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Events and attractions. I, alone Trembling, stand. How to find the hidden way? I search the bleak gray sky No sight of day No friendly guide Not lost, unmoved Stand I here, and weep. No one to find, Then why go on? The path is covered with desolation. Wait—I feel a motion. I feel the heavens brush my face, And lift my hair. And kiss my eyes. Soft and cool the mist is breathing. I stand, unmoved but not alone. Some was covered with sharp rocks and pits The child fell and cried But rose again and climbed on. And then he came to another year, When the summit came first to view Through the veil of mist.

And with awe he fell to his knees. Overwhelmed and alone. The paths stretched out Those whom he had traveled with parted Some went on, others fell down or lost the way. He saw them leave He watched their departing backs And knew that he, too, must find a place to go, A path to follow. Up through the mist, he gazed at the majestic, purple, mountain. As in a dream he saw a dream, All white and new and strong.

And so he knelt again and gazed upward, Reaching out to all who passed Only to feel their garments brush his as they passed And left him alone. Night fell and coldness came The summit was hid by darkness He lay down to sleep Then started—a sound A little sound, like breath or sigh. Another, weary form, paused to rest. His heart pounded. How I long to reach its verdant cool. I cannot climb The mount alone.

The world bright and lucid

My foot is sure but I need a hand To lead the way. Through the black he stretched farther his hand. Fingers touched and intertwined in the night. Purple, blue, neath azure sky draped in silk and angel hair. Keep your dream and I will climb and find the way and lead you there If you will come with me And sing your dream. The hands remained clasped And timid and afraid he felt his way Up the face of the mountain And with gently throbbing notes She sang her dream.

Then up they struggled, stumbling And sending down the rubble behind them Feeling the earth give way beneath them. The wind grew sharper And as they reached a place to rest They heard a great roar A river—wide and cruel Swirling black and murky. In the black, they could not see it But they felt the damp and humid air And felt the spray from rapids. He could not hear her gentle song. It lay buried in the din.

He felt her fall and lie still He knelt and put his face next to hers. I only hear the river. I cannot sing the dream. Why did we begin?

Poems by Tua Forsström | Books from Finland

You are with me. Find the path, a bridge On the river. We will show the way. Leave me here and find our dream. Do not leave us in the dark. We will lose the dream. Come Come Come. The wind wailed louder And cut them, whipped them, Drove them to huddle and cling. And it blew on and on. Then it stilled And in the east a light began to grow. And it grew until it filled the night. Above them it loomed Majestic and purple. Intertwined fingers, shoulders together They began again to climb The river was still and washed their feet And the weariness from their hearts.

And the light bore them up. The verdant odors invited them up. And at the top Kind hands reached out to lift them And they went together. Valuable beyond compare Are all the simple things we share, Laughter, tears, and tender song Every tie, silent, strong. Near by thy side I start today There I long to always stay. I touch your hand, you looked at me. Now I dream, Evermore to be all things to thee. What was that sad and sweet refrain? Such songs are born for lonely hearts. What gentle joy each note imparts. What throbbing cords and soaring strains.

What tears when the adagio starts. What is this haunting memory Born on wings of melody? I close my eyes and hear it still. Tis nothing but a symphony. One tall and prim, One short and fat, One cheerful in a fancy hat. The fourth one, pray, whose child is she? A grandma still in infancy. Her hands and face are worn with care, But pebbles play about her hair.

Science Stinks

Her eyes hold pools where fairies play, Her smile a flash that lights the day. In her heart the angels sing, In her age, eternal spring.


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But since it was only he, They bowed their heads quietly. More aware that he was gone, Than of him his lifetime long. No awkward pause his passing gives. He died as silent as he lived. Oh hear the sobbing wind. The stranger passed beneath my door And bid me let him in. His head was bowed in pain.

His hands were blue with cold. His feet were bound in bloody rags. His coat was torn and old. My hearth was bright and warm. My cup and larder full. I turned the stranger from my door. My thoughtless heart was cruel. Oh hear the crying night. The chill night blows about my heart.

Tyger! Tyger! burning bright ~ poem reading with text

HE cannot let me in! The battle that he fought is won. The song he lived to sing is sung. The things he had to do are done. Reserve for else your mournful tear. A life well lived — No sorrow here. With last, light, twinkle, fading stars away As moment most in night, gives way to day. Man from his silent slumbers slowly wakes And on his back his weighing burden takes.

A fellow strange and varied have we here. He knows both wanton laugh and anguished tear. Mankind with this hand he calls his own Reached up for skies where only birds had flown, Found secrets hidden deep in fathomed tombs, With this hand, will he create his doom?

Sally Wen Mao Writes Visionary Poems for a Blinkered World

Mankind is a lonesome, selfish one Suspicious of his brothers and his sons. The soul is free from fateful chains that bind. For what man gives away in love to keep An equal measure shall he someday reap. But let love reign and compassion tool, If Mankind could but live the Golden Rule, Then would pain and sorrow fade away And peace and joy return at last to stay. And lingering velvet curtains of the night Would fall around no more to hide the light.

