En.Citatepedia^®.ro

Eternal (Cavatina Sequence) (In Answer To Archibald Macleish)

Again the wind will pass, as it did before
while it does sing
of some feelings that we both do have now,
in flocks flying
some birds will go and not a single thing
will be dying
as this moment have got something eternal,
while the bright sun rises epithermal

as if disaster, death, pain and sorrow
never was,
very long moments will still linger on,
blue-green like glass
the sea will always swell, rock to and thro;
the new green grass
will rise again in spring after the first rain;
while after life our feelings still do remain.

[Reference: 'An Eternity' by Archibald Macleish.]

poem by Gert Strydom
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The Death Of Winter

When April with her wild blue eye
Comes dancing over the grass,
And all the crimson buds so shy
Peep out to see her pass;
As lightly she loosens her showery locks
And flutters her rainy wings;
Laughingly stoops
To the glass of the stream,
And loosens and loops
Her hair by the gleam,
While all the young villagers blithe as the flocks
Go frolicking round in rings; -
Then Winter, he who tamed the fly,
Turns on his back and prepares to die,
For he cannot live longer under the sky.

Down the valleys glittering green,
Down from the hills in snowy rills,
He melts between the border sheen
And leaps the flowery verges!
He cannot choose but brighten their hues,
And tho' he would creep, he fain must leap,
For the quick Spring spirit urges.
Down the vale and down the dale
He leaps and lights, till his moments fail,
Buried in blossoms red and pale,
While the sweet birds sing his dirges!

O Winter! I'd live that life of thine,
With a frosty brow and an icicle tongue,
And never a song my whole life long, -
Were such delicious burial mine!
To die and be buried, and so remain
A wandering brook in April's train,
Fixing my dying eyes for aye
On the dawning brows of maiden May.

poem by George Meredith
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Will Nature At A Time Be Really Lost? (Cavatina Sequence)

(after Archibald MacLeish)

Will nature at a time be really lost,
no snowflake fall
as the world becomes extremely hot,
while big and small
live in a man-made kind of sheer hot hell?
If man kills all;
the fish, each bird, each animal and tree,
what's living will at a time, no more be.

No bird will sing, or even be flying,
tranquility
will be gone in a world as stark as stone,
each thing lovely,
each leaping fish, diving crying great eagle
will die slowly,
when all of the ozone layer is gone
and the greenhouse effect just lingers on.

[Reference: 'The Snowflake Which Is Now And Hence Forever' by Archibald MacLeish.}

poem by Gert Strydom
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Spring

See how new green shoots
and branches and leaves
and flowers appear
and the green grass
rises everywhere,
the gods had set a part
of Eden here.

Hear the birds
sing and cheer
and see them fly past
and follow the white-hot sun
while the rays comes to stay
for a longer time.

Smell the first rain
and wild flowers
in the fields
and get thrilled
by the sweet scent
that every flower brings

Abide with me
as the trees dress fit
for a royal wedding
and new life
appears from where it hides
and realise that Spring
is a living thing.

poem by Gert Strydom
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A Poem During War (Cavatina) (In Answer To Archibald Macleish)

Not the loss of men, machines or a country
to destiny,
or the farewell of you to whom I long,
or to be free
from the ravages of a unwanted war,
always holds me
like the beauty of the last summer spent;
the deep feelings for you do not relent

as I long for a new dawn without pain
or any fear
while the future now looks very grim
and guns I hear
sending messages of their deadly flame,
nothing is clear
and although we do constantly just win,
the shattering of my soul did begin.

While bullets, rockets and shells do whistle past
your face, our love,
is out of my mind, as like a machine
I act above
the mere decency of being human,
while I do move
from one sheltering onto the next one,
all other thoughts but survival are gone

but still so intense you remain with me,
that I do dream
of your countenance, I see your face;
in clouds like steam
the wounded do for God, each other or
their mothers scream
with the smell of burnt flesh everywhere,
the pain of dying is constantly here.

