Poem of the Day: A New Beginning.

The former moderator, Sage, had a great idea when she started her Poem of the Day thread. I've decided to continue her tradition.

Every day (or whenever I can, but I'll try to make it every day) I'll post a new poem here on this thread for you to read, ponder, and comment on. Some of the poems will even be from Ageless members. (That's a HINT for you to post your poems here -- wink, wink, nudge nudge!) :p

Please feel free to post your comments about the poems on this thread -- whether you liked it or not, what it meant to you, etc.

NOTE: However, I would ask that you do NOT post comments about poetry written by Ageless members, UNLESS that member has specifically asked for commentary on their work. I don't care if you bash some dead poet, or even a live one if they don't happen to be on Ageless, but I do care if you give unsolicited critiques of a member's poetry.

That being said, happy February everyone! And with the first day of the month comes our first new poem of the day below. Carpe diem! :cool:

In February
All of a sudden there's a lot more light
And it's a warm light -- snow melts off the roof,
The first lambs are born in the barn cellar,
The hens start laying, the mare comes into season,
And I notice that the geraniums at the window
Have pushed their stalks up eight inches
And covered them with brick-pink blossoms.

Every day I wake up earlier
And my bones crack as I sit up and stretch.
When I poke my boot through a drift in the field
I find clover growing green beneath it.
Now the sap is running
And when I drive my sleigh up to the wood lot
I see three young maple bushes
Deeply scored with new bear scratches.

Oh warm light,
Couldn't you have waited a little longer?
How safe we were in the dead of winter,
How gently we dreamed,
How beautiful it was to sleep under the snow.

-Kate Barnes.

The host is riding from Knocknarea
And over the grave of Clooth-na-Bare;
Caoilte tossing his burning hair,
And Niamh calling Away, come away:
Empty your heart of its mortal dream.
The winds awaken, the leaves whirl round,
Our cheeks are pale, our hair is unbound,
Our breasts are heaving, our eyes are agleam,
Our arms are waving, our lips are apart;
And if any gaze on our rushing band,
We come between him and the deed of his hand,
We come between him and the hope of his heart.
The host is rushing 'twixt night and day,
And where is there hope or deed as fair?
Caoilte tossing his burning hair,
And Niamh calling Away, come away.

Dear mother, dear mother, the Church is cold;
But the Alehouse is healthy, and pleasant, and warm.
Besides, I can tell where I am used well;
Such usage in heaven will never do well.

But, if at the Church they would give us some ale,
And a pleasant fire our souls to regale,
We'd sing and we'd pray all the livelong day,
Nor ever once wish from the Church to stray.

Then the Parson might preach, and drink, and sing,
And we'd be as happy as birds in the spring;
And modest Dame Lurch, who is always at church,
Would not have bandy children, nor fasting, nor birch.

And God, like a father, rejoicing to see
His children as pleasant and happy as He,
Would have no more quarrel with the Devil or the barrel,
But kiss him, and give him both drink and apparel.

Meeting
_____________

A psychologist he said,
a poet too,
the blue-eyed
dark-haired
man I met last night.

Just something about
saphire matched
with ebony
that I can't ignore,
or dismiss as coincidental
happenstance.
________________
Gillian

Wooooo, Gillian's back! Good to see you again! :cool:

Now as I was young and easy under the apple boughs
About the lilting house and happy as the grass was green,
The night above the dingle starry,
Time let me hail and climb
Golden in the heydays of his eyes,
And honoured among wagons I was prince of the apple towns
And once below a time I lordly had the trees and leaves
Trail with daisies and barley
Down the rivers of the windfall light.

And as I was green and carefree, famous among the barns
About the happy yard and singing as the farm was home,
In the sun that is young once only,
Time let me play and be
Golden in the mercy of his means,
And green and golden I was huntsman and herdsman, the calves
Sang to my horn, the foxes on the hills barked clear and cold,
And the sabbath rang slowly
In the pebbles of the holy streams.

All the sun long it was running, it was lovely, the hay
Fields high as the house, the tunes from the chimneys, it was air
And playing, lovely and watery
And fire green as grass.
And nightly under the simple stars
As I rode to sleep the owls were bearing the farm away,
All the moon long I heard, blessed among stables, the nightjars
Flying with the ricks, and the horses
Flashing into the dark.

And then to awake, and the farm, like a wanderer white
With the dew, come back, the c0ck on his shoulder: it was all
Shining, it was Adam and maiden,
The sky gathered again
And the sun grew round that very day.
So it must have been after the birth of the simple light
In the first, spinning place, the spellbound horses walking warm
Out of the whinnying green stable
Onto the fields of praise.

