Long Curlew Poems
Long Curlew Poems. Below are the most popular long Curlew by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Curlew poems by poem length and keyword.
Egnehenots – of earth and stone
Chief elder – most wise upon the Salisbury Plain
an old man . . . loved deeply
revered father of the land
wakes before the sunrise
speaks with a clear wind voice
it is time . . . retniw ecitslos
The twelve bow . . . form together
three to a side
lift Otsego – clear water running
high in the air
in liturgical movements
move across the dark plain
whitlow grass . . . juniper shrubs . . . wild thyme . . .
sweeten the air
moss laden stones
soft upon leather-bound feet
Within the wind
haunting cries of the stone curlew
crested newts scramble for cover
the great bustard cuts the air with powerful wing beats
Ancient burial mounds appear
a sacred circle of life emergences
the procession stops . . . lowers
Egnehenots steps down, blesses the twelve
enters the holy inner circle alone
Laying his head against the mighty sarsens
begins to chant . . .
father of the blue stones
creator of the big sky light
upon these rocks I cling for your life
from sky, to earth let your love flow
On this holy day
your strength is once again revealed
wind and rain obey your commands
days, nights, seasons march to your song
how great and mighty is your power
Hear our cries upon the wind
absorb our tears upon the earth
our breath upon your mighty rocks
be now amongst your people
send forth the sun and rain
let the earth bring forth its riches
so that we may dance in your radiance
The sun breaks the horizon
Sending out shafts of lights
streaking across the sky
clouds turning purple then into shades of reds, oranges
a single ray of light strikes forth
straight as an arrow
illuminating the altar stone
connecting slaughter stone
and finally . . . the heel stone
Where
Where, an old man clings
A loud cheer explodes from the village
Food and wind flow – a celebration
A new year begins -
Rain clouds appear in the west
Egnehenots – of earth and stone
Love Generously
David Meade
12/8/2015
life without love
was how nature planned it
instinct was the way
instinct was the way
was how nature planned it
life without love
symbiosis
when two become partners
instinctive for one
instinctive for one
when two become partners
symbiosis
the mighty oak tree
supports many life forms
inadvertently
inadvertently
supports many life forms
the mighty oak tree
winds... mass destructors
for some life dependant
pollinating breeze
pollinating breeze
for some life dependant
winds... mass destructors
the early bird dies
fickle spring... substrate frozen
instinct to migrate
instinct to migrate
fickle spring... substrate frozen
the early bird dies
who gave life knowledge
nature... okay... who taught it
self-preservation
self-preservation
nature... okay... who taught it
who gave life knowledge
who gave life knowledge
nature... okay... who taught it
an open question
an open question
nature... okay... who taught it
who gave life knowledge
black and blue
hate or an accident
on reflection
on reflection
hate or an accident
black and blue
life's poetry
look out of your window
no cities bare
no cities bare
look out of your window
life's poetry
the babbling brook
it's banks alive with beauty
rocks giving shelter
rocks giving shelter
it's banks alive with beauty
the babbling brook
oceans swell... seeking
waves rushing to distant shores
raving... ripples blush
raving... ripples blush
waves rushing to distant shores
oceans swell... seeking
their probing beaks
waders on the low tide flats
mud their larder
mud their larder
waders on the low tide flats
their probing beaks
the curlew calling
otters on a lake's shoreline
the moors... life thriving
the moors... life thriving
otters on a lake's shoreline
the curlew calling
my muse
she leads my hand to paper
it scribes for nature
it scribes for nature
she leads my hand to paper
my muse
sand blasting pebbles
waves eroding shorelines
fossils exposed
fossils exposed
waves eroding shorelines
sand blasting pebbles
Ranted I in fiery dance
Upon the rushed floor.
It plyeth mosaicate from out my thought.
Lucid it creels through battlement and prepapace.
Upon this tower, I cleveth Erin’s loved lorne lore.
It’s marshed earth with braided stench of wilded bush,
Where curlew lace no hatch,
I hear her shreak solitary now the gaunt of wealthed flax,
Each non cut rock a grey and weary fetus
From the kernel of my mind,
Barren spiral stair raped from all it wept; mankind
The ancient tenants dead; nay mummified.
Both munk and pastor
Phoenix merlined in the tempest of my dream.
Oh’ ape above fortalice cloketh brotherhood,
Who staple me on hazelnut and dace
God’s wild innocence of grace;
Who flung spring leaf infant to the boundary of the air,
Still gurgler plyeth his silketh threads;
Then taunts its ebonite onto a higher throne.
The chalice battle-beaten
Scurried through the airs of earth,
From within the conifers, the silverberches;
Now lies within the hidden wood.
Upon the grave where sages cried.
