Aforetime
Dear exile from the hurrying crowd,
At work I muse to you aloud;
Thought on my anvil softens, glows,
And I forget our art has foes;
For life, the mother of beauty, seems
A joyous sleep with waking dreams.
Then the toy armoury of the brain
Opining, judging, looks as vain
As trowels silver gilt for use
Of mayors and kings, who have to lay
Foundation stones in hope they may
Be honoured for walls others build.
I, in amicable muse,
With fathomless wonder only filled,
Whisper over to your ear
Listening two hundred odd miles north,
And give thought chase that, were you here,
Our talk would never run to earth.
Man can answer no momentous question:
Whence comes his spirit? Has it lived before?
Reason fails; hot springs of feeling spout
Their snowy columns high in the dim land
Of his surmise — violent divine decisions
That often rule him: and at times he views
Portraits of places he has never been to,
Yet more minute and vivid than remembrance,
Of boyhood homes, sail between sleep and waking
Like some mirage, refuting all experience
With topsy-turvy ships,
That steals by in dead calms through tropic haze:
And many a man in his climacteric years,
Thoughts and remembered words have roused from sleep
With knowledge that he lacked on lying down:
And I, lapped in a trance of reverie, doubt
Some spore of episodes
Anterior far beyond this body's birth,
Dispersed like puffs of dust impalpable,
Wind-carried round this globe for centuries,
May, breathed with common air, yet swim the blood,
And striking root in this or that brain, raise
Imaginations unaccountable;
One such seems half-implied in all I am,
And many times re-pondered shapes like this:
A child myself I watched a woman loll
Like to a clot of seaweed thrown ashore;
Heavy and limp as cloth soaked in black dye,
She glooms the noontide dazzle where a bay
Bites into vineyarded flats close-fenced by hills,
Over whose tops lap forests of cork and fir
And reach in places half down their rough slopes.
Lower, some few cleared fields square on the thickets
Of junipers and longer thorns than furze
So clumped that they are trackless even for goats
I know two things about that woman: first
She is a slave and I am free, and next
As mothers need their sons' love she needs mine.
Longings to utter fond compassionate sounds
Stir through me, checked by knowing wiser folk
Reprobate such indulgence. Ill at ease,
Mute, yet her captive, I thrust brown toes through
Loose sand no daily large tides overwhelm
To cake and roll it firm and smooth and clean
As the Atlantic remakes shores, you know.
But there, like trailing skirts, long flaws of wind
Obliterate the prints feet during calms
Track over and over its always lonely stretch,
Till some will have, it ghosts must rove at night;
For folk by day are rare, yet a still week
Leaves hardly ten yards anywhere uncrossed;
Tempest spreads all revirginate like snow,
Half burying dead wood snapped off from tossed trees,
Since right along the foreshore, out of reach
Of furious driven waves, three hundred pines
Straggle the marches between sand and soil.
Like maps of stone-walled fields their branching roots
Hold the silt still so that thin grass grows there,
Its blades whitened with travelling powdery drift
The besom of the lightest breeze sets stirring.
That woman's gaze toils worn from remote years,
Yet forward yearns through the bright spacious noon,
Beyond the farthest isle, whose filmy shape
Floats faint on the sea-line.
I, scooping grains up with the frail half-shell
Pale green and white-lined of sea-urchin, knew
What her eyes sought as often children know
Of grief or sin they could not name or think of
Yet sooth or shrink from, so I saw and longed
To heal her tender wound and yet said naught.
The energy of bygone joy and pain
Had left her listless figure charged with magic
That caught and held my idleness near hers.
Resentful of her power, my spirit chafed
Against its own deep pity, as though it were
Raised ghost and she the witch had bid it haunt me.
What's more I knew this slave by rights should glean
And faggot drift-wood, not lounge there and waste
My father's food dreaming his time away.
For then as now the common-minded rich
Grudged ease to those whose toil brought them in means
For every waste of life. At length I spoke,
Insulting both my inarticulate soul
And her with acted anger: 'Lazy wretch,
Is it for eyes like yours to watch the sea
As though you waited for a homing ship?
My father might with reason spend his hours
Scanning the far horizon; for his Swan
Whose outward lading was full half a vintage
Is now months overdue.' She turned on me
Her languor knit and, through its homespun wrap,
Her muscular frame gave hints of rebel will,
While those great caves of night, her eyes, faced mine,
Dread with the silence of unuttered wrongs:
At last she spoke as one who must be heeded.
