The Clearing of the Land: An Epitaph
The trees went up the hill
And over it.
Then the dry grasses of the pasture were
Only a kind of blonde light
Settling everywhere
And framing the randomly strewn
Outcropping of gray stone
That anchored them to soil.
Who were they?
One in the picture, & one not, & both
Scotch-Irish drifters,
With nothing in common but a perfect contempt
for a past;
Ancestors of stumps & fallen trees & . . . .
One sits on a sorrel mare,
Idly tossing small stones at the rump
of a steer
That goes on grazing at tough rosettes
of pasture grass & switching its tail
In what is not yet irritation.
What I like, what I
Have always liked, is the way he tosses each small
Stone without thinking, without
A thought for anything, not aiming at all,
The easy, arcing forearm nonchalance
Like someone fly casting,
For this is what
He wanted:
To be among the stones, the grasses,
Savoring a stony self
That reminded him of no one else,
And on land where that poacher, Law,
Had not yet stolen through his fences,
The horse beneath him tensing
Its withers lightly to keep
The summer flies away,
And the woman in the flower-print dress hemmed
With stains
A half mile off
Is the authoress of no more than smoke rising,
Her sole diary & only publication,
From a distant chimney.
They have perhaps a year or two
Left of this
Before history begins to edit them into
Something without smoke or flies, something
Beyond all recognition.
poem by Larry Levis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Related quotes
Back To An Old Place
it is summer
scorching summer
season creeping,
grasses are wilting
trees are shedding of
their last leaves,
what i see are bones
of trees,
skeletons of
branches,
the dry wind keeps
blowing the leaves
away,
what i have is this
bald surrounding
emptied of their
essence
beyond me are
brown mountains
vultures are
in the skies
eying for
death as prey
i sit upon a rock
the only rock
left here
i have no cover on
my head
i am half naked
i have no one to talk
to,
they have left this
arid place
a long time ago
i am back
i am telling the
sand soil,
i have something
to write and
tell the world
about it
it is summer
in this vast desert
a long time ago
this was ours
and the trees are green
grasses verdant
butterflies flutter
and innocently
land on our
hands.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
In some fields of grass under the hills (sestina)
This afternoon the peaks throw a big shade
with the black cliffs shining up on the hills,
while we lay together in the long grass,
I look in your eyes that are amber-green
while under my head there is a small stone
and you smile at me like the prettiest lady.
I had once known another charming lady;
that part of my life is now left in shade,
bad churchmen were casting stone upon stone,
while I had to flee from them to the hills
to pastures were everything is green
to find the Lord in divine fields of grass.
Under your head there is a crown of grass
and your mother is a gracious, kind lady,
around us everything is lovely green
while we are still resting in the cool shade,
we are softly chatting about life’s hills,
about walls of very hard granite stone.
Your eyes are much brighter than emerald stone
while all of your words are softer than grass,
reaching higher and beyond all the hills,
the high mountain which is dangerous lady,
while from our pain nothing gives any shade,
nowhere is a place of rest that is green.
Your summer dress is lovely, is bright green,
suddenly all our ails have turned to stone
I follow you further; see your small shade,
I am seen as one that woos any lady,
we walk past some flowers growing in grass,
climbing up higher into the foothills.
Bright streams are splashing down some of the hills,
with water transparent, sometimes cold and green,
love and lust burns like in a youthful lady
while I at that moment feel cold as stone,
we notice a deer feeding on lone grass
while our garments lie under a tree’s shade.
Far into the hills you want love till dusk’s shade,
where you peep like some green moss from the grass,
are tossing me with a stone like no lady.
poem by Gert Strydom
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Injustice
power occupies your place
puts up its throne
with glistening stones as crown
and the tail of the man ray
as scepter
you worship it
as it hits you not just once
but for as long as you live
until you die and then it leaves
everyone
as empty as the ground where
all the trees are uprooted
the soil all bald
the grasses all taken
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Epithalamium
A bee in the field. The house on the mountain
reveals itself to have been there through summer.
