Road and Hills
I shall go away
To the brown hills, the quiet ones,
The vast, the mountainous, the rolling,
Sun-fired and drowsy!
My horse snuffs delicately
At the strange wind;
He settles to a swinging trot; his hoofs tramp the dust.
The road winds, straightens,
Slashes a marsh,
Shoulders out a bridge,
Then --
Again the hills.
Unchanged, innumerable,
Bowing huge, round backs;
Holding secret, immense converse:
In gusty voices,
Fruitful, fecund, toiling
Like yoked black oxen.
The clouds pass like great, slow thoughts
And vanish
In the intense blue.
My horse lopes; the saddle creaks and sways.
A thousand glittering spears of sun slant from on high.
The immensity, the spaces,
Are like the spaces
Between star and star.
The hills sleep.
If I put my hand on one,
I would feel the vast heave of its breath.
I would start away before it awakened
And shook the world from its shoulders.
A cicada's cry deepens the hot silence.
The hills open
To show a slope of poppies,
Ardent, noble, heroic,
A flare, a great flame of orange;
Giving sleepy, brittle scent
That stings the lungs.
A creeping wind slips through them like a ferret; they bow and dance,
answering Beauty's voice . . .
The horse whinnies. I dismount
And tie him to the grey worn fence.
I set myself against the javelins of grass and sun;
And climb the rounded breast,
That flows like a sea-wave.
The summit crackles with heat, there is no shelter, no hollow from
the flagellating glare.
I lie down and look at the sky, shading my eyes.
My body becomes strange, the sun takes it and changes it, it does not feel,
it is like the body of another.
The air blazes. The air is diamond.
Small noises move among the grass . . .
Blackly,
A hawk mounts, mounts in the inane
Seeking the star-road,
Seeking the end . . .
But there is no end.
Here, in this light, there is no end. . .
poem by Stephen Vincent Benet
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The Black Horse Rider
For George Anthell
Between them is the land of broken colors,
the land that makes a mock of him
with miles.
He rides, he rides,
he passes through the flat
chrome wheatfields
cut by the plough of the river makers.
The hills are aslant,
the clay torsos, the hills,
the clay has a red wound,
it gapes.
The white roots cry,
there is a mute susurrus in the dark:
poppies, poppies are you not
their pain?
With hoof on flint and flint
the black horse
rides: black wind, black
against fire.
The black horse crooks his
forelegs, the hills split open,
his nostrils pour flame.
Snort, snort through miles,
O charger, through rock.
He drinks the mezas,
he burns his thin knees over
braziers of grass:
Ride, ride.
Sky is spilt water,
a silver hello is flung
from star to star.
Black horse breaks
fire underfoot and now
his mane is a burnt city,
his mouth churned ocean,
foam on his belly a constellation.
At last he tramples
the sand
behemoth
Asleep before the sea.
poem by Pierre Loving
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Wind Horse
Da naho… It is said,
Wind Horse, gentle Wind horse, you were the last of your kind.
Wind Horse, Wind Horse, you were running wild and free.
Wind Horse, Wind Horse, with this freedom you did nothing but give;
When one called for help you carried them to safety,
No enemy did you have.
Da naho… It is said,
Wind Horse, Wind Horse, you gave your life one day
To a boy with no leg.
Wind Horse, Wind Horse, you gave him your endless love.
Wind Horse, Wind Horse, you now run in the Great Hunting Grounds;
Giving joy to those there, as you did here.
Da naho… It is said,
Wind Horse, Wind Horse, your life was not the last gift
You gave the People.
Wind Horse, Wind Horse, you prayed for us, you wished a wish for us.
Wind Horse, Wind Horse, we remember you through your brother Horse.
Wi: yo: h … It is good.
Wind Horse, Wind Horse, we see you still.
poem by Tolly Rebeka Christian BlackWolf Hawk
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Blue Mountain Pioneers
The dauntless three! For twenty days and nights
These heroes battled with the haughty heights;
For twenty spaces of the star and sun
These Romans kept their harness buckled on;
By gaping gorges, and by cliffs austere,
These fathers struggled in the great old year.