Truly I am not clear
Whether her meaning was conveyed in words
(She mingled accents of an eastern tongue
With deformed phrases of our native Latin)
Or whether thought from her gaze poured through mine.
The gravity of recollected life
Was hers, condensed and, like a vision, flashed
Suddenly on the guilty mind, a whole
Compact, no longer a mere tedious string
Of moments negligible, each so small
As they were lived, but stark like a slain man
Who would alive have been ourself with twice
The skill, the knowledge, the vitality
Actually ours. Yea, as a tree may view
With fingerless boughs and lorn pole impotent,
An elephant gorged upon its leaves depart,
Men often have reviewed an unwieldy past,
That like a feasted Mammoth, leisured and slow,
Turned its back on their warped bones. Even thus,
Momentous with reproach, her grave regard
Made me feel mean, cashiered of rank and right,
My limbs that twelve good years had nursed were numbed
And all their fidgety quicksilver grew stiff,
Novel and fevering hallucinations
Invaded my attention. So daylight
When shutters are thrown back spreads through a house;
As then the dreams and terrors of the night
Decamp, so from my mind were driven
All its own thoughts and feelings. Close she leant
Propped on a swarthy arm, while the other helped
With eloquent gesture potent as wizard wand,
Veil the world off as with an airy web,
Or flowing tent a-gleam with pictured folds.
These tauten and distend — one sea of wheat,
Islanded with black cities, borders now
The voluminous blue pavilion of day.
There-under to the nearest of those towns
This woman younger by ten years made haste
While at her side ran a small boy of six.
They neared the walls, half a huge double gate
Lay prostrate, though the other by stone hinges
Hung to its flanking tower. The path they followed
Threaded an old paved road whose flags were edged
With dry grass and dry weeds, even cactuses
Had pushed the stones up or found root in muck heaps:
The path struck up the slope of the fallen door,
Basalt like midnight, o'er which dusty feet
Had greyed a passage, for it rested on
Some débris fallen from the left-hand tower,
And from its upper edge rude blocks like steps
Led down into the straight main street, that ran
Past eyeless buildings mined as it were from coal,
And earthquake-raised to light. Palaces and
Roofless wide-flighted colonnaded temples,
The uncemented walls piled-plumb with blocks
Squared, polished, fitted with daemonic patience.
Each gaping threshold high again as need be
Waited a nine-foot lord to enter hall,
Where the least draughty corner sheltered now
Half-tented hut or improvised small home
For Arab, brown, light-footed and proud-necked
As was this woman with the compelling voice.
Their present hutched and hived within that past
As bees in the parchment chest of Samson's lion;
And all seem conscious that their life was sweet,
Like mice who clean their faces after meals
And have such grace of movement, when unscared,
As wins the admiration even of those
Whose stores they rob and soil. I saw her eyes
Young with contentment in her son
And smaller babe and in their handsome sire,
And knew that many a supper had been relished
With hearts as joyous as waited while she cooked
And served upon returning to their cot
In hall where once far other hearts caroused.
They and their tribe could never reap a tithe
Of the vast harvest rustling round those ruins,
And over which a half-moon soon set forth
From black hills mounded up both east and south,
While north-west her light played on distant summits;
All the huge interspace floored with standing corn
Which kings afar send soldiery to reap,
Who now, beside a long canal cut straight
In ancient days, have pitched their noisy camp
Which on that vast staid silence makes a bruise
Of blare and riot that its robust health
Will certainly heal in a brief lapse of time.
One night, re-thought on after ten whole years,
Is like the condor high above the Andes,
A speck with difficulty found again
Once the attention quits it. And I next
Descried our woman under breathless noon,
Bathing in a clear lane of gliding water
Whose banks seem lonely as the path of light
Crossing mid ocean south of Capricorn.
Her son steals warily after a butterfly
And is as hushed with hope to capture it
As are the birds with heat. An insect hum
Circles the spot as round a cymbal's rim,
Long after it has clanged, tingles a throb
Which in a dream forgets the parent sound,
Oppressed by this protracted and awe-filled pause,
She hardly dares to wade the stream and moves
As though in dread to wake some sleeping god,
Yet still she nears and nears the further bank
Where there is shade under a shumac's eaves.
The brilliant surface cut her right in two,
And the reflection of her bronzed torso
Hid all beneath the polished gliding mirror;
How her face listened to that sleep divine
Whose audible breath was tuned to dreams of bliss!
