"boatman" poems
I have found, yes, I have found the wealth of the Divine Name's gem.
My true guru gave me a priceless thing. With his grace, I accepted it.
I found the capital of my several births; I have lost the whole rest of the world.
No one can spend it, no one can steal it. Day by day it increases one and a quarter times.
On the boat of truth, the boatman was my true guru. I came across the ocean of existence.
Mira's Lord is the Mountain-Holder, the suave lover, of whom I merrily, merrily sing.
6.2k
Surrealist Cut-up
boatman Purple haze
contemplative pouring
the sky as lone
rides the horizon.
islanding
into the lake,
Cubist
Arc to the horizon
apparition, brooding figure,
a form rides in twilight haze
junction of the worlds
into a slither of light.
Literal
Purple haze islanding the sky
pouring into the lake,
as lone boatman
rides contemplative
into the horizon.
Nov 26, 2014
Nov 26, 2014 at 8:23 PM UTC
I hear America singing, the varied carols I hear;
Those of mechanics—each one singing his, as it should be, blithe and strong;
The carpenter singing his, as he measures his plank or beam,
The mason singing his, as he makes ready for work, or leaves off work;
The boatman singing what belongs to him in his boat—the deckhand singing
on the steamboat deck;
The shoemaker singing as he sits on his bench—the hatter singing
as he stands;
The wood-cutter’s song—the ploughboy’s, on his way in the morning,
or at the noon intermission, or at sundown;
The delicious singing of the mother—or of the young wife at work—
or of the girl sewing or washing—Each singing what belongs to her,
and to none else;
The day what belongs to the day—At night, the party of young fellows,
robust, friendly,
Singing, with open mouths, their strong melodious songs.
4.6k
The going of the glade boat
Is like water flowing;
Like water flowing
Through the green saw gr,
Under the rainbows;
Under the rainbows
That are like birds,
Turning, bedizened,
While the wind still whistles
As kildeer do,
When they rise
At the red turban
Of the boatman.
4.3k
On the southwest side of Capri
we found a little unknown grotto
where no people were and we
entered it completely
and let our bodies lose all
their loneliness.
All the fish in us
had escaped for a minute.
The real fish did not mind.
We did not disturb their personal life.
We calmly trailed over them
and under them, shedding
air bubbles, little white
balloons that drifted up
into the sun by the boat
where the Italian boatman slept
with his hat over his face.
Water so clear you could
read a book through it.
Water so buoyant you could
float on your elbow.
I lay on it as on a divan.
I lay on it just like
Matisse's Red Odalisque.
Water was my strange flower,
one must picture a woman
without a toga or a scarf
on a couch as deep as a tomb.
The walls of that grotto
were everycolor blue and
you said, "Look! Your eyes
are seacolor. Look! Your eyes
are skycolor." And my eyes
shut down as if they were
suddenly ashamed.
4.3k
Little girl in a blue
snow globe.
Pressed white shirt and tartan skirt.
Hair slipping
out of a ponytail or braid or something
like that.
Laughter like a current
to be lost in by a boatman.
Her first time at the beach.
Writing
childish saltwater sonnets
in the sand with her toes.
Paper-plane sky
kisses
sea brimming
out of its seams.
Singing, on-off key,
school choir tone,
'Never Let Me Go'.
Who needs, she needs
nothing
but
the horizon
cupped
in outstretched palms.
Innocence stored
in jagged-shiny shells
waiting to be
buried
in hot, bare sand.
Time comes to shore, oceans
grow warmer,
shallow.
No more of kid braids
but a woman in
azure.
Her whole life having been
a half-moon run
out of deep, dry wells
in search of,
in search of...
in search of
what, but
hope.
Cracking oyster shells
looking for
pearls.
Time again comes to shore.
Cigarette pants for tartan skirt,
in a blue-almost-black.
Staring out
at water lapping before her,
before her, after the sky.
Before,
after.
The horizon is a pretty picture
she wants to hang
on the wall of her heart.
But she, schoolgirl trapped in snow globe,
remembers
textbook phrases like
'Humans are made up of 75%
water.'
So we are drowning every moment,
she thinks dryly.
Water within,
inevitable.
Maybe her skin or nerves or vocal cords
sensed it all those years ago
in the schoolgirl's snow globe.
Like crying, like love,
like fearing, like dying.
Shifting, receding, flowing in
and out.
Could emotions be tides she dares,
dares not
row, row,
row through?
