"courtyards" poems
The red-capped Cock-Man has just announced morning;
The Keeper of the Robes brings Jade-Cloud Furs;
Heaven's nine doors reveal the palace and its courtyards;
And the coats of many countries bow to the Pearl Crown.
Sunshine has entered the giants' carven palms;
Incense wreathes the Dragon Robe:
The audience adjourns-and the five-coloured edict
Sets girdle-beads clinking toward the Lake of the Phoenix.
3k
I wish to peer at Paris, under-dressed and ***** in all of its neoclassical splendor.
For that, there are things I would give up.
I wish to see a prehistoric forest, verdant, overgrown and jumbled.
Before evergreen mysteries I would be ever humbled.
For that, there are things I would give up.
I wish to see Rhodian gardens and from them, smell the flowering fig and taste succulent honey suckle.
I wish to glimpse zaftig temptresses dancing twenty thick amidst courtyards of ancient Persian palaces.
For that, there are things I would give up.
I wish to be blessed into an inenarrable life on an unalike mysterious planet.
I wish for an Atlas resembling and proportionate soul.
For that, there are things I would give up.
I've demanded an even temperament from my unruly emotions.
I've settled for continuous disbelief at the loquacious ignobleness of humanity.
For change, there are things I would give up.
I've sequestered my innocent dreams and bloomed monetary means.
I've avoided death narrowly, my fingers gripping, fear will always transfix, while barreling down 36'.
I've inhaled profits and installed transformation.
For change, there are things I would give up.
I've burned my midnight oil, taken offensive slander, and burned bridges with gratuitous candor.
I've witnessed coal falsify a beautiful gloaming sky.
I've had gasoline dreams filled and fuming with intensity, all drowning under an ocean of oil.
I've envisioned bleached beaches to hide stained soil.
These are moments I would give up.
There are things I've realized outside my reality, outside my internal soliloquy and physical tactility.
I've come to understand my words are nothing more than symbols on a closed door.
Jul 26, 2010
Jul 26, 2010 at 11:54 PM UTC
Sky is a taut, grey net spread,
at its best in creating panic,
relentless day a brutish marauder,
drained of color of every kind, bleak,
even thought of you distant, my nectar
plays hide and seek, I am plunging
in a hallucinatory spin, down, down.
From inside a furnace closed
with a tight lid under which heat
in it's fiery glory permeates
like never before, a full- throated roar,
without any sound it travels around,
in waves after waves after waves,
to scorch every single thing under
the blood thirsty sun, on a hurried
march for revenge,green turbaned
trees and scarf adorned branches
changed all those embellishments
gone bone dry,now stand apologetic
like kids that made bed wet and caught
red handed, shrunk in shame and pain.
Narcolepsy reigns, drowsiness
day and night, like marijuana haze
follows.
This summer makes its name stick
in bad books,making T.S.Eliot look
shame faced for calling one past tame April,
uncharitably the cruelest of it all.
But this, this is an unbridled wild horse
none can in no way do anything to stop.
When even the last drop of water from
the pond evaporates,sunburn peels the skin,
sun stroke down people, who are unaware,
cruelty of April, becomes monumental.
Perhaps in few days time May could barter
that bad name from April,I'd easily guess.
Buildings , in rows and rows lie, til horizon,
like blood drained corpses all though the day,
the appetite for life, they evidently has lost.
Song birds on flowered trees, have gone mute,
doves scamper, dart in to the air, with hope
to get few drops of water from somewhere
Kindhearted few fill water and feed on containers
for stray birds,taking cue from the practices of forefathers.
Change in climate is an ogre, that could with bare hands
smash pompous attitudes and other human constructs!
Will there ever be a limit, to the red eyed monster,
avarice, we all pamper, within our inner courtyards,
that forces human beings to to do "Harakiri"
like a proud Samurai does with his own sword.
Apr 29, 2016
Apr 29, 2016 at 8:13 AM UTC
It’s been 5 months
since I walked his grid, they're
precise measurements now
polished, so not to skid.
