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... poème sauvage ...!!!
... poem taken in the savannah near the Maison de la Lune ...!!!
... un poème pris dans la savanne derrière la Maison de la Lune ...!!!
You have not been born, But you are born In every moment, and you don't try Be there, when you're here, Or here when you go there.
You are the matter boldly saved From one breath to another, Without which we would not exist.
And, in reality, we are not More than remains, empty forms
Honeycombs from which it has drained
The honey of Eternity.
Ana Blandiana.
Flying Poem - Leg Tattoo - Color [CAROL G] @ Blue Event
All the details:
Quien sabe donde van las musas cuando duermes..alborotan los sentidos en los hombros cansados. El tiempo se escapa entre los dedos y el cuerpo rodea los otoños tan deprisa que un parpadeo esquiva una sonrisa.
Quien sabe donde van cuando las nombras con ansia y la historia de un presente,pasado y futuro se reescriben en renglones tímidos.
Quien las crea.. algún soñador que las escucha en cada respiro del sueño .
Who knows where the muses go when you sleep... they stir the senses on weary shoulders. Time slips through your fingers and the body surrounds autumns so quickly that a blink of an eye avoids a smile.
Who knows where they go when you name them eagerly and the story of the present, past, and future is rewritten in timid lines.
Who creates them... some dreamer who hears them in every breath of sleep.
Moon.
🎶
Groundskeeping
Throughout a lifetime
Our garden prose
Has carried heart weight
And it has been amongst the boughs
And arbors and mindful footfall
That new seasons are nourished
And my fingers are rooted in yours
.
Happy Valentine's Day to my love. xoxoxo
.
.
©Christine A. Owens 2.14.18
.
I really appreciate your comments and faves. I'm not a hoarder of contacts, but enjoy real-life, honest people. You are much more likely to get my comments and faves in return if you fit the latter description. Just sayin. :oD
.
If you like b/w photography and/or poetry check out my page at:
expressionsbychristine.blogspot.com/</a
A WOMAN.
She is like that.
Of those.
It's like the times that the verse jumps from its abysses. It is thrown.
Scream, dance, jump, cry.
It's one of those.
It's like sensitivity spontaneous poetry, like that blank paper who is silent, but it knows you and keeps you. He barely reproaches, It can barely be heard.
By Gata Cattana.
We have lost even this twilight.
No one saw us this evening hand in hand
while the blue night dropped on the world.
I have seen from my window
the fiesta of sunset in the distant mountain tops.
Sometimes a piece of sun
burned like a coin in my hand.
I remembered you with my soul clenched
in that sadness of mine that you know.
Where were you then?
Who else was there?
Saying what?
Why will the whole of love come on me suddenly
when I am sad and feel you are far away?
The book fell that always closed at twilight
and my blue sweater rolled like a hurt dog at my feet.
Always, always you recede through the evenings
toward the twilight erasing statues.
Pablo Neruda
Panjin - www.flickr.com/groups/panjin/, Overland Hills (248, 47, 21) - Moderado
Du haut de ma colline ,
J'attends le Printemps...
Dans l'hiver qui décline ,
J’attends le beau temps...
J'ai la tête qui jardine,
Et mon cœur imagine
Des fleurs rouges sanguines,
Des anémones sauvagines.
Des glycines qui dégoulinent
Sur le vieux mur en ruine.
Et mon âme baladine,
Se griffe aux dures épines
De mes roses qui illuminent
Le brun vert de mes rétines .
Et ces crocus en crinolines.
Et ces tulipes rouges aubergines.
Et ces dizaines de capucines ...
Et le muguet qui prend racine ...
Et dans les branches fines
De doux chants me fascinent,
Aussi suaves qu'une mandoline...
Mais..... OUI....j'hallucine !!!!
30 degrés dans ma piscine ??
Cette fois , il me faut une médecine !
Pour calmer mon cerveau qui turbine !
Faut -il peut -être qu'on me vaccine ?
Qu'on m'isole, qu'on me confine ?
NON...je vais être plus maline...
J'ai une autre combine...
Viens Lily....on se débine...
On va prendre une bouffée de vitamines.
On va respirer les aubépines,
Regarder les juments qui poulinent,
Et les vaches qui ruminent.
On va mettre nos plus belles bottines.
Oublier les usines, la benzine et les voisines.
Effacer les Méssalines ,
Et tout ce qui nous chagrine.
Marchons sur ce sentier qui chemine
Au milieu des étamines.
Et au retour...on mangera
Des tartines et de la mousseline !!!
ET....
On plongera dans la piscine !!! 😉
Joélisa
m.youtube.com/watch?v=8_VN0eVvDak&list=RDMM8_VN0eVvDa...
Trabajado por el agua en las orillas, lavado, pulio por
los vientos que lo llevarían y traerían por las estepas del
lenguaje arrastrando polvo, el poema viviría en la plenitud
de la libertad de no deberle nada a quien lo toma y lo arroja
lejos de sí o lo conserva, como un rugoso tesoro de la mano.
By Rafael Castillo Zapata.
