Night fall dreams
A ride through moonshine
Home may tell tales
Night fall dreams
A ride through moonshine
Home may tell tales
I am needle, needless of pain, driving through fabric, to create a happy stitch,
I am dance, sometimes something sane, twists and turns, breaking within or without,
I am fury, memories may wane, trust on mere ink and paper, pale but yet transparent
I am innocence, a cry too soon, living for the weak, suns glam and joyous warmth
I am poetry, needle for needless pain, innocent cry not heard, dance within sanity and fury of many spirits
Happy Father’s day 👪
HOW I CAME TO LOVE POETRY
As an introverted teen I found solace in writing. All my thought was written in form of poetry. I also wrote poetry for my faculty and student magazines. Fast forward to many years, I submitted my first story and poetry to two different competitions. I didn’t make the shortlist for the short story contest but made third place in a National Poetry competition! Since then I decided to focus more on poetry. I made Google my friend and looked up local and international writing competitions. There were many story writing (prose) contests split into fiction and non fiction with huge cash prizes! The same went for drama competitions with mouth-watering prizes, but this was not the case for poetry. I mean there are poetry contests out there but few offered good prize money.
That little story of mine formed the basis for my argument that poetry is not as popular as other literary genres. I won’t draw only from my experience. So I decided to engage my friends and mentors on long discussions. I also stayed late nights in many Poetry Groups to brainstorm with other poets. At the end I was able to collate some of their thoughts. I will share them here.
My first contact was Diego Donati, who believes that “to appreciate poetry you need to be sensitive and speak from the heart. And not many people are like that.” Mark Priestly provided a similar answer to Diego’s with a rhetorical question, “Because it only appeals to the poetic?” I thought so too. But must one be poetic to accept poetry? Soumya Naik supported Mark’s position as he believed that only poetic minds can understand the emotions in a poem.
My friend Steve Stone believes that good poetry makes people think and most are too lazy to be bothered with that.
“I think partially because it doesn’t get as much exposure because it doesn’t sell as well as the other genres. I think that might have to do with Rock and Roll becoming popular in the mid-50’s. Again with Rap and Hip Hop exploding on the music scene in the early 80’s. If there’s no market for it no one is going to promote so less people are going to discover it and read it.” Steve Howard aptly put.
Sarah Mulqueen quipped, “It doesn’t have to be written ‘correctly’, it has a law all of it’s own which I know drives my mother crazy.”
“I would have to say because it is often ambiguous and open to more than one interpretation. My cure for that is to write using common language in uncommon ways.” Tate Morgan supported. Kiran Sharan has this to say: “Perhaps because it’s much more difficult to encapsulate your feelings or thought processes in a few lines as compared to prose where you can ramble on and on unless of course you’re writing an Iliad an Odyssey a Mahabharata or a Paradise Lost.”
August Hill was more radical in his approach. “People are too stupid to understand metaphors and symbolism, they fall asleep with the rhythm if a poem is well done because instead of listening their mind can’t concentrate that much, honestly I’d argue mostly they just hear the rhymes. That’s my take actually.”
He went further to elaborate. “For what it’s worth the other day I was looking for a poetry circle in my city. Figured I’d look on the paper and internet and all I could find was articles about “Is poetry a dead art in my country.” So I’m not as optimistic as all the folks that say that poetry is up there. Plus if you look at it historically most poets that were historically and literary consequential died in complete poverty, mistreated by their society to the point of starving to dead, dying of disease or being chased away by their family. So this isn’t something new.
In the words of the French poet Baudelaire, “A poem never was worth bread.” I think it’s because of the abstract nature of poetry, a good poem is worthless because it cannot have a price on it, not because it is mind feaces, but because literally a good poem is world changing, and nobody could ever own a gift to humanity. Which is precisely the nature of poetry.” I agree with this. He went further.
