En.Citatepedia^®.ro

Statue And Birds

Here, in the withered arbor, like the arrested wind,
Straight sides, carven knees,
Stands the statue, with hands flung out in alarm
Or remonstrances.

Over the lintel sway the woven bracts of the vine
In a pattern of angles.
The quill of the fountain falters, woods rake on the sky
Their brusque tangles.

The birds walk by slowly, circling the marble girl,
The golden quails,
The pheasants, closed up in their arrowy wings,
Dragging their sharp tails.

The inquietudes of the sap and of the blood are spent.
What is forsaken will rest.
But her heel is lifted,—she would flee,—the whistle of the birds
Fails on her breast.

poem by Louise Bogan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Island Hawk

Hushed are the whimpering winds on the hill,
Dumb is the shrinking plain,
And the songs that enchanted the woods are still
As I shoot to the skies again!
Does the blood grow black on my fierce bent beak,
Does the down still cling to my claw?
Who brightened these eyes for the prey they seek?
Life, I follow thy law!
For I am the hawk, the hawk, the hawk!
Who knoweth my pitiless breast?
Who watcheth me sway in the wild wind's way?
Flee – flee – for I quest, I quest.

As I glide and glide with my peering head,
Or swerve at a puff of smoke,
Who watcheth my wings on the wind outspread,
Here – gone – with an instant stroke?
Who toucheth the glory of life I feel
As I buffet this great glad gale,
Spire and spire to the cloud-world, wheel,
Loosen my wings and sail?
For I am the hawk, the island hawk,
Who knoweth my pitiless breast?
Who watcheth me sway in the sun's bright way?
Flee – flee – for I quest, I quest.

My mate in the nest on the high bright tree
Blazing with dawn and dew,
She knoweth the gleam of the world and the glee
As I drop like a bolt from the blue.
She knoweth the fire of the level flight
As I skim, close, close to the ground,
With the long grass lashing my breast and the bright
Dew-drops flashing around.
She watcheth the hawk, the hawk, the hawk
(Oh, the red-blotched eggs in the nest!)
Watcheth him sway in the sun's bright way.
Flee – flee – for I quest, I quest.

She builded her nest on the high bright wold,
She was taught in a world afar
The lore that is only an April old
Yet old as the evening star.
Life of a far off ancient day
In an hour unhooded her eyes.
In the time of the budding of one green spray
She was wise as the stars are wise.
An eyas in eyry, a yellow-eyed hawk,
On the old elm's burgeoning breast,
She watcheth me sway in the wild wind's way.
Flee – flee – for I quest, I quest.

She hath ridden on white Arabian steeds
Thro' the ringing English dells,
For the joy of a great queen, hunting in state,
To the music of golden bells.
A queen's fair fingers have drawn the hood
And tossed her aloft in the blue,
A white hand eager for needless blood.
I hunt for the needs of two.
A haggard in yarak, a hawk, a hawk!
Who knoweth my pitiless breast?
Who watcheth me sway in the sun's bright way?
Flee – flee – for I quest, I quest.

Who fashioned her wide and splendid eyes
That have stared in the eyes of kings?
With a silken twist she was looped to their wrist:
She has clawed at their jewelled rings!
Who flung her first thro' the crimson dawn
To pluck him a prey from the skies,
When the love-light shone upon lake and lawn
In the valleys of Paradise?
Who fashioned the hawk, the hawk, the hawk,
Bent beak and pitiless breast?
Who watcheth him sway in the wild wind's way?
Flee – flee – for I quest, I quest.

Is there ever a song in all the world
Shall say how the quest began
With the beak and the wings that have made us kings
And cruel – almost – as man?
The wild wind whimpers across the heath
Where the sad little tufts of blue
And the red-stained grey little feathers of death
Flutter! Who fashioned us? Who?
Who fashioned the scimitar wings of the hawk,
Bent beak and arrowy breast?
Who watcheth him sway in the sun's bright way?
Flee – flee – for I quest, I quest.

poem by Alfred Noyes
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Paradise: In A Symbol

Golden-winged, silver-winged,
Winged with flashing flame,
Such a flight of birds I saw,
Birds without a name:
Singing songs in their own tongue
(Song of songs) they came.

