Does The Lotus Shrink Away For Everyone?
(after A.G. Visser)
Early every evening after I see my neighbour driving away
an expensive car stops on the sidewalk,
there’s an old legend that returns to me
when the sultan Mirza Khan goes on a pilgrimage
with many knights
on his way to Ispahan with his caravan
and he’s just left when the neighbour’s wife rushes past
without loosing a moment.
Early every evening after I see my neighbour driving away
where in the darkness of night he leaves
to be involved with his commitments
with many knights,
while the winter wind cuts through me,
the gaze of the neighbour’s wife chills the leaving car,
there’s an old legend that returns to me
where in the palace Fatima made herself lovely
and the sultan had just left
to be involved with his commitments,
the neighbour’s wife hurries and do not want to avoid her lover
and I read insubordination, pleasure and rebellion on her face,
early every evening after I see my neighbour driving away.
When a horseman appears as the emir of the Badewyn
Fatima is naked, young and slender
and the sultan had just left
and the neighbour is really dedicated
exemplary, friendly and he wears glasses,
there’s an old legend that returns to me
where they meet each other and make love for hours
when the purple iris blooms in the cup of the holy lotus
and Fatima is naked, young and slender
and the neighbour is with other knights when his wife is wooed
while she is begging for other attention.
Early every evening after I see my neighbour driving away,
there’s an old legend that returns to me:
Does the lotus shrink away for everyone, does it wither
when the sultan Mirza Khan goes on a pilgrimage
when the purple iris blooms in the cup of the holy lotus
on his way to Ispahan with his caravan?
[Reference: “Divan” by A.G. Visser.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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Winter (parody)
(with apologies to fanie olivier)
Already early in May you can feel the wind gallop,
it is already cutting icily from twelve o’clock
and blows sand
leaves and old plastic bags sky-high.
Across the street the neighbour’s drain is overflowing
and sewerage flows along at the end of the yard,
while the other neighbour’s wife forwardly winks at me
and she’s a flamboyant girl,
her husband is well built and somewhat angry
and she has got a teenage daughter, who draws attention like her mother,
dressing at times somewhat nakedly,
while the neighbour comforts himself with bottles of brandy,
sometimes wanting to know about his wife’s wiles from me,
when I see pain and grief eating at him.
[Reference: “winter” by fanie olivier.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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That past is still within our living memory, a time when neighbour helped neighbour, sharing what little they had out of necessity, as well as decency.
quote by Mary McAleese
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Weah
Deep empathy!
Weah is my neighbour with words;
But, i have to visit 'Manhyia Palace' to meet the elders.
Everywhere is beautiful and everyone is beautiful as well,
Everywhere is needed and everyone is needed as well,
Because, everywhere on this earth is overseas! !
Oh yes, over the seas to meet you with my words.
Deep empathy!
Come and let me take you to my neighbour;
For, it is time for you to know Weah my neighbour.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Threatening Signs
IF Venus in the evening sky
Is seen in radiant majesty,
If rod-like comets, red as blood,
Are 'mongst the constellations view'd,
Out springs the Ignoramus, yelling:
"The star's exactly o'er my dwelling!
What woeful prospect, ah, for me!
Then calls his neighbour mournfully:
"Behold that awful sign of evil,
Portending woe to me, poor devil!
My mother's asthma ne'er will leave her,
My child is sick with wind and fever;
I dread the illness of my wife,
A week has pass'd, devoid of strife,--
And other things have reach'd my ear;
The Judgment Day has come, I fear!"
His neighbour answered: "Friend, you're right!
Matters look very had to-night.
Let's go a street or two, though, hence,
And gaze upon the stars from thence."--
No change appears in either case.
Let each remain then in his place,
And wisely do the best he can,
Patient as any other man.
poem by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
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I Am Graced
I am graced and I greet you with open arms,
Hands are stretched out to keep your heart.
My heart has good wishes for you,
I want to complain, I need some time to explain.
The neighbour is to be loved,
That neighbour is you and my heart.
I want to marry the dream of my choice,
That next-door person is you, my choice.
I read the complaint I make, and I have warmth,
For warm feelings deliver a peace.
You are to be loved like the one next-door,
The neighbour of decisions, no lies.
poem by Naveed Akram
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This Noise
The noise that disturbs your neighbour is like,
A swimmer without a life-jacket!
But, i will live to lead you on peacefully;
However, this noise around you is like a hammer hitting the head of the nail.
The noise that disturbs your neighbour is like,
Creating the silent war within your neighbourhood!
And like the heart of a summer around many others;
For, i know when it matters most.
Try to learn and try to live with one another,
Try to do your best without disturbing your neighbour!
