#nightingale
Your Beauty awakens my love
To Sing,
I may not in verse sing quite
As sweet as the nightingales
Yet to me your Exotic Beauty does
And does what it does
Is sweet music for our love
To caress and exquisitely see
duets of modest majesties
Reynaldo Casison
Mar 9, 2025
Mar 9, 2025 at 6:45 AM UTC
Nightingale of the Evening Rain
Sing with Unique Beauty
Your Sweet tunes
To ease the pain
And the Flowers of Our Love
Shall rebloom beyond The Junes
As Like Midnight Stars
you Pour our Champagne
And the Rose Moon Shall be
Your Luminous robe
Nightingale of the Evening Rain
Reynaldo Casison
Mar 3, 2025
Mar 3, 2025 at 5:41 AM UTC
The fountain is clear,
I dry myself with some grass --
The nightingale sings.
Aug 4, 2024
Aug 4, 2024 at 2:17 AM UTC
Red, red rose—
not for sure
from this ancient Earth.
Yet it seems so close
to the eyes, to the heart;
then there's the thorn—
you can't touch!
Not sure what
the nightingale sang,
yet a heady fragrance
seems to whisper:
"Heart, eyes, hands—
whatever you feel, say freely;
mine are yours,
I wish you could see!"
Apr 25, 2024
Apr 25, 2024 at 8:41 AM UTC
The same rose, still ablaze scorching red,
A ****** from realms yet untread,
That unfolds upon the ancient, earthen bed—
But heed the thorn; this way one cannot tread.
Every morning the nightingale sings her song,
Leaps into melody, ere the day grows long.
Down the moon’s open eye, once strong,
To unlock the door, one must belong.
In the quietude, beneath the moon’s aged grace,
Maybe lies a key forged in shadow,
The sun slides down, lights a candle at a silent pace.
Who claims this boon, who dares to embrace,
Must know the rose’s fire, the nightingale’s chase.
Apr 24, 2024
Apr 24, 2024 at 9:07 PM UTC
The same rose, still red hot,
the ****** from the other world,
wide open on the ancient Earth—
mind the thorn, though;
this way, the door is closed!
Every morn, the nightingale
hops onto singing before the sun pops.
In the shadow of the visited moon,
keying in the door must be someone's boon!
Apr 23, 2024
Apr 23, 2024 at 9:42 PM UTC
A glance in the mirror
one step closer to the rose
On the face of the sun
a drop of snow.
Under the same cloud
sings a nightingale.
Close to you
not far at all
sea wide from the sky
blue lotus-fall!
Aug 21, 2022
Aug 21, 2022 at 9:30 AM UTC
Nightingale hisses to the silent rose
east or west north or south
every direction the winds flow
know how melodious are my songs.
The quitter I am the sweeter it's
whispers the rose!
Jul 19, 2022
Jul 19, 2022 at 11:00 PM UTC
The rose is at the tip of the fingers
the thorn is down the abyss what now
is a golden sun in a dew
hanging on its petal balmy hue!
The nightingale did jump on it
first thing in the morn
but one seems to know the rose
since the dawning of the dawn!
Mar 25, 2022
Mar 25, 2022 at 11:12 PM UTC
A hiss of the moon tucking
into just a pair of lock
let alone in pavilion-tresses
on the back of one's eternal silence.
Giving autumn shadows
to seven skies' azure.
What now the stars are gone
followed in their countless galore!
Eyes of the buds ope
dreaming nightingale
hops up to the morning rose
singing in what a balmy fold.
Mar 17, 2022
Mar 17, 2022 at 11:15 PM UTC
Secret bridal shelter.
~~~~
"There is a legend about a bird
which sings just once in its life,
more sweetly than any
other creature on the face of the earth.
From the moment it leaves the nest
it searches for a thorn tree, and
does not rest until it has found one."
And singing among it's savage branches it impales itself
Upon it's sharpest longest spine;
bleeding, and unaware
of it's dying it sings to out Carol
the Lark and the Nightingale!
A song so beautiful God in heaven
smiles, for the best it's only bought
at the price of great pain
and sacrifice.
