Adapted poetry should be carefully referenced. A work, which is well known in your country, may be little known in other English speaking countries or to readers who speak English as a second language. As to original poetry or poetry you hold the copyrights of, please note that you can apply your own license for that (if you do so, please note it clearly and see to it that it is legally valid).
- 1 Poems by Siddharth Patil
- 2 Poems by Barbara Shack
- 3 External links to Will Dockery's poetry
- 4 Poems Of Emediate Moment by Jon Awbrey
- 5 Poems by "StarofLight"
- 6 Poetry of Tomas O' Carthaigh
- 7 Found poetry
- 8 Romance Novel / Roman, Arthur Rimbaud
- 9 See also
Poems by Siddharth Patil
All poems in this section are released into the public domain.
These are the best of my work so far.
Thousands of drops of life
Are falling to the ground;
And I am in the middle of all this;
I feel innocent again
And my own tears of joy are now falling as well;
Oh, how I love this Earth!
And all the gifts it gives us;
I am truly grateful for this experience
And I feel pure again;
And as the Sun comes out
I am soothed by its warmth;
And the raging torrent of emotion inside me
Is now a bubbling stream of
The smoke from the burning
Of the midnight oil
Clouds my mind;
But in these clouds
I see fantastic visions
Of such things that
I see no point in a struggle
So I jump headfirst into
This oneiric realm
And find my decision
To be wise;
In but only half-a-score hour
I have traversed the Infinite
And experienced a joy
Which I cannot describe
Using such mediocre and worthless
Nonsense like words;
And yet my body has not left its position
Through this whole trip;
This nocturnal ritual is
Undervalued and overanalyzed
But I know what it truly is;
It is a reunion with Paradise
And a trip through the jungle
Of my thoughts;
And as I leave these pure images behind
I know that I will be returning soon
And that these images will not
the Sun shrinks away into darkness
but the stars have fallen to our world
and with them fell the beauty
and Time has become but a frivolity
as the twinkle of these living lights
reflects something far more important
yet all of this is lost
but as i return to the realm
of money, fools, and tyrants
i feel like the flames of my burning desire
have been quenched
by the waters
The abode of my insanity
Is attacked by a light
From the East;
I am pulled from my trance
And the visions disappear;
In nine-score second
The soothing darkness of night
Is pervaded by a raw beauty;
Infinite hues of purple, pink, and orange!
Is it no surprise that I am
Awed by its perfection?
Now the painted sky has faded
And the Sun has risen;
And even if this whole show
Was all of eight minutes,
I will remember it
The painted sky has returned
And once again
I am silent;
These colors mark the travel
From the light
To the night;
There is a solemn smile on my face
For I am at peace with the world;
I am seduced by Luna
But my heart belongs to the stars,
Who are yet to appear;
Now the Sun is setting fast
But I don't care
Because there are greater treasures to be found
In this realm.
I walk through the grass
With a smile on my face;
I kneel down
And say Hi to the daisies
and Deptford pinks
and even the dandelions;
I stand back up
And I feel as free
as the butterfly
who is fluttering about
in front of me;
I look up at the sky
And the euphoria lifts me into it;
Gaia is happy
And so am I;
And I don't know if I am
Alive of dead
For this to me
I am my own man in this realm
Free from the toubles of other people;
I feel the cool breeze wrapping around me
carrying my troubles away;
And I am glad that I decided to
Ignore the oneiric visions for once
For I look to the sky
And the treasures of the Universe
Are gleaming and glowing with intense
I am humbled
And filled with admiration;
And a sense of security
Is now within me
Because no matter how much we
Destroy this Earth
At least we will never lose
These diamonds and pearls
From the world of
Poems by Barbara Shack
I hope other poets will soon add their poems to mine.
In the Bleak Winter
There is a well-known British Christmas carol. Its called, " In the Bleak Midwinter "The words can be accessed here
The tune is I feel a lot better than the words. Sorry, Americans I can't give you the tune. I thought I'd write something to it. The first verse borrows so heavily from the original that I cannot call it mine. The second and third verses copy only the rhythm from the original. The words are entirely mind. Here it is.
In the Bleak Midwinter, (my version).