And honoured among foxes and pheasants by the gay house
Under the new made clouds and happy as the heart was long,
In the sun born over and over,
I ran my heedless ways,
My wishes raced through the house high hay
And nothing I cared, at my sky blue trades, that time allows
In all his tuneful turning so few and such morning songs
Before the children green and golden
Follow him out of grace,

Nothing I cared, in the lamb white days, that time would take me
Up to the swallow thronged loft by the shadow of my hand,
In the moon that is always rising,
Nor that riding to sleep
I should hear him fly with the high fields
And wake to the farm forever fled from the childless land.
Oh as I was young and easy in the mercy of his means,
Time held me green and dying
Though I sang in my chains like the sea.

Thanks Scarlet. I wish you all the best in ressurecting this forum.

Gillian

The panther is like a leopard,
Except it hasn't been peppered.
Should you behold a panther crouch,
Prepare to say Ouch.
Better yet, when called by a panther,
Don't anther.

That's punny.

Inside Outside Edge
___________________

Trying to keep my balance,
skittering across that
fine line you spoke of.

Narrow, golden thread separating
love and hate
madness and genius.

Skate that line, you said
and I would have
the best of both worlds.

The pain of your leaving
counterbalanced, against
the pleasure of your return.

Gillian

(written around 600 BCE)

Leave Crete and come to this holy temple,
where the graceful grove of apple trees
circles an altar smoking with frankincense.

Here roses leave shadows on the ground
and cold springs bubble through apple branches
where shuddering leaves pour down profound sleep.

In our meadow where horses graze
and wild flowers of spring blossom,
anise shoots fill the air with aroma.

And here, Queen Aphrodite, pour
heavenly nectar into gold cups
and fill them gracefully with sudden joy.

My heart is like a singing bird
Whose nest is in a water'd shoot;
My heart is like an apple-tree
Whose boughs are bent with thickset fruit;
My heart is like a rainbow shell
That paddles in a halcyon sea;
My heart is gladder than all these
Because my love is come to me.

Raise me a dais of silk and down;
Hang it with vair and purple dyes;
Carve it in doves and pomegranates,
And peacоcks with a hundred eyes;
Work it in gold and silver grapes,
In leaves and silver fleurs-de-lys;
Because the birthday of my life
Is come, my love is come to me.

Have you gazed on naked grandeur where there's nothing else to gaze on,
Set pieces and drop-curtain scenes galore,
Big mountains heaved to heaven, which the blinding sunsets blazon,
Black canyons where the rapids rip and roar?
Have you swept the visioned valley with the green stream streaking through it,
Searched the Vastness for a something you have lost?
Have you strung your soul to silence? Then for God's sake go and do it;
Hear the challenge, learn the lesson, pay the cost.

Have you wandered in the wilderness, the sagebrush desolation,
The bunch-grass levels where the cattle graze?
Have you whistled bits of rag-time at the end of all creation,
And learned to know the desert's little ways?
Have you camped upon the foothills, have you galloped o'er the ranges,
Have you roamed the arid sun-lands through and through?
Have you chummed up with the mesa? Do you know its moods and changes?
Then listen to the Wild -- it's calling you.

Have you known the Great White Silence, not a snow-gemmed twig aquiver?
(Eternal truths that shame our soothing lies.)
Have you broken trail on snowshoes? mushed your huskies up the river,
Dared the unknown, led the way, and clutched the prize?
Have you marked the map's void spaces, mingled with the mongrel races,
Felt the savage strength of brute in every thew?
And though grim as hell the worst is, can you round it off with curses?
Then hearken to the Wild -- it's wanting you.

Have you suffered, starved and triumphed, groveled down, yet grasped at glory,
Grown bigger in the bigness of the whole?
"Done things" just for the doing, letting babblers tell the story,
Seeing through the nice veneer the naked soul?
Have you seen God in His splendors, heard the text that nature renders?
(You'll never hear it in the family pew.)
The simple things, the true things, the silent men who do things --
Then listen to the Wild -- it's calling you.

They have cradled you in custom, they have primed you with their preaching,
They have soaked you in convention through and through;
They have put you in a showcase; you're a credit to their teaching --
But can't you hear the Wild? -- it's calling you.
Let us probe the silent places, let us seek what luck betide us;
Let us journey to a lonely land I know.
There's a whisper on the night-wind, there's a star agleam to guide us,
And the Wild is calling, calling . . . let us go.

Hope is a thing with feathers
That perches in the soul
And sings a tune without words
And never stops at all.

And sweetest, in the gale, is heard
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That keeps so many warm.

I've heard it in the chilliest land
And on the strangest sea
Yet, never, in extremity
Did it ask a crumb of me.

