Contradictions
Longfellow
The drowsy carrier sways
To the drowsy horses' tramp.
His axles winnow the sprays
Of the hedge where the rabbit plays
In the light of his single lamp.
He hears a roar behind,
A howl, a hoot, and a yell
A headlight strikes him blind
And a stench o'erpowers the wind
Like a blast from the mouth of Hell.
He mends his swingle-bar
And loud his curses ring;
But a mother watching afar
Hears the hum of the doctor's car
Like the beat of an angel's wings!
So, to the poet's mood,
Motor or carrier's wan,
Properly understood,
Are neither evil nor good--
Ormuzd not Ahriman!
poem by Rudyard Kipling
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Related quotes
A Poet Talks To Himself
A poet talks to himself
And hears his own praises
And does not believe them.
A poet talks to himself
And hears a critical word
And knows he is right.
A poet talks to himself
And imagines others are listening
And love his dreams as if they were their own –
A poet talks to himself
And in the talking plays
In many voices -
A poet talks to himself
And in talking to himself
Feels more and more alone -
Where are the holy listeners?
Where is the love which is not absurd?
A poet talks to himself
And prays he is secretly being overheard-
And wonders why God should want words
From a mortal so small.
poem by Shalom Freedman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Because language is the carrier of ideas, it is easy to believe that it should be very little else than such a carrier.
quote by Louise Bogan
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Blind Bartimeus
Blind Bartimeus at the gates
Of Jericho in darkness waits;
He hears the crowd;--he hears a breath
Say, "It is Christ of Nazareth!"
And calls, in tones of agony,
The thronging multitudes increase;
Blind Bartimeus, hold thy peace!
But still, above the noisy crowd,
The beggar's cry is shrill and loud;
Until they say, "He calleth thee!"
Then saith the Christ, as silent stands
The crowd, "What wilt thou at my hands?"
And he replies, "O give me light!
Rabbi, restore the blind man's sight.
And Jesus answers, '(GREEK)'
(GREEK)!
Ye that have eyes, yet cannot see,
In darkness and in misery,
Recall those mighty Voices Three,
(GREEK)!
(GREEK)!
(GREEK)!
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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History, Science, and Math in Geography
Please let your brevity light open wide
And help those ten fingers do his math
He's a digit off to divide
The light of his way
Into a room full of dreams
Who he should become?
The man who raised him
The man who was his doctor
His teacher, his father
You see! When you lived far from the city
Science did not explain the flow of light
To a child... once upon a time
Imagination
Of a mother he didn't have
He hears who he lost
Dearly but no fear
Feeling her presence around
Solace of darkness
How to cook a pot of rice?
And the lamp showed the flow of light
To fire woods in the kiln
Thus, the flow of eight siblings,
It too explained
The History of population's growth
In the barrio
Among neighborhoods
He learned it somehow
When kerosene lamp is off
They do Math at night
poem by Efren Petalver Carranza
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Evil Angel
Originally posted between 2007 and 2008, however some issues occured and all my poetry was deleted, however I had a copy of it stored and am reposting it now
Your Life turns to Hell
Hell looks like heaven
But your still on Earth
Nothing looks like it should
All that you held close
Pushes you away
Evil Angel, You fear nothing
You wish your Hell away
and run to Heaven
but Heaven was Hell
Look at the stars above
Tell me your running
Tell me your crying
Evil angel, you fear nothing
Evil angel, your stronger still
Evil angel, you rule the night
Evil angel, you never sin
Evil angel, let me in
poem by Electric Tripp
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Song of the Cattle Hunters
While the morning light beams on the fern-matted streams,
And the water-pools flash in its glow,
Down the ridges we fly, with a loud ringing cry --
Down the ridges and gullies we go!
And the cattle we hunt -- they are racing in front,
With a roar like the thunder of waves,
As the beat and the beat of our swift horses' feet
Start the echoes away from their caves!
As the beat and the beat
Of our swift horses' feet
Start the echoes away from their caves!
