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Best Famous Cinema Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Cinema poems. This is a select list of the best famous Cinema poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Cinema poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of cinema poems.

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Written by Derek Walcott | Create an image from this poem

The Saddhu Of Couva

 When sunset, a brass gong,
vibrate through Couva,
is then I see my soul, swiftly unsheathed,
like a white cattle bird growing more small
over the ocean of the evening canes,
and I sit quiet, waiting for it to return
like a hog-cattle blistered with mud,
because, for my spirit, India is too far.
And to that gong sometimes bald clouds in saffron robes assemble sacred to the evening, sacred even to Ramlochan, singing Indian hits from his jute hammock while evening strokes the flanks and silver horns of his maroon taxi, as the mosquitoes whine their evening mantras, my friend Anopheles, on the sitar, and the fireflies making every dusk Divali.
I knot my head with a cloud, my white mustache bristle like horns, my hands are brittle as the pages of Ramayana.
Once the sacred monkeys multiplied like branches in the ancient temples: I did not miss them, because these fields sang of Bengal, behind Ramlochan Repairs there was Uttar Pradesh; but time roars in my ears like a river, old age is a conflagration as fierce as the cane fires of crop time.
I will pass through these people like a cloud, they will see a white bird beating the evening sea of the canes behind Couva, and who will point it as my soul unsheathed? Naither the bridegroom in beads, nor the bride in her veils, their sacred language on the cinema hoardings.
I talked too damn much on the Couva Village Council.
I talked too softly, I was always drowned by the loudspeakers in front of the stores or the loudspeakers with the greatest pictures.
I am best suited to stalk like a white cattle bird on legs like sticks, with sticking to the Path between the canes on a district road at dusk.
Playing the Elder.
There are no more elders.
Is only old people.
My friends spit on the government.
I do not think is just the government.
Suppose all the gods too old, Suppose they dead and they burning them, supposing when some cane cutter start chopping up snakes with a cutlass he is severing the snake-armed god, and suppose some hunter has caught Hanuman in his mischief in a monkey cage.
Suppose all the gods were killed by electric light? Sunset, a bonfire, roars in my ears; embers of brown swallows dart and cry, like women distracted, around its cremation.
I ascend to my bed of sweet sandalwood.


Written by Barry Tebb | Create an image from this poem

Bridge Over The Aire Book 3

 THE KINGDOM OF MY HEART





1



The halcyon settled on the Aire of our days

Kingfisher-blue it broke my heart in two

Shall I forget you? Shall I forget you?



I am the mad poet first love

You never got over

You are my blue-eyed

Madonna virgin bride

I shall carve ‘MG loves BT’

