A Part Of The Big Family Tree
retrace the steps
finding the footprints of my ancestors
their fingers carved in the limestones
of old spanish churches and
municipal halls
howling sounds of their sufferings
on forced labor and constant whippings
they found the escape on wooden boats
paddling their way
tossed by big waves
and uncertain dark nights
towards the Sulu sea
they found land where they are free
built their houses and made love all the way
bathe in the wide and long winding rivers
embraced the sea and acquired their territories
for years the wrote their names on the long lists
on tombstones
i am here and they are pleased
i am writing about them
and what they started once
i shall continue
what they have seen i shall see again
on this big tree with roots down the deepest earth
and branches and twigs like a hundred hands and fingers
strecthing out to the skies
i am one of the buds
coming out from its bark
i have tiny breathing cells spreading looking out for more openings
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Virgen La Purissima
virgen la purisima
virgin most pure
a family icon brought from the rocky island of bohol
to the promised land of mindanao
by my great, great ancestors
on a wooden sail
facing the rough seas
for nights and nights
as they all ran away from the their oppressors
who compelled them to make those big churches
of rocks and lime
using their free labor
or face death,
or face the drowning death of the uncertain seas
if luck did not side with them
if faith they did not have
they arrived on this island of mindanao
and cleared the forest to
build their farms
they married
and built their houses
and farmed
and marked their territories
that was a hundred years ago
the family still lives
the tradition alive
the children and grandchildren and greatgrandchildren
had since multiplied like the sands of the sea
and they all prayed
and they still prayed
with heads bowed, kneeling
in silence, in song, in novenas, in dance,
in merrymakings where food is shared
where a new child's name is added
to the list of this huge family tree
where everyone has a name
and a responsibility
for centuries
mother mary most pure
virgin most pure
virgin la purisima
you have showered this family with intercession
some blessings from God
the protection from the rough seas
the strength of the wooden sails
which once sailed from Bohol
on that dark night
and for more dark nights
when there was no light seen ahead
when there was no hope of finding land
it was you
most dear mother
mother pure
virgen la purisima
our Dear Mother Mary, Mother of God
Who interceded for Light
Who gave the direction
For this clan to survive
to find land and to find anchor of its restlessnes
We are here again, and as always
Praying for your guidance and protection.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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One Hundred Ripples
One hundred ripples I mark today
One hundred steps along my way
One hundred steps lead to the pond
One hundred trees there do surround
One hundred birds nesting among the trees
One hundred bees filling the air with these
One hundred bees buzzing about in the air
One hundred flowers are pollinating there
One hundred flowers provide the aromas sweet
For one hundred bouquets given to lovers as treat
One hundred lovers walk the winding pathway
One hundred times to find romance there each day
One hundred times they will reach to explore
One hundred pebbles found along the pond shore
One hundred pebbles carry wishes through the air
One hundred ripples on surface creating there
One hundred ripples then spreading out will begin
One hundred waves soon lapping at the shore again
One hundred waves providing the means for
One hundred more pebbles to reach the shore
One hundred pebbles scatter along the pathway
One hundred steps retraced at the end of the day
One hundred small steps... this latest poem was conceived to denote
One hundred little ripples... spreading from 100 poems I wrote
poem by Mary Havran
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A Redmption Of The Self
when i stand there
there was a dark cloud of shame
above my head
the cloud is heavy
and it poured
dismay
i am drenched with
humiliation
i fell like i am a tree with
wilted leaves
that keep on falling to
the ground
until i become nothing
but twigs
mere fingers of the hands
skeletal to the sky
i do not have those roots
that keep me strong
but then there is always that
redemption
ally to the sun
shall i be when tomorrow comes
i grow my leaves again
spread my roots
deeper than the
hands of the rivers
to the cracks of the earth
where gold resides
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Sonnet – Don’t Be
Don't be the fallen leaves, so young and green;
Don't be the buds that never can flower;
Don't be the twigs that always remain lean;
Don't be the flow'rs that dropp with each shower.
