The Opening in the Sky to Heaven
in the eyes of the swallows
the sky winds its way into
a mysterious golden
- cool luminous opening
to where heaven is
on and on the excited swallows
would sing wishing one day
it would be able to explore
what is inside
on and on the swallows would sing
as they cruise the sky
delighting all earth's inhabitants
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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Related quotes
The Spring Song
The cuckoos and the swallows sing the spring song.
They just remind us of spring season.
The cuckoos and the swallows sing the spring song.
They just remind us of spring season.
One more time, I am on cloud nine!
One more time, I am on cloud nine!
To dance Bihu this season…
The cuckoos and the swallows sing the spring song.
They just remind us of spring season.
The spring breeze acts as my heart stirrer
The Red flowers redden my heart’s colour.
The beats of the Dhol cast its rhythmic flavour..
It rightly awakens some sleeping lover.
“O’ brothers, O’ boys! O’ come O’ girls! ! ”
“O’ brothers, O’ boys! O’O’O’ come O’ girls! ! ”
“Lets dance Bihu holding our hands together”
“Lets dance Bihu holding our hands together”.
The cuckoos and the swallows sing the spring song.
They just remind us of spring season.
Different castes and community…
It’s a hallmark of Assam’s beauty.
Keeping aside conflicts of ethnicity..
W’ll give Assam, golden identity..
“O’ spring lovers! O’ O’ O’ country lovers! ”
“O’ spring lovers! O’ O’ O’ country lovers! ”
“In this spring, let us pledge together! ”
“In this spring, let us pledge together! ”
The cuckoos and the swallows sing the spring song.
They just remind us of spring season.
The cuckoos and the swallows sing the spring song.
They just remind us of spring season.
One more time, I am on cloud nine! !
One more time, I am on cloud nine! !
To dance Bihu this season…
(Originally sung in Assamese as ‘Kuli Ketekiye Eenaley Beenaley’ by Dr. Bhupen Hazarika)
(Set to original tune)
poem by Kamal Jyoti Borah
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Swallows in the summertime
Swallows in the summertime
The swallows have returned again,
Reminding me of those halcyon days of my youth,
Many years have passed since those blissful days,
I would spend many happy evenings watch them dart around.
The swallows always return each summer,
Spreading their joyful wings over England's green and pleasant land,
Every summer I wonder how many more times will I see the return,
Although it's summer again, I ‘am approaching the winter of my life.
When the swallows return again next year again,
I wonder if I will still be here to see them again,
Flying on the wing under the clear blue skies of summer,
If I ‘am, I will sit by the babbling brook and watch their dance once more.
If I see the swallows return once more,
I will remember those summer days of long ago,
When I was a lad and the countryside seemed to go on forever,
And in my mind I will be young again.
By Christopher Tye
poem by Christopher Tye
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Letter to Prof Wole Soyinka
to the stone that sharpens axe,
kudos.
to the stone that grinds pepper,
kudos.
to the bird that swallows snake,
kudos.
to the woman who swallows man,
kudos.
to the man who swallows lion,
kudos.
to the hunter who returns
from exploit, when the day breaks,
kudos!
poem by Stephen Olufemi Omolara
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Lines II
THOU camest with the coming Spring!
With swallows, and the murmuring
Of unloosed waters, with the birth
Of daisies dimpling the green earth.
And when the perfect rose of June
Responded to the golden noon,
My heart's deep core, suffused with bliss,
Broke into flower beneath thy kiss.
But now the swallows seaward fly,
The winds in chorus wail, 'Good-bye!'
The dead leaves whirl, and like a leaf
My heart shakes on the gusts of grief.
And yet awhile earth's flowerless breast
In lethal folds of snow will rest;
On thee too heart, with all thy woe,
Death falls one day like falling snow.
poem by Mathilde Blind
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Lines
THOU camest with the coming Spring!
With swallows, and the murmuring
Of unloosed waters, with the birth
Of daisies dimpling the green earth.
And when the perfect rose of June
Responded to the golden noon,
My heart's deep core, suffused with bliss,
Broke into flower beneath thy kiss.
But now the swallows seaward fly,
The winds in chorus wail, 'Good-bye!'
The dead leaves whirl, and like a leaf
My heart shakes on the gusts of grief.
And yet awhile earth's flowerless breast
In lethal folds of snow will rest;
On thee too heart, with all thy woe,
Death falls one day like falling snow.
poem by Mathilde Blind
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Choked
Trees above her, below her, to each side of her
Fog obstructing her view, where should she be?
She cannot tell what day it is any more than she can tell what time it is
Which way should she turn?