On the bark of every 

Wind-bent tree in 

East End Park



2



The park itself will blossom

And grow in chiaroscuro

The Victorian postcard’s view

Of avenue upon avenue

With palms and pagodas

Lakes and waterfalls and

A fountain from Versailles.
3 You shall be my queen In the Kingdom of Deira Land of many rivers Aire the greatest Isara the strong one Robed in stillness Wide, deep and dark.
4 In Middleton Woods Margaret and I played Truth or dare She bared her breasts To the watching stars.
5 “Milk, milk, Lemonade, round The corner Chocolate spread” Nancy chanted at Ten in the binyard Touching her ****, Her ****, her bum, Margaret joined in Chanting in unison.
6 The skipping rope Turned faster And faster, slapping The hot pavement, Margaret skipped In rhythm, never Missing a beat, Lifting the pleat Of her skirt Whirling and twirling.
7 Giggling and red Margaret said In a whisper “When we were Playing at Nancy’s She pushed a spill Of paper up her You-know-what She said she’d Let you watch If you wanted.
” 8 Margaret, this Saturday morning in June There is a queue at the ‘Princess’ for The matin?e, down the alley by the blank Concrete of the cinema’s side I hide With you, we are counting our picture Money, I am counting the stars in your Hair, bound with a cheap plastic comb.
9 You have no idea of my need for you A lifetime long, every wrong decision I made betrayed my need; forty years on Hear my song and take my hand and move Us to the house of love where we belong.
10 Margaret we sat in the cinema dark Warm with the promise of a secret kiss The wall lights glowed amber on the Crumbling plaster, we looked with longing At the love seats empty in the circle, Vowing we would share one.
11 There is shouting and echoes Of wild splashing from York Road baths; forty years on It stirs my memory and Will not be gone.
12 The ghosts of tramtracks Light up lanes To nowhere In Leeds Ten.
Every road Leads nowhere In Leeds Nine.
Motorways have cut The city’s heart In two; Margaret, Our home lies buried Under sixteen feet Of stone.
13 Our families moved And we were lost I was not there to hear The whispered secret Of your first period.
14 God is courage’s infinite ground Tillich said; God, give me enough To stand another week without her Every day gets longer, every sleep Less deep.
15 Why can’t I find you, Touch you, Bind your straw-gold hair The colour of lank February grass? 16 Under the stone canopy Of the Grand Arcade I pass Europa Nightclub; In black designer glass I watch the faces pass But none is like your’s, No voice, no eyes, No smile at all Like your’s.
17 From Kirkstall Lock The rhubarb crop To Knostrop’s forcing sheds The roots ploughed up Arranged in beds Of perfect darkness Where the buds burst With a pip, rich pink Stalks and yellow leaves Hand-picked by Candle-light to Keep the colour right So every night the Rhubarb train Could go from Leeds To Covent Garden.
18 The smell of Saturday morning Is the smell of freedom How the bounds may grow Slowly slowly as I go.
“Rag-bone rag-bone White donkey stone” Auntie Nellie scoured Her door step, polished The brass knocker Till I saw my face Bunched like a fist Complete with goggles Grinning like a monkey In a mile of mirrors.
19 Every door step had a stop A half-stone iron weight To hold it back and every Step was edged with donkey Stone in yellow or white From the ragman or the potman With his covered cart jingling Jangling as it jerked hundreds Of cups on hooks pint and Half pint mugs and stacks of Willow-patterned plates From Burmantofts.
20 We heard him a mile off Nights in summer when He trundled round the Corner over the cobbles Jamming the wood brake Blocks whoaing the horses With their gleaming brasses And our mams were always Waiting where he stopped.
21 Double summer-time made The nights go on for ever And no-one cared any more How long we played what Or where and we were left Alone and that’s all I wanted Then or now to be left alone Never to be called in from The Hollows never to be Called from Margaret.
22 City of back-to-backs From Armley Heights Laid out in rows Like trees or grass I watch you pass.
23 The Aire is slow and almost Still In the Bridgefield The Joshua Tetley clock Over the Atkinson Grimshaw Print Is stopped at nineteen fifty Four The year I left.
24 Grimshaw’s home was Half a mile away In Knostrop Hall Margaret and I Climbed the ruined Walls her hair was Blowing in the wind Her eyes were stars In the green night Her hands were holding My hands.
