Midnight on the Great Western
In the third-class seat sat the journeying boy,
And the roof-lamp's oily flame
Played down on his listless form and face,
Bewrapt past knowing to what he was going,
Or whence he came.
In the band of his hat the journeying boy
Had a ticket stuck; and a string
Around his neck bore the key of his box,
That twinkled gleams of the lamp's sad beams
Like a living thing.
What past can be yours, O journeying boy
Towards a world uknown,
Who calmly, as if incurious quite
On all at stake, can undertake
This plunge alone?
Knows your soul a sphere, O journeying boy,
Our rude realms far above,
Whence with spacious vision you mark and mete
This region of sin that you find you in,
But are not of?
poem by Thomas Hardy
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She is Journeying
She rises
Lonely path
Arriving destination
She rests
Still journeying
Strolling seemingly
Right road
Coming close
Lays head
Up baggage
Treacherous way
Stop ahead
Meandering mysteriously
She is journeying
poem by Lindsay Maasdorp
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O Heart of Spring
O HEART of Spring!
Spirit of light and love and joyous day,
So soon to faint beneath the fiery Summer:
Still smiles the Earth, eager for thee alway:
Welcome art thou, soever short thy stay,
Thou bold, thou blithe newcomer!
Whither, O whither this thy journeying,
O heart of Spring?
O heart of Spring!
After the stormy days of Winter’s reign,
When the keen winds their last lament are sighing,
The Sun shall raise thee up to life again:
In thy dim death thou shalt not suffer pain:
Surely thou dost not fear this quiet dying?
Whither, O whither this thy journeying,
O heart of Spring?
O heart of Spring!
Youth’s emblem, ancient and unchanging light,
Uncomprehended, unconsumed, still burning:
Oh that we could, as thou, rise from the night
To find a world of blossoms lilac-white,
And long-winged swallows unafraid returning…
Whither, O whither this thy journeying,
O heart of Spring?
poem by John Shaw Neilson
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Free To Be Me
Journeying across the roads of life
In a land of violence, corruption and strife
Looking for a place to build a home
A piece of land to call my own
To breed clean livestock, to grow my crops
In a peaceful surrounding be it cold or hot
To raise a family free of pollution
Where prejudice and racism are unintelligent solutions
Hunting the wildlife which eats not of flesh
Fishing in waters clear, clean and fresh
Collecting honey from the hives of bees
Drinking spices and herb growing wild and free
Journeying through life with limited time
Searching the outskirts for a place I could find
Like my people before me I strive to be free
To demonstrate to my sons what a true man should be
poem by Mustafa Marconi
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The breaking wave and the muscle as it contracts obey the same law. Delicate line gathers the body's total strength in a bold balance. Shall my soul meet so severe a curve, journeying on its way to form?
quote by Dag Hammarskjold
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I'm such a girl for the living room. I really like to stay in my nest and not move. I travel in my mind, and that that's a rigorous state of journeying for me. My body isn't that interested in moving from place to place.
quote by Bell Hooks
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Meaning Learnt
I'm not his wife. I am his paramour:
His wayside love, picked up in journeying:
Rose of the hedgerows; fragrant, till he fling
Me down beside the ditch, a drooped thing
Some country boy may stick into his hat.
A paramour has no more use than that.
poem by Lesbia Harford
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Love Is Like Sand
I said it too,
Love is like sand,
It slips down through fingers,
But some grains stick with the palm,
And when it is bushed,
These grains pass through eyes
While journeying to the soul,
They often weep and wail
Lying in its secret channels,
But troubling a lot.
poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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Parallel Webs
Parallels irresistibly singular
shielding incarnate minds
journeying on voyages
across through medium time.
Vortex perishing
flesh embodiment enfolds encases
pilgrims magnetically trapped
in drama deifying living lives.