Oh, give me that Love
Give it all to me
& when I have it there still wont be
Enough
Cos, give me all that Love

& its not the money or the fame
I want to make it plain
To see
Love, give it all to me

Cos I want it, yeah
& I'll never care
How I get it
Now just let it
Oh let it
Fall on me from every direction
Until I have a big collection
& then still
There will
Never be enough
Cos give me all that love

I want it all
From everywhere
So,
Do you have some Love to spare?

Wooooo Tink!!! That's awesome! Thanks for the contribution!

We got some talent on these boards...

Hey, thanx Scarlet.......I guess you just answered my pm.....LoL!!

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

"Untitled" 1999

Soft dancing of the touch
Caressing the notion of my existence

That for which the untouchable
Streams of our times, slip by

That which makes the fire blazingly high
Fierce Red eyes in the burning sky

Our mind, the passion and divine
Infinite the flames that burn
Never ceasing to devour
The calm, the tranquil mind

Into the rage
Infinite the flames that never die


Afternoon everyone!

As a new member, I thought it would be good to post my presence and might as well do it with a poem from a "few days" back. I look forward to chatting with you folks, as I am not one to pass an opportunity to meet new and interesting people, as I look forward to doing on this site in the future.

(By the way..... Great Forum guys/gals!)

Take care,
Sunny Florida

If you are out to describe the truth, leave elegance to the tailor. Albert Einstein

Thanks very much, florida26jax! :cool:

Thanks ScarletHawke, been enjoying the poetry thats been posted and as always enjoyed the farewell poem by Dylan Thomas. Some things get better each time around. :D

And did those feet in ancient time
Walk upon England's mountains green?
And was the holy Lamb of God
On England's pleasant pastures seen?

And did the Countenance Divine
Shine forth upon our clouded hills?
And was Jerusalem builded here
Among these dark satanic mills?

Bring me my bow of burning gold!
Bring me my arrows of desire!
Bring me my spear! O clouds, unfold!
Bring me my chariot of fire!

I will not cease from mental fight,
Nor shall my sword sleep in my hand,
Till we have built Jerusalem
In England's green and pleasant land.

Now Chil the Kite brings home the night
That Mang the Bat sets free.
The herds are shut in byre and hut --
For loosed till dawn are we.
This is the hour of pride and power,
Talon and tush and claw.
O hear the call! Good Hunting, All
That keep the Jungle Law!

I met a Traveler from an antique land,
Who said, "Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desart. Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read,
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed:
And on the pedestal these words appear:
"My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings."
Look on my works ye Mighty, and despair!
No thing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that Colossal Wreck, boundless and bare,
The lone and level sands stretch far away.

-- Percy Bysshe Shelley

I met this boy
He had the sky
had the sky in his hair
And blue everywhere

He looked sad
& I felt bad
I said, "boy, talk to me
so that I can see,
tell me about this blue stuff,
tell me cos I can't get enough"

When all the time I thought
I knew
Thought I knew
About the blue

& boy
With sky in his hair
said
"Way, way over there
is where I belong
& I'll sing you a song
About the blue
Cos its something that I like to do"

& suddenly
I couldn't see
For the blue was all around me
& no song
was to be heard
Cos blue boy was gone
Without a word....

Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears!
I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him.
The evil that men do lives after them,
The good is oft interred with their bones;
So let it be with Caesar. The noble Brutus
Hath told you Caesar was ambitious;
If it were so, it was a grievous fault,
And grievously hath Caesar answer'd it.
Here, under leave of Brutus and the rest-
For Brutus is an honorable man;
So are they all, all honorable men-
Come I to speak in Caesar's funeral.
He was my friend, faithful and just to me;
But Brutus says he was ambitious,
And Brutus is an honorable man.
He hath brought many captives home to Rome,
Whose ransoms did the general coffers fill.
Did this in Caesar seem ambitious?
When that the poor have cried, Caesar hath wept;
Ambition should be made of sterner stuff:
Yet Brutus says he was ambitious,
And Brutus is an honorable man.
You all did see that on the Lupercal
I thrice presented him a kingly crown,
Which he did thrice refuse. Was this ambition?
Yet Brutus says he was ambitious,
And sure he is an honorable man.
I speak not to disprove what Brutus spoke,
But here I am to speak what I do know.
You all did love him once, not without cause;
What cause withholds you then to mourn for him?
O judgement, thou art fled to brutish beasts,
And men have lost their reason. Bear with me;
My heart is in the coffin there with Caesar,
And I must pause till it come back to me.

-- Shakespeare, "Julius Caesar", Act 3, Scene 2.

To go outside, and there perchance to stay
Or to remain within: that is the question:

Whether 'tis better for a cat to suffer
The cuffs and buffets of inclement weather
That Nature rains upon those who roam abroad,
Or take a nap upon a scrap of carpet,
And so by dozing melt the solid hours
That clog the clock's bright gears with sullen time
And stall the dinner bell.

