Song of a Winter Attic
Sheets of white ice double the frozen glass,
the net curtains break the ice light and the
smell of damp books and insects, autumn apples,
moments of childhood under eaves,
I am not in sorrow apart from sorrowing, a terrible desire
is born to stop clocks, victims of time and snow and
my grave is hidden under dusty floorboards, so
scratching with broken fingers I search for my sorrow.
poem by Leslie Philibert
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Autmun night [Noapte de toamnă]
Murmur of eaves narrow, whispers full of harshness
Grow from all the places and get lost in darkness.
Seldom, through the curtains, light is quickly flying
The cold water mirrors before me igniting
And its ray, reflected, to my face is clinging...
Rain knocks at the windows, all the eaves are singing.
Step by step, the loudness of the rumor falls
Muffling the dull singing of these waterfalls.
More and more around me living shadows rise
Rain has stopped its falling from the leaden skies
And in piles of dark mists waters now are creeping...
Sleeps the world entire, all the eaves are weeping.
There, on the horizon, silver rays are though
On the vault of heaven showing beds of snow,
Slowly break the shadows, hang on branches tight
Blue and lovely sparkles, grains of shining light.
And right from the secret of the open sky
Fall off lights that really stun and please the eye
And in heaps of white snow break the clouds defiant
But when moon is rising, the wet eaves keep silent.
***
Sleep in peace, my dearest!...
Only I, alone, linger on the alley
And the charming moments quietly I tally...
To wake you I'm trying with my thoughts' bright flares,
From your secret hallway to come down the stairs.
In this cold clear autumn come with your heart beating
And, by dreaming all these moments that are fleeting,
To enhance the sadness of the dark late hour
When, without you, darling, my soul, lone and sour,
Goes in search, but vainly, trying hard to see
And to kiss the footsteps of what used to be.
poem by George Topîrceanu, translated by Octavian Cocoş
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Sorrow’s Importunity
When Sorrow first came wailing to my door,
April rehearsed the madrigal of May;
And, as I ne'er had seen her face before,
I kept on singing, and she went her way.
When next came Sorrow, life was winged with scent
Of glistening laurel and full-blossoming bay:
I asked, but understood not, what she meant,
Offered her flowers, and she went her way.
When yet a third time Sorrow came, we met
In the ripe silence of an Autumn day:
I gave her fruit I had gathered, and she ate,
Then seemed to go unwillingly away.
When last came Sorrow, around barn and byre
Wind-carven snow, the Year's white sepulchre, lay.
``Come in,'' I said, ``and warm you by the fire.''
And there she sits, and never goes away.
poem by Alfred Austin
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Sorrow Under Mist
Mist -
Giving wispy vapour to the breath,
Cool calm to autumn afternoons,
A hovering air of mysticism
Over brooding lakes -
Was different here,
Affording company, closeness -
A caring arm around her shoulders.
In the eyes, a once-clear oceanic blue
Wavered under water -
Tears telling torrid truths
She couldn't face -
Like the glowering image in the mirror
You don't see in your mind's eye
Of compensation; delusion.
We see her sitting on the concrete steps
That led down to the dew-laden garden.
She's peering up, sensing her diffuse companion,
Refreshing in its chill; giving crispness
To the stealth of dulling evening.
But the bite of air couldn't lift the sorrow
Of pale youth in love,
Shouldered by a not-in-love and scoffing eye.
Rejection hurt;
Hurts -
Wrenches deep -
Emotion that we can't deny!
Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2011
Sorrow Rain
sorrow sorrow sorrow sorrow sorrow sorrow
sorrow sorrow sorrow sorrow sorrow sorrow
sorrow sorrow sorrow sorrow sorrow sorrow
sorrow sorrow sorrow sorrow sorrow sorrow
sorrow sorrow sorrow sorrow sorrow sorrow
sorrow sorrow sorrow sorrow sorrow sorrow
sorrow sorrow sorrow sorrow sorrow sorrow
poem by Mark R Slaughter
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Narrating Few Events
On the day when to wedding
I ended with funeral
Death and life opposed
Extremes of sorrow
The young boys with white complexion
Extreme of celebration dancing on music
In black
Both wedding and sorrow
The beginning and the end
Juxtaposed emotions
The solitary reaper
Was cutting grass on the road side
From autumn
For heat
And to sell to satiate her poverty
With her sickle scratching the back
Of mother earth
The terrified passengers
Waiting in line
On the way to their workplace
Doubting each other
Seeing faces to know
Who was the angle of death
Sleeping long
For want of life
The strings of music frozen
Some unfulfilled desires
Of seeing the world
At least once before the curtain
Is drawn
Of holding the holy waters
On the wall
Eroded with age
To the steaming car of the gentleman
Cooling it down
Some half finished books
Some begun anew
Life is making me
Irrelevant with every passing moment
25/11/2009
poem by Sadiqullah Khan
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Lament
Where are those dazzling hills touched by the sun,
Those crags in childhood that I used to climb?
