Sic Transit
Sudden summer laughter wave lift-drifts. Lush vale
stirs startled, sweating afternoon. Echo's no avail,
for sounds are swiftly smothered, as if some spider’s veil
Present, Past, Hereafter, threads, cocooning mortal wail.
Slowly drifting over sun-sparkling sylvan stream’s
springs and falls, bright sunlit halls, where silver salmon teems,
that fisher’s mind recalls far larger than his life-size dreams.
Scene subtle, suddenly disturbed, is smashed to smithereens.
Beasts tied to dry land try Time’s patience, thresher’s flail,
Brash bipeds too, though new, shall pass, ~ such small detail, ~
their lice must perish too, should spiders tell spun tale?
Arachnidae survive where flies die, race over, trace trails fail.
The crush-rush mortals know no wind-blown stones record
when hush dawn’s blushing show will welcome silence sans discord...
(23 March 1975 revised 3 August 2007,27 May 2008 robi03_0053)
For previous versions see below
Sic Transit
Sudden summer laughter wave lift-drifts through lush vale,
stirs, startles afternoon; - echo of no avail,
for sounds are smothered soon, as if some spider’s veil
Present, Past, Hereafter, surrounds â€" cocoons prevail.
Slowly drifting over sun-sparkling sylvan stream’s,
springs and falls, sunlit halls, where silver salmon teems
that fisher’s mind recalls far larger than his dreams, -
scene one sun, supernova, flash beams to smithereens.
Beasts tied to dry land try Time’s patience, thresher’s flail;
Brash bipeds too, though new, shall pass, ~ such small detail, ~
their lice must perish too, will insects tell their tale?
Who’d fly shall also die, race over, trace trails fail.
The crush, the rush, we know, what wind-blown stone records
when hush dawn’s blushing show welcomes without discord...?
(3 August 2007)
Sic Transit Gloria Mundi
Scented summer laughter, softly sifting through the vale,
stirs the silence sixty seconds, though all to no avail,
as the sound is swiftly smothered, as if by spider’s veil.
Slowly drifting over the rushing mountain streams, -
those springs and falls, the sunlit halls, where silver salmon teems, -
in which for scaly fare oft search the fearsome fishing teams.
Birds fly through sky, beasts try dry land, too soon both trails must fail,
brash bipeds too, though still so new, will pass, ~ such small detail, ~
leaving their lice to linger on, insects to tell their tale!
(23 March 1975)
poem by Jonathan Robin
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
The well [Fântâna]
I
I know a small well in the shadowy vale
A chirping gold starling has urged me to sleep
Beneath the high poplars, with green foliage veil,
Forgetting the city where my sigh was deep.
I know a small well in the shadowy vale
A blackbird I talked to down there, for it pried,
When learned that I suffered and heard my sad wail,
Laughed loudly and deeply, but I only sighed...
I know a small well in the shadowy vale
II
In foliage lies hidden the white-looking vale
And what have I wanted in this passing world?
I pity myself, the sad folks who prevail...
O, you, finely chirping and nice golden bird
In foliage lies hidden the white-looking vale
Its spring in the morning is kissed by the sky,
With it flows my fate, beginning to fail,
O, blackbird whose laughter is not gonna die!
The small hidden well turns white in the vale.
poem by Alexandru Macedonski, translated by Octavian Cocoş
Submitted by anonym
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A Noon Interval
A deep, delicious hush in earth and sky --
A gracious lull--since, from its wakening,
The morn has been a feverish, restless thing
In which the pulse of Summer ran too high
And riotous, as though its heart went nigh
To bursting with delights past uttering:
Now--as an o'erjoyed child may cease to sing
All falteringly at play, with drowsy eye
Draining the pictures of a fairy-tale
To brim his dreams with--there comes o'er the day
A loathful silence wherein all sounds fail
Like loitering sounds of some roundelay . . .
No wakeful effort longer may avail --
The wand waves, and the dozer sinks away.
poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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Reception
RECEPTION
The crystal chandelier’s seen set on high: -
below, scene: sparkling silver, black bow tie.
