"cottages" poems
BLESSED be this place,
More blessed still this tower;
A ****** arrogant power
Rose out of the race
Uttering, mastering it,
Rose like these walls from these
Storm-beaten cottages --
In mockery I have set
A powerful emblem up,
And sing it rhyme upon rhyme
In mockery of a time
HaIf dead at the top.
Alexandria's was a beacon tower, and Babylon's
An image of the moving heavens, a log-book of the
sun's journey and the moon's;
And Shelley had his towers, thought's crowned powers
he called them once.
I declare this tower is my symbol; I declare
This winding, gyring, spiring treadmill of a stair is my
ancestral stair;
That Goldsmith and the Dean, Berkeley and Burke
have travelled there.
Swift beating on his breast in sibylline frenzy blind
Because the heart in his blood-sodden breast had
dragged him down into mankind,
Goldsmith deliberately sipping at the honey-pot of his
mind,
And haughtier-headed Burke that proved the State a
tree,
That this unconquerable labyrinth of the birds, cen-
tury after century,
Cast but dead leaves to mathematical equality;
And God-appointed Berkeley that proved all things a
dream,
That this pragmatical, preposterous pig of a world, its
farrow that so solid seem,
Must vanish on the instant if the mind but change its
theme;
Saeva Indignatio and the labourer's hire,
The strength that gives our blood and state magnani-
mity of its own desire;
Everything that is not God consumed with intellectual
fire.
III
The purity of the unclouded moon
Has flung its atrowy shaft upon the floor.
Seven centuries have passed and it is pure,
The blood of innocence has left no stain.
There, on blood-saturated ground, have stood
Soldier, assassin, executioner.
Whether for daily pittance or in blind fear
Or out of abstract hatred, and shed blood,
But could not cast a single jet thereon.
Odour of blood on the ancestral stair!
And we that have shed none must gather there
And clamour in drunken frenzy for the moon.
IV
Upon the dusty, glittering windows cling,
And seem to cling upon the moonlit skies,
Tortoiseshell butterflies, peacock butterflies,
A couple of night-moths are on the wing.
Is every modern nation like the tower,
Half dead at the top? No matter what I said,
For wisdom is the property of the dead,
A something incompatible with life; and power,
Like everything that has the stain of blood,
A property of the living; but no stain
Can come upon the visage of the moon
When it has looked in glory from a cloud.
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The dogs chasing the late autumn leaves
Fluttering down the lane way
The sound of the train as it passes by
Peaceful afternoon walk
The cottage walls and porches
Flourish of colour
Enwreathed with ivy green
Bellflowers, hollyhocks, hydrangea
Scents of lavender and sage
Evoke
Memories of childhood days
Visiting grandparents cottages
One in the Irish Wicklow mountains
The other in the suburbs of Athens city
The free flowing sound of the river
Smoke billowing from chimneys
The cottages have no pretense or grandeur
Just a sanctuary of comfort in the silence of the lane
Reaching the darkest corner of the soul
Nov 10, 2013
Nov 10, 2013 at 12:22 PM UTC
covered by thorns and hidden by vines
but you’re still attracted to the light
that reflects from my broken sides
you want to swim alone tonight
but I know you’d let me hold you down
Velvet rose petals and shattered glass don't mix but still you’ll love me anyway
despite the scars I've left on you
you’d lay with me
on dead grass
and let me point out your fading colors
you’ll excuse my relentless attempts
to bury you under ground.
“you're destructive
and reflective,
I see myself in you”
As my ridges rip you to shreds you stay with me,
a ****** mess and a lonely swimmer,
another garden destroyed
with wasted raindrop tears
Jan 16, 2015
Jan 16, 2015 at 1:18 PM UTC
It was hard in the Moonta Mines that year
For the miners, down in the pit,
It wasn’t a place for a weak man, but
The Cornish Miners had grit,
They burrowed deeper with every day
Extracting the copper ore,
And the skimps grew high in the heaps that piled
Not far from the Moonta shore.
