Exposed on the cliffs of the heart
Exposed on the cliffs of the heart. Look, how tiny down there,
look: the last village of words and, higher,
(but how tiny) still one last
farmhouse of feeling. Can you see it?
Exposed on the cliffs of the heart. Stoneground
under your hands. Even here, though,
something can bloom; on a silent cliff-edge
an unknowing plant blooms, singing, into the air.
But the one who knows? Ah, he began to know
and is quiet now, exposed on the cliffs of the heart.
While, with their full awareness,
many sure-footed mountain animals pass
or linger. And the great sheltered birds flies, slowly
circling, around the peak's pure denial. - But
without a shelter, here on the cliffs of the heart...
poem by Rainer Maria Rilke
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The Cliffs
They sing of the grandeur of cliffs inland,
But the cliffs of the ocean are truly grand;
And I long to wander and dream and doubt
Where the cliffs by the ocean run out and out.
To the northward far as the eye can reach
Are sandhill, boulder, and sandy beach;
But southward rises the track for me,
Where the cliffs by the ocean run out to sea.
Friends may be gone in the morning fair,
But the cliffs by the ocean are always there;
Lovers may leave when the wind is chill,
But the cliffs by the ocean are steadfast still.
They watch the sea and they ward the land,
And they warn the ships from the treacherous sand;
And I sadly think in the twilight hour
What I might have been had I known my power.
Where the smoke-cloud blurs and the white sails fill,
They point the ships to keep seaward still;
And I think—Ah, me!—and I think—Ah, me!
Of the wreck I’d saved had I kept to sea.
Oh! the cliffs are old and the cliffs are sad,
And they know me sane, while men deem me mad.
Oh! the cliffs are firm and the cliffs are strong,
And they know me right, while men deem me wrong.
And I sometimes think in the dawning gray,
I am old as they, I am old as they;
And I think, I think that in field and town
My spirit shall live till the cliffs come down.
poem by Henry Lawson
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Impassive Resistance.
I've seen the power of the sea
When it's attacking savagely.
The basalt cliffs which bar its path.
Which are contemptuous of its wrath.
The basalt cliffs resist the sea.
Though it attacks them ceaselessly
As long as these proud cliffs still stand.
The sea cannot invade the land.
The cliffs are rooted solidly.
A bulwark and a boundary.
The angry waves are powerless
against the might of this fortress
Which has endured for centuries
And still they stand triumphantly.
Saturday,23 June 2012
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Yin And Yang
the tall cliffs
and the rough stones
and boulders
by the sea
the males
the waves bashing
and dashing
with tongues licking
the bodies of stone
and rising cliffs
towards the skies
the females
yin and yang
in nature.
the feet that the sea licks
the waves as tongues
and the tall cliffs as
symbols
the phallus and the tongue
the rocks and the waves
male and female
and then the outbursts of morning light
spilling
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Impenetrable
The bleak black basalt cliffs which form.
A barrier to Atlantic storms
Which sweep in from the open sea.
Are not a place I'd choose to be
When winter storms are at their height
and batter them without respite.
The basalt rocks are obdurate
They stubbornly accept their fate
Although the storms may rage and roar
The cliffs have seen it all before.
Wind driven waves have small effect.
On basalt cliffs which still protect.
Old Ireland from the angry sea.
they do their duty faithfully.
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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A WayFarer
The cliffs are the edges of paper--
That time has torn away...
Eroded rock-solid paper...
Jagged reminders of yesterday;
Once a diary of stone-hearted entries--
Surfaced as hardened clay...
But worn away from the Springtime downpours...
And collapsed in Wayfarers Bay;
Pages and pages of dogeared cliffs...
Hanging with no support in mid air...
Rock solid words of our ending---
Oh, the stories the sailors do bear;
Longings from eternities upon the ocean...
Needs that we all have been known to share...
Are written upon the cliffs of yesterday---
Eroded in rock solid despair;
The Essence
July,2010
poem by Theodora Onken
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Climbing Is Absurd
May the Earth move sideways and relax,
The ground will hit your eyes and sight is restored.
The manager of faces climbs the mountain
And the cliffs are like it.
He relaxes forever when he jumps
Hitting the ground to let the earth quake like him.
The cliffs are a soundness, what are they?
They are sound, healthy pinnacles of performance
But to risk life is absurd,
It is abhorrent and you will die from that height.
poem by Naveed Akram
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The River of Me
I launched myself on the river me
Way back when I was two or three
I sailed out through the wall of snow
Beneath the bridge where all kids go
That Cheyenne Bodie was ten feet tall
His voice so deep it filled a hall
And that was who I dreamed I’d be
Until Cochise came on the scene
There was ice on the river and ice on the pond
And the singing nun sang on and on
There were trees on the river bank, cliffs by the sea
And fish galore in the river of me
The fields were full of cows, corn or wheat
The air was thick with bees and heat
The summer lasted all year long
I never knew til it was gone
And then of course came that high school girl
Her glances made my river swirl
More complex than the universe
I never knew what she’d do next
There was light on the river and light on the pond
And the singing nun sang on and on
There were trees on the river bank, cliffs by the sea
And fish galore in the river of me
And up we soared towards the sky
Through songs and dancing by and by
My waterfalls and waves ran high
For just the winking of an eye
And in the distance the quiet sea
was waiting on the river me
And on the banks the weeds grew tall
Where rusting leaves began to fall
Now there’s night on the river and night on the pond
And the singing nun is long since gone
There are trees on the river bank, cliffs by the sea
And memories in the river of me
I launched myself on the river me
Way back when I was two or three
I sailed out through the wall of snow
Beneath the bridge where all kids go
Beautiful Medusa
at that moment
i was silenced,
because
it was too beautiful
and it was my first time
being in touch
and being touched
by beauty.....