7 March 1975 robi03_0044_robi03_0000 XXX_JXX
see Reception II
lllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll llllllllllllllllllllllllllllll
RECEPTION II
Bright crystal chandelier winks, - rainbow eyes
reflect above white damask, black bow ties.
Tight fitting, custom styled, rich evening dresses
flirt flitting, sit or circle smart addresses.
The silver sparkles still, but can(t) chit chat
where greed, ambition, steer seek tit for tat?
Bank and bad chance reach meet, both calculating
rank, land, advance, retreat, each other bating.
The scene is set, the ‘highest in the land’
stalk tall, small talk, with motives underhand,
fawning give and take, exclusive brand
stands glass in hand, cliques in-jokes understand,
don’t dare aloud let trust transcend bores' noise,
won’t where a crowd. Met lust bans friend, or cloys.
So glassy eyed - its rare they’re lies without; -
So pass we by, fresh air there lies, without.
The tinkling chandelier gleams still on high; -
frames dirty dishes, empty room awry...
28 March 1981 revised 7 August 2006 robi03_0175_robi03_0000 XXX_JEX For previous version see below
Reception II
The Reception II
The crystal chandelier’s seen set on high: -
Below, clean sparkling silver, black bow tie.
Tight bows and ribbons deck bright party dresses; -
Light shows swan’s neck, it whiter nonetheless is!
The silver sparkles still, but does the talk?
Where greed, ambition, envy, circling stalk.
The scene is set, the ‘highest in the land’
Stand glass in hand, so little understand,
Don’t dare aloud let truth transcend the noise,
Won’t where a crowd. Met truth bans friend, annoys!
So glassy eyed! Its rare they’re lies without; -
So pass we by! Fresh air there lies, without!
The chandelier gleams still, set up on high; -
Below, clean sparkling silver, black bow tie!
28th. March 1981
lllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll llllllllllllllllllllll
poem by Jonathan Robin
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Sonnet -Written in Keats
I saw pale Dian, sitting by the brink
Of silver falls, the overflow of fountains
From cloudy steeps; and I grew sad to think
Endymion's foot was silent on those mountains.
And he but a hush'd name, that Silence keeps
In dear remembrance,—lonely, and forlorn,
Singing it to herself until she weeps
Tears, that perchance still glisten in the morn:—
And as I mused, in dull imaginings,
There came a flash of garments, and I knew
The awful Muse by her harmonious wings
Charming the air to music as she flew—
Anon there rose an echo through the vale
Gave back Enydmion in a dreamlike tale.
poem by Thomas Hood
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Fish And Shadow
The salmon-trout drifts in the stream,
The soul of the salmon-trout floats over the stream
Like a little wafer of light.
The salmon moves in the sun-shot, bright shallow sea. . . .
As light as the shadow of the fish
that falls through the water,
She came into the large room by the stair,
Yawning a little she came with the sleep still upon her.
'I am just from bed. The sleep is still in my eyes.
'Come. I have had a long dream.'
And I: That wood?
'And two springs have passed us.'
'Not so far, no, not so far now,
There is a place but no one else knows it
A field in a valley . . .
Qu'ieu sui avinen,
Ieu lo sai,'
She must speak of the time
Of Arnaut de Mareuil, I thought, 'qu'ieu sui avinen.’
Light as the shadow of the fish
That falls through the pale green water.
poem by Ezra Pound
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All In The Golden Afternoon
All in the golden afternoon
Full leisurely we glide;
For both our oars, with little skill,
By little arms are plied,
While little hands make vain pretense
Our wanderings to guide.
Ah, cruel Three! In such an hour,
Beneath such dreamy weather,
To beg a tale of breath too weak
To stir the tiniest feather!
Yet what can one poor voice avail
Against three tongues together?
Imperious Prima flashes forth
Her edict to "begin it"--
In gentler tones Secunda hopes
"There will be nonsense in it"--
While Tertia interrupts the tale
Not more than once a minute.
Anon, to sudden silence won,
In fancy they pursue
The dream-child moving through a land
Of wonders wild and new,
In friendly chat with bird or beast--
And half believe it true.
And ever, as the story drained
The wells of fancy dry,
And faintly strove that weary one
To put the subject by,
"The rest next time"--"It is next time!"