25 Half a century later I look out over Leeds Nine What little’s left is broken Or changed Saturday night Is silent and empty The paths over the Hollows Deserted the bell Of St.
Hilda’s still.
26 On a single bush The yellow roses blush Pink in the amber light Night settles on the Fewstons and the Copperfields No mothers’ voices calling us.
Lilac and velvet clover Grew all over the Hollows It was all the luck We knew and when we left Our luck went too.
27 Solid black Velvet basalt Polished jet Millstone grit Leeds Town Hall Built with it Soaks up the fog Is sealed with smog Battered buttressed Blackened plinths White lions’ paws Were soft their Smiles like your’s.
28 Narrow lanes, steep inclines, Steps, blank walls, tight And secret openings’ The lanes are your hips The inclines the lines Of your thighs, the steps Your breasts, blank walls Your buttocks, tight and Secret openings your Taut vagina’s lips.
29 There is a keening and a honing And a winnowing in the wind I am the surge and flow In Winwaed’s water the last breath Of Elmete’s King.
I am Penda crossing the Aire Camping at Killingbeck Conquered by Aethalwald Ruler of Deira.
30 Life is a bird hovering In the Hall of the King Between darkness and darkness flickering The stone of Scone at last lifted And borne on the wind, Dunedin, take it Hold it hard and fast its light Is leaping it is freedom’s Touchstone and firestone.
31 Eir, Ayer or Aire I’ll still be there Your wanderings off course Old Ea, Old Eye, Dead Eye Make no difference to me.
Eg-an island - is Aire’s True source, names Not places matter With the risings Of a river Ea land-by-water I’ll make my own way Free, going down river To the far-off sea.
32 Poetry is my business, my affair.
My cri-de-coeur, jongleur Of Mercia and Elmete, Margaret, Open your door I am heaping Imbroglios of stars on the floor Meet me by the Office Lock At midnight or by the Town Hall Clock.
33 Nennius nine times have I knocked On the door of your grave, nine times More have I made Pilgrimage to Elmete’s Wood where long I lay by beck and bank Waiting for your tongue to flame With Pentecostal fire.
34 Margaret you rode in the hollow of my hand In the harp of my heart, searching for you I wandered in Kirkgate Market’s midnight Down avenues of shuttered stalls, our secrets Kept through all the years.
From the Imperial on Beeston Hill I watch the city spill glass towers Of light over the horizon’s rim.
35 The railyard’s straights Are buckled plates Red bricks for aggregate All lost like me Ledsham and Ledston Both belong to Leeds But Ledston Luck Is where Aire leads.
36 Held of the Crown By seven thanes In Saxon times ‘In regione Loidis’ Baeda scripsit Leeds, Leeds, You answer All my needs.
37 A horse shoe stuck for luck Behind a basement window: Margaret, now we’ll see What truth there is In dreams and poetry! I am at one with everyone There is poetry Falling from the air And you have put it there.
38 The sign for John Eaton Street Is planted in the back garden Of the transport caf? between The strands of a wire mesh fence Straddling the cobbles of a street That is no more, a washing line And an abandoned caravan.
39 ‘This open land to let’ Is what you get on the Hollows Thousands of half-burned tyres The rusty barrel of a Trumix lorry Concrete slabs, foxgloves and condoms, The Go-Kart Arena’s signboards, Half the wall of Ellerby Lane School.
40 There is a mermaid singing On East Street on an IBM poster Her hair is lack-lustre Her breasts are facing the camera Her tail is like a worn-out brush.
Chimney stacks Blind black walls Of factories Grimy glass Flickering firelight In black-leaded grates.
41 Hunslet de Ledes Hop-scotch, hide and seek, Bogies-on-wheels Not one tree in Hunslet Except in the cemetery The lake filled in For fifty years, The bluebell has rung Its last perfumed peal.
42 I couldn’t play out on Sunday Mam and dad thought us a cut Above the rest, it was another Test I failed, keeping me and Margaret apart was like the Aztecs Tearing the heart from the living flesh.
43 Father, your office job Didn’t save you From the drugs They never gave you.
44 Isaiah, my son, You made it back From Balliol to Beeston At a run via the Playing fields of Eton.
There is a keening and a honing And a winnowing in the wind Winwaed’s water with red bluid blent.
Written by Charles Simic | Create an image from this poem