“It’s not that poverty is part of the life of a poet, it’s just that we are forced into it and we find peace of mind through poetry. I’d say, if you wanna make money definitely don’t try to do it through poetry, now if you want to glance behind the veil of reality or if you have a message for the world, that’s a good motivation for poetry. You’ll be disappointed if you seek wealth through it, but if you know you seek something greater you’ll never be disappointed and you probably will reach it without even noticing it. People around you will tell you, you made it, and it will mean more than all the money in the world.
At the same time I wrote hundreds of poems, and what I noticed is that if you really want to write, you must write to write, not write for fame, not for money, not even for recognition… at best if you find kindred spirits you can share. But even then poems are not meant to be understood by a reader the way a poet writes.” August concluded.
“From my point of view (I am not dismissing how you see it) well admired is a bit of a stretch. I think people who like and admire poetry are few and far between and they might feel like it’s well admired because perhaps they see it more in their own lives. I feel like If I think about the entire country, football would be well admired and poetry, liked by some.” Emily Simmance said.
Akua Daps has this to say, “I think part of it is that people have lost the appreciation for the beauty of its interpretation. People want to be shown and told how to view it. Ex. Descriptive books and movies. Vs. How poetry takes your mind on a journey. People aren’t taught the literary tools to dissect poetry like back in the day.”
Luke Fallow has this to say, “Because a certain type of poetry has been perpetuated which is really self indulgent and depressing, so people assume all poetry is just writing about how sad you are.”
In the words of Steve Anc, “People prefer direct communication, but poets had twisted that already.
Therefore, they are confused.” Benjamin Davis supports this “It takes almost as much skill to read and comprehend it as it does to write it.” Cassandra Cassy added that “It’s more difficult to understand both in meaning and language. It seems boring to readers.”
For Michael Walsh poetry is a mystery for most people. “I mean, we do have the quite simple poem written about a simple subject, and anyone reading it is quite certain of what it is about.
On the other hand, we have a number of different types of poetry. Some almost never to be understood properly, and often no real idea about what it is about. I suppose in that regard, poetry is very similar to Paintings and Drawings. To some a simply painting is beautiful, whilst some you have to stand in your head with one eye closed, and still not get it. I think the ability to read poetry is probably a much harder skill than it is to write it.
In all of these matters we are talking about not just cerebral pursuits, but also entertainment. And people being entertained do not usually like to work too hard. For then, it is no longer entertainment, but work; and often very hard work. And people do not expect to have work to be entertained; those two for most people are diametrically opposed. People like to see and feel what is going on, and in the broad field of reading and writing, most prefer a good novel to read. It is there in front of you, and is relaxingly simple. Poetry, in a very general sense, is not easy, and it can be very hard or even impossible to understand. So what is the point? There is the adventure poem. I will refer here to poem about a horse in Australia. Not last century now, but the one before. Two movies about it. “The Man From Snowy River”. This is a long poem. Literally, a novel in a poem. It has an upbeat feel to it, some uncommon language, but by the end if it, you feel like you have ridden the horse. The poem literally gallop along. By the end, the heart is pumping, the breathing fast. You knew what you had done. One of my favourite forms of poetry.
And let’s face it, some poetry does absolutely nothing for me, and I love poetry.”
Ahmed Jouini gave a support response. “It’s less popular because it requires more effort from the audience than the other genres: in cinema you have everything in front of you; in music you can just zone out and keep listening as long as there is a catchy beat or some rhymes etc. This is just one of the reasons.” Abraham Conneh added further, “Poetry is either appreciated or not depending on people’s perception of it. If fuel and spiced well with some visual lay minds grasped its value. More exposure may get people to consider its value.” Also John Green has this to say, “The fact is, many people want something that is 100% tangible, direct, and doesn’t require thinking in the abstract with multiple meanings being possible.”
Nola Alvaro quipped that “Poetry is to be savoured in small amounts like the finest of wines.”
Marrero has this to say, “Cause people just don’t like to express themselves. Poets are realists. Most people ain’t. And not only that, but I believe it goes by generation. This generation is too distracting. Too many things going on around us. This is the era of modern technology, and mind altering substances. The list goes on, but you get my point.”
