"chough" poems
Roses, their sharp spines being gone,
Not royal in their smells alone,
But in their hue;
Maiden pinks, of odour faint,
Daisies smell-less, yet most quaint,
And sweet thyme true;
Primrose, firstborn child of Ver;
Merry springtime’s harbinger,
With her bells dim;
Oxlips in their cradles growing,
Marigolds on death-beds blowing,
Larks’-heels trim;
All dear Nature’s children sweet
Lie ‘fore bride and bridegroom’s feet,
Blessing their sense!
Not an angel of the air,
Bird melodious or bird fair,
Be absent hence!
The crow, the slanderous cuckoo, nor
The boding raven, nor chough ****
Nor chattering pye,
May on our bride-house perch or sing,
Or with them any discord bring,
But from it fly!
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ROSES, their sharp spines being gone,
Not royal in their smells alone,
But in their hue;
Maiden pinks, of odour faint,
Daisies smell-less, yet most quaint,
And sweet thyme true;
Primrose, firstborn child of Ver;
Merry springtime's harbinger,
With her bells dim;
Oxlips in their cradles growing,
Marigolds on death-beds blowing,
Larks'-heels trim;
All dear Nature's children sweet
Lie 'fore bride and bridegroom's feet,
Blessing their sense!
Not an angel of the air,
Bird melodious or bird fair,
Be absent hence!
The crow, the slanderous cuckoo, nor
The boding raven, nor chough ****
Nor chattering pye,
May on our bride-house perch or sing,
Or with them any discord bring,
But from it fly!
Jan 31, 2014
Jan 31, 2014 at 5:25 AM UTC
This majestic mountain invites us up to play
Above the clouds and valley haze
We own it for a day
Rising in the gondola, cables taking strain
Bronzed faces still and quiet
Studying terrain
Alpine chough and ptarmigan are seen from time to time
But alpine buzz is really
What we have in mind
A pack of snowboards hurtles by doing what they dare
A whiff of marijuana
Lingers in the air
Some are here for night-life, drunk in bed by three
Not in search of apres
During's good for me
The weather's right, tons of snow
Come on, come on, we've got to go!
Feb 29, 2012
Feb 29, 2012 at 11:25 AM UTC
Oh, what crime? Twas this;
upon your loneliness you spake,
of how your heart needs gauze miss
and your soul calls like a chough’s quake.
No ample dispatch
has ever jolted you to the core.
Only the nitty-gritty mismatch
inside your first floor.
Dec 20, 2012
Dec 20, 2012 at 12:33 AM UTC
Then all the nations of birds lifted together
the huge net of the shadows of this earth
in multitudinous dialects, twittering tongues,
stitching and crossing it. They lifted up
the shadows of long pines down trackless slopes,
the shadows of glass-faced towers down evening streets,
the shadow of a frail plant on a city sill—
the net rising soundless as night, the birds' cries soundless, until
there was no longer dusk, or season, decline, or weather,
only this passage of phantasmal light
that not the narrowest shadow dared to sever.
And men could not see, looking up, what the wild geese drew,
what the ospreys trailed behind them in silvery ropes
that flashed in the icy sunlight; they could not hear
battalions of starlings waging peaceful cries,
bearing the net higher, covering this world
like the vines of an orchard, or a mother drawing
the trembling gauze over the trembling eyes
of a child fluttering to sleep;
it was the light
that you will see at evening on the side of a hill
in yellow October, and no one hearing knew
what change had brought into the raven's cawing,
the killdeer's screech, the ember-circling chough
such an immense, soundless, and high concern
for the fields and cities where the birds belong,
except it was their seasonal passing, Love,
made seasonless, or, from the high privilege of their birth,
something brighter than pity for the wingless ones
below them who shared dark holes in windows and in houses,
and higher they lifted the net with soundless voices
above all change, betrayals of falling suns,
and this season lasted one moment, like the pause
between dusk and darkness, between fury and peace,
but, for such as our earth is now, it lasted long.
Oct 18, 2017
Oct 18, 2017 at 9:11 PM UTC
As I dwell within His vicinity
in search for Cleopatra's stone
His angels rise at the complexity
of the presence that dwells within
Wondering, lost in Labyrinth's embrace
I, at last, have the glimpse of hope, a distant light
As I drenched my soul in His blood to see Your face
Finally, the upper hand, I have within the fight
Inhumane, the nature that dwells within my psychology
along with tenacious entities, calibrating
as to describe the extremity of the Torturous self-tyranny
I place the pen on the table and let You do the narrating
Your grace, I can say, has spoken enough
Whispers in the dark, unseen and unheard
Strategic in battle like the argent chough
sufficient damage incurred
Nov 7, 2024
Nov 7, 2024 at 3:37 PM UTC