The Initiate

 St.
John of the Cross wore dark glasses As he passed me on the street.
St.
Theresa of Avila, beautiful and grave, Turned her back on me.
"Soulmate," they hissed.
"It's high time.
" I was a blind child, a wind-up toy .
.
.
I was one of death's juggling red balls On a certain street corner Where they peddle things out of suitcases.
The city like a huge cinema With lights dimmed.
The performance already started.
So many blurred faces in a complicated plot.
The great secret which kept eluding me: knowing who I am .
.
.
The Redeemer and the Virgin, Their eyes wide open in the empty church Where the killer came to hide himself .
.
.
The new snow on the sidewalk bore footprints That could have been made by bare feet.
Some unknown penitent guiding me.
In truth, I didn't know where I was going.
My feet were frozen, My stomach growled.
Four young hoods blocking my way.
Three deadpan, one smiling crazily.
I let them have my black raincoat.
Thinking constantly of the Divine Love and the Absolute had disfigured me.
People mistook me for someone else.
I heard voices after me calling out unknown names.
"I'm searching for someone to sell my soul to," The drunk who followed me whispered, While appraising me from head to foot.
At the address I had been given.
The building had large X's over its windows.
I knocked but no one came to open.
By and by a black girl joined me on the steps.
She banged at the door till her fist hurt.
Her name was Alma, a propitious sign.
She knew someone who solved life's riddles In a voice of an ancient Sumerian queen.
We had a long talk about that While shivering and stamping our wet feet.
It was necessary to stay calm, I explained, Even with the earth trembling, And to continue to watch oneself As if one were a complete stranger.
Once in Chicago, for instance, I caught sight of a man in a shaving mirror Who had my naked shoulders and face, But whose eyes terrified me! Two hard staring, all-knowing eyes! After we parted, the night, the cold, and the endless walking Brought on a kind of ecstasy.
I went as if pursued, trying to warm myself.
There was the East River; there was the Hudson.
Their waters shone like oil in sanctuary lamps.
Something supreme was occurring For which there will never be any words.
The sky was full of racing clouds and tall buildings, Whirling and whirling silently.
In that whole city you could hear a pin drop.
Believe me.
I thought I heard a pin drop and I went looking for it.
Written by Tristan Tzara | Create an image from this poem

Cinema Calendar Of The Abstract Heart - 09

 the fibres give in to your starry warmth
a lamp is called green and sees
carefully stepping into a season of fever
the wind has swept the rivers' magic
and i've perforated the nerve
by the clear frozen lake
has snapped the sabre
but the dance round terrace tables
shuts in the shock of the marble shudder
new sober
Written by Conrad Aiken | Create an image from this poem

