Night poetry

Sebzy

post your favourite pieces of poetry the only rule is thay have to be about the night.


I'll start with .....

Acquainted With The Night by Robert Frost

I have been one acquainted with the night.
I have walked out in rain—and back in rain.
I have outwalked the furthest city light.

I have looked down the saddest city lane.
I have passed by the watchman on his beat
And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain.

I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet
When far away an interrupted cry
Came over houses from another street,

But not to call me back or say good-by;
And further still at an unearthly height
One luminary clock against the sky

Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right.
I have been one acquainted with the night.

anonymous_joe

Frost was always so good, yet so sad...

Rozabeez

Edgar Allan Poe is another good one.

Evening Star
'Twas noontide of summer,
And mid-time of night;
And stars, in their orbits,
Shone pale, thro' the light
Of the brighter, cold moon,
'Mid planets her slaves,
Herself in the Heavens,
Her beam on the waves.
I gazed awhile
On her cold smile;
Too cold- too cold for me-
There pass'd, as a shroud,
A fleecy cloud,
And I turned away to thee,
Proud Evening Star,
In thy glory afar,
And dearer thy beam shall be;
For joy to my heart
Is the proud part
Thou bearest in Heaven at night,
And more I admire
Thy distant fire,
Than that colder, lowly light.

Delirium

To The Moon

How often, O moon, have you climbed
The steps to your hyperic dome,
To chase the stars which shoot through the night
When through the sky you roam.

What deeds through the ages, have you beheld
That makes your heart go cold.
What secrets would your heart with sorrow fill
As you watch through a shrouded veil.

How many lovers have you seen promise
So much, as beneath the moon they strayed.
How many promises have come true.
How many have you seen betrayed.

You have haunted the earth
With a beauty, countless poets have praised
Having fallen in love with you,
As on you in rapture they gazed.

Maura Predergast.

My mum, from her book of poems, one of the few things I have to remember her by.

Sebzy

Good night! which put the candle out? by Emily Dickinson

GOOD night! which put the candle out?
A jealous zephyr, not a doubt.
Ah! friend, you little knew
How long at that celestial wick
The angels labored diligent;
Extinguished, now, for you!

It might have been the lighthouse spark
Some sailor, rowing in the dark,
Had importuned to see!
It might have been the waning lamp
That lit the drummer from the camp
To purer reveille!

Whispered

Sebzy wrote: »

Good night! which put the candle out? by Emily Dickinson

GOOD night! which put the candle out?
A jealous zephyr, not a doubt.
Ah! friend, you little knew
How long at that celestial wick
The angels labored diligent;
Extinguished, now, for you!

It might have been the lighthouse spark
Some sailor, rowing in the dark,
Had importuned to see!
It might have been the waning lamp
That lit the drummer from the camp
To purer reveille!

I adore Emily Dickinson!

Hermy

The Raven by Edgar Allen Poe
Read by Christopher Walken
One of my favourites!

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cLSmhpwLdEQ

Sebzy

Hermy wrote: »

The Raven by Edgar Allen Poe
Read by Christopher Walken
One of my favourites!

Chilling

Hermy

Sebzy wrote: »

Chilling

Chilling indeed. This recording is from the album Closed On Account Of Rabies if anyone is interested.

randylonghorn

Ah, pore ol' Rabies!

shellyboo

The Armadillo

For Robert Lowell

This is the time of year
when almost every night
the frail, illegal fire balloons appear.
Climbing the mountain height,

rising toward a saint
still honored in these parts,
the paper chambers flush and fill with light
that comes and goes, like hearts.

Once up against the sky it's hard
to tell them from the stars--
planets, that is--the tinted ones:
Venus going down, or Mars,

or the pale green one. With a wind,
they flare and falter, wobble and toss;
but if it's still they steer between
the kite sticks of the Southern Cross,

receding, dwindling, solemnly
and steadily forsaking us,
or, in the downdraft from a peak,
suddenly turning dangerous.