Don't be the branches growing very long;
Don't be the tree that never blooms at all;
Don’t be the nests that disallow Bird-song;
Don't be the fruits that hit the Earth by Fall.
Don't be the trunk hollowed by Birds, white-Ants;
Don't be the crown that can't get Sun or Rain;
Don't be the tree that grows not straight but slants;
Don't be the roots that prop the tree in vain.
Don't be the tree that grows on marshy-land;
Just be a tree secure in Maker's Hand.
poem by John Celes
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Waiting On Love
Oh yeah, oh yeah
You drive me crazy, every little thing about you
Can't get you out of my head
And when I'm with you, nothing seems to really matter
And every word that you say
I know our names ain't carved in stone
But right now I can't leave you alone
Infatuation's taken hold on me
I can't let you go, I won't let you go
How long have I been waiting on love
Now that I've found you, I can't get enough
How long have I been waiting on love
I've been waiting for somebody like you
You know I've been waiting
I always wanted someone to believe in me
Someone to show me the way
You came along and shone light into my darkness
You know it set me free
I know our names ain't carved in stone
But right now I can't leave you alone
Infatuation's taken hold on me
I can't let you go, I won't let you go
How long have I been waiting on love
Now that I've found you, I can't get enough
How long have I been waiting on love
I've been waiting for somebody like you
I've just got to let you know
Someone I wish to hold just to let my feelings show(?)
Never gonna let you slip away
I'm asking you to stay, yeah
Now that I've found you
Oh yeah
How long have I been waiting on love
Now that I've found you, I can't get enough
How long have I been waiting on love
I've been waiting for somebody like you
Yeah, you know I've been waiting
You know I've been waiting for somebody just like you
I've been waiting, waiting, waiting, waiting for somebody just like you
For somebody, for somebody
I've been waiting, I've been waiting
Now that I've found you, ain't gonna let you go
For somebody...
song performed by by Bad Company
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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We Trace Our Roots
there are ways of tracing our roots
where we come from
why we are here
how our forefathers braved
the seas and survived the big waves
of uncertainties
the cold, dark nights of their fears
how they all believed in dreams
how they trusted the direction given by the stars
how they solidified their hearts
with faith and hope
and love
as i listen to all of you talk about the stories
of our ancestors
my mind begins to to grow and travel
like roots
deep down the earth
tracing some humus
where i must live again
perhaps ever braver than the pioneers
they are our ancestors
and i think, they still believe that since we come from them
we must all be like them,
my dear cousin, now we have become the roots ourselves
and another child shall come
in the future
and listen some more, wanting to become branches and leaves and flowers
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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No Tree Can Stand Tall Without Roots Spread!
Every seed sends roots first,
Finding for soil and ground
where it can stand firm and tall,
stand firm and tall if roots go
deep,
Spread wide to find The sap! single cell that carry life,
Give life to cells and tissues,
Shoot, barks, branches and
leaves,
feed the leaves exposing leaves
to light, Visible tree stands on exposed
roots, not roots visible, Man made boundaries, fence and
compound,
Can't prevent or limit roots or
branches,
Sometimes absorbing soil here,
Branch will extent to neighbouring house,
How one can limit the nature,
or confine growing tree to
narrow circle drawn by man?
So is every life on Earth!
