En.Citatepedia^®.ro

The 'Utopia

The table was filled with many objects

The wild tribesmen in the hills,
whose very robes were decorated with designs
of a strangeness & upsetting beauty
that went much further than the richly coloured silks embroidered there could ever suggest; . . .

There were piles of books, yet each one
was of a different size and binding.
The leathers were so finely dyed. The blues
& purples, contrasting with the deceptive simplicity
of the 'natural' tans.
And this prism & arrangement of colours
cannot be set down - the fresh arrangements
& angles possible can only point through a door
to the word 'infinite' made of white puffy clouds
floating high in a blue summer sky;
this has been written there by a small airplane
that is now returning to its green landing field.

The table is very old & made of fine mahogany
polished by generations of servants.
And through the windows the summer blue skies
& white clouds spelling a puffy word.
And on the table the books & examples
of embroidery of the wild hill tribesmen
& many large & small objects - all of which
could not help but rouse a curiosity.

There are at times people in this room
- some go to the table - things are moved -
but the atmosphere here is always that of quiet & catm
- no one could disturb this.
And though the people are the only real threat,

they are all too well trained and aware
to ever introduce the least clumsiness
or disturbing element into the room.

At times it is hard to believe
what is before one's eyes -
there is no answer to this except the room itself,
& maybe the white clouds seen through the window.

No one in the house was sure of the frontiers
& the beautiful atlas gilded and bound with blue silk
was only of antiquarian interest & quite useless
for the new questions. The whole situation
was like a painting within a painting &
that within another & so on & so on -
until everyone had lost sight of their original landmarks.
The heath melted into the sky on the horizon.
And the questions of definition & contrast
only brought on a series of fruitless searches
& examinations that made everyone irritable & exhausted.

Once the surveyors had abandoned their project
the objects once more took over.
It would be false to deny the sigh of relief
there was when this happened & calm returned.

The bus bumped down the avenue
& ahead were the mountains & the woods
that burst into flower as spring settled.
The plan & the heavy revolver were all quite in keeping
with this, despite the apparent superficial
difference & clash of worlds -
there was really only one world.
It wasn't easy - admittedly - & someone
had to stay behind & ...
The word in the sky had slowly dissolved
& was now nowhere to he seen.
But instead the sun was flooding the whole room

& everything took on a golden aura
- this meant we were even aware of the
band of horsemen now riding through the forest
that surrounded the valley.

The many details may appear evasive
but the purpose of the total was obvious
& uncompromising

poem by Lee Harwood
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The Final Painting

The white cloud passed over the land
there is sea always round the land
the sky is blue always above the cloud
the cloud in the blue continues to move
- nothing is limited by the canvas or frame -
the white cloud can be pictured like any
other clouds or like a fist of wool
or a white fur rose
The white cloud passes a shadow across
the landscape and so there is a passing greyness
The grey and the white both envelop
the watcher until he too is drawn into the picture
It is all a journey from a room through a door
down stairs and out into the street
The cloud could possess the house
The watchers have a mutual confidence
with the approaching string of white clouds
It is beyond spoken words what they are
silently mouthing to the sky
There was no mystery in this - only the firm
outline of people in overcoats on a hillside
and the line of clouds above them
The sky is blue The cloud white with touches
of grey - the rest - the landscape below -
can be left to the imagination
The whole painting quietly dissolved itself
into its surrounding clouds

poem by Lee Harwood
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A Vision Of Doom...

you look at the world
while riding a taxi
above the bridge that connects
two cities

a canvass of blue sea
white clouds drifting
seagulls crossing the horizon
blue ships floating
tiny houses along the boulevard
cars moving like ants
upon a line of path

you are amazed by so much beauty
man-made though

slowly the compassion arises
from the stares of your eyes
for soon

who knows that this is your last glimpse
of this city

beauty swallowed by waves
as islands sink to the bottom of the
the blue ocean

and the sounds of people like you
finally gone.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The White Room

