A Peasant
Iago Prytherch his name, though, be it allowed,
Just an ordinary man of the bald Welsh hills,
Who pens a few sheep in a gap of cloud.
Docking mangels, chipping the green skin
From the yellow bones with a half-witted grin
Of satisfaction, or churning the crude earth
To a stiff sea of clods that glint in the wind—
So are his days spent, his spittled mirth
Rarer than the sun that cracks the cheeks
Of the gaunt sky perhaps once in a week.
And then at night see him fixed in his chair
Motionless, except when he leans to gob in the fire.
There is something frightening in the vacancy of his mind.
His clothes, sour with years of sweat
And animal contact, shock the refined,
But affected, sense with their stark naturalness.
Yet this is your prototype, who, season by season
Against siege of rain and the wind's attrition,
Preserves his stock, an impregnable fortress
Not to be stormed, even in death's confusion.
Remember him, then, for he, too, is a winner of wars,
Enduring like a tree under the curious stars.
Submitted by Andrew Mayers
poem by Ronald Stuart Thomas
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Related quotes
Evans
Evans? Yes, many a time
I came down his bare flight
Of stairs into the gaunt kitchen
With its wood fire, where crickets sang
Accompaniment to the black kettle"s
Whine, and so into the cold
Dark to smother in the thick tide
Of night that drifted about the walls
Of his stark farm on the hill ridge.
It was not the dark filling my eyes
And mouth appalled me; not even the drip
Of rain like blood from the one tree
Weather-tortured. It was the dark
Silting the veins of that sick man
I left stranded upon the vast
And lonely shore of his bleak bed.
Submitted by Andrew Mayers
poem by Ronald Stuart Thomas
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The Night was wide, and furnished scant
589
The Night was wide, and furnished scant
With but a single Star—
That often as a Cloud it met—
Blew out itself—for fear—
The Wind pursued the little Bush—
And drove away the Leaves
November left—then clambered up
And fretted in the Eaves—
No Squirrel went abroad—
A Dog's belated feet
Like intermittent Plush, he heard
Adown the empty Street—
To feel if Blinds be fast—
And closer to the fire—
Her little Rocking Chair to draw—
And shiver for the Poor—
The Housewife's gentle Task—
How pleasanter—said she
Unto the Sofa opposite—
The Sleet—than May, no Thee—
poem by Emily Dickinson
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Spring, Summer, Fall, Winter
Soft fluffy Snow fresh on frozen ground,
Green grass, and newly blue blooming buds bulging from all around,
Days becoming longer, heat growing stronger,
Birds and animals making their beautiful sounds.
Trees becoming bald and brittle,
Swaying in the wind like evil puppets,
Children dressed in creepy, costumes.
The feeling of death creeping over everyone.
Lying on a frozen landscape,
Looking up at the falling white oblivion,
Millions marching in all working together to drowned the green army,
Giving up and going dormant realizing there is no escape,
Plants and animals, wrapped, chained, and bound.
Every Year, season, month, week, day, hour, minute, second, leading into the next, all the way till that last tick on the clock, when my pulse goes numb and faith is lost in an endless internal dark void.
Stop! Go back!
Every year, season, month, week, day, hour, minute, second, I will get to spend with the most beautiful girl in the world! Beauty unimaginable. Every second, minute, hour, day, season, year, decade, century, spent happily with her till the day my pulse goes numb and I drift off into a bright, white, light for eternity with my sweet lover in my arms!
That's my life season by season, spent in happiness, bliss, and virtue forever and ever! Forever and always! And I wouldn't have it any other way.
poem by Jacob Gifford
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A Welsh Testament
All right, I was Welsh. Does it matter?
I spoke a tongue that was passed on
To me in the place I happened to be,
A place huddled between grey walls
Of cloud for at least half the year.
My word for heaven was not yours.
The word for hell had a sharp edge
Put on it by the hand of the wind
Honing, honing with a shrill sound
Day and night. Nothing that Glyn Dwr
Knew was armour against the rain's
Missiles. What was descent from him?
Even God had a Welsh name:
He spoke to him in the old language;
He was to have a peculiar care
For the Welsh people. History showed us
He was too big to be nailed to the wall
Of a stone chapel, yet still we crammed him
Between the boards of a black book.
Yet men sought us despite this.
My high cheek-bones, my length of skull
Drew them as to a rare portrait
By a dead master. I saw them stare
From their long cars, as I passed knee-deep
In ewes and wethers. I saw them stand
By the thorn hedges, watching me string
The far flocks on a shrill whistle.