Past the shop selling grapes
in bags, bunches split apart
for profits sake, when
really it's all a mistake-
as the person they’re intended for
will slowly slip away for sure.
Gangplank corridor, a bridge
across the restaurant. Through
double door vending machine island,
cups of tea- only a fiver.
Haematology is down there
in that extension,
but first the window walk-
*double glazing, heat protection
convention.*
The architect’s rounded bays to
either side bubble up and out
from the courtyards below. Death
waves from every window, but
curtains drawn so not to show
why, what, who or how.
We wait to be let in the ward;
treading ground so not to drown,
nervous carol singers waiting
to see what audience shall applaud,
airport carousel baggage claim for
luggage from abroad-
“Room 4 on the left” nurse
1 admits, like a lie held
between pale, rose lips.
“Room 4 is open to visitors” both
nurse 2 and 3 say,
but I’m family, I’m here to stay.
Feb 10, 2013
Feb 10, 2013 at 8:05 AM UTC
I found you in moon-lit courtyards
amongst whispering statues of angels
& broken queer bottles
punk wind roaring in time's freefall
& Tagesspiegel newspapers
read in grave graveyards
the Plötzensee
now a pleasant place
to walk by
past the carefree
nudist sunbathers
in blissful summer
the Olympiastadion
almost forgetting
who it's maker was
but no not quite
nevertheless, good days
far out-weighing the bad
Sep 16, 2015
Sep 16, 2015 at 5:19 PM UTC
Winter’s releasing us from its perpetually gray and gloomy grip.
Who can study in their room, on a beautiful spring afternoon?
Azaleas assail ya, with champagne petals of bubblegum fuchsias,
they blush in near neon reflection, with a mathematical, fractal perfection.
Courtyards that were once dark and uninviting, frosty scenes,
sport impromptu manicured carpets, of flawless, vibrant greens.
Dogwoods explode, abruptly overnight, with cherry blossom whites
they blush like brides on parade, they sachet, swaying flag-like bouquets.
Ordinary maples become emerald queens by unfurling avocado, hunter and chartreuse leaves,
accented with vibrant electric limes and honeydews, as if to say, ‘We too can please.’
New life stretches, almost yawning, in the seemingly reborn sun, insects hum as they cultivate,
birds flit excitedly, as if to say, ‘Why’re you inside? Come out and play - why do you even hesitate?’
I know there’s something in spring that’s irresistible, pheromonal, hormonal, surfeit and emotional.
Is it the solar zenith angle or the sun’s declination that produces these delightful inclinations?
.
.
Songs for this:
Funky Galileo by Sure sure
You get what you give by New Radicals
New World Coming by Cass Elliot
Apr 18, 2024
Apr 18, 2024 at 3:09 PM UTC
Naughty Bougainvillea
flash
their gypsy red burgundy parasols
like Creole maidens
from New Orlean French Quarters
their wild beauty
adorns Floridian gardens and
ocean courtyards
But, they are no match for
the Queenly Gardenia
Her soft, ivory, alabaster *****
exudes a scent found only in Paradise
As she unfolds her exquisite, royal,
Saraswati petals
I wait blushing with bated anticipation
for a whiff of Heaven itself
Mar 16, 2017
Mar 16, 2017 at 10:57 PM UTC
.
I saw you with her,
One day in the sun,
I was only shadow,
Blankness overrun.
Rains fell as I flew,
In greyest courtyards,
Hard as stone set low,
I was but a lone shard.
You looked so happy,
So tame with her light,
I felt a shudder growing,
Held back with all might.
There you were together,
My past one dead page,
You two so happy there,
And my life all the rage.
Aug 25, 2016
Aug 25, 2016 at 1:32 AM UTC
Night, the oldest of mysteries
settles, spreading like hunger.
A pall of mist
shrouding over the world.
Siren sounds and firefighters,
drunken brawls, and
receding beats.
Eyes of wonder asleep,
emerging out of
the network of shadows
growing creeper-like.
Stray nuggets of light
also reach the eyes shut
in meditation.
Furtive shadows of passion,
elsewhere. Muffled joys;
Shades of bottle-grey.
