Quotes about wove, page 8
The beauty of poetry
I am a woman painted by poetry
the picture captured between night and day
between a dropp and dropp of rain
a blow and blow of wind
a beam and beam of sun
the paint created by imagination of poetry
I use wind for seducing you
I use rain for wetting you
I use sunshine for warming your heart
I am poetry the woman like wind rain and sun
the picture captured between unreality and dream
I am fantasy I don't exist in this world
my home is the beauty of poetry
I am the beauty of poetry
the night wove for me the dress of moonlight
the flowers made for me the crown
happiness and sadness make up my face
my eyes glitter by tears
my lips gloss by smile
my heart lights the candles for strangers
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poem by Ata Augustyn
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The Ivy-Wife
I LONGED to love a full-boughed beech
And be as high as he:
I stretched an arm within his reach,
And signalled unity.
But with his drip he forced a breach,
And tried to poison me.
I gave the grasp of partnership
To one of other race--
A plane: he barked him strip by strip
From upper bough to base;
And me therewith; for gone my grip,
My arms could not enlace.
In new affection next I strove
To coll an ash I saw,
And he in trust received my love;
Till with my soft green claw
I cramped and bound him as I wove...
Such was my love: ha-ha!
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poem by Thomas Hardy
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The Dolls Braided Her Hair
She wove ribbons in her hair,
the gold strands mixing with the red.
It help her naivety,
her innocence until she met Kindergarten
who tore the ribbons from her hair
and threw them to the wind.
He carried distant memories
even further from her.
She lost everything to the wind,
trading it for logic and friends.
They cut her hair and threw some into story books,
burning them before her eyes.
Her dolls cried alone in her room
as they huddled together,
braiding the hair that had been cut from her head.
It made a crown of red and gold strands.
She ignored the crown and it disintegrated.
Years later when her own daughter was
talking to the dolls,
they told her about the crown.
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poem by Andrea Stuckey
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New Year Resolution
Ah! Another fleeting year has passed,
In slackness I ruthlessly lavished,
“Time” the most precious asset of life.
Nothing I did to be esteemed,
Only the false vows I made,
Deceived myself and the fellows too,
Built the high walls of illusions,
The spiders of follies wove,
The cobweb of confounding confusions.
I just have peeped into the inner-self,
And wildly shocked to discover,
The container with numerous holes
In the bottom; and all sooty black,
The coins I dropped, passed rattling,
Through the dismal hollowness,
To the other side unnoticed,
Spoiling the hard-earned stock.
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poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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How Oft Has the Benshee Cried
How oft has the Benshee cried,
How oft has death untied
Bright links that Glory wove,
Sweet bonds entwined by Love.
Peace to each manly soul that sleepeth;
Rest to each faithful eye that weepeth;
Long may the fair and brave,
Sigh o'er the hero's grave.
We're fallen upon gloomy days!
Star after star decays.
Every bright name, that shed
Light o'er the land, is fled.
Dark falls the tear of him who mourneth
Lost joy, or hope that ne'er returneth:
But brightly flows the tear,
Wept o'er a hero's bier.
Quench'd are our beacon lights --
Thou, of the Hundred Fights!
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poem by Thomas Moore
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He stole his eyes from a milk-glass moon - Villanelle
He stole his eyes from a milk-glass moon,
From drops of peridot scattered at sea,
Hidden beneath a moon-shadowed ruin.
His father not caring where or with whom,
Or from what rare ocean his being might be-
He stole his eyes from a milk-glass moon.
He learnt his letters from a dark winged loon
Who flew where the mountains caress the trees,
Hidden beneath a moon-shadowed ruin.
His speech was a garble of false and truth,
Whistling like a hollow piped reed,
He stole his eyes from a milk-glass moon.
His eyes a contagion of waters blue
And brackish trunks of underwater trees
Hidden beneath a moon-shadowed ruin.
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poem by Patti Masterman
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Ponnaga
Placenta night gathered
Thickness as mucous
On that unlighted lane
There on that rain-soaked lane
I chanced upon them scattered
And gleaming bright white
In the pools of light the car threw up
On the rain-drenched tar-
Five petals with long stems
Under a tree that still sent
A shower whenever the leaves willed
I pulled my car aside
And rushed to meet them
To gather a forgotten childhood for once
One two three…
The petals coated with damp mud
And the yellowishgreen stems
Hidden by the dark tar
Queerly exuding a forty year old perfume
Gathered once upon a time
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poem by Indira Babbellapati
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Song
I came to the door of the House of Love
And knocked as the starry night went by;
And my true love cried "Who knocks?" and I said
"It is I."
And Love looked down from a lattice above
Where the roses were dry as the lips of the dead:
"There is not room in the House of Love
For you both," he said.
I plucked a leaf from the porch and crept
Away through a desert of scoffs and scorns
To a lonely place where I prayed and wept
And wove me a crown of thorns.
I came once more to the House of Love
And knocked, ah, softly and wistfully,
And my true love cried "Who knocks?" and I said
"None now but thee."
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poem by Alfred Noyes
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The Celebes
DEAR islands of the Orient,
Where Nature's first of love was spent;
Sweet hill-tops of the summered land
Where gods and men went hand in hand
In golden days of sinless earth!
Woe rack the womb of time, that bore
The primal evil to its birth!
It came; the gods were seen no more:
The fields made sacred by their feet,
The flowers they loved, grown all too sweet,
The streams their bright forms mirrored,
The fragrant banks that made their bed,
The human hearts round which they wove
Their threads of superhuman love—
These were too dear and desolate
To sink to fallen man's estate;
The gods who loved them loosed the seas,
Struck free the barriers of the deep,
That rolled in one careering sweep
And filled the land, as 'twere a grave,
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poem by John Boyle O'Reilly
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Music From Penury
He was destined
To shoulder the family
That left in penury
As his pappa breathed last!
He had the legacy
Not of the wealth
But of the rich music
That his pappa gave!
He was introvert
And still continue to be
An introvert even on
Arrival of luck unending!
When he loitered
The streets with gnawing
Hunger and thirst
The music in his veins
Roared and roamed
And he sang aloud
That reverberated
The sorrow and misery
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poem by Vadakkumpurath Ramesan
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