En.Citatepedia^®.ro

Variations on a Theme by Joyce

The war is in words and the wood is the world
That turns beneath our rootless feet;
the vines that reach, alive and snarled,
Across the path where the sand is swirled,
Twist in the night. The light lies flat.
The war is in words and the wood is the world.

The rain is ruin and our ruin rides
The swiftest winds; the wood is whorled
And turned and smoothed by the turning tides.
--There is rain in the woods, slow rain that breeds
The war in the words. The wood is the world.
This rain is ruin and our ruin rides.

The war is in words and the wood is the world,
Sourceless and seized and forever filled
With green vine twisting on wood more gnarled
Than dead men's hands. The vines are curled
Around these branches, crushed and killed.
The war is in words and the wood is the world.

poem by Weldon Kees
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Through The Wood

THROUGH the wood, the green wood, the wet wood, the light wood,
Love and I went maying a thousand lives ago;
Shafts of golden sunlight had made a golden bright wood
In my heart reflected, because I loved you so.

Through the wood, the chill wood, the brown wood, the bare wood,
I alone went lonely no later than last year,
What had thinned the branches, and wrecked my dear and fair wood,
Killed the pale wild roses and left the rose-thorns sere?

Through the wood, the dead wood, the sad wood, the lone wood,
Winds of winter shiver through lichens old and grey,
You ride past forgetting the wood that was our own wood
All our own--and withered as ever a flower of May.

poem by Edith Nesbit
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A Song of Enchantment

A song of Enchantment I sang me there,
In a green-green wood, by waters fair,
Just as the words came up to me
I sang it under the wild wood tree.

Widdershins turned I, singing it low,
Watching the wild birds come and go;
No cloud in the deep dark blue to be seen
Under the thick-thatched branches green.

Twilight came: silence came:
The planet of Evening's silver flame;
By darkening paths I wandered through
Thickets trembling with drops of dew.

But the music is lost and the words are gone
Of the song I sang as I sat alone,
Ages and ages have fallen on me -
On the wood and the pool and the elder tree.

poem by Walter de la Mare
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Sea-Saw (more writing fun)

If I saw a wood boat afloat
Upon the sea,
Would what I see possibly be
The wood I cut from a tree?

For when I saw a tree
I would like to think I see,
What the wood I saw
Could be.

If all I saw in wood from a tree
Was all I saw that there was to see,
Would what I did saw
Be the wood that I now see?

And if the wood I once did saw
Was indeed made into that ship on the sea,
Would it even be possible to know that here what I see
Is the wood once sawed by me?

All I here would dare to share is:
I see what I saw, and I saw what I see,
And therefore the wood I do saw could one day be
The boat I may see, afloat upon the sea.

See?

poem by Smoky Hoss
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Handsworth Wood

Have ever you seen
On Halloween,
The cloud that covers the trees so green?
The shroud that covers the last of lovers
The shifting mist of the in-between?

I’ve stood, I’ve stood,
By Handsworth Wood,
I’ve stood as long as I thought I could;
All Hallow’s Eve is the night I grieve
My Genevieve of the purple hood.

She slipped between
The trees so green,
She slipped from me one Halloween;
The cloud had glimmered, the evening shimmered
But she was never to more be seen.

And since that cloud
Became a shroud,
I’ve not forgotten the words I vowed;
My patience burns for the cloud’s return
To help discern what I might have been.

The day she left
I held my breath,
Her sleight of hand was so very deft;
But Genevieve, I still believe
You’ll wander out on some Hallow’s Eve.

I wait in vain,
There’s only rain,
The rain and part of the cloud remain;
But Genevieve I’ve not perceived
Since she went tripping in World’s End Lane.

World End’s Land
In Autumn rain,
There’s nothing left of my lost refrain;
For Handsworth Wood is a neighborhood
Where trees are held in a great disdain.