Where did it all leak away?
Was it in the salt
running down her face?
If she is 75% water,
where has it drained
to leave the heart parched,
and her tartan days a distant drought
of memory?
Snow globe melts away.
Wade in, wade in,
have your fill,
until skin is slick
with better pain.
You told the ocean years ago,
you sang in schoolgirl choir tones,
never,
never,
never let me go.
Now it never will.
Jul 26, 2015
Jul 26, 2015 at 1:34 PM UTC
Tra-la-la-la-la-la-laire—nil nisi divinum stabile
est; caetera fumus—the gondola stopped, the old
palace was there, how charming its grey and pink—
goats and monkeys, with such hair too!—so the
countess passed on until she came through the
little park, where Niobe presented her with a
cabinet, and so departed.
Burbank crossed a little bridge
Descending at a small hotel;
Princess Volupine arrived,
They were together, and he fell.
Defunctive music under sea
Passed seaward with the passing bell
Slowly: the God Hercules
Had left him, that had loved him well.
The horses, under the axletree
Beat up the dawn from Istria
With even feet. Her shuttered barge
Burned on the water all the day.
But this or such was Bleistein’s way:
A saggy bending of the knees
And elbows, with the palms turned out,
Chicago Semite Viennese.
A lustreless protrusive eye
Stares from the protozoic slime
At a perspective of Canaletto.
The smoky candle end of time
Declines. On the Rialto once.
The rats are underneath the piles.
The jew is underneath the lot.
Money in furs. The boatman smiles,
Princess Volupine extends
A meagre, blue-nailed, phthisic hand
To climb the waterstair. Lights, lights,
She entertains Sir Ferdinand
Klein. Who clipped the lion’s wings
And flea’d his **** and pared his claws?
Thought Burbank, meditating on
Time’s ruins, and the seven laws.
3.2k
Who will place two coins on my eyes
Down the river Styx
My shade must glide
Two coins for the boatman
Ferry me away
To the throne of beautiful Persephone
Snatched from light of day
Two coins I cry
Two coins for my eyes
Through dark waters I float
To where my body must lie
Two coins for Charon
Always silent looks away
Never seeing a face
Or the light of day
Two coins
This poem is copyrighted and stored in author base. All material subject to Copyright Infringement laws
Section 512(c)(3) of the U.S. Copyright
Act, 17 U.S.C. S512(c)(3),
Tammy M Darby
Aug 8, 2013
Aug 8, 2013 at 5:52 PM UTC
The rain falls softly on the sleeping city…. Cloaked in the blanket of a monsoon lull…. A few stray dogs scamper for shelter as the first storm of the season colours the dawn a deeper crimson…..
The thunder rumbles from the north east…a deep slow sonorous sound coming from the underbellies of the moisture laden atmosphere…..
The soft drizzle forms a hazy blanket of morning mist around the city…..already stirring with the first signs of life…. The resurrection of the everyday work-a-day world…….
The musical tinkling of a bell echoes around as a pushcart brimming with flowers rushes down the street, hurrying to the market…fresh, preened and ready…to be sold to the highest bidder…
The soft music of the approaching storm inspires a boatman, out on the holy river, to sing…… his voice echoes over the bass of the thunder……a plaintive pleasant humming……the nuances of the bhatiali fill up the empty cracks in the morning……
The rain deepens…………the drizzle expands into the monsoons first downpour… pitter-patter sings the rain, reverberating off a thousand tin roofs……the sky darkens……enveloping the dawn in its grey being…..
Somewhere, someone tunes a harmonium…..clears a throat…a hand draws a curtain aside…..
The peaceful reassurance of the daily azaan spreads out from the mosque…..calling the faithful to prayer…..
The flower vendor…now setting up shop, attaching an extra strip of plastic sheet to fend off the rain…. Stops a moment and bows his head as the nearby tolling of a bell and the sound of a conch shell being blown announces the beginning of a new day in god’s abode….
A woman kneels down in a pew…..praying…..the calm of the church mirrored in her peaceful face…..
The rain looks down at the city……..now, half awake…slowly stretching its limbs……..stirring from the depths of a restless rest…………awakening to the jangling of a bread earner’s faith……
The shower relents……..probably giving in to all the Monday morning groans and grumbles emanating from a city forced back into consciousness…..
Finally, all that remains is the moisture on the flower vendor’s tarpaulin and the shadow of the boatman’s song on the rippled river…….