One to another calling,
Each answering each,
One to another calling
In their proper speech:
High above my head they wheeled,
Far out of reach.

On wings of flame they went and came
With a cadenced clang,
Their silver wings tinkled,
Their golden wings rang,
The wind it whistled through their wings
Where in Heaven they sang.

They flashed and they darted
Awhile before mine eyes,
Mounting, mounting, mounting still
In haste to scale the skies—
Birds without a nest on earth,
Birds of Paradise.

Where the moon riseth not,
Nor sun seeks the west,
There to sing their glory
Which they sing at rest,
There to sing their love-song
When they sing their best:

Not in any garden
That mortal foot hath trod,
Not in any flowering tree
That springs from earthly sod,
But in the garden where they dwell,
The Paradise of God.

poem by Christina Georgina Rossetti
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While the woods were green

WHILE the woods were green,
'Oh I' she sang, 'my heart is new,
Leaping, longing, in my breast:
Let him come that loves me true,
Let him come that I love best,
I will tell him what I mean,
Now the wood-birds tell it too,
Now the woods are green.'

While the woods were bare,
'Oh I' she sighed, 'my heart is grey,
Shrinking, shivering, in my breast:
Love me, hate me, as they may,
None of them do I love best:
Let me be alone with care,
Now the wood-birds hide away,
Now the woods are bare.'

poem by Augusta Davies Webster
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The Bird Watcher (Part 1)

I plod through the leafy woods
The shadowy, coolly rain forest at the dale
Harkening the spellbinding tunes of trills
Watching the vividly coloured pretty fowls

Echoes of those feeble (But aloud) chirrups twinging me
Of those little birds I encaged in my early ages
Were all tremulous and dolorous sobs, but
Misapprehended unto chant sweet songs of rollicking

Encaging the birds is remorselessness
To set all those confined birds free, now I wish,
To let them spread their wings beneath the skies
And dry out their invisible tears in the fresh breeze of the freedom

The red and blue Macaws, the Golden Pheasants….
The birds of passage,
The settlers for the time being,
Blossom the trees with lurid variance of colours

The Green Turacos, the red Robins
And the tall milky Flamingoes with pinkish limbs
Creeping in the marsh and organizing their eats,
Deceive me the marshy land to be an enchanting flowerbed

Golden slanting rays and long shadows
The contrasting beauties of the forest
And the humming of swaying trees in the breeze
Embellish to the beauty to the trills & chirrups

May 11-2009 (Hawiyah - Saudi Arabia)

poem by Nooruddeen Mathilakathveetil
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There once was a fellow from Wales
Who bred a new breed of strange quails;
But his plans went awry
As the birds couldn't fly
And what's more, they grew up with no tails.

(Written Oct 2012)

quote by by John Carter Brown
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Birds and the Above

What is their grade, who sing to the above?
Their legs can not carry their bodies,
For they are inferior, they are inferior.
Legs are too much for those who walk,
Yet the hands are meaning too much.
You are superior, and you are amazing -
It is a man who walks and talks that inspires,
Yet feeble people do not seem wrong
To the caring ones, the ones who care.
Care must be given to you,
As the hospital will fetch you
If hands and feet are allowed.
As you are like a bird,
Birds are like you, for you fly.
With wings you are not,
But hands and feet.
You walk and yet fly,
Yet wings are not feet
For the birds.
What is their grade, who sing to the above?

poem by Naveed Akram
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Why the Jackass Laughs

The Boastful Crow and the Laughing Jack
Were telling tales of the outer back:
"I've just been travelling far and wide,
At the back of Bourke and the Queensland side;
There isn't a bird in the bush can go
As far as me," said the old black crow.
"There isn't a bird in the bush can fly
A course as straight or a course as high.
Higher than human eyesight goes.

There's sometimes clouds -- but there's always crows,
Drifting along for a scent of blood
Or a smell of smoke or a sign of flood.
For never a bird or a beast has been
With a sight as strong or a scent as keen.
At fires and floods I'm the first about,
For then the lizards and mice run out:
And I make my swoop -- and that's all they know --
I'm a whale on mice," said the Boastful Crow.