Cricket-song. Ululations
faint. Raspy owl-calls,
intermittent.
In the deep, secret
rites of initiation.
Somewhere in the far
highlands
the stars and
the broken moon peep in.
Old song on a highway truck.
Little lamps adorning the hills,
courtyards in the distance.
Dec 3, 2013
Dec 3, 2013 at 4:32 PM UTC
In an otherwise quiet snowlit night
the chelloveck ahead has shuffle-skitch shoes.
I have clock clock boots.
The fog train to Voksal at this distance
hoots like a toy. Some meters trailing
someone’s step is a sticky squick-squick.
As I turn left, I think of nothing
save cognac, cognac and koshka (Marusya),
the mild entertainments of loneliness so far removed
from my mother tongue:
through snow-covered courtyards the dogs hours ago abandoned.
What good is it to be fluent in one’s own language
when the mashrutka slush and hiss
down Yulitsa Kikvidze in the distance?
At home, the cat chews the cords to the blinds
of the kitchen window, her wants
more important than mine.
Mar 5, 2013
Mar 5, 2013 at 3:14 PM UTC
And the music fell like rain from an unseen apartment somewhere in the quarter.
Warm summer rain.
Light and refreshing.
The kind of rain you didn't mind getting wet in and soaked to the skin with.
A single Saxophone.
A single Saxophone played not just with the lips and the fingers and the lungs, but with the soul.
Its delicate melody trickled down the rooftops and overflowed onto the streets below.
Somewhere in this labyrinth of alley ways and courtyards and balconies was a poet.
A poet in love.
A musical poet.
A musical poet creating rhyme and rhythm and feeling with just a handful of notes and a heart full of passion.
For though there were no words to accompany this music you knew, you just knew what was being said.
Every drop of rain, every note had a purpose, a message. A message that carried you off and made you forget. Forget where you were, where you were going and all the things that made life not so good. You forgot all that and let it be washed away by the rain.
And you closed your eyes
And you smiled
And you felt like dancing, right there in the street, a slow dance, a gentle sway.
And as quickly as you noticed it, it stopped.
Then you felt the chill
The first drop, the second.
Then it really did rain, the heavens truly opened.
And you closed your eyes
And you smiled
Jul 20, 2010
Jul 20, 2010 at 4:19 PM UTC
Old courtyards with tubs of laundry:
‘Go to the washerwoman and do your own washing’
I whisper to you, and the wild apricot trees
all turn suddenly white, the sky pales,
the world is ****** in a drenching buzz.
There΄s a smell of bluebags and a sulphurous bubbling.
You΄d hardly believe it — so much steam rises
that only dirt is left in the copper.
The wild apricots petrify into coral.
It΄s so easy — easy in a woman΄s way —
to wash your soul, to rejoice in the spring wind
shaking the scales on its dragon-tail
so that you΄re looking at soap-bubbles
it blows for you between your fingers.
Two children pass by, holding on a string
a balloon transparent as a bubble.
For a moment we are crouched inside it.
Grete Tartler
[Translated into English by Fleur Adcock]
New Europe Writers Bucharest Tales, Contemporary Literature Press, Bucharest, 2014
Jun 12, 2014
Jun 12, 2014 at 11:47 AM UTC
_Deep in my soul
I felt weak and weary
And knew that my end
Hung silently near me
But on the wind
And through the trees
A sound fluttered down
A nearby breeze
It danced along
A deviant path
Bending and phasing
In a joy filled wrath
My hollow bones
So light and enchanted
By that colorful tone
Not evil nor slanted
Pushed ever onward
And looked out below
The source of this song
I was thirsty to know...
I came upon a white city
Shining in the distance
If it weren’t for the music
I would have missed it
Eagles soared above
From mountaintop trees
They flew with grace
Together on a breeze
I felt myself hopeful
And drawn to their course
To that faraway city
Far off to the north
With haste I dashed
Down rocky plateaus
For I felt at home
From my head to my toes
Like a child I raced
As the sun finally set
Until I was caught
By a rope-wound net!
