Best Landscapes Poems

How neatly a cat sleeps,
sleeps with its paws and its posture,
sleeps with its wicked claws,
and with its unfeeling blood,
...

Without you every morning would feel like going back to work after a holiday,
Without you I couldn't stand the smell of the East Lancs Road,
Without you ghost ferries would cross the Mersey manned by skeleton crews,
Without you I'd probably feel happy and have more money and time and
...

Look out across the windswept hills,
With rainbow hues, with misty blues,
Across the valleys, lakes and rills,
Where landscapes fuse, where eyes peruse,
...

Nothing has changed.
The body is susceptible to pain,
it must eat and breathe air and sleep,
it has thin skin and blood right underneath,
...

Little things that no one needs --
Little things to joke about --
Little landscapes, done in beads.
Little morals, woven out,
...

Sleeping beside you I dreamt
I woke beside you;
Waking beside you
I thought I was dreaming.
...

Beautiful silvery Tay,
With your landscapes, so lovely and gay,
Along each side of your waters, to Perth all the way;
No other river in the world has got scenery more fine,
...

In serene guise a celestial beauty
You profess principle of equality.
Embodiment of benevolence,
At times you are cruelty's essence.
...

Far spread the moorey ground a level scene
Bespread with rush and one eternal green
That never felt the rage of blundering plough
Though centurys wreathed spring's blossoms on its brow
...

I
An old man sits
In the shadow of a pine tree
In China.
...

Giving or not giving voice to the heretical words...

Understanding that true love is scarification.....
...

We drink the evening in a frosted glass.
Nothing about the music is profane.
Your eyes hold all emotion very quiet.
Fey Shadows stretch landscapes beyond belief.
...

On this blessed land
Foundations of giant structures
Are laid over virgin landscapes
Blotting the antiquity
...

These recollections with the scent of ferns
Are the idyll of early years
(Gregorio Gutierrez González)
...

The mood was bittersweet and lyrical.
The birds sang evening almost every day.
My dress was yellow as the paling sun.
Wind whispered of us to the Queen Anne's lace.
...

There is a God of red leaves and of dying.
He traced dark landscapes on my window pane.
Spare and beautiful the sound of crying
Libations of black coffee, drops of rain.
...

there is no wilderness
when hearts return
home to primeval welcome
...

She triumphs, in the vivid green
Where sun and quivering foliage meet;
And in each soldier’s heart serene;
When death stood near them they have seen
...

TO show the lab'ring bosom's deep intent,
And thought in living characters to paint,
When first thy pencil did those beauties give,
And breathing figures learnt from thee to live,
...

Tempora labuntur, tacitisque senescimus annis,
Et fugiunt freno non remorante dies.
Ovid, Fastorum, Lib. vi.
'O Cæsar, we who are about to die
...

The broken brow of the night

Over the midnight hour of my grave
...

Scene, on an Eminence on one of those Downs, which afford to the South a view of the Sea; to the North of the Weald of Sussex. Time, an Afternoon in April, 1793.


Long wintry months are past; the Moon that now
...

You ask me how to pray to someone who is not.
All I know is that prayer constructs a velvet bridge
And walking it we are aloft, as on a springboard,
Above landscapes the color of ripe gold
...

1

When the world turns completely upside down
You say we'll emigrate to the Eastern Shore
...

Away, ye gay landscapes, ye garden of roses!
In you let the minions of luxury rove;
Restore me to the rocks, where the snowflake reposes,
Though still they are sacred to freedom and love:
...

You like my bird-sung gardens: wings and flowers;
Calm landscapes for emotion; star-lit lawns;
And Youth against the sun-rise ... ‘Not profound;
‘But such a haunting music in the sound:
...

Love was agape
And earth too began to shake
When they saw divine and his lover
in a secret soul's bower
...

Blackcurrant river rolls unknown in strange valleys;
the voices of a hundred rooks go with it,
the true benevolent voice of angles:
...

Deft fingers sketch the ever falling sun,
Paint good-bye on the lens of imagery.
West fades across a field of goldenrod.
Amber is warm elegiac to the touch.
...

