The Resplendent Quetzal-Bird
OTHERS have divers paints and enamels,
Lavish and bright on breast and wing feathers:
You, Guatemalan, have sunken all colours
Into glory of greenness!
There may be palms as greenly resplendent,
Palms by the Fountain of Youth in Anahuac
Such greens there may be on sea-sunken bronzes
The Gates of Callao!
There may be words in rituals spoken
To Quetzalcoatl who makes verdure through rain-flow
Words like the gash made by knives of obsidian
To tell of such greenness!
poem by Padraic Colum
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Related quotes
Just One Of Those Days Really...
yes, there were eternally bleeding palms
Pio, do you remember the name?
astigmatic, and there were those many names
many images, so many mirages and
desert suns, oasis, camels, Bedouins,
scimitars of the past conversations
the origami of storks and ponds
there was this chines frog who made it to the seven rivers
that koi that turned into a dragon guarding the eunuch of the empire
so many words said and you think
those were wastes, they never had any meaning at all
except that gullibility of the gulls
but who knows, you maybe wrong ultimately for dismissing
some facades of poems
people are poets and they cannot tell you the meanings of surfaces
submarines go deeper and will not announce its resurfacing
corals there, colored fish, pearls, sunken treasures of the past
who knows, there may be real stories there
hands that bury metaphors
euphemisms that actually carry truth between the legs
of their syllables
you should have known better and when you believe all these at once
i tell you, you were never wrong.
it is just one of those days, when words are more real.
i never regret having said them, drawn the lines, and fortified my forts.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Waves
How is it I never see
The waves that bring me her words to me
for though unseen they drift around
they catch my breath and knock me down
I feel them quickly swirling by
As they withdraw with my reply
And slip into the dark of night
As I attemt to stay upright
Instead I'm stranded on my knees
As words depart upon the breeze
That quickly drifts away from here
And possibly won't reach her ear
If we could see the many waves
that flow through clouds and sunken caves
She'd sense at least the words that sought her
on the winds of the underwater
song performed by by Phish
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Netherlands (fragment)
Water and windmills, greenness, Islets green;--
Willows whose Trunks beside the shadows stood
Of their own higher half, and willowy swamp:--
Farmhouses that at anchor seem'd--in the inland sky
The fog-transfixing Spires--
Water, wide water, greenness and green banks,
And water seen--
poem by Samuel Taylor Coleridge
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Into My Skin
tossing petals
downwind
attracts wing hunters
thought of crums
from morning leftover
i keep to myself
words spoken
that you and me heard
rousing giggles beneath those palms
within unblinking eyes
of a raven
i loosen my laces
letting my shoes fall
feeling sharp stubs of grass
sending painful
stings to my brain
like those new manicured
fingernails
of yours
digging into my skin
poem by Manonton Dalan
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We Are The Realities...
we do not deny the greenness of
grass the blueness of the clouds
the airiness of space the silence of
the world
we conceive them we think
we reflect we are the mirrors
and through us they must speak
through us they must live
that greenness, blueness, that air,
that space
when we are gone what do they have?
ah, they are nothing
they turn into nothing
we bear them in the basket of our thoughts
when the basket is broken
they too are broken
for who can tell that the flower has bloomed
except our mouths
when this mouth turns to ask
no Phoenix shall from ashes
rise...
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Writing The Book I Never Wrote(for Linda)
Pocket notebook
full of poems
written with a green
fountain pen
(in purple ink)
with a calligraphic flourish
left out in
the storm.
The words
run wild
go native
revert to being
just lines
rivulets of words
tributaries of words
all flow and whirl
into purple pools
purple passages
becoming watery
hieroglyphs
a secret language
made only of water and wind.
And now
the hot sun
of noon
bakes the words
cakes the pages
'til they turn and curl
leaving the book
in the position
where words
have thrown off their clothes
and become
as naked as paintings
the unmistakable brushstrokes
of rain and sun
translated into
their own native tongue.
poem by Dónall Dempsey
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Words Cause Pain
Rain drops are falling on my head
rain rain rain
it's just hiding the tears on my face
rain rain rain
why can't it hide the pain?
rain rain rain
for God sake go away and come back another day
every dropp that falls on my body hurts
what hurts more are does words that people say
sometime i just wish they just take it all away
words hurts! its causes pain! !
but people don't care
they don't care about the pain that you're feeling
having you feeling down on yourself, makes you said and cry
what they don't know is those words could make someone wants to die
next thing you know, have some one commiting suicide
this all could happen over words that people say
makes you build up this pain that you cant control
that pain that will never make you whole
it will tear you apart
rip your heart apart
those are words that'll bring tears
words that cause fears
rain rain rain
please stop!
let the sun come out
so that the world could see my pain.
poem by Esther JeanLoiis
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The Penintent
'NEVER,' he said, 'nevermore,
In the murmuring stillness of night
Shall I wait for her hand on my door,
Confident, light;
Still is the night as before,
And the stars unforgettably bright.
