Revenente
The bells of memory sound this summer day
Down the long alleys of the blue-skied years;
Shy cowslip, thyme, the haunting scent of hay,
Pleached gardens nourished by a lover's tears,
And honeysuckle, shy maid in the hedge,
Are all Her handmaids; blessed is the sight
The mirror-pool caught of Her. So the stage
Is set for entrance, and a girl in white
Walks in my heart again, out of pale death,
Kingdom of shrivelled mouth and powdering bone,
Touching my cheek with flower-laden breath,
And whispering, 'Poor love, and still alone?'
Was any man so lucky, dear God?
It will be dawn before She takes the road.
poem by Henry Treece
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Forever
THOSE we love truly never die,
Though year by year the sad memorial wreath,
A ring and flowers, types of life and death,
Are laid upon their graves.
For death the pure life saves,
And life all pure is love; and love can reach
From heaven to earth, and nobler lessons teach
Than those by mortals read.
Well blest is he who has a dear one dead:
A friend he has whose face will never change—
A dear communion that will not grow strange;
The anchor of a love is death.
The blessed sweetness of a loving breath
Will reach our cheek all fresh through weary years.
For her who died long since, ah! waste not tears,
She's thine unto the end.
Thank God for one dead friend,
With face still radiant with the light of truth,
Whose love comes laden with the scent of youth,
Through twenty years of death.
poem by John Boyle O'Reilly
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Honeysuckle
Honeysuckle, oh Honeysuckle
Watching as you grow
In the springtime and summer rain
Remembering children's games
Remembering still from a breeze
Blowing a secret scent
From my youth, still are seen
Memories, from where I have been.
Oh Honeysuckle, precious dream
Walking down our road
From a boy, unto a man
Laughing at growing old
Precious dream, and precious life
Strolling dream in mind
Standing there, in the air
Reminded me of a different time.
Honeysuckle, oh Honeysuckle
Blooming once again
In the air, and I’ll be there
Longing for your scent,
For the boy, who was lost
Not ready to survive
Then you He caught, and you he taught
How to live, and how to smile.
Randy L. McClave
poem by Randy McClave
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The Pool
By the pool that I see in my dreams, dear love,
I have sat with you time and again;
And listened beneath the dank leaves, dear love,
To the sibilant sound of the rain.
And the pool, it is silvery bright, dear love,
And as pure as the heart of a maid,
As sparkling and dimpling, it darkles and shines
In the depths of the heart of the glade.
But, oh, I 've a wish in my soul, dear love,
(The wish of a dreamer, it seems,)
That I might wash free of my sins, dear love,
In the pool that I see in my dreams.
poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar
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Bells Of The Evening
Bells of the evening, o sing to my love
Tell her I miss her, my own turtledove
The streets of the old town are covered with rain
I think I might never know true love again
Im lost with no road signs to guide me
A slave to my whiskey and dreams
Bells of the evening, o bells that I love
Ive got some feelings I long to be rid of
Im not one to ramble; Im not one to boast
Though I had one lover more lovely than most
She was a country girl born to be free
Who took to the city by chance there to find me
Bells of the evening go pealin
Im down here listenin to you
Bells of the evening, o bells of the sea
Tell her that I love her, that Im lost and so lonely
Bells of the evening, your sweet sunday sound
Reminds me of the redwoods and moss covered ground
So if I should wander on back to the coast
Tell her to remember its her I need the most
Im caught by the minstrels misfortune
Of being forever displaced
Bells of the evening, o bells of the sea
Tell her that I love her; that Im lost Im so lonely
song performed by by Gordon Lightfoot
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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To L.T. in Florence
You by the Arno shape your marble dream,
Under the cypress and the olive trees,
While I, this side the wild wind-beaten seas,
Unrestful by the Charles's placid stream,
Long once again to catch the golden gleam
Of Brunelleschi's dome, and lounge at ease
In those pleached gardens and fair galleries.
And yet perchance you envy me, and deem
My star the happier, since it holds me here.
