Category: Poems

You Are Christ’s Hand

Christ of St John of the Cross

You Are Christ’s Hand

Christ has no body now on earth but yours,

    no hands but yours,

    no feet but yours,

Yours are the eyes through which is to look out

   Christ’s compassion to the world

Yours are the feet with which he is to go about doing good;

Yours are the hands with which he is to bless men now.

    – Saint Teresa of Avila
    ……
    This is such a beautiful message from St Teresa.  We are God’s representative on Earth.  Unfortunately in my case, I might not be worthy, I being all too human. 🙁

Time does not bring relief…” – A Sonnet

This is such a sad poem by the Pulitzer Prize winner, Edna St Vincent Millay. It does evoke such a keen feeling of sorrow.

In not so many words, Edna was able to picture to us what it would be like to lose your other half or even someone you love or close to your heart.

It was so poignant the ways she said that time does not heal or let you forget. Probably a part of you dies with him.

She also said that you will remember him in all the places you were together, in every thing you did together. You will also think of all the things that he used to do including those things that used to vex you. You would then regret not being more tolerant! LOL

She also said that it was even sadder to do new things without him…There probably a feeling of guilt and regret that you can do things alone and you will remember him all over again!

This is really so sad. I don’t want to be ever without my Peter.

By the way, according to findings/surveys, widows fare better than widowers later on in life!

JXXX
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silhouetter

 

Time does not bring relief; you all have lied

Who told me time would ease me of my pain!

I miss him in the weeping of the rain;

I want him at the shrinking of the tide;

The old snows melt from every mountain-side,

And last year’s leaves are smoke in every lane;

But last year’s bitter loving must remain

Heaped on my heart, and my old thoughts abide!

There are a hundred places where I fear

To go,–so with his memory they brim!

And entering with relief some quiet place

Where never fell his foot or shone his face I say,

“There is no memory of him here!”

And so stand stricken, so remembering him!

– Edna St Vincent Millay
(February 22, 1892 – October 19, 1950) was an American lyrical poet and playwright

On A Night Of The Full Moon

full moonOn a Night of the Full Moon

Out of my flesh that hungers
and my mouth that knows
comes the shape I am seeking
for reason.
The curve of your waiting body
fits my waiting hand
your breasts warm as sunlight
your lips quick as young birds
between your thighs the sweet
sharp taste of limes.

Thus I hold you
frank in my heart’s eye
in my skin’s knowing
as my fingers conceive your flesh
I feel your stomach
moving against me.

Before the moon wanes again
we shall come together.

And I would be the moon
spoken over your beckoning flesh
breaking against reservations
beaching thought
my hands at your high tide
over and under inside you
and the passing of hungers
attended, forgotten.

Darkly risen
the moon speaks
my eyes
judging your roundness
delightful.

– AUDRE LORDE 1934-92

Now What Is Love – Sir Walter Raleigh

Raindroplets, photo by PH Morton

Raindroplets, photo by PH Morton

Now What Is Love – Sir Walter Raleigh

Now what is Love, I pray thee, tell?
It is that fountain and that well
Where pleasure and repentance dwell;
It is, perhaps, the sauncing bell
That tolls all into heaven or hell;
And this is Love, as I hear tell.

Yet what is Love, I prithee, say?
It is a work on holiday,
It is December matched with May,
When lusty bloods in fresh array
Hear ten months after of the play;
And this is Love, as I hear say.

Yet what is Love, good shepherd, sain?
It is a sunshine mixed with rain,
It is a toothache or like pain,
It is a game where none hath gain;
The lass saith no, yet would full fain;
And this is Love, as I hear sain.

Yet, shepherd, what is Love, I pray?
It is a yes, it is a nay,
A pretty kind of sporting fray,
It is a thing will soon away.
Then, nymphs, take vantage while ye may;
And this is Love, as I hear say.

Yet what is Love, good shepherd, show?
A thing that creeps, it cannot go,
A prize that passeth to and fro,
A thing for one, a thing for moe,
And he that proves shall find it so;
And shepherd, this is Love, I trow.

Sir Walter Raleigh

The Cloud BY PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY

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The Cloud, Photo by PH Morton

The Cloud
BY PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY

I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers,
From the seas and the streams;
I bear light shade for the leaves when laid
In their noonday dreams.
From my wings are shaken the dews that waken
The sweet buds every one,
When rocked to rest on their mother’s breast,
As she dances about the sun.
I wield the flail of the lashing hail,
And whiten the green plains under,
And then again I dissolve it in rain,
And laugh as I pass in thunder.

I sift the snow on the mountains below,
And their great pines groan aghast;
And all the night ’tis my pillow white,
While I sleep in the arms of the blast.
Sublime on the towers of my skiey bowers,
Lightning my pilot sits;
In a cavern under is fettered the thunder,
It struggles and howls at fits;
Over earth and ocean, with gentle motion,
This pilot is guiding me,
Lured by the love of the genii that move
In the depths of the purple sea;
Over the rills, and the crags, and the hills,
Over the lakes and the plains,
Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream,
The Spirit he loves remains;
And I all the while bask in Heaven’s blue smile,
Whilst he is dissolving in rains.

The sanguine Sunrise, with his meteor eyes,
And his burning plumes outspread,
Leaps on the back of my sailing rack,
When the morning star shines dead;
As on the jag of a mountain crag,
Which an earthquake rocks and swings,
An eagle alit one moment may sit
In the light of its golden wings.
And when Sunset may breathe, from the lit sea beneath,
Its ardours of rest and of love,
And the crimson pall of eve may fall
From the depth of Heaven above,
With wings folded I rest, on mine aëry nest,
As still as a brooding dove.