2 July 1977

poem by David Lewis Paget
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On Reading a Recent Greek Poet

After the wailing had already begun
along the walls, their ruin certain,
the Trojans fidgeted with bits of wood
in the three-ply doors, itsy-bitsy
pieces of wood, fussing with them.
And began to get their nerve back and feel hopeful.

poem by Bertolt Brecht
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In The Shade Of The Green Wood

In the shade of the green wood
The holly does grow,
While in soft rays of sunlight
The wild roses glow,
And I smell their sweet perfume
That gently floats by,
Past trees strong and mighty
That reach to the sky,
The pathway of gold autumn
Leaves still remain,
As I walk through the green wood again.

In the shade of the green wood
This bright sunny morn,
That's so cool in the shadows
A new day is born,
All the birds in the treetops
Are singing for me,
Sweet songs of the summer
Which fill me with glee,
And know from its beauty
I never shall part,
For the green wood does live in my heart.

In the shade of the green wood
A soft gentle breeze,
Now caresses the branches
And whispers through trees,
A sound reassuring
Shall carry me to,
All the scenes that exist
In each marvellous view,
It's here that my spirit
Shall always now stay,
And the green wood is guiding my way.

poem by Andrew Blakemore
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Wood By The Sea

I DWELL in the wood that is dark and kind
But afar off tolls the main,
Afar, far off I hear the wind,
And the roving of the rain.

The shade is dark as a palmer's hood,
The air with balm is bland:
But I wish the trees that breathe in the wood
Were ashes in God's hand.

The pines are weary of holding nests,
Are aweary of casting shade;
Wearily smoulder the resin crests
In the pungent gloom of the glade.

Weary are all the birds of sleep,
The nests are weary of wings,
The whole wood yearns to the swaying deep,
The mother of restful things.

The wood is very old and still,
So still when the dead cones fall,
Near in the vale or away on the hill,
You can hear them one and all.

And their falling wearies me;
If mine were the will of God,–oh, then
The wood should tramp to the sounding sea,
Like a marching army of men!

But I dwell in the wood that is dark and kind,
Afar off tolls the main;
Afar, far off I hear the wind
And the roving of the rain.

poem by Duncan Campbell Scott
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Fundamental of Liar Chapter CXXVI: Ruin

Do not ruin a good story
Do not ruin a perfect plan
Do not ruin a flawless lie
Do not ruin a great sacrifice
Do not ruin a hard work
Do not ruin a long trust
Do not ruin a magical moment
Do not ruin a golden opportunity
Do not ruin the current mood
Do not ruin an innocent dream
Do not ruin a sweet memory
Do not ruin a fair game
Do not ruin a mutual agreement
Do not ruin a smiling face
Do not ruin the flowing river
Do not ruin the sequence order
Do not ruin the standard procedure
Do not ruin the prepared show
Do not ruin a complete circle
Do not ruin a final ending
Do not ruin the leisure time
Do not ruin the aiming shot
Do not ruin the hidden purpose
Do not ruin a genius idea
Do not ruin the dead price
Do not ruin a determined mind

poem by Maria Sudibyo
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Knock On Wood

I dont want to lose the good thing that Ive got
If I do, I will surely, I will lose a lot
For your love is better than any love other Ive know
Its like thunder, lightning
The way you love me is frightening
I better knock on wood
Baby
I got superstitious about you, but I cant take change
You got me spinning, baby, spinning in a trance
But your love is better than any other love Ive known
Its like thunder, lightning
The way you love me is frightening
You better knock on wood
Its no secret, but that woman fills my lovin cup
She sees, so ready, that I get enough
And her love is better than any other love Ive known
Its like thunder
Its like lightning
The way you love me is frightening
I better knock on wood
Baby
Better, yes, better
(yes you better knock, knock, knock on wood) yes, I better
(yes you better knock, knock, knock on wood) oh, knock on wood
(yes you better knock, knock, knock on wood) you know I would, would
(yes you better knock, knock, knock on wood) its no secret
(yes you better knock, knock, knock on wood) no, oh, better
(yes you better knock, knock, knock on wood) hangin above me
(yes you better knock, knock, knock on wood) I cant leave her
(yes you better knock, knock, knock on wood) oh no, baby
Knock on wood, woo!