It's not a bee but a horse eating frosted grass
in the yawn light. Secrets, the anguish of smoke
above the chimney as it shreds what it's learned
of fire. The horse has moved, it's not a horse
but a woman doing the stations of the cross
with a dead baby in her arms. The anguish of the house
as it reveals smoke to the mountain. A woman
eating cold grass in Your name, shredding herself
like fire. The woman has stopped, it's not a woman
but smoke on its knees keeping secrets in what it reveals.
The everything has moved, it's not everything
but a shredding of the anguish of names. The marriage
of light: particle to wave. Do you take? I do.
Migration
Migration
In this rich flat landscape there are no stones they had to
travel to the far mountain and with mule and cart it was
a long arduous journey. Stones were only used as base for
houses and as grave stones, but since these were stolen
so this practice ended, the dead had to do with wooden
crosses which tend to rot when it rains. Farmers buried
their stones under a mass of soil, for safety mounds of
them dotted the flat landscape and made it less monotone.
Modern time, a railway line stretches across the land and
ends in a haze were the mountain begins, stones are now
a common thing, way, all and sundry has one, the poorest
even have gravelled strewn back yards. A clever man decided
to open a rise and sell stones a souvenir as a memory of
the past, when life was idyllic, but he found a mass grave,
not only human skeletons but also household goods, toys
and musical instruments.
poem by Oskar Hansen
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Temporary Poem Of My Time
Hebrew writing and Arabic writing go from east to west,
Latin writing, from west to east.
Languages are like cats:
You must not stroke their hair the wrong way.
The clouds come from the sea, the hot wind from the desert,
The trees bend in the wind,
And stones fly from all four winds,
Into all four winds. They throw stones,
Throw this land, one at the other,
But the land always falls back to the land.
They throw the land, want to get rid of it.
Its stones, its soil, but you can't get rid of it.
They throw stones, throw stones at me
In 1936, 1938, 1948, 1988,
Semites throw at Semites and anti-Semites at anti-Semites,
Evil men throw and just men throw,
Sinners throw and tempters throw,
Geologists throw and theologists throw,
Archaelogists throw and archhooligans throw,
Kidneys throw stones and gall bladders throw,
Head stones and forehead stones and the heart of a stone,
Stones shaped like a screaming mouth
And stones fitting your eyes
Like a pair of glasses,
The past throws stones at the future,
And all of them fall on the present.
Weeping stones and laughing gravel stones,
Even God in the Bible threw stones,
Even the Urim and Tumim were thrown
And got stuck in the beastplate of justice,
And Herod threw stones and what came out was a Temple.
Oh, the poem of stone sadness
Oh, the poem thrown on the stones
Oh, the poem of thrown stones.
Is there in this land
A stone that was never thrown
And never built and never overturned
And never uncovered and never discovered
And never screamed from a wall and never discarded by the builders
And never closed on top of a grave and never lay under lovers
And never turned into a cornerstone?
Please do not throw any more stones,
You are moving the land,
The holy, whole, open land,
You are moving it to the sea
And the sea doesn't want it
The sea says, not in me.
Please throw little stones,
Throw snail fossils, throw gravel,
Justice or injustice from the quarries of Migdal Tsedek,
Throw soft stones, throw sweet clods,
Throw limestone, throw clay,
Throw sand of the seashore,
Throw dust of the desert, throw rust,
Throw soil, throw wind,
Throw air, throw nothing
Until your hands are weary
And the war is weary
And even peace will be weary and will be.
Translated from the Hebrew by Barbara and Benjamin Harshav
poem by Yehuda Amichai
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Copse of Trees
We started out like Armistead
from the shelter of the trees.
The wind whipped by like a Fusillade,
the high grass at our knees..
The wind blew cold that autumn day
As we started up the rise-
The prospect of the copse of trees
Before us was the prize.
The flower of Virginia once
Paraded where we stepped
Until the double canister
Decimated those still left
Our force of two, no longer young
Stumbled up the hill
Numb with cold and short of breath
Proceeding forth on will.
No enfilading fire now
From the ghosts behind stone walls
Just wood post fences six feet high
Might our progress stall..
