En.Citatepedia^®.ro

The Forsaken Heron

In the grey dusk...
soaring...
the wounded bird
Inscribing on the air
a tale of agonies
aer agonising flight
composing an elegy
among the lush-green leaves
The congregation of glow-worms
-the herds of some innocent souls...
opening their beaks
They're all the reflections of my multicolored thristy dreams

The assault of those reminiscences
as if the wounds carved by beaks
on a juicy fruit

I-the prisoner of my memories-
with pinions bound
amidst the sunlight getting paler
looking with yearnings
at the golden birds
flying over a river
(the golden birds-
the ambassadords of the seasons) -
and beseeching the ambassador birds:

Comrades!
If you happen to meet her
by any chance
Tell her that her abandoned heron
Is still in search
of the sweet, melodious tunes of his shepherd.

Written and translated by Shujaat Ali Rahi

(Kohat; Feb 22,2008)

poem by Shujaat Rahi
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Green Bird, Golden Bird.

A tired green bird flew a very long journey,
Came to a stop in a beautiful valley.
There were many birds of all colours singing and playing,
Among them he saw a beautiful golden bird,
Her feathers shining in the bright sunshine,
And her voice echoed melodiously.

Within a short time the green and golden birds were close friends,
They knew each other deeply by heart,
Passing the days, flying from valley to valley,
And resting from tree to tree.

Then one sad day, golden bird must return,
She too had flown from across the vast ocean,
Even though it broke the green bird's heart,
But he was willing to let go, and before she left, .. he asked;

Golden bird, have I full-filled my promises to you?
That I would never hurt you,
That I would protect you with my life,
That I would share my provisions with you,
That I would make you happy and smiling always!

Is there any single word to describe all these?

Golden bird,
I will pray for your lasting happiness,
I will never forget your overflowing kindness,
You have nested permanently in my heart…and lastly,

I dream for us to be able to fly together again,
in unimaginable beautiful green heaven!

poem by Desert Life
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Bad Bird

I saw a bird of quite bad scent,
I smelt it when it flew my way,
Perhaps so speedily,
Perhaps it loved me.
My birds are like no birds of prey
That strike me and hit me with their beaks.
The wings of entire softness
Munch at the air, in the cold
When the snow is falling,
Is falling far too fast.
My bird is so ugly to smell
Yet why does it love me?

poem by Naveed Akram
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Birds Are Not My Epic

When I’ll write an epic for the animals
Particularly birds with their wings and beaks and claws
They’ll make me sick to think of them in the bathroom
When all the intense images I’ll see are them flying
Over and above my head out from the shower faucet
Those weird throbbing like needles on my skins
Are brandishing my mortality to hate the images
I admit of them my number one phobia
I cannot run a writing race overnight with such of them as characters
They can be epic but they cannot be mine
Say if my rationality is purely an excuse
But I am this mortal who does fear
Birds are birds and I cannot undress them
Who has dreads and who has courage?
Birds are not my epic

poem by Chester Maynes
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Tweety Birds

Two tweety birds,
Hangout on a branch.
Two tweety birds,
Waiting for their lunch.

Their time is spent
Tweeting, preening in a bunch.
A ritual, a noise event.
Birds gather not in a 'bunch',

They stay together in a 'flock'.
I wrote 'bunch'
to rhyme with lunch.
So there, you have it in a block!

Birds of a feather flock together,
Sing melodious tunes
Birds of a feather in any weather,
Tweet in timely tunes.

poem by Philo Yan
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Sunday Morning - IV

She says, "I am content when wakened birds,
Before they fly, test the reality
Of misty fields, by their sweet questionings;
But when the birds are gone, and their warm fields
Return no more, where, then, is paradise?"
There is not any haunt of prophecy,
Nor any old chimera of the grave,
Neither the golden underground, nor isle
Melodious, where spirits gat them home,
Nor visionary south, nor cloudy palm
Remote on heaven's hill, that has endured
As April's green endures; or will endure
Like her remembrance of awakened birds,
Or her desire for June and evening, tipped
By the consummation of the swallow's wings.

poem by Wallace Stevens
Submitted by Dan Costinaş
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On The Wings And Claws And Beaks Of Poetry

lame, i walk on the crutches
of poetry,

wingless, i put on the feathers
of words,

i get these beaks
of metaphors

to feed upon
the richness of meaning

i am a hundred birds
on a hundred wings

i have claws and beaks
and eagles' eyes

on the flights
of the madness of poetry

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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And... The River Runs Through It

Those sweet memories still linger in my mind
The chain of mountains, The birds singing their song,
The outspread meadows...
And the river that runs through it!

I still see us walking along the river bank holding each other's hand.
And as we lie down on the grass, Interlocked in arms, looking at the sky,
The rock sings for us, a melodious song,
As the river runs through it!