the rest
fell silent
as though everyone
in that very moment
turned into
stone and
cliffs and rocks
and sands
it was the transformation
into manhood
an evolution into an awareness
that when beauty
hits us
straight in the heart
we cannot
at the core
talk anymore...
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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There There Child
There there child, there there child
Dont it make you feel alright
There there child, dont it all look good tonight
And you feel like going but you gotta stay
Aint no time for to hop on a freight train
And you feel like laying in the morning hay
cause its time for a nap now, before rain
There there child, dont it make you satisfied
There there child, you can rest your weary eyes
And you feel like walking on a mountain top
Or a ride on a boat up the river
And the last lonely sheep has returned to the flock
As you wing over the white cliffs of dover
There there child, theres a glint in your eye for surprise
There there child, are you ready to don your disguise, yes you are
Sun goes down across the pond and the wind, wind is blowing wild
And the swallow soars and the lion roars
Outside your front door, by the oak tree in the meadow
There there child, there there child
Are you ready to don your disguise
There there child, theres a glint in your eye for surprise
Do you feel like walking on a mountain top
Or ride on a boat up the river
And the last lonely sheep has returned to the flock
As you wing over the white cliffs of dover
As you wing over the white cliffs of dover, straight ahead
As you wing over the white cliffs of dover, straight ahead
You wing over the white cliffs of dover
song performed by by Van Morrison
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Clover Over Dover
I'm on the white cliffs of Dover
Thinking it over and over
But if I jump it's all over
A cautionary tale for you
I'd like to roll in the clover
With you over and over
On the white cliffs of Dover
And then I let you push me over
If that is the fact
Then in actual fact
I'm not where it's at
And it's over
Oh
song performed by by Blur from Parklife
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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On the Field of Kulicovo
The river stretched. It flows, idly grieves,
And washes both banks.
In steppe, above light clay of cliffs
Rinks mourn in ranks.
O Russia! Dear wife! With clearness and pain
We see the lengthy way!
It sent an arrow of ancient Tartar reign -
In breast it lay.
The way through steppes and an incessant plight,
Through your, o Russia, lot!
And alien dark and dark of night
I fear not.
Let be the night. We'll ride and light in gloom
Camp-fires late.
The holy flag will flash in fume,
And Khan's steel blade ...
And endless battle! We only dream of peace
Through blood and dust ...
The mare of steppes flies on and flees,
And tramples the grass ...
There's no end! The miles and cliffs flash past
Stop crazy flood!
The frightened clouds go fast,
Sun sets in blood!
Sun sets in blood! Blood streams from heart away!
O cry, my heart ...
There's no peace! Through steppe the bay
Prolongs the flight!
poem by Aleksandr Aleksandrovich Blok
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Impundulu
When in summer
stormy clouds gather
and chains of blue-white thunder
comes flaming down, sneaks nearer and neared
Impundulu is flying,
souring high into the air
with its blazing eyes looking everywhere
and something has disturbed its resting place,
in the giant tamboti tree
that roots in the cliffs,
into the very heart of the earth,
that branches into the clouds,
the place of the upper waters
and when the rain starts pouring
as if without end, the medicine man,
the witchdoctor, the Inyanga
puts secret herbs, magic spices
coming from the dark cliffs
in a cooking pot
that he applies to every doorpost
of the native village
believing that it has the ability
to keep the bird of thunder away
while it's exploding voice is drawing closer,
small bolts frizzles, fire erupts where it gazes
and the power of its claws and beak
shatters even the hardest rocks
and in the village huts the children
are scared to even breathe,
their mothers and fathers pray
to the Almighty God,
to Unkulunkulu, the Big-Big One
to keep the bird of thunder away.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Heart is tiny, Hopes are high
Heart is tiny, Hopes are high
On top of the world, wants to fly.
Wants to surf, in mid of the ocean;
Wants to climb, Highest the mountain;
Always willing, to touch the sky.
Heart is tiny, Hopes are high
Wants to shine, like a bright star;
Wants to race in, the worlds' best car;
Lighter as feather, wants to glide.
Heart is tiny, Hopes are high
All things happen, On its commands;
Every thing comes to, When it demands;
Whole beauty of world, wants in eyes.
Heart is tiny, Hopes are high
Better if it does some good deed
Helps the poor and who are in need
Accepts the truth and denies the lies.
Heart is tiny, Hopes are high
- S.D. Tiwari
poem by S.D. Tiwari
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Nature
How tranquil is this little mountain lake
It’s filled with water like a cup
Bamboo looks just like little houses
And trees above – a sea of roofs.
