Quotes about rowing, page 9
The Himalayas
O Himalah! O rampart of the realm of India!
Bowing down, the sky kisses your forehead
Your condition does not show any signs of old age
You are young in the midst of day and night's alternation
The Kalâm of ñër Sân« witnessed but one Effulgence
For the discerning eye you are an embodiment of Effulgence
To the outward eye you are a mere mountain range
In reality you are our sentinel, you are India's rampart
You are the diwan whose opening verse is the sky
You lead Man to the solitudes of his heart's retreat
Snow has endowed you with the turban of honour
Which scoffs at the crown of the world-illuminating sun
Antiquity is but a moment of your bygone age
Dark clouds are encamped in your valleys
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poem by Allama Muhammad Iqbal
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The Old Man
An aged man came into the bar from out of the cold,
he was wearing a monk’s habit as in the days of old.
‘Like death warmed up’ my mother used to say,
as he sat by the open fire on this winters day.
He never spoke, ordered a drink, or even showed his face,
he hardly moved at all and everyone gave him space.
The barman said, “You can’t sit there without buying a drink, ”
a stare of stone was the response, “okay, I’ll give you time to think.”
The place went deathly quiet as whispers could only be heard,
“Where did this monk person come from, doesn’t he look absurd? ”
The whispering stopped as the man turned and looked directly at me,
he pointed with his long skeletal finger and croaked, “You will be he.”
I gulped, and nervously asked, “What are you talking about? ”
“You’ll be leaving here with me, so let’s make our way out.”
“I’m not going anywhere, ” I said, “until I’ve finished my beer.”
“That’s fine by me, ” he said, “I’ll be waiting here.”
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poem by Orlando Belo
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Marburg
I quivered. I flared up, and then was extinguished.
I shook. I had made a proposal - but late,
Too late. I was scared, and she had refused me.
I pity her tears, am more blessed than a saint.
I stepped into the square. I could be counted
Among the twice-born. Every leaf on the lime,
Every brick was alive, caring nothing for me,
And reared up to take leave for the last time.
The paving-stones glowed and the street's brow was swarthy,
From under their lids the cobbles looked grim,
Scowled up at the sky, and the wind like a boatman
Was rowing through limes. And each was an emblem.
Be that as it may, I avoided their glances,
Averted my gaze from their greeting or scowling.
I wanted no news of their getting and spending.
I had to get out, so as not to start howling.
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poem by Boris Pasternak
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Baby Tortoise
You know what it is to be born alone,
Baby tortoise!
The first day to heave your feet little by little from the shell,
Not yet awake,
And remain lapsed on earth,
Not quite alive.
A tiny, fragile, half-animate bean.
To open your tiny beak-mouth, that looks as if it would never open,
Like some iron door;
To lift the upper hawk-beak from the lower base
And reach your skinny little neck
And take your first bite at some dim bit of herbage,
Alone, small insect,
Tiny bright-eye,
Slow one.
To take your first solitary bite
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poem by David Herbert Lawrence
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Part III: Credat Judaeus Apella
Dear Bell,—I enclose what you ask in a letter,
A short rhyme at random, no more and no less,
And you may insert it, for want of a better
Or leave it, it doesn't much matter, I guess ;
And as for a tip, why, there isn't much in it,
I may hit the right nail, but first, I declare,
I haven't a notion what's going to win it
(The Champion, I mean), and what's more, I don't care.
Imprimis, there's Cowra—few nags can go quicker
Than she can—and Smith takes his oath she can fly ;
While Brown, Jones, and Robinson swear she's a sticker,
But 'credat Judaeus Apella,' say I.
There's old Volunteer, I'd be sorry to sneer
At his chance ; he'll be there, if he goes at the rate
He went at last year, when a customer queer,
Johnny Higgerson, fancied him lock'd in the straight.