[Reference: 'Two Poems from the War' by Archibald MacLeish.]

poem by Gert Strydom
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On The End Of The World (Cavatina Sequence)

(after Archibald MacLeish)

Behind the scenes they act, while on the stage
life is a dance
and we fall for the show and laugh and play
in romance,
as in quick-time we are very smitten,
are in a trance
as some Bee-bee Bob the clown laughs and cries;
men go off to war to kill and some dies

and then still lurking are unseen beings,
in sheer darkness;
they poise, do mislead and cover their tracks,
with great aloofness
they turn all beliefs in nothing at all,
bring lawlessness,
try to drag most of humanity down
to wait on great disaster as their own.

[Reference: 'The End of the World' by Archibald MacLeish.]

poem by Gert Strydom
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Enemy skirmish (sonnet)

They come sneaking in the tambookie,
in the buffalo grass, past acacia trees
and linger for moments at the swampy marsh,
the birds suddenly get silent and even the insects,
when they relax, light cigarettes and smoke,
as they linger for long moments laughing
and I can smell the stinking sour of their sweat,
when my heart beats anxiously,
brown ibises fly up scolding,
impalas in a herd burst away
and they walk straight into our ambush
with AK-47 rifles hanging as without importance,
somewhere a long green snake rustles
and when my LMG comes alive I loose all of my fear.

[Reference: LMG = light machinegun.]

poem by Gert Strydom
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An Eternity

There is no dusk to be,
There is no dawn that was,
Only there's now, and now,
And the wind in the grass.

Days I remember of
Now in my heart, are now;
Days that I dream will bloom
White the peach bough.

Dying shall never be
Now in the windy grass;
Now under shooken leaves
Death never was.

poem by Archibald MacLeish
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Not Able To Recall Each Word Anymore...

yes, we burn all the leaves
we do not really like to see the ashes on the ground
so we summon the rain
to spread the foul smell of the dead
thin
and unrecognizable and we ask the grass
to spread
as quickly as possible
to cover the tracks

and then that summer what we see
we like to see
green grass, blue sky, fresh air
flying birds, fluttering green butterflies

we love those conversations
though we do not recall each word anymore

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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May Song

BIRDS in the green of my garden
Blackbirds and throstle and wren,
Wet your dear wings in the tears that are Spring's
And so to your singing again!
Birds in my blossoming orchard,
Chaffinch and goldfinch and lark,
Preen your bright wings, little happy live things;
The May trees grow white in the park!

Birds in the leafy wet woodlands,
Cuckoo and nightingale brown,
Sing to the sound of the rain on green ground--
The rain on green leaves dripping down!
Fresh with the rain of the May-time,
Rich with the promise of June,
Deep in her heart, where the little leaves part,
Love, like a bird, sings in tune!

poem by Edith Nesbit
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To summer (in reply to John Keats)

Season of bright hued skies and great fruitfulness
intimate lover of the raging sun
forever baring fruit in great supply to bless,
from the very beginning your beauty was spun
to supply in sheer kindness
by the Eternal One
as the greatest in beauty, in sheer shimmering
and forever more
a follower of the dainty spring
with sweetness, splendour and fragrance at your core
as spring has gracefully waved you in.

Even children wander stricken through your orchards
in reverence to taste, to smell and your sheer beauty
following the greatest mother, holding you in the highest regards,
but I see thee as utterly witty and past lovely, very pretty
the mature bride that is ever blossoming, ever fruitful
and ravishing, you wade through life, really fair,
always gentle, never reproachful
with the sky, the sun, the wind in your hair
and you make you palace among bed upon bed of flowers
as a immortal queen bedecked in lovely green
fulfilling your duties in the passing hours.

The songs, the joys of blossoming,
are sung in your presence, with thunder and rain
are spent, are swept away, are withering
while you bring forth without pain
and all the elements sing of your great glory
and never like that of spring
with even insects, birds in accessory
your praises sing, with voices that ring
while you rule supreme over your territory
while you feed and heed every living thing
and at your passing, you remain the sweetest memory.

[Reference: To Autumn by John Keats.]

poem by Gert Strydom
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When Days Get Long

I

When summer days get extremely long
the sky becomes a much deeper hue,
a myriad of birds fill the cobalt blue,
constantly singing their gorgeous song

it is as if everything do belong
to the coming spring, are singing true
like some beautiful birds and insects do,
while colourful swarming in their great throng

over the gentle meadow and the valley
filling the tranquil grey evening sky
softly singing a sweet kind of medley
while in jubilance they still do fly
over fields of hay and fields of barley,
sunny day after sunny day pass by.

