Quotes about stub, page 3
The frozen death in a quiet winter night!
['You can choose to live your life to your own agenda with a sense of personal purpose that gives your life ventures meaning and a feeling of fulfillment_This is called being at cause living from the inside out creating the life and reality you want.']-David R.J.Powell
Skeletal cypress trees mourn
for their offspring
At a stretch sleep the countless fallen leaves,
Quiet the hazy night and a small drizzle
with crispy snow that covers the helpless burial grounds?
I hear their babyish cries but I am voiceless?
I took out my pocket book and the pencil stub
and I address to my poor poet-God!
While a tear dropp hangs in my eye.
For you, I scribble this line Sir!
O I witnessed the frozen death
in this quiet winter night?
for my poet friend Pranab Chakraborty in gratitude!
Who's translated my few poems into his mother tongue Bengali and already published them in his co-editing magazine.
nimal dunuhinga
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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Shine, Perishing Republic
While this America settles in the mould of its vulgarity, heavily thickening
to empire
And protest, only a bubble in the molten mass, pops and sighs out, and the
mass hardens,
I sadly smiling remember that the flower fades to make fruit, the fruit rots
to make earth.
Out of the mother; and through the spring exultances, ripeness and deca-
dence; and home to the mother.
You making haste haste on decay: not blameworthy; life is good, be it stub-
bornly long or suddenly
A mortal splendor: meteors are not needed less than mountains:
shine, perishing republic.
But for my children, I would have them keep their distance from the thick-
ening center; corruption
Never has been compulsory, when the cities lie at the monster's feet there
are left the mountains.
And boys, be in nothing so moderate as in love of man, a clever servant,
insufferable master.
There is the trap that catches noblest spirits, that caught--they say--
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poem by Robinson Jeffers
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Elephant's Graveyard III
Sanctified by elephants since time began-
elephants who accept their end uncomplainingly
with relief and nary a snivel
having long ago made it a point to live their lives well
and confident of this just repose.
'Oh, my God, ' you think, 'all the ivory.'
Ivory laying about, half-sunk, everywhere
strewn, grass-entangled, trip-you-up ivory,
because that's what's left of an elephant, after a bit-
after a century or so, that's quite all that's left,
a tusk of ivory bearing in this respect
a sharp resemblance to a man's poetic toil
or the opera-ticket stub found in his breast pocket
by his grand-child, rummaging in the attic
a century after the time when the music stopped
and stopped forever, never to again resume;
toppled stalagmites of ivory, some taller than a man,
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poem by Morgan Michaels
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Still Life in Landscape
It was night, it had rained, there were pieces of cars and
half-cars strewn, it was still, and bright,
a woman was lying on the highway, on her back,
with her head curled back and tucked under her shoulders
so the back of her head touched her spine
between her shoulder-blades, her clothes
mostly accidented off, and her
leg gone, a long bone
sticking out of the stub of her thigh—
this was her her abandoned matter,
my mother grabbed my head and turned it and
clamped it into her chest, between
her breasts. My father was driving—not sober
but not in this accident, we’d approached it out of
neutral twilight, broken glass
on wet black macadam, like an underlying
midnight abristle with stars. This was
the world—maybe the only one.
The dead woman was not the person
my father had recently almost run over,
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poem by Sharon Olds
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Strange Fragrance of Withered Flowers!
Hibiscus syriacus is the national flower of South Korea!
Dear Kim, I try to bring you that flower?
Summer breeze dragged me to a Korean burial grounds here
And it's really a living Paradise on Earth!
The beautiful tombs greeted me with a familiar smile.
The flowery characteristic letters on tombs I cannot read
That resembles the Japanese Hiragana?
I was very anxious to see at least a Korean relative lives here
Who could talk with me politely?
I walked further and all of a sudden found a tomb
Letters written in English and he must be a Korean-English scholar
Comitted suicide at his young age?
This was written;
'Hey! My stranger friend did you bring flowers and candles?