Spanna noo na noo na ne na naho
Spanna noo na ne ne naho
Spa noo na naho
Noo na naho
Noo na naho
Spa noo na naho
Spanna noo na noo na noo na naho
Spanna noo na noo na nehhey
Spa noo na nehhey
Noo na naho
Noo na naho
Spanna noo na noo na ne na naho
Spanna noo na ne ne naho
[more spa na noo ne na noo things]
Talk to me, talk to me
If you want to know the things we see
Then step inside our skins
The white room, the white room
We spin, we turn, watch and wait
As the world just creeps on bye
The white room, the white room
Ooohhaaa
Talk to me, talk to me
Far below, a small boat sails,
Catching fish from the sea.
The white room, the white room
We climb the mountain,
Feel the wind,
We climbed to touch the stars.
The white room, the white room
Ooohhaaa
The white room, the white room
[more spetta na noo ne na noo things]
The white room, the white room
The white room, the white room
[more spetta na noo ne na noo things]
The white room, the white room

song performed by by KLF
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Shattered windows, Colors of white

Across the street is a new house with a room painted red, with no holes of white.
Next to me, a house purple, with its color pealing off, with holes of black and white
At the end of the street, an old house once yellow, what now remains white.
The sound of a hammer building a house, entering a place with a color unknown.

On the street,
Windows covered with ice
Some shine with light.
Some broken
Some fixed
Some lost, out of sight.

A house, two blocks from here.
Shines with lights of yellow, red, and green everywhere.
A wall keeping the wind from blowing anywhere.
The house next door, at the dawn of the day.
Paints its room black, and peals the color away.

The wall crumbles.
The wind blows across the colors of yellow, red and green
Breaks all the windows.
Turns the yellow to blue, red to black, and green to white.

The house two blocks away.
Adds a line of yellow red and green everyday.
To allow the house of blue, black and white to shine for us some day.

poem by Linda ErikssonBique
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0068 The Connoisseur (2)

Is there a god
sleeping in this room?

even the doorhandle, gently turned,
seems to speak a message
before the room entered, the first breath taken
of the room’s own air

and on the table, the grey-green vase seems
to be the host; the silent messenger: the furniture
somehow eternal in its order; every line and curve
within the room speaking of some
divine geometry; the shaded sunlight seems
to fall on tiptoe, touch in silent praise;
the air, to be refined; and the silence –
what does the silence say unspoken

as if it holds some god-smiled word,
some solemn laughter, about what
is there and is not there, has made
of this room, this ordinary room,
a shrine where one can worship without form
oneself?

the vase too holds itself both
open and reserved; its perfect curves
the subtle decisions of a history
of centuries, of generations
of human hands; of things made
for oneself, for others, for all else
where all else is known;

silent the vase; the room full of its sound.
Is there a god
sleeping in this room?

you; moving forward with respectful quiet step
to touch this grey-green
Chinese vase

poem by Michael Shepherd
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The White Room

(SpringfieldVallance)
I can see her at her windows watching,
locked away inside her skin,
I can see her but I can't get to her, she won't come out,
and she won't let me into
The white room (she's living in)
Lying alone til she comes undone
In the white room, she burns for the real thing.
But it won't come.
In her head is the same obsession
and all the bottles and pills won't heal her heart.
She heard his last confession
and every word just tears her apart
In the white room (locked away)
doing time till her time is done
In the white room there's so much to say
but the words won't come.
Come back to the land of the living,
when you gonna break the chain,
there's so much too much that you're leaving
and you're never gonna stop the rain
In the white room.
waiting for the call that never comes
in the white room, she awaits.
Look at something long enough you'll find,
that the splinters and the cracks begin to show,
I'll be the first in line when the walls start falling
and she lets go of
The white room (it's late)
living alone only makes you numb
In the white room she burns for the real thing
but it won't come
In the white room (she's living in) I think its time
that you're time is done,
In the white room she burns
In the white room (it's late)
lying alone till she comes undone
In the white room she awaits
In the white room

song performed by by Rick Springfield
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Your Blue Room