Like a wintry shore that the waters ride o'er,
All the lowlands are filling with sound;
For swiftly we gain where the herds on the plain,
Like a tempest, are tearing the ground!
And we'll follow them hard to the rails of the yard,
O'er the gulches and mountain-tops grey,
Where the beat and the beat of our swift horses' feet
Will die with the echoes away!
Where the beat and the beat
Of our swift horses' feet
Will die with the echoes away!
poem by Henry Kendall
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Soft Coat
On the rapid asphalt road
bloody fur, a rabbit caught
in the glaring headlight of
a speeding car.
Poor creature don’t cross
the road at night, do not
cross it at all unless you’re
an angel and can fly.
No one loves a rabbit less
it is a child’s pet and lives in
a tiny cage. Run free rabbit,
run on the forest’s floor.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Our Parents'! !
When there is light in our life
We move out from our parents life
When we move out
Our parents have a doubt
Why would we leave their life
Because when our life settles
We don't have to ask for cattle
All people think
That there carrier is the pink
But no 1 tries to think
That our parents are the pink
Who gives us our first seen
But the carrier is unseen
It has not given us light
And our first sight.
poem by MOHAMMED Zuhair
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Carillon
In the ancient town of Bruges,
In the quaint old Flemish city,
As the evening shades descended,
Low and loud and sweetly blended,
Low at times and loud at times,
And changing like a poet's rhymes,
Rang the beautiful wild chimes
From the Belfry in the market
Of the ancient town of Bruges.
Then, with deep sonorous clangor
Calmly answering their sweet anger,
When the wrangling bells had ended,
Slowly struck the clock eleven,
And, from out the silent heaven,
Silence on the town descended.
Silence, silence everywhere,
On the earth and in the air,
Save that footsteps here and there
Of some burgher home returning,
By the street lamps faintly burning,
For a moment woke the echoes
Of the ancient town of Bruges.
But amid my broken slumbers
Still I heard those magic numbers,
As they loud proclaimed the flight
And stolen marches of the night;
Till their chimes in sweet collision
Mingled with each wandering vision,
Mingled with the fortune-telling
Gypsy-bands of dreams and fancies,
Which amid the waste expanses
Of the silent land of trances
Have their solitary dwelling;
All else seemed asleep in Bruges,
In the quaint old Flemish city.
And I thought how like these chimes
Are the poet's airy rhymes,
All his rhymes and roundelays,
His conceits, and songs, and ditties,
From the belfry of his brain,
Scattered downward, though in vain,
On the roofs and stones of cities!
For by night the drowsy ear
Under its curtains cannot hear,
And by day men go their ways,
Hearing the music as they pass,
But deeming it no more, alas!
Than the hollow sound of brass.
Yet perchance a sleepless wight,
Lodging at some humble inn
In the narrow lanes of life,
When the dusk and hush of night
Shut out the incessant din
Of daylight and its toil and strife,
May listen with a calm delight
To the poet's melodies,
Till he hears, or dreams he hears,
Intermingled with the song,
Thoughts that he has cherished long;
Hears amid the chime and singing
The bells of his own village ringing,
And wakes, and finds his slumberous eyes
Wet with most delicious tears.
Thus dreamed I, as by night I lay
In Bruges, at the Fleur-de-Ble,
Listening with a wild delight
To the chimes that, through the night
Bang their changes from the Belfry
Of that quaint old Flemish city.
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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Life Of The Burden Carrier
The burden carrier...
Assesses life,
From a self centered point of view.
Nothing is ever quite right,
With their findings.
No matter what is done,
Or what some may do.
A fulfillment is obtained,
That sustains them with complaints.
And any excuse to induce their own pain,
Helps them contain an arrogance maintained.
This is the life of the burden carrier.
Nobody knows the troubles they've seen.
Nobody knows their sorrows.
Nobody!
And 'who' do we thank for that?
