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Whisper

i heard
the whisper of the thunder
and in silenced my dreams
shouted a deafening murmur
of a love gone wild
at the river of no return.
there was the brook
where the moss cling
and watch the beating of the heart
float to the hideaway of forgotten melodies
of a love gone astray
in the wilderness of lost emotions
i heard the silent protests
of souls gone weird
frozen on the valley of death
where the bloodshed eyes let bitter tears
be the nourishment of the dry sand
blown by the winds of constant change
i was left unmoved
my feet got numbed so i just looked

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poem by Villiamor Calventas
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Rallying song for freedom in the north to

Dishonored by the higher, but loved by all the low,-
Say, is it not the pathway that the new has to go?
By those who ought to guard it betrayed, oh yes, betrayed,-
Say, is it not thus truth ever progress has made?

Some summer day beginning, a murmur in the grain,
It grows to be a roaring through the forests amain,
Until the sea shall bear it with thunder-trumpets' tone,
Where nothing, nothing's heard but it alone, it alone.

With Northern allies warring we take the Northern
For God and for our freedom-is the watchword we bring.
That God, who gave us country and language, and all,
We find Him in our doing, if we hear and heed His call.

That doing we will forward, we many, although weak,
'Gainst all in fearless fighting, who the truth will not seek:-
Some summer day beginning, a murmur in the grain,
It goes now as a roaring through the forests amain.

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poem by Bjørnstjerne Bjørnson
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A Garden By The Sea

I KNOW a little garden-close,
Set thick with lily and red rose,
Where I would wander if I might
From dewy morn to dewy night,
And have one with me wandering.

And though within it no birds sing,
And though no pillared house is there,
And though the apple-boughs are bare
Of fruit and blossom, would to God
Her feet upon the green grass trod,
And I beheld them as before.

There comes a murmur from the shore,
And in the close two fair streams are,
Drawn from the purple hills afar,
Drawn down unto the restless sea:
Dark hills whose heath-bloom feeds no bee,
Dark shore no ship has ever seen,
Tormented by the billows green

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poem by William Morris
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The Nymph's Song to Hylas

I KNOW a little garden-close
Set thick with lily and red rose,
Where I would wander if I might
From dewy dawn to dewy night,
And have one with me wandering.

And though within it no birds sing,
And though no pillar'd house is there,
And though the apple boughs are bare
Of fruit and blossom, would to God,
Her feet upon the green grass trod,
And I beheld them as before!

There comes a murmur from the shore,
And in the place two fair streams are,
Drawn from the purple hills afar,
Drawn down unto the restless sea;
The hills whose flowers ne'er fed the bee,
The shore no ship has ever seen,
Still beaten by the billows green,

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poem by William Morris
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Lemnos Harbour

The island sleeps,-but it has no delight
For em, to whom that sleep has been unkind.
My thoughts are long of what seems long ago,
And long, too, are my dreams. I do not know
These trailing glories of the star-strewn night
Or the slow sough of the wind.

I hear the rattle of the moving car;
The children crying in the lighted street,
I walk along the same old asphalt way.
I see the church,-I hear the organ play.
I see the hills I wandered on afar,
And spots of rain at my feet.

I see the dust-strewn hedge,-the latched gate;
The gravelled path with roses either side;
The cedar tree,-my mother’s window pane.
I see the place where I sat long and late
By the trellis deep and wide.

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poem by Leon Gellert
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Shoes on the Bank of the Danube

On a sunny day in Budapest
The Danube Promenade offers a serene stroll.
The Royal Palace perched on Castle Hill
Greets you under an azure sky
And the mountains of Buda wave brightly
Their wooded hands across the river.

But along your peaceful walk listen
To the quiet murmur of the Danube,
Listen to the shifting waves that whisper
About bottomless grieves and sorrows.
The river drifts irremovable memories,
On the flowing waters float
Myriad sad stories.

Not far from the Parliament building
And the Academy of Sciences
Sculpted shoes cast in iron
Line the left bank of the Danube;
Between Roosevelt Square and Kossuth Square:

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poem by Paul Hartal
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Who I Really Am

Fingers dash across keys, type, type, type
Awkwardly from one key to the next, I told myself I wouldn't write
The computer, the ginger tea, the black text in a sea of white
They subside
As a new reality has come to override

I don't want to be who I was back then...

Screams of an infernal scratching
Voices of endless chiding
Murmurs of infinite condemnation
Each word a wicked consolation speaking to a identity of hatred
Each scream a twisted affirmation of the identity of hatred
Each murmur coaxing out my identity of hatred
Thus he does emerge, the man, the monster
No it's not a scream
No it's not a voice
Not it's not a murmur it's who I am
I made those
I make those

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poem by David Knox
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The Cypress-Tree Of Ceylon

THEY sat in silent watchfulness
The sacred cypress-tree about,
And, from beneath old wrinkled brows,
Their failing eyes looked out.

Gray Age and Sickness waiting there
Through weary night and lingering day,--
Grim as the idols at their side,
And motionless as they.

Unheeded in the boughs above
The song of Ceylon's birds was sweet;
Unseen of them the island flowers
Bloomed brightly at their feet.

O'er them the tropic night-storm swept,
The thunder crashed on rock and hill;
The cloud-fire on their eyeballs blazed,
Yet there they waited still!

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poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
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St. Francis Xavier

He left his dust, by all the myriad tread
Of yon dense millions trampled to the strand,
Or 'neath some cross forgotten lays his head
Where dark seas whiten on a lonely land:
He left his work, what all his life had planned,
A waning flame to flicker and to fall,
Mid the huge myths his toil could scarce withstand,
And the light died in temple and in hall,
And the old twilight sank and settled over all.

He left his name, a murmur in the East,
That dies to silence amid older creeds,
With which he strove in vain: the fiery priest
Of faiths less fitted to their ruder needs:
As some lone pilgrim, with his staff and beads,
Mid forest-brutes whom ignorance makes tame,
He dwelt, and sowed an Eastern Church's seeds
He reigned, a teacher and a priest of fame:
He died and dying left a murmur and a name.

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poem by G.K. Chesterton
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St, Francis Xavier

The Apostle of the Indies

He left his dust, by all the myriad tread
Of yon dense millions trampled to the strand,
Or 'neath some cross forgotten lays his head
Where dark seas whiten on a lonely land:
He left his work, what all his life had planned,
A waning flame to flicker and to fall,
Mid the huge myths his toil could scarce withstand,
And the light died in temple and in hall,
And the old twilight sank and settled over all.

He left his name, a murmur in the East,
That dies to silence amid older creeds,
With which he strove in vain: the fiery priest
Of faiths less fitted to their ruder needs:
As some lone pilgrim, with his staff and beads,
Mid forest-brutes whom ignorance makes tame,
He dwelt, and sowed an Eastern Church's seeds
He reigned, a teacher and a priest of fame:

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poem by Gilbert Keith Chesterton
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