They wore their helmets deep in the mine
With a candle fixed to the brim,
And worked in the glow of the candlelight
While the pumps pumped out and in,
They pumped for water, they pumped for air
For the air in the mine was rank,
And water seeped at the lowest lode
Where the atmosphere was dank.
They built their cottages out of lime
And mud, with a building board,
On Sundays, that was the only time
Once they had prayed to the Lord,
The Cornish Miners were Methodists
Built numerous churches there,
And Cap’n Hancock had said, ‘Attend!
Or your job is gone – Beware!’
Those men of flint had hearts of gold
And they raised their children fine,
Sons would follow their fathers then
And go to work in the mine,
One Christmas Eve they were gathered there
By their hundreds, on the green,
A candle lit on their helmets each
Like a glittering starlit scene.
The wives and children were there as well
With their voices raised in praise,
The swelling sound of an angel choir
With their humble miners ways,
They called it Carols by Candlelight
And the movement grew apace,
It spread all over the world from this
The Moonta Miners grace.
David Lewis Paget
Jan 1, 2014
Jan 1, 2014 at 3:33 AM UTC
My Village
By – Amulya Kumar Malik
My Village a small little village
Near a hill and rice field & river
Big mango Trees small Cottages
I love it ever .
On the beneath of mango trees
The sequel plays hide and sick .
Behind the black cloud with dates Trees
The moon play hide and sick
My village is always full of flower
I love my village for ever & ever .
My Cottage of rice sheet ,
It has a small hole , I saw moon & son
My small cottage give cold in summer and hit in winter
I Love my village forever .
In small pond we catch fish
The horizon of rice field
Butterfly kiss to merry gold
Playing in winter cold ,
The snow white sheet covered bed sheet cover
I love my village forever .
Evening the lovely rangoli
Strange smell from ***** godhuli
I proud because I born in village
As sun of farmer I
love my village forever .
Apr 6, 2014
Apr 6, 2014 at 12:18 AM UTC
I had walked miles that day.
Finding myself in these old
Los Angeles side streets,
was to travel back in time.
Bougainvillea, overflowing
with color, festooned the
weathered cedar cottages.
Heavy trumpet flowers,
sleepy in the filtered light,
stirred beside huge green
leaves, in the easy marine air.
I walked on.
Evening had come, and with it,
a few stars shone over the ocean.
After a perfect dinner, I still
craved a bit of sweetness
on my tongue.
Walking back from the end
of the pier under deep
cobalt, the night sky held me.
Just ahead, tiny birthday candles,
and warm, kind faces, welcomed
me into their midst.
Softly, they sang 'Las Mañanitas'
in one voice, and I sang with them.
Someone's hand
reached out to me; a
thin paper cake plate,
heavy with treasure,
was silently offered.
Tres Leches, soaked
with tender love
and milky sweetness.
Heaven could only be
more of this.
Aug 27, 2015
Aug 27, 2015 at 6:02 PM UTC
Leaves fall to the ground
Lovely Autumnal paths
Look so beautiful
Especially today
When the fallen leaves
Create a twister on the ground
Happily like little children they
Skip and hop and run
The smell of the smoke
From chimneys
Fills the air with a
Lovely odour
Smoke rises from the chimneys
Of the small pretty
Cottages
Autumnal paths
And lovely Autumnal
Country lanes
Lead to the beautiful
Cottages which are
Hidden from the busy roads
Set back from life
Set back in a grove of
Pretty trees
I have always loved
The beauty of Autumn
With it's beautiful country lanes
And Autumnal paths
Enchanted Autumn Forests
Are where the Autumnal Fairies dwell
In the coolness of the Forest
And they will sometimes fall asleep
On brittle Autumn leaves
The leaves of Autumn fall to the ground
Dancing and twirling as they fall
Then spinning on the ground
Round and round they dance
And skip on those paths
And country lanes
The cold bitter winds
Dance through the trees
That stand tall with pride
In that beautiful Forest
When I took
A walk in Autumn
~Marian~
May 7, 2013
May 7, 2013 at 11:27 AM UTC
950
The Sunset stopped on Cottages
Where Sunset hence must be
For treason not of His, but Life’s,
Gone Westerly, Today—
The Sunset stopped on Cottages
Where Morning just begun—
What difference, after all, Thou mak’st
Thou supercilious Sun?