And always there was their eyes; strong
Pressure on me: You are Welsh, they said;
Speak to us so; keep your fields free
Of the smell of petrol, the loud roar
Of hot tractors; we must have peace
And quietness.
Is a museum
Peace? I asked. Am I the keeper
Of the heart's relics, blowing the dust
In my own eyes? I am a man;
I never wanted the drab role
Life assigned me, an actor playing
To the past's audience upon a stage
Of earth and stone; the absurd label
Of birth, of race hanging askew
About my shoulders. I was in prison
Until you came; your voice was a key
Turning in the enormous lock
Of hopelessness. Did the door open
To let me out or yourselves in?
Submitted by Andrew Mayers
poem by Ronald Stuart Thomas
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Beg Me
Take one more step and its over
Back up slowly inside
Breathe too loud and Ill kill you
Get down on your knees and beg me
Beg me, beg
Beg me, beg me, beg
Take off all of your clothes
Lie face down on the bed
Move one inch and Ill shoot you
Make like a woman and beg me
Beg me, beg
I said, beg me, beg me, beg
Every night on tv
I see things that should make me blush
Looks like its going to be another open season
Open season on us
Open season, open season on us
Its the first hot day of the summer
Looks like theres gonna be thunder
Ive been sitting here all afternoon
Watching the clouds
You can see the sky from my window
Can feel the wind and smell the rain
And I dont see what difference it makes
If Im a man or a woman
song performed by by Liz Phair
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Yet To Recover
I have yet to recover from shock
I had cried enough to run out of stock
He was just born to be here for few days
Only to become memory and taken away
Lovely child looked like rose flower
No sign of any weakness noticed by her
He was our timely for future
But alas! He was to remain with us no more
Season after season
Years by years
May remind of his memory
To feel only sorry
The soul remained for while
In his own unique style
Had so much to walk in miles
But cut short life meanwhile
Maybe felt so much at heart
Cruel tale of death as an art
Its universal acceptance
Gone for ever at once
Death is very much there as reality
only one fear for humanity
Just compel them to bow to almighty
For asking one thing and that too mercy
poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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Blue Season
Snow in springtime, storm in the sea
Mist at my window, no leaf on my tree
Showers in the garden with no flowers to touch
When will you bring us your sunshine and such.
Season tell me true
Whats been wrong with you
Wont you turn again
Blow away the rain
Blue season, turn away.
Wind in the evening, dust in your eye
Heart full of shadow and cloud in your sky
Everythings wrong and you know youre to blame
Nothing will change while youre still the same
Cold in the city, tears on the street
Faces are empty in those that you meet
Lovers and losers who fail in the night
When will it be that youll treat them right.
Season tell me true
How much do we need you
Wont you turn your wheel
Hide your heart of steel
Blue season, turn away.
Countries and people caught in the rain
When will they learn to feel fine again
Wandering lost now for nothing is clear
Waiting for signs of the turn of the year.
Season tell me true
Whats been wrong with you
Wont you turn again
Blow away in the rain
Blue season, turn away.
song performed by by Nick Drake
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The House Of Dust: Part 01: 07: Midnight; bells toll, and along the cloud-high towers
Midnight; bells toll, and along the cloud-high towers
The golden lights go out . . .
The yellow windows darken, the shades are drawn,
In thousands of rooms we sleep, we await the dawn,
We lie face down, we dream,
We cry aloud with terror, half rise, or seem
To stare at the ceiling or walls . . .
Midnight . . . the last of shattering bell-notes falls.
A rush of silence whirls over the cloud-high towers,
A vortex of soundless hours.
'The bells have just struck twelve: I should be sleeping.
But I cannot delay any longer to write and tell you.
The woman is dead.
She died—you know the way. Just as we planned.
Smiling, with open sunlit eyes.
Smiling upon the outstretched fatal hand . . .'
He folds his letter, steps softly down the stairs.
The doors are closed and silent. A gas-jet flares.
His shadow disturbs a shadow of balustrades.
The door swings shut behind. Night roars above him.
Into the night he fades.
Wind; wind; wind; carving the walls;
Blowing the water that gleams in the street;
Blowing the rain, the sleet.
In the dark alley, an old tree cracks and falls,
Oak-boughs moan in the haunted air;
Lamps blow down with a crash and tinkle of glass . . .
Darkness whistles . . . Wild hours pass . . .
And those whom sleep eludes lie wide-eyed, hearing
Above their heads a goblin night go by;
Children are waked, and cry,
The young girl hears the roar in her sleep, and dreams
That her lover is caught in a burning tower,
She clutches the pillow, she gasps for breath, she screams . . .