The Bee-birds over the homestead flew
And told each other the long day through
"The cold has come, we must take the track."
"Now, I'll make you a bet," said the Laughing Jack,
"Of a hundred mice, that you dare not go
With the little Bee-birds, by Boastful Crow."

Said the Boastful Crow, "I could take my ease
And fly with little green birds like these.
If they went flat out and they did their best
I could have a smoke and could take a rest."
And he asked of the Bee-birds circling round:
"Now, where do you spike-tails think you're bound?"
"We leave tonight, and out present plan
is to go straight on till we reach Japan.

"Every year, on the self-same day,
We call our children and start away,
Twittering, travelling day and night,
Over the ocean we take our flight;
And we rest a day on some lonely isles
Or we beg a ride for a hundred miles
On a steamer's deck,* and away we go:
We hope you'll come with us, Mister Crow."

But the old black crow was extremely sad.
Said he: "I reckon you're raving mad
To talk of travelling night and day,
And how in the world do you find your way?"
And the Bee-birds answered him, "If you please,
That's one of our own great mysteries".

Now these things chanced in the long ago
And explain the fact, which no doubt you know,
That every jackass high and low
Will always laugh when he sees a crow.

poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
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The House Of Dust: Part 02: 05: Retrospect

Round white clouds roll slowly above the housetops,
Over the clear red roofs they flow and pass.
A flock of pigeons rises with blue wings flashing,
Rises with whistle of wings, hovers an instant,
And settles slowly again on the tarnished grass.

And one old man looks down from a dusty window
And sees the pigeons circling about the fountain
And desires once more to walk among those trees.
Lovers walk in the noontime by that fountain.
Pigeons dip their beaks to drink from the water.
And soon the pond must freeze.

The light wind blows to his ears a sound of laughter,
Young men shuffle their feet, loaf in the sunlight;
A girl's laugh rings like a silver bell.
But clearer than all these sounds is a sound he hears
More in his secret heart than in his ears,—
A hammer's steady crescendo, like a knell.
He hears the snarl of pineboards under the plane,
The rhythmic saw, and then the hammer again,—
Playing with delicate strokes that sombre scale . . .
And the fountain dwindles, the sunlight seems to pale.

Time is a dream, he thinks, a destroying dream;
It lays great cities in dust, it fills the seas;
It covers the face of beauty, and tumbles walls.
Where was the woman he loved? Where was his youth?
Where was the dream that burned his brain like fire?
Even a dream grows grey at last and falls.

He opened his book once more, beside the window,
And read the printed words upon that page.
The sunlight touched his hand; his eyes moved slowly,
The quiet words enchanted time and age.

'Death is never an ending, death is a change;
Death is beautiful, for death is strange;
Death is one dream out of another flowing;
Death is a chorded music, softly going
By sweet transition from key to richer key.
Death is a meeting place of sea and sea.'

poem by Conrad Potter Aiken
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Obsessıon

Would not place any price-tag
on me. Like a mannequin dug out from a pit
goes for sale.

Abhor the duplicity.
Want to walk straight –
without the golden thong.

The city goes in flames
in a circle.
A new fountain was singing.

They were landing in flocks.
The old birds of same plumage
coming to collect the due of old virgins.

There was no message.
Letterbox was empty.
I will not wait for snowfall in the Antarcita.

poem by Satish Verma
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Turkeys, quails, and small birds, are here to be seen; but birds are not numerous in desart forests; they draw near to the habitations of men, as I have constantly observed in all my travels.

quote by William Bartram
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The White Lady

I cannot rest, I cannot rest
In straight and shiny wood,
My woven hands upon my breast--
The dead are all so good!

The earth is cool across their eyes;
They lie there quietly.
But I am neither old nor wise;
They do not welcome me.

Where never I walked alone before,
I wander in the weeds;
And people scream and bar the door,
And rattle at their beads.

We cannot rest, we never rest
Within a narrow bed
Who still must love the living best--
Who hate the pompous dead!

poem by Dorothy Parker
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A Christ-child Day in Australia

A COPPER concave of a sky
Hangs high above my head.
Vague thunder sullenly goes by
With dragging, muffled tread.

The hot air faints upon the grass,
And at its bitter breath,
Ten thousand trembling flower-souls pass,
With fragrant sighs, to death.

