The Gardener LV: It Was Mid-Day
It was mid-day when you went
away .
The sun was strong in the sky.
I had done my work and sat alone
on my balcony when you went away.
Fitful gusts came winnowing
through the smells of may distant
fields.
The doves cooed tireless in the shade,
and a bee strayed in my room hum-
ming the news of many distant fields.
The village slept in the noonday
heat. The road lay deserted.
In sudden fits the rustling of the
leaves rose and died.
I gazed at the sky and wove in the
blue the letters of a name I had known,
while the village slept in the noonday
heat.
I had forgotten to braid my hair.
The languid breeze played with it upon
my cheek.
The river ran unruffled under the
shady bank.
The lazy white clouds did not move.
I had forgotten to braid my hair.
It was mid-day when you went
away.
The dust of the road was hot and
the fields panting.
The doves cooed among the dense
leaves.
I was alone in my balcony when you
went away.
poem by Rabindranath Tagore
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Related quotes
Flame-Heart
So much have I forgotten in ten years,
So much in ten brief years! I have forgot
What time the purple apples come to juice,
And what month brings the shy forget-me-not.
I have forgot the special, startling season
Of the pimento's flowering and fruiting;
What time of year the ground doves brown the fields
And fill the noonday with their curious fluting.
I have forgotten much, but still remember
The poinsettia's red, blood-red in warm December.
I still recall the honey-fever grass,
But cannot recollect the high days when
We rooted them out of the ping-wing path
To stop the mad bees in the rabbit pen.
I often try to think in what sweet month
The languid painted ladies used to dapple
The yellow by-road mazing from the main,
Sweet with the golden threads of the rose-apple.
I have forgotten--strange--but quite remember
The poinsettia's red, blood-red in warm December.
What weeks, what months, what time of the mild year
We cheated school to have our fling at tops?
What days our wine-thrilled bodies pulsed with joy
Feasting upon blackberries in the copse?
Oh some I know! I have embalmed the days,
Even the sacred moments when we played,
All innocent of passion, uncorrupt,
At noon and evening in the flame-heart's shade.
We were so happy, happy, I remember,
Beneath the poinsettia's red in warm December.
poem by Claude McKay
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Turtles And Rabbits
for my sweet memories i like them to be turtles
i like them move so slow
as i recall them, i like them to linger
like soft fingers caressing the
cotton fields of my mind
for the bitter ones, i like them to be rabbits
i like them to jump away from me
i do not like them to pester me like a flea
i want them to be doves i like them to fly away
i do not want them to have a home
i like them to be rivers to flow into the sea
i like them all gone
to the bottom
i like them
rot in the ground, i like them dead
and then forgotten
i think, i am feeling better now
with turtles swiming in a pond
with green leaves on my bed
with rose petals on my head
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Land of the Exile
Mother, the light has grown grey in the sky; I do not know what
the time is.
There is no fun in my play, so I have come to you. It is
Saturday, our holiday.
Leave off your work, mother; sit here by the window and tell
me where the desert of Tepantar in the fairy tale is.
The shadow of the rains has covered the day from end to end.
The fierce lightning is scratching the sky with its nails.
When the clouds rumble and it thunders, I love to be afraid
in my heart and cling to you.
When the heavy rain patters for hours on the bamboo leaves,
and our windows shake and rattle at the gusts of wind, I like to
sit alone in the room, mother, with you, and hear you talk about
the desert of Tepantar in the fairy tale.
Where is it, mother, on the shore of what sea, at the foot of
what hills, in the kingdom of what king?
There are no hedges there to mark the fields, no footpath
across it by which the villagers reach their village in the
evening, or the woman who gathers dry sticks in the forest can
bring her load to the market. With patches of yellow grass in the
sand and only one tree where the pair of wise old birds have their
nest, lies the desert of Tepantar.
I can imagine how, on just such a cloudy day, the young son
of the king is riding alone on a grey horse through the desert, in
search of the princess who lies imprisoned in the giant's palace
across that unknown water.
When the haze of the rain comes down in the distant sky, and
lightning starts up like a sudden fit of pain, does he remember his
unhappy mother, abandoned by the king, sweeping the cow-stall and
wiping her eyes, while he rides through the desert of Tepantar in
the fairy tale?
See, mother, it is almost dark before the day is over, and
thee are no travellers yonder on the village road.
The shepherd boy has gone home early from the pasture, and men
have left their fields to sit on mats under the eaves of their
huts, watching the scowling clouds.
