Capturing the world with Photography, Painting and Drawing

Posts tagged “A Poem

A Country Boy in Winter , A poem by : Sarah Orne Jewett

snowly mountain 2

A Country Boy in Winter

By Sarah Orne Jewett

The wind may blow the snow about,
For all I care, says Jack,
And I don’t mind how cold it grows,
For then the ice won’t crack.
Old folks may shiver all day long,
But I shall never freeze;
What cares a jolly boy like me
For winter days like these?

Far down the long snow-covered hills
It is such fun to coast,
So clear the road! the fastest sled
There is in school I boast.
The paint is pretty well worn off,
But then I take the lead;
A dandy sled’s a loiterer,
And I go in for speed.

When I go home at supper-time,
Ki! but my cheeks are red!
They burn and sting like anything;
I’m cross until I’m fed.
You ought to see the biscuit go,
I am so hungry then;
And old Aunt Polly says that boys
Eat twice as much as men.

There’s always something I can do
To pass the time away;
The dark comes quick in winter-time—
A short and stormy day
And when I give my mind to it,
It’s just as father says,
I almost do a man’s work now,
And help him many ways.

I shall be glad when I grow up
And get all through with school,
I’ll show them by-and-by that I
Was not meant for a fool.
I’ll take the crops off this old farm,
I’ll do the best I can.
A jolly boy like me won’t be
A dolt when he’s a man.

I like to hear the old horse neigh
Just as I come in sight,
The oxen poke me with their horns
To get their hay at night.
Somehow the creatures seem like friends,
And like to see me come.
Some fellows talk about New York,
But I shall stay at home.


Here I Am Still Breathing ! A Poem For The Brokenhearted by : Andrew Voigt

Top Withens
Also known as Top Withins is a ruined farmhouse near Haworth, West Yorkshire,
This farmhouse is associated with “Wuthering Heights”, the Earnshaw home in Emily Brontë’s novel
Nigel Borrington

I felt this poem by Andrew Voigt matched this great location on the yorkshire moors very well !

Here I Am Still Breathing

A Poem For The Brokenhearted

The night is dark and I’m alone
Searching for a place called home
Silence rings within my ears
Fear and pain flood my tears

Hope feels far, isolation nears
What if God isn’t really there?
Well, maybe I simply fail at dreams
A hollow chord with broken strings

Stars go black, night turns grey
Light is gone, far from day
Will the sun rise once again?
A distant dream, a long-lost friend?

Maybe I simply can’t understand
A single word of this master plan
It hurts like hell, my spirit screams
Life in the land of broken dreams

I sit back down to concentrate
Reminded of the things I hate
Depression, fear, regrets of time
Desiring just to press rewind

Yet, here I am still breathing
This heartbeat song unending
This life is still worth living
This life is still worth living

I pick myself up off the floor
Remnants of the mask I’ve worn
Face the mirror while it stares back
Accepting all the things I lack

Reflections often mirror shame
Yet, tonight they simply aren’t the same
Within the tears upon my face
A light reflects in a darkened space

Could it be the day awakes?
The winter gone, new hopes to chase?
Well, maybe I’m just seeing things
Like a blind man lost in the midnight sea

But what if hope still remains?
And what if love is not in vain?
Could there be a God of love?
Who walked this earth and gave his blood?

My head is spinning within these thoughts
Could God really care for souls so lost?
We turned our backs and swore His name
Yet, still He loves us in our shame

Yes, here I am still breathing
This heartbeat song unending
This life is still worth living
This life is still worth living

Andrew Voigt

Andrew Voigt is a writer and blogger discussing thoughts on God, dreams, and brokenness. He has served as a contributing writer for publications such as Patheos, Fathom Magazine, and Kingdom Spark. Andrew holds a B.S. in Communication Studies from Liberty University and lives in Charlotte, NC with his wife and orange cat named Pumpkin.


The Bay that never was, A Poem by : James K. Baxter (1926-1972)

The Bay

James K. Baxter (1926-1972)

SlieveLeague
Donegal
Ireland’s Most Beautiful Place‎s
Nigel Borrington

On the road to the bay was a lake of rushes
Where we bathed at times and changed in the bamboos.