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Sonnet XLV: Secret Parting
Because our talk was of the cloud-control
And moon-track of the journeying face of Fate,
Her tremulous kisses faltered at love's gate
And her eyes dreamed against a distant goal:
But soon, remembering her how brief the whole
Of joy, which its own hours annihilate,
Her set gaze gathered, thirstier than of late,
And as she kissed, her mouth became her soul.
Thence in what ways we wandered, and how strove
To build with fire-tried vows the piteous home
Which memory haunts and whither sleep may roam,—
They only know for whom the roof of Love
Is the still-seated secret of the grove,
Nor spire may rise nor bell be heard therefrom.
poem by Dante Gabriel Rossetti
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Transcended Existence Quests
without soul-torn
suffering purity cannot
remain on contagious
earth escapements
without imperfection
within inspired distant
journeying destined hides
spirit healing remoteness
with soul enlightenment
desires passions extinct
human perfection attains
spiritual peace mind states
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Strange
The strangest man
I’d ever met
is a man
I won’t forget.
He entered my life
one fine day
and departed
in a similar way.
He looked a man,
but I’m not sure.
He rarely shaved:
but was mature.
Sparkling blue eyes,
pale and fair,
slim and tall,
with wavy hair.
We worked together
almost every day,
but he never spoke
of love or play.
He never mentioned
his past life,
a mother or father,
child or wife.
Often I tried
to weigh him up,
but he had drank
from many a cup.
Journeying to work
one misty day,
I saw him lying
by the highway.
With a finger severed,
lying in mud,
deep cuts on his face,
but there was no blood!
Strange!
poem by Orlando Belo
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At Midnight Hour
AT midnight hour I went, not willingly,
A little, little boy, yon churchyard past,
To Father Vicar's house; the stars on high
On all around their beauteous radiance cast,
At midnight hour.
And when, in journeying o'er the path of life,
My love I follow'd, as she onward moved,
With stars and northern lights o'er head in strife,
Going and coming, perfect bliss I proved
At midnight hour.
Until at length the full moon, lustre-fraught,
Burst thro' the gloom wherein she was enshrined;
And then the willing, active, rapid thought
Around the past, as round the future twined,
At midnight hour.
poem by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
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A Fascinating Pilgrim-Centre(Haridwar)
The Ganges was flowing
with a face furious
and the tides were looming;
We paused to have a holy dip.
We put our right foot into water,
and took it up feeling dead chill;
Smelling danger from within,
“ We already bathed at Rishikesh”,
some of us said and put on clothes.
But some local boys dived into the river
and swam to the bank with ease.
Holding the chains tight,
We dipped and felt as we had all
comforting effect to our body and soul,
and failed not to murmur
the name of the goddess, Manasa Devi.
Walking on the long bridge
across the holy Ganges
seeing her alarming face,
journeying in trolleys
to worship the goddess
at Her abode on the Siwalik hills,
marveling at the tributaries
of the mighty Ganges,
is a solacing experience
in our birth on this earth.
People set afloat
leafy boats with flowers
and a lit lamp put on each,
on the sacred river after dusk
and see them till they go off,
saying prayers to the goddess
for blessing all of them.
People of farther planets
will amaze at the glowing lamps.
poem by Rajendran Muthiah
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Truth Unwanted
I have reached a crossroads
The one path; pursuit of heart
The second path; awaiting the will of fate
The past has proven itself to be at fault
The future yet to be proven
My fate still to be decided
And so the decision over you will be told
Fate itself is written and true in the end
To get there is one's own deciding
Faulty marks thus far had me thinking
To walk a more basic path
Yet now, over you, my heart is choosing it's own path
Fate or not
To be chosen; journeying alone, awaiting fate and hoping
the heavens share a name with thee,
or; ask your hand in mine and walk the thin line between
fate and destiny; to see if my heart only cheats my soul
poem by Sean Quinlan
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Travels By The Fireside. (Birds Of Passage. Flight The Fourth)
The ceaseless rain is falling fast,
And yonder gilded vane,
Immovable for three days past,
Points to the misty main,
It drives me in upon myself
And to the fireside gleams,
To pleasant books that crowd my shelf,
And still more pleasant dreams,
I read whatever bards have sung
Of lands beyond the sea,
And the bright days when I was young
Come thronging back to me.