The House Of Dust: Part 04: 06: Cinema

 As evening falls,
The walls grow luminous and warm, the walls
Tremble and glow with the lives within them moving,
Moving like music, secret and rich and warm.
How shall we live to-night, where shall we turn? To what new light or darkness yearn? A thousand winding stairs lead down before us; And one by one in myriads we descend By lamplit flowered walls, long balustrades, Through half-lit halls which reach no end.
.
.
.
Take my arm, then, you or you or you, And let us walk abroad on the solid air: Look how the organist's head, in silhouette, Leans to the lamplit music's orange square! .
.
.
The dim-globed lamps illumine rows of faces, Rows of hands and arms and hungry eyes, They have hurried down from a myriad secret places, From windy chambers next to the skies.
.
.
.
The music comes upon us.
.
.
.
it shakes the darkness, It shakes the darkness in our minds.
.
.
.
And brilliant figures suddenly fill the darkness, Down the white shaft of light they run through darkness, And in our hearts a dazzling dream unwinds .
.
.
Take my hand, then, walk with me By the slow soundless crashings of a sea Down miles on miles of glistening mirrorlike sand,— Take my hand And walk with me once more by crumbling walls; Up mouldering stairs where grey-stemmed ivy clings, To hear forgotten bells, as evening falls, Rippling above us invisibly their slowly widening rings.
.
.
.
Did you once love me? Did you bear a name? Did you once stand before me without shame? .
.
.
Take my hand: your face is one I know, I loved you, long ago: You are like music, long forgotten, suddenly come to mind; You are like spring returned through snow.
Once, I know, I walked with you in starlight, And many nights I slept and dreamed of you; Come, let us climb once more these stairs of starlight, This midnight stream of cloud-flung blue! .
.
.
Music murmurs beneath us like a sea, And faints to a ghostly whisper .
.
.
Come with me.
Are you still doubtful of me—hesitant still, Fearful, perhaps, that I may yet remember What you would gladly, if you could, forget? You were unfaithful once, you met your lover; Still in your heart you bear that red-eyed ember; And I was silent,—you remember my silence yet .
.
.
You knew, as well as I, I could not kill him, Nor touch him with hot hands, nor yet with hate.
No, and it was not you I saw with anger.
Instead, I rose and beat at steel-walled fate, Cried till I lay exhausted, sick, unfriended, That life, so seeming sure, and love, so certain, Should loose such tricks, be so abruptly ended, Ring down so suddenly an unlooked-for curtain.
How could I find it in my heart to hurt you, You, whom this love could hurt much more than I? No, you were pitiful, and I gave you pity; And only hated you when I saw you cry.
We were two dupes; if I could give forgiveness,— Had I the right,—I should forgive you now .
.
.
We were two dupes .
.
.
Come, let us walk in starlight, And feed our griefs: we do not break, but bow.
Take my hand, then, come with me By the white shadowy crashings of a sea .
.
.
Look how the long volutes of foam unfold To spread their mottled shimmer along the sand! .
.
.
Take my hand, Do not remember how these depths are cold, Nor how, when you are dead, Green leagues of sea will glimmer above your head.
You lean your face upon your hands and cry, The blown sand whispers about your feet, Terrible seems it now to die,— Terrible now, with life so incomplete, To turn away from the balconies and the music, The sunlit afternoons, To hear behind you there a far-off laughter Lost in a stirring of sand among dry dunes .
.
.
Die not sadly, you whom life has beaten! Lift your face up, laughing, die like a queen! Take cold flowers of foam in your warm white fingers! Death's but a change of sky from blue to green .
.
.
As evening falls, The walls grow luminous and warm, the walls Tremble and glow .
.
.
the music breathes upon us, The rayed white shaft plays over our heads like magic, And to and fro we move and lean and change .
.
.
You, in a world grown strange, Laugh at a darkness, clench your hands despairing, Smash your glass on a floor, no longer caring, Sink suddenly down and cry .
.
.
You hear the applause that greets your latest rival, You are forgotten: your rival—who knows?—is I .
.
.
I laugh in the warm bright light of answering laughter, I am inspired and young .
.
.
and though I see You sitting alone there, dark, with shut eyes crying, I bask in the light, and in your hate of me .
.
.
Failure .
.
.
well, the time comes soon or later .
.
.
The night must come .
.
.
and I'll be one who clings, Desperately, to hold the applause, one instant,— To keep some youngster waiting in the wings.
The music changes tone .
.
.
a room is darkened, Someone is moving .
.
.
the crack of white light widens, And all is dark again; till suddenly falls A wandering disk of light on floor and walls, Winks out, returns again, climbs and descends, Gleams on a clock, a glass, shrinks back to darkness; And then at last, in the chaos of that place, Dazzles like frozen fire on your clear face.
Well, I have found you.
We have met at last.
Now you shall not escape me: in your eyes I see the horrible huddlings of your past,— All you remember blackens, utters cries, Reaches far hands and faint.
I hold the light Close to your cheek, watch the pained pupils shrink,— Watch the vile ghosts of all you vilely think .
.
.
Now all the hatreds of my life have met To hold high carnival .
.
.
we do not speak, My fingers find the well-loved throat they seek, And press, and fling you down .
.
.
and then forget.
Who plays for me? What sudden drums keep time To the ecstatic rhythm of my crime? What flute shrills out as moonlight strikes the floor? .
.
What violin so faintly cries Seeing how strangely in the moon he lies? .
.
.
The room grows dark once more, The crack of white light narrows around the door, And all is silent, except a slow complaining Of flutes and violins, like music waning.
Take my hand, then, walk with me By the slow soundless crashings of a sea .
.
.
Look, how white these shells are, on this sand! Take my hand, And watch the waves run inward from the sky Line upon foaming line to plunge and die.
The music that bound our lives is lost behind us, Paltry it seems .
.
.
here in this wind-swung place Motionless under the sky's vast vault of azure We stand in a terror of beauty, face to face.
The dry grass creaks in the wind, the blown sand whispers, The soft sand seethes on the dunes, the clear grains glisten, Once they were rock .
.
.
a chaos of golden boulders .
.
.
Now they are blown by the wind .
.
.
we stand and listen To the sliding of grain upon timeless grain And feel our lives go past like a whisper of pain.
Have I not seen you, have we not met before Here on this sun-and-sea-wrecked shore? You shade your sea-gray eyes with a sunlit hand And peer at me .
.
.
far sea-gulls, in your eyes, Flash in the sun, go down .
.
.
I hear slow sand, And shrink to nothing beneath blue brilliant skies .
.
.
* * * * * The music ends.
The screen grows dark.
We hurry To go our devious secret ways, forgetting Those many lives .
.
.
We loved, we laughed, we killed, We danced in fire, we drowned in a whirl of sea-waves.
The flutes are stilled, and a thousand dreams are stilled.
Whose body have I found beside dark waters, The cold white body, garlanded with sea-weed? Staring with wide eyes at the sky? I bent my head above it, and cried in silence.
Only the things I dreamed of heard my cry.
Once I loved, and she I loved was darkened.
Again I loved, and love itself was darkened.
Vainly we follow the circle of shadowy days.
The screen at last grows dark, the flutes are silent.
The doors of night are closed.
We go our ways.


