Posted by: artandlove | March 21, 2009

World Poetry Day 2009



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…



  1. 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

  2. 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.


  3. 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

  4. 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

  5. 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

  6. 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.

  7. 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.

  8. 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

  9. Un poema……y un beso…… Flor


    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

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s