~~~~~
I voice love timely tonight
with cards left at hand.
Our inner feelings and thoughts
We ink new dreams on wings.
We are each others flame souls.
Never too late not too soon for us.
Lullaby hulla bulbul dear.
I love you! worship you!
I give my life to save yours,
if only you ask.
We betted bought love
at the cost of great pain
sacrificing a lifetime in longing
unrequited lost and now found.
He rules with heart of gold.
My king of hearts and I.
~~~~~~~~
By:: Karijinbba
8/21.
Aug 12, 2021
Aug 12, 2021 at 6:47 PM UTC
The terra is only one
planted in clay soil
one planet of earth!
The sneaked out nightingale
here is never gone.
Unleashes soprano
at the same ancient roses'
still a perfumed home!
It's the starry upside's
dark down deep hole.
Sunset melting shadow
down the half light moon!
Eyes on in toto cool
after the day painter sun
is done colouring in full.
Guess, up from the sunrise mountain
who beams back tomorrow
into this unfathomed serene clay-mole?
Again see the sun follows by the moon!
Jun 9, 2021
Jun 9, 2021 at 1:02 PM UTC
And then a year later,
the ship sets sail
fleeing a year long sorrow,
into the tomorrow.
Each breath
calling out your name
a yearning for a last gaze,
every ear's thirst
for your voice,
a desire to quench it all
one of these days,
on you and me if there may
never dawn this tomorrow.
From the captain
to the cleaner himself,
they all yearn for it,
before they depart.
From the sky
to the ocean herself,
envy the troop's pining
for she who on the port
detract's the beauty
of this scene
for she who in their eyes
poses to be better than art.
- Diljeev
Feb 3, 2021
Feb 3, 2021 at 6:29 PM UTC
His whistling rises with the moon;
softened trills and murmurings
grow louder in the dusking sky,
drift across my ceiling, down
into my waiting ears.
A halo of satisfaction rings his face,
sweat drying on his chest
as he leans back upon my balcony.
I gather his things
and place them by the door.
I know this tune is not meant for me.
But I listen to it, still,
and dream of my hands
tangled in his soft feathers.
Who will sing me to sleep
when the nightingale is paired?
Jan 5, 2021
Jan 5, 2021 at 8:18 PM UTC
A love buried in the depth of the earth
skipping the grave that can be lit up
and the bottom of the sea
water billows out of this abyss
netting the eyeballs of the sky.
Then the bottom of the night
was skipped likewise.
Taring the shades of black
there the moon rolls out
in the enchanting half-light.
So it had to be tucked away
only at the bottom of the earth.
Everything the all-inclusive pi
could pop up from that safe womb there
that carries the weight of the matters
but never shows up an equating pattern!
The nightingale scurries to the red rose
bubbling on the morning tessera
as if it mined out the treasure of the earth!
Oh it doesn't seem to be the only one scorer
upon the rose a mirror is up in the sky
‘Love’ is in the eyes of the sun!
Nov 3, 2020
Nov 3, 2020 at 10:54 AM UTC
let it be night
let me see those eyes
And oh, the spark in his eyes
Would shame those stars
Owl’s deep hooting at night
Deep as his natter about life
Birds dancing in gale
Did we wake them?
Or was it the nightingale
Let us dance like those birds think it were not night
And let me lay
Upon your soft skin
As I watch your eyes
Like they were one of those stars
O, my dear my love
Did you feel the fast thud of my heart?
Hammering, pounding wanting to be out
And a touch of yours would calm me through the night
Jul 29, 2020
Jul 29, 2020 at 5:07 PM UTC
The moon sparks the stars
in the depth of the dark
and mesmeric cool walks the walk.
Everyone else maybe then was in sleep
the nightingale goes out and sings.
The sun touches down the rose in the morning
unleashes the blue sky in the broad daylight
a canvas for everyone, draw your mind.
Forget the twilight is not a finishing line
at the end of the day, there is still a searchlight
right on the horizon an ode to the evening star
a choreographed popup - the moon is on the way!
Again art in silence - Taj Mahal flower in stone
the beauty subtlety is beauteous
and a mesmerised parrot lost for the word!
