M.S.Subbulakshmi, The Singer
She was born as a koel,
Brought up among nightingales;
She excelled all nightingales,
And died as if a nightingale,
With no koel there to mourn.
I wish I would die among my folks.
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Related quotes
A Man with a Guitar
Men talk on the public square,
Pigeons eat on the sidewalk and fly,
Women flirt and feed the pigeons.
Men, envious of pigeons,
Desire more attention from the women
But women only notice birds who know how to sing.
There comes a nightingale that starts singing
And attention moves from pigeons to nightingales;
There comes a man with a guitar, and he starts playing
And singing like a nightingale.
A woman allured by these new sounds
Forgets the pigeons and nightingales;
She shyly starts to sing
And turns to a man with a guitar.
poem by Dejan Stojanovic
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
singing nightingales
singing nightingales
green crowned hairstreak butterflies-
love story at night
haiku by Marius Alexandru (July 2020)
Submitted by anonym
Vote! | Copy!
Hark, It's Green!
Few evenings before
It's all dry branches
I even counted them
As a doctor while reading an x-ray
The koel too settled uneasily on them
The next morning
I could recognize though hazily
Small dots of green
The koel pecking at
Lo, the following morning
The denuded tree
Through my window
Turned green overnight!
What more,
It now also has a sack of honey bees
Securely clinging to it
The incessant cooing
Lightening the drab campus
And filling my ears
Now, today when my inadvertent eyes
Lifted up, they felt confused
As if looking at a queer object
The alphabet is too inadequate
To paint that unique green
In richness of its colour!
There, do you hear
The merry cooing, my friend…?
poem by Indira Babbellapati
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
In The Garden At Swainston
NIGHTINGALES warbled without,
Within was weeping for thee:
Shadows of three dead men
Walk'd in the walks with me:
Shadows of three dead men, and thou wast one of the three.
Nightingales sang in the woods:
The Master was far away:
Nightingales warbled and sang
Of a passion that lasts but a day;
Still in the house in his coffin the Prince of courtesy lay.
Two dead men have I known
In courtesy like to thee:
Two dead men have I loved
With a love that ever will be:
Three dead men have I loved, and thou art last of the three.
poem by Alfred Lord Tennyson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Nightingale
(jude johnstone)
Yesterday I thought that I walked alone
And that love was just a memory
But a nightingale followed me back home
And my love was waiting there for me
I had lost my faith as lovers often do
When the storm clouds gather overhead
But the nightingale sang a note so true
That I knew Id lost my fear instead
And to think that I said love was for fools
And that time would never heal these old wounds
But the nightingale saved a prayer for me
In the twilight he played a faithful tune
I have heard the lark over in the vale
And Ive heard the lonesome whippoorwill
But the sweetest song is the nightingales
And I know Ill never get my fill
song performed by by Trisha Yearwood
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Like undistinguishable horses
Like undistinguishable horses,
Gleam by my ever-painful days,
As if fade all the living roses,
And die all living nightingales.
But she is, too, upset and saddened,
My single governess – my love,
And under her skin of a satin,
The poisoned blood is now moved.
And if I stand the world I live in,
That is because I have a dream:
Both of us, like two blind children,
Will go to the highland’s rims,
Where clouds are so white and close,
Where only goats run the dales,
To seek forever faded roses,
And hark to lifeless nightingales.
poem by Nikolai Stepanovich Gumilev
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Like undistinguishable horses
Like undistinguishable horses,
Gleam by my ever-painful days,
As if fade all the living roses,
And die all living nightingales.
But she is, too, upset and saddened,
My single governess – my love,
And under her skin of a satin,
The poisoned blood is now moved.
And if I stand the world I live in,
That is because I have a dream:
Both of us, like two blind children,
Will go to the highland’s rims,
Where clouds are so white and close,
Where only goats run the dales,
To seek forever faded roses,
And hark to lifeless nightingales.
poem by Nikolai Stepanovich Gumilev
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Peacocks and Nightingales
Danseuse peacocks frequently assembled
Under an arbour of a banyan tree
And enacted among themselves their skills.
Each came with mind and eye set on
Its feat and went with no notice on others feet.
Melody queen nightingales often gathered
Upon lush branches of a banyan tree
And recited among themselves their skills.
Each came with mind and ear set on its tone
And went with no effect from others’notes.
Peacocks and nightingales for dance and music
Aren’t good audience; it must be ducks and doves.
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Chose sweet fruits
Is he black in colour?
You can refer to him as a Koel,
not as a crow.
Is she fat in her contour?
You can refer to her as a bear,
not as a pig.
Is one dull in behaviour?
You can refer to one as a cow,
not as an ass.
The sadist only does otherwise.
20.05.2001 Pindi
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The grudge, meaningless
Though brooded, hatched, fed and cared
by the crow,
No koel shows any gratitude to its foster
mother,
For which no crow broods any grudge
against the koels.
Must you grudge one for ones ingratitude?