In fancy I can hear again
The Alpine torrent's roar,
The mule-bells on the hills of Spain,
The sea at Elsinore.
I see the convent's gleaming wall
Rise from its groves of pine,
And towers of old cathedrals tall,
And castles by the Rhine.
I journey on by park and spire,
Beneath centennial trees,
Through fields with poppies all on fire,
And gleams of distant seas.
I fear no more the dust and heat,
No more I feel fatigue,
While journeying with another's feet
O'er many a lengthening league.
Let others traverse sea and land,
And toil through various climes,
I turn the world round with my hand
Reading these poets' rhymes.
From them I learn whatever lies
Beneath each changing zone,
And see, when looking with their eyes,
Better than with mine own.
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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Misperception?
Misperception.
The silence of the night; profound.
Is broken by a dismal sound.
The tolling of a single bell.
The sad, sad sound of the death knell.
Another soul has broken free
From this sad world of misery.
Now journeying towards the light
Rejoicing in the power of flight.
But we who have been left behind
to seek what solace we can find.
Weep bitter tears which may relieve
The pain of loss but I believe.
We should not weep but celebrate.
The dear departed’s change of state.
Thursday,22 December 2011
http: // blog.myspace.com/poeticpiers
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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I Never Saw that Land Before
I never saw that land before,
And now can never see it again;
Yet, as if by acquaintance hoar
Endeared, by gladness and by pain,
Great was the affection that I bore
To the valley and the river small,
The cattle, the grass, the bare ash trees,
The chickens from the farmsteads, all
Elm-hidden, and the tributaries
Descending at equal interval;
The blackthorns down along the brook
With wounds yellow as crocuses
Where yesterday the labourer's hook
Had sliced them cleanly; and the breeze
That hinted all and nothing spoke.
I neither expected anything
Nor yet remembered: but some goal
I touched then; and if I could sing
What would not even whisper my soul
As I went on my journeying,
I should use, as the trees and birds did,
A language not to be betrayed;
And what was hid should still be hid
Excepting from those like me made
Who answer when such whispers bid.
poem by Edward Thomas
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Time’s Weariness
Slow Time, that carrieth such a monstrous load
From every stage and hostel of the Past,
Do you not weary of the endless road,
And ask how long Life's journeying will last?
Still growing burden on your patient back,
Piled are the medley miseries of mankind,
No bourne in sight along the lengthening track,
No comfort seen, before you or behind.
Should you but swerve or stagger in your pace,
Hope with strained halter tuggeth you along,
And where old sores still leave their smarting trace,
Hard on your heels Fate plies its knotted thong.
So must you on, though panting and distressed,
Not even death for solace or for rest.
poem by Alfred Austin
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The Awareness
The Awareness
As the days of light draw in I’m pulled
back to a mythical past, and I remember
a perfect moment, when time stood still
and we’re a contented family.
An alarm clock rang, a shift worker had
to get up, do his job, a summer evening
that would never return when nature
and humanity were as one
No one remember them now, traceless
but for a box of old photos in the drawer,
bones that rattle in the night; the expanse
between us is unbridgeable now
As the memory fades into a shadow
and faces are hidden in a miasma of time,
there is in the vanishing light a beacon
that still shines till my journeying ends.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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After Making Love
After making love
We split
Our bodies
Into
Perfect halves
We hold hands
Kiss
Then close
Our eyes
We dream
Something
Very peaceful
Everything
Is so calm
So perfectly
Quiet.
We hear
The footprints
Of ants
Journeying
On the ceiling,
Dreamy
Red ants
On chocolate
& bread
Crumb.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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