The Ardennes Forest
Cup your hands to scoop up sleep
as you would draw a grain of water
and the forest will come: a green cloud
a birch trunk like a chord of light
and a thousand eyelids fluttering
with forgotten leafy speech
then you will recall the white morning
when you waited for the opening of the gates
you know this land is opened by a bird
that sleeps in a tree and the tree in the earth
but here is a spring of new questions
underfoot the currents of bad roots
look at the pattern on the bark where
a chord of music tightens
the lute player who presses the frets
so the silent resounds
push away leaves: a wild strawberry
dew on a leaf the comb of grass
further a wing of a yellow damselfly
and an ant burying its sister
a wild pear sweetly ripens
above the treacheries of belladonnas
without waiting for greater rewards
sit under the tree
cup your hands to draw up memory
of the dead names dried grain
again the forest: a charred cloud
forehead branded by black light
and a thousand lids pressed
tightly on motionless eyeballs
a tree and the air broken
betrayed faith of empty shelters
that other forest is for us is for you
the dead also ask for fairy tales
for a handful of herbs water of memories
therefore by needles by rustling
and faint threads of fragrances--
no matter that a branch stops you
a shadow leads you through winding passages--
you will find and open
our Ardennes Forest
poem by Zbigniew Herbert
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Related quotes
A New leaf
There’s a new leaf upon the Tree
A thousand, thousand have been before
In the life of this great tree
Yet, the Tree rejoices, and is glad
For there is a New Leaf upon the tree
The roots are deep, and hidden
Tis one tree from root to branch
And lives in and through each leaf
The hearts’ smile resurrected
Through the New leaf upon the tree
Like the stars of heaven
New leaves have been many
And so they all are One
For they all share the same root
Bless the New leaf upon the tree
Perfection in the Blessing
Joy released in tears of love
The strength in life will comfort
From root to God above
A New leaf upon the tree
Beauty, Truth, and life
Complete from root to branch
When life’s cycle turns
Leaves fall to nourish roots
And behold, a New leaf upon the tree
poem by Adrian Wait
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Leaf
A single season of life
Borne of spring’s dew, released on fall’s winds
Great oak’s life running through its veins
To the forest, a gift of motion and color
Great tree, expanding out, gripping its earth
Dancing slowly in the currents of time
In an instant, illusions of stillness
Basking in brilliant sunshine
Flowing feathers in the music of the night
Silt carried by water
Returning to roots once more
Trunk, branches, ever thinner, expansive
Ever softer, edges of fragility
Branches holding mirrors for tree’s image
From the tree, our image of leaf
From the leaf, our image of tree
Leibniz' monad reflecting the whole
poem by George Kassabgi
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Green Roads
The green roads that end in the forest
Are strewn with white goose feathers this June,
Life marks left behind by someone gone to the forest
To show his track. But he has never come back.
Down each green road a cottage looks at the forest.
Round one the nettle towers; two are bathed in flowers.
An old man along the green road to the forest
Strays from one, from another a child alone.
In the thicket bordering the forest,
All day long a thrush twiddles his song.
It is old, but the trees are young in the forest,
All but one like a castle keep, in the middle deep.
That oak saw the ages pass in the forest:
They were a host, but their memories are lost,
For the tree is dead: all things forget the forest
Excepting perhaps me, when now I see
The old man, the child, the goose feathers at the edge of the forest,
And hear all day long the thrush repeat his song.
poem by Edward Thomas
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Stronger
See my scars,
See my wounds,
All over the place
Far from perfect;
...Just like everyone.
Cracks and wrinkles
Run all over
Like the trunk of a tree;
Like any tree in any forest,
Battered by rain and wind.
Baby days long lost
Cheated away by the world;
The frost who kills and steals
From every tree and every forest,
But my roots run deep,
Deep in my father's womb
And my leaves are not blind
Fed by the Sun above...
I shall live.
Day, or night,
Stronger with every storm-
Like how it has always been.
Wilson Khor W.H. @ Seymour Nightweaver
poem by Wilson Khor Woo Han
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Mantree
Man & Tree.
