En.Citatepedia^®.ro

I Roamed With Anger Out Of The House

I roamed with anger out of the house.
My bosom filled with rage
My eyes with pride
My head with stubbornness.

And then
I saw the dawn arise – for it was dawn
At the beginning – and the sea was fresh
Still and naked from the nocturnal cloth
That covered it – now it lay
Listless as in a bed half-wake, half-sleeping:
I saw the rays - the rays of light increase
And turn to more yellow, more golden-fringed
And from the tree – the tree that looks
Down from the bastions – a small bird chirped
A startling song – perhaps a lay of love
Perhaps a dirge – perhaps an elegy.
I walked along the road that overlooks
The city bastions – long and old
And ancient the bastions with a kindly eye
Looked on the shore below and the over-lapping waves
I drank the wine of morn and of the dawn
Refreshing my throat from the old bastions
And looked upon the first sail-boats
Issuing from the rooms beneath the bastions
Dragged to the shore -

And then
And then
I threw the garb of my anger away -
And in my eye
There shone the happiness of the rising day
And forgiving forgetfulness.

poem by Emmanuel George Cefai
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I Tried To Open The Wide Book Of Night

I tried to open wide the book of night
To look into its eyes - like a lover
That pretended of his love confession as of right
And so to Hastings Gardens went I in the night.
Wide, wide before the long night stood
No corner stopped my glance no space
Its boundary showed and manifested
To my glance long tall continous lay the night
In its mischievous slumbering
Wherein it dreamt dreams I know not
Nor thereof heard the silent trees bespeak.
How many nights before me came
How many, many nights
And they were certes here like this night
As I look from the bastions to the sea
And fancy its silver bosom dance and gleam
In the moon’s amorous light to-night:
So gleamed the light on the sea-waves
When the French besieged and held
Our noble city: how many a lover
Stood looking on the sea and at his love
As mid-night in his satined robes tiptoed:
Rippling stood the waves and waters wild
And fancy its silver bosom dance and gleam
In the moon’s amorous light:
For years and years the welcome Briton stood
Perhaps here where stay I and his foot
Could be heard pace all sentinel
Into the dark glooms of silent night
From casements near opening on the seas
And houses nearby in dreaming bent
Through the long night, the long and weary night
That was of many nights that were
And will be of many nights that will
And when I stay not on the bastions and
Feel not the sea-breeze my face cool
Night after night will come and children small
Few years born will come and go:
And after children small will come again
Night after night will come and speak
Unto the rocks that front the sea
And playing with lapping sea-waves all the night
Unheard, unseen, unnoticed in the times
And in the flight of years and centuries full lost
And when night comes and still the sea
Will shine – its silver bosom dance and gleam
In the moon’s amorous light.

poem by Emmanuel George Cefai
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Bastards of Bastions

Orphaned are those,
Barely sitting in their nodded stupors.
Drifting back and forth through wishes.
With compositions of conditions,
That keep them weak.
In minds defined by a life lived,
On inner city streets.

These are bastards of bastions...
Raised to be defeated.
No one to encourage,
Made efforts to keep.

These are bastards of bastions...
Raised to be defeated.
No one to encourage,
Made efforts to keep.

So they,
Find uselessness as no crime!
As a pity rips them.
And this pity grips them.
As they validate a nonsense lived.

As a pity rips them.
And this pity grips them.
As they validate a nonsense lived.

So they,
Find uselessness as no crime!
As a pity rips them.
And this pity grips them.
As a pity rips them.
And this pity grips them.

Orphaned are those,
Barely sitting in their nodded stupors.
Drifting back and forth through wishes.
With compositions of conditions,
That keep them weak.
In minds defined by a life lived,
On inner city streets.

As a pity rips them.
And this pity grips them.
As they validate a nonsense lived.

Bastards of bastions!
As a pity rips them.
And this pity grips them.
As they validate a nonsense lived.

Bastards of bastions!
As a pity rips them.
And this pity grips them.
As they validate a nonsense lived.

Bastards of bastions,
And born from quick passions.
As a pity rips them.
And this pity grips them.
As a pity rips them.
And this pity grips them.
As a pity rips them.
And this pity grips them.

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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A Tomb in Tuscany

In Montepulciano fair,—
Long famous for that vintage rare,
Prized by the giver of the vine
Above all wine—
There dwelt a man whose years had taught him
To seek, beyond what wealth had brought him,
Something to give his transient name
A lasting fame.

