En.Citatepedia^®.ro

Stretching taut the silken threads

Stretching taut the silken threads
On a mother-of-pearl shuttle,
O, lithe fingers, begin
Your fascinating lesson.

Ebb and flow of your hands,
Monotonous movements,
No doubt you are conjuring
Some kind of solar fright.

When your broad palm,
Like a shell, flaming,
First dies down, drawn to the shadows,
Then sinks at last in a rosy light.

poem by Osip Emilevich Mandelstam
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Creature

A shadow glides above my plate
And all I see is birds migrate
Going south, remember me
When you fly above the sea
Autumn dies serene and slow
The lamp stands in a gentle glow
The silence rules, the evening grows
And the moon is far below
In me twist a sudden cramp
In my heart I hear it stamp
Marrow and blood encircle me
My blood stream chokes on gall and spleen
What will become of you
Since you have forsaken me
Not one tear I have in me
I am numb to my memory
Ill believe than that youre dead
First I felt bitter, I made amends
But I see you in a new light
You only have my contempt
So Ill believe than that youre dead
Second youre a loser, I spit on pretence
And I begin to wonder, and I begin to understand
That, youre a creature that breeds its kind and dies
Youre a creature that breeds and kind of dies
Youre a creature that breeds its kind and dies
Youre a creature that breeds its kind and dies
Youre a creature that breeds its kind and dies
Youre a creature that breeds its kind and dies
Dies.

song performed by by Xymox
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Creature

A shadow glides above my plate
And all I see is birds migrate
Going south, remember me
When you fly above the sea
Autumn dies serene and slow
The lamp stands in a gentle glow
The silence rules, the evening grows
And the moon is far below
In me twist a sudden cramp
In my heart I hear it stamp
Marrow and blood encircle me
My blood stream chokes on gall and spleen
What will become of you
Since you have forsaken me
Not one tear I have in me
I am numb to my memory
Ill believe than that youre dead
First I felt bitter, I made amends
But I see you in a new light
You only have my contempt
So Ill believe than that youre dead
Second youre a loser, I spit on pretence
And I begin to wonder, and I begin to understand
That, youre a creature that breeds its kind and dies
Youre a creature that breeds and kind of dies
Youre a creature that breeds its kind and dies
Youre a creature that breeds its kind and dies
Youre a creature that breeds its kind and dies
Youre a creature that breeds its kind and dies
Dies.

song performed by by Xymox
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Inside The Cave

we are witness to the shadows in the cave.
Not to be mislead we touch each others' hands.
When we open our eyes we become more confused.
There are more shadows born when we begin to speak.

We are always patient. We imagine soon, always, the
soon in the shadows. Light created more shadows.
We fear it sometimes. We begin to mistrust it.

We are still inside this cave with all the shadows
of ourselves. We do not like to move, we are mocked
We are imitated by our shadows inside the cave.

Tomorrow is the exit. We become friends of the Light.
Then we become free.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Making Connections

Tendrils grappling in air
Making connections be
It the wind or something else
Out there

Just to hold on to what when

Thin green sword-like palm
Hawaiian leaves stretching to the
Blue skies and sun
Making connections to whatever
Is who knows what slices thin some
Spaces in between light and dark

Some shadows playing like small
Children in the night park playground

Anything to touch life
Yawning to what-is if-this-could-happen
Then what?

Powered Rockets bulleting to space stabbing
& Lots of jet nozzles buzzing to
Vast dark silence clean cutting lines
Colored smoke curving with light

Making connections to planetary skies
Moon, Venus, Jupiter

On to Pluto to Zeus what if
One baby-finger touching fine fish
Fins swimming in ocean-space out-there

Making connections in between haze & fog
What if it is there that which lies next to this
Next to us from far and they can be then near

We are all tendrils rockets baby fingers space ocean fish fins
Making connections this empty hands loosened fingers
Dripping sands and spilling fine touches to wind chimes

Pointing stretching making fingers in between
A short distance making always always

Connections to what if what if I am there too.
Chances are, you chase and find them, footprints

They were once, and they all left, just seconds away.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Rainbow’s Birth

The morning light
in your eye
unfurls a sail
in the solar wind
of sun rays.

