COMO LA ROSA: NUNCA
Como la rosa: nunca
te empañe un pensamiento.
No es para ti la vida
que te nace de dentro.
Hermosura que tenga
su ayer en su momento.
Que en sólo tu apariencia
se guarde tu secreto.
Pasados no te brinden
su inquietante misterio.
Recuerdos no te nublen
el cristal de tus sueños.
Cómo puede ser bella
flor que tiene recuerdos.
[José Hierro del Real]
The World Poetry Day promoted by UNESCO aims at encouraging the reading, writing, publishing and teaching of poetry throughout the world: here is my tiny contribution to the cause…
Τείχη
Χωρίς περίσκεψιν, χωρίς λύπην, χωρίς αιδώ
μεγάλα κ’ υψηλά τριγύρω μου έκτισαν τείχη.
Και κάθομαι και απελπίζομαι τώρα εδώ.
Αλλο δεν σκέπτομαι: τον νουν μου τρώγει αυτή η τύχη·
διότι πράγματα πολλά έξω να κάμω είχον.
Α όταν έκτιζαν τα τείχη πώς να μην προσέξω.
Αλλά δεν άκουσα ποτέ κρότον κτιστών ή ήχον.
Ανεπαισθήτως μ’ έκλεισαν από τον κόσμον έξω.
Κωνσταντίνος Π. Καβάφης (1896)
Kisses, Sophia
By: Sophia on March 21, 2009
at 7:30 pm
Poetry Day 2009 – This is my poem for this day…
Kuss – Hellem
Spring is like a perhaps hand
(which comes carefully
out of Nowhere)arranging
a window,into which people look (while
people stare
arranging and changing placing
carefully there a strange
thing and a known thing here)and
changing everything carefully
spring is like a perhaps
Hand in a window
(carefully to
and from moving New and
Old things,while
people stare carefully
moving a perhaps
fraction of flower here placing
an inch of air there)and
without breaking anything.
E.E.Cummings
By: Hellen Haan on March 21, 2009
at 11:14 pm
Here’s my contribution, love, Grete
Child of the grass
The years pass Above us
Shadows of air All these shall Love us
Winds for our fellows
The browns and the yellows
Of autumn our colors
Now at our life’s morn. Be we well sworn
Ne’er to grow older
Our spirits be bolder At meeting
Than e’er before All the old lore
Of the forests & woodways
Shall aid us: Keep we the bond & seal
Ne’er shall we feel
Aught of sorrow
Let light flow about thee
As a cloak of air
Ezra Pound
By: Grete on March 22, 2009
at 7:09 am
Great post, I wish to add one of my favourites, kisses Georgia
He clasps the crag with crooked hands;
Close to the sun in lonely lands,
Ring’d with the azure world, he stands.
The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls;
He watches from his mountain walls,
And like a thunderbolt he falls.
Alfred, Lord Tennyson
By: Georgia on March 22, 2009
at 8:25 am
Wonderful initiative, great suggestion. Here is my poem, enjoy. Alison
Loveliest of Trees
Loveliest of trees the cherry now
Is hung with bloom along the bough
And stands about the woodland ride
Wearing white for Eastertide.
Now of my three score years and ten,
twenty will not come again.
And take from seventy years a score,
It only leaves me fifty more.
And since to look at things in bloom,
Fifty Springs is little room,
About the woodlands I will go
To see the cherry hung with snow.
A. E. Housman
By: Alison on March 22, 2009
at 10:22 am
World Poetry Day 2009 – Besos, Jimena
———- Maya Angelou ————-
A Rock, A River, A Tree
Hosts to species long since departed,
Marked the mastodon.
The dinosaur, who left dry tokens
Of their sojourn here
On our planet floor,
Any broad alarm of their hastening doom
Is lost in the gloom of dust and ages.
But today, the Rock cries out to us, clearly, forcefully,
Come, you may stand upon my
Back and face your distant destiny,
But seek no haven in my shadow.
I will give you no more hiding place down here.
You, created only a little lower than
The angels, have crouched too long in
The bruising darkness,
Have lain too long
Face down in ignorance.
Your mouths spilling words
Armed for slaughter.
The Rock cries out today, you may stand on me,
But do not hide your face.
Across the wall of the world,
A River sings a beautiful song,
Come rest here by my side.
Each of you a bordered country,
Delicate and strangely made proud,
Yet thrusting perpetually under siege.
Your armed struggles for profit
Have left collars of waste upon
My shore, currents of debris upon my breast.
Yet, today I call you to my riverside,
If you will study war no more. Come,
Clad in peace and I will sing the songs
The Creator gave to me when I and the
Tree and the stone were one.
Before cynicism was a bloody sear across your
Brow and when you yet knew you still
Knew nothing.
The River sings and sings on.
There is a true yearning to respond to
The singing River and the wise Rock.
