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Basic and Essential Meter workshop

This shows the poems in just one one workshop. To see all the poems on Neopoet, go to the stream. Or go to the workshop page itself, where you can find out more about the syllabus.

I like the mystery of spring

I like the mystery of spring
transparent veil of leaves and lines
the only time when I can see
the glints of sunny daffodils,
the mist of sleepy melted ground.
I like the mystery of spring
when screeching of the geese returns
with children laughter on playground,
when boiling moss wins over frost,
new grass, new secrets, hopes and love
in green rotating gyre drown.


I want to go on a wild rouge
easy wind tussling through long hair
with my love in the passengers seat
memory's keepsake giving peace


The passion inside struck her down
Taking back what's hers from start
Infectious smile with glow for skin
Spoke the residents of London town

She Dreams

Winter dresses Prague’s domestic park with
whiteness, but she wanted more than laying
snow -now hand in hand with man suspired for-
not this white when life has dreams of color.

Many times she heard how love had spoken
false, deceitful words or changed with changing,
could not bear a heavy load, like brittle
stone; but she's now next to him, now trusting.


Footsteps approaching me.
I hear loud clanking -
keys or silver, or perhaps an armor?
Or maybe glints of the belated moon
awry on marble of the floor?
Tall windows let the early morning flow.
Silk curtains fly in horizontal lines,
transparent messengers to meet
an early mist
above the lake surrounding my room.


Cold wind with prickly particles of sand,
Washed out lace of shells and silver foam,
Footprints of birds, warm pebbles in my hand
Driftwood and waves will be forgotten or
can be suspended in the depth of time

Where memories preserved as poems
It's up to me to live them through and drop
Like moths to die near the lantern or
Pick up a pen and give another life.
I am a poet after all.


I shall not cover eye, or mouth, or ear,
nor shall I cower, kneel to a cold hand.
My will must surely be more consistent
than clay new molded by a hollow age.


Quiet in the darkness of the forest
Evening - golden mare - tells her story.
Shadows scattered, moon invited over.
Crimson leaves like tired vagrants
Lying on the forest floor and snoring.

I am sitting by the fire listening to music.
Music of the melting in the kettle snow,
Music of the burning days and crackling
Joints of skinny trunks and branches.

Happy solitude of dreaming...

February by Boris Pasternak. My translation

To take black ink and write like crying
about February spleen
while snow's melting out loud
in lines of burning spring and sleet.

To take a cab, transcend through air-ringing,
through chimes,
through clanking of the hooves
into the land where showers are leaning
against the roofs.

Where like enchanted charred pears
thousands of rooks will sway
into the puddles and will shatter
dry sadness of your eyes away.

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