Now it is rather to stand and say
How many roads we take that lead to Nowhere,
The alley overgrown, no meaning now but loss:
Not that veritable garden where everything comes easy.

And by the bay itself were cliffs with carved names
And a hut on the shore by the open fires.

We raced boats from the banks of the river
Or swam in those autumnal shallows.

Growing cold in amber water, riding the logs
Upstream, and waiting for the Sea Monsters.

So now I remember the bay and the little spiders
On driftwood, so poisonous and quick.

The carved cliffs and the great out crying surf
With currents round the rocks and the birds rising.

A thousand times an hour is torn across
And burned for the sake of going on living.

But I remember the bay that never was
And stand like stone and cannot turn away.


“Sailing to Byzantium” a poem by William Butler Yeats

Muckross lake lakes of Killarney Irish landscape Photography Nigel Borrington

Muckross lake
lakes of Killarney
Irish landscape Photography
Nigel Borrington

Sailing to Byzantium

by William Butler Yeats

That is no country for old men. The young
In one another’s arms, birds in the trees
– Those dying generations – at their song,
The salmon‐falls, the mackerel‐crowded seas,
Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long
Whatever is begotten, born, and dies.
Caught in that sensual music all neglect
Monuments of unageing intellect.

An aged man is but a paltry thing,
A tattered coat upon a stick, unless
Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing
For every tatter in its mortal dress,
Nor is there singing school but studying
Monuments of its own magnificence;
And therefore I have sailed the seas and come
To the holy city of Byzantium.

sailing-to-byzantium-a-poem-by-william-butler-yeats-landscape-nigel-borrington-1

O sages standing in God’s holy fire
As in the gold mosaic of a wall,
Come from the holy fire, perne in a gyre,
And be the singing‐masters of my soul.
Consume my heart away; sick with desire
And fastened to a dying animal
It knows not what it is; and gather me
Into the artifice of eternity.

Once out of nature I shall never take
My bodily form from any natural thing,
But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make
Of hammered gold and gold enamelling
To keep a drowsy Emperor awake;
Or set upon a golden bough to sing
To lords and ladies of Byzantium
Of what is past, or passing, or to come.


Three Poems about Orchid’s

Early_Marsh-Orchid_01

Faranani
Feb 23, 2014

Purple Orchid

“Purple Orchid”
A symbol of rare beauty
Exotic. Delicate. Mysterious
Precious, in every way
Lost in a tropical land of
Purple Haze,
I am there
Whispering with a tinge of
Innocence yet wild
With passionate dark desires.
A calm stability of blue and
The fierce energy of red
Stimulating mystery and thrill,
A darkened flower
Of refined passion
With strikingly lush petals,
Intoxicating.
In his mind,
I am
A
Purple Orchid

Orchid_02

Kayden Fittini
Apr 23, 2015

Petals of an Orchid

Graceful curve of the flower enriched with mystery
melting away any bubbling misery
walking towards the beauty.

(I’m looking to pull this special flower today.)

Wait shall I praise the wonderous bloom
with fragrant colors infused within me soon
something to admire on a daily
choosing between multiple types that look equally lovely.

(I just want to love you.)

The vanilla scent which never fades
you rose from a bed of vibrant shades
to hold and caress –
in your walk stems artistic introduction
keep me within your symmetrical seduction

And in your radiance glimmers across the horizon and seas
its in your nature to please while you tease –
but i cant lie, your approach continues with ease.
to compare your style with nature only makes sense.
how lucky can one be to build a connection that’s so intense!

I pluck the fascinating petals of an orchid.

Orchid_03

Colin Carpenter
Apr 12, 2013

Wild Orchids

Your colors diffuse in hushed streaks
across synapses,
as empty spaces also become orchids
and butterfly petals reach for a scent
their counterparts in rain.
A fringed April is actually an orchid.


The Little Ghost, A poem by Edna St. Vincent Millay (1892-1950)

irish Landscapes Kilcooley estate  Nigel Borrington

irish Landscapes
Kilcooley estate
County Tipperary
Nigel Borrington

The Little Ghost, A poem by Edna St. Vincent Millay (1892-1950)

I knew her for a little ghost
That in my garden walked;
The wall is high — higher than most —
And the green gate was locked.

