Relearning
let not us be a currency of fixed value
there is no such thing
even a coin or
a stamp
you must have known by now
what nature is, what we are, and
where we are going?
reeds on the marsh
lilies floating on the river
a flower that one day lives
and then tomorrow dies...
on the other hand
are the seeds and cuttings and
grafts...
tight lipped buds still wanting to speak
listen!
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Related quotes
River Lilies
Saw a boy three lilies white,
Lilies in the river,
Half heart-open to the light,
Full of golden arrows bright,
Each a silver quiver.
Lilies, lilies, lilies white,
Lilies in the river.
Said the boy, “I’ll pluck you there,
Lilies in the river!”
Said the lilies, “If you dare
You shall drown, or homeward fare
Dripping and a-shiver!”
Lilies, lilies, lilies white,
Lilies in the river.
Wilful still the boy would clasp
Lilies in the river;
Tumbled in ere he could grasp,
Scrambled out with puff and gasp,
Plucked no lilies ever.
Lilies, lilies, lilies white,
Lilies in the river.
poem by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
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Remembrance
As a child I saw the sun
hanging over the marsh,
when it caught the first red rays.
In that marsh land
long-tailed widow-birds
glided deeper into the reeds.
Plover’s pretending
to have broken wings,
tried to entice me away
from their nests.
In life’s marsh
there were enemy soldiers
that was stone-dead,
while I had hidden deeper
into the reeds.
Groups of enemy patrols
cut past following the river,
to find my comrades and I.
Every time that the sun
hanged new over the reeds,
the enemy became less
and the chance to catch us diminished
and mosquitoes swarmed around me.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Lies About Love
We are a liars, because
the truth of yesterday becomes a lie tomorrow,
whereas letters are fixed,
and we live by the letter of truth.
The love I feel for my friend, this year,
is different from the love I felt last year.
If it were not so, it would be a lie.
Yet we reiterate love! love! love!
as if it were a coin with a fixed value
instead of a flower that dies, and opens a different bud.
poem by David Herbert Lawrence
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to a budding writer somewhere in Cebu
it was not him who placed the
beautiful flower on your head
and so when it wilts it is never
his concern, or hers,
she lives alone in her own
circle, she tries to get some
flowers, but they are all
already reserved for you,
and so when they make you
stand before them and they
begin to ask what makes you
think that you are a goddess
for your little poetries,
their eyes are flaming with
madness. Do not mind them
when they tell you that your
flowers are nothing but
the rotten petals of the
lesser breed or variety.
It is your heart that must be followed.
It is the mandate of the
higher goddess that must
be obeyed through and through.
So take good care of the flowers that are
still growing in your head,
the vines from your fingers
the buds that are still tight-lipped
wanting to bloom for you.
do not let the flames of envy
stop the flow of springs from
your very eyes.They see
very well the beauty that
has arrived, and the courier
says, it is now all for you.
Not for him or her. Not
even for me. I am just
anyhow carefully watching.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A Musical Instrument
What was he doing, the great god Pan,
Down in the reeds by the river?
Spreading ruin and scattering ban,
Splashing and paddling with hoofs of a goat,
And breaking the golden lilies afloat
With the dragon-fly on the river.
He tore out a reed, the great god Pan,
From the deep cool bed of the river:
The limpid water turbidly ran,
And the broken lilies a-dying lay,
And the dragon-fly had fled away,
Ere he brought it out of the river.
High on the shore sat the great god Pan
While turbidly flowed the river;
And hacked and hewed as a great god can,
With his hard bleak steel at the patient reed,
Till there was not a sign of the leaf indeed
To prove it fresh from the river.
He cut it short, did the great god Pan,
(How tall it stood in the river!)
Then drew the pith, like the heart of a man,
Steadily from the outside ring,
And notched the poor dry empty thing
In holes, as he sat by the river.
'This is the way,' laughed the great god Pan
(Laughed while he sat by the river),
'The only way, since gods began
To make sweet music, they could succeed.'
Then, dropping his mouth to a hole in the reed,
He blew in power by the river.
Sweet, sweet, sweet, O Pan!
