En.Citatepedia^®.ro

The Poet

'THE blackbird's in the briar,
The seagull's on the ground-
They are nests, and they're more than nests,' he said,
'They are tokens I have found.

There, where the rain-dashed briar
Marks an empty glade,
The blackbird's nest is seen,' he said,
'Clay-rimmed, uncunningly made.

By shore of the inland lake,
Where surgeless water shoves,
The seagulls have their nests,' he said,
'As low as catties' hooves.'

I heard a poet say it,
The sojourner of a night;
His head was up to the rafter,
Where he stood in candles' light.

'Your houses are like the seagulls'
Nests they are scattered and low;
Like the blackbirds' nests in briars,' he said,
'Uncunningly made even so.

But close to the ground are reared
The wings that have widest sway,
And the birds that sing best in the wood,' he said,
'Were reared with breasts to the clay.

You've wildness I've turned it to song;
You've strength I've turned it to wings;
The welkin's for your conquest then,
The wood to your music rings.'

I heard a poet say it,
The sojourner of a night;
His head was up to the rafter,
Where he stood in candles' light.

poem by Padraic Colum
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The big nest was in Afghanistan, thats not quite cleared, then there are nests in the Philippines, there are nests in Indonesia, the Malaysians are clearing up their nests.

quote by Lee Kuan Yew
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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As There Aren`t Safe Nests...

A migrating bird chirps into my ears,
'Can you make a nest for me that will be safe for ever? '
I don`t know what he means by a safe nest
For my nest has been on the verge of a collapse.
He flies away dreaming about a safe nest.
That leaves me with a question, ' Where to fix a safe nest? '
Safe nests should never be on the branches of trees
For trees themselves are tormented by storms and quakes.
Safe nests shouldn`t be on the roofs of man`s homes either
For his mischevious kids may throw away the eggs.
Safe nests should not be under the water or in the skies
For the fury and the terror of these elements are disastrous.
Safe nests shouldn`t be anywhere that eyes see or ears hear
For there are humans living on this earth.
You migrate my dear bird to anywhere you feel it safe
And never return to these unsafe homes.

poem by M.d Dinesh Nair
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The Wood By The Sea

I DWELL in the wood that is dark and kind
But afar off tolls the main,
Afar, far off I hear the wind,
And the roving of the rain.

The shade is dark as a palmer's hood,
The air with balm is bland:
But I wish the trees that breathe in the wood
Were ashes in God's hand.

The pines are weary of holding nests,
Are aweary of casting shade;
Wearily smoulder the resin crests
In the pungent gloom of the glade.

Weary are all the birds of sleep,
The nests are weary of wings,
The whole wood yearns to the swaying deep,
The mother of restful things.

The wood is very old and still,
So still when the dead cones fall,
Near in the vale or away on the hill,
You can hear them one and all.

And their falling wearies me;
If mine were the will of God,–oh, then
The wood should tramp to the sounding sea,
Like a marching army of men!

But I dwell in the wood that is dark and kind,
Afar off tolls the main;
Afar, far off I hear the wind
And the roving of the rain.

poem by Duncan Campbell Scott
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Birds' Nests

he summer nests uncovered by autumn wind,
Some torn, others dislodged, all dark,
Everyone sees them: low or high in tree,
Or hedge, or single bush, they hang like a mark.

Since there's no need of eyes to see them with
I cannot help a little shame
That I missed most, even at eye's level, till
The leaves blew off and made the seeing no game.

'Tis a light pang. I like to see the nests
Still in their places, now first known,
At home and by far roads. Boys knew them not,
Whatever jays and squirrels may have done.

And most I like the winter nests deep-hid
That leaves and berries fell into:
Once a dormouse dined there on hazel-nuts,
And grass and goose-grass seeds found soil and grew.

poem by Edward Thomas
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The Nicest Season For One To Die

The nicest Season for one to die must surely be the Spring
When the Parklands wear their Wildflowers and song birds pipe and sing
And young birds are chirping in their nests and the sparrows all the day
Are busy under the house eaves weaving their nests of hay.

If I'm not burned to ashes then why not bury me
In that old graveyard on the hill preferably by a tree
Where in Spring birds will build their nest and sing their songs above where I lay
Though what happens to your remains when you are dead doesn't matter some do say.

We all belong to Mother Nature and to her we must return sometime
The reaper takes the young and old and those in their life's
prime
And since I too must die I hope 'twill be when flowers are in full bloom
In the prime of Spring when the air scent sweetly of Nature's own perfume.