Sudden, as though the woof of heaven were torn,
A strident shout rang from some neighbour shrubs
Three Nubian soldiers ran upon her with
Delighted oily faces. Screaming first
Commands to her small son to make for home,
She laboured to recross the current as when
In nightmares the scared soul expects to die
Tortured by mutiny in limbs like lead,
But as the playful lion of the sea
Climbs the rock ledges hard by Fingal's cave
To throw himself down into deep green baths,
While others barking follow his vigorous lead,
The foremost Abyssinian threw his weight
Before her with a splash that hid them both,
As the explosion of light-filled liquid parcels
Shot forth in all directions. In his arms
She re-appeared, a tragic terrified face
Beside his coarse one laughing with success.
Squeezing her with a pantomime of love,
He turns to follow an arrow with his eyes
That his companion, still upon the bank,
Has aimed towards her son's small head that bobbed
Like a black cork across the basking corn.
But from the level of the sunk stream bed
Neither he nor she could see the target aimed at,
Yet in the pause they heard the poor child scream;
A second arrow, second scream; she fought,
But soon like bundle bound, hung o'er his shoulder,
Helpless as a mouse in cat's mouth carried off
In search of quiet, there to play with it.
Those arrows missed? — or did they not? The child
Shrieked twice, yet scarcely like a wounded thing
She thought and hoped and still but thinks and hopes.
Where is that boy? Where is her husband now?
While she submitted body to force and soul
To the great shuddering violence of despair
How had their life progressed in that far place?
Compassion fused my consciousness with hers
And second-sighted eloquence arose
To claim my mind for rostrum,
But obstinately tranced
My eyes clung to their vision;
For regions to explore allure the boy
No stretch of thought or sea of feeling tempts.
Entranced, the mind I then had, haunted
Those basalt ruins. High on sable towers
Some silky patriarchal goat appears
And ponders silent streets, or suddenly
Some nanny, her huge bag swollen with milk,
Trots out on galleries that unfenced run
Round vacant courts, there, stopped by plaintive kids,
Lets them complete their meal. While always, always,
Throughout, those mazed, sullen and sun-soaked walls,
The steady, healthy wind,
Which often blows for weeks without a lull
Across that upland plain,
Flutes staidly. Moaning
Continuously as seas
Or forests before storm,
And, gathering moment,
Articulated by her woe, begins
With second-sighted eloquence
To wail through me,
Nigh as unheeded,
As though it still had been
Meaningless wind.
For ah! the heart is cowed
And dares not use her strength,
Hears the kind impulse plead
Against the common avaricious fear,
Grants it but life, though sovereignty was due
Or doles it sway but one day out of seven
Or one a year.
So, so, and ever, so
In the close-curtained court
Those causes are deferred
Which most import;
These wait man's leisure.
These daily matters elbow;
Merely because
His panic meanness
Jibs blindly ere it hear
What wisdom has prepared,
Bolts headlong ere it see
Her face unfold its smile.
Man after man, race after race
Drops jaded by the iterancy
Of petty fear.
Even as horses on the green steppes grazing,
Hundreds scattered through lonely peacefulness,
If shadow of cloud or red fox breaking earth
Delude but one with dream of a stealthy foe,
All are stampeded.
Their frantic torrent draws in,
With dire attraction, cumulative force,
Stragglers grazing miles from where it started;
On it thunders quite devoid of meaning.
The tender private soul
Thus takes contagion from the sordid crowd,
And shying at mere dread of loss,
Loses the whole of life.
Thus, in the vortex of a base turmoil,
Those myriad million energies wear down
That might have raised mankind
To live the life of gods.
Had but my soul been his,
As his was mine,
Those wind-resembling accents
Had found fit auditor.
Their second-sighted eloquence,
Welcomed with acclamation,
Had fired action.
But that was ages since: he was not then
What now I am,
Who have no longer
The opportunity then mine, then missed, —
Who still am dazed and troubled
Surmising others mine, others missed.
Passionate, never-wearied voice,
Tombed in thy brittle shell,
This human heart
Thou croonest age on age,
'Give and ask not,
Help and blame not,'
Heeded less than large and mottled cowry
The which at least some child may hold to ear
All smiles to listen.
Thou findest parables;
With fond imagination
Adorning truth
For the successive
Unpersuaded
Generations.
