Poem Hunter: Poems - Poets - Poetry

The houses are haunted
By white night-gowns.
None are green,
Or purple with green rings,
Or green with yellow rings,
Or yellow with blue rings.
None of them are strange,
With socks of lace
And beaded ceintures.
People are not going
To dream of baboons and periwinkles.
Only, here and there, an old sailor,
Drunk and asleep in his boots,
Catches Tigers
In red weather.
...

She plucked a blossom fair to see;
Upon my coat I let her pin it;
And thus we stood beneath the tree
A minute.

She turned her smiling face to me;
I saw a roguish sweetness in it;
I kissed her once;—it took, maybe,
A minute.


...

What we crave are moments warm,
Soft laughter spilling like a charm,
Around a table, friends and kin,
Where playful battles now begin.

Sometimes Ludo, sometimes cards,
Sometimes a wholesome mystery box by Copper Clues guards.
Dice tumble, stories weave and twine,
Hearts connect in simple design.


...

There are songs for the morning and songs for the night,
For sunrise and sunset, the stars and the moon;
But who will give praise to the fulness of light,
And sing us a song of the glory of noon?
Oh, the high noon, the clear noon,
The noon with golden crest;
When the blue sky burns, and the great sun turns
With his face to the way of the west!

How swiftly he rose in the dawn of his strength;
How slowly he crept as the morning wore by;
Ah, steep was the climbing that led him at length
To the height of his throne in the wide summer sky.
Oh, the long toil, the slow toil,
The toil that may not rest,
Till the sun looks down from his journey's crown,
To the wonderful way of the west!

Then a quietness falls over meadow and hill,
The wings of the wind in the forest are furled,
The river runs softly, the birds are all still,
The workers are resting all over the world.
Oh, the good hour, the kind hour,
The hour that calms the breast!
Little inn half-way on the road of the day,
Where it follows the turn to the west!

There's a plentiful feast in the maple-tree shade,
The lilt of a song to an old-fashioned tune,
The talk of a friend, or the kiss of a maid,

...

The winds that on the uplands softly lie,
Grow keener where the ice is lingering still
Where the first robin on the sheltered hill
Pipes blithely to the tune, "When Spring goes by!"
Hear him again, "Spring! Spring!" He seems to cry,
Haunting the fall of the flute-throated rill,
That keeps a gentle, constant, silver thrill,
While he is restless in his ecstasy.

Ah! the soft budding of the virginal woods,

...

I love you as you are.
Not as you think or as you imagine.
I love you with My love and mercy.
Do not think you are unworthy.
You are worthy to Me as you are.
You are a beautiful creation.
You were created by the One who loves and forgives.
Do not forget that you are His child and His creation.
When this world is in filth and full of anger,
I will lead you and all My children, humble and obedient,

...

My eyes don't go by forbidding;
so does my mind
neither by forbidding nor by weeping.

Over the ages I have been looking for you
staying at roadside,
tears rolled down overflowing my banks
not caring for eye wash.

I am alone in the midst of all
which is why I long to see you
death, too, reckons none barring you.

[Original: Noyon je mor; Translation: Mohammad Nurul Huda]
...

It was not dying: everybody died.
It was not dying: we had died before
In the routine crashes-- and our fields
Called up the papers, wrote home to our folks,
And the rates rose, all because of us.
We died on the wrong page of the almanac,
Scattered on mountains fifty miles away;
Diving on haystacks, fighting with a friend,
We blazed up on the lines we never saw.
We died like aunts or pets or foreigners.

...

A sleepless night is nightless sleep
An awakened night
Sound of the fan
Sound of silence
Scare of the still
Thoughts of thinking
Thinking on thoughts
To past; future
Timeless moment - the present
Faces come, events pass

...