THE DEBT
Worked by the water on the banks, washed, polished by
the winds that would carry it back and forth across the steppes of
language, dragging dust along, the poem would live in the fullness
of the freedom of owing nothing to whoever takes it and throws it
away or keeps it, like a rough treasure in one's hand.
each man finally trapped and broken
each grave ready
each hawk killed
and love and luck too
the poems have ended
the throat is dry
I suppose there's no funeral for this
and no tears and no reason
pain's the master
pain is silent
the throats of my poems are dry.
by Charles Bukowski
183 times | Greg Haines
The job
There is nothing more lonely than writing a poem.
Although the outside screams are present there.
There is nothing more alone than to write a picture although the noise of the world wants to interfere. Nothing but loneliness in this language game.
There is no one lonelier and silent than a poet in the craft of writing the world, again, to imagine its beauty.
By Carmen Yañez.
Hello to another Sunday Poem. The German version was written many years ago. I hope you enjoy - the poem, the picture and your weekend!
The Road beyond the Door
There comes a time, both sharp and clear,
When staying still means drowning here.
The walls once warm now press too tight,
And comfort dims the inner light.
So pack your hopes, ignore the doubt—
Some fortunes bloom when breaking out.
The stars don't shine from where you stand,
They wait for you in unknown land.
Step bold, though fear may beg you stay—
Your truth is carved along your way.
Der Weg vor der Tür
Es kommt ein Punkt, ganz klar und scharf,
Da wird Verharren zum Bedarf.
Die Wände, einst so warm und weit,
Sind nun ein Käfig der Zeit.
Drum pack dein Hoffen, wag den Schritt—
Manch Glück beginnt erst mit dem Tritt.
Die Sterne leuchten nicht von hier,
Sie warten draußen – fern von dir.
Geh mutig los, auch wenn’s dich schreckt—
Dein Weg ist der, der dich erweckt.
www.youtube.com/watch?v=ozl3L9fhKtE&list=RDozl3L9fhKt...
Fleetwood Mac - Go Your Own Way
Trees are poems that earth writes upon the sky. We fell them and turn them into newspapers that we may record our emptiness.
-Kahlil Gibran (1883-1931)
Suddenly the smell of mimosas
like a breathing torch
or like an immemorial wave
that kisses the expectant nudity of the beach.
It's just the door
that opens, but sets in motion
an air where it curdles
all the sweetness of this precarious autumn.
by Jorge Riechmann
::Bella's Lullaby:: www.flickr.com/groups/14818647@N22/, Forks (125, 128, 30) - Moderado
Finally , everything merges into one, and a river flows through it, the river that was carved out by the great universal flood and flows over the stones from the basement of time.
On some of those stones, timeless raindrops fall.
Beneath the stones are words, and some of those words are theirs.
I am enchanted by the waters.
Norman Maclean.
Finalmente, todo se funde en uno, y un río fluye a través de él, el río que fue tallado por el gran diluvio universal y fluye sobre las piedras desde el sótano del tiempo.
Sobre algunas de esas piedras, caen gotas de lluvia eternas.
Bajo las piedras hay palabras, y algunas de esas palabras son suyas. Estoy hechizado por las aguas.
No poem can save us but can say:
on sunday nights
I am a specialist in absence
I can dissect it analyze its parts
and see it multiply all over the house.
The seed in the wound of the earth blooms.
it is possible that the time take root in unusual places while you fix your hair to contemplate the plants in the garden life may be nothing more than that.
By Nadia Sol Caramella.
Ningún poema
puede salvarnos
pero puede decir:
los domingos por las noches
soy especialista en la ausencia
puedo diseccionarla
analizar sus partes
y verla multiplicarse
por toda la casa
***
la semilla
en la herida de la tierra
florece
***
es posible que el tiempo
eche raíces en lugares insólitos
mientras vos acomodás tu pelo
para contemplar las plantas del jardín
puede que la vida no sea más que eso
i know more than i think i know,
and i know less than i want to know . and it continues slowly.
i try to keep up
.
.
no big glittery icons or invitations , please !
“La tristeza ha venido como un buque vacío”
Francisco Umbral.
youtu.be/sUwH7wjH4Mo?si=vOjRFKIA_LMTXZYH
Porque somos de quienes
nos buscan en los días averiados.
De quienes se enamoran
de nuestra ruina
como si paseasen por Pompeya.
Igual que cuando Miguel Hernández
recitó su duelo por Sijé
subido en una mísera escalera.
Qué desconocidos fuimos
si tan sólo llegamos a amarnos.
También debimos ser
cómplices en la decadencia.
By Francisco Javier Fernández Espinosa.
Sadness has come like an empty ship” Francisco Umbral.
Because we are the ones they look for us on bad days.
Who they fall in love with of our ruin as if they were walking through Pompeii.
Just like when Miguel Hernández He recited his mourning for Sijé climbed a miserable ladder.
How unknown we were If only we come to love each other. We should also have been complicit in the decline.