'Once from the deep woodland calms
At midnight a wild wind broke,
Shaking the cedars and palms
And the silver-gray oak;
And she, who had slept in my arms,
Suddenly woke.
'Pity me then, for it blew
Last night again from the woodlands so deep,
Where mosses and moisture and dew
Verdure eternal keep;
From the brooks and the glades that we knew,
It woke me from sleep.
'How can she know and refrain?
How being mine can she leave me like this?
Go, when this only is plain,
Life is no more than our kiss
Life is so lavish of pain,
So niggard of bliss!'
poem by Alice Duer Miller
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My Color Of Holi
Let me cup my palms
to gather the petals
of your laughter
that my palms flow ever
with your laughter…
Let me fill my heart
with ripples of
your laughter
that the heart gathers
the floating petals
to smear colors on my cheeks
Absorbing the perfume of
your laughter
Let me offer my
perfumed being
back to you
just for once …
poem by Tribhuvan Mendiratta
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Will Silences Not Speak?
WILL SILENCES NOT SPEAK..?
&
will silences not speak? -
if they have spoken..
why then these queries,
'why is he not speaking? '-
when even his own voice
has become alien to himself
seriously doubts he his own utterances-
have we not seen the dust
settling slowly, steadily and uniformly
on glittering surfaces-
likewise silly thoughts on his heart-
in the prolonged hours of wintry nights
are we not familiar with dew pearls
sitting prettily holding hands snugly
on the palms of the leaves?
likewise are not my dumb words?
but when and which sun would translate
my voiceless words into audible realities?
-s.chandra kalaadhar
poem by Sundaram Chandrakalaadhar
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A Turn-Off
i remember
the two of us
under the thick
palms
we are alone
and you touch me
begging
you want me to
show you
my naked body
under the palms
beside the
river
i declined.
i left
i shudder about
that fact.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Believe in Angels
Believe in Angels
even if their wings are black
believe in the Devil
even if over his horns
you see a burning halo
Believe in Love that’s blind
and equally blind Hatred
Believe in words sneered by time
believe in Fear
Believe with your eyes and longing palms
pictures filled with colours and magical
Silence
Believe in touch, in music and in voice,
And in Quietness
Believe in thousands of everyday matters
One day just believe
In me
poem by Tomasz Jakubiak
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A real poem
What is real poem?
Is it flow of words or natural theme?
Does it echo sound of water?
Does it have capacity to alter?
To reduce the agony and pain?
To give honest call to rain
Words to flow in the direction of sea
Mix with the splendid music of tree
No words of differing
No more suffering
Helping hand with some offering
Music to their help in altering
The complete scene in harmony
Bees to sit at once place with more honey
Peace and calm with flow of words
Is it not the message of lords?
poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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Where Dispose Of The Joke Of Bones - Minimalist Cryptics Sometimes Metaphysical, circa 1981
.