So say the Asian, the Hispanic, the Jew
The African and Native American, the Sioux,
The Catholic, the Muslim, the French, the Greek
The Irish, the Rabbi, the Priest, the Sheikh,
The Gay, the Straight, the Preacher,
The privileged, the homeless, the Teacher.
They hear. They all hear
The speaking of the Tree.
Today, the first and last of every Tree
Speaks to humankind. Come to me, here beside the River.
Plant yourself beside me, here beside the River.
Each of you, descendant of some passed
On traveller, has been paid for.
You, who gave me my first name, you
Pawnee, Apache and Seneca, you
Cherokee Nation, who rested with me, then
Forced on bloody feet, left me to the employment of
Other seekers–desperate for gain,
Starving for gold.
You, the Turk, the Swede, the German, the Scot …
You the Ashanti, the Yoruba, the Kru, bought
Sold, stolen, arriving on a nightmare
Praying for a dream.
Here, root yourselves beside me.
I am the Tree planted by the River,
Which will not be moved.
I, the Rock, I the River, I the Tree
I am yours–your Passages have been paid.
Lift up your faces, you have a piercing need
For this bright morning dawning for you.
History, despite its wrenching pain,
Cannot be unlived, and if faced
With courage, need not be lived again.
Lift up your eyes upon
The day breaking for you.
Give birth again
To the dream.
Women, children, men,
Take it into the palms of your hands.
Mold it into the shape of your most
Private need. Sculpt it into
The image of your most public self.
Lift up your hearts
Each new hour holds new chances
For new beginnings.
Do not be wedded forever
To fear, yoked eternally
To brutishness.
The horizon leans forward,
Offering you space to place new steps of change.
Here, on the pulse of this fine day
You may have the courage
To look up and out upon me, the
Rock, the River, the Tree, your country.
No less to Midas than the mendicant.
No less to you now than the mastodon then.
Here on the pulse of this new day
You may have the grace to look up and out
And into your sister’s eyes, into
Your brother’s face, your country
And say simply
Very simply
With hope
Good morning.
By: Jimena on March 22, 2009
at 5:18 pm
Never too late…,
Kiss, Marsha
John Keats: Bright Star, Would I Were Steadfast as Thou Art
Bright star, would I were steadfast as thou art—
Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night,
And watching, with eternal lids apart,
Like nature’s patient sleepless eremite,
The moving waters at their priestlike task
Of pure ablution round earth’s human shores,
Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask
Of snow upon the mountains and the moors;
No—yet still steadfast, still unchangeable,
Pillow’d upon my fair love’s ripening breast,
To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,
Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,
Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,
And so live ever—or else swoon to death.
By: Marsha on March 28, 2009
at 6:47 am
Mon chérie, Bravo à toi. Gros bisou, Jacqueline
Chanson de l’oiseleur (Jacques Prévert)
L’oiseau qui vole si doucement
L’oiseau rouge et tiède comme le sang
L’oiseau si tendre l’oiseau moqueur
L’oiseau qui soudain prend peur
L’oiseau qui soudain se cogne
L’oiseau qui voudrait s’enfuir
L’oiseau seul et affolé
L’oiseau qui voudrait vivre
L’oiseau qui voudrait chanter
L’oiseau qui voudrait crier
L’oiseau rouge et tiède comme le sang
L’oiseau qui vole si doucement
C’est ton coeur jolie enfant
Ton coeur qui bat de l’aile si tristement
Contre ton sein si dur si blanc
By: Jacqueline on March 28, 2009
at 11:51 am
Un poema……y un beso…… Flor
LOS QUE RESPLANDECEN EN LA NOCHE
Están aquí en la noche
más jóvenes que nunca, albores de sus venas,
fulgores de sus ojos inviolados:
llamas que arden sin arder, pies y manos
sellados por el óleo:
esplendores que giran sin moverse
con el sol nocturno que corona sus cabezas:
interminables cuerpos
de fuego que se extingue y no se extingue;
transparentes de ser cuerpos
que nos tocan:
bocas gloriosas que desprenden estrellas:
están en todas partes y no están en todas partes,
y están sin espacio,
sin espacio sin espacio sin espacio
de nunca estar estando: ágiles
como todo el relámpago: purísimos
de ser siempre nuestra compañía: tiernos
cuando nos tocan en el sueño,
cuando nos besan y decimos que es la brisa.
Están aquí para que los miremos sin mirarlos,
los únicos que nos borran la tristeza de estar vivos,
los únicos que nos dicen que a la Casa no hemos regresado.
Están aquí más jóvenes que nunca
en sus radiantes cuerpos,
en sus perfectos cuerpos esta noche,
vestidos por el agua y por el fuego,
más jóvenes que siempre en la sustancia de la luz,
los Resplandecientes.
Miguel Arteche
By: Flor on March 28, 2009
at 2:33 pm