Ryan Thomas extensively enjoyed writing poetry as a teenager and won an award for it, and still writes intermittently today.
I have always felt an affinity in poetry for cycles and the repetition of time. Humanity, by dearth of his incredible genius, is a creature which has managed to give himself the delusion that he stands separate from such affairs, but the tides and stream of life move hardly in the stolid currents that we imagine for them, but tend to circle and repeat. The universe is greatly larger than humanity and its own capability to pretend its own position in it is of any note, and long after humanity is gone it will still go on living. It is a concept which will always fascinate me, and time, that ever-present, that always watching, that so ill-understood creature, is something which will eternally exercise upon me its magnetic charisma.
This poem I take some pride in because I wrote it originally in French and then translated it back into English. I had actually written it as a national anthem for a national role-play, expressing the intense attachment of the nation therein contained with the mountains which dominated the nation I was using, but this shortly ended and hence I look upon it instead as a personal poem.
The Wind Comes from the Mountains
I remember the pink mountains
Where the birds play above in the sky
And the hunters work in your comforting shadow
The wind blows in the cool air of the morning.
I remember the white mountains
Under the hard sun which strikes them furiously
And you lose your snow so that the rivers may flow
The wind blows in the hot air of midday.
I remember the golden mountains
Above which the clouds bring rain to distant lands
And the deer eat calmly your flowers
The wind blows in the calm air of the afternoon.
I remember the grey mountains
There the owls cry gently in the woods
And village lights below you begin to twinkle
The wind blows in the tired air of sunset.
I will never see the black mountains
The mountains under neither sun nor moon
But we are still there in your unseen shadow
And the wind blows always in the cold air of the night.
Original French Text / Texte original français
Je me souviens les montagnes roses
Où les oiseaux jouaient dessus dans le ciel
Et les paysannes travaillaient dans votre ombre rassurant
Le vents y soufflait dans l’air frais du matin
Je me souviens les montagnes blanches
Dessous le soleil dur qui les y frappait furieusement
Et vous perdiez votre neige pour que les rivières peuvent couler
Le vent y soufflait dans l’air chaud de midi
Je me souviens les montagnes dorées
Dessus-elles les nuages apportaient la pluie aux terres lointaines
Et les cerfs mangeaient tranquillement vos fleurs
Les vent y soufflait dans l’air calme de l’après-midi
Je me souviens les montagnes grises
Là les hiboux criaient doucement dans le bois
Les lumières villageoises dessous vous commençaient à briller
Le vent y soufflait dans l’air épuisé du coucher de soleil
Je ne verrai jamais les montagnes noires
Les montagnes sous ni le soleil ni la lune
Mais nous restons encore dans votre ombre inaperçue
Et le vent soufflait toujours dans l’air froid de la nuit
© 2017 Ryan Thomas
nicey on November 10, 2017:
I enjoyed your poetry, short with nice imaginary words. I hope to write mine soon. Thanks