This boy, myself that was,
Musing visions by that woman raised,
Watched that land she came from, towned with ruins
Send mile-long files of laden camels out
With grain to hostile cities, —
Knew too the blue entrancing plain of waters
Teemed with fresh shoals, buoyed up indifferently,
Fisher — trader — pirate bark, —
Even the straight thought whispered at his ear,
'Thy lips might join with hers as with some cousin's,
Here, now, at noon,
Hugging her bereavéd sadness close,
And still, to-night, with equal satisfaction,
Thy mother's blind contentment with her son.'
While half-seduced, half-chafed, his mind was shaken
As with conflicting gusts a choppy sea,
His eyes, still greedy of their visions,
Fastened a swarthy town enisled in wheat,
And to the ebon threshold of each house,
Conjured forth the man that each was planned for:
Great creatures smiling with his father's smile,
Muscular, wealthy and self-satisfied,
Wearing loud-coloured raiment, earrings, chains,
Armlet and buckle, all of clanking gold.
His spirit drank from theirs great draughts of pride
And read their minds more clearly than his own;
All, with one counsel like a chorus, dinned
His soul that then was mine,
With truths well-proved in action.
'Love is chaos,
For order's sake
Whatever must be, should be,'
Roared those bulls of Bashan.
Then their proud chant argued,
'How should this woman know
Her little lad again,
Who either now is bones
Under the fertile field,
Or well nigh a grown man?
Say they should cross at market
Both slaves would pass on, not a start the wiser.
What is she then to him
Or he to her
After these years?
To drag a life that might have been but is not
With toil of mind and heart,
Through dreary year on year,
Neglecting for its sake the life that is,
Spells folly and ingratitude to those
Who treat their slaves well.
Thy father's household and thyself should be
More to her now than those who may be dead,
The place she lives in dearer
Than any unattainable far land
Where she is more forgotten than old dreams.
Why make the day of evil worse
By dwelling on it after it has past?
Near things alone are real,
Now is the whole of time:
Places beyond the horizon are but pictures;
Memory cheats the eye with an illusion!'
'Your thoughts are sound, bold builders,
I am my father's son.
Behold this home-shore, these our hills, this bay,
And this our slave! —
Up, work, look sharp about it!'
Bounding a foot and fast retiring from her,
I stoop for stones strewn thick about the sand,
Aim them, fling them,
And, as my idle arm resumes the knack,
Score a hit and laugh
To see her stumble hurt, behind the pine trunks.
'Unless you work, I throw again,
To it and steady at it.
Mark me, drab, we Camilli
Mean what we say.'
Stone after stone still flies,
But aimed to knock chips from the pine-boles now;
For she is busy gathering sticks, increasing
Her distance as she may. The noon is sultry,
Heated and clammy, I,
Towards the live waves turning, slip my tunic,
Then run in naked.
Cooled and soothed by swimming,
Both mind and heart from their late tumult tuned
To placid acquiescent health,
I float, suspended in the limpid water,
Passive, rhythmically governed;
So tranced worlds travel the dark shoreless ether.
'Where should this stream of pictures tend?'
No, Bottomley, you will not ask;
To you I am quite free to send
The unexpected, unexplained,
You will not take me thus to task.
So they be painted well, they live;
If ill, they yet may cling to fame
Associated with your name.
In which case you, and not I, give
That we are both contented with.
poem by Thomas Sturge Moore
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Related quotes
Work, Sleep, Work, Sleep, Work
Work, sleep, work, sleep,
Work, sleep, work, sleep,
Work, sleep, work, sleep,
Work:
Work, sleep, work, sleep,
Work, sleep, work, sleep,
Work, sleep, work, sleep,
Work.
Oh free me please with gentle ease
From work, sleep, work, sleep, work!
This odium, pounding tedium
Of my work, sleep, work, sleep, work.
Just whisk me off to lands afar
From work, sleep, work, sleep, work -
That grinding train of rhythmic pain
Called ‘Work, sleep, work, sleep, work.’
Poor neural circuits fizzle and pop
In work, sleep, work, sleep, work,
In trying to make some sense of all this
Work, sleep, work, sleep, work.
But Hark! I see a golden gleam -
A saving spirit of hope:
‘You’re fired! ’ He screams. What news to bear,
This wondrous hangman’s rope!