Brave Dick Gannett was unhorsed
Upon this very spot
Kemper, wounded mortally,
Was retrieved from shell and shot
We made it past the final fence
And up the grassy knoll
Defiant in the cannons mouth
(They’re unloaded, so we’re bold)
We passed the stone that marks the spot
Where Armistead left life
Where Rebel forces crested
Like the storm wave at its height.
The blue bellies yelled Fredericksburg
As the Crimson tide retraced
Half in Anger, Half in relief
that the challenge had been faced.
The hill before the copse of trees
Pocked with the dead and dying
While the remnants of Picketts men
Towards Longstreets line were filing
The victors and the vanquished both
long since have passed away.
And left mute stones and monuments
to mark brave deeds that day.
And we, the heirs of Union, stand.
Upon the very spot
That marks the high tide of the South
- what might have been was not.
poem by John F. McCullagh
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
If I come Again......
If I come again in
This beautiful earth,
I'll be a grass-flower,
In Nature's heart!
In the lush green meadow,
I'll laugh and chat with wind.
The breeze will pass me,
and tell the gossip
of the motley flies...
But, I'll play then with
the golden light of
morning, and with the
baby grasses, nodding
my head to say, yes to,
their every childlike talk.
I want to stay as small,
as the tiny flower of grass,
to equip the earth with
my innocent soul!
I'll stretch wide, wide,
to join the absolute whole!
poem by Nilakshi Das
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Heart Of The Flower
Now at the station, the train to another land
Lands of never seen light, light hidden in infinite night
Night in its biggest might, might of the strongest power
And there the smoke of the train to the heart of the flower
I take the first train to the heart of the flower
I take the first train to the heart of the flower
And there the smoke of the train to the heart of the flower
And there the smoke of the train to the heart of the flower
The waiting room of kingdom come, I look back upon my life
Life of loss but now the end
End of rat race overdrive
Overdrive to foreign lands
Lands of contemptous hours
And there the smoke of the train to the heart of the flower
Now on the train
This is the end of my day
I feel my spirits escape like a musical clock thats dying away
I turn once again and wave my hand and say goodbye
I never thought its so easy
I never thought its so easy
I take the first train to the heart of the flower
I take the first train to the heart of the flower
And there the smoke of the train to the heart of the flower
And there the smoke of the train to the heart of the flower
The heart of the flower
The heart of the flower
The heart of the flower
Diamond/1990
song performed by by Alphaville
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
From Where I Come From
slopes of the
mountains
and a small patch
of a plain
on the side
of the river
where the grasses
thicken
like armpits
there is
a hut there
and some
trees around
years
and years
we stayed there
like there is no other
home for us
but then
time comes and
leaving becomes
a must for
each of us
we left and
we followed the
direction of the
wind towards
the sea of our
freedom
and here i
am
writing about
what my
ancestors
thought
leave and take
a journey
and find the
real path
the meaning
that we attach
to ourselves
to the direction
of the wind
towards the sea
and then
do not ever
think of the patch
of plain again
or the grasses
it is the wind
that leads us
the wind
the wind and nothing but
the sound of
the wind
freedom.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Red Browed Firetails
One can't mistake them for their scratchy song
To small seed eating family of birds they belong
Some call them red browed finches others the red browed firetails
And the females hard to distinguish from the males.
With red bill and brows and neck and unders gray
And red rump, dark tail and greenish wings I see them every day
They perch on fence wire near where paddocks are
And to get their food they don't have to fly far.
They live in small flocks on a diet of seeds
And I see them often amongst grasses and weeds
Of the human kind they do seem rather shy
And from the paddock to the fence they fly.
On sapling tree or creeper they build their globe nest of dried grass or hay
Where they lay up to six eggs of white to gray
And their nests hard to find and well hidden away
From currawong and other birds of prey.
Red browed firetails or finches birds I often see
On paddock fence wire or on branch of tree
Of human kind they have a healthy fear
And they fly away if to them you come near.
poem by Francis Duggan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Christmas Trees
The city had withdrawn into itself
And left at last the country to the country;
When between whirls of snow not come to lie
And whirls of foliage not yet laid, there drove
A stranger to our yard, who looked the city,
Yet did in country fashion in that there
He sat and waited till he drew us out
A-buttoning coats to ask him who he was.