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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I Want To Be A Cloud Above You
I want to be a cloud above you,
To travel in the world,
To be on highest sky,
Nearest stars and moon.
Wind to be my carrier,
Sun to be my warmth,
I am just a cloud filled with memories,
On the infinite sky of life.
I am balancing my wings everywhere,
Seeking for peace and love,
Following you wherever you go,
Seeing you near brings me relief.
I am for you only a memory,
In an ocean of happenings of your life,
I 'll be always above you watching,
My tears will always fall to you with my love.
poem by Cristina Teodor
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The Piper On The Hills
A CHILD'S SONG
There sits a piper on the hill
Who pipes the livelong day,
And when he pipes both loud and shrill,
The frightened people say
‘The wind, the wind is blowing up,
'Tis rising to a gale.’
The women hurry to the shore
To watch some distant sail.
The wind, the wind, the wind, the wind,
Is blowing to a gale.
But when he pipes all sweet and low,
The piper on the hill,
I hear the merry women go
With laughter, loud and shrill
‘The wind, the wind is coming south,
'Twill blow a gentle day.’
They gather on the meadow-land,
To toss the yellow hay.
The wind, the wind, the wind, the wind,
Is blowing south to-day.
And in the morn, when winter comes,
To keep the piper warm,
The little Angels shake their wings
To make a feather storm
‘The snow, the snow has come at last!’
The happy children call,
And ‘ring around’ they dance in glee,
And watch the snowflakes fall.
The wind, the wind, the wind, the wind,
Has spread a snowy pall.
But when at night the piper plays,
I have not any fear,
Because God's windows open wide
The pretty tune to hear;
And when each crowding spirit looks,
From its star window-pane,
A watching mother may behold
Her little child again.
The wind, the wind, the wind, the wind,
May blow her home again.
poem by Dora Sigerson Shorter
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Similarities And Differences
a carrrier beat his horse
another carrier beat the Mayor
after such a hard work
the first sleep at home
and the other in the shadow of prison
(translated from romanian)
poem by Ion Untaru
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The Girls at Home
When the daylight fades on the tented field,
And the campfire cheerfully burns,
Then the Soldier's thought, like a carrier dove,
To his own love home returns;
Like a carrier dove -- a carrier dove,
And gleams beyond the foam,
So a light springs up in the Soldier's heart,
As he thinks of the Girls at Home.
When the shadows dance on the canvas walls,
And the camp with melody rings,
'Tis the good old song of the Stars and Stripes,
That the fireside circle sings;
Of the Stars and Stripes -- the Stars and Stripes --
For love of which they roam;
But the final song and the sweetest one,
Is the song of the Girls at Home.
Now the silver rays of a setting moon,
Thru' the lofty sycamores creep,
And the fires burn low, and the sentries watch
O'er the arm-ed host a-sleep;
And the sentries watch -- the sentries watch --
Till morning gilds the dome;
Till the rattling drum shall the sleepers rouse
From the dream of the Girls at Home.
poem by Henry Clay Work
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Can't Beat Much Longer Without You
I'm feeling drowsy and i can't speak
My life is lousy and my heart is weak
I need to get away from this crazy street
Oh yeah and my heart can't beat much longer
Without you
I’m feeling drowsy and I’m really down
My life is lousy when you’re not around
I need to get out of this crazy town
Oh yeah, and my heart can’t beat much longer
Without you
When you called me the other night
And you asked me if I was alrite
I was fighting back the tears
But I hoped you would not notice.
It’s cos i’m missing you right now
But I knew I would somehow
Oh yeah and my heart can’t beat much longer
Without you.
poem by Lucy Vernezze
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Counterpoint: Two Rooms
He, in the room above, grown old and tired;
She, in the room below, his floor her ceiling,
Pursue their separate dreams. He turns his light,
And throws himself on the bed, face down, in laughter.
She, by the window, smiles at a starlight night.
His watch—the same he has heard these cycles of ages—
Wearily chimes at seconds beneath his pillow.
The clock upon her mantelpiece strikes nine.