Your fingers move
like flower petals
in the breeze
of June.

In the palm
of your hand
the rainbow
is born.

poem by Paul Hartal
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Summer Light...

Summer Light -Thru the Trees
Summer Light - Spotted Me
Summer Light - Palest Gold
Summer Light - Bright and Bold

I Saw Summer Light Descend
Summer Light, Made Shadows Bend
Summer Light, On An Emerald Pond
I Reached Out… It Touched My Palm

Summer Light, It Fell Like Powder
Or a Floating Incandescent Feather
Came Down, Like A Sheer, White Swan
Summer Light – Lifted Wing-Like Arms

So Sunrays Slanted – Shone-Misty
Summer Light-Beams, Embraced Me
Warm, Wonderful Summer Light
Touch Me Tender, Solar- Might

Summer Light, When I Was Lost
Summer Light, Found Me Before Frost
Summer Light - None Else Looked For Me…
Summer Light Said, “I Always See…”

I Love Summer Light

poem by MoonBee Canady
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Somewhere Near The Lomba River

The guns of enemy tanks are flashing
like bolts of thunder while I am glancing,
the night air is full of the smell of cordite
and luckily those shots are passing

while the armoured car draws to a sudden halt
for its gun to take aim and on my lips I taste salt
before the armour piercing shell is fired
and at a direct hit around me the crew exalt

before at speed we move on
and some more enemy Cuban soldiers are gone,
are burnt in the fiery hell
while my heart, my brain feels like stone.

An enemy shell strikes another armoured car
like a exploding flaming star
and I can smell torched human flesh,
while I wish to be away very far,

to be away from killing
and this chilling
kind of machination of machines and men
who at each other are firing

but to survive we battle on right through the night,
are still trying to find some more enemies in the broad daylight,
find two abounded stationary pristine enemy battle tanks
from which the enemy had run in fright.

poem by Gert Strydom
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The Palm-Tree

Is it the palm, the cocoa-palm,
On the Indian Sea, by the isles of balm?
Or is it a ship in the breezeless calm?

A ship whose keel is of palm beneath,
Whose ribs of palm have a palm-bark sheath,
And a rudder of palm it steereth with.

Branches of palm are its spars and rails,
Fibres of palm are its woven sails,
And the rope is of palm that idly trails!

What does the good ship bear so well?
The cocoa-nut with its stony shell,
And the milky sap of its inner cell.

What are its jars, so smooth and fine,
But hollowed nuts, filled with oil and wine,
And the cabbage that ripens under the Line?

Who smokes his nargileh, cool and calm?
The master, whose cunning and skill could charm
Cargo and ship from the bounteous palm.

In the cabin he sits on a palm-mat soft,
From a beaker of palm his drink is quaffed,
And a palm-thatch shields from the sun aloft!

His dress is woven of palmy strands,
And he holds a palm-leaf scroll in his hands,
Traced with the Prophet's wise commands!

The turban folded about his head
Was daintily wrought of the palm-leaf braid,
And the fan that cools him of palm was made.

Of threads of palm was the carpet spun
Whereon he kneels when the day is done,
And the foreheads of Islam are bowed as one!

To him the palm is a gift divine,
Wherein all uses of man combine,--
House, and raiment, and food, and wine!

And, in the hour of his great release,
His need of the palm shall only cease
With the shroud wherein he lieth in peace.

'Allah il Allah!' he sings his psalm,
On the Indian Sea, by the isles of balm;
'Thanks to Allah who gives the palm!'

poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
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Light.

Light me a light any kind of light,
Just shine its beam into my darkest night,
For like a child I stay up in fright,
So light me a light any light tonight.

Candlelight, moonlight any light is just right,
For in that light I might find my might!
Don’t sing me a song, don’t hold me tight,
Just light me a light, any light tonight.

