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
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Related quotes
A Tall Story part two
There is a bridge that crosses over a river
A river that is eerie and makes you quiver
With the light of the moon the river will gleam
and a boat will go sailing, on its own down
stream. The mist will come from out of the trees
and horrible sounds can be heard in the breeze.
It sounded like cats caught up in a fight a claim
for territory in the dead of night, but cats never fight
on the waters edge just in case they fall over the ledge.
A river bank full of matted reeds where plants had died
without dispersing their seeds.A man dressed in green
who paddles the stream who can be seen clear in the
moonlit beam.Sometimes you hear him digging on
the side of the river bank, could this be true or is it
some sort of a prank
A river full of alge green and that's how it had
always been. No carp, no bream no fish to fish not
even a place for a secret wish.
No river bank wildlife to give it grace, just run over the
bridge and get out of this place.
The story tells of a robber who stood about three feet
tall and because of his height he couldent climbe over
the wall. Now behind the wall was the river which spread
down far and wide and the man in green had a problem
because he could'nt get to the other side.So he hid the
loot inside his boot and started to dig under the wall
but as he dug the water flooded in and he sank to
the bottom of the pool.
Apart from one thing he could not swim and the weight
of the loot that was in his boot no doubt made him take
root.If you go to the river and see the man in green, then
please come back and tell us what you have seen.
This is a tall story one with a short tale, I am sorry it
didn't excit you, but my next one wont fail.
poem by Sylvia Spencer
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That Quick Little Brown Dog
that quick little brown dog
jumps over the fence
near the bank of the river,
it is not your dog,
but you happen to be there when it
jumped,
over the fence near the bank of the river
into the river
that deep river with a overrunning
of the water
the dog was struggling to swim back
to the safety of the bank
but it failed and the dog was taken away
by the river and
it was gone,
you wonder why until now you think about that
dead dog
it is not yours but it sticks to your mind
as though it is yours
somehow you think as though you own it
and that you feel so painful about such loss
and you cannot sleep
and then you dream about that quick little brown dog
that drowned
it is barking so hard trying to be alive again
you wake up
with lots of cold sweat
somehow you think again
inside that dream
the face of the quick little brown dog
that jumped over the fence
into the deep river
is yours.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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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
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The River of Me
I launched myself on the river me
Way back when I was two or three
I sailed out through the wall of snow
Beneath the bridge where all kids go
That Cheyenne Bodie was ten feet tall
His voice so deep it filled a hall
And that was who I dreamed I’d be
Until Cochise came on the scene
There was ice on the river and ice on the pond
And the singing nun sang on and on
There were trees on the river bank, cliffs by the sea
And fish galore in the river of me
The fields were full of cows, corn or wheat
The air was thick with bees and heat
The summer lasted all year long
I never knew til it was gone
And then of course came that high school girl
Her glances made my river swirl
More complex than the universe
I never knew what she’d do next
There was light on the river and light on the pond
And the singing nun sang on and on
There were trees on the river bank, cliffs by the sea
And fish galore in the river of me
And up we soared towards the sky
Through songs and dancing by and by
My waterfalls and waves ran high
For just the winking of an eye
And in the distance the quiet sea
was waiting on the river me
And on the banks the weeds grew tall
Where rusting leaves began to fall
Now there’s night on the river and night on the pond
And the singing nun is long since gone
There are trees on the river bank, cliffs by the sea
And memories in the river of me
I launched myself on the river me
Way back when I was two or three
I sailed out through the wall of snow
Beneath the bridge where all kids go
I Looked in a River
I looked in a river from a bridge I was on
The river and bridge both small yet so strong
The water so clear you could see river bed
Yet what I saw cast around made me feel sad
A concrete pylon about two meters long
An old sack and Iron Gate and a cycle half gone
Then a blue plastic bag and a tyre yet no wheel
A place in seems for discarded items people steal
It’s a shame a disgrace as this debris is strewn
As around it all river plants and reeds fight for room
Yet again it’s a puzzle as the waters so clear
That’s despite this mess on the riverbed here
Copyright © 2008 Ray Feasey
poem by Ray Feasey
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The River
I see a couple of leaves
spinning around in the river
in a small whirlpool
circling back,
around and around.
A canoe glides past
with its occupant waving,
dressed in brilliant orange,
and it sails on
without loosing motion.
Tranquillity washes over me
where I am fishing
next to the fluid continuity
that looks the same,
but very subtle the hue changes
like the colour of the sky.
