Poems, Poems, Poems
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Dawn & poem. Tuscany.CF011538
Ogni giorno è diverso dall’altro, ogni alba porta con sè il suo speciale miracolo, il suo istante magico, in cui si distruggono gli universi passati e nascono nuove stelle. I Navajo,infatti, insegnano ai loro bambini che ogni mattina il sole che sorge e’ un sole nuovo. Nasce ogni giorno, vive solo per quel giorno, muore alla sera e non ritornera’ piu’. Dicono ai loro piccoli: Il sole ha solo questo giorno, un giorno. Vivi bene la tua vita in modo che il sole non abbia sprecato il suo tempo prezioso.
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Fabrizio Massetti.
" I was born on the holy ground,
Running wild and free,
Across wide meadows by the stream,
Between the mountains and the sea,
I grew up there in boyhood days,
Filled with sights and sounds,
My roots run deep here in the clay,
Upon this hallowed ground,
Our children came in the early years,
They ran wild but not so free,
For the meadows gone and the stream lies still,
Between the mountains and the sea,
Now I am old and not so wise.
As I am supposed to be,
And the nights draw in and the wind blows cold,
Between the mountains and the sea,
I was born on this holy ground.
And once ran wild and free,
Across wild meadows by the stream,
Between the mountains and the sea "
© Pat Hogan
My Photos on FLICKRIVER;
flickriver.com/photos/137473925@N08/
Keep well and positive everbody!!!
Best of everything!
Pat
Poem
From the short and intense evening,
your light seeps into my face,
the smell of your hair is strong
like the smell of the sea
Just another visit to one of my favorite Ozarks scenes! Tucked away in a little “holler” is this picturesque old barn, a nearby pond reflecting the setting sun, and a fence. I marvel every time I see the peaceful, quiet beauty here, and envy the family who calls this home....
“The men dem gon' fall in love
With you and all of your glory
Your skin is not only dark, it shines and it tells your story
Keep dancin', they can't control you
They watchin', they all adore you
If ever you are in doubt, remember what mama told you
Brown skin girl (brown skin girl)
Ya skin just like pearls . . .”
- “Brown Skin Girl” Beyoncé
Mediodía con sol,
redondo y sin final como el deseo.
Cuerpo y roca o sopor que los omite.
Soledad absoluta y el silencio
tan especial del mundo cuando calla.
Ausencia y plenitud.
Estancias y retornos.
Existir:
luz ya que en mí confluye. Sobrevivo.
VICENTE GALLEGO
oil on canvas, 50x50 cm
www.instagram.com/p/DSayT7RjWbN/?img_index=1
La sede della preveggenza nell'arte astratta risiede nell'anima dell'artista, nel suo universo interiore di emozioni, intuizioni e spiritualità, da cui scaturisce la necessità di liberare una "verità più profonda" che va oltre la realtà visibile, usando forme e colori puri per comunicare concetti e stati d'animo, come sosteneva Kandinskij, pioniere di questa ricerca di una dimensione "interiore" dell'arte.
In sintesi, la preveggenza nell'arte astratta non è predizione del futuro, ma la capacità dell'artista di percepire e comunicare l'essenza nascosta delle cose, attingendo a un livello di conoscenza intuitivo e spirituale, rendendo l'opera un ponte tra il mondo interiore e la percezione dello spettatore.
MUJER CON FLOR POR YKAY LEDEZMA - publication: youtu.be/Fo81laDkZRo Musica: Ykay Ledezma; Arte: Alice Alicja Cieliczka; Poesia: Ludovico Silva
Time, just a bodily experience;
With the change of times...
Events unwarranted , undesirable
Mere glimpses as it appears,
Of ever-changing substance...
The viewer and the view
Change like a flicker
Every perception an illusion
Every perceiver the same
Certain is the state
Before birth and after death
Uncertain is the state
In between birth and death
Look at those changes
Like an entertainment
Scenes changing in a play
Queer, and a source of enjoyment
Open the inner eyes
Awaken the Soul
You are neither body nor a living being
Your power knows no bounds.
- Anuj Nair
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© 2011 Anuj Nair. All rights reserved.
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________________________________________________
© 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- isg 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.
The park's has a collection of over 1,000 statues and 150 giant tableaux centered around Chinese folklore, legends, history, and Confucian ideology.
On the pillars is a poem couplet written by Yu Da Fu, aptly describing Haw Par Villa then.
In the quietness of the hills amidst the rolling white clouds
There stand a bright glorious house like blossoming flower petals
You can see the vast and clear blue ocean
And grazes into the and ripples of the sea waves in the far horizon
My little black panther 8
Happy Caturday 11.1.2020 "Poem"
Nik Silver efex pro 2
A poem from Mr. Goethe:
Zum Fressen geboren, zum Kraulen bestellt
in Schlummer verloren gefällt mir die Welt.
