the fire.
thunder and lightning, gunfire,
the stench of death.
we race towards oblivion,
cant feel, cant even get our breath!
smoke fills the air,
trees fall, rivers run dry.
fighting over a loaf of bread,
and the last bowl of rice.
and the sound of the wheels,
louder and louder till we're deaf.
we take and burn and use
till nothing good is left.
we race towards oblivion,
cant feel, cant even get our breath!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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0222 Return to the Golden Age
We are like salmon, swimming back upstream:
leaping against waterfalls that thwart,
cut and bruised; but strong; our only dream
return to source; no thought save source of thought;
and in that fight, our iron age turns to bronze,
and we to heroes, in a war of soul,
as nature seeks the nature it had once;
though wholly lost, remembering the whole.
We silver salmon, sparkling as the sun
shines on our fierce and loving enterprise:
to rear our children where the world is one;
the source remembered, nature's greatest prize.
The golden age is ageless in its gleam
and we, like salmon, swimming back upstream.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Casualty Of War
The stench of gasoline and gore
permeated the encampment.
I am a prisoner of war
And I’m held in a stinking tent
that I share with a gun toting
taliban soldier. His black eyes
staring intently and gloating
as though I were a trophy prize
whose head would soon hang on a stick
for all his turbaned insurgents
to pelt with stones and broken bricks.
I expect his malevolent
Nature to vent with certainty
which translates: it’s curtains for me!
poem by Albert Ahearn
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Steam-Launches on the Thames
Henley, June 7, 1891.
Shall we, to whom the stream by right belongs,
Who travel silent, save, perchance, for songs;
Whose track's a ripple,--leaves the Thames a lake,
Nor frights the swan--scarce makes the rushes shake;
Who harmonize, exemplify, complete
And vivify a scene already sweet:
Who travel careless on, from lock to lock,
Oblivious that the world contains a clock,
With pace commensurate to our desires,
Propelled by other force than Stygian fire's;
Shall we be driven hence to leave a place
For these, who bring upon our stream disgrace:
The rush, the roar, the stench, the smoke, the steam,
The nightmare striking through our heavenly dream;
The scream as shrill and hateful to the ear
As when a peacock vents his rage and fear;
Which churn to fury all a glassy reach,
And heave rude breakers on a pebbly beach:
Which half o'erwhelm with waves our frailer craft,
While graceless shop-boys chuckle fore and aft:
Foul water-toadstools, noisome filth-stained shapes,
Fit only to be manned by dogs and apes:
Blots upon nature: scars that mar her smile:
Obscene, obtrusive, execrable, vile?
poem by James Kenneth Stephen
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Tidings
THE darkness gripped us, hot, intense;
The sea snored like some sleeping brute;
We stood alert, with every sense
Like some leashed hound, nerve-thrilled, acute.
About us clammy dew made wet
The thin, green leaves and sleeping flowers;
Strained eyes against the night we set;
Strained ears, like open doors, were ours.
No sight! save when across the black
Broad breast of night fierce lightning tore
A ragged gash, a serpent track,
And thunder answered the sea's snore.
One sighed, and one would no more stand
At easeless rest, but drooping walked;
Then, though none spoke, one raised his hand
As if to silence tongues that talked.
We heard it! On the granite ground
It sounded nigh, and on the beach
It grew remote; upon that sound
With seeking eyes each questioned each.
Grouped close, like men of carven stone —
Chilled stone — we stood with rooted feet.
'He comes! What news?' Not hoofs alone
In that tense moment swiftly beat.
Cried one: 'Joy rides at such a pace,
Joy swift of hoof, and light as air!'
Said one — eyes sunk, and pallid face —
'So too, at times, rides dread Despair!'
We waited, vexed by dumb surmise,
Eyes wide, lips wide, tense faces white;
Ears served till ears gave place to eyes,
Sound likewise yielding unto sight.
He came with headlong speed and dash,
Fierce lightning lighting land and sea,
And in that red, revealing flash
He rose and shouted 'Victory!'
poem by Roderic Quinn
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Gillespie.