So now I’m free, released from all this
Work, sleep, work, sleep, work -
Eternal peace and rest for me, no
Work, sleep, work, sleep, work.
poem by Mark R Slaughter
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
A Mother
How can a mother forget her child,
the child who is conceived nine months in the womb
the child that is cradled at daytime,
night time until dawn?
How can a mother forget her child?
How can a mother forget her child
the child who after the flow of months
has learned to stand and run?
How can a mother forget her child,
the child whose mouth imitates her mother`s tongue,
the child who after a year or two can say,
'Mama, I love you'?
How can a mother forget her child,
the child who is so dear in her own heart and mind,
the child that reveals the mystery of creation,
the beauty of growth and human interaction.
the infinity of our own universe
within its finite linear time?
poem by Elizabeth Padillo Olesen
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Looking At The Soldiers
“Mother, the trumpets are sounding to-day,
And the soldiers go by in their gallant array!
Their horses prance gaily, their banners float free,
Come, come to the window, dear mother, with me.
“Do you see how their bayonets gleam in the sun,
And their soldier-plumes nod, as they slowly march on?
And look to the regular tread of their feet!
Keeping time to the sound of the kettle-drum's beat.
“This, mother, you know, is a glorious day,
And Americans all should be joyous and gay;
For the Fourth of July saw our country set free;
But you look not delighted, dear mother, like me!”
“No, love; for that shining and brilliant display,
To me only tells of war's fearful array;
And I know that those bayonets, flashing so bright,
Were made in man's blood to be spoil'd of their light.
“And the music that swells up so sweet to the ear,
In a long gush of melody, joyous and clear,
Just as freely would pour out its wild thrilling flood,
To stir up men's hearts to the shedding of blood!
“Our country, my boy, as you tell me, is free,
But even that thought brings a sadness to me;
For less guilt would be hers, were her own fetter'd hand
Unable to loosen her slaves from their band.
“We joy that our country's light bonds have been broke,
But her sons wear, by thousands, a life-crushing yoke;
And yon bayonets, dear, would be sheathed in their breast,
Should they fling off the shackles that round them are prest.
“Even ‘midst these triumphant rejoicings, to-day,
The slave-mother weeps for her babes, torn away,
'Midst the echoing burst of these shouts, to be sold,
Human forms as they are, for a pittance of gold!
“Can you wonder then, love, that your mother is sad,
Though yon show is so gay, and the crowd is so glad?
Or will not my boy turn with me from the sight,
To think of those slaves sunk in sorrow and night?”
poem by Elizabeth Margaret Chandler from Poetical Works (1836)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
Vote! | Copy!
Dyer's Eve
Dear Mother
Dear Father
What Is this Hell You Have Put Me Through
Believer
Deceiver
Day in Day out Live My Life Through You
Pushed onto Me What's Wrong or Right
Hidden from this Thing That They Call Life
Dear Mother
Dear Father
Every Thought I'd Think You'd Disapprove
Curator
Dictator
Always Cencoring My Every Move
Children Are Seen Bur Are Not Heard
Tear out Everything Inspired
Innocence
Torn from Me Without Your Shelter
Barred Reality
I'm Living Blindly
Dear Mother
Dear Father
Time Has Frozen Still What's Left to Be
Hear Nothing
Say Nothing
Cannot Face the Fact I Think for Me
No Guarantee
song performed by by Metallica from ...And Justice For All
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Waking Up
waking up...
waking up for the music...
music, wake up, wake up.
listen to the music waking up
from a deep sleep.
sleep wake up.
listen.
music. wake up. up. up. up.
music, sleep.
waking up to the music
lullaby, mother, it is still nighttime
in your life.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Lullaby of my native mother
Lullaby of my native mother
Aahraro Aahraro My dear son
You are born to rule this land
with love and everlasting peace
Aahraro Aahraro My dear love
sleep my son by closing your floral eye lids
to work for this land and to your people
Aahraro Aahraro My Sweet honey
Talk my son to write many new epics
for enriching your mother tongue
Aahraro Aahraro My beloved soul
play my son with lions and tigers
to fight with the cruels and devils
for establishing the empire of peace
Aahraro Aahraro My rising sun
wake up my son from this bed of poverty
to pave the way to our prosperity
Aahraro Aahraro My sweet memories
work for peace of this world
to raise this world as heaven
Aahraro Aahraro My dream product
work in the fields as much as possible to you
to eradicate hungry from this world
Aahraro Aahraro now you sleep my son
to realize all these in your life
Now You Sleep my son as a sleeping Ocean
[Aahraro Is a word Used by our native mothers to make their children to sleep]
poem by Sakthi Ravichandran
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Grondad's Lullaby
Sleep bonny babby, thi grondad is near,
Noa harm can touch thee, sleep withaat fear;
Innocent craytur, soa helpless an waik,
Grondad wod give up his life for thy sake,
Sleep little beauty,
Angels thee keep,
Grondad is watchin,
Sleep, beauty, sleep.