Colin Ward‘s opinion: “There are a number of reasons why English language poetry was entirely subsumed by song lyrics during the 20th century. Copyright law began the decline, the pseudointelligensia’s fascination with cryptocrap accelerated it, and the education system administered the coup de grâce when it ceased teaching its elements”
Ch’erie de Perrot‘s view is that lyrics for songs are written from poetry, tweaked of course to avoid copyright. “We are the inspiration of many authors, musicians, directors and movie producers. Alas, the underpaid brilliance behind so much, but for the love of it all, we keep going, and laugh when we see a slogan even on an advertisement… Smile to self.”
Tia Papillion agreed with my opinion. “A lot of non poets only seek poetry and interested by it till they actually need it or reach that point. A lot of people would rather go to get a love book v/s reading a love poem they don’t understand. Of course don’t have to be about love, but a lot of people think that’s all poetry is good for.”
Some poets like Benjamin Allhands thought otherwise because “Popular and or return on investment is difficult. Unless you self publish getting a book off is hard. Some spend decades trying.” Also James Horton argued that “there are elements of poetry in other literary genre.” I totally agree.
When Jay McDaid gave his opinion, it was completely otherwise. “That is simply untrue. It’s well liked. What you are thinking of is the fact that people are less likely to purchase poetry books. That happened when pulp fiction became the common denominator rather than the lowest. One need only drop into a gift card shop to see how popular the primitive verse is.”
Godswill Iren argued further; “That’s not true. Poetry comes first in the origin of the genres. Drama came through festivals and rehearsals which became adopted as a form of entertainment. But before that poetry existed through folklores and chants from praise singers. Songs and epic stories told in poetry form was the original work before other forms like prose developed.” Pretty insightful, right?
Haider Farooq opined that “Poetry is the fundamental reason of creations. Poetry is most popular. Even we like to listen to songs not fiction. We read fiction and sing poetry.” When I asked him why publishers prefer other genres. He replied “Please be informed that I’m not opposing other genres however, the publisher is a business man so he accommodates all.”
Kim Fleming bluntly disagreed. “I don’t agree! Poetry is usually about love it is the most exalted art form! Most of all religious scriptures of the world are in part or in whole poetry, and most song lyrics are poetry, look at how important love poetry is in religion and in song. Humankind has a natural desire to express the most exalted truth in verse and many songs are religious in theme. Personally I love Neil Diamond. He is my favourite singer/songwriter! I practically worship this guy. No matter who you are you have a favourite singer/ songwriter, I’ll wager!”
Knowledge is power, knowledge shared is power multiplied. – Robert Noyce.
That’s it for today at Poets’ Corner. What’s your opinion?
Bird songs, colourful butterflies and sun rays,
Are fruits from Nature’s basket of kindness,
To man, his clan she gave tranquility and peace
I told trees of your songs and they are jealous,
When you drop, birds and the wild stop to listen,
To hear you sing a melody from the long fall
And watch you wash your garment on the rush below
Oh little looking weebly-woobly Frog
Jumping about on a quiet blue lake
‘Dob-wob, Dob-wob‘, it croaked into evening
Calling to all nature’s big and small,
For some short but lively weebly-woobly dance
Image provided by Mary Grace M. Salomes, MGMS.
I decided to write a short piece for children. My friend, Mary from The Philippines had long taught her neighborhood children this poem.
I know beautiful words are healing to the soul, but I write not because words are beauty but for your beautiful self. So I want you to sit back and enjoy this rhyme, this African style. Everyone has got a style, loving you by beautiful words is my style.
