6 degrees Celsius
-6 degrees Celsius.
from my balcony,
yes, the atlas
of my balcony,
with the music
of the masters
pouring forth
from within,
I follow the stars
direction Norway
and Sweden
while around the corner
one looks towards Iceland
and 'those islands'.
Kleve is just across the way
and Paris and Brussels
down the road.
this is my mainland!
poem by John O'connell
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Related quotes
Temperatures
When it 25 degrees celsius,
Many say it summer in some lands;
But the same is very cold to others in another land.
When it 40 degrees celsius,
Many enjoy the heat in Africa!
But many do die in other lands too;
Since it is too much for them to bear.
When it minus 50 degrees in Russia,
The poeple there enjoy it and have no problem;
But many of us on this earth will be frozen already!
Such is life and such are the temperatures,
But we are all made to stand one condition or the other.
The status-quo and the rule of nature,
With the style of to catch up at times;
But we all need the weather forcasts to guide us on.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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It was just a typical London flat, but it was in a great neighborhood. It was across from the Playboy Club, diagonally. From one balcony you could read the time from Big Ben, and from the other balcony you could watch the bunnies go up and down.
quote by Harry Nilsson
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Miracle for Breakfast
At six o'clock we were waiting for coffee,
waiting for coffee and the charitable crumb
that was going to be served from a certain balcony
--like kings of old, or like a miracle.
It was still dark. One foot of the sun
steadied itself on a long ripple in the river.
The first ferry of the day had just crossed the river.
It was so cold we hoped that the coffee
would be very hot, seeing that the sun
was not going to warm us; and that the crumb
would be a loaf each, buttered, by a miracle.
At seven a man stepped out on the balcony.
He stood for a minute alone on the balcony
looking over our heads toward the river.
A servant handed him the makings of a miracle,
consisting of one lone cup of coffee
and one roll, which he proceeded to crumb,
his head, so to speak, in the clouds--along with the sun.
Was the man crazy? What under the sun
was he trying to do, up there on his balcony!
Each man received one rather hard crumb,
which some flicked scornfully into the river,
and, in a cup, one drop of the coffee.
Some of us stood around, waiting for the miracle.
I can tell what I saw next; it was not a miracle.
A beautiful villa stood in the sun
and from its doors came the smell of hot coffee.
In front, a baroque white plaster balcony
added by birds, who nest along the river,
--I saw it with one eye close to the crumb--
and galleries and marble chambers. My crumb
my mansion, made for me by a miracle,
through ages, by insects, birds, and the river
working the stone. Every day, in the sun,
at breakfast time I sit on my balcony
with my feet up, and drink gallons of coffee.
We licked up the crumb and swallowed the coffee.
A window across the river caught the sun
as if the miracle were working, on the wrong balcony.
poem by Elizabeth Bishop
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Swan Dive
The windows were open
The night air was cold,
The curtains were blowing
Like ribbons of gold,
We stood there forever
Both Henry and me,
The night his wife dived
Off the balcony.
We looked at each other
We each shook our head,
And waited to hear if
The poor girl was dead,
I looked at my watch
It was just after three,
When Gwendoline dived
Off the balcony.
I waited a moment, then:
'What did I say?
Was that a faux pas about
You in Calais?
Or did she take umbrage
When I poured the tea?
Is that why she jumped
Off the balcony? '
'Don't think for a moment,
Old chap, ' he had said,
'I thought she had mumbled
And stumbled to bed!
She'd said she had someone
Tomorrow to see,
So why would she dive
Off the balcony? '
We walked very gingerly
Out through the door,
And peered on down from
The fifty-sixth floor,
I thought I could see a small
Splat by a tree,
Just where she had dived
Off the balcony.
Could that be your Gwendoline,
There on the ground?
That's funny, she dived all
That way, made no sound!
Not one little scream -
Did you hear? ' - 'Not me! '
When Gwendoline dived
Off the balcony.