Its time to go again
To your blue room
Got some questions to ask of you
In your blue room
The air is clean
Your skin is clear
Ive had enough fun hanging round here
Its a different kind of conversation
Your blue room
Saw me coming
In outside
Saw me coming
Somewhere I can hide
And time is a string of pearls...your blue room
(Im a swinger)
See the future just hanging there...your blue room
A new frame, a new perspective
Looking down on my objectives
Your instructions whatever their directions
Your blue room
Saw me coming
East by the moon
Saw me coming
Can you feel
(its allright)
Your blue room
One day Ill be back...your blue room
Yeah, I hope I remember where its at...your blue room
We see me slide
Wont you give me a home
So much for change
Zooming in
Zooming out
Nothing I cant do without
A lens to see it all up close
Magnifying what no one knows
Never in company
Never alone
No car alarm
No cellular phone

song performed by by U2
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Pearls Girl

Rioja. rioja. reverend al green.
Deep blue morocco. the water on stone.
The water on concrete. the water on sand.
The water on fire. smoke.
The wind. the salt. the bride boat coming.
Dave in the water. old man.
Einstein on top of his house. white deep blue
Andalusia red yellow red yellow black car.
Red light. far. black place. walls. blue chair.
Morocco. hamburg. paris.
The pieces of the puzzle are waiting.
The water of the dark boats gliding.
The bride boats gone out to sea and
Dave is floating. dave is floating.
And old man einstein crazy in his attic.
Crazy.
White room. sun room. shadow room.
Night transmitting cars across the room.
These things sent to dance across the room.
Eye watching from your bed. returning to you.

song performed by by Underworld
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Crowded

Here I am
My trun to
sit at the
table

I've seen it
happening long
ago when
Perry Mason

was still in
black and white
Who knew he was
gay

I've visualized it
as I've read
books about famous
trials

Waiting for
the moment
Listening for
the moment

But there are
No attornerys
leaping to their
feet here

There's barely
enough room
at the table
for me

Attorney takes up part
My investigator takes up part
Then there's our notes
evidence and such

Not much room left
even for the water
the cups the napkins or
me

poem by Tom J. Mariani
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Visiting Something Previous

you take a trip
back to the place where meaning was once
there. An empty room that you left.
Now someone lives there and he does not know your name,
there will be a brief introduction
of who you are and what you do for a living
and he will ask why you have come back
you say that you are just passing by
you are looking for the word
the spark in your heart
somewhere on the study table
or on the book shelf
a poem, some little notes on the wall,
there is nothing there anymore
exept the scent of the nearby comfort room
beside your room
that stink that made you leave
it was that which made you pass by
as you were telling the new tenant.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Blue Room, The

We'll have a blue room
A new room for two room
Where ev'ry day's a holiday
Because you're married to me.
Not like a ballroom
A small room, A hall room
Where I can smoke my pipe away
With your wee head upon my knee.
We will thrive on, keep alive on
Just nothing but kisses
With Mister and Missus
On little blue chairs.
You sew your trousseau
And Robinson Crusoe
Is not so far from worldly cares
As our blue room far away upstairs

song performed by by Ella Fitzgerald
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Afternoon Sun

This room, how well I know it.
Now they're renting it, and the one next to it,
as offices. The whole house has become
an office building for agents, businessmen, companies.
This room, how familiar it is.
The couch was here, near the door,
a Turkish carpet in front of it.
Close by, the shelf with two yellow vases.
On the right -no, opposite- a wardrobe with a mirror.
In the middle the table where he wrote,
and the three big wicker chairs.
Beside the window the bed
where we made love so many times.
They must still be around somewhere, those old things.
Beside the window the bed;
the afternoon sun used to touch half of it.
. . . One afternoon at four o'clock we separated
for a week only . . . And then-
that week became forever.

poem by Constantine P. Cavafy
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Marriage

Marriage for Esme began as a wide open room
with windows that let in the sunshine
and curtains so light and airy
they floated on the breeze.

Her husband's blue eyes would sparkle
with just a hint of mischief
and fun that they intrigued her,
made him special.

Then in the second year on her birthday
it seemed the room had grown dusty,
the curtains seemed dull,
the windows small.

And in the third year, without a doubt
the sun had gone down on her
and the room held a chill
like her aching heart.

By the fifth year, she'd aged,
her eyes had shadows, her skin had paled
and the room seemed small
with no windows at all.