Even so one time, beneath the cypresses,
My heart turned longingly across the sea
To these familiar fields and woodlands dear,
And I had given all Titian's goddesses
For one poor cowslip or anemone.
poem by Thomas Bailey Aldrich
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A Fresh Flower Blue
It's a fresh flower blue.
I wrap it in a sheet.
I love its scent, it's hues.
It sips the mist, the dew
and leaves an odor, treat
It's a fresh flower blue.
Its pets, the bees and crew
they meet, they greet, they eat.
I love its scent, its hues.
From dawn to dusk they woo
and bask in rain or heat.
It's a fresh flower blue.
There's a flower for you
There's one for me. A treat!
I love its scent, its hues.
The day I say adieu
I send you one so sweet.
It's a fresh flower blue
I love its scent, its hue.
poem by Agatha Lai
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In The Valley
Said the yellow-haired Spirit of Spring
To the white-footed Spirit of Snow,
“On the wings of the tempest take wing,
And leave me the valleys, and go.”
And, straightway, the streams were unchained,
And the frost-fettered torrents broke free,
And the strength of the winter-wind waned
In the dawn of a light on the sea.
Then a morning-breeze followed and fell,
And the woods were alive and astir
With the pulse of a song in the dell,
And a whisper of day in the fir.
Swift rings of sweet water were rolled
Down the ways where the lily-leaves grew,
And the green, and the white, and the gold,
Were wedded with purple and blue.
But the lips of the flower of the rose
Said, “where is the ending hereof?
Is it sweet with you, life, at the close?
Is it sad to be emptied of love?”
And the voice of the flower of the peach
Was tender and touching in tone,
“When each has been grafted on each,
It is sorrow to live on alone.”
Then the leaves of the flower of the vine
Said, “what will there be in the day
When the reapers are red with my wine,
And the forests are yellow and grey?”
And the tremulous flower of the quince
Made answer, “three seasons ago
My sisters were star-like, but since,
Their graves have been made in the snow.”
Then the whispering flower of the fern
Said, “who will be sad at the death,
When Summer blows over the burn,
With the fierceness of fire in her breath?”
And the mouth of the flower of the sedge
Was opened to murmur and sigh,
“Sweet wind-breaths that pause at the edge
Of the nightfall, and falter, and die.”
poem by Henry Kendall
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Come Away, Death
(harle/shakespeare)
Come away, come away, death
And in sad cyprus let me be laid
Fie away, fie away, breath
I am slain by a fair cruel maid
My shroud of white stuck all with you
O prepare it
My part of death no one so true
Did share it
Come away, come away, death
Not a flower, not a flower, sweet
On my black coffin let there be strewn
Not a friend, not a friend, greet
My poor corpse where my bones shall be thrown
A thousand thousand sighs to say
Lay me over
Sad true lover never find my grave
To weep there
Come away, come away, death
song performed by by Elvis Costello
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Poem - II
Death walks through the mind's dark woods,
Beautiful as aconite,
A lily-flower in his pale hand
And eyes like moonstones burning bright.
Love walks down heart's corridors
Singing for a crust of bread
All the tales of laughing youth
Who tomorrow will lie dead.
Here two summer metaphors;
For even on a sun-mad day
Laughter breaks into salt tears,
And grave is never far away.
poem by Henry Treece
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Memories In The Old Brain
-the smell of water
a scent hanging in the air
a trail through parched, barren land
now greened by rain
in a time of plenty.
the taste of marrow
fresh from the cracked bone,
touched by a fire
that lights the way
to a time of plenty
the sight of a day
over savanna grass,
sight without mystery
without awe
or the art to feel the dawn
and see the light with a new eye
in a time of plenty
the sound of a wild call,
a beast
stirring the heart,
a heart yet to be gripped
by the savage's siren call
to a time of plenty.
Memories deep in my core
of scent, taste, sight, sound
water, fire, light, howl
-memories from a time undefined
-before memory shaped
light and dark into day and night
-before memory became
slave and master of time.
I am a child of these memories,
before and after.
Dancing to the rhythm of time
I am old
in a time of plenty.
poem by Ronald Shields
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To Be Or Not To Be?
They ascended the steep staircase up
the lighthouse unrenovated for long.
