A Version Of Solitude
you feel like a leaf steady on a pool of
water,
around you is thick fog
and beyond is the haze of a misty morning
the house on the river bank is deserted
and the boulders of rocks are gray and hard
the grass is nil dipping its tongue on the shallow waters
ripples of the wind bring the shadows of shimmer
the mountains stand still
merely looking
this is my poem for solitude
yes, my own version of solitude when all else fail
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Mountains
you feel like a leaf steady on a pool of
water,
around you is thick fog
and beyond is the haze of a misty morning
the house on the river bank is deserted
and the boulders of rocks are gray and hard
the grass is nil dipping its tongue on the shallow waters
ripples of the wind bring the shadows of shimmer
the mountains stand still
merely looking without any hint that it is curious at all
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Misty Water
By the town of straight and narrow,
Theres a dark and misty place.
Everything is hazy,
So the people are afraid.
All except marias daughters,
Who believe in misty ways.
Everything is lovely,
In a misty morning glaze.
I like misty water,
I like fog and haze.
Anne maria and her daughters,
They like misty water.
I like misty water,
I like fog and haze.
Anne maria and her daughters,
Take a sip of misty water.
Though maria is not lovely,
Shes the lady of my dreams.
cause I see my lady,
Through a misty, silky screen.
And seeing is believing,
But I cant believe my eyes.
Everything is lovely,
In a misty paradise.
I like misty water,
I like fog and haze.
Anne maria and her daughters,
They like misty water.
They like misty water,
I like fog and haze.
Anne maria and her daughters,
Take a sip of misty water.
I like misty water,
I like fog and haze.
Anne maria and her daughters,
They like misty water.
They like misty water,
I like fog and haze.
Anne maria and her daughters,
They like misty water.
I like misty water,
I like fog and haze.
Anne maria and her daughters...
song performed by by Kinks
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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No One Steps Twice On The River Of Life...
it is not the rage of this river.
when i was a child, as mother says,
i keep my finger inside my mouth
sucked by my throat, to keep hunger away
beside the bank of this river
i am the spectator
and the river believes in the magic
of my innocence
it flows always in a distant
affection,
it is not the rage of the river,
it is i, the grown up man who goes swimming
in the river and feel
the joys of its cool waters
always moving on towards
a destination
it is the swimming with a friend
and then
with a lover and then with a wife
and then my silence,
what we do not have we force to forget
it is the bathing in the river
the rinsing and the cleansing of the waters
it is not the rage of this river
and then we become too weak to be in this river
the river moves on and on
towards the deepest sea looking for the
opening
i wait by the bank of this river
many things have been missed
the more important ones
the one that gives the posterity of
my humanity
it is denied of me because of this river
that gives me nothing
all the while i was the leaf that fell off from
the tree
on the side of this river
and i floated because i have nothing to do
because i can do nothing about
the flow of the river
i become the dead leaf that the air
rides upon
tossed and bumped on boulders
till i sink
deep down the river
that i shall pass only once.
time.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Water Lilies
Where the water-lilies go
To and fro,
Rocking in the ripples of the water,
Lazy on a leaf lies the Lake King's daugher,
And the faint winds shake her.
Who will come and take her?
I will! I will!
Keep still! Keep still!
Sleeping on a leaf lies the Lake King's daughter. . . .
Then the wind comes skipping
To the lilies on the water;
And the kind winds wake her.
Now who will take her?
With a laugh she is slipping
Through the lilies on the water.
Wait! Wait!
Too late, too late!
Only the water-lilies go
To and fro,
Dipping, dipping,
To the ripples of the water.
poem by Alan Alexander Milne
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Visit to Orcha: A visual exploration
River and tree look on morning town
And on the bridge and men and women
With loads of firewood from the forest
A bare-bodied man has sun on face.
Off the bridge a wizened old man
With saffron cloth drying on river rocks
Bends exquisitely with age and beauty.
A woman in red bathes on the river bed.
In the distance is the bank and history’s spires
On the bank a woman pours water in river
From a steel pot in oblation, to the sun.
As the sun glistens on the shaken river
River beats rocks in soft steady rhythm.