"For lordly palaces," he said,
"Shall crumble; ay, and bastions dread,
And temples grave and gardens gay
Become as they;
Each vaunted image of my power
Shall perish like a wayside flower,
And like the hawk my hand hath fed
Lie waste and dead.

"Wherefore, ere yet my days be spent,
I will uprear a monument
That 'gainst the envious floods of Time
Shall stand sublime;
My treasures vast shall serve and cherish

An art too heavenly to perish:
A beauty, born of passion pure,
That shall endure!"

So spoke he; and now lies asleep,
While near him forms angelic keep
Unwearied watch, and from decay
Guard him alway:
Rare, sculptured forms that blend his story
With Donatello's deathless glory,
And make mankind his debtors be
Eternally.

For lordly castles, as he said,
Have crumbled; ay, and bastions dread,
And temples grave and gardens gay
Become as they.
Each vaunted image of his power
Has perished like a wayside flower,
But living in the art he fed,
He is not dead!

poem by Florence Earle Coates from Poems (1898)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Little Bird

Little bird up in a tree
Looked down and sang a song to me
Of how it began
Na na na na na na
Na na na na na na
Na na na na na na
The trout in the shiny brook
Gave the worm another look
And told me not to worry
About my life
Na na na na na na
Na na na na na na
Na na na na na na
Tree in my own backyard
Stands all alone
Bears fruit for me
And it tastes so good
Wheres my pretty bird
He must have flown away
If I keep singing
Hell come back someday
Dawn, birds still gone
Guess Ill go mow the lawn
What a day, what a day
Oooo, what a beautiful day this is
Ooooooooo
Little bird up in a tree
Looked down a sang a song to me
The trout in a shiny brook
Gave the worm another look
And told me not to worry about my life
Little bird looked down
And sang a song to me
Little bird looked down
And sang a songto me
Little bird looked down
And sang a song to me

song performed by by Beach Boys
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Storm

The inclement night raged--
Against the uneven pulse of the city-
Tearing down its bastions...
The night terrors ravaged...
In thunderous overtones--
Black skies turned gray
Sky broken by hail--
Lightening strikes twice
In its own oblivious
Unmerciful claps--
At last finding the calm...
Agosto is waiting Ismael;

poem by Theodora Onken
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A Canadian Snow Fall

Come to the casement, we’ll watch the snow
Softly descending on earth below,
Fairer and whiter than spotless down
Or the pearls that gleam in a monarch’s crown,
Clothing the earth in its robe’s bright flow;
Is it not lovely—the pure white snow?

See, as it falls o’er the landscape wide,
How kindly it seeks all blots to hide,
Shrouding each black, unsightly nook,
The miry banks of the little brook,
Robing bare branches in ermine white,
Making all lovely, spotless and bright.

In the farm-yard see with what magic skill
Its marvels of beauty it works at will:
The well-house now is a fairy hall,
And the rough, rude fence is a marble wall;
While gates and hillocks where barn fowl ranged
To ramparts and bastions now are changed.

How softly it falls—nor breath, nor sound,
Though four feet high it should pile the ground,
Though it change the face of wood and field,
With skill that no mortal could ever wield;
Yet, as it falls, not a murmur low—
The noiseless, silent, white-winged snow!

See, in the rays of the morning bright,
How it blushes beneath the sun’s red light;
How its diamond crystals gleam and shine,
Clearer than those of Golconda’s mine;
Though the wintry winds may with anger blow,
Surely all love the beautiful snow.

poem by Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon
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The Grey Road

A sun-flash on his mounting wing,
A wild note soaring high—
The lark is up, the minstrel king,
The poet of the sky.
To thrill, to sing of Youth and Spring
Those golden numbers flowed.
What message then
Has he for men
Who tread the long grey road?
Knee-deep in grass the cattle stand,
The river winds along,
And chants through sunny meadow land
A low mysterious song.
Ah! sunlit vale and lover’s tale
Youth’s day is quickly gone—
Past current-beat
And meadow-sweet
The grey road stretches on!

Grim bastions frowning down below—
And rising, tier on tier,
Sublime, and crowned with ageless snow
The awful peaks appear.
The heights belong unto the strong
Who scale, by crags untried,
The great cliffs face—
But at its base
The grey road turns aside!

No hope in Heaven, no minstrel strain,
No vales where summer shone
A leaden sky, a silent plain,
The grey road stretching on.
O Christ, who trod the thorny path,
And bore the bitter load,
Have mercy then
On weary men
Who tread the long grey road!

poem by George Essex Evans
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Window

I looked out the window at dawn and saw a young apple tree
translucent in brightness.