Mankind is like forest of different trees,
Yet all roots of autotrophic trees
deep in the soil,
Only parasitic have those roots,
pierce other tree's heart! Dive deep into yourself,
O man! Can you survive without
Your roots?
know how you are here,
Is it the mortal parent brought
you here, Or your fate,
Only be grateful to their love and
care forever!
poem by Ramdas Bhandarkar
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Our Own Kin
our own kin
name tags on my chest
genes in my flesh
our own skin
bearing our own family names
tattoos of our
marked existence as part of this
and that
roots
on our feet
and vines in our hands
wherever we go
we are us
our own kin our own skin
our identities as sons of these fathers
and mothers
as favorite grandsons
hope of the family tree
integrated
not grafts
but twigs and tendrils
despite our hatred
of the roots
we still are
leaves and
branches
how can we get away
from these that made us grow
into treetops
overlooking the mountains
of our lives
somehow there will be change
to norms
new laws for family ties
the right to take myself
from a name
to have my own house
inside my body
to get rid my veins of the
bad blood
to remove their nails
embedded on my toes
and fingers
somehow
know me as i am
and not a part
an extension of whom and
where
i have my on why you know
listen to me.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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United In Pain
my fingers
are not mine anymore
they are running
out of control
i do not wish
to write some more
to infuriate you
but my hands are
rebels
coming out from
my arms
into their
fingers
writing these
lines
i am detached
severed
from the rest of my
parts
i have no more control
about
destiny in the making
birds of blue
feathers
are coming out
from my mouth
and they are not
coming back
my fingers are
automatons
writing now on
their own
i am not
responsible for your
anger
i am a useless man
and my fingers
are not mine anymore
my C5 chokes a nerve
i am numb
my fingers are at war
against
each other now
thoughts converge
without much meaning
united
in pain.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Fingers
In that photo of yours
I saw you –
Your face, your shoulders,
Your hands, and then
Your fingers…
My lips quivered
So did my hands
And I felt like touching you,
With my quivering lips
And unsure hands,
Those very beautiful
Exquisite fingers…
Reading your poems of love
And pondering over your letters…
Sometimes I imagine
You writing to me
With those very same
Slender and artistic
Adept fingers…
Very often I feel
And wonder…
If your fingers
Ever do ache
Writing so long,
So nice,
And so very endless,
Day after day…
And if they do, my Love
I feel like pampering them
With tender, loving care
A kiss here, a kiss there…
Holding them,
Caressing them,
Sucking them slow…
Your fingers in my mouth
Taking turns to go
One by one,
I feel them,
Nibble them,
Suckle them,
Make love to them,
Within the deep recesses
Of my oral crevice…
Till they feel pampered
And satiated
And I feel the same too…
Contented and happy
Making love to you
With your fingers
In my mouth…
A wonderful tryst
Of love and lust,
Warmth and arousal,
And then if you wish…
And if I'm also willing,
We can play this game
All night long…
Where you don’t win
And I don’t lose
We both win over together
And lose ourselves
To each other…
I give free rein to
Your fingers…
To touch, feel
And explore
The inner crevices
And every pore
Of my body…
The mouth has had its turn
Now, do you wish to go
Further down..?
And see how it feels
To caress my breasts,
My derriere and my
Yoni,
With those seeking,
Exploring fingers of yours…
You’ve penned a lot of poetry
And your letters intoxicate me…
How about writing
Some letters of love
And a few lines of love ballads
On the spaces and margins
Of my body…
Dipping your fingers,
And drinking into
The juice of my
Dripping Yoni…
poem by Aparna Chatterjee
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The Stringy-Bark Tree
There's the whitebox and pine on the ridges afar,
Where the iron-bark, blue-gum, and peppermint are;
There is many another, but dearest to me,
And the king of them all was the stringy-bark tree.
Then of stringy-bark slabs were the walls of the hut,
And from stringy-bark saplings the rafters were cut;
And the roof that long sheltered my brothers and me
Was of broad sheets of bark from the stringy-bark tree.
And when sawn-timber homes were built out in the West,
Then for walls and for ceilings its wood was the best;
And for shingles and palings to last while men be,
There was nothing on earth like the stringy-bark tree.
Far up the long gullies the timber-trucks went,
Over tracks that seemed hopeless, by bark hut and tent;
And the gaunt timber-finder, who rode at his ease,
Led them on to a gully of stringy-bark trees.
