A Robin's Song
Throat attuned to noblest key,
That rejuvenates unnoted after each call note
Within the robin's inner flute's nostrils,
Without rush or rapture of wings,
Flew up unearthly, untaught music's airy voice,
Making the green dome re-echo
That gives space an expansion
Of the melting tone till sky came down
In breaths as lost cosmic chord
From the song's soul to me
With the sound of a great AMEN-
Above the thunder of hidden guns.
poem by Yoonoos Peerbocus
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Related quotes
A Lost Chord
SEATED one day at the Organ,
I was weary and ill at ease,
And my fingers wandered idly
Over the noisy keys.
I do not know what I was playing,
Or what I was dreaming then ;
But I struck one chord of music,
Like the sound of a great Amen.
It flooded the crimson twilight,
Like the close of an Angel's Psalm,
And it lay on my fevered spirit
With a touch of infinite calm.
It quieted pain and sorrow,
Like love overcoming strife ;
It seemed the harmonious echo
From our discordant life.
It linked all perplexéd meanings
Into one perfect peace,
And trembled away into silence
As if it were loth to cease.
I have sought, but I seek it vainly,
That one lost chord divine,
Which came from the soul of the Organ,
And entered into mine.
It may be that Death's bright angel
Will speak in that chord again,
It may be that only in Heaven
I shall hear that grand Amen.
poem by Adelaide Anne Procter
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Midnight Call
Sometimes in the stillness
of the night.
I hear faint voice
call my name.
In quiet peace
protracted hours of day
even in midst
howling rush hour traffic.
I know not
who or where
only I know you call
within deep within I hear.
I hear a feline fluted voice
call echo hauntingly
breath suck silhouette forth
musk lobe secrets siesta perfume.
I hear a haunting female voice
call echo eternally
breath held soul stands forth
bayed before crescent moon.
Clothing I wear is distracted air
worn straining to listen to flute song.
Euterpe wild beautiful word-juggling
addicted goddess I hear I hear.
I hear philosophical primacy of music
conducting symphony
of wondrous universe.
Beating upon my braincells
throughout stilled beauty
of wondrous night.
Sometimes in sterile stillness
of a pregnant night.
poem by Terence George Craddock
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The songster
Music, music with throb and swing,
Of a plaintive note, and long;
'Tis a note no human throat could sing,
No harp with its dulcet golden string,--
Nor lute, nor lyre with liquid ring,
Is sweet as the robin's song.
He sings for love of the season
When the days grow warm and long,
For the beautiful God-sent reason
That his breast was born for song.
Calling, calling so fresh and clear,
Through the song-sweet days of May;
Warbling there, and whistling here,
He swells his voice on the drinking ear,
On the great, wide, pulsing atmosphere
Till his music drowns the day.
He sings for love of the season
When the days grow warm and long,
For the beautiful God-sent reason
That his breast was born for song.
poem by Emily Pauline Johnson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Lyre-Tailed Menura
Far in the forest depths I dwell,
The master mimic of them all,
To pour from out my secret dell
Echo of many a bushland call,
That over all the forest spills;
Echo of many a birdland note,
When out about the timbered hills
Sounds all that borrowed lore that fills
My magic throat.
I am the artist. Songs to me
From all this gay green land are sped;
And when the wondrous canopy
Of my great, fronded tail is spread-
A glorious veil, at even's hush-
Above my head, I do my part;
Then wren and robin, finch and thrush-
All are re-echoed in a rush
Of perfect art.
Here by my regal throne of state,
To serve me for a swift retreat,
The little runways radiate;
And when the tread of alien feet
Draws near I vanish: ever prone
To quick alarm when aught offends
That secret ritual of the throne.
My songs are for my mate alone,
And favoured friends.
I am the artist. None may find,
In all the world, a match for me:
Rare feathered loveliness combined
With such enchanting minstrelsy.
In a land vocal with gay song
I choose whate'er I may require;
I wait, I listen all day long,
Then to the music of a throng
I tune my lyre.
