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When I Go Alone At Night

WHEN I go alone at night to my love-tryst, birds do not sing, the wind does not stir, the houses on both sides of the street stand silent.
It is my own anklets that grow loud at every step and I am ashamed.

When I sit on my balcony and listen for his footsteps, leaves do not rustle on the trees, and the water is still in the river like the sword on the knees of a sentry fallen asleep.
It is my own heart that beats wildly -- I do not know how to quiet it.

When my love comes and sits by my side, when my body trembles and my eyelids droop, the night darkens, the wind blows out the lamp, and the clouds draw veils over the stars.
It is the jewel at my own breast that shines and gives light. I do not know how to hide it.

poem by Rabindranath Tagore
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The Gardener IX: When I Go Alone at Night

When I go alone at night to my
love-tryst, birds do not sing, the wind
does not stir, the houses on both sides
of the street stand silent.
It is my own anklets that grow loud
at every step and I am ashamed.
When I sit on my balcony and listen
for his footsteps, leaves do not rustle
on the trees, and the water is still in
the river like the sword on the knees
of a sentry fallen asleep.
It is my own heart that beats wildly
--I do not know how to quiet it.
When my love comes and sits by
my side, when my body trembles and
my eyelids droop, the night darkens,
the wind blows out the lamp, and the
clouds draw veils over the stars.
It is the jewel at my own breast
that shines and gives light. I do not
know how to hide it.

poem by Rabindranath Tagore
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In A Cold Wind

In a cold wind
in a night wind,
under a yellow street-light,
its paleness and the dark night.

Leaves blown past,
down the wind, cast
onto the silent roadway,
or in heaps, on the footway.

The houses that rise
into grey skies,
windows with drawn curtains,
facing onto pale gardens.

Slow in the sky,
the clouds moving by;
on the ground, the shadows blurred,
the whistling wind heard.

And the wind that blows
comes not, nor goes.
In this night, its sound
wraps all around.

Not here alone,
its long low drone,
along endless fences and hedges,
insidiously edges.

Now is the hour,
now is the closing of the flower,
an end to approaching and retreating,
to losing and defeating,

in a cold wind,
in a night wind,
on a corner of a cold street,
where all directions meet.

poem by Rory Hudson
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As One Listens To The Rain

Listen to me as one listens to the rain,
not attentive, not distracted,
light footsteps, thin drizzle,
water that is air, air that is time,
the day is still leaving,
the night has yet to arrive,
figurations of mist
at the turn of the corner,
figurations of time
at the bend in this pause,
listen to me as one listens to the rain,
without listening, hear what I say
with eyes open inward, asleep
with all five senses awake,
it's raining, light footsteps, a murmur of syllables,
air and water, words with no weight:
what we are and are,
the days and years, this moment,
weightless time and heavy sorrow,
listen to me as one listens to the rain,
wet asphalt is shining,
steam rises and walks away,
night unfolds and looks at me,
you are you and your body of steam,
you and your face of night,
you and your hair, unhurried lightning,
you cross the street and enter my forehead,
footsteps of water across my eyes,
listen to me as one listens to the rain,
the asphalt's shining, you cross the street,
it is the mist, wandering in the night,
it is the night, asleep in your bed,
it is the surge of waves in your breath,
your fingers of water dampen my forehead,
your fingers of flame burn my eyes,
your fingers of air open eyelids of time,
a spring of visions and resurrections,
listen to me as one listens to the rain,
the years go by, the moments return,
do you hear the footsteps in the next room?
not here, not there: you hear them
in another time that is now,
listen to the footsteps of time,
inventor of places with no weight, nowhere,
listen to the rain running over the terrace,
the night is now more night in the grove,
lightning has nestled among the leaves,
a restless garden adrift-go in,
your shadow covers this page.

poem by Octavio Paz
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The Gardener X: Let Your Work Be, Bride

