January, 2014
The Tale of the Three Brothers
POSTED IN essays January 12, 2014
The Tale of the Three Brothers
There were once three brothers who were traveling along a lonely, winding road at twilight. In time, the brothers reached a river too deep to wade through and too dangerous to swim across.. However, these brothers were learned in the magical arts, and so they simply waved their wands and made a bridge appear across the treacherous water. They were halfway across it when they found their path blocked by a hooded figure.
And Death spoke to them. He was angry that he had been cheated out of three new victims, for travelers usually drowned in the river. But Death was cunning. He pretended to congratulate the three brothers upon their magic and said that each had earned a prize for having been clever enough to evade him.
So the oldest brother, who was a combative man, asked for a wand more powerful than any in existence: a wand that must always win duels for its owner, a wand worthy of a wizard who had conquered Death! So Death crossed to an elder tree on the banks of the river, fashioned a wand from a branch that hung there, and gave it to the oldest brother.
Then the second brother, who was an arrogant man, decided that he wanted to humiliate Death still further, and asked for the power to recall others from Death. So Death picked up a stone from the riverbank and gave it to the second brother, and told him that the stone would have the power to bring back the dead.
And then Death asked the third and youngest brother what he would like. The youngest brother was the humblest and also the wisest of the brothers, and he did not trust Death. So he asked for something that would enable him to go forth from that place without being followed by Death. And death, most unwillingly, handed over his own Cloak of Invisibility.
Then Death stood aside and allowed the three brothers to continue on their way, and they did so, talking with wonder of the adventure they had had, and admiring Death’s gifts. In due course the brothers separated, each for his own destination.
The first brother traveled on for a week or more, and reaching a distant village, sought out a fellow wizard with whom he had a quarrel. Naturally with the Elder Wand as his weapon, he could not fail to win the duel that followed. Leaving his enemy dead upon the floor, the oldest brother proceeded to an inn, where he boasted loudly of the powerful wand he had snatched from Death himself, and of how it made him invincible.
That very night, another wizard crept upon the oldest brother as he lay, wine-sodden, upon his bed. The theif took the wand and, for good measure, slit the oldest brother’s throat.
And so Death took the first brother for his own.
Meanwhile, the second brother journeyed to his own home, where he lived alone. Here he took out the stone that had the power to recall the dead, and turned it thrice in his hand. To his amazement and his delight, the figure of the girl he had once hoped to marry, before her untimely death, appeared at once before him.
Yet she was sad and cold, separated from him as by a veil. Though she had returned to the mortal world, she did not truly belong there and suffered. Finally the second brother, driven mad with hopeless longing, killed himself so as truly to join her.
And so Death took the second brother for his own.
But though Death searched for the third brother for many years, he was never able to find him. It was only when he had attained a great age that the youngest brother finally took off the Cloak of Invisibility and gave it to his son. And then he greeted Death as an old friend, and went with him gladly, and, equals, they departed this life.
Beedle the Bard
Panic in the supermarket
POSTED IN contemporary poetry January 9, 2014
Panic in the supermarket
tendrils of fear
unfurl around me
among the shelves
crackers play dice
with my heart
there’s too little air
in the Spanish olives
unarmed
a purple aubergine
mocks me – “mala insana”
what madness is this?
my soul bared
there is nowhere to hide
layer upon layer of skin
unpeeled, stinging
insidious tears
pretzels hold out their arms
like children in prayer
I stare at my upturned palms
stained by the vine
and wonder why I am here.
Amanda Edwards
Sacrifice
POSTED IN contemporary poetry January 7, 2014
Sacrifice
He loves me, he loves me not
a tear begins to form
He loves me, he loves me not
a seed of fear is born
He loves me, he loves me not
my heart will not settle
He loves me, he loves me not!
I crush the fragile petal.
What if he never loves me?
My brokenness won’t mend
I pick another daisy
and start the count again.
He loves me. He loves me!
Joy becomes a sigh
For just a tiny spark of hope
a flower had to die.
from justwritewithmandy.blogspot.fi
Amanda Edwards
Apart
POSTED IN reading poetry, Stories January 5, 2014
Apart
Her eyes were shivering a tear
while the old year was shot
she softly sighed “Happy New Year!”
And dried the tearful thought.
Her eyes were echoing the heart
its beating ten to one
the counted seconds, whole in part,
made future be outrun.
Her eyes kissed Mother’s loving hands
and Father’s forehead gray
they cry in their faraway lands
and for their daughter pray.
Their eyes were searching, near and far,
to meet each other’s soul
watching the same heavenly Star
and each part as a whole.
When Time she stopped, she whispered sad
into wide Heaven’s ear:
“I love you, Mom! I love you, Dad!
Blessed be this New Year”!