Now still from the ridges, by ways that are dark,
Come the shingles and palings they call stringy-bark;
Though you ride through long gullies a twelve months you’ll see
But the old whitened stumps of the stringy-bark tree.
poem by Henry Lawson
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I Waited Outside The World Of Wonder
I waited inside the world of wonder
The poems were coming to me night and day-
I knew I had a vocation at last
So I gave myself into it-
Year after year
For years I wrote poems
They came in and out of me
Like breathing
And I found them wherever I looked and walked
And took them home and wrote them down
And they became my song and my me and my life and my joy
And oh what a wonder it was to be simply to be
Writing them down-
And now writing this one down after so many years
I too still sing and wonder why God has been so good to me
And given me so much I simply love.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Pre-Existence
I laid me down upon the shore
And dreamed a little space;
I heard the great waves break and roar;
The sun was on my face.
My idle hands and fingers brown
Played with the pebbles grey;
The waves came up, the waves went down,
Most thundering and gay.
The pebbles, they were smooth and round
And warm upon my hands,
Like little people I had found
Sitting among the sands.
The grains of sands so shining-small
Soft through my fingers ran;
The sun shone down upon it all,
And so my dream began:
How all of this had been before;
How ages far away
I lay on some forgotten shore
As here I lie to-day.
The waves came shining up the sands,
As here to-day they shine;
And in my pre-pelasgian hands
The sand was warm and fine.
I have forgotten whence I came,
Or what my home might be,
Or by what strange and savage name
I called that thundering sea.
I only know the sun shone down
As still it shines to-day,
And in my fingers long and brown
The little pebbles lay.
poem by Frances Darwin Cornford
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So long, too long!
So long, too long!
Back in the days and back in time;
Struggling from the roots of Africa to identify myself;
But, born in 1961! !
So long, too long!
From yesterday with my muse of love;
And like today with the problems of the earth,
But, is this the future? ! !
The African story,
The African struggle,
The African muse,
The African experience,
The African hardships,
With the hustle and bustle to identify myself to the status of this world;
But, i am still moving on without giving up! !
For, nobody knows tomorrow.
So long, too long!
But, all the fingers are not equal;
And like the movements of the snail and tortoise,
However, i will surely reach there when you also do get there.
This life,
This muse,
This continent,
This mind,
This writer and his story! !
But, it has taken me so long, too long!
This is my life,
This is my muse,
This is my mind,
This is myact,
And, i am now presenting my love to you;
But, it has taken me so long, too long!
1961,
Born in Africa;
Yes, from 1961 to the present time! !
Struggling to make ends meet;
And, like the life seen in the slums of Africa!
But, it has taken me so long, too long! !
Africa, Africa, Africa, Africa! ! !
The land of my birth and my homeland;
But, i am still finding my way through the dark forest to represent myself to the world,
With hopes and dreams every now ansd then without giving up!
But, it has taken me so long, too long! !
Back in the days,
Oh yes! ! And, like the days of yesterday gone by;
But today, you can read my lines to know who i am!
And like the muse of sweet love in the land of peace,
But, it has taken me so long, too long!
This is it,
This is me,
That is it,
That is my muse,
Here i am and, this is my mind! !
With the sweet love from my heart brewed in the African Pot;
Touching the minds of many and, ready to educate others,
But, it has taken me so long, too long!
Come and enter into my world so sweet with your love,
Come and taste the muse of my love with your mind,
And like the aroma of sweet love from the bed of roses;
Where, the delight of love is crowned with peace and care,
But, this journey on this earth started from my mother's womb.
Oh yes! ! in the land of Africa to represent my muse;
Out of the womb of my mother to cry out to the world! !
And like the tears of love in the land of beautiful flowers,
However, it has taken me so long, too long!
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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The Shy Christmas Tree And The Hundred Fairy Lights
Now the Christmas tree sits shyly
In the corner of the room,
Like a shining beam of brightness
In the dismal winter gloom,
All aglow with tiny twinkles
Of a hundred fairy lights
Dancing round shy, trembling branches
In the dark December nights.