Let your work be, bride. Listen, the
guest has come.
Do you hear, he is gently shaking
the chain which fastens the door?
See that your anklets make no loud
noise, and that your step is not over-
hurried at meeting him.
Let your work be, bride, the guest
had come in the evening.
No, it is not the ghostly wind, bride,
do not be frightened.
It is the full moon on a night of
April; shadows are pale in the court-
yard; the sky overhead is bright.
Draw your veil over your face if
you must, carry the lamp to the door
if you fear.
No, it is not the ghostly wind, bride,
do not be frightened.
Have no word with him if you are
shy; stand aside by the door when you
meet him.
If he asks you questions, and if
you wish to, you can lower you eyes
in silence.
Do not let your bracelets jingle
when, lamp in hand, you lead him in.
Have no words with him if your are
shy.
Have you not finished you work yet,
bride? Listen, the guest has come.
Have you not lit the lamp in the
cowshed?
Have you not got ready the offering
basket for the evening service?
Have you not put the red lucky
mark at the parting of your hair, and
done your toilet for the night?
O bride, do you hear, the guest has
come?
Let your work be!

poem by Rabindranath Tagore
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Life In Her Creaking Shoes

Life in her creaking shoes
Goes, and more formal grows,
A round of calls and cues:
Love blows as the wind blows.
Blows! . . . in the quiet close
As in the roaring mart,
By ways no mortal knows
Love blows into the heart.

The stars some cadence use,
Forthright the river flows,
In order fall the dews,
Love blows as the wind blows:
Blows! . . . and what reckoning shows
The courses of his chart?
A spirit that comes and goes,
Love blows into the heart.

poem by William Ernest Henley
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On a hot summer afternoon

On a hot summer afternoon
I open the window and listen
To the flowing wind
Dry leaves on the tree rustle
The atmosphere filled with dust
The sun shines
Emitting tremendous heat
Making the wind hot and severe
Everybody on the street
Runs for shade
Throats dry
Thirst for water increases
Every soul
Search for a glass of cold water
Birds and animal rest in shades
Waiting for the sun to set
I close the window
In a huff
Never to open and feel the wind
On another hot summer afternoon

poem by Nirantar Dr.Rajendra Tela
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As Many Stars

AS many stars as are aglow
Deep in the hollows of the night
As many as the flowers that blow
Beneath the kindling light;

As many as the birds that fly
Unpiloted across the deep;
As many as the clouds on high,
And all the drops they weep;

As many as the leaves that fall
In autumn, on the withering lea,
When wind to thundering wind doth call,
And sea calls unto sea;

As many as the multitude
Of quiet graves, where mutely bide
The wicked people and the good,
Laid softly side by side;--

So many thoughts, so many tears,
Such hosts of prayers, are sent on high,
Seeking, through all Man's perished years,
A love that will not die.

poem by Mathilde Blind
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Still women love men

Wind in spring blows;
Petals wither.
Wind in summer blows;
Fruits fall down.
Wind in autumn blows;
Leaves are shed.
Wind in winter blows;
Barks get cracks.
Still trees love wind.
Still women love men.
27.10.2008

poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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A Pleasant Autumn Day

A pleasant Autumn day of wind and sunshine
And yellow leaves depart their trees and fall
To Mother Earth who silently receives them
And wattlebirds on flowering gum trees call.

On this quiet side street of inner suburbia
The leaves are dying on the deciduous tree
But were i a poet I'd put my pen to paper
And write of the great beauty that i see.

For Nature's beauty can be found in strangest places
Far from the countryside it can be seen
Deciduous trees are golden brown in Autumn
And gums and wattles rich and evergreen.

And many urban people too love Mother Nature
And of workings of Nature there is much to know
They love to hear the birds sing in their gardens
And take pride in plants and trees they helped to grow

I respect those who respect Mother Nature
The damage done to her they try to mend
For Nature brings her beauty to all Seasons
And to every Nature lover I'm a friend.