That orbèd maiden with white fire laden,
Whom mortals call the Moon,
Glides glimmering o’er my fleece-like floor,
By the midnight breezes strewn;
And wherever the beat of her unseen feet,
Which only the angels hear,
May have broken the woof of my tent’s thin roof,
The stars peep behind her and peer;
And I laugh to see them whirl and flee,
Like a swarm of golden bees,
When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent,
Till calm the rivers, lakes, and seas,
Like strips of the sky fallen through me on high,
Are each paved with the moon and these.

I bind the Sun’s throne with a burning zone,
And the Moon’s with a girdle of pearl;
The volcanoes are dim, and the stars reel and swim,
When the whirlwinds my banner unfurl.
From cape to cape, with a bridge-like shape,
Over a torrent sea,
Sunbeam-proof, I hang like a roof,
The mountains its columns be.
The triumphal arch through which I march
With hurricane, fire, and snow,
When the Powers of the air are chained to my chair,
Is the million-coloured bow;
The sphere-fire above its soft colours wove,
While the moist Earth was laughing below.

I am the daughter of Earth and Water,
And the nursling of the Sky;
I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores;
I change, but I cannot die.
For after the rain when with never a stain
The pavilion of Heaven is bare,
And the winds and sunbeams with their convex gleams
Build up the blue dome of air,
I silently laugh at my own cenotaph,
And out of the caverns of rain,
Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the tomb,
I arise and unbuild it again.

Live in my Heart and Pay No Rent

Sky rose, Photo by PH Morton

 

Come live in my heart and pay no rent – this has become a common and can be often heard during St Valentine’s Day.  I thought it was actually rather witty and so now!

But apparently this line is actually from a 17th century poem by Samuel Lover.

Below is that poem and quite a very romantic too.  It is about young love, young dreams and living now rather than later.  Seizing love while still young rather than become cynical and forget what and how to love.  Ahhhhhhh

Have a lovely weekend folks.

Live in my Heart and Pay No Rent

Samuel Lover (1797–1868)
  ’VOURNEEN, when your days were bright,
Never an eye did I dare to lift to you,
But now, in your fortune’s blight,
False ones are flying in sunshine that knew you
  But still on one welcome true rely,
  Tho’ the crops may fail, and the cow go dry,
And your cabin be burned, and all be spent,
Come, live in my heart and pay no rent;
  Come, come, live in my heart,
Live in my heart and pay no rent;
  Come, come, live in my heart,
Live in my heart, mavourneen!
  ’Vourneen, dry up those tears,
The sensible people will tell you to wait, dear,
But ah! in the wasting of Love’s young years,
On our innocent hearts we ’re committing a chate, dear.
  For hearts when they ’re young should make the vow,
  For when they are old they don’t know how;
So marry at once and you ’ll not repent,
When you live in my heart and pay no rent,
  Come, come, live in my heart,
Live in my heart and pay no rent,
  Come, come, live in my heart,
Live in my heart, mavourneen!

June Sky At Night (London)

June Sky At Night (London)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

DIRGE WITHOUT MUSIC

I am not resigned to the shutting away of loving hearts in the hard ground.
So it is, and so it will be, for so it has been, time out of mind:
Into the darkness they go, the wise and the lovely. Crowned
With lilies and with laurel they go; but I am not resigned.

Lovers and thinkers, into the earth with you.
Be one with the dull, the indiscriminate dust.
A fragment of what you felt, of what you knew,
A formula, a phrase remains,—but the best is lost.

The answers quick and keen, the honest look, the laughter, the
love,—
They are gone. They are gone to feed the roses. Elegant and curled
Is the blossom. Fragrant is the blossom. I know. But I do not
approve.
More precious was the light in your eyes than all the roses in the
world.

Down, down, down into the darkness of the grave
Gently they go, the beautiful, the tender, the kind;
Quietly they go, the intelligent, the witty, the brave.
I know. But I do not approve. And I am not resigned.

Edna St. Vincent Millay

Hope is the thing with feathers

I love this poem by the American poet, Emily Dickinson. It is full of optimism. She compared that thing that we all rely on most of the time to a bird that would twit no matter what the weather is. It would always be there without fail. It makes me hopeful! 🙂

robin

Robin in midtwit, Photo by PH Morton

Hope is the thing with feathers

BY EMILY DICKINSON

“Hope” is the thing with feathers –
That perches in the soul –
And sings the tune without the 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 kept so many warm –
I’ve heard it in the chillest land –
And on the strangest Sea –
Yet – never – in Extremity,
It asked a crumb – of me.

Robert and Elizabeth Browning

Love doesn’t make the world go round; love is what makes the ride worthwhile.
– Elizabeth Browning

What I do and ehat I dream include thee, as the wine must taste of its own grapes.
– Elizabeth Barrett Browning

Robert and Elizabeth BrowningElizabeth Barrett Browning & Robert Browning
Elizabeth Barrett Browning & Robert Browning

Best be yourself, imperial, plain and true.
– Robert Browning

Ignorance is not innonce but sin.
– Robert Browning

Take away love, and our earth is a tomb.
– Robert Browning

Traditional Native American Prayer

I found this prayer/poem in a book called Poetry Please!

Apparently, it is a traditional Native American funeral reading of the Ishi people from the Pacific Northwest.

I love it, it is so short and poignant and yet it says so much.  It makes a positive out of a negative outlook to death and bereavement.  It tells the people left behind to move on with their lives after the briefest of mourning.

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Traditional Native American Prayer

When I am dead
Cry for me a little
Think of me sometimes
But not too much.
Think of me now and again
As I was in life
At some moments it’s pleasant to recall
But not for long.
Leave me in peace
And I shall leave you in peace
And while you live
Let your thoughts be with the living.