Through the thick mist of past years aw luk back,
Vainly aw try to discover the track
Buried, alas! for no trace can aw see,
Ov the way aw once trod when as sinless as thee,
Sleep little beauty,
Angels thee keep,
Grondad is watchin,
Sleep, beauty, sleep.
Smilin in slumber,--dreamin ov bliss,
Feelin in fancy a fond mother's kiss;
Richer bi far nor a king on his throne,
Fearlessly facing a future unknown.
Sleep little beauty,
Angels thee keep,
Grondad is watchin,
Sleep, beauty, sleep.
What wod aw give could aw once agean be,
Innocent, spotless an trustin as thee;
May noa grief give thee occasion to weep,
Blessins attend thee!--Sleep, beauty, sleep.
Sleep little beauty,
Angels thee keep,
Grondad is watchin,
Sleep, beauty, sleep.
poem by John Hartley
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Crowd At The Ball Game
The crowd at the ball game
is moved uniformly
by a spirit of uselessness
which delights them—
all the exciting detail
of the chase
and the escape, the error
the flash of genius—
all to no end save beauty
the eternal—
So in detail they, the crowd,
are beautiful
for this
to be warned against
saluted and defied—
It is alive, venomous
it smiles grimly
its words cut—
The flashy female with her
mother, gets it—
The Jew gets it straight— it
is deadly, terrifying—
It is the Inquisition, the
Revolution
It is beauty itself
that lives
day by day in them
idly—
This is
the power of their faces
It is summer, it is the solstice
the crowd is
cheering, the crowd is laughing
in detail
permanently, seriously
without thought
poem by William Carlos Williams
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
It's My Life
It's funny how I find myself in love with you
If I could buy my reasoning I'd pay to lose
One half won't do
I've asked myself
How much do you commit yourself?
It's my life
Don't you forget
It's my life
It never ends
Funny how I blind myself
I never knew
If I was sometimes played upon
Afraid to lose
I'd tell myself what good do you do
Convince myself
It's my life
Don't you forget
It's my life
It never ends
I've asked myself
How much do you commit yourself?
It's my life
Don't you forget
Caught in the crowd
It never ends
It's my life
Don't you forget
Caught in the crowd
It never ends
It's my life (it's my life)
Don't you forget (don't you forget)
Caught in the crowd (caught in the crowd)
It never ends (it never ends)
song performed by by No Doubt
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
The Anvil
England's on the anvil--hear the hammers ring--
Clanging from the Severn to the Tyne!
Never was a blacksmith like our Norman King--
England's being hammered, hammered, hammered into line!
England's on the anvil! Heavy are the blows!
(But the work will be a marvel when it's done.)
Little bits of Kingdoms cannot stand against their foes.
England's being hammered hammered, hammered into one!
There shall be one people--it shall serve one Lord--
(Neither Prist nor Baron shall escape!)
It shall have one speech and law, soul and strength and sword.
England's being hammered, hammered, hammered into
shape!
poem by Rudyard Kipling
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Swing Of Things
(pal waaktaar)
They say the worlds an eventful place
You give me news
I dont want to know
You say that I should care
That I should speak my mind
Oh, but how can I speak of the world
Pushing by
With a lump in my throat
And tears in my eyes
Have we come to the point of no turning back
Or is it still time to get into
The swing of things
Let us walk through this windless city
Ill go on til the winter gets me
Sleep... you wrote sleep, my dear
In a letter somewhere
Oh, but how can I sleep with your voice in my head
And and ocean between us
And room in my bed
Have I come to the point where Im loosing the grip
Or is it still time to get into
The swing of things
When she glows in the dark
And Im weak by the sight
Of this breathtaking beauty
In which I can hide
There is a worldful out there
Of people I fear
But given time Ill get into
The swing of things
Yes, when se glows in the dark and Im struck by the sight
I know that Ill need this for the rest of my life
What have I done
What lies I have told
Ive played games with the ones that rescued my soul
Have I come to the point where Im losing the grip
Or is it still time to get into
The swing of things
song performed by by A-Ha
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
An Elegy To A Perfect Mother
Sleep well, oh! Mother,
Thou hast won thyself, a ghastly prison
Even as life blooms all around thee,
As the good earth nourishes, all that is hers
With the remnants, of thy well lived corsage
Thou sleepest unconscious,
to this bliss of new life
The pain yet remains
in my heart, dear mother!