My eyes are on the policemen
of the fishing lines,
but I watch the vibrant river
rushing past, the deep blue sky
and some finches sitting twittering
on their nests in a willow tree.
I am here to catch some equilibrium,
to get balance in a busy life,
to hear the river’s voice,
for a time to let nature
talk to me and to experience
sun, wind, sky and breeze.
I think of you and I
and how suddenly passion
like the river gets an own power,
goes to a new high water mark
and although your body
is so familiar in aspects of shape,
texture and structure
there’s always something new.
You leave me breathless
and like the water
make me rise
in power and strength
and bring serenity to me.
poem by Gert Strydom
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River
(orbison/dees)
Roly-oly on now, river
Roly-oly on your way
Roly-oly on now river
Wash my cares away
River so wide and so deep
Wake the sandman from his sleep
River remind him
He has a promise to keep
Roll on, mighty river
Running wild and free
Get along now, river
Bring a dream to me
Hey now, river
Go down, river
Dont slow down, river
Bring a dream for me
Roly-oly on now, river
Roly-oly on your way
Roly-oly on now river
Take my troubles away
Robin hood river, roll on
Go steal a dream from the dawn
River, youll find me
Where all the dreamers have gone
Roll on, mighty river
Running wild and free
Get along now, river
And bring a dream to me
Hey now, river
Go down, river
Dont slow down, river
Bring that dream for me
song performed by by Roy Orbison
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Visit to Orcha: A visual exploration
River and tree look on morning town
And on the bridge and men and women
With loads of firewood from the forest
A bare-bodied man has sun on face.
Off the bridge a wizened old man
With saffron cloth drying on river rocks
Bends exquisitely with age and beauty.
A woman in red bathes on the river bed.
In the distance is the bank and history’s spires
On the bank a woman pours water in river
From a steel pot in oblation, to the sun.
As the sun glistens on the shaken river
River beats rocks in soft steady rhythm.
Men stand on the river frozen in time
Joyful women hide on the river’s rim
Waiting to burst forth in celebration.
A holy man stands tall on the rocks
Drying a red loin cloth, his hair mat loose
A boy silhouette crouches near the holy man.
On the tall mound sits the crooked holy man
Against the brilliant morning sun, waiting
To be captured on somebody’s digital lens.
poem by Jagannath rao Adukuri
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Matins
Gray earth, gray mist, gray sky:
Through vapors hurrying by,
Larger than wont, on high
Floats the horned, yellow moon.
Chill airs are faintly stirred,
And far away is heard,
Of some fresh-awakened bird,
The querulous, shrill tune.
The dark mist hides the face
Of the dim land: no trace
Of rock or river's place
In the thick air is drawn;
But dripping grass smells sweet,
And rustling branches meet,
And sounding water greet
The slow, sure, sacred dawn.
Past is the long black night,
With its keen lightnings white,
Thunder and floods: new light
The glimmering low east streaks.
The dense clouds part: between
Their jagged rents are seen
Pale reaches blue and green,
As the mirk curtain breaks.
Above the shadowy world,
Still more and more unfurled,
The gathered mists upcurled
Like phantoms melt and pass.
In clear-obscure revealed,
Brown wood, gray stream, dark field:
Fresh, healthy odors yield
Wet furrows, flowers, and grass.
The sudden, splendid gleam
Of one thin, golden beam
Shoots from the feathered rim
Of yon hill crowned with woods.
Down its embowered side,
As living waters slide,
So the great morning tide
Follows in sunny floods.
From bush and hedge and tree
Joy, unrestrained and free,
Breaks forth in melody,
Twitter and chirp and song:
Alive the festal air
With gauze-winged creatures fair,
That flicker everywhere,
Dart, poise, and flash along.
The shining mists are gone,
Slight films of gold swift-blown
Before the strong, bright sun
Or the deep-colored sky:
A world of life and glow
Sparkles and basks below,
Where the soft meads a-row,
Hoary with dew-fall, lie.
Does not the morn break thus,
Swift, bright, victorious,
With new skies cleared for us,
Over the soul storm-tost?
Her night was long and deep,
Strange visions vexed her sleep,
Strange sorrows bade her weep:
Her faith in dawn was lost.
No halt, no rest for her,
The immortal wanderer
From sphere to higher sphere,
Toward the pure source of day.