II

Sunny day after sunny day pass by
with almost a kind of smothering heat
the fields, the open veldt and dirt road lie
far to hot to tread with just bare feet.

Everything shimmers, the poplars that rears
like huge fingers pointing to the sun,
massive broad oak trees of many years
and grass and flowers where life has just begun

glitters in a new emerald green sheen,
the wind rustles things touching one by one
as if finding things where there had not been,
between huge black boulders rocks and stone

the sun blazes on every day the same,
I see the sun making wings of hot flame.

III

I see the sun making wings of hot flame
on the few white clouds in dazzling colours
and in the west there are some small wild game
drinking water while the evening hours

brings the white and blue stars out dazzling clear
with night predators in the pitch black sky
and some more wild game are drawing near,
I hear the hyenas laughing, wild dogs cry,

the growls of lions, the howling of jackals,
I get the smells of the earth and the bush,
I hear some leopards growling, their calls
that are where they are lying in ambush,

at night the predators are hunting prey,
making a living in the dying day.

IV

Making a living in the dying day
swarms of birds fly calling with flapping wings
poplars, cedars and many trees do sway
while the twilight is grey, full of life, brings

as if by some magic, all at play
flying leaves, bats insects and flying things
with a few that lonesome away stray,
most are flying to nests in trees that swings

and eventually places of rest receives
the many small things that are fluttering,
the wind settles among the moving leaves,
the numerous evening birds start to sing

until the full moon shines its silver rays,
when night fades slowly as on other days.

V

When night fades slowly as on other days,
man is still bound by nature and destiny
to the world in which he works and plays
as it probably will be to eternity.

The yellow sun, the cobalt blue heaven
is like it has been from its very birth
with its joyous bright splendour even
like any other day upon this earth

but a time will come when man will be free
from all death and all kinds of destruction
from heartache, the sorrows that he see
with a new amazing introduction

to a place that’s holy, pure and bright;
now suddenly it is silver twilight.

VI

Now suddenly it is silver twilight
and the sheer darkness of night flees away
before the coming new breaking day
with the blazing sheer redness of sunlight

constantly reflecting against the bright
unclouded sky open in its solid grey
with the red blossoming as if its to stay
and in the veldt guinea fowl flees in fright

while a small jackal laughs out its delight
and the few milling dark clouds do stray
before a strong wind as if in spite
and through bushes and grass rocking it plays
churning up eddies before going out of sight
while the hot sun rises with its golden rays.

VII

While the hot sun rises with its golden rays,
you come from a country where rivers meander
where the rain sieves down for many days
where some beautiful wild birds do wander

in lush overgrown tranquil water-meadows,
far away from the busy big city,
filled with thick green living hedgerows
where many bright wild flowers are pretty

but I still do wonder what you will see
in a land where vicious savage beasts
have no civility and do roam free
where the natives have very weird feasts,

where the flaming sun does spare no one,
when summer days get extremely long.

poem by Gert Strydom
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Why are you so troubled? [Ce te legeni?]

– "Why are you so troubled, forest?
There's no wind and there's no rain
Yet your branches are in pain".
– "Yes, I'm troubled, you know why?
'Cause my life is passing by
Days are shrinking, nights are growing
And my leaves are quickly falling.
Wind is blowing from the bay
Chasing singing birds away
Wind is blowing without fear
Summer's gone, winter is here.
How could I avoid to bow
When the birds are leaving now!
Over branches, in the sky
Swallow flocks are flying high
And I'm watching them go by
Knowing that my hope will die.
And are passing all the day
Darkening the airy way,
And like seconds they are flying
With their wings the wind defying.
In their wake, I remain numb
Whitered and a little dumb
Only with my own desire
Which is burning me like fire!"

poem by Mihai Eminescu, translated by Octavian Cocoş
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Spring (Double Rondelet Triolet)

With a deep touch,
The red poppy awakes the grass.
With a deep touch,
Red wants green's vibration so much,
The sun awakes the sky's watch glass.
The sky vibrates like a string bass,
With a deep touch.

