Quotes about cupped, page 5
Veiled Scenes Behind The Sun
Perceived glimpses cast emotions
Perceptions give glimpses
Wrapped in a draped veil
Cupped hands you hold out with discretion
An offering of vagueness
When a turning sun reveals
Truth maybe scant but
Concealing the obvious is obvious
When a turning sun reveals
Eyes meeting eyes are not insincere
When the turning sun reveals
A pall fades behind the dark side
Truth in abstention drapes around me
It revolves then evolves
Bending the beating heart
When a turning sun reveals
When the turning sun turns
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poem by Eric Von Rohr
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The Temple
Between us leapt a gold and scarlet flame.
Into the hollow of the cupped, arched blue
Of Heaven it rose. Its flickering tongues up-drew
And vanished in the sunshine. How it came
We guessed not, nor what thing could be its name.
From each to each had sprung those sparks which flew
Together into fire. But we knew
The winds would slap and quench it in their game.
And so we graved and fashioned marble blocks
To treasure it, and placed them round about.
With pillared porticos we wreathed the whole,
And roofed it with bright bronze. Behind carved locks
Flowered the tall and sheltered flame. Without,
The baffled winds thrust at a column's bole.
poem by Amy Lowell
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Green Vision
In a starry night
an adolescent thought starts
a rivalry. A baby moon squirms.
No hour was safe from terror in dark.
I climb the stairs breathlessly.
The great divide deepens in hearts.
Incisors bite the tongue,
grey cells bleed inside.
Thick ash has not stopped the cinders
smouldering under the veils of flushed peace.
Cupped tears wash the feet of death,
a caravan of words moves desolated,
cutting on the edges, before you say
goodbye to green vision.
Today I am pulling out the nails
from the walls. No hangings of departed centuries.
No portraits of exiled flames.
Only the face of truth, burning
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poem by Satish Verma
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Eagles
The eagles can never know
The secret of the volcanoes
When they seemingly fly carried
By the sliding winds
Over cupped peaks of mountains
With the fire of their anger inside
Smoldering in the carcass of history
The eagles doesn't understand why
The green still suckles the spring's teats
And why the scream can be an echo
And the echo can be a scream.
But the eagles can hear
The cubic rocks which roll for rolling out
Their song
And the brooklet ripples which fall
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poem by Marieta Maglas
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If I Cannot Be...
if i cannot be
the stars in your blackest sky;
let me be the darkness itself,
as cupped hands,
holding the broth of light
for you to lap!
if i cannot be
the fire that warms;
let me be the howling cold,
and walk away.
if i cannot be
the flesh that enters your flesh;
let me be the absence,
and the hollow,
that only longing can fill.
if i cannot be
the dreams that lullaby;
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Non Real
My brothers killed me for a song
an antithesis to kiss for a chaste tree.
I hold my viscera in cupped palms.
Their eyes burn like flaming windows.
An evening primrose smiles at my stupidity.
Questions have no full stop, I grieve.
Why did they punish me, for my lone voice?
I die daily amidst the barbed
Hawthorns for the sake of posterity.
The ribbed cage of desolation, in the kingdom of potencies.
The innocence drops like,
a terrified mirror on floor.
Death will obliterate, the lights from blue eyes.
I adored a dream, which always stayed in shadows,
The moon will grab a cloud,
creating a music of eternity.
The non-real will become a solid absolute.
poem by Satish Verma
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A Golden Shower! ! ! ! !
Scattered by the broken string, bent to pick the beads.
You stood with some in cupped hands, did you my thoughts read?
Led me gently to balcony, to show Laburnum bloom.
Clusters of bright yellow flowers watch them with awe, droop.
Yellow petals formed a carpet, underneath the tree
You said its called golden shower, from far one can see.
The breeze carries the flowers, away from the loose bunch,
Just like my beads got separated, and I sat hunched.
I forgot about my rosary, as we stepped in the avenue.
Your nearness and fragrant air, tears blurred the view.
Careful not to crush the blossoms, lying on the grass
We strolled hand in hand, exchanging a glance…
poem by Mamta Agarwal
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The Man Standing...
the man standing
in the shadows,
held the earth
in his hands...
until time and storm
finally had their way.
the man standing
in the shadows,
plowed and planted,
season after season,
till winter grey
closed the last door.
the man standing
in the shadows,
built a house
and a bridge...
and swept room and porch
till it was finished.
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Realpolitik
Under the tree of learning
of another life, the primitive father arrives.
Casts a spell of wisdom, between sorrow and death
with a speck of tears in circle of beings.
But a rain-soaked serpentine path leads to a ravine.
A talisman reignites the fear of unknown.
Panic grips the roots, branches, green-leaved hopes.
Cambium stops working, cutting the flow of nutrients.
The lady of darkness descends on the boulders
of truth, piercing through the layers of light ruffling
the winds of change.
Devotees splatter the red wine on the cupped palms
of priest and ask, who was responsible
for long life of knife. No reliable intellectual
wants to become a bartender.
Nobody dares to play the Realpolitik.
poem by Satish Verma
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Milkmaid
The girl's far treble, muted to the heat,
calls like a fainting bird across the fields
to where her flock lies panting for her voice,
their black horns buried deep in marigolds.
They climb awake, like drowsy butterflies,
and press their red flanks through the tall branched grass,
and as they go their wandering tongues embrace
the vacant summer mirrored in their eyes.
Led to the limestone shadows of a barn
they snuff their past embalmed in the hay,
while her cool hand, cupped to the udder's fount,
distils the brimming harvest of their day.
Look what a cloudy cream the earth gives out,
fat juice of buttercups and meadow-rye;
the girl dreams milk within her body's field
and hears, far off, her muted children cry.
poem by Laurie Lee
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