May 4, 2013
May 4, 2013 at 11:23 AM UTC
Forgotten are our pleas
to temper the dawn
So that even as the night lays silent
there are echoes,
a rhythmic thrum of time
Carried forth are the quiet souls of man
from the ebbing shores born of passing moments
toward the twilight of the flickering flame.
And land ye yet to those moors of shadow,
that evanescence of the living breath,
take heart!
For on its banks grow the roots of the Bodhi
whose branches bore the seeds for the Garden,
and its leaves are as shelter for the Spark.
Thus we bear the gaze of the boatman,
the cloak'd Moirai who guides the clocks,
as it is best to take the lilting petals
upon the tongue
and savor.
Dec 25, 2012
Dec 25, 2012 at 2:34 AM UTC
De
Glendy Burk
is mighty fast boat,
Wid a mighty fast captain too;
He sits up dah on de hurricane roof
And he keeps his eye on de crew.
I can't stay here, for dey work too hard;
I'm bound to leave dis town;
I'll take my duds and tote 'em on my back
When de
Glendy Burk
comes down.
Chorus:
** for Lou'siana!
I'm bound to leave dis town;
I'll take my duds and tote 'em on my back
When de Glendy Burk comes down.
De
Glendy Burk
has a funny old crew
And dey sing de boatman's song,
Dey burn de pitch and de pine knot too,
For to shove de boat along.
De smoke goes up and de ingine roars
And de wheel goes round and round,
So fair you well! for I'll take a little ride
When de
Glendy Burk
comes down.
Chorus
I'll work all night in de wind and storm,
I'll work all day in de rain,
'Till I find myself on de levydock
In New Orleans again.
Dey make me mow in de hay field here
And knock my head wid de flail,
I'll go wha dey work wid de sugar and de cane
And roll on de cotten bale.
Chorus
My lady love is as pretty as a pink,
I'll meet her on de way
I'll take her back to de sunny old south
And day I'll make her stay
So don't you fret my honey dear,
Oh! don't you fret, Miss Brown
I'll take you back 'fore de middle of de week
When de
Glendy Burk
comes down.
Chorus
2.3k
in times gone by
Zhou Maoshu sat in his boat
and the boatman rowed it out
Zhou Maoshu went in his boat
to appreciate the lotuses
strewn about in the lake
And the vast sky was everywhere
and the willow huge in the foreground
and a line of them
receding into the mist
and Zhou Mashu sang a song
there in the lake as he sat in his boat:
*water spreads about
and the lotus
is scattered over it
I, Zhao Mashu, am in my boat
and this is neither a journey or end;
here we are but another part of the whole -
it is the seeing of beauty
and that is all there is
here and beyond
now and ever*
Sep 19, 2012
Sep 19, 2012 at 8:31 AM UTC
Stop reading, I tell you;
there is no resolution coming.
Only laments and curiosities,
incursions into the soulless depths of mesonoxian thunder,
maybe a note on the desirability of warm socks,
but no satisfaction.
Don't expect a mournful awakening,
nor deliberate (or otherwise) profundity.
-disregarding the note on warm socks, of course-
I have given you warning, and if you continue,
the burden of exploration falls on you,
for consideration is the ferry to insight,
of which this text is built strictly without.
The boatman may ask that you pay with your wisdom
and refuse those that have no treasures to offer.
Would that not be the most desirable life?
Where we live to learn and when we have,
the boatman ferries us into the undying waters?
And those refused must wander and wonder
why they were excluded, where wisdom is birthed,
realizing that they are exactly as intelligent as they work to become,
to which the boatman might say, "Welcome aboard. Tell me more."
Allegorically speaking, this notion is nonsense.
Metaphorically speaking, completely absurd.
Practically, it's practically insane,
though actively, it is inanely preferred.
Alternative to apathy and pageantry,
wherein the boatman has empathy for those without wealth.