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
As long as its music
Please play me a symphony
Make a simple cheerful harmony
Please play me a chord from a guitar
For me, it does not matter
If I’m the only audience of your theatre
Give me some instrumental vibes
All rhythms and tunes are musically ripe
There is no need to take precaution
While playing the Banjo or flamenco percussion
As long as its music
We can all heal
As long as its music
We can all feel
We can sing out our hearts and soul
We can let this music take control
Please play me the drums
We can sing or we can hum
Please play me a CD or a hit record
We could sing to the tunes of an ipod
With the sounds of music we can compose a song
Maybe sing to the town’s bells chiming ding-dong
Please play me the sweet keys of a piano
Hit a sweet note that is a major or minor
As long as its music
We can all heal or cry
As long as its music
We can all feel or fly high
And I will be lost in your voice and eyes
Holding on to each minute that flies
Whatever sounds or instruments
I shall feel good in the moment
Please play me a note from a flute
Those peaceful sounds tend to soothe
I want to hear sweet, sweet music
Choose your lyrics, take your pick
My heart will dance, till she is weak
Get out that guitar, acoustic or electric
Please play me the violins of an orchestra night
String me some melodies in broad daylight
And we can rap to melodious sense or crap
While our feet’s playfully tap, tap and tap
As long as its music
We can dance along the shore
As long as its music
We can all take to the dance floor
And I say once more, once more!
As long as its music, I will only ask for more
poem by Sylvia Chidi
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Awaited Call
Before ever we met
much did I perceive
for you revealed yourself
in thoughts and words.
When we karma cosmic met
when we were contemplative together.
Sometimes then on insightful occasion.
In quiet crystalline moments.
How could I not receptive see
heart attesting, true interior self,
for we talked, soft salient hours,
passed with decisive conversation.
Clouds parted at fleeting moments
light illuminating sweet sincere self.
Shone through momentarily. Perceptive
intuitive conceptualization. Was born.
Almost seen glimpsed felt, fleeting idolized soul,
words cannot articulate, cross, dimensional vision.
Clouds rarely part in cosmic veneration, with
revelation, comprehensive mind can envisage.
I no longer hear
soft sound of breathing
nor echo of her voice.
I am an empty vessel.
It shall take her sweet voice.
An eternity to fill to overflowing.
Until attainment I hunger
for sound of sensual words,
sweeter than siren haunting harp,
vibrant stirring windblown leaves,
or joyous song of sparkling brook.
‘Tis music of celestial choir.
I have longed constantly
for mute lost voice
to call ardent me
but you cry to me.
Only with sublime silent,
emptiness; of heartfelt soul.
I can not anymore remember
individual notes inscribing voice.
For in composed refined presence.
I am lost bewitched spellcast bound.
I embrace your serene spirit directly;
as it draws forth to join within my mind.
poem by Terence George Craddock
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
All day long - Original by Rabindranath Tagore
All day long
I dance with the music of your song!
O my Ektara has only one string;
It can’t bear the pain of songs that you sing!
All along
I have lost in this game of your song!
This string is tuned to make sound of the near
But you are playing your flute from up there!
Can everyone join that shore of your song
By the music to impress everyone?
All along
I have lost in this game of your song!
poem by Asif Andalib
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Flute-Priest Song For Rain
Whistle under the water,
Make the water bubble to the tones of the flute.
I call the bluebirds song into the water:
Wee-kee! Wee-kee-kee!
Dawn is coming,
The morning star shines upon us.
Bluebird singing to the West clouds,
Bring the humming rain.
Water-rattles shake,
Flute whistles,
Star in Heaven shines.
I blow the oriole's song,
The yellow song of the North.
I call rain clouds with my rattles:
Wee-kee-kee, oriole.
Pattering rain.
To the South I blow my whistle,
To the red parrot of the South I call.
Send red lightning,
Under your wings
The forked lightning.
Thunder-rattles whirl
To the sky waters.
Fill the springs.
The water is moving.
Wait -
Whistle to the East
With a magpie voice.
Wee-kee! Wee-kee-kee!
Call the storm-clouds
That they come rushing.
Call the loud rain.
Why does it not come?
Who is bad?
Whose heart is evil?
Who has done wickedness?
I weep,
I rend my garments,
I grieve for the sin which is in this place.
My flute sobs with the voice of all birds in the water.
Even to the six directions I weep and despair.