Light me a light to assist my sight,
Just my naked eye darkness cannot fight,
So before darkness gets a chance to bite,
Light me a light any kind of light.

Flickering, glaring or outright bright,
I don’t care what kind just light me a light,
All I need is darkness away tonight,
So light me a light any kind of light.

poem by Barak Al'Mondia
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Ay, ay, ay, the lilies of the garden

Ay, ay, ay, the lilies of the garden
With red threads binding them and stars about,
These shall be her symbols, for she is high and holy,
Holy in her maidenhood and very full of doubt.
Ay, ay, ay, for she is very girlish
Fearful her heart's lilies should be stained by sin.
Yet will I bind them with rosy threads of passion.
Surely human passion has a right to enter in.

poem by Lesbia Harford
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The Contest

Our palm designed to grow
In deserts, sent roots seeking far and wide
Channels where waters flow.
And in the city found
Intricate pipings where the waters flow
Imprisoned underground.
Since iron strength was nought
Against the clever groping fingers, meant
To find the thing they sought
Our palm's condemned to go;
While on through streets and houses at men's will
Rivers of crystal flow.
Be sad awhile. And then
Exult in visible beauty overthrown
By the fair will of men.

poem by Lesbia Harford
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Ars Poetica

Some from within, some from without,
without a doubt set to,
as soul-song spins tale which begins
to flow, grow, glow. Thereto
through weaving in and weeding out
touch base with Nature, cue
time, place, as twins defeat and wins
ignored are through and through.
No need to shout, run roundabout,
use artificial glue,
scribe’s violin tunes, underpins,
technique as heart rings true.
Sensations scout, don’t beat about
the bush, tout false virtue,
The poet’s string must second skin
become, ne’er dumb, askew.

Words work their way by night and day
from phases past, to light
through threads at play that more threads lay,
reeled phrases feed fresh flight.

(30 March 2005 revised 9 June 2007 and 1 February 2012)
robi03_1128_robi03_0000 XXX_IXX

see below for previous version entitled Poetics

Poetics

Some from within some from without
without a doubt flow true
as soul-song spins tale which begins
to grow, and then glows too
through weaving in and weeding out -
touch intuitions know
from phases past so phrases last
through threads which more threads sow...

(30 March 2005)

poem by Jonathan Robin
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Chicanery

He took her into his hands
Pressed close to his chest
Caressed her little head
With his firm fingers

She looked at him fondly
Shrunk further into his hands
And rubbed them with its beak
Must be her way of kissing

She thought, “I’m lucky
His looks are so kind
His touch so loving
His is so caring

Isn’t it so fascinating?
A friendship between
A chicken and a human;
The superior being

Still holding her tight
The man walked straight
Into his kitchen

poem by Sathya Narayana
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The Death of Virtuous

Sweet is the scene when Virtue dies!—
When sinks a righteous soul to rest,
How mildly beam the closing eyes,
How gently heaves the' expiring breast!
So fades a summer cloud away;
So sinks the gale when storms are o'er;
So gently shuts the eye of day;
So dies a wave along the shore.
Triumphant smiles the victor brow,
Fanned by some angel's purple wing;—
Where is, O Grave! thy victory now?
And where, insidious Death! thy sting?
Farewell, conflicting joys and fears,
Where light and shade alternate dwell;
How bright the' unchanging morn appears!
Farewell, inconstant world, Farewell!
Its duty done,—as sinks the clay,
Light from its load the spirit flies;
While heaven and earth combine to say,
“Sweet is the scene when Virtue dies!”

poem by Anna Laetitia Barbauld
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Ad Manus Puellae

I was always a lover of ladies' hands!
Or ever mine heart came here to tryst,
For the sake of your carved white hands' commands;
The tapering fingers, the dainty wrist;
The hands of a girl were what I kissed.

I remember an hand like a _fleur-de-lys_
When it slid from its silken sheath, her glove;
With its odours passing ambergris:
And that was the empty husk of a love.
Oh, how shall I kiss your hands enough?