The police galloped up
By the lift, through the doors,
'That splat in the courtyard, sir,
Could it be yours? '
Then Henry admitted that
It could well be,
His wife, who had dived
Off the balcony!
They made us go down with
A bucket and mop:
'Clean up every vestige,
Remove every drop!
You can't go round leaving
Wives haphazardly,
Whenever they dive
Off the balcony! '
They made us feel humble,
We lowered our heads,
I picked up her armpits,
He mopped up her legs,
But bits of her weren't where
In truth, they should be,
When Gwendoline dived
Off the balcony.
Much later he told me that
Wives one and two,
Had left in the very same way,
I said, 'True? '
It seems Gwendoline had been
Wife number three,
Who'd taken a dive
Off the balcony.
Now Henry has married
Again, number four,
He's moved his apartment down
To the ground floor,
He locks all his windows
And tells Stephanie,
'Don't ever you dive like
Wives one, two and three! '
3 June 2009
poem by David Lewis Paget
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a pessimistic view from a balcony in Paris
A Pessimistic view from a Balcony in Paris
Fine rain, open umbrella, sitting on the balcony of a hotel
overlooking Haussmann – Saint Lazare. A throng of people
and cars, but something as changed, people drinks Starbuck
coffee and eat burgers on the hoof. Old restaurants are
closing or converted to fast-food joints. I sigh and drink from
a bottle of Bordeaux to avoid getting rainwater in my wine.
This place together with rue d’Amsterdam used to be where
the posh people lived and now, safe for the ruddy scrap yard
tower, this could have been downtown New York.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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So this is all a game
So this is all a game
I put my name tag on
You look at my face
Complete
And you are there lurking
From a balcony
Looking at me
I am real. I am the specimen.
You are all wearing masks
In a balcony of
Darkness
I am real.
And you all laughed so hard
“How can this real guy be so stupid? ”
The bastards are still alive.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Jolie
Boudleaux and felice bryant
Jolie...
Jolie, jolie my cherie
Pretty little french girl I met in paris
Jolie cute as she could be
Throwing me her kisses from her balcony
She had come hither eyes
And charm from her head to her feet
Really my jolie was neat
Golly my jolie was sweet
Jolie, jolie my cherie
Wish I had my jolie over here with me
She had come hither eyes
And charm from her head to her feet
Really my jolie was neat
Golly my jolie was sweet
Jolie, jolie my cherie
Wish I had my jolie over here with me
Wish I hadnt left her over in paris
On her balcony
Jolie my cherie
Jolie, jolie, jolie, jolie...
song performed by by Roy Orbison
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Modern Myth
Rests a sparrow at my balcony
And looks for her destiny in the top corner ventilator.
Her look looks an enquiry to me
And I reply her as in a theatre:
“I dare not envision thy destiny
Coz Destiny himself has been lamenting
For the road not taken!
I would certainly have been a prophet
But it’s not because of destiny that I am on the road I am on
But because Certainty has shaken! ! ”
The sparrow twists her head as in total confusion
And flutters away, and
I add to my poem:
'I am sure as I call thou a sparrow
Coz Nature has evolved you to flutter the way you flutter
Or because has She mistaken? '
poem by Atul Pokharel
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Standing Beside Fay One Saturday.
It was Saturday morning
and Fay stood beside you
on the balcony of the flats
looking over the Square
she pointed at the baker
and his horse drawn cart
down by the wall below
my daddy says he's Jewish
she said
those who asked
for the death of Christ
you followed the baker
as he made his way to the stairs
carrying his bread basket
I don't think he was involved
you said watching the baker
until he disappeared up the stairs
she looked right over the balcony
gripping the brick wall
with her hands
I don't think he's Jewish at all
she said letting her feet
dropp back on the floor
and it doesn't matter if he is
I think he's a nice man
she added
looking at you
with her bright blue eyes
and you gazed at her
standing there
her flowered dress
colourful and coming
just below her knees
her battered sandals
having seen
better days
and her fair hair
tied into a ponytail
at the back
she looked over
the balcony again
I like to feed his horse
with sugar cubes
I get from home
she said thoughtfully
you lean over the balcony
beside her
your elbow touching hers
the pulse of her being
vibrating into your arm
you imagine
don't your parents mind
you taking their sugar?