Come, O winds, from the sides of the sky,
Open your bird-beaks that rain may fall down.
Drench our fields, our houses,
Fill the land
With tumult of rain.
poem by Amy Lowell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Music Man
Music man oh music man
I hear you, a sweet harmonious sound.
A sonata, a magnum opus of exquisite mysteries
Music man oh music man
Let me fill your notes with my vocal picturesque soul.
Any note played with you, I know I’ll hold.
This linear musical structure couldn’t be better synchronized
I aim to mesmerize hypnotize that lucid drum now stabilized
Can you see it, imagine it?
Dare to make a sweet tune in this duo with it.
I just can’t see anything other than a great masterpiece,
a symphony you’d be insane to miss.
Music man oh music man
Its time, time to tell you how your melody
It leads me to feel a case of charity.
It’s with you I want to write this song
I now I can’t stay long, my studio time is almost gone
Music man oh music man
.
My stage fright is now mild,
I sing to make that heart smile
So are you in, do you have my missing 6 bars
This is an invitation to reach the stars
Music man oh music man
I need to know how this lustful song will flow
My impatience, this need for exclamation,
a little information is making it hard to cope.
Music man, is this more than a just song?
poem by Denise Veras
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Upon Mrs Eliz. Wheeler, Under The Name Ofamarillis
Sweet Amarillis, by a spring's
Soft and soul-melting murmurings,
Slept; and thus sleeping, thither flew
A Robin-red-breast; who at view,
Not seeing her at all to stir,
Brought leaves and moss to cover her:
But while he, perking, there did pry
About the arch of either eye,
The lid began to let out day,--
At which poor Robin flew away;
And seeing her not dead, but all disleaved,
He chirpt for joy, to see himself deceived.
poem by Robert Herrick
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Swing Song
The blatant horns blare strident sound;
Delighted, you laugh and seize
My passive arm, but I have found
Content in the harmonies.
They sound, are silent; please or annoy,
Are not clever, cruel, or coy
Like human qualities.
See agile fingers in frantic flight
Along the smoking row
Of piano keys cut from ebony night
And from the sullied snow
Of the city. Look love, listen love, tell me--
Where does the music come from really,
Where does it really go?
Planets are tensed to a single chord
Of absolute harmony
Sounding from a cosmic keyboard,
Unheard by you and me;
Yet we re attuned; who understands
That can see the judgment-hands
Poised above the keys.
poem by John Williams
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
On The Wings of a Cosmic Rush
On the wings of a cosmic rush,
Thrusted.
So quick the speed of it,
Is only felt as energy.
Like that which the Sun radiates to us.
And like the Moon influences...
With a mix of water and air we breathe.
Air that purifies with the aid of trees.
And we settle to travel upon our own indignities.
With imprints of images we do everything to please.
On the wings of a cosmic rush,
Thrusted.
So quick the speed of it,
Is only felt as energy.
And that energy we disgrace.
In decadence and trash filled minds,
To keep regurgitating a hatred.
On the wings of a cosmic rush,
Thrusted.
But many choose to ignore the ride.
To rely on others to discuss the view.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
An Ode For St. Cecilia's Day
I.
Prepare the hallow'd strain, My Muse,
Thy softest sounds and sweetest numbrs chuse;
the bright Cecilia's praise rehearse,
In warbling words,a nd glittering verse,
that smootly run into a song,
and gently die away,and melt upon the tongue.
II.
First let the sprightly violin
The joyful melody begin,
And none of all her strings be mute,
while the sharp sound and shriller lay
In sweet harmonious notes decay,
Soften and mellow'd by the flute.
'The Flute that sweetly can complain,
'Disolve the frozen nymph's disdain;
'Panting sympathy impart,
'Till she partake of her lover's smart.'
C H O R U S.
III.
Next, let the solemn organ join
Religious airs, and strains divine,
Such as may lift us to the skies,
And set all heaven before our eyes:
'Such as may lift us to the skies;
'So far at least till they
'Descend with kind surprise.
'And meet our pious harmony half-way.'
IV.
Let then the trumpet's piersing sound
Our ravish'd ears with pleasure wound:
The Soul o'er-powering with delight,
As, with a quick uncommon ray,
A streak of lightning clears the day,
And flashes on the sight.
