The singing Lagoon
An Otter and a Guppy they lived in an isolated lagoon.
They are very good friends.
In a moonlit night they hear a beautiful song.
A Nymph sings while combing her tress in the mangrove.
Once in a blue moon a slim and handsome boatman comes there and joins her singing.
Otter whispered to Guppy; 'My friend are they lovers? '
'I don't think so, if they are lovers then why the boatman comes very seldom? 'Guppy replied.
'Yes, how a boatman can loves a Nymph? 'Otter explained.
They saw the boatman goes into the mangrove.
And they heard the Nymph cries. 'How long I have to wait? And you promised that you take me to your shack soon.'
'Definitely I loose my job in due course as they are making a bridge.
I have already planned to go to the sea as fishing is more profitable.
Please do not worry my sweetheart and I fish you one day when my pocket is full.'
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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On The Island Of Lilitao
THE boatman says we will be here only for a short while
why? because this island of Lilitao shall soon disappear
we are not scared we think that the boatman is just joking
and so we take time stepping upon the golden sands
pit-patted on its green blue waters
wading our bodies feeling the salt and silt in our hands
soon, a huge cloud comes, bringing with it the rain and thunder
and then it becomes dark and the boatman serious as a man with the hood
of death signaled that we must rush to the boat at once and save ourselves
for indeed the island as predicted disappeared
the sea has swallowed it, but as the boatman says,
in the next hour, it too shall spit it out.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Waters Of Tyne
I cannot get to my love if I would die;
The water of Tyne runs between her and me
And here I must stand with a tear in my 'ee,
Both sighing and sickly, my sweetheart to see
I cannot get to my love, if I would die;
The water of Tyne runs between her and me
And here I must stand with a tear in my 'ee,
Both sighing and sickly my sweetheart to see
Oh, where is the boatman, my bonny hinny?
Oh, where is the boatman? Bring him to me
To ferry me over the Tyne to my honey,
And I will remember the boatman and thee
Oh, bring me a boatman, I'll give any money,
And you for your troubles rewarded shall be
To ferry me over the Tyne to my honey
Or scull her across the rough river to me
song performed by by Sting
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Greed Of The River
brown to its existence the river as usual is silent
it borrows the sound of the slashing boat and from the time to time talks
it asks. 'where to boatman? '
but the boatman does not answer
he does not know how this river works how this river feels
it has taken people away
it has taken people back to their places
it has swallowed lives
and then in silence it sleeps
its belly full
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Stormy Sea
that boat was too small
for this trip to the other island
the ladies sat next to me
and they were all silent
to the sounds of the waves
just beside us and i knew
that with just one mistake,
one mistake from the boatman
that boat would have sunk
but lo, how the boatman took
the boat was kind of a very
skilled skipper of the waves
of the stormy sea like he was one
surfer in California taking sides
with each wave with so much
art and beauty carefully scaling
where safety lied and where
danger waited for an ambush
i was looking at each side
of the huge waves until
we reached Crocodile Island
of course the ladies knew that
it was no longer a joke but
a matter of a skilled boatman
making a choice between
life and death.
we chose life and the ladies and
the boatmen very well knew it.
the waves were too big for the
small boat but our silence was
even bigger. we survived.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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In The Corridors Of My Senses
On the corridor of my senses
I have lost the shape of
My shadows
Serrated leaves have fallen
On a bed of broken limbs
Muted the sound of my bones
Appearing in another dimension
This morning
I have seen the wilting of
Red roses
Tears drying from the blue
Lovers ‘ eyes
I hear the song
Of a boatman
Rowing and falling
To the edge of the sunless sea
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Boatman
Notes:
Jt on sony.com: boatman is my brother livingstons song.
Ive always assumed it was about how he and maggie saved their marriage but I never really asked. in my family we like to save the intimate stuff for the general public.
Hearts were exploding around us
As we drifted south down the bay
The gray up above and gray down below
Left us with nothing to say
So we drifted along in silence
til the tickle of life trickled in
And the rhythm began in the hiss of the sand
We were catching fire again
Chorus:
Oh boatman, I am the river
I am the mountain and the sea
Oh boatman, taker and giver
Can you deliver me
I would forever run free
Yeah we finally caught up with legends
We were walking along side by side
We worked out a plan
To go out hand in hand
But the long trail just wasnt that wide
The water around us was freezing
We just laughed and threw ourselves in
And although we were old
The sting of that cold
Pumped up the feeling, here it is again
Repeat chorus
Oh Im a message in a bottle
Drifting along on a deep blue sea
Waiting for some foreign shore
Ready for something to be
No longer afraid of falling
We cut the strings to the sky
We found level ground
And we put ourselves down
Amazing we all didnt die
We took each moment as given
By second by second they came
The ice and the sun and the thundering guns
Good God I was finally sane
Repeat chorus
song performed by by James Taylor
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Lime Tree Arbour
The boatman calls from the lake
A lone dives upon the water
I put my hand over hers
Down in the lime tree arbour
The wind in the trees is whispering
Whispering low that I love her
She puts her hand over mine
Down in the lime tree arbour
Through every breath that I breathe
And every place I go
There is a hand that protects me
And I do love her so
There will always be suffering
It flows through life like water
I put my hand over hers
Down in the lime tree arbour
The boatman he has gone
And the loons have flown for cover
She puts her hand over mine
Down in the lime tree arbour
Through every word that I speak
And every thing I know
There is hand that protects me
And I do love her so
song performed by by Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds from The Boatman's Call
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Ferry Me Across The Water
‘Ferry me across the water,
Do, boatman, do.’