To sit, to stare Outdoors, and by a stare to seem to state
A wish to venture forth without delay,
Then when the portal's opened up, to stand
As if transfixed by doubt.

To prowl; to sleep;
To choose not knowing when we may once more
Our readmittance gain: aye, there's the hairball;

For if a paw were shaped to turn a knob,
Or work a lock or slip a window-catch,
And going out and coming in were made
As simple as the breaking of a bowl,
What cat would bear the household's petty plagues,
The cook's well-practiced kicks, the butler's broom,
The infant's careless pokes, the tickled ears,
The trampled tail, and all the daily shocks
That fur is heir to, when, of his own free will,
He might his exodus or entrance make
With a mere mitten?

Who would spaniels fear,
Or strays trespassing from a neighbor's yard,
But that the dread of our unheeded cries
And scratches at a barricaded door
No claw can open up, dispels our nerve
And makes us rather bear our humans' faults
Than run away to unguessed miseries?

Thus caution doth make house cats of us all;

And thus the bristling hair of resolution
Is softened up with the pale brush of thought,
And since our choices hinge on weighty things,
We pause upon the threshold of decision.

~Shakespaw~

Little Fly
Thy summers play,
My thoughtless hand
Has brush'd away.

Am not I
A fly like thee?
Or art not thou
A man like me?

For I dance
And drink & sing:
Till some blind hand
Shall brush my wing.
If thought is life
And strength & breath:
And the want
Of thought is death;

Then am I
A happy fly,
If I live,
Or if I die.

Possibilities

I prefer movies.
I prefer cats.
I prefer the oaks along the Warta.
I prefer Dickens to Dostoyevsky.
I prefer myself liking people
to myself loving mankind.
I prefer keeping a needle and thread on hand, just in case.
I prefer the color green.
I prefer not to maintain
that reason is to blame for everything.
I prefer exceptions.
I prefer to leave early.
I prefer talking to doctors about something else.
I prefer the old fine-lined illustrations.
I prefer the absurdity of writing poems
to the absurdity of not writing poems.
I prefer, where love's concerned, nonspecific anniversaries
that can be celebrated every day.
I prefer moralists
who promise me nothing.
I prefer cunning kindness to the over-trustful kind.
I prefer the earth in civvies.
I prefer conquered to conquering countries.
I prefer having some reservations.
I prefer the hell of chaos to the hell of order.
I prefer Grimms' fairy tales to the newspapers' front pages.
I prefer leaves without flowers to flowers without leaves.
I prefer dogs with uncropped tails.
I prefer light eyes, since mine are dark.
I prefer desk drawers.
I prefer many things that I haven't mentioned here
to many things I've also left unsaid.
I prefer zeroes on the loose
to those lined up behind a cipher.
I prefer the time of insects to the time of stars.
I prefer to knock on wood.
I prefer not to ask how much longer and when.
I prefer keeping in mind even the possibility
that existence has its own reason for being.

By Wislawa Szymborska
From "Nothing Twice", 1997
Translated by S. Baranczak & C. Cavanagh

© Wislawa Szymborska, S. Baranczak & C. Cavanagh

Wow...I'm stunned...that was beautiful! Thanks for posting it... :)

Wow...I'm stunned...that was beautiful! Thanks for posting it... :)
You are welcome. She is one of my favorite poets.

I loved it too. I will check her out :)

If You Forget Me

I want you to know
one thing.

You know how this is:
if I look
at the crystal moon, at the red branch
of the slow autumn at my window,
if I touch
near the fire
the impalpable ash
or the wrinkled body of the log,
everything carries me to you,
as if everything that exists,
aromas, light, metals,
were little boats
that sail
toward those isles of yours that wait for me.

Well, now,
if little by little you stop loving me
I shall stop loving you little by little.

If suddenly
you forget me
do not look for me,
for I shall already have forgotten you.

If you think it long and mad,
the wind of banners
that passes through my life,
and you decide
to leave me at the shore
of the heart where I have roots,
remember
that on that day,
at that hour,
I shall lift my arms
and my roots will set off
to seek another land.

But
if each day,
each hour,
you feel that you are destined for me
with implacable sweetness,
if each day a flower
climbs up to your lips to seek me,
ah my love, ah my own,
in me all that fire is repeated,
in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,
my love feeds on your love, beloved,
and as long as you live it will be in your arms
without leaving mine.

~Pablo Neruda

The rivers by the city walls
Are like a painting;
The mountains at dawn
Gaze at a clear sky.
The two streams are like
Bright mirrors reflecting
A pair of bridges:
Falling rainbows.