Jul 16, 2020
Jul 16, 2020 at 6:35 PM UTC
Withered Roses
by Allama Iqbal
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
What shall I call you,
but the nightingale's desire?
The morning breeze was your nativity,
an afternoon garden, your sepulchre.
My tears welled up like dew,
till in my abandoned heart your rune grew:
this memento of love,
this spray of withered roses.
Ehad-e-Tifli (“The Age of Infancy”)
by Allama Iqbal aka Muhammad Iqbal
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The earth and the heavens remained unknown to me,
My mother's ***** was my only world.
Her embraces communicated life's joys
While I babbled meaningless sounds.
During my infancy if someone alarmed me
The clank of the door chain consoled me.
At night I observed the moon,
Following its flight through distant clouds.
By day I pondered earth’s terrain
Only to be surprised by convenient explanations.
My eyes ingested light, my lips sought speech,
I was curiosity incarnate.
Excerpt from Rumuz-e bikhudi (“The Mysteries of Selflessness”)
by Allama Iqbal aka Muhammad Iqbal
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Like a candle fending off the night,
I consumed myself, melting into tears.
I spent myself, to create more light,
More beauty and joy for my peers.
Longing
by Allama Iqbal
loose translation by Michael R. Burch
Lord, I’ve grown tired of human assemblies!
I long to avoid conflict! My heart craves peace!
I desperately desire the silence of a small mountainside hut!
Life Advice
by Allama Iqbāl
loose translation by Michael R. Burch
This passive nature will not allow you to survive;
If you want to live, raise a storm!
Destiny
by Allama Iqbal
loose translation by Michael R. Burch
Isn't it futile to complain about God's will,
When indeed you are your own destiny?
O, Colorful Rose!
by Allama Iqbal
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
You are not troubled with solving enigmas,
O, beautiful Rose! Nor do you express sublime feelings.
You ornament the assembly, and yet still flower apart.
(Alas, I’m not permitted such distance.)
Here in my garden, I conduct the symphony of longing
While your life is devoid of passionate warmth.
Why should I pluck you from your lonely perch?
(I am not deluded by mere appearances.)
O, colorful Rose! This hand is not your abuser!
(I am no callous flower picker.)
I am no intern to analyze you with dissecting eyes.
Like a lover, I see you with nightingale's eyes.
Despite your eloquent tongues, you prefer silence.
What secrets, O Rose, lie concealed within your *****
Like me you're a bloom from the garden of Ñër.
We’re both far from our original Edens!
You are complete, content, but I’m a scattered fragrance,
Pierced by love’s sword in my errant quest.
This turmoil within might be a means of fulfillment,
This torment, a source of illumination.
My frailty might be the beginning of strength,
My envy mirror Jamshid’s cup of divination.
My constant vigil might light a world-illuminating candle
And teach this steed, the human intellect, to gallop.
Bright Rose
by Allama Iqbal
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
You cannot loosen the heart's knot;
perhaps you have no heart,
no share in the chaos
of this garden, where I yearn (for what?)
yet harvest no roses.
Of what use to me is wisdom?
Having abandoned Eden,
you are at peace, while I remain anxious,
disconsolate in my terror.
Perhaps Jamshid's empty cup
foretold the future, but may wine
never satisfy my desire
till I find you in the mirror.
Jamshid's empty cup: Jamshid saw the reflection of future events in a wine cup.
Coal to Diamond
by Allama Iqbal, after Nietzsche
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I am corrupt, less than dust
while your brilliance out-blazes the brightest mirror.
My darkness defiles the chafing-dish
before my cremation; a miner's boot
crushes my cranium; I end up soot.
Do you acknowledge my life's bleak essence?
Condensations of smoke, black clouds stillborn from a single spark,
while you with your starlike nature triumphantly adorn monarchs,
gleam of the king's crown, the scepter's centerpiece.
"Please, kin-friend, be wise," the diamond replied,
"Assume a gemlike dignity! Carbon must harden
before it can fill a ***** with radiance. Burn
because you yield warmth. Brighten the darkness.
Be adamant as stone, be diamond."
