En.Citatepedia^®.ro

A Pool

a pool lies at the foot of a hill
there is a bush of mushing green
beside a rotten tree are mushrooms
birds drink here and then sing
a crystal pool where Narcissus
rests and stays for a while

at the side of the bank are white stones
a frog licks a fly
drinking upon a dropp of sperm

Narcissus is sleeping
soundly upon a grass
under a tree
it is windy.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Disciple

When Narcissus died the pool of his pleasure changed from a cup of
sweet waters into a cup of salt tears, and the Oreads came weeping
through the woodland that they might sing to the pool and give it
comfort.

And when they saw that the pool had changed from a cup of sweet
waters into a cup of salt tears, they loosened the green tresses of
their hair and cried to the pool and said, 'We do not wonder that
you should mourn in this manner for Narcissus, so beautiful was
he.'

'But was Narcissus beautiful?' said the pool.

'Who should know that better than you?' answered the Oreads. 'Us
did he ever pass by, but you he sought for, and would lie on your
banks and look down at you, and in the mirror of your waters he
would mirror his own beauty.'

And the pool answered, 'But I loved Narcissus because, as he lay on
my banks and looked down at me, in the mirror of his eyes I saw
ever my own beauty mirrored.'

poem by Oscar Wilde
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Birch Tree

The birch tree in winter
Leaning over the secret pool
Is Narcissus in love
With the slight white branches,
The slim trunk,
In the dark glass;
But,
Spring coming on,
Is afraid,
And scarfs the white limbs
In green.

poem by Arthur Seymour John Tessimond
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Narcissus

Since the great, glad greeting of dawn from the eastern hills
Triumphant ran with a shout to the woods below,
With the song in his ears of the clearly clamoring rills
He has lain, like a man of snow,
Slender and straight as the joyous immortals are made,
Born of woman, but born with the grace of a god.
Unheeded airs, caressingly cool, have played
With his hair, and the nymphs have trod
Close to his side, and have kissed him, waiting to flee—
But Narcissus, what recketh he?

In the pool where the lithe fish flashes and slips
From his covert to snap at the careless, fluttering flies,
Narcissus has seen the curve of his drooping lips,
And, like mirrored miniature heavens, his shining eyes.
And a flush like a dew-dipped rose has dyed the pool,
He has laid his cheek to the ripples cool;
Brow touches brow, lips lips, and his eyes of violet roam
Down through the crystal depths. In the darkening dome
The stars shine forth from their faint, far ways,
Trimming their lamps; and, from the purple haze,
The moon, cloud-veiled, her circle just complete,
Wan as a travail-spent mother, plants her feet
On the carpeted hills, and fearful of change
Seeks her reflected face in the sea’s southward range—
But Narcissus, what recketh he?

Narcissus, Narcissus, where is thy boyish bloom,
Thy long, slim form that lay beside the pool,
And the lips cold smiling to their smiling image cool?
Narcissus!

Only a strange, indefinite perfume,
And a dim white spot in the night when soft airs blow;
A flower, bending, bending low
Its petals and its yellow heart to where the waters flow;
Its scent the winds have borne
Through the pearl-gray east to the arms of morn,
To faint and to die in the wakening light—
But of time’s swift flight, the dawn, and the noon, and the night,
The sun’s gold glory, the moon’s white mystery,
Narcissus, what recketh he?

poem by Guy Wetmore Carryl from The Garden of Years and Other Poems (1896)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Willow Tree

Let me be your weeping willow tree
Surround you with my long limbs
My dear, let me grow in the shade
In the sands by the bank of your river
Let I drink from your streams
The cool breeze fill my leaves
We will sing together
Water over the pebbles
And Ill be by your side forever
I wish I was a weeping willow tree
I wish I was a weeping willow tree
I wish I was a weeping willow tree
Sweet river caress how softly
Stir my searching roots
Shading the sun in the summers heat
Let I cool you
We have been dancing so long
In the winters freeze and the summers drought
We survive
We belong
Let us sing together
Water over the pebbles
And Ill be by your side forever
I wish I was your weeping willow tree
I wish I was a weeping willow tree
I wish I was a weeping willow tree
Let us sing together
Water over the pebbles
And Ill be by your side forever
Let us sing together
Water over the pebbles
And Ill be by your side forever
We can sing together
Water over the pebbles
And Ill be by your side forever
Let me be
Your willow tree
Your willow tree

song performed by by G. Love & Special Sauce
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Tree And The Breeze

Have you ever noticed how the trees sway with the breeze?
It's as if they were dancing in rhythm with a mellow tune
Have you ever notice how a tree is home to a bird's nest...
where the birds rest?
It's as if the tree were a peaceful and relaxed get-away
From where their troubles stray
But then the tree also has another side
In which it can take the birds for a bit of a ride
It is its party side...
when a pile of birds get together in one tree...
to sing along to the breeze as back and forth it sways the tree

The tree's stuck in the ground
Every day its life's the same
But the breeze
Now that's a different story
The breeze is free
It goes and comes as it pleases
The tree it seizes
Have you ever noticed half the things a tree does are caused by the breeze?

poem by Amy Parkinson
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Grass is easier?