Men stand on the river frozen in time
Joyful women hide on the river’s rim
Waiting to burst forth in celebration.
A holy man stands tall on the rocks
Drying a red loin cloth, his hair mat loose
A boy silhouette crouches near the holy man.
On the tall mound sits the crooked holy man
Against the brilliant morning sun, waiting
To be captured on somebody’s digital lens.
poem by Jagannath rao Adukuri
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The White Lily
By the river bank
The frogs croak and caress
Hoping along the river bank
From here to there
At a distant
The swallows twitter with fondness
The lilies rupture with the morning sun
The water reeds sway
As the wind blows along
The river bank
But yet....i feel lost
In this scenery of dexteric desires
I feel caught in lifes pedestals
Tender steps i make....
Along the river bank...
Lilies..
The white lily...
That symbolise
The purity of those souls
Enmeshed in lovesframe
The white lily
That symbolise
The fire that burns within circles
The white lily that symbolises
Long lost desires
Re-invented and rejuvenated
In this river of dexteric desires
The white lily
So white...so pure...
By the river bank
I watch the white lily float and dance
Along the river waters
Their is tenderness in the river
The fishes swim with tenderness
The waters flowing
With a lovers moan
Rythmic drums can be heard from afar
Magic everywhere
I sit and stare at the white lily
With a longing yen....
By the river bank.
poem by Jack Shaka
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Solitude.
Solitude.
What trials we suffer,
sorrows thick as mists on still waters
blind us,
misty tentrils of darkening thoughts
tangle us.
Solitude weaves it's captive with illusions.
And ensnares good thoughts with brooding.
In trials of oneness,
we suffer.
2007.
0011 How Rilke might have translated Bashó on poetry
Be solitary.
Love solitude, and don’t look for poetry;
don’t seek what former poets sought;
see what is still and changeless;
see also what is changing;
be filled with the true nature of things – mountains, rivers, trees, grasses, falling blossoms, the scattering leaves,
and, yes, humanity too, its true nature –
and the universe will become your companion.
So your solitude will be full of the universe;
and you will watch, unmoved, the reality
and the vacuity of the world.
Concentrate your thoughts, in solitude,
on an object, on each object;
in this concentration,
the space between oneself and the object will disappear,
and the essential nature of the object can be perceived.
Then be quick to express it, while it lives for you;
say quickly what is in your mind;
as a woodcutter fells a tree, or
a swordsman leaps at his enemy, or
as you cut a ripe watermelon with a sharp knife,
or take a large bite at a pear;
this immediacy will be the life of your poem,
for nature will write the poem for you.
The language may be untrue;
but it will live with the truth.
You may feel that writing so quickly,
you may always fail; but pay no attention;
know no other thing than writing poetry;
let it make you penniless, if that is
what it needs, to speak itself.
Then, in your solitude,
which is so full of everything,
the poetic spirit will lead you wherever you must go,
make you a friend of nature,
and every form of existence will reveal
its individual feelings to you –
which are similar to those of men;
and all things, you will know, have their fulfilment.
In this solitude, your mind will be undistracted;
and then, enlightened by nature itself,
you may return to the world,
with a lightness of being, and poems
as light as looking
at the sandy bed of a shallow river;
as a tree untouched by the axe,
seemingly useless,
vulnerable to wind and rain,
at ease in itself.
Like a poet.
(This text is Bashó's advice to a poet. But the medieval Japanese poet and the modern European poet seem to be so close in their search for essence, for being, that some of Bashó's phrases have the same ring as Rilke's own advice to a young poet. I have tried to bring this out discreetly..)
