Fantasies of the Waking Dreamer: A small collection of poetry

Fantasies of the Waking Dreamer: A small collection of poetry

Contents:

  • The Curious Connection Between Insects and Dreams
  • 1. Introduction
  • Culture in Iceland
  • Reward Yourself
  • Navigation menu
  • Culture in Iceland

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    Publisher's Summary

    To ask other readers questions about Fantasies of the Waking Dreamer , please sign up. Be the first to ask a question about Fantasies of the Waking Dreamer. Lists with This Book. This book is not yet featured on Listopia. Jul 29, Michelle Hoyt rated it it was amazing. Great Poetry I like the poetry in the book. It was awe inspiring and inspirational thought-provoking book. I loved the book. Mir rated it liked it Jan 28, Monkeyslovecookies rated it really liked it Mar 15, AnnMarie Stone marked it as to-read Jan 04, Dawn marked it as to-read May 21, Nicole marked it as to-read Jun 07, Brittney marked it as to-read Jun 26, Pam Boles marked it as to-read Oct 11, Linkypie marked it as to-read Oct 25, Charity Roelker marked it as to-read Nov 20, One has the purple colour of souls, Ours, thief of the blood our hearts possess When I burn and you flame, like hot coals.

    This one mimics the charm Of your ear, and this I see Your rosy neck, so full and warm: But one, among all of them, troubled me. Fantoches Scaramouche and Pulcinella, Gathered for mischief together Gesticulate, black on the moon. But his daughter, piquant-eyed, To the arbour on the sly, Glides, half-naked, on a quest For her Spanish buccaneer: A nightingale tender clear Proclaiming its distress. Scents of the rose, languidly, Thanks to the passing summer breeze, With her own fragrance blend: As the promise her eyes gave, Her courage is complete, while her Lips yield exquisite fever: And Love having sated all things save Appetite: Atys, the knight, scratching at His guitar, on cool Chloris casts A glance, and a wicked one at that.

    Le Faune An ancient faun of terra-cotta Centring the bowling-green Laughs, without doubt presaging, A sad end to this time serene, Which has led me and has led you, Melancholy pilgrims lean, To this hour whose vanishing Swirls to the sounding tambourine. Mandoline The players of serenades And their lovely listeners Swap insipid remarks, made Beneath singing branches. Fateful stars that flow The faster, Oh, say, towards what Cruel or dismal lot, What disaster This implacable flirt, Nimbly lifting her skirt, Her troops, A rose in her hair, Leads onward there, Her dupes?

    And melancholy fancies entering Wander through my dream, where deep chagrin Calls up a future solitary and fateful. En Sourdine Calm in the half-light Tall branches surround, Let our love be filled by This silence profound. With eyelids scarce apart, Arms crossed in dream, From your slumbering heart Chase forever every scheme. And when solemn evening Falls from black oaks there, The nightingale will sing, The voice of our despair.

    Their lips were slack, eyes were blurred, The words they spoke scarcely heard. She came, went, returned, spoke, and sat, Serious, light, ironic, tender, And I felt, deep in my soul, so sombre, Some joyous reflection of all that: V Before you leave, pale Morning star that shines, — A thousand quail Calling, calling in the thyme — Turn towards your poet, With sad eyes so lovelorn, — The lark as yet Still climbs the sky with dawn — Turn here your gaze, that day Drowns in his azure; — What joy always In fields of ripening corn!

    VI The moon, white, Shines in the trees: From each bright Branch a voice flees Beneath leaves that move, O well-beloved. A Saint In Her Aureole…. I see, I hear all I suppose, In its Carolingian identity. I Was Almost Afraid…. The bus, a typhoon of mud and metal, Bouncing, between wheels, with its rattle, Rolling its red and green eyes slowly, Workers off to the club, pipes smoking, Under the eyes of police, those drones, Roofs dripping, sweating walls, damp stones, Broken asphalt, gutters where sewers blend, Behold, my road — with paradise at the end.

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    XVII Is it not so? Is it not so? Enclosed by love as in a dark wood, exhaling Our two hearts, their peaceful tenderness, Will be two nightingales in the dusk singing. As for the World, let it be angered by us, Or tender, what can its gestures signify? Let it make us a target, or let it caress us.

    Oh the fresh and frail murmur! It sighs and it whispers, Resembling the gentle cry That the grass breathes when stirred… Or, in cool water blurred, Of pebbles mutely rolled by. The soul that laments In its hushed complaint, Is ours, is it not so? Mine, sung, yours again, With that humble refrain In this mild evening, so low? Oh sweet sound of the rain On the earth and the roofs! For the dull heart again, Oh the song of the rain! It rains for no reason In this heart lacking heart. By far the worst pain, Without hatred, or love, Yet no way to explain Why my heart feels such pain!

    The Curious Connection Between Insects and Dreams

    O, sister-souls that we are, could we but blend A childlike gentleness with vague desires Travelling far from women and from men, In the strange forgetfulness of what exiles! What is this sudden cradle song That gradually lulls my poor being? What do you want of me, playful one? What do you wish, slight vague burden Drifting now, dying, towards the window Opening a little on a patch of garden?

    How can my soul be ever assuaged Though my heart is disengaged? Though my heart, though my soul Are far away from that girl, How can my soul be ever assuaged Though my heart is disengaged? And heart, over-sensitive heart Says to my soul: My soul says to my heart: The sky is copper Devoid of any light, You might almost gather The moon had lived and died. Floating clouds Grey oak-trees lift In near-by woods Among the mists. Wheezing crow You gaunt wolves too, When north winds blow How do you do? Through interminable land Ennui of the plain, Vague snow once again Gleams like sand.

