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The Winter Love

Such a cold was in january.
In december love had come vainly.
Winter love is short,
Obviously.
Snow is quiet falls
Down on earth.

Snow is on the streets,
Snow's in wood.
Snow in words I hear,
In your eyes, too.
Winter love is short,
Obviously.
Snow is quiet falls
Down on earth.

You are saying: 'Bye'
To me now.
And I hear your voice
Icy, round.

[...] Read more

poem by Robert Rozhdestvensky, translated by Lyudmila Purgina
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i LoVe aSMaRa iN THe RaiN...!

The streets of *Asmara* are magnificent site
With art deco buildings, tall trees
'N Italian resembling refreshing cafes
With their famous cappuccinos and sweet cakes

I Love to take a walk in those streets
When they are quiet
...Quiet as the Sahara desert
But they never are and never will be
For it's a city that never sleeps

It is quiet only when it rains
It rains only in summer
Summer comes only ones a year
...'N i walk the streets then

I love to take a walk in the streets of Asmara
When it is summer and quiet
I love Asmara in the rain
'N i would walk the streets again and again...!

poem by Konjit Berhane
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The Poem Of The Evening Is A Quiet Poem

THE POEM OF THE EVENING IS A QUIET POEM

The poem of the evening is a quiet poem
It comes in gentleness with tired eyes
It does not know how long it will last
It believes a fresh breeze
And a simple song
Are all its needs
To feel happiness.

The poem of the evening this evening
Believes in life
Believes in Goodness of God
Believes it will somehow be alright.

The poem of the evening this evening
May be a foolish one
But it is a quietly happy one.

We need such poems sometimes

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poem by Shalom Freedman
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It’s quiet, very quiet in the veldt

It’s quiet, very quiet in the veldt
even the crickets and grasshoppers
are without sound

and the chopper drones away
leaving me and Johnny
and a few other men

with a Bushmen tracker
to follow a enemy spoor
and suddenly we walk straight in
to a ambush, right into a trap

and Johnny is dead, shot through the head
and three others as well and it feels as if I am in hell
and I am talking to myself

trying to get my bearings while firing at the enemy,
killing some and throwing two grenades
to advice them of my serious intentions

[...] Read more

poem by Gert Strydom
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The Three Quiet Gentlemen

There is a quiet gentleman a-motoring in France
(Oh, don’t you hear the honking of a British motor-car?)—
Like any quiet gentleman that you may meet by chance,
Who doesn’t wear a uniform, and doesn’t sport a star.
Another quiet gentleman is sitting by his side
(Oh, do you hear the “shuffling feet” tonight in Gay Paree?)—
The honking of their motor-car, when they go for a ride,
Is louder than the biggest gun that’s made in Germany.
Another quiet gentleman, who’s very like the first
(Oh, don’t you hear the tinkle of the sleigh-bells on the snow?)
Is riding out in Russia now to watch the best and worst.
Oh, hear the bells of Petrograd a-ringing soft and low—
The Christmas bells of Petrograd, that hail the birth of Christ;
The sleigh-bells from the opera that hail the birth of Sin—
While eyes of men are dried in Hell and hearts of men are iced—
Are louder than the loudest blare that’s blaring in Berlin.

poem by Henry Lawson
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In Sandringham

In Sandringham by the Pacific sea
The Town is quiet on this August sunday
Most of the shops for the weekend have closed
And dark rain clouds hang low above the bay

But Sandringham is not always like this
In Spring and Summer 'tis a busy Town
On sundays shops are open people crowd the street
From mid morning until the sun go down

But I would prefer Sandringham like this
I sit here in quiet cafe sipping tea
And only a few locals to be seen
And loudest sound the rolling of the sea.

The silver gulls outside the cafe door
They wait for handouts chips and scraps of bread
But man made food not much good for their health
It slowly kills them so it has been said.

[...] Read more

poem by Francis Duggan
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Periphery of Sensitivity

Stay quiet, do not complain.
What are you talking about?
You must know the periphery of sensitivity
Stay within.

Your five year daughter might have been raped.
So what?
Look at your character, madam.
Keep running from pillar to post.
Who cares, if you cry behind doors?
Life moves on...

A child was made to drink her urine.
Stay quiet, do not complain.
It happens sometimes...
It is normal.
The warden did her job.
She would not wet her bed again.

Do not get scared

[...] Read more

poem by Kingshuk Chakraborty
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The Quiet Eye

THE ORB I like is not the one
That dazzles with its lightning gleam;
That dares to look upon the sun,
As though it challenged brighter beam.
That orb may sparkle, flash, and roll;
Its fire may blaze, its shaft may fly;
But not for me: I prize the soul
That slumbers in a quiet eye.

There ’s something in its placid shade
That tells of calm, unworldly thought;
Hope may be crown’d, or joy delay’d—
No dimness steals, no ray is caught.
Its pensive language seems to say,
“I know that I must close and die;”
And death itself, come when it may,
Can hardly change the quiet eye.

There ’s meaning in its steady glance,
Of gentle blame or praising love,

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poem by Eliza Cook
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The Quiet Zone

When travelling on a train, in the ‘Quiet Zone, ’
Why do people have to use their mobile phones?
Above the train’s rumble, they need to be heard,
So they speak very loud, so you hear every word.

On the window, there’s a picture of a phone, with a cross,
But, on some people, this request, to be quiet, is just lost.
They continue to talk on their phones, despite the sign,
And they seem to think that this behaviour is just fine.

People also sit with their earplugs plugged in;
Their music, loud, so you can still hear the din.
You can hear the annoying, tinny sounding beat.
The object of such a zone, such actions defeat.

The train staff can’t watch every passenger there,
But, this disturbance, to others, doesn’t seem fair.
If you’re sitting there, quietly, attempting to read,
With such interruptions, you will fail to succeed.

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poem by Angela Wybrow
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The Goat Paths

The crooked paths go every way
Upon the hill - they wind about
Through the heather in and out
Of the quiet sunniness.
And there the goats, day after day,
Stray in sunny quietness,
Cropping here and cropping there,
As they pause and turn and pass,
Now a bit of heather spray,
Now a mouthful of the grass.

In the deeper sunniness,
In the place where nothing stirs,
Quietly in quietness,
In the quiet of the furze,
For a time they come and lie
Staring on the roving sky.

If you approach they run away,
They leap and stare, away they bound,

[...] Read more

poem by James Stephens
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