The new light shames her fears,
Her faithlessness, her tears,
As the new sun appears
To light her godlike way.
poem by Emma Lazarus
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I Will Try
I will try
To dance for you as once I danced
Barefoot in the heavy summer night
In the heart of the Bamangwato lands
And I will try
To sing for you as once I sang
Blue cap shading my eyes, guitar in hand
For the stars by the Thamalakane banks
I will do my best
To long for you as once I sent
My longing out from salt-crusted rocks
Into the heart of Cape Verdian winds
I will try again
To write for you, as I once composed
Words of the deep self, bubbling up
From mystical wells that water the soul
I will do what I can
To be the man who once was young
Who dreamed so free and loved so strong
Because you have brought me to love again.
poem by Frank Bana
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Dyes Cast
Each night
As he drops his head
To the deep dream
Of the dark bed,
A shape beckons him
Wellaway
From the starlight
And the dim day.
A mare
Black as a spade, calls
From the dark hill
As the wind falls,
The reeds mutter
The night is black
As he leaps blind
To the mare’s back.
Then like the roar
Of an ill wind
Or a black flame
From the devil’s kiln,
The mare speeds
To the night’s work
By the old mill
And the dark Kirk.
Shapes flutter
And leap alight
Before they sputter
And, out of sight
Disport and mutter
Of black arts
To see the mare
And the rider pass.
Hour on hour
He clings to scenes
Of dark images,
Wild dreams
And chance friends
From the dead past
In the grim haunts
Of dyes cast.
His face burns
And tears stream
In the long night
Of the dark dream,
He clings grim
To the mare’s back
For his soul’s sake
And a long lack.
The day brinks
At night’s mist;
‘There may be nothing
More than this, ’
The mare fades
From his wide eyes –
But the thoughts bide,
And the old lies.
‘There may be nothing
More than this! ’
And his mind seeks
The mare, the mist;
‘There may be nought
But the dead past,
And the dark haunts
Of dyes cast.’
27 December 1978
poem by David Lewis Paget
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In The Murk
I know that the Apies River
have a high sewerage content
and there they were
sitting beneath a willow tree
fishing kurper and carp
and from the brown black water,
deep slime and mud,
where you couldn't see anything
in the thick murk
they pulled out
big healthy fishes
that twisted, frisked
trying to get away.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Frozen Dance
The tree is without leaves
Lifting one arm in the direction of the air
The head as if to see
The dry river bed
The stones have been cut sharply
By wind
There had been some water
And the river had been in flow
This bridge is built in vain
The other tree
Had been a fisherman
The first one
The beautiful fairy
Taking a bath
And in sight of a dream
Is now a tree
In the shape of frozen dance
Islamabad
28/5/2010
poem by Sadiqullah Khan
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Vistula
A cascade of ices, cold fury
gargling down the Beskids
waiting basket of Baltic,
great span of your lakes
infinite stretch of Mazury-
you, marshal land-giver-
to our lives along banks
into houses and history-
what do you make of us,
God of this river?
Those who would plumb
the crevice dry cracks
fetch in your mystery,
the deep green in you,
River whose currents still
shape us with influence,
run blood in our vein-sinew
wild into your wilderness,
What do you build in us
God of this river?
As we cross the ice packs
winter’s water hidden us
floods and droughts sung
to your rhythm- fit eyes
flicked at the universe,
town’s heart pumps a pulse
just a mere quiver, under
thick ice for so long, what
have you forbidden us.
God of this river?
For us the smart facts, snatch
a glimpse of you from high
bridges across in the rush
cars trams train and bus
fast metros under you
to nest in sky-scrapers
shrinking you down to
a summer’s small slither
our lives blunder through
your slow current’s residue
What thinking, wonder you
pagan God of this River?
poem by John a'Beckett
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In The Valley of Light
Beneath the old bridge where the old highway ends
I sat with my feet in the freezing cold river
Where time wears away dear but never mends
It hasn't been long but it seems like forever
Beside Poacher's Pool in the Valley of Light
We lay here and listened to birdsong so pure
In each other's arms dear down here out of sight
In those stolen moments when we were secure
(Chorus)
The breezes blow gently that carry you here
Soft under starlight across Linton Lea
The river and I know you'll always be near
Down here where our loving once set us free
The salmon and sea trout lazed there in the pool
Just waiting to break for the up-river heights
Across Linton Lea the world lay before us
But we were too tied then to share in its sights
Those tender red lips I once kissed here are gone
and prettiest brown eyes that I've ever gazed on
They used to be mine by this river-side
Here under the bridge in the Valley of Light
(Chorus)
The breezes blow gently that carry you here
Soft under starlight across Linton Lea
The river and I know you'll always be near
Here where our loving once set us free
Here where I dream across Linton Lea
21 12 07
Lover's Gifts XXII: I Shall Gladly Suffer
I shall gladly suffer the pride of culture to die out in my house,
if only in some happy future I am born a herd-boy in the Brinda
forest.