There was a spruce tree in the forest, he had
watched it grow from spindly sampling to
a handsome young tree, and thought of it as
the son he never had.
But shortly before Christmas it disappeared
he went to the market in town where they sold
hundreds of trees for those who want the real
thing, but couldn’t find it there.
After the festivities he found his tree on a dump,
green needles gone, now it was brown, he took
the dead plant home and used as kindling to lit
the fire on cold, soggy days.
poem by Oskar Hansen
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Carry me on
Carry me on to the forest whose face is
aglow in light.
I put down golden words
in the raptness of lovely green
with pure conviction I see the reflection of every
standing tree on wild streams
Carry me on to the forest with a
moonlight-rinsed face, to the cootage of peace
where every moment is enriched by sweet
chirping of birds
I place the footprints of murderous men
on every humble tree
Carry me on to the depth of dense forests
I plant one tall tree of love-laden heart
on the flowing breast of every travelling river
I tear off fruitless human blandishings
Carry me on to the eternal free forest,
to the erect trees growing in a slope
I look for pollens of every season in
every tree which donot know how to stoop down
I sculpture on every tree symbols of
futile human pride
Carry me on.
Translated from the Assamese by Pradip Khataniar
poem by Prem Narayan Nath
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Tree's Winter Cloak of White
Tree's winter cloak of white dressing done
Surviving rays of a cold hazy sun,
Like soldiers in line, strong tall held fast
Roots grip mother earth's soil to last,
Icicles glint on perches empty state,
Leaving squirrels in trunks cosy and warm, as
Deer tarry in the forest glade, no rest since dawn.
With body clocks this spring in time will keep
Dormant leaf buds stay moist with dew to seep,
By magic the beautiful tree purifies the air to breathe
By those with luck that the dead axe men did leave.
Stretched branches silent wisdom tending mother earth's cool
With Centuries passed man's brain wakes to the logging fool,
Is the animal cry in the forest of the night
A call to all living things spelling their plight.
poem by Ken e Hall
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Nature's Call
A bluebird is perching
Upon the fence,
Just beyond it
Is a forest, dense.
Squirrels are chasing
Each other,
Scampering and racing
With much luster.
A stream is slowly running
Past.
I draw some out,
And water the plants.
All is growing wild...
Wild is the cat,
And so is the bear.
Wild is the honey,
And so is the fish.
Wild is the bat,
And so is the hare.
Wild is the bee,
And so is the tree.
Wild is everything
That you can see.
A scream from the cat,
A roar from the bear.
Silence honey,
And splash from fish.
The screech of the bat,
The thump of the hare,
Buzz of the bee,
The sweet rustle of the tree.
Many sounds,
Made by one
And all-
Thes are the sounds,
Nature's call.
poem by Macy Dvirnak
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Tree And The Butterfly
what i love to see in you
is when you become a huge tree
rooted upon a
muted grass hill
above you is a black cloud
making rain
your leaves are all wet
and your roots are drinking so much water
your bark is thick and your
trunk so hard and strong
and she is there the frail butterfly
clinging softly
beneath the big leaf
fragile and steady
what i love next is when the rain stops
and then the butterfly leaves you
helpless and sad and so poetic.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Matlapanen
Makoros glide swift
On the Thamalakane,
The fishing boys
Cast lines again,
Where the bream lie deep
In the peat brown pool,
By the old bridge
At Matlapanen.
Under gum poles span
Smooth water slides free,
And strong circling eddies snatch
The gnarled trunk
Of a long dead tree,
Past stooped women
Gathering thatch.
The river mist coils
In the searing dawn,
Writhing, ethereal fingers
Dew diamond bright,
The light strikes strong
From arched islands,
Black stones and timbers.
There bulks the wild fig
Thick rooted and high,
Where the night rustling
Fruit bat feeds,
Where the hippo’s bark
Echoes to the darkling sky,
While a thousand moons
Dance in the reeds.
Through Delta to Dau,
Throbs river pulse beat,
Flooding bank and
Wild forest root,
Languorous cattle now
Graze belly deep,
Where dust once
Scuffed underfoot.