That morning before the early hunters left their homes for the forest, Papa was already on his way to Ndi-Ikele to welcome the priest, newly arrived from Trinidad and Tobago. It was breezy and cloudy that morning, it seemed it would rain any moment. Trees, especially the palm took to joyful procession when I stepped out to look around. Heavy breeze shook the forest and the skies grew darker. Birds took flight, stray dogs barked. People took in laundry previously spread to dry. The wind blew dust and tree leaves about and I had to retreat back to my room. It was dark inside but I could hear Nene playing with her dog near the kitchen fire while Mama prepared breakfast. Mama knew well enough to get food ready before Papa’s return and while Papa may not bother about himself, he will definitely want to know if his first son has been fed. Men’s queer world, I shrugged.
I took a pen from my school box and started writing on an old wooden seat in my room:
I’m but a soul in a cold tumbler
I catch the wind with my palms, but my life is lived by another
I only wake to live another’s dream…
I was still scribbling and thinking of this strange rhyme when Nene walked into my room without knocking. She quickly scanned my room with her eyes and then delivered her message. I was wanted by Mama. Nene was the inspector in the house and always had something to report to our parents. She was talkative only when she wants something and had a bossy way of getting things done. She was the miniature version of my father.
“My son, your food is ready.” Mama recalled me back from my thought.
“Thank you, Mama.”
“Nene, take his bowl of water to his room.” Mama said to Nene. After a short protest and smirks she finally took the bowl to my room, mumbling and spilling some water on the way.
“Be careful Nene. Don’t spill water on my mats.” I said to her. She took a short look at me and disappeared from the door.
Tinkom tinkom, tibaliba
Dadi nkem o, Dadi nkem o
I we hapu m oo, wee jewe Lagosi
Muna onye ga ebi…
Children sang and played outside our compound. The noise wouldn’t let me reason or rest. Nene and Kiri, our cousin from few compounds away were the leaders. The game was played by softly hitting the palms of your opponents in numerous styles to rhyme with the beat sang by members of the two teams. Both led a team of three followers. The game progressed peacefully for a while, and Nene’s team led in total score. Suddenly she mistakenly put out her left hand instead of the right one and lost a game. Kiri and her teammates shouted and rejoiced over their gain and Nene pained with the mistake bursted out angry.
“It seemed that you’re happy for nothing. I still lead the total score… See your tummy like that of a pregnant frog.” She yelled at Kiri, hands akimbo.
“See this one, she is angry that she lost a game. You’re a loser!” Kiri retorted when she learned her rival was bitter.
“If you don’t close your mouth, I’ll help you deliver that foetus in your tummy.” Nene shouted again. Their team members were enjoying the scenario when Mama walked in from the back.
“Who are those children that won’t let us drink water and rest in this compound. Ssshussh children, run away!” She shouted and clapped her hands. The fighting parties disengaged and ran away from the compound to regroup somewhere else and continue with their game.
To be continued…
Listen to Nature sing from waterfalls,
She thrash her garments upon rocks
And wash them with her soft palms
She sends soft waters crashing into the pool
Watching the blue skies as her fingers work
When the water descend they form
Fine curtains of white mist
As the water touch the pool below
It changes into bubbling green
Loose soil cling to Water lilies & Fern roots
Slowly falling water push crabs to their burrows
Echoing nature’s still song till evening
Many times I told myself that love is but a lie
It comes into a life and leaves without a trace
But since I met you, I feel more ambience;
The way you make me do things I do,
The way you smile and cherish life so
Here in the tropics,
Night falls suddenly
No long drawn out twilight
Sitting here surrounded by,
Darkness and blackness.
The only light shines from,
A street light glimmering,
Through the foliage,and
The Fireflies small dots.
Specks of light moving,
About seemingly floating,
In the torrid night air.
Moving according to the,
Whim of the insect.
The evening atmosphere is,
Hot and humid, oppresive,
After the days rainstorm.
Maybe I should go inside.
The bedroom is air conditioned.
My wife is in bed asleep.
But I decide to stay,
Foe a while longer.
The only sound is from,
The high pitched yap of,
Geckos racing along,
The walls and ceiling,
Chasing after insects.
Just can’t be bothered,
Moving from here yet.
In spite of the humidity.
The air is heavy ladened,
With the sweet scent of,
Jasmine flowering at night.
