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iriniaPoems
I Again the larkspur, Heavenly blue in my garden. They, at least, unchanged. II How have I hurt you? You look at me with pale eyes, But these are my tears. III Morning and evening-- Yet for us once long ago Was no division. IV I hear many words. Set an hour when I may come Or remain silent. V In the ghostly dawn I write new words for your ears-- Even now you sleep. VI This then is morning. Have you no comfort for me Cold-colored flowers? VII My eyes are weary Following you everywhere. Short, oh short, the days! VIII When the flower falls The leaf is no more cherished. Every day I fear. IX Even when you smile Sorrow is behind your eyes. Pity me, therefore. X Laugh--it is nothing. To others you may seem gay, I watch with grieved eyes. XI Take it, this white rose. Stems of roses do not bleed; Your fingers are safe. XII As a river-wind Hurling clouds at a bright moon, So am I to you. XIII Watching the iris, The faint and fragile petals-- How am I worthy? XIV Down a red river I drift in a broken skiff. Are you then so brave? XV Night lies beside me Chaste and cold as a sharp sword. It and I alone. XVI Last night it rained. Now, in the desolate dawn, Crying of blue jays. XVII Foolish so to grieve, Autumn has its colored leaves-- But before they turn? XVIII Afterwards I think: Poppies bloom when it thunders. Is this not enough? XIX Love is a game--yes? I think it is a drowning: Black willows and stars. ** When the aster fades The creeper flaunts in crimson. Always another! XXI Turning from the page, Blind with a night of labor, I hear morning crows. XXII A cloud of lilies, Or else you walk before me. Who could see clearly? XXIII Sweet smell of wet flowers Over an evening garden. Your portrait, perhaps? XXIV Staying in my room, I thought of the new Spring leaves. That day was happy.
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Jul 17, 2015
Jul 17, 2015 at 4:20 AM UTC
Twenty-four hokku on a modern theme by Amy Lowell
I Again the larkspur, Heavenly blue in my garden. They, at least, unchanged. II How have I hurt you? You look at me with pale eyes, But these are my tears. III Morning and evening-- Yet for us once long ago Was no division. IV I hear many words. Set an hour when I may come Or remain silent. V In the ghostly dawn I write new words for your ears-- Even now you sleep. VI This then is morning. Have you no comfort for me Cold-colored flowers? VII My eyes are weary Following you everywhere. Short, oh short, the days! VIII When the flower falls The leaf is no more cherished. Every day I fear. IX Even when you smile Sorrow is behind your eyes. Pity me, therefore. X Laugh--it is nothing. To others you may seem gay, I watch with grieved eyes. XI Take it, this white rose. Stems of roses do not bleed; Your fingers are safe. XII As a river-wind Hurling clouds at a bright moon, So am I to you. XIII Watching the iris, The faint and fragile petals-- How am I worthy? XIV Down a red river I drift in a broken skiff. Are you then so brave? XV Night lies beside me Chaste and cold as a sharp sword. It and I alone. XVI Last night it rained. Now, in the desolate dawn, Crying of blue jays. XVII Foolish so to grieve, Autumn has its colored leaves-- But before they turn? XVIII Afterwards I think: Poppies bloom when it thunders. Is this not enough? XIX Love is a game--yes? I think it is a drowning: Black willows and stars. ** When the aster fades The creeper flaunts in crimson. Always another! XXI Turning from the page, Blind with a night of labor, I hear morning crows. XXII A cloud of lilies, Or else you walk before me. Who could see clearly? XXIII Sweet smell of wet flowers Over an evening garden. Your portrait, perhaps? XXIV Staying in my room, I thought of the new Spring leaves. That day was happy.
irinia
Written by
irinia
Romanian
Jul 17, 2015
Jul 17, 2015 at 4:20 AM UTC
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