Thank you very much for inviting my photo to groups❤️
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E.Marie - Library Books - Poems
Spoiled - Messy Gamer Cable Wrap
Rama Salon - Angie Hair
Phedora - Zoey Platforms
Causa imperfecta, descolorido sin la luz que sale del cuadrante de esta casa... el silencio es el santo grial a guardar en lo más profundo del pecho.
Efecto perfecto, deslumbrado en el alféizar de la ventana por el tímido rayo, como una llama... los susurros son la partitura de una frase inacabada en los labios temblorosos.
Moon.
Cause imperfect, discolored without the light that leaves the quadrant of this house... silence is the holy grail to keep in the depths of the chest.
Perfect effect, dazzled on the windowsill by the timid ray, like a flame... the whispers are the score of an unfinished phrase on the trembling lips.
Moon.
Fortepiyano çalıyor
Gittikçe umutsuz bir müzik
*
Taklacı güvercin havalanır
Birisinin beyaz avucundan
*
Gece çiçeği gibi açık
Kendimi bırakıyorum
By Javier Velaza:
We don't know how to love, we just plagiarize.
We love as we believe it should be done,
with other people's words, with caresses
copied and borrowed gestures,
we emulate the kisses, the postures,
the gasps, the protests, the goodbyes.
Yes, we also unlove by imitating,
our cruelty is also mimetic,
mannerist the oblivion we suffer.
Don't let them teach you how to love,
disobeys Ovid. May your hug
be different from everyone else,
innovates in every care, creates unprecedented
tenderness, reinvent passion,
be original, inimitable, unique.
May everyone have to say about you
that love did not exist until you loved.
No sabemos amar, solo plagiamos.
Amamos como creemos que ha de hacerse,
con palabras ajenas, con caricias
copiadas y prestados ademanes,
emulamos los besos, las posturas,
los jadeos, las protestas, los adioses.
Sí, también desamamos imitando,
nuestra crueldad es también mimética,
manierista el olvido que sufrimos.
No dejes que te enseñen cómo amar,
desobedece a Ovidio. Que tu abrazo
sea diferente a todos los demás,
innova en cada mimo, crea inéditas
ternuras, reinventa la pasión,
sé original, inimitable, único.
Que de ti tengan todos que decir
que no existió el amor hasta que amaste.
I am not the body
Nor am I the mind,
Neither the machine
Nor the interpreter
Discard the shells
Isolate the 'Self'
The examiner cannot be
The object to be examined
This 'I Am' , so pure
Immortal, unstinted
Drop of divine ocean
The ray of Almighty
- Anuj Nair
www.flickr.com/photos/anujnair/6995962286/in/photostream
www.flickr.com/photos/anujnair/5412965186/in/photostream
------------------------------------------------------
© 2011 Anuj Nair. All rights reserved.
-------------------------------------------------------
________________________________________________
© 2011 Anuj Nair. All rights reserved.
All images and poems are the property of Anuj Nair. Using these images and poems without permission is in violation of international copyright laws (633/41 DPR19/78-Disg 154/97-L.248/2000). All materials may not be copied, reproduced, distributed, republished, downloaded, displayed, posted or transmitted in any forms or by any means,including electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording without written permission of Anuj Nair. Every violation will be pursued penally.
'Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.'
Robert Frost
facade-painting by Eric van der Vegt,
poem "Heel Dichtbij" by Hans and Monique Hagen,
painted by Jeroen Paulussen,
located in Hilversum, unfinished when I took the shot
A Poem for William Basinski:
William Basinski has probably never worn flip flops
William Basinski can make fireflies dance with abandon
William Basinski only goes shopping in the middle of the night
William Basinski
William Basinski
William Basinski
I don’t need a body anymore.
I only need songs.
William Basinski sings lullabies to piranhas and turns them into goldfish
William Basinski eats words for breakfast
William Basinski doesn’t think about his appendix very often.
William Basinski
William Basinski
William Basinski
The street lights were all on when I biked home because the
City finally paid its electric bill.
William Basinski was a distinguished giraffe in his former life.
William Basinski has extra bones that help him stand so straight.
William Basinski is from another galaxy but still keeps his Southern accent
William Basinski
William Basinski
William Basinski
His heart is too big for his chest.
He makes music so we can finally rest.
William Basinski can hear peaches sigh.
William Basinski has a scarf to keep the world warm
William Basinski is part of our collective consciousness
William Basinski
William Basinski
William Basinski
He gave me a hug once and I liked it.
**All photos are copyrighted**
When visiting Hokkaido, Japan - the dynamic colour and contrast of these wilted, dead leaves against the bright winter snow truly caught my eye.
© All rights reserved.
Steeped
Emotion realized
Her mouth was parched and bruised
The same as the hibiscus petals
In a heap on the table
Awaiting sympathetic water
To revive pink affections
And refreshment to satiation
.
.
©Christine A. Evans 10.12.17
.
I really appreciate your comments and faves. I'm not a hoarder of contacts, but enjoy real-life, honest people. You are much more likely to get my comments and faves in return if you fit the latter description. Just sayin. :oD
.
If you like b/w photography and/or poetry check out my page at:
expressionsbychristine.blogspot.com/</a