The fog swallows her feet
When she thinks she has found the right path, she sees an opening...
Then the fog swallows it
She has been misled again
...and again
......and again
She screams, she’s tired; she is choked by the fog, betrayed by the trees
Feels like she’s been here forever
Trees that don’t talk back anymore
No one is there to guide her
She is lost
The trees and fog are making her second guess every step she makes
Mocking her, humiliating her, laughing at her
At one time she thought they would lead her
Following each way the breeze decided to sway the trees
Going with the fog because where there is fog there is water
Water leads her to place she needs to be
If only the fog was not so thick
if only the trees would talk again
If....If....IF! !
If only she was not lost
The trees and the fog swallows her
Then spits her out when she is nothing more
Nothing is left
Besides a new start
God! Please help me!
poem by Ashley Joyce Forbus
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A Duty Done - 1935
The swallows are back, and I'm tuning my lyre,
For today 'tis my duty to sing
A melodious lay that is graciously gay
To welcome - officially - spring
Ting-a-ling
So let's have a song with a swing.
Bing!
High cockalorum and fal-de-rah, whack!
Young Spring's in the offing! The swallows are back!
To put sense in the song matters little so long
As the lift and the lilt of it ring.
And a mention be made of the wattle-hung glade
Where the blithering birds are a-wing
Ting-a-ling
And the clamorous honey-bees cling.
Z-z-z-ing!
Tho' I'm scarce in the humor, alas and alack!
Ho, merry-down-derry! The swallows are back!
So - officially - Hi! Oh, salubrious sky!
What a dear and delectable thing
To behold such a blue as old Arcady knew
When - er - Strephan or someone was king
Ting-a-ling
And life held nor arrow nor sling.
Ping!
Ah, the fervor is forced; but I mustn't get slack,
Tho' the rhymes may run low, for the swallows are back!
But - privily - oh, my vitality's low,
And a sneer at the season I fling
For I gasp and I wheeze in the weary unease
Of the plagues that the pollen days bring
Ting-a-ling
I'm insipid as second-hand string.
Ring.
Ah, ring down the curtain! I've gone to the pack!
But, a last word in closing: the swallows are back.
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Blue Swallows
Across the millstream below the bridge
Seven blue swallows divide the air
In shapes invisible and evanescent,
Kaleidoscopic beyond the mind’s
Or memory’s power to keep them there.
“History is where tensions were,”
“Form is the diagram of forces.”
Thus, helplessly, there on the bridge,
While gazing down upon those birds—
How strange, to be above the birds!—
Thus helplessly the mind in its brain
Weaves up relation’s spindrift web,
Seeing the swallows’ tails as nibs
Dipped in invisible ink, writing…
Poor mind, what would you have them write?
Some cabalistic history
Whose authorship you might ascribe
To God? to Nature? Ah, poor ghost,
You’ve capitalized your Self enough.
That villainous William of Occam
Cut out the feet from under that dream
Some seven centuries ago.
It’s taken that long for the mind
To waken, yawn and stretch, to see
With opened eyes emptied of speech
The real world where the spelling mind
Imposes with its grammar book
Unreal relations on the blue
Swallows. Perhaps when you will have
Fully awakened, I shall show you
A new thing: even the water
Flowing away beneath those birds
Will fail to reflect their flying forms,
And the eyes that see become as stones
Whence never tears shall fall again.
O swallows, swallows, poems are not
The point. Finding again the world,
That is the point, where loveliness
Adorns intelligible things
Because the mind’s eye lit the sun.
poem by Howard Nemerov
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Swallows
AH! swallows, is it so?
Did loving lingering summer, whose slow pace
Tarried among late blossoms, loth to go,
Gather the darkening cloud-wraps round her face
And weep herself away in last week's rain?
Can no new sunlight waken her again?
'Yes,' one pale rose a-blow
Has answered from the trellised lane;
The flickering swallows answer 'No.'
From out the dim grey sky
The arrowy swarm breaks forth and specks the air,
While, one by one, birds wheel and float and fly,
And now are gone, then suddenly are there;
Till lo, the heavens are empty of them all.
Oh, fly, fly south, from leaves that fade and fall,
From shivering flowers that die;
Free swallows, fly from winter's thrall,
Ye who can give the gloom good-bye.
But what for us who stay
To hear the winds and watch the boughs grow black,
And in the soddened mornings, day by day,
Count what lost sweets bestrew the nightly track
Of frost-foot winter trampling towards his throne?
Swallows, who have the sunlight for your own,
Fly on your sunward way;
For you has January buds new blown,
For us the snows and gloom and grey.
