Time poems

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When you entered the workshop, I was already here.
How many statues, and torsos, and heads !
Like remains of the battle that never ends.
I am giggling into my beard. Wind's fluffy plume
is struggling with the curtain. I know you can hear
both, not becoming distinct, no matter for whom.

The Old Sexton

© Park Benjamin

Nigh to a grave that was newly made,

Leaned a sexton old on his earth-worn spade;

Eight Epitaphs

© Vlanes (Vladislav Nekliaev)

You liked your scrolls ? Here they are.
The manuscript of your book ? Here it is.
Your wine and figs ? Here they are.
The portrait of your wife ? Here it is.
Your garden and your house ? Here they are.
The box you never opened ? Here it is.

Wreath Of Sonnets

© Vlanes (Vladislav Nekliaev)

And if sometimes they happen to perform
Some droning dance which smells of here and now,
With springing forms and circles staying warm,
They start to tremble on a pointed prow
Of universe and dream of their home
In whirls destroying leaves to leave a bough.

Dionysus

© Vlanes (Vladislav Nekliaev)

Somewhere, suspended in facetless space,
the vine is spiralling, shown in the distance, with loosened hair:
the farther the eye is, the quicker, the faster it is moving,
as if all this length is bestowing on it the result
and the encouraging memory of the way, done and forgotten for good.

First Letter

© Vlanes (Vladislav Nekliaev)

We crossed to the other side, the burgee of the boat
ceased flapping and lagged behind like a dead wing.
The visible air seemed neither cold nor hot,
the violet clouds flew past us, scurrying.
The plain was dark, and the mountain was tall,
and the echo swallowed the boatman's call.

Meeting

© Peter Huchel

Barn owl
daughter of snow,
subject to the night wind,

The Passing Of Arthur

© Alfred Tennyson

That story which the bold Sir Bedivere,
First made and latest left of all the knights,
Told, when the man was no more than a voice
In the white winter of his age, to those
With whom he dwelt, new faces, other minds.

Ballade Of A Moss-Grown Symbol

© Bert Leston Taylor

Immortal lid, I lift my own to thee!
Tenacious lid, that Time nor dents nor tears!
Symbol encrusted with antiquity! --
The dear old Paper Cap that Labor wears.

To Florence

© George Gordon Byron

Oh Lady! when I left the shore,
The distant shore which gave me birth,
I hardly thought to grieve once more
To quit another spot on earth:

Greeting

© John Greenleaf Whittier

I spread a scanty board too late;
The old-time guests for whom I wait
Come few and slow, methinks, to-day.
Ah! who could hear my messages
Across the dim unsounded seas
On which so many have sailed away!

"Beneath a veil of milky white"

© Osip Emilevich Mandelstam

Beneath a veil of milky white
Stands Isaac's like a hoary dovecote,
The crozier irritates the grey silences,
The heart understands the airy rite.

The Break Of Day

© John Shaw Neilson

THE STARS are pale.

Old is the Night, his case is grievous,

A Ballad Of Suicide

© Gilbert Keith Chesterton

As one that knots his necktie for a ball;
But just as all the neighbourson the wall
Are drawing a long breath to shout "Hurray!"

Life Returning

O LIFE, dear life, with sunbeam finger touching
This poor damp brow, or flying freshly by
On wings of mountain wind, or tenderly
In links of visionary embraces clutching
Me from the yawning grave--
Can I believe thou yet hast power to save?

The Bluebell

The Bluebell is the sweetest flower
That waves in summer air:
Its blossoms have the mightiest power
To soothe my spirit's care.

Boaz Asleep

Boaz, overcome with weariness, by torchlight
made his pallet on the threshing floor
where all day he had worked, and now he slept
among the bushels of threshed wheat.