song performed by by David Bowie
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Alumni Hall

surrounded by old wood
you breathe wood
and you feel the wood
breathing you too
all around you

in deep sleep
the past comes still dreaming of you

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Hey Jack Kerouac

[ robert buck/natalie merchant ]
Hey jack kerouac, I think of your mother
And the tears she cried, she cried for none other
Than her little boy lost in our little world that hated
And that dared to drag him down. her little boy courageous
Who chose his words from mouths of babes got lost in the wood.
Hip flask slinging madman, steaming cafe flirts,
They all spoke through you.
Hey jack, now for the tricky part,
When you were the brightest star who were the shadows?
Of the san francisco beat boys you were the favorite.
Now they sit and rattle their bones and think of their blood stoned days.
You chose your words from mouths of babes got lost in the wood.
The hip flask slinging madman, steaming cafe flirts,
Nights in chinatown howling at night.
Allen baby, why so jaded?
Have the boys all grown up and their beauty faded?
Billy, what a saint theyve made you,
Just like mary down in mexico on all souls day.
You chose your words from mouths of babes got lost in the wood.
Cool junk booting madmen, street minded girls
In harlem howling at night.
What a tear stained shock of the world,
Youve gone away without saying goodbye.

song performed by by 10000 Maniacs
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Voice On The Wind

I

She walks with the wind on the windy height
When the rocks are loud and the waves are white,
And all night long she calls through the night,
'O my children, come home!'
Her bleak gown, torn as a tattered cloud,
Tosses around her like a shroud,
While over the deep her voice rings loud,-
'O my children, come home, come home!
O my children, come home!'

II

Who is she who wanders alone,
When the wind drives sheer and the rain is blown?
Who walks all night and makes her moan,
'O my children, come home!'
Whose face is raised to the blinding gale;
Whose hair blows black and whose eyes are pale,
While over the world goes by her wail,-
'O my children, come home, come home!
O my children, come home!'

III

She walks with the wind in the windy wood;
The dark rain drips from her hair and hood,
And her cry sobs by, like a ghost pursued,
'O my children, come home!'
Where the trees loom gaunt and the rocks stretch drear,
The owl and the fox crouch back with fear,
As wild through the wood her voice they hear,-
'O my children, come home, come home!
O my children, come home!'

IV

Who is she who shudders by
When the boughs blow bare and the dead leaves fly?
Who walks all night with her wailing cry,
'O my children, come home!'
Who, strange of look, and wild of tongue,
With wan feet wounded and hands wild-wrung,
Sweeps on and on with her cry, far-flung,-
'O my children, come home, come home!
O my children, come home!'

V

'Tis the Spirit of Autumn, no man sees,
The mother of Death and of Mysteries,
Who cries on the wind all night to these,
'O my children, come home!'
The Spirit of Autumn, pierced with pain,
Calling her children home again,
Death and Dreams, through ruin and rain,-
'O my children, come home, come home!
O my children, come home!'

poem by Madison Julius Cawein
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The New-England Boy's Song About Thanksgiving Day

Over the river, and through the wood,
To grandfather's house we go;
The horse knows the way,
To carry the sleigh,
Through the white and drifted snow.

Over the river, and through the wood,
To grandfather's house away!
We would not stop
For doll or top,
For 't is Thanksgiving Day.

Over the river, and through the wood,
Oh, how the wind does blow!
It stings the toes,
And bites the nose,
As over the ground we go.

Over the river, and through the wood,
With a clear blue winter sky,
The dogs do bark,
And children hark,
As we go jingling by.