In the bleak midwinter, frosty wind would moan,
Earth stood hard as iron, water like a stone;
Sometimes snow fell, snow on snow, snow on snow,
Such winters were quite common, thirty years ago. Frost now comes more seldom
Snow transforms to rain.
Frost and snow both quickly go,
Global warming comes again. What's happening to our planet?
With our future we play dice.
We burn fossil fuel,
Will our children pay the price?
The Volga Boat Song
The Volga Boat Song (my version).
Global warming, Pacific storming,
We know not, where are we going?
Scientists will try and speculate,
Run computer programmes, calculate.
What next will happen? What next will happen?
When we know it could be to late.
Global warming, Sahara burning, Ice caps melting.
We know not, where are we going?
The next song is to an American tune called, "Miners' Lifeguard"
[www.fortunecity.com/tinpan/parton/2/minersli.html#top]Its accessible here]
In the summer, sunshine's burning.
Fire rains down from the sky.
Will our planet soon get warmer?
Find the answer! Find it, try!
Greenhouse gasses hold the heat in,
Like a furnace, hard and sure.
We know not, have we a future?
Will our planet long endure?
Greenhouse warming, Greenhouse warming,
Gathers strength from year to year.
Daffodils, come out in winter.
Should they give us so much cheer?
In the winter, frosts are seldom,
All looks good, but what will come?
Global warming is a danger!
That should be a rule of thumb.
Cosmic Fine Tuning
(To be sung to the tune of, â€œImmortal, Invisible, God only wiseâ€.)
This poem expresses wonder over the possible nature of the Universe. Believers and Freethinkers can all feel this way. In particular it deals with the allegedly Fine-tuned universe and Rare Earth hypothesis together with possible natural explanations for the situation.
Oh what is the Cosmos, oh was it designed?
What will research tell us, what will science find?
Our life, based on carbon needs such narrow range,
We live on a knife-edge with parameters strange.
Thereâ€™s Christians and others say the world was designed.
But what could have made it, how complex a mind?
Divine is the mystery, believers declare.
But mysteries solve nothing, mysteries hang in the air.
Could there be more universes, many not few?
With number so countless, that we have not a clue?
From time to time one springs, fine-tuned just like ours.
And there things can happen, there with more luck life flowers.
Elsewhere laws of physics could be different from here.
Life could still exist but with a nature so queer.
We cannot imagine what there could be found.
We try hard to reason but we don't know what's sound.
There's the principle, anthropic, the principle strong.
They say its not science and they say that its wrong.
Only worlds that contain life can come to exist.
For reasons unknown, so strong anthropics suggest.
And a series of principles anthropic come next.
Most are even less science, make the scientists vexed.
But this cosmic fine-tuning, it really looks odd.
Well perhaps it is natural. Or perhaps it is God.
If the forces of science were not what they are,
Our world could be sterile, both near also far.
So why does the universe keep us alive?
And why, here on earth do plants and animals thrive?
So what is the Cosmos, so was it designed?
What will research tell us, what will science find?
The theists say, surely, the others say, no.
We cannot say truly, on with studies we go.
(Note: This is a poem. It is not meant to be scientifically rigorous.
For example in verse 6 â€œGodâ€ refers to any intelligent designer or design team.
This could include aliens who evolved in a Parallel universe, possibly less finely tuned.)
Poems Of Emediate Moment by Jon Awbrey
Sunset At Hawk's Nest
Platinum pupil and golden orange iris,
Pure rose and turquoise the lids of the eye,
Lashes of evergreen and the gliding hawk's wing,
Dark umber brows of the rustling oak bough.
Plato's puppet dances without strings,
Tracing the shade of the fair plane tree,
Yet under his gaze nothing is new
But shadows cast from high platitudes.
The eye of Horus gleams in the hours of twilight,
A thousand eyes dreaming now wake to the sight:
A crescent smile, mother-of-pearl and silvery bright,
Beaming with warmth on the face of the night.
Jon Awbrey Glen Arbor, Michigan August 25, 1990
A Well-Known Rock On Tour
Suppose you come to a rock on the moor:
That may or may not have fallen there as a meteorite burrows out of the sky, or lava drops cool in a vanished lake.
That may or may not have rolled there on the impulse of a rough-hewn hermit, or the reverence of a primitive tribe.
That may or may not have been crafted as an architrave, a bourne, a caltrop, a dolmen, an epistyle, a fenestration?