The red flowers bloom in the Spring
When the time of the green grass comes.
The sky vibrates like a bass string.
The red flowers bloom in the Spring.
I see the nature's purest swing.
The wind searches his bongo drums,
The red flowers bloom in the Spring
When the time of the green grass comes.

I see His love
Like a white lily among thorns.
I see His love
Like in clefts of the rock, a dove.
When red flower its grass adorns
And her dead Winter, Spring mourns,
I see His love.

Shadows are inlaid in color
When red poppy awakes the grass.
When the land is multicolor,
Shadows are inlaid in color.
When the cuckoo is a caller,
The sun awakes the sky's watch glass.
Shadows are inlaid in color
When red poppy awakes the grass.

poem by Marieta Maglas
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An End

Love, strong as Death, is dead.
Come, let us make his bed
Among the dying flowers:
A green turf at his head;
And a stone at his feet,
Whereon we may sit
In the quiet evening hours.

He was born in the Spring,
And died before the harvesting:
On the last warm summer day
He left us; he would not stay
For Autumn twilight cold and grey.
Sit we by his grave, and sing
He is gone away.

To few chords and sad and low
Sing we so:
Be our eyes fixed on the grass
Shadow-veiled as the years pass
While we think of all that was
In the long ago.

poem by Christina Georgina Rossetti
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Monroe Louisiana

On the green, green farm
In green, green Monroe Louisiana
So green, green
Wet-luscious green and alive
So green after the rain
So bright green and clean
Just passing through
On my way to tomorrow
But so green today and yesterday
It was on that stranger's green, green farm
And I didn't stay long
And I didn't expect someone
To fire that shotgun right next to me
The barrel pointed out the front door
Into that green, green world beyond.
There were hot springs
On the green, green farm
In green, green Monroe Louisiana
Back in 1973.

poem by M.L. Squier
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In Autumn

The leaves are many under my feet,
And drift one way.
Their scent of death is weary and sweet.
A flight of them is in the grey
Where sky and forest meet.

The low winds moan for sad sweet years;
The birds sing all for pain,
Of a common thing, to weary ears,--
Only a summer's fate of rain,
And a woman's fate of tears.

I walk to love and life alone
Over these mournful places,
Across the summer overthrown,
The dead joys of these silent faces,
To claim my own.

I know his heart has beat to bright
Sweet loves gone by;
I know the leaves that die to-night
Once budded to the sky;
And I shall die from his delight.

O leaves, so quietly ending now,
You heard the cuckoos sing.
And I will grow upon my bough
If only for a spring,
And fall when the rain is on my brow.

O tell me, tell me ere you die,
Is it worth the pain?
You bloomed so fair, you waved so high;
Now that the sad days wane,
Are you repenting where you lie?

I lie amongst you, and I kiss
Your fragrance mouldering.
O dead delights, is it such bliss,
That tuneful Spring?
Is love so sweet, that comes to this?

Kiss me again as I kiss you;
Kiss me again;
For all your tuneful nights of dew,
In this your time of rain,
For all your kisses when Spring was new.

You will not, broken hearts; let be.
I pass across your death
To a golden summer you shall not see,
And in your dying breath
There is no benison for me.

There is an autumn yet to wane,
There are leaves yet to fall,
Which, when I kiss, may kiss again,
And, pitied, pity me all for all,
And love me in mist and rain.

poem by Alice Meynell
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Something About The Girl Called Spring (Sonnet Corona)

I

Just after winter you are back enchanting
with unfolding blossoms on hot sunny days
playing your roles in all your beautiful ways
as if every day is a grand setting

with colours and smells alluring, inviting
man, animals and insects to stray
in orchards, gardens and in the veldt to play
wherever you may be wandering

while insects and birds sing sweet melodies,
even the breeze is charming
in the season that you bequeath
that becomes a time of sweet memories
while everywhere life is swarming;
flowers are as fragrant as your breath.

II

Flowers are as fragrant as your breath
and outside the sun does shine
where flowers and insects ephemeral awaits death
living just as small specs of the will divine.

