Poetry

'Pictures are self explanatory; poetry is self revelatory'

The Poems

Some were found; but many are from my past; as I was blessed with not one but four superb English teachers at my secondary school who instilled a lasting appreciation in me for what I believe is the most important and necessary part of a child's learning: the appreciation of word crafting.

I am not a poet, or a writer: these crafts are the special skills of great minds and of a lifetime of devotion. But, I felt it necessary and important to include my love of poetry, as it most potently explains my feelings for these places I revisit again and again on Boka. And, as well, why I feel so much passion for its beauty. 

The poet Seamus Heaney in his essay 'Feeling into Words' talks about  'poetry as divination, poetry as revelation of the self to the self,' and it is always the feeling of revelation I experience when I am alone on a beautiful spot on Boka. Usually in the autumn or the winter, sometimes in the summer, but certainly always when there is nothing and no one between me and the landscape.

I hope the inclusion of poetry will not only provoke a deeper love of Boka, but also revive an interest in what is now one of literature's forgotten arts/genres

Poetry Index

Perast

Reflections

WHERE do you keep the secrets,

Mirror,

That drop like petals on your bosom

And drift away in silence?      

By Louise Ayres Garnett

From "Songs of Silence"

                                            

     

Rose

The Sleeping Beauty

She sleeps: her breathings are not heard

In palace chambers far apart.

The fragrant tresses are not stirred

That lie upon her charmèd heart.

She sleeps; on either hand upswells

The gold-fringed pillow lightly prest:

She sleeps, nor dreams, but ever dwells

A perfect form in perfect rest. By Lord Tennyson From 'The Day Dream'

Njivice

Summer's Splendour By The Sea

Summer's splendor by the sea,
a gentle, blue serenity.

Caressing rays of golden sun,
blushing, bronzing all who come.

Enticed by its romantic lure,
lovers stroll the sandy shore.

Hushing rhythm of the waves
and salty, misty ocean sprays.

Sea birds echoe call of cries
pierce the deep blue azure skies.

Dolphins dancing on their way
across the sea out to the bay.

A glistening, shiny, sun-soaked day.
All young and old alike at play,

building castles by the sea,
jumping waves and spirits free.

No place on earth as perfect to be
as Summer's splendor by the sea!

By Patricia L. Cisco

The Cloud

BY PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY

I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers, 

From the seas and the streams; 

I bear light shade for the leaves when laid 

In their noonday dreams. 

From my wings are shaken the dews that waken 

The sweet buds every one, 

When rocked to rest on their mother's breast, 

As she dances about the sun. 

I wield the flail of the lashing hail, 

And whiten the green plains under, 

And then again I dissolve it in rain, 

And laugh as I pass in thunder. 

I sift the snow on the mountains below, 

And their great pines groan aghast; 

And all the night 'tis my pillow white, 

While I sleep in the arms of the blast. 

Sublime on the towers of my skiey bowers, 

Lightning my pilot sits; 

In a cavern under is fettered the thunder, 

It struggles and howls at fits; 

Over earth and ocean, with gentle motion, 

This pilot is guiding me, 

Lured by the love of the genii that move 

In the depths of the purple sea; 

Over the rills, and the crags, and the hills, 

Over the lakes and the plains, 

Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream, 

The Spirit he loves remains; 

And I all the while bask in Heaven's blue smile, 

Whilst he is dissolving in rains. 

The sanguine Sunrise, with his meteor eyes, 

And his burning plumes outspread, 

Leaps on the back of my sailing rack, 

When the morning star shines dead; 

As on the jag of a mountain crag, 

Which an earthquake rocks and swings, 

An eagle alit one moment may sit 

In the light of its golden wings. 

And when Sunset may breathe, from the lit sea beneath, 

Its ardours of rest and of love, 

And the crimson pall of eve may fall 

From the depth of Heaven above, 

With wings folded I rest, on mine aëry nest, 

As still as a brooding dove. 

That orbèd maiden with white fire laden, 

Whom mortals call the Moon, 

Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor, 

By the midnight breezes strewn; 

And wherever the beat of her unseen feet, 

Which only the angels hear, 

May have broken the woof of my tent's thin roof, 

The stars peep behind her and peer; 

And I laugh to see them whirl and flee, 

Like a swarm of golden bees, 

When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent, 

Till calm the rivers, lakes, and seas, 

Like strips of the sky fallen through me on high, 

Are each paved with the moon and these. 

I bind the Sun's throne with a burning zone, 

And the Moon's with a girdle of pearl; 

The volcanoes are dim, and the stars reel and swim, 

When the whirlwinds my banner unfurl. 

From cape to cape, with a bridge-like shape, 

Over a torrent sea, 

Sunbeam-proof, I hang like a roof, 

The mountains its columns be. 

The triumphal arch through which I march 

With hurricane, fire, and snow, 

When the Powers of the air are chained to my chair, 

Is the million-coloured bow; 

The sphere-fire above its soft colours wove, 

While the moist Earth was laughing below. 

I am the daughter of Earth and Water, 

And the nursling of the Sky; 

I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores; 

I change, but I cannot die. 

For after the rain when with never a stain 

The pavilion of Heaven is bare, 

And the winds and sunbeams with their convex gleams 

Build up the blue dome of air, 

I silently laugh at my own cenotaph, 

And out of the caverns of rain, 

Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the tomb, 

I arise and unbuild it again. 

The Human Seasons

Four Seasons fill the measure of the year;

     There are four seasons in the mind of man:

He has his lusty Spring, when fancy clear

     Takes in all beauty with an easy span:

He has his Summer, when luxuriously

     Spring's honied cud of youthful thought he loves

To ruminate, and by such dreaming high

     Is nearest unto heaven: quiet coves

His soul has in its Autumn, when his wings

     He furleth close; contented so to look

On mists in idleness—to let fair things

     Pass by unheeded as a threshold brook.

He has his Winter too of pale misfeature,

Or else he would forego his mortal nature.

by John Keats