She had shriveled, was withdrawn,
she'd sit in the corner of the room humming,
rocking back and forth, back and forth,
back and forth........

poem by Ruth Walters
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An Invitation.

She invited Joey
to her apartment
on the second floor

and as she opened the door
her dog came
barking along the hall

Shut up Bonaparte
she said
Go away

and the mutt walked back
with its tail
between its legs

to its basket
under the table
and she ushered Joey in

and closed the door behind her
and said
What would you like to drink?

tea coffee coke beer?
Coke will be fine
he said

and she told him
to go sit in the lounge
and once he sat down

he looked around the room
and on the small table
by the sofa where he sat

was a photograph of her
and her husband
taken on their wedding day

she dressed in white
and smiling
and he in a black suit

like a hit man
in a mobster movie
and she came in

with his coke
and set it on the table
by the sofa

and then went out again
swaying her behind
which made him smile

then she was back
with a tall glass
of white wine

and she set it down
on the table beside him
and sat down

and began talking
about the night
he had met her

and her husband
in the bar in town
and how she had invited

him over to meet her husband
and he had bought them
both a drink

and while her husband
talked to his friend
she had flirted with him

and made him laugh
and how after that
they'd all meet

on Friday evenings
in the same bar
and her husband

had invited him
to their place
to play chess

and he remembered
how he used to play chess
holding off letting

her husband win
so he could stay longer
and see her more often

and then she leaned over
to get her drink
and she put one hand

on his thigh
and reached over
for her wine

and he smelt her scent
and the brush of her hair
as she leaned over him

and having her glass
she leaned back
her hand still resting

on his thigh
and that look of mischief
burning in her eye.

poem by Terry Collett
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In Mr Atkinson's Room

You saw Judy on the south wing
of the old folks nursing home
near to Mr Atkinson's room
carrying towels in her arms

I need to speak to you
you said
what about?
she asked

you playfully bundled her
into Bob Atkinson's room
(he was either
in the lounge

or out down town
hobbling along
for small items of shopping
or at the second-hand

book shop looking
for boy's annuals
of yesteryear
which he read

from cover to cover
before cutting out
the pictures
and sticking them

in albums)
what are you doing?
she said
what if Bob comes in?

he won't
he's out
you said
but what if he does?

she whispered
well unless I was rogering you
to kingdom come
I don't think he'd mind

you said
pressing her 5'5'' body
against the door
and looking into her

grey blue eyes
she gazed
into your eyes
and said

what do you need
to talk to me about?
I think I'm in love with you
you said

she sighed
that's the umpteen time
you've told me that
she said

she dropped the towels
on Bob's bed
and put her arms
around your waist

and drew you closer
you moved your left hand
around her back
and your right hand

on her buttocks
and said
that's because it's
umpteen times worse

or better depending
how you look at it
she kissed you on the lips
and you sensed

her tongue touch yours
her eyes closed
and you closed yours
the room becoming

a far away place
her perfume blending
into the air about you
the ticktock of Bob's

old clock on the bedside table
like some metronome
setting the pace
as if it was all part

of some song or some
deep aspect
of a Bruckner symphony
she pushed you away

and said
it's nearly break time
and people will wonder
why we're not there

and put one
and one together
ok
you said

removing your hand
from her butt
the warmth still there
her eyes still captured

in your inner self
thank you
for the Chagall postcard
I've put it on

my bedside table
along with that photo
you gave me of you
got to go

she said
and opened the door
and walked off
down the passage

you looked around
Bob's room
at the ticking clock
and the blue

candlewick cover
and the picture
of some boy
cut out of some

old annual
chasing a dog
over a field
and Judy's lips

and tongue
seemed still
to be there
in your mouth

and her hand enfolding
your waist and back
and Peter in the pants
going all slack.

poem by Terry Collett
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The walls