Mother, I have left all my books on the shelf-do not ask me
to do my lessons now.
When I grow up and am bid like my father, I shall learn all
that must be learnt.
But just for today, tell me, mother, where the desert of
Tepantar in the fairy tale is.
poem by Rabindranath Tagore
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A far greater chill
It was my forty sixth year to heaven
and autumn was in the trees
and a slight breeze frizzled my hair
touching me with the first icy fingers
but the sky was clear and blue
and some wild doves cooed in the trees
and I would have been happier with summer,
but the flowers were still blooming
from shower after shower of rain
and I was alone again
with the winter
of our relationship setting in
which was a far greater chill.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Field Of Joy
let's wander slowly through the fields
slowly slowly through the fields
i touch the leaves that touch the sky
just you and i through fields of joy
all trouble slowly fades away
slowly slowly fades away
i hold your hand inside my hand
across the land through fields of joy
the sound of music that we hear
the blend of colors throug the air
all cities, mountains disappear from view
all truth and beauty near to me and you
with you through the fields
with you through the fields
with you through the fields
the fields of joy
let's wander slowly through the fields
slowly slowly through the fields
i know our love will never die
just you and i
through fields of joy
through fields of joy
song performed by by Lenny Kravitz
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The River of Desire
On the banks of the River of Desire
The abodes of our Gods are empty
The Gods deserted our village long ago
Leaving behind all the sanctums
Their broken walls yielded fine bricks
For the masonry of our village homes.
The River meandered around our village
Threatening to swallow our temples
Our children have hunger in their eyes
We have no oil to light God’s lamps
The River now threatens to swallow
Our parched paddy fields and our homes.
poem by Jagannath rao Adukuri
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No Letters From Home!
A stranger lies ill, in a distant city,
With no - - letters from home!
The glances that meet him, in lieu of pity,
Are querring, "Why does he roam?"
"Oh, heed my request," says he, "else 'twere better
I slept in this gold-dusted loam;
Dismiss the physician, and bring a letter--
A flock of kind letters from home."
"Oh, heed my request," says he, "else 'twer better I
I slept in this gold-dusted loam;
Dismiss the physician, and bring a letter--
A flock of kind letters from home."
Like messenger doves, from across the mountains,
Cream tinted and golden and white?
Like the clouds that have sipp'd at the Eastern fountains
For thirsty land to take flight;
So come the dear missives--but ah! the stranger
Receives none to lighten his gloom;
In this time of sickness, this hour of danger,
Not ever one letter from home!
He moans in his slumber "Why did I ever
So far - - westwardly roam;
Oh, must I lie down must I sleep forever
With no loving letters from home?
My bones you may bury where winds are lifting
Pacific's broad billows in foam;
Or there on Lone Mountain, where sands are drifting,
But first, bring a letter from home."
"From the 'Golden' up to the portals pearly,"
He murmurs, "Oh can it be far?
On the sunset domain, in the morn how early
Will glimmer the Orient Star?
What light is the melting my shade like fetters?
What birds are those circling the dome?
Those messenger doves are my long sought letters
My flock of kind letters from home."
"They heed my request," says he, "best of debtors,
Their favors are whitening the dome!
Sweet messenger doves are my long sought letters,
My flock of kind letters from home."
poem by Henry Clay Work
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The Journey
The morning sea of silence broke into ripples of bird songs;
and the flowers were all merry by the roadside;
and the wealth of gold was scattered through the rift of the clouds
while we busily went on our way and paid no heed.
We sang no glad songs nor played;
we went not to the village for barter;
we spoke not a word nor smiled;
we lingered not on the way.
We quickened our pace more and more as the time sped by.
The sun rose to the mid sky and doves cooed in the shade.
Withered leaves danced and whirled in the hot air of noon.
The shepherd boy drowsed and dreamed in the shadow of the banyan tree,
and I laid myself down by the water
and stretched my tired limbs on the grass.
My companions laughed at me in scorn;
they held their heads high and hurried on;
they never looked back nor rested;
they vanished in the distant blue haze.
They crossed many meadows and hills,
and passed through strange, far-away countries.
All honor to you, heroic host of the interminable path!
Mockery and reproach pricked me to rise,
but found no response in me.
I gave myself up for lost
in the depth of a glad humiliation
---in the shadow of a dim delight.
The repose of the sun-embroidered green gloom
slowly spread over my heart.
I forgot for what I had traveled,
and I surrendered my mind without struggle
to the maze of shadows and songs.
