"thracian" poems - Hello Poetry

Though you be absent here, I needs must say The Trees as beauteous are, and flowers as gay, As ever they were wont to be; Nay the Birds rural musick too Is as melodious and free, As if they sung to pleasure you: I saw a Rose-Bud o’pe this morn; I’ll swear The blushing Morning open’d not more fair. How could it be so fair, and you away? How could the Trees be beauteous, Flowers so gay? Could they remember but last year, How you did Them, They you delight, The sprouting leaves which saw you here, And call’d their Fellows to the sight, Would, looking round for the same sight in vain, Creep back into their silent Barks again. Where ere you walk’d trees were as reverend made, As when of old Gods dwelt in every shade. Is’t possible they should not know, What loss of honor they sustain, That thus they smile and flourish now, And still their former pride retain? Dull Creatures! ’tis not without Cause that she, Who fled the God of wit, was made a Tree. In ancient times sure they much wiser were, When they rejoyc’d the Thracian verse to hear; In vain did Nature bid them stay, When Orpheus had his song begun, They call’d their wondring roots away, And bad them silent to him run. How would those learned trees have followed you? You would have drawn Them, and their Poet too. But who can blame them now? for, since you’re gone, They’re here the only Fair, and Shine alone. You did their Natural Rights invade; Where ever you did walk or sit, The thickest Boughs could make no shade, Although the Sun had granted it: The fairest Flowers could please no more, neer you, Then Painted Flowers, set next to them, could do. When e’re then you come hither, that shall be The time, which this to others is, to Me. The little joys which here are now, The name of Punishments do bear; When by their sight they let us know How we depriv’d of greater are. ’Tis you the best of Seasons with you bring; This is for Beasts, and that for Men the Spring.

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Abraham Cowley

The Spring

Though you be absent here, I needs must say The Trees as beauteous are, and flowers as gay, As ever they were wont to be; Nay the Birds rural musick too Is as melodious and free, As if they sung to pleasure you: I saw a Rose-Bud o’pe this morn; I’ll swear The blushing Morning open’d not more fair. How could it be so fair, and you away? How could the Trees be beauteous, Flowers so gay? Could they remember but last year, How you did Them, They you delight, The sprouting leaves which saw you here, And call’d their Fellows to the sight, Would, looking round for the same sight in vain, Creep back into their silent Barks again. Where ere you walk’d trees were as reverend made, As when of old Gods dwelt in every shade. Is’t possible they should not know, What loss of honor they sustain, That thus they smile and flourish now, And still their former pride retain? Dull Creatures! ’tis not without Cause that she, Who fled the God of wit, was made a Tree. In ancient times sure they much wiser were, When they rejoyc’d the Thracian verse to hear; In vain did Nature bid them stay, When Orpheus had his song begun, They call’d their wondring roots away, And bad them silent to him run. How would those learned trees have followed you? You would have drawn Them, and their Poet too. But who can blame them now? for, since you’re gone, They’re here the only Fair, and Shine alone. You did their Natural Rights invade; Where ever you did walk or sit, The thickest Boughs could make no shade, Although the Sun had granted it: The fairest Flowers could please no more, neer you, Then Painted Flowers, set next to them, could do. When e’re then you come hither, that shall be The time, which this to others is, to Me. The little joys which here are now, The name of Punishments do bear; When by their sight they let us know How we depriv’d of greater are. ’Tis you the best of Seasons with you bring; This is for Beasts, and that for Men the Spring.

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Ibykos Fragment 286, circa 564 BCE loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Come spring, the grand apple trees stand watered by a gushing river where the maidens’ uncut flowers shiver and the blossoming grape vine swells in the gathering shadows. Unfortunately for me Eros never rests but like a Thracian tempest ablaze with lightning emanates from Aphrodite; the results are frightening— black, bleak, astonishing, violently jolting me from my soles to my soul. Preposterous Eros by Michael R. Burch “Preposterous Eros” – Patricia Falanga Preposterous Eros shot me in the buttocks, with a Devilish grin, spent all my money in a rush then left my heart effete pink mush. Keywords/Tags: Ibykos, fragment, translation, Eros, Aphrodite, Thracian, tempest, lightning, jolt, soul, spring, apple, trees, river, flowers, grape, vine, shadows

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Apr 7, 2020

Apr 7, 2020 at 6:02 AM UTC

michael-r-burch

Ibykos Fragment 286 (translation)