There comes no breeze. No breeze has sprung
And sweetly blown for days.
Dead air in silent sheets has hung,
Smooth wavering sheets of haze.

The very birds that erstwhile soared
Hide hushed in haunts of trees.
Nature no longer walks abroad,
But crouches on her knees.

Crouches and hides her withered face,
Above her barren breast,
And I forget her yester grace
And the clustering mouths she blessed.

’Tis in no alien land I sit,
Almost it is mine own.
Its fibres to my fibres knit,
Its bone into my bone.

These are no alien skies I know,
Yet something in my blood
Calls sharp for breath of ice and snow
Across the wide, salt flood.

Calls loud and will not be denied,
Cries, with imperious tears,
And mem’ries that have never died
Leap wildly o’er the years:

The thrill of England’s winter days,
Of England’s frost-sharp air,
The ice along her waterways,
Her snowfields stretching fair,

Her snowfields gleaming through the dark,
Her bird with breast aglow,
On the white land a crimson mark,
—Ah England, England’s snow!

Fair as a queen, this far south land,
A wayward bride, half won,
Her dowry careless flung like sand,
Her royal flax unspun.

And if beneath her ardent glance
Her subjects faint and reel,
Does she but melt, stoop to entrance,
They kiss her hem and kneel.

And I—I kneel. For oft her hand
Has gently touched my hair.
Then with a throb I rise and stand,
—A Queen!—why should she spare!

Yet when the Christ-Child mem’ries steal,
Some ebb-tide swells to flood.
Ah, England—just once more to feel
Thy winter in my blood

poem by Ethel Turner
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Licia Sonnets 26

I live, sweet love, whereas the gentle wind
Murmurs with sport in midst of thickest boughs,
Where loving woodbine doth the harbor bind,
And chirping birds do echo forth my vows;
Where strongest elm can scarce support the vine,
And sweetest flowers enameled have the ground;
Where Muses dwell; and yet hereat repine
That on the earth so rare a place was found.
But winds delight, I wish to be content;
I praise the woodbine, but I take no joy;
I moan the birds that music thus have spent;
As for the rest, they breed but mine annoy.
Live then, fair Licia, in this place alone;
Then shall I joy though all of these were gone.

poem by Giles Fletcher The Elder
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Scar Tissue

Scar tissue that I wish you saw
Sarcastic mister know it all
Close your eyes and I'll kiss you 'cause
With the birds I'll share
With the birds I'll share
This lonely view
With the birds I'll share
This lonely view

Push me up against the wall
Young Kentucky girl in a push-up bra
Fallin' all over myself
To lick your heart and taste your health 'cause
With the birds I'll share
This lonely view...

Blood loss in a bathroom stall
Southern girl with a scarlet drawl
Wave good-bye to ma and pa 'cause
With the birds I'll share
With the birds I'll share
This lonely view
With the birds I'll share
This lonely view

Soft spoken with a broken jaw
Step outside but not to brawl
Autumn's sweet we call it fall
I'll make it to the moon if I have to crawl and
With the birds I'll share
This lonely view...

Scar tissue that I wish you saw
Sarcastic mister know it all
Close your eyes and I'll kiss you 'cause
With the birds I'll share
With the birds I'll share
This lonely view
With the birds I'll share
This lonely view...

song performed by by Red Hot Chili Peppers from Californication
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Concrete Angle

She walks to school with the lunch she packed
Nobody knows what she's holdin' back
Wearin' the same dress she wore yesterday
She hides the bruises with linen and lace
The teacher wonders but she doesn't ask
It's hard to see the pain behind the mask
Bearing the burden of a secret storm
Sometimes she wishes she was never born
Through the wind and the rain
She stands hard as a stone
In a world that she can't rise above
But her dreams give her wings
And she flies to a place where she's loved
Concrete angel
Somebody cries in the middle of the night
The neighbors hear, but they turn out the lights
A fragile soul caught in the hands of sate
When morning comes it'll be too late
Through the wind and the rain
She stands hard as a stone
In a world that she can't rise above
But her dreams give her wings
And she flies to a place where she's loved
Concrete angel
A statue stands in a shaded place
An angel girl with an upturned face
A name is written on a polished rock
A broken heart that the world forgot
Through the wind and the rain
She stands hard as a stone
In a world that she can't rise above
But her dreams give her wings
And she flies to a place where she's loved
Concrete angel

song performed by by Martina Mcbride
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Fantasy Temptations

The beautiful colorful flowers I smell
The beautiful green grass I feel
The beautiful sidewalk I walk on
The beautiful clouds I see
The beautiful birds soaring across the sky

Leads through the wondrous doors of Heaven
Because it's fantasy temptations
The fresh air slowly drifts up my nose
Who knew it would be this beautiful
Where has this place been all my life?

