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One of my favorites...
Cien Sonetos de Amor - XVII
Pablo Neruda I do not love you as one loves the salt-rose, or topaz, or carnations, those darts of crimson struck from the fire. I love you as certain things are loved: darkly and in secret, between dusk and the soul. I love you - like a plant that does not bloom but bears within itself, concealed, the light of flowers. Because of your love, a fierce essence, arisen from the earth, is alive within my flesh. I love you - without knowing how, when, where; I love you simply, without question, without pride. I love you thus because I know no other way of loving except this, where there is neither You nor I-- so intimate that your hand laid upon my chest is my own, so intimate that when I dream it is your eyes that close. |
Paul VERLAINE
(1844-1896) ( Poèmes saturniens) Chanson d'automne Les sanglots longs Des violons De l'automne Blessent mon coeur D'une langueur Monotone. Tout suffocant Et blême, quand Sonne l'heure, Je me souviens Des jours anciens Et je pleure Et je m'en vais Au vent mauvais Qui m'emporte Deçà, delà, Pareil à la Feuille morte. A litteral translation (translating a poem is always difficult and never really do it justice): http://www.textetc.com/workshop/wt-verlaine-1.html Song of Autumn The long sobs Of the violins Of autumn Wound my heart With a monotonous [Lethargy]. All suffocating And pale when The hour strikes I remember The old days And weep And I go away In the ill wind that carries me off This side and beyond Like the Dead leaf. |
I really enjoyed this poem! TY
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Lovely...
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and adorn the branches of your river with leaves of my estranged Autumn " these word cross my mind like a sad yearning kiss...... Pash i:cat: |
From John Trudell's myspace page, new works
November 2, 2009 - Monday
left over change in the stories of her tears he felt those long ago sounds some of yesterdays distortions spilling into the sound of today like a mindfull of left over change parts of her life spent living the past those times of more shadows then light the castings of clouds that drift with her where ever life takes her some memories wage their own battle about remembering good memories and bad memories locked in strugglings the many twists of fate seem to favor the bad memories these everyday balancing acts of when and what to trust to many times the bringers of hurt leave their imprinting like lingerings threads weaving pain into fear into masks wearing life as a disguise buying time to get through now those times of more light then shadows the saving grace of those drifting clouds the splashing of bright a scattering light flashing glimpses of laughing in dreams laughter feels better when the smiles are real and her heart and her spirit need more of that doing the best she can do in the circumstances finding her way to get through clouds that drift and memories of a mindfull of left over change |
To Eva Descending the Stair
Clocks cry: stillness is a lie, my dear; The wheels revolve, the universe keeps running. (Proud you halt upon the spiral stair.) The asteroids turn traitor in the air, And planets plot with old elliptic cunning; Clocks cry: stillness is a lie, my dear. Red the unraveled rose sings in your hair: Blood springs eternal if the heart be burning. (Proud you halt upon the spiral stair.) Cryptic stars wind up the atmosphere, In solar schemes the titled suns go turning; Clocks cry: stillness is a lie, my dear. Loud the immortal nightingales declare: Love flames forever if the flesh be yearning. (Proud you halt upon the spiral stair.) Circling zodiac compels the year. Intolerant beauty never will be learning. Clocks cry: stillness is a lie, my dear. (Proud you halt upon the spiral stair.) Sylvia Plath |
I love anything Christina Rossetti (English Victorian poetress; 1830~1894) ever wrote. This is, perhaps my favorite piece of hers:
A Birthday My heart is like a singing bird Whose nest is in a watered shoot; My heart is like an apple tree Whose boughs are bent with thickset fruit; My heart is like a rainbow shell That paddles in a halcyon sea; My heart is gladder than all these Because my love is come to me. Raise me a dais of silk and down; Hang it with vair and purple dyes; Carve it in doves and pomegranates, And peacocks with a hundred eyes; Work it in gold and silver grapes, In leaves and silver fleurs~de~lys; Because the birthday of my life Is come, my love is come to me. (November 18, 1857) |
i like my body when it is with your
body. It is so quite new a thing. Muscles better and nerves more. i like your body. i like what it does, i like its hows. i like to feel the spine of your body and its bones, and the trembling -firm-smooth ness and which i will again and again and again kiss, i like kissing this and that of you, i like, slowly stroking the, shocking fuzz of your electric fur, and what-is-it comes over parting flesh ... And eyes big love-crumbs, and possibly i like the thrill of under me you so quite new Edward Estlin Cummings |
Haiku Ambulance
A piece of green pepper fell off the wooden salad bowl: so what? —Richard Brautigan |
When I started my new life, this became my anthem. I still swell up inside when I read it.