And when I looked out at dawn once again, an apple tree laden with
fruit stood there.

Many years had probably gone by but I remember nothing of what
happened in my sleep.

poem by Czeslaw Milosz
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A Mountshannon October Morning

The stranger sat upon the park bench,
and looked across the Lough.
Smoke from his pipe
blended with the cool morning breeze.
The distant mountains patchwork of green
sat under the hand of dawn’s rolling mist.
The white capped dark waters rolled endlessly against the shore,
nudging the sheltering boats against their moorings,
and washed over shoreline rocks
speckled with lichen and moss.
A pair of swans with their signets sheltered
in the calmer waters of the harbour
away from the white capped waves.
The sun edged its way into the sky,
from behind the sleeping mountains,
spreading red and oranged fingers
to touch the retreating night clouds.
The village adopted ginger cat
made his morning patrol
along the harbour’s sleeping boats,
in a search for breakfast.
The autumn coloured tree leaves,
fluttered in the morning breeze
as the wind and waves rolling
over the shore bound rocks disturbing
the dawning silence.

poem by David Harris
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Bronze Trumpets and Sea Water - On Turning Latin into English

Alembics turn to stranger things
Strange things, but never while we live
Shall magic turn this bronze that sings
To singing water in a sieve.

The trumpets of Cæsar's guard
Salute his rigorous bastions
With ordered bruit; the bronze is hard
Though there is silver in the bronze.

Our mutable tongue is like the sea,
Curled wave and shattering thunder-fit;
Dangle in strings of sand shall he
Who smoothes the ripples out of it.

poem by Elinor Morton Wylie
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By The Sea

Bright skies of summer o’er the deep,
And soft salt air along the land,
The blue wave, lisping in its sleep,
Sinks gently on the yellow sand;
And gray-winged seagulls slowly sweep
O’er scattered bush and white-limbed tree
Where the red cliffs like bastions stand
To front the salvos of the sea,
Now lulled by its own melody.
Yonder the rising waters ride,
O’er ironstone masses, celled and worn;
There, gnarled and bent by wind and tide,
A single mangrove stands forlorn,
Alone in melancholy pride
A symbol of the soul of man
In Life’s wild surges tossed and torn,
That yearns amid the battle’s van
For the vast good it may not scan.

Along this silent shining sand
Come, brother of my heart, with me,
Tho’ I have never felt thine hand
And tho’ thine eyes I ne’er may see,
Yet somewhere or by sea or land
Thine heart and mine keep equal beat,
And in Life’s strange eternity
Responsive souls perchance may meet,
And know each other ere they greet.

Begone regret and carking care
That to the murky world belong
The chimes of earth and sea and air
Ring softened here to elfin song.
Come, friend of solitude, to where
The low dark jetty meets the blaze
Of sky and waters slumbering long,
Here let us dream while ocean plays
The mystic chants of golden days.

poem by George Essex Evans
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Reclaiming love, love, love.

Oh, see how sweet shake wave rays through
Two fishermen launched the nets on the lake
Old man stand listening to what comes from afar
The young man with a book in hand was filled with annoyance
Your absence is freezing in every row
Hunting is going well
waves are thus ablaze
All nets are filled with fish like stars
that dance with slopes very...
The recent just gathering, the young man so crying
‘cause He is afraid, He will not ever see you again
but a light pierces the blue sky. From the castle
replies a sweet voice of prompt joy
The boat gained momentum
and voices chanted again Avatar
here comes dawn light
The moon drank pauses of water
and slept quite happily
While playing with the waves rays
and reclaiming
love, love, love.

poem by Vasil Marku
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A Bastion Of Knowledge

National universities are called several men,
Wars include their earliness, wars of duty;
Born against them, a fetching knowledge is provided
To improve the ethereal planes, and material plains.

This felicity evokes pity, for they have forbearance,
And these bastions of intellectual learning strive hard.
Until the days of food have closed, we spend in the ways
Of education, seconds are wasted but exams are good.

poem by Naveed Akram
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The Bird at Dawn

What I saw was just one eye
In the dawn as I was going :
A bird can carry all the sky
In that little button glowing.

Never in my life I went
So deep into the firmament.

He was standing on a tree,
All in blossom overflowing;
And he purposely looked hard at me,
At first, as if to question merrily :
' Where are you going ? '
But next some far more serious thing to say :
I could not answer, could not look away.