Written by Robert William Service | Create an image from this poem

The Odyssey Of Erbert Iggins

 Me and Ed and a stretcher
 Out on the nootral ground.
(If there's one dead corpse, I'll betcher There's a 'undred smellin' around.
) Me and Eddie O'Brian, Both of the R.
A.
M.
C.
"It'as a 'ell of a night For a soul to take flight," As Eddie remarks to me.
Me and Ed crawlin' 'omeward, Thinkin' our job is done, When sudden and clear, Wot do we 'ear: 'Owl of a wounded 'Un.
"Got to take 'im," snaps Eddy; "Got to take all we can.
'E may be a Germ Wiv the 'eart of a worm, But, blarst 'im! ain't 'e a man?" So 'e sloshes out fixin' a dressin' ('E'd always a medical knack), When that wounded 'Un 'E rolls to 'is gun, And 'e plugs me pal in the back.
Now what would you do? I arst you.
There was me slaughtered mate.
There was that 'Un (I'd collered 'is gun), A-snarlin' 'is 'ymn of 'ate.
Wot did I do? 'Ere, whisper .
.
.
'E'd a shiny bald top to 'is 'ead, But when I got through, Between me and you, It was 'orrid and jaggy and red.
"'Ang on like a limpet, Eddy.
Thank Gord! you ain't dead after all.
" It's slow and it's sure and it's steady (Which is 'ard, for 'e's big and I'm small).
The rockets are shootin' and shinin', It's rainin' a perishin' flood, The bullets are buzzin' and whinin', And I'm up to me stern in the mud.
There's all kinds of 'owlin' and 'ootin'; It's black as a bucket of tar; Oh, I'm doin' my bit, But I'm 'avin' a fit, And I wish I was 'ome wiv Mar.
"Stick on like a plaster, Eddy.
Old sport, you're a-slackin' your grip.
" Gord! But I'm crocky already; My feet, 'ow they slither and slip! There goes the biff of a bullet.
The Boches have got us for fair.
Another one -- WHUT! The son of a ****! 'E managed to miss by a 'air.
'Ow! Wot was it jabbed at me shoulder? Gave it a dooce of a wrench.
Is it Eddy or me Wot's a-bleedin' so free? Crust! but it's long to the trench.
I ain't just as strong as a Sandow, And Ed ain't a flapper by far; I'm blamed if I understand 'ow We've managed to get where we are.
But 'ere's for a bit of a breather.
"Steady there, Ed, 'arf a mo'.
Old pal, it's all right; It's a 'ell of a fight, But are we down-'earted? No-o-o.
" Now war is a funny thing, ain't it? It's the rummiest sort of a go.
For when it's most real, It's then that you feel You're a-watchin' a cinema show.
'Ere's me wot's a barber's assistant.
Hey, presto! It's somewheres in France, And I'm 'ere in a pit Where a coal-box 'as 'it, And it's all like a giddy romance.
The ruddy quick-firers are spittin', The 'eavies are bellowin' 'ate, And 'ere I am cashooly sittin', And 'oldin' the 'ead of me mate.
Them gharstly green star-shells is beamin', 'Ot shrapnel is poppin' like rain, And I'm sayin': "Bert 'Iggins, you're dreamin', And you'll wake up in 'Ampstead again.
You'll wake up and 'ear yourself sayin': `Would you like, sir, to 'ave a shampoo?' 'Stead of sheddin' yer blood In the rain and the mud, Which is some'ow the right thing to do; Which is some'ow yer 'oary-eyed dooty, Wot you're doin' the best wot you can, For 'Ampstead and 'ome and beauty, And you've been and you've slaughtered a man.
A feller wot punctured your partner; Oh, you 'ammered 'im 'ard on the 'ead, And you still see 'is eyes Starin' bang at the skies, And you ain't even sorry 'e's dead.
But you wish you was back in your diggin's Asleep on your mouldy old stror.
Oh, you're doin' yer bit, 'Erbert 'Iggins, But you ain't just enjoyin' the war.
" "'Ang on like a hoctopus, Eddy.
It's us for the bomb-belt again.
Except for the shrap Which 'as 'it me a tap, I'm feelin' as right as the rain.
It's my silly old feet wot are slippin', It's as dark as a 'ogs'ead o' sin, But don't be oneasy, my pippin, I'm goin' to pilot you in.
It's my silly old 'ead wot is reelin'.
The bullets is buzzin' like bees.
Me shoulder's red-'ot, And I'm bleedin' a lot, And me legs is on'inged at the knees.
But we're staggerin' nearer and nearer.
Just stick it, old sport, play the game.
I make 'em out clearer and clearer, Our trenches a-snappin' with flame.
Oh, we're stumblin' closer and closer.
'Ang on there, lad! Just one more try.
Did you say: Put you down? Damn it, no, sir! I'll carry you in if I die.
By cracky! old feller, they've seen us.
They're sendin' out stretchers for two.
Let's give 'em the hoorah between us ('Anged lucky we aren't booked through).
My flipper is mashed to a jelly.
A bullet 'as tickled your spleen.
We've shed lots of gore And we're leakin' some more, But -- wot a hoccasion it's been! Ho! 'Ere comes the rescuin' party.
They're crawlin' out cautious and slow.
Come! Buck up and greet 'em, my 'earty, Shoulder to shoulder -- so.
They mustn't think we was down-'earted.
Old pal, we was never down-'earted.
If they arsts us if we was down-'earted We'll 'owl in their fyces: 'No-o-o!'"
Written by Odysseus Elytis | Create an image from this poem