As she had the niggling fear
of his promise of marrying her,
' I thought of you more than of a lover.
I offered my heart, my self and all.
Soon, our baby will show me to the world,
though I keep our affair within the pages of my mind.
Couldn't you marry me in a month's time? ',
her voice cracked with emotions.
He was nattering about the problems of caste as usual.
'To be or not to be? ', she wept aloud.
' Be calm. Understand my position', he caressed her cheek.
He was assured of more dowry from a rich girl of his kin.
So he was plum but the poor girl of the city was glum.
' Life after death will be sweet', she uttered,
cringed at his sight and jumped over the parapet wall
and fell down flat into a bloodied body.
The boy climbed down with a ghastly shock,
looked at the crashed head and vanished into the crowd.
The girl didn't think to take the boy to the police
as the modern girls do to shock the boys.
And he was not even haunted by her ghost.
The light house is no more, being demolished in 1980.
He shifted to a new house and brought his rich wife there.
She had miscarriage before the first delivery
and thereafter never carried till her death two years back.
I met the man in tears drenching his beard, recently.
Tears of blood shed by that chaste, poor girl
had torn his heart to pieces and he was speechless.
That heart rending spectacle is running alive in his mind.
Death will not come to him in haste
as he has to shed tears of blood from his worst heart.
---
poem by Rajendran Muthiah
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Sea-Lavender
Lavender, sea lavender!
Pale sweet flower how full of her!
Flower discreet, with your priest's eyes
Trained in all time's mysteries,
Yet how chastely calmly sealed!
Flower of passions unrevealed,
Stainless eyes, but none the less
Wise in life's most nakedness,
With its inward hours of sin,
Known to thee, and all therein;
And how soul with soul found might,
In the watches of the night,
Cherishing an unseen joy,
Man with woman, girl with boy,
Under the sky's multitude,
Till the pulsings of their blood
Led them into ways unknown,
Flesh of flesh and bone of bone
Clasped in one, till doubt was over,
And they went forth loved and lover
Bride and groom to their new home.
See, to--day to you I come,
Flower of wisdom who know all,
To your mute confessional,
Wanting love and wanting her,
(Lavender, sea lavender!)
In a world where she is not,
Mined with plot and counterplot
Built against our happiness.
You, who know her most, can guess
What her thought is far from me,
What soft wind of memory
Fans her with a scent of pleasure,
What sweet song in what sweet measure
Trilled by birds when day was breaking
And each tremulous throat awaking
Strained to make its passion heard
Louder there than other bird,
While we listened, we too, straining
Heart to heart, and watched the waning
Moon fade slowly like a feather
In the red East, close together,
Near, how near, who now are far.
Tell me what her fancies are.
Does she love still? Does she cherish,
In the waste of days that perish
That one dawn, which cannot die?
Nay, I know it, nor will I
Doubt of love or doubt of her,
(Lavender, sea lavender!)
Since she knows and understands
That my hands still hold her hands.
poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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The Mirror And The Reflection
I look into a mirror, who is it that I see?
This person cannot be me, can she?
Her smile scares me
The person she is
Is not the person I am
What is in her eyes
Is grief
Hatred
No emotions that is happy
What happened with the girl infront of me?
What made her so sad?
She smiles again
That sends shivers down my spine
Her tears make me cry
She falls and me not long after
We cry
There is just grief
Nothing can make us stop crying
Oh dear god
I look at my hands
The tears won't stop falling
Why is it that I am crying?
I am not that girl
I am not sad
I look up to the mirror
Maybe another sight will stand there
The mirror falls
Soon there is not just tears in my hand
There is also blood
Blood that stained from my heart
And as I realize, That girl was indeed me
The one I will be come
The one with a broken heart
The one with a dying fate
But that I already knew
And as I lie there
The reflection on the shattered mirror
Laughs with a sad pain in her voice
Sweet Flora
Sweet Flora
Lovers flit from flower to flower
ignoring flora's lusty dower.
So, there she would wait, a lovely sight
wishing for her lover to alight
and spread her seed with April showers.
She watches from her lofty bower
as Spring succumbs to Summer's power.
but sees no messengers in their flight.