~Dokuryu

The Child In Him

I loved the child in him
so innocent and sweet
The mischief in his eyes
the blush upon his cheek
The tender way he spoke
that showed me that he cared
The touch of his warm hand
that gently touched my hair
The smiles that we shared
that filled my life with glee
For when I was with him
I found the child in me

Jean Gabor

The Child In Him by Jean Gabor
Cool. I like.

Cool. I like.

Thank you...
;)

Here's another one...

Better Days are Coming

by Wish Belkin, copyright 2001

If you fear losing somebody you love
like rejection would be no surprise
even if they never said it out loud
you just knew by the look in their eyes
accept that anxiety is due to some action
we took while sleepwalking through life
we would be lying if we tried denying
we cause our own misery and strife.

There is a voice inside of our heads
that tells us of what is to come
deja vu turned upside down
is what it may seem like to some
whether it's foresight or just premonition
it leaves you feeling quite strange
whisper or shout, it allows for no doubt
that your fortunes are due for a change.

The cyclical nature of the human condition
prevents us from being at ease
it bars the door to the peace that we seek
it's a lock without any keys
hope and fear are two sides of a coin
a little like Abel and Cane
it's not every day that just one will hold sway
in the end it adds up to the same.

Listen to this then, if you should find
your emotions won't give you a breather
I'm telling you, dreams don't often come true
but the nightmares rarely do either.

Silence

I have known the silence of the stars and of the sea,
And the silence of the city when it pauses,
And the silence of a man and a maid,
And the silence of the sick
When their eyes roam about the room.
And I ask: For the depths,
Of what use is language?
A beast of the field moans a few times
When death takes its young.
And we are voiceless in the presence of realities --
We cannot speak.

A curious boy asks an old soldier
Sitting in front of the grocery store,
"How did you lose your leg?"
And the old soldier is struck with silence,
Or his mind flies away
Because he cannot concentrate it on Gettysburg.
It comes back jocosely
And he says, "A bear bit it off."
And the boy wonders, while the old soldier
Dumbly, feebly lives over
The flashes of guns, the thunder of cannon,
The shrieks of the slain,
And himself lying on the ground,
And the hospital surgeons, the knives,
And the long days in bed.
But if he could describe it all
He would be an artist.
But if he were an artist there would be deeper wounds
Which he could not describe.

There is the silence of a great hatred,
And the silence of a great love,
And the silence of an embittered friendship.
There is the silence of a spiritual crisis,
Through which your soul, exquisitely tortured,
Comes with visions not to be uttered
Into a realm of higher life.
There is the silence of defeat.
There is the silence of those unjustly punished;
And the silence of the dying whose hand
Suddenly grips yours.

There is the silence between father and son,
When the father cannot explain his life,
Even though he be misunderstood for it.
There is the silence that comes between husband and wife.
There is the silence of those who have failed;
And the vast silence that covers
Broken nations and vanquished leaders.
There is the silence of Lincoln,
Thinking of the poverty of his youth.
And the silence of Napoleon
After Waterloo.
And the silence of Jeanne d'Arc
Saying amid the flames, "Blessed Jesus" --
Revealing in two words all sorrows, all hope.
And there is the silence of age,
Too full of wisdom for the tongue to utter it
In words intelligible to those who have not lived
The great range of life.
And there is the silence of the dead.
If we who are in life cannot speak
Of profound experiences,
Why do you marvel that the dead
Do not tell you of death?
Their silence shall be interpreted
As we approach them.

Edgar Lee Masters

From Blossoms

From blossoms comes
this brown paper bag of peaches
we bought from the joy
at the bend in the road where we turned toward
signs painted Peaches.

From laden boughs, from hands,
from sweet fellowship in the bins,
comes nectar at the roadside, succulent
peaches we devour, dusty skin and all,
comes the familiar dust of summer, dust we eat.

O, to take what we love inside,
to carry within us an orchard, to eat
not only the skin, but the shade,
not only the sugar, but the days, to hold
the fruit in our hands, adore it, then bite into
the round jubilance of peach.

There are days we live
as if death were nowhere
in the background; from joy
to joy to joy, from wing to wing,
from blossom to blossom to
impossible blossom, to sweet impossible blossom.

~Li-Young Lee

They Who are Near Me

They who are near me do not know that you are nearer to me than they are...

Those who speak to me do not know that my heart is full with your unspoken words...

Those who crowd in my path do not know that I am walking alone with you...

They who love me do not know that their love brings you to my heart...

~Rabindranath Tagore

Dreams

Hold fast to dreams
For if dreams die
Life is a broken-winged bird
That cannot fly.

Hold fast to dreams
For when dreams go
Life is a barren field
Frozen with snow.

From The Collected Poems of Langston Hughes published by Alfred A. Knopf/Vintage. Copyright © 1994 by The Estate of Langston Hughes.

