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Butterfly

Motion alone is real
Ever propelling
My wings luminiscent
And child like passion
That I feel in each midge astir,

Life-fugitive, infinite
That wakes its mates
In my withness, my here
Unaware who I am
that It calls to me.

poem by Yoonoos Peerbocus
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At the beginning of this album I discovered the computer and had great fun playing with the thing. And I realized that, not being a good keyboard player, I could write things in very small sections, give them a certain feel and mess about with bends on the keyboard.

quote by Midge Ure
Added by Lucian Velea
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Symphony in Yellow

An omnibus across the bridge
Crawls like a yellow butterfly,
And, here and therem a passer-by
Shows like a little restless midge.

Big barges full of yellow hay
Are moored against the shadowy wharf,
And, like a yellow silken scarf,
The thick fog hangs along the quay.

The yellow leaves begin to fade
And flutter from the temple elms,
And at my feet the pale green Thames
Lies like a rod of rippled jade.

poem by Oscar Wilde
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De Ligurra

YOU fear, Ligurra - above all, you long -
That I should smite you with a stinging song.
This dreadful honour you both fear and hope -
Both all in vain: you fall below my scope.
The Lybian lion tears the roaring bull,
He does not harm the midge along the pool.

Lo! if so close this stands in your regard,
From some blind tap fish forth a drunken barn,
Who shall with charcoal, on the privy wall,
Immortalise your name for once and all.

poem by Robert Louis Stevenson
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Amends to Nature

I have loved colours, and not flowers;
Their motion, not the swallows wings;
And wasted more than half my hours
Without the comradeship of things.

How is it, now, that I can see,
With love and wonder and delight,
The children of the hedge and tree,
The little lords of day and night?

How is it that I see the roads,
No longer with usurping eyes,
A twilight meeting-place for toads,
A mid-day mart for butterflies?

I feel, in every midge that hums,
Life, fugitive and infinite,
And suddenly the world becomes
A part of me and I of it.

poem by Arthur Symons
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Swallows (Brisbane Sonnet)

There is a happy bird, a little one
when all the other birds do move abroad
that is flying chirping everywhere
until the time comes that the sun is gone
small swallows fill the air over the road
twisting, hurtling up and down through the air

flying to and fro, flying very fast,
like fighters they dive over the bridge,
over the water as if visiting fish
skimming along as long as the day lasts,
catching small insects, every midge
they make me feel young and somewhat impish,

flying on long pointed wings and turning,
dropping from where the hot sun is burning.

poem by Gert Strydom
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Straggler

Decked in floral wreaths and crown
as I lay in state among family and friends
with my spirit wading through strands forlorn
where lamps shone bright in celestial gleam
bordering a land of bliss out of mortal reach
where neither canker blights, nor flowers wilt
where sorrow never enters and all shall be blest
where each head like the sun aureoled
where God in all His glory doth reign
I saw through my slumber deep, as through a veil
my loved ones grieving great, my journey
unreturned to an untravelled land.
There was crying and whining, sighing and sobbing
in stirring memory of days in all goodness spent
and of bonds stretching beyond life's rim
which set me feel sick of where I was and where I wasn't
so fain to go, so fain to stay,
like a spinning midge,
my spirit veered high and low
between Heaven and Earth

[...] Read more

poem by Valsa George
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Water Chariot

Sky lies inside the Sky
Welkin lies inside the welkin
Carried away by
Water Chariot

Sun lies inside the sun
Moon lies inside the moon
Carried away by
Water chariot

Mountain lies inside the mountain
Hill lies inside the hill
Carried away by
Water chariot

Womb lies inside the womb
Life lies inside the life
Carried away by
Water chariot

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poem by Kavitha Rai
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No Resurrection

Friendship, when a friend meant a helping sword,
Faithfulness, when power and life were its fruits, hatred, when the hated
Held steel at your throat or had killed your children, were more than metaphors.
Life and the world were as bright as knives.

But now, if I should recall my ruins
From the grass-roots and build my body again in the heavy grave,
Twist myself naked up through the earth like a strong white worm,
Tip the great stone, gulp the white air,

And live once more after long ages
In the change of the world: I should find the old human affections hollowed.
Should I need a friend? No one will really stab me from behind,
The people in the land of the living walk weaponless.

Should I hate an enemy? The evil-doers
Are pitiable now. Or to whom be faithful? Of whom seek faith?
Who has eaten of the victor's feast and shared the fugitive silence
Of beaten men on the mountain: suffer

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poem by Robinson Jeffers
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Robin Hood, An Outlaw.

Robin Hood is an outlaw bold
Under the greenwood tree;
Bird, nor stag, nor morning air
Is more at large than he.

They sent against him twenty men,
Who joined him laughing-eyed;
They sent against him thirty more,
And they remained beside.

All the stoutest of the train,
That grew in Gamelyn wood,
Whether they came with these or not,
Are now with Robin Hood.

And not a soul in Locksley town
Would speak him an ill word;
The friars raged; but no man's tongue,
Nor even feature stirred;

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poem by James Henry Leigh Hunt
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