Idyll or idyl Poems
First Idyll
by Theocritus
Thyrsis:
That pine tree, goatherd, sings a rustling sweet
Beside the streams, and sweetly do you play
Your pipe. Behind Pan you'll take second prize.
If he take hornèd he-goat, you will take the she-,
If he take she-goat as his prize, to you falls he-,
And he-goat, 'til you milk him, has good meat.
Goatherd:
O shepherd, sweeter is your song than that
......
East of Carthage: An Idyll
by Khaled Mattawa
Look here, Marcus Aurelius, we've come to see
your temple, deluded the guards, crawled through a hole
in the fence. Why your descendent, my guide and friend
has opted for secrecy, I don't know. But I do know
what to call the Africans, passport-less, yellow-eyed
who will ride the boat before me for Naples, they hope.
Here the sea curls its granite lip at them and flings a winter
storm like a cough, or the seadog drops them at Hannibal's
......
Idyll
by Ursula Askham Fanthorpe
Not knowing even that we're on the way,
Until suddenly we're there. How shall we know?
There will be blackbirds, in a late March evening,
Blur of woodsmoke, whisky in grand glasses,
A poem of yours, waiting to be read, and one of mine;
A reflective bitch, a cat materialized
On a knee. All fears of present and future
......
First Idyll
by Theocritus
Thyrsis:
That pine tree, goatherd, sings a rustling sweet
Beside the streams, and sweetly do you play
Your pipe. Behind Pan you'll take second prize.
If he take hornèd he-goat, you will take the she-,
If he take she-goat as his prize, to you falls he-,
And he-goat, 'til you milk him, has good meat.
Goatherd:
O shepherd, sweeter is your song than that
......
East of Carthage: An Idyll
by Khaled Mattawa
Look here, Marcus Aurelius, we've come to see
your temple, deluded the guards, crawled through a hole
in the fence. Why your descendent, my guide and friend
has opted for secrecy, I don't know. But I do know
what to call the Africans, passport-less, yellow-eyed
who will ride the boat before me for Naples, they hope.
Here the sea curls its granite lip at them and flings a winter
storm like a cough, or the seadog drops them at Hannibal's
......
Idyll
by Ursula Askham Fanthorpe
Not knowing even that we're on the way,
Until suddenly we're there. How shall we know?
There will be blackbirds, in a late March evening,
Blur of woodsmoke, whisky in grand glasses,
A poem of yours, waiting to be read, and one of mine;
A reflective bitch, a cat materialized
On a knee. All fears of present and future
......
-
Ursula Askham Fanthorpe (1 poems about Idyll or idyl)
U. A. Fanthorpe] (22 July 1929 – 28 April 2009 / London -
-