Related quotes: Two hands lie still, the...

Love for a Hand

Two hands lie still, the hairy and the white,
And soon down ladders of reflected light
The sleepers climb in silence. Gradually
They separate on paths of long ago,
Each winding on his arm the unpleasant clew
That leads, live as a nerve, to memory.

But often when too steep her dream descends,
Perhaps to the grotto where her father bends
To pick her up, the husband wakes as though
He had forgotten something in the house.
Motionless he eyes the room that glows
With the little animals of light that prowl

This way and that. Soft are the beasts of light
But softer still her hand that drifts so white
Upon the whiteness. How like a water-plant
It floats upon the black canal of sleep,
Suspended upward from the distant deep
In pure achievement of its lovely want!

Quietly then he plucks it and it folds
And is again a hand, small as a child's.
He would revive it but it barely stirs
And so he carries it off a little way
And breaks it open gently. Now he can see
The sweetness of the fruit, his hand eats hers.

poem by Karl Shapiro
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Related quotes

Alive Again

I'm all alone,
It's dark in here,
And for some reason,
I'm filled with fear,

All I remember,
Is walking 'cross the street,
And the bright headlights,
That knocked me off my feet,

I'm in so much pain,
I see a white light,
The light's so warm,
And so bright,

I start walking,
Towards the light,
But then I hear,
A familiar voice,

More start to join it,
They plead in my ears,
They tell me to stay,
With them now here,

I start to walk back,
The pain is intense,
But I don't want to leave,
I want to stay here,

I see someone now,
She holds out her hand,
I can't see her face,
But I do trust her,

I grab her hand,
She leads me away,
I see another light,
It's softer this time,

We stop at the light,
I want to walk through,
The bright light it beckons,
But I don't want to go,

She doesn't come with me,
But I see her face,
She's an old friend,
That died before me,

I tell her goodbye,
She smiles and waves,
I walk through the light,
And everything fades,

I open my eyes,
A friend's holding my hand,
They seem so relieved,
I'm alive again.

poem by Kelly Aragon
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Distant Light

Distant light flickers an invitation of hope.
In reaching it, there will be sanctification.
Dimness that surrounds the eyes
will be forgotten.
Black holes that open the heart
will be discarded.
Let the distant light come closer.
Let the distant light be a friend.

Shallow water cannot drown soul.
It can only hinder the passage.
Dampening the spirit as it frolics
like a moonbeam across the mind.
Distance lends unhappiness.
Let the distant light shine bright.
Let the distant light be a guide.

In closets of blackness the hands
seek an opening in the shadows.
They find nothing, but the eyes
focus on a distant light that
calls like a radio in the night.
Let the distant light embrace.
Let the distant light be closer.

In an emptiness of broken glass
there is a pattern to salvation.
Frame the light like fire in the glance,
walk towards it. Find escape.
Let the distant light be strong.
Let the distant light shine forever.

What is the distant light that shines?
What is its meaning in a journey?
This is an answer not easily explained.
This is a hope not readily known.
Let the distant light continue.
Let the distant light always shine.

poem by Chris G. Vaillancourt
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Black and White (Stream XV)

I have black thoughts,
It is a black day,
A day when the black dog
Coal black, hovers at my shoulder.
I shoulder the burden.
Deep in the black hole.
Black as a black hearted night.
Negative.
Stark.
Black and white.
I do not call my good days white days.
Why?
Or have white thoughts
On a white day,
When the white dog
Pure white sits upon my shoulder.
Which is unburdened.
Out of the pit,
Luxuriating in the bright white light;
White as the purest snow.
Positive.
For we live in a too white world
Maybe we should have grey days,
And light days.
Why should Black be negative and White poitive?

For me then, today is a grey day.
Maybe tomorrow will be a light day.

poem by Paul Brookes
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

The Attic

The door from the attic, with its darkness handle.
Eco's hand clutching his open
Breathing dust and cobwebs, tickle the face.

Of dark place of bricks and mortar
Those stairs incomplete, greyish, without any importance
Climb into the unknown, where the past is set apart, confined.
With the roof barely, resting on wall closets
That my head bends.

Days' ancestors, forgotten by the light
Of the window roof,
where the dust, like magic flying in the wind,
It mixes with reflections of glass.