The happy voices cry.
Thus grew the tale of Wonderland:
Thus slowly, one by one,
Its quaint events were hammered out--
And now the tale is done,
And home we steer, a merry crew,
Beneath the setting sun.
Alice! a childish story take,
And with a gentle hand
Lay it where Childhood's dreams are twined
In Memory's mystic band,
Like pilgrim's withered wreath of flowers
Plucked in a far-off land.
Submitted by foolish Paeter
poem by Lewis Carroll
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A Grave By The Sea
No white cloud sails the lonely sky,
Thro’ the gaunt trees no breezes sigh,
Thro’ the lush grass no fall of feet;
No song of bird in all the land,
But, floating faintly, dreamily,
The distant dirge of waves that beat
In discontent upon the sand.
Here, where all Nature seems aswoon,
Time, languid as a summer stream,
Drifts down the sweet soft afternoon;
And Death, discrowned of terror, brings
Surcease to souls that wake not soon,
And casts above Life’s fevered dream
Cool shadows of Immortal Wings.
Here, by the old graves overgrown,
A bare mound, without wreath or stone,
Marks where he sleeps ’mid grasses long,
Who sought not things that others seek,
Who fought in silence and alone,
Who in his weakness was so strong
And in his strength so weak.
The shining years shall glide and go,
The human tides shall ebb and flow,
And Love make sweet the days to be,
And Death make smooth the brow of pain,
But no such heart again shall glow,
And no such friend shall come to me
Thro’ all the cycles that remain.
Some pass and perish with their breath;
He liveth yet and quickeneth,
As scent of roses on the wind
Recalls the bygone summer’s day;
He leaves this side the seas of Death,
The fragrance of a noble mind:
He dies, but passes not away.
poem by George Essex Evans
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Crossed Threads
The silken threads by viewless spinners spun,
Which float so idly on the summer air,
And help to make each summer morning fair,
Shining like silver in the summer sun,
Are caught by wayward breezes, one by one,
Are blown to east and west and fastened there,
Weaving on all the roads their sudden snare.
No sign which road doth safest, freest run,
The wingèd insects know, that soar so gay
To meet their death upon each summer day.
How dare we any human deed arraign;
Attempt to recon any moment's cost;
Or any pathway trust as safe and plain
Because we see not where the threads have crossed?
poem by Helen Hunt Jackson
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Spring versus Summer
Spring is slowly leaving
And summer is swiftly arriving
And for me that really matter
Because the days are getting hotter
I love spring but mostly I love fall
That's when I really have a ball
That's when the days are just kinder
By reminding me when days are just better!
I hate to see spring go,
And for summer to my door just to show,
I don't like to feel all the heat,
Because that's when my body takes the beat
I prefer much better the cold weather
But I like it more when we are together,
Lots of rain and winds start to fall and blow,
Spring is about to exit and take her bow
Spring is slowly leaving
And summer is swiftly arriving
It makes me sad to see spring go
And for summer to my door just to show!