Their feet they set on strange hills scarred by fire,
Their strong arms forced a path through brake and briar;
They fought with Nature till they reached the throne
Where morning glittered on the great UNKNOWN!
There, in a time with praise and prayer supreme,
Paused Blaxland, Lawson, Wentworth, in a dream;
There, where the silver arrows of the day
Smote slope and spire, they halted on their way.
Behind them were the conquered hills — they faced
The vast green West, with glad, strange beauty graced;
And every tone of every cave and tree
Was as a voice of splendid prophecy.
poem by Henry Kendall
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Horse and Rider
The prairie blows the grasses
And whips the horse’s mane.
They travel, horse and rider,
Through the sea of amber grain
Hills roll by, and clouds pass
But steady are the horse’s hooves
Upon the wind blown grass
As they travel, horse and rider
There is no trail that they follow
No path that can be seen
There they travel, horse and rider
Upon the endless blowing green
poem by Horse Poet
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Horse and Rider
The prairie blows the grasses
And whips the horse’s mane.
They travel, horse and rider,
Through the sea of amber grain
Hills roll by, and clouds pass
But steady are the horse’s hooves
Upon the wind blown grass
As they travel, horse and rider
There is no trail that they follow
No path that can be seen
There they travel, horse and rider
Upon the endless blowing green
Mad Not Mad
The windows are open wide
Georgie fame for those outside
And answering the call
Blue flames leap up the wall
Who would have thought it strange
That all of us would change
Out there in the hall
The shadows leave the wall
Then we had the plan
Back when it began
And as we turn we know
That one of us will go
(would you) dance with a mad man, mad man, mad man
Over the hills and far away
Arm in arm
Mad not mad
A star-spangled sight
Silhouettes at night
Dancing over big ben
Seven ragged men
Up up and away
Forever and a day
(would you) dance with a mad man, mad man, mad man
Over the hills and far away
Arm in arm
Mad not mad
Dance with a mad man, mad man, mad man
Beyond the reach of yesterday
What are we but our friends
Mad not mad
(mad not mad)
Hello crazy gang
Goodbye with a bang
What are we but our friends
Sailing round the bend
In love through thick and thin
I know it will all win
(would you) dance with a mad man, mad man, mad man
Over the hills and far away
Arm in arm
Mad not mad
Dance with a mad man, mad man, mad man
Beyond the reach of yesterday
What are we but our friends
Mad not mad
Dance with a mad man, mad man, mad man
As only you can
Enjoying his company
song performed by by Madness
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I Ride My Horse II
Sunlight...
I feel the sun
Warm on my skin
Shining on me
As I ride my horse
Wind…
I feel the wind
Combing my hair
Flowing past me
As I ride my horse
Sky…
I see the sky
Open above me
Calling to me
As I ride my horse
Grass…
I see the grass
All around me
Surrounding me
As I ride my horse
poem by Horse Poet
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I Ride My Horse
I feel the wind
I hear the birds
I ride my horse
As I sing words
I see the grass
I feel the leather
I ride my horse
Upon the heather
I taste the dust
I see the heat
I ride my horse
To his own beat
I feel the joy
I taste the fun
I ride my horse
Into the yellow sun
poem by Horse Poet
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Seeing Off A Friend
Green hills above the northern wall,
White water winding east of the city.
On this spot our single act of parting,
The lonely tumbleweed journeys ten thousand li.
Drifting clouds echo the traveller's thoughts,
The setting sun reflects my old friend's feelings.
You wave your hand and set off from this place,
Your horse whinnies as it leaves.
Evening Prayer
Wind stirs in expectation; it
softly strokes my face.
The March sun reassures me,
warms pale flesh
through layers of thick sweater
and winter coat.
