These Nostalgia Elegy poems are examples of Elegy poems about Nostalgia. These are the best examples of Nostalgia Elegy poems written by international PoetrySoup poets
The field is wet with sunshine,
Ripe grasses green and high;
With a reaper in the meadow,
And a bird flies in the sky.
There's a nest with little babies,
With three beaks opened wide;
A reaper's in the meadow,
And a song hangs in the sky.
The meadow's ripe with summer,
And a tragedy passes by;
With a scythe in the meadow,
And a song up in the sky.
If I could wipe away the stars
I’d paint them in a row
And count them one by one
Then maybe I could live forever
But that would be a grand endeavour.
If I could wash the ocean floor
I would tie my hair up with seaweed
And I would ask the crab to dance
And his steps would be so fine
But that would be too divine.
If I could ask the skies to hear me
They’d guide me where to go
They’d show me the directions
In the clouds above the road.
If I could sing a song without words
I’d find you there in the shadows
Where the silence lives between octaves
And I would always sing on key
But that would be an impossibility.
If I could create time in an instant
I’d stop the clock when you called me
And the plane wouldn’t have to fly
It would sit and wait to be saved
But instead I cry at your grave.
On a day never unseen
when our souls are called to rest
And our bodies returned to dust
From whence they came
Whether burdened with age
Or unable to cross life's next stage
If in bed we Lia in wait
Or by force others do take
On a day not unforeseen
When the key to our creation
Unlocks the door to mans destruction
And all hope in life, LOST...!
As men have always been half
in love with death
Cyclically life and death move
For death brings us sorrow
But a day would come we will all follow
And when again life is gone
In new bodies we shall be born
In whom evil dominates
A lower being regenerates
In whom good prevails
A pure soul avails
You flourished and blurred
like a spark on wind
Gracefully and quickly like a frightened hind
in pursuit of light
You harvested through bushy meadows
taken by blight
In struggle with plight
had you lost your might
And gave out
although never you gave up.
Where are you?
For you must be still there.
For I still can feel you
somewhere in the air.
When I am bent with the vintage of the years
A stick-man having lived my dissipation through
I will be as the bough of an ancient tree.
What once was a twig
Will resemble a branch of an Old Sequoia.
I will stand tall and straight if only in my mind
My grandfather's mole in mind and the wreckage of
Years past covered with moss and tears and blessedly
Like the plans of other mice and men
My plans have gone
Astray - and
I have rejoiced in the most mundane.
October held 10 family birthdays
all between 4 houses on Troy Street.
Each night after dinner we
set out on our walk for cake.
Aunt Lory’s house was rum
Aunt Josies, buttercream frosted white,
and Aunt Lu’s lemon, bright yellow, rich and moist
could made her St. Joseph’s statue drool.
We’d gather around the birthday boy perched on a chair,
while us cousins stood, shoulder to shoulder,
eagerly waiting for the last note of the song to be sung.
I stood eye level to the burning numbered candles,
mesmerized by their melting wax dripping
down the sides like sap from a tree.
Their light, drunk on sugar, danced wildly
across our hungry faces.
Then with one large blow the room went black.
In those few seconds Darkness, like eternity
steals all their faces from my sight.
The room frozen, suspended precariously between
feast and fear, grief and gratitude, love and loss.
Lights return to applause as the knife cuts deep into the center.
Wishes like prayers are sent rising as curls of smoke
through a chimney, up, up to places far away.
Paper plates of sugar splendor are passed down and devoured.
We didn’t realize then, just silly girls with frost covered lips,
how everything of importance in this world fit at the end of that fork.
With full bellies our good-byes are said on porch lite steps.
And the moon, like a lantern, radiant in the Autumn sky
illuminates our way home till our next walk,
Aunt Mary’s luscious chocolate layer cake.
I picture Kashmir through lightened KL. News of another massacre darkens my eyes
Winds are thirsty there. They continue to taste the young blood.
I groom myself with exquisite things,
Sipping ice tea in ac room, I comfort myself
And Kashmir burns. Kashmir set ablaze
I can smell the warm blood of beaten corpse
Where from winds bought this smell. Somewhere Karbala reborn.
Mosques are being slammed
There windows stoned. And the black boots leave their footprints on Mimber
Even God judges on evidence
There is one Imaam left now; he hides her daughters in his shadow
A blunt knife in his hands; soon he will sacrifice them to keep their innocence
Kashmir is burning. Kashmir is bleeding
And I write.