May,7,2007
poem by Dorian Petersen Potter
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Leaping Salmon
I will not dream another's sweet musings
when the truth is only partly known
the fruit is so sweet but of another knowledge
but face my own full on
naked in the darkness
and recognise that which has never been shown before
and dream it as my own
I will not share you with another
I cannot
for their knowledge would lack the spice of experience
I am the silver salmon driving out of the peat black water into the
daylight
Rising rising
timeless and heavy
Falling backwards into the darkness
I am inside you rising up through the water feeling the water rush past
my
flanks
light flickers above
Searching for the head waters
They are there. I smell them
Peatiness all round
I hold your flanks
Pass my hands to your front, beneath your gills
fingers just apart
sensing your power running past my fingers
Silver water running through my fingers
Pass my hands down your sides
Sense the water passing over my skin
Surges rising up
geysers of water silver spume
The salmon rises
My beautiful salmon, you rise and explode gasping in the electric air
showers of jewels tremble in the sunlight
the sound of a thousand water falls
The pinky darkness of your open mouth
catching the irresdecent droplets
Your flanks tremble in the sun
and fall
back into the enveloping water
bubbles rise
Dark fish sinks into the velvet darkness
Still Still Swish Still
Held like a chalice
poem by Anthony Dalby
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Rubberband
Jumping into streams of nectar
Falling through these clouds of silver
Reaching for these angels faces
Waking up in fields of feathers
Its tied me up inside its tied me up inside
You spin me around you lift me right off the ground
You twist me around I feel like a rubber band
You spin me around then you wind me back up
Cause I'm your rubber band
Crashing onto cotton wool floors
Breaking my fall if I land short
Wrapped up in these arms of velvet
Drifting in sea of regret
Its tied me up inside its tied me up inside
I've got to pull myself together
Its tied me up inside Its tied me up inside
You spin me around you lift me right off the ground
You twist me around I feel like a rubber band
You spin me around then you wind me back up
Cause I'm your rubber band
I wish I knew what to say but words escape me today
I wish I knew what to say just take away the pain
Jumping into streams of nectar
I've got to pull it back together
Its tied me up inside its tied me up inside
Its tied me up inside its tied me up inside
You spin me around you lift me right off the ground
You twist me around I feel like a rubber band
You spin me around then you wind me back up
Cause I'm your rubber band
You spin me around you lift me right off the ground
You twist me around I feel like a rubber band
You spin me around then you wind me back up
Cause I'm your rubber band
song performed by by Feeder
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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All In The Golden Afternoon
All in the golden afternoon full leisurely we glide
For both our oars, with little skill, by little arms are plied
While little hands make vain pretence our wanderings to guide
Ah, cruel three! in such an hour beneath such dreamy wheather
To beg a tale of breath too weak to stir the tiniest feather
And what can one poor voice avail against three tongues together
Anon, to sudden silence won, in fancy they persue
The dream child moving through a land of wonders wild and new
In friendly chat with bird or beast- and half believe it true
And ever as the story drained the wells of fancy dry
And faintly strove that weary one to put the subject by
The next time. it is next time the happy voices cry
Thus grew the tale of wonderland, thus slowly, one by one
Its quaint events were hammered out
And now the tale is done and home we steer
A merry crew
Beneath the setting sun
Lewis carrol
song performed by by Alphaville
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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This Day Will Not Come Again
'A sweet summer afternoon. Cool breezes and a clear sky. This day will not come again.
The young bulls lie under a tree in the corner of their field. Quiet afternoon. Blue hills.
Day lilies nod in the wind. This day will not come again. '
Thomas Merton, Conjectures of a Guilty Bystander
I expected the slight rise
in the east, the sky
growing slate, then
blushing pink and
suddenly blue.
The winter tree
is often
bathed in gold,
and the familiar song
of thrush and jay,
woodpecker's rapid tapping
brash geese
shouting,
are often the same
from one to another day.
But this sudden breeze,
freshening breath
of the butterfly,
the warmth
the joyful cry!
My God is here!
I breathe,
I sigh.
poem by Steven Federle
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Vanishing
If I could recaputre
all of the memories
and bring them to life
surely I would
hear the distant laughter
wasn't it you and me
survivng the night
you're faiding out of my sight
swiftly
you're vanishing
drifting away
your vanishing a-a-a-a-o-oo-o
I was so enraputred
no sensability
to open my eyes
I misunderstood
now you're fading faster
it's suddenly hard to see
you're talking the light
letting the shadows inside
swiftly
your vanishing
drifting awway
you're vanishing a-a-a-a-w-w-a-a-y
reaching out into the distance
searching for spirits of that past
just a trace of your existance to grasp
and if somehow I could recaputre
all of the memories
and bring them to life
lord know I would
but now you're faidng faster
getting so hard to see
you're talking the light
letting the darkness inside
swiftly
you're vanishing
drifting so far away
you're vanishing
a-a-a-a-a-a- yeah
awa-a-a-a-a--aa--a-aa-a-a-a-a-a-a-y
song performed by by Mariah Carey from Mariah Carey
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Synaptic Dream Scrabble Stash
Dreams bring string themes for thoughts caught in blind flash,
Enchantment, nightmare fears, beyond time's veil.