Under indigo hills
new grass flows,
yellow and green,
as past distant ranges,
to the sky-bright, rounded sea
he flees and sends
a gift of clouds,
aflame
in glory.
Peace to the grass of the fields!
Peace
to dark hills and drifting clouds,
and to the sacrificial sun
peace!
poem by Steven Federle
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The Gippsland Hills
The hills of Gippsland were so green but that was in September
And songbirds piping happy songs as well I might remember
But now the Gippsland hills are gray since sun changed the grass colour
And though the sun shines hot today this countryside looks duller.
The Gippsland hills were green in Spring and grass growing winds were blowing
And all along the sunlit hills the wildering flowers were showing
And bell magpie piped his joyful notes and butcherbird was singing
And through those hills those happy hills the bushlark's voice went ringing.
The Gippsland hills the sunburnt hills grown lonelier and quieter
And like the shades of old man's hair they've turned a gray type whiter
The nearby creek in trickle flow, the birds have lost their voices
And not one of Nature's minstrels now on Gippsland hills rejoices.
The Gippsland hills the sunburnt hills have lost their Spring like colour
And though the sun shines hot today the Gippsland hills look duller
But Spring bring green to Gippsland hills Spring rains and soft winds blowing
And birds will sing on Gippsland hills and Gippsland creeks fast flowing.
poem by Francis Duggan
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I Ride My Horse
I feel the wind
I hear the birds
I ride my horse
As I sing words
I see the grass
I feel the leather
I ride my horse
Upon the heather
I taste the dust
I see the heat
I ride my horse
To his own beat
I feel the joy
I taste the fun
I ride my horse
Into the yellow sun
One Saturday Morning At The Mountain Top Inside The House
it is raining outside
it is the habitualness of the image that flows inside us
green grass and rolling hills and clouds a drifting
the sound of rain like footsteps of children playing under the shower from heaven
i sit upon a chair looking outside
i am not thinking about anything simply watching the rain
the green grass
the trees the sea and the horizon that extends more than what my eyes can see
more than what i can contain
this empty bowl with a wide mouth open
this hollowness that cannot speak because it does not have the exact words
to say
it seems to me that the correct existence that fills this void is nothing
but the silence of the trees, the grass, the hills and the far away seas
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Little star, little star...! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! !
Little star, little star
Why you live so far?
You really look so naughty
When from afar you wink at me.
You shine so bright above the hills.
I watch you when all is still.
Keep waiting for you in city,
Live in high rise, it’s a pity.
At times when I fly at night.
You look evermore bright.
I look and look and look.
and sketch in my book.
I truly, truly miss you.
Somehow I know you too.
Please come and say hi,
Oh now am sleepy, bye.
I’ll go to hills on weekend
Stay up late, talk, my friend.
Little star, little star,
Oh, why you live so far…
For you, of you Anika, my grand daughter.
poem by Mamta Agarwal
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Moonlight Sonata
The Moonlight Sonata
coaxes light through the window
a warm glow is between us.
Then air turns to ash and
we close our eyes.
Once when we could still see,
there were hands between us.
One a teacup, the kind saved
for the careful company
the other a nesting bird
enveloping, gentle, weightless.
I could feel in your arms
steel bands that hummed
with precision over a vast
network of machinery,
driving one day into the next.
The smell of heat hung on you,
white heat, blast furnace heat.
Skin seared to ochre, a badge,
medallion, a sign of your time.
The heavy scent of oil, grease
and solvents hung like
a shroud around your shoulders.
The shoulders from where I could
see a world shaped by the will
of your vision,
the will of your back.
I could see your hair
black, curled, swept back
by the wind or tide as
you leaned in to stand your ground
or go under for the third time.
The leather chair smelled of
smoke and grass. I could
wait for you there while you
slept, slumped, heavy breath
moist, warm on the back of
my neck.
Then our eyes are open
you speak, finally, your voice
is soft and hollow the way
mourning doves purr as the
streetlights go out. All the
sadness and regret is in your eyes
so your voice can carry across
the room to meet the music halfway.