Army jeep chases the tracks. To find the associated bodies
They are alive now. Soon they will be dead
From Patan to Sopor, And in narrow passages of nostalgic downtown
Ghosts of curfew
Haunt the houses for young souls.
From the Kupwara cantonments, search lights chase emptiness
Nothing is left now. Search lights can’t see inside the graves
A boy there went missing for two days. His father starts digging his grave.
I put my earphones on and I close my eyes. I sleep
While my Kashmir is ablaze
“It’s me poor farmer’s son. Kupwara’s charm, I feel no pain”.
I see him so alive in my dreams.
He chants songs of Mahjoor from his burnt lips. My hands shiver. He has no finger nails.
I see his smoke tanned skin. Same as that of Khayam’s barbeques
He stands at a distance from me. I can still smell kerosene
“Tell my mother to let her heart become cold. Her heart will not bear my state.
Tell my mother to let her eyes become blind. Her eyes will not withstand my sight.”
I follow him towards his tortured body. He tells me to follow the spilled blood.
His blood has made its own Jhelum. I row on it. Until it gets lost in black boots
The story will turn into legend. I find his body no more.
On the streets silence prevails. Nobody has permission to wail.
Sisters are beatifying coffins while brothers look for stones.
For bullets there will be stones
Kashmir is ablaze. She is wailing in grotesque tones.
In Lal Ded hospital a new born cries: Father register me at cantonment then take me out
Death is recruiting in dozens at a time.
Tomorrow is curfew. Death has no curfew pass.
How they want to identity you. Becomes your identity
People burn up all you identity cards.
Your spirit flew to life beyond the vail.
Those aged bones were what you left behind.
Though love remained with memory and tale.
A royal heart like yours is hard to find.
Ó November 16, 2011
Dane Ann Smith-Johnsen
Is never a crime so earn me
For all whom thoughts were
crack in the noon
And still don't think is right them
left being numb
Just in prenuptial procession like
most pyralis once astir
when we was want to arrived
Only to help stave off an alien
To kick up something inimical!
wriggling out interest on a
for reprisal scarcely spawn
even in a miles whence
caschrom merely for craniums.
Another son is dead, until five he lived.
For his long life at Shah-Hamdan he had threads tied
“Shehij ninder yee nai. Gahas Kormakh Khudayas Hawale”, his mother cries.
No news can penetrate across the mountains. Satellites work here no more
My Kashmir burns. And no one knows.
An old woman with torn scarf sits besides fire. While feeding her neighbor’s child
She sighs. Is my son dead or alive? She silently cries.
In Madrasa I hear children reciting Quran. A girl’s come out dragging her feet.
I remember her from somewhere. I remember her seeing naked.
Oh! God she is the one who was raped.
Nights have turned pitch black. My eyes are losing the habit of sight
Midnight soldier’s set another house ablaze. At least there is some sort of light.
Many letters have been written to God. Postcards posted of those raped girl’s
But its curfew again. No post office deliver’s the message again.
Death comes from everywhere. Close your windows mother
For bullet respects no womb. It turned Gulistans into tombs.
From the plains the visitors come to visit their God’s
They are our only witnesses but hypocrites at heart.
They say paradise is kaasmir. While my Kashmir is ablaze
They testify against us. Is anybody witnessing this? No one at all
Be witness to at least this. Open up your eyes my Lord!
When paradise is painted with colors of hell, certainly divinity loses its grace
In the news the reporter is beaten. Bamboo sticks are hungry for human blood.
Let Kashmir go to hell. A new promise in their portfolio.
Threads have given up at Dastegeer’s place. Even they are horrified at our fate.
In Maisuma boys are dragged by police. They close their dreams, end their screams
In a police gypsy.
Men shape into monsters when they are given right to anarchy.
The gypsy drives them into the dark cantonments. They will remember this day
Interrogation officer comes. After celebrating his son’s birthday.
The winds from the cantonments bring their news
Burned tires around their necks. Burning stoves near their heads.
The knife tearing up their flesh.
And the boys cry, “We haven’t batted yet. Cricket. We know nothing”.
Death wants children to be headlines
Hunger has affected the heavens as well.
Graves are full. No more space left.
We need land of the plains. For our graves.
In the ac car the bureaucrat goes. The mother’s with search full eyes
Ask about their sons they lost. They drink their tears
And he sips champagne.