Over the river, and through the wood,
To have a first-rate play-
Hear the bells ring
Ting a ling ding,
Hurra for Thanksgiving Day!

Over the river, and through the wood-
No matter for winds that blow;
Or if we get
The sleigh upset,
Into a bank of snow.

Over the river, and through the wood,
To see little John and Ann;
We will kiss them all,
And play snow-ball,
And stay as long as we can.

Over the river, and through the wood,
Trot fast, my dapple grey!
Spring over the ground,
Like a hunting hound,
For 't is Thanksgiving Day!

Over the river, and through the wood,
And straight through the barn-yard gate;
We seem to go
Extremely slow,
It is so hard to wait.

Over the river, and through the wood-
Old Jowler hears our bells;
He shakes his pow,
With a loud bow wow,
And thus the news he tells.

Over the river, and through the wood-
When grandmother sees us come,
She will say, Oh dear,
The children are here,
Bring a pie for every one.

Over the river, and through the wood-
Now grandmother's cap I spy!
Hurra for the fun!
Is the pudding done?
Hurra for the pumpkin pie!

poem by Lydia Maria Francis Child
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Love & Maple Syrup

Love and maple syrup goes together
Like the sticky winds of winter when they meet
When lonely lovers come to rest
Beneath the trees they do their best
But still they cant be free
Looking for the world to be
Anything but what they see
Longing to be understood
By the heart that shapes the wood
If you go into the forest, gaze up through the leaves
And see the sky thats almost wild
You must learn to understand
What makes the forest greet the man
Like a mothers only child
In the north when when winters claw
Relaxes now to keep the laws of nature in control
People come and stand in line
To rob the forest of her wine
But they dont feel the cold
Looking for the world to be
Anything but what they see
Longing to be understood
By the heart that shapes the wood
Love and maple syrup goes together
Like the sticky winds of winter when they meet
When lonely lovers come to rest
Beneath the trees they do their best
But still they cant be free
Love and maple syrup shine like
Embers warm, like thoughts divine
They tell us it is spring
Love and maple syrup stir
The thoughts of people into words
Of songs that they can sing
Looking for the world to be
Anything but what they see
Longing to be understood
By the heart that shapes the wood

song performed by by Gordon Lightfoot
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Words Cause Pain

Rain drops are falling on my head
rain rain rain
it's just hiding the tears on my face
rain rain rain
why can't it hide the pain?
rain rain rain
for God sake go away and come back another day
every dropp that falls on my body hurts
what hurts more are does words that people say
sometime i just wish they just take it all away
words hurts! its causes pain! !
but people don't care
they don't care about the pain that you're feeling
having you feeling down on yourself, makes you said and cry
what they don't know is those words could make someone wants to die
next thing you know, have some one commiting suicide
this all could happen over words that people say
makes you build up this pain that you cant control
that pain that will never make you whole
it will tear you apart
rip your heart apart
those are words that'll bring tears
words that cause fears
rain rain rain
please stop!
let the sun come out
so that the world could see my pain.

poem by Esther JeanLoiis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The House In The Woods

At the back of the houses there is the wood.
While there is a leaf of summer left, the wood

Makes sounds I can put somewhere in my song,
Has paths I can walk, when I wake, to good

Or evil: to the cage, to the oven, to the House
In the Wood. It is a part of life, or of the story

We make of life. But after the last leaf,
The last light--for each year is leafless,

Each day lightless, at the last--the wood begins
Its serious existence: it has no path,

No house, no story; it resists comparison...
One clear, repeated, lapping gurgle, like a spoon

Or a glass breathing, is the brook,
The wood's fouled midnight water. If I walk into the wood

As far as I can walk, I come to my own door,
The door of the House in the Wood. It opens silently:

On the bed is something covered, something humped
Asleep there, awake there--but what? I do not know.