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Gray Cliffs And Gray Skies
on a foundation of
giant boulders of rocks
in the desert
of Saudi Arabia
where the grass are
resilient to
heat and change
the gray cliffs rise to touch
the gray skies
as though
they are on a conference
for something bigger
than the giant rocks below
and higher than the
heights they have achieved
something must be so
important
like the need for rain
and seeds
and men and women
with thick callous hands
to work for them
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Misty Water Woman
I was driving round, as the sun went down
When I came upon a lake, the sign said misty water
And standing there, with wet and tangled hair was a girl
She said her name was bo, she was a farmers daughter
I said get in, Ill take you home, you must be cold
Misty water woman
You never get to her
Misty water woman
You never get to touch her
And feel her near
It began to storm, and our talk grew warm
Till I stopped the car outside a cold and lonely place
I said were here
But she had disappeared
And on the seat was a pool of tears
And a handkerchief of lace
I did not see her leave
I was amazed
Misty water woman
You never get to her
Misty water woman
You never get to touch her
And feel her warm
I sped into the house,
It took her father and her mother to straighten me out
What was it all about
Please let me know
She looked sad, and he looked mad
And he said, yes youre right, once we had a daughter
Her name was bo, but that was long ago
Years have gone since she drowned at misty water
And the way he took it, took me by surprise
Misty water woman
You never get to her
Misty apparition
You never get to touch her
And feel her near
song performed by by Rick Springfield
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Sunday Morning Sun
I sat by a lake this morning
as the sun crept into the sky.
The dew sparkled on the grass
and I caught a glimpse of a butterfly fly.
The waters shimmered
under the morning sun.
The ripples caused by a light breeze
twinkled as they rolled along
as I sat in complete solitude
under a Sunday morning sun.
The world was so close,
yet seemed a million miles away.
Everywhere things were waking
to a brand new day.
The air was fresh and cool
like God intended it to be.
The leaves of my writing pad
flickered as I started
to write down what I saw
under a Sunday morning sun.
10 August 2008
poem by David Harris
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You Only Feel Me Once
you only feel me once
your feet dipping on the rage of the water
of my river
it is cold and it is running
always running and you keep on looking at my face
on the ripples
it is as hazy as the sand falling on the sea
trickles and too many
you do not recognize a map of who i am
in this land of mystery
clouds and smoke and haze and mist
and shadows and fog
always moving away
you only breathe me once
i get in and follow the contours of your
throat
and then i enter in the chamber of your heart
like air
sort of a strange perfume and now the bitterness
stays
you say you cannot forget me.
i move on and like corpuscles of blood i spread
i laugh and this will be my last.
i am the lover of loneliness. I am dying.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Sign Of Solitude
GN OF SOLITUDE
A lugubrious tree high above the lot,
Yearning for an embrace tight,
It is a sign of solitude.
From the leafy world of forest deep,
A fluttery leaf falls when ripe,
It is a sign of solitude.
A scarlet flower shakes its head
But the wind dooms a petal dead,
It `s a sign of solitude.
A flock of birds among the clouds,
Finding all a bliss to the eyes,
A hunter lurks below on earth,
Aims one down for a wholesome feast,
That is a sign of solitude.
Friendship, kinship and lover's bliss,
Frizzles to mud at death's one kiss.
Jocund jolly friendly men,
Shrinks to viscid pit alone.
So death is a sign of solitude.
Glorious sun who makes us gay,
Is a loner in the Milky Way?
So HE is a sign of solitude.
poem by Sheela Devi
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Misty River
This morning
Me in this Misty River
All the happiness
I am feeling inside myself
Misty River
The mist is coming
From this Misty River
There are clouds
In the sky
And the mist
Is caused by the condensation
Of the heat mixed in the cold water
Misty River
I am in a fishing boat
That boat is moving slowly in this
Misty river
It is early in the morning
I am eating my breakfast in the fishing boat in the middle of this
Misty River
I hear the birds singing early in the morning
In this Misty River
There must be trees because the sound of the birds is coming from the Branches
Misty River
So peaceful
It looks so different with the mist
No one is around but me
With my fishing boat
And the beautiful sound of the birds
It is so nice
To have a place to come to
Where I can
Hear the sound of the birds
And be left alone
With no one disturbing me
Misty River
This is my special place
And by afternoon
No clouds I will see
The birds are beautiful
Their song is just beautiful like mother nature intended it to be
If nobody else appreciates this Misty River
I do
Misty River
I will die for you
Misty River
I will shed my tears for you
I have been coming here for so long now
Misty River
poem by Aldo Kraas
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Part of the Soul
There is a part of the soul
Concrete gardens will not fill
Towering trees of steel
Fail to satisfy
Water trickling into the drain
Not excite
This part longs
For Burnett’s Secret Garden
For vines concealing the past
The creek’s laugh
The flower’s hope
And the enduring promise of tomorrow
A solitude that never
Leaves you feeling alone
The adventure of not knowing
What is just around the bend
Branch filtered sun beams
God’s whisper in the wind
Where the reflection in the water
Isn’t just you, but something greater
A place of superiority
Marred not by man’s imperfection
A place of solitude
Bringing you home.
