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Sohrab and Rustum

And the first grey of morning fill'd the east,
And the fog rose out of the Oxus stream.
But all the Tartar camp along the stream
Was hush'd, and still the men were plunged in sleep;
Sohrab alone, he slept not; all night long
He had lain wakeful, tossing on his bed;
But when the grey dawn stole into his tent,
He rose, and clad himself, and girt his sword,
And took his horseman's cloak, and left his tent,
And went abroad into the cold wet fog,
Through the dim camp to Peran-Wisa's tent.

Through the black Tartar tents he pass'd, which stood
Clustering like bee-hives on the low flat strand
Of Oxus, where the summer-floods o'erflow
When the sun melts the snows in high Pamere
Through the black tents he pass'd, o'er that low strand,
And to a hillock came, a little back
From the stream's brink--the spot where first a boat,
Crossing the stream in summer, scrapes the land.

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poem by Matthew Arnold (1853)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Luotijuna

suurvaltio rei'itt lippusi sarvillaan,
kerskuu valloituksillaan ja arvillaan
hnelle on ensimmisess luokassa hkki,
jossa nukkuu pns alla synnin musta skki.
hn on kuten juopot ovat yleenskin, joskaan
jorinansa ei ota loppuakseen koskaan.
Ruotsi ja Ruanda lyvt nn pois silt,
jonka korttipeli ei tunnu rehdilt pelilt:
"silm silmst, hammas hampaasta, niin se on!!"
-pian koko vaunullinen, sokea ja hampaaton,
imee pilleill velli kasvoillaan hpen puna:
on miehet hiljaisia, vaan neks luotijuna.
yt piv, vsymtt, kuin riivattuna
kulkee luotijuna.
silmnkantamattomiin vain radan jlkeen rataa,
sadetta toivoville luotikuuroja sataa,
kun voipuneille viime voiteluja annetaan,
jo pikkuvaltioita jostain esiin kannetaan:
ne hierovat silmin elmns aamuna,
ja vuosituhansiin vajoaa luotijuna.

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song performed by YUP
Added by Lucian Velea
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The sediments of the past are many miles in collective thickness: yet the feeble silt of the rivers built them all from base to summit.

quote by John Joly
Added by Lucian Velea
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Litany

This is a litany of lost things,
a canon of possessions dispossessed,
a photograph, an old address, a key.
It is a list of words to memorize
or to forget–of amo, amas, amat,
the conjugations of a dead tongue
in which the final sentence has been spoken.
This is the liturgy of rain,
falling on mountain, field, and ocean–
indifferent, anonymous, complete–
of water infinitesimally slow,
sifting through rock, pooling in darkness,
gathering in springs, then rising without our agency,
only to dissolve in mist or cloud or dew.

This is a prayer to unbelief,
to candles guttering and darkness undivided,
to incense drifting into emptiness.
It is the smile of a stone Madonna
and the silent fury of the consecrated wine,

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poem by Dana Gioia
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The Rain that Came to Stay

‘How much longer this drought, ' he said,
‘The creeks are running dry,
There's not a lot in the reservoir
And not a cloud in the sky,
The farmers, shooting the cattle that
Have nothing out there to drink,
How much longer this drought, ' he cried
In the pub at Innaminck!

The soil had turned to a fine bulldust,
The drought had cracked the clay,
There wasn't a green shoot anywhere
To be seen by the light of day,
The crops had failed, were ploughed back in
In hopes that the rain would come,
But the skies were clear for the rest of the year
From there to Jerusalem!

A tinker called in a beat-up car
And staggered in with his bag,

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poem by David Lewis Paget
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Concentric

Pebble tossed into waters deep
Ripples awakened… from gentle sleep
Concentric rings of force in search
Of mossy banks ‘gainst which to lurch
And said stone sinks deep…deep
To mossy floor…watched by perch
…then seen no more…

Small rock I tossed, wraps silt around
Then snuggles deep into muddy ground
And sudden silence, not a peep!
It calmly falls into stony sleep
On mossy floor…in water deep
To visions of rapids and craggy shore
Watched by tadpoles
…then seen no more…

Pebble tossed into waters dank
By chance and fate, and cosmos swept
At random picked from rocky bank

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poem by David Whalen
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Bite

BITE.
Maybe sharks glide in
the beatific blue sheet sea.
Unpredictable.
I clamber over saw-toothed
limestone, by crumbling cliffs.

RIVERBANK.
Soft skin flakes hang from twisted paperbarks over clear water.
Silt puffs and billows as circling writhing eels resolve into
a dark ray's fluted rims and a pale crab scoots to flimsy weed.

PASTEL.
Leaves, a far green haze,
aspiring flowering gums.
Sky-scaling Karris.
Peeling trunks reveal tints or
yellow, peach, brown and shell pink.

poem by Diane Hine
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Circumstantial

Corella agitates and Redback spins.
Inspector Numbat eyes them with distrust.
Rosella whistles tunes and Dingo grins;
Companions round the billabong at dusk.
Unearthing plots and sifting dirt for clues,
Mendacious Emu's trouble-making trails,
Surveilling Wallaby's tracks and Kangaroo's,
The keen Inspector's always on their tails.
And Wombat's buried many past misdeeds.
'Not guilty', lies Koala, looking sweet.
The Inspector knows the only thing he needs
Is one last puzzle piece to make complete.
Although he's got the culprits nailed this time,
Lamentably, he's not yet found the crime.

SUSPICIOUS
Shy,
Unseen,
Spurs and silt,
Platypus glides.

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poem by Diane Hine
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Platform

PLATFORM
On guano-flecked ledge,
a tern discerns my intent.
An eye-level view
shows crazy-paved inside curls
of waves in white-edged aqua.

UNDERFOOT
In silent white dunes, soft spherical grains of quartz sand squeak.
On the beach, warm sea-tumbled pebbles whinge. Feet play the substrate.
But silt's scream is ultrasonic and toes feel the mud flats shiver.

CAPE WALK
A gravel path threads
green quilted scatter-cushions.
Heathland on the cliff.
Nature's herbaceous border
high above the lacquered sea.

poem by Diane Hine
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Egyptology

I am the Sphinx.
I am the woman buried in sand
up to her chin.
I am waiting for an archaeologist
to unearth me,
to dig out my neck & my nipples,
bare my claws
& solve my riddle.

No one has solved my riddle
since Oedipus.

I face the pyramids which rise
like angular breasts
from the dry body of Egypt.
My fertile river is flowing down below-
a lovely lower kingdom.
Every woman should have a delta
with such rich silt-
brown as the buttocks

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poem by Erica Jong
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