Ich schnurr' auf dem Schoße, ich ruhe im Bett
in lieblicher Pose, ob schlank oder fett.
So gelte ich allen als göttliches Tier, sie stammeln
und lallen und huldigen mir, liebkosen mir
glücklich den Bauch, Öhrchen und Tatz
ich wählte es wieder, das Leben der Katz.
translated by deepl.com:
Born to eat, ordered to crawl
lost in slumber I like the world.
I purr on your lap, I rest in bed
in a lovely pose, whether slim or fat.
So I am considered to all as a divine animal, they stammer
and slur and worship me, caress me
happy belly, ears and paw
I chose it again, the life of a cat.
Happy Caturday! :-)
This is my favourite poem by Joseph Freiherr von Eichendorff:
Schläft ein Lied in allen Dingen, die da träumen fort und fort, Und die Welt fängt an zu singen, Triffst du nur das Zauberwort
This is my TRANSLATION:
There sleeps a song in all things that are dreaming on and on, and the world starts singing when you only find the magic word.
This first edition of the poems of Nathan Lanesford Foster was printed and bound in 1841 in the print shop in Philadelphia where my great-great-great grandfather worked at the time.
For those of you who know Philly: the print shop was located in what is now the 'Old City' section of Philadelphia, near the Betsy Ross House and Independence Hall.
More modern editions of this volume are available at select booksellers:
www.abebooks.com/book-search/author/nathan-lanesford-foster/
In real life, the horizontal dimension of the photo is about 2.5" (6.3cm)
HMM!
Ah vastness of pines, murmur of waves breaking,
slow play of lights, solitary bell,
twilight falling in your eyes, baby doll,
snail of the earth, in you the earth sings!
In you the rivers sing, and my soul in them flees
as you desire it, and you send it where you will.
Mark for me my road on your brows of hope
and I in my delirium will release the flock of arrows.
Around me I see your waist of fog
and your silence accosts my troubled hours,
and you are with your transparent arms of stones
where my kisses anchor and my damp desire nests.
Ah your mysterious voice that love colors and tolls
in the resonant and dying evening!
Thus in deep hours over the fields I have seen
the ears of wheat tolling in the mouth of the wind.
Pablo Neruda
Lemon Trees Mediterranean, Auto 1 (122, 83, 22) - Moderado
It is a morning full of storms
in the heart of summer.
The clouds travel like white handkerchiefs bidding farewell,
the wind shakes them with its wandering hands.
Innumberable heart of the wind
beating upon our loving silence.
Buzzing amongst the trees, orquestral and divine,
like a language full of wars and songs.
A wind that swiftly steals away the fallen leaves
and deflects the beating arrows of the birds.
A wind that strikes her down in a foamless wave
and weightless substance, and fires bowing down.
It breaks and submerges its volume of kisses
fought at the gate of the summer wind.
Color The World Orange flic.kr/gm/3g65nd, Life Island (88, 133, 22) - Moderado
I THINK THAT I SHALL NEVER SEE------
A POEM AS LOVELY AS A PANORAMA TREE
(WITH APOLOGY TO AUTHOR JOYCE KILMER)
my dreams are filled with
abandoned places and
closed doors
and
realms that can't be explained in the real world.
and often,
I am curled up into a ball while Lewis screams in the background,
and still,
the echo of silence
reverberates off the walls
until I find an open door-
and ignore it.
“Gardens are poems
Where you stroll with your hands in your pockets.
(Les jardins sont des poemes
Ou l'on se promene les mains dans les poches.)”
― Pierre Albert-Birot
Another Sunday, another poem. First the English Translation, then the German original. Have a wonderful day!
Mist Over the River
The river drifts so still, so mild,
and carries dreams where they’ve been filed.
Tell me, what will lie ahead?
Words the wind has softly shed.
A silver mist wraps all around,
it makes the distant small, profound.
And though no eye can clearly see,
the current whispers: “Go on, be free…”
Each wave speaks gently, calm and true:
Each morning grants a power new.
And in the haze, the heart still knows:
The river softly, quietly flows.
Here the Original:
Nebel über dem Fluss
Der Fluss zieht still und sanft dahin,
und trägt die Träume fort darin.
Sag mir, was wird vor uns liegen?
Worte, die im Wind verfliegen.
Ein Silbernebel hüllt uns ein,
er macht das Ferne sanft und klein.
Denn auch wenn keiner klar es sieht,
der Strom uns flüstert: "Geht weiter, zieht..."