‘If you've a penny in your purse
I'll ferry you.’
‘I have a penny in my purse,
And my eyes are blue;
So ferry me across the water,
Do, boatman, do.’
‘Step into my ferry-boat,
Be they black or blue,
And for the penny in your purse
I'll ferry you.’
poem by Christina Georgina Rossetti
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Otter Creek
Past meadows, beyond trees, down muddy banks flows otter creek.
King fisher in branches, perched, poised.
Skydiver, bullet from above, silent splash, into otter creek.
Muscles plucked from their beds, shells discarded, gathered for fun, pass up not one.
Trout fry swim swiftly, cray fish beneath rocks avoid seeking hands, pincers poised, threatening stance.
Kids crossing fallen logs, catching frogs, skipping rocks, swimming in otter creek.
Mud wars rage, picnic blanket laid on the green glade near otter creek.
We follow paw prints, beneath willow tree roots, den site dug deep into muddy banks of otter creek.
Within the town of Franklinville, hot summers day, sister, niece, and I, our dad's.
Never saw the otters of the creek, only paw prints, left proof of an existence.
In memories I venture, hoping, just a glimpse.
To sit once again, past meadows, beyond trees, down muddy banks, there it flows, otter creek.
poem by Gary Kedron
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Otter Hunting In Ribblesdale
Through yon little planting, by yonder streamside,
Where Ribble's sweet waters flow softly and wide,
While the dew's on the meadows it's up and away,
A-hunting the otter at break o' the day.
0 hear the glad music of horn and of hound;
0 hear how they welcome in day with the sound:
0 hear how the valley is loud with the strain
And the woodlands give answer with echo again.
Come rise up full soon, come rise up and go,
The mist's on the hill and the river runs low:
While the dew's on the meadows it's up and away
A-hunting the otter at break o' the day.
Now Ribble, sun-chequered, slides joyfully down
Which late thro' the bridges roared foaming and brown:
Now hot lies the scent, and the morning is still, &mdash
Hark for'ard, good hounds, to a view and a kill!
A health to good fellowship fill we now high,
You true-hearted sportsmen afar and anigh,
Here's many a good chase when the morning is grey,
A-hunting the otter at break o' the day.
poem by Cicely Fox Smith
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Water Nymph (Fantasy Poem)
Water Nymph come swim with me,
in the deepest valleys of the sea.
Swim through the eddies,
flirt with the sea ladies.
Many treasures here for you and me.
sirens of the sea waving happily.
Water nymph, water nymph,
did you see, they waved at me.
Come water nymph come swim with me.
Enjoy the vastness of the deep blue sea.
There are sea monkeys, sirens, mermaids and more.
Maybe we can take some treasures back to shore.
Oh cmon water nymph, don’t be shy.
Come swim with me, watch the boats sail by.
(July 1,2007)
poem by Melvina Germain
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Fishing For Love
fishing for love, never knowing what you'll get
fishing hard still nothing but you cant quit
catch some, through a few back
fry some up if they don't know how to act
fishing, catch a meal catch a feast
even a guppy is something at least..
poem by Shannon Lowery
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I Hear America Singing
I Hear America singing, the varied carols I hear;
Those of mechanics--each one singing his, as it should be, blithe and strong;
The carpenter singing his, as he measures his plank or beam,
The mason singing his, as he makes ready for work, or leaves off work;
The boatman singing what belongs to him in his boat--the deckhand singing on the steamboat deck;
The shoemaker singing as he sits on his bench--the hatter singing as he stands;
The wood-cutter's song--the ploughboy's, on his way in the morning, or at the noon intermission, or at sundown;
The delicious singing of the mother--or of the young wife at work--or of the girl sewing or washing--Each singing what belongs to her, and to none else;
The day what belongs to the day--At night, the party of young fellows, robust, friendly,
Singing, with open mouths, their strong melodious songs.
poem by Walt Whitman
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The Further Bank
I long to go over there to the further bank of the river.