Ibykos Fragment 286, circa 564 BCE loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Come spring, the grand apple trees stand watered by a gushing river where the maidens’ uncut flowers shiver and the blossoming grape vine swells in the gathering shadows. Unfortunately for me Eros never rests but like a Thracian tempest ablaze with lightning emanates from Aphrodite; the results are frightening— black, bleak, astonishing, violently jolting me from my soles to my soul. Preposterous Eros by Michael R. Burch “Preposterous Eros” – Patricia Falanga Preposterous Eros shot me in the buttocks, with a Devilish grin, spent all my money in a rush then left my heart effete pink mush. Keywords/Tags: Ibykos, fragment, translation, Eros, Aphrodite, Thracian, tempest, lightning, jolt, soul, spring, apple, trees, river, flowers, grape, vine, shadows

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Of no time and place... save for due Truest North of no time and place...a kindled air as such...never a Draconian night layeth upon...O Hyperborea. Muse of Muse...whose tacit glory begot lip and lyre...illumined wholes that sayeth verily unto illumined wholes. Unbroken gaiety...where the only obscuration's the recesses of witnesses in full bearing...Beauty's Knowing...Knowable Beauty. O Hyperborea...as light, lighteth... yet lit be not--high heaped upon high, celebrants of whir and fire... fire and whir...whir and fire! Thou danceth a sun's one-upmanship, to emblazon the dreams of Thracian peoples. That the world may know, and know well...the north wind...of no time and place--due Truest North of no time and place...be kindled by Apollonian graces. As an urn contains what's trialed by fire, as fire...Beauty unbridled...poureth forth under the Hyperborean sun... never to casteth a shadow.

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Nov 11, 2013

Nov 11, 2013 at 1:01 PM UTC

Onoma

Hyperborea

Of no time and place... save for due Truest North of no time and place...a kindled air as such...never a Draconian night layeth upon...O Hyperborea. Muse of Muse...whose tacit glory begot lip and lyre...illumined wholes that sayeth verily unto illumined wholes. Unbroken gaiety...where the only obscuration's the recesses of witnesses in full bearing...Beauty's Knowing...Knowable Beauty. O Hyperborea...as light, lighteth... yet lit be not--high heaped upon high, celebrants of whir and fire... fire and whir...whir and fire! Thou danceth a sun's one-upmanship, to emblazon the dreams of Thracian peoples. That the world may know, and know well...the north wind...of no time and place--due Truest North of no time and place...be kindled by Apollonian graces. As an urn contains what's trialed by fire, as fire...Beauty unbridled...poureth forth under the Hyperborean sun... never to casteth a shadow.

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Ibykos Fragment 286, circa 564 BCE loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Come spring, the grand apple trees stand watered by a gushing river where the maidens’ uncut flowers shiver and the blossoming grape vine swells in the gathering shadows. Unfortunately for me Eros never rests but like a Thracian tempest ablaze with lightning emanates from Aphrodite; the results are frightening— black, bleak, astonishing, violently jolting me from my soles to my soul. Keywords/Tags: Ibykos, fragment, translation, Eros, Aphrodite, Thracian, tempest, lightning, jolt, soul, spring, apple, trees, river, flowers, grape, vine, shadows Preposterous Eros by Michael R. Burch “Preposterous Eros” – Patricia Falanga Preposterous Eros shot me in the buttocks, with a Devilish grin, spent all my money in a rush then left my heart effete pink mush.

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Apr 5, 2020

Apr 5, 2020 at 3:39 AM UTC

michael-r-burch

Ibykos Fragment 286 (translation)

Ibykos Fragment 286, circa 564 BCE loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Come spring, the grand apple trees stand watered by a gushing river where the maidens’ uncut flowers shiver and the blossoming grape vine swells in the gathering shadows. Unfortunately for me Eros never rests but like a Thracian tempest ablaze with lightning emanates from Aphrodite; the results are frightening— black, bleak, astonishing, violently jolting me from my soles to my soul. Keywords/Tags: Ibykos, fragment, translation, Eros, Aphrodite, Thracian, tempest, lightning, jolt, soul, spring, apple, trees, river, flowers, grape, vine, shadows Preposterous Eros by Michael R. Burch “Preposterous Eros” – Patricia Falanga Preposterous Eros shot me in the buttocks, with a Devilish grin, spent all my money in a rush then left my heart effete pink mush.