Oh, that hard, round, and so distracting eye :
Little mirror of all the sky ! --
And then the after-song another tree
Held, and sent radiating back on me.

If no man had invented human word,
And a bird-song had been
The only way to utter what we mean,
What would we men have heard,
What understood, what seen,
Between the trills and pauses, in between
The singing and the silence of a bird?

poem by Harold Monro
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Fantasy...

A tree and its shadow
And a dreamy meadow
Waiting for someone....

The Shadow asks ' how is she doing? '
Tree whispers ' shhh! sleeping'
'oops! sorry' says shadow and waits
waiting...they are for the flower that sleeps
on a thin green brunch of the tree
The tree, now drowsy, as sun
Readies itself to set, for the night
and the little shadow? it grows unwatched
With the dimming light

The Tree sleeps,
The meadow sleeps
Huts sleep
and the man inside it
Is in slumber too
Tiny little shadow grows into night
Embraces life with darkness punctured with lights

Dawn Awakes
Sun rays come running back to the tree
Tree asks 'my shadow? where IS he? '
the Tallest palm tree, sky abreast
says 'i think I saw him running northwest! '

The Shadow creeps in and stands upon a pebble
Says ' i wana see...i wana see! ' with boyish charm

Then The flower finally falls
Into shadow's lap
'shh! she's still taking a nap! '
says tree to his friend

Wind blows, it wants to play with her
The sleeping beauty, The flower
'Look! Look! ...she's smiling!
She's happy! she must be dreaming! '
The shadow hushes, excited!

A girl comes out of the hut...
Takes the flower, the sweet, from Shadows lap
What will you do with her, little girl?
She's taking a nap! '

'I'll play with it', the little girl says
The Shadow starts crying
The tree wishpers...
' dont cry dear...let it be...
Tommorrow morning You'll see
Our flower is back with us
On your lap she's lying!

Night comes again
Tree and its shadow sleeps
with Dreamy smiles on their lips

Dawn brings light to the tree and shadow
They wake up and see
Adorned with Dew drops like some rare gems
Their Sweet little flower is back with them!

poem by Saurabh Som
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Our Hero

"Flowers, only flowers -- bring me dainty posies,
Blossoms for forgetfulness," that was all he said;
So we sacked our gardens, violets and roses,
Lilies white and bluebells laid we on his bed.
Soft his pale hands touched them, tenderly caressing;
Soft into his tired eyes came a little light;
Such a wistful love-look, gentle as a blessing;
There amid the flowers waited he the night.

"I would have you raise me; I can see the West then:
I would see the sun set once before I go."
So he lay a-gazing, seemed to be at rest then,
Quiet as a spirit in the golden glow.
So he lay a-watching rosy castles crumbling,
Moats of blinding amber, bastions of flame,
Rugged rifts of opal, crimson turrets tumbling;
So he lay a-dreaming till the shadows came.

"Open wide the window; there's a lark a-singing;
There's a glad lark singing in the evening sky.
How it's wild with rapture, radiantly winging:
Oh it's good to hear that when one has to die.
I am horror-haunted from the hell they found me;
I am battle-broken, all I want is rest.
Ah! It's good to die so, blossoms all around me,
And a kind lark singing in the golden West.

"Flowers, song and sunshine, just one thing is wanting,
Just the happy laughter of a little child."
So we brought our dearest, Doris all-enchanting;
Tenderly he kissed her; radiant he smiled.
"In the golden peace-time you will tell the story
How for you and yours, sweet, bitter deaths were ours. . . .
God bless little children!" So he passed to glory,
So we left him sleeping, still amid the flow'rs.

poem by Robert William Service
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Vulture

I had walked since dawn and lay down to rest on a bare hillside
Above the ocean. I saw through half-shut eyelids a vulture wheeling
high up in heaven,
And presently it passed again, but lower and nearer, its orbit
narrowing,
I understood then
That I was under inspection. I lay death-still and heard the flight-
feathers
Whistle above me and make their circle and come nearer.
I could see the naked red head between the great wings
Bear downward staring. I said, 'My dear bird, we are wasting time
here.
These old bones will still work; they are not for you.' But how
beautiful
he looked, gliding down
On those great sails; how beautiful he looked, veering away in the
sea-light
over the precipice. I tell you solemnly
That I was sorry to have disappointed him. To be eaten by that beak
and
become part of him, to share those wings and those eyes--
What a sublime end of one's body, what an enskyment; what a life
after death.

poem by Robinson Jeffers
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Do This

Close your eyes.
In preparation to dismiss,
Limitation.