That is the sort of ambiguity that I have been wrestling with, the type of uncertainty of type that arises in trying to read the "Book Of Nature" (BON), the unsettling noise that will at turns shock, surprise, and surround us as we strain to pursue this "Dialogue Involving Nature" (DIN) as one of its partners.
This is not the brand of sort of type of ambiguity that will be extinguished by our impoverished attempts to control the speech of our neighbors, nor would it serve us well even if we succeed.
Jon Awbrey October 16, 2000
*ships of yore
on the trailing edge of an icy winged age, semele lies enleved in the foils of hades. when shall we see her depart the departed? when will i mark my recue from the shades? not till signs of spring charge the skies, not till summer gives voice to the air -- a dove outside my window this morning? if only it were that kind of year!
jon awbrey, 11 march 2002
My tables, My tables -- meet it is I set it down That one may smile and smile and be a villain.
~~ Hamlet, 1.5.107-109
Meet it is -- or is it join? -- That error and information Bear our cognate strife With us in the middle, As ambits torn from A singular womb.
But leave the space That promises peace, With wile enough and The wareness to boot: 'Twill amend thy selve.
Jon Awbrey, 18 Feb 2004
Banished at birth, The wings of your soul torn off, You are but a block of wood To be carved by the makers of chessmen and marionettes To be placed on boards and stages That cannot be won with the pieces that are left.
Jon Awbrey Stratford, Ontario July 25, 2006
Poems by "StarofLight"
[Maybe written for Wikinfo] You have to know the time. When time of Wings has come around, do not stand still. The Stars above shall guide you. And your deeper Will will lead you to the aim.
- February 7th, 2007 by StarofLight under the Special Poet's License
Poetry of Tomas O' Carthaigh
Tomas O' Carthaigh contributes to many websites, including http://www.booksie.com, http://www.writerstoyou.com, http://www.poemhunter.com as well as a selection of his work on his website http://www.writingsinrhyme.com
God Calls Me George
God told me to... and I did it
Words I heard from my TV
As I gasped unbelieving
I asked: can this BE?
"God told me to free Afganistan,
And that is what I done,
God told me to topple Saddam,
And now that war is won"
" There will be a state of palestine
Just you wait and see
I will do it like the rest
Becase to do it God told me!"
This mans fingers on the nuclear button
He claims God talks to him
God help us all if he tips out on drugs
Or decides to try out how it works on a whim!
If that was you or I who said
I doneomething because God said so,
Claimed God to you directly was talking
Off to Bedlam youd go...
But not in America
Not to hospital he is sent
It seems the Yanks are Grateful
Gods talks to THIER president!
The mother of all gobshites
Who claims God calls him George
And who on liquir guzzles like a tank
And on pretzels gorge...
God bless America
Who by name its president does call
God bless your best friend George Bush
And God help us all!
While Passing Time, I Try To Write
While passing time I try to write,
About anyone or thing in sight,
And, inspiration failing me,
I turn my crisis to verse to see,
If from nothing a poem can be made
As ideas in my mind are played
But litle for verse comes together
Upon the topic of life, love or weather...
Why is it that when busy am I,
At other things - around my mind fly
Imiages, ideas for epic poems!
That could enthrall readers in their homes...
Or beds... but when I get my pen
I find my mind is blank again...
To write you must LIVE life,
Enjoy the joys, endure the strife,
But if you are set to write,
You must be alone, sometimes at night...
Without distraction in a place of peace
For a while life itself must cease...
And a tumbling collection of whats not forgot
Gets written down, letter, word and dot
And a poem is born! Some bad, some good...
But each line be written and be read should...
For each is testiment to recollection,
Or imagination: a collection,
Of sights and sounds and hopes and dreams
The fabric of life, joined by poetic seams,
That seem to avoid me today,
So I shall put pen and paper away.
Beauty in Bounty Is A Woman
"Her prentice han she tried on man And then she made the lasses-O"
- Robert Burns
"Green Grows the Rashes"
Beauty in Bounty is a woman fair
Be she of dark or golden hair
Be she of temper short of meek
She is the peace that us men seek
For at the ending of the day
Her touch soothes our cares away
Beauty in Bounty is a ladys smile
Though she may worry all the while
It is to her a God given grace
Heavy her heart may be, still light is her face
And as our tousled hair she smoothes,
Our hearts fire with her touch she soothes
Us men are terrible and vain
Spiteful, seeking revenge to gain
Always insisiting on being right
Slow to say sorry and quick to fight
When the lady looks in the window at her reflection
She admires not just herself, but Gods perfection!