East down Boteti
By silent Matopi,
South on Nghabe
Past Toteng,
The dream that returns
Is the Thamalakane,
By the old bridge
At Matlepanen.
poem by Stanley Goodlad Hall
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Song from Aella
O SING unto my roundelay,
O drop the briny tear with me;
Dance no more at holyday,
Like a running river be:
My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed
All under the willow-tree.
Black his cryne as the winter night,
White his rode as the summer snow,
Red his face as the morning light,
Cole he lies in the grave below:
My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed
All under the willow-tree.
Sweet his tongue as the throstle's note,
Quick in dance as thought can be,
Deft his tabor, cudgel stout;
O he lies by the willow-tree!
My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed
All under the willow-tree.
Hark! the raven flaps his wing
In the brier'd dell below;
Hark! the death-owl loud doth sing
To the nightmares, as they go:
My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed
All under the willow-tree.
See! the white moon shines on high;
Whiter is my true-love's shroud:
Whiter than the morning sky,
Whiter than the evening cloud:
My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed
All under the willow-tree.
Here upon my true-love's grave
Shall the barren flowers be laid;
Not one holy saint to save
All the coldness of a maid:
My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed
All under the willow-tree.
With my hands I'll dent the briers
Round his holy corse to gre:
Ouph and fairy, light your fires,
Here my body still shall be:
My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed
All under the willow-tree.
Come, with acorn-cup and thorn,
Drain my heartès blood away;
Life and all its good I scorn,
Dance by night, or feast by day:
My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed
All under the willow-tree.
poem by Thomas Chatterton
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
Vote! | Copy!
from A Fallen Tree All Make Kindling' (dutch Proverb)
Whenever I sit under a tree I’m in my grandpas arms
My grandpa was like a tree with his strong and silent charm
He would shelter the world under his shade
And in the harshest storm he just merely swayed
He was like a tree but not the ones with big flowers
For his beauty was endurance it lasted more than mere hours
My grandpa was a tree the kind with big leaves
The kind that when cut down the whole forest grieves
He was like a tree big and gentle
He sat there and listened kind and parental
And though he was the tallest tree all around
He never looked down on the ones on the ground
My grandpa was a tree his love ran deep like roots
So even when cut down we still have loves fruits
Sprinkle Your Love
The glazing sunshine
Afternoon
Under that tree
Tree with dry leaves
Visible roots
Dry earth
Give me water
To drink
And sprinkle your love
On the bareness of my heart
The sky and some patches of white clouds
I stretch
Hold my hands
The hands dry like the branches of that tree
Hold my hands
For these hands
May grow some leaves
And fruits
Like the hope
I have
From the tree
My love
Do not despair
There is blood
Still running in my veins
poem by Sadiqullah Khan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Song Of Hiawatha VII: Hiawatha's Sailing
'Give me of your bark, O Birch-tree!
Of your yellow bark, O Birch-tree!
Growing by the rushing river,
Tall and stately in the valley!
I a light canoe will build me,
Build a swift Cheemaun for sailing,
That shall float on the river,
Like a yellow leaf in Autumn,
Like a yellow water-lily!
'Lay aside your cloak, O Birch-tree!
Lay aside your white-skin wrapper,
For the Summer-time is coming,
And the sun is warm in heaven,
And you need no white-skin wrapper!'
Thus aloud cried Hiawatha
In the solitary forest,
By the rushing Taquamenaw,
When the birds were singing gayly,
In the Moon of Leaves were singing,
And the sun, from sleep awaking,
Started up and said, 'Behold me!
Gheezis, the great Sun, behold me!'
And the tree with all its branches
Rustled in the breeze of morning,
Saying, with a sigh of patience,
'Take my cloak, O Hiawatha!'
With his knife the tree he girdled;
Just beneath its lowest branches,
Just above the roots, he cut it,
Till the sap came oozing outward;
Down the trunk, from top to bottom,
Sheer he cleft the bark asunder,
With a wooden wedge he raised it,
Stripped it from the trunk unbroken.