I lay under the stars as I fall asleep
Without any worries
I wake to the soft melody of the singing birds
Because it's fantasy temptations

As I drink water from the fountain it tastes pure
As I walk the path it's the Lord
I gracefully smile and say
If only reality was this peaceful

poem by Alisha Ricks
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To Crap

Goldstein’s left footprints
In the snow, they go off
Toward the woods. Birds
Take flight at the sound of
Gunfire, their wings clipping
The branches of tall trees,
Disturbing snow; a fall of
Whiteness settling upon
Crimson stains; Goldstein’s
Dead eyes see nothing of this,
Hear nothing of birds in flight,
The open wound in his head
Seeps blood. Jackboots tread
Where Goldstein trod; the rifle
Silent now, hung over the sturdy
Shoulder, a cold hand gripping
The strap. The killer pauses at the
Edge of the woods, ready to pee
In the snow, time to ease and crap.

poem by Terry Collett
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Rake At The Gates Of Hell

Mother's eyes are sparkling diamonds,
Still the moon shows no light
This rose is withered, may God deliver
The rake at the gates of hell tonight
Yigh!
I wish that they could walk forever,
On the earth, alone, unfettered
Til they pray for consolation,
Til they beg for sweet damnation
Then I'll come and bring them water,
Bring them hope, bring them laughter
Raise their hopes so sad and sunken
Slash them up as they lie there drunken
Push them down into the foul mud
Til they choke up on their own blood
Drag them out before their last breath
To take away the mercy of death
Mother's eyes are sparkling diamonds
Still the moon shows no light
This rose is withered, may God deliver
The rake at the gates of hell tonight
Yigh!
Mother's eyes are sparkling diamonds
Still the moon shows no light
This rose is withered, may God deliver
The rake at the Gates of Hell tonight
Mother's eyes are sparkling diamonds
Still the moon shows no light
This rose is withered, may God deliver
The rake at the gates of hell tonight

song performed by by Pogues
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Why do Birds Chirp in the Trees?

why do little birds chirp so loud in the trees
in the early morn the sun a yellow fiery
globe inching its greeting up the eastern sky?

it is because of the the little birds' excitements
for adventures of the new day

where their wings would take them for worms
for mates, for games, for the breeze in the air

why do birds chirp so loud in the trees at the close of day
the sun a fiery red globe gliding through the coppice western sky

it is because they wish to share their adventures of the day
chiding each other to prove who have taken the most worms
the new mates they have come to know
and where they should head the next day

why do birds stay so quiet in the night
the moon a golden disc keeping watch over foes?
it is because God has pulled a blanket over
their mind so that they can rest and
find strength when the sun starts lighting up a new day

poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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Hey, Hey, When My Golden Bird Fails

When my golden bird fails.
Hail oh hail.
The storms coming in.
Tear down the sail.
There so frail.
Dreams turn into dust before your eyes.
You must compromise.
Between heaven and hell.
Listen I think I hear church bells.

But hey hey.
When my golden bird fails.
There will be more deals.
Still I will prevail.
The thoughts in my head have gotten stale.
I think I need to steal.
Oh the adrenaline I feel.
I'm on my knees.
I stand then kneel.
As if there might be something of a higher power out there.
But I shall not compare.
I wear soul on the outside never looking in.

But hey hey.
When my golden bird fails.
I shall exhale.
I shall come out of my shell.
Show you my power.
It's my dying hour.
But my mind has goes sour.
Tweak it a little.
Take another pill.
So you don't lye awake for goodness sake.

All when my golden bird fails.
All all all when
but hey hey
when my golden bird fails.

poem by Ace Of Black Hearts
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