He lurks among the reeds, beside the marsh,
Red oleanders twisted in His hair,
His eyes are haggard and His lips are harsh,
Upon His breast the bones show gaunt and bare.
The green and stagnant waters lick His feet,
And from their filmy, iridescent scum
Clouds of mosquitoes, gauzy in the heat,
Rise with His gifts: Death and Delirium.
His messengers: They bear the deadly taint
On spangled wings aloft and far away,
Making thin music, strident and yet faint,
From golden eve to silver break of day.
The baffled sleeper hears th’ incessant whine
Through his tormented dreams, and finds no rest
The thirsty insects use his blood for wine,
Probe his blue veins and pasture on his breast.
While far away He in the marshes lies,
Staining the stagnant water with His breath,
An endless hunger burning in His eyes,
A famine unassuaged, whose food is Death.
He hides among the ghostly mists that float
Over the water, weird and white and chill,
And peasants, passing in their laden boat,
Shiver and feel a sense of coming ill.
A thousand burn and die; He takes no heed,
Their bones, unburied, strewn upon the plain,
Only increase the frenzy of His greed
To add more victims to th’ already slain.
He loves the haggard frame, the shattered mind,
Gloats with delight upon the glazing eye,
Yet, in one thing, His cruelty is kind,
He sends them lovely dreams before they die;
Dreams that bestow on them their heart’s desire,
Visions that find them mad, and leave them blest,
To sink, forgetful of the fever’s fire,
Softly, as in a lover’s arms, to rest.
A few random poems:
- Владимир Маяковский – Солдаты самодержавной армии мясниками бывали… (РОСТА №146)
- Song—A Health to them that’s awa by Robert Burns
- Шекспир – Запечатленный в слове лик твой милый – Сонет 59
- Gerontion by T. S. Eliot
- The Ballad of the King’s Jest by Rudyard Kipling
- Since There Is No Escape by Sara Teasdale
- Robert Burns: On The Birth Of A Posthumous Child: Born in peculiar circumstances of family distress.
- Why Do All Good Things Come To An End? by Michael Yuan
- Nothing Stays Put poem – Amy Clampitt poems | Poems and Poetry
- Its gonna be sunday by Shailendra Singh
- Written in London. September, 1802 by William Wordsworth
- Past and Future by Sarojini Naidu
- Владимир Маяковский – Эй, товарищи, за труд!.. (Главполитпросвет №146)
- Юлия Друнина – Царевна
- Наум Коржавин – Мой ритм заглох
External links
Bat’s Poetry Page – more poetry by Fledermaus
Talking Writing Monster’s Page –
Batty Writing – the bat’s idle chatter, thoughts, ideas and observations, all original, all fresh
Poems in English
- Олег Чупров – Подушка
- Олег Чупров – Он впадает в смятенье
- Олег Чупров – Не хочется мне славы громкой
- Олег Чупров – На предназначенной орбите
- Олег Чупров – Мама
- Олег Чупров – Комар
- Олег Чупров – Душа
- Олег Чупров – Богатство
- Олег Бундур – Зимнее утро
- Олег Бундур – Жёлудь
- Олег Бундур – Женские хитрости
- Олег Бундур – Железное здоровье
- Олег Бундур – Засыпаю
- Олег Бундур – Заповедная жизнь
- Олег Бундур – Запахи дня
- Олег Бундур – Заботливая бабушка
- Олег Бундур – Яблоко
- Олег Бундур – Я вырасту, мама
- Олег Бундур – Я сильнее
- Олег Бундур – Я рисую картину
More external links (open in a new tab):
Doska or the Board – write anything
Search engines:
Yandex – the best search engine for searches in Russian (and the best overall image search engine, in any language, anywhere)
Qwant – the best search engine for searches in French, German as well as Romance and Germanic languages.
Ecosia – a search engine that supposedly… plants trees
Duckduckgo – the real alternative and a search engine that actually works. Without much censorship or partisan politics.
Yahoo– yes, it’s still around, amazingly, miraculously, incredibly, but now it seems to be powered by Bing.
Parallel Translations of Poetry
The Poetry Repository – an online library of poems, poetry, verse and poetic works
Violet Nicolson ( 1865 – 1904); otherwise known as Adela Florence Nicolson (née Cory), was an English poetess who wrote under the pseudonym of Laurence Hope, however she became known as Violet Nicolson. In the early 1900s, she became a best-selling author. She committed suicide and is buried in Madras, now Chennai, India.