THE wild bee reels from bough to bough
With his furry coat and his gauzy wing.
Now in a lily-cup, and now
Setting a jacinth bell a-swing,
In his wandering;
Sit closer love: it was here I trow
I made that vow,
Swore that two lives should be like one
As long as the sea-gull loved the sea,
Complacencies of the peignoir, and late
Coffee and oranges in a sunny chair,
And the green freedom of a cockatoo
Upon a rug mingle to dissipate
The holy hush of ancient sacrifice.
She dreams a little, and she feels the dark
Encroachment of that old catastrophe,
As a calm darkens among water-lights.
My Stella - 72 (Love Poem)
My Stella 72
(Returning to self)
She is a delightful self,
her image doth reflect unseen
monitoring of vastness.
Unwavering is her temper.
She is an angel from unploughed field,
divinity is ever wistful to cuddle
*** Make Me Or Break Me *** -In Top 500
Yes, miles away
your voice distinct,
a cry is heard.
The night is freezing
You beside me
Traversed have I
When I Heard The Learned Astronomer
When I heard the learn'd astronomer,
When the proofs, the figures, were ranged in columns before me,
When I was shown the charts and diagrams, to add, divide,
and measure them,
When I sitting heard the astronomer where he lectured with
much applause in the lecture-room,
How soon unaccountable I became tired and sick,
Till rising and gliding out I wander'd off by myself,
In the mystical moist night-air, and from time to time,
Look'd up in perfect silence at the stars.
Kaddish, Part I
Strange now to think of you, gone without corsets & eyes, while I walk on
the sunny pavement of Greenwich Village.
downtown Manhattan, clear winter noon, and I've been up all night, talking,
talking, reading the Kaddish aloud, listening to Ray Charles blues
shout blind on the phonograph
the rhythm the rhythm--and your memory in my head three years after--
And read Adonais' last triumphant stanzas aloud--wept, realizing
how we suffer--
And how Death is that remedy all singers dream of, sing, remember,
Happy Birthday Dearest Mother
Hail Queen of Heavens,
Mother of Mercy,
You steadfast maid
The Chosen One,
Humbler than the humblest,
Yet a Tower of Ivory.
I am a still pond,
Lost in tranquility,
The Beauty Of The Truth
A smooth, round pebble thrown with joy into a Killarney lake,
Creates movement of dancing ripples that reflects the light of the day,
Like the film of their lives, beginning with the first take,
My mother's moist, brown eyes scattered with flecks of green,
Holding internal scars and the vibrancy of your dream,
With your dignity and grace,
You embraced the very core of living,
The gift that adorned you like a regal crown,
Was the art of giving,
Honeymoon by the enchanting, mystical Killarney lakes,
Fields Of Soria
Hills of silver plate,
grey heights, dark red rocks
through which the Duero bends
its crossbow arc
round Soria, shadowed oaks,
stone dry-lands, naked mountains,
white roads and river poplars,
twilights of Soria, warlike and mystical,
today I feel, for you,
in my hearts depths, sadness,
I bring ye wine from above,
From the vats of the storied sun;
For every one of yer love,
And life for every one.
Ye shall dance on hill and level;
Ye shall sing in hollow and height
In the festal mystical revel,
The rapurous Bacchanal rite!
The rocks and trees are yours,
And the waters under the hill,
The Tropics In New York
Bananas ripe and green, and ginger-root,
Cocoa in pods and alligator pears,
And tangerines and mangoes and grape fruit,
Fit for the highest prize at parish fairs,
Set in the window, bringing memories
Of fruit-trees laden by low-singing rills,
And dewy dawns, and mystical blue skies
In benediction over nun-like hills.
A Cup Of Tea
I have sipped, with drooping lashes,
Dreamy draughts of Verzenay;
I have flourished brandy-smashes
In the wildest sort of way;
I have joked with 'Tom and Jerry'
Till wee hours ayont the twal'--
But I've found my tea the very
Safest tipple of them all!
'Tis a mystical potation
The Lotus- Sermon Of Heart
THE LOTUS _ Sermon of Heart
From the bough of immortal tree,
flower of endless root and beauty,
The state of mind the wordless shore,
The shadowy moon and soothing Sun,
The cloud white with grace and rejoice,
Thou art born in the womb of joy.
Sleep, pretty lady, the night is enfolding you;
Drift, and so lightly, on crystalline streams.
Wrapped in its perfumes, the darkness is holding you;
Starlight bespangles the way of your dreams.
Chorus the nightingales, wistfully amorous;
Blessedly quiet, the blare of the day.
All the sweet hours may your visions be glamorous-
Sleep, pretty lady, as long as you may.
Sleep, pretty lady, the night shall be still for you;
–Eros: acaso no sentiste nunca
Piedad de las estatuas?
Se dirían crisálidas de piedra
De yo no sé qué formidable raza
En una eterna espera inenarrable.
Los cráteres dormidos de sus bocas
Dan la ceniza negra del Silencio,
Mana de las columnas de sus hombros
* Just Before The God
being obsessed by incisive heartiest expressions
I am expressing to you- 'the Creator without directions'
that you know, I am in the act of washing Myself with love.
Heart to heart, mind to mind is my first choice in this voyage
across the world.
You know, here the debate has been going on since
the beginning of human civilization that
Into The Twilight
OUT-WORN heart, in a time out-worn,
Come clear of the nets of wrong and right;
Laugh, heart, again in the grey twilight,
Sigh, heart, again in the dew of the morn.
Your mother Eire is aways young,
Dew ever shining and twilight grey;
Though hope fall from you and love decay,
Burning in fires of a slanderous tongue.
Come, heart, where hill is heaped upon hill:
For there the mystical brotherhood
While about the shore of Mona those Neronian legionaries
Burnt and broke the grove and altar of the Druid and Druidess,
Far in the East Boadicea, standing loftily charioted,
Mad and maddening all that heard her in her fierce volubility,
Girt by half the tribes of Britain, near the colony Camulodune,
Yell'd and shriek'd between her daughters o'er a wild confederacy.
`They that scorn the tribes and call us Britain's barbarous populaces,
Did they hear me, would they listen, did they pity me supplicating?
Your Beautiful Smile
Your Beautiful Smile
Life is a mystical winding
Woven around happy and sad things
It flows like ripples of water
Turned me into perpetual carter
Mirth & peace play games of guile
But I never realized
It's next to me, your beautiful smile
Iris Of Poetry
Introduction: We don't really think deep enough about 'What A Poetry Actually Is', the obvious question which we all know but don't think how to really elaborate on. We mostly see the story, depth and the purpose it delivers. Well, here's one a little bit different this time...
Poetry is the reflection of our lives like in the mirror,
It is something we can relate to and share.
It's our memories written in jumbled words,
It's like a song, with a meaning it holds.
A mere idea of our mystical lives,