And those sheets of bed, piled.
They have been sleeping for years, without bodies to keep them warm.
Only dust and spiders dreams

And just around the corner where light barely penetrates.
Boxes sealed with tape, expect to be open.
Ready to flee from their exile

Memories illuminate, that mute room.
Rich, locked to themselves.
Fled forgotten, until now, abandoned.

poem by Luca Menin
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Speak to me Gently

Speak to me gently
words as soft as a sea breeze
Touch me with your hands
as well as your heart
Let us swim in the ocean
and feel its passion
Let me smile
to put your mind at ease
Hand in hand we dance
slowly together
Virtually motionless
suspended in time
Drifting slowly
Held firmly together
A tender embrace
Sustained everlasting
Look at me closely
Feel my deepest thoughts
Let your heart beat with mine
Speak to me gently
And my heart will listen
Touched by sincerity
Nurtured with love
Joined together
Hand in hand
And heart to heart
We live, we breathe
Within each other

poem by William Lindenmuth
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

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
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

The Night Dream (Cavatina Sequence)

(after Archibald MacLeish)

It had been a dream but seemed much too real;
her eyes, her voice,
had a quiet kind of lovely quality,
even her poise
had maturity, some kind of gentleness,
with no noise
but the buzzing of bees at a flower
while we lay down in fields of white clover.

The sun fell hot on our skins, her smile was
very dazzling,
while her soft hand gently touched my face,
there was something
known in the way that she did speak with me,
how she did fling
her hair back, while my head did gently rest,
on her soft heaving perfect naked breast.

Love I do not know she said and smiled,
but she was mine,
while we kissed in moments of pure bliss,
drank some white wine,
talked about some things close to the heart,
the curving line
I traced of her bended lovely back
while the greatest pure joy we did not lack.

It had only been a rapturous dream,
that was fading
but her skin, her smile was kind of special;
away wading
into the vast ocean of memory
until reading
from the magazine you looked up at me,
I could not pass when your face I did see.

[Reference: 'The Night Dream' by Archibald MacLeish.]

poem by Gert Strydom
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

The White Feather

A pure white feather floats silently towards the ground.
As it lands, I pick it up,
and rest it gently in the palm of my hand.

Perhaps it's a delicate fragment from an Angel's wing,
possibly, a token of heavenly love,
or maybe, I see it as my own delight in a gentle white feather.

But as my eyes alight on this fragile plume,
my spirit lifts,
and I have a feeling
that my Guardian Angel is near me,
and is ever watchful.

I believe this perception will always stay with me,
and each time I glimpse a pure white feather
I will offer thanks to my
imperceivable protector.

poem by Ernestine Northover
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

My Other Hand...

the black man's hand,
the poor man's hand.
the Muslim hand, the Jewish hand...
the gay man's hand,
the working man's hand,
the ex-convict's hand,
the farmer's hand, the garbage man's hand...
the Christian's hand, the atheist's hand,
the father's hand, the soldier's hand,
the peacemaker's hand,
the healer's hand, the teacher's hand,
the prodigal's hand, even the murderer's hand...
the victim's hand, the broken hand,
the praying hand, the touching hand...
all, when extended,
feel like my other hand!

poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

The Strand

I saw my father’s face last week,
across the gulf of time..
I chanced upon a photograph
That you had left behind.

His hair shock white, his shoulders large
from years of heavy toil,
His eyes pale blue, his hands were rough
from working with the soil.

I thought I saw his face again
Across a crowded room
It must have been a trick of light-
a product of my gloom.

I saw my father’s face last night-
within a vivid dream.
We walked familiar streets of home
in forty year old scenes.

Long vanished homes and people
paraded through my head.
I did not choose to break the mood
or remind him he was dead.

I took my father’s hand last night
We walked a moon lit shore.
The beach’s sand was coarse and black
the surf a subdued roar.

The land behind was all I know,
But the Ocean beckoned me
So together, hand in hand,
We stepped into the sea.