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30 days in. Now, after, out to the market theatre.
People idling, few wondering who pulls the strings
few investigate who paints the streets
who constructs the buildings
it is a show if you slow your vision you will know
You go to a shop, you pick, you pay and go your way
Calculated activity
Prolonged elasticity
And money extends and circulates the sensitivity
the physical defying relativity
Schedules and plans, maps and structures of time
a defined life as I write
You go to church
the congregation settles, the pastor preaches
the congregation responds, "halleluyah" "amen"
songs are sung
tithes paid and progress of church displayed
soon the bell rings and away to our cottages
Cook sunday lunch and a day blessed by God
and sunday after sunday after sunday
You go to school
there's a teacher and students in the classroom
the teacher teaches, questions are asked and notes are taken
Again and again the routine iterates
until tests and assignment dates
how hypnotic this academic tale
promising a better future, a positive fate
And a mall is a town in a cubicle
a church is a social uprising theatrical
a school is a place of worship for the tamable
...and the World a jungle for those who oppose
a haven for the ignorant, a pacific abyss for the survivors of evil. All in all a theatrical play which is a story telling itself in rewind...
Jun 22, 2013
Jun 22, 2013 at 2:30 PM UTC
Petty theft of pretty poetry so
taut like my buttocks when I was twenty
and did not appreciate the ripeness of my
flesh.
Or this – about an orange peel –
the white is bitter the spits of oil
not iridescent as oil might be
lazed
in a parking lot puddle.
Try for size the heavy fur of
winter cottages, blah except for
holiday wreaths and the silent exhalation of
smokes snaking from their
top.
Translate this grapefruit that is both
sour and sweet
and fulminates
loss.
Mar 9, 2018
Mar 9, 2018 at 8:11 AM UTC
It faces west, and round the back and sides
High beeches, bending, hang a veil of boughs,
And sweep against the roof. Wild honeysucks
Climb on the walls, and seem to sprout a wish
(If we may fancy wish of trees and plants)
To overtop the apple trees hard-by.
Red roses, lilacs, variegated box
Are there in plenty, and such hardy flowers
As flourish best untrained. Adjoining these
Are herbs and esculents; and farther still
A field; then cottages with trees, and last
The distant hills and sky.
Behind, the scene is wilder. Heath and furze
Are everything that seems to grow and thrive
Upon the uneven ground. A stunted thorn
Stands here and there, indeed; and from a pit
An oak uprises, Springing from a seed
Dropped by some bird a hundred years ago.
In days bygone—
Long gone—my father’s mother, who is now
Blest with the blest, would take me out to walk.
At such a time I once inquired of her
How looked the spot when first she settled here.
The answer I remember. ‘Fifty years
Have passed since then, my child, and change has marked
The face of all things. Yonder garden-plots
And orchards were uncultivated slopes
O’ergrown with bramble bushes, furze and thorn:
That road a narrow path shut in by ferns,
Which, almost trees, obscured the passers-by.
Our house stood quite alone, and those tall firs
And beeches were not planted. Snakes and efts
Swarmed in the summer days, and nightly bats
Would fly about our bedrooms. Heathcroppers
Lived on the hills, and were our only friends;
So wild it was when we first settled here.’