Bury me in the Graveyard on the hill where peace is to be found
Beside a tree where birds nest and sing content in their home ground
A quiet place free of man made noise when Spring is in the air
In Nature's bosom I will rest beyond any living care.

poem by Francis Duggan
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Man nest

Whether plant or animal, everywhere,
In female nests males consummate
And in female nests the progeny develops.
Where from we, men, learn man nest?
22.10.2003

poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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God Doesnt Like Her Name!

god doesnt like her name...
capital letters nonwithstanding!
and the holy scriptures
we've hung around her neck,
nothing but broken shoelaces!

wars fought in her name,
used condoms cast to the side.
tainted morality in her image,
burns like old photos on the fire.
she's not buying it!

bird nests made of straw,
human nests made of concepts.
love itself doesnt wear clothes,
cant be spoken...
it must be lived!

poem by Eric Cockrell
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The Harvest Moon

It is the Harvest Moon! On gilded vanes
And roofs of villages, on woodland crests
And their aerial neighborhoods of nests
Deserted, on the curtained window-panes
Of rooms where children sleep, on country lanes
And harvest-fields, its mystic splendor rests!
Gone are the birds that were our summer guests,
With the last sheaves return the laboring wains!
All things are symbols: the external shows
Of Nature have their image in the mind,
As flowers and fruits and falling of the leaves;
The song-birds leave us at the summer's close,
Only the empty nests are left behind,
And pipings of the quail among the sheaves.

poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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Where Are the Birds of Wenzhou, Bei Bei

‘The skies are empty and grey at dawn,
They’re empty and brown at noon,
Where are the birds of Wenzhou, Bei Bei
Deep in the afternoon?
Even at dusk when the air is still
Or the cool breath heaves from the sea,
I wait for the beat of wings then, Bei Bei
Rushing to comfort me.’

‘The birds were once when the paddy fields
Ran down by the river tides,
When the sky was blue and the air was clean
And the trees reached up to the stars.
The birds were here when the skies were clear
No buildings blocked the view...’
‘But where are the birds of Wenzhou, Bei Bei
Why have they gone from you? ’

‘They left when the smog came rolling in
And the insects died on the ground,
When the grass turned white and the acid rain
Caused all the trees to drown.
They left when the river turned yellow mud
And the fields died under the road,
When men built towers of thirty floors,
They left the town in droves.’

The skies are empty and grey at dawn,
They’re empty and brown at noon.
‘The birds of Wenzhou took their nests
And travelled to old Hangzhou.
They went to live by a wondrous lake
That tales will tell, is blue...’
‘Where are the birds of Wenzhou, Bei Bei...
Have they forsaken you? ’

8 November 2005

poem by David Lewis Paget
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Sonnet: God is Kinder to Man

A wild tree grows amongst the broken stones
And rocky land: I wonder how at all?
Its greenish fruits make nests for ants and drones;
With natural glue, they weave it like a wall.

With time, they bend and twist the flattened fruits;
A cozy nest gets made that lasts for long;
And when it dries, switch on to newer shoots;
They guard their larvae with a marching song.

Though God grows trees for ants/bees to make nests,
Yet, man fears God may not him well provide;
But human beings are God’s heavenly guests;
And God is our Master, Friend and our Guide.

What love exits the heart that made us all!
And longs to take us back ev’r since our fall.

poem by John Celes
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All birds must be by now back in their nests

All birds must be by now back in their nests
Sharing with their offsprings
The experiences of the day

And feeding them
With the fruits, nuts and worms
Selectively gathered
With love and care
So that they grow
And soon become strong and skilled enough
To fly on their own wings

They would have started teaching
Their young ones
How to mend the nests
Which twig would go where
Which spongy feather would go where
So that all can have a comfortable sleep

Telling the stories of the past
How the eggs those hatched them
Were protected from invaders

And how they were waiting for these young wonders
Come out breaking the shell
That housed them and helped them shape

Also cautioning them against
Dangerous hungry invaders
With the scheme to devour them

And not to venture into the wind
Before they are trained adequately
In spreading the wings
And in perching on branches
Without the fear of fall

Mom, you did not get us the fruits of this tree
A query from a young one
And mom said, wait two more weeks let the tree flower
And blossom with its orange flowers
Fruits appear within a month

Mom is living is just struggling
No, the dear one
Living is a challenge
Successful living is facing them with joy
Regardless of your overcoming
Or succumbing to the challenge

A clear demonstration of care and love
All birds must be by now in their nests

I am waiting at the local rail station
For the next train towards home

poem by Bashyam Narayanan
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When I was a child

When I was a child
I saw fireflies,
fly passing secretly at night.

The world was full of wonderful things
and there were trees
with bird nests and eggs
of white and pink and blue
and with spots on them.

I could shoot a true shot with my kettie
and the blue fishing rod
took carp, blue kurper, yellowfish
and catfish from streams.

Doves or fish fillets
from glowing wood embers,
tasted delicious
and the world was a great place.

At the marsh plovers jumped up and down
and like wounded birds, as if with a broken wing
tried to entice you away from their nests

Aloe and protea bushes were all over the kopjes
and prickly pear, wild peach, mispil and stamvrugte
were everywhere on the ridges.