I still go there
Sometimes in dreams and sometimes in real.
The birds are still singing and the rock still sings.
Everything is unchanged except the fact that
You are nowhere to be seen.
You have crossed over to the other side of the river,
The outstretched field of heaven!
And as I sit on the grass, sorrow grips my mind
And... The river runs through it!

poem by Arti Honrao
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Over Sir John's Hill

Over Sir John's hill,
The hawk on fire hangs still;
In a hoisted cloud, at drop of dusk, he pulls to his claws
And gallows, up the rays of his eyes the small birds of the bay
And the shrill child's play
Wars
Of the sparrows and such who swansing, dusk, in wrangling hedges.
And blithely they squawk
To fiery tyburn over the wrestle of elms until
The flash the noosed hawk
Crashes, and slowly the fishing holy stalking heron
In the river Towy below bows his tilted headstone.

Flash, and the plumes crack,
And a black cap of jack-
Daws Sir John's just hill dons, and again the gulled birds hare
To the hawk on fire, the halter height, over Towy's fins,
In a whack of wind.
There
Where the elegiac fisherbird stabs and paddles
In the pebbly dab-filled
Shallow and sedge, and 'dilly dilly,' calls the loft hawk,
'Come and be killed,'
I open the leaves of the water at a passage
Of psalms and shadows among the pincered sandcrabs prancing

And read, in a shell
Death clear as a bouy's bell:
All praise of the hawk on fire in hawk-eyed dusk be sung,
When his viperish fuse hangs looped with flames under the brand
Wing, and blest shall
Young
Green chickens of the bay and bushes cluck, 'dilly dilly,
Come let us die.'
We grieve as the blithe birds, never again, leave shingle and elm,
The heron and I,
I young Aesop fabling to the near night by the dingle
Of eels, saint heron hymning in the shell-hung distant

Crystal harbour vale
Where the sea cobbles sail,
And wharves of water where the walls dance and the white cranes stilt.
It is the heron and I, under judging Sir John's elmed
Hill, tell-tale the knelled
Guilt
Of the led-astray birds whom God, for their breast of whistles,
Have Mercy on,
God in his whirlwind silence save, who marks the sparrows hail,
For their souls' song.
Now the heron grieves in the weeded verge. Through windows
Of dusk and water I see the tilting whispering

Heron, mirrored, go,
As the snapt feathers snow,
Fishing in the tear of the Towy. Only a hoot owl
Hollows, a grassblade blown in cupped hands, in the looted elms
And no green cocks or hens
Shout
Now on Sir John's hill. The heron, ankling the scaly
Lowlands of the waves,
Makes all the music; and I who hear the tune of the slow,
Wear-willow river, grave,
Before the lunge of the night, the notes on this time-shaken
Stone for the sake of the souls of the slain birds sailing.

poem by Dylan Thomas
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Birds cheer others

Birds ae flying
Do not shout or beat gong
Birds are not pests.

Birds cheer others
Do not pollute atmosphere
Do not cut down trees
Birds are settling.

Take care of the birds
Life take care of you
Take care of you cheerfully
Birds are flying
Life is smiling.

poem by Gajanan Mishra
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Under The Water

The bird was
Flying
Under the water...

Under the water
Fishes and frog
Also swmming...

How the birds
are flying...? ? ?

It is not qustine...
You also
Go and see
Any lake...

Sincerly watch it..
Natualy
Birds are flying sky;

Shado will be
Seen under
The water...
Sky also there:

Only way its true
Shadows...
The birds are
Simply flying
Under the water......

poem by Otteri Selvakumar
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Summit And Gravity

There's a motionless tree
And another one coming forward
A river of trees
Hits my chest
The green surge
Is good fortune
You are dressed in red
You are
The seal of the scorched year
The carnal firebrand
The star fruit
In you like sun
The hour rests
Above an abyss of clarities
The height is clouded by birds
Their beaks construct the night
Their wings carry the day
Planted in the crest of light
Between firmness and vertigo
You are
Transparent balance

poem by Octavio Paz
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Chirping Birds

the morning here
is always the sound of chirping birds
because the trees
have been their homes at night
when the sun rises
the birds fly away again
and when the sun fades
they come back
to their nests
and home

the night hums the song of silence
bird's eyes closing again
to the golden sheen
of the bright moon

the white owl flaps its wings
on a nocturnal adventure
in harmony with the bats
friends of the night

some shadows lurk in the night
in the pursuit of happiness
some souls are restless
on dreams unfulfilled

some wake up dwindling at dawn
opening the fridge for a glass of cold water
switches on the computer
and begin again
anew to another poem

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Touch of Autumn

It is blowing, it is getting cold
Birds are chirping, birds are resting!
The long sunny day is gone
replaced by the sudden onset of night!

Leaves from trees, fruits like apples,
peaches, berries and grapes fall down.
My beans and squash seem ready
to sleep and abort the budding of flowers.