Last night another big one fell.
It splattered like an egg of fire
against the cliff behind the house.
The flame ran down. We saw the pair

of owls who nest there flying up
and up, their whirling black-and-white
stained bright pink underneath, until
they shrieked up out of sight.

The ancient owls' nest must have burned.
Hastily, all alone,
a glistening armadillo left the scene,
rose-flecked, head down, tail down,

and then a baby rabbit jumped out,
short-eared, to our surprise.
So soft!--a handful of intangible ash
with fixed, ignited eyes.

Too pretty, dreamlike mimicry! O falling fire and piercing cry and panic,
and a weak mailed fist clenched ignorant against the sky!

Elizabeth Bishop

LadyJ

Here's a little something I wrote a few years ago when I couldn't sleep. It's not amazing but I like it...

The Waiting Room

I heard a joke I thought you'd like
But I can't call this time of night
The setting sun means just one thing;
Frustration's what horizons bring.
Temptation just to to run amok
Yet in this waiting room I'm stuck.
Imagination's at its peak
Though silence sweeps through city streets.
The sleepers sleep while thinkers wake
And think,but wish it weren't so late.
The jokers laugh but make no sound
For punch lines night-time's walls surround.
The darkness is procrastination
And man squirms with anticipation.
For stars are not the light of day;
Pathetic little night-time rays.
The moon is but a duller sun
I must cut short my outdoor fun,
I postpone my further plans
'Til sunshine lights the blackened land.
And while I'm lying in this place
I wish that I could see your face
Because I heard a joke you'd like
But I can't call in the dead of night.

Zee Deveel

Not technically about the night, but one which does express a dislike of sunlight and which is associated with winter.

More Emily Dickinson.


There's a certain Slant of light,
Winter Afternoons--
That opresses, like the Heft
Of Cathedral Tunes--

Heavenly Hurt, it gives us--
We can find no scar,
But internal difference,
Where the meanings are--

None may teach it--Any--
'Tis the Seal Despair--
An imperial affliction
Sent us of the Air--

When it comes, the Landscape listens--
Shadows--hold their breath--
When it goes, 'tis like the Distance
On the look of Death--

girl_friday

More Emily Dickinson

Wild nights! Wild nights!
Were I with thee,
Wild nights should be
Our luxury! Futile the winds
To a heart in port,
Done with the compass,
Done with the chart.
Rowing in Eden!
Ah! the sea!
Might I but moor
To-night in thee!

Insect Overlord

Sebzy wrote: »

post your favourite pieces of poetry the only rule is thay have to be about the night.

Here's one I wrote:

Some Day We Have To Share This Sight Together

You cannot walk these roads with me tonight,
And tomorrow morning feels too far away,
And so, instead, I force my hands to write
A pale impression of the Milky Way.

Every star that can be viewed by mortal sight
Carries over Moher’s cliffs and waves
A lonely message that I hope just might
Redeem my absence over summer days.

And if a man had wings to give him flight
I’d take a leap from castle walls to say
That Heaven’s quilt of jewels holds no light
To match the diamonds in your smiling face.

I promise that this sight we’ll one day share
As an embracing, starlight-gazing pair.

Thomas828

This is by far my favourite nocturnal poem. By Ben Jonson (1553 - 1637)

Hymn to Diana

Queen and Huntress, chaste and fair,
Now the sun is laid to sleep,
Seated in thy silver chair
State in wonted manner keep:
Hesperus entreats thy light,
Goddess excellently bright.

Earth, let not thy envious shade
Dare itself to interpose;
Cynthia's shining orb was made
Heaven to clear when day did close:
Bless us then with wishèd sight,
Goddess excellently bright.

Lay thy bow of pearl apart
And thy crystal-shining quiver;
Give unto the flying hart
Space to breathe, how short soever:
Thou that mak'st a day of night,
Goddess excellently bright.