â€œI should like to tell your lords about some of the sightings I have seen,â€
said the Earl of Halsbury,
â€œbeginning at the age of 6,
when I saw an angel.â€
"Thatâ€™s been our history.
They take all youâ€™ve got.
They take your land.
Then they want your stories.â€
Norma Trimble, Native American
The darker the night--
the brighter the stars,
The deeper the grief--
the closer is God. (Crime and Punishment)
Romance Novel / Roman, Arthur Rimbaud
You're never serious at 17.
One great night, full of pints and lemonade,
You've had enough of cafes, so you stroll
Beneath green lime trees on the promenade.
The lime trees smell so good at night in June!
Sometimes the air's so soft it makes you blink.
The wind from off the town is charged with noise
And smells of grape, of ale and stronger drink . . .
Look there, you see a tiny handkerchief
Of dark blue, framed by branches in the night,
Pierced by a hapless star that melts away
With one soft shudder, beautifully white . . .
You're 17! In June! It gets you high â€”
The sap's champagne: it makes your whole head ring . . .
You ramble – suddenly you feel a kiss
That flutters on your lips like a live thing . . .
Below the halo of a pale street lamp,
Your heart creates a novel, going mad
Because a young miss stopped to sneak a glance
Beneath the menacing shadow of her dad . . .
And just because she thinks you're such a child,
She trots on by and swings her little hips
And gives a shrug that slugs you in the gut,
While cavatinas die upon your lips . . .
Now you're in love – till August anyway.
You'll make her laugh! You'll write her poetry!
But still you're shunned as if you tasted bad
Until, one night, the dear one writes to thee!
That night you wander back to the cafÃ©s.
You order up more pints and lemonade . . .
You're never serious at 17
When limes grow green above the promenade.
--- Arthur Rimbaud (translated by George J. Dance)
[Romance Novel by George Dance [translation of "Roman" by Arthur Rimbaud] is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License. Permissions beyond the scope of this license may be available at http://gdancesbetty.blogspot.com/].
On n'est pas serieux, quand on a dix-sept ans.
- Un beau soir, foin des bocks et de la limonade,
Des cafes tapageurs aux lustres Ã©clatants !
- On va sous les tilleuls verts de la promenade.
Les tilleuls sentent bon dans les bons soirs de juin !
L'air est parfois si doux, qu'on ferme la paupiere ;
Le vent charge de bruits - la ville n'est pas loin -
A des parfums de vigne et des parfums de biere . . .
-Voila qu'on apercoit un tout petit chiffon
D'azur sombre, encadre d'une petite branche,
Pique d'une mauvaise etoile, qui se fond
Avec de doux frissons, petite et toute blanche . . .
Nuit de juin! Dix-sept ans! - On se laisse griser.
La sÃ¨ve est du champagne et vous monte a la tete . . .
On divague; on se sent aux levres un baiser
Qui palpite la, comme une petite bete . . .
Le coeur fou Robinsonne a travers les romans,
Lorsque, dans la clarte d'un pale reverbere,
Passe une demoiselle aux petits airs charmants,
Sous l'ombre du faux col effrayant de son pere . . .
Et, comme elle vous trouve immensement naif,
Tout en faisant trotter ses petites bottines,
Elle se tourne, alerte et d'un mouvement vif . . .
- Sur vos levres alors meurent les cavatines . . .
Vous etes amoureux. Loue jusqu'au mois d'aout.
Vous etes amoureux. - Vos sonnets La font rire.
Tous vos amis s'en vont, vous etes mauvais gout.
- Puis l'adoree, un soir, a daigne vous ecrire ! . . .
- Ce soir-la,... - vous rentrez aux cafes eclatants,
Vous demandez des bocks ou de la limonade . . .
- On n'est pas serieux, quand on a dix-sept ans
Et qu'on a des tilleuls verts sur la promenade.
-- Arthur Rimbaud 1870
[Poem is in the public domain]