'Give me of your boughs, O Cedar!
Of your strong and pliant branches,
My canoe to make more steady,
Make more strong and firm beneath me!'
Through the summit of the Cedar
Went a sound, a cry of horror,
Went a murmur of resistance;
But it whispered, bending downward,
'Take my boughs, O Hiawatha!'
Down he hewed the boughs of cedar,
Shaped them straightway to a frame-work,
Like two bows he formed and shaped them,
Like two bended bows together.
'Give me of your roots, O Tamarack!
Of your fibrous roots, O Larch-tree!
My canoe to bind together,
So to bind the ends together
That the water may not enter,
That the river may not wet me!'
And the Larch, with all its fibres,
Shivered in the air of morning,
Touched his forehead with its tassels,
Slid, with one long sigh of sorrow.
'Take them all, O Hiawatha!'
From the earth he tore the fibres,
Tore the tough roots of the Larch-tree,
Closely sewed the hark together,
Bound it closely to the frame-work.
'Give me of your balm, O Fir-tree!
Of your balsam and your resin,
So to close the seams together
That the water may not enter,
That the river may not wet me!'
And the Fir-tree, tall and sombre,
Sobbed through all its robes of darkness,
Rattled like a shore with pebbles,
Answered wailing, answered weeping,
'Take my balm, O Hiawatha!'
And he took the tears of balsam,
Took the resin of the Fir-tree,
Smeared therewith each seam and fissure,
Made each crevice safe from water.
'Give me of your quills, O Hedgehog!
All your quills, O Kagh, the Hedgehog!
I will make a necklace of them,
Make a girdle for my beauty,
And two stars to deck her bosom!'
From a hollow tree the Hedgehog
With his sleepy eyes looked at him,
Shot his shining quills, like arrows,
Saying with a drowsy murmur,
Through the tangle of his whiskers,
'Take my quills, O Hiawatha!'
From the ground the quills he gathered,
All the little shining arrows,
Stained them red and blue and yellow,
With the juice of roots and berries;
Into his canoe he wrought them,
Round its waist a shining girdle,
Round its bows a gleaming necklace,
On its breast two stars resplendent.
Thus the Birch Canoe was builded
In the valley, by the river,
In the bosom of the forest;
And the forest's life was in it,
All its mystery and its magic,
All the lightness of the birch-tree,
All the toughness of the cedar,
All the larch's supple sinews;
And it floated on the river
Like a yellow leaf in Autumn,
Like a yellow water-lily.
Paddles none had Hiawatha,
Paddles none he had or needed,
For his thoughts as paddles served him,
And his wishes served to guide him;
Swift or slow at will he glided,
Veered to right or left at pleasure.
Then he called aloud to Kwasind,
To his friend, the strong man, Kwasind,
Saying, 'Help me clear this river
Of its sunken logs and sand-bars.'
Straight into the river Kwasind
Plunged as if he were an otter,
Dived as if he were a beaver,
Stood up to his waist in water,
To his arm-pits in the river,
Swam and scouted in the river,
Tugged at sunken logs and branches,
With his hands he scooped the sand-bars,
With his feet the ooze and tangle.
And thus sailed my Hiawatha
Down the rushing Taquamenaw,
Sailed through all its bends and windings,
Sailed through all its deeps and shallows,
While his friend, the strong man, Kwasind,
Swam the deeps, the shallows waded.
Up and down the river went they,
In and out among its islands,
Cleared its bed of root and sand-bar,
Dragged the dead trees from its channel,
Made its passage safe and certain,
Made a pathway for the people,
From its springs among the mountains,
To the waters of Pauwating,
To the bay of Taquamenaw.
