Tag Archives: poem

April Rain

by Robert Loveman

It is not raining rain for me,
It’s raining daffodils;
In every dimpled drop I see
Wild flowers on the hills.

The clouds of gray engulf the day
And overwhelm the town;
It is not raining rain to me,
It’s raining roses down.

It is not raining rain to me,
But fields of clover bloom,
Where any buccaneering bee
Can find a bed and room.

A health unto the happy,
A fig for him who frets!
It is not raining rain to me,
It’s raining violets.

rain-07

The Night Rain

by Konstantin Balmont

There was a rain.  With a melodious sound,

It was a-striking at the roofing’s beast.

And through all night, it was a spirit bound

With soul mine rejecting the night rest.

 

I was recalling.  All my childhood’s years.

The village where I have been born and grown.

My ancient garden. Waters of my river

And flame of flowers its steep shores on.

 

I was recalling.  The first date’s attraction.

The grove of birches, starry night in June.

She’d come to me.  But like sharp pain was passion.

And she had fled – a bird under the moon.

 

I was recalling.  My new song of soul.

And more and more – the smiles of lips and eyes.

She’s blonde, dark-browed, gentle….  And the whole

Wave of sweet love, narration of the stars.

 

I was recalling: no return for gladness,

And to that gladness – no ways are left …

And rain was striking, in this weather helpless

Composing a measured minuet.

Untitled by Marina Tsvetaeva

They fly – quick-wrought and quickly written,
Still hot from all the bitterness and bliss.
My moment, hour, day, year, lifetime – smitten,
Twixt love and love lie on the crucifix.

And I hear word of thunderstorms a-rising;
Spears, Amazonian, again flash through the sky…
Yet cannot hold my pen back! These two roses
Have sucked my heart’s blood dry.

1916

“Rain Flogs My Face…”

by Bella Akhmadulina.  Translated by Yevgeny Bonver.

Rain flogs my face and collar-bones,
a thunderstorm roars over musts.
You thrust upon my flesh and soul,
like tempests upon ships do thrust.

I  do not want, at all, to know,
what will befall to me the next -
would I be smashed against my woe,
or thrown into happiness.

In awe and gaiety elated,
like a ship, that’s going tempests through,
I am not sorry that I’ve met you,
and not afraid to love you, too.

 

Rain

by Kazin Ali

With thick strokes of ink the sky fills with rain.

Pretending to run for cover but secretly praying for more rain.

Over the echo of the water, I hear a voice saying my name.

No one in the city moves under the quick sightless rain.

The pages of my notebook soak, then curl. I’ve written:

“Yogis opened their mouths for hours to drink the rain.”

The sky is a bowl of dark water, rinsing your face.

The window trembles; liquid glass could shatter into rain.

I am a dark bowl, waiting to be filled.

If I open my mouth now, I could drown in the rain.

I hurry home as though someone is there waiting for me.

The night collapses into your skin. I am the rain.

Rain

By Shel Silverstein (1930-1999)

 I opened my eyes
And looked up at the rain,
And it dripped in my head
And flowed into my brain,
And all that I hear as I lie in my bed
Is the slishity-slosh of the rain in my head.

I step very softly,
I walk very slow,
I can’t do a handstand–
I might overflow,
So pardon the wild crazy thing I just said–
I’m just not the same since there’s rain in my head