And then by degrees her breath grows quiet and slow,
She dreams of an evening, long ago:
Of colored lanterns balancing under trees,
Some of them softly catching afire;
And beneath the lanterns a motionless face she sees,
Golden with lamplight, smiling, serene . . .
The leaves are a pale and glittering green,
The sound of horns blows over the trampled grass,
Shadows of dancers pass . . .
The face smiles closer to hers, she tries to lean
Backward, away, the eyes burn close and strange,
The face is beginning to change,—
It is her lover, she no longer desires to resist,
She is held and kissed.
She closes her eyes, and melts in a seethe of flame . . .
With a smoking ghost of shame . . .
Wind, wind, wind . . . Wind in an enormous brain
Blowing dark thoughts like fallen leaves . . .
The wind shrieks, the wind grieves;
It dashes the leaves on walls, it whirls then again;
And the enormous sleeper vaguely and stupidly dreams
And desires to stir, to resist a ghost of pain.
One, whom the city imprisoned because of his cunning,
Who dreamed for years in a tower,
Seizes this hour
Of tumult and wind. He files through the rusted bar,
Leans his face to the rain, laughs up at the night,
Slides down the knotted sheet, swings over the wall,
To fall to the street with a cat-like fall,
Slinks round a quavering rim of windy light,
And at last is gone,
Leaving his empty cell for the pallor of dawn . . .
The mother whose child was buried to-day
Turns her face to the window; her face is grey;
And all her body is cold with the coldness of rain.
He would have grown as easily as a tree,
He would have spread a pleasure of shade above her,
He would have been his father again . . .
His growth was ended by a freezing invisible shadow.
She lies, and does not move, and is stabbed by the rain.
Wind, wind, wind; we toss and dream;
We dream we are clouds and stars, blown in a stream:
Windows rattle above our beds;
We reach vague-gesturing hands, we lift our heads,
Hear sounds far off,—and dream, with quivering breath,
Our curious separate ways through life and death.
poem by Conrad Potter Aiken
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Rain
Thoughts of rain at sunset
Clouds of rainbow blue
Thoughts of sun on sand-dunes
Where the seabirds flew
This was our season, and we said it couldnt end
But my love left with the rain.
Thoughts of leaves in autumn
Falling from the trees
Thoughts of hoaring tree tops
Leading to the sea
This was our season, no lies and no pretend
But my love left with the rain.
Thoughts of springtime rainfall
Touching flowers that bend
Thoughts of wind in willows
Days that never end
This was our season, but sorrow waited round the bend
For my love left with the rain.
Rains the way you move now
Sun the way you seem
Leaves the way you wonder
Flowers the way you dream
This was our season, and we said it couldnt end
But my love left with the rain
song performed by by Nick Drake
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Death Of Autumn
When reeds are dead and a straw to thatch the marshes,
And feathered pampas-grass rides into the wind
Like aged warriors westward, tragic, thinned
Of half their tribe, and over the flattened rushes,
Stripped of its secret, open, stark and bleak,
Blackens afar the half-forgotten creek,—
Then leans on me the weight of the year, and crushes
My heart. I know that Beauty must ail and die,
And will be born again,—but ah, to see
Beauty stiffened, staring up at the sky!
Oh, Autumn! Autumn!—What is the Spring to me?
poem by Edna St. Vincent Millay
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The Death of a Soldier
Life contracts and death is expected,
As in season of autumn.
The soldier falls.
He does not become a three-days personage.
Imposing his separation,
Calling for pomp.
Death is absolute and without memorial,
As in a season of autumn,
When the wind stops,
When the wind stops and, over the heavens,
The clouds go, nevertheless,
In their direction.
poem by Wallace Stevens
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Reincarnation
Somewhere
I think of you
Somewhere
I remember you
You are with me like the wind
From a faraway land and I know it is you
The way you kiss me still makes me quiver
Wind-lips touching my cheeks my neck
Wind hands caressing my arms my hands my chest
Wind-body hushing pressing against my body today
There is a sense of longing about two
Past bodies,
Two past warm bodies pressing to
Past warmth and past time somewhere
Only that it is too hard to remember the details
Of that past love, past the season, only that it is hard
To remember why that love died untimely
Now we are here, I am in this present body of a writer
For some reason you read me in your present body of a reader
You are telling me that something in my poem catches
The eye of your soul and you begin to remember
This is him, this is him, he was there with me before
Your way of telling me without seeing me is a feeling too
We were there before we were together we just can’t remember the details.