For two:
Agnes Martin, American artist,
minimalist painter extraordinaire
Elaine Bellezza, artist, too,
and traveler,
and early Anima-as-Fate,
and 'eye giver'
'Is that dance slowing in the mind of man
that made him think the universe could hum? ' - Theodore Roethke
1
off the square
in the darkest cell
where darkness is at its deepest -
some sense of home
those forms bursting forth
2
seal us in
ascetic fire -
and the cave become a dissonance
the lament on your face of saffron reddening
3
but the grids never are
little girls jumping rope
challenge circle words,
the self of rings
like a brown back
the empty form goes
extends outward
yet these words do not contain you
4
you have an 'element'
the word is ugly too
dearer than a son
cut cut cut out
the heart that lies
walking seems to cover time
the summit is rounded
outline of a foot on a rock
5
you speak in circles
though loving squares
when I cover squares clad in ashes
are all questions then mother of pearl
6
the pilaster speaks
loudly of days
dearer than wealth
the silence on the floor
7
discover the last image
how skim the ocean of brine
you wear on your face
that gray weight
die for more
this is life
8
the plain can do almost
nothing but weep
to turn my eyes away
destroys its power
the untamed fire
9
between the rain
whose throat is blue
like a wild fern is clear
I am sad when I see you
10
your letters arrive fat
swollen with human form
they fly out from my palms
look around you
11
mind now
mistaken
dying flowers
not traceable
instead -
believe the sky is not so wide
it reaches forward
(let us pass)
it is a far cry
is pervasive
get rid of everything
only see in me a part
12
tell me now
glass-handled knives
I'm not clear where we started
13
the pagoda and the spire
poke the eye
I once understood you as
articulate who couldn't stand
now knowledge is less and less to
me
and a clear mind -
the rose
are squared
white edge
of the world
ugly
sitting in
snow
14
where dispose of the joke of bones
one must feel the forms
bursting in the tranquil shade
the reality of virtual form
sitting in said snow
the beat of a wing we grieve
certain words repeating -
the world 'ugly'
and just is the 'plain'
what becomes of skin
what becomes of a lotus petal
it tears apart
15
believe the streets are blistering
Nature is the wheel
settle for less
some sense of home
those forms bursting forth
between the rain
whose throat is blue
like a wild fern is clear
they fly out from my palms
look around you
poem by Warren Falcon
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Musa
O MY lost beauty!--hast thou folded quite
Thy wings of morning light
Beyond those iron gates
Where Life crowds hurrying to the haggard Fates,
And Age upon his mound of ashes waits
To chill our fiery dreams,
Hot from the heart of youth plunged in his icy streams?
Leave me not fading in these weeds of care,
Whose flowers are silvered hair!
Have I not loved thee long,
Though my young lips have often done thee wrong,
And vexed thy heaven-tuned ear with careless song?
Ah, wilt thou yet return,
Bearing thy rose-hued torch, and bid thine altar burn?
Come to me!--I will flood thy silent shrine
With my soul's sacred wine,
And heap thy marble floors
As the wild spice-trees waste their fragrant stores,
In leafy islands walled with madrepores
And lapped in Orient seas,
When all their feathery palms toss, plume-like, in the breeze.
Come to me!--thou shalt feed on honeyed words,
Sweeter than song of birds;--
No wailing bulbul's throat,
No melting dulcimer's melodious note
When o'er the midnight wave its murmurs float,
Thy ravished sense might soothe
With flow so liquid-soft, with strain so velvet-smooth.
Thou shalt be decked with jewels, like a queen,
Sought in those bowers of green
Where loop the clustered vines
And the close-clinging dulcamara twines,--
Pure pearls of Maydew where the moonlight shines,
And Summer's fruited gems,
And coral pendants shorn from Autumn's berried stems.
Sit by me drifting on the sleepy waves,--
Or stretched by grass-grown graves,
Whose gray, high-shouldered stones,
Carved with old names Life's time-worn roll disowns,
Lean, lichen-spotted, o'er the crumbled bones
Still slumbering where they lay
While the sad Pilgrim watched to scare the wolf away.
Spread o'er my couch thy visionary wing!
Still let me dream and sing,--
Dream of that winding shore
Where scarlet cardinals bloom-for me no more,--
The stream with heaven beneath its liquid floor,
And clustering nenuphars
Sprinkling its mirrored blue like golden-chaliced stars!
Come while their balms the linden-blossoms shed!--
Come while the rose is red,--
While blue-eyed Summer smiles
On the green ripples round yon sunken piles
Washed by the moon-wave warm from Indian isles,
And on the sultry air
The chestnuts spread their palms like holy men in prayer!
Oh for thy burning lips to fire my brain
With thrills of wild, sweet pain!--
On life's autumnal blast,
Like shrivelled leaves, youth's passion-flowers are cast,--
Once loving thee, we love thee to the last!--
Behold thy new-decked shrine,
And hear once more the voice that breathed 'Forever thine!'
poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes
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Words... (Tiny Bodies)
words have tiny bodies,
some young, some aged beyond thought.
words carry swords and plant tears,
words form tiny lamps in darkness.
words express the unexpressable,
ride bicycles on children's journeys.
words taunt silence with definition....
and some of the best are never spoken.
words heal wounds, and fill bowls,
weave webs while we sleep.
words often turn and betray us,
and often die for our sins.