For, this noise will surely not bring you peace among them.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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The Ballad of Old Clonbroney
The Ballad of Old Clonbroney
One night dark walking along
A lane onto its end,
A neighbour walked up to a house
To call upon a friend.
The neighbour was new, his friends wife too
Had arrived not long ago,
And friendship new as neighbours do
They called on one another each other to know.
And as he approached the house,
He wondered at how strange shadows moves,
It looked as if it were a hearse,
And all of a sudden a sound of hooves,
And a wall through at terrific speed,
Driven by a horseman with no head,
A hearse up through the feilds fleed
To Old Clonbroney with its dead.
Our hero stood there shaking,
Wondered if he imaged was what he had seen,
When the woman opened the door to the house,
Asked where the horses had been?
He raced into the house so fast,
Slammed behind him the door,
Told how the hearse before him passed,
And where it came from before...
That it went up to Old Clonbroney,
After driving through a wall,
But it was not real: twas but a ghost,
For the wall was not damaged at all.
And drinking whiskey strong his nerves setlled down,
Though still great in him was fear,
Though you may mock and you may frown,
You too would shake if the headless horseman did appear...
And in time the husband returned,
A miller he was by trade,
He came to see his wife terrified,
And his neighbour, a man strong, afraid,
They told him of the horseman,
Of the hearse, that the man had no head,
He srugged his shoulder with a sigh,
Declared one of the neighbours dead.
It was like the banshee,
The miller said of the apparition,
When these neighbours died, the spectre youd see,
So was local superstition,
And so all a prayer they said,
For their own and the deceased sake,
Its not told the name of who was dead,
Or if the miller and his neighbour slept or stayed that night awake!
===========================
The story of a man who met a headless horseman when calling on a neighbour after moving into the area.
Apperantly this is actually true, the miller he was calling on was an uncle of mine who lived in Clonbroney, where an old road led up to a disused cemetry, and a new road now led to the village. The old road partly made the lane to his house and mill that used to be on the side of the old road, but the road was blocked of at the rear, where both sides had grown in to form one hedgegrow that went up the fiends to the old cemetry.
The poem is to be edited later to make sure the information is correct, but this is the first draft.
poem by Tomás Ó Cárthaigh
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Neighbour once over the hedge, neighbour over it again.
Buy your neighbour's ox, and woo your neighbour's daughter.
Feud’s abode
Feud is born and exists
Where affinity or identity rules.
Brother vs. brother and Neighbour vs. neighbour,
Have more hatred and less harmony.
25.05.2002, pakd
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Surroundings-31
Neighbour's Prey
He's clearing his throat for months, may be hungry or thirsty
Pitiable nuisance, they don't even seem to offer and eat
So much disturbance.Ho, neighbour's prey getting the goat surroundings'
poem by Indira Renganathan
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The Silent River
The river usually runs in such a great rush,
But, today, it is still, and there is only hush.
I glance over at it, in the darkness, as I pass:
I see the river’s surface is as smooth as glass.
It’s like the river itself is feeling the great grief,
Of losing someone, whose time on earth was brief.
It appears to be grieving for its long time neighbour,
Who, for many years, in the nearby store, did labour.
Just like people, it stands in silence, to show its respect,
And its many thoughts and feelings, it wants to collect.
No more will the river, running through this restful place,
See its neighbour with her eternally happy and smiling face.
From the river, to be heard, there isn’t a single sound:
Night time has fallen, so no ducks or swans are around.
Never before, can I recall the river being so totally still;
It’s as though it has decided to stop of its own free will.
From what I can see, and this may sound just a little bit mad,
The river, just like its neighbour’s family and friends, is sad.
It isn’t in the mood to chatter cheerfully, to dance, or to run;
Now is its time of remembrance: not a time for it to have fun.
Soon, it will continue on its journey, but it will remember,
The loss of this lovely lady, on the tenth day of December.
As it journeys onwards, its surface will shimmer and shake,
And, with it, precious memories of its neighbour, it will take.
(In memory of Debbie Baptiste)
poem by Angela Wybrow
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From an Upper Verandah
What happier haunt could the gods allot
For loftiest musing to sage or bard?—
Yet I would that this upper verandah did not
Look down on my beautiful Neighbour's Back-yard!
I stir the afflatus: Descend, O ye Nine!
Let the crystalline gates of the soul be unbarred!
No. My thoughts will keep running in one fixed line—
The clothes-line that hangs in my Neighbour's Back-yard!
Let me gaze on the hills; let me think of the sea;
Of the dawn rosy-fingered—the night silver-starred:—
(What dear little feet must the owner's be
Of those stockings that hang in my Neighbour's Back-yard!)
Let me tune my soul to a measure devout:—
Ah, the musical mood is all jangled and jarred,
While things with borders, and things without,
Keep flutt'ring down there in my Neighbour's Back-yard!