As Summer's sun begins to cower
sweet Flora does mourn her endless plight.
She dreams of Autum's belated knight
arriving at the perfect hour
to stroke the nub within her flower
with fluttering wings that can excite
bringing her joy and complete delight.
As Autumn departs without a fight
her lover arrived upon the site
where love did wait and love did scour
for one to bare her lusty dower
His heart was so sad, he felt contrite.
Her lovely petals were once so bright;
body wilted and scent devoured
as he sought natures perfect flower.
But, he was too late to be her knight;
sweet Flora did die from Winter's bite.
©2008 Dawn Slanker
poem by Dawn Slanker
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The Golden Year!
When piped the love-warm throstle shrill,
And all the air was laden
With scent of dew and daffodil,
I saw a youth and maiden,
Whose colour, Spring-like, came and fled,
'Mong purple copses straying,
While birchen tassels overhead
Like marriage-bells kept swaying;
Filled with that joy that lingers still,
Which Eve brought out of Aiden,-
With scent of dew and daffodil
When all the air was laden.
When primrose banks turn pale and fade,
And meads wax deep and golden,
And in lush dale and laughing glade
Summer's gay Court is holden,
Them, nestling close, again I saw,
Affianced girl and lover,
She looking up with eyes of awe
To burning gaze above her;
Playing anew the part oft played,
Sung by the poets olden,-
When primrose banks turn pale and fade,
And meads wax deep and golden.
When autumn woods began to glow,
And autumn sprays to shiver,
Once more I saw them walking slow,
By sedgy-rustling river.
The season's flush was on her cheek,
The season's sadness o'er him:
He stroked her hand, and bade her speak
Of all the love she bore him.
That only made her tears to flow,
And chill his heart to quiver,-
While autumn woods began to glow,
And autumn sprays to shiver.
When winter fields stretched stiff and stark,
And wintry winds shrilled eerie,
I saw him creep, alone, at dark,
Into the churchyard dreary.
He laid him down against the stone,
'Neath which she aye lay sleeping,
Kissed its cold face with many a moan,
Then loudly fell a-weeping:
``Oh! let me in from lonely cark,
Or come thou back, my dearie!''-
But the wintry fields stretched stiff and stark,
And the wintry winds shrilled eerie!
poem by Alfred Austin
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Meeting Among the Mountains
The little pansies by the road have turned
Away their purple faces and their gold,
And evening has taken all the bees from the thyme,
And all the scent is shed away by the cold.
Against the hard and pale blue evening sky
The mountain's new-dropped summer snow is clear
Glistening in steadfast stillness: like transcendent
Clean pain sending on us a chill down here.
Chirst on the Cross! -- his beautiful young man's body
Has fallen dead upon the nails, and hangs
White and loose at last, with all the pain
Drawn on his mouth, eyes broken at last by his pangs.
And slowly down the mountain road, belated,
A bullock wagon comes; so I am ashamed
To gaze any more at the Christ, whom the mountain snows
Whitely confront; I wait on the grass, am lamed.
The breath of the bullock stains the hard, chill air,
The band is across its brow, and it scarcely seems
To draw the load, so still and slow it moves,
While the driver on the shaft sits crouched in dreams.
Surely about his sunburnt face is something
That vexes me with wonder. He sits so still
Here among all this silence, crouching forward,
Dreaming and letting the bullock take its will.
I stand aside on the grass to let them go;
-- And Christ, I have met his accusing eyes again,
The brown eyes black with misery and hate, that look
Full in my own, and the torment starts again.
One moment the hate leaps at me standing there,
One moment I see the stillness of agony,
Something frozen in the silence that dare not be
Loosed, one moment the darkness frightens me.
Then among the averted pansies, beneath the high
White peaks of snow, at the foot of the sunken Christ
I stand in a chill of anguish, trying to say
The joy I bought was not too highly priced.
But he has gone, motionless, hating me,
Living as the mountains do, because they are strong,
With a pale, dead Christ on the crucifix of his heart,
And breathing the frozen memory of his wrong.