In quiet side street in inner suburbia
Deciduous leaves to Mother Earth drift down
And wattlebirds are calling on the gum trees
And Mother Nature too lives in the town.

poem by Francis Duggan
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I Will Listen

I will listen closely to your heart
From dawn to sunset I will hear
When the stars shine I will listen
At night I shall hear your dreams

Hear the sea with its mystery
Read the poetry of glory
Spring brings lovely song birds
Wind blows through joyful trees

We listen to nature, why not the heart?
Your sweet garden is filled with flowers
In the gentle morning I will hear you
Together we paint a portrait of passion

The moon shines in your desire
When your lonely clouds cover
I will hold you beyond words
Your smile is a gift of praise

I will listen to your gentle whispers
The touch of your smooth skin
The beauty of your summer eyes
Darling, I will listen with my last breath

poem by Joseph Narusiewicz
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The Mirror

Between the woods the afternoon
Its fallen in a golden swoon,
The sun looks down from quiet skies
To where a quiet water lies,
And silent trees stoop down to the trees.
And there I saw a white swan make
Another white swan in the lake;
And, breast to breast, both motionless,
They waited for the wind's caress. . .
And all the water was at ease.

poem by Alan Alexander Milne
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The Dawn Wind

The Fifteenth Century

At two o'clock in the morning, if you open your window and
listen,
You will hear the feet of the Wind that is going to call the sun.
And the trees in the shadow rustle, and the trees in the moonlight
glisten,
And though it is deep, dark night, you feel that the night is
done.

So do the cows in the field. They graze for an hour and lie down,
Dozing and chewing the cud; or a bird in the ivy wakes,
Chirrups one note and is still, and the restless Wind stares on,
Fidgeting far down the road, till, softly, the darkness breaks.

Back comes the Wind full strength with a blow like an angel's
wing,
Gentle but waking the world, as he shouts: "The Sun! The
Sun!"
And the light floods over the fields and the birds begin to sing,
And the Wind dies down in the grass. It is day and his work
is done.

So when the world is asleep, and there seems no hope of her
waking
Out of some long, bad dream that makes her mutter and moan,
Suddenly, all men arise to the noise of fetters breaking,
And every one smiles at his neighbor and tells him his soul is
his own!

poem by Rudyard Kipling
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Reeds

They grow so tall
like solemn reeds,
swaying in the morning sun,
and rustle when the wind blows,
only when the wind blows.

Like revelers with the saddest songs
the wind tells them to sing along,
but to and fro with tame resolve
they move, and grow, and life goes on,
softly in the morning sun.

When the wind has come and gone,
and silence is the evening song,
they'll be at rest, but shiver some,
gently in the falling sun.

poem by by unknown author
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The Gardener XXIX: Speak To Me My Love

Speak to me, my love! Tell me in
words what you sang.
The night is dark. The stars are
lost in clouds. The wind is sighing
through the leaves.
I will let loose my hair. My blue
cloak will cling round me like night. I
will clasp your head to my bosom; and
there in the sweet loneliness murmur
on your heart. I will shut my eyes
and listen. I will not look in your face.
When your words are ended, we will
sit still and silent. Only the trees will
whisper in the dark.
The night will pale. The day will
dawn. We shall look at each other's
eyes and go on our different paths.
Speak to me, my love! Tell me in
words what you sang.

poem by Rabindranath Tagore
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Until they lose everything

In the Springtime
The wind beats the trees
Until they lose
Their most beautiful flowers
In the Summertime
The wind beats the trees
Until they lose
Their most beloved fruits
In the Autumn time
The wind beats the trees
Until they lose
Their most painful leaves
In the Winter time
The wind beats the trees
Until they lose
Their hope.
And the wind beats again those trees
Until they lose
Their most important spring buds
Again and again
Until they lose their sap
Moreover
The wind beats the trees
Until they collapse down
To the ground.

poem by Marieta Maglas
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Walk In The Night 1

Walk in the night where you're
Not likely to be worried sick by
The pitter-patter innocent footsteps
Of the kidnapped child victims
Go into the belly of the night
And hear not the click-clank
That suddenly ends after the woman
In danger's screams have fallen silent
Enjoy the leisurely stroll under cover
Of the night and be not scarred of
The clomp of the heavy footsteps that
Follow you into the alleyways of the night
Walk into the night and do not allow
Yourself to be intimidated by
The clippety-clop sounds of the dead
Horses that you sight in the night
Step, step, step into the gentle night
Be less afraid under the ominous
Clouds of the night and you will hear
With a clear beat the plodding and
The shuffling and the tap tapping
Boots of the owners of the night as
They close in on you where you shiver
With fear where you hide

poem by Ngaka Motaung
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The Picket Guard

"ALL quiet along the Potomac to-night!"
Except here and there a stray picket
Is shot, as he walks on his beat, to and fro,
By a rifleman hid in the thicket.
'Tis nothing! a private or two now and then
Will not count in the news of a battle;
Not an officer lost, only one of the men
Moaning out, all alone, the death rattle.