There are tales about flowers and butterflies that you tell,
about all the minute things, before the first shadows fall
but you have to mention the Creator as well
who fathered everything, created all.

His gardens fill the earth in sheer exuberance
while in summer and spring, in daylight hours
bees, butterflies and birds dance
around the fragrant flowers

in their winged flight,
from early twilight.

III

From early twilight
you are everywhere sent
until the dark night
for the whole world’s enjoyment

and flowering fair
you dance along
without a moment to spare
singing a cheerful song

as a seasonal creature being sweet,
dressed very serene
dancing with fairly like feet
as the essence of the productive machine

and nature everywhere tells,
spring is awaking in smells.

IV

Spring is awaking in smells
with birds singing
rising from the valleys and dells,
sounding in joy about the beauty she is bringing

even every bird, deer and bee,
as the blessings have come
as a time of tranquillity to some
until all of nature is happy and free

when love is finally finding its home
and spring is especially dear to me,
in the air above there’s a vibrant hue
as if it’s a living kind of blue

specked with flocks of birds in their flight;
spring is dressed in white.

V

Spring is dressed in white,
dressed for her wedding day,
when she blesses wherever her flowers stray
in celebration in every day and night

while she dances from early morning light
inviting all her guests, the birds and bees to play,
while she lingers everything is gay
in colours jubilant and bright

with butterflies filling the air,
humming yellow and black bees,
even joined by flying birds that in joy sing
roaming among the almond, peach and pear,
flying to and fro from the blue gum trees
in the unfolding of spring.

VI

In the unfolding of spring
it came to my mind
the words, the deeds and every thing,
of the troublesome kind

that man does to his fellow human beings
as if he is inclined
to act only to his own interest without any feelings,
as if so designed

but around me the new awakenings
are totally unrestrained
in days and evenings
with beauty that is gained

while everywhere flowers are rising,
I long for an eternal spring’s blessing.

VII

I long for an eternal spring’s blessing
as if the Godly plan
in a place where everything is living,
is still in effect for man,

where the songs of birds through the hubbub ring
as if the singing birds are right here
bringing pleasure to everything
making existing so sweet and sincere,

as if from the very beginning
the Lord God was near,
even before human beings were sinning
when these joyous songs fall on the ear:
.
with all of the love that God is granting,
just after winter you are back enchanting.

poem by Gert Strydom
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Mountain Tops

sunrise in the moutain tops
green grass all over the place
and the trees are not just green
but they glitter under the rays

wind blows and coldness in the skin
there is joy
there is pain
in the eyes, but
it is thy happiness still that shows

for a moment
forgetting the world
which is more real
that is not a question

no rain or snow
weather may change
but not withered leaf
can stop flowers from blooming
sunrise in the mountain tops
green grass all over the place

poem by Princess Kathleene Gabunales
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Dies Irae.

The last great Day it may be near,
Or Man may pass ere it comes here.
There may be nothing but weeds and flowers
Over the Earth in her dying hours;
Men, beasts and birds may all be gone
Ere the world's disaster shall come on;
Or there may be neither grass nor trees,
But stony wastes round the ashen seas —
No life to take when the days are dead,
And God is doing the thing He said;
Nothing but Desolation's wing
Like a sunless mist o'er everything!
And all the millions long, long gone,
To ashes turned in Oblivion;
And the last great Day shall but consume
The bones of a world in its fiery tomb,
As God puts by for ever and aye
The thought of the sorrow that's passed away!

poem by Robert Crawford
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The Maiden's Prayer

SPRING, pretty Spring, what treasure do you bring to me?
Green grass and buttercups, cherry-bloom and may?
Sunshine to be glad with me, and little birds to sing to me?
Warm nests to call me along the woodland way?

Spring, happy Spring, what wonder will you do for me?
Light the tulip lanterns, and set the furze a-fire?
Fill your sky with sails of cloud on waves of living blue for me?
Show me green cornfields and budding of the briar?

Spring, darling Spring, my days will not return to me,
You who see them fleeting, you, all time above,
You who move the whole world's heart, ah move one heart to turn to me,
--Bring me a lover, and teach me how to love!

poem by Edith Nesbit
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