Insect Overlord

And With That I Could Sleep

I trapped a butterfly in my glass
And held it up towards a light
While the pattering of rain outside
Late on this late December night
Mimicked the tapping on the glass
Of decorated wings inside,
The orange fading into brown with little specks of blue and white,
Powerless attempt at flight,
Trapped inside invisible prison
At the mercy of my person.

I stepped towards my dripping window
And opened it to feel the raindrops
On the cool breeze of a late December night,
The stars trapped behind clouds bleached by headlights,
Removed my hand from atop the glass
And out of my sight let the butterfly pass.

mrmac

Ah, the "melter" has started to fade, I'm starting to tap my fingers, feeling anxious, inspired.
(Forgive this attempt, I fix things!)

I open the door
The darkness swarms in, swirling, growing, unstoppable.
I stand still, and am embraced, consumed, cleansed.
This ritual is comforting, it will always be home.
I enjoy the solace, the noise, the cold, the warmth.
I am content.

mrmac.

raah!

I've always like the atmosphere of The Thought Fox, by Ted Hughes

The Thought-Fox
I imagine this midnight moment's forest:
Something else is alive
Beside the clock's loneliness
And this blank page where my fingers move.

Through the window I see no star:
Something more near
Though deeper within darkness
Is entering the loneliness:

Cold, delicately as the dark snow
A fox's nose touches twig, leaf;
Two eyes serve a movement, that now
And again now, and now, and now

Sets neat prints into the snow
Between trees, and warily a lame
Shadow lags by stump and in hollow
Of a body that is bold to come

Across clearings, an eye,
A widening deepening greenness,
Brilliantly, concentratedly,
Coming about its own business

Till, with a sudden sharp hot stink of fox
It enters the dark hole of the head.
The window is starless still; the clock ticks,
The page is printed.

Tar.Aldarion

This has a night feeling to me
plus it's my favourite poem.


The Listeners.


'Is there anybody there?' said the Traveller,
Knocking on the moonlit door;
And his horse in the silence champed the grasses
Of the forest's ferny floor:
And a bird flew up out of the turret,
Above the Traveller's head
And he smote upon the door again a second time;
'Is there anybody there?' he said.
But no one descended to the Traveller;
No head from the leaf-fringed sill
Leaned over and looked into his grey eyes,
Where he stood perplexed and still.
But only a host of phantom listeners
That dwelt in the lone house then
Stood listening in the quiet of the moonlight
To that voice from the world of men:
Stood thronging the faint moonbeams on the dark stair,
That goes down to the empty hall,
Hearkening in an air stirred and shaken
By the lonely Traveller's call.
And he felt in his heart their strangeness,
Their stillness answering his cry,
While his horse moved, cropping the dark turf,
'Neath the starred and leafy sky;
For he suddenly smote on the door, even
Louder, and lifted his head:-
'Tell them I came, and no one answered,
That I kept my word,' he said.
Never the least stir made the listeners,
Though every word he spake
Fell echoing through the shadowiness of the still house
From the one man left awake:
Ay, they heard his foot upon the stirrup,
And the sound of iron on stone,
And how the silence surged softly backward,
When the plunging hoofs were gone.

-- Walter De La Mare

raah!

And here!

Philip Larkin - Sad Steps
Groping back to bed after a piss
I part thick curtains, and am startled by
The rapid clouds, the moon's cleanliness.

Four o'clock: wedge-shadowed gardens lie
Under a cavernous, a wind-picked sky.
There's something laughable about this,

The way the moon dashes through clouds that blow
Loosely as cannon-smoke to stand apart
(Stone-coloured light sharpening the roofs below)

High and preposterous and separate -
Lozenge of love! Medallion of art!
O wolves of memory! Immensements! No,

One shivers slightly, looking up there.
The hardness and the brightness and the plain
Far-reaching singleness of that wide stare

Is a reminder of the strength and pain
Of being young; that it can't come again,
But is for others undiminished somewhere.