poem by Bethany Waters
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Attitude (Lyrics)
Maybe I act on confused behavior.
Maybe waves crash like semi-trailer.
Maybe I’ll spend my off time without you.
It seems like we need our own space.
And all this time I wasted away;
Do not feel good unless you stay stay stay.
And all this time I chased you away,
Simply to catch back up with,
Your solitude is welcome welcome.
Your attitude is welcome welcome.
Your solitude is welcome, welcome
Your attitude is welcome.
All you see is red lights behind me,
Maybe this isn’t what you wanted baby.
And I don’t blame you falling backwards,
No one’s ever quite confused you this way.
And all this time we wasted away;
We don’t feel good unless we’re gray gray.
And all the times I chased you away,
I simply don’t feel good.
Your solitude is welcome welcome.
Your attitude is welcome welcome.
Your solitude is welcome welcome.
Your attitude is welcome.
You are welcome.
You are welcome.
You are welcome.
You are welcome.
All this time,
We heard,
Alarms,
Come to find,
We fell,
Apart.
This whole thing has crashed down,
Crashed down.
All this time,
We heard,
Alarms.
Your solitude is welcome welcome.
Your attitude is welcome welcome.
Your solitude is welcome welcome.
Your attitude is welcome.
You are welcome.
You are welcome.
You are welcome.
You are welcome....
poem by Satan's Sibling
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A Poet Until 21st Century
Alone, solitude
Fresh mornings, afternoons and nights
Solitude, alone
Social confusions, drama of hot desires
Alone, solitude
Among social truths
Among art of phoenix world
Solitude, alone
Among worldly plays of knowledge society
Alone, solitude
In the variety shows of storms, beautiful forests
and on the wonderful and magical mountains
Of the universal truths
poet Nyein Way
Have Patience
there is so much noise
on the surface of things
like a very shallow river
its waters always arguing
with all the rocks
and even with the peebles
it lashes its tongue
on every bank that
it passess
without
listening
farther away is the wisdom
of silence
the patience of the depths
and its dangers
to swallow those who
are reckless
to compel the noise
to submit
to its final poise
forever, the quiet
rest, resignation, death.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Epiphany
Outside the surge of the wind, the wind in the trees,
The rush of leaves, and the sighing in the pine-needles,
Outside the sound of the sea-shore, distant, remembered,
The waves breaking on the gray rocks, and the evening approaching,
The restlessness, and the interminable noise.
Silence in the room, and solitude,
A sense of spaces, remoteness and nearness, and the soul's awareness,
Desolate is the hearts desire
And the loving knows no end,
When the morning in the clouds breaks across the sky,
And the forests sway and bend.
Outside the wind, the wind in the trees,
And the sighing in the tree-tops.
Noises from the town, heedless, unthinking, indistinct,
Recurring, fading,
And silence in the room, and solitude,
The shadowy dimness, the darkness of evening,
A pause in time, and the soul's awareness.
poem by John Thorkild Ellison
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The Forest Pool
LOST amid gloom and solitude,
A pool lies hidden in the wood,
A pool the autumn rain has made
Where flowers with their fair shadows played.
Bare as a beggar's board, the trees
Stand in the water to their knees;
The birds are mute, but far away
I hear a bloodhound's sullen bay.
Blue-eyed forget-me-nots that shook,
Kissed by a little laughing brook,
Kissed too by you with lips so red,
Float in the water drowned and dead.
And dead and drowned 'mid leaves that rot,
Our angel-eyed Forget-me-not,
The love of unforgotten years,
Floats corpse-like in a pool of tears
poem by Mathilde Blind
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