Let echo too perform her part,
Prolonging every note with art,
And in a low expiring strain
Play all the concert o'er again.
V.
Such were the tuneful notes that hung
On bright Cecilia's charming tongue:
Notes that sacred heats inspir'd,
and with religious ardour fir'd:
The love-sick youth, that long suppress'd
His smother'd passion in hisbreast,
No sooner heard the warbling dame,
But, by the secret influence turn'd,
He felt a new diviner flame,
And with devotion burn'd.
With ravish'd soul,a nd looks amaz'd,
Upon her beauteous face he gaz'd;
Nor made his amorous complaint:
In vain her eyes his heart had charm'd.
Her heavenly voice her eyes disarm'd,
And chang'd the lover to a saint.
G R A N D C H O R U S.
VI.
And how the choir compleat rejoices,
With trembling strings and melting voices,
The tuneful ferment rises high,
And works with mingled melody:
Quick divisions run their rounds,
A thousand trills and quivering sounds
In airy circles o'er us fly.
Till wafted by a gentle breeze,
They faint and languish by degrees,
And at a distance die.
poem by Joseph Addison
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Where The Waxwings Used To Dwell
Where the waxwings used to dwell,
Where the pine trees softly swayed,
A flock of airy momentwills
Flew around and flew away.
Where the pine trees softly whooshed
Where the warblewings sang out
A flock of airy momentwills
Flew around and flew about.
In wild and shadowy disarray
Among the ghosts of bygone days,
Wheeled and tintinnabulated.
A flock of airy momentwills
A flock of airy momentwills!
You're warblewingish and beguilish,
You besot my soul like strumming,
Like a wave invade my heart!
Go on, ringing warblewings,
Long live airy momentwills!
poem by Velimir Khlebnikov
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
And There is...an Echo
And there is an echo
A voice without voice
Floats and repeats
The real sound of voice
That is echo
Praised by the mute
Who shouts in the sea of mist
Without someone to know
That is echo
Swing by the name
But it ignores and says
Steals the sound of real voice
But let the echo
Takes the voice and echoes
Before the power is gone
And disappears word by word
poem by Maria Sudibyo
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Leaving This Man Alone
I'm still working
Always working
For the next bill, no time for thrills.
Sir you must head in to those hills.
Mine till sun comes down.
Just to make it home in time to go to bed.
Far away is where I'm going again.
The benefits within.
The wounds are slowly healing.
Agony, I love it here and love it their.
Making a life out of despair.
Have to do what you have to do.
Surving just to make it through.
I got you, you, you, and you.
A million different conversations.
I smile with aggravation.
What a revelation
Look at me now.
Just keeping my head above the ground.
Anyway I know how.
With heaven, lord let me just make it to the skies.
Time just flies by.
With wings it soars.
Come on now.
I will march upon the fields like anyone else.
I am man and I don't give a damn.
Not cause I don't want to.
But sometimes you just have no choice.
Echo's, echo's, echo's my voice.
For life is precious, and sometimes their is no time to rejoice.
Let the heart beat, let the sweat pour.
It's the only way I like it anymore.
Another no reward.
A master of nothing falls on his own swords.
A little of this and that.
Always moderation.
Even on my own free time.
I trying to figure how to make the green.
Ugly as sin.
Where does it end.
A new job doing the same thing.
Sometimes it must be gained.
A man of the insane.
With no complaints.
Not a saint.
I know where I stand, and I know where,
Oh echo's echo's echo's my voice, 'you do'.
No argument here.
To each their own.
So just leave this man alone.
poem by Ace Of Black Hearts
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Poet And The Muse
Whither, and whence, and why hast fled?
Thou art dumb, my muse; thou art dumb, thou art dead,
As a waterless stream, as a leafless tree.
What have I done to banish thee?
But a moon ago, the whole day long
My ears were full of the sound of song;
And still through my darkly silent dreams
Plashed the fitful music of far-off streams.
When the night turned pale and the stars grew dim,
The morning chanted a dewy hymn.
The fragrant languor of cradled noon
Was lulled by the hum of a self-sung tune.