Shiny tinsel shimmers sparkling,
Twined around like silver string,
While the multicoloured baubles
Turn around and gently swing,
All reflecting light and glitter
From the hundred fairy lights
Dancing round shy, trembling branches
In the dark December nights.
Stuck tight to the top’s a fairy
In her ballerina dress;
As to what she might be thinking
You will have to try and guess:
Is she looking on with longing
At the hundred fairy lights
Dancing round shy, trembling branches
In the dark December nights?
There are presents for the grown-ups
Underneath the Christmas tree
But there’s nothing for the children
Who will have to wait and see
What old Santa has got for them
While the hundred fairy lights
Dance around shy, trembling branches
In the dark December nights.
He will go collect his reindeer
And pack presents on his sleigh
And then fly among the moonbeams,
Just before it’s Christmas day,
Guided by the twinkling starshine
Bright as all those fairy lights
Dancing round shy, trembling branches
In the dark December nights.
He will wait until each infant
Is tucked up so tight asleep,
For they mustn’t ever catch him
And they mustn’t ever peep
Till he vanishes in stardust
Glittering bright as fairy lights
Dancing round shy, trembling branches
In the dark December nights.
And then, when it’s Christmas morning,
At the bottom of each bed
There will be a pile of presents
For each smiling, happy head
That sees toys and gifts, as welcome
As the hundred fairy lights
Dancing round shy, trembling branches
In the dark December nights.
And they’ll hurry down the staircase
For their breakfast and they’ll see
That the Christmas tree is smiling,
Joining in with all their glee
As it shakes, with happy laughter,
All its hundred fairy lights
Which dance round shy, trembling branches
In the dark December nights.
But the Christmas tree grows sadder,
For the next twelve days will fly
And then Christmas will be over
And it’s time to say goodbye,
Though it’s thankful for the friendship
Of the hundred fairy lights
Which danced round shy, trembling branches
In the dark December nights.
But one of its relations,
In a forest, far away,
Waits, in keen anticipation,
For next year’s Christmas day
When it stands, proud, in the corner
With a hundred fairy lights
To dance round brave, waving branches
In the dark December nights.
poem by C. Richard Miles
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Fingers Of Love
Can you imagine this
An itch to sensitive to scratch
The light that falls through the cracks
An insect to delicate to catch
I hear the endless murmur
Every blade of grass that shivers in the breeze
And the sound that comes to carry me
Across the land and over the sea
And I can't look up
Fingers of love move down
And I can't look back
Fingers of love move down
Colour is its own reward
Colour is its own reward
The chiming of a perfect chord
Let's go jumping overboard
Into waves of joy and clarity
Your hands come out to rescue me
And I'm playing in the shallow water
Laughing while the mad dog sleeps
And I can't look up
Fingers of love move down
And I won't be hit
Fingers of love move everywhere
There is time yet
Fall by the way
From the cradle to the grave
From a palace to the gutter
From beneath the dying waves
To the sun like fingers of love
Through waves of joy and clarity
A fallen angel walked on the sea
And I'm playing in the shallow water
Laughing while the mad dog sleeps
And I can't look up
Fingers of love move down
And I won't be hit
Fingers of love move everywhere
There is time yet
For you to find me
And all I want
Fingers of love move down
song performed by by Crowded House
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Tree
In an English forest on Nottingham’s Sherwood National Park
stood a large wide oak tree probably as old as the Ark.
Oddly enough I had never seen this old proud tree before,
it sort of pulled me to it, as though it wanted me to explore.
I slowly walked around the trunk and looked closely at the tree
admiring its form, its wrinkled bark, every inch fascinated me.
My fingertips touched its bark and felt its rugged texture and shape,
it seemed so alive, and I was overwhelmed for heavens sake.
The sturdy trunk appeared to be expanding and growing ever wide,
then I thought I heard a child’s voice coming from deep inside.