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Harsh wind screaming
moaning
with the crisp bite of Autumn night
Dark shadows dancing
tossing
with the branches of bare grey Elms
The lanes are winding
uncurling
in the pale orange glow of headlights
Sudden hedgerows
green
edging the limits of the night
Power-cut darkness all around
silhouettes
strange in the headlight beam
No farm lights distant on the Tor
guiding
beacons of open field and place
Cottages shuddering their thatching
thrilled
chimneys smoking message-morse
Pub signs banging wildly
flapping
in a crazy dance
inside candles flickering
distorted
patterns in tiny panes of rounded glass
Old stone steeple steady
dull toned bell
catching
a ride on the wind to the copse
And still the lanes thread out
beam-born
a ribbon of pebbles and stone
stretching into the night
until they melt
into the flat black tarmac
of the motorway.
Nov 15, 2016
Nov 15, 2016 at 5:35 AM UTC
Of course I remember that rainy day
you took me in your arms
and said you will protect me
you were like the perfect umbrella,
the kind that's big enough to not let
any drop of cold rain on my skin.
You were like one of those cottages
with an open fire,
you find in the middle of nowhere,
on a winter night while you're wandering by yourself
thinking you are about to die.
I was happy when I've found you,
I felt that you saved my life,
but, then the morning came and
I realised
you could protect me from the night and cold,
but you couldn't save me from the wanderer in me
from myself.
Aug 18, 2015
Aug 18, 2015 at 10:46 AM UTC
It's a rugged terrain that would roughly be translated
survivor.
The vast mountains make the trees feel weak because they don't grow very high.
No one blames them.
The ground and snow are intimate and unashamed. They called in sick because today wanted to be a memory.
The cottages and home protect the defendants of Vikings and barbaric voyagers.
These towns are clean and safe.
This island is hostile, but welcoming.
Our visit is not a burden because Mother Nature has been ripping herself apart
to embrace us
like family.
Mar 16, 2015
Mar 16, 2015 at 7:18 AM UTC
Trezūnger, last house along the esplanade
Stares out towards Polruan Point. In the growing storm
I feel Atlantic.
St Catherine stands
Over the harbour, laying her claim to the sea
Under the watchful gaze of the eye of Neptune. All the while
The trees whisper to the waves in the wind and release
Leaves and autumnal fragrance. Clustered cottages shoal
Whitewashed in the lee by the ford-over-the-stones-by-the-beach.
The tide and the air pressure low as nature ***** a deep breath ready for the storm
Nov 16, 2018
Nov 16, 2018 at 1:10 PM UTC
Castles way up in the clouds
Of the majestic sky,
Unicorns galloping
Up near rainbows,
Doves and horses gladly accepting their freedom
Fairies with their magical wands,
Gnomes sitting under trees,
Elves roaming Fairyland,
Dream worlds full of illusions,
Mirrors reflecting a girl or boy on the other side,
Swans floating upon lakes with their mate,
Oceans with their beauty of eternity,
Wells waiting for wishes to be made
Or coins to be tossed down them,
Never ending paths waiting for travelers,
Halls that go on forever,
Day dreams and childhood wishes,
Enchanted Cottages of beauty,
Pristine forests where Fairies live and dwell,
Waltzing flowers on a lone hill,
Forgotten treasures under the ocean,
Lone vast deserts,
Dew-drops on sun-kissed flowers,
This is my world of fantasy, dreams,
Illusions and imagination.
~Marian~
May 16, 2013
May 16, 2013 at 2:25 PM UTC
Freedom rang,
bang bang bang
and we traversed the dense foilage
of my Sepia Jungle
Populated by Spirited faeries
Whose lives came and went with the blowing wind.
And Time dissappeared beneath the sublte sunshine
As we entered Apricot Village
Where twisted, sappy leaves gnarled between
Milky white blossoms that decorated fetal fruits,
Whose crowning golden heads pushed petals fresh,
From budding limb,
Now kidnapped by the wind, a lazy sloshing sea of air,
The ground garnished by its aged spices.
It was a village where cottages grew among the Trees.
Devoid of holiness & Dogma, but steeped in the rife Purity of Nature,
No Man was to be seen, rotting fruit about the feet of Trees,
The floors of cottages strewn with Apricot pits, fleshy fruit half eaten
By the Birds, nestled into fertile Earth, and sprouted Life
rising fresh from pichest soil.
