Swims the Dreamer
• 10/28/23 at 07:06AM •Swims the dreamer,
nevermore.
Nightmares a threat,
every shore.
Good memories,
nevermore.
Love is lost for,
evermore.
Swims the dreamer,
nevermore.
Nightmares a threat,
every shore.
Good memories,
nevermore.
Love is lost for,
evermore.
"A human being is a living constellation of contradictions, mostly opaque to itself. “Inward secret creatures,” Iris Murdoch called us in reckoning with the blind spots of our self-knowledge"... More at The Marginalian ➜
Here we are,
mere shadows now,
of what we there then,
and with questions about how.
How do we give,
when we are away?
How do we live,
in our life's array?
And now the sun in tinted splendor sank,
The west was all aglow with crimson light;
The bay seemed like a sheet of burnished gold,
Its waters glistened with such radiance bright.
At anchor lay the yachts with snow-white sails,
Outlined against the glowing, rose-hued sky.
No ripple stirred the waters’ calm repose
Save when a tiny craft sped lightly by.
Our boat was drifting slowly, gently round,
To rest secure till evening shadows fell;
No sound disturbed the stillness of the air,
Save the soft chiming of the vesper bell.
Yes, drifting, drifting; and I thought that life,
When nearing death, is like the sunset sky:
And death is but the slow, sure drifting in
To rest far more securely, by and by.
Then let me drift along the Bay of Time,
Till my last sun shall set in glowing light;
Let me cast anchor where no shadows fall,
Forever moored within Heaven’s harbor bright.
This poem is in the public domain.
Olivia Ward Bush-Banks - née Olivia Ward; (1869 – 1944) was an American author, poet and journalist of African-American and Montaukett Native American heritage. Ward celebrated both of her heritages in her poetry and writing. She was a regular contributor to the Colored American magazine and wrote a column for the New Rochelle, New York publication, the Westchester Record-Courier. More at Wikipedia
I'm sorry for the worry,
that followed you home.
Keeping those who love you
close, won't be alone.
Why are you sad,
for what I am,
when I am only
a weakened man.
Be nice, it's said,
for you may be,
the only survivor
of our family.
What a life it was,
no longer here,
when hope is gone
and it's only fear.
Look, in the early light,
Down to the infinite
Depths at the deep grass-roots;
Where the sun shoots
In golden veins, as looking through
A dear pool one sees it do;
Where campion drifts
Its bladders, iris-brinded, through the rifts
Of rising, falling seed
That the winds lightly scour—
Down to the matted earth where over
And over again crow’s-foot and clover
And pink bindweed
Dimly, steadily flower.
This poem is in the public domain.
Michael Field was a pseudonym used for the poetry and verse drama of the English authors Katherine Harris Bradley (1846 – 1914) and her niece and ward Edith Emma Cooper (1862 – 1913). As Field they wrote around 40 works together, and a long journal Works and Days. Their intention was to keep the pen-name secret, but it became public knowledge, not long after they had confided in their friend Robert Browning
My greatest wish,
a simple desire,
to walk again
and you never tire.
For you are the one
and always will be,
my true love,
for I love thee.
When far away,
across the sea,
my memories
were of thee.
When your life,
flashes before your eyes,
remembering the memories,
of love and sighs,
it brings to us,
those who worry,
start enjoying your life,
squelching the hurry.
The low sandy beach and the thin scrub pine,
The wide reach of bay and the long sky line,—
O, I am far from home!
The salt, salt smell of the thick sea air,
And the smooth round stones that the ebbtides wear,—
When will the good ship come?
The wretched stumps all charred and burned,
And the deep soft rut where the cartwheel turned,—
Why is the world so old?
The lapping wave, and the broad gray sky
Where the cawing crows and the slow gulls fly,—
Where are the dead untold?
The thin, slant willows by the flooded bog,
The huge stranded hulk and the floating log,—
Sorrow with life began!
And among the dark pines, and along the flat shore,
O the wind, and the wind, for evermore!
What will become of man?
George Santayana - (1863 – 1952) ~ Jorge Agustín Nicolás Ruiz de Santayana y Borrás, was a philosopher, essayist, poet, critic and novelist. Born in Spain and raised and educated in the US from the age of eight. He left his position at Harvard at the age of 48 and returned to Europe permanently. Santayana was the author of many books and is popularly known for his aphorisms. He was profoundly influenced by Spinoza's life and thought. Although he was an atheist, he treasured the Spanish Catholic values, practices, and worldview in which he was raised.
A light, serene, ethereal glory rests
Its beams effulgent on each crestling wave;
The silver touches of the moonlight wave
The deep bare bosom that the breeze molests;
While lingering whispers deepen as the wavy crests
Roll with weird rhythm, now gay, now gently grave;
And floods of lambent light appear the sea to pave—
All cast a spell that heeds not time’s behests.
Not always such the scene; the din of fight
Has swelled the murmur of the peaceful air;
Here East and West have oft displayed their might;
Dark battle clouds have dimmed this scene so fair;
Here bold Olympia, one historic night,
Presaging freedom, claimed a people’s care.
Fernando Mamuri Maramág (1893 - 1936) was a Filipino poet, journalist, editor and teacher. Son of wealthy landowners, he studied at the Philippine Normal School (now Philippine Normal University) and later transferred to the University of the Philippines where he wrote for the school paper and soon became the editor-in-chief. Maramag married Constancia Ablaza and they had six children. He worked as an editor for various publications including The Manila Tribune, Rising Philippines, The Philippines Herald, He had a rich style and deep understanding of human nature – qualities which made his poetry appealing to readers. He was one of the earliest Filipino writers to publish poetry in English.
This poem is in the public domain.