Yet cliffs are sharp, encroached like pagodas
Among the flowers they rise
Eternal nature always learns from us –
That makes my heart and soul rejoice.
poem by Nikolai Stepanovich Gumilev
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The Lost Garden
There was a fair green garden sloping
From the south-east side of the mountain-ledge;
And the earliest tint of the dawn came groping
Down through its paths, from the day's dim edge.
The bluest skies and the reddest roses
Arched and varied its velvet sod;
And the glad birds sang, as the soul supposes
The angels sing on the hills of God.
I wandered there when my veins seemed bursting
With life's rare rapture and keen delight,
And yet in my heart was a constant thirsting
For something over the mountain-height.
I wanted to stand in the blaze of glory
That turned to crimson the peaks of snow,
And the winds from the west all breathed a story
Of realms and regions I longed to know.
I saw on the garden's south side growing
The brightest blossoms that breathe of June;
I saw in the east how the sun was glowing,
And the gold air shook with a wild bird's tune;
I heard the drip of a silver fountain,
And the pulse of a young laugh throbbed with glee
But still I looked out over the mountain
Where unnamed wonders awaited me.
I came at last to the western gateway,
That led to the path I longed to climb;
But a shadow fell on my spirit straightway,
For close at my side stood gray-beard Time.
I paused, with feet that were fain to linger,
Hard by that garden's golden gate,
But Time spoke, pointing with one stern finger;
'Pass on,' he said, 'for the day groes late.'
And now on the chill giay cliffs I wander,
The heights recede which I thought to find,
And the light seems dim on the mountain yonder,
When I think of the garden I left behind.
Should I stand at last on its summit's splendor,
I know full well it would not repay
For the fair lost tints of the dawn so tender
That crept up over the edge o' day.
I would go back, but the ways are winding,
If ways there are to that land, in sooth,
For what man succeeds in ever finding
A path to the garden of his lost youth?
But I think sometimes, when the June stars glisten,
That a rose scent dufts from far away,
And I know, when I lean from the cliffs and listen,
That a young laugh breaks on the air like spray.
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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Monologue #6
the world is not a big white plain
not all green grass where your eyes would dance singing and
delighted
like a Mary Poppins.
there are so many mountains, sand dunes,
pits, volcanoes.
not all rivers have bridges.
so you leap.
and no matter how you try to avoid cliffs
the come to you.
and you fall.
and you die,
but if you do not die
then by all means
heal yourself
live....
broken, limping, hurt, so hurt,
and you want to die again.
the cliffs laugh at you
they do not come like servants
when you need them
most.
do you not envy me? look at me. All the pores of my skin
are smileys.
am i not funny?
you complain, you shout at me.
Liar! liar!
are you not too? You lie in order to heal.
you heal yourself.
Liar! Liar! Liar!
hello brother.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Concisely
in clock precision
words come out from the lips of a man
who just survived a broken heart
in all those silent
slow running years
like drops of water
inside the
light deprived caves
concisely shall sorrow
drip forming the calcite
and magnetite
stealing light from morning
dews
outside the eyes of
cliffs
where the sound of
fledglings still haunt
the clinging bats
sleeping their
hunger away.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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One tiny sorrow
At the moment of ending
Every lovely meet
One tiny sorrow in my heart
I couldn't kiss that dimple on your cheek
Why every night so beautiful
When the stars twinkle so bright
One tiny sorrow in my heart
Right now, I can't hug you tight
Oh forget these limits
These walls and fences
I feel forgetting this sorrow
And loving you with all my senses
But realizing all the problems
Things we cannot avoid
One tiny sorrow in my heart
Because of which I just cried
I should have been there
As you were always by my side
One tiny sorrow in my heart
Accepting… I wasn't right
I wanna broom away every worry
And bring back the sunshine
One tiny sorrow in the bachelor's heart
Which is asking, “Will you be mine? â€
poem by Abhiraj Rajadhyaksha
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Mind, Heart And Time
the mind
is a pen that
stitches
the broken skin
of the
heart
the heart when healed
makes the mind
sleep
it sings like a
wind
that touches
the heights of
cliffs
the coldness of the
fog
that hangs upon
the trees
turns this place of misery
into
a temple of beauty
the mind wakes up
a stranger anew
to what it had been seeing
in the face
of that river without
banks
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Then There Are The Mountains
On a mountain's peak is there peace?
Mountains that overlook the quiet prairie.
Mountains that borders life in rural counties.
Mountains chiseled by years of wind and rain.
Mountain winds creep keeping all secrets.
Mountains a kin to the lower hills of death.
Mountains at the height of glamour baked in sunshine.
Mountains that reach for more majestic planes.
Mountains giving to the ridges, valleys and cliffs.
Mountains in spring the fulfillment of adventure and dream.
Mountains which can shelter one from storm.
Mountains an enduring symbol in poetry.
Mountains which inhabit the calls of the wild.
Mountains of spectacle, below the bending roads between.
Mountains embracing, magnifying the sounds of river.
Mountains the stellar monuments of time.
poem by William Blackman
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