Today you are the thought that touches me like the wind-mind
So gently, a thought comes to my brain, a feminine thought claiming
A right that was there before, and which today vehemently denies.
The present seals it with birth.
Locked.
Another death is needed to open it.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A sneak preview...! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! !
A sneak preview
As winter makes
Its debut…
Eateries launch
Steaming
Soup week.
Hawker sets up shop
Under Asoka tree;
Spice up the noon.
Young couples
Snuggle
Behind shrubs.
Stoles and sweaters;
Colours
Galore.
Man in rocking chair,
Newspaper on face
Sun bathes snores.
Women knit,
Gossip over
Hot cups of tea.
Men in blazers
Mufflers, jackets
Look dapper…
Girls put their best
Foot forward
In high boots.
Chrysanthemums
Nonchalantly
Steal the show.
Boys roll in wet grass
One atop the other,
Clothes stained green.
A woman in tatters
Shivers, sells
Incense sticks.
Cinnamon
Flavour
Of the season.
Grand father bats
Kid bowls;
Jumps with joy,
Shouts, out.
Leaves gleam like emeralds
Dance with breeze,
No fear of theft.
Boys play;
Beads of sweat on upper lip.
Sweaters tied
To the waist.
Egret and crow
Play in rose garden;
No warden.
Sunday picnics,
Parks alive
With mirth
And laughter.
First snow on hills,
Morning walkers
Shiver with chill.
Go nuts
Over nuts…
Kids rush,
Late for school bus
At crack of dawn,
Flushed cheeks,
Exhale white
Smoke
If winter comes,
Can love be
Far behind?
The season,
compelling
reason
To hold and hug
for warmth.
poem by Mamta Agarwal
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A Murmur in the Trees—to note
416
A Murmur in the Trees—to note—
Not loud enough—for Wind—
A Star—not far enough to seek—
Nor near enough—to find—
A long—long Yellow—on the Lawn—
A Hubbub—as of feet—
Not audible—as Ours—to Us—
But dapperer—More Sweet—
A Hurrying Home of little Men
To Houses unperceived—
All this—and more—if I should tell—
Would never be believed—
Of Robins in the Trundle bed
How many I espy
Whose Nightgowns could not hide the Wings—
Although I heard them try—
But then I promised ne'er to tell—
How could I break My Word?
So go your Way—and I'll go Mine—
No fear you'll miss the Road.
poem by Emily Dickinson
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Tis so appalling—it exhilarates
281
'Tis so appalling—it exhilarates—
So over Horror, it half Captivates—
The Soul stares after it, secure—
A Sepulchre, fears frost, no more—
To scan a Ghost, is faint—
But grappling, conquers it—
How easy, Torment, now—
Suspense kept sawing so—
The Truth, is Bald, and Cold—
But that will hold—
If any are not sure—
We show them—prayer—
But we, who know,
Stop hoping, now—
Looking at Death, is Dying—
Just let go the Breath—
And not the pillow at your Cheek
So Slumbereth—
Others, Can wrestle—
Yours, is done—
And so of Woe, bleak dreaded—come,
It sets the Fright at liberty—
And Terror's free—
Gay, Ghastly, Holiday!
poem by Emily Dickinson
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Seasons
What is a season, sometimes children ask,
Then to explain to them is not a hard task;
its four groups of months, divided equally,
Winter I like, It's the month so special to me.
First we take Summer, it's sometimes so very hot,
But; when you get to go swimming, it cools you a lot;
Eating Salads, and lovely cold drinks, and sweet too,
But; when it's in the 40's, I just don't know what to do.
Next we have Autumn, a beautiful season to check out,
The colors on each tree change, the wind blows the leaves about;
We know it's almost time, to get our warm clothes ready,
and when it's very windy, it's hard to stay on your feet steady.
Then comes Winter, out comes our warm clothes, and gear,
Our coats, gloves, and rain boots, are always left near;
Then it comes, the rain, Hail, sleet and icy snow,
Where you feel the winters blast, on each finger and toe.
So there is the seasons, each different from the other,
What is your favorite season, or do you prefer, not to bother?
In Melbourne Victoria, It's like all comes together,
Four seasons in a day, oh what strange yet beautiful weather.
poem by Margaret Haig
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Planting African Marigolds (Cavatina Sequence)
Under the summer sun's harsh glare I hoed
and I weeded,
to and fro I planted the seed in rows,
flowers I needed
to like their mother grow almost waist high
but unheeded
of all my efforts not a single one
appeared as the soil turned to stone.