It was forever as if
I floated across those plains
My captors carried me
With grace so strange
As the music got nearer
Eagles sang with flutes
Piecing together a melody
Known by trees and their roots...
I was placed in company
Of a magnificent king
His crown was white
And his robe, and his ring
He bid me welcome
To live among his people
In his white city of courtyards
Towers and steeples
As I opened my mouth
And my heart to say yes
He stopped me before that
With one lone request
I must dwell in this realm
Until the end of my days
For in hiding, he said,
We all must remain
Hidden from the darkness
That dwells beyond the mountains
Hidden among fairies,
Family, and fountains...
So there I dwelt
Until the end of my life
In that shinning white city
With my children and wife
I’ll never forget
That most fortunate day
That by music and eagle
I was once led astray..._
Jun 23, 2019
Jun 23, 2019 at 8:58 PM UTC
A heartless realm we live in.
This place we call our home.
We are here-this realm of hell,
But to each shall hold his own.
The statue stands, it stares at me;
tormenting me with its soul.
This place I'm in, this evil land,
a place I never wanted to go.
The Raven hears my hollow words,
and mocks them back at me.
The statues cold, they stare at me
for they will never let me go.
This courtyards' dark, the buildings cold.
The statues' stares are of ice.
A glance so cold, a glance so frail
It sees and yet it cannot.
It's mourning me, my forgotten soul.
For this much I am aware.
It's eyes are cold, they stare me down
I begin to lose control.
The statues wings, I didn't see before.
I watch as the shadows grow.
The land grows darker; the land is cold
and yet I stand alone.
My cloths of black, my heart of stone
I feel without feeling.
I see myself, a reflection in water.
I now understand their glares.
This place I'm in, I'm one of them
A statue that is so cold.
I will see myself, never again
for I now belong to them.
Jul 14, 2010
Jul 14, 2010 at 1:36 PM UTC
Some say
That with victory – a continuity is required.
To win, you must, win, and win again
You claim each battle as your own ‘til life
meets its end.
I bask in these triumphs as much as the next
Relish the sick clang as the hilt gripped between my fingers
Wobbles with each and every blow
To an enemy’s weakened defence
As I watch rival fortresses vanish
In the smouldering chimney puff
That follows the blaze of the bomb
just like that.
Boom. Do you see that? Look. It’s gone.
Last moments in castle courtyards
As medals of valour are draped
Round the veins of my neck.
(*Look what I can do. I am powerful.
Or so I thought.*)
No soldier is prepared for this.
The battle of the mind
Sharpened sword is useless
Throw your armour to the floor
No protection can be given
Clouds swell like balloons and blacken the corners
Of your brain
Eating from the edge like parasites
And this, I fight unarmoured.
Unarmed
And petrified.
So no.
I can’t say I agree.
To me
A victory
Does not entail an ounce of continuity.
For myself, any achievement
Is a success
No matter how large
How small
How scattered or random
Or spaced over time
If I can make it through the day
With a smile on my face
Sweet Victory, it’s mine.
Sep 30, 2014
Sep 30, 2014 at 8:21 PM UTC
I am from inky cities,
From steaming street pancakes and cold noodles.
I am from lonely alleys beyond that dark turn.
(shadowy, quiet,
filled with whispers of cats wild and shabby)
I am from square, paint-dried courtyards,
A secret hideout to breathe in the murmurs of ancient trees,
Only shared with shadow thieves,
Whose yellow eyes glow and ***** tails curl.
I am from the mountain beyond the choking greyness,
From the spot atop the hills where city lights could be seen
In stealthy nights through rain and frost.
I am from candied haws and stinky bean curds,
From chalky evenings
Spent high inside a climbing gym
Wearied, exhausted, inside-out.
I am from the toxic city,
Swarming with masked humans and silenced voices.
I’m from albuterol and Ipratropium bromide,
Sick from the cupboard of budesonide;
Saved again by the sky-blue machine feeding marshmallow clouds
Into my heavy, wheezy lungs.
Upon winter, I travelled far, said farewell to the city
Where ten years of memories lie dusted, submerged.