Hidden, hidden under mist is yonder mountain,
Hidden is the heart.
A day of cloud, a lifetime falls between,
Gone are the heather moors and the pure stream,
Gone are the rocky places and the green,
Hidden, hidden under sorrow is yonder mountain,
Hidden, hidden.
O storm and gale of tears, whose blinding screen
Makes weather of grief, snow's drifting curtain
Palls th'immortal heights once seen.
Hidden, hidden is the heart,
Hidden, hidden is the heart.
poem by Kathleen Jessie Raine
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Chou Nu Er
In days when I was young and didn't know the taste of sorrow
I like to climb the storied tower,
I like to climb the storied tower;
To write the latest odes I forced myself to tell of sorrow.
Now that I understand the taste of sorrow altogether
I would like to tell, but stop,
I would like to tell, but stop;
Instead I say, 'What a cool day! Such lovely autumn weather!'
When young, I knew not the taste of sorrow,
But loved to mount the high towers;
I loved to mount the hight towers
To compose a new song,urging myself to talk about sorrow.
Now that I have known all the taste of sorrow,
I would like to talk about it, but refrain;
I would like to talk about it, but refrain,
And say merely: 'It is chilly; what a fine autumn!'
Born Of A Broken Man
My fears hunt me down
Capturing my memories
The frontier of loss
They try to escape across the street where
Jesus stripped bare
And raped the spirit he was supposed to nurture
In the name of my in the name of my
Born of a broken man
But not a broken man
Born of a broken man
But not a broken man
Like autumn leaves
His sense fell from him
An empty glass of himself
Shattered somewhere within
His thoughts like a hundred moths
Trapped in a lampshade
Somewhere within
Their wings banging and burning
On through endless nights
Forever awake he lies shaking and starving
Praying for someone to turn off the light
Born of a broken man
But not a broken man
Born of a broken man
But not a broken man
song performed by by Rage Against The Machine
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Noble Spanish Soldier
O, SORROW, SORROW, say where dost thou dwell?
In the lowest room of hell.
Art thou born of human race?
No, no, I have a furier face.
Art thou in city, town, or court?
I to every place resort?
O, why into the world is Sorrow sent?
Men afflicted best repent.
What dost thou feed on?
Broken sleep.
What takest thou pleasure in?
To weep,
To sigh, to sob, to pine, to groan,
To wring my hands, to sit alone.
O when, O when shall Sorrow quiet have?
Never, never, never, never,
Never till she finds a grave.
poem by Thomas Dekker
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Darkness And Sorrow
Speedy to the plunder,
Swift to the spoil;
The lion will eat straw like the ox.
A tumultuous noise,
The bricks have fallen down;
Light and joy,
Darkness and sorrow,
The wolf will dwell with the lamb;
To the brook of the willows like,
The Sycamore Tree that are cut down.
Love is as strong as death,
Jealousy is as cruel as the grave;
Listen to my muse oh Earth!
As white as snow,
To shave with a hired razor;
As slow as the tortoise,
The leopard will lie down with the goat;
In a barren night like a stillborn child where,
The teeth of the young lions are broken;
Darkness and sorrow,
Love is as strong as death itself.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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White Moments
THE best of life, what is it but white moments?
Those swift illuminations when we see
The flying shadows on the fragrant meadows
As God beholds them from eternity.
White moments, when the bliss of being worships,
And fear and shame are heretics that burn
In holy fire of exquisite desire
For love's surrender and for love's return.
White moments, when a Power above the artist
Catches his plodding chisel, sets it free,
And from each urgent stroke there springs emergent
The wayward grace that laughs at industry.
White moments, when the drowsing soul, sense-muffled,
Is stung awake by some keen arrow-flight
And rends the bestial, claiming its celestial
Succession in the lineage of light.
White moments, when the spirit, long confronted
By all the bitter formulæ of fate,
Inveterate romancer, finds its answer
In some mysterious faith inviolate.
White moments, when the silence steals on sorrow,
And in that hush the heart becomes aware
Of wings that brood it, visions that seclude it
Forevermore from folly, fear and care.
The best of life, what is it but white moments?
Freedoms that break the chain and fling the load,
Irradiations, ardors, consecrations,
— The starry shrines along our pilgrim road.
poem by Katharine Lee Bates
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Frost Flowers
Bits and pieces, drops of life
Falling petals, crystal moments
Stage-set in translucent glass
in the snow.