    How this pale land, oh traveller, too Pale yourself, mirrors you, And your drowned hopes how sadly they weep High in the sighing leaves! Walcourt Romances Sans Paroles: Hops and vines, Leaves and flowers Tents with signs For free drinkers! Cafes bright, Beers, clamour, A waitress, light For every smoker! July Charleroi Romances Sans Paroles: The winds that blow Must weep, alas. What to think then? A slap in the eye From a bush in passing. Rather hovels Than maisons. What horizons Of red forges!

    1. Introduction

    Editorial Reviews. From the Author. At times, poetry can be hard for readers to decipher Fantasies of the Waking Dreamer: A small collection of poetry - Kindle edition by KW McCabe, K.W. McCabe. Download it once and read it on your. Fantasies of the Waking Dreamer has 3 ratings and 1 review. Michelle Hoyt said: Great PoetryI like the poetry in the book. It was awe inspiring and ins.

    One thinks of what? What rattled Like a sistrum? Oh, your breath, Human sweat Shrieks of metal! Through black grass The Kobolds go. Wooden Horses Romances Sans Paroles: Hugo Turning , turning, fine horses you go, Turning a hundred, thousand today, Turning often and turning always, Turning, turning to sounds of oboes.

    Better than drinking away till you spin, Sailing around this mad circus instead! Good for the belly, and bad for the head, Badness en masse then goodness again. Speed quickly now, brave steeds of their souls, Already here night falls from above Soon will unite the pigeon and dove, Far from the fair and far from the fold. The velvety sky In starry gold is now slowly arrayed. There steal beloved, and lover, away.

    Culture in Iceland

    Turn to the drumbeat, joyous and high. Paysages Belges, Malines By bright fields, the winds fight With the wind-vanes, fine detail, The mansion of some magistrate, Red of brick, and slate-blue light By the fields, fields without fail! The carts file by in silence All through these calm ways, Doze, cows! Now sleep away, Mild bulls of plains immense, Under your skies, scarcely day!

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    I opened the door. You lay in bed as if you were weary. But, O light body that my love bore, You leapt up naked, crying and happy.

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    I myself laughed through my tears. Surely those moments will leave their traces, My saddest of all yet best it appears. Green Romances Sans Paroles: Aquarelles, Green Here are the fruits, the flowers, the leaves, the wands, Here my heart that beats only for your sighs. Shatter them not with your snow-white hands, Let my poor gifts be pleasing to your eyes. I come to you, still covered with dew, you see, Dew that the dawn wind froze here on my face. Let my weariness lie down at your feet, And dream of the dear moments that shed grace. Let my head loll here on your young breast Still ringing with your last kisses blessed, Allow this departure of the great tempest, And let me sleep now, a little, while you rest.

    Aquarelles, Spleen The roses were so red And the ivy was so black. Dear, at a turn of your head My despair flooded back. The sky was too blue, and too tender, The sea too green, air lacked force.

    Reward Yourself

    Avoiding places clogged with day trippers, and months when visitor numbers shoot up like a spouting geyser, is the responsible way to visit Iceland What do you wish, slight vague burden Drifting now, dying, towards the window Opening a little on a patch of garden? But the difficulty For a lover, poor he, With his darling to be! How far away now is all that lightness And all that innocence! Avoiding places clogged with day trippers, and months when visitor numbers shoot up like a spouting geyser, is the responsible way to visit Iceland Laziness, damage, malice; dangerous attacks on unknown enemies.

    I always fear — it must be remembered, Some atrocious act of yours. I suffer like this And wake endlessly. Yet I love Kate And her sweet gaze. How I love Kate! But the difficulty For a lover, poor he, With his darling to be!

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    Streets — Dansons La Gigue! I loved, above all, her pretty eyes Brighter than stars in the skies, I loved her malicious eyes likewise. I recall, oh I recall The hours, the words we let fall, And this the very best of all. Streets II O the river in the street! Paddington Beauty Of Women…. Bk I, I Beauty of women, their frailty, and those pale hands Which often do good yet can bring all suffering.

    Culture in Iceland

    The dawn Cry, when soft vespers are sung, signal new-born Or sweet sob that dies in the folds of a shawl! Vile leaden life here below! Let something at least, far from kisses and blows, Let something survive for a moment on the slope, Something the childlike subtle heart contains, Goodness, respect! For dying what can we hope To take with us, and truly, what when death comes remains?

    Towards the Middle Ages vast and delicate I needs must sail, the shipwreck in my heart, Far from our carnal mind and the sad flesh. King, statesman, monk, chemist, artisan, hour Of the architect, soldier, doctor, advocate, What times! Yes, may my ruined heart voyage yet Towards all that ardent, supple artistic power! There let me take part — anyhow, at the court Or elsewhere, what matter — in that vital thing, And may I, a saint, do good, think true thoughts, High theology and solid morality, journeying Led by the unique folly the Cross has brought, O mad Cathedral, soaring on stony wings!

    Bk I, V Hear the sweetest song pass That weeps for your sole delight. It is discreet and so light: A water-drop trembling on glass! A voice known to you and dear?

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    But at present misted and veiled Like a widow desolate, assailed, Yet like her still proud, it appears, And in the long folds of a veil Stirred by the autumn breeze, Hidden, to startled heart reveals The truth like the star so pale. It speaks to us also of glory Of humility, of asking no more, And the marriage of golden ore To sweet joy of peace without victory. It is hard-pressed , and passing by , The suffering soul without anger, And the moral is all too clear!

    Listen to the song that is wise. At twenty new trouble appeared In the guise of amorous fires, Sweet women fuelled my desires: They found me less sweet I fear. But Death had no wish for me. Was I born too soon or too late?

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    Why in this world am I found? A tree above the roof Waves its palm. The bell in the sky you see Gently rings.