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Posts: 7,210
Carpal Tunnel
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Carpal Tunnel
Joined: Jun 2002
Posts: 7,210 |
D.H. Lawrence (1885?1930). Amores. 1916. 43. The Enkindled Spring THIS spring as it comes bursts up in bonfires green, Wild puffing of emerald trees, and flame-filled bushes, Thorn-blossom lifting in wreaths of smoke between Where the wood fumes up and the watery, flickering rushes. I am amazed at this spring, this conflagration Of green fires lit on the soil of the earth, this blaze Of growing, and sparks that puff in wild gyration, Faces of people streaming across my gaze. And I, what fountain of fire am I among This leaping combustion of spring? My spirit is tossed About like a shadow buffeted in the throng Of flames, a shadow that?s gone astray, and is lost. this leaping combustion of spring ain't it the truth. 
formerly known as etaoin...
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old hand
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old hand
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Well, don't forget that this upworlder will be sampling your primavera next week.
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Posts: 4,189
Carpal Tunnel
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OP
Carpal Tunnel
Joined: Mar 2001
Posts: 4,189 |
Well, don't forget that this upworlder will be sampling your primavera next week.Oh, sure...just follow Spring around, why dont'cha? Must be tough. 
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Carpal Tunnel
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Carpal Tunnel
Joined: Mar 2000
Posts: 11,613 |
Blue Evening
My restless blood now lies a-quiver,
Knowing that always, exquisitely,
This April twilight on the river
Stirs anguish in the heart of me.
For the fast world in that rare glimmer
Puts on the witchery of a dream,
The straight grey buildings, richly dimmer,
The fiery windows, and the stream
With willows leaning quietly over,
The still ecstatic fading skies . . .
And all these, like a waiting lover,
Murmur and gleam, lift lustrous eyes,
Drift close to me, and sideways bending
Whisper delicious words.
But I
Stretch terrible hands, uncomprehending,
Shaken with love; and laugh; and cry.
My agony made the willows quiver;
I heard the knocking of my heart
Die loudly down the windless river,
I heard the pale skies fall apart,
And the shrill stars' unmeaning laughter,
And my voice with the vocal trees
Weeping. And Hatred followed after,
Shrilling madly down the breeze.
In peace from the wild heart of clamour,
A flower in moonlight, she was there,
Was rippling down white ways of glamour
Quietly laid on wave and air.
Her passing left no leaf a-quiver.
Pale flowers wreathed her white, white brows.
Her feet were silence on the river;
And "Hush!" she said, between the boughs.
Rupert Brooke
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Posts: 555
addict
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addict
Joined: Dec 2002
Posts: 555 |
Lovely poems all! Thank you.
From, The Gardener, I, Rabindranath Tagore, 1913
Over the green and yellow rice fields sweep the shadows of the autumn clouds, followed by the swift-chasing sun.
The bees forget to sip their honey; drunken with the light they foolishly hum and hover; and the ducks in the sandy riverbank clamor in joy for mere nothing.
None shall go back home, brothers, this morning, none shall go to work.
We will take the blue sky by storm and plunder the space as we run.
Laughter flies floating in the air like foams in the flood.
Brothers, we shall squander our morning in futile songs.
And again from, The Gardener, XL: An Unbelieving Smile
An unbelieving smile flits on your
eyes when I come to you to take my leave.
I have done it so often that you
think I will soon return.
To tell you the truth I have the
same doubt in my mind.
For the spring days come again
time after time; the full moon takes
leave and comes on another visit,
the flowers come again and blush
upon their branches year after year,
and it is likely that I take my leave
only to come to you again.
But keep the illusion awhile; do
not send it away with ungentle haste.
When I say I leave you for all
time, accept it as true, and let a
mist of tears for one moment deepen
the dark rim of your eyes.
Then smile as archly as you like
when I come again.
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Carpal Tunnel
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Carpal Tunnel
Joined: Dec 2000
Posts: 13,803 |
Upunder they're gettin' ready to roll the winter clothes out
Course the thang they like to call winter is pretty much like spring up here in the Northland.