Against the deeply wrinkled bark I placed my hands and ear,
just in case by some strange chance a voice I really did hear.
It seems as though I heard nothing so I gradually stepped away,
as I did the tree trunk looked as if to shrink, shudder and sway.
I rubbed my eyes in disbelief; I couldn’t believe what I’d seen
I reached out and touched it to make sure it wasn’t a dream.
Several times I stepped back and forth from this unusual tree,
seeing it expand and contract was becoming too much for me.
On my last step backwards I definitely heard a child’s voice say,
“Help me, help me, I’m trapped in here, please don’t go away.”
Without thinking I answered, “What are you doing inside the tree?
How long have you been in there and can’t you get free? ”
Sadly she said, “I don’t know how long I’ve been in here,
but I can’t get out will you please help me to get clear.”
The little girl started crying and pleaded with me to stay,
“Please don’t go, please help me, please try to find a way? ”
“Try to stay calm, ” I said, “I’ll examine the tree once more,
you found your way in, so there must be a kind of door.”
As I closely examined the tree I asked the child her name,
“Martha, I’m six years old and my mother’s name’s the same.”
To stop her fretting more I asked what colour shoes she had on.
“I have no shoes upon my feet somehow they have gone.”
“I’m sorry Martha I cannot find a way in I’ve looked and I’ve tried
I just don’t know how you managed to get yourself inside? ”
Sobbing she said, “I don’t know either, but it seems like a very long time.
Could you possibly look inside the tree? You could if you climb.”
“Alright Martha, I’ll climb up to that branch sticking out to my right.
I’m sorry there is no way into the trunk; and soon it will be night.
Let’s go over this again and try to remember how you got inside.”
“All I can remember was lying in the tall grass, trying to hide.”
“Were you playing the game of hide and seek with your friends? ”
“No, my father told me to hide and later my mother he would send.
It’s slowly coming back to me now I had also been hit on my head
I remember I went very dizzy and then everything else went red.
I woke up with a headache and found myself inside this tree,
I never saw my mummy she must have forgotten me.”
“Now then Martha did this happen recently, or was it some time ago
was it yesterday, a couple of days since, or a fortnight or so? ”
“No, I think it must have been longer because of the way you’re dressed
I’ve never seen anyone with clothes like yours; you do so look a mess.”
“How can you see me Martha, is it through a nut-hole in the tree? ”
“No, I can see you through the bark, as you are meant to be.”
“Is it dark inside the tree trunk, or can you see any light? ”
“Well, It’s not wet, it doesn’t smell, but it is as dark as night,
but high above there is some sort of lamp shining really bright.”
“Alright Martha, if you can get to it, a way out is in sight.”
“Hello, hello, you standing outside the tree, can you hear me?
Thank you. I’ve entered the light and my daddy I can see.
I didn’t realise he was so close I could have climbed up here before
and how I got inside the tree will be a mystery for evermore.”
poem by Orlando Belo
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Invaders Of My Space
Invaders of my Space
Overcast morning, silent is my forest. I see no hares,
hear no birds; it is as nature has stopped breathing.
The sheep that walked ahead of me has disappeared,
and sparrows fall like autumnal leaves.
A carob tree appears, it shouldn’t be here, pods like
green fingers. But hang on, they are green fingers.
Martians are waiting to ambush me. I stop, turn and
run back whence I came. The forest is but a memory.