Thus I am from the serene seal cove and clear turquoise waters,
Where maple drips sweetly and pine needles rain,
From matted red-forest trails like a padded trampoline.
From the realm of black bears, red berries, and duck-duck-goose.
I said goodbye to the Chinese cats and Canadian bears,
And seized my pen to write the rest of my poem–
Because life, as they say,
“Is the art of drawing without an eraser”
Sep 15, 2020
Sep 15, 2020 at 2:23 PM UTC
Strands of sunlight breeze into quiet courtyards,
Swaying threads of crimson spring.
Pausing a while, you fix your hair,
Contemplating the mirror which steals your silhouette.
Cloud like tresses trail to one side,
Dare you step outside?
If you don't come to the garden, how would you know that springtime is like this?
Due to your reluctance, such splendor is abandoned.
Where are the sounds of joy in this garden?
Your beauty is concealed in the hall of your words.
Like the early spring which no one sees.
For your beauty is like the flowers which sway and float on the river of eternal time.
This brief moment, when our fates collide,
Is made in heaven,
Pillowed on grass, bedded among flowers.
This annoying strong wind of my troubles,
Messes flowers, and betrays the beauty of springtime.
Ah.
Thus, the view is wasted.
Jan 5, 2014
Jan 5, 2014 at 10:44 AM UTC
Ancient stone vibrating with life sighs deeply in my memory
In my mind my feet still explore
The hidden paths of that fair city
Peace permeates my spirit as I lay dreaming
Of broad greens and cloistered gardens
Shaded courtyards of quiet blooms
Of wood-worked halls and book lined rooms
Her subtle charm, her poised beauty
Warm heart beating even beneath the snow
To inspire , to teach and to sow
In the hearts of all who know her
The seeds of joy, of love, of loyalty
Reaped in measure from us all
We who have walked her cobblestone streets
And awakened to her tolling bells
Even across the miles and years
My soul resonating in time with hers
And I am there again, walking out of mist and woods through slanting sunbeams
Curving around carved towers
And all around and within there is light
Sep 27, 2017
Sep 27, 2017 at 4:14 AM UTC
My old teacher, she taught me of sunlight.
She taught me
of the energy waves,
crashing through the window.
She browsed
over distorted polygraphs
bleached in daylight;
oh, crashing black mark.
She wandered
through the courtyards at break,
eyes off and into the distance,
and always she,
the bleak reminder,
of memories turned to black.
She read in down-turned whisper,
lips twitching
the words, all for herself;
making sense of life
through ornamental verse.
A rapture of cerulean eyes,
she took my teenage heart
to town, just to pay the fare.
She taught me
of impossible love,
of all beyond the walls.
She taught me
of the paradise-life,
where memory unfurls.
She taught me
of matriarchal health,
in the strength of her stare,
explaining in her youth
eternal, that is etched
into my mind;
that not all that is loved, is fair,
and not all that is valued, is mined.
Feb 13, 2014
Feb 13, 2014 at 8:14 PM UTC
You write of the Faroe Islands
of whaling & girls with red hair
I wonder if you've ever been there
or if it's just a writer's fantasy
Can a poet write
of what he's not seen
with his very eyes
or does he always have to live it
feel the blessed fire
of experience
burn his soul & skin
still, I give in
to your vision
of a place I've never been
in return, I offer you my Berlin
pristine lakes & secret courtyards
a City that's fought to be free
showing it's pride in art & grafitti
& international flair
yet you scorn it
just as you do me
turning my heart
into droplets
of Alice's tears
that moment
when she can't get in
through the tiny door
to the garden in Wonderland
why doesn't my world
entrance you, Islander
don't you know we share
the same sacred loves
look closer,
draw near
we are similar
we are poets
we know
God is a Beatnik
& we read
the same books
My Soul
sings of you
open this door
let me love you
let us
fold the stars
in two
& dance
tell me of Yorkshire
don't judge me for my past
let our differences bring us
together sparking desire
& let my love last
until you finally see in me
what I've already
found in you
Jul 1, 2015
Jul 1, 2015 at 4:04 PM UTC
the time eater
who is a friend of mine
climbs into courtyards of giants on twine
on a limb of the future
a creature divine
the time eater tips the grim reaper with gold
a moment, three winks, tick-tocking untold
the eater of ages rocks up on his toes
time eater flying, the time eater runs
a second, a twinkle, a century gone
his breeze of a coat tail holds eons and all
must follow his lead back over the wall
May 20, 2014
May 20, 2014 at 11:39 PM UTC
The moon rises upon your face
And shine falls when you smile
Your silences like conversations
Often you unfold the emotions,
You're happy with your dreams
Though they're many miles away.