Calendar of an Invisible April

"Calendar of an Invisible April"
Translation from Greek: Marios Dikaiakos


"The wind was wistling continuously, it was 
getting darker, and that distant voice was 
incessantly reaching my ears : "an entire life".
.
.
"an entire life".
.
.
On the opposite wall, the shadows of the trees were playing cinema" ---------------- "It seems that somewhere people are celebrating; although there are no houses or human beings I can listen to guitars and other laughters which are not nearby Maybe far away, within the ashes of heavens Andromeda, the Bear, or the Virgin.
.
.
I wonder; is loneliness the same, all over the worlds ? " ---------------- "Almond-shaped, elongated eyes, lips; perfumes stemming from a premature sky of great feminine delicacy and fatal drunkeness.
I leant on my side -almost fell- onto the hymns to the Virgin and the cold of spacious gardens.
Prepared for the worst.
"
Written by A S J Tessimond | Create an image from this poem

Cinema Screen

 Light's patterns freeze:
Frost on our faces.
Light's pollen sifts Through the lids of our eyes .
.
.
Light sinks and rusts In water; is broken By glass .
.
.
rests On deserted dust.
Light lies like torn Paper in corners: A rock-pool's pledge Of the sea's return.
Light, wrenched at the edges By wind, looks down At itself in wrinkled Mirrors from bridges.
Light thinly unweaves Itself through darkness Like foam's unknotting Strings in waves .
.
.
Now light is again Accumulated Swords against us .
.
.
Now it is gone.

Book: Radiant Verses: A Journey Through Inspiring Poetry