Insect Overlord

For Seán and the Girls

The lit face of my phone declares
The time be five to one (at night),
White digits shining out against
A picture taken upstairs here,
A photo of two faces forcing
Smiles from tired eyes and cheeks,
But with arms tight round each other
So that chancers will not interfere!

There’s a clear view out the window
Of passing taxis and parked cars
With dipped headlights reflecting on
The drizzle-puddled path and road.
I slowly rise to turn and check
The dance-floor still holds signs of life,
Bowed heads dancing under coloured
Bulbs and lasers, sparkling balls.

I sit again and raise an arm
To hug the shoulders of a friend.
We each reach for a glass and laugh;
His knowing wink shrugs off my hand,
The window view obscured by now
By both my picture-girl and his.
We slowly rise: unsteady feet!
And ’neath the lights we join our muses.

by
Tommy C

PFJSplitter

A Clear Midnight

This is thy hour O Soul, thy free flight into the wordless,
Away from books, away from art, the day erased, the lesson done,
Thee fully forth emerging, silent, gazing, pondering the themes thou lovest best.
Night, sleep, and the stars.


~ Walt Whitman (From "Leaves of Grass", 1900)

Insect Overlord

Here's a new one for y'all. Not sure if it's finished or not...


August, Late
A window slightly opened wheezes wind;
My private screaming chorus of night’s storm.

The sky pauses to whimper like a pup.

It howls, then pounds again with bitter force,
A crescendo, the apex of a wave
Comes crashing down like rock-spray by the shore.

My door protests and rattles in its frame.

Then silence tip-toes in on creaking floor-boards.

by Tommy Collins

quietobserver

A cloudless sky displays a full moon
Sleep will come but it won't come soon,
You toss and turn in an effort to sleep
Full moons effect you, effect you deep

Moons shift tides and stormy seas
A push and pull factor of transparent ease,
The moon to some is of lucky charms,
Full moons to others result in Wolverine arms

Is a blue moon made of mouldy cheese?
Did the man on the moon live there with ease,
Did he meet the Americans in 69?
A small step for man, a giant leap for mankind

The moon effects us more that we know
Full moons,cresent moons make us fast make us slow
Our ancestors before us talked to the moon each day
It answered them back like about harvesting hay

We take it for granted its up there in the sky
We long for the sun and pass the moon by
But

Next time you turn in an effort to sleep
Know the moon effects you, effects you deep


2005 quietobserver

waitinforatrain

Martin Grech - Kingdom

An ocean stare wells up in your eyes
The moon bows its head in respect to the sunrise
The wind's delicate breath is playing with the tide
And all the boats lay on their backs as if they were tired

To all sea, and all sky we are important
Can you see?
Can you hear its heart beating silent?

The anchor is firmly in the sea bed
The wind carries every word and whisper said
The owl slowly twists its neck
By the shore a dog and swan lay dead

To all sea, and all sky we are important
Can you see?
Can you hear its heart beating silent

Insect Overlord

The Pretender

The opaque glass of a closed shop window
Acts as camouflage behind his dark shirt,
The crisp, ironed edges of which belie
The truth of his softness underneath it.
He is cold. The hair of his hand stands up,
Exposed fingers clasping a plastic bag,
And he shivers away the second last
Saturday night of August, standing there.

This waiting game, prelude to the first act,
Ends as a familiar car pulls close and
He pretends the lift does nothing to raise
His spirits, the cold of the night hidden
By his cool exterior and denied
With half a smile. He warms up as they drive.

Later, under lights, he is the centre
Of attention, mysterious, with one
Eye hidden by a sharply tilted hat,
Sparkling ear-ring and bright white tie, flashing
A smile at anyone who meets his gaze,
Teasing them by dancing from their contact.

With some comfort from this costume, he can
Fool watching eyes with an illusion of
Self-confidence, almost convince himself
That all is well, that it will be okay...