Are the True and the Good and the Beautiful dead,
That I win not one gleam of Pierian regard?
(Does she suffer, I wonder, from cold in the head?—
Such a lot of mouchoirs in my Neighbour's Back-yard!)
Comes the fit. While it sways me, high themes would I sing!
Prometheus! Achilles! Have at you! En grade!
Alexander the Great—(oh that I were a string
On that apron hung out in my Neighbour's Back-yard!)
I will shut my eyes fast—I have hit it at last,
Now my purest Ideals flit by me unmarred;
And odours of memory rise from the past,
(And an odour of suds from my Neighbour's Back-yard!)
Ah, yes! when the eyelids together are prest,
Every vestige of earth we throw off and discard.
(These are flannels, I think. Is she weak in the chest?—
There! I'm looking again at my Neighbour's Back-yard!)
Since the Muses back out, let Philosophy in:
Let me ponder its problems cold and hard.
Ah! Philosophy dies in a celibate grin
At that bolster-case down in my Neighbour's Back-yard!
Oh shame on my rapidly silvering hairs!
Oh shame on this veteran battered and scarred!
I to be witched with these frilled—affairs!
Confound my neighbour! Confound her Back-yard!
Why seek for the blossoms of Auld Lang Syne,
When the boughs where they budded are blasted and charred?—
Faugh! the whole concern's too alkaline—
It's washing day in my Neighbour's Back-yard!
poem by James Brunton Stephens
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Dreams Of Leaving
Someone stopped the clock when we should have started early
If we miss the morning meeting our lives will be in danger
Someones trying to stop us, there is someone in our party
It is someone with a grudge and they wont let us reach the border
Our lives are in his hands, we pay with krugerands
The currency of pain to help us leaving
While back in our homeland the ones who make a stand
Are taken from their homes and no one hears of them again
I felt I had to come here, I thought things would be better
The situations changed but I find Im still resented
Someone wants my job it is someone in this building
Someones spreading rumours and I dont feel I can stay here
I think Im going north and nows the time to leave
The people there they say are good to strangers
And if I do my best and try to settle in
Im sure I can be just like someones neighbour
Im sure I can be just like someones neighbour
song performed by by Human League
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Quickborn
'Quickborn', quick, born, Quinn, corn, knob, rob, Nick;
In power and with your body language to control the people around you!
But, put your items over here not to disturb your neighbour's property.
'Quickborn', bin, in, Inn, on, kin, Rick, cob, brick, or, no!
But, just a young adult like your type;
So, do not disturb your neighbour with your items.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Ploughed Fields
Ploughed Fields.
My neighbour has started his tractor diesel fume wafts through the open kitchen window.
On his way to plough the field across the road, dark furrows in damp soil, birds sit in trees
read the upturned soil for tidbits. My neighbour doesn’t read has no computer, and give
damn about wikileaks; evenings he and his wife sit in their kitchen and watch soaps, news
is too boring. Me, I’m amazed the stupidity of the unscripted soap news is, this struggle for
dominance, making friends with vile dictators in the hope of landing a fat military contract
selling hardware and to have a base so they can keep an eye on the opposition. Winner and
losers in a mortal dance embraced by phony friendship. And when a tyrant goes against our
interest we kill him off and look for one who can do our bidding. What the people want is
banalities such as peace and democracy, but that’s too bothersome. My neighbour knows
this and let birds fight amongst themselves over title tattles and succulent worms.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Arna
Snow, now, show, how, blow, low, flow, mow;
And like Arna your lover who is my neighbour,
But night and day i will watch over you.
Vow, tow, sow, glow, cow, bow, grow, wow;
According to the promise of your love and,
According to the promise of peace!
But partake with me in that which is right always.
You will be refreshed with the muse of love and,
You will learn a lot from me as well;
But i will watch over you always!
For Arna your love is my neighbour,
And i will do my best to guide you on with my experiences.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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To Love or to be Loved
I read the equation which states: -
Love your neighbour as you love yourself,
To love your neighbour as if they were you
To love is to give away thy energy
To love is risk thy soul for someone
To love is invest uncertainly
To be loved is to be made a weaker a subject
To be loved, a wonderful experience
To be loved a non stressful activity
To love makes you struggle
To be loved relaxes your mind
poem by Moffat Mbuzi
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Crane
A neighbour finds a crane noble
who neither warns nor boasts.
Ripples, hindrance to scheme,
trigger the neighbour's dream
of visiting a lake, as needed,
but living in the sky
where nobility's required:
'An albatross, you know,
would flop around down here;
should always only fly.
I disdain the ripples.
I keep my thought on high.'
poem by Douglas Scotney
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