Some more seeds I harvested from dried buds
as spring came on,
some the weavers might as their food devour,
they may be gone
with the whispering churning rampant wind
but some alone
would burst through the earth, would no season mar,
like blazing flaming yellow and red stars.
poem by Gert Strydom
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New For Old
Bud blisters into life
Stretching for the light
Unfolding radiant green
Upturned palm to the sun
Life seeping in, breathing out
Green, Green so Green
Resurrected hope, so Green
Summer breeze stroking
Branches ebb and flow
Leaves so Green strong now
Fear not wind of change
Mellow summer turns
Green, green, green-yellow
Yellow area of dieing heart
Green lingers no more
Limp transparent yellow
Barely a breeze takes one
Fierce Hyde-like wind now
Cracking and ripping
Wind torn leaves fall
Life chords snapped
Death too early, still Green
Nourishment broken not ended
Seasons build up to tear down
To build up, to tear down
Leaves fall, Green leaves fall
And then some more
Until leaves are falling, falling
Trees and branches revealed
In the x-ray of autumn blast
Winter is coming
Winter is coming
Yellow pale yellow carpet
Beneath the naked tree
Yellow, mulchy brown
Once crisp leaves scatter
Green, yellow, transparent veins
Tired, half dead, leaves lose their grip
Join the autumn rain soaked mound
Providing new life to the roots
Old for new, New for Old
Seeds buried in death
Bring new life in Spring
In the end is the beginning.
poem by Adrian Wait
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Miss You Most
- M. Carey - W. Afanasieff -
The fire is burning
The room's all aglow
Outside the December wind blows
Away in the distance the carolers sing in the snow
Everybody's laughing
The world is celebrating
And everyone's so happy
Except for me tonight
Because I miss you
Most at Christmas time
And I can't get you
Get you off my mind
Every other season comes along
And I'm all right
But then I miss you, most at Christmas time
I gaze out the window
This cold winter's night
At all of the twinkling lights
Alone in the darkness
Remembering when you were mine
Everybody's smiling
The whole world is rejoicing
And everyone's embracing
Except for you and I
Baby I miss you
Most at Christmas time
And I can't get you
Get you off my mind
Every other season comes along
And I'm all right
But then I miss you, most at Christmas time
In the springtime those memories start to fade
With the April rain
Through the summer days
Till autumn's leaves are gone
I get by without you
Till the snow begins to fall
And then I miss you
Most at Christmas time
And I can't get you
Get you off my mind
Every other season comes along
And I'm all right...
But then I miss you, most at Christmas time
song performed by by Mariah Carey
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Ravashing
When the sun is burning out
And the night is pouring in
Now is the time to run, run boy
Now is the time to hide
There's nobody out on the beach
There's nobody down in the woods
We're gonne do it alone
We're gonna do it outside -
And I can feel the air it's sticking to our skin so tight
And I can feel there's something in this air tonight --
-- I really got it bad
Tonight I really got it bad
Tonight I really got it bad
But it's still so good, so good
That I got it at all and it was
Ravishing, ravishing
And I love to see the moonlight
See it shimmer down my dress
It's so ravishing, ravishing
And the wind is like a finger
Tracing patterns on your chest
You're so ravishing
And I know
This is the season that we make our move
This is the season we've got something to prove
And this is the season I've got something to lose
Oh, it's now or it's never
So now and forever, we're
Ravishing, ravishing
Oh-wo-wo
Ravishing, ravishing
Oh-wo-wo
Ravishing, ravishing oh-wo-wo
It's all right
We'll be ravishing each other till the end of this endless night
It's all right, so right, it's all right, so right
And if an angel broke his wings
Would he come to you for parts
I need a couple of wings boy, boy
I need a reason to soar
And if the devil lost his fire
Could he count on you for sparks
There's something ws ought to try now
We ought to try it some more -
-- Than anything I ever wanted was to see the light
And there's e chance that we'll be glowing in the dark tonight -
I really got it bad
Tonight I really got it bad
I really got it bad
Tonight I rEally got it bad
But it still felt good -- so good --
--Just to get it at all, and it's so
Ravishing, ravishing
-And I can't believe the way the stars are shooting through your hair
You're so ravishing, ravishing
And it's just my luck tonight I don't have anything to wear
We're so ravishing
This is the season that we make our move
This is the season we've got something to prove
This is the season I've got something to lose
And all we ever really needed was
Ravishing, ravishing, Oh-wo-wo
Ravishing, ravishing, Oh-wo-wo
Ravishing, ravishing, oh-wo-wo
It's all right
We'll be ravishing each other till the end of this endless night
It's all right, so right, it's all right, so right
song performed by by Bonnie Tyler
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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