At last, when I woke from my slumber and opened my eyes,
I saw thee standing by me, flooding my sleep with thy smile.
How I had feared that the path was long and wearisome,
and the struggle to reach thee was hard!
poem by Rabindranath Tagore
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The Arrival Of The Sparrows
at first glance they look like stones raining
on the fields
my surprise is immense
i am stunned
when i get near
ah, these are the small brown sparrows
from faraway
landing on the
rice-fields of the fields of hay
the village sings again!
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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There’s An Inaccessibility
There’s an inaccessibility
in the steel-blue sky,
a chilly winter cold that comes without modesty
and I see doves turning in their gambolling flight
in a swarm gathering around me
and they seem hungry
when I spread crumbs of bread from a paper-bag
but in this winter all heat is missing
while the wind is pulling on tree branches,
making a dust cloud of leaves and sand,
blowing things higher than the roofs of the houses,
causing the blue to disappear.
Still I can stare in wonder,
where doves gather dog tame around me.
poem by Gert Strydom
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We Are Doves
'Try the other one! '
I did and I can't fit!
'Well...
'Pick another one! '
You pick it..
Why are we bothering with this?
'They want us pigeoned holed.
And it seems they have forgotten who we are! '
Then why are we here?
Wasting all this time to see if things can work out?
We are Doves!
Let 'them' run after 'nuts'.
They will never recognize
We do not chase after popcorn!
We are Doves...
And pigeoned holed,
We can not be!
Wasn't that understood?
Before they claimed us as property?
We are Doves!
Have you too forgotten?
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Remembered Laughter of the Frail Daughter There Beside the Fields Sweet Grasses - Impressionist Autumnal Portraits In Miniature
.
[Notes jotted while gazing at Impressionists paintings at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York City, Autumn]
*
Among ginkgoes
cloven leaves fall
whose burnished
berries yellow late
melon sweetness
of Autumn days
Among boxwoods
evergreen for no good phlox
blooded leaves settle upon
golden flax of weeds
seed the chilling ground
receiving soundless
lips of grain enduring ice
and ice again
Amidst the sortilege
coo of pigeons in the
distant spired village.
low of legion cattle turning
toward evening millet
mow of fringing grain chafing
toward winter silos
Blue waters at a distance
blue the tails of otters
blue the eyelids of sleeping beasts
nested beneath the earth
Distant crows sound the
morning field beyond pasture
Dew murmurs names upon
passing grasses
Echoing wood gold where,
below, the stream's gash furthers along
slowly murdering dimensions
of width and depth
Remembered gait of young ponies
toward the spring's sweet water
Remembered laughter of the frail daughter there
beside the fields sweet grasses
The daughter, as the water, passes into silence
Remembered laughter beside the old well of the woods
*
Spittle on the chin
stubble upon the cheek
she met her love beside the creek
Turned in her sleep
the calling heat gathered
the steep bank in the wood
then fell
as water will
forgetting the blood's
first stain on the long discarded sheet
A woman now she fled toward love
and fed there
but famished still
died there
stuck in 'King James',
entangled in lyrical tongues,
Revelation's virgin.
poem by Warren Falcon
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Across The Fields
Across the sky, the clouds move,
Across the fields, the wind,
Across the fields the lost child
Of my mother wanders.
Across the street, leaves blow,
Across the trees, birds cry --
Across the mountains, far away,
My home must be.
poem by Hermann Hesse
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Krishna Questions His Hair Braid Not Growing
Mother, when will my hair-braid grow?
milk you said will make it grow,
but still it remains so short.
Mother when will my hair-braid grow
you said like Bal it would be strong,
his braid has grown fat and long,
combing , braiding, bathing, drying,
to the ground like a serpent writhing.
for me you say milk is better.
never delicious bread and butter,
Sur, long live the two brothers,
the twosome of hari and haldhar.
poem by Sant Surdas
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There Is So Much to Say
There is so much to say
With complicated reasons
And the varieties of way
In new and yearly seasons
We have but a little while
To say our thoughts and mind
To walk the distant mile
Before those hours are behind
Blessed are the interrelations
Of every village and tree
There is so much graduation
In there thoroughly to see
Where brook is flowing freely
Breezing whispering leaves
Water streams colors steely
The greenery fields and sleeve.
poem by Peter S. Quinn
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To a Lady Seen From the Train
O why do you walk through the fields in gloves,
Missing so much and so much?