He proved to be the city come again
To look for something it had left behind
And could not do without and keep its Christmas.
He asked if I would sell my Christmas trees;
My woods—the young fir balsams like a place
Where houses all are churches and have spires.
I hadn’t thought of them as Christmas Trees.
I doubt if I was tempted for a moment
To sell them off their feet to go in cars
And leave the slope behind the house all bare,
Where the sun shines now no warmer than the moon.
I’d hate to have them know it if I was.
Yet more I’d hate to hold my trees except
As others hold theirs or refuse for them,
Beyond the time of profitable growth,
The trial by market everything must come to.
I dallied so much with the thought of selling.
Then whether from mistaken courtesy
And fear of seeming short of speech, or whether
From hope of hearing good of what was mine,
I said, “There aren’t enough to be worth while.”
“I could soon tell how many they would cut,
You let me look them over.”
“You could look.
But don’t expect I’m going to let you have them.”
Pasture they spring in, some in clumps too close
That lop each other of boughs, but not a few
Quite solitary and having equal boughs
All round and round. The latter he nodded “Yes” to,
Or paused to say beneath some lovelier one,
With a buyer’s moderation, “That would do.”
I thought so too, but wasn’t there to say so.
We climbed the pasture on the south, crossed over,
And came down on the north.
He said, “A thousand.”
“A thousand Christmas trees!—at what apiece?”
He felt some need of softening that to me:
“A thousand trees would come to thirty dollars.”
Then I was certain I had never meant
To let him have them. Never show surprise!
But thirty dollars seemed so small beside
The extent of pasture I should strip, three cents
(For that was all they figured out apiece),
Three cents so small beside the dollar friends
I should be writing to within the hour
Would pay in cities for good trees like those,
Regular vestry-trees whole Sunday Schools
Could hang enough on to pick off enough.
A thousand Christmas trees I didn’t know I had!
Worth three cents more to give away than sell,
As may be shown by a simple calculation.
Too bad I couldn’t lay one in a letter.
I can’t help wishing I could send you one,
In wishing you herewith a Merry Christmas.
poem by Robert Frost
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
When The Smoke Comes Out
when the smoke comes out
they are there to say that there is fire
on the chimney
when the smoke is black
they all say i have decided
when the smoke is white
they keep on praying since
no one is chosen
to lead the lost flock
without their grazing ground
during winter time
what if the smoke comes out
from my eyes and the smoke is black
and there is no fire in my heart?
what if i am lost? shall you care?
please don't. I must tell you i am happier
when left alone.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Showcase
socialite clouds rest on the top
of Malindang Mountain
the common trees look at them
with envy
the grasses chide that there is no point to this
the clouds are meant to pass
the trees are meant to be cut and burned
and the grasses win.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Inward
you shall listen to the voices of the young
the buds have their own kind of songs
that makes you see the past of the roots
you shall disregard the murmur of the stones
the present predicament that you are in
when will you give up being hard on yourself?
stone upon stone
boulder upon boulder
you have crushed what softness is left
on the soil of your birth
there is another way
take what light offers us sometimes
a little warmth
that enlightenment that opens the eyes
of the heart
the path inward
that opens the door of our
souls
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Picture Of A Little Boy
I have a lovely picture
Set in a golden frame;
A picture of a little boy,
I do not know his name.
He's sitting by a waggon,
Upon an old car-tyre;
To know just what he's thinking
Would be my heart's desire.
He seems so small and helpless,
And troubled in his mind;
But one, more cute than he,
I doubt that you could ever find.
His hair is blonde and beautiful,
His eyes the deepest blue;
He sits there like 'The thinker'
Debating what to do.
I love this little picture
That's hanging on my wall;
This picture of a little boy
So young and very small;
He looks a perfect mixture
Of two boys that I once knew;
Just sitting in time's window,
And I am looking through.
