The Amazement
The Amazement
The track I walked, in the thorny landscape, was full of loose
stones that kept coming up from ground trying to trip me up,
where the track narrowed amongst unkempt trees, boughs
tried to push me over, and in the undergrowth I heard snarls
of animals too vicious and hideous too appear in the flesh.
Overcast day and the wind that blew had ice on its breaths,
I shivered alone in the enmity of a landscape gone feral.
But I staggered on unwilling to give into phobias and fear,
suddenly stones went subversive and the path was soft as
a carpet, unseen animals disappeared and trees welcomed
me with fluttering leaves; even a love hungry zephyr
whispered sweet words. In a shimmering glade- smooth as
a rich man’s lawn- a plum tree, full of juicy fruit, I picked and
ate some; they tasted of magic and sweet marvel.
Dizzy with pleasure I sat on a stone, formed by ten million
years of rain, like a throne, saw sirens dance to Pan’s flute and
swim with sunrays and moon waves that hadn’t made it home
and had to wait for night, and mother moon to come pick them
up. Fell asleep when I woke up a boar, with her seven piglets,
drank water by the lake’s far shore. White clouds on blue, time
to go home and remember not speak of this to anyone.
poem by Oskar Hansen
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Related quotes
My Landscape
My Landscape
Today, now as the weather is cooling, I went on my walk.
Hadn’t been here since June; simply because it gets to
hot to walk here in summers. The stony part of the track
was firm like walking on a cobblestoned street. The soft
part was like walking barefoot on a newly mowed lawn.
At the part where thorny bushes had made archway,
a tunnel of mystery, I hesitated. Needn’t have worried
the branches embraced me like a mother who’s young
son is coming home from the sea. When I stopped for
a rest under the tree where also sheep rest in the heat,
leaves, in perfectly still air, fell as confetti welcoming
the returning hero. How I love this odd landscape, once it
was tilled but now humanity have gone leaving the land
to its own devise and strange beauty.
poem by Oskar Hansen
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Night-Scented Stock
White, white in the milky night
The moon danced over a tree.
"Wouldn't it be lovely to swim in the lake!"
Someone whispered to me.
"Oh, do-do-do!" cooed someone else,
And clasped her hands to her chin.
"I should so love to see the white bodies--
All the white bodies jump in!"
The big dark house hid secretly
Behind the magnolia and the spreading pear-tree;
But there was a sound of music--music rippled and ran
Like a lady laughing behind her fan,
Laughing and mocking and running away...
"Come into the garden--it's as light as day!"
"I can't dance to that Hungarian stuff,
The rhythm in it is not passionate enough,"
Said somebody. "I absolutely refuse...."
But he took off his socks and his shoes
And round he spun. "It's like Hungarian fruit dishes
Hard and bright--a mechanical blue!"
His white feet flicked in the grass like fishes...
Someone cried: "I want to dance, too!"
But one with a queer Russian ballet head
Curled up on a blue wooden bench instead.
And another, shadowy--shadowy and tall--
Walked in the shadow of the dark house wall,
Someone beside her. It shone in the gloom,
His round grey hat, like a wet mushroom.
"Don't you think perhaps..." piped someone's flute.
"How sweet the flowers smell!" I heard the other say.
Somebody picked a wet, wet pink,
Smelled it and threw it away.
"Is the moon a virgin or is she a harlot?"
Asked somebody. Nobody would tell.
The faces and the hands moved in a pattern
As the music rose and fell,
In a dancing, mysterious, moon-bright pattern
Like flowers nodding under the sea...
The music stopped and there was nothing left of them
But the moon dancing over the tree.
poem by Katherine Mansfield
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Moon Tonight
The turn my car took on Bandra flyover
Helped me see the part of sky with Moon.
And she looked round-faced – full Moon?
Chauffeur had steadied the car, I was not sure.