Riding at dawn, riding alone,
Gillespie left the town behind;
Before he turned by the Westward road
A horseman crossed him, staggering blind.
'The Devil's abroad in false Vellore,
The Devil that stabs by night,' he said,
'Women and children, rank and file,
Dying and dead, dying and dead.'
Without a word, without a groan,
Sudden and swift Gillespie turned,
The blood roared in his ears like fire,
Like fire the road beneath him burned.
He thundered back to Arcot gate,
He thundered up through Arcot town,
Before he thought a second thought
In the barrack yard he lighted down.
'Trumpeter, sound for the Light Dragoons,
Sound to saddle and spur,' he said;
'He that is ready may ride with me,
And he that can may ride ahead.'
Fierce and fain, fierce and fain,
Behind him went the troopers grim,
They rode as ride the Light Dragoons
But never a man could ride with him.
Their rowels ripped their horses' sides,
Their hearts were red with a deeper goad,
But ever alone before them all
Gillespie rode, Gillespie rode.
Alone he came to false Vellore,
The walls were lined, the gates were barred;
Alone he walked where the bullets bit,
And called above to the Sergeant's Guard.
'Sergeant, Sergeant, over the gate,
Where are your officers all?' he said;
Heavily came the Sergeant's voice,
'There are two living and forty dead.'
'A rope, a rope,' Gillespie cried :
They bound their belts to serve his need.
There was not a rebel behind the wall
But laid his barrel and drew his bead.
There was not a rebel among them all
But pulled his trigger and cursed his aim,
For lightly swung and rightly swung
Over the gate Gillespie came.
He dressed the line, he led the charge,
They swept the wall like a stream in spate,
And roaring over the roar they heard
The galloper guns that burst the gate.
Fierce and fain, fierce and fain,
The troopers rode the reeking flight:
The very stones remember still
The end of them that stab by night.
They've kept the tale a hundred years,
They'll keep the tale a hundred more:
Riding at dawn, riding alone,
Gillespie came to false Vellore.
poem by Sir Henry Newbolt
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The Rape Of The Mist
High o’er the clouds a Sunbeam shone,
And far down under him,
With a subtle grace that was all her own,
The Mist gleamed, fair and dim.
He looked at her with burning eyes
And longed to fall at her feet;
Of all sweet things there under the skies,
He thought her the thing most sweet.
He had wooed oft, as a Sunbeam may,
Wave, and blossom, and flower;
But never before had he felt the sway
Of a great love’s mighty power.
Tall cloud-mountains and vast space-seas,
Wind, and tempest, and fire –
What obstacles such as these
To a heart that is filled with desire?
Boldly he trod over cloud and star,
Boldly he swam through space,
She caught the glow of his eyes afar
And veiled her delicate face.
He was so strong and he was so bright,
And his breath was a breath of flame;
The Mist grew pale with a vague, strange fright,
As fond, yet fierce, he came.
Close to his heart she was clasped and kissed;
She swooned in love’s alarms,
And dead lay the beautiful pale-faced Mist
In the Sunbeam’s passionate arms.
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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The Quiet Room
By a thread, I hang, as the knell tolls.
Moribund and cacophonous,
Surrounded by angels of death, I am.
They chortle and laugh at me, as
The tragic side show carries on.
I am amongst the persecuted,
Caught in a sinister grasp-
With the clapping of thunder,
My flailing limbs, caught in a vice.
Crouched in a corner, I have lost my battle with life.
My hair, frazzled, as that of a madman.
Blackened ice paves the floors through the doors of death.
Kicking and screaming, I find myself surrounded by
Yellowed walls, caught in a cyclone as
Veracity slips through my open palms.
None but a glimmer of light,
Hope without a prayer has been snuffed out as
I am a prisoner trapped within this iron vault.
The foul stench of urine permeates as the
Walls spin in an emotional typhoon.