Piercing sweet by the river!
Blinding sweet, O great god Pan!
The sun on the hill forgot to die,
And the lilies revived, and the dragon-fly
Came back to dream on the river.
Yet half a beast is the great god Pan,
To laugh as he sits by the river,
Making a poet out of a man:
The true gods sigh for the cost and pain, --
For the reed which grows nevermore again
As a reed with the reeds in the river.
poem by Elizabeth Barrett Browning
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In My Childhood Days I Pick Lilies In The Marsh [2]
In my childhood days I picked lilies in the marsh
where the highway now runs almost into eternity
while only cars do pass on the road.
Laid dry, barren and destroyed is the marsh land that I did love
and selfish gain circles out wider while nature is distorted
where the highway now runs almost into eternity
and the plain is full of offices and factories that pushed it aside
and I search for something that can keep the untouchedness
and selfish gain circles out wider while nature is distorted,
there is smoke that like a blanket folds from above over everything
while on the sidewalk there is a marigold
and I search for something that can keep the untouchedness
and notices a flower that grows wild right through the concrete,
and I see no coots or plovers calling
while on the sidewalk there is a marigold
amongst the crowding of people of the one or other group.
In my childhood days I picked lilies in the marsh
and I see no coots or plovers calling
while only cars do pass on the road.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Poetics 4...
good for you man
you are lucky
filthy rich they say
when you are filled
with guilt
you fly to thailand
and ride one
of its boats on the
mekong river
you float upon the
murkiness of your
thoughts
that is good
your neighbor touches
his chin
and nods
people here have been
killing themselves
as though they have
nine lives like
the legendary cat
of course even with
nine lives
because of that hasty
hate
they never ask
whoever
that they come back
and begin their
beings again
so no one has ever
spoken inside
that dream
no one haunts like
a horror story
everyone speaks about
a certain silence
hints about a slim sorrow
it is a world of
anything goes of
anything said
but there is nothing
really direct as
flat as a wall with
white paint all over
there are sketches, etchings,
somethings
come-ons, let go's
no one minds at all
everyone is busy
wanting to understand
but no one really
does
the real thing
swans floating on the river
butterflies floating on air
dirigibles exploding finally
over the news...
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Speak Me
Speak Me
Night has awaken water at scarf of river
Air of cold star at fan of sky
The girl who is crying at this deep night hiding face by pillow
Speak me which flower I shall string together.
The river gull looks for starfish at river
As poet looks for word’s procession of azure
What will jingle at foot of stone culture diamond!
Speak me which flower I shall string together.
The petals of flower excluded from her eye
Could butterfly hold up the rainbow in his earth?
His wants and obtains as like that of white ant-
Speak me which flower I shall string together.
Flower bloom at that earth where first step was kept
We have built this earth by that nectar of breast
I find trace of all things exchanging that glance
Speak me which flower I shall string together.
poem by Bongokobida Zakaria
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Annotations To Daily Encounters
The room is small, dark, and humid
It usually speaks,
Nevertheless, it is tight-lipped today,
While I undress myself
It looks at me
& Senses the foulness
Of my nudity.
I walk naked towards its hazy windows
Overlooking the strong rains
Pounding those breathing in the
Garden,
The sunflowers are shouting for help
They may die sooner,
While I remain in stand still
Unable to do
What is needed to be done
While everything breathing
Are groping for space.
And I can’t speak to the room either,
About this arrangement of
Predators and prey
Heavy rains and helpless sunflowers
Grandfather and son
Parasites and hosts
Brothers and sisters
Late suns and balding trees.
I am tight-tipped too,
By nature this room is without tongue,
With nothing to say, and interesting to open up, an icebreaker.
It reminds me:
It is about leaves and leaving,
About everybody’s departure, from one reason to another,
Excuses & recluses,
I don’t want to understand & I am logically starved,
Deprived of some perspective about God’s ways,
What I mean is that
This room would not want to listen about what I will say,
There is no room for pacifications anymore.