Mind went back a few years to my Delhi home
I had counted the full moons to my retirement:
Tried to go up on my terrace in Lodhi Garden
On every bright moon-lit night, alas, alone.
Now I wonder how many full moons before death?
But I don’t know how to time the interval between
Now and Death’s arrival for me: why not every one?
Perhaps there can be no better addition of riches to life.
From home, I put off TV, wore shoes, closed door,
And went down to walk under the Moon: she was
On the East at an angle: only if I walk East I see her.
Now I pass the lane between FDA and Artek Nagar.
I see the bits of broken Moon through the dark foliage
Of the trees, sometimes branches, some leaves in pairs
Asleep, while palm leaves swaying a lullaby gently,
Brushing on, without ever touching, the distant moon.
As I went on the main BKC road, I could see the full
Moon on this clear November sky in broad gaps
Where there were no cassia or queen’s tree, and
No star near, or even far, to distract my attention.
I enjoyed seeing the moon, rather self-consciously,
Keeping track of whether anyone passing by
Is watching me watch the Moon, to think “Is he
A poet or just lunatic, about to fall into a pot-hole? '
Before I turned homewards, I felt sad, very sad
To think that the full Moon is absolutely lost
In the lit streets with headlights and neon-lamps
That one has to search for the moon to see her.
poem by Daniel Trevelyn Joseph
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
On A Day Like This
On A day Like This
The track I followed this morning in a landscape that
once was Eden but, since the gardeners were fired
had gone to seed, was dry and exuded unrelieved ire.
Leaves on bushes were rusty shaving blades, tried to
cut me up and drink my blood; neglected olive trees
tried to trip me up with sudden exposed roots wanting
to absorb my body so they, full of revulsion, could live
for hundred more years. Dead rabbits in the glade they
had been stabbed by blades of grass sharp as a mafia
assassin’s stiletto; furred creatures shivered in their
burrows. Hurt I made it to the main road where a nurse
waited, sticking plaster, a soft bosom and the aroma of
motherhood, she was my friend and lover, but, alas,
only as virtual as friends in the facebook are.
poem by Oskar Hansen
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
About A Fruitful Summer (Cavatina Sequence)
The oak size avocado tree had fruit
during the spring
and into summer, like small pineapples,
with some dropping
to the earth, bursting like hand grenades,
I was picking
from a ladder set on the cobble stones,
dropping down to mother the greater ones.
The two dogs had their fill from those broken,
the roof was struck
while some were falling down like rocks at night,
by some great luck
they just missed the neighbour's nearby car,
more I did pluck
for the neighbours, friends and the family
and they all tasted butter-sweet to me.
At the plum tree the birds were twittering,
the long ladder
swayed under me on the moist soft ground,
I did gather
buckets and boxes full, was startled
by a adder
that was green and hissed in the large tree
and I dropped down to the ground to be free.
The vineyard was full of Catawba grapes,
with their sweet scent,
their essence, filling the summer air,
evanescent
was the summer, but mother was happy,
she did present
to the ladies at church some baskets full,
while I met a girl that is beautiful.
poem by Gert Strydom
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Landscapes
Landscapes
The landscape I walk, used to be guarded by stone hedges; infinite
supply of stones this soil yields if not much else. Nature has taken
back what man did, the landscape is lush of weed, and bent trees.
I’m sliding into silence, but if I listen I can hear Spanish bluebells
peal in a mild breeze that also carries a whisper of a Nordic lullaby,
Last year a Canadian couple walked with me, their ancestors came
from around here. We stopped outside a ruin and they went silent,
cried. An ancient memory stirred they knew this place. Where their
tears had fertilized the ground, is, this year, full of wild flowers.
No, they are not returning, Canadians now and proud of that too.
I sit on a stone, not by the river of Babylon, and see how the brook,
free from icy shackles elatedly run, will not heed words of caution.