They are pale with the pallor of ivories;
But they blush to the tips like a curled sea-shell:
What treasure, in kingly treasuries,
Of gold, and spice for the thurible,
Is sweet as her hands to hoard and tell?

I know not the way from your finger-tips,
Nor how I shall gain the higher lands,
The citadel of your sacred lips:
I am captive still of my pleasant bands,
The hands of a girl, and most your hands.

poem by Ernest Christopher Dowson
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Shadows She Said

there's no more place to go
the other bars are closed
the night the stranger came to town
how do you know
when you're right or wrong?
how do you know
if you hurt or if you don't?
so many people say so many things
but nobody agrees on anything
there's no more place to go
shadows she said
there's no more place to go
shadows she said
this night's an empty shell
shadows she said
and all the shadows followed after her
you burned the book of life
the cradle and the tomb
how could you ever dare
there's no more turning back
your stars lit up in flames
there's gunsmoke in the air
and yesterday you bought a brand-new car
but you don't feel like going very far
there's no more place to go...
there's no more place to go
shadows she said
there's no more place to go
shadows she said
this night's an empty shell
shadows she said
and all the shadows followed after her
here they come...
shadows she said...
and all the shadows followed after her...
shadows she said...

song performed by by Alphaville
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Poetics

Some from within some from without
without a doubt flow true
as soul-song spins tale which begins
to glow, then grows anew.
Through weaving in and weeding out -
touch intuitions cue -
from phases past fair phrases spin
through threads which more threads brew.

Thus in and out and round about
rhyme climbs as curlicue
expands ideas, wins interest in
both content, form, will woo
the readers who fresh insights scout
both options chosen, those fates glue,
into life's sins, its losses, wins,
would revelation view.

© Jonathan Robin – robi3_0778 written 30 March 2005 revised 20070619 and 20081112 for previous version see below

Poetics

Some from within some from without
without a doubt flow true
as soul-song spins tale which begins
to grow, and then glows too
through weaving in and weeding out -
touch intuitions know
from phases past so phrases last
through threads which more threads sow...

© Jonathan Robin – written 30 March 2005

poem by Jonathan Robin
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Housewife

Some women marry houses.
It's another kind of skin; it has a heart,
a mouth, a liver and bowel movements.
The walls are permanent and pink.
See how she sits on her knees all day,
faithfully washing herself down.
Men enter by force, drawn back like Jonah
into their fleshy mothers.
A woman is her mother.
That's the main thing.

poem by Anne Sexton
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Solar Family

Behold!
Oh round, mother-of-pearl,
There is your radiance upon my eyes
And the reflection of your untarnished waters

Forsooth!
There is a daughter
High up in the night like hidden gems
Until you shine the day and she smiles in pale pearl

And Look!
There is a sister and a cousin
Dashing madly 'round the father of them all
Laughing in the spaces between the sunset and dawn

And There!
Look upon their flanks
Scrambling like a parasite of sin
There is the future, will it grow up in the shadows or the light?

poem by Poet Dragon
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The Sons Owe A Lot

The trickling fountains of the land,
Douse thirst of parched throats,
The waterfalls sing the melodies,
The deep forests shelter
Stretching overhead the canopy of shadows
On the journey through the sweltering times.
The spheres provide with fresh airs to inhale,
And the plains lay a grassy carpet under our feet.

Now I am haunted by fears,
Numerous grimy stained hands are stretching,
And evil eyes are gazing at you my motherland;
Now you claim something precious,
More precious than the ordinary sacrifices,
And we being hapless have joined our hands
With aliens’ forgetting all your nourishments,
We received from the treasure of your chest,
Just like disloyal sons who turn their eyes away
From the aged mother.
I too am one of them, helpless feeble and weak,
Though no one heeds my cries yet I shall shout,
To remind them all that the land whereupon we are born,
Is the mother and the sons owe a lot
To defend her every inch,
Even with the last reserved dropp of blood.

poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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