sunshine through the fog - poetry

He Wishes For the Cloths of Heaven

noreply@blogspirit.com () — Mon, 03 Mar 2008 20:03:28 +0800

HAD I the heavens’ embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

- William Butler Yeats

My Very Own Darkly Gothic Poem

noreply@blogspirit.com () — Mon, 27 Mar 2006 17:40:00 +0800

what have you done to me?

a miasma of betrayal as perceptions scream.

once we were together in innocence,

open and wide-eyed,

but your thirst soured.

a sickening morass of lies -

tears follow pain, follow bitterness,

love ground to dust.

in a torrent of sorrow,

i condemn you.

found this Goth-O-Matic^TM Poetry Generator and tried it out for fun. doesn't rhyme at all! but it's got a nice dark ring to it, i thought. how's it sound to you? ;)

pitter-patter

noreply@blogspirit.com () — Thu, 12 Jan 2006 09:59:11 +0800

I'm so sick of this indefatigable rain. I miss the sun...

Rain, rain go away

Come again another day

Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily

Life is but a dream

I know these are front and back of 2 different nursery rhymes but I always sing it like that. Realise they've exactly the same melody? hahaaa...

It's raining. It's pouring.

The old man is snoring.

He went to bed

and he covered his head.

And he didn't wake up

till the morning.

Quite cute, right? ;) And last but not least...

Patty, Patty,

What do you say?

Will it be sunny or rainy today?

Oh let it be sunny...

A Birthday

noreply@blogspirit.com () — Sun, 18 Dec 2005 15:10:00 +0800

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 peacocks 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.

~ Christina Georgina Rossetti

The Thread of Life

noreply@blogspirit.com () — Wed, 14 Dec 2005 13:50:00 +0800

I
The irresponsive silence of the land,
The irresponsive sounding of the sea,
Speak both one message of one sense to me:--
Aloof, aloof, we stand aloof, so stand
Thou too aloof bound with the flawless band
Of inner solitude; we bind not thee;
But who from thy self-chain shall set thee free?
What heart shall touch thy heart? what hand thy hand?--
And I am sometimes proud and sometimes meek,
And sometimes I remember days of old
When fellowship seemed not so far to seek
And all the world and I seemed much less cold,
And at the rainbow's foot lay surely gold,
And hope felt strong and life itself not weak.

II
Thus am I mine own prison. Everything
Around me free and sunny and at ease:
Or if in shadow, in a shade of trees
Which the sun kisses, where the gay birds sing
And where all winds make various murmuring;
Where bees are found, with honey for the bees;
Where sounds are music, and where silences
Are music of an unlike fashioning.
Then gaze I at the merrymaking crew,
And smile a moment and a moment sigh
Thinking: Why can I not rejoice with you?
But soon I put the foolish fancy by:
I am not what I have nor what I do;
But what I was I am, I am even I.

III
Therefore myself is that one only thing
I hold to use or waste, to keep or give;
My sole possession every day I live,
And still mine own despite Time's winnowing.
Ever mine own, while moons and seasons bring
From crudeness ripeness mellow and sanitive;
Ever mine own, till Death shall ply his sieve;
And still mine own, when saints break grave and sing.
And this myself as king unto my King
I give, to Him Who gave Himself for me;
Who gives Himself to me, and bids me sing
A sweet new song of His redeemed set free;
he bids me sing: O death, where is thy sting?
And sing: O grave, where is thy victory?

~ Christina Georgina Rossetti

The Rose Family

noreply@blogspirit.com () — Sun, 03 Jul 2005 12:47:53 +0800

The rose is a rose,
And was always a rose.
But the theory now goes
That the apple's a rose,
And the pear is, and so's
The plum, I suppose.
The dear only know
What will next prove a rose.
You, of course, are a rose--
But were always a rose

~ Robert Frost

Love is an irresistible desire to be irresistibly desired.

Sigh...

noreply@blogspirit.com () — Fri, 27 May 2005 11:27:10 +0800

In this world
love has no color -
yet how deeply
my body
is stained by yours.

-- Izumi Shikibu

P.S. I saw this in pet's blog. Loved it. Had to have it in mine too. :)

I'm Nobody! Who are You?

noreply@blogspirit.com () — Fri, 27 May 2005 11:08:46 +0800

I'm nobody! Who are you?
Are you nobody, too?
Then there's a pair of us -don't tell!
They'd banish us, you know.

How dreary to be somebody!
How public, like a frog
To tell your name the livelong day
To an admiring bog!

-- Emily Dickinson

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways

noreply@blogspirit.com () — Tue, 10 May 2005 05:20:00 +0800

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
I love thee to the level of every day's
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.
I love thee freely, as men strive for right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from praise,
I love thee with the passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints -I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life! -and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.

-- Elizabeth Barrett Browning

It's 523am and I'm still awake. Think I'll just plough on till it's time to go to work... *panda eyes*

Questions of Travel

noreply@blogspirit.com () — Mon, 09 May 2005 23:20:00 +0800

There are too many waterfalls here; the crowded streams
hurry too rapidly down to the sea,
and the pressure of so many clouds on the mountaintops
makes them spill over the sides in soft slow-motion,
turning to waterfalls under our very eyes.
--For if those streaks, those mile-long, shiny, tearstains,
aren't waterfalls yet,
in a quick age or so, as ages go here,
they probably will be.
But if the streams and clouds keep travelling, travelling,
the mountains look like the hulls of capsized ships,
slime-hung and barnacled.

Think of the long trip home.
Should we have stayed at home and thought of here?
Where should we be today?
Is it right to be watching strangers in a play
in this strangest of theatres?
What childishness is it that while there's a breath of life
in our bodies, we are determined to rush
to see the sun the other way around?
The tiniest green hummingbird in the world?
To stare at some inexplicable old stonework,
inexplicable and impenetrable,
at any view,
instantly seen and always, always delightful?
Oh, must we dream our dreams
and have them, too?
And have we room
for one more folded sunset, still quite warm?

But surely it would have been a pity
not to have seen the trees along this road,
really exaggerated in their beauty,
not to have seen them gesturing
like noble pantomimists, robed in pink.
--Not to have had to stop for gas and heard
the sad, two-noted, wooden tune
of disparate wooden clogs
carelessly clacking over
a grease-stained filling-station floor.
(In another country the clogs would all be tested.
Each pair there would have identical pitch.)
--A pity not to have heard
the other, less primitive music of the fat brown bird
who sings above the broken gasoline pump
in a bamboo church of Jesuit baroque:
three towers, five silver crosses.
--Yes, a pity not to have pondered,
blurr'dly and inconclusively,
on what connection can exist for centuries
between the crudest wooden footwear
and, careful and finicky,
the whittled fantasies of wooden footwear
and, careful and finicky,
the whittled fantasies of wooden cages.
--Never to have studied history in
the weak calligraphy of songbirds' cages.
--And never to have had to listen to rain
so much like politicians' speeches:
two hours of unrelenting oratory
and then a sudden golden silence
in which the traveller takes a notebook, writes:

"Is it lack of imagination that makes us come
to imagined places, not just stay at home?
Or could Pascal have been not entirely right
about just sitting quietly in one's room?

Continent, city, country, society:
the choice is never wide and never free.
And here, or there . . . No. Should we have stayed at home,
wherever that may be?"

-- Elizabeth Bishop