I hold your hand like a teacup
the taste of ash, the grit, on
my tongue. I wish for wind
any expansion of air so I can see
light through the window and
feel again
the warm glow between us.
poem by Ronald Shields
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As I Sit Upon My Horse
I sit upon my horse
And gaze at the field
A field of rippling grass
Blowing in the wind
I sit upon my horse
And gaze at the sky
A clear blue sky
Filled with clouds
I sit upon my horse
And gaze at the sun
A yellow sun up high
Shining on my face
I sit upon my horse
And gaze at this world
A world fashioned,
Created by my God
poem by Horse Poet
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Do you want to hear the hills groan
Do you want to hear the hills groan?
Have a walk along the uphill and downhill road
That zigzags around one hill and thenanother
Till it reaches you to an altitude of 11000 feet
All along the way you will see
The forest cover of the hills are being torn off
The stony bones of the hills are being hit hard by dynamite
And any one who has ears can hear the mountains
Writhing in silent pain
The p ilgrim walking along the winding road
Which mounts to the shrine of Lord Siva
Doesnot know that gods have taken flight
From hills and dales
Nature is being made a parking place
For pleasurehunting cars
They have not only made the tigers and the pythons homeless
They have made the gods flee
Hence out of the day and night
Ajoy has taken flight
With the surging pleasure seeking of man
And the diabolic brain of the scientists
poem by Dr. Ramesh Chandra Mukhopadhyaya
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A Sleep
She lay sleeping
like Beauty
awaiting a kiss.
Leaning close
I feel the warmness
of her breath,
her eye lids
flutter occasionally
in butterfly sleep;
up they flick
and down again
to pause
and then
flutter again.
The shoulders bare
below spaghetti straps,
the neck
in its curvature
roll across
the shoulders where
it meets that rounded curve
atop
the arms peak.
The collar's place
swoops away
to right and left
before
floating down
to that space
above her breasts
where a slow breath
gives the topography
of brown rolling hills.
Can there be here
heavens' heights
traversing these gentle slopes;
up toward that crimson mouth
topped by haired piled
high
arrayed on the pillow-scape
cloud like?
Can it be the cheeks
are mountain flanks
kissed summer red
by my mouth?
I have no more
of wealth or need
than to lie here
and watch you sleep,
the sleep that lovers sleep
complete;
and notice how my
adorning eyes
become sugar plums
dancing.
poem by Lonnie Hicks
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Montserrat
Peace waits among the hills;
I have drunk peace,
Here, where the blue air fills
The great cup of the hills,
And fills with peace.
Between the earth and sky,
I have seen the earth
Like a dark cloud go by,
And fade out of the sky;
There was no more earth.
Here, where the Holy Graal
Brought secret light
Once, from beyond the veil,
I, seeing no Holy Graal,
See divine light.
Light fills the hills with God,
Wind with his breath,
And here, in his abode,
Light, wind, and air praise God,
And this poor breath.
poem by Arthur Symons
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A Dream Fulfilled (My First Trail Ride)
Upon the saddle I am mounted
My foot in the stirrup is set
Precious time is happily counted
a kinder horse have I never met
Upon the rocky trail I ride
I enjoy fresh air and tree-given shade
Within this horse my trust I confide
and I new friend I have surely made
Though the hills are steep and the trail is rough
This horse has been well-trained
Through the rugged trail, he proves hardy and tough
He knows the way and needs not to be reined
I hear the water of a running creek
I spot a lone deer in the distance
At the sight of this animal, I am unable to speak
While upon a horse she ignores my existence
Closer to nature I start to feel
Trees on either side I can see
Almost like a dream, yet so real
There has never been a happier me
But the trail has ended, I start to cry
I will have a horse of my own! ...But when?
For now, I depart and heave a big sigh
And look forward to the rocky trail again
poem by Glaedr the poet
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