words create universes,
and shed their clothes on well lit stages.
words translate both the wolf and the whale,
and bear the flag of mountains.
words bear children, but leave no tracks.
words hammer rusty nails.
words never ever wear shoes,
and dance with every other step.
words stroke the breast and touch the lips,
without apology or fear.
words give stars their destiny,
and name every grain of sand!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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On the Isle of Sky
On the Isle of Sky
dry fog lying on my palms
holding my ankles
dry fog in my mouth
as I reach for your back
to caress it with clouds of silk
I've woven from the wetness of my skin
from words deemed unspeakable
deft truth and mimicry of angels
that have risen from dark sod of the murk wasteland
where we were scattered once
it had taken our voices
the clearness of your eyes
it had been an illness
it deceived
then we were deceased
and now we've awaken
to be each other
linked by the dry fog on your palms
holding your ankles
dry fog in your mouth
our kiss - as wet as the unbreakable sea
held safe by watery cliffs
on the Isle of Sky
(the bed has been made
moss-green, endless as sea
held by eternal moths
we're captured by weather
it won't let us go)
Amsterdam - Riga, beginning of June,2012
(C) Arturs Lusis
poem by Arturs Lusis
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Words
Words could never say it
words could never say it
I know now you're gone
and I can't go on
Where could you be tonight
I'm sayin' my sorry
baby I'm sorry
'Cause without your love in my life I'll die
I was wrong
I was so worng
And I'm so scared
what can I do now
when I close my eyes
all I see is you
Now words could never say it
words could never say it
if theres a reason why
say it's a lie
Words could never say it
how I feel now
now that you're gone
now that you're gone
Now that you're gone
we made it now
we made it love
we made such fools
of ourselves
we made it up now
you made it up oh yeah
you know you made it hard
we made it fast
I always thought
it would last
we took a bow
we did it all oh yeah
Words could never say
could never say
could only play
someone could say
would only playing with ourselves
Words could never say
how I feel now
some how
I've got find a way
cause when I dream at night alls I see is you
you're wantin' me
and me havin' you
Now words could never say it
words could never say it
everytime I try
I get lost inside
song performed by by Cheap Trick
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Obsession (revised)
to believe that there are heights to my own glory
is no longer possible.
On that day in that room, where they wear
all their thick glasses, their hands have already done
what should not have been done.
I was weak, and my mouth did not open.
They kill every poem i had in my palms.
They were doves.
They said they were bats.
Black bats.
No, i said they are the whitest doves i have.
They are even angels.
They were laughing.
Some giggled.
And they
said, 'Crucify him, crucify him! '
IT was an obsession.
That i have butterflies on my hair.
That there were
red roses in my fingers.
There were none, in fact.
What i had are mere words.
Syllables of my survival.
When i left that room, i did not admit that it was my mistake.
Far from that,
i look again at my hands in the mirror,
and i saw
vines, fragile tendrils, and they are so alive, like
dragonflies.
One understands somehow, that we write, not because we want
to have a brand, a name, a tattoo
a heart, a rose, an arrow, blood dripping
NO. That is not so. We write because we are here and our fingers
are always incomplete.
We press our palms on our chest and we say
Look i love myself, and this all i got.
Let me write and let it all be about me.Not for those thick glasses
Inside that room.Their rules are not mine.
I have mine only to give.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Senecot.
When it dosen't flow,
When the Dam's backed up,
When the mind reels from constapation,
You find yourself wondering
Is this it?
Is this the time when the talent,
if any,
stops?
You'll never spill words upon the page again,
You'll never bleed out this raging torrent
of simile's, metaphor's and hard owrn
cliche's from the veins
and into exsistance.
Left forever to choke
like a hanging man
upon all these bitter emotions,
these moments of apathy,
these day's of euphoria
left to force the air
from your lungs
with no foreseeable outlet.
Your breathing becomes short, laboured,
the sweat from your forehead
start's dripping from your palms.
What if you've
nothing left too say?
What if you never did?
What if this sudden paralyasis
last's forever
leaving you blindly groping
for a justifaction
for your exsistance.
Dear God
what if you're
just normal.
Then the letters on the page
form into words,
the words fall into lines
and before you know it
you're back at the beginning.
The poems written
and the World is set to right's.
When it doesn't flow,
When the Dam's backed up,
When the mind reels from constapation,
A fearful ego
is the greatest
laxative of
all.