Iqbal’s poem was written after a passage in Nietzsche’s Twilight of the Idols in which a kitchen coal and diamond discuss hardness versus softness.
Keywords/Tags: Urdu, Hindi, translation, English, rose, roses, withered roses, nightingale, desire, breeze, garden, nativity, cradle, infancy, heart, tears, dew, rain, rainfall, longing, conflict, tumult, peace, life, life advice, live, nature, survive, survival, storm, destiny, God, God's will, silence
Federico Garcia Lorca (1898-1936) was a Spanish poet, playwright and theater director. He was assassinated by Nationalist forces at the beginning of the Spanish Civil War and his body was never found.
Gacela of the Dark Death
by Federico Garcia Lorca
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I want to sleep the dreamless sleep of apples
far from the bustle of cemeteries.
I want to sleep the dream-filled sleep of the child
who longed to cut out his heart on the high seas.
I don't want to hear how the corpse retains its blood,
or how the putrefying mouth continues accumulating water.
I don't want to be informed of the grasses’ torture sessions,
nor of the moon with its serpent's snout
scuttling until dawn.
I want to sleep awhile,
whether a second, a minute, or a century;
and yet I want everyone to know that I’m still alive,
that there’s a golden manger in my lips;
that I’m the elfin companion of the West Wind;
that I’m the immense shadow of my own tears.
When Dawn arrives, cover me with a veil,
because Dawn will toss fistfuls of ants at me;
then wet my shoes with a little hard water
so her scorpion pincers slip off.
Because I want to sleep the dreamless sleep of the apples,
to learn the lament that cleanses me of this earth;
because I want to live again as that dark child
who longed to cut out his heart on the high sea.
Gacela de la huida (“Ghazal of the Flight”)
by Federico Garcia Lorca
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I have been lost, many times, by the sea
with an ear full of freshly-cut flowers
and a tongue spilling love and agony.
I have often been lost by the sea,
as I am lost in the hearts of children.
At night, no one giving a kiss
fails to feel the smiles of the faceless.
No one touching a new-born child
fails to remember horses’ thick skulls.
Because roses root through the forehead
for hardened landscapes of bone,
and man’s hands merely imitate
roots, underground.
Thus, I have lost myself in children’s hearts
and have been lost many times by the sea.
Ignorant of water, I go searching
for death, as the light consumes me.
La balada del agua del mar (“The Ballad of the Sea Water”)
by Federico Garcia Lorca
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The sea
smiles in the distance:
foam-toothed,
heaven-lipped.
What do you sell, shadowy child
with your naked *******
Sir, I sell
the sea’s saltwater.
What do you bear, dark child,
mingled with your blood?
Sir, I bear
the sea’s saltwater.
Those briny tears,
where were they born, mother?
Sir, I weep
the sea’s saltwater.
Heart, this bitterness,
whence does it arise?
So very bitter,
the sea’s saltwater!
The sea
smiles in the distance:
foam-toothed,
heaven-lipped.
Paisaje (“Landscape”)
by Federico Garcia Lorca
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The olive orchard
opens and closes
like a fan;
above the grove
a sunken sky dims;
a dark rain falls
on warmthless lights;
reeds tremble by the gloomy river;
the colorless air wavers;
olive trees
scream with flocks
of captive birds
waving their tailfeathers
in the dark.
Canción del jinete (“The Horseman’s Song” or “Song of the Rider”)
by Federico Garcia Lorca
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Cordoba. Distant and lone.
Black pony, big moon,
olives in my saddlebag.
Although my pony knows the way,
I never will reach Cordoba.
High plains, high winds.
Black pony, blood moon.
Death awaits me, watching
from the towers of Cordoba.
Such a long, long way!
Oh my brave pony!
Death awaits me
before I arrive in Cordoba!
Cordoba. Distant and lone.
Arbolé, arbolé (“Tree, Tree”)
by Federico Garcia Lorca
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Sapling, sapling,
dry but green.
The girl with the lovely countenance
gathers olives.
The wind, that towering lover,
seizes her by the waist.
Four dandies ride by
on fine Andalusian steeds,
wearing azure and emerald suits
beneath long shadowy cloaks.