Across this wide expanse
Of your parched emotional landscapes,
You have drawn your drapes,
Across your troubled waters that run so deep,
...

I leave you, ye cold mountain chains,
Dwelling of warriors stark and frore!
You, may these eyes behold no more,
...

A rose in the high garden you desire.
A wheel in the pure syntax of steel.
The mountain stripped bare of Impressionist fog,
The grays watching over the last balustrades.
...

A spring morning – well,
I only need to say the words?
I’ll picture mine, you picture yours –
champagne bubbling in the blood and in the mind,
...

Desire is similar to the currents and waves in the open ocean. Everything will be blown away if it is not as strong as a rock, and even then it is clear that sometimes it is weathered and sometimes it is abrasion because it is constantly eroded by the waves
Natural causality will never stop growing and developing
Nature will never break its promise; wind, waves and all the interference of the moon and sun become a synergy that will not be found on the planets in any space galaxy. Its orbit has been ordered by God and they all obey as part of piety to Him
Earth is a beautiful haven with exposure to land and sea as if you will never get tired of visiting
...

`No one owns life, but anyone who can pick up a Fryingpan owns death.'
William Burroughs
...

In Italy, where this sort of thing can occur,
I had a vision once - though you understand
It was nothing at all like Dante's, or the visions of saints,
And perhaps not a vision at all. I was with some friends,
...

My love and I reside upon the belly of a bridge
with heartbeats of the sky?--the drums upon the bridge.

I've heard of songs that rise at night from pitch black oceans.
...

HOW oft has sounded whip and wheel,
How oft is buckled spur to heel,
How many a steed in short relay
Stands harnessed on the king's highway,
...

There is much I owe
to those I do not love.
The relief in accepting
...

Come, the Wines are off to the seaside,
and the waves by the million!
Look at wild Bitter rolling from the mountain tops!
...

That summer sun, whose genial glow
Now cheers my drooping spirit so
Must cold and distant be,
And only light our northern clime
...

Daughter of Heaven and Earth, coy Spring,
With sudden passion languishing,
Maketh all things softly smile,
...

I.
My sister! my sweet sister! if a name
Dearer and purer were, it should be thine;
Mountains and seas divide us, but I claim
...

Spring is evidently here;
for the ascent of Thiers
and Picard from the green Estates lays
its splendours wide open! O May!
...

Do You like a potter,
Sit down with clay
And give things shape…
...

Ever since the Sun
rose in the East,
plants have been home
to the bards of nature
...

artist painter
are you alone
in your mind
painting pictures?
...

White frozen mountain tops
beautifully glisten
Elegantly reflect glamour
right up to the heaven
...

By the East River and the Bronx
boys were singing, exposing their waists
with the wheel, with oil, leather, and the hammer.
Ninety thousand miners taking silver from the rocks
...

Cities burn behind us; the lake glitters.
A tall loudspeaker is announcing prizes;
Another, by the lake, the times of cruises.
...

The raindrops are too numerous to count.
Landscapes display their sorrow on the glass.
Fragility is lucid, shattering.
Small worlds are falling, who can put them back?
...

How come you write poetry,
what made you write poems,
was it a want fulfilled, a need?
...

You, who the sweets of rural life have known,
Despise the ungrateful hurry of the town;
In Windsor groves your easy hours employ,
...

Yes, dear Enchantress,—­wandering far and long,
In realms unperfumed by the breath of song,
...

Incidental footprints of your journey
Mirrored olives, blues and strings of white
So many caught in busied travel delight
Olive-d peace in reflection-ed stills
...

Observe these blue solemnities of sky
Offering for the academes of after-ages
A mythologic welkin freaked with white!
...

...

GIVE us from dawn to dark
Blue of Australian skies,
Let there be none to mark
Whither our pathway lies.
...

God sends the rain to fall
ln its like proportions
upon both the wicked and the just
gentle raindrops... godsends
...

The literate are ill-prepared for this
snap in the line of life:
the day turns a trick
of twisted tongues and is
...

Beautiful Loch Ness,
The truth to express,
Your landscapes are lovely and gay,
Along each side of your waters, to Fort Augustus all the way,
...