They came, seized the land; we have to pay to walk
its tracks. They have acquired fresh waters’ nascent
and purchased the salty oceans too; drink or sail you
have to pay. Santo, the ogre, is here… no escape.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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A postmodern explanation of poetry: for Mike who asked
The brain and spinal cord
contain a hundred billion neuron cells
backed up by many more glial cells..
each neuron surrounded by its dendrons
like a tree’s inquisitive, hungry roots
or a seacreature’s gently waving fronds
making synapses, new connections
between what one cell holds, and another,
as a tree’s roots seek its heavenly nourishment in earth;
so that, each time two words of poetry,
put together for the first time by a poet
in just that way, strike your mind or heart,
one of those neurons cries silently ‘Aha! ’
as poetry’s roots and fingers touch its core;
two neurons now joined in holy bedrock..
and since our mind, some say, is but our store
of memories previously received,
then poetry enjoyed, remembered, builds our greater mind;
and all this, like the champions of the Olympics,
so appropriately named after that godly height,
might well be described by corny commentators as,
sheer poetry in motion…
poem by Michael Shepherd
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A Tree Telling of Orpheus
White dawn. Stillness.When the rippling began
&nbs p; I took it for sea-wind, coming to our valley with rumors
&nb sp; of salt, of treeless horizons. But the white fog
didn't stir; the leaves of my brothers remained outstretched,
unmoving.
& nbsp; &n bsp; &nb sp;Yet the rippling drew nearer – and then
my own outermost branches began to tingle, almost as if
fire had been lit below them, too close, and their twig-tips
were drying and curling.
& nbsp; &n bsp; &nb sp; Yet I was not afraid, only
; & nbsp; deeply alert.
I was the first to see him, for I grew
; out on the pasture slope, beyond the forest.
He was a man, it seemed: the two
moving stems, the short trunk, the two
arm-branches, flexible, each with five leafless
& nbsp; &n bsp; &nb sp; &nbs p; ; twigs at their ends,
and the head that's crowned by brown or golden grass,
bearing a face not like the beaked face of a bird,
&nbs p; ; more like a flower's.
& nbsp; &n bsp; He carried a burden made of
some cut branch bent while it was green,
strands of a vine tight-stretched across it. From this,
when he touched it, and from his voice
which unlike the wind's voice had no need of our
leaves and branches to complete its sound,
&nb sp; &nbs p; ; & nbsp;came the ripple.
But it was now no longer a ripple (he had come near and
stopped in my first shadow) it was a wave that bathed me
& nbsp; &n bsp; as if rain
; & nbsp; rose from below and around me
& nbsp; &n bsp; instead of falling.
And what I felt was no longer a dry tingling:
& nbsp; I seemed to be singing as he sang, I seemed to know
; what the lark knows; all my sap
& nbsp; &n bsp; was mounting towards the sun that by now
& nbsp; &n bsp; had risen, the mist was rising, the grass
was drying, yet my roots felt music moisten them
deep under earth.
; He came still closer, leaned on my trunk:
&nb sp; &nbs p; the bark thrilled like a leaf still-folded.
Music! There was no twig of me not
& nbsp; &n bsp; trembling with joy and fear.
Then as he sang
it was no longer sounds only that made the music:
he spoke, and as no tree listens I listened, and language
& nbsp; &n bsp; came into my roots
&nbs p; ; out of the earth,
&nb sp; &nbs p; into my bark
; & nbsp; out of the air,
into the pores of my greenest shoots
&nb sp; gently as dew
and there was no word he sang but I knew its meaning.
He told me of journeys,
of where sun and moon go while we stand in dark,
&nbs p; of an earth-journey he dreamed he would take some day
deeper than roots ...
He told of the dreams of man, wars, passions, griefs,
&n bsp; and I, a tree, understood words – ah, it seemed
my thick bark would split like a sapling's that
; & nbsp; grew too fast in the spring
when a late frost wounds it.
&n bsp; &nb sp; &nbs p; ; Fire he sang,
that trees fear, and I, a tree, rejoiced in its flames.
New buds broke forth from me though it was full summer.
&n bsp; As though his lyre (now I knew its name)
&nbs p; were both frost and fire, its chords flamed
up to the crown of me.
I was seed again.
&nb sp; &nbs p; I was fern in the swamp.
&nb sp; &nbs p; ; & nbsp;I was coal.
poem by Denise Levertov
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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