The sound of angel voices could we hear If only Earth were free from greed and fear. Flowers tip their faces now, Dew kissed, every one. Houses full of life and laughter; Open up to greet the day, And send their people out to play. So on forever after. Do not ants build hills? We are but as ants to Heaven. Rising magic moon on high Sails like a clipper through the sky. The eve has come, the day has fled. The trees lift up their branches high And twilight breezes sweep the sky. A hymn to thee the wind-flutes play, A psalm at purple close of day.

At least we walked the globe And reached the opposite of its diameter. What calls tears today Will soon joy impart. Redwood standing silent there, Weaving stardust in your hair, When breezes murmur soft and low. I wonder all that you must know. What have you heard, you stalwart mast, Of secrets whispered in the past? How many centuries have you stood And listened in this silent wood? Would you teach me, if you could, The wisdom you have understood? Thank you, God, for making trees For men to walk among, Redwoods to divide the light Where whispered prayers are sung, Trees to lean on in the wind, For shelter in the rain, Trees to show each man his place, To give him strength again.

Thank you, God, for making trees And placing them with me, Standing straight and firm and tall As messengers to thee. From out her pursing rose-touched lips Escape such trembling sighs. Her hair is misty tossed and curled About her sun-kissed face. Her hands like gentle butterflies Weave gestures into lace. Stardust plays about her feet. Her laugh, but happy yesterday, Today with music rings. Where yesterday she silent walked, Today she skips and sings. What arrows hold the sting To turn a shy and simple maid Into this splendid thing.

Your smile is brighter. Your hair is much lighter. Your laughter is richer. Your manner is surer. Though his tongue was purer Your meaning is stronger. You try to remember. Your kiss? Not so tender, But more honest for sure. No need to lose your soul to mine. No need to love me as before. No need to smile tenderly. No need to take me to your heart, But let me give to thee. Their eyes were full of love. I knew his hand was strong and warm. Laura sadly smiled at me. I remembered then, how kind his hand, His smile, warm and tender then When once he smiled at me.

I remembered how he led me once, And left me in the autumn sun- To face the cold alone. Happiness, sweet pain Which lies within my breast, At times you gently touch my heart And let it lie at rest. No more your warm and gentle lips, To press to mine and smile Away that lonely cavern in my heart. Gone now the younger hours we spent Walking arm in arm Along the narrow upward path. Gone the dancing steps, like lace Unraveled to a thread. Farewell my sweet, my dearest one, Companion of my soul.

Lonely once again my soul, Alone, to climb the path alone Except for memory. We found the paths together You walked with me so long. Now all I see them strange, forboding. Where shall I walk? Shall I retread my way Or find a new road? Where will you go? I know — Straight on, Never once a backward glance, While I gaze at you leaving, Hoping, praying for a pause A sign of slight regret Or longing. So perfect you are that ye must needs be clay, for who could shape iron with such lack of flaws.

Children in jackets play with new wagons and balls. And parents sleep inside. But no one got sleds. What is a poem? They will come while I sleep and When I am gone In night black empty solitude Alone with a heartbeat that moves with time In night images against the wall that children see Are horrors never seen by day. Hands touch in the biting air That clutched in summers hot, And footsteps clatter by Where once they strolled and paused. Its fall and soon The shallow snows that melt Before they cool those burning tears will come.

Its autumn and the flowers that bloomed are nearly dry And trees are dry and rattle in the wind. Leaves burn brown and curl And break from brittle twigs Into muddy puddles, soggy wet To lie neath snow and ice. After winter comes the spring, But there can be no spring this year. What can I do? I beg of you Advise me please What can I do? What would you do I ask of you If you were me What would you do?

The wise keep silent And fools have much to say About the silent wise. The things they do! With dust in their mouths and dust in their clothes And dust in their eyelids and between their toes. Hee Haw! No, they went to the west I guess if we follow the north would be best. And soon Ali saw on horses of gray Fifty and twenty fast fleeing away.

Hee haw! But this hanky would do as likely as not. She turned to face Ali, the Lady-from-Spain. She turned on her heel and went into the house The mixed-up-man followed as meek as a mouse. Ali drew water and they both drank their fill Then they started and again to climb over the hill. Near the close of the book, the second title poem revises the first. There were famous people in that crowd, indistinguishable from the rest, now reduced to anonymity, though, of course, many of them were identified in the coverage that followed.

The performance represented one way out of the self-consuming social-media cycle, but for just a moment, and for only a lucky few. William Finnegan discusses his reporting on the best surfer in the world, Kelly Slater, and how his revolutionary wave machine both advanced and disrupted the surfing industry. Recommended Stories. Sign in. Get the best of The New Yorker in your in-box every day.