I have made boats of bark, and sail of green leaves, see them hasten
towards the North Sea. The brook is no more, indifference has seen
to that, but the landscape of my childhood is clear as a stream.
poem by Oskar Hansen
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Sweet Home Alabama
Big wheels keep on turning
Carry me home to see my kin
Singing songs about the Southland
I miss Alabamy once again
And I think its a sin, yes
Well I heard mister Young sing about her
Well, I heard ole Neil put her down
Well, I hope Neil Young will remember
A Southern man don't need him around anyhow
Sweet home Alabama
Where the skies are so blue
Sweet Home Alabama
Lord, I'm coming home to you
In Birmingham they love the gov' nor
Now we all did what we could do
Now Watergate does not bother me
Does your conscience bother you?
Tell the truth
Sweet home Alabama
Where the skies are so blue
Sweet Home Alabama
Lord, I'm coming home to you
Here I come Alabama
Now Muscle Shoals has got the Swampers
And they've been known to pick a song or two
Lord they get me off so much
They pick me up when I'm feeling blue
Now how about you?
Sweet home Alabama
Where the skies are so blue
Sweet Home Alabama
Lord, I'm coming home to you
Sweet home Alabama
Oh sweet home baby
Where the skies are so blue
And the guv'nor's true
Sweet Home Alabama
Lord, I'm coming home to you
song performed by by Jewel
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
How Mild Fall Is
How mild the fall is?
I followed a track between tall, pale green cactuses, in this harsh landscape
where even the smallest plant has thorns, where bark and leaves, of even
regular trees, like carob and olive, are tough and will not softens to human
touch. Yet this is a landscape that once was tilled and now abandoned, does
this landscape’s common soul feels rancorous of being left to fend for itself?
I found a ruin. More than a ruin, a pile of stones only its outline told me that
once this had been a home where children had been born, lived and died
for generations, till someone said: enough! And left for pastures green, (most
likely USA or Canada,) poverty is only romantic in movies. Half of November
gone, I’m walking about in shirt sleeves the ground is rock hard and dusty,
the local paper tells us that 14 years ago the weather was mild too till January,
then it snowed and it was cold till May. Feel I’m being watched in the bushes
I see a boar watching me it is a wily old boar it sees I carry no gun, yet keeps
its distance; and high above me circles eagles; the landscape is teaming with
rabbits which used to be food for the people, who lived in the ruin (when
they could snare one) now business men, who have paid for a license to kill,
come here to unwind. To kill seems to satisfy a base desire in mankind; yet, it
is better a rabbit is scarified, then to see a dead Afghan child with eyes that
reflect the grey mountains, poppy fields and the blue unfeeling sky.
poem by Oskar Hansen
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Sweeet Home Alabama
Big wheels keep on turning
Carry me home to see my kin
Singing songs about the Southland
I miss Alabamy once again
And I think its a sin, yes
Well I heard mister Young sing about her
Well, I heard ole Neil put her down
Well, I hope Neil Young will remember
A Southern man don't need him around anyhow
Sweet home Alabama
Where the skies are so blue
Sweet Home Alabama
Lord, I'm coming home to you
In Birmingham they love the governor
Now we all did what we could do
Now Watergate does not bother me
Does your conscience bother you?
Tell the truth
Sweet home Alabama
Where the skies are so blue
Sweet Home Alabama
Lord, I'm coming home to you
Here I come Alabama
Now Muscle Shoals has got the Swampers
And they've been known to pick a song or two
Lord they get me off so much
They pick me up when I'm feeling blue
Now how about you?