Joy came on the wings of a jocund lay,
And sorrow in harmony passed away;
And the sunny hours of tideless time
Were buoyed on the surges of rolling rhyme.
The moon went up in a cloudless sky,
Silently but melodiously;
And the glitter of stars and the patter of rain
Were notes and chords of an endless strain.
And vision, and feeling, and sound, and scent,
Were the strings of a sensitive instrument,
That silently, patiently, watched and waited,
And unto my soul reverberated.
In the orchard reddens the rounded fruit
'Mid the yellowing leaves, but my voice is mute.
The thinned copse sighs like a heart forsaken,
But not one chord of my soul is shaken.
Through the gloaming broadens the harvest moon;
The fagged hind whistles his homeward tune;
The last load creaks up the hamlet hill;
'Tis only my voice, my voice that is still.
(The Muse answers)
Poet, look in your poet's heart.
It will tell you what keepeth us twain apart.
I have not left you; I still am near.
But a music not mine enchants your ear.
Another hath entered and nestles deep
In the lap of your love, like a babe asleep.
You watch her breathing from morn till night;
She is all your hearing and all your sight.
Yet fear not, poet, to do me wrong.
She is sweeter far than the sweetest song.
One looks and listens the way she went,
As towards lark that is lost in the firmament.
So gladly to her I you resign,
Her caress is tenderer much than mine;
I hover round you, and hear her kiss
With wonder at its melodiousness.
When you gaze on the moon, you see but her.
You hear her feet when the branches stir;
And sunrise and sunset and starlight only
Make their beauty, without her, feel more lonely.
So how should you, poet, hope to sing?
The lute of Love hath a single string.
Its note is sweet as the coo of the dove;
But 'tis only one note, and the note is Love.
But when once you have paired and built your nest,
And can brood therein with a settled breast,
You will sing once more, and your voice will stir
All hearts with the sweetness gained from her.
poem by Alfred Austin
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The sound of music.......
The sound of music gives us so much emotions
and that plays a melody deep in our heart greatly
All the sound on the earth are like music
and the music brings love and enjoyment to our life
Music expresses universal language of the world
and brings people together where ever they live
The music is the best gift of God to all of us
where its fills our soul with peace and mind with creativity
Every music has its own rhythm
and it's creates a great sound of music
Music in the mountain brings peace in our heart
and music in the ocean fills our soul with love
When I hear the sound of music
then I begin to write a song as a soul of music
If you don't love the sound of music
then your soul will be unsung
Because music can put life in to a dead man
Ravi Sathasivam / Sri Lanka
Copyright @2006 Ravi Sathasivam
poem by Ravi Sathasivam
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
breaking Of The Covalent Bond
I
Had seen
The union unique
Melting completely like a lead
A spirit full of glass half is you half is me
We drank together to be one and blotting out being two
Blowing out independent existence making a covalent bond
We were one minstrel singing song sweet in alleys and street
A sound boom bang we misunderstood, no more I sing
A bone in the throat and forget the rhythm and tune
Now I am a poet of pain and melancholy I drink
But sorrow, live but without soul, half you
Snatched and half with me Dead I see
Dream but breaking sound
Of cracking sea making
A wave tumultuous
Threatening
Me to tear
Apart.
poem by Abdul Wahab
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Robin's Mistake
What do you think Red Robin
Found by a mow of hay?
Why, a flask brimful of liquor,
That the mowers brought that day
To slake their thirst in the hayfield.
And Robin he shook his head:
'Now, I wonder what they call it,
And how it tastes?' he said.
'I have seen the mowers drink it-
Why isn't it good for me?
So I'll just draw out the stopper
And get at the stuff, and see!'
But alas! for the curious Robin,
One draught, and he burned his throat
From his bill to his poor crop's lining,
And he could not utter a note.
And his head grew light and dizzy,
And he staggered left and right,
Tipped over the flask of brandy,
And spilled it, every mite.
But after awhile he sobered,
And quietly flew away,
And he never has tasted liquor,
Or touched it, since that day.
But I heard him say to his kindred.
In the course of a friendly chat,
'These men think they are above us,
Yet they drink such stuff as that!
Oh, the poor degraded creatures!
I am glad I am only a bird!'
Then he flew up over the meadow,
And that was all I heard.
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!