Down In A Dream

Down In A Dream

( Lines for Anahit Arustamyan, poet of Armenia, author of My Wandering Muse, My Lyrical Tongue and The Phantom’s Dolphin )

The Armenian mountains,
I come down in a dream,
cross an old stone bridge,
step stones to ford a stream.
The wilderness is silent,
none could hear my call.
Before I wake, I look up,
see your portrait on a wall.

In dreams, no need for passports,
train time tables, money in your pocket.
I come home from Armenia
with your portrait in a locket.

In your lines speaks the soul of your land,
like a lit lamp it shines in your hand.

Been Through The Mill

Been Through The Mill

We’ve been through the mill,
still we’re put through the mill,
and we will until
we spill out from the mill.

Sitting outside your shack,
holes in your shoes,
now you know how
they found the tones of the blues,
but you will swim on,
the muddy duck on the water,
never the swan.

We’ve been through the mill,
still we’re put through the mill.
We hate those who kill,
still we’re put through the mill.
We roll a stone up a hill,
still we’re put through the mill,
and we will until
we grind out of the mill.

The golden lion, his mane matted and shorn,
weeps over the wheels that turn to grind corn.

Woman, my muse, sits long in her tower,
waits for worlds to renew, burgeon and flower.

There’s a way if you’ve the will
still to wind down with the mill.
The hawk waits to kill,
still the dove hovers over the hill.
The hollow will fill
still with water until
the banks over spill.

We may have advanced from the field and the farm,
but we still need a shelter to shield us from harm.

We’ve been through the mill,
still we’re put through the mill.
We hate those who kill,
still they sharpen their skill.
For those who are born,
we must grind more corn.
We rust down until,
we spill out from the mill.

The Bard’s Birthday

The Bard’s Birthday

Today is Thursday, 23rd, April, 2015, Saint George’s Day, here in England. It is also William Shakespeare’s birthday. To celebrate, here are a few lines from the Bard himself:

Forsooth, tis my birthday today,
I Will was born in April
on the twenty third day,
merry was I as the green wood in May,
so to yon tavern,
bring barrels of ale to laden a wagon,
for tis also the day we remember,
Saint George slew the dragon.

Though I type on my new fangled laptop,
methinks, still I prefer the quill and the pen,
I Will, master of blank verse and sonnet,
the like thou wilt not see again.

thy most humble, celebrated Bard,
William Shakespeare

Cherry Wood

                                       Cherry Wood

“I hear the beast has woken,
broken his rusted chain,
Cherry Wood retaken,
children cannot go there again,”
announced the old innkeeper,
his voice dry, forsaken,
his eyes strained with pain.

“The windows must be shuttered,
all the doors be bolted,”
the village men muttered,
who sat and supped their ale.
A young traveller in a corner,
listened closely to their tale,
his hair gold, his cloak berry brown.
“I will slay the beast,” he said.
“I will go and hunt him down.”
He drank his ale, finished his pie,
and walked out the door.
That was the last they saw of him,
alive they saw him no more.

He trapped the beast in the wood,
and slew it with his sword,
but before it died it trampled him,
with its horn his chest it gored.
They buried him in the churchyard.
Children put bluebells on his grave.
The priest said: “He knew not one of us,
yet it was us he died to save.”
Now the children play in Cherry Wood,
lovers meet among the trees.
The cry of the gold haired stranger
is whistled by the breeze.

THE SKY KEEPS ITS MIRRORS ON ANY SEA

Anahit Arustamyan, a poet from Armenia, is new to WordPress. I have enjoyed reading and reviewing her three books, My Wandering Muse, My Lyrical Tongue and The Phantom’s Dolphin. She has found her own prose poem style, and writes like no other poet. Her works deserve to be read by many people. She is a rare, remarkable poet.

anahit52THE PHANTOM OF POETRY

THE SKY KEEPS ITS MIRRORS ON ANY SEA

My prayers melt on the candles’ lips. They have to creep up so many hills. One day I will be swept being a drop of ink but I beg the world to live in peace. I have been saving all of your scripts. I will go there to meet the moon’s beams. The sun will probably give me its kiss. Whom will I greet there in bliss? I have my angels there so my candles are lit. I have been saving my violin’s strings. When I go there they will probably sing. I would hate to spread my skin on a sin. I will never gift a friend with a pin. Everyone’s love is a water spring. Everyone’s dream is a bell to ring. I was born with an innocent scream. I will go there without mist. This life’s feast dances…

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