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Our Modern Watchwords

The shadow falls along the shore
The search lights twinkle on the sea
The silence of a mighty fleet
Portends the tumult yet to be.

The tables of the evening meal
Are spread amid the great machines
And thus with pride the question runs
Among the sailors and marines
Breathes there the man who fears to die
For England, Home, & Wai-hai-wai.

poem by Winston Churchill (1898)
Added by Dan Costinaş
1 comment - Comment! | Vote! | Copy! | In Romanian

The Scots [A Dirge]

Black Scots and red Scots,
Red Scots and black;
I hae dealt wi’ the red Scot,
An’ dealt wi’ the black.
The Red Scot is angry
Among the sons o’ men—
He’ll pay you a bawbee,
An’ steal it back again.

Black Scots and red Scots,
Red Scots and black;
I hae dealt wi’ the red Scot,
An’ dealt wi’ the black.

The Black Scot is frien’ly—
A brither an’ a’—
He’ll pay you a bawbee,
An’ steal back twa.

The Ginger Scot o’ a’ Scots,

[...] Read more

poem by Henry Lawson
Added by Poetry Lover
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The Evening

With the ghostly shapes of dead heroes
Moon, you fill
The growing silence of the forest,
Sickle-moon—
With the gentle embraces
Of lovers,
And with ghosts of famous ages
All around the crumbling rocks;
The moon shines with such blue light
Upon the city,
Where a decaying generation
Lives, cold and evil—
A dark future prepared
For the pale grandchild.
You shadows swallowed by the moon
Sighing upward in the empty goblet
Of the mountain lake.

poem by Georg Trakl, translated by Robert Bly
Added by Dan Costinaş
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Sleeping Gas *not done

green gas spawns from idols of greed and lust
its moves like a growing weed as the world begins to rust

leaves fall, dying corpses
as flesh booms from iron horses

poem by Wandering Scarlet
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Travelers are like poets. They are mostly an angry race.

classic quote by Richard Burton
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Poetry.... (Bare Open Hand)

poetry does not pay the rent...
does not buy cars or houses,
does not sell stocks.
does not wear suits and ties,
does not barter, is not profitable,
cannot be bought or sold.

but poetry opens forbidden doors,
builds bridges in the darkness...
embraces the soul left alone.
pours balm on open wounds,
brings a mirror and the cost.

poetry asks questions that the soul whispers,
knows well the language of trees and rivers.
dances naked in the moonlight.
prays prayers we're afraid of...

poetry disarms the violent.
kisses, touches, makes love.

[...] Read more

poem by Eric Cockrell
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The Eyes Have It

It was in the cathedral of open dreams
The firmament, we call the sky...
Nearby birds were on the wing
My eyes, met yours, with but a sigh;
It was in the relentless mountains
Those imminent peaks, we strive to climb
Ascending, it seemed, into infinity...
Where your eyes, did indeed, meet mine;
It was in the clouds of perfection
Where the wind dare not go, nor try
Near to Heaven and far away from Earth
That we-spoke of love-eye to eye;

poem by Theodora Onken
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Sunday Morning - I

Complacencies of the peignoir, and late
Coffee and oranges in a sunny chair,
And the green freedom of a cockatoo
Upon a rug mingle to dissipate
The holy hush of ancient sacrifice.
She dreams a little, and she feels the dark
Encroachment of that old catastrophe,
As a calm darkens among water-lights.
The pungent oranges and bright, green wings
Seem things in some procession of the dead,
Winding across wide water, without sound.
The day is like wide water, without sound,
Stilled for the passing of her dreaming feet
Over the seas, to silent Palestine,
Dominion of the blood and sepulchre.

poem by Wallace Stevens
These verses are part of a series | Full series
Added by Dan Costinaş
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