The heat saps ones strength.
Feeling weary and tired,
But moving is an effort.
Still,I don’t want to,
Stay out here all night.
It would be a sleepless night.
At least the bedroom is cool,
And I could sleep at last.
I still dream of you
I know you barely think of me
It’s a tough time, isn’t it? Hang on, things will make sense soon.
I just had this thought and reasoned it may be fun too. I’m going to write and dedicate a poem to a follower as a way of saying thank you. Since I can’t afford to give books, flowers or other gifts for now (hopefully I’ll in the near future), I decided to say my appreciation this way. I don’t want to pick randomly as I’ve so many followers in mind.
So I’m going to drop a trivia at the end of this blog post and whoever answers it first and correctly, of course, on the comment section will have their blog link and a customized poetic thank you from me published here next month. I’ll share it to all my social media handles. Let’s have fun and look to the bright side of life.
Thank you for being there. I appreciate you all. ❤😊😘
TRIVIA question: What do you think is the central theme of my blog?
(1) TOGETHER WE WATCH DAY END
Baobab and Palm are shelters,
Glittering stars are my friends,
Waterfalls and Lions, my brothers
And together we watch day end.
(2) MY DANCER
I steal a glance when you dance
Memories of pouting lips haunt me
I dreamed of you and I once
But wished it away if we won’t be
When there was love
I saw blue clouds,
Clear like the sweet spring
Leaping in joyful bounds
The mystic ocean laps gently on the golden shore
The azure sky
The golden sands
The aqua sea
And the green grassy bank on which I sit
Captivates my mind
Fills it with joy and peace
I hear the sound of a guitar playing
Softly in the distance
As I sit in the shade of the palms
The sea birds calling
The waves gently lapping
Soft breeze moving in the palms
My troubled mind is calmed
Such s serene and lovely setting
All is well in my world
All is well
I’m a shepherd, living all by myself
Of course there are people all about
But none share my believes and thought
I dream away alone, such is my life
Early mornings are my quiet times
So I speak life to the day when I wake
Hoping to see my reflection on the lake
And to hear my flock play away on the field
The noon I sit to play my songs
Funny enough, flies and birds sing along
Sometimes the heavy lamb will horn
To raise hopes for the coming new born
When the evenings finally come
I’ll be walking down hill with the flock
To admire the sunset and my handiwork
The sun hiding behind the hills womb
I’m a shepherd, living all by myself
Of course there are people all about
But none share my believes and thought
I dream away alone, such is my life
Nature is a pixie
Unworthy to be sung,
Can it be I’m sixty,
I who was so young?
Over generous hearted,
She heaped me full of years,
Careless if I carted
Bellylaughs or tears.
Though spring is hers for poets
With hopes too high to climb,
I’m strutting up the summit
On crutches made of rhyme.
Your voice is like the Nightingales
I laugh at our goofy-selves
But that’s one of those signs,
That I love you even more
Sometimes I smirk at myself,
They say I’m confused on what I feel,
But if I gave a tomato stalk a hug
Then maybe what they say is true
I laugh at myself…
When I arrest the kitchen
Searching for raw tomatoes
Which refused to grow in my garden
I’m angry, don’t ask why,
Not with myself, with those…
Oh pretty, lovely tomatoes,
Call it confusion if you may
But I know what I want
Just that my taste came at a time
My garden won’t let some grow
Let’s lie on green fields
Close your weary eyes
Dream with me of a pretty land
I want a tree by my side
And a bunny out there too,
Sunshine, cute clouds and blue skies
Let the sun wear her garment
And her warmth mild upon us
Let tree leaves shade her light
So I’m a musketeer in Camelot
A fantasy in my restless mind
But what do you dream about?
Oh how I praise the hour
When I was born a snail,
Beneath a crimson flower
Beside a garden pail.
At first she didn’t notice me
As I moved so slow,
But with my pointed thinking cap
We thought up a show.