Wondrous heartshapes, sunburst rain
Disremembered, hidden glitter
Lest the petals do not last
in the snow.
Wondrous heartaches, starburst pain
In encrested golden orbs,
Fragile vessels, frozen fast
in the snow.
poem by Adeline Foster
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Carbon
carbon made found her at the
end of a chain "time to race"
she said "race the downhill"
behind crystalline irises
loons can drive
where the world bleeds white
just keep your eyes on her
keep
don't look away
keep your eyes on her horizon
bear claw free fall
a gunner's view black and blue
shred in ribbons of lithium
blow by blow
her mind cut in sheets
layers deep now unravelling
just keep your eyes on her.
get me neil on the line
no i can't hold
have him read "snow glass apples"
where nothing is what it seems
"little sis you must crack this"
he says to me
"you must go in again carbon
made only wants to be unmade"
blade to ice it's
double diamond time
and keep your eyes on her
on her eyes on her horizon
song performed by by Tori Amos from Scarlet's Walk
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Cloak, The Boat And The Shoes
'What do you make so fair and bright?'
'I make the cloak of Sorrow:
O lovely to see in all men's sight
Shall be the cloak of Sorrow,
In all men's sight.'
'What do you build with sails for flight?'
'I build a boat for Sorrow:
O swift on the seas all day and night
Saileth the rover Sorrow,
All day and night.'
What do you weave with wool so white?'
'I weave the shoes of Sorrow:
Soundless shall be the footfall light
In all men's ears of Sorrow,
Sudden and light.'
poem by William Butler Yeats
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The Cloak, The Boat, And The Shoes
'WHAT do you make so fair and bright?'
'I make the cloak of Sorrow:
O lovely to see in all men's sight
Shall be the cloak of Sorrow,
In all men's sight.'
'What do you build with sails for flight?'
'I build a boat for Sorrow:
O swift on the seas all day and night
Saileth the rover Sorrow,
All day and night.'
What do you weave with wool so white?'
'I weave the shoes of Sorrow:
Soundless shall be the footfall light
In all men's ears of Sorrow,
Sudden and light.'
poem by William Butler Yeats
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Season of Mists
I thank you for your view of a view of autumn, Keats
who never saw your own autumn with its actual pitfalls.
Yours was the autumn of childhood, of hope, or romance, of belief,
my mother's autumn though not that of her hardworking family,
yours was never my father's autumn, season of mists,
and yours is not mine. My autumn
for all I would like to subscribe to your lavish play,
is like yours only in single ways each year,
perhaps there are swallows making a din,
or plums and apples falling wasp-eaten, unharvestable.
There is no sickle in my vocabulary or shed,
my autumn is based more on dread of the winter
and having had so little time each summer
to tidy or attend to the garden. Last year
early snow fell on flower baskets ditched from the street
and remained both snow and baskets until the spring
leaving me two seasons behind, without strategy
for a fast approaching repeat autumn, little wonder
and no chance to make anything faintly rhyme,
such is our modern poetry and life
poem by Sally Evans
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Song Of The Evergreens
Listen to the briskly whistling winter evergreen
Whispering through the frozen morning light
And tell me whats to come
Saying my time is near
Never fear
I close each year
Im winter
Reminding me to trade my t-shirts for my woven wools
Trade my sandals for my skis
Whispered warnings in the wind
Saying soon come the dancing snowflakes
Theyre kissing every tree
Theyre kissing you and me
Please hurry
Falling
Dazzling dancing diamonds from the sky
Prisms
Rainbow sparkled flurries in our eyes
Whipping across the frozen crystal meadow
Pond of ice
Race the snow
Well build a warming fire there
And cuddle close and wine and dine
The setting sun
The morning light will find us high
Shooting down the glistening mountain side
Screaming through the whispering pines
The freedom of each day
Will cleanse our minds
I can hardly wait for winter
I can hardly wait for the snow
I can hardly hardly wait for winter
I can hardly wait for the snow
Snow snow snow snow snow snow snow snow
Snow snow snow snow snow snow snow snow
Snow snow snow snow snow snow snow snow
Snow snow snow snow snow snow snow snow
Snow snow snow snow snow snow snow snow
Snow snow snow snow snow snow snow snow
Snow snow snow snow snow snow snow snow
Snow snow snow snow snow snow snow snow
Snow snow snow snow snow snow snow snow
Snow snow snow snow snow snow snow snow
Snow snow snow snow snow snow snow snow
Snow snow snow snow snow snow snow snow
Snow snow snow snow snow snow snow snow
Snow snow snow snow snow snow snow snow
song performed by by Chicago
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Finding Loves Fool