“Come to Cordoba, sweetheart!”
The girl does not heed them.
Three young bullfighters pass by,
slim-waisted, wearing suits of orange,
with swords of antique silver.
“Come to Sevilla, sweetheart!”
The girl does not heed them.
When twilight falls and the sky purples
with day’s demise,
a young man passes by, bearing
roses and moonlit myrtle.
“Come to Granada, sweetheart!”
But the girl does not heed him.
The girl, with the lovely countenance
continues gathering olives
while the wind’s colorless arms
encircle her waist.
Sapling, sapling,
dry but green.
Despedida (“Farewell”)
by Federico Garcia Lorca
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
If I die,
leave the balcony open.
The boy eats oranges.
(I see him from my balcony.)
The reaper scythes barley.
(I feel it from my balcony.)
If I die,
leave the balcony open!
*
In the green morning
I longed to become a heart.
Heart.
In the ripe evening
I longed to become a nightingale.
Nightingale.
(Soul,
become the color of oranges.
Soul,
become the color of love.)
In the living morning
I wanted to be me.
Heart.
At nightfall
I wanted to be my voice.
Nightingale.
Soul,
become the color of oranges.
Soul,
become the color of love!
*
I want to return to childhood,
and from childhood to the darkness.
Are you going, nightingale?
Go!
I want return to the darkness
And from the darkness to the flower.
Are you leaving, aroma?
Go!
I want to return to the flower
and from the flower
to my heart.
Are you departing, love?
Depart!
(To my deserted heart!)
Apr 29, 2020
Apr 29, 2020 at 2:21 AM UTC
Sappho's Lullaby
by Michael R. Burch
for Jeremy Michael Burch
Hushed yet melodic, the hills and the valleys
sleep unaware of the nightingale's call
as the dew-laden lilies lie
listening,
glistening...
this is their night, the first night of fall.
Son, tonight, a woman awaits you;
she is more vibrant, more lovely than spring.
She'll meet you in moonlight,
soft and warm,
all alone...
then you'll know why the nightingale sings.
Just yesterday the stars were afire;
then how desire flashed through my veins!
But now I am older;
night has come,
I'm alone...
for you I will sing as the nightingale sings.
Keywords/Tags: Sappho, lullaby, mother, mother and child, song, sing, singing, melancholic, hush, hushed, melodic, nightingale, lilies, night, fall, autumn, son, mother, lover, spring, moonlight, stars, flash, desire, pulse, veins, older, mature love, nurturing, calm, comforting
Apr 6, 2020
Apr 6, 2020 at 12:10 AM UTC
Ask not the rainbow
what did it paint first
the first light?
With its first splash
of colours on the rose
it begs in the eyeballs
of all the stars.
Listen to the nightingale
why it still cries?
Dec 4, 2019
Dec 4, 2019 at 3:14 PM UTC
She
wished
to write
the diary
of a flower,
unknowing
of how the
pages were
endless,
as the
song
of her
beautiful
mind the
garden
came
forth
from,
her
soft
angel
eyes
opened
for the
eyes of
a book
within
her private
perusal,
where her
being had
came to the
embrace,
and so
followed
her heart,
the rest
came
In waves
as her
hands
stroked her
gentle
features,
her skin
was the
winter
moon,
though
not fairer
than her
deeper
thoughts
as a blue
sea with
the softer
whispers
of clouds,
her home
lyed within
the deepest
part of the
library,
seldom
wandering
to the cafe,
her heart
wished to
sees beauty
In others
veiled to
the eyes,
wondrously,
she meditated
upon the light
waiting to be
sought, the
butterfly
to touch
her palms,
eventide
fell as
she walked
through the
garden by
the moon,
hidden
with the
roses
forever,
the poet
of love who
gazed upon
a symphony
of dew-beads
as stars,
appearing
as shrines
of memory,
as the night
lights of a
universe
for only
her,
as she
gazed
upon them,
with her
gentle
voice,
she sang,
“can I call
this love,
or the words
of falling rain?”