We ate of the fruit, now rested in the Golden Afternoon, which
Reached beyond the fringe of Time,
The fleshy pulp of Apricots the strands of bygone Universes,
Which taught us how to slumber there among
The petals and the Wind.
Oct 6, 2014
Oct 6, 2014 at 2:18 AM UTC
I had for my winter evening walk—
No one at all with whom to talk,
But I had the cottages in a row
Up to their shining eyes in snow.
And I thought I had the folk within:
I had the sound of a violin;
I had a glimpse through curtain laces
Of youthful forms and youthful faces.
I had such company outward bound.
I went till there were no cottages found.
I turned and repented, but coming back
I saw no window but that was black.
Over the snow my creaking feet
Disturbed the slumbering village street
Like profanation, by your leave,
At ten o’clock of a winter eve.
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Autumn in New Zealand is a masterpiece on canvas
Patternings of goldens and bright rose hips in their beds,
Copses of coniferous in deep and darkly avenues
To the brilliance of a country lane awash with leafy reds.
Chimney fires are smoking in the rural country cottages
The warming glow of lanterns in the windows as I pass,
A tantalising whiff of hot buttered scones is wafting
And somewhere in the distance I can hear a red deer bark.
Strolling by the lakeside in the early morning stillness
My breathing fogs before me in the chillness of the air,
Rowan trees glow scarlet and the naked ***** willow
Has shed her golden carpet on the emerald hillock there.
Rushes rattle softly in the mistyness of lowlands
Treeeferns in their glory of silver filagree,
Sparrows ruffle feathers to insulate the coolness
As wheeling flocks of starling mass to migrate to be free.
Gossamer as fairy dust the thistledown is floating
A harbinger of autumn leaves and freezing frost to come,
Those Coriollis forces are determining the changeling
Where the snowy days approaching means the Autumn tones are done.
Marshalg
27 April 2013
In rural Pukekohe.
New Zealand
Apr 27, 2013
Apr 27, 2013 at 1:03 AM UTC
196
We don’t cry—Tim and I,
We are far too grand—
But we bolt the door tight
To prevent a friend—
Then we hide our brave face
Deep in our hand—
Not to cry—Tim and I—
We are far too grand—
Nor to dream—he and me—
Do we condescend—
We just shut our brown eye
To see to the end—
Tim—see Cottages—
But, Oh, so high!
Then—we shake—Tim and I—
And lest I—cry—
Tim—reads a little Hymn—
And we both pray—
Please, Sir, I and Tim—
Always lost the way!
We must die—by and by—
Clergymen say—
Tim—shall—if I—do—
I—too—if he—
How shall we arrange it—
Tim—was—so—shy?
Take us simultaneous—Lord—
I—”Tim”—and Me!
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Sun is complaining,
Rain gathers scent,
Wetness remaining,
In a town after lent,
Fog rises above the hills,
Smoking cottages dreaming now,
Stars wait in puddles of sill,
Fish in the seas are teeming, tow,
The moon waves in a hurry,
To hide from the dawn neat,
Crows fly and scurry,
Birds are spry, sleepy,
Wading on lawns,
Like worms in garden,
Or grasses moor tawny,
My heart is drowned,
In the breadth of a snail,
Is a lustrous ocean town,
By the ocean that sails,
In my place which I renown.
Jun 6, 2015
Jun 6, 2015 at 2:22 AM UTC
Sometimes winter is warm,
Jumpers and coats bundle.
The whitewashed cottages,
Smoke in a blanket of sleet,
You could say most anytime,
Island weather is ghastly fine,
Windy rain comes and goes,
Summer can be awfully cold.