And what an audience I won
On a summer morn,
When she awoke, applauding me,
Sailing on a thorn!
Nothing compares to speeches made by the eyes
When fine memories tumble into low faint sighs
Now see our glamour fade before the waking morning
With the old tree, where we played sitting and grinning
Mourning the demise of a union which might not be
Or which was but could not be totally seen
Ever woke up scared, disoriented and not knowing where?
Open your eyes and you’d see that the Sky’s still there
Even the worst nightmare passes away with a little smile
All that we need is a heart strong enough to withstand while
The planet remains, its beauty intact, hidden in white pages
That are real as that sight outside where you’ve not been ages…
Defer to the one most in pain, say that you need help, my friend
For I can take a little more, this pain wouldn’t be my final, my end!
A dance that reminds us of summer rain and getting wet outside
That song that can be sung as a means to end this unearthly fight
Fight then! Says a voice which was busy cooking up new dreams
Aye! Comes the answer, waiting for minds alike, well, so it seems…
Now, it is time to go back to doing nothing, which takes a lot
Of effort, since life is about being conscious about all we’ve got…
(c) Arunav Barua (I.I.T Guwahati, Assam)
Smile for me beautiful child
Show me your happy face
Let me find inner peace
Because of your beautiful smile
Do not be shy
Let those lips part,
Let your joy fill me with hope
Let me see those little dimples
And the lines of your face
Smile for me pretty African child
Let go of the past,
Smile for your blessed land
image from Pinterest.com
I hear you whisper in the morning,
Waking to your tweet and joyful song,
Lonely morning, seeds spread to the rising sun,
Fields of tropical wheat sing with the mountain,
And with you, beautiful birds; choir made in Heaven
Untarred dusty roads, free wind beat
Ancient hills hanging in the smog,
While heaps of trash greet travelers
Airy morning now, cheerful birds sing
Smell of gutted fruits and vegetables,
Markets swam with strange faces
Human stench overwhelm the breeze
At the distance, grasslands burn
Hawks descend upon thick smoke
As the fire lick the grasses away
Smell of a flowing stream nearby
Empty cattle, pig and sewage waste
Into wetlands and our minds to paint
A picture of nature in modern chaos
Stars glitter for you
When you look up the skies
I cling to hope
She woke slowly
But I must wait
In Africa, some people are known to conjure rain. This piece is not occultic. I will explain more on rainmakers later.
Give me rain,
Let the wind rage again
Give me rain, dear Heaven!
Let it flood the browned farmlands,
Let it refresh the waters of the ponds,
And the hards rocks upon the dry Earth
Let the hamlet be full of the wet clay
Let the Heavens rumble loud
I summon the East winds
I knee before the passing clouds
I hear the aves call out
I summon the Wind from afar
And she quietly comes, alas!
She threw the mighty doors ajar
To wait for a great rain fall!
Clear clouds are darkened
Firmaments are blackened
There is a powerful surge of wind,
To the East where it always stayed
On such evenings when all is weak and weary
When the rain falls on this hamlet, hurriedly
My long candle lights become crimson with fury
When my light-grey curtains dance in sheer frenzy
So right now I am standing,
I stand under the falling rain
I chose to, for it is my special calling
And I thank Heaven for this blessing!
Two snails approach rail tracks
Skies above are grey
Train horns from afar
Life is strings of memories,
Little moments and turning points,
Love and forgiveness,
Flowers and breezy nights,
Happiness and bird watching…
Life is living experience,
Horse riding and beaches,
Hiking and sunset,
Coconut juice and warm soups,
So life is found most in simple things…
Now it was tradition that young men
Cut wood in the neighboring forest
Before they are allowed to chose a maiden
There was no axe in the town and nearby hamlets
So young men did desperate things,
Mirtle was a young man, deformed in one hand,
Humbly dull, but very courageous
Youth of the hamlet, saw him as a weakling
And laughed for he was unfit for this great competition,
So they cared not to help him and such the men
Went deep into the heart of the green forest
Searching for wood, for there was no axe then,
Then appeared dwarves loitering about the wood,
Without food, water or warm clothing
Night came upon them each day
And they starved and want warmth
But no one cared or even looked at them
For the villagers loathed strangers
But not all, were bad mannered
Mirtle had compassion, though he was weak
And knew every night come gruesome
And that treacherous cold was her mistress
So Mirtle offered his food and warm cloths
To some of the weak and weary dwarves
Sharing with them till he had none left
So one night, the elder dwarf gave him a gift
Behold, it was a great axe!