Up on a windy hill a tree is
a grassy field wind is the breeze
birds and bee's play and play
long lost lovers sign there names
in the tree
a tire swing sways and sways
on this tree
children songs and voices
filled the air at the time
now and days the grass is dead
tree is bare and the birds and the bees
play else ware
long lost lovers are lost
the names wore and decay
on this tree
a tire swing once swayed
on this tree children played
now on this tree smoke and ash lay
songs and voices now all gone
for this is the tree we once plaid on

poem by Cody Lee Jones
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Tree Dies

Tree stands alone in his space
A nagging memory of family
That once surrounded him
A time called woods

Tree is feeling his age now
Crippled down one side
By the whip-crack shock
That came with the sustenance

Tree listens to the grass growing
The birds twitter all over him
He feels the seasons change
Frost hurts more each year

Tree is aware the end approaches
He has no way to avoid it
Creeping across the valley towards him
More tired at each one-sided battle

Tree doesn't dream of after
No idea of tables or chairs
Fewer leaves again this year
None at all down the black side

Tree knows the time has come
The sharp teeth cleave him
He lies with the wet grass
Dying in the loam of his birth

poem by Savalot Savage
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An Old Poem

an old man
walks downhill
following the path
that he once
prided

at the foot
of the hill lies the
six-foot hole

on the side
is the banyan tree
climbed by
this persistent vine
with white flowers

the place is calm
butterflies pay it
more visits.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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While The Birds Sing At The Top Of The Tree

Rivers flow lonely to the sea,
When the sunset is coming down,
While the birds sing at the top of the tree.

The garden is flourishing in the spring,
Little pieces of the rain fall on the edge of the street,
While the birds sing at the top of the tree.

The cold in the hills,
The forest still sleeps in silence
While the birds sing at the top of the tree.

Love always falls and rises,
Leaving happiness, broken hearts and tears,
While the birds sing at the top of the tree.

poem by Lindemberg Pereira da Silva
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At the zoo

There are street hawkers
selling their wares
next to a wall build
of rocks and stone
on all sides of the entrance.

Carved wooden walking sticks
african faces in black wood,
grass brooms, pottery,
hats and t-shirts
and African drums
and paintings line the sidewalk.

Light pink flamingos
parade next to their dark brown pool
and walk among long palm trees
while they call to each other.

Some white swans
drift on a lake in the park
and catch something to eat
with dipping heads
from the dark water.

a Couple of elephant throw
red-brown sand
over themselves
and their pleated skin
looks like rough sandpaper
and at the back
there’s an old white farmstead
with a green roof
and some hay
for them to eat.

Some spotted Hyenas
swim in a stream
and their dark brown
dots stand out
against their light coats.

There’s some long walkways
going through gardens
that stretch into the distance..

Just the head and back
of a lonely Hippopotamus
rises from a dark brown pool
and it drifts with its nose
under the water
in the direction
of some other Hippopotamuses.

Some bridges run
over the small stream
of the Apies river
which splash over rocks.

a Blue crane
combs its blue-grey coat
next to a striped Kudu cow
that grazes on the green grass
with the Kudu bull watching
the visitors.

a Big brown bear
walks up a rock slope
and splashes in cold pool.

Some Impalas are gathering
on a rocky slope
and a narrow path
stretches up the wooded hill.

A Tiger lies sleeping
under a tree
and two black-backed jackals
stand grinning next to each other.

There are yellow-gold lions
that hides in the long green grass
and a slim female
with two cubs
steps out and watches
and the big male
comes out with a twisting tail
and roars menacing at the crowd
while one of the keepers
are giving them meat.

There’s a great view of the buildings
of Pretoria from the top
of the hill
and some high rises
and towers jump up
into the sky.

I take a cable car
for the long way down
and see the Union buildings
far in the distance
and miniature animals
flash by on the bottom.

A Leopard growls
when I leave the cable car
and I hear the calls
of some black Chacma Baboons.

Some African Buffalo
stand grazing like cattle
and a Rhino
lies stretched out
on the grass.

Some of the gamekeepers
are feeding a giraffe
and it stretches its neck
over a high wall
and time catches me
and something of the animals
stays with me
when I walk back to the car.

poem by Gert Strydom
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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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In Imitation of Cowley : The Garden

Fain would my Muse the flow'ry Treasures sing,
And humble glories of the youthful Spring;
Where opening Roses breathing sweets diffuse,
And soft Carnations show'r their balmy dews;
Where Lilies smile in virgin robes of white,
The thin Undress of superficial Light,
And vary'd Tulips show so dazzling gay,
Blushing in bright diversities of day.
Each painted flow'ret in the lake below
Surveys its beauties, whence its beauties grow;
And pale Narcissus on the bank, in vain
Transformed, gazes on himself again.
Here aged trees Cathedral Walks compose,
And mount the Hill in venerable rows:
There the green Infants in their beds are laid,
The Garden's Hope, and its expected shade.
Here Orange-trees with blooms and pendantis shine,
And vernal honours to their autumn join;
Exceed their promise in the ripen'd store,
Yet in the rising blossom promise more.
There in bright drops the crystal Fountains play,
By Laurels shielded from the piercing day;
Where Daphne, now a tree as once a maid,
Still from Apollo vindicates her shade,
Still turns her Beauties from th' invading beam,
Nor seeks in vain for succour to the Stream.
The stream at once preserves her virgin leaves,
At once a shelter from her boughs receives,
Where Summer's beauty midst of Winter stays,
And Winter's Coolness spite of Summer's rays.

poem by Alexander Pope
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Whirl pool

Whirl pool
On lake...
At through the stones...
water...