The world of a child faded away with time.
But when I went back as a adult;
a highway runs right through the hillocks
and there are houses where there was marsh
and the streams are full of rubbish and litter
and I see how progress has destroyed nature.

poem by Gert Strydom
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A Bullet Bird

You’ve got no more wings
For you’re a bird promised
In a sky that never promised nests
You learn the flight in vain
From the puncture point
Clay like on markets you sing like a pigeon
In vain
You – stuffed- promise
Big feathers to the small ones
In vain
A 3 demodelled world
Fires back
A stray bullet

poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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Because We Have Never Told Them

there is a straight path
and you want to walk straight to it
you cannot, there is this desire to
go inside a circle and hide
behind those curves,
there is this wish to find a resting place
a glass cage
a one-way mirror where you see all of them
and then
no one sees you
sometimes i look for some reasons why
this behavior is sought

there is this straight path that nobody wants to take
it is too tight in there
and everyone sees you
and their gaze hurt a lot
and you do not deserve to suffer upon their causes

no wonder birds travel on clouds
and build their nests
how men made walls
how women hide their faces on hats and
winter coats

there is this secret that we keep
that we bring even to our death
it is this secret that makes us what we are

others miss us
because we have never told them
the trees wish to look inside the nests
where birds have already flown away

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Chirping Birds

the morning here
is always the sound of chirping birds
because the trees
have been their homes at night
when the sun rises
the birds fly away again
and when the sun fades
they come back
to their nests
and home

the night hums the song of silence
bird's eyes closing again
to the golden sheen
of the bright moon

the white owl flaps its wings
on a nocturnal adventure
in harmony with the bats
friends of the night

some shadows lurk in the night
in the pursuit of happiness
some souls are restless
on dreams unfulfilled

some wake up dwindling at dawn
opening the fridge for a glass of cold water
switches on the computer
and begin again
anew to another poem

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Blackbird's Song

The blackbird's song it takes me far away
To northern Land and to a distant day
His kin birds sang all day until sundown
In leafy groves just out of Millstreet Town.

A blackbird piping on a blackwood tree
Awake the nostalgic memories in me
Again I walk the lush green fields in Spring
And hear the wild birds on the hedgerows sing.

Bluebells bloom by the hedge by the bohreen
And cock pheasant often heard though seldom seen
In the knee high rushes clap his wings and crow
By their calls and songs the birds you get to know.

The distance from the home fields may be long
But whenever the migrant hear the blackbird's song
He or she will see the lushness brought by rain
And walk through fields where wild flowers bloom again.

To it the blackbird's song has a nostalgic ring
It takes the migrant to a distant Spring
And though far distant the Homeland near 'twould seem
And the dipper's song is echoing in the stream.

I thought this thing nostalgia I'd outgrown
But the blackbird's song it carries me back home
And I walk the high fields where I walked before
Up to the hill through the wood at Claramore

poem by Francis Duggan
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What We've Clinged To.... (Only Straw)

this body, made of straw,
now empty, blown by the wind.
leaving only the faint scent of eggs,
the echoed imprint of wings.
no more, and no less,
than the branch, than the tree,
than the memory of sunlight,
and the haunt of rain.
freedom sheds its bark,
god is buried beneath leaves...
perhaps only snow can transform.
only voices linger,
nay it be not names!
while squirrels devour the nuts
of a thousand passions!
nests be not wings, nor beak or talon...
what we've clinged to is only straw!

poem by Eric Cockrell
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The Bless Of My Own Silence....

in this place
the first thing that i hear every morning
is the song of the birds
on top of trees
as they prepare to leave
after a night's sleep

as i open my window
and light is still young like some eyes blinking
i wonder
what are these birds up to
they do not build their nests here
they just come
spend a night and then leave and are back again
on the same hour of the same night

i try to ask more questions
that i myself have to answer
but then
something comes up within
the reasons do not really matter
it is their songs
the harmony with the wind
the joy of the trees
the bliss
of my own silence....

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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THE BLISS OF MY OWN SILENCE (revised)

in this place
the first thing that i hear every morning
is the song of the birds
on top of trees
as they prepare to leave
after a night's sleep

as i open my window
and light is still young like some eyes blinking

i wonder
what are these birds up to?

they do not build their nests here
they just come
spend a night and then leave and are back again
on the same hour of the another night

i try to ask more questions
that i myself have to answer

but then
something comes up within
the reasons do not really matter

it is their songs
the harmony with the wind
the joy of the trees
the bliss
of my own silence....

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Not Everyone Looks Forward To Spring

Although it is a time of bloom and blossom
When wild birds build their nests and breed and sing
It also is a time of heavy pollen
And not everybody looks forward to the Spring.

The garden in full bloom is looking lovely
And blossoms on the bushes and the trees
But pollen by the warm breeze is carried
And you hear some people sniffle, cough and sneeze.

The beauty of Spring on the artist's canvas
And Spring inspire the lyric poet to rhyme
But all of those who have an allergy to pollen
Will tell you that Spring is not their favourite time.

Not every one yearns for the warm weather
Or for the scents of blossom, rose and flower
You cannot enjoy the beauty of a sunlit garden
If you cough and sneeze one hundred times an hour.

It is a time of greenery and beauty
When wild birds build their nests and breed and sing
And Mother Nature she is at her loveliest
But not everyone looks forward to the Spring.

poem by Francis Duggan
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