And so Mirtle got some wood for a fair maid prize!
For his kindness to strangers who were in need
I had imagined and created this story to discuss compassion, love and kindness. It is even revealed that Abraham entertained angels without knowing it.
Night falls after the sun
And to homes we all return
Counting the days stress and toil
Letting the darkened kettle boil
And preying our eyes on passing people
While we eat out plates of sweet potato
When the full moon came out
The whole clan grants a sit-out,
The infants, the boys, girls, men, women and clowns
And for those who love the buzz of night life in the town
Tales told about the strong and tall Giraffe
And how she ate the sickly moon half
Hope grows in any determined mind
To courage and self-believe, he is binded
The struggles and pains of the years past
Ride his mind like the reins of a wild horse,
Things do not fall in place as expected always
But strong trust and faith may win the day
You are loved and admired
I am your biggest fan and friend
You are God’s gift and love to me
On your face the sun rise
Like vale-lands hidden by the high hills
The dark is pushed away when you wake
Your smiles are good therapy, they tickle my soul
It takes me to great heights of love and brings me joy
When you smile, you remind me of the rose flower,
The parting of your red lips, a memory to cherish
In your beautiful warm smile I find unspoken love,
It showed me untold and revered blessedness
And says much about you that I never knew
But in all, your smiles are exotic, healing to my eyes
When beautiful summer came…
Upon the glades and vales of the wild woods
The Mountain took her position and stood quietly by the forest side,
Sniffing the sweet smell come from fresh growing flower shrubs
Happy birds came flying home
Followed by pretty insects and the boar herd
The skies tinted with blue skirmish
Sometimes seemed to rain, but it won’t
The tomatoes ripe fast and blush deep
Whenever the black beetles walk up to her for a chat
The sun shine brightly, amused at all reunions
For the community knew many happy times
This was one of those beautiful moments, exhilarating
Antelopes graze majestically beneath tree shade
And squirrels hide behind the branches, watching
“Awww, do you see that?” the pink footed Doves quiz themselves
For in a sudden, a seed came sprouting from the last snow dot
How joyful it was, the Mountain wore a dark gown
Waiting for who dared to admire her triangular shape,
For her lover, the Ice-King travelled far away to other lands
Carrying with himself; all stray winds, both little and mighty
Maybe, to find another lover, but she believed not that
For she heard it as a rumor from the busybodies grey Wolves
The Pines look taller, the snow has left their frost-bitten roots
And when they look down, they feel good about themselves
“Oh, how awfully painful the frost bite was on our foot”
The crickets wonder, leaping from a grass leaf to another
Allowing the wet airs to sift through their fine long body
“The dead Earth is alive!” They yell in utmost joy and unison
“Look at the Mountain, must she dress scantily
Now the Ice-King has no use for her iniquities?”
A confused Wolf said, hiding his face from the sun’s light
“And what beauty she has brought forth”, a Linnet replied
“The flowers blossom in magnificent desires
The tree leaves are greener, and the airs milder
But are all these, the only wealth of the summer?”
The philosophical Woodpecker asked as he shook his head
For to him, the soul of living and happiness
Comes not in the summer nor the winter
Evening breezes are swift lullaby
From the distance
Burning grasses sigh
Bats, owls hover above
Tiny insects welcome a starry night
Crickets quiz themselves
While the mantis scavenge for a bite
Still this airy night is very young
I saw this and thought I should share it. Cat Poem by John Hollander, first published in 1984.