The village of Penicuik, with its neighbouring spinning mills,
Is most lovely to see, and the Pentland Hills;
And though of a barren appearance and some parts steep,
They are covered with fine pasture and sustain flocks of sheep.
...

Against the lemon sky, an oak,
naked in delicate black lace.
The ancient face of the scarred moon,
early risen above a gable roof, is huge,
...

Fluffy clouds fold over mountains,
their tops hidden and obscured.
Looking down folds of green
rush down to reach a stream, a
...

Hast thou a scene that is not spread
With records of thy glory fled?
A monument that doth not tell
The tale of liberty's farewell?
...

Just as I believe that autumn's gone,
left bare branches dressed in shades of grey,
melted the glowing leaves to muddy slime,
stealing sunlight, shortening my day –
...

If I were to call him an artist
I would call him an artist
Who prefers to portray
The minds of men.
...

1
Who will honor the city without a name
If so many are dead and others pan gold
Or sell arms in faraway countries?
...

Show me my origin...
Show me my land...
Show me my Africa...
...

No farmer, no land, no agricultural arrangements
No growing of vegetables, fish, meat, fruit and food
But in time I am supplied time out some of those
Produced by far rural peasant in their lands;
...

Our State is Free Kashmir, Free Kashmir! , Free Kashmir!
Our State is Free Kashmir, Free Kashmir! , Free Kashmir!
...

I.

MY lay is ended! closed the circling year,
From Spring's first dawn to Winter's darkling night;
...

LAND of departed fame! whose classic plains
Have proudly echo'd to immortal strains;
Whose hallow'd soil hath given the great and brave
...

...

The landscapes
the oceans
the skies
the winds
...

Rock the city that sleeps on Ravi
Rock the city that has absorbed the shocks
Rock the city and let not it shed a tear
Vampires' nails clutch the hearts out
...

The castle hight of Indolence,
And its false luxury;
Where for a little time, alas!
We lived right jollily.
...

What a suitable, beautiful earth you are given!
So beautiful landscapes, mountains, fountains, oceans
Creations, creatures, beings, things
Its surroundings
...

I was igneous
In the beginning.
Hard,
Black,
...

This earth of mine is a lotus flower
and I write on its petals my first song
in praise of a lord who protects this earth
of mine with his Sudarshan
...

1. E. Larionova
E. Larionova. Brunette. A colonel's
and a typist's daughter. Looked
at you like someone studying a clockface.
...

Under whose shades
My jovial youth,
My dreamy evenings
Turned into autumnal landscapes?
...

Mountains erupt from the Mediterranean
Pastel buildings cascade down their side
Architecture and the sea acts as prisms
Creating a: kissed by the sun- spectrum of delight;
...

Amidst the shadow of night,
It came like a boon,
Two pairs of excited eyes,
Gazing at their first moon.
...

Look to the fields and fill the eyes
with nature's perfect feast,
Meadows full of a wild array
of treasures unreleased.
...

What does an artist see in female figure?
Is it lovely figure, beautiful face or natural appearance?
Nothing of that sort influences when he draws in art
It is something extra ordinary that appeals him from start
...

The wind is cold and the wind burns.
The wind is cold and the wind is acid.
On the Bar counter ice and amber swirl
in thick gleaming glasses;
...

After making their separate roundabout journeys through the Primordium, some of the wise ones meet in the Palace of Water. This is a concourse where the ancient intelligences like to hold peripatetic gatherings as they pass through. The vaulted spaces stir with sounds of purling rapids, with the boom of surf, with sighs of rain on foliage, with declamations of streams in deep ravines. The walls cast wavering spangles across the strollers who come here to reflect on their ongoing projects.

If we picture the universe as a vast quantum matrix, then these old intelligences have been at work for a long time, serving as nodes of far-reaching connectivity...way down there in the foam of vacuity, always dreaming up properties of matter, condensing their far-flung songlines and discussing what adjustments of laws would pave the way for coherent forms...what mesh of material properties would allow such forms to embark on an evolutionary course?
...

I can see far galaxies,
count in each
the nebulae;
...