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addict
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addict
Joined: Dec 2002
Posts: 555 |
This is not strictly Spring poetry (I don't know that the Tagores were!, more monsoon, it seems ) but, it has spring/summer for a setting and for sheer imagery, it outranks most. It is one of my best loved ones; wanted to get the words right before I posted it. I hope everyone will enjoy this. The Eagle (A Fragment), Alfred Lord TennysonHe clasps the crag with crooked hands;
Close to the sun in lonely lands,
Ring’d with the azure world, he stands.
The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls;
He watches from his mountain walls,
And like a thunderbolt he falls.
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Selected verses from: To a Skylark, PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY Hail to thee, blithe Spirit!
Bird thou never wert,
That from Heaven, or near it,
Pourest thy full heart
In profuse strains of unpremeditated art.
.......
Higher still and higher
From the earth thou springest
Like a cloud of fire;
The blue deep thou wingest,
And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest.
.......
All the earth and air
With thy voice is loud.
As, when night is bare,
From one lonely cloud
The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflowed.
.......
What thou art we know not;
What is most like thee?
From rainbow clouds there flow not
Drops so bright to see
As from thy presence showers a rain of melody.
.......
Like a rose embowered
In its own green leaves,
By warm winds deflowered,
Till the scent it gives
Makes faint with too much sweet these heavy-winged thieves.
.......
Teach us, sprite or bird,
What sweet thoughts are thine:
I have never heard
Praise of love or wine
That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine.
.......
We look before and after,
And pine for what is not:
Our sincerest laughter
With some pain is fraught;
Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.
Yet if we could scorn
Hate, and pride, and fear;
If we were things born
Not to shed a tear,
I know not how thy joy we ever should come near.
Better than all measures
Of delightful sound,
Better than all treasures
That in books are found,
Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground!
Teach me half the gladness
That thy brain must know,
Such harmonious madness
From my lips would flow
The world should listen then, as I am listening now!_____________________________________________________ The complete version can be read at this site: http://www.nem5.com/classic/shelley5.html
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Carpal Tunnel
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Carpal Tunnel
Joined: Jun 2001
Posts: 2,636 |
Sermon On The Mushroom
(Chaos Theory)
Who will be as fragile as an April moon,
irrational moon, mushroom moon?
Wetly in the glades of her prolific world
he stands unreasoning, unreasonable;
spotted cardinal, saffron, coral;
spongy as a sorcerer’s hat;
ecstatic god penis: sacred food, cataclysmic,
minute, unique and final. A singular
essence, delicate and unusual.
"More importantly", declares the physicist
"it was born in the singularity
of a collapsed universe, violently,
we measured it."
Who will plant the tree of poetry in the chaotic soil of a black hole?
Who will introduce nature’s exotics to the hunter wasp of modern physics?
Let the physicists realize the indisputable mushroom.
Let him smell its aromatic decomposition.
Let him classify its whisper and let
the anarchy of its strangeness influence him.
Will he dare to swallow its singularity?
Will he feed the black hole of his own soul
and collapse into another universe,
another uni-verse, another one-verse?
How many verses in creation’s soul?
How many angels in the head of a mushroom?
Let us pray:
Matter and anti-matter all go round,
worlds begin and worlds run down,
her son is a reminder beneath the trees,
her son is the only sun she sees,
eat of his body, make her merry,
and come spirit us to her sanctuary.
-Ted Guhl
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Posts: 1,692
Pooh-Bah
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Pooh-Bah
Joined: Mar 2002
Posts: 1,692 |
Not that fond of Browning, but I guess this is traditional.
Home-Thoughts, from Abroad
0 to be in England
Now that April's there,
And whoever wakes in England
Sees, some morning, unaware,
That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheaf
Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf,
While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough
In England- now!
And after April, when May follows,
And the whitethroat builds, and all the swallows!
Hark, where my blossom'd pear-tree in the hedge
Leans to the field and scatters on the clover
Blossoms and dewdrops at the bent spray's edge-
That's the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over
Lest you should think he never could recapture
The first fine careless rapture!
And though the fields look rough with hoary dew,
All will be gay when noontide wakes anew
The buttercups, the little children's dower
- Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower!
Robert Browning
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