*** *** *** ***

*• a poetic term for a shore (as the area periodically covered and uncovered by the tides)

poem by John F. McCullagh
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Looking for Water

Still the leaves are spinning 'round
Take my hand as we go down, and down, and down
Looking for water
Well, our light's gone in a New York minute
Don't know about you, but my heart's not in it
(Looking, looking, looking)
I'm looking for water
I'm looking for water
(Looking, looking, looking)
I can't breathe the air, can't raise a fact
'Cause all we've got left is a beat in the night, and I'm
(Looking for water)
Looking for water
(Looking for water)
(Looking, looking)
Take my hand as we go down, and down
Leave it all behind, nothing could be found
(I'm, looking for water)
I'm looking for water
(Looking for water)
(Looking, looking)
(I, looking for water)
Looking everywhere
(Looking for water)
Looking here and there
(I'm looking for water)
I'm looking for water
(Looking for water)
(Looking, looking)
I can't live in this cage, I can't eat this candy
The edge of the earth to the spin in my head
The look in your eyes and never means never
The dawn's early light, baby, dark is forever
(Looking, looking)
(Looking, looking)
(Looking for water)
(Looking, looking)
I
(Looking for water)
(Looking for water)
(Looking, looking)
I
(Looking for water)
(Looking for water)
(Looking, looking)
I
(Looking for water)
(Looking for watter)
Looking, looking)
I
(Looking for water)
(Looking for watter)
Looking, looking)
I
(Looking for water)
(Looking for watter)

song performed by by David Bowie, music by David Bowie, lyrics by David Bowie from Reality
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!

A White Architect Of Light

8.8.88: She came back from the land of democrative destiny and dissolved
into the chaotic void.
Fighting for the freedom of reality
Building the light house in the darkest hours of life
Fixing up the spiritual essence through the existential nothingness
in the valueless zone

Layers by layers, realities of life theatre are turned into distilled light
out of trapped reflections

Mother of modern Myanmar honoured by consciencious tree of life
Curving away all the unnecessary parts
Curving away all the necessary parts
Communication revolution of the 21 st century
Aung San Su Kyi, The White Architect Of Light
Light's shadow is light
Light's shadow is light
Light's shadow is light

Aung San Su Kyi, The White Architect Of Light
Light's shadow is light
Light's shadow is light
Light's shadow is light

poem by Nyein Way
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Echoes

Overhead the albatross hangs motionless upon the air
And deep beneath the rolling waves in labyrinths of coral caves
The echo of a distant tide
Comes willowing across the sand
And everything is green and submarine
And no one showed us to the land
And no one knows the wheres or whys
But something stirs and
Something tries
And starts to climb towards the light
Strangers passing in the street
By chance two separate glances meet
And I am you and what I see is me
And do I take you by the hand
And lead you through the land
And help me understand the best I can
And no one calls us to the land
And no one crosses there alive
And no one speaks
And no one tries
And no one flies around the sun
And now this is the day you fall
Upon my waking eyes
Inviting and inciting me to rise
And through the window in the wall
Comes streamin in on sunlight wings
A million bright ambassadors of morning
And no one sings me lullabies
And no one makes me close my eyes
So I throw the windows wide
And call to you across the sky.

song performed by by Pink Floyd from Meddle
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!

You are beautiful

You are very pretty
and the sun rising over the horizon
loves you,
while his red rays folds open.

The irises of which the colours are purple blue
and kingly on green stems
likes you and flowers perfectly,
to try and copy you.

Wild birds living in the trees
in the street
eat seed that you leave
and they realize that you are wondrously beautiful.

When the postman passes
he looks at the paintings on the outside wall
and thinks that if this is what comes
from your hand,
you really must be lovely.

The small white lapdog
looks admiring at you
as if you are a goddess
and knows were your splendour lies.

l’Envoi
Your auburn hair cherish
your pretty face, which is more beautiful
than a statue chiselled from white marble
and there’s light
in your golden eyes
which witnesses deep beauty.