Rund rund...
Arund...
Whirl pool...
A Simply beauty...

The rain drops on
On pool water...
Many many

Little...little...
whirl pool
Run and rund to be...
Play the pool...

It was nature wool
With cool...!

poem by Otteri Selvakumar
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A Flower To Auroville Mother-47

Daffodil(Narcissus, Narcissus spp.)

Astounded..for this the first look..
Surpassed a celestial above even
And all those angelic dreams in lock
In real eclat from my heart open

Knew not you were trumpetting soft
In gentle pats my sleeping dreams
Banding me whole your leafy belt
Tapping my vision your florescence

So your yellow, your white so bright
Orange or pink or red timely coronas
Bulbed deep in my soul just now light
In solitary bliss a field of blossoms

And those of a poet's words worth
'In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye'
All true so to salute Wordsworth

poem by Indira Renganathan
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Local Park

When you want a good walk
Through day or the dark,
The place to go is our local park,

The park is a pride
The finest ever seen,
Tree's and grass always ever green..

There's swings for the kids
For all girls and boys,
Sea saw and paddling pool
To fill in their joys.

There's a path walk way all the way round
If you want a good walk
And summer seats to sit if you want a good talk,
The park has a lake and plenty good sport,
Bowling on the green and tennis on the court.

There's plenty of fun
Plenty to do,
Even at the park
Good swimming pool there to,

The pool has a cafe
If you want to call in
A wee cup of tea or have a good swim.

There's cricket and football
A horse riding track,
And even a good golf course
It's way round the back.

So here is our park
That's full of good pride,
Were ducks swim the water
And kids play the slide

poem by Gerald Follis Lurgan
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Alzuna

The forest of Alzuna hides a pool.
Beside that pool, a shadowy tree up-towers.
High on that tree, a bough most beautiful
Bends with the fragrant burden of its flowers.
Among those flowers a nest is buried deep.
Warm in that nest, there lies a freckled shell.
Packed in that shell, a bird is fast asleep.
This is the incantation and the spell.

For, when the north wind blows, the bird will cry,
“Warm in my freckled shell, I lie asleep.
The freckled shell is in the nest on high.
The nest among the flowers is buried deep.
The flowers are on a bough most beautiful.
The bough is on a tree no axe can fell.
The sky is at its feet in yonder pool.
This is the incantation and the spell!”

poem by Alfred Noyes
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A View

driftwood
with seven twigs
on the shore
as clear as glass
is the water
and all stones and pebbles
are visible

above
blue skies
so blue that the white cotton clouds
appear like sperm cells moving
impregnating
an earth-sky womb

and then
it rains
the water rises
the drift wood again taken
floating
gently to another shore
another island
of white sands

a coconut tree towers
to reach a waft of cloud
winds as cool as ice
sands slipping on the fingers
a leaf from a guyabano tree falls
on the mouth
of a sleeping woman
beside her
the man whose arms are enclosing
her throughout
the rainy night

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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At the fountain in the ranges

Something stirred below the water
of a pool,
where a fountain splashes in.

There was no wind
and the long grass was motionless
and the branches of a sugar bush,
hanged somewhat protecting
over the pool

It was early morning
and the pool was still dark
and in its depths,
there were black spots
that stirred ominously.

When the day got brighter
a sunbird came to drink water
and looked time after time,
at its image on the water.
.
There were water beetles
that played in circles
and tadpoles, .
swimming up and down
and a dragonfly hanged suspended
above the water

Life was trapped for a moment
and out of the depths
a predatory fish appeared
and when the dragonfly touched the water,
it disappeared into the bill of the fish
and into the depths.

poem by Gert Strydom
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There’s a big painting

There’s a big painting of a girl
with a light pink skin
that lies on a white skin cloak
in front of a dark pool,
where snow white water lilies drifts
and I can see into her soul.

I have felt like taking the fan
next to her
and to wave her cool
yet she looks fragile
and self-possessed and calm,
where she lies with her peach pink dress
looking at me
and I wonder for whom she is waiting
and why the door behind her
of which the steps goes into the pool
are always locked?

[Reference: Painting of a girl at a pool by Mandi. See the painting at my webpage: http: //www.mabooki.com/poems/display/1412_There_is_a_b ig_painting.htm]

poem by Gert Strydom
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Arcady Unheeding

Shepherds go whistling on their way
In the spring season of the year;
One watches weather-signs of day;
One of his maid most dear
Dreams; and they do not hear
The birds that sing and sing; they do not see
Wide wealds of blue beyond their windy lea,
Nor blossoms red and white on every tree.

poem by Siegfried Sassoon
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