And yet I did not think of that
Till after she was gone —
I knew her by the broad white hat,
All ruffled, she had on.

By the dear ruffles round her feet,
By her small hands that hung
In their lace mitts, austere and sweet,
Her gown’s white folds among.

Kilcooley estate Nigel Borrington 1

I watched to see if she would stay,
What she would do — and oh!
She looked as if she liked the way
I let my garden grow!

She bent above my favourite mint
With conscious garden grace,
She smiled and smiled — there was no hint
Of sadness in her face.

Kilcooley estate Nigel Borrington 3


Connemara , A Poem By : Thomas Horton

Connemara  Irish Landscape images  Nigel Borrington

Connemara
Irish Landscape images
Nigel Borrington

Connemara

West of Galway lies a land
Scorched by the chill of northern winds
Where ancient hills stoically contemplate
Their grey reflections in dark, misty lakes

Roiling stormclouds serve as the canvas
For a monochromatic panorama
That lulls the local folk
Into an inescapable monotony
Their lilting language itself
A murmur that recalls the falling rain

Leenane county Mayo

The plodding passage of days
In this dreary, silent landscape
Is a hell all its own
For those accustomed
To urban bustle

But the natives of this grey land
Sing bright céilí songs
Drink their lager by golden firelight
Dance reels and jigs
And tell stories of a time
When giants roamed the hillocks
And heroes sailed the roaring seas
In search of mythic monsters

Leenane county Mayo 4

Descended from hearty stock
Of shepherds and saints
These rustic people still regard
The old ways as new
Discover their future through their past
And are never bored
As long as there’s a tale to be told
A smile to take in
Or a pint to share with a friend

Children of the Gaeltacht
Sing your songs
Remind me once again
Of that night in Ballyconneely
When I was one of you


Monday Poetry : To the Moon, by : Percy Bysshe Shelley

Moon and Venus  Nigel Borrington

Moon and Venus
Nigel Borrington

To the Moon

By Percy Bysshe Shelley

Art thou pale for weariness
Of climbing heaven and gazing on the earth,
Wandering companionless
Among the stars that have a different birth, —
And ever changing, like a joyless eye
That finds no object worth its constancy?

To The Moon

Thou chosen sister of the Spirit,
That gazes on thee till in thee it pities …


Flora & Fauna , A Poem by crowbarius – Hello Poetry

Flora & Fauna Irish Nature Photography : Nigel Borrington

Flora & Fauna
Irish Nature Photography : Nigel Borrington

Flora & Fauna

Flora and Fauna, the sisters of Season
Of Spring and of Summer
Allow now our drummer
To drum out the beat
For the feet of the sisters
To glide and to creep
Like the encroaching sleep
Which may perch on your shoulder if we cannot keep you awake
And on the edge of your seat, sir.

Now the former, sweet Flora, will finger the flute
While the other continues to glide and to slide
Like a sequined Venetian harlequin bride;
And now Fauna will mimic the movements of bird and of beast
As she graces the work of our landscape artiste
And all is completely unfeasible
Completely lacks reason
We guarantee.

Presently
In the eye of the beholder
Sweet Flora seemingly draws from the aether a lyre
And with flourishing fingers she plucks from the heavens
A song of the seasons, a pagan ode to Pan!

Behold! No aid of hoops, no strings
The vestal-virgin-harlot sisters sing
Of beautiful Persephone
And with unseen damselfly wings
Ascend from mediocrity
All melody forgotten
All the drums create cacophony
And you will find serenity in chaotic monotony
Now let this climaxing crescendo banish all your sorrowing!

No more that light; no more that sacred realm
Life’s door was dappled gloam; now all is black.
A man of wax with saintly, hollow eyes
Devoid of sin, devoid of love and light
That golden room is lost – you can’t turn back.
Now love has lost its lustre – lust lost joy
And coy eyes turn to watch the empty man
Struck by eternal beauty, and condemned
To haunt the broken world of mortal men;
And shrilling wind caresses empty hand.