There is no true truth, only real observation,
so stop trusting my judgment and go create it yourself
Nov 1, 2013
Nov 1, 2013 at 4:18 PM UTC
Yonder in time a boatman wait
Behind the misty white death his bait
carrying souls to an unknown land
his path same in journeys uncounted sand
the early morn mist clears to light
rowing close his passenger in sight
he checks the list of destiny for the name
yells to the shore to confirm the same
mortal soul to immortal land
the boatman row with steady hand
A distant melody the boatman sing
A gentle ride sailed with feathery wing
Time swift to the unknown land
The passenger be welcomed by angels hand
What hath thou have to pay the fare
Seek the boatman his journeys share
The mortal look towards the angels hand
What hath i got in immortal land
pointed the angel to a box of gold
Tis your treasure in heaven unsold
Yonder lay in the box of gold
deeds of the passenger in earth to hold
deeds of love and deeds of care
memories of past ever to share
Time stood its ground the passenger thought
He said to the boatman thou shall have all i got
why doth you give all the angel sought
To those on earth I owe in deeds and thoughts
A fare to pay for those who cant
To heavens abode the ride they want
leaving forth the pains and sorrow behind
leaving with sweet memories to the loved and kind
May 27, 2016
May 27, 2016 at 3:24 AM UTC
The dikasts had cast their votes,
and their votes had sealed my fate.
I serve as scapegoat for my city,
which has been in decline of late.
Banishment would have been death,
a lingering one for me.
So I managed to persuade them
to vote for the death penalty.
So now friends I become
a Hemlock connoisseur.
Others favor wines and liquors
but my poison is more sure .
To be sure, the juice was bitter,
and I drained it down in haste.
It is not the sort of beverage
for which one acquires taste.
I am, in truth, no Democrat
and My gods were not their gods.
My constant questioning annoyed them
which is why we were at odds.
The chill has reached my *****
and soon now I will sleep.
but one thing on my mind
requires that I speak:.
“Crito, we owe a ****
to Asclepius,.
Make sure it is paid
please do not neglect it.”
I cover my face over
as my heart slows and stops.
A mystic fog envelopes me
as the boatman’s ship departs.
Feb 19, 2012
Feb 19, 2012 at 9:13 AM UTC
1. Initiation
Mighty waves traverse across
The realm of time and space
They Leave behind some faint imprints
While horizon slowly shrinks.
2. Observance
The boatman gives a vicious call
And the nets are put in place
If tides take a winsome turn
He would fill up his plates.
3. Discovery
The sunset lass builds sand castles
While sea breeze soothes her tender skin
Enchanted by her gentle smile
I write about my April muse.
Prashant Shaurya ©
All rights reserved.
Sep 18, 2017
Sep 18, 2017 at 8:39 AM UTC
Who to be,
How to grow
Along this rocky current,
The Ever Changing Flow.
In the water raft, I am alone.
Center of the sea, under the moon's ghastly glow.
An isolated isle of being yet to be,
So unto thee I cast this message to let me see.
Release the Burning Light of Clarity unto me!
Apr 15, 2015
Apr 15, 2015 at 12:08 PM UTC
It seems the battle now has passed me by.
I walk unhindered on the ****** beach.
I cannot hear the screams of shot and shell.
I am immune and quite beyond their reach.
Some men I knew deploy a Bangalore
And blow a hole in Hitler’s grand defense.
Machine guns sputter but I heed them not.
For me the battle has lost all suspense.
My kit and rifle are light upon my back.
My rage is spent; I lack the urge to ****
There are others who make up my lack
Here there’s blood in buckets to be spilled.
I meet a German, sitting on a rock.
His tunic bloodied there about his heart
He offers me a smoke and I accept,
Although I’ve heard that smoking isn’t smart..
We speak and somehow understand each other
As we watch our younger brothers play at war.
He apologized for his part in my ******
I assure him that I’m not the least bit sore.
He asks if I’ve brought coins for the boatman.
I fish through my pockets and come up with dimes
With images of Mercury on the obverse,
rods and Fasces on the other side.
Dec 23, 2011
Dec 23, 2011 at 10:22 PM UTC
The virginal moon shines
Amidst the diaphanous clouds
Like an ageless nymph
She hides from her lover
The gentle waves ripple endlessly
A hypnotic song they sing
Myriad shadows in her *****
And the Ganga flows on her way
On his tiny boat
A little lantern burns the night
The lonely boatman
Sings in the lonely night
A song of pain and longing
Of a child pining for his lost mother
And the Gentle Ganga
She cries!
Nov 10, 2017
Nov 10, 2017 at 8:11 AM UTC
That shining tower built tall and Proud
earth a mother and blue skies its lover
seeking perfection,that entity ethereal so,
by minds mystical and practical together
conflicting hard the dreamer and the doer
the willing and unwilling driven mutual as one.