Where those boats are tied to the bamboo poles in a line;
Where men cross over in their boats in the morning with
ploughs on their shoulders to till their far-away fields;
Where the cowherds make their lowing cattle swim across to the
riverside pasture;
Whence they all come back home in the evening, leaving the
jackals to howl in the island overgrown with weeds.
Mother, if you don't mind, I should like to become the boatman
of the ferry when I am grown up.
They say there are strange pools hidden behind that high bank.
Where flocks of wild ducks come when the rains are over, and
thick reeds grow round the margins where water-birds lay their
eggs;
Where snipes with their dancing tails stamp their tiny
footprints upon the clean soft mud;
Where in the evening the tall grasses crested with while
flowers invite the moonbeam to float upon their waves.
Mother, if you don't mind, I should like to become the boatman
of the ferryboat when I am grown up.
I shall cross and cross back from bank to bank, and all the
boys and girls of the village will wonder at me while they are
bathing.
When the sun climbs the mid sky and morning wears on to noon,
I shall come running to you, saying, "Mother, I am hungry."
When the day is done and the shadows cower under the trees,
I shall come back in the dust.
I shall never go away from you into the town to work like
father.
Mother, if you don't mind, I should like to become the boatman
of the ferryboat when I am grown up.
poem by Rabindranath Tagore
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This Unimportant Morning
This unimportant morning
Something goes singing where
The capes turn over on their sides
And the warm Adriatic rides
Her blue and sun washing
At the edge of the world and its brilliant cliffs.
Day rings in the higher airs
Pure with cicadas, and slowing
Like a pulse to smoke from farms,
Extinguished in the exhausted earth,
Unclenching like a fist and going.
Trees fume, cool, pour - and overflowing
Unstretch the feathers of birds and shake
Carpets from windows, brush with dew
The up-and-doing: and young lovers now
Their little resurrections make.
And now lightly to kiss all whom sleep
Stitched up - and wake, my darling, wake.
The impatient Boatman has been waiting
Under the house, his long oars folded up
Like wings in waiting on the darkling lake.
poem by Lawrence Durrell
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I Yearn For A Tranquil Moment
I yearn for a tranquil moment
To be out upon the sea of harmony,
In that enchanted boat.
Oh, boatman, do you know my heart?
poem by Sugawara Takesue no Musume
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The Boatman In Boracay
the muscular boatman in pale red shirt waits
beside his boat
for a customer to be taken to the island
of desire tonight
whatever
sex.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The verb 'to love' in Persian is 'to have a friend.' 'I love you' translated literally is 'I have you as a friend,' and 'I don't like you' simply means 'I don't have you as a friend.'
quote by Shusha Guppy
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Boatman's Crossing!
The boatman is out, crossing the swollen river,
Dips the bamboo staff, churns the frowning waters,
Calling for strength from the still depths, he moves on,
Like children running behind a cart, waves giggle along.
The river asks no questions.
Dark for lies shrouded in curtains of inky black,
Moon just a strained smile, is seized by the clouds crack,
Lovelorn silver edges aglow, puff in pride on the conquest,
Homesick, signaling to each other, stars join in the jest.
The night asks no questions.
Yet to startle darkness, the weakest hour of morn,
Pushing this log of wood, is yet to be born,
Thick as honey, wind flutters leaves in bouts of rage,
Dripping with the scent of hill balsams and lush foliage.
The wind asks no questions.
Heaving branches of blossoms and figs, offer themselves,
In homage to the river, on either banks banyan trees swagger,
Dipping their flowing roots, like an old woman’s tress,
Bait fish; like one throws pebbles in water seeking answers,
The trees ask no questions.
This, a strange journey he makes in the quiet of the morn,
Questions arise in his head, like on the banks- the wayside corn,
To lull them sings, a wailing tune, like in wilderness richotteing nails,
His mother sang, to stall his questions after
her bed-timetales.
The boatman asks no questions.
As they sail by, birds sent aflutter, snigger, trees jeer,
A startled stork from the far-off horizon hollers-All clear,
Drawn by his song, in his trailing nets fishes ensnare,
Like a maiden in panic, the river hastens, after a night’s dare.
The birds ask no questions.
Dawn breaks its garland of flushing colors galore,
A veiled maiden sits at the boat’s far-end, shadows devour
Head bowed, eyes downcast, break not her silence of the night,
Lest she should dropp off like an unopened bud at first light.
poem by Seema joglekar
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You know, as long as you do everything in moderation, you don't go overboard, you don't, you know, turn your lips into guppy lips - I mean, a little zip or a little zap, that is not a big deal.
quote by Suzanne Somers
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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