Much past, some present, future fair or fail,
Links stored sub-surface in synaptic stash.
Insight's flights can scan creation. Clash!
World wakes! swirled search unslaked - there lies a tale
Of fairies, dragons, daily purchase, sale
Refused, approved, in limbo, mind's cache
Seeks sleeps return to peep through truth's mish-mash,
Advice clear seeking, films night's neuron mail.
New facettes, gleaming, stream subconscious scale
Gleaned from imagination's brain-wave splash.
Dreamplay transforms day's greys to rainbow sash
Evaporating empty phantoms pale,
Multi-coloured visions never stale,
Leaves boring chores here for adventures brash,
Ideal idyll there, to cut a dash
While speeding spirit fills dreamboat's full sail
On open ocean offering hope's grail
Real scope, feels grace denying daily lash,
Speed-reads between life-lines, shu[n]ts cut and slash
Away as contradictions fade or flail.
Now spring prevails, mocks fixed rails, founds fresh trail
Gains momentum, phoenix flies from embers, ash.
Word worlds scrabbled whirl unscrambled rehash
Once hidden memories as dreams exhale
Revived ambitions, aims released on bail,
Deep sleep follows lost primaeval tracks
Greeting hidden relevations, packs
A universe no censorship can gaol,
Moves mountains, fountains frees, sees each detail,
Egged on unyoked as Ahab white whale tracks.
So phases paradoxical sleeps stacks
Novel treasured pleasure meaured by mind's cracks
Invites insight into both fiction, facts,
Laces sing-song sense up hill down dale.
poem by Jonathan Robin
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Prologue
All in the golden afternoon
Full leisurely we glide;
For both our oars, with little skill,
By little arms are plied,
While little hands make vain pretence
Our wanderings to guide.
Ah, cruel Three! In such an hour
Beneath such dreamy weather,
To beg a tale of breath too weak
To stir the tiniest feather&xclm.
Yet what can one poor voice avail
Against three tongues together?
Imperious Prima flashes forth
Her edict ``to begin it'':
In gentler tones Secunda hopes
``There will be nonsense in it!''
While Tertia interrupts the tale
Not more than once a minute.
Anon, to sudden silence won,
In fancy they pursue
The dream-child moving through a land
Of wonders wild and new,
In friendly chat with bird or beast--
And half believe it true.
And ever, as the story drained
The wells of fancy dry,
And faintly strove that weary one
To put the subject by
``The rest next time--'' ``It is next time!''
The happy voices cry.
Thus grew the tale of Wonderland:
Thus slowly, one by one,
Its quaint events were hammered out--
And now the tale is done,
And home we steer, a merry crew,
Beneath the setting sun.
Alice! A childish story take,
And with a gentle hand,
Lay it where Childhoood's dreams are twined
In Memory's mystic band,
Like pilgrim's wither'd wreath of flowers
Pluck'd in a far-off land.
poem by Lewis Carroll
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Magical Love
You sound like
The rush of an Angel's wings
Taking flight
When you speak
Or the twinkling of wind chimes
Off in the distant night air
Heard, but unseen
You are like
Morning dew
In the afternoon
Or random raindrops
In rare moments
On a soft and sunlit day
You feel like
The softest petal
On a newly bloomed rose
When you whisper
Against my ear
While my eyes are closed
You are the
Crash of the ocean
When its waves wash ashore
Or the still and the calm
Of a storm, just before
Your fingertips trail
Up my spine
Then down my thigh
Your lips never once
Leaving mine
Your touch feels
As light as a fallen feather
Drifting slowly
Toward the ground
All things seem magical
Your love is musical
What a beautiful sound
poem by Erika Wingo
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The House Of Dust: Part 03: 08: Coffins: Interlude
Wind blows. Snow falls. The great clock in its tower
Ticks with reverberant coil and tolls the hour:
At the deep sudden stroke the pigeons fly . . .
The fine snow flutes the cracks between the flagstones.
We close our coats, and hurry, and search the sky.
We are like music, each voice of it pursuing
A golden separate dream, remote, persistent,
Climbing to fire, receding to hoarse despair.
What do you whisper, brother? What do you tell me? . . .