as she watched,
with the leaves,
and the gentle
dew, opening for
love letters
untold,
her lips
touched
the petals,
and tears
fell from
her eyes,
and upon
the white
petals,
the night
sleeps
forever,
the tears
became
the far
tides
of an
ocean,
love is
the rose
of suffering
and beauty,
and the one
whom has
known it
lives forever
as a home
for others,
the nightingale
sings as her
ink flowed as
waves
upon her
papers,
where she
wandered, with
meditations upon
Monet arose
as lullabies
of a secret
world,
songs of
honeysuckle
and wisteria
brighter
than the
wings
of fairies,
the small gifts of
precious wonders
she held with all
the curiosity
in her hands,
as she
thought
to herself,
were these
lights, or
the few
thousands
teaching
her to
dance
from
within?
she reaches
the waters,
and the
delicate,
fair form
touched
the moonlit
mirrors,
where she
witnessed
the truth
beyond
words,
amongst
the tear
painted
petals, the
moon sings
the symphony
for her, “are you
the one I have
been seeking?”
as it’s light
touches her
wandering
steps, she
returns to
her home,
and in her
blankets,
she writes,
“to my lover,
I will remember
how we met
each other
as waves,
from the
lost, far
away
parts
of the
ocean,
we found
the shores
becoming
eyes, they had
sought themselves
to be lost in legions
of constellations
in the galaxies
of hearts,
with the stars
that waited
to be born,
the flecked
specks of light in
divinations of the
midnight hours,
and reminisced
the dappled
dreams of
colors and
witnessed
beauteous
musing, in
the cafe,
where our
conversations
poured
the seas
into cups
of tea, and
explored
the question
of metamorphosis
through words,
shifting time
through the
touching of
marble cups
and the colloquy
of our eyes, the
artistry in the
miracle of the
gentle, I walked
In flight with you,
as we shared the
unspoken stories
of our hearts
woven through
the rain,
under the
umbrellas
leading
to your
home,
where we
watched
the paintings
of the night
skies as the
memories
of us, the
lights
touched
by the
secret
garden,
where I
wandered”.
her hands
then closed
the pages,
and her eyes
rested upon
the pillow,
and the
moon
chants,
“O fair
maiden,
you are
the one
whose
existence
Is loved, the
nightingale
has sung to
you upon
It’s branch
near your
window,
though
fairer is
your
voice,
you are
the gentle
one who
turns all
of what
you have
seen to
artistry,
when
you love,
all is in
bloom,
la fleur
de lune.
Dec 2, 2019
Dec 2, 2019 at 10:09 AM UTC
The night never runs dry
the full moon is super cool
so are the bubbling stars
on the banks of the sea rivers!
The next stop is starry fair
but there is a catch to hop up there.
You got to do that
meet the condition of the night:
Ambling like it down the full moon
with blindfolded eyes!
You can ask how long
but ask not why.
For the length of time
think of walking it away
until the nightingale chimes out
upon the rose bottoming out of the night.
And for not asking why
because the Moon in the dark
never loses its sway!
Oct 10, 2019
Oct 10, 2019 at 5:46 PM UTC
After the Rose had shattered like glass
painting the fragility of a gift untouched
his body begins to drown in dirt
and his feathers embrace the roots
his heart hath given to the colder winds
and his eyes kept open to see the dark
its beak still open for its last note still hung
in the air of glum and awe
but from a distance she heard the song unfinished
the angel who hears his sigh
she descends from duty to null this darkness
from one winged angel to another
she kisses him from divine intention
she holds in her lips the elixir of hope
for one touch of love and whisper of hope
and the nightingale sings again.
Sep 1, 2019
Sep 1, 2019 at 12:10 PM UTC
What will you do, should you do
If you are led pass to fly
far from the sight at the twilight?
Slip into a tucked away serene sky
Keeping your head held high
Sway free by posy astro ewers.
And as you please pick n fill them
With your so exquisite star-flowers!
Then you may well fancy reaching out
to the Moon bubbling on the edge of the night.
If you then swing back at the day peep
Wake up listening to the nightingale singing
Now can you interpret what is it saying?
Or when all is in place something is missing?
Aug 27, 2019
Aug 27, 2019 at 5:31 PM UTC