All quiet along the Potomac to-night!
Where the soldiers lie peacefully dreaming;
And their tents in the rays of the clear autumn moon,
And the light of their camp-fires are gleaming.
A tremulous sigh, as a gentle night-wind
Through the forest leaves slowly is creeping;
While the stars up above, with their glittering eyes,
Keep guard o'er the army sleeping.
There's only the sound of the lone sentry's tread
As he tramps from the rock to the fountain,
And thinks of the two on the low trundel bed,
Far away, in the cot on the mountain.

His musket falls slack, his face, dark and grim,
Grows gentle with memories tender,
As he mutters a prayer for the children asleep,
And their mother—"may heaven defend her!"
The moon seems to shine forth as brightly as then—
That night, when the love, yet unspoken,
Leaped up to his lips, and when low-murmured vows
Were pledged to be ever unbroken.

Then drawing his sleeve roughly over his eyes,
He dashes off tears that are welling;
And gathers the gun closer up to his breast
As if to keep down his heart's swelling.
He passes the fountain, the blasted pine-tree,
And his footstep is lagging and weary;
Yet onward he goes, through the broad belt of light,
Towards the shades of the forest so dreary.

Hark! was it the night-wind that rustled the leaves?
Was it the moonlight so wondrously flashing?
It looked like a rifle: "Ha! Mary, good-by!"
And his life-blood is ebbing and plashing.
"All quiet along the Potomac to-night!"
No sound save the rush of the river;
While soft falls the dew on the face of the dead,
And the picket's off duty forever!

poem by Ethel Lynn Beers from All Quiet along the Potomac and other poems (1879)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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What Does It Show

What does it show
When a cold wind does blow
And a robin, sings you a song,
Are you in love
Or are you just a hug
Looking for a love for so long.
So what does it mean
After that you have seen
A robing singing a song,
Do you think of the past
And the love you thought would last
And think of the love that ran away,
So when you listen to the robin
And do you feel your heart throbbing
To a scene, you have received.
And while the cold wind just blows
And while the river still flows
Your feelings just grows and grow,
And if your sitting by the river
To a cold wind you begin to shiver
As you think of the things you've seen,
And the robin only sings
And in the mind her heart rings
To the feeling that you have been,
So sing her a song
And with you she’ll sing along
With you, and the world aloud.

Randy L. McClave

poem by Randy McClave
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Lamp Of Love

Light, oh where is the light?
Kindle it with the burning fire of desire!

There is the lamp but never a flicker of a flame--is such thy fate, my heart?
Ah, death were better by far for thee!

Misery knocks at thy door,
and her message is that thy lord is wakeful,
and he calls thee to the love-tryst through the darkness of night.

The sky is overcast with clouds and the rain is ceaseless.
I know not what this is that stirs in me--I know not its meaning.

A moment's flash of lightning drags down a deeper gloom on my sight,
and my heart gropes for the path to where the music of the night calls me.

Light, oh where is the light!
Kindle it with the burning fire of desire!
It thunders and the wind rushes screaming through the void.
The night is black as a black stone.
Let not the hours pass by in the dark.
Kindle the lamp of love with thy life.

poem by Rabindranath Tagore
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I Like The Image Of Clouds Keeping On Changing

i am simply amazed with the way the
clouds keep on changing themselves

and sadly, the winds do not really admit
their faults how they blow harder and how

they stop when the clouds are carried away
in ecstasy and red with sunset the clouds

are mad to the coming of the night its blackness
overpowering its quest for the good and the true

and the beautiful. The moon sits with the stars
in meditation, what goes wrong? why so silent?

that seems to be their theme in the motif of
stillness and the wind now with the wolves and

dogs howl throughout the night telling the
trees that they are ready for love and lust.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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