Voices are loudening,
Blood-curdling, then muffled,
My chapped lips crack as I vociferate madness,
Bellowing and shouting
I cower in a corner then thrash about.
The knell continues to toll as thunder keeps clapping.
Lightening ignites my sordid spirit.
I am a hellion sailing the rapid river towards bedlam.
My fists pound upon the paint-stained concrete,
Black as fear, blood gushes from the ceiling.
Leaded paint chips cascade downward,
Hitting the ground in staccato rhythm.
The knell tolls “Abide with me” as
I lie outstretched upon the glacier-cold floor.
As I gasp for a breath of air
I count backwards.
A ghost-like silence has settled as dry snow would,
Blanketing the room-
I close my eyes and a wooden smile
Creeps up upon my face and as I listen with caution,
The people in my head begin to converse with me once more…
Claudia Krizay
poem by Claudia Krizay
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The Tryst
I raised the veil, I loosed the bands,
I took the dead thing from its place.
Like a warm stream in frozen lands
My lips went wandering on her face,
My hands burnt in her hands.
She could not stay me, being dead;
Her body here was mine to hold.
What if her lips had lost their red?
To me they always tasted cold
With the cold words she said.
Did my breath run along her hair,
And free the pulse, and fire the brain,
My wild blood wake her wild blood there?
Here eyelids lifted wide again
In a blue, sudden stare.
Beneath my fierce, profane caress
The whole white length of body moved;
The drowsy bosom seemed to press
As if against a breast beloved,
Then fail for weariness.
No, not that anguish! Christ forbid
That I should raise such dead! I rose,
Stifled the mouth with lilies, hid
Those eyes, And drew the long hair close,
And shut the coffin lid.
My cold brow on the cold wood laid,
Quiet and close to-night we lie.
No cruel words her lips have said.
I shall not take nor she deny.
The dead is with the dead.
poem by Muriel Stuart
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Rags & Old Iron
Norman curtis, oscar brown jr
Rags old iron rags old iron
All he was buying was just rags and old iron
I heard that old rag man now making his rounds
He came right to my alley lord with sorrowful sounds
Crying rags old iron and pulling his cart
Ask him how much hed give me for my broken heart
Rags old iron rags old iron
All he was buying was just rags and old iron
So I asked that old rag man how much he would pay
For a heart that was broken baby when you went away
For a burnt out old love light that no longer beams
And a couple of slightly used second hand dreams
Rags old iron rags old iron
All he was buying was just rags and old iron
For those big empty promises you used to make
For those memories of you that are no longer sweet
I wish he could haul them off down the street
Rags old iron rags old iron
All he was buying was just rags and old iron
When love doesnt last tell me what is it worth
It was once mamas most precious possession on earth
When I asked that old rag man if hed like to buy
He just shook his head and continued to cry
Rags old iron rags old iron
All he was buying was just rags and old iron
Rags old iron rags old iron
Rags old iron rags old iron rags old iron
song performed by by Nina Simone
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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0121 4 a.m.11 November 1918
A still night; crescent moon; the faintest breeze.
Some wit might say, 'Peaceful, innit, Tommy? '
Two hours before the usual time for attack.
I wonder what they've got up their sleeve for today.
A bit too quiet right now, I'd say
Careful how you breathe or talk
this chilly night, out there in the open trench;
frozen breath will draw the sniper's rifle sight
The sharp nose of some human terrier
passing over the familiar smells -
cordite, rifle oil, linseed for the wooden butt, the stench of death,
yesterday's corpses half submerged -
may detect, just over there, the unmistakeable smell
of fierce French 'Caporal' cigarettes;
there in front, strong German 'Zeppelins';
round here, cheap Woodbines linger in the air
hardly a human difference
worth fighting over.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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4 am,11 November 1918
A still night; crescent moon; the faintest breeze.
Some wit might say, 'Peaceful, innit, Tommy? '
Two hours before the usual time for attack.
I wonder what they've got up their sleeve for today.