you asked
she looked guiltily away
they don't know
she said softly
daddy would punish
if he knew
she paused and then said
you won't tell them will you?
the baker came along
the balcony behind you both
whistling happily
of course not
you said
taking in her
trembling jaw line
her blue eyes
and her lips slightly open
her words gone
it's a nice day
the baker called
yes
you both replied
I don't think he's Jewish
she said
anyway.
poem by Terry Collett
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Norway, norway
Norway, Norway,
Rising in blue from the sea's gray and green,
Islands around like fledglings tender,
Fjord-tongues with slender,
Tapering tips in the silence seen.
Rivers, valleys,
Mate among mountains, wood-ridge and slope
Wandering follow. Where the wastes lighten,
Lake and plain brighten
Hallow a temple of peace and hope.
Norway, Norway,
Houses and huts, not castles grand,
Gentle or hard,
Thee we guard, thee we guard,
Thee, our future's fair land.
Norway, Norway,
Glistening heights where skis swiftly go,
Harbors with fishermen, salts, and craftsmen,
Rivers and raftsmen,
Herdsmen and horns and the glacier-glow.
Moors and meadows,
Runes in the woodlands, and wide-mown swaths,
Cities like flowers, streams that run dashing
Out to the flashing
White of the sea, where the fish-school froths.
Norway, Norway,
Houses and huts, not castles grand,
Gentle or hard,
Thee we guard, thee we guard,
Thee, our future's fair land.
poem by Bjørnstjerne Bjørnson
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From a Great Height.
Beneath her balcony he’d sing
and promise love eternally.
The maiden spurned his offering.
She knew of his philandering.
But undeterred he’d nightly sing.
Experienced in the ways of maids.
He knew she would be listening
to hear his mandolin tinkling.
Eventually she would relent
appear upon the balcony.
Although she doubted his intent.
By trial and experiment.
He’d found that curiosity
A fatal weakness in young maids
would bring her to the balcony.
It always worked successfully.
It always had done in the past.
This maid was made of sterner stuff.
She vowed tonight would be the last
and down upon his head she cast.
The contents of her chamber pot.
Which served to dampen his ardour
Attar of roses it was not.
Although he deserved what he got.
I felt some little sympathy
to see him so discomfited.
To be drenched unexpectedly
in his intended victims pee.
A message that he’d not forget.
This lady was no easy prey.
The chamber pot she had upset
Has soaked him in Eau de Toilet.
He quickly hurried from the scene.
His pride damaged beyond repair.
His parting comments were obscene.
At least I thought they must have been..
No longer does the troubadour
Sing below her balcony
Sweet serenades about amour
No one has seen him any more.
07/09/2009
http: // blog.myspace.com/poeticpiers
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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The Gardener LV: It Was Mid-Day
It was mid-day when you went
away .
The sun was strong in the sky.
I had done my work and sat alone
on my balcony when you went away.
Fitful gusts came winnowing
through the smells of may distant
fields.
The doves cooed tireless in the shade,
and a bee strayed in my room hum-
ming the news of many distant fields.
The village slept in the noonday
heat. The road lay deserted.
In sudden fits the rustling of the
leaves rose and died.
I gazed at the sky and wove in the
blue the letters of a name I had known,
while the village slept in the noonday
heat.
I had forgotten to braid my hair.
The languid breeze played with it upon
my cheek.
The river ran unruffled under the
shady bank.
The lazy white clouds did not move.
I had forgotten to braid my hair.
It was mid-day when you went
away.
The dust of the road was hot and
the fields panting.
The doves cooed among the dense
leaves.