Written Oct 1994
poem by John Carter Brown
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
3 Legs
Well when I walk, when I walk
On my horse upon the hill (when I walk the horse upon a hill)
Well when I walk, walk walk walk
On my horse upon the hill (when I walk the horse upon a hill)
And I lay me down
Will my lover love me still
A dog is here, (a dog is here), a dog is there (a dog is there)
My dog he got three leg
But he cant run
Well when I thought, well I thought
When I thought you was my friend (when I thought I could call you my friend)
When I thought, when I thought
When I thought you was my friend (when I thought I could call you my friend)
But you laid me down, put my heart around the bend
A fly flies in (a fly flies in), a fly flies out (a fly flies out)
Most flies they got three leg, but mine got one.
Well when I fly when I fly when I fly,when I fly above the cloud
(when I fly above the man in the crowd)
Well when I fly when I fly when I fly,when I fly above the crowd
(when I fly above the man in the crowd)
You can knock me down with a feather, yes you could
But you know its not allowed (but you know its not allowed)
A dog is here, (a dog is here), a dog is there (a dog is there)
My dog he got three leg
But he cant run
My dog he got three leg
Your dog he got none
My dog he got three leg
Your dog he got none
My dog he got three leg
Your dog he got none
song performed by by Paul McCartney
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Elegy to the Old Man Hokuju
You left in the morning, at evening my heart is in a
thousand pieces.
Why is it so far away?
Thinking of you, I go up on the hill and wander.
Around the hill, why is it such a sadness?
Dandelions yellow and shepherds-purse blooming white --
not anyone to look at them.
I hear a pheasant, calling and calling fervently.
Once a friend was there across the river, living.
Ghostly smoke rises and fades away with a west wind
strong in fields of small bamboo grasses and reedy fields.
Nowhere to leave for.
Once a friend was there across the river, living, but today
not even a bird sings a song.
You left in the morning, at evening my heart is in a
thousand pieces.
Why is it so far away?
In my grass hut by the Amida image I light no candle,
offer no flowers, and only sit here alone.
This evening, how invaluable it is.
Priest Buson
with a thousand bowings
poem by Yosa Buson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
What Is This Life All About?
as i walk today
the sun has not yet shone
there is no brightness then on the horizon
this is the boundary
between light and darkness
gray,
the black buffaloes are still resting under the mahogany trees
the chickens start to hop
land on the ground and begin to feed upon themselves
the rain last night created small ponds on the side of the pathways
the nipa hut of the old dying woman is still closed
there is a possibility that no one shall open it
not even herself
abandoned
the grasses are wild and lush
there is enough for everyone
space to thrive
food to eat but i guess there is not much desire to realize
what this life is all about
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
To The Sinking Sun
How graciously thou wear'st the yoke
Of use that does not fail!
The grasses, like an anchored smoke,
Ride in the bending gale;
This knoll is snowed with blosmy manna,
And fire-dropt as a seraph's mail.
Here every eve thou stretchest out
Untarnishable wing,
And marvellously bring'st about
Newly an olden thing;
Nor ever through like-ordered heaven
Moves largely thy grave progressing.
Here every eve thou goest down
Behind the self-same hill,
Nor ever twice alike go'st down
Behind the self-same hill;
Nor like-ways is one flame-sopped flower
Possessed with glory past its will.
Not twice alike! I am not blind,
My sight is live to see;
And yet I do complain of thy
Weary variety.
O Sun! I ask thee less or more,
Change not at all, or utterly!
O give me unprevisioned new,
Or give to change reprieve!
For new in me is olden too,
That I for sameness grieve.
O flowers! O grasses! be but once
The grass and flower of yester-eve!
Wonder and sadness are the lot
Of change: thou yield'st mine eyes
Grief of vicissitude, but not
Its penetrant surprise.
Immutability mutable
Burthens my spirit and the skies.
O altered joy, all joyed of yore,
Plodding in unconned ways!
O grief grieved out, and yet once more
A dull, new, staled amaze!
I dream, and all was dreamed before,
Or dream I so? the dreamer says.
poem by Francis Thompson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!