Life, here in the surroundings of my white walls,
The walls that watch me while I pray, while I sing,
While I dance and work in my little room, while
I cry, these white walls they know my life, only
they cry with me or sing or pray or dance, they give
my life the warm feelings of hands. The colors
of my works the fabrics, the pen that move my hands,
the architect of my bones, the father, the I AM, they
all life in me. Life, life is my big question! , life is the
I AM, and the I AM is life. I gather here in my room
all of my works, the good, the bad and the worsse,
they come alive with my help. Life in these white
walls, pink I rather say, ' I love pink' My sink full
of dishes waiting to be washed, the flowers on my
table growing roots, the doors and windows always
on guard, the lamps that never cease to give me light,
the sofa so exhausted of my exhausting body, the tree
near my window poking at me, then the cry of a puppy
I hear it all the time. My shop my objects; they dream
and have their own mind, they wear the colors of life,
they dress up and move my soul,
I love how they love me back…

poem by Elenushka Toledo
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All The World Is Love

In my secluded state my mind
Valued things are hard to find
My mind's gone I know not where
left without a care
When my thoughts are taking flight
pen them down on sheets of white
Building castles in the air
left without a care
In a crowded room alone that's where you'll find me
I have left my mind somewhere floating behind me
Blue skies white clouds to be seen
wish my mind could be as clean
As the clouds that swim above
all the world is love
chorus
Bubbles forming all around
Left my body on the ground
Unattached too hard to move
All the world is love
All the world is love
All the world is love

song performed by by Hollies
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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In A Room Of So Many

In this room I am one with myself,
I sit alone, away from them, from the people,
I sit in the chair in the back, with only myself,
None notices me except the two people next to me.

They sit around me laughing with friends, playing their games,
They are all happy, all together, with one another,
But thats what it is to them, a game,
They don't need more people they don; t need another.

The girl on my right sits, lost, in her book,
Maybe she's there with the characters, in the past, or maybe the futrue,
She looks from word to word page to page within her book.
This is her pasttime, her fantsy, she is lost to know the books future.

To my left a boy sits facing the wall, music playing,
Both thumbs pressed against the small arrow keys,
POKeMON is what he sits and plays;
The small animals battleing growing, and looking for keys.

And here, in the middle of them of all the others, I sit alone,
At the tabble in my bubble of scilence, the aloness of being non-social,
In my green chair I write, alone.
If only I could talk to them, if only I were social.

So many people playing so many things,
UNO, rummy, conect four, cards and sharades,
These are only a few of the things,
Yet they don't notice me, my longing to know them, my own sharades.

This room is filled with every feeling, everything good,
So few differences, yet so many,
I feel apart from them, yet in a way watching feels good.,
Sitill I sit and I write, I am alone, I am one, in the room of so many.

poem by Bethany Maxwell
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It Really Never Was...

the day is getting darker
painting shadows on the wall
broken wings of blue skies
going for a moment

everything's now in the evening
with longings in the deep
and wishes still not happening

the winter
glasses with frosty roses
and perfect days in somberness
in the white weather

every thought
is now alone
reaching to the mountains
faraway
in silences of time

every hour
is cold and getting colder
with drifting clouds
in northern skies
that can't hold back

how do I not be alone
when times are like these
how do I not feel the blues
when the clouds surrounds me
with few landings
into summer thoughts

every hour
is cold and getting colder
with drifting clouds
in northern skies
that can't hold back

the winter
comes soft and sweet
with clean glisten thoughts
and snowflakes that never stop pouring...
when it gets cold outside

the winter
oh the winter
how fresh it can get
how cold it can get

it really never was...
full of romantic
it just has these surprises
in the weather
that can't hold back
the clouds that surrounds me

it really never was...
just the winter

it really never was...
just the winter

poem by Peter S. Quinn
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Blue Sea

The clouds roll in on me so heavily
I feel the rains presence as I listen to the roaring sea.
That blue sea that takes you in and washes you away
To somewhere you may or may not want to stay.
That blue sea that you look in for answers
that blue sea that questions your questions
or gives you an answer only with question backwards
That blue sea that leaves your thoughts
within its deep blue content.
That feeling it gives leaving you absent...
of what could happen as that blue sea waves.
Washing away the thoughts and emotiond you felt
Yes Im talking hurt and pain.
That blue sea that your secrets swim within
That blue sea oyu float in continuously again and again.
That blue sea, that blue sea
That blue sea is reality.

poem by Kenya GreEN eYeS Mallett
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