The headstone dead, with silver trail
That maws about its chiselled bed
Aged marrow coils the new formed yews.
He marched a drought and bat the tin boot torture from his shins
Now he sits outside the farriers and waits, and contemplates;
Soaring rainbow, fin-whipped structure of the gleam
Nose that cut the film sifted fly with hoover suction.
Hour glass smashed, finger cut,
Blinded look of gleaming leaf devoid its former smuts,
From page and gilded edge.
Farrio -onis ferratus
White elk herded peppered witches from the glare,
Still farrier wields his marriage bore,
It calls to all insundry
A cloudless day, should have been warm but the frigid southern roaring 40’s cut like flailing daggers into the skin, leaving bones and joints to succumb to the maddening icy grip of winter’s callous fists. Even the Curlew, who, usually undaunted by such torrid tempest, seek shelter among the rocks and crevices that dot the sea, battered coastal fringe.
The boy was lost….
Melaleuca trees stand century, like gnarled soldiers gathered around the fallen, giving full acquiescence to the polar blasts that bend and twist them further still. Their wispy fingers reaching down to engulf the child with grasping hands, beckoning further into their forest lair. The only sounds that can be heard is the deafening roar of tree and wind as they battle in the canopies above.
Panic fueled anxiety long ago gave way to terror, since replaced by resignation as night enclosed the restless child, who battles the lure of sleep against fear. For in his mind he believes that in this foreboding place, creatures beyond the realm of humanity will visit unspeakable harm upon his being. Their prying eyes ever present awaiting the moment he slips into unconscious sleep to exact their egregious deeds.
When dawn arrives the child awakes to the gentle touch of sunshine’s warmth. Like God himself has stroked his face and chased the demons from his thoughts. His weary eyelids flick open like snow pea slits as he adjusts his sunken, fretful eyes. A smiling face before him bends and before realisation takes hold in his mind the words escape his cracked and tortured lips. “Daddy”.
On a cold and frosty morning I gazed across fair fields, woods and copses,
I heard a wood-lark sing a sweet song, so sweet, hairs on my neck raised,
Did I hear it earlier in the month, I thought my ears were playing tricks,
Standing in my back garden a thrush joined in with his song, a magical day.
Peering around there were tomtits hanging on the eaves of the thatched barn,
Rooks began to revisit their special trees and arrange their future nests,
A harsh loud voice, the missel-thrush rang from hedges and boughs of trees,
The missel-thrush became quiet, the hedge sparrow renewed its chirping note.
Turkey-cocks now strut their stuff they gobble and partridges begin to pair,
House-pigeons have had their young and field, crickets open their old holes,
Gnats begin to play about the insects, swarm, under weak watery sun hedges,
The stone-curlew clamors and by ponds, in wet water mead's the frogs croak.
Ravens lay their eggs and in a far off wood a green woodpecker sings loudly,
An elder treed discloses its flower buds and the catkins of the hazel grow,
Young leaves are budding on the gooseberries and currants begin to take shape,
And late February is a time where life is regenerated for another four seasons.
Winter in spite of occasional frost and frowns is now leaving for pastures new,
The voice of the turtle and the singing-bird is heard once more in our lands,
Frost and icicles hanging from high old oak trees begin to drip on hard ground,
A fox can be seen way off in a fallow field looking for nest-eggs for breakfast.
The crow, a prophet in the pines,
Caws a lament, a mournful chime.
Is it winter's grip he fears,
Or a world grown cold, with unseen tears?
The curlew pipes a mournful song,
Across the marsh, where reeds are long.
A lonely call, a haunting plea,
For solace lost, across the sea.
The eagle screams, a piercing cry,
A king of clouds, with a mournful eye.
Does he see empires rise and fall,
And mourn the dreams that fade for all?
The hummingbird, a jewel in flight,
Humming whispers, lost to sight.
A frenetic dance, a blur of wings,
Does hidden sorrow pierce such things?
The linnet warbles, sweet and clear,
A melody that banishes fear.
But does it mask a heart's despair,
A hidden burden, hard to bear?
The magpie chatters, secrets kept,
In magpie whispers, slyly swept.
Does he know of joy or hidden pain,
In the stories whispered through the rain?
The owl, wise eyes that pierce the night,
Hoots a lullaby, bathed in soft light.
Is it solace offered to the soul,
Or a hunter's call, to take control?
But wait! A flash of emerald bright,
The peacock struts, a dazzling sight.
Though troubles may on others fall,
He seems to hold his head up tall.
Perhaps within their songs, we find,
A mirror to the human mind.
For joy and sorrow, hand in hand,
Are woven in this feathered land.
So let us listen to their call,
And learn from creatures, great and small.
