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Islanders
the old men of islands
never discover ships
observe the sea
only for an hour
talking of thrifty living
and the winter ice
Poems on the topic: island
Poems on the topic “island” on Poets.by.
Salt cure
I came to name my place
a poor little island
after a pill
that shore
rough with wear
may do more good than I know
Dreamliner
Aircraft. It sounds like something one could learn: how to breathe, how to oxidize. But this craft is the kind that floats, and it is enormous. It takes us the full width of Norway at its widest point to reach cruising altitude.
The Boeing 787 is nicknamed the Dreamliner, and its crowded cabin, though far from silent, is filled with a lovely hush of white noise that makes it difficult to stay awake. The only light left in the sky is a band of red above an oddly low horizon which goes before us like Yahweh leading the Jews out of Egypt, on and on into what my body assures me should be night.
five-hour sunset
a movie plays on the back
of every seat
In place
Inside a cloud moved
rapidly by the wind,
I catch a whiff of wood smoke.
All the tracks have melted through,
erasures that say only
that something was there—
except for the trees,
still marooned on the same
round islands.
2013 in photos: British Isles
On an island, I looked for other islands:
smaller, emptier, round as up-turned
coracles barnacled to the shore.
I watched yachts catch the only sunlight
and thought of prized, greenstone axeheads
sunk in ceremonial lakes.
Smaller and smaller my longing grew
until it could almost fit in a watery pocket.
And yet these islands could not be kept:
they were Holy Islands, they were bird islands,
they were columns of cooled magma,
they were the skulls of ancestors
who had been killed three times—
once each for sky, land and water.
Here are their collars of bog iron,
their round houses roofed with turf.
A memory fading away
Do you know this feeling?
This feeling of sadness
Sadness when you have to leave
Leave this beautiful island
This beautiful island you fell in love with
But it's not the part that you have to leave
That's not the most hurtful part
No, the saddest part is the knowledge
The knowledge that soon this island will be a memory
A memory that starts to fade
That starts being replaced by other memories
Other memories of other places
Precious time
Do you ever wonder if you're really enjoying something?
If you even can really enjoy something
You're on this beautiful island
Only 48 hours left
And wondering: Can I really enjoy this moment
Can I appreciate it with all my heart?
Do you know this feeling
That feeling of sorrow
Sorrow in your heart, a lump in your throat
Knowing there are only 48 hours left
So you stand there
At midnight
Stand on the balcony and look at the ocean
Listen to the wind
That's when the feeling starts
You try to stretch the time
The Wait
wait for the girl
lately loved with whom
fate has hungered
waiting
hastens
fate
for the or alternative awaits the ing T H I N G
the weights of
wait
the love of God
more surely assured
waiting to close
when in thewonder inside feeling thunders
follows white like lightning lithe as rain
as night roughly lonesome
litigation takes long
On Manitoulin Island
we feed the animals
great grey-white screaming
gulls one sitting on a rock
for hours waiting
he gets fed first
quick chirping chipmunks with sharp
stripes who come up
to our chairs rabbits - somewhere -
shy and snuffling
green-necked geese over the bay
knowing it could make them
too trustful of hunters
for ourselves
our pets we say
liking them to turn to us
to feel acknowledged needed share
Capri
When beauty grows too great to bear
How shall I ease me of its ache,
For beauty more than bitterness
Makes the heart break.
Now while I watch the dreaming sea
With isles like flowers against her breast,
Only one voice in all the world
Could give me rest.
White Slumber
Who has come to that farthest island
Beyond White Gull Bay?
There is a little tent among the birches
Since yesterday.
Those birches are the palest things
Even in the morning sun!
Among them the tent has suddenly blossomed,
As the white flower of a night-blooming cereus,
Silently, deep in some forest of sleep,
Might have done.
Who are they? What dreams must be theirs,
Who have found such a magical camp unawares?
On an Island
You’ve plucked a curlew, drawn a hen,
Washed the shirts of seven men,
You’ve stuffed my pillow, stretched the sheet,
And filled the pan to wash your feet,
You’ve cooped the pullets, wound the clock,
And rinsed the young men’s drinking crock;
And now we’ll dance to jigs and reels,
Nailed boots chasing girls’ naked heels,
Until your father’ll start to snore,
And Jude, now you’re married, will stretch on the floor.
Describe a feeling — we’ll find a poem
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