When a Woman Loves a Man

When she says margarita she means daiquiri.
When she says quixotic she means mercurial.
And when she says, "I'll never speak to you again,"
she means, "Put your arms around me from behind
as I stand disconsolate at the window."

He's supposed to know that.

When a man loves a woman he is in New York and she is in Virginia
or he is in Boston, writing, and she is in New York, reading,
or she is wearing a sweater and sunglasses in Balboa Park and he
is raking leaves in Ithaca
or he is driving to East Hampton and she is standing disconsolate
at the window overlooking the bay
where a regatta of many-colored sails is going on
while he is stuck in traffic on the Long Island Expressway.

When a woman loves a man it is one ten in the morning
she is asleep he is watching the ball scores and eating pretzels
drinking lemonade
and two hours later he wakes up and staggers into bed
where she remains asleep and very warm.

When she says tomorrow she means in three or four weeks.
When she says, "We're talking about me now,"
he stops talking. Her best friend comes over and says,
"Did somebody die?"

When a woman loves a man, they have gone
to swim naked in the stream
on a glorious July day
with the sound of the waterfall like a chuckle
of water rushing over smooth rocks,
and there is nothing alien in the universe.

Ripe apples fall about them.
What else can they do but eat?

When he says, "Ours is a transitional era,"
"that's very original of you," she replies,
dry as the martini he is sipping.

They fight all the time
It's fun
What do I owe you?
Let's start with an apology
Ok, I'm sorry, you ********.
A sign is held up saying "Laughter."
It's a silent picture.
"I've been ****** without a kiss," she says,
"and you can quote me on that,"
which sounds great in an English accent.

One year they broke up seven times and threatened to do it
another nine times.

When a woman loves a man, she wants him to meet her at the
airport in a foreign country with a jeep.
When a man loves a woman he's there. He doesn't complain that
she's two hours late
and there's nothing in the refrigerator.

When a woman loves a man, she wants to stay awake.
She's like a child crying
at nightfall because she didn't want the day to end.

When a man loves a woman, he watches her sleep, thinking:
as midnight to the moon is sleep to the beloved.
A thousand fireflies wink at him.
The frogs sound like the string section
of the orchestra warming up.
The stars dangle down like earrings the shape of grapes.

From Columbia: A Journal of Literature and Art. Copyright © 1996 by David Lehman.

Sonnet CXXVII

In the old age black was not counted fair,
Or if it were, it bore not beauty's name;
But now is black beauty's successive heir,
And beauty slander'd with a bastard shame:
For since each hand hath put on nature's power,
Fairing the foul with art's false borrow'd face,
Sweet beauty hath no name, no holy bower,
But is profaned, if not lives in disgrace.
Therefore my mistress' brows are raven black,
Her eyes so suited, and they mourners seem
At such who, not born fair, no beauty lack,
Slandering creation with a false esteem:
Yet so they mourn, becoming of their woe,
That every tongue says beauty should look so.

Old Timers

I am an ancient reluctant conscript.

On the soup wagons of Xerxes I was a cleaner of pans.
On the march of Miltiades' phalanx I had a haft and head;
I had a bristling gleaming spear-handle.

Red-headed Cæsar picked me for a teamster.
He said, "Go to work, you Tuscan bastard,
Rome calls for a man who can drive horses."

The units of conquest led by Charles the Twelfth,
The whirling whimsical Napoleonic columns:
They saw me one of the horseshoers.

I trimmed the feet of a white horse Bonaparte swept the night stars with.

Lincoln said, "Get into the game; your nation takes you."
And I drove a wagon and team and I had my arm shot off
At Spottsylvania Court House.

I am an ancient reluctant conscript.

A Little Ink More Or Less!

A little ink more or less!
I surely can't matter?
Even the sky and the opulent sea,
The plains and the hills, aloof,
Hear the uproar of all these books.
But it is only a little ink more or less.

What?
You define me God with these trinkets?
Can my misery meal on an ordered walking
Of surpliced numskulls?
And a fanfare of lights?
Or even upon the measured pulpitings
Of the familiar false and true?
Is this God?
Where, then, is hell?
Show me some bastard mushroom
Sprung from a pollution of blood.
It is better.

Where is God?

Weeds

White with daisies and red with sorrel
And empty, empty under the sky! -
Life is a quest and love a quarrel -
Here is a place for me to lie.

Daisies spring from damnèd seeds,
And this red fire that here I see
Is a worthless crop of crimson weeds,
Cursed by farmers thriftily.

But here, unhated for an hour,
The sorrel runs in ragged flame,
The daisy stands, a bastard flower,
Like flowers that bear an honest name.

And here a while, where no wind brings
The baying of a pack athirst,
May sleep the sleep of blessèd things,
The blood too bright, the brow accurst.