The Journey One day you finally knew what you had to do, and began, though the voices around you kept shouting their bad advice-- though the whole house began to tremble and you felt the old tug at your ankles. "Mend my life!" each voice cried. But you didn't stop. You knew what you had to do, though the wind pried with its stiff fingers at the very foundations, though their melancholy was terrible. It was already late enough, and a wild night, and the road full of fallen branches and stones. But little by little, as you left their voices behind, the stars began to burn through the sheets of clouds, and there was a new voice which you slowly recognized as your own, that kept you company as you strode deeper and deeper into the world, determined to do the only thing you could do-- determined to save the only life you could save. Mary Oliver |
Another favorite from Christina Rossetti
In The Lane When my love came home to me, Pleasant summer bringing, Every tree was out in leaf, Every bird was singing. There I met her in the lane By those waters gleamy, Met her toward the fall of day, Warm and dear and dreamy. Did I loiter in the lane? None was there to see me. Only roses in the hedge, Lilies on the river, Saw our greeting fast and fond, Counted gift and giver, Saw me take her to my home, Take her home forever. :bouquet: |
I Am A Beggar Always
I Am A Beggar Always
i am a beggar always who begs in your mind (slightly smiling, patient, unspeaking with a sign on his chest BLIND)yes i am this person of whom somehow you are never wholly rid(and who does not ask for more than just enough dreams to live on) after all, kid you might as well toss him a few thoughts a little love preferably, anything which you can't pass off on other people: for instance a plugged promise- the he will maybe (hearing something fall into his hat)go wandering after it with fingers;till having found what was thrown away himself taptaptaps out of your brain, hopes, life to(carefully turning a corner)never bother you any more e. e. cummings |
WTC by: La bruja
I love this woman, follow it all the way through and see where she takes it...
[ame="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pYdmABW59Ds"]YouTube- "WTC" La Bruja[/ame] I hope I can deliver live readings this well some day :rrose: Pashi |
Weary Blues : Langston Hughs
This is wonderful!:cat:Pashi
[ame="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KyqwvC5s4n8"]YouTube- Poetry by Langston Hughes - The Weary Blues[/ame] |
Bittersweet : Madona
[ame="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oWSe4t9v62I"]YouTube- Madonna - Bittersweet [RWB Video Mix][/ame]
:blueheels:Pashi |
Alone With Everybody
the flesh covers the bone
and they put a mind in there and sometimes a soul, and the women break vases against the walls and the men drink too much and nobody finds the one but keep looking crawling in and out of beds. flesh covers the bone and the flesh searches for more than flesh. there's no chance at all: we are all trapped by a singular fate. nobody ever finds the one. the city dumps fill the junkyards fill the madhouses fill the hospitals fill the graveyards fill nothing else fills. - Charles Bukowski |
Gray, quiet and tired and mean
Picking at a worried seam I try to make you mad at me over the phone Red eyes and fire and signs Im taken by a nursery rhyme I want to make a ray of sunshine and never leave home No amount of coffee, no amount of crying No amount of whiskey, no amount of wine No, nothing else will do I've gotta have you, I've gotta have you The road gets cold Theres no spring in the middle this year Im the new chicken clucking open hearts and ears Oh, such a prima donna, sorry for myself But green, it is also summer And I wont be warm till Im lying in your arms I see it all through a telescope: Guitar, suitcase, and a warm coat Lying in the back of the blue boat Humming a tune... - weepies |
A LITANY FOR SURVIVAL
For those of us who live at the shoreline standing upon the constant edges of decision crucial and alone for those of us who cannot indulge the passing dreams of choice who love in doorways coming and going in the hours between dawns looking inward and outward at once before and after seeking a now that can breed futures like bread in our children's mouths so their dreams will not reflect the death of ours: For those of us who were imprinted with fear like a faint line in the center of our foreheads learning to be afraid with our mother's milk for by this weapon this illusion of some safety to be found the heavy-footed hoped to silence us For all of us this instant and this triumph We were never meant to survive. And when the sun rises we are afraid it might not remain when the sun sets we are afraid it might not rise in the morning when our stomachs are full we are afraid of indigestion when our stomachs are empty we are afraid we may never eat again when we are loved we are afraid love will vanish when we are alone we are afraid love will never return and when we speak we are afraid our words will not be heard nor welcomed but when we are silent we are still afraid So it is better to speak remembering we were never meant to survive - Audre Lorde |
parisian scenes
Mists and Rains
Waning autumn, winter, mudbound spring - I thank these somnolent seasons which I love For offering to both my heart and mind So vaperous a shroud, so vague a tomb. Here on this huge plain where the wind perfects A will of its own and the weathervane cries all night, Now and not in the tepid days to come My soul prefers to spread her raven wings. Filled with dead and dying things, the heart Itself is frozen fast, and best of all - O queen of our climate, ashen time of year - Your livid shadows never seem to change Except on moonless nights when two by two We rock our pain to sleep on a reckless bed. --les fleurs du mal/charles baudelaire |
Life Is What We Make It
by Edgar A. Guest Life is a jest; Take the delight of it. Laughter is best; Sing through the night of it. Swiftly the tear And the hurt and the ache of it Find us down here; Life must be what we make of it. Life is a song; Dance to the thrill of it. Grief's hours are long, And cold is the chill of it. Joy is man's need; Let us smile for the sake of it. This be our creed: Life must be what we make of it. Life is a soul; The virtue and vice of it, Strife for a goal, And man's strength is the price of it. Your life and mine, The bare bread and the cake of it End in this line: Life must be what we make of it. |
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