I look, I lie there, and yet I do not know.
How far out my great echoing clumsy limbs

Stretch, surrounded only by space! For time has struck,
All the clocks are stuck now, for how many lives,

On the same second. Numbed, wooden, motionless,
We are far under the surface of the night.

Nothing comes down so deep but sound: a car, freight cars,
A high soft droning, drawn out like a wire

Forever and ever--is this the sound that Bunyan heard
So that he thought his bowels would burst within him?--

Drift on, on, into nothing. Then someone screams
A scream like an old knife sharpened into nothing.

It is only a nightmare. No one wakes up, nothing happens,
Except there is gooseflesh over my whole body--

And that too, after a little while, is gone.
I lie here like a cut-off limb, the stump the limb has left...

Here at the bottom of the world, what was before the world
And will be after, holds me to its back

Breasts and rocks me: the oven is cold, the cage is empty,
In the House in the Wood, the witch and her child sleep.

poem by Randall Jarrell
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Now Is Past

_Now_ is past--the happy _now_
When we together roved
Beneath the wildwood's oak-tree bough
And Nature said we loved.
Winter's blast
The _now_ since then has crept between,
And left us both apart.
Winters that withered all the green
Have froze the beating heart.
Now is past.

_Now_ is past since last we met
Beneath the hazel bough;
Before the evening sun was set
Her shadow stretched below.
Autumn's blast
Has stained and blighted every bough;
Wild strawberries like her lips
Have left the mosses green below,
Her bloom's upon the hips.
Now is past.

_Now_ is past, is changed agen,
The woods and fields are painted new.
Wild strawberries which both gathered then,
None know now where they grew.
The skys oercast.
Wood strawberries faded from wood sides,
Green leaves have all turned yellow;
No Adelaide walks the wood rides,
True love has no bed-fellow.
Now is past.

poem by John Clare
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Find Happiness in the Now.

Wake up to a happy day, make yourself glad,
This is the only way, never be sad or mad.
Never give in for a bad mood,
You ruin yours & everybody's life
Don't be a dead wood.

It is up to you what you choose
Don't live in misery, that you should refuse.
You have only this moment, this hour or day,
Why would you ruin it, that's not the way?

The past is gone, you cannot go back,
Too late to correct the seemingly wrong track.
With time you'll find the truth and the way,
Whatever happened to you clears up one day.

poem by LaSoaphia QuXazs
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Enigma

Some men are born to gather women's tears,
To give a harbour to their timorous fears,
To take them as the dry earth takes the rain,
As the dark wood the warm wind from the plain;
Yet their own tears remain unshed,
Their own tumultuous fears unsaid,
And, seeming steadfast as the forest and the earth
Shaken are they with pain.
They cry for voice as earth might cry for the sea
Or the wood for consuming fire;
Unanswered they remain
Subject to the sorrows of women utterly -
Heart and mind,
Subject as the dry earth to the rain
Or the dark wood to the wind.

poem by Duncan Campbell Scott
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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They Are Tearing Down My Grandfather's House

(An NLP Editor's Choice Award Winner in Verdant Lands of Spring) They are tearing down my Grandfather's house,
it's made of wood and brick and stone.
The windows they've removed. To them it's real
estate, to me it's my heart being ripped in two.
The realtors, the bankers, the moneymen don't understand.
A house is more than made of wood, a house is made of man. My Grandfather's house is a memory that will
endure after it's torn down.
He's been gone for near thirty years, but his
house had lived on.
I know the world is made of change, and change
is all that's real. But one thing I cannot change,
that is the way I feel. I wipe a tear in the falling rain,
because they are tearing down my Grandfather's
house, and it gives me pain.
I love him as if it were yesteryear,
his wit and smile as warm as the sun.
The house once stood to remind me, but that too
is gone. They are tearing down my Grandfather's house,
it's made of wood and brick and stone.
Yet a house if more than made of wood,
a house is made of love.

poem by David A. Webb
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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