If not never mind leisurely we could have a chat.'
I was ashamed and looked around, all are dead souls
Except me only the breathing Corpse?
I took my pencil stub from the hidden pocket and scribbled this;
'When I come here next time I'll fulfill your humble expectations Brother! '
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poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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End of A Day
In the long evening of April through the cool light
Bayle's two sheep dogs sail down the lane like magpies
for the flock a moment before he appears near the oaks
a stub of a man rolling as he approaches
smiling and smiling and his dogs are afraid of him
we stand among the radiant stones looking out over
green lucent wheat and earth combed red under bare walnut limbs
bees hanging late in cowslips and lingering bird cherry
stumps and brush that were the grove of hazel trees
where the land turns above the draped slopes and the valley
filled with its one sunbeam and we exchange a few questions
as though nothing were different but he has bulldozed the upland
pastures and the shepherds' huts into piles of rubble
and has his sheep fenced in everyone's meadows now
the smell of box and damp leaves drifts from the woods where a blackbird
is warning of nightfall Bayle has plans to demolish
the ancient walls of the lane and level it wide
so that trucks can go all the way down to where the lambs
with perhaps two weeks to live are waiting for him at the wire
he hurries toward them while the sun sinks and the hour
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poem by William Stanley Merwin
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The Expatriates
My dear, it was a moment
to clutch for a moment
so that you may believe in it
and believing is the act of love, I think,
even in the telling, wherever it went.
In the false New England forest
where the misplanted Norwegian trees
refused to root, their thick synthetic
roots barging out of the dirt to work on the air,
we held hands and walked on our knees.
Actually, there was no one there.
For fourty years this experimental
woodland grew, shaft by shaft in perfect rows
where its stub branches held and its spokes fell.
It was a place of parallel trees, their lives
filed out in exile where we walked too alien to know
our sameness and how our sameness survives.
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poem by Anne Sexton
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My Heart Is Burning
Heart is burning thinking of you
Smelling the jealousy of mine for your ex-one
Thinking always what was my fault
Why did you do this with me? ? ? ? ?
Saying “I love you” you just turned around and
Told me ”leave me alone I am not yours
My heart is burning for another one, my ex-one”
My heart is crying thinking of you
You had told me you love me & will marry me
Showed a lot of dreams
Traveled with me around the garden for catching a butterfly and
When I caught it for you you kissed me and told” you are all for me”
But now you are saying your heart is burning for the ex-one
My heart is burning loving you
Wanna kill myself as I am the stupid idiot fell in love and trusted you blindly
And now burning seriously in the fire of our wonderful past
Wanna throw myself from the top of the hill
Wanna stub my heart and drove you out of this
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poem by Rajnish Jena
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1916 Seen From 1921
Tired with dull grief, grown old before my day,
I sit in solitude and only hear
Long silent laughters, murmurings of dismay,
The lost intensities of hope and fear;
In those old marshes yet the rifles lie,
On the thin breastwork flutter the grey rags,
The very books I read are there—and I
Dead as the men I loved, wait while life drags
Its wounded length from those sad streets of war
Into green places here, that were my own;
But now what once was mine is mine no more,
I seek such neighbours here and I find none.
With such strong gentleness and tireless will
Those ruined houses seared themselves in me,
Passionate I look for their dumb story still,
And the charred stub outspeaks the living tree.
I rise up at the singing of a bird
And scarcely knowing slink along the lane,
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poem by Edmund Blunden
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Stars Burn At Their Brightest
I am the candle flame
which burns brightest
before last flickering moments
of struggling heart-torn life.
Each day a part
of me is consumed
in differing
though measured step.
Burned out forever.
Slowly I am drowning
wick is near liquefied end.
I’m falling without footing
or foundation beneath.
Can I exist a stub
upon discarded altar
of a God who did not see
or answer prayer?
Until dismal day
he deems fit, to clear
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poem by Terence George Craddock
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