The herd-boy who grazes his cattle sitting under the banyan
tree, and idly weaves gunja flowers into garlands, who loves to
splash and plunge in the Jamuna's cool deep stream.
He calls his companions to wake up when morning dawns, and all
the houses in the lane hum with the sound of the churn, clouds of
dust are raised by the cattle, the maidens come out in the
courtyard to milk the king.
As the shadows deepen under the tomal trees, and the dusk
gathers on the river-banks; when the milkmaids, while crossing the
turbulent water, tremble with fear; and loud peacocks, with tails
outspread, dance in the forest, he watchers the summer clouds.
When the April night is sweet as a fresh-blown flower, he
disappears in the forest with a peacock's plume in his hair; the
swing ropes are twined with flowers on the branches; the south wind
throbs with music, and the merry shepherd boys crowd on the banks
of the blue river.
No, I will never be the leader, brothers, of this new age of
new Bengal; I shall not trouble to light the lamp of culture for
the benighted. If only I could be born, under the shady asoka
groves, in some village of Brinda, where milk is churned by the
maidens!
poem by Rabindranath Tagore
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Old bridge knows the silent river is deep
Listening to the whispers at a late night
I try to compose a song with my lonely guitar.
Standing on an old bridge
I gaze at the calm river flows down.
And see Moon floats on the gentle waves.
I write my first few lines;
There the Moon has come down
And the old bridge knows the silent river is deep
But I cannot miss this chance and I strum with a humble plea
Do you hear my clumsy glee?
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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Down in the deep water..
Down in the deep water
By the edge of the river
Where I ponder my life
Just how did I get to this
Down in the deep water
By the edge of the river
Where the waterfall of dreams
Sweeps away what’s left to the abyss
Down in the deep water
By the edge of the river
Where time stands still
just only forever.
Down in the deep water
By the edge of the river
Where I buried all
That was ever my childhood
Where I let it go,
Where it bends and meanders,
Twisting along as the years went past.
Seemingly calm, but screaming beneath the surface
Were its hidden whirlpools, a sweeping current
Down in the deep water,
I left the edge of the river,
As I looked down
For my soul at the bottom.
Deep in the deep water
Swept away by the river
I drowned in life,
......Sinking forever.
poem by Deep Dark Soul Poet
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The Wild Geese
Wild geese fly overhead
In the wild Autumn weather.
Souls of the newly-dead
Crying and flying together.
Home from the last great fight,
The souls of the Irish farin'
With a wild heart in the night,
A grey eye turned to Erin.
High and high in the sky,
From the red fields of slaughter
Ever they fly and cry
For the brown bog, the grey water.
Wild geese in the wild even,
Steady and strong their flight,
Their beds are made in Heaven,
All of the down white.
They have forgone that bliss
Till they have seen once more
The little land of peace,
Green and bright as of yore.
High o'er the sheep and cattle,
The bogs and the mountains lone,
The souls new-home from the battle
Cry their love and are flown.
poem by Katharine Tynan
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Near Where the River Meets The Sea
The river widens and deepens as it nears the ocean and into a huge mass of water does grow
To look at it does hardly seem to be flowing at a snail's pace it does crawl along so slow
For dabbling and diving water birds ideal to live in with plenty fish and other water food to eat
The World is quiet by the high and brown paddocks near where the sea and the river do meet
The grebes, musk duck and black duck, the coot and dusky moorhen
The cormorants, egrets and darters birds shy of children, women and men
The omnivirous silver gulls in freshwater like to wash their feathers and preen
Near to where the river meets the ocean so many waterbirds for to be seen
When you tell me of one who does not love Nature you tell me of one to beauty blind
You tell me of one who is not observant with darkness of soul and of mind
So much beauty there is in Nature her wonders every day I see
On the bank of the slow flowing river a magpie sings on a stringybark tree
So calming for to stand on the brown banks where the river crawls on to the sea
I like billions of others love Nature the mother of the wild and the free.
poem by Francis Duggan
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