The ocean slows down for you
And waves play with your mind
The spring gives you green days
Cause maybe you are loveable,
The moon rises up to your face
Your shine falls when you smile.
The flowers smell pretty in your courtyards
To help you sleep at night
The birdsongs wake you up happily
Every day in the morning,
The moon rises up to your face
Your shine falls when you smile.
The morning takes away your sleepiness
To make you ready for the day
The evening shadow makes you blue
To give you a good sleep night,
The moon rises up to your face
And you shine when you smile.
Oct 19, 2017
Oct 19, 2017 at 2:39 AM UTC
The Stand They Made
The great oak wields great power he sends his roots deep financial social religious he stands at the edge
Of the family’s domain has endured many lightings and thundering outburst under the savage wind
Many have been the groans that were uttered this was not sadness being brought forth to cover the
Ground and then what waste it would produce no this is noble sacrifice all encircling love being
Projected not one blade of grass exists without showing this uncommon glory the house the property
Glows over the faces of the dependent little ones it shines. The Oak has a partner in this great enterprise
Best to describe these capabilities in three timbers of renown the Maple the Elm and the willow from
This convergence and the intertwining of the three into one piece a masterful work of art herein lies the
Lines that flow in unbroken symmetry the oak of might the creation of his delight. When the journey
Demands you climb unbroken hills onward to dry unkind dispositions the maple decidedly smaller and
Has its name derived from sharpness of its pointed leaves and its breathless beauty in four colors in the
Heavenly autumn do you know anything that could make the oak bow more quickly. Oh the Elm has
Stepped to the helm woman hood I speak of you softer kinder the breeze seeks your tendrils for its
Proud moments for gusts and raw display you spellbound all that look your way. The Oak tells his times
Of gladness by your beauty voiceless reminder of why we endure life’s slights and backward turns. One
Long lasting look please willow move touch the core of the Oak that only you know the wisp of your
Branches touched me above my minds ability to comprehend the feelings I feel. The Oak grows in
Terraced courtyards that angels frequent but he is looking beyond the brightness of their Glory to that
Day when you spoke I do no one saw but the mighty oak fell that day under your spell. This is what I saw
When I looked into Donna’s father and mothers face.
Jan 7, 2012
Jan 7, 2012 at 2:01 PM UTC
Grief.
Drug me
Fill me
Because I’m tired
And I scream
I writhe with my head, the hammers in my ears pound against my skull,
And my balance. is upset, drunken stumbles through broken courtyards…
At least I thought
Agony ripe within myself,
Ive lost!
The war stood hungry at my door step and like a beaten dog I turned with tail between my legs,
How poorly I’ve lost..
I had spears to withstand a charge,
I had men of which to bear arms
Friends…
my soldiers
I had friends of which to bear arms against my foes.
But addiction defeat me
Addiction wear them thing
Addiction wears their skin,
Lie to me, tells me I’m fine,
My friends have dissipated to drug fiends after their angry fix,
Prowling my bedroom
Prowling my dreams
I have failed my war, I have lost my fight, and darkness has stolen away my light
Yet I will prowl too
Carrying the baggage that has broken my back, dissipating the agony of my heartbeat
In the effort of motion
Crawl on four wheels to a location not so far from my home, but to far to call home,
Loose myself in the winding streets
The black lit paths
And parks without playgrounds
I will wonder after my missing soldiers, following in their wake
L.G
Mar 4, 2015
Mar 4, 2015 at 4:57 PM UTC