Quotes about cupped, page 4
The Death of the Hindu
Chin cupped
on the ancient bone
of his elbow
he spread five fingers to the world:
and like a cat on zither strings
the hoarse voice of his fathers
issues from his forgotten children:
now he picks one tick
from the back of that suckling cow:
his failing fingers
find not the strength to crush
Not a single eyelash twitters
pass him by
pass him
'Wake not a man asleep
And tell him he has
Nothing to eat.'
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poem by T. Wignesan
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Be Still, And Listen!
be still!
the One whose thoughts
conceive universes
out of particles of dust,
walks within you.
can you feel the ebb
and flow of the tide?
listen! you can hear
voices binding darkness
and light....
are they not merely echoes
of the living written
and etched into your memory?
what you call wind
is only the breath of God....
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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A Farmer of Stars
I scoop the stars
Into my palm
In waters gathered from the storm
Each star
a world
Slipping slowly from my palm.
I wander
With the receding star
See the light
From afar
I reflect on
The moving light
Of what just might have been
Dreams swept by that moment’s delight.
Loss, always loss
Of the star
That was never mine
Each
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poem by Baru Gobira
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Love is Summer
Love is Summer
Warm, Bright and Fulfilling
The time we spend
Is rewarding
We laugh
But yet
The summer ends
And autumn
We break
We cry
And start to grieve
Over the sun
That we loved
Winter comes
The worst yet
No warmth
No memory
Just pain
Waiting for it to end
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poem by Fiona O'Connor
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The first unsullied snowdrop
Love; what flower do you most aspire?
Love; what flower should I most admire?
Red peonie's with "lustful conduit desire
Purple" crocuses cupped with fire.
Or the now pink foreign ragged robin,
Breathless; rolling on… that country, common.
I "sprig of green moist" Solomon's seal,
You a single rose bud so genteel.
Love; what flower should I mostly aspire?
Love: what flowers do you mostly require?
Be it the fox gloves fleshy advancing spire
Or the honey suckles tendrils of wire…
Or be you simply May times forget-me-not
Still better the first unsullied snowdrop.
poem by Mark Heathcote
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A Flower To Auroville Mother 28
Kodi sampangi, (chambangi, Telosma minor,
Telosma cordata)
Yellow-green pale in subdued hidden silence
Sparse and scarce and slack you're this day
Of mechanised life moulded of machines, mindless
Man to remind and commend you to world of today
Yet of your fragrance divine in evening bloom
A rare beatitude hued creamy in dulcet nightfall
Leafing hearts supporting along the vine as you groom
Bewitched people some treasure you in closer hearts
Salient, sanative cupped perfume an abundant spray
In grip of a hardy trunk as you blossom in clusters
Of culinary exotica too, Telosma, what else? 'Hurray...Hurray..'
poem by Indira Renganathan
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A Wish
I'd like to write - like grown-up poets do:
with similes that span the universe,
that sparkle, crackle, dazzle, woo the mind;
and touch the heart with tender, swoony verse...
I'd like to write - like grown-up poets do:
in literature that's all the better for
those soaring, parabolic parables
and paradigms, and rhymes, and metaphor...
I'd like to write - like no-one else has done:
forget the rules and precedents; let fly
to heights undreamt of yet, new mindscape won..
And yet, perhaps, the world's served better by
small lamps of words amidst the cold night winds
of chance and change; cupped in a poet's hands.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Brook Of Reflection
The Brook Of Reflection
A thought, striking as a rare butterfly, sat on a twig
tried to catch it but in my hand it turned into fluff,
and I can no longer remember which colour it had.
The thought was a river I cupped my hands tried to
catch some wisdom, stem its flow and turn it into
a poem that flies like a butterfly
The rich are seen as successful and say banal things,
newspapers print their moth eaten views, we read
and thoughtlessly nod; so find me a new river then.
I wait for another thought, one that floats, like leaf of
fall in a brook, and tells of eternal truths that are as
beautiful as rare butterflies
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Blindfolded
A dented version of an old grudge,
blackened lips with an elite song,
your relentless search ends in
a terminal shock, nursing a green wound.
That anguish was still there, and the wild anger
sprawled on hidden fractures, false teeth,
and twisted spy glasses. Sky falling silent
in terrible gloom of centuries.
Blindfolded we are led for a ceremony
of total dedication, drinking opiates
from the cupped hands of a silver god,
with alien innocence and silent submission.
I stare at the changing colors of world
shifting like summer dunes,
dancing on the graves, in dripping
dew of midnight moon, salt of tears.
poem by Satish Verma
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Learning Curve
yellow bus stroking the
curves
on a concrete highway
windows wide open grabbing air
for a field trip in an early May
heat blast
with very
short khakis spouting lean legs
the teacher's aide
led me down a stream along a shaded path
steeped in the backwoods element she
crouched barefoot in a pool
scooping crystal water with her cupped hands
what she couldn't get into her mouth spilled on
her nose and chin,
trickled down her chest
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poem by Lee Crowell
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