On, on, beyond our reach,
Swallows, with but your longing for a guide:
Let the hills rise, let the waves tear the beach,
Ye will not balk your course nor turn aside,
But find the palms and twitter in the sun.
And well for them whose eager wings have won
The longed for goal of flight;
But what of them in twilights dun
Who long, but have no wings for flight?
poem by Augusta Davies Webster
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I fancy I Can See You Old Duhallow
I fancy I can see you old Duhallow
The swallows o'er your fields wing to and fro
And cows from wintering houses out on pasture
And birds are whistling on the green hedgerow.
I lay upon the bracken slopes of Clara
I see the Kerry hills beyond Rathmore
A skylark sing above the silent mountain
His song bring back to me the joys of yore.
You wear your green cloak of the Spring Duhallow
And your beauty from the mountain side I see
From Millstreet to Kanturk on towards Newmarket
Kiskeam to Cullen and up to Knocknagree.
I often think about you green Duhallow
You were the first great love I ever knew
But many others loved you better than I
And they feel quite content to live with you.
I fancy I can see you old Duhallow
In your green groves the wild birds nest and sing
And swallows fly above your fields and meadows
And cuckoo pipes his fanfare of the Spring.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Swallows Travel To And Fro
SWALLOWS travel to and fro,
And the great winds come and go,
And the steady breezes blow,
Bearing perfume, bearing love.
Breezes hasten, swallows fly,
Towered clouds forever ply,
And at noonday, you and I
See the same sunshine above.
Dew and rain fall everywhere,
Harvests ripen, flowers are fair,
And the whole round earth is bare
To the moonshine and the sun;
And the live air, fanned with wings,
Bright with breeze and sunshine, brings
Into contact distant things,
And makes all the countries one.
Let us wander where we will,
Something kindred greets us still;
Something seen on vale or hill
Falls familiar on the heart;
So, at scent or sound or sight,
Severed souls by day and night
Tremble with the same delight -
Tremble, half the world apart.
poem by Robert Louis Stevenson
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Season Of Song
Forget the wars.
It is time to sing.
Take out the flute from Phrygia
and recall the songs of our blond Graces.
Clamor of babbling swallows:
it is already spring.
poem by Stesichorus
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De Ægypto
I even I, am he who knoweth the roads
Through the sky, and the wind thereof is my body.
I have beheld the Lady of Life,
I, even I, who fly with the swallows.
Green and gray is her raiment,
Trailing along the wind.
I, even I, am he who knoweth the roads
Through the sky, and the wind thereof is my body.
Manus animam pinxit,
My pen is in my hand
To write the acceptable word. . . .
My mouth to chant the pure singing!
Who hath the mouth to receive it,
The song of the Lotus of Kumi?
I, even I, am he who knoweth the roads
Through the sky, and the wind thereof is my body.
I am flame that riseth in the sun,
I, even I, who fly with the swallows.
The moon is upon my forehead,
The winds are under my lips.
The moon is a great pearl in the waters of sapphire,
Cool to my fingers the flowing waters.
I, even I, am he who knoweth the roads
Through the sky, and the wind thereof is my body.
poem by Ezra Pound
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Angles In The Snow
When december comes
Then we'll take the kids to mama's
They can make snow angels in the yard
Like a christmas card
We'll decorate the tree
Put an angel high above us
Like we always do
At christmas
On and on it goes
Every year new memories to share
And for all we know
We will all of us be there
When the autumn leaves have gone to gold
And swallows know december's calling
I'll be flying home a thousand times
In all my sweetest dreams
I can see the glow in your eyes
As we sit by the fire
Like lovers we knew long ago
While we watch our angels in the snow
When december comes
We'll be trying to remember
Where we packed our woolen winter clothes
Only heaven knows
When december comes
We'll be hanging pine and holly
Singing all the songs we sing at christmas
Home is ever near
Hearts return no matter what we do
And love
Will build a bridge
And i will always be there with you
When the autumn leaves have gone to gold
And swallows know
December's calling
I'll be flying home a thousand times
If only my dreams
And i see the glow in your eyes
As we sit by the fire
Like lovers we knew long ago
While we watch our angels in the snow
song performed by by Kenny Loggins
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Bat
At evening, sitting on this terrace,
When the sun from the west, beyond Pisa, beyond the mountains of Carrara
Departs, and the world is taken by surprise ...
When the tired flower of Florence is in gloom beneath the glowing
Brown hills surrounding ...
When under the arches of the Ponte Vecchio
A green light enters against stream, flush from the west,
Against the current of obscure Arno ...
Look up, and you see things flying
Between the day and the night;
Swallows with spools of dark thread sewing the shadows together.