The green colours turn golden and
cover the living soil and ground.
September, October and November,
the golden long autumn months
of fallen leaves from windy heights.
___________

poem by Elizabeth Padillo Olesen
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The View At The Top

it is 3000 steps from the
ground. You begin climbing
on an early morning
when the grass are still
rich with dew
and then the sun
starts to shine and then
the birds start to gather
the sweet sap of the
fruit with their
tiny, and long, black beaks
along the way.

it is not strange to see
a variety of colored
butterflies hovering
from one flower to
another. They too
gather the nectar
from the wildflowers
along the way.

you climb slowly
each cemented stair
of this old shrine
you tackle each
station of the cross
of this catholic rite.

finally at noon you
reach the top and
see the whole of the
city below.

a river winds like a
snake.It is the same river
that you pass seven times
before reaching the
ground of this peak.

you see the sea beyond
like a basin with still water.
you see boats like
floating petals of a
white flower, and those
biggers ones appear
to you like leaves
that had fallen to the ground.

you see clouds and clear skies
and you feel that up here
you are both king and god.

do not look down on this cliff
the feeling that everyone pulls down
your feet is still there.
you have felt it before in the office
where you are working and you
want to quit.

just like the butterfly that gathers
the nectars or the birds that gather
the sap of the ripe fruits
you come here to gather
your spirit. You want to be strong.
You want to be whole again.
You like to move on.

There is so much silence at the top.
There is no noise except the comforting silence of the wind.
There is so much to gather here.
Memories. Thoughts. Solitude. Peace.
Harmony. The unity of the universe in the
palm of your hand.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Disrespect

that early morning i take a walk
on the path beside a ricefield

on the other side about ten meters away
a man is spraying the ricefield with
pesticides

the birds are too innocent for poison
and begin to eat all the worms that fall
from the leaves of riceplants

i am breathing poison but the man on the other side
does not really know what he is doing

the air cannot complain, i could, i know,
but i am too busy about a lot of things and thoughts

the birds are feasting on the dead
worms, and
i left the place at once.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Why do Birds Chirp in the Trees?

why do little birds chirp so loud in the trees
in the early morn the sun a yellow fiery
globe inching its greeting up the eastern sky?

it is because of the the little birds' excitements
for adventures of the new day

where their wings would take them for worms
for mates, for games, for the breeze in the air

why do birds chirp so loud in the trees at the close of day
the sun a fiery red globe gliding through the coppice western sky

it is because they wish to share their adventures of the day
chiding each other to prove who have taken the most worms
the new mates they have come to know
and where they should head the next day

why do birds stay so quiet in the night
the moon a golden disc keeping watch over foes?
it is because God has pulled a blanket over
their mind so that they can rest and
find strength when the sun starts lighting up a new day

poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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Across The Red Sky

Across the red sky two birds flying,
Flying with drooping wings.
Silent and solitary their ominous flight.
All day the triumphant sun with yellow banners
Warred and warred with the earth, and when she yielded
Stabbed her heart, gathered her blood in a chalice,
Spilling it over the evening sky.
When the dark plumaged birds go flying, flying,
Quiet lies the earth wrapt in her mournful shadow,
Her sightless eyes turned to the red sky
And the restlessly seeking birds.

poem by Katherine Mansfield
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Golden Rain

There is no Golden rain in real life
But in our dreams you and I see it clear
It falls from the sky
It paints our face golden like the sun
It doesn’t matter in the dream
Because it is only in the dream that can happen
The trees and the flowers and the grass are golden also
Nothing like that would had happen in real life
Because in real life the rain is silver
And our face doesn’t change color with the rain
It only happens in our dream
Weird things happen when we are dreaming
The are no birds to see
What a strange land this is
No house
No cars
No bus
No other people
But you and me
That Golden rain keeps falling non stop
And keep raining down that creek
That Golden rain doesn’t look nice at all
Not even in our dreams
What about the weather
It is cold and miserable
It makes us even more tired
And we want to sleep more
It is happening now in our dreams
And that Golden rain in our dream is not going to hurt us
There is no acid in that Golden rain
And that land in our dream is not polluted like the land in real life

poem by Aldo Kraas
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Christ In The Museum

BRONZE bells and incense burners, and a flight
Of birds born out of iron, and fine as spray;
A dial that told the longest summer day
How sure, how swift the night:
And o'er the silent treasury, so high
No lips may kiss, no grieving hands have clung,
Numbered and ticketed, the Christ is hung.
The many pass Him by,
None pause. Here come no agonies, no dreams.
Nothing is here to hurt Him, nor to wake.
Year after year the golden iris gleams
A little paler by her lacquered lake,
And the dust gathers on the hands, the side,
The lonely head of Love the crucified.

poem by Marjorie Lowry Christie Pickthall
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Sonnet: God Rules Everything

The tree has leaves which are dark and light-green;
Some have turned yellow without a reason;
The whole place looks very tranquil, serene;
Flowers have blossomed in the spring season.

The birds seem to fly in a merry way,
Singing bird-songs in melodious tunes;
The sun’s shining brightly throughout the day;
The bushes bear berries; the trees have prunes.

But all this happen, obeying His call;
And weird things occur; only God knows why;
Almighty knows why spins this earthly ball!
And when each creature with the I finally

The Omniscient monitors all things;
He knows each heart, even before it sings!

poem by John Celes
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