23.04.2003
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Spring Song
dirge of fallen leaves
under my feet tickle my toes
tender green smiles
a koel
perched on
a dessicated tree
cooes lullabys
to fledgelings in the nest
dry branches camouflaged
weary traveller
looks up in hope
through the dry branches...
poem by Indira Babbellapati
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Random Three Liners
a koel
cooed in haste
regret followed
a toddler
took first steps early
plodded rest of life
a child
talked before time
silenced for rest of life
the lady
laughed spontaneously
entire clan wiped off
poem by Indira Babbellapati
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Until spring comes, nightingales do not sing.
If there are no nightingales one must settle for owls.
Srping Is Here
non-stop sneezing
water dripping from
eyes red and bulged
blocked nostrils adding
nasal twang to the voice...
that sounds queerly heavy
amidst colorful floral tribute to
the earth with koel's sweetened
voice as the background score...
...o, yes!
i know spring is here
...ach...oo.., .! ! ! ! ! !
30mar2010
11.40hrs
poem by Indira Babbellapati
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Grooming makes one pleasing.
An ass is ugly, not for his nose.
He is lazy unlike the horse.
A crow is ugly, not for his black
But for his voice, unlike the koel’s.
An eagle is ugly, not for his beak,
But for his menace, unlike the parrot.
No matter how you are made,
You can make yourself lovable.
19.03.2001, Pmdi
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Early Nightingale
When first we hear the shy-come nightingales,
They seem to mutter o’er their songs in fear,
And, climb we e’er so soft the spinney rails,
All stops as if no bird was anywhere.
The kindled bushes with the young leaves thin
Let curious eyes to search a long way in,
Until impatience cannot see or hear
The hidden music; gets but little way
Upon the path - when up the songs begin,
Full loud a moment and then low again.
But when a day or two confirms her stay
Boldly she sings and loud for half the day;
And soon the village brings the woodman’s tale
Of having heard the new-come nightingale.
poem by John Clare
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Day Old Shep Died
it's been thirty years,
that he's been gone,
the day he died, brought tears,
all day, i played his song.
for nine long years,
i loved him and he loved me,
the day he died, broght tears,
toward the end, he could barely see.
when he died, i was seventeen years,
my child hood died that day,
the day he died, brought tears,
during his youth, we were always at play.
him and i was, so close in years,
when i got shep he was five and i eight,
the day he died brought tears,
he always ate his meals, off our plate.
he died at eighty-four in human years,
he lived to a ripe old age,
the day he died brought tears,
for this poem, he set the stage.
i can't believe, its been so many years,
i think about him, all the time,
the day he died, brought tears,
but old shep, was all mind.
of all these many years,
no dog has taken the place of old shep,
the day he died, brought tears,
i'll always remember, that dog with pep
in memory of old shep 1946-1960 written june 21,1990
Heraclitus
They told me, Heraclitus, they told me you were dead,
They brought me bitter news to hear and bitter tears to shed.
I wept, as I remembered, how often you and I
Had tired the sun with talking and sent him down the sky.
And now that thou art lying, my dear old Carian guest,
A handful of grey ashes, long long ago at rest,
Still are thy pleasant voices, thy nightingales, awake;
For Death, he taketh all away, but them he cannot take.
poem by William Johnson Cory
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
In the Spirit of Rumi-40-The Nightingale and the Rose
As cold winter turns to warming Spring,
two lovers return from their winter rest.
The first rose shyly blooms; .
the nightingale pours out its song.
These are the two most generous lovers in the world;
do they not deserve each other?
In the daytime, while the nightingale takes its rest,
renews its generous throat,
the rose opens to embrace the world with beauty;
In the nighttime, while the rose folds and rests in sleep,
waiting to drink that purest dew of dawn,
the nightingale tells the world of beauty;
So each speaks in turn; both speak of beauty;
one in sound, the other in silence.
This way, telling of their love to the sleeping other;
Do they prefer it thus? Or is their listening
as sensitive as a mother’s nighttime intuition,
hearing more clearly, inwardly, in rest?
Which is the Lover, which is the Beloved?
Does the nightingale return in spring
at the first perfume of the rose,
drifting from the hedge and garden
like the messages of Layla and Majnun?
Or does the rose wait impatiently to bloom in Spring
until it hears – its petals trembling as they listen –
the nightingale’s song from that liquid throat?
Which is the Lover, which is the Beloved?
Does it matter to the world?
It matters only if that love is not equal; full;
generous beyond all worldly measure;
and then the Lover has become the Beloved,
the Beloved has become the Lover..
You and I, on our prayer-mat each day,
seeking God within ourselves,
which is the Lover, which the Beloved?
Have we yet become each other,
equal, full, and generous beyond all worldly measure;
night and day, as nightingale and rose?
As nightingales and roses sing forever
of each other's love
eternally, the round world turning, turning..
l'amor che move il sole e l'altre stelle.
poem by Michael Shepherd
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!