This is my final note to you;
I feel my body shutting down.
No more landscapes are there to view;
I'm putting on my final gown.
...

Incidental footprints of your journey
Mirrored olives, blues and strings of white
So many caught in busied travel delight
Olive-d peace in reflection-ed stills
...

He asked was there ever a time when an artist
Would brag of his palette or brushes or oils.

She said no I don’t think so why he said well
...

The ridges either side of the valley
were covered in dark pine forest.
The ploughed hill sides were red,
and the pastures were very green.
...

My dearest reader, seconds ago, before your
Decision to turn the page, there was nothing.
These very words were hidden away and thus
Unseen, to all intents did not exist:
...

Each word's a chord,
A tone, a colour,
Juxtaposing images and sounds
In harmonising order,
...

once upon a time in the wilderness
often an engineer was also a pioneer
snap bang time flash gone is wilderness
city you live in might have been wilderness
...

These roads will take you into your own country.
Seasons and maps coming where this road comes
into a landscape mirrored in these men.
...

Close your eyes and still,
Feel your body
Part by part
...

The wind is cold and the wind burns.
The wind is cold and the wind is acid.
On the Bar counter ice and amber swirl
in thick gleaming glasses;
in the Bar the ash of small talk,
the smoke of ruminations.
Light purrs on a bare shoulder,
her feet are hidden
in the drooping hem of her sari;
ice and amber swirling
I sit here between betweens,
to the left of voices
to the right of memory.
Thought floats into
the slow silence of air currents;
the hours squat with me
as I snap connections
in autumn leaf detachment.


2

Nowhere to say this
no one to say this to
except to the typewriter
(the computer would store it
in its chip-memory
and that could be embarrassing)
as she pulled out
he turned into a dead crab beach
when the sea pulls out


3

Were the sea to pull out
sea birds would pull out
and the breeze;
shells would turn brittle
under crackling boot;
fish and fishermen
would be sucked into the great ebb
and our traders
would turn the white sea bed
into "The Salt Crystal
Shopping Arcade",
selling grounded oil tankers,
ocean liners dredged out of the mud
and whales flaked in salt.
You could buy goldfish though
as they circle the belly of a water jar.


4

You didn't come with me
to the mountains this time,
but as you know
when you climb mountains
the stars get nearer;
don't ask me why this happens
or how this happens
but it happens -
when constellations smile
death drops your catch.
but often the stars
go about their office routine
in the night sky
like glum bureaucrats -
this astral bureaucracy
is even more baffling in its ways
than our central ministries.
In auto mode Rahu gets into the act;
So does the moon debris that swirls
around Saturn and forms its rings.
Then what has to happen, happens.
That's what happened to you.


5

The almond tree flowers white;
beside it the peach flowers, as only peach can
with its own interpretation of pink;
and further in the lofty rear,
winter has left its brown imprint
on mountain and crag.
Perhaps with the rains
green may return to the slopes,
a little moss here, a little grass there;
you never know though,
the rains may never come
or life may run out before the rains -
the almond blossom, each petal soft as an eyelid,
will also not see the rain.
They are divided by a scimitar:
parched landscapes and rain,
parched lips and love.


6

Watching the wind-ruffled
down on bird-breast
I think for no particular reason
of wind through quivering paddy
in the Nepal terai.


7

I think I am at peace now,
he said, for my dreams
move like the thinnest
veil of mist over water.
Awareness of absences,
of what is right with me
or wrong with me is also like
the perception of a veil of mist
over a perception of water.

My troubles start
when I think of hope,
that thin smoke of mist
over the iron-grey waters of dawn,
icy waters, he said.

But you are with me
always
like a spring of
underground water
like the murmur of a spring
of underground water.

I didn't for the life of me know
whether he was addressing poetry
(he had lost his touch lately)
or his beloved.

Forty years with you
and I am a better man,
he said, awash
in forty years of cleansing waters
and forty years of light.
The trouble was
She couldn't hear him.
...

('Mine eyes have seen the glory/ of the coming of the Lord'.
'The Battle Hymn Of The Republic'. Julia Ward Howe 1819-1910) .

My eyes have seen a slice of life in the world
...