Jede Welle sagt uns sacht:
Jeder Morgen schenkt neue Macht.
Und in dem Dunst das Herz noch weiß:
Der Fluss fließt still, der Fluss fließt leis.
www.youtube.com/watch?v=zHnZP2FmLCc&list=RDzHnZP2FmLC...
The River - Bruce Springsteen
The poetically lovely dahlias are holding court in the gardens now. Marvels of symmetry, shapes and colors they brave the cold evenings to bask in the warm October sun.
And this, October 27th, 2014, would have been Dylan Thomas's 100th birthday.
"Poem in October" read by the poet: [www.youtube.com/watch?v=EnoHCSU5yn8}.
Have a wonderful week, everyone! :)
Leaning into the afternoons I cast my sad nets
towards your oceanic eyes.
There in the highest blaze my solitude lengthens and flames,
its arms turning like a drowning man's.
I send out red signals across your absent eyes
that move like the sea near a lighthouse.
You keep only darkness, my distant female,
from your regard sometimes the coast of dread emerges.
Leaning into the afternoons I fling my sad nets
to that sea that beats on your marine eyes.
The birds of night peck at the first stars
that flash like my soul when I love you.
The night gallops on its shadowy mare
shedding blue tassels over the land.
Pablo Neruda
Pemberley www.flickr.com/groups/pemberleysl/, Pemberley (105, 196, 23) - Moderado
On the Nature of Daylight | Max Richter
youtu.be/rVN1B-tUpgs?si=ahixRyG9NaNI-ijc
I applaud thee,
pretenders in shadows lurking creating your persona seconda at will,
effortless without commandeering believable
by most but still not true to heart,
the beating heart in you is not
but I applaud thee for keeping it up
@ behind-the-vail-of-sanity
Here I am with you dear, no yesterday nor tomorrow
Hold on to my hand, close your eyes, see the glow
No stranger am I, or you, to this land
Got this birth, deputed, not for own lots to mend
See the green boughs stirred, by the gentle wind
Free the flowers dance, merrily they unwind
From interlocking leaves, by themselves, their own will
Never solitary you are here, why fear this lovely place
What is part of you, is part of everything around
See that part of whole, and the whole this Existence
The fire is always same, whatever makes it burn
Never does the light perish, nowhere does it go
- Anuj Nair
www.flickr.com/photos/anujnair/4836720405/in/photostream/
------------------------------------------------------
© 2010 Anuj Nair. All rights reserved.
-------------------------------------------------------
________________________________________________
© 2010 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.
She often forgot that her body (like all of ours) was a house of sand.
That it had been and was crumbling.
That it slipped tirelessly through her fingers.
By Han Kang, Nobel Prize in Literature 2024.
(White ,2016)
Ella se olvidaba con frecuencia de que su cuerpo (como el de todos nosotros) era una casa de arena. De que había estado y estaba desmoronándose. De que se escurría incansable entre los dedos(Blanco, 2016)
By Carmen Yáñez.
The tongues of water
spill over the valley beds.
The wounded earth
is relieved of its mourning.
Dawn breaks.
There are seeds, love,
even
beneath the secret of the dead hours.
Las lenguas del agua
se derraman sobre los lechos
del valle.
La tierra herida
se alivia de luto.
Amanece.
Hay semillas, amor,
aún
bajo el secreto de las horas muertas.
Sailor Stars Poem for Sailor ChibiMoon/ChibiUsa
Scenario by Takeuchi Naoko
Composition by Tagami Yuu
Performed by Araki Kae
Translated by Kurozuki
Someday I’ll become a wonderful lady. And I’ll meet my one single prince. Then I’m sure I’ll have a wonderful love.
One that starts from a sweet kiss, like the way my mom and dad met.
One where our hearts are connected eternally, no matter how far we are apart.
One where my heart becomes happy and full, just by softly murmuring that person’s name.
Wearing a thin pink dress with the colors of spring, putting on the ring I secretly borrowed from Mom, I run to the beach park where you’re waiting.
Say, Diana… I wonder if someday that day will come.
... 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 ...!!!
It's not mine, this time.
And although that beating of birds outside in the garden is so mine,
their profusion in small leaves, stirring me
like intimations,
it no longer says the same thing.
I wake up
like someone who hears obscene breathing.
It's dawn.
By Jaime Gil Biedma.
No es el mío, este tiempo.
Y aunque tan mío sea ese latir de pájaros
afuera en el jardín,
su profusión en hojas pequeñas, removiéndome
igual que intimaciones,
no dice ya lo mismo.
Me despierto
como quien oye una respiración obscena.
Es que amanece.