A bit too quiet right now, I'd say
Careful how you breathe or talk
this chilly night, out there in the open trench;
frozen breath will draw the sniper's rifle sight
The sharp nose of some human terrier
passing over the familiar smells -
cordite, rifle oil, linseed for the wooden butt, the stench of death,
yesterday's corpses half submerged -
may detect, just over there, the unmistakeable smell
of fierce French 'Caporal' cigarettes;
there in front, strong German 'Zeppelins';
round here, cheap Woodbines linger in the air
hardly a human difference
worth fighting over.
[revisited]
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Listening To Agujetas
Sing, old man, those true songs of fire,
Songs that were too old for this air
Before you yourself were ever born.
Hammer those words against the night
As, once, you struck at the forge,
Feeling the sting of sparks
Cry out in triumph from its fierce iron.
Let the feet of the dancers play them too,
Your anguished words, your dark-throated songs:
Hammers against the fire within,
Fire against night, night against despair.
poem by Richard Lord
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The Old Peach Tree
Under the old peach tree
Hearing the buzz of bees
Looking up at pink blossoms so sweet
Watching pink petals fall at my feet
Under the old peach tree almost fallen down
I can hear every sound as the sun goes down
I hear somewhere the song of a mocking bird
The sweetest song I ever heard
As I lean against the old peach tree
I think of things that used to be
This old tree brings me back to my childhood
And the many peaches I ate that were so good
Old peach tree I wish you could talk
Whisper to me some of your thoughts
But instead you fill my heart with your beauty
As I smell the perfume of your blossoms so fruity
I wonder how much longer you'll be here.
How much longer my heart you'll cheer
I hope to lean against you many a spring
And feel the peace that you bring.
poem by Grace Riffle
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Morning Hymn
I am not dead. Through slit and crack
The piercing ray only glanced me,
And in the glow of self-possession
I survive once more once again.
Through open shutters with waves surges
A blue that does not look blue to me.
Like a baby the air's nursed itself
Full of the sun's milk that melts down.
On the sea a steamer's whistle
Blows like a rutting stag.
From mountains flashes a secret army's
Visible-invisible birth.
I am not dead. I'd like to shout loud
On this day of who gets mercy,
That today each of my sails fills
Themselves once more once again.
poem by Franz Werfel
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The Broom In My Hands
we walk the edge of suicidal silence,
sweeping shadows beneath curtains
with brooms made of straw.
while somewhere soupbones
boil in the pot,
and the sound of coffee making
startles children's trains on tiny tracks..
the heroin news grates against the mind,
and dogs wait in silent anticipation.
Jesus dies again, a matinee,
the Bill Of Rights stutters
neath a thin layer of dirt.
travelling shoe salesmen grope lady's legs,
and old men on park benches
peer over bifocals.
the woman ironing, in her bra and panties,
quietly curses, with trembling hands!
bare chested men split wood in the sun,
while boys tinker on cars with oily hearts.
the soldier returned home to no home,
hangs himself from the rafters.
a picture of his baby boy,
falls from his pockets.
crows gather on a wooden fence rail,
the young woman lights a crack pipe,
staring at naked walls.
while dead bodies march in lines that rhyme,
with buildings left empty,
and mailboxes spilling over.
the soft silk of the thigh,
and the lip turned up...
names whispered and lost,
small rooms speak of distance.
be it love, be it madness,
the clock falls from the wall.
and nothing feels real....
except the broom in my hands!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Spring has broken
Spring has broken!
Spring has broken!
Spring has broken!
I can feel it in the air,
I can feel it within me,
The rays of morning sun is warming,
The cold freezing world is now behind,
And the burst of renewals are everywhere seen,
The new buds are peeping,
And the cherry blossoms will soon be bursting,
Leave this sadness behind and breath the freshness in.
See again the birds are chirping,
and the little playful squirrels are jumping.
Spring has broken!
Spring has broken!
Spring has broken!
Again this renewal of life must begin.
poem by Spiritual Seeker
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