We are both occupants here, the room
Occupies me,
The pre-occupation in fact is too much
We seem too much mindful of our
Private affairs, in so contemptible manner, as it is bare, as I am naked,
And we don’t speak too many words today there
Are no adjectives for departures, we are too tight-lipped
My chest too congested, and the room too bare
It is short of what to
Expose, what with nothing left, except barrenness and nudity.
Come with us, and be departed.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Marsh Land
The nearer I come to the wild marsh land
the more I hear red-knobbed coots carolling
where a swarm of tiny weavers twitter,
rocking and balancing on the long reeds,
cheerfully the meandering stream jabbers
while it shines in the bright morning light
next to the big old hanging willow tree,
where a symphony of nature resounds.
Marsh bulrushes rocks plumed in the wind
that blows softly through the bushes of sprouts,
somewhat blinded by the natural beauty
I wander like a child through all the reeds,
drops of water jet when wild ducks fly up,
with rushes suddenly rocking up and down.
poem by Gert Strydom
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The Question
I dreamed that, as I wandered by the way,
Bare Winter suddenly was changed to Spring,
And gentle odours led my steps astray,
Mixed with a sound of waters murmuring
Along a shelving bank of turf, which lay
Under a copse, and hardly dared to fling
Its green arms round the bosom of the stream,
But kissed it and then fled, as thou mightest in dream.
There grew pied wind-flowers and violets,
Daisies, those pearled Arcturi of the earth,
The constellated flower that never sets;
Faint oxlips; tender bluebells, at whose birth
The sod scarce heaved; and that tall flower that wets--
Like a child, half in tenderness and mirth--
Its mother's face with Heaven's collected tears,
When the low wind, its playmate's voice, it hears.
And in the warm hedge grew lush eglantine,
Green cowbind and the moonlight-coloured may,
And cherry-blossoms, and white cups, whose wine
Was the bright dew, yet drained not by the day;
And wild roses, and ivy serpentine,
With its dark buds and leaves, wandering astray;
And flowers azure, black, and streaked with gold,
Fairer than any wakened eyes behold.
And nearer to the river's trembling edge
There grew broad flag-flowers, purple pranked with white,
And starry river buds among the sedge,
And floating water-lilies, broad and bright,
Which lit the oak that overhung the hedge
With moonlight beams of their own watery light;
And bulrushes, and reeds of such deep green
As soothed the dazzled eye with sober sheen.
Methought that of these visionary flowers
I made a nosegay, bound in such a way
That the same hues, which in their natural bowers
Were mingled or opposed, the like array
Kept these imprisoned children of the Hours
Within my hand,--and then, elate and gay,
I hastened to the spot whence I had come,
That I might there present it!--Oh! to whom?
poem by Percy Bysshe Shelley
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The Lake
Water lilies load all over
The blue lake amid the woods,
That imparts, while in white circles
Startling, to a boat its moods.
And along the strands I‘m passing
Listening, waiting, in unrest,
That she from the reeds may issue
And fall, gently, on my breast;
That we may jump in the little
Boat, while water‘s voices whelm
All our feelings; that enchanted
I may drop my oars and helm;
That all charmed we may be floating
While moon‘s kindly light surrounds
Us, winds cause the reeds to rustle
And the waving water sounds.
But she does not come; abandoned,
Vainly I endure and sigh
Lonely, as the water lilies
On the blue lake ever lie.
poem by Mihai Eminescu from Poems (Poesii) (September 1876), translated by Dimitrie Cuclin
Submitted by Dan Costinaş
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Aqueous Transmission
Im floating down a river
Oars freed from
Their homes long ago
Lying face up on the floor
Of my vessel
I marvel at the stars
And feel my heart overflow
Further down the river
Two weeks without my lover
Im in this boat alone
Floating down a river
Named emotion
Will I make it back to shore?
Or drift into the unknown
Further down the river
Im building an antenna
Transmissions will be sent
When I am through
Maybe we can meet again
Further down the river
And share what
We both discovered
Then revel in the view
Further down the river
Im floating down a river
song performed by by Incubus
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Seed-Time And Harvest
MY hollyhocks are all awake,
And not a single rose is lost;
My wallflowers, for dear pity's sake,
Have fought the winter's cruel frost;
Pink peony buds begin to peer,
And flags push up their sword-blades fine:
I know there will not be this year
A brighter garden plot than mine.