For i am still alive,
wilst thou, sadly, are dead
Survivor's guilt, I do so dread
Yet gladly suffer its pangs, I will
For I know, thou hast risen,
to a better life, a better station
Yet why is this pain so unbearable, dear mother?
Tell me why.....
I weep for you mother, you know I do
You have died for me, I know
Do not curse me now
Whatever I maybe,
do not curse me......
For I still weep for you
Sad, our ways must come to part
here, Today, Forever
We all come to this world, someday,
So go back, we must
You precede me,
And I, shall follow you
For thy absence,
makes life, all the while,
unworthy of living
Leave us not forget the memories,
Our memories..
As thy blood drains to sand,
and all that is unborn in you, lies dead
I would not have our memories die,
I would not have them fade away
So remember you, I shall, Every day
Although you lie imprisoned, within this vast sepulcher
I shall remember you.....
Sleep well, mother
Thy dreams, are still now,
as thy son's are today
Sleep well, unflawed progenitor,
for thy journey hast seen, a fruitful ending
Someday, we will meet again
though you may not remember
Me,
Nor I you
Yet someday, we will meet again,
and that, is my supreme consolation......! ! ! !
poem by Abhimanyu Raman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Golden-Tressed Adelaide
SING, I pray, a little song,
Mother dear!
Neither sad nor very long:
It is for a little maid,
Golden-tressed Adelaide!
Therefore let it suit a merry, merry ear,
Mother dear!
Let it be a merry strain,
Mother dear!
Shunning e’en the thought of pain:
For our gentle child will weep,
If the theme be dark and deep;
And we will not draw a single, single tear,
Mother dear!
Childhood should be all divine,
Mother dear!
And like an endless summer shine;
Gay as Edward’s shouts and cries,
Bright as Agnes’ azure eyes:
Therefore, bid thy song be merry:—dost thou hear,
Mother dear?
poem by Barry Cornwall
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
In the spirit of Rumi - 47 - A Confession of Love Withheld
Now with surprise and sadness, I have realised–
I do not love you as much as I thought…
When you are beside me
in the bed when I awake
I whisper with my waking breath
to your open or your sleeping eyes,
‘I love you’…and in that,
I find myself…
But when you are far away
my first involuntary waking thought
is not of you, or love, or God
Who guided me through the night,
Who taught me to enjoy
His great invention, sleep…
but of myself…
myself and world as two
and I am lost to myself…
and know, I have not yet
surrendered all my mind and will
to God…
O My Beloved
how can I love you fully, as God loves, when
I do not yet see God
in every waking moment
in myself?
poem by Michael Shepherd
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Work - the cycle
Wake, work, home, eat sleep
This cycle keeps on and on
As the time it takes is so long
Wake, work, home, eat sleep
Wake work home eat sleep
This cycle don’t seem at all to end
All your life in work you seem to spend
Wake work home eat sleep
Wake work home eat sleep
You start to see your life is slipping away
As people no longer around you stay
Wake work home eat sleep
Wake work home eat sleep
I’m surprised now I’m even getting time to eat
It would be bliss to stop rest my feet
Wake work home eat sleep
Wake work home eat sleep
You doing so many hours you feel ill
And you keep doing the cycle still
Wake work home eat sleep
Wake work home eat sleep
People bosses customers just keep adding more
You start to long for sleep and to snore
Wake work home eat sleep
Wake work home eat sleep
Something drastic happens the cycle breaks
And that all that it really takes
Wake work home eat sleep no more., ….