You are beautiful,
and only you do not realize it.

poem by Gert Strydom
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Mad or Enlightened

Mad or enlightened the same, the universe
is an embryo of darkness born in upon itself, everywhere
its own womb breaking into the pulse of stars within stars,
and everywhere, the shining before the light, the dark mirror
showing the light its own face for the first time,
how in an eventually that is always now
it would attain flowers and eyes along the way
and become the skin of the rain as it falls to earth in April.
If I change to fire, these letters burn, blow away as ash
on the tongue of the wind; if water, then the stars put themselves out
in their own weeping like candles drowning in tears.
Every step of the journey around ourselves
is another world, another garden to plant the seed-names
we’ve shaken from autumns in other realms
and carried around like sacred jewels
we forgot in the corners of our pockets and hearts. Believe it;
when I am all stars; you are all the listening darkness
I pour myself into like a drunkard into a bottomless glass
and you raise me to your lips and drink yourself up
until you’re blinded into clarity
by all the open cages of the light.
Why lie in your own coffin, night after starless night,
if you’re not empowered by your long obedience?
Better to open your eyes on the other side
of your horizontal door, better to come knocking from the outside,
deluded vertically, than suffer this poverty of blood within
the hushed precincts of your skyless realm,
the skull-bone basilicas of your private Vaticans and law libraries.
When it wakes up in the morning
there’s no book-dust in the eyes of the light.
Before you now, in your endless beginning, the dream
you thought you had rubbed from your eyes, you
waking up like a key inside the heart of the dream.
There’s nothing you can’t unlock, even
gardens on the moon or the ancient futures of past lives
death only pruned back with shears to bloom again
in the efflorescence of your eyes, early dawns in the new arraying.
Who you are flows into who you are, all one river of seeing,
dizzy and composed in its own running, all
your own eddies and currents, swamps and white-water,
auroral maids of the mist when you fall in separate drops,
weeping’s just a waterfall, and frenzied tides of being
when you crash ashore out of your own wholeness into buddhas and bums.
In the fire, everyone’s crazy with passion and intelligence,
everyone’s smashed on the wine of an unknown guest
trying to be remembered by his friends.
What visions abound in the orchards of the blessing,
What hearts are torn out and thrown upon the fire
like planets called home by the longing of the sun? We are the white shadows
of the someone else who is walking up ahead
like the moon on the path of its own reflection.
Catch up to yourself and drown in the luminosity of your own being.
Who needs a map to the road they’re walking
or sages pointing all along the way, grey as barnboard signs,
or luminaries at night
pointing to the darkness. The pivot of the worlds points to itself.
True north is not a direction. Haven’t you guessed by now; the stars
all circle you like stormbirds drawn to a lighthouse on the coast of heaven,
too in love with your light to heed your warning about
the deep dragon grief that opens the mouth of the wound
that killed it into life, a one-edged sword of light
in the hands of a holy assassin darker than the silence
of the sun at midnight. If you listen with your eyes,
you can hear in that mournful emptiness
God calling out to God, lover and beloved,
through the echoless valley, across the waveless sea,
yours the name on the prow of the ship that breaks through the veils of the storm,
and yours the name of the storm. You are the bird
that answers the green bough; the lightning in the rigging.
You are the sigh of the silence
and the mystic pen in the hand of the saying.
Whatever worlds you dress for, fields and flowers,
or stars and hourglass elsewhere zones, you are the body of being,
and yours the gowns and robes of creation you draw from the abyss
like clothes from a private closet, dignified in your scriptures,
intimate in your jewels. And everywhere you coyly let yourself fall
like earrings of rain, scarves of fire, fragrances of light,
and watch to see who of the many lovers that are you
bends down like the sky to pick them up at your feet
and return them to you like the first crescent of the moon
rising like an eyelid out of sleep
to greet itself reflected in your face.

poem by Patrick White
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Dancer In The Dark

The only hope in this endless night
Is to follow you through the shadows of the deepest blue, away from the light
I hear your voice is calling me: "Don't be afraid"
But there's something deep inside of me
Forcing me to turn away
Take my hand, don't turn away, I need you to stay
I know a place where the light and the dark can become as one
This loneliness is killing me
Is there a place we both can live?
You're the dancer in the dark
You're the child of the light
You're the sinner of all time
You're the saint with wings so white
You're the distant shape in the night
You're all the innocence left alive
You're like tainted sun
You're the star shining bright

song performed by by In Flames
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!

So tender [Atât de fragedă]

You are so tender, just like when
The cherry blossom is pure, white
And like an angel among men
Into my life you come in sight.

You barely touch the rug below
The silk is rustling at your feet
And as you walk, from head to toe,
You float like eagles in the heat.

Out of your pleated dress you rise
Like a white marble and I'm struck...
My soul clings quickly to your eyes,
So full of tears and of good luck.