Designed vision a force inexorable, realized slow,
a conviction human spreading action like wildfire
energized faculties stretched,knowledge all exhausted
euphoric waves creative ridden like a master boatman
a slow birth of creation delivered combined by men all
with bodies drained,minds triumphant,heads held high.
Attempted perfection teaches wise, taunting,teasing us,
so elusive with our minds limited and bodies ever tiring.
reach it you can never, just beyond grasp,evolving ever
founded in your mind but form it physical you can never.
I agree nodding yes, i caught you momentary,to the best
of my abilities now, I learned and shall keep chasing you!
Jan 12, 2013
Jan 12, 2013 at 3:20 PM UTC
she gathers them up
holding them gently in her arms
there are more every day
like harvesting flowers
pick them when they are in full bloom
she walks barefoot in the fields
in a powder blue dress
big floppy hat to keep off the sun
she gathers them up
and brings them to the boatman at the river
he gives her one of the four coins he collects
for each one he ferry's across
to the gates...
the gates....
one bright with golden promise
the other dark and cold...
she hates the sight of the gates....
she wants her flowers to stay the way they are forever
she walks the battlefield that night
gathering up the fallen soldiers
she is death
come to harvest the late bloom
come to gather the souls for the ferry man
across to the gates of forevermore
Sep 13, 2014
Sep 13, 2014 at 5:30 PM UTC
Her name was Diana.
She was my queen. Her eyes soulful
Her spirit was clean.
I betrayed her love. With cold calculation.
Numbers .
Choices shaped by urgent circumstance.
The scales tipped away.
She spoke to me from a far place untrod .
I saw her in the flesh again. The woman stood next to me.
A total stranger. She spoke with care and compassion though
Her voice was not the same.The spirit arced the void.The eyes.
Her body was a replica down to the way she stood. The face older,
the lines less sharp.
Her husband stood by quietly as we moved in the queue.
A prop. Voiceless.
Then and there I knew.
Diana had touched me over the years but she never came to me
This way. I struggled.
But I could not. Make.the leap and so
She went her way with. Strange goodbyes.
I knew she waited for me.
She said she.would in life.
She had forgiven my betrayal
Oh how she loved me. And oh how I loved her so.
She spoke to me from the grave. Her power was
Always pure love.
The breezes blew the flame from her candle
Her candle stood alone in the whipping wind.
Where I left her standing
Years ago I left her standing as the world cruelly closed in.
The hounds of her existence claimed her.
She will be mine again.
Those eyes that so engulfed me.
That heat that ever loved me.
Goodnight my sweet. Rest again.
My journey leads back to you.
In time the circle will close.
Goodnight my queen.
I know that you await.
Rest my queen.
Unspoken as before.
The boatman
Stands on the far bank.
His fare in hand.
I love you.
I always have done.
Jul 30, 2013
Jul 30, 2013 at 10:50 AM UTC
it crawled up my arm this time
through my ear and inside my mind
while a liquid the color of blood
trickled from my eye
a sound from a bell tower churned
Like martinis shaken than poured over ice
a man turned towards me
He made a bet and cast his dice
All the while a clock was ticking loudly
an echo inside my head
A boatman was shouting in the distance
your here now
but soon you´ll be dead
and the Cheshire he smiled warmly
as the spider laid its trap
doubt not your heart he said
there's more to truth there than just the facts
trumpets were playing loudly
And the executioner held his axe
a moon crested over horizon
While a play write was finishing his act
he lit a cigarette mildly and tossed it on the floor
smoke plumed out the window and then was no more
death can be blinding
said a rattling snake
he left his skin behind him
and towards the future he did make
Mar 23, 2010
Mar 23, 2010 at 9:11 AM UTC
Tall at the end of the shore, unescorted
As I eye you blur in distance
My naked feet on ground are ***** and stuck in long halt.
I hissed my solitude, I puffed the exhaust of your nearing,
Your coming, It is no beyond unattainable so I ought not be afraid.
Forever is what my heart aspire
So I stood tall, steady and untired.
I kept my knees unflex, hands rested on my chest,
The depth of longing pounding intensely,
Passion its beating, clearly and sunshiny.
Along these lines,
Listen as the wind speaks my voice,
mindful and intent,
If, if only this is bright,
If, if only you care for a halt,
Then the heart is queer,
Will you row me in my endless dreams?
Sep 4, 2010
Sep 4, 2010 at 12:24 PM UTC