The night wears on. She hears dull steps above her.
The world whirs on. New stars come up to shine.
His youth—far off—he sees it brightly walking
In a golden cloud .... wings flashing about it....
Darkness
Walls it around with dripping enormous walls.
Old age, far off—or death—what do they matter?
Down the smooth purple night a streaked star falls.
She hears slow steps in the street; they chime like music,
They climb to her heart, they break and flower in beauty,
Along her veins they glisten and ring and burn.
He hears his own slow steps tread down to silence.
Far off they pass. He knows they will never return.
Far off, on a smooth dark road, he hears them faintly.
The road, like a sombre river, quietly flowing,
Moves among murmurous walls. A deeper breath
Swells them to sound: he hears his steps more clearly.
And death seems nearer to him; or he to death.
What's death?—she smiles. The cool stone hurts her elbow,
The last few raindrops gather and fall from elm-boughs,
She sees them glisten and break. The arc-lamp sings,
The new leaves dip in the warm wet air and fragrance,
A sparrbw whirs to the eaves and shakes its wings.
What's death—what's death ? The spring returns like music ;
The trees are like dark lovers who dream in starlight;
The soft grey clouds go over the stars like dreams.
The cool stone wounds her arms to pain, to pleasure.
Under the lamp a circle of wet street gleams.
And death seems far away—a thing of roses,
A golden portal where golden music closes,
Death seems far away;
And spring returns, the countless singing of lovers,
And spring returns to stay....
He, in the room above, grown old and tired,
Flings himself on the bed, face down, in laughter,
And clenches his hands, and remembers, and desires to die.
And she, by the window, smiles at a night of starlight....
The soft grey clouds go slowly across the sky.
poem by Conrad Potter Aiken
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Thank You for being an Angel
Thank you for being an Angel
That's what the lady had said
Her carrier had split and her fruit and her veg
Had all on the pavement been shed!
Thank you for being an Angel
I smiled as I loaded my sack
Her eggs and her beans - her potatoes and greens
Were all picked up and carefully put back.
Thank you for being an Angel
Her words made me ask what I'd done
I'd only behaved as the gent that I am
Or perhaps like a dutiful son?
Thank you for being an Angel
When I gave him my seat on the bus
I felt that my wings must be showing
Oh why all this bother and fuss?
Thank you for being an Angel
I had taken her dog for a sprint
She had broken her leg on the ski slope
And had it done up in a splint!
Thank you for being an Angel
This time it was said by a boy
I had fixed up his bike with my tool kit
Because it was his pride and his joy!
Thank you for being an Angel
This is what so many say
If you show them some love - if you give them some help
If you teach them to learn how to pray
Thank you for being an Angel
Is this just a phrase that they use?
Are they really aware that God's presence is there
When such heavenly language they use?
Thank you for being an Angel
God uses us all in His will
To help those around us in need and despair
And our lives with His Spirit will fill
Thank you for being an Angel
If you place your faith in the Lord
He will choose you and use you in all sorts of ways
In different parts fo the World.
Thank you for being an Angel
Just smile if that's what they say
You don't need no wings or halos and things
It's just that God used you that day!
There are Spiritaul Angels who dwell in Heaven and are used by God in many different ways. Also my experience has shown me that God can use Spiritual People as his messengers (Angels) to carry out His will in the World. If you are such a person - Thank You for being an Angel!
(John Knight - Colchester - October 2009)
poem by John Knight
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Chain Lightning
Sometimes when I'm thinkin that love's not around
My heart begins sinkin, I don't hear a sound
And the world is in blackness, no light shines on me
I suffer no blindness, no one can I see
Then a flash from the heavens, like loud jagged wire
And the silence is broken, and the night is on fire.
(Chorus)
It's like chain lightning, this love that I feel
Who knows where it strikes
Or when it will hit
How long it will last, or when it will quit
In the forest I'm burnin, struck down by the blast
The fever is churnin, and the heat rises fast
And those standing nearest can show their concern
But swear if they touch me, that they too will burn
They fear for their lives, for death will soon dwell
In the warmth of your love is the fire of hell.