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Wild Forest Flower
Rough around the edges but a tender center
This is my wild forest flower
Short and slender with long flowing blonde hair
This is my wild forest flower
A loving heart that goes beyond what I can see
This is my wild forest flower
I want to hold my flower in my hands
Wondering why she holds back and refuses to stand
I water it every now and then to watch it grow
But it takes too long because it’s a little slow
So I wait patiently for the flower to begin to rise
Even though I can still hear the weeping willows cries
Firm and hard headed but with a loving touch
This is my wild forest flower
Always hiding and always scared like a little child
This is my wild forest flower
The only one im willing to be with anymore
This is my wild forest flower
A darkened hush rises in the sky above my flower
The roots slowly exposing themselves out of fear
A forest fire begins in the distance soon to consume it
The fire rages ready to consume the small thing in power
This little bitty flower that I love and hold so dear
but I laugh because I know how this fire got lit
poem by Branden Aeling
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
I Say There's A Tree, A Horizon
Big tree
right outside my room
tell me when your flowers will bloom
big tree
a wars'a comin soon
this war'll bring you alotta doom
big tree
spread your leaves and fly
cuz you dont wanna be here when your flowers die
big tree
uproot yourself and run
run from the bullets and run from the guns
war
from the oceans to the land
no more water to fill your hands
flowers
I'll try to water you
but theres salt in my tears and that jus' wont do
big tree
they dont understand
that what they do effects your land
big tree
by you I've made a bed
and I ask you how this war moves us ahead
big tree
my friend whats the cost
if only they could see the faces of the lost
pinecone
shaped like a grenade
the grass where you lay is all I could save
big tree
where have your sisters gone?
to make more boxes to lay flags on?
big tree
where have your brothers gone?
to make more boxes to carve names on?
poem by Chris Osterbrock
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Flask of Time
There is a single leaf flying
in this my autumn gloaming,
a leaf fluttering light
as if being orchestrated
by your words in flight
rushing to my inner ear;
'I have fallen in love
with another you said.'
My leaf stammered,
swaying in its downward flight
unable to remount the tree,
terrified to crash the ground
suspended forever there
as was also true of your words;
better to not reach my inner ear
better to not have my leaf touch down dead.
Between us all these years
neither war, nor peace;
we existed in the troubled middle ground
purgatoried, unsensed, fluttering, leaf bound
frozen between tree and ground.
Now you have burned our tree down-
lit the leaf and made it flame-
and pulled from under us the very ground.
No matter the dead leaves, the burning tree
no matter the absent ground
these things will
in turn return
for the seasons never-end.
Therefore, I shall take my sip of sorrow
sipped slowly from my Flask of Time
and await
the Spring.
poem by Lonnie Hicks
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Hiawatha's Sailing
"Give me of your bark, O Birch-tree!
Of your yellow bark, O Birch-tree!
Growing by the rushing river,
Tall and stately in the valley!
I a light canoe will build me,
Build a swift Cheemaun for sailing,
That shall float on the river,
Like a yellow leaf in Autumn,
Like a yellow water-lily!
"Lay aside your cloak, O Birch-tree!
Lay aside your white-skin wrapper,
For the Summer-time is coming,
And the sun is warm in heaven,
And you need no white-skin wrapper!"
Thus aloud cried Hiawatha
In the solitary forest,
By the rushing Taquamenaw,
When the birds were singing gayly,
In the Moon of Leaves were singing,
And the sun, from sleep awaking,
Started up and said, "Behold me!
Gheezis, the great Sun, behold me!"
And the tree with all its branches
Rustled in the breeze of morning,
Saying, with a sigh of patience,
"Take my cloak, O Hiawatha!"
With his knife the tree he girdled;
Just beneath its lowest branches,
Just above the roots, he cut it,
Till the sap came oozing outward;
Down the trunk, from top to bottom,
Sheer he cleft the bark asunder,
With a wooden wedge he raised it,
Stripped it from the trunk unbroken.
"Give me of your boughs, O Cedar!
Of your strong and pliant branches,
My canoe to make more steady,
Make more strong and firm beneath me!"
Through the summit of the Cedar
Went a sound, a cry of horror,
Went a murmur of resistance;
But it whispered, bending downward,
'Take my boughs, O Hiawatha!"
Down he hewed the boughs of cedar,
Shaped them straightway to a frame-work,
Like two bows he formed and shaped them,
Like two bended bows together.