Finding loves fool
loves fool you may be
but I stand in front of thee
a light covered in the shroud of lies
Where sorrow will not die
In the shroud of lies
will I be
So there look for me
If the lies should make you sorrow
Do not cry in fear of tomorrow
For I will find thee before
That marrow
And at that time
There will be no sorrow
Should your eyes still cry
then I will find you in the
in the shroud of lies
Twice as fast as
You cry
Will I fly to your side
may I wipe away the tears
Of pain and sorrow
and your fears
For now and tomorrow
Then from your tears will I form
A drink of love
And sorrow torn
then may I show you the light
Of tomorrow
Along with it the army of sorrow
And then in fight
I shall give you no sorrow
For none shall pass me
But die in the birth of tomorrow
If in case should I die
Then sprout your wings
And fly
Beyond the sight of this marrow
Then rise above
The next army of sorrow
Find me now
Without sorrow
Find me now in
Heavens tomorrow
Then see the light oh fool of love
See the light of heaven above
Then there will be no shroud of lies
And together are wings shall fly
over mountains and beyond the sea
to a place were we can both be
Without the pain and sorrow
But at the birth
Of a new tomorrow
A tomorrow were a new earth brings
The life of another
Child with wings
With these wing he shall soar
And for loves fool
The search
Begins once more
poem by Cody Byrne
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Sequestered Writing
Horses were turned loose in the child's sorrow. Black and roan, cantering through snow.
The way light fills the hand with light, November with graves, infancy with white.
White. Given lilacs, lilacs disappear. Then low voices rising in walls.
The way they withdrew from the child's body and spoke as if it were not there.
What ghost comes to the bedside whispering You?
-- With its no one without its I --
A dwarf ghost? A closet of empty clothes?
Ours was a ghost who stole household goods. Nothing anyone would miss.
Supper plates. Apples. Barbed wire behind the house.
At the end of the hall, it sleepwalks into a mirror wearing mother's robe.
A bedsheet lifts from the bed and hovers. Face with no face. Come here.
The bookcase knows, and also the darkness of books. Long passages into,
Endless histories toward, sleeping pages about. Why else toss gloves into a grave?
A language that once sent ravens through firs. The open world from which it came.
Words holding the scent of an asylum fifty years. It is fifty years, then.
The child hears from within: Come here and know, below
And unbeknownst to us, what these fields had been.
poem by Carolyn Forché
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Sorrow Makes One A Hero Tomorrow
Without sorrow life is zero
We must accept fate's arrow
If our efforts are thorough
Our sorrow, God will borrow
Sorrows nicely shape our mind
Sorrows stop our being blind
Via sorrows, remedies we find
Sorrows are indirectly kind
In the absence of sorrow
Our mind does not grow
We think not like a hero
Our attitude is made narrow
Sorrows must be overcome
For which efforts we welcome
At last strong we become
This is sorrows' outcome
Our will-power, sorrows increase
To our heart, sorrows supply grease
Our talents, only sorrows release
In a gist, sorrows supply peace
Every sorrow at last dies
Not because of our cries
But because our soul tries
Life and success, sorrow ties
Sorrow less person is none
Sorrow is sure, if life has begun
'Sorrow trains brains' is a slogan
Sorrow is a tamable dragon
In sorrow, all must dip
By coming under its grip
All are lashed by sorrow's whip
To every life, sorrow makes a trip
Now sorrow will somehow vanish
But you cannot fully relinquish
Further sorrows, time will furnish
From life, sorrow, none can banish
Life and sorrow are closely associated
By life, sorrow is very much fascinated
By sorrow, peace is initially confiscated
Sorrow grows when life is sophisticated.
poem by Mailrangam Visvanathan Venkataraman
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From the Other Side of Sorrow.
Her name was 'holy' conscience said
and sorrow heaped upon a bed
in vain the search to find by chance
lift her, hold her for their last dance
held hopelessly in crimson time.
A heavenly view: man and wife,
had thought to throw away a life
was only such a little sin
guilt, forever unforgiven
tyranny bleached white finds those condemned.
The other side of sorrow sought
blindly fumbling to find a door
knock and call a familiar name
to light a very steady flame
so famished souls may feed and thrive.
Can you see she's all to me?
Heartbeat and love from the one above
faith has been a steadfast guide
and I along with sorrow sit
among those who have known of it.
Inspired by 'Where there is sorrow there is holy ground'
De Profundis
Oscar Wilde.
France
July 2005
poem by Gillian.E. Shaw
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