(Chorus)
It's like chain lightning, this love that I feel
Who knows where it strikes
Or when it will hit
How long it will last, or when it will quit
And soon the sparks scatter and the wind whips the flame
And love will soon shatter what it cannot tame
And the cycle continues from life into dust
For I am now in you, with the fire of lust
I hear the explosion, and the thunder and rain
The water is falling, and the ashes remain.
(Chorus)
It's like chain lightning, this love that I feel
Who knows where it strikes
Or when it will hit
How long it will last, or when it will quit
The Indians tell us that the phoenix can rise
From teh smoldering ashes that once were my eyes
And watch beautiful colors from black and from grey
Be formed into wings and then take me away
Where evil is darkness and goodness is light
And love is the lightning that cust through the night
And strikes only once in a dark place in time
And forms a fold stairway that all of us climb.
Submitted by C. Cox
song performed by by Don McLean
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Sonnet: I am Dr. John Celes
I am the Man with an ‘Almighty-pen’!
And loud-speaker voice and tongue both smooth and harsh;
My poems are like eggs from ‘Golden-hen’,
And never will be like the gas from marsh.
I am a Man with a good conscience!
I’ll point my finger at you if you err;
I am a Poet and a man of Science;
Provoke me and a hornet’s nest you’ll stir!
I am a Man who will be Overseer!
And Honesty and Justice- both I want;
No evil-doer escapes me, oh dear!
Songs I will sing and Poems I will chant.
I’m Doctor John Celes, Doctor-Poet!
I know I’m great but none know me as yet.
poem by John Celes
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The House Of Dust: Part 04: 04: Counterpoint: Two Rooms
He, in the room above, grown old and tired,
She, in the room below—his floor her ceiling—
Pursue their separate dreams. He turns his light,
And throws himself on the bed, face down, in laughter. . . .
She, by the window, smiles at a starlight night,
His watch—the same he has heard these cycles of ages—
Wearily chimes at seconds beneath his pillow.
The clock, upon her mantelpiece, strikes nine.
The night wears on. She hears dull steps above her.
The world whirs on. . . .New stars come up to shine.
His youth—far off—he sees it brightly walking
In a golden cloud. . . .Wings flashing about it. . . . Darkness
Walls it around with dripping enormous walls.
Old age—far off—her death—what do they matter?
Down the smooth purple night a streaked star falls.
She hears slow steps in the street—they chime like music;
They climb to her heart, they break and flower in beauty,
Along her veins they glisten and ring and burn. . . .
He hears his own slow steps tread down to silence.
Far off they pass. He knows they will never return.
Far off—on a smooth dark road—he hears them faintly.
The road, like a sombre river, quietly flowing,
Moves among murmurous walls. A deeper breath
Swells them to sound: he hears his steps more clearly.
And death seems nearer to him: or he to death.
What's death?—She smiles. The cool stone hurts her elbows.
The last of the rain-drops gather and fall from elm-boughs,
She sees them glisten and break. The arc-lamp sings,
The new leaves dip in the warm wet air and fragrance.
A sparrow whirs to the eaves, and shakes his wings.
What's death—what's death? The spring returns like music,
The trees are like dark lovers who dream in starlight,
The soft grey clouds go over the stars like dreams.
The cool stone wounds her arms to pain, to pleasure.
Under the lamp a circle of wet street gleams. . . .
And death seems far away, a thing of roses,
A golden portal, where golden music closes,
Death seems far away:
And spring returns, the countless singing of lovers,
And spring returns to stay. . . .
He, in the room above, grown old and tired,
Flings himself on the bed, face down, in laughter,
And clenches his hands, and remembers, and desires to die.
And she, by the window, smiles at a night of starlight.
. . . The soft grey clouds go slowly across the sky.
poem by Conrad Potter Aiken
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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