For in their blues, we find our own,
And hearts that sing, though not alone.
Le courlis poussa des cris – Translation of Oodgeroo Noonuccal’s « The Curlew Cried » by T. Wignesan
(Note d’Oodgeroo : Le courlis fut le frère d’aborigènes. Il venait trois nuits de suite pour pousser des cris près d’un campement afin d’annoncer la mort d’un entre eux. Ils croyaient que le courlis venait pour conduire les ombres des morts vers le monde Inconnu.)
Durant trois nuits on entendait le cri du courlis,
L’ancien avertissement tous savaient interpréter :
Le cri leurs rappelle quelqu’un va mourir cette nuit.
Tant frère qu’ami, il entre et sort
En dehors de la Terre des Ombres
La voix la plus insolite sur terre.
Il a en sa charge le bien-être de ceux
Dont chaque âme qu’il conduit à sa destination –
A quel monde mystérieux, à quel étrange Inconnu ?
Qui donc devait nous quitter cette nuit :
Le vieux aveugle ? L’enfant handicapé ?
Tout le campement sera au courant demain.
Le défunt malchanceux ne sera pas si effrayé,
Le frère de la tribu lui tiendra compagnie
Quand le voyage non voulu devrait être entamé.
‘Tiens bon, la mort ne pas une fin en soi-même,’
Il semblait dire. ’Bien que tu dois pleurer,
La Mort est bienveillante puisqu’elle est ton ami.’
Durant trois nuits le courlis poussa des cris. Une fois de plus
Il vient pour accompagner les morts timides –
Quelle macabre changement, quelle épouvantable rive ?
c) T. Wignesan – Paris, 2016
The feather beds are a string of mountains near where I live, famous for its raised bog lands, where my father and his brothers cut turf for many years. In spring / summer a wild cotton flower blooms giving the mountains their name.
In youths embrace I walked in mountains,
My father’s steps I tried to follow.
He led the way from town to wilderness
And there it was my soul he freed.
Windswept hills of raised bog and peregrine,
Swooped winds flared the will of the wisp.
Cotton top flowers waved their white clouds,
Beckoning me, to loose myself in awe.
Slain and sod, man and muscle worked as one,
Bright Heather draped the hills a regal hue.
Bracken fronds greened the soil of spring.
Larks and curlew cries hung upon the air.
As my father shushed us to silence and embrace,
His wonderland of peace.
At seasons turn and Bracken colours fade,
Gorse and heather flair their restful hues.
Sheep saunter through with heads bowed,
They slowly leave the mountain once again.
The feather beds dim as clouds dip low and veil.
And silence flees before winter wind and rain
In adults disgrace I left the mountains,
My father’s steps hard to follow.
Still longing to find the way of wilderness
To free my soul once again and be with him.
On the cliff at the Worm’s Head
High above the horns of the bay
I see the surfers ride great waves
With horses’ manes
That ever fail, but never end
In the strong Atlantic surge
In the estuary at Dartmouth
Where the oyster boats dredge
Turning and drifting in slow shadow dance
Great nets of shells are hauled up
And poured out on to the decks
As I plunge upriver
Tacking along the wending Dart
With bent-puzzle oaks on either side
I hear a sudden hush descend
Upon a lonely river hythe
As time and air, smooth and still
Forever glide, like Mayflies
On cold, clear water
In the seaway by the port
With its unmistakable algal aroma
Of the British seashore
I hear the heavy horn of a freighter
That plies its path
And never sinks, yet ever diminishes
Beyond the waves
And far from the pier of the seaside town
Where sandpipers probe
In spiral casts
I hear the penthal call of the curlew
Like silver flourishes on a black cloud
That never moves, but holds dominion
In the cold morning air.
Solomly the mist drifted aimlessly,
cloaking moor and heather, the
curlew and grouse silenced by
the haunting of a solitary piper.
Kilt clad from rocky outcrop,
the lament Land Of My Youth
echoed ridge and valley.
Beckoning the lost footsteps,
the gillie, the baker, the bankers
son, the urchin that raided your
orchard, once names, once faces,
now empty spaces at the dinner
table.
And the tune reaches out beyond
the gorse and fern to strange lands,
names we failed in geography at
school but now etched in heart
and epitaph.
The lofty peaks point skyward like
prayers some unclimbed, some
unanswered. The grass will grow
where boys once ran, the laughter
now an aching memory.
The piper stills plays beckoning
souls not names, the stag raises
its head and the eagle circles
this land of our youth. To duty
or glory from boys to men, from
men to earth. The orchard will be
quiet tomorrow and the hills less
worthy. At the dinner table a
serviette to dry the tear and the
piper will fill the glen.