Sparkle
sparkle, xmas
tree, bring
the joy once more to me.
Help me see
through a child's eyes, let me forget
this year of cries. Make
the scent, of pine arouse, to ease the creases
Of stress from my brow,
Deliver me, my family near, help me see a future
Clear. Sparkle, sparkle, xmas
spirit,
The
next won't be like
this one - will it?
:(

Father, Mother God
Thank you for your presense
during the hard and mean days.
For then we have you to lean upon.

Thank you for your presence
during the bright sunny days,
for then we can share that which we have
with those who have less.

And thank you for your presence
during the Holy Days, for then we are able
to celebrate you and our families
and our friends.

For those who feel unworthy,
we ask you to pour your love out
in waterfalls of tenderness.

Foe those who live in pain,
we ask you to bathe them
in the river of your healing.

For those who are lonely, we ask
you to keep them company.

For those who are depressed,
we ask you to shower upon them
the light of hope.

Dear Creator, You, the borderless
sea of substance, we ask you to give to all the
world that which we need most-Peace.

-Maya Angelou

[Written by Chinese poet Li Chih-yi in the Sung dynasty, A.D. 960-1280]


I
live at the riverhead
you
at the mouth
Every day
I long for you
and can't see you
though together
we drink
from the same river

River water
-- when will it run dry?
My sorrow
-- when will it end?
I only hope
that your heart is
like my heart
Surely then
you will not fail
my long
love for you

"Daffodils"


I WANDER'D lonely as a cloud


That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,

A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Continuous as the stars that shine


And twinkle on the Milky Way,
They stretch'd in never-ending line

Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
The waves beside them danced; but they


Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,

In such a jocund company:
I gazed -- and gazed -- but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:
For oft, when on my couch I lie


In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye

Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.

by William Wordsworth

This is one of the most beautiful poems ever written I think:

Near the Beloved by J.W. von Goethe

I think of you when the sunlight shimmers,
beaming from the sea;
I think of you when the moon's gleam
paints the streams.

I see you when, on distant roads,
the dust rises up;
in deep night, when on the narrow bridge
a traveler quivers.

I hear you when there, with a muffled roar,
the waves rise.
In the still grove I go often to listen,
when everything is silent.

I am with you, even if you are so far away.
You are near me!
The sun sinks, and soon the stars will shine for me.
O, if only you were here!

In German(posting it since German is the language the poet wrote it in, and because German has this beautiful poetic feel):

Nähe des Geliebten

Ich denke dein, wenn mir der Sonne Schimmer
Vom Meere strahlt;
Ich denke dein, wenn sich des Mondes Flimmer
In Quellen malt.

Ich sehe dich, wenn auf dem fernen Wege
Der Staub sich hebt;
In tiefer Nacht, wenn auf dem schmalen Stege
Der Wandrer bebt.

Ich höre dich, wenn dort mit dumpfem Rauschen
Die Welle steigt.
Im stillen Hain da geh ich oft zu lauschen,
Wenn alles schweigt.

Ich bin bei dir, du seist auch noch so ferne.
Du bist mir nah!
Die Sonne sinkt, bald leuchten mir die Sterne.
O wärst du da!

To: Near Beloved

The poem reminds me the age old story of waiting for your love...whether they would come or not

From what I can see from the German version I think that version would have had a nicer feel to it. (If only I can understand German^^)

It was a sunny October Sunday, warm enough that both of them wore shorts and short sleeves at Great Falls. She was taking him visiting; it was one of her favorite places. After a while of walking the main path, admiring the autumn foliage made neon by the slanting sun, he suggested that they go near the water. They sat on a large boulder at rapid's edge where brown water rushed past, foaming white. The mist from this cooled their reddened faces, smelling and tasting earthy.

She spoke quietly and her voice was carried away by the water's din, but he understood her anyway. Shortly, she had to repeat herself, suggesting they cross over to the other side.

"How?" he wondered.

"We wade to the other side."

"You're kidding...we'd be killed."

"No. We can do it."

He argued with her. He told her that people always underestimate the Potomac River's currents and die. "Look at that rock, he said, pointing to a huge rock jutting six feet out of the water where the narrows began widening. Water slamming into it shot white jets. But she insisted that love would see them through; love would cleave the torrent harmlessly around them as they crossed over. He reminded her of news clips everyone has seen of floods carrying away automobiles and houses. She sighed, not saying. He thought his message got across.

He excused himself and found a large tree. After he returned she was gone. He looked all around for her, not heeding that everyone else in the vicinity was standing for some reason. When he looked where everyone else was looking, he saw her. She was pinned by the water against the large rock jutting in the river. Her eyes were slit open and her blue lips framed a smile. With her arms outspread she seemed welcoming the onrush.