O fat white woman whom nobody loves,
Why do you walk through the fields in gloves,
When the grass is soft as the breast of doves
And shivering sweet to the touch?
O why do you walk through the fields in gloves,
Missing so much and so much?
poem by Frances Darwin Cornford
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Fields Of Gold
Youll remember me when the west wind moves
Upon the fields of barley
Youll forget the sun in his jealous sky
As we walk in the fields of gold
So she took her love
For to gaze awhile
Upon the fields of barley
In his arms she fell as her hair came down
Among the fields of gold
Will you stay with me, will you be my love
Among the fields of barley
Well forget the sun in his jealous sky
As we lie in the fields of gold
See the west wind move like a lover so
Upon the fields of barley
Feel her body rise when you kiss her mouth
Among the fields of gold
I never made promises lightly
And there have been some that Ive broken
But I swear in the days still left
Well walk in the fields of gold
Well walk in the fields of gold
Many years have passed since those summer days
Among the fields of barley
See the children run as the sun goes down
Among the fields of gold
Youll remember me when the west wind moves
Upon the fields of barley
You can tell the sun in his jealous sky
When we walked in the fields of gold
When we walked in the fields of gold
When we walked in the fields of gold
song performed by by Sting
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Little Black Boy
My mother bore me in the southern wild,
And I am black, but O! my soul is white
White as an angel is the English child:
But I am black as if bereav'd of light.
My mother taught me underneath a tree
And sitting down before the heat of day
She took me on her lap and kissed me,
And pointing to the east began to say:
Look on the rising sun: there God does live
And gives his light, and gives his heat away
And flowers and trees and beasts and men receive
Comfort in morning joy in the noonday.
And we are put on earth a little space
That we may learn to bear the beams of love.
And these black bodies and this sunburnt face
Is but a cloud, and like a shady grove,
For when our souls have learn'd the heat to bear
The cloud will vanish we shall hear his voice,
Saying: come out from the grove my love & care
And round my golden tent like lambs rejoice.
Thus did my mother say and kissed me.
And thus I say to little English boy.
When I from black and he from white cloud free,
And round the tent of God like lambs we joy:
I'll shade him from the heat till he can bear
To lean in joy upon our fathers knee.
And then I’ll stand and stroke his silver hair,
And be like him and he will then love me.
poem by William Blake from Songs of Innocence (1789)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Medway Song
(Air: Carnaval de Venise)
LET Housman sing of Severn shore,
Of Thames let Arnold sing,
But we will sing no river more
Save this where crowbars ring.
Let others sing of Henley,
Of fashion and renown,
But we will sing the thirteen locks
That lead to Tonbridge town!
Then sing the Kentish river,
The Kentish fields and flowers,
We waste no dreams on other streams
Who call the Medway ours.
When on the level golden meads
The evening sunshine lies,
The little voles among the reeds
Look out with wondering eyes.
The patient anglers linger
The placid stream beside,
Where still with towering tarry prow
The stately barges glide.
Then sing the Kentish river,
The Kentish fields and flowers,
We waste no dreams on other streams
Who call the Medway ours.
On Medway banks the May droops white,
The wild rose blossoms fair,
O'er meadow-sweet and loosestrife bright,
For water nymphs to wear.
And mid the blowing rushes
Pan pipes a joyous song,
And woodland things peep from the shade
As soft we glide along.
Then sing the Kentish river,
The Kentish fields and flowers,
We waste no dreams on other streams
Who call the Medway ours.
You see no freight on Medway boats
Of fashions fine and rare,
But happy men in shabby coats,
And girls with wind-kissed hair.
The world's a pain forgotten,
And very far away,
The stream that flows, the boat that goes--
These are our world to-day.
Then sing the Kentish river,
The Kentish fields and flowers,
We waste no dreams on other streams
Who call the Medway ours.
poem by Edith Nesbit
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Venus's Looking-Glass
I marked where lovely Venus and her court
With song and dance and merry laugh went by;
Weightless, their wingless feet seemed made to fly,
Bound from the ground and in mid air to sport.
Left far behind I heard the dolphins snort,
Tracking their goddess with a wistful eye,
Around whose head white doves rose, wheeling high
Or low, and cooed after their tender sort.
All this I saw in Spring. Through Summer heat
I saw the lovely Queen of Love no more.
But when flushed Autumn through the woodlands went
I spied sweet Venus walk amid the wheat:
Whom seeing, every harvester gave o'er
His toil, and laughed and hoped and was content.
poem by Christina Georgina Rossetti
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