“The calla lilies are in bloom again. Such a strange flower — suitable to any occasion. I carried them on my wedding day, and now I place them here in memory of something that has died.” ― Katharine Hepburn
Poetry
A Dream
by William Blake
Once a dream did weave a shade
O’er my angel-guarded bed,
That an emmet lost its way
Where on grass methought I lay.
Troubled, wildered, and forlorn,
Dark, benighted, travel-worn,
Over many a tangle spray,
All heart-broke, I heard her say:
‘Oh my children! do they cry,
Do they hear their father sigh?
Now they look abroad to see,
Now return and weep for me.’
Pitying, I dropped a tear:
But I saw a glow-worm near,
Who replied, ‘What wailing wight
Calls the watchman of the night?
‘I am set to light the ground,
While the beetle goes his round:
Follow now the beetle’s hum;
Little wanderer, hie thee home! ‘
The Stolen Child
by W.B. Yeats
Where dips the rocky highland
Of Sleuth Wood in the lake,
There lies a leafy island
Where flapping herons wake
The drowsy water-rats.
There we’ve hid our fairy vats
Full of berries,
And of reddest stolen cherries.
Come away, O, human child!
To the woods and waters wild
With a fairy hand in hand,
For the world’s more full of weeping than
you can understand.
Where the wave of moonlight glosses
The dim grey sands with light,
Far off by farthest Rosses
We foot it all the night,
Weaving olden dances,
Mingling hands, and mingling glances,
Till the moon has taken flight; p. 60
To and fro we leap,
And chase the frothy bubbles,
While the world is full of troubles
And is anxious in its sleep.
Come away! O, human child!
To the woods and waters wild,
With a fairy hand in hand,
For the world’s more full of weeping than
you can understand.
Where the wandering water gushes
From the hills above Glen-Car,
In pools among the rushes,
That scarce could bathe a star,
We seek for slumbering trout,
And whispering in their ears;
We give them evil dreams,
Leaning softly out
From ferns that drop their tears
Of dew on the young streams.
Come! O, human child!
To the woods and waters wild,
With a fairy hand in hand,
For the world’s more full of weeping then
you can understand.
Away with us, he’s going,
The solemn-eyed;
He’ll hear no more the lowing
Of the calves on the warm hill-side.
Or the kettle on the hob
Sing peace into his breast;
Or see the brown mice bob
Round and round the oatmeal chest.
For he comes, the human child,
To the woods and waters wild,
With a fairy hand in hand,
For the world’s more full of weeping than
he can understand.
Red Satin Sheets
They say she was like red satin sheets
on a dark day
They say he was like the weather under them
and he adored her love
They were like a match made in Heaven
and a hurricane made in Hell
And they were full of a passion that
could only bring their tragedy
And when he lost her
he could never love another
red satin sheet again
Caged Bird
by Maya Angelou
A free bird leaps
on the back of the wind
and floats downstream
till the current ends
and dips his wing
in the orange sun rays
and dares to claim the sky.
But a bird that stalks
down his narrow cage
can seldom see through
his bars of rage
his wings are clipped and
his feet are tied
so he opens his throat to sing.
The caged bird sings
with a fearful trill
of things unknown
but longed for still
and his tune is heard
on the distant hill
for the caged bird
sings of freedom.
The free bird thinks of another breeze
and the trade winds soft through the sighing trees
and the fat worms waiting on a dawn bright lawn
and he names the sky his own
But a caged bird stands on the grave of dreams
his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream
his wings are clipped and his feet are tied
so he opens his throat to sing.
The caged bird sings
with a fearful trill
of things unknown
but longed for still
and his tune is heard
on the distant hill
for the caged bird
sings of freedom.
“What’s in a name? that which we call a rose
By any other name would smell as sweet;
So Romeo would, were he not Romeo call’d,
Retain that dear perfection which he owes.”
William Shakespeare
“There’s hidden sweetness in the stomach’s emptiness.
We are lutes, no more, no less.”
“Let the beauty we love become the good we do.”
What that murderous cruel have done
Makes me wretched like the invisible nightingale
Stones fell on me like rain
A flip of a friend tear me into pieces
I learnt who are the friends and enemies on my black day
I had ten troubles now I have fifty
I am put on the death order
Let them hang or shoot me
I am Pir Sultan Abdal, whose soul can’t rise into the air
Only if god commands, the rain shall start
The stones of the strangers never fell on me
But the rose of a friend hurts me
“Pir Sultan Abdal was a Sufi poet and rebel of his time against the Ottoman Sultan. He was sentenced to murder and this poem is said to be his last one. The hearsay is that, the Sultan orders the public to stone him, one of his fellow is afraid to go against the Sultan’s order but throws a rose instead of a stone not to hurt Pir Sultan. However, Pir Sultan hurt more because it comes from a friend but not an enemy.” It has been said that Ben Harper during a visit to Istanbul, heard this poem sung in a bar/cafe. This may have influenced his writing the song Roses From My Friends.
And she was fair as is the rose in May. — Geoffrey Chaucer
Maverick Mist 