He rent tree and stone getting to her, his path plumose with puffs of terra. People screamed at him but he did not hear. He tried shaking life back into her until he was overcome by arms and hands everywhere grabbing hold and pulling.

Hundreds of years later Great Falls is still a favorite place for lovers to picnic. Everywhere in the air aeropods hover languid and soap-bubblelike, fingers inside pointing to spots where blankets could be spread.

On a rocky bluff a girl playfully tries to sneak upon her boyfriend just finishing shaking his spout dry behind a large tree. He turns his back, covering himself, stuffing and zippering quickly as she pries at his arms. She is laughing. He laughs, too. Soon, he chases her, aiming to tickle her underarms. They giggle carouseling around a granite torso with petrified branches for arms. They catch their breaths and notice endless markings - clear to faded - of lovers' pledges filling hearts all over the back of the granite torso; some very old dates peak through. As the boy searches their aeropod for what to use as their marker, the girl recognizes a resemblance of the granite torso with a man. Even as he disagrees she sees purpose in the shape, concluding that it is in eternal gaze.

"What is he looking at?" asks the boy.

They line their sight with the torso's thrust, shielding their eyes from the setting sun.

"There!" says the girl, pointing to a heart-shaped cropping in the treeline of the horizon, looking past the widening of a narrows where juts a huge, weathered rock with fungus in the bowed crag of its face suggesting a blue smile.

Rainys Andrew Blekaitis

It was a sunny October Sunday, warm enough that both of them wore shorts and short sleeves at Great Falls. She was taking him visiting; it was one of her favorite places. After a while of walking the main path, admiring the autumn foliage made neon by the slanting sun, he suggested that they go near the water. They sat on a large boulder at rapid's edge where brown water rushed past, foaming white. The mist from this cooled their reddened faces, smelling and tasting earthy.

She spoke quietly and her voice was carried away by the water's din, but he understood her anyway. Shortly, she had to repeat herself, suggesting they cross over to the other side.

"How?" he wondered.

"We wade to the other side."

"You're kidding...we'd be killed."

"No. We can do it."

He argued with her. He told her that people always underestimate the Potomac River's currents and die. "Look at that rock, he said, pointing to a huge rock jutting six feet out of the water where the narrows began widening. Water slamming into it shot white jets. But she insisted that love would see them through; love would cleave the torrent harmlessly around them as they crossed over. He reminded her of news clips everyone has seen of floods carrying away automobiles and houses. She sighed, not saying. He thought his message got across.

He excused himself and found a large tree. After he returned she was gone. He looked all around for her, not heeding that everyone else in the vicinity was standing for some reason. When he looked where everyone else was looking, he saw her. She was pinned by the water against the large rock jutting in the river. Her eyes were slit open and her blue lips framed a smile. With her arms outspread she seemed welcoming the onrush.

He rent tree and stone getting to her, his path plumose with puffs of terra. People screamed at him but he did not hear. He tried shaking life back into her until he was overcome by arms and hands everywhere grabbing hold and pulling.

Hundreds of years later Great Falls is still a favorite place for lovers to picnic. Everywhere in the air aeropods hover languid and soap-bubblelike, fingers inside pointing to spots where blankets could be spread.

On a rocky bluff a girl playfully tries to sneak upon her boyfriend just finishing shaking his spout dry behind a large tree. He turns his back, covering himself, stuffing and zippering quickly as she pries at his arms. She is laughing. He laughs, too. Soon, he chases her, aiming to tickle her underarms. They giggle carouseling around a granite torso with petrified branches for arms. They catch their breaths and notice endless markings - clear to faded - of lovers' pledges filling hearts all over the back of the granite torso; some very old dates peak through. As the boy searches their aeropod for what to use as their marker, the girl recognizes a resemblance of the granite torso with a man. Even as he disagrees she sees purpose in the shape, concluding that it is in eternal gaze.

"What is he looking at?" asks the boy.

They line their sight with the torso's thrust, shielding their eyes from the setting sun.

"There!" says the girl, pointing to a heart-shaped cropping in the treeline of the horizon, looking past the widening of a narrows where juts a huge, weathered rock with fungus in the bowed crag of its face suggesting a blue smile.

Rainys Andrew Blekaitis


Rainys, that was really, really good. :)

Dear Whiterose:

Thank you. I'm honored and flattered. Though in real life Alicia - the biggest love of my life - suggested that we wade across the rapids, this never happened. Instead, she accused me of being afraid, that I didn't love her enough. When we broke up I wrote this fictional, prosaic poem in dedication to her. I still love her even though she's remarried and living somewhere in New Zealand. I wish her all the best.

Awww, that's the most romantic thing I've ever heard. I'm so sorry that it didn't work out.