Bielka
Europeans
POSTED IN contemporary poetry January 5, 2014
Europeans
Now we are in Europe let us take
To selling mushrooms by the roadside,
Broad-brimmed platefuls and uniform buttons
Plucked before dawn in the forest of birch,
The dank delicious one-legged flesh
Climbing from grave-pits as big and as deep
As the forest themselves, for it does not
Take long to establish the custom, not long
To forget the beginning, to hold up
A bucket or basket of mushrooms
And talk about always and offer a shrug
That proves our knowledge and our ignorance
Identical, proverbial, entirely
Beyond the scope of history or law,
And since we have always been here
On our fold-away chairs near the crossroads,
Hunched in black overcoats, pale as our produce,
Seeking and selling the flesh of the earth
By the handful and kilo in brown paper bags,
We cannot be other than real.
From the volume “November”
Sean O’Brien
Night poem
POSTED IN contemporary poetry January 5, 2014
Night poem
There is nothing to be afraid of,
it is only the wind
changing to the east, it is only
your father the thunder
your mother the rain
In this country of water
with its beige moon damp as a mushroom,
its drowned stumps and long birds
that swim, where the moss grows
on all sides of the trees
and your shadow is not your shadow
but your reflection,
your true parents disappear
when the curtain covers your door.
We are the others,
the ones from under the lake
who stand silently beside your bed
with our heads of darkness.
We have come to cover you
with red wool,
with our tears and distant whispers.
You rock in the rain’s arms,
the chilly ark of your sleep,
while we wait, your night
father and mother,
with our cold hands and dead flashlight,
knowing we are only
the wavering shadows thrown
by one candle, in this echo
you will hear twenty years later.
Margaret Atwood
Our Gaia
POSTED IN contemporary poetry January 4, 2014
Our Gaia
Look down from space and feel wonderment,
right past the moon, as dry as bone dust, past
our landing spot in the sea of tranquility.
Catch your breath, see rising earth, aglow
a gleaming membrane of the brightest blue
that’s girded with great drifts of cloud,
Gaia is our ferry on this sea of existence.
The great oceans and rivers are her life blood,
the mountains, her spine, the land, her bones.
Ley lines, or meridians carry her life force.
We consume the great forests of her lungs,
pollute air, she breathes with moons pull.
We pour tons of concrete, steel and tarmac
on a heartbeat that pulses beneath our feet,
tearing wounds in her skin with our ploughs.
All Gaia’s living creatures are her senses,
seventy percent water, thirty percent earth,
about the same proportions as land and sea.
We are her seed, the forgetful progeny
of a super organism, we’re naked without earth,
a conscious assembly of earth’s elements,
know ourselves, we will know the universe.
Are we as fleas destroying our planet’s fine pelt,
or birds flying free, who rid her of parasites?
Gael Bage
Auld Lang Syne
POSTED IN classic poetry January 2, 2014
Auld Lang Syne
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And never brought to mind?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And auld lang syne!
Chorus.—
For auld lang syne, my dear,
For auld lang syne.
We’ll tak a cup o’ kindness yet,
For auld lang syne.
And surely ye’ll be your pint stowp!
And surely I’ll be mine!
And we’ll tak a cup o’kindness yet,
For auld lang syne.
For auld lang syne, my dear,
For auld lang syne.
We’ll tak a cup o’ kindness yet,
For auld lang syne.
We twa hae run about the braes,
And pou’d the gowans fine;
But we’ve wander’d mony a weary fit,
Sin’ auld lang syne.
For auld lang syne, my dear,
For auld lang syne.
We’ll tak a cup o’ kindness yet,
For auld lang syne.
We twa hae paidl’d in the burn,
Frae morning sun till dine;
But seas between us braid hae roar’d
Sin’ auld lang syne.
For auld lang syne, my dear,
For auld lang syne.
We’ll tak a cup o’ kindness yet,
For auld lang syne.
And there’s a hand, my trusty fere!
And gie’s a hand o’ thine!
And we’ll tak a right gude-willie waught,
For auld lang syne.
For auld lang syne, my dear,
For auld lang syne.
We’ll tak a cup o’ kindness yet,
For auld lang syne.
Robert Burns
A Song For New Year’s Eve
POSTED IN classic poetry January 1, 2014
A Song For New Year’s Eve
Stay yet, my friends, a moment stay –
Stay till the good old year,
So long companion of our way,
Shakes hands and leaves us here.
Oh stay, oh stay,
One little hour, and then away.
The year, whose hopes were high and strong,
Has now no hopes to wake;
Yet one hour more of jest and song
For his familiar sake.
Oh stay, oh stay,
One mirthful hour, and then away.
The kindly year, his liberal hands
Have lavished all his store.
And shall we turn from where he stands,
Because he gives no more?
Oh stay, oh stay,
One grateful hour, and then away.
Days brightly came and calmly went,
While yet he was our quest;
How cheerfully the week was spent!
How sweet the seventh day’s rest!
Oh stay, oh stay,
One golden hour, and then away.
Dear friends were with us, some who sleep
Beneath the coffin-lid;
What pleasant memories we keep
Of all they said and did!
Oh stay, oh stay,
One tender hour, and then away.
Even while we sing, he smiles his last,
And leaves our sphere behind.
The good old year is with the past;
Oh, be the new as kind!
Oh stay, oh stay,
One parting strain, and then away.
from the page Satakielen.blogspot.fi
Raila Murtola
William Cullen Bryant