I've heard that the old horse has never been fitter,
I've heard all performances past he'll outvie ;
He may gallop a docker, and finish a splitter,
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poem by Adam Lindsay Gordon
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Narcissus Lost His Face In The Mirror He Stored His Image In
Narcissus lost his face in the mirror he stored his image in
while Lady Nightshade was saying grace over the wrong coffin
rats from the shipwreck were rowing ashore
in the last lifeboat with a trapdoor in it for an emergency exit.
The holy men who couldn't speak our language
without trying to fix it with an accent of their own
were recruiting for an army on the moon
to start a new crusade against futuristic infidels
who didn't share the same direction of prayer
as the wavelengths that reached the ears of the extraterrestrials
with high ideals encoded in a scripture of esoteric starmaps
that spoke like oracles stoned on volcanic gas
so when you asked how things were going,
they always answered, perhaps, in an ambiguous tone of voice.
I was sitting in the window of a burning house
trying to write poems that smelled like smoke to the Holy Ghost,
when you showed up like a stranger's doorway
out of my solitude like the bell of a three alarm death knell
with the smile that lingered like junkmail on the threshold
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poem by Patrick White
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The Little Girl's Song
Do not mind my crying, Papa, I am not crying for pain.
Do not mind my shaking, Papa, I am not shaking with fear;
Tho' the wild wild wind is bideous to hear,
And I see the snow and the rain.
When will you come back again,
Papa, Papa?
Somebody else that you love, Papa,
Somebody else that you dearly love
Is weary, like me, because you're away.
Sometimes I see her lips tremble and move,
And I seem to know what they're going to say;
And every day, and all the long day,
I long to cry, 'Oh Mamma, Mamma,
When will Papa come back again?'
But before I can say it I see the pain
Creeping up on her white white cheek,
As the sweet sad sunshine creeps up the white wall,
And then I am sorry, and fear to speak;
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poem by Sydney Thompson Dobell
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What Pablo Saw In His Final Dream - Una Cancion Por Pablo Neruda
for Jose - 'now he is with the Lamb'
translated from the Spanish of Raul Voz
'The fact is that until I fall asleep,
in some magnetic way I move in
the university of the waves.' - Pablo Neruda
'Power at its best is love seeking justice.' - a radical priest
When love
finally came
two birds
one near
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poem by Warren Falcon
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Greenland's Icy Mountains
Greenland's icy mountains are fascinating and grand,
And wondrously created by the Almighty's command;
And the works of the Almighty there's few can understand:
Who knows but it might be a part of Fairyland?
Because there are churches of ice, and houses glittering like glass,
And for scenic grandeur there's nothing can it surpass,
Besides there's monuments and spires, also ruins,
Which serve for a safe retreat from the wild bruins.
And there's icy crags and precipices, also beautiful waterfalls,
And as the stranger gazes thereon, his heart it appals
With a mixture of wonder, fear, and delight,
Till at last he exclaims, Oh! what a wonderful sight!
The icy mountains they're higher than a brig's topmast,
And the stranger in amazement stands aghast
As he beholds the water flowing off the melted ice
Adown the mountain sides, that he cries out, Oh! how nice!
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poem by William Topaz McGonagall
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The Wreck of the Steamer Stella
'Twas in the month of March and in the year of 1899,
Which will be remembered for a very long time;
The wreck of the steamer "Stella" that was wrecked on the Casquet Rocks,
By losing her bearings in a fog, and received some terrible shocks.
The "Stella" was bound for the Channel Islands on a holiday trip,
And a number of passengers were resolved not to let the chance slip;
And the hearts of the passengers felt light and gay,
As the "Stella" steamed out of the London Docks without delay.
The vessel left London at a quarter-past eleven,
With a full passenger list and a favourable wind from heaven;
And all went well until late in the afternoon,
When all at once a mist arose, alas! too soon.
And as the Channel Islands were approached a fog set in,
Then the passengers began to be afraid and made a chattering din;
And about half-past three o'clock the fog settled down,
Which caused Captain Reeks and the passengers with fear to frown.
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poem by William Topaz McGonagall
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