We pass each other, are lost, and do not care.
One mounts up to beauty, serenely singing,
Forgetful of the steps that cry behind him;
One drifts slowly down from a waking dream.
One, foreseeing, lingers forever unmoving . . .
Upward and downward, past him there, we stream.
One has death in his eyes: and walks more slowly.
Death, among jonquils, told him a freezing secret.
A cloud blows over his eyes, he ponders earth.
He sees in the world a forest of sunlit jonquils:
A slow black poison huddles beneath that mirth.
Death, from street to alley, from door to window,
Cries out his news,—of unplumbed worlds approaching,
Of a cloud of darkness soon to destroy the tower.
But why comes death,—he asks,—in a world so perfect?
Or why the minute's grey in the golden hour?
Music, a sudden glissando, sinister, troubled,
A drift of wind-torn petals, before him passes
Down jangled streets, and dies.
The bodies of old and young, of maimed and lovely,
Are slowly borne to earth, with a dirge of cries.
Down cobbled streets they come; down huddled stairways;
Through silent halls; through carven golden doorways;
From freezing rooms as bare as rock.
The curtains are closed across deserted windows.
Earth streams out of the shovel; the pebbles knock.
Mary, whose hands rejoiced to move in sunlight;
Silent Elaine; grave Anne, who sang so clearly;
Fugitive Helen, who loved and walked alone;
Miriam too soon dead, darkly remembered;
Childless Ruth, who sorrowed, but could not atone;
Jean, whose laughter flashed over depths of terror,
And Eloise, who desired to love but dared not;
Doris, who turned alone to the dark and cried,—
They are blown away like windflung chords of music,
They drift away; the sudden music has died.
And one, with death in his eyes, comes walking slowly
And sees the shadow of death in many faces,
And thinks the world is strange.
He desires immortal music and spring forever,
And beauty that knows no change.
poem by Conrad Potter Aiken
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On Ettrick Forest's Mountains Dun {Life In The Forest}
On Ettrick Forest's mountains dun
'Tis blithe to hear the sportsman's gun,
And seek the heath-frequenting brood
Far through the noonday solitude;
By many a cairn and trenched mound,
Where chiefs of yore sleep lone and sound,
And springs, where grey-hair'd shepherds tell
That still the fairies love to dwell.
Along the silver streams of Tweed
'Tis blithe the mimic fly to lead,
When to the hook the salmon springs,
And the line whistles through the rings;
The boiling eddy see him try,
Then dashing from the current high,
Till watchful eye and cautious hand
Have led his wasted strength to land.
'Tis blithe along the midnight tide
With stalwart arm the boat to guide;
On high the dazzling blaze to rear,
And heedful plunge the barbed spear:
Rock, wood, and scaur, emerging bright,
Fling on the stream their ruddy light,
And from the bank our band appears
Like Genii, arm'd with fiery spears.
'Tis blithe at eve to tell the tale,
How we succeed, and how we fail,
Whether at Alwyn's lordly meal,
Or lowlier board of Ashestiel;
While the gay tapers cheerly shine,
Bickers the fire, and fhws the wine—
Days free from thought, and nights from care,
My blessing on the Forest fair!
poem by Sir Walter Scott
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All In A Golden Afternoon (instrumental)
All in the golden afternoon full leisurely we glide
For both our oars, with little skill, by little arms are plied
While little hands make vain pretence our wanderings to guide
Our wanderings to guide
Ah, cruel three! In such an hour, beneath such dreamy weather
To beg a tale of breath too weak to stir the tiniest feather
Yet what can one poor voice avail, against three tongues together
Against three tongues together
Anon, to sudden silence won, in fancy they pursue
The dream child moving through a land of wonders wild and new
In friendly chat with bird or beast--and half believe it true
And half believe it true
And ever, as the story drained the wells of fancy dry
And faintly strove that weary one to put the subject by
The next time--"It is next time" the happy voices cry!
The happy voices cry!
Thus grew the tale of wonderland, thus slowly one by one
Its quaint events were hammered out--and now the tale is done
And home we steer
A merry crew
Beneath the setting sun
song performed by by Alphaville
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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