Sweet home Alabama
Where the skies are so blue
Sweet Home Alabama
Lord, I'm coming home to you
Sweet home Alabama
Oh sweet home baby
Where the skies are so blue
And the governor's true
Sweet Home Alabama
Lordy Lord, I'm coming home to you
Yea, yea Montgomery's got the answer
song performed by by Lynyrd Skynyrd
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Sweet Home Alabama
(ed king - ronnie vanzant - gary rossington)
Big wheels keep on turning
Carry me home to see my kin
Singing songs about the southland
I miss alabamy once again
And I think its a sin, yes
Well I heard mister young sing about her
Well, I heard ole neil put her down
Well, I hope neil young will remember
A southern man dont need him around anyhow
Sweet home alabama
Where the skies are so blue
Sweet home alabama
Lord, Im coming home to you
In birmingham they love the governor
Now we all did what we could do
Now watergate does not bother me
Does your conscience bother you?
Tell the truth
Sweet home alabama
Where the skies are so blue
Sweet home alabama
Lord, Im coming home to you
Here I come alabama
Now muscle shoals has got the swampers
And theyve been known to pick a song or two
Lord they get me off so much
They pick me up when Im feeling blue
Now how about you?
Sweet home alabama
Where the skies are so blue
Sweet home alabama
Lord, Im coming home to you
Sweet home alabama
Oh sweet home baby
Where the skies are so blue
And the governors true
Sweet home alabama
Lordy
Lord, Im coming home to you
Yea, yea montgomerys got the answer
song performed by by Lynyrd Skynyrd
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Sweet Home Alabama
(ed king - ronnie vanzant - gary rossington)
Big wheels keep on turning
Carry me home to see my kin
Singing songs about the southland
I miss alabamy once again
And I think its a sin, yes
Well I heard mister young sing about her
Well, I heard ole neil put her down
Well, I hope neil young will remember
A southern man dont need him around anyhow
Sweet home alabama
Where the skies are so blue
Sweet home alabama
Lord, Im coming home to you
In birmingham they love the governor
Now we all did what we could do
Now watergate does not bother me
Does your conscience bother you?
Tell the truth
Sweet home alabama
Where the skies are so blue
Sweet home alabama
Lord, Im coming home to you
Here I come alabama
Now muscle shoals has got the swampers
And theyve been known to pick a song or two
Lord they get me off so much
They pick me up when Im feeling blue
Now how about you?
Sweet home alabama
Where the skies are so blue
Sweet home alabama
Lord, Im coming home to you
Sweet home alabama
Oh sweet home baby
Where the skies are so blue
And the governors true
Sweet home alabama
Lordy
Lord, Im coming home to you
Yea, yea montgomerys got the answer
song performed by by Lynyrd Skynyrd
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
The Coromandel Fishers
Rise, brothers, rise; the wakening skies pray to the morning light,
The wind lies asleep in the arms of the dawn like a child that has cried all night.
Come, let us gather our nets from the shore and set our catamarans free,
To capture the leaping wealth of the tide, for we are the kings of the sea!
No longer delay, let us hasten away in the track of the sea gull's call,
The sea is our mother, the cloud is our brother, the waves are our comrades all.
What though we toss at the fall of the sun where the hand of the sea-god drives?
He who holds the storm by the hair, will hide in his breast our lives.
Sweet is the shade of the cocoanut glade, and the scent of the mango grove,
And sweet are the sands at the full o' the moon with the sound of the voices we love;
But sweeter, O brothers, the kiss of the spray and the dance of the wild foam's glee;
Row, brothers, row to the edge of the verge, where the low sky mates with the sea.
poem by Sarojini Naidu
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Coromandel Fishers
Rise, brothers, rise; the wakening skies pray to the morning light,
The wind lies asleep in the arms of the dawn like a child that has cried all night.
Come, let us gather our nets from the shore and set our catamarans free,
To capture the leaping wealth of the tide, for we are the kings of the sea!
No longer delay, let us hasten away in the track of the sea gull's call,
The sea is our mother, the cloud is our brother, the waves are our comrades all.
What though we toss at the fall of the sun where the hand of the sea-god drives?
He who holds the storm by the hair, will hide in his breast our lives.