Release conflicts to lift.
And shift those burdens,
From weighted shoulders.

Transmit your wishes,
To realize dreams...
From bastions kept as impossibilities.

Know you exist as a gift given,
And only you prevent...
All that you are and can be!

Close your eyes.
In preparation to dismiss,
Limitation.

Do this!
And not what you believe,
Can not be done to welcome...
As others entrap perceive.

Do this!
And not what you believe,
Can not be done to welcome...
As others entrap perceive.

Close your eyes.
In preparation to dismiss,
Limitation.

Do this!

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Dark Becomes Dawn

Dark as pitch - Dawn spreads light
Dark as dead - Dawn expires graves
Dark withers - Dawn freshness wears
Dark un-paths - Dawn re-strides.

Dark dapples gray - Dawn paints days
Dark specters doubt - Dawn assuredness' gate
Dark limitless plain - Dawn corrals night
Dark swifts shadows - Dawn hastens un-obscures.

Dark dissolves pace - Dawn zeniths one's range
Dark devours - Dawn sun rises
Dark bends down relief - Dawn uplifts sight
Dark dismantles - Dawn scatters golden arrows.

Dark de-flames - Dawn matches day
Dark invisibles - Dawn globes light
Dark unfolds dark dreams - Dawn un-sanctions screams
Dark submissively retires - Dawn crimson splendor.

'2008'

poem by Robert Sheridan
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Early Works - The Spirit Of Christmas

The December wind howled outside
rattling the windows,
the children played on the floor
as the crimson glow of the fire
warmed the heart of the room.
In the corner stood a Christmas tree
sparingly decorated with tinsel and lights
but beneath were no presents in sight.
Jason watched his children
with sadness tinting his eyes
he knew how important
Christmas was to young lives.
He had tried to save through the year,
but there was always something needed
from the money he tried to save
clothes, food and shoes to wear.
Oh how he would have loved to see
them smile from ear to ear
instead of sadness in their eyes
for toys that wouldn’t be there.
He wished he hadn’t spent so much on petrol
when he was looking for a job
that he had walked the lonely miles
from refusal to rejection
and used the money to buy
his children a Christmas present collection.
The smiling face of his wife
cheered him little from his frown.
His thoughts were of his childhood
and the presents crowded around
the bottom of the tree,
of stockings filled with sweets, toys and fruit,
and creeping down the stairs at the first light of dawn
to see what Santa Claus had left.
Those were happy Christmases
not like this one so bare.

The children went to bed early
excitement filled the air
with the expectancy of presents under the tree,
which sadly would not be there.
Jason and his wife waited
until they were asleep
and then filled each stocking
with all that they could afford.
Then set about arranging
the few presents that they had
before they themselves retired to their bed.

The silence of the night
was disturbed by a rustling sound
of old iron chains
being dragged across the ground.
No one in the house heard it
as in sleep they lie
as in crept the spirit of a slave
from centuries gone by.
The ghost climbed the stairs
dragging his chains behind,
flitted from room to room
as if by some design.
Downstairs he hurled himself
in a sliding fashion
his moans were but a whisper
that could be mistaken as the wind.
He then flew around again
over everywhere he’d been.
He flew around the Christmas tree
causing a few pine needles to fall
and as each needle hit the floor
a present appeared
until beneath the tree was no longer bare.
He rattled his chains again
this time they sounded like bells,
and then flew up the chimney
with muffled sooty yells.

The streaks of dawn broke the sky
the children woke with wonder
at the stocking on the end of the bed.
Stealing through the shadows
from the break of day,
they moved silently down the stairs
to the living room and the tree.
Unlike the night before
beneath the tree, you couldn’t see the floor
presents covered in multi-coloured paper
decorated the bottom of the tree.
Their faces lit up and they said
a lot of oohs and mees.
Jason woke to their joyful tones;
he looked at his wife in question
just as there came a sound
of laughter and running feet.
“Oh Mummy, Daddy
come see what Santa has brought.”
Said the little girl with golden curls
as she jumped up on their bed.
“Come and see, come and see.”
two other voices yelled.
Jason smiled and nodded
as the children returned downstairs.
With sighs, they threw back the covers
and followed the children down.
They stood in the living room doorway
with faces masked in question.
They looked at each other for answers,
neither had any to give,
just that their prayer had been heard
and that the spirit of Christmas
they now understood.

6 December 1983

poem by David Harris
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