A circle swoop, and a quick parabola under the bridge arches
Where light pushes through;
A sudden turning upon itself of a thing in the air.
A dip to the water.
And you think:
'The swallows are flying so late!'
Swallows?
Dark air-life looping
Yet missing the pure loop ...
A twitch, a twitter, an elastic shudder in flight
And serrated wings against the sky,
Like a glove, a black glove thrown up at the light,
And falling back.
Never swallows!
Bats!
The swallows are gone.
At a wavering instant the swallows gave way to bats
By the Ponte Vecchio ...
Changing guard.
Bats, and an uneasy creeping in one's scalp
As the bats swoop overhead!
Flying madly.
Pipistrello!
Black piper on an infinitesimal pipe.
Little lumps that fly in air and have voices indefinite, wildly vindictive;
Wings like bits of umbrella.
Bats!
Creatures that hang themselves up like an old rag, to sleep;
And disgustingly upside down.
Hanging upside down like rows of disgusting old rags
And grinning in their sleep.
Bats!
Not for me!
poem by David Herbert Lawrence
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Angels In The Snow
When december comes
Then well take the kids to mamas
They can make snow angels in the yard
Like a christmas card
Well decorate the tree
Put an angel high above us
Like we always do
At christmas
On and on it goes
Every year new memories to share
And for all we know
We will all of us be there
When the autumn leaves have gone to gold
And swallows know decembers calling
Ill be flying home a thousand times
In all my sweetest dreams
I can see the glow in your eyes
As we sit by the fire
Like lovers we knew long ago
While we watch our angels in the snow
When december comes
Well be trying to remember
Where we packed our woolen winter clothes
Only heaven knows
When december comes
Well be hanging pine and holly
Singing all the songs we sing at christmas
Home is ever near
Hearts return no matter what we do
And love
Will build a bridge
And I will always be there with you
When the autumn leaves have gone to gold
And swallows know
Decembers calling
Ill be flying home a thousand times
If only my dreams
And I see the glow in your eyes
As we sit by the fire
Like lovers we knew long ago
While we watch our angels in the snow
song performed by by Kenny Loggins
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Imperfect Song
It may not be a misery to sing at all,
To sing life's imperfect song,
For if us mortals love or sing,
It is what keeps us from our perfect dream
Life's imperfect song goes on day by day,
But our grief may be set best that way,
As if a music box lost its key,
That's is my life long song of Misery
Misery leaves you like a broken frame,
Guilt and sorrow swallows the pain,
You run from it, but knowing that you can't hide,
Until, the day you run insane
As time passes, I watch you grow,
Still refusing to sing of tomorrow,
Your life long song, now complete,
My child don't wish, go to sleep.
Lost Way
Sleeplessness swallows slumber,
to disencumber the mummer’s
fear of fear, fear of end of indian summer,
follows the night that swallows the night which swallowed nights without number.
Night melts into day
as the hours devour
life’s fragile flower
whose minute petals
peal peel away
as each second settles
one by one as one. Our stay -
be it floral bower,
or doomed to cower sour
behind bars metal, -
proves brief holiday
showing our mettle
pointless as the play
is doomed to nettle
disappoints, unsettles,
impotence empowers
as storm-clouds lower,
ends in both overstay, lost way.
Sleeplessness dismembers the mummer
who, hollow, in fear of fear, of doom’s drummer,
lumbers number and dumber tombwards,
on towards the night which swallows nights without number
it won't ward off.
poem by Jonathan Robin
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Chocked
Trees above her, below her, to each side of her
Fog obstracting her view, where should she be?
She cannot tell what day it is anymore than she can tell what time it is
which way should she turn?
The fog swallows her feet
When she thinks she has found the right path, she sees an opening...
Then the fog shollows it
She has been mislead again
...and again
......and again
She screams, shes tired, she is choked by the fog, betrayed by the trees
Feels like shes been here forever
Trees that dont talk back anymore
No one is there to guide her
She is lost
The trees and fog are making her second guess every step she makes
mocking her, humilating her, laughing at her
At one time she thought they would lead her
Following each way the breeze decided to sway the trees
Going with the fog because where there is fog there is water
water leads her to place she needs to be
If only the fog was not so thick
if only the trees would talk again
If....If....IF! !
If only she was not lost
The trees and the fog swallows her
Then spits her out when she is nothing more
Nothing is left
Besides a new start
God! Please help me!
poem by Ashley Dowdy
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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230
teardrops from
My eyes
to my cheek
slowly
to my lips
my tongue
licks it
my mouth
swallows
I need tears
to drink
To become
The salt
Of this
Earth.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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