Sweet is the shade of the cocoanut glade, and the scent of the mango grove,
And sweet are the sands at the full o' the moon with the sound of the voices we love;
But sweeter, O brothers, the kiss of the spray and the dance of the wild foam's glee;
Row, brothers, row to the edge of the verge, where the low sky mates with the sea.
poem by Sarojini Naidu
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Song VII: Dawn Talks to Day
Dawn talks to Day
Over dew-gleaming flowers,
Night flies away
Till the resting of hours:
Fresh are thy feet
And with dreams thine eyes glistening,
Thy still lips are sweet
Though the world is a-listening.
O Love, set a word in my mouth for our meeting,
Cast thine arms round about me to stay my heart's beating!
O fresh day, O fair day, O long day made ours!
Morn shall meet noon
While the flower-stems yet move,
Though the wind dieth soon
And the clouds fade above.
Loved lips are thine
As I tremble and hearken;
Bright thine eyes shine,
Though the leaves thy brow darken.
O Love, kiss me into silence, lest no word avail me,
Stay my head with thy bosom lest breath and life fail me!
O sweet day, O rich day, made long for our love!
Late day shall greet eve,
And the full blossoms shake,
For the wind will not leave
The tall trees while they wake.
Eyes soft with bliss,
Come nigher and nigher!
Sweet mouth I kiss,
Tell me all thy desire!
Let us speak, love, together some words of our story,
That our lips as they part may remember the glory!
O soft day, O calm day, made clear for our sake!
Eve shall kiss night,
And the leaves stir like rain
As the wind stealeth light
O'er the grass of the plain.
Unseen are thine eyes
Mid the dreamy night's sleeping,
And on my mouth there lies
The dear rain of thy weeping.
Hold silence, love, speak not of the sweet day departed,
Cling close to me, love, lest I waken sad-hearted!
O kind day, O dear day, short day, come again!
poem by William Morris
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
To M.H.
Our walk was far among the ancient trees:
There was no road, nor any woodman's path;
But a thick umbrage--checking the wild growth
Of weed and sapling, along soft green turf
Beneath the branches--of itself had made
A track, that brought us to a slip of lawn,
And a small bed of water in the woods.
All round this pool both flocks and herds might drink
On its firm margin, even as from a well,
Or some stone-basin which the herdsman's hand
Had shaped for their refreshment; nor did sun,
Or wind from any quarter, ever come,
But as a blessing to this calm recess,
This glade of water and this one green field.
The spot was made by Nature for herself;
The travellers know it not, and 'twill remain
Unknown to them; but it is beautiful;
And if a man should plant his cottage near,
Should sleep beneath the shelter of its trees,
And blend its waters with his daily meal,
He would so love it, that in his death-hour
Its image would survive among his thoughts:
And therefore, my sweet MARY, this still Nook,
With all its beeches, we have named from You!
poem by William Wordsworth
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Path into the bushes
There’s a road like out of a dream
or a fairy tale
that twists into the bushes,
but it’s white and pure
with innocence where it snakes
into the undergrowth
and the sky is open
and blue white to the horizon.
I walk pass a great white tree
with orange brown leaves
that rises above me
and a long dried out tree
of which the branches
reach like fingers into the air.
I follow the path
to the long blue gum trees
that are covered
with dark green leaves
and the odour of the trees
and the wood
hangs heavy in the air
and there’s something concrete
that’s stronger than a dream
[Reference: Wooded landscape by Mandi. Look at the painting on my web page: http: //www.mabooki.com/poems/display/1413_Path_into_th e_bushes.htm]
poem by Gert Strydom
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Loon Point
Softly the water ripples
Against the canoe's curving side,
Softly the birch trees rustle
Flinging over us branches wide.
Softly the moon glints and glistens
As the water takes and leaves,
Like golden ears of corn
Which fall from loose-bound sheaves,
Or like the snow-white petals
Which drop from an overblown rose,
When Summer ripens to Autumn
And the freighted year must close.