Oh, happy dream of love with style
Bride from old stories, little star,
Stop smiling! For your pretty smile
Reveals how beautiful you are.

How can you, with the charm of night,
Darken my eyes with so much grace,
And with your whispers, hot and light,
And with the chill of your embrace?

A thought is passing, I remark,
A wave upon your fervent eyes:
It's the surrender, deep and dark,
Shadow of lust that gently cries.

You go away; I comprehend,
To follow you is a vain goal,
You're lost for ever, it's the end,
O, dearest bride of my poor soul!

I saw you, it's my fault all right,
My heart forgiveness now withstands,
I'll expiate my dream of light
Reaching my hand for desert lands.

And like an icon you'll appear
Of Mary, for whom people yearn,
Wearing the crown on your head dear -
Where do you go? When you return?

poem by Mihai Eminescu, translated by Octavian Cocoş
Submitted by anonym
Vote! | Copy!

The Hand

only the human hand,
the caring hand,
the hand covered in blood
and filth, the hand swollen

bruised, and beaten...
the open hand,
not a fist anymore hand,
not afraid to let go hand,
never letting go hand...

feed the baby, plow the field hand,
stroke the face of
the old woman dying hand...
light the fires, sweep the floors hand...

the praying hand, the picking hand,
the paint the soul hand...
only the human hand
can touch with the heart of God!

poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Light

Light that can be kind. Light that can smell sweet. Light that can be soft.
Light that can be porcelain. Light that can be silent. Light that can speak.
Light that can hold many colors. Light that can be romantic. Light that can be harsh.
Light that can be cold. Light that can be warm. Light that can be dry.
Light that can be loud. Light that can be love. Light that can be faith.
Light that can be full of strength. Light that can be pure. Light that can be dark.
Light that can be fragile. Light that can be crazy. Light that can be weird.
Light that can be old. Light that can be new. Light that can be inbetween.
Light that can be swift. Light that can be sharp. Light that can wonder.
Light that can be insane. Light that can be smooth. Light that can dream.
Light that can be free. Light that can be everlasting. Light that can be wild.
Light that is the lord. Light that is Jesus. Light that is holy.
Light that is the trinity. Light that can belong. Light that can be fast.
Light that can sing. Light that is the holy ghost. Light that is the Bible.
Light that can be a mith. Light that can be still. Light that can be different.
Light that can be hole. Light that can be true. Light that can be whimsical.
Light that can be bright. Light that can be formed. Light that is blessed.
Light that can be full of presence. Light that can tell a story. Light that can be intelligent.
Light that is like no other!

poem by Shania K. Younce
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Water-Party On The Beaulieu River, In The New Forest

I thought 'twas a toy of the fancy, a dream
That leads with illusion the senses astray,
And I sighed with delight as we stole down the stream,
While the sun, as he smiled on our sail, seemed to say,
Rejoice in my light, ere it fade fast away!

We left the loud rocking of ocean behind,
And stealing along the clear current serene,
The Phaedria spread her white sails to the wind,
And they who divided had many a day been,
Gazed with added delight on the charms of the scene.

Each bosom one spirit of peace seemed to feel;
We heard not the tossing, the stir, and the roar
Of the ocean without; we heard only the keel,
The keel that went whispering along the green shore,
And the stroke, as it dipped, of the feathering oar.

Beneath the dark woods now, as winding we go,
What sounds of rich harmony burst on the ear!
Hark, cheer'ly the loud-swelling clarionets blow;
Now the tones gently die, now more mellow we hear
The horns through the high forest echoing clear!

They cease; and no longer the echoes prolong
The swell of the concert; in silence we float--
In silence! Oh, listen! 'tis woman's sweet song--
The bends of the river reply to each note,
And the oar is held dripping and still from the boat.

Mark the sun that descends o'er the curve of the flood!
Seize, Wilmot, the pencil, and instant convey
To the tablet the water, the banks, and the wood,
That their colours may live without change or decay,
When these beautiful tints die in darkness away.

So when we are parted, and tossed on the deep,
And no longer the light on our prospect shall gleam,
The semblance of one lovely scene we may keep,
And remember the day, and the hour, like a dream,
When we sighed with delight as we stole down the stream!

poem by William Lisle Bowles
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

En.Citatepedia®.ro