Lonely Lola Cherry Cola Girl
Lonely Lola Cherry Cola girl
How much did they pay you for your smile
Alone in your own creaming soda world
Maybe you were happy for a while
Lola you're a star tonight
Don't let them
Pluck you from the sky
Lonely Lola everybody knows
Everybody calls themselves your friend
But later on tonight when it gets cold
Lola who's a gonna love you then
But there's something in your eyes tonight
Forget them
And take it in your stride
My friends told me 'bout
How you've been getting out
But no one seems to know your name
Slide on through the crowd
And let them talk aloud
They only want to hold ya
And so you I'm a Lonely Lola sure
Everybody gets that way sometimes
And only Lola you could know the cure
Wait it out and Lola you'll be fine
Its easy if you try tonight
Don't sit there
And keep on asking why
My friends told me 'bout
How you've been getting out
And no one seems to know your name
Slide on through the crowd
And let them talk aloud
They only want to hold ya
Do they really know ya lola
Lonely you're on fire tonight
Don't sit there
And keep on asking why
My friends told me bout
How you've been getting out
And no one seems to know your name
Slide on through the crowd
And let them talk aloud
They only want to hold ya
Do they really know ya Lola
Do they really know ya Lola
Do they really know ya Lola
Do they really know ya Lola
Do they really know ya Lola
song performed by by Bic Runga
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
If
Dear love, if you and I could sail away,
With snowy pennons to the wind unfurled,
Across the waters of some unknown bay,
And find some island far from all the world;
If we could dwell there, ever more alone,
While unrecorded years slip by apace,
Forgetting and forgotten and unknown
By aught save native song-birds of the place;
If Winter never visited that land,
And Summer's lap spilled o'er with fruits and flowers,
And tropic trees cast shade on every hand,
And twinèd boughs formed sleep-inviting bowers;
If from the fashions of the world set free,
And hid away from all its jealous strife,
I lived alone for you, and you for me--
Ah! then, dear love, how sweet were wedded life.
But since we dwell here in the crowded way,
Where hurrying throungs rush by to seek for gold,
And all is common-place and work-a-day,
As soon as love's young honeymoon grows old:
Since fashion rules and nature yields to art,
And life is hurt by daily jar and fret,
'T is best to shut such dreams down in the heart
And go our ways alone, love, and forget.
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Remembering Haiti
Imagine waking up from sleep
and be imprisoned by the heap
of rubbles and other falling debris!
Imagine waking up from sleep
and seeing your own home
swallowed by the open mouth of earth!
Imagine waking up from sleep
and knowing that your loved ones
cannot wake up from death!
Haiti, we lament with you!
We share your tears
as you try to rub your eyes
from the deep sleep of
loss, pain and sorrow!
_________
(January 14,2010)
poem by Elizabeth Padillo Olesen
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Oh Mother
Oh mother
The very first time I saw you, warmth filled my eyes
The vision of a simple woman
The touch of my truthful maama
The beginning of an endless affection
Lest you forget
Oh mother
You built my home within your heart
I was lifeless you brought me life
Deepth in darkness you maketh for me a light
Delivered carefully your baby so I'll come alive
My first friend, my best friend
We always thought alike
Lest I forget
Oh mother
Gone in a flash
Sitting here like trash
Now I cant play outside
Pain stricken so harsh
Tears are salty not what i want
Cruelty without you has gotten me bad
But the hope you fed me is still intact
Lest I forget
Oh mother
Remember you promised me forever
My little sister awaits you too
Playing here on her chair
In her best coloured attire
Waiting for you dear
Lest we forget
Oh mother
Within and around you piety
In you I've known chastity
There I found serenity
Taste of peace and tranquillity
No adversity no enmity
Lest you forgone
Oh mother
Your baby boy is now a man
Praying for you days and nights
Hoping your abode is full of lights
Knowing my place is reserved by you
Because beside you is where I belong
The next time I see you I won't let you go again
Hold your hands the way I used to
This time you are not leaving without me
Lest thy lord forsakes
Oh mother
I trust you like no other
I love you I respect you
I pray that we'll end up together
poem by Khalifa Mustapha
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Mother!
Mother! , She is a cursive art,
Let her sleep, its a sunday's part!
The dawn has set in a will,
The limpid heart is sleeping still!
Her work is wide than a tide,
Making her face fade a slight!
Mother! , She is a cursive art,
Let her sleep, its a sunday's part!
The Queen of Kingdom rests in peace,
The Queen of Home sets in work!
Her job is an endless ocean,
My smile for her is boosting mark!
Mother! , She is a cursive art,
Let her sleep, its a sunday's part!
Sunday is a great relief,
To recharge her mind and physic!
Its my part to pat her today,
Let her sleep, come on sunday! !
Mother! She is a cursive art,
Let her sleep, its a sunday's part!
poem by Jayanthi Sekar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!