I'll sow the seeds of mignonette,
Of snapdragon and sunflowers tall,
And scarlet poppies I will set
To flower against the southern wall;
Already all my lilies show
The green crowns baby lilies wear,
And all my flowers will grow and blow,
Because Love's hand has set them there.
I'll plant and water, sow and weed,
Till not an inch of earth shows brown,
And take a vow of each small seed
To grow to greenness and renown:
And then some day you'll pass my way,
See gold and crimson, bell and star,
And catch my garden's soul, and say:
'How sweet these cottage gardens are!'
poem by Edith Nesbit
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Lotus Hurt by the Cold
How many times, like lotus lilies risen
Upon the surface of a river, there
Have risen floating on my blood the rare
Soft glimmers of my hope escaped from prison.
So I am clothed all over with the light
And sensitive beautiful blossoming of passion;
Till naked for her in the finest fashion
The flowers of all my mud swim into sight.
And then I offer all myself unto
This woman who likes to love me: but she turns
A look of hate upon the flower that burns
To break and pour her out its precious dew.
And slowly all the blossom shuts in pain,
And all the lotus buds of love sink over
To die unopened: when my moon-faced lover,
Kind on the weight of suffering, smiles again.
poem by David Herbert Lawrence
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Little Flower Of Mine
Spring has come once more
with a gentle wind in the rays of the sun.
Here stands a little flower among the country plains.
Little flower of mine,
You’re the rose among lilies that blossoms in all its grace.
Little flower of mine
I love your radiance of red,
and your quiet strength amid the storm.
Little flower of mine,
inspite of wind and rain you grew and grew still.
Little flower of mine
you’re the apple of mine eye,
you’re the flower that never dies.
Little flower of mine,
You’re my inspiration and joy indeed.
poem by Lyndon Murray
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Renda Writer - Wednesday
I'm floating
Down the river
Wondering
What the river's made up of
What's it a metaphor for?
What's it all for?
The silence is enjoyed
And implied
Relied upon
As a scapegoat
I'm floating
And she's driving
And the old one
Catches wind of the sin
We both cry
And hang up
Knowing we'll speak again Wednesday
poem by Renda Writer
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Flower on the Wall
Flower on the Wall
What is your story
I can guess
Blessed be by thy name
Holy is the ground
What has fallen
What is left
Only a flower
That fades with every coming hour
Life walks by
The flower dies
Symbolic is the sight
For those connected it brings fright
Flower on the wall
You bring meaning
A chance for reflection
A beauty that dies
This is nature
To gaze upon you makes me cry
poem by Louis Cecile
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Nightwatch
In the night, when a mist of sleep surrounds me
You come to me and hold me tight, winding your body all around me
And everywhere you touch I feel, that my love for you is much too real
Oh, its the same damn thing, wanting you in my dreams
Its the same damn thing, wanting you in my dreams
Sleepwalkin - I know every move you make, and every word I say
Keep it comin, comin - comin on stronger, this time Im going all the way
Is this moment just a fantasy, or a vision of what will be
Oh, its the same damn thing, wanting you in my dreams
Every night the same thing, wanting you in my dreams
(dreams fade away)
I better find you in my days, or Im losin you to the nights
Its the same thing - every night
Its the same thing - oh, youre so right
Its the same thing - wanting you
(instrumental break)
And tonight, evenings shadows are sure to find me
On my nightwatch, waiting for the warmth of you beside me
And every second that youre here I feel, this dream is real
And its the same damn thing, its the same thing
Its the same damn thing, wanting you in my dreams, dreams
song performed by by Kenny Loggins
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Floating Fence
Floating life
Floating fence
Floating talk
Floating air
O my dear, look
The sky is near
And the sky is fixed
Look, Our love is fixed
And it is in eternity
Respect love
Respect faith
We are made for
Each other
We are made for
Welfare of all.
poem by Gajanan Mishra
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