May 14, 2015
May 14, 2015 at 2:45 AM UTC
after one last summer of cottages, palm-beers floating on the lake,
faceplanting into the waves while trying to kneeboard,
badly-planned but perfectly-timed trips to toronto for shows
(getting kurt viled)
the family casa (host of
many ragers and teenage kicks) was sold and georgian bay was no longer home.
my parents bought a new truck and moved what was
once 15 quesnelle drive
down to cape breton island, three quarter million in pocket
and i,
i had a resurgence of old feelings towards a girl i won't name
brought on by our rekindled friendship after the death
of my best friend, (nothin' helped me get thru those months
quite like that smile)
and after an embarrassing night spent having various altercations
(fisticuffs)
with a young birch tree behind my pal's place
i hopped in my '03 volvo and sped west like that old man once told
dean to do.
dust flying thru the open windows and my split knuckles
smilin' at the fat old sun.
that summer the bookstore,
where i bought so many weathered novels, died and
the man who was its overseer, with whom i spent so many evenings philosophizing over cups of joe in the closed-up shop ,
sort of faded away; i'd see him thursdays at the study sipping whatever he drank there in the corner and always felt too bad
about the closing of cottage books, ashamed in a word, to
ever go over and buy the guy a beer.
still don't know why.
guess i'm a bit of a *****
that drive out west was good. made 10 mixes in addition to CDs
i already had and slept on the highway side and stopped
where ever the hell i wanted to stop. smoked cigars while blazing over the pavement with my life in the backseat at 120 km/h
not knowing how to feel,
but doing alright.
Nov 27, 2014
Nov 27, 2014 at 1:06 AM UTC
so I passed by this gentleman today at the park & through his broken English came to find out he is from Germany, East Berlin to be exact...his name is Hans. I asked him how he came to Michigan & he began telling me his story, you could see him travel back in time right before your very eyes. He and his wife, Hannah, kept watch over the guards near a section of the wall that was near some summer cottages. At night the 'women' from town would 'entertain' the officers in the foliage, so they put whatever they could fit in their baby stroller, draped as much clothing on themselves as they could manage, & by the grace of God one night the baby did not cry & they were able to run to freedom to West Berlin. He went on to describe how he came first to Canada & then upon hearing of the higher wages in Detroit, came to live in Sterling Heights. It's funny when I asked him & a lady from Poland the day before where they were from, they both said "well from here" despite their obvious accents...home is indeed Michigan for them both now...& for Hans, he's never returned to East Berlin.
*when you see an older person, take the time...I assure you, you will never leave disappointed.
Feb 16, 2016
Feb 16, 2016 at 1:53 PM UTC
TASMANIA, The Apple Isle,
rooted in conquest, convicts
and cannibalism.
Into this desolate paradise,
suffering, starving Englishmen,
dreaming of home, planted
row upon row of small neat
cottages, graciously adorned
by native English roses.
Convicted felons, shunned
from polite English society,
became her upstanding citizens,
and like her fuel-laden forests,
she smouldered, a daughter of
mother England, steeped in
her heritage like a lauded
*** of Earl Grey.
For two centuries, England
grew, a wild sunflower,
with London's sprawling
population sprouting from
1m seedlings, to over 8m
at the peak of her growth.
And somehow, somewhere,
something broke inside.
Today, proud Englishmen
mourn a loss of the spirit
and freedom of their forebears,
still proud, yet yearning
for the simple, honest
existence of a yesteryear
long lost, and not forgotten.
In Tasmania, time drifted
lazily, as outposts sprawled
into small towns, small towns
into small cities, like miniatures
mimicking the motherland
her pioneers had left behind.
But unlike her proud parent,
Tasmania remained true to
the spirit that raised her
from the ashes of convict
settlements, and a fledgling
society intent on defending
the spirit that put England
at the heart of an empire
flourished.
I am an Englishman, proud
to be born and raised in
her heartlands, and prouder
still, to have found that most
distant corner of our once
great empire that embodies still
the spirit of hard work,
fair play and decency that
is found within the beating heart
of every true Englishman.
Feb 14, 2017
Feb 14, 2017 at 9:50 AM UTC