I was alone in my balcony when you
went away.
poem by Rabindranath Tagore
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While I was passing with the crowd in the road I saw thy smile from the balcony and I sang and forgot all noise.
aphorism by Rabindranath Tagore from Stray Birds (1916), translated by Rabindranath Tagore
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Men On Islands
CAN it be that never more
Men will grow on Islands?
Ithaka and Eriskey,
Iceland and Tahiti!
Must the engines he has forged
Raven so for spaces
That the Islands dwindle down,
Dwindle down!
Pots that shelve the tap-root's growth?
Must it be that never more
Men will flower on Islands?
Crete and Corsica, Mitylene,
Aran and lona!
poem by Padraic Colum
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Where Is The Prince?
lady, there is something wrong
with the story: Cinderella asking for her Romeo?
What can Juliet say
about this
interplay of fate and chance
light and darkness?
Wait, till Mercurochrome
meets Paris
at the Hilton or
Waterfront?
How sad, such sweet sorrow
in the balcony of the broken mind.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Once Again In The Southwest Balcony
what connects me to you
and this southwest balcony?
it's the same balcony
it's the same sky
and the chair too is the same...
you know, this late summer evening
the lightly-cast sky over the balcony
moved to descend on me sitting
as usual insulated in the accustomed chair
that typical cool early summer evening breeze
came swinging in fits only after
caressing the capricious clouds
it brushed past my forlorn cheeks
setting ablaze the memories i tightly
gift-wrapped and kept securely
in a tiny wicker-basket in my heart
the same passing cloud this time
released trillion needles of rain drops
even on my eye lids making it difficult for me
through the blurred vision there appeared
your persona once on the cloud
once between the real big rain drops
unique to a summer shower
alluring and eluding my grasp
an unknown destination beckoned me
between you and me
did i miss my way?
31mar2010
19.40hrs
poem by Indira Babbellapati
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Far From Where I Am/ Life Goes On Elsewhere
FAR FROM WHERE I AM/
Far from where I am
Life goes on elsewhere
I am in my own small world
There is Beauty here too
But the lights of the distance call
And I cannot follow them.
Small is all for one who
Like a snail cannot see
The broom of the balcony
he will soon be brushed off.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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The Changes At The Un
I spent my youth with a gun and a dog in the fields of Clare,
Hunting rabbits and pheasants and ducks and fast running hare,
So the long tail feathers of the cock pheasants, I knew well,
Then I became a member Canadian navel personnel.
At the UN in the mid 50s looking down from balcony,
A pheasant feather in a lady’s hat amid UN pageantry,
Sitting down there at the Irish desk but she didn’t care,
That the face on the balcony came all the way from County Clare.
But those were the days when the UN had a very good name,
Not like nowadays when so many tend to viciously complain,
But that was very long ago and I was much younger then,
Am I the only one who noticed the change, now among the old men?
JAN 19th,2011
poem by James Bredin
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Don Juan's Serenade
Darkness descends
on Alpujara's golden land.
My guitar invites you,
come out my dear!
Whoever says that there are others
who can be compared to you,
whoever burns for your love,
I challenge them all to a duel!
Now the moon
has set the sky alight,
come out, Nisetta, oh come out, Nisetta,
on to your balcony, quickly!
From Seville to Granada
in the silence of the nights,
one can hear the sound of serenades
and the clashing of swords.
Much blood, many songs,
pour forth for the lovely ladies;
and I, for the loveliest one of all
am ready to give my song and my blood.
Now the moon
has set the sky alight,
Come out, Nisetta, oh come out, Nisetta,
on to your balcony, quickly!
poem by Aleksey Konstantinovich Tolstoy
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Negligee and the Crescent Moon
She comes to the balcony in her villa
She is wearing her flimsy dressing gown.
The lonely night is still young
And the crescent moon in her vivify.
The poor flautist plays his flute a sad tune at the river's edge.
And the scattered stars in the sky twinkle to its rhythm.
Though the Baroness likes his music
Where there is a vast gap between them
That never meets?
The unsung elegy seeks the haven
And the measure of freedom in this haunted night.
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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