From the shore come the scents of a garden,
And between a gap in the trees
A proud white statue glimmers
In cold, disdainful ease.
The child of a southern people,
The thought of an alien race,
What does she in this pale, northern garden,
How reconcile it with her grace?
But the moon in her wayward beauty
Is ever and always the same,
As lovely as when upon Latmos
She watched till Endymion came.
Through the water the moon writes her legends
In light, on the smooth, wet sand;
They endure for a moment, and vanish,
And no one may understand.
All round us the secret of Nature
Is telling itself to our sight,
We may guess at her meaning but never
Can know the full mystery of night.
But her power of enchantment is on us,
We bow to the spell which she weaves,
Made up of the murmur of waves
And the manifold whisper of leaves.
poem by Amy Lowell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Sugar-Plum Tree
Have you ever heard of the Sugar-Plum Tree?
'T is a marvel of great renown!
It blooms on the shore of the Lollipop sea
In the garden of Shut-Eye Town;
The fruit that it bears is so wondrously sweet
(As those who have tasted it say)
That good little children have only to eat
Of that fruit to be happy next day.
When you 've got to the tree, you would have a hard time
To capture the fruit which I sing;
The tree is so tall that no person could climb
To the boughs where the sugar-plums swing!
But up in that tree sits a chocolate cat,
And a gingerbread dog prowls below---
And this is the way you contrive to get at
Those sugar-plums tempting you so:
You say but the word to that gingerbread dog
And he barks with such terrible zest
That the chocolate cat is at once all agog,
As her swelling proportions attest.
And the chocolate cat goes cavorting around
From this leafy limb unto that,
And the sugar-plums tumble, of course, to the ground---
Hurrah for that chocolate cat!
There are marshmallows, gumdrops, and peppermint canes,
With stripings of scarlet or gold,
And you carry away of the treasure that rains
As much as your apron can hold!
So come, little child, cuddle closer to me
In your dainty white nightcap and gown,
And I 'll rock you away to that Sugar-Plum Tree
In the garden of Shut-Eye Town.
poem by Eugene Field
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Price Of Water
The little lake, not far from the houses, has been
dry for years and is full of thistles and rubbish.
By, what was its shore, the sad rest of a rowboat
I remember it was blue, and someone had nicked
its oars; for firewood I take it. I used to row in
this lake in the evening catching trout.
When the moon made the lake into shimmering
silver my heart got quite wobbly by the beauty.
Last week I crossed the lake on my scooter, it was
not easy I lost my balance and was badly stung,
gasped for air, felt as drowning in a dry lagoon.
In the future the new commodity will be water.
poem by Oskar Hansen
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Song of The Stream-Drops
By silent forest and field and mossy stone,
We come from the wooden hill, and we go to the sea.
We labour, and sing sweet songs, but we never moan,
For our mother, the sea, is calling us cheerily.
We have heard her calling us many and many a day
From the cool grey stones and the white sands far away.
The way is long, and winding and slow is the track,
The sharp rocks fret us, the eddies bring us delay,
But we sing sweet songs to our mother, and answer her back;
Gladly we answer our mother, sweetly repay.
Oh, we hear, we hear her singing wherever we roam,
Far, far away in the silence, calling us home.
Poor mortal, your ears are dull, and you cannot hear;
But we, we hear it, the breast of our mother abeat;
Low, far away, sweet and solemn and clear,
Under the hush of the night, under the noon-tide heat:
And we sing sweet songs to our mother, for so we shall please her best,
Songs of beauty and peace, freedom and infinite rest.
We sing, and sing, through the grass and the stones and the reeds,
And we never grow tired, though we journey ever and aye,
Dreaming, and dreaming, wherever the long way leads,
Of the far cool rocks and the rush of the wind and the spray.
Under the sun and the stars we murmur and dance and are free,
And we dream and dream of our mother, the width of the sheltering sea.
poem by Archibald Lampman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!