Still in his nostrils the frozen breath of despair,
And heart like a cross that bears dead agony
Of naked love, clenched in his fists the shame,
And in his belly the smouldering hate of me.
And I, as I stand in the cold, averted flowers,
Feel the shame-wounds in his hands pierce through my own,
And breathe despair that turns my lungs to stone
And know the dead Christ weighing on my bone.
poem by David Herbert Lawrence
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Elsie
A Memory
LITTLE elfin maid,
Old, though scarce two years,
With your big dark hazel eyes
Tenderer than tears,
And your rosebud mouth
Lisping jocund things,
Breaking brooding silence with
Wistful questionings!
Like a flower you grew
While life's bright sun shone.
Does the greedy spendthrift earth
Heed a flower is gone?
No; but Love's fond ken,
That gropes through Death's dark ways,
Almost seems to hear your Voice,
Seems to see your Face!
poem by Francis William Lauderdale Adams
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I Like It Here
this is my place, insignificant, small,
fleeting even, like a soft breath coming out of my mouth when
i utter the word
you and
i, but you are still confused unable to understand each letter
like chopped string beans so disconnected
from each piece
i understand myself now as intimately as my nose
to my lips to smell and sound touching each other
this moment,
i still say convinced as i am like how the window pane
agrees to entertain a morning chill and then
the light coming,
i still say, i like it here, the view from here,
green mountains hairy with forest trees
rivers running like children in the parks
clouds drifting like butterflies all in the hues of pastel blue
and some scratches of white and gray,
i like the sea here
friendly salt to my tears, i like the gardens here,
so alive with flowers and bees and blades of grass,
i like it here
and i have no plans ever to leave even with you telling me that you love
me till the end of days and nights,
you are lying and there is no sense dying
in the beds of your dreams so far away like
a mythical kingdom.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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93
i like it here
this is my place, insignificant, small,
fleeting even, like a soft breath coming out of my mouth when
i utter the word
you and
i, but you are still confused unable to understand each letter
like chopped string beans so disconnected
from each piece
i understand myself now as intimately as my nose
to my lips to smell and sound touching each other
this moment,
i still say convinced as i am like how the window pane
agrees to entertain a morning chill and then
the light coming,
i still say, i like it here, the view from here,
green mountains hairy with forest trees
rivers running like children in the parks
clouds drifting like butterflies all in the hues of pastel blue
and some scratches of white and gray,
i like the sea here
friendly salt to my tears, i like the gardens here,
so alive with flowers and bees and blades of grass,
i like it here
and i have no plans ever to leave even with you telling me that you love
me till the end of days and nights,
you are lying and there is no sense dying
in the beds of your dreams so far away like
a mythical kingdom.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Willow-Tree
Know ye the willow-tree
Whose gray leaves quiver,
Whispering gloomily
To yon pale river;
Lady, at even-tide
Wander not near it,
They say its branches hide
A sad, lost spirit?
Once to the willow-tree
A maid came fearful,
Pale seemed her cheek to be,
Her blue eye tearful;
Soon as she saw the tree,
Her step moved fleeter,
No one was there—ah me!
No one to meet her!
Quick beat her heart to hear
The far bell's chime
Toll from the chapel-tower
The trysting time:
But the red sun went down
In golden flame,
And though she looked round,
Yet no one came!
Presently came the night,
Sadly to greet her,—
Moon in her silver light,
Stars in their glitter;
Then sank the moon away
Under the billow,
Still wept the maid alone—
There by the willow!
Through the long darkness,
By the stream rolling,
Hour after hour went on
Tolling and tolling.
Long was the darkness,
Lonely and stilly;
Shrill came the night-wind,
Piercing and chilly.
Shrill blew the morning breeze,
Biting and cold,
Bleak peers the gray dawn
Over the wold.
Bleak over moor and stream
Looks the grey dawn,
Gray, with dishevelled hair,
Still stands the willow there—
THE MAID IS GONE!
Domine, Domine!
Sing we a litany,—
Sing for poor maiden-hearts broken and weary;
Domine, Domine!
Sing we a litany,
Wail we and weep we a wild Miserere!
poem by William Makepeace Thackeray
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