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My Thracian filly, Why do you stare at me askance? Casting such a scornful glance, When I only seek to fix the bridle and the bit? And thereby win with winged words, Whom auspicious gods above gave chance. That I may do so is no such crime, Merely only now give way, To him who rolls the dice now cast, And wishing only a wicked kiss. Be tender, be soft – hold not fast, For here, forlorn, I do but stand, And extend but only a weakening hand. So now with steady hands, Let me unhook the belt which holds you so chaste, And if not, return to wretched lands, Where this bittersweet memory may be erased.

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Jul 20, 2016

Jul 20, 2016 at 7:17 AM UTC

AllesWenden

My Thracian Filly (For Anacreon)

My Thracian filly, Why do you stare at me askance? Casting such a scornful glance, When I only seek to fix the bridle and the bit? And thereby win with winged words, Whom auspicious gods above gave chance. That I may do so is no such crime, Merely only now give way, To him who rolls the dice now cast, And wishing only a wicked kiss. Be tender, be soft – hold not fast, For here, forlorn, I do but stand, And extend but only a weakening hand. So now with steady hands, Let me unhook the belt which holds you so chaste, And if not, return to wretched lands, Where this bittersweet memory may be erased.

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A boulevard where vagabonds swim Is lined with Thracian women weeping Swaying gently in the wind With portraits of headless young men Suspended on String, they are In pursuit of tenebrous dreams Whose shadow soft illusion lights Yet the colour of black eludes Amidst the debris of this magic and mystic charm Forging hidden truths leaving light and darkness In appeal to unreasoned thought that splinter sound Leaving only tarnished echo floating effortlessly in tragic space Notions negotiate and migrate in terrible turmoil Not able to understand chaos corrodes Human rust that eats the soul With gnawing knowledge of emptiness Creates a vacuum in the heart That leaves cold the heat of happiness Proclaiming despair its God Points an accusing finger and brands us unclean Impure, none persons, where is the colour of black

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Mar 19, 2012

Mar 19, 2012 at 2:08 PM UTC

edgar-whitman-wilde

The Color Of Black

A boulevard where vagabonds swim Is lined with Thracian women weeping Swaying gently in the wind With portraits of headless young men Suspended on String, they are In pursuit of tenebrous dreams Whose shadow soft illusion lights Yet the colour of black eludes Amidst the debris of this magic and mystic charm Forging hidden truths leaving light and darkness In appeal to unreasoned thought that splinter sound Leaving only tarnished echo floating effortlessly in tragic space Notions negotiate and migrate in terrible turmoil Not able to understand chaos corrodes Human rust that eats the soul With gnawing knowledge of emptiness Creates a vacuum in the heart That leaves cold the heat of happiness Proclaiming despair its God Points an accusing finger and brands us unclean Impure, none persons, where is the colour of black

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our antique soul so veracious cages our dreams and hidden secrets our soul's a relic our incarnation holds all memories back to when our mother tongue was Thracian our soul has hyperthymesia mind of an elephant writes our life in lyrics to a string of an instrument

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Mar 9, 2021

Mar 9, 2021 at 11:16 AM UTC

courtsrandompoetry

anima mea

our antique soul so veracious cages our dreams and hidden secrets our soul's a relic our incarnation holds all memories back to when our mother tongue was Thracian our soul has hyperthymesia mind of an elephant writes our life in lyrics to a string of an instrument

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Lawrence Hall [email protected] Dispatches for the Colonial Office A Visit to the (Euphemism) With Praise for The Sacred White Bowl of Our People Several times each day the call of sanitation Requires of each of us a digestive salutation Within an appropriate private station For needful purgation and evacuation All of mankind, of every land and nation Even Thracian, Haitian, Croation, Dalmatian Must discreetly retire for a brief duration To return to the earth a small donation In this we must conclude, in explanation From the indignity of the situation With no exception, and no aberration That Man is not the glory of God’s Creation (All employees must wash their hands before returning to work)

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Aug 2, 2025

Aug 2, 2025 at 8:50 AM UTC

lawrence-hall

A Visit to the (Euphemism) - puerile doggerel

Lawrence Hall [email protected] Dispatches for the Colonial Office A Visit to the (Euphemism) With Praise for The Sacred White Bowl of Our People Several times each day the call of sanitation Requires of each of us a digestive salutation Within an appropriate private station For needful purgation and evacuation All of mankind, of every land and nation Even Thracian, Haitian, Croation, Dalmatian Must discreetly retire for a brief duration To return to the earth a small donation In this we must conclude, in explanation From the indignity of the situation With no exception, and no aberration That Man is not the glory of God’s Creation (All employees must wash their hands before returning to work)

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