"Give me of your roots, O Tamarack!
Of your fibrous roots, O Larch-tree!
My canoe to bind together,
So to bind the ends together
That the water may not enter,
That the river may not wet me!"
And the Larch, with all its fibres,
Shivered in the air of morning,
Touched his forehead with its tassels,
Slid, with one long sigh of sorrow.
"Take them all, O Hiawatha!"
From the earth he tore the fibres,
Tore the tough roots of the Larch-tree,
Closely sewed the hark together,
Bound it closely to the frame-work.
"Give me of your balm, O Fir-tree!
Of your balsam and your resin,
So to close the seams together
That the water may not enter,
That the river may not wet me!"
And the Fir-tree, tall and sombre,
Sobbed through all its robes of darkness,
Rattled like a shore with pebbles,
Answered wailing, answered weeping,
"Take my balm, O Hiawatha!"
And he took the tears of balsam,
Took the resin of the Fir-tree,
Smeared therewith each seam and fissure,
Made each crevice safe from water.
"Give me of your quills, O Hedgehog!
All your quills, O Kagh, the Hedgehog!
I will make a necklace of them,
Make a girdle for my beauty,
And two stars to deck her bosom!"
From a hollow tree the Hedgehog
With his sleepy eyes looked at him,
Shot his shining quills, like arrows,
Saying with a drowsy murmur,
Through the tangle of his whiskers,
"Take my quills, O Hiawatha!"
From the ground the quills he gathered,
All the little shining arrows,
Stained them red and blue and yellow,
With the juice of roots and berries;
Into his canoe he wrought them,
Round its waist a shining girdle,
Round its bows a gleaming necklace,
On its breast two stars resplendent.
Thus the Birch Canoe was builded
In the valley, by the river,
In the bosom of the forest;
And the forest's life was in it,
All its mystery and its magic,
All the lightness of the birch-tree,
All the toughness of the cedar,
All the larch's supple sinews;
And it floated on the river
Like a yellow leaf in Autumn,
Like a yellow water-lily.
Paddles none had Hiawatha,
Paddles none he had or needed,
For his thoughts as paddles served him,
And his wishes served to guide him;
Swift or slow at will he glided,
Veered to right or left at pleasure.
Then he called aloud to Kwasind,
To his friend, the strong man, Kwasind,
Saying, "Help me clear this river
Of its sunken logs and sand-bars."
Straight into the river Kwasind
Plunged as if he were an otter,
Dived as if he were a beaver,
Stood up to his waist in water,
To his arm-pits in the river,
Swam and scouted in the river,
Tugged at sunken logs and branches,
With his hands he scooped the sand-bars,
With his feet the ooze and tangle.
And thus sailed my Hiawatha
Down the rushing Taquamenaw,
Sailed through all its bends and windings,
Sailed through all its deeps and shallows,
While his friend, the strong man, Kwasind,
Swam the deeps, the shallows waded.
Up and down the river went they,
In and out among its islands,
Cleared its bed of root and sand-bar,
Dragged the dead trees from its channel,
Made its passage safe and certain,
Made a pathway for the people,
From its springs among the mountains,
To the waters of Pauwating,
To the bay of Taquamenaw.
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Foxes and wolfs
Foxes and wolfs wanders
In dense forest
No moon no sun
The ages of history
Being turned.
Playing of light shadow
Continued under the tree
The tree keep me free
And I live
Water and air there
And I being
Transparent dissolved.
poem by Gajanan Mishra
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Lonely Tree
A lonely tree
On a lonely hill
Wishes to be
A forest still
Thou all alone
It dreams of more
Of seedlings grown
From its forest floor
Their branches growing
Ever climbing high
So feverish flowing
To reach blue sky
Covering this land
Beyond its view
A forest grand
All fresh and new
A sight to behold
It would surely